Not Blood But Lipstickafter Stevie Smith, her haunting song, Not Waving But DrowningNot Blood But Lipstick by TheGlassIris
Nobody heard her, this lady of bone
pressing her lips to the red, red boy.
I was putting on a dress and crying
tears, not blood but lipstick.
Poor girl, she ate up parlor tricks.
And now he's dead.
It must have been too much for the two,
I lied, I liedliedlied. It was never enough.
(She ate his tricks and pressed her lips)
I was watching, jealous and tramp-like, crying
not tears, not blood, but lipstick.
The Weedafter Elizabeth Bishop, her wondrous fishThe Weed by TheGlassIris
I plucked a massive weed
holding it up in the burning light
exposed, root up, gloves clenched
on the terrible, fanning leaves,
the slashed stems like
bits of broken bone,
torn ends trailing
like a soft mist, like a winding thread.
Inert and silent, moving heavily in the sunlight
the three-pronged taproot sucksucksucking,
sewage pipe filled with rain and malice
eating like a worm in the carpets
of grass, innocuous, sinless,
hiding among the innocent blades,
the sharp-toothed scissor leaves,
the omnipresent dandelion,
nameless, unseen, a fat delight
swelling to a bloat, authentic
glutton grown green
and happy. Here and there
pulling a drop, each
delicate jewel of rain
quivering like gallbladders,
shining beneath the surface,
a clear vein of gold and light.
It knew what each jewel meant.
It knew the thirst it would acquire.
Still, it bored its holes, threaded each drop,
wearing on its roots the sibilant pearls
surreptitious, stolen, sweeter
A Thousand Blades of AtmosphereThe eye holds everything.A Thousand Blades of Atmosphere by TheGlassIris
In it, the flight suspended, the crew
lost in the pillaging air, how the air became
its own wrath then, a thousand blades of atmosphere
cutting into wings, cutting like teeth, the friction alone
its own serrated edge. Disintegration after
an O-ring seal right solid rocket outright failure at liftoff.
The eye holding everything, everything together.
Over the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Cape Canaveral,
11:38 EST, a breach in the joint it sealed, the air a sudden
and never-before-seen marvel, widening and widening
for one long plunge? This too, this
to be shown up. Show me
Orpheus, Underworld, DescentDead girl drifting in a smoke-filled room,Orpheus, Underworld, Descent by TheGlassIris
the lover cannot hear the love song, turning
and churning in the widening night. Love is
abstracted, the heart is made of static and cities.
The sky closes down to portal across
a procession of mourners, crowds of
clown fish, crowned in fireflies.
And that was the truth of the matter:
All the music of this world
cannot heal this broken heart.
All the beauty of heaven and star
cannot restore you to life.
He muttered on his wedding day, the sun
sinking down on heart's horizon.
The truth was this, that:
Fate is powered
by the suffering of lovers.
full of dark wood,
dark water. Here,
accompanied by a floating orchestra
that filled the air to surround him,
he began his descent.
The violins pluck their strings
in a forest of burning spindles
and prickling thumbs. Surrounded
by the souls of the dead, their plaintive howls
whisper high above the air, on inhuman frequencies.
But for Orpheus this
was nothing but another mass of notes
more options available in dropdown menugoad your gods into breathing underwater.more options available in dropdown menu by wildfirepen
quip quickfire quarry at your quintessential being:
hark, hiss, hush a serial name. a feared real pain.
a slow-speaking drain of constant osmosis, pull yourself
up out from among the fallen, pull tug twitch violent
virulent, vascular. clad your misery scantily, dress
your sadness with promiscuity. let the skin show
through the fabric, let the blood pulse&pump&pray.
counterbalance in syntax, in tandem, in tears: this
is something you understand. you, the boy -- wait,
no. scream. scratch your dresses from your closets and
rip your vocal chords up, bleed your chest dry, cry. fall
unweighted, backward. be sorrowful in order to keep
from apathy all that you are, all that you could or
will be. you cannot empower yourself, you have not
the strength, wasted it all on pouring your long hair
down the sink to tangle in the sewage, spent yourself
as a power source for other people. there is no fuel
or electricity to be found. your hips are too fuckin
Offering(for Gayle)Offering by greenbank
It was a harsh wind we felt that first time
blowing in the school of your breaths and through my footfalls
used poems as crumpled travel-brochures
cracks starting to appear in the world-stained walls.
your rule now runs all round my waiting hours.
