Latest Posts by salinyay-blog - Page 6
Columbus is beautiful, you just have to look around a bit
brain rain by .simstorm Via Flickr
part of scientists fear is inspired on a story my neighbor told me about this boy she used to date. last nite i gave her a copy of my new zine & just got a text from her saying that particular poem was her fav. poetry whispers names and memories to people.
It is cold in this thing we call a body. / Who will tend to the fire with so few hands to go around?
Alison C. Rollins, from “Skinning Ghosts Alive,” published in Tupelo Quarterly (via lifeinpoetry)
Choose yourself. You deserve you.
my mum is coming to paris on tuesday. we haven't seen each other in about a year and a half... i wanna get her flowers for when i pick her up at the airport. which kind of flower is ideal for this situation? which kind of flower shouts thank you for existing, thank you breathing by my side?
our love burned hot and bright, but baby, not even forest fires can burn forever
burningbridgets (via wnq-writers)
I do not want to name it, / I want to watch it faint / heart-beat, pulse-beat / as it quivers, I do not want / to talk about it, / I want to minimize thought / concentrate on it / till I shrink, / dematerialize / and am drawn into it.
H.D., from Selected Poems; “Tribute to the Angel,” (via xshayarsha)
NEW POETRY!
some weeks ago, my line breaks woke me up before sunrise. they pinched my temples while whispering in my ear: stop caging us in your dark corners, we’re much more than that.
& they’re right; ever since poetry found me trying to escape the wild beasts in my heart, i’ve been keeping them in the back of who i am. shouting to the world this is all of me but please don’t look at that. i can’t do this to my saver. my haven deserves to be honored.
i’m skin the poet, a writer putting it all out: poems, thoughts, line breaks & rhymes. my shortcoming & my light. all for you. I’m here for other poets out there, to engage in a world with you. please feel free to comment on my works or link me your own poetry.
love xx
@skinthepoet
Eighty-nine (source)
💪🏻💅🏻👯 I love girls
396 photos merged into one image using the lighten blending mode in photoshop. I think this one pretty much covers the colour spectrum of sunsets, lacking only the darker reds. I can’t get enough of this technique!
by David Schermann http://flic.kr/p/uNobqJ
by David Schermann http://flic.kr/p/uNobqJ
talk to a real person by Stephen Shore
french kiss : expat
hard to explain how i never thought i would end up in france. hard to explain how this country did not choose me to come live here. funny how romantic it sounds to blame it on destiny; as if this country & i were the lovers whose glances first crossed amid the urban chaos of a subway station. no. this magic has never existed in my love affair with this nation.
in spanish: amor apache (or the art of both passionate love & vivid hatred between two individuals). i can't articulate my speech as i seem to have lost my words somewhere in the flames of our burning love.
some days i rot in the frustration of not belonging; a result of frequently trimming the rough edges of a red existence in a blue world. some other late nights, i get to my apartment half drunk on red wine & half drunk on happiness; i lie on the floor of my tiny 19 m2 & feel my neurons marinating in french slangs & tones. i look back on the olden days when french first came dancing on my skin; how it then gently climbed up my spine to waltz on my shoulders & later infiltrate my brains. oh god i wasn't even looking.
tu me fais oublier ma langue maternelle, chaton.
but tell me, france, why have we been so rough to one another? i know this ain't no love story though i certainly did run straight into your arms. please, france, confess to me: how did we become the enemies who suddenly fell head over heels for each other? like the fighters who mysteriously found love in the corner of a boxing ring; & lost in their yearning for a stormy fight, they now fail to draw the line between the infatuation & the bloodshed.
france, just tell me where the loving ends & the punching begins.
s'il te plaît, petite tête.
should we move on with the fighting, may our battle warrant the presence of deities. should we sail off into the open seas of our love, may the wind tell us her secrets on how to flee.
On a pitch-black night, we stare out the window at the emptiness of space. eye to eye, fear to fear. & for a split second, life seems to be all about the safekeeping, the kissing,
& the screaming.
