charcoal grey (and) iron and wineyou are my favourite colour i would like you to knowcharcoal grey (and) iron and wine by YogaTeacher
you are the one that catches (me) when my mind goes blank
and you are the song i cry to i would like to tell you
you are the place i go when nothing holds (in) my hands
you aren't whom i kiss, or ever will
you aren't whom i come home to
you won't be close to every moment mine
(but) you are my favourite colour
shade that calms my mind
close unique (enough) around
i go through life in other shades enticed by
clothes in shop windows, crayons and paint
that aren't charcoal grey that don't stir my mind
they alight join leave me again
but you are the one that shimmers
you are whom i feel (for) inside
(and) you are the song i cry to
notes i don't turn on don't murmur your words
hoarse with other crawling sounds
with languid sunburnt song
tectonic platesthey’re youtectonic plates by YogaTeacher
lidded eyes and touch typing
singing out braille songs across
that isn’t yours to love
land that isn’t mine to carry
i’ve stolen away into nights,
to cry for a world
that doesn’t want me, that
calls me a name that isn’t mine
that says it is home
a land, still, that we need
with force enough to collide
infertile soil and barren ground
the same, together
to make amends
to make amends
for the human race
that boils away like cancer,
inside the lungs of a
that never asked for consciousness
that never wanted us
to try to love it, to grow spores
and choke it with our
anxious, selfish ways of
i hope i’ve been better than that
to make amends
for the angels that didn’t know
how to love me
black smoke wafting
from those that left
what we know of being young
to make up for
a heart that didn
VoidI want to tell you what’s wrong,Void by YogaTeacher
But I don’t want you in that place
That void, helping me–
He says that I love you too much–
If you can get me out of this bed,
I love you
–If I can’t do it otherwise,
Well, I should
You shouldn’t be so much to me–
Not because you’re leaving,
Not because I’ll have to go home
And homes are not made
In the gristle of others’ lives
What happened to me?
What happened to wishing, alone,
To withstanding lonely, for the freedom
To walk on my own water?
What happened to proving you wrong,
To the joy of you knowing I was right?
When did it turn into bartering–
Holding you and splattering tears,
–Tears to help you grow
When far away?
What happened to not needing anyone,
To being my own favorite person,
To not caring not caring not caring
What anyone was–
To keeping myself company?
What happened to
My own muscles and fabric
Knowing how to keep me whole?
Miasmayou’re tripping on phone chordsMiasma by YogaTeacher
bled into hours of dial tone ringing
sucking out senses from one voice
recreating a world in the cochlea
which now vibrates with dizzy silence
your spirals unfurling
shaking – every word out
and tripping as your liquid soul
leaks out your ears
I thought it’d be better than this
of course I did
I know you better than that
me, here, fitting into this
crease in the wall
what you take in before weeping
is limbo – solace
leeched out from the cobbled wings
made, given to you
before you learn to fall again
you’re going down now
I want to inch my arms
slowly across to contain you
a new shell, a new fragile spiral
to keep your flesh from spilling
out across the carpet
millions of salt sea sand grains
you feel your hourglass slipping
you see yourself as time
something to rush up against and
at when it slows, crawls,
between iron gates to your future
her singing calls
Paintwritten WallsI.Paintwritten Walls by Nichrysalis
Militant files in manila folders
are shelved with the piano
and accordion binders.
The book ends and stacked
documents are scaffolding
on the shelf that is propped
against the cubicle wall.
The walls need to learn
to stand up for themselves.
He is sure of this.
The resonant hum of flicker
and fluorescence is a hymn
from the hymnals of Tesla
and a psalm from Edison.
The hum, he claims, will
careen him into carelessness.
So paint poet, paint.
The pages are
grotesque from aging,
and when he
a career but not a
calling he will paint
the barren pages
Dante’s smudged hand-
that extend off
smear his hand-
burn and tatter the edges
he has taught these walls
to listen and talk
Paint us a poem, poet— paint.
She cradles the creases in her
clothes carefully. Her charred
SorrowbirdI watched him flap helplessly between the teeth of a barbwire fence, screeching for help.Sorrowbird by HugQueen
"Papa, look Papa! A boy!"
My papa stood dazed for a moment, dust billowing at his legs, his eyes teetering along the field. It wasn't until later that evening he told me he hadn't understood what I had seen. What he had seen.
With grass tickling the backsides of my legs, I bounded toward the boy, "What are you doing? Are you okay?"
As I approached him, I felt his skittish eyes rake across my every movement. With his ten-year-old arms slung inside the gaping maw of a fence and darkened feathers pasted along the creases of his face; he looked squarely at me. I could hear his bird-bones quaking at my voice, he pushed harder against the fence. I winced for him.
"Hold still, we'll get you out," I turned back to my papa who stood alongside the road, "Papa," I pleaded, "Please! Help him!"
Reaching out, I touched his shoulder, "Don't be afraid. We're going to help you."
He didn't pull away from me. I thou
Vesuviuslone silhouette in an arctic expanse,
suffocating del(e)rium, suffering the sound of
dearth, of death
the deep breath of Thursday (wood day, would day
white is still white in the cradle of night
tea party for one, brush of lips on white china
a nib kisses white sheets and
not to savour, but to cling to eternity frozen in time
breathe in. breathe out. move.
shooting up, fire shoots though arteries
(sp)utter with ashen hands and choke
through wood smoke
charcoal lines the abyss
eight letters blindsided Pompeii.
camisadoplanktonic in the human swell
we ate our wings so we'd keep tame
consorting with the stratum
when most zooids would withdraw from shore
and haunt places more pelagic
now night will be our cover
with its rorschach eyes and
for this show and tell philosophy
where psuedo-suns can not deter
from hyperbaric sleep
but the spoils are ours to keep
though vespertine and fleeting
and bled into the water through
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
Lesser known Loki facts.1- His most common alternate name is Lopt which is pronounced Loft and is Old Norse for sky. (it's where the english word Loft comes from. Sky is also an Old Norse word it means cloud.)
