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Lo Que Sera Sera (Only the Ocean)Hair stiff and wavy with sea salt
she wipes foam from her eyes surfacing
from a thousand fathoms below where
the horizon quietly hangs.
Two footsteps on the sand, forwards
and backwards. A story of an idea,
a brief spark, seaweed lacing over
her toes.

'I wanted to find the bottom of the
ocean. Stand at the very depths
and cup daylight in my hands.
Some fish have never seen the sun
or felt a breeze and I thought I'd
give them that chance.'

Even those not prone to childish whimsy
and hope can show a vague smile at the
thought of glittering salmon and anemones
gasping flickers of sunlight, the gentle
wave of fronds and floods
Girl as NicotineShe is the Mona Lisa dip-dyed in ivory, flecks of oil
paint curling at the corners of her eyes. Her name is warped water
underneath rope bridges, ecstasy in a chalk pill.

It will go down easily with a pair of blue eyes and a cup of red wine.
Just don't choke when the signs of the zodiac rush in over your tongue
and you're overwhelmed with the taste of silk sheets. Sagittarius will take
you to the forest and to Jupiter's storms, Leo sounds like solar flares and
will show you a pride of lions hunting at the first waver of dawn, but it's
Gemini you have to watch out for. It will split itself into two
and replicate in your synapses.

'Addicted'
The Lover and the LionLover:
I am made of matchsticks and red ribbons and tiny
sparks of Saturday-morning duvet hopes ricocheting
around my brain into a pattern of torn petals from
daisies. Lovers are destroyers of flowers, we know
this. This is why we belong under trees and in wheat
fields, letting buttercups and dandelions grow between
our toes and around our shoulders. We are made to belong.

Lion:
Whoever said that a lion is made by birth was
not telling anybody the whole truth. If you would
like to know how, when you stand up, when you roar,
does it feel right? Are you brave? Only the brave can be lions.
a sheep dressing itself in fur and mane wil
Colours I Never TastedIt is not worth escaping over.
No, sometimes the sun rises lopsided in the horizon and the
clink of glasses against teeth sets irate neurones off in your mind cavity
and fireflies extinguish on car windscreens in rain storms. Sometimes
August drops down into lake reflections and sometimes October never
sends a breeze to whisper into your ears. But they teach you that all of
that is okay, even when you're watching sunflowers writhe towards the
sun with grey blankets over humid-day hair.
There will always be a dawn. Stay awake for it.

You are not truly living until you have breathed.
And by that, I mean, take two feet and place them o
wanderlust, and what i know
i know things.

i'd like to pretend to the listening frost on car windscreens
that i know these things from the song of birds down my ears.
'a little birdy told me' they say, but what they're forgetting
is that birds, if they could talk, wouldn't waste time telling
humans other peoples's secrets when they could be teaching
me how to grow featherdown and fly. yet here i am, a bird
telling scraps of paper what i do and don't know.<

here is what i do know:

sometimes i'll walk in snow and have it crunch beneath my feet
and usually i'll look back and imagine i'm standing on diamonds.
like i've suddenly swollen with billions of whisper
The ArtistThe artist knows that her teeth are a palette,
if only she could figure out the colour scheme
of her innermost thoughts. All she knows is that
they taste like Earl Grey with just a pinch of salt.

It jars her tastebuds and she paints a picture of seventy
shades of disapproval with a roll of her eyes, the slight
nod of her head. Two pupils widen when the brush slips and
injects colour - if only a burst - into swarms of grey
fruitflies lusting after an ashen peach.

She knows of all the colours in the spectrum
and knows their flavour, can persuade them to lay
on her page while she seduces them with detail.
She'll lend her ear to a bo
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratin
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but

Words will not
fall
from your mother-of-pearl lips
(willingly.)

Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more lik
Low WordsSome things are buried deep underground.
Fossils, time capsules, people.
Some things and some people are in the time-capsules
of my memory encased in stainless steel
with a capricious lock:
weak, strong, neither here nor there.

They are just words, like the ones I type
onto computer keyboards and hope make sense to
somebody, anybody.
They will show you a mirror and tell you
your thousands of hair follicles don't reflect
light like they ought to, or your skin is wan
and maybe just a little collagen and black will
make you look dazzling.
They will show you the scales and say 'just a little
more, maybe?' and every quiver, twitch,
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-face
with the planets? To curl your fingers in the air without
meeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed you
how to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?
You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,
really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ash
clouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,
it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,
but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.

Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriages
and wonder what corn
DesecrateThe world is a thread. Someone, somewhere in the exosphere a hundred thousand miles away from anywhere we'll ever stand is wearing a stopwatch, containing every fibre, every sinew that holds every body together, every human, every woven tapestry generations have sought to improve.