- @skinthepoet
black lips
five weeks before you broke my heart, i had this dream where my father stood in front of me. two generations lost in close-knit shadows, facing the other in the midst of a nightmare & staring deep into the vortex of each other's eyes.
in a rusty voice, he recited to my face every lie he's ever told.
his childhood, the seize, the running, my mom, his misery.
in the rhythm of his words, in the flow of his lies, his lips began turning black.
Lie after lie, his lips, a shade d e e p e r in the obscurity.
turning my back on this show proved useless, as my neck was stiff & my legs, knee-deep in thick soil.
stare & listen, while tears water the ground
i tried screaming, as to suffocate the torture of his words with my own shriek. but my mouth was sealed closed & my hands, disloyal to my commands.
i woke up a fountain of cold sweat, sobbing.
....
two nights before we murdered our love in cold blood, we met for drinks at a bar à vins. the gleam in our eyes yelled to the entire world how traces of ancient grapes ran in our blood. god were we playful while life was onto us.
sneaky little romance
we talked about it all that night: gravity & flying, friction & fire, language & riddles. for the 500th time, you corrected my pronunciation of the letter u. & in the stretching of your mouth, i fell victim to the evident art in your beauty; jawlines dancing in perfect rhythm; an enigmatic symmetry traced in your face.
on our way home, we walked the streets as if sidewalks were made for peasants & we had just been crowned kings. laughing, stumbling, holding onto each other.
in a deserted street, you wrapped me in your arms while murmuring in a secretive voice:
i love you
we both smiled.
& under beams of moonlight, while my eyes hunted for your eyes, i noticed red wine had stained your lips black.
- @skinthepoet
the things we learn on our mothers’ laps
see that lady standing there between the window & the fire extinguisher? she’s just lost her father & i think her boyfriend just left her.
why the fuck would you say that?
i’m telling you, i’ve got this superpower. i just know.
how’s that? a superpower?
not a marvel studios superpower, u silly. more like this supreme capacity. i’ve always had it.
when my dad abandoned my mom, she lost herself in the world’s most dangerous drug: poetry.
she used to hold me on her lap while reciting emily brunte & sylvia plath.
i think that’s why i can read into people’s sadness.
when i come across sadness on the street, authentic sadness, the blues crawl out their host & come talk to me. i’m thinking of starting a mémoire or a blog on it. like that humans of new york, u know?
talk about those things we learn on our mothers’ laps…
i reckon everyone who’s lucky enough to have a mum will undoubtedly learn something whilst resting on her lap. my mom used to sit me on her lap while she revised old latin scriptures & tried herself at egyptian hieroglyphics.
that’s why sometimes tombs & churches murmur their secrets to me. they tell me stories about the afterlife & how, if demanded gently, fire can caress the soul the way water strokes the curves of an overflowing vase.
they find it hilarious that we make a big deal out of our own end.
when all there really is, is an everlasting void.
- @skinthepoet
the things we learn right before midnight
what's keeping you from sleeping?
nothing. i'm just not ready to hit the sack.
why's that?
you really want to know?
yep.
okay. but i don't want you to think i'm crazy or leave this bed running, alright?
i wouldn't do that.
right. okay. hmm. so, 24 years ago, on the eve of my birth, my mom decided to deliver her child in a graveyard. the city's farthest most forgotten graveyard. she's an artist, though; a lover of contrasts & a chaser of the dark.
oh
july 21st, lost in the depths of a summer night amid traces of grief, sorrow & dried petals, my mum gave birth to a baby she’d almost immediately hold between her arms. i don't remember this of course, but i've been told she murmured:
'hey, little one. i need you to think of death as your friend. a mutual. an ally. a confident.'
from that day on - my entire life, basically- i've never slept before midnight.
i stay still by the side of my bed, patiently waiting for my oldest friend to come sit by my side.
once he shows up, we tell each other how life treated us that day in our own sides of the realm. we then hold hands & together, we end the life of yet another day.
- @skinthepoet
edit contact
in a poetic effort to become, i named every contact on my phone after a feeling.
juliette was adventurousness, or that rushy vertigo hiding at the bottom of a whiskey sour.
mom was comfort, or that first breath running through your lungs shortly after skylines have tried to suffocate your throat.
daf was desire, or spattered instincts behind blue doors & scratched backs on wooden floors.
matt was liberation, or flooding open in thoughts, running through cornfields & chasing dreams in heavy storms.
my father was fear, or still shadows in dark alleys; static threats: apparently harmless & silent, but waiting patiently for their queue.
