fuckatharsis

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I suppose I should follow the rules...so prepare to be bored...

Name: Jenah
Location: The hand state (formerly known as Michigan)
Age: 17

Favorite---
*Bands/Artists: alkaline trio, ani defranco, a perfect cirlcle, at the drive-in, bright eyes, cursive, coheed and cambria, dead poetic, death cab for cutie, david fucking bowie, deftones, dresden dolls, emiliana torrini, sinatra, the faint, head automatica, kill hannah, le tigre, led zeppelin, mindless self indulgence, nirvana (grunge..dun dun dun), pedro the lion, placebo, pink floyd, rusted root, radiohead, sparta, the streets, the postal service, the mars volta, walls of jericho, wack trucks, the strokes, thursday, tool...and some others i'm sure.
*Books: the complete works of william shakespeare...that's not really dodging the question is it?
*Writers/Poets/Etc: besides billy?, sylvia plath, margaret atwood, dan brown, saul williams, poe...
*Poems: too difficult..maybe "I am vertical"-plath

*Other comments/interests: um...I love poetry but I'm primarily a visual artist...I work as a portrait and henna tattoo artist for kaman's art shoppes during the summer and independently year round (well I attempt to)...so I'm hoping to get some constructive criticism on my writing since I haven't really given it much attention lately.
*How did you find out about this community? random searches...I liked this site, because the poetry in it wasn't erm...roses are red and such.

and and and I'll sneak in a short poem just because...hehe

*thoughts while under a tree*

Beneath this labyrinth of leaf and limb,
I transpose to grass,
And as this oak is bore from my brow
I can nearly see her puncture sky,
Soon she will fold her roots from my veins
To her breast,
And lend her bark past splintered blue
To touch immortality,
And as her edifice condenses from my scope,
I will sew her shadow to the others.

penxasmyknife

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peaceful

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The Tree
It’s arms are not for hugging the way a child would climb
But it merely juts out of the earthworm soil like vessels and veins
As if it belonged underneath the membrane of wrists and ankles
Branching into slender capillary cords to absorb what a bruised cloud rains

It’s arms are not for the necktie party a barren woman might host
But it perverts like the arms of a handicap reaching askew
As if the annexation of nape to limb were the junction of baby to womb
A lullaby for the baby on the treetop-a breeze the wind blew

It’s arms come to know more than the axioms of a pupil-and oh how it is feared
But it intimates a humble eeriness and overwhelms with cobalt shades
As if the vessels and veins broke open like the crack of an egg shell
Toppling the cradle and blessing the unfruitful she with seeds of the tree

penxasmyknife

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curious

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Bathroom Meekness
She's smoking by the bathroom window in her underwear, the back of her knees
coldly pressing against the cover of the plastic toilet seat. Every day is about the same. She locks herself in while carrying the black snap purse which holds the slender sticks of addiction which supply the act and consume most of the day. And when the septic smell of smoke is completely filtered through her hair, she runs the lukewarm water into the bathtub and soaks for three hours or so. Cigarette butts float around, streaming chalky streaks of nicotine in snake-like designs; she soaks until she feels like the distilled test tube experiments canned in glass jars. This is happening because she married the man she never loved-possibly didn’t even like, although his goodness in character and money helped her fake it for awhile-three years this March. And now he resents her unchanging face and her inability to carry the kindly warmth she used to possess. What he doesn't consider is that she doesn't actually want to suicide, but it gives her the excuse to seclude
herself into the advantages of a single woman, free from the responsibilities of marriage.

He doesn't try to beguile her into coming out anymore with syrupy sympathy, but rather anticipates the moment she will really drown in the damned porcelain tub-and he
will fish her out like a bloated bar of soap. He is aware that what his wife doesn't consider is that he wishes for her conclusion every morning on his way to work. Routinely, she arises at 4 A.M. from the neglected bed sheets that bear imaginary dotted lines, invisibly declaring her side and his side as private property-if only the real estate agent could see the sight and calculate the unorthodox worth.. By 5:30 A.M. he knocks twice on the glossed bathroom door and announces his departure for work, only to linger for a few moments, listening for a silence- not the usual silence of her indifferent motions, but a void of the sliding waters lapping onto the tiles and her despicable impediments of breathing. Perhaps today might be the day the elements of her smokes drink her skin away from sitting in the chemical puddle for too long. But like a formfitting schedule, he hears her half-shampooed hair slap against her neck and the sound of stones tossed aside.

