Young Writers Society

One a day. Subscribe for some turmoil, some cuties, some blood and some booties. Only a few booties tho.

Tell me more about these booties and cuties

day one

You are more than an empty smile, how you say today is just rough, you know, and how the edges of your reality always seem imposing, aggressive on your haunches as they bite at closed gashes.

If I had to describe you, I'd avoid the smile, the frowns, the sticky things that change - mercurial - under your fingers because nothing in life is guaranteed because each smile has a lifespan because I give myself the benefit of the doubt.

You are holy in the way you warn me of your failures. Saintly when you say this is my last cigarette and when you say I'm sorry when you say I'm so sorry when the sun isn't the right color, when we can't color the sun, when we can't name the colors, when we can't parse words.

These are days that unravel into seconds that unravel into rituals whether we make tea or light a cigarette or connect the edges of our scars - how this one makes a smile with your freckles, how this one reminds you of The Roommate. Terrible and great things come out of our miseries, and, friend, most times it just depends on the tone of voice.

day two

i love you because
you strip away my symbols;
cast down my idols.

crisp;
both words in the iced morning,
sprigs of pollen in your hair. i brush
away the yellow from ocher to purify;
you pull the tone from my words. you say
never cover your bite with softer words, say,
i want to feel each sting.

day three

last night was rough, man,
how the words (thoughts [landmines]) fell jagged each one
clawed into the chest (madmen with knives, plastic sheets to catch blood) and
still with the murder victim we can say
he lived a long (hollow) life he
broke at the right times and got pity the color
of dried platelets. but you can't deny how the heat of the water
makes the sticky red move faster too fast maybe
for locking arms (sticky hands [dead-bolt fingers and nails]) grabby-greedy
like persephone grasping at blades of grass, feet slipping out of the boat.
this means she wanted out, see, this means she wanted out.

i will always write poetry for you
love darling dear beloved
but it's not worth the blood
if you don't listen.

day four -- @birkhoff

"look out for those montauk boys" says the manager
because across two continents those brothers raise hell
like golden crops in the summertime. they're as different
as corn and bananas, but at the same time you have to admit
they're both yellow and sweet if you really get down to brass tax.
those brothers, i hear they have a bad habit of falling in love with the world;
not to say that they give a shit about half the folks on the blue marble
but that they can't stay in one place forever.

yeah, those montauk boys are bastards
from simba tattoos to smirks at midnight.
good luck tying one down.

day five

from swing
of hammer to
the way he falls into bed -
a cathedral collapsed,
blown apart from the insides -
you'd think he would work himself to death.

Feel that weight, says if he works like a dog
like an ox, anything other than a human because
we are weak creatures with broken constitutions,
we beg
and barter with the devil for a moment's rest.

how many days hang over his head, an alert to Death that
yes okay sir he'll see you now and accepted open-eyed, not blindly,
eagerly, with gusto.

1: i thought you would never come
2: YOU NEVER ASKED, SO I KEPT MY DISTANCE. POLICY, YOU KNOW.
3: i can rest now. i can just relax--
4: ABOUT THAT...

day six

on the sixth day the shinigami taught adam how to please a lady how to
hold a beer and look disinterested on the sixth day
the shinigami told adam to hate his sons for crying like girls like
pansies like poets

the shinigami told him to never gaze at stars and to settle for less and
the shittiest part of the story of the sixth day shinigami is that GOD
(because it is unfair not to capitalize his name so bravely)
did not touch the winds nor the flowers nor the fauna around him because
here's the thing about the sixth day shinigami

everyone will always believe it because it clicks in the brain how
a mother sparrow won't return to a disturbed nest how
honey bees will commit suicide because of anxiety how
fathers will neglect their own children

god took a break on the seventh day and people often wonder why he did
so the great and terrible truth is that god paused and realized
he had not yet begun to neglect his sons

day seven

the cold is palpable gray smeared
bone dust against tattooed black skin says
remember who you are says
you won't break my heart says
i am a lion

the world is darker here the clouds
low-hanging and dense whipped
from zircon blood plaster metallic
bravery the way clay eats away at a water supply taints
clear places and conceals drinking water sometimes
darker liquids have to do consider
red alcohols the way to go

