Thursday, May 17, 2012

I didn't write these, but they're wonderful.

Just for your reading pleasure. I didn't write these, but they're great. I highlighted the best parts. Happy Thursday, lovlies.

“Hipster Poem” by Russell Wilson

Beautiful boys and girls sip water out of mason jars
Cuffed flannel exposes the ease of dark haired wrists and brown knuckles
Sitting on a picnic table
Laughing like they’re gonna be this perfect forever
Perfect being this relative thing ‘cause they haven’t washed
Their hair in like two weeks
But they’ve got hope strung up like fairy lights in the bedrooms
Of that person they loved first
They fall into each other
And I’m jealous of these bodies next to bodies
Because the moon is falling in love with them
At the exact moment that they’re falling in love with each other

A pale mouthed boy with freckles and a chapped nose
Is humming Amazing Grace
Their feet start praying loud
But then amazing grace turns into a back pocket harmonica solo
And I’m thinking it won’t take long before they drown
In the happiness of it all
I can see them choking on it already
But that just makes them want to love harder
Because they’re not stupid and they know that it can slip
Through their fingers so quick
And because they’re kinda stupid, they think that wishing
On a picnic table will make it stay

Funny shaped knees poking through faded cords
They they wore so carefully threadbare
Fabric so thin you can see their souls
The indecency of showing what matters most, like it was nothing
But it makes them so wickedly cool
That, and the fact that at least one of them can play the ukulele
And I’m blushing like it’s the first time, thinking they must know everything
But then they start talking about the world like it’s a joke with no punch line

Until one of the girls with feathers in her hair starts crying
She does it like poetry till they all wish they’d never been born
And somehow in the carelessness of tragedy
The harmonica got kicked into the dirt
So I start humming Amazing Grace
And they’re looking around like maybe it’s coming from the flowers
Because why wouldn’t the flowers start singing
When the moon’s out loving you so good.

by Gregory Sherl

You fit the world in your mouth and I’m jealous of all the cobweb space. I scour the neighborhood picking up your lost hairpins, smell last night in your hair. It’s a good thing, you never forgetting my waist. Maybe I’m in love or maybe I’m not in love or maybe I’ve tasted love before and haven’t brushed my teeth in a while, but you look so good in that dress I want to bake you a pie. In one of these sentences I say something important. This is what I’m going to do: touch your hips with my tongue, build you a nest out of pillowcases. We are always falling into the softness of photosynthesis. The most important part of last night is making it happen again. I was never good at math but I’m adding up the miles to your hips. Come over, I want to sober up inside you.

We've made it to the single digits.
All my love, 

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

agreed. beauty in its best form. words.