& then there's you, the feeling i've been trying to stick a definition to. a devised attraction, an affection that stirred out of control. my own frankenstein stumbling along the back streets in my head... hunting for an origin; mumbling the name of his maker.
lost in an endless glossary of blurry feelings, i wonder: what's the word for italian euphonies hymned to my ear?
what's the word for stolen kisses & three-days beards?
what's the word for that love we so eagerly hid & then forgot where we put it?
- @skinthepoet
between black & white, gray
in my dreams, we hold hands & laugh at the idiocy of ancient obsessions & insecurities. we walk on lonely beaches & dance with nature in rainy jungles barely known to humankind.
in my nightmares, i run to escape wild dragons & memories. the blues often tackle me, & when my body slaps the ground, the labyrinth i'm trapped in whispers in my ear:
"running is useless, boy. you're a caged monster too"
- @skinthepoet
st-roch
Musée des Beaux Arts Marseille, France 10:27 a.m / 27 ° (prolly)
Jacques-Louis David (French painter) - 1748, Paris, FR St-Roch intércedant la Vierge pour la guérison des pestifecés Saint Roch Interceding with the Virgin for the Plague-Stricken
from old english 'martyr', late latin 'martyr' & doric greek 'martyr'; a witness, a proof, bystander, behoof. take all the blame in the world & thrust it upon a humble man until the weight of grief drowns him down to a single knee. to grab another man's mysery & wear it until fingers run black & every pore in the canvas of a body is painted in cold sweat. do we fold our hands in prayer to let our right tell our left there might be some wisdom in regret?
men and deity can't waltz in the dark; as men trip in shadows & deities only sway in the light. martyr & deity cross sights that hide words; martyr says grace; deity says wait (she's so hard to please but she's a forest fire).
belief turns to faith only when your feet run past the cliff's edge. it then whispers: roch, grab your fellow man's pain and make it your own; catapult it to the skies until the beads in your rosary become buboes under your skin. roch awaits a celestial intervention on the misery of humankind & holds dear the flames of disease. preaching hope & aching. miracles à la carte don't exist, roch later realized this when deities handed him his own cure while every standing being surrounding him, crumbled. but u a saint now, roch. u iconic.
- @skinthepoet
skin the poet
skin open the poet to find out how books have been deceiving you: not all hearts pump blood; some, expand in rhymes & contract in line breaks.
skin open the poet to confirm the rumor that between the liver & the spleen lives a tiny being; an imp, absent in daydreams -a social drinker- & a lover of the sax.
1.- take the poet's arm, & rip off a tear of skin. behold a waterfall of metaphors soak your shoes in summer's breeze.
2.- on a surgical table, lay your poet down in such way that his pointy nose threats to drill into the ground. & with the help of a sharp knife, split the meadow on his back into two nations that might have lost it all in war. proceed then to spread open these lands, & discover that a poet's spine abides as marble columns once did in falling rome: oh the burn or the glory? 3.- light a match & heat the poet's earlobes to 95 °. careful, the smoky smell of blue winter shades might stupefy your brains whilst the poet's head gets caught in flames. if so: no stress, your poet's mouth muscles might stretch into a smile, but do keep in mind it's just an involuntary contraction. or not.
4.- once the fire's out & the buzzcut's ready, grab your baseball bat & crack the poet's tibia by the half. hollow bones & secret chambers. see that rolled up paper hidden in there? take it out & read it to the skies; correct, it is nothing but the transcripts of the poet's conversations with the moon. tally marks for bleeding hearts.
5.- as a final act of this medical extravaganza, severe the poet's head & hold it between your hands. do you feel it slowly floating, as if being drawn toward the clouds? stitch the head back in place using a silver needle & a thread of slurred speech. remember poets heal on empty illusions & broken things.
that is all for poetic anatomy 101... ...now wake up the poet.
- @skinthepoet