Stones. Every morning she takes out a heavier set from the cabinet under the sink and places them into the linty pockets of her winter coat. Settling into the bathtub, stone-infested, she lies faces down, hoping the weight of her coat will sustain the pressure to hold her under. What a noble act it would appear to be in the papers- a cheap yet easy way to get famous. And to model it after Virginia Wolfe! How it would delve a deeper meaning to her sleazy disdain towards her husband. So she clenches further into the salty water, blustering mermaid bubbles out through her nose and shutting eyelids to prevent the ash from permeating through. Of course she won’t go through with it, for it’s only for the thrill. Yes- a fine feeling for a bored suburban lady.

With a slippery stone he pounds and pounds and pounds until he sees the porcelain of her skull match the porcelain of the tub. It feels so beautiful and everything moved in silent slow motion after that; her hair moved like snake charmers, sliding and sticking to dry surfaces of the tub. He loved her actually and she loved her bathroom pilgrimages- it was her Mecca. And he favored her enough to crown her a martyr…how saintly she seemed, plum lips kissing rippling waters. And that- was true love.

abattoirnoises

join my community or die:





this is ann marie's picture and i stole it
because i am a bad person, but i love mexicans.
♥ ann.




Kate

abattoirnoises

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dynasty>>

my body, may it burst & bloom
the skin of my waist, may it fold up
in the image of a lotus.
my hands with their blunt, slender fingers,
may they fold & crease.
& may this atrophy help to ease
the stress of this bloom.
& may my lids close & turn in,
to burst into color.
& may my child-eyes reflect
the blue-green summer sky.
& when i judge the time to be ripe,
may my limbs convulse
to thrust themselves out like petals.
& may the skin of my waist
peel back to reveal, in the welling of dew drop red,
the change in my color, & texture.
& may i become new
in the eyes of high summer.

penxasmyknife

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frustrated

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My beelzebub-
I'd baptize you in the pool of saliva the upright spit as they passed by

myfaceyourfistx

so i was in a bad mood tonight and i decided to write, as the only thing i could think of that might cheer me up. i came up with this. i really need input on it cause as of right now i cant tell if i like it or hate it.

WHY?

Dying to survive
trying to revive
the feelings
that one stirred inside me
the joy
the sorrow
the excitement
the fear
the good
the bad
and the questionable

dying to recreate
trying to resuscitate
the will
that once burned inside me
to move
to see
to touch
to feel
the good
the bad
and the questionable

dying to relive
trying to regive
the gifts
once bestowed upon me
the hugs
the kisses
the strikes
the disses
the good
the bad
and the questionable

im dieing to survive
or am i just surviving to die
why should i keep pushing?
why should i even try?
all i can think of is
why?

penxasmyknife

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driven.

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I put this together sloppily but I like the feeling of getting an idea and writing it down aggressively because you feel much more of a satisfying urge. Then you look back on it and cringe~but I guess that's the rare beauty of it.

Sense, Sensibility, and Dissipation: Concerning a Poet

It feels violent and it hurts like a daughter in heat
These trickling daughters of my seedy thoughts!
How much the cotton of the insides absorb as they excrete
Around and over and more and more and more.
The bowel movement of a drunkard.

