Leda and the Swan Final

Moments of conversation are coyote
how they jump off cliffs, it’s cartoon
how lofty they feel suspending disbelief
how mistakes make them heavier than anvil

But we’re bound to fall in reverse
Beginning grounded, starting slow and bland
she says, architecture is a complicated structure,
rise into purple speech-

Design contains the genetic history of conquest
Into something lofty like, balconies and banisters
make exquisite gills, filtering our voices, through twists of metal.
and into Yeats - full of nape, beak and thigh-speak

and suddenly, colonialism and design
has never sounded more suggestive
so, I whisper something self-serving,
(nestled in the space of an incomplete sentence)

like prospective lovers do, funny how so little sustains us
when music and conversation are in short supply.
and I can see the crinkle of swan feet in your eyes
the disgust rutting into your nose.

When your swan calls, you must listen
let him land in the pit of your mind,
to pay you visits the way he tends to do,
when you realize the weight of the present:

the height of a mistake, feel the biology of discontent,
my swiftly tilting heart for you.
Like the time your feather fingers played 
the black keys of my ribs, searching for a laugh.

Somehow, an ocean rose within me and I blurted
something animated during sexytime. No pillow,
could smother the insensitivity of crying wolf 
in the echoing theater of your mind.

I wanted to wrap around your tonic soil
like bone rooting ligament with a gentle,
me too. I understand. And I do,
but a Titanic weight remains to admit,

we have nothing in common. Orange-webbed feet
have never pried my knees, 
my neck has never been pinned like a staple.
I’ve owned that myth and it’s a tragedy  

all the people who can’t afford
buy into the lies I crafted to love you, 
so I eat bowls of Ramen alone, and cling 
to shame and paint sorrow with words

to cover my tracks. I keep running 
into rocks, cartoon or not, my love only runs 
on faux pas, I’m aware of my mistake, but tears are 
no punchline salvation.

(Leda / swan ) 2.0

Swan call

Conversation is cartoon
and it’s funny how so little keeps us afloat

like how a coyote can run over a cliff
suspend in disbelief, like fallen fruit

with no concept of fall or decay
We all bruise and ooze and, cartoon or no, 

we all are the spoils of gravity,
do not drop until we notice our error

and I choose to fall
into our tête-à-tête, into Yeats - 

full of nape, beak and thigh-speak.
you say something rave like

balconies and banisters make the most exquisite gills
the way our night filters through metal

like organs. She says, all design is a form of evolution
and architecture is the offspring of colonial conquest

and suddenly, I feel survival of the fittest
has never sounded more erotic.

But when something triggers your swan-call,
you must listen and let

him descend into the pit of your mind
to pay you a visit way he always does

when music and conversation are in 
short supply. always when 

it’s sickening to think. always when
you realize the weight of the present:

the height of a mistake, the biology of discontent,
my swiftly tilting heart for you.

So I whisper something self-serving,
like prospective lovers do,

nestled in the space of an incomplete sentence.
After parenthesizing the night with (love 

you) a distant call and return,
the question: to two words or less-

what is a romantic white lie?
when I feel connected to you,

rooted and familiar 
with your rapid cycles and shifts.

I tip-toe through dirty halls like lonely
security; sure-footed and anticipating.

Double-checking each crack turned door-lock,
wrapping around your tonic soil 

like bone rooting ligament.
A Titanic weight remains

to admit we have nothing in common.
We aren’t of the same tragedy

and no woman can afford
to make space for the lies

I’ve crafted to love you, so I eat Ramen alone,
and I wear my crown of shame on in this bed,

in secret and cover it up
with whatever’s lying about. 

Life becomes a burden when you realize
you are the mistake. I am the reason

stress folds into bags under my eyes. 
I am the reason your fingers feathered 

my skin in search for a laugh. Somehow,
an ocean rose within me and so I yelled

rape during sexytime. No pillow,
could smother my insensitivity.

There was no excuse, and tears are 
no punchline salvation.

    If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.
Edgar Allan Poe  (via squandered)

(Source: letteratura-litterature, via squandered)

King Krule - Easy Easy (Willow Smith Cover)

vogueltalia:

Easy Easy (Willow Smith Cover) | King Krule

(via loveyourchaos)

Cat Power - Sea of Love

I wanna tell you
How much
I love you

(Source: hausofbhd, via novacane-cocaine)

Malliard reactions 1.1

To decompose is to destroy is to delete, which can be 
beautiful, you might say. Except deletion is sickening,

defacing, gets me into a purging mood like too-ripe coffee 
Or cacao that plans creative play dates with aggravated intestine walls.

Because, of course, it’s only natural to be so amber-brown vibrant then 
disgustingly bitter.

