Young Writers Society

Out the back of Burke

Colloquialisms gyrate against my tongue,
slick syllables in the air between my teeth,
and I am home again as though I never left.
One more idiom to complete the pile,
even I am impressed by this memory;
recalcitrant and longing. It’s here,
dad watching the couch bend under
another set of weight, nose turned upward
“what is this – bush week?!”

Genealogy

thus ended rightly, she considered
mouth to spoon to bowl
and everything contained within
hers. and smooth the lines
of her palms, without history
and future, for gains unlike
but alike. pleasant in this always
knowing the makeup inside her
boiling veins. inside her
hollow bones. inside her.


today i wake has been removed.

Oooooh, I love #2 - my first read through is that of a sleepy/lazy getting out of bed, and my 2nd read through is that of a hungry monster/absorbing/needing, those last 2 stanzas and the subtleties in meaning really work together form/content - it's soft like a flower's fragrance <3 C:

I'll get back to you on #1; the first line is woah!yes and drags me all the way through it right quick, but the last gets lost on me I think, is it supposed to be gigglesnortfunny? P:

oh pengu, you big ol' thief

Thank heavens for your lines. xD *stealstealsteal*

As Though I am You

First time
in a suit, hands folded
careful and still across his chest,
thumbs locked together.
I wanted to touch him,
smooth my hands through his hair
and remind myself.

Knowing a cheek is empty
doesn’t stop the want for kissing,
only thickens the heart wall
pounding and pounding and
so pale, my lips against his
in a dream because reality
hurts.

Words of his clinging
sharp and warm against my eyelids.
‘I dream of cold river ripples, Transparent
lips and teeth and throat.' And
I want to say back, scrunch my eyes to say; I lie
outside in the heat and leaves where my skin boils
red and thick so you cannot see through.

I lie
outside in the heat and leaves where my skin boils
red and thick so you cannot see through.

yeah, girl. i love you!

Click Click

I don’t read the way you look,
I say – tell me who you are.
Here is the zenith of your eyebrow,
the way your lip curls to say - no.
I close my eyes when your moth opens,
lips are valves and silent, the throat
does all your work. Hurt in the way of sound
clashing against sound inside the chamber.
Boom.

Knowing a cheek is empty
doesn’t stop the want for kissing,

Nuff said. I shall use this in an argument. Nomnomonnom.


You know how you say the author is dead? click - boom. I keep thinking of that operation game. I like it. Girl, like. Stop being so good. You're not making this easy ;-;

Dinosaurs

Move the barrel of oil, lift.
Roll it down the hill. Stop.

Move the barrel of oil, lift.
Roll it down the hill. Stop.

Your ancestors are caged
Here on the brink of

Stop

Roll down the hill.
Lift them.
Move home.
Stop.

Courtesy of Cadi's Challenge Corner #7

Unrequited

This is the day the gates close forever.
Do you like the way our eyes blink
two fold for ever slam-bang of lock
and key? Yes, yes. What do you do
when you find You’re just too scared?
Move on, said the mother to the son,
and you, do you trust me?
Move on.

Flood

What do you do when you find you’re just too scared
and the patterned shells are bursting past,
kilometres of sea and sky and you’re stuck here,
land locked. This is the day the gates close
forever and you know there is more to come,
more light and air and –
we’re circulating the problem: do you trust me?
Open your mouth, breathe it in and smile,
you’re getting there.

Pyre

‘Do you trust me?’
She moves like silver beats, heavy and long
on the cool river night. She opens her eyes
and the lantern lights sway with her hips,
‘this is the day the gates close forever.’
Echoing over the lippy waves, she looks
and the jaw of sand closes against the wind,
along hull there are cracks repaired seven times
seven years ago; one bad luck follows another.
‘What do you do when you find you’re just too scared?’
The rocks are jagged and ohso welcoming,
like silence melting over salt and ash, she burns.

Four ginger kitties yawning wide
taking all the world in their stride.
See them blink so large and bright
wanting to stay up all night.
But their heads nod as though to a beat
and I see them sliding off their seat.
Four little kitties, closing their eyes,
meeting their bed with four little sighs.

The Way of Mourning

This is the way dawn breaks,
shoulders brushing cool breeze
as the light slots over the frame,
yawning mouth to mouth until sound;
thank you for the morning,
the slow drag of your jaw against the pillow,
how you flip to the cool side
even before your eyes are open.
Your calf is icy cold against my knee
when you shift, the rustle of quilt
stutters across your arm and I remember
moments of silence in the dark,
your back rippled tight and grinding
in on itself. I remember that.

A forget me knot is a bow

(something b o r r o w e d, something b l u e)

I tied around my ring finger
it stuttered over the knuckle

forget
forget
forget

before I realised that silk is too delicate
for this memory.

Morning Ritual

I think of sitting on the steps
before your cafe, hot chocolate wisps
curling toward the grey light.
Smoothing the yellowed edge of classics,
turning quietly as your skirt brushes
green and gold against my knee.
You match your sign, I say.
Watch you nod over coffee fumes
and cinnamon swirl, licking diamonds
from your lips. Dawn cracks over head
and doors begin their opening,
with one sigh we surge upward
and the moment holds a second more.