“When the credits roll…”
Posts tagged mine
Okay — Tyler Knott’s last post has over 1,000 notes. If this doesn’t get more than that, we know what’s wrong with this so-called Tumblr Writing Community. Wake the fuck up and make your voice known. We’re here. If you actually care about this, make it known. This is a numbers game — not for me, for you.
I pay attention to things, I do. And I actually don’t care how you feel about features: whether you love them or hate them, think they’re important or think they’re stupid, wish you had more or wish you had less. This isn’t about that.
This is about the fact that there are 27 tag editors of poetry and prose. That means each day we should be entertained with a maximum of 270 new features. Okay, sure, people have lives and aren’t always on tumblr to burn all their features. But there should be at least 100 or so features in any given day, which is less than half the maximum, but it is a duty of sorts for which there is no compensation beyond whatever delight you get from featuring someone, so I’m being lenient. Are there 100 features in a day? No. In point of fact, having reviewed the features over the past few days — there are seldom more than 12 or so — and 9 or 10 of them are mine.
There’s a reason I’m Top Editor, see — the party line is that the pieces I promote are those “most liked and reblogged” by tumblr users — but the reality is that the pieces I promote are basically the only ones there are.
I went through the past 30 features on poetry and prose. The past 30 features shouldn’t be the last 3 days or so, but they are. The reality is that the 30th feature, where I stopped, was dated October 18th. Within the past 30 poetry features, I’ve featured 24 of them — the other 6 pieces were promoted by one of 26 other editors. Prose is just as bad: I’ve featured 23 of the past 30 featured pieces. On any given day, I’m responsible for around 80% of the pieces featured under the poetry and prose tags.
There are thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of writing blogs on Tumblr. I’m not saying that every one of them is filled with feature-caliber work, whatever that may be — but Tumblr is doing that extensive writing community a disservice by maintaining inactive editors, some of whom have even deactivated (albeit improperly), despite that many active tumblr writers have directly indicated an interest in being a tag editor. There are many who would love to have the ability to share unknown writers with others — give them a chance. I’d love some competition.
To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. Can no longer rap your three knuckles against each ripe skull at the farmers market. You wonder if this is what it felt like. You wonder if this is what it felt like for him, taking three or four fingers and tapping against your warm growth. First comes the tapping then comes the splitting. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. This is a song about the first time you were fucked. Jesus, do I have to spell it out for you. The first time you were fucked, you remember head down, ass up. You remember a quiet ache and the feeling of spit against your most private hole. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. You remember being fucked for the first time. Did you bleed? You bled. You laid down in the shower afterwards holding your knee. You laid down and felt the blood-let clot. This is nothing like a game. This is nothing like the accidental pornography on your TV screen. You remember the first time you were fucked how your boyfriend entered you and entered you and entered you again and the ripe skull of your head knocked against the nonexistent headboard. You think you kicked a light over. You kicked a light over. This is the feeling of your body rejecting itself. You remember the feeling of cum inside your gut, against your hole, between the intersections of your thighs. You remember the not knowing whether it was a trickle of blood or sweat and why are there tears on the pillowcase? Are you crying? You are crying. You remember your cock limp and deflated beneath you. You remember his naked body pressed against yours, sweating and sweating and bleeding out this sense of satisfaction. You wonder what it’s like. You remember going quiet and then his voice. Wasn’t that good for you? Did you like it. Did you? Did you. Why are you so quiet. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. To this day you have to wait five minutes for the bathwater to run red. This is where we let the blood drain out. This is where every mother shakes her head and puts the book down. Why aren’t you listening to me? This is hard enough already. Where are we now? We are at the part of the story where I say I am a man. We are at the part of the story where I give birth to a stone of cum and disappointment. We are at the part of the porn flick where you can no longer distinguish moan from sob. We are at that part of the dream where you have just started falling.
