woostering: (phoenix)
Wanting to kiss you
is like desiring to lick a
Knife-edge,
freshly sharpened
by a cinnamon-sugar stone.
Do you tempt the wavering
hand that holds it
--after all, it might
not tilt, a hint of
pressure leaving my
tongue sliced cleanly in two.

Metal should not taste so warm.

Corrosive

Jul. 17th, 2013 02:01 am
woostering: (Holmes + Watson in Sweden)
I walked to you with the knowledge you could cut me to ribbons
after all I'm still not quick to put on full armor
for that.
Later you likened yourself more to acid
this was after various poisons
and the dusting of
nuclear radiation
But now the metaphor is acid.
I still want something sharp
like the arrow of a skilled thief
to deliver the destruction you believe
lies in your concern
not the gentler shine
restored to my greened copper
caked like moss, molding to the tree in which I was buried
I am more resilient than that
Or was I supposed to be drawing parallels to HCL
and sophmore chemistry
even though it was 7th grade when I nearly burned my hand
trying to catch hydrogen from a magnesium reaction
so I could hold it in a test tube
and feel the force of it explode
and likewise capture CO2
to watch a flaming splint go out.
My father is a chemist
he used to come home with indigo patches
splotched into his jeans
but now his job is to tell other what to do
to make sure no one screws the mixtures up
Even though his work is harmless
Chemistry is a delicate process
whether you want sweet soap
or a cheap explosion.

So whether it was a blade
or a fingertip
that I reached out my own to meet,
do not be afraid to mark and
perhaps we need a new standard of beauty.
woostering: (phoenix)

I hate that what you do to me

is a burden to you

But not saying it

Doesn’t make me feel

any less

Even if it allows you to—

to what? Pretend I don’t?

Pretend I haven’t cried

at the thought of touching your hair?

The thought, how pathetic

holding your hand

or burying my head against your shoulder

because you are real

Yes I feel that.

Yes I really could

stare at you for hours

beacause I would be looking at you

I know that makes no sense to you

But it is you or blankness.

woostering: (phoenix)
It is terrifying
to realize
the only way
I want the mark
of another
is if they
do the same way you marked me.
Because it was right and good and true
and it's not about
overwriting
because I live
in layers and
I refuse to remove you.
woostering: (phoenix)
It's not that I'm in love with you,
But the fact that this feeling
Which exceeds
Any bounds of language to express
Is physically manifested in
My sternum
That bone which
above all bones
Produces blood.
I can feel it
lifting
producing lightness out of marrow
And I can feel it opening with
nowhere
to go.
woostering: (phoenix)

I selected

a suitably interesting subject

One that needed more knowing about

The greatest, you might say

I read the background research

(thought I had it down)

—although background turns out to be

a factor minor to irrelevant—

Set out my hypothesis;

There was, I thought

Some system

Which others worked under

And so too would I,

Eventually.

There’s a flaw in my study

The data got all skewed

Perhaps irreparably.

All wrong

and nothing better than muddled

That’s what happens

When you examine fields

Not really your area.

Hypotheses were… reexamined?

Repeat the test

And repeat and repeat and repeat

That’s how it works

But this is not empirical,

never will be

case-by-case let’s see

how did they—

But there’s a flaw in my study

Though I must continue

For all its frayed words

I want to sing and

cannot

for though I plot them well enough

I cannot hit the notes

I want to know why the shifting of these points

to everyone sounds so grand

and live encased in meanings

that I do see and feel and understand

Because a flawed study still provides results

Just maybe not for the question

You were asking.

woostering: (Holmes + Watson in Sweden)
I grin at you like fresh fallen snow
Like how my eyes drift shut,
pleasure in a brisk breeze.
I laugh at you like raindrops
Once, I might
Dare
To drift fingertips like fog
(But your mind!
I would walk through it,
And know it,
And leave your dark places
Alone
Though you cannot hide them
from me.)
Let me but
Bear witness
To your brilliance, neverending
Starlight
Cold bright wonder of your soul
Freezing fire called to snow
woostering: (Default)

I am nothing but a little black bird,

Flitting between your branches

Perching amongst the lines

Of the fairytales.

Some days I am still,

Rocked by the wind and strains of song

Some I hardly set down at all

Needing to take flight

Around, between

The trees I have taken to watching.

Some days I am a starling

Inconsequential (one of many)

Some I am the raven

Solitary in my wisdom, in my sight.

But most important, I

Am ever black

And can travel to dark places

And I do not fear, for I too

Am a little dark. (A bearer of the light.)

Let me stay, that I may sing

Or at least

Shed my feathers

(my only mark of passage)

Near the wide branches

Of the only trees that felt like home.

woostering: (phoenix)
I'm beginning to suspect
I need two things explained to me
How you people understand relationships to work
And how you sort out what maintains a conversation
Without killing every idea
And still
Absorbing
All the relevant data

And I'm still not sure ever make sense
woostering: (Default)

The ghosts of London whisper past

They tip their hats, I bow my head

The rustle of wool

The click of shoes and silver-tipped canes

A single curl of fog

Around the feet

Of those, whose souls

Once roamed the cobbled streets

Whose eyes glint

With gaslight

And hands crinkle

Yellowed pages of books

Worn through their binding

Collecting dust and tender glances

From their shelves

Fingers, though bare

Perpetually clad in black leather

Necks held in starched collars

Cased in silk

A voice, whose vowels

Hearken back

To clouds and rain and brickwork

And the clatter from the streets

The lives

Of London

Ghost

Dec. 4th, 2011 01:05 pm
woostering: (Default)
Share a furtive glance,
gaze darting like
fish in a murky pond
Outside, eyes
do not wander
On windblown empty sidewalks
The distance between us
as we pass
is set.
Our kind,
we do not speak
our words
            drift
black feathers against gray sky
You, determined, taciturn
And I
lip curled up from
an internal Cheshire
my ears catalog
the fading clicking of your stride
on cold pavement.

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