|Most successful deviation.|
YId like to tell you a secretY by ~1337M457312
I found it in peeling-paint doorways
Behind half-open screen windows
When I discovered it, (what it is I dont know)
Into my pocket it went, hidden from the world
drowning in dreams and ideals,
lost under broken-ladder-hopes
I can free a secret, if nothing else
(a secret I found in a dilapidated life)
a secret I found
and thought of you
Long distanceI stare at the handset, knowing that all I have to do is enter your special code to hear your voice. I glance at the clock wondering if you are still dreaming. I think to myself, if I wait much longer I'll lose my nerve. It's still early where you are though, and I would hate to wake you. So I'll keep looking at this contraption of plastic and wire, knowing it's the only connection I have to you. One of these days I'll use it to hear your voice, your laugh, your smile. Damn this distance between us.Long distance by ~weitmare
I’ve never liked kids.
They make me weary.
They make me wonder where we keep our beasts.
I wonder what it is they dream.
I wonder what they think it’s like to die.
All my characters are a little queer.
Everyone knows how to be queer.
Everyone puts on a show, especially the kids.
It’ll be that way until we die.
Hell, you know oddity doesn’t end for the weary.
I want to draw the way we dream.
There are spaces in our minds that only know of beasts.
(You know they really love the queers.)
We tend to lurch into the nightmares they make of our dreams.
No one ever stops being a kid.
Imagine a boy who never stopped being weary.
He’ll take the aches to his death.
He’s spent his whole life preparing to die.
“This way,” he says, “all I do is dance with beasts.”
Wild rumpus keeps the body weary.
I never told my parents I was queer.
I’d known since I was a kid.
Boys kept finding their way into my dreams.
Never had such sweet dreams.
I often think about what we’ll miss the most when we die.
I’ve raised a lot of kids.
We’re all in love with the same beasts.
Family knows little blood for the queers.
We only share in each other’s bony weariness.
I am the boy who is always weary.
In the end, what stops us from writing down our dreams?
What do we pass on to the young queers?
What should we leave behind when we die?
And how about those terrible beasts?
Will they look like our kids?
Tonight, the kids will sleep when they are weary.
They will wrestle ravenous beasts out of their dreams.
They will know that everything dies a little bit queer.
|A sestina inspired by a chat with Alexis Pauline, author of blackfeminismlives.tumblr.com|