Loving Like not

 

The Earth didn’t lock into place
upon our arrival;
still and fragile,
hushed in anticipation
of a prophecy writ in molten stone
and stamped into our mortal hearts.

the songs I hum of you and me
are not echoed back to me,
a technicolour monstrosity
in a sea of past forgotten technicolour monstrosities.

so the idea of destiny
in a universe that tends to entropy,
thirsting for chaos,
clamours of a grand design,
of twin lights, of meant-to-be
seem laughably naive.

I was not drawn to you because I was a moth
and you the flame,
because I was Icarus and you knew the way,
or because both our wings were the same dull grey.
Your touch doesn’t echo through me for all eternity,
not when I’m made brand new every few years
(months, weeks, days even)

My heart does not beat away from me,
cradled in careful hands, warm and not my own–
–my heart doesn’t do much of anything, really.
Except ache sometimes when it’s cold and I didn’t know.

I could fall in love with anything
many things,
(even you, sometimes I think.)
There are chemicals that do it for me.

But we can still laugh under a sun that doesn’t shine for us,
dance to beats out of sync with those of our hearts,
paint in colours that’ll fade on paper scraps superfluous.
How lucky to not have anything expected of us,
to still love in a world that will not remember.

All the time we could ever know
ever need
all to ourselves.
Without the weight of the cosmos
on closed eyelids we trace with our lips.

 

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

p.s kinda choppy but it was written in disjointed parts over several days so pls excuse.

 

Chick Lit By Rhiannon McGavin

All our injuries rhyme

Disclaimer: I adore her. I hold an extremely biased view when it comes to her work. Which you can find here (youtube), here (official website) and here (Tumblr). I know there has been an influx of poems here lately, but bear with me.
I swear to God if I am, one day, even half as good as her, I will need nothing more in life. It’s best to listen to her perform that poetry herself. Which, for this particular poem, you can here.
This is about women in fiction. 

CHICK LIT

Edgar Allen Poe said,
“The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.”
Except I think that the most poetic thing is the dress that my mom wore in France when she was pregnant.
It’s yellowed with flowers, it stretched to fit her and shrinks to hold me now.
There’s a sonnet in each of my grandma’s old lipsticks, and all the coats that my aunt wears.
Another device in any piece of clothing deemed lucky.
In fact, the poetry is in my neighbor explaining how her parents survived a genocide that spoke four languages,
Or maybe the enjambment sobs in the shower, fruit aisle, and best friend’s car sinking through deep summer.
All our injuries rhyme.
From singing with a sore throat to a mattress heavier than god.
The freckle on my right palm, tracing every capillary popped on purpose and stomach caesuras.
Who else could place scars into genres?
I’ve seen better poems in rising bread than anything Bukowski dreamed of,
That Hemingway demanded, that Sartre petitioned for.
They can excuse scaring women for art, though if you are a scared woman they tie your art back to your crazy.
It leaks through the gallery.
Like it’s crazy how a couple of movies are worth more than children,
as if they cannot see the fingerprints on the film strip.

And I guess it’s a good song but that bass drum sounds like internal bruising,
We don’t dance to those at my house.
The violence of creative men is more of a burning library than a closed book,
and you choose what you want to read.
So I concur that picking graveyard dirt out of my nails is of highest literary value.
So, the most poetical topic is me, slumped on my desk, sleeping through every English class for the rest of the year after my teacher said he didn’t know of any female writers good enough to study.
No one, in that damned mob of scribbling women, was worth discussion,
since we were only supposed to be the flourish, the adverb
the stage he walks on,
the spit on his finger so he can flip a page,
and we can’t bite the hand that feeds us.
Can’t swat away pens that dip in our pretty corpses.
He sweats corn syrup and red dye and needs someone to hurt for him,
but I can stand straight without balancing them on my head.
I have always washed my troubles in extra mascara so they are defined in the spotlight, molded them to hold a rapier for the finale,
taught them how to speak from the gut even when you’re crying, even when the voice shakes, to project.
So all the women who ever pressed their thumb onto my cheeks can watch me live from the back row,
and the ghosts above the theater –
They can see us, too.

 

****

giphy3

Okay, so right???!!!!!! So many things to say about this. Like “a genocide that spoke four languages”, “And I guess it’s a good song but that bass drum sounds like internal bruising” and just fkbkhsfhfbj dfhfdjkjkgbkj. 
Feel free to discuss with me, at length, just how amazing this is. 

Biology is also one of my favorites. It’s one of her lighter pieces. Brilliant. As is Hereditary.  And Cheers.
Things That Could Happen To A Girl Wearing Jeans gives me all the warm fuzzies, while also reminding me how I have no friends. FUN.

Just everything she does, in general. I have a lot of feelings about her. Please share in my obsession.

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

P.S: If you did bother to check it out, how chill is her youtube space, though? I love it. Beautiful.

P.P.S: If I haven’t yet sold you on her, she was also part of a poetry trio called Poetpuff Girls. ’nuff said.

Rhiannon McGavin: Instagram