They hung their flowers upon a dark tree, quickly, quickly.
White blooms and red rain over our shoulders
your smile hastens the moment now unfolding
catching me where I live. And I see
the startling chances your quick hands are holding.
Young as our times are, still we take the risk.
In your classroom is the glint of fighting knives
yet unable to hold back (half-willing anyway)
I lay before you all my foretold lives.
Trusting your grace
I bring the shy tokens of untried powers.
These I bestow with wreaths of hopeful words
with aircraft music from the painful skies
these I bestow to urge your arms around me
and win the summer of your tendered eyes.
These I bestow to bind you closer still
so all c
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,i hear knives in the wind by nawkaman
sugar licking palm fronds fat cats
wash the salt; wash the afterburn it
like we planned you never
say the words plain, only
mm if we ever could we maybe stay
we always tried but couldn't shake
the open space we make the world a-
nother shape as we stand among the
timbertall sugar licking palm fronds
til heat escapes.
inked and reachinghair in reverse brown-blonde ombre,inked and reaching by introverted-ghost
hacked short and curling beneath
wind and personal inattention:
untamed, it spirals into itself and
wreaths a semi-pale face,
whitening from the indoors.
eyes undecided on colour
but firm in their distance,
swallow worlds just to spit them up again,
reflavoured and etched anew
in a cramped hand.
a nose, partially uplifted
as if it were a deer in another life,
brought to death in the middle of scenting danger.
lips, perpetually preparing to turn down
as if they were covers upon a bed containing lovers;
occasionally, when lifted high enough,
the sun bleeds through them,
milk-white and startling.
Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
I didn't steal that candy bar.
He can see the mechanics,
They divide like dreams,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far enough,
he could pop his home planet
like soap bubble.
he's too small
to make much
of a difference.
238,900 miles away,
there is a small click.
A tiny latch
as his 14-year-old daughter
slides her seatbelt
She's learning how to drive,
and how to feel a new kind of terror.
of collision. Of bone
or brick breaking,
Lightyears at SeaHis whispered goodbyes caught fire
in the whites of her eyes as wild dogs
and empty oceans devoured him.
Standing still for years, she with
a waiting heart and waiting fingers
gave birth to ghosts with feathers.
Haunting in his sleep, swinging like
sharp jewelry and pendulums
carving cryptic messages upon his floor-
'You, with your tattooed baptism skin
and slithering tongue of sweet poison
left her aching ashes to mix with gunpowder.'
A meditation on the uselessness of art, its impracticality, and in spite of that,
its essential belonging to us all.
Hi, I'm Andrew Liu. I'm 19, a student at East Los Angeles College and Pasadena City College, and I love to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles held in the Getty Villa. If I look bemused, it's because he doesn't have a dick. I've been writing since middle school and I started taking it seriously around senior year, so, sixteen or seventeen. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians, Fablehaven, that sort of stuff) and fantasy (Cry of the Icemark, American Gods, Good Omens). I mostly write poetry. I switched over from prose because I could never manage to finish writing short stories. And I mostly write as a hobby. |
I'm also an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. I'm a big poetry buff. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are pretty varied though: Cathy Song "Cloud Moving Hands", Sharon Olds "The Elder Sister" & "I Go Back to May, 1937", Sylvia Plath "Mirror" & "Fever 103", Mark Doty "Tiara", Elizabeth Bishop "The Fish", and Muriel Rukeyser "Song for Dead Children."
If I were to summarize my writing style in three words it would be: lush, dream-like, and intense. People have always told me that I'm very good at imagery and description, but not so much at editing or making sure my work flows effortlessly.
Other hobbies I have include video games, anime, and more reading I guess. All time favorite video games: Folklore (PS3), Bastion (PC), Dust: An Elysian Tale (PC), Persona 4 (PS2). All time favorite animes: Natsume Yuujinchou (Natsume's Book of Friends), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (Magical Girl Madoka), Nodame Cantabile, Ao no Exorcist (Blue Exorcist-manga only), and Magi (again, manga only). All time favorite books: Caramelo (Sandra Cisneros), American Gods (Neil Gaiman), The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Asterios Polyp (David Mazzuchelli), Like Water For Chocolate (Laura Esquivel), and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury).
I swear I read and watch more than this, it's just I'm really picky and have strangely specific tastes. Ask me for writing critique and feedback. I'm more than happy to give advice.