they tell me drowning and freezing to death are the best ways to die
sometimes i think i’d like to freeze to death in your smile and drown in your black ocean eyes
a wave of repose has been calling me to the deep sea
but lately i haven’t been able to fall asleep
because the prospect of waking up
just doesn’t seem to to be worth my luck
when i was younger i used to build kingdoms out of stuff of the sky
i’d place them in oceans and float in my own little world
now the thought of an anchor makes me sick to my stomach as reality around me begins to unfurl
i can never seem to keep my feet on solid ground
when someone’s tugging on my hand away fades the sound
the concrete turns to the Pacific
and the rip tide drags me to an empty shore
and when i need to run away my feet stay frozen to the tundra
i’m like the sinking unsinkable ship as my heart gets heavier and the sea swallows me quick
so i’m stuck on my back adrift on a raft of unsureties
yes or no, me or you, the ocean or the sky
staring at my permanent view of the atmosphere
imagining that deep space is kind of like being underwater, kind of like closing my eyes
if i fell in the water how long would it be until you knew i was dead?
sometimes i think i made you up inside my head.
Relief pours through my veins
and travels about my body,
treating crucial wounds
and reviving life within me.
A pill swallowed in the form of words,
difficult to hear, painful to breathe,
but easy to swallow.
“You don’t have to be so hard on yourself.”
Sigh, like I’ve never sighed before,
it’s been so long since the sweet poison of solace
has filled my heart’s cavities and pits,
flushing out overwhelming doubt.
I know now, I feel relief
in my bones and brain
sweet like sugar, but strong like morphine.
Calming and soothing,
while pushing and moving.
Sigh. I’ll be alright.
She was like a frail shadow,
following your every little footsteps
as you took a walk under the bright, scorching sun.
You could see her, vividly,
but none of you could feel or touch;
still, all that matter was the attachment of the souls.
Together, you walked your life,
with her, who stayed loyal on your side,
continued the journey which now seemed to be thriving.
Night came in, and as darkness catches up,
you stood still, thinking it is the time,
you watched the shadow faded, got eaten up and vanished.
Because there’s just something so romantically addicting about loneliness.
Sitting under shaky lights, a fake greenish glow cast over everything,
with sounds seemingly years away.
There is a disconnectedness between you and everything else,
but there is something so nice about the space.
Because it is in times like these when pretending becomes useless
and you can be your own self, absolutely.
Sitting alone under translucent lighting
with watering eyes and a sore back and a warm scarf and an unpolluted soul.
Black eyes stare across
with leaves of paper
and left to rustle
in the footsteps of passers’ by.
Black eyes blink across
Tiny hand pulling string
Black eyes tear across
Frantic looks that say
Black eyes move across
Attached to a boy.
we’re on our way home.
- Michelle H.
your lips taste of the
peanut m&m’s straight from the jar
and of drunken promises
in the dead of night.
our eyelids are shut
and our eyelashes tangle
from the closeness of us.
your warmth is everywhere
and i can hear every word
you murmur against my skin:
“you’re lovely, beautiful,
i wish you were mine,”
and i tell you to stop talking,
because it makes no sense
to wish for something
you already have
There is no explanation
For the feeling of my fingers
Entwined in yours
In the solid grasp
of contradictory truths —
We were two broken souls
Bound to discover
once blended —
We become unbreakable.
I know this because
My empty hand
Still carries memories
Draft Project Pt. 7
Errata for Draft Project, Pt. 7: The Spoken Version
I touch my eyes. How do I know all of this if I do not see? I’m not sure I am really touching my eyes. Maybe my mind is just telling my arm it’s moving, bending at the elbow. Maybe my fingers just feel like they’re touching my eyes. Maybe my eyes just feel like they are being touched.
Here’s the full, written version.
(PS - I know the above quote is kind of the most surface of explorations in the whole “what is real” department. Maybe something to think about later when I re-draft these drafts.)
In the darkest night
A faint gleam may still shine through
Though fear chills my bones.
I dream, I think I do?
I dream of things no others do.
I dream of wild nights,
and serene days,
and I dream of you,
and your loving ways.
I do not remember sleeping through.
I cannot recollect my nocturnal show.
But when you ask whether I dream of you,
The only answer has to be no.
Yet, you should understand,
terrible though it may seem,
it is because
you are my only dream.