Corvus Robotica @CorvusRobotica@writing.exchange
Some sort of poet creature
#patreon supporters, if you support me and want to vote in my theme poll it closes today!
My body has a whole language
that speaks poetry of missing you.
My empty hands, my parting lips.
The spaces between my fingers
ache at the loss of yours. This
is the language
I have no words for. This is just
skin and absence. An open window
and empty bed, a messy kitchen table
and half filled mugs.
My body has a whole language
that speaks poetry of missing you.
My empty hands, my parting lips.
The spaces between my fingers
ache at the loss of yours. This
is the language
I have no words for. This is just
skin and absence. An open window
and empty bed, a messy kitchen table
and half filled mugs.
Hey if you support me on patreon for $5 or more you should vote in my poll for July theme on poetry!
https://www.patreon.com/posts/19769325
If you don't support me on Patreon, it would be cool if you did! Will poem for food.
Thanks!
I tattooed this suitcase on my heart,
this doorway on my ankle.
I spoke the words, proclaimed sainthood
baptised in train station coffee and placed
plane tickets between my teeth like offerings.
You call on a God often enough, they’ll find you,
like foxes and a hen house.
‘There’s always somewhere other than here.’
I said, and I should have learnt by now; you
tempt Fate,
- she takes what she wants.
/Patron Saint Of Doorways.
#corvusrobotica #poetry #writing
I tattooed this suitcase on my heart,
this doorway on my ankle.
I spoke the words, proclaimed sainthood
baptised in train station coffee and placed
plane tickets between my teeth like offerings.
You call on a God often enough, they’ll find you,
like foxes and a hen house.
‘There’s always somewhere other than here.’
I said, and I should have learnt by now; you
tempt Fate,
- she takes what she wants.
/Patron Saint Of Doorways.
#corvusrobotica #poetry #writing
Men with their soft whiskers and hard
voices.
I have contemplated splitting open
every man I have slept with
from mouth to hip. To find
myself within.
Instead I take his lips
and I become a worm, writing worm poetry
about love
digging myself deeper and deeper.
And together
we are a poem of sort.
The men I do not gut, and
the woman
who does not know when to stop
trying to find an opening to climb into.
New poem up on my Patreon. "The Ache Of London"
https://www.patreon.com/posts/ache-of-london-19590443
"we hurt too, the queers and workers,
the miners, the junkies all
of their hearts like shining torches in the dusk"
This month's theme is Urban Musings, support me for $1 or more for access, I post at least 3 exclusive pieces each month.
New poem up on my Patreon. "The Ache Of London"
https://www.patreon.com/posts/ache-of-london-19590443
"we hurt too, the queers and workers,
the miners, the junkies all
of their hearts like shining torches in the dusk"
This month's theme is Urban Musings, support me for $1 or more for access, I post at least 3 exclusive pieces each month.
I wrote my friend Lydia a poem. She is an amazing noise artist and trans woman going through some pretty mean health problems atm, so I wanted to finally make good on my promise to write her a mecha woman poem. To quote Catherynne Valente, it's not a robot until you put a girl inside.
Ignore the clumsy thumb down from trying to copy it
I wrote my friend Lydia a poem. She is an amazing noise artist and trans woman going through some pretty mean health problems atm, so I wanted to finally make good on my promise to write her a mecha woman poem. To quote Catherynne Valente, it's not a robot until you put a girl inside.
The poet mourns.
I feel like a (, or a ;
or alliteration interrupted.
I have more metaphors
than teeth in my mouth and yet
my jaw slacks and neither bite
nor words land where it should.
I am the shape
of negative
space
in a poem I wrote for you
seven years ago, when you were
), or the ! and my .
"I watched him like the universe watches a solar system implode on itself and form again from the wreckage;
How it must ache for everything it had loved and
God, how it must hurt to see it move on."
The poet mourns.
I feel like a (, or a ;
or alliteration interrupted.
I have more metaphors
than teeth in my mouth and yet
my jaw slacks and neither bite
nor words land where it should.
I am the shape
of negative
space
in a poem I wrote for you
seven years ago, when you were
), or the ! and my .
My body has a whole language
that speaks poetry of missing you.
My empty hands, my parting lips.
The spaces between my fingers
ache at the loss of yours. This
is the language
I have no words for. This is just
skin and absence. An open window
and empty bed, a messy kitchen table
and half filled mugs.
My body has a whole language
that speaks poetry of missing you.
My empty hands, my parting lips.
The spaces between my fingers
ache at the loss of yours. This
is the language
I have no words for. This is just
skin and absence. An open window
and empty bed, a messy kitchen table
and half filled mugs.
Places I want to put my mouth on your
mouth:
>The jacuzzi of an abandoned honey-moon hotel
>In 57 service stations
>The express lane of the 24/7 Tesco
>When the morning of perfect days break open
>My mother’s house in a moment of stillness
>Today, right now
At every temple of ephemerality
I want to put my mouth on you,
and
practise permanence.
something about sun soaked streets make me feel like you’re near,
sitting at a outside table in the sun. Sun glasses on, leather jacket
draped over a chair waiting for me. The asphalt could ignore the ocean,
could make a bridge too solid to burn. I wander,
I wander towards north, and your hands on a book or a cold beer,
before they can be on me.