What if the wearer watched someone rip apart the wings and chrysalis of a butterfly? Someone pour oil into an ocean of glitteringf fish? Smog over london and car exhausts coughing up carbon monoxide into the nostrils of newborns, stained dark on the insides?

Maybe they'd pull apart every tapestry in a fit of rage when they see nuclear clouds unfolding in the dista
AbsintheThat sallow-cheeked girl told me that every night
she hallucinated of sprites and pixies weaving between her eyes
and she giggled every time she did.
We shared an awkward silence before she dissolved into a fit
of laughter on my bedroom floor, but it's a harsh kind of laugh
and she strikes me as the type who knows she is not there
but strings pearl teeth and magenta lips onto a pole of her own
stacked identities.

Meanwhile, there's a boy sipping absinthe out of champagne flutes,
spilling it from lips like colanders onto the waiting floor.
He talks to paintings on the wall like they'll console him.
He tells a portrait of a woman in
Tomorrow is BelievingYesterday I considered myself a dust mote
and climbed out of my window into the helixes
of peoples' ears.

I think I am a monarch butterfly surrounded by
peppered moths here.
They're all a hive of bees and what am I?
Perhaps a bluebottle on the wall.
They are ever-ready to say that there is no tomorrow
'I give up' 'I quit' 'There is just nothing for me
or for anybody anymore.'

They pulled me with their hook fingers and sat me down
and told me that there was once constellations, the clink
of champagne glasses against curved lips and they
once rode in the passenger seat of a car doing a hundred
and twenty down a motorway with the w
PyromaniaI want to see a light show in ochre and dancers
two thousand degrees in heat: I want to watch them
all traipse across my bedroom floor with their
encore in grey.

Blistered fingers flicking cigarette lighters
to see an orange pirouette turn for me,
my parents worry that I smell of smoke but they
don't know the reality.

Well.

The truth is that you can find me weaving
kerosene trails around the moon and Saturn's rings
telling acorns and oak leaves to enjoy our
favourite disease -

So I flick the lighter once again and speak
to the blackened walls and singed floors:

'Don't fear the kiss of the flame
don't let them douse the burns y
SevenShe woke up at six in the morning and stayed stock-still - not even twitching - until it was seven minutes past the hour. She walked in and out of the door seven times, brushed her teeth seven times, and had to say goodbye to her mother seven times.

'Why do you do that, honey?' her mother asked.

The girl just blinked seven times, half-smiled and shut the door, tapping the brass handle another seven times.

-

On her first day of school, she had collected seven daisies and had five lessons. She'd place a daisy somewhere in the room in each lesson, and decided that the longest-lasting daisy would dictate her future passion.

The daisy in the
Collab: holding starsDid I tell you about that girl?
I should have done, always talking of her
Always on my mind
Running
    Spinning
           Dancing
                 Jumping on my mind
I have no ways to explain how she makes me feel...
wonderful, maybe?
What words in the world could we use to describe
perfection
What words could you use to describe how much
you really love somebody?

Maybe a thousand astral cords tied to the tip of
your tongue, and maybe just one spiral galaxy
wrapped around your ankles.
But what is as perfect as a hundred leagues
under the sea, that first gasp of ocean and rock
salt, with years of rainwater rushing throug
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More from *Anatopist

What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-face
with the planets? To curl your fingers in the air without
meeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed you
how to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?
You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,
really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ash
clouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,
it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,
but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.

Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriages
and wonder what corn
Collab: holding starsDid I tell you about that girl?
I should have done, always talking of her
Always on my mind
Running
    Spinning
           Dancing
                 Jumping on my mind
I have no ways to explain how she makes me feel...
wonderful, maybe?
What words in the world could we use to describe
perfection
What words could you use to describe how much
you really love somebody?

Maybe a thousand astral cords tied to the tip of
your tongue, and maybe just one spiral galaxy
wrapped around your ankles.
But what is as perfect as a hundred leagues
under the sea, that first gasp of ocean and rock
salt, with years of rainwater rushing throug
The Lover and the LionLover:
I am made of matchsticks and red ribbons and tiny
sparks of Saturday-morning duvet hopes ricocheting
around my brain into a pattern of torn petals from
daisies. Lovers are destroyers of flowers, we know
this. This is why we belong under trees and in wheat
fields, letting buttercups and dandelions grow between
our toes and around our shoulders. We are made to belong.

Lion:
Whoever said that a lion is made by birth was
not telling anybody the whole truth. If you would
like to know how, when you stand up, when you roar,
does it feel right? Are you brave? Only the brave can be lions.
a sheep dressing itself in fur and mane wil
Lo Que Sera Sera (Only the Ocean)Hair stiff and wavy with sea salt
she wipes foam from her eyes surfacing
from a thousand fathoms below where
the horizon quietly hangs.
Two footsteps on the sand, forwards
and backwards. A story of an idea,
a brief spark, seaweed lacing over
her toes.

