Crow Calls

1, 2

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Points: 41664
Reviews: 542

Thu Jan 14, 2021 3:07 am

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Liminality says...

~~don't mind this this is just an outlet thread for my brain~~

Crow-call Collector

You sort out the crow-calls
in a wide-brimmed basket,
other people's opinions
you collect in your head,
presenting them to me, like a child
who thinks the products of the Earth
are their own.
And what if it's riddled with microplastics?
Your square-rimmed grin doesn't care.
We are standing at the edge
of a world where the meaning of things
can weigh down a basket
and send its contents
to the floor, falling away.

Last edited by Liminality on Thu Jan 14, 2021 3:26 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Thu Jan 14, 2021 3:17 am

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Liminality says...

If I've spent too long listening to crow-calls,
forgive me.

Birdsong compels me no matter the quality,
even if the crows need privacy I linger
competitively nudging at the curtains
neck straining, eyes aching, in the night
waiting to hear them cry.

Maybe I can trace a telephone wire
from here to a day in my childhood
where I was given a grimoire of pity,
and opened the clasp to a barrage
of curses. Someone else's pain-sighs
are not healing. They burden, and bust,
and corrupt, like the intangible tendrils of fate.

I sit at my window, nursing the dead night
air, looking for air through stained glass.
Why isn't there a spellbook for undoing
the tiresomeness of being magic?
I spend too long listening to crow-calls,
and I'm too tired to apologise.

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Thu Jan 14, 2021 4:00 am

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Liminality says...

tw: mentions of scarred tissue and some violence

Things that remind me of an unexamined life

Reposting fake-deep memes hoping to find some meaning in your laundry basket
Pointing out the dust specks on someone else's white shirt only because they are rich and powerful and shouldn't be coated in dust, while you make everyone sneeze just walking into a room
Monsters hiding behind claims of not wanting to hide
The sort of person that twists an amputated arm around your neck to excuse themselves not holding open the drawbridge that fell and crushed your throat
Stickers that can never be peeled off, always clinging to you like a recurring nightmare that licks up everything from your Facebook profile to your love life
Naming altars after human beings, with the assumption that they'll always balance on your thin and narrow pedestals
Marking in false connections between things with a Sharpie to give the Labovian narrative even more prestige than it already has
Pictures of scar tissue sent to me on WhatsApp, as though they could repay a debt of my time and my trust only by being permanent damage I have absolutely nothing to do with
People who only imitate Socrates and forget he's the man who tells you to question everything (including himself)

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Thu Jan 14, 2021 5:13 am

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Liminality says...

cw: umm visceral imagery

I have too many poems dedicated to too many people, maybe I should have dedicated them to myself instead? Condemning the self-centered while wanting to be self-centered, I take these cuff-links and turn them into handcuffs. Call the ball off, I'm not dancing anymore. I'm sick and tired of these feathered costumes, waist-wraps of raw skin, human skin, tell the activists "This is beyond you, do not intervene". I don't want to try playing hero anymore. Anyone can wear a plague doctor's mask and claim to be the plague doctor, repute is two-parts self-adulation, one-part business consultation. I spend a lot of poems trying to fight the worms nestling within, but maybe I should have been repairing my roof, so the crow dung wouldn't fall in.

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Thu Jan 14, 2021 5:59 am

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Liminality says...

One has to be strong
enough to drive happiness
away with a stick,
shouting and hollering,
as you chase it down the street
and into your neighbour's house
so their daughter might have
a friend at her birthday party.
One has to be fast
enough to catch oneself
in the cheek with a right hook,
shattering the skull
because that is where
the ego is stored.

Some people only have to cry.

Maybe conventional wisdom is right
that the hardest thing to do
is to accomplish anything at all.

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Thu Jan 14, 2021 7:09 am

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Liminality says...

So many things rely
on not having cacti in your eye,
treacherous sorts of cacti
that crawl and grab at

everything you've worked for
and stored beneath the skin,
the sin, the sin is deep within.

