Bit of a triple whammy here.
Found this here. I think she’s pretty amazing.
I walk the purple carpet into your eye
carrying the silver butter server
but a truck rumbles by,
leaving its black tire prints on my foot
and old images the sound of banging screen doors on hot
afternoons and a fly buzzing over the Kool-Aid spilled on
flicker, as reflections on the metal surface.
Come in, you said,
inside your paintings, inside the blood factory, inside the
old songs that line your hands, inside
eyes that change like a snowflake every second,
inside spinach leaves holding that one piece of gravel,
inside the whiskers of a cat,
inside your old hat, and most of all inside your mouth where you
grind the pigments with your teeth, painting
with a broken bottle on the floor, and painting
with an ostrich feather on the moon that rolls out of my mouth.
You cannot let me walk inside you too long inside
the veins where my small feet touch
You must reach inside and pull me
like a silver bullet
from your arm.
This is also excellent and touching:
Remember where the poets are,
for we’re a dying breed,
with our hands in our empty pockets,
And this is an another by Lydia that i meant to put up AGES ago because it is
amazing but because I am not, I forgot. Sorry.
– Lydia (secretagentartist)
On the pleasure boat,
I ask my uncle – whose dark eyes
are contemplating hills – the german word for lake.
He writes it for me, absent minded:
the see as z.“
‘The Zurich-zee is tooled glass,
it’s printed cellophane.
The Zurich-zee is silver fish,
slashed brail, misted zinc.’
My uncle sees a gliding gull, small castle,
at Richterschill – a blue and yellow tram.
‘The Zurich-zee is silver milk,
sleek bands of graying hair.
The Zurich-zee is spilt yellow,
My uncle makes the sounds
for places as we pass:
I chew the pen and mark them down.
Like the ink is made of lake.
My uncle, words.