i will not put myself in a position to be clouded
eaten away tainted self-removed blasted
black and red and crippled the way you play hearts

day eight

autism does not speak, nor will it -
though the world would be more comfortable if it spoke like you;
see how i tease your high voice, see the recipes swapped at midnight.
note to self: i haven't eaten today but we know you should;
and the fear is there, love, and it always will be. honestly
i'm sometimes unsure if you know what a polymorph i am;
see how i can be a brother, see how i can be a father to yell at -
but good grief never let me be your mother. i'd rather not
feel that punishment.

all of this
in short, i think,
you taught me to spell ottawa,
so what else is there to say?

day nine

lightning strikes the soil;
emerges a lonely ant.
happenstance. that's all.

snow-collapsed rooftops
in choke-dust suburbia.
children were inside.

empty mantras play
on satellite radio.
live, goddamn you, live.

no one belongs; no
person is here on purpose.
i can't digest that.

day ten

your poem is titled toxicity
because every inch of you is poison (from the bottom to the top).
in relation, search for mother gothel
search for every mom in pokemon. let me explain.
you are a polarized mess, ma, how you either
hoard seconds and minutes and hours between
so that others may never see your babbling baby boy
or you completely untether and cease to care because you have,
and i quote,
a new love.

you are the kind of person that becomes a dr. seuss villain,
a bumbling oaf with dialogue dripping with venom
(drip drop druplets of dappled dip duppers - you get the idea)
and we, reading to children, get to say "see, here is a word that means
evil wench but we'd never say that out loud, would we, billy?"
your poem is titled toxicity because it's a word
that children won't understand until their fledgling period is well over.
it's just too bad the warning signs aren't in more places.

day eleven

people are always saying you're dripping with good looks;
and i quite agree, how your chin
is sharp against my chest when you kiss my neck,
how your small hands grip broad shoulders between gasps.
you are built for beauty, you know, just the way you walk says
i am in control of my facilities, i am no leaf in the wind or how
the way you speak says you are in control of your facilities, baby,

you are no leaf in the wind

.

i could fall asleep each night listening to your breathing,
treasure each moment, i know, because you were a treasure ventured,
a reward for long hours and long suffering.
your whispers could calm a hurricane, darling,
and trust me; i've seen it happen.

day twelve
in which lumi writes a poem about facking fictional characters

i. in which tim regales the brilliance of his luminous love

i bought you back with quick words and hidden machinations, see how much force i exert for you; how the entirety of my universe bends around your singularity. you are worth the struggle, worth the bloodshed, and it's so important that you realize how brightly you color these old halls in their russet golden wood.

you make us live,
bringing sunlight to withering flowers.
you are the breath of life.

ii. in which tim's luminous love lays tim low

the way your spells curve against the walls of the tower, darling, says how cautious you are to destroy things precious, things dear. these are your fledgling halls and i am your brother sparrow. see how i strike you breathless, how i poison you gently in the heat of a deciding moment. this is true love, how i abuse you so subtly.

give me your breath,
give me your magic and adoration;
give me your life and i'll give you mi

iii. in which tim's luminous love regrets the curve of his blade

page 94 of your diary, pilfered from unflexing muscle,
petrified lungs and lips cold:

day thirteen
simone

here is your love:
wrapped in stone and sealed beneath green glint,
here is your hand splayed against mine in the dust of thunder.
love beneath the choking snake, i hear you breathe,
i feel your pulse. hear my insanity when it burns against your lips,
when it weeds into your bind with licks of fluid flame.

i am a foreign girl tossed through tidal throes to your ship.
abduct me, inherit me, call me your own, dance
as if i belonged to you with your body pressed hard against me;
i am your icy blue rogue, i am your frozen blonde heroine. hold me
in second place, love interest, teach me how to be fierce beyond fear
while i teach you to be numb beneath turmoil.

i watched your eyes recede,
saw the viper wrap your breath in venom vapor;
take my dagger to your freedom -
take my blood to your mother's grave.