'I wanted to find the bottom of the
ocean. Stand at the very depths
and cup daylight in my hands.
Some fish have never seen the sun
or felt a breeze and I thought I'd
give them that chance.'

Even those not prone to childish whimsy
and hope can show a vague smile at the
thought of glittering salmon and anemones
gasping flickers of sunlight, the gentle
wave of fronds and floods
435 Writing Prompts!1. Violinist. (Or violin)
2. Insomniac.
3. Paper aeroplane.
4. Dandelion seed.
5. Feather.
6. She sings.
7. Dragonfly toes.
8. A stolen ring.
9. Broken wristwatch.
10. Missing tooth.
11. Horoscope.
12. Fairytale gone wrong.
13. Cliché.
14. Ribbon.
15. Renaissance.
16. Staccato.
17. Cadence.
18. Asphyxiate.
19. Lucky rabbit's paw.
20. Freckles.
21. 3:28am.
22. Kaleidoscope.
23. Icarus.
24. 1000 paper cranes.
25. Origami.
26. Hallucination.
27. Puppet show.
28. Triskaidekaphobia. (Fear of the number thirteen.)
29. Hourglass.
30. Letters to the moon.
31. Jupiter.
32. Ballet shoes.
33. Spider.
34. Silhouette.
35. Breathless. (Or, breathlessly.)
3
Colours I Never TastedIt is not worth escaping over.
No, sometimes the sun rises lopsided in the horizon and the
clink of glasses against teeth sets irate neurones off in your mind cavity
and fireflies extinguish on car windscreens in rain storms. Sometimes
August drops down into lake reflections and sometimes October never
sends a breeze to whisper into your ears. But they teach you that all of
that is okay, even when you're watching sunflowers writhe towards the
sun with grey blankets over humid-day hair.
There will always be a dawn. Stay awake for it.

You are not truly living until you have breathed.
And by that, I mean, take two feet and place them o

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August 19, 2012
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Supernova (someday, I will marry an astronomer)

:iconanatopist:

You are firing words into space at stars that will never understand.
Let them guess. Have you ever tried explaining to them that you'd like to
pluck them from where they stand to glue them to your ceiling?
They don't know you like I do, they don't know you're scared of the dark.
Comets and asteroids are tricky things. They'll burn a hole through your roof
so I hope you like the troposphere singeing your nostrils.

'What do you suppose stars do after they become supernovae?'
'They become neutron stars. Or black holes, I guess.'
You went quiet after that.

Maybe I should have said that they stay beautiful forever like Hollywood
would have you believe. I could have said that they blaze on and on
for as long as the universe wants to keep us held in the clutches of spiral
galaxies. That they linger on and become what makes up a newborn child
and the last breath of people who have seen eight decades and more. That
they filter down into the shells of your ears and become the fabric and sinew
of what dreams taste like. They taste like cotton candy, by the way.

'If you could be anything astronomical, what would you be?'
'I'd be a comet. No, an astronomer, to be able to see all of that.
Or maybe I'd be a comet and marry an astronomer. What about you?'
'I'd be a supernova. Beautiful, and then I'd hope to become a black hole.
When I go down, everything is going down with me.'
:iconanatopist:
(and we will dine on stardust).

Sometimes it is okay to be an asteroid rather than a sun.
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:iconscribensangelus:
Mood: Love ~ScribensAngelus Mar 7, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
'They taste like cotton candy, by the way'
I love that line, so much.
'I'd be a supernova. Beautiful, and then I'd hope to become a black hole. When I go down, everything is going with me.'
Perfect.
Reply
:iconanatopist:
*Anatopist Apr 26, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you!
Reply
:iconfee-absinthe:
*fee-absinthe Nov 14, 2012  Student General Artist
Would it be ok if I made some illustrations with this poem for the university? Giving you the credit, of course. I just love your writings and I would love to do something with this poem. Feel free to contact me via note <3
Reply
:iconanatopist:
*Anatopist Nov 15, 2012  Student Writer
By all means, go ahead! C:
Reply
:iconfee-absinthe:
*fee-absinthe Nov 21, 2012  Student General Artist
Thank you! I'll let you know when I'm ready so I can show you the results (:
Reply
:iconanatopist:
*Anatopist Nov 30, 2012  Student Writer
Awesome. C:
Reply
:iconsharpiegirl01:
~SharpieGirl01 Sep 28, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I would be a supernova too.
Reply
:iconanatopist:
*Anatopist Sep 28, 2012  Student Writer
It's quite a nice thing to be. :)
Reply
:iconsharpiegirl01:
~SharpieGirl01 Sep 28, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Mm-hmm =)
Reply
:icondweckie:
~dweckie Sep 1, 2012  Student Writer
This is truly stunning :heart:
Reply
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