2- He's never specifically called a fire god in the mythology but he is associated with fire multiple times in the myths. (Made a flaming sword and a flaming barrier around a hall he built with some dwarfs. Also an image of him was found on a bellow stone.)
3- In the Faroese tradition he was considered a very good god and called the gift giver.
4- He's almost certainly Lodur a figure who gave humans flesh and blood. (Also the name Lodur might come from the word for blaze)
5- He's probably also Ve. Villi and Ve the brothers of Odin are only really in two myths and one of them theres a version of the myth with Hoenir instead of Villi and Lodur instead of Ve it never actually says Villi and Ve are the children of Bor and Bestla and it probably means blood brothers there are other times when the myth
Untitledwashing my hands like fighting off demons is a part-time job for me. the other part is cutting other people's white picket-fenced-in lawns. they never think about their grass. maybe the grass wants to run off onto the pavement to mingle with the grass across the street. quit oppressing the fucking grass, motherfuckers.
fuck them is the last thing I think before going to sleep. you shouldn't feel that way before closing your eyes. you might hit something. buddha once said.
look, there's this deer. it's on the edge of the world... road, it's on the edge of the road. the sun went down ages ago. ages. it's dark, okay. so this deer is trying to cross the street. she's got her neck out -- her head directly above the pavement. and this car comes down the road. this guy is listening to something old, like the ink spots old. he's singing in this stupid fake old-timey voice to his girl in the passenger's seat that he doesn't want to set the world on fire. hits the deer square in the
Falling for an introvert (is hard on the knees)i. People tell me you are quiet, that you don’t say much. And when we meet, I realise they are right – you confine your tongue curled behind the curve of your teeth, treat words as if they are fish-hooks trailing up your throat. Instead, you learn to communicate in blinks, in glances and your cornflower eyes hold mine as if they are made of precious porcelain.
You don’t believe me when I tell you that I’m glad I met you.
ii. In the silence, where my gaze wanders to the thin line of your mouth, the twitch of a restless muscle behind your cheeks, your own flicker back and forth, a Morse code of ‘I’m sorry’ as if you should be apologising for the lack on the end of the phone, the stretched quiet moments, the railway tracks scissored inside your throat that haven’t yet healed.
You don’t believe me when I tell you that you are interesting.
iii. Instead, I fill the gaps with sound, an endless waterfall of quick hands and senseless words.
*Written for my blog, illianfragments.wordpress.com/ , and copied over here. I've been ghosting here for a long time, not sure if that will change, if dA is something I'll come back to and be invested in ever again.
As applies directly to this site, I made my Loki cosplay and wore it to ComicCon last year, and it was and is so beautiful, so detailed, and so precisely perfect. Rather than simply talent, I'm amazed with how detail-oriented I can be, and how driven when there is cause to be. I may soon post pictures, the few I have.
In other news, I am currently 18, going into second year university in BC, taking Creative Writing and Psychology. This summer, I've rewatched the entirety of Orphan Black (I can not speak highly enough of this show and truly recommend it - I tend to believe that there is enough good literature and film in the world that there is little that needs be rewatched or reread, and much that needs to be newly taken in, but Orphan Black has proven to be in the small percentage that I trust to be as meaningful the second time), and read and watched much besides. I've also collected every scrap of semi-insightful scrawled writing in one place, should I choose to transcribe it.
I’ve been away, I know that. My psychologist is saying it might be a good thing, and brings up how much pressure I put on myself. It’s interesting to see, the balance of pressure and of letting go; cycles of contract and release that fill out inside my head. I’m not sure how much I’ve done in the last little while, if it could be considered a lot. I spend a lot of time and energy catching up, moving into the recent past and trying to catch sight of the webs of movements, to then sort them out. I don’t want to say I have decided anything, figured it out to move into the future. Life is how it is. I thought, just now, of all those things people tend to regret when they die, that they’ve run out of time for. What am I sorry for? Having just finished To Kill A Mockingbird, it comes to me that children know something, they know how to fill out their days and not dwell on it, not think of having wasted time. I have spent a lot of time, and I have also gotten a lot done. These are two different scales in my mind, and achievement isn’t something to be measured against time. Time does its own thing, and achievement is measured against the self.
I won’t ever be a reliable person, in regards to deadlines and checking off lists and knowing what to do when. Recently, I was overcome with shame at a stupid mistake I made, a place where I miscalculated the world, and it complicated things for me and made me both disrespectful and irresponsible. Loki came back then, and it was comforting to have my god, a love who had disappeared from mind for a few months, stepping in to assure me. Moving forward is good even if my trajectory is wavering and I struggle.
It is not hard to be a person. Looking forward, I don’t fear the coming year. I don’t fear my prospects or my sanity. I believe in my ability to talk, to make acquaintances and develop friendships. I believe in my psyche, that I can go alone and enjoy as much with myself as someone else. I believe that the friends who now surround me are strong, are good, and offer something.
There’s an odd incompatibility in what I am saying and what I have been. I can be volatile, I can despair, I can obsess and lose control from obsessing. I don’t know how to stay happy. There is great strength for me in the idea of the Phoenix, a creature that burns up, and falls away, and is then reborn. I don’t know that shape of my life, or who I am within it, but there are two things I am aware of: that in some way, I’m always trying, and that I never cease to come back to a place of possibility.