Draft 1.1

Asked a very beautiful girl
Would you please
Read my poetry

Knowing full well the shit
Of it all. Wanting to see her
Mouth curl and ebony feets

Of crows Dance in the 
corners of her face. Desiring 
The intimate Empty sounds

Echoing feigned insult and 
Invitation to a quick stepped 
tête–à–tête before my stop.

Instead, all I got was this
Misdiagnosed addiction, to which,
I said, Please, by all means, use

Your tools- your whispered
Syllables, focused gaze, fingers
Like a massage on a page

if you must. Just don’t leave 
Me tonight until I’m cured.
The crows danced until I left alone

Physics of Descent rough rough draft 1.3

Balconies and rails make for the most exquisite gills
banisters feathering memories into pockets of conversation.
Tonight, you scrub the air like Yeats infusing nape and beak,
thigh and I let it anoint me
I think of the word colonialism
how it has never never felt more erotic
as the moment pivots to become
mind-puckerinly sour as you recognize
your swan call’s and see it descending,
exiting from the crease of his solitary V. How he frequents 

 
And how a sudden swan destroyed a piece of you. 

How he frequents a tight partitioned flat
in your mind, and makes you pay him visits 
when music and conversation are in short supply, 
It was mind puckeringly sour. I stopped 
contemplating the physics of descent and my 
swiftly tilting heart for you And whispered “me too”. 
Just a pair of terrified, vague, words resting in the
Space of an incomplete sentence. It was guttural.
A distant call demanding echo response like the empty “you 
too”, i heard after accidentally bursting with “love 
you”. Naked and orange cigarette crossfading darkness I’m convinced you said, darling, in romance, two words or less defines a white lie but i swear each time it was meant to wrap 
you In a warm embrace because at that moment, 
like so many others, I felt inextricably connected to you. 
Like the strands of deceit I wrapped myself in, I know 
of the pain life can bring. I’m familiar with The eyelids 
of a nighttime security officer 
with no story to tell and no secrets
to entertain. I too roam the halls checking the locks 
and snacking on fingernails as I beg myself to recall
some long forgotten name to blame the leather 
suitcases of a lonely stone placed neatly under 
my lashes. But no such name ever comes to mind. 
I have a name but the verb isn’t the same, and the rent 
in my mind is just as expensive and I eat Ramen,
I wear my crown of shame 
in secret and cover it up 
with whatever’s lying about. Like the time I yelled 
rape during sexytime. No pillow 
could smother my insensitivity. 
There was no excuse and 
tears are no punch-line salvation.

Draft of ideas
-paris

curves and bends of letters 3.0

Certain phrases arrest like fluent aphasia
And too often our words are more bee
-sting and less honey-things. Words,  
4-8 letters long, love,
that are too soft
and heavy to nail down.

it’s the minutiae that prickle, nick or smooth. 
I’m attached to each letter of your letters
Even the tallest letters that formulate under weight like beds
of stingers under fakirs in Benares. I’ve studied these letters in a 
lesson of you (e can be visceral and rumble;
o’s a stream of stone)and now I live for each blank-
each fall into möbius relief; struggle to begin the next word.

You divided lines of poems and gave them cushion on a bed of air
above a slowly fading pencil line so that bee-stings 
never settled down to meet honey.

That book is the only way I won’t forget
the time you came over and made me promise 
I wouldn’t keep your favorite poets collection of poems. 
Your fingers cuffing my hands to yours, i knew 
that week would be my favorite memory of you.

I crossed my toes
and lied. 
I built my words 
in a space.
In the fault of a space.
The heart has it’s own tinge of aphasia
my memory does not. It’s happened before 
and things don’t never change: 

I was the book you picked around, threw up, and failed to finish.

Draft 3.2
-paris

draft inspired by W.S. Merwin’s “Separation 2.0”

Acetone couldn’t strip the residue of you 

off my little boar brushes. You are already 

speckled on the canvases I paint. 

I’d never soften the bristles

& sign my name without your texture

Silent communication draft 3.0

Even dark-skinned, blackberry-thorned 
women claim to be The Golightly. 
Know which drawer she kept her 
Chanel and favorite cut of diamond.
Capote, both sassy and stoic, 
would show 100.1% of women flit 
though the avian makes a delicate cliche. 
If I, trowsers rolled, were to exposé your beauty, 
it would hardly be bird-like, rather
persimmon and ambrosia-soft. 
Totally enveloped in the silent,
microscopic language of plant
growing fractals and root biology.
This is where the goodstuff is caged.
The feminine palm-sized,
to some degree, in the moment 
between the warp from animalia
to plantae and back again. Tangible, 
ephemeral and quiescently undividing.

-Paris Taylor

Haiku draft 1.5

demand to be felt
like pain or a tear rolling
down a silent face

-paris

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