To stir the pen over and inside them- the lattice
Because these limbs are drunk with dissipation
And this art? This status?
Well it’s hung over dear, hanging like laundry fucking clothespins
-a hot and dry, airy state

And it takes no sense to prejudice the sensibility I take pride in
The pride in the prejudice that boils a mouthful of script
Does the art make sense? Where does the line begin?
No! The answer is no!
This is not as pretty as it’s priced, the sodomistic fever of a writer.

penxasmyknife

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drowsy

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Cinderellian Blasphemy, How I Covet Thee

Madame in her cookery hands her the knife
Advising with prudent demeanors of a midwife,
“I counsel in discreet manner; trim thy heel down
To the fashion pleasing to the shoe.
For a married dame profit’s a mother’s merry,
And that heel will burden no more than the wedding gown.”

The lady in rue tailors the pink skin-
The scalping brings fortune and regal ties to kin
“Blessed is this slipper for it is the melody of my wealth.
Though I do not know him I shall count thee
An estate for every vellum upon the heel.
A fair bargain speaks my mother-property before passing health.”

The youth in his lust grips to the shoe
And slips it upon her in attempts to pursue.
“You are handsome, my maiden-I take thee for a bride.
And though the glass drinks thy heel like a vial,
Oh how all fits into the clinking shoe!
Cinderellian blasphemy-the covet does not subside.”

penxasmyknife

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Came up with a title today:
Mommy-and-Me Classes at St. Mary's Abortion Clinic

So I guess I'll work w/ that.
wish me luck.

alredyforgotten

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She curved her hands into tiny saucers
And tried to catch the rain

He laughed at her sweet innocence
Enclosed her hands in his

They smiled at the knowledge
That was how they were supposed to be

Together

Then one quiet day words came
Her life had been lost to her

And he was apalled
For that was wasn't how they were suppsosed to be

Apart

His breath inside the black plastic bag
Condensed and fell in drops

And he cried at rememberance of a time past
And died with thoughts of her hands in the rain

-maddie

abattoirnoises

this side of the sky

heat licking door frames,
caress the carcass, bloated with
hydrogen filtering through sallow skin
with it's broken limbs, disjointed
and warped, dancing to the treble
of the air raid sirens
silence hanging like dirty hair,
warming the head of this city,
jet black and jet brought
foundations creak, the
buildings settle in for slumber
and a black rain falls
the first disruption, the sound
of implosion and expansion
hails the brutality of grey, mad cities
the wheeling tattoo of sirens,
shrieking to the beat of your broken fists
against locked doors, escaping
the only thing you really need, a quick
sharp end heralded by the
boom of uranium and the patter
of falling plaster, the flutter
of half ruined paper burned through the center
if you survive it you'll remember
this crowning defeat, this lipstick on the collar
but you'll never feel it
at all. history is still the same and your words
are choked off to faint cries.

penxasmyknife

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discontent

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Failings Between What Was Created And The She

The slivering of the instrument-the tongue
Like a serpent amidst the gap
And yes, breathe in him life-the lungs
That he might love his creator
For she made him this tremendous sight.

She is the clockwork of the craft
A metronome to the boy beating at her feet
But somewhere along ends of the rough draft
His beauty was all too frightening
And pure for a blemished savior

Forsaken lover, he cried aloud,
“Forbidden yet I am no serpent. No, I am not your fallen!”
To the resented wretch she vowed,
"You were not the fallen nor a marvelous love
For I have named you Eve-and surely the eve of my ruin.”

So he wandered the garden alone
Clothing an ache in his chest
With fig leaves and a heart of pebbles and stone
The dust covered feet ordained only to walk as two
On her snake-plagued belly of a loveless love

Redemption would not follow.
And she knows she was never too holy for this.

puffsmokeysmoke

the origami swan

and the swan swam beneath the darkened bridge,

with thoughts that glue together this origami puzzle of life,

and the swan realizes the beauty in every fold,

that holds us all into one origami shape.

the sun shines on the radiant shapes,

and the pedals get blown across the park in the wind,

and the pens ink has flooded the lake and turned it black,

and now we've become a book that nobody wants to read.

this frost on the lake signifies its time to leave,

for the shapes no longer shine, theyre grey,

this ink has poisoned us to think that this is home,

and the swan is blinded, she cant seen anything but her own plumage