I can't tell myself I'll ever
crawl out of this pinwheel
of a world, and I wish no one
would tell themselves the same.

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Sun Jan 17, 2021 2:17 am

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Liminality says...

Blackout Poem of my old journal. Title: 'Thing'

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Tue Jan 19, 2021 2:28 am

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Liminality says...

There's an old red wish
branded in the back of this house,
a shudder of wind
buffets through shutters,
tossing about dust motes
in an eddy of pointed words.

How can I talk about these things?
cordoned within a ring of pansies,
these hope-flowers swaying,
whispering the need for conflict-aversion,
for keeping things in order.

I let the creatures on the street
pass in and out of these corridor wings,
tracking mud and detritus on the rugs
as though they were kings, or
gods.

There's an old red wish somewhere
at the bottom of this ribcage-well
of well-wishes, of ideal selves.
Maybe this time, I will take it
to my lips and blow a puff
of dandelion seeds.

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Sat Feb 06, 2021 3:04 am

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Liminality says...

cw: suicide ideation

People believe pointing fingers
is the same kind of craft as poetry
and it makes me want to die.

White knights fed on money and
goat's milk come running and
we all know where they’re coming from.

People who believe pointing fingers,
pointing swords is a craft. God,
why give humans the ability to make fire?

None of this is real. All of this doesn’t matter.

There’s a neon pink light buzzing
on my doorstep waiting for collection
into a midnight empty-air walk.

There’s a pigeon shadow on the telephone
wire, waiting for me to notice it,
and sketch its IP-formation.

There’s things out there that can speak
without making noise. So why should I
remain here among the living?

I don’t want to be accessible
to you. You who has so many things
funnelled in via silver cutlery.

I don’t need to be accessible
to you. The cobblestone pavements
have acquired the language of my soul.

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Wed Feb 17, 2021 3:18 pm

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Liminality says...

Nest abandoned,
falling apart like dry
coconut husks.

I guess I am disillusioned,
albeit not despairing
enough.

There is a fire somewhere
in the bottomless pit,
but not where I sit, hands folded
across my lap at the bus stop.

I watch an empty nest fall from the sky.

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Fri Feb 19, 2021 10:59 am

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Liminality says...

tw: potential allusion to self-harm? religious references and somewhat strong language

[an experiment in voice]

I.
Suck it up, you told me, during ‘normal times’
Make like a good man, walk on water
Now the flood has risen to your doorstep
I don’t have to save you.

II.
Don’t talk to me about freedom until
you've spent your life self-flagellating
to make sure people around you feel
c o m f o r t a b l e

III.
You don’t know me if you wear the same colours,
Shut up and fight me first.

Last edited by Liminality on Mon Mar 29, 2021 8:56 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Sat Feb 27, 2021 10:38 am

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Liminality says...

/ Understanding
>> maybe i've not laid a soft enough bed, or combed out the down
>> all i know is i've had too many absentee slips to chew on
>> too much make-up homework to make up for the fact that i'm able to --
>> two birds on a wind vane doing overtime for the sanctuary animals to --
>> no.

So, if you must know, I have done
up the holiday of hair behind me ->>
so I am moving forward ->>
on to molt out of this crushing skin ->>
pity, pathos, free flow of coffee at the sink ->>
out we go ->>
you understand me?
I hope you understand me.

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Mon Mar 15, 2021 9:11 am

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Liminality says...

tw: cynicism, compassion fatigue

(candy dandy, your sugar sweet martyr is dying infinite)

Dear pecking avians,

let me dislike people in peace. For the sake of
the shivering twisted strawberry gum stick at the centre of
my body.

While my mind may soar to heights of rational compassion
the rosy hues of galaxies far away, peppered with
stardust, I

just want not to empathise with you right now,
because I have my own problems, namely that
I’m so tired

I, despite being born full-bodied sugar cream still
find it within myself to be miserable and bitter and rotting—that’s
the human condition.

Isn’t it so sweet
to be a decent human being?

Last edited by Liminality on Mon Mar 29, 2021 8:56 am, edited 1 time in total.

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