Oct 24
Yellow Sweater's picture

Writer's Block

I turn squares into circles. 
Because life can not be summarized by rational geometry.

I hammer clean angles, 
till their points are blunt enough
to cut silence. 

Poetry is wide and woolen. 
and stupid. 

But its elemental pieces are curved, 
Take that Javascript!

 
Oct 24
Yellow Sweater's picture

Bath Water

Revolution is a bathtub hobby of mine. 
I let my steam collect on the sticky green ceiling.

The water grows tepid, 
as I thunder through bloody thoughts. 

Gold half glimpsed through darkness, 
I think it's candle light.

There is something precious, 
caressed in the folds of my naked body. 

I fist my heart, 
I can feel the resignation, 
in it's beat. 

I want to explode.     

I solved climate change 
I decentralized socialism.  
I satirized western civilization, 
and God. 

I recited my biography, 
into the drain.  
 
Oct 23
Yellow Sweater's picture

Humans

Oct 22
Yellow Sweater's picture

The Boy

It was a sunny day when I happened upon a pretty boy playing a flute by the river. I listened to his music for a while, watching the delicate shape of his smile as it fluctuated between concentration and ecstasy. His music was primitive, but his passion was beautifully innocent. 

I appeared before him, the shining image of a woman, and kissed his lips. After, he smiled a solid smile. It was a little less delicate but just as sweet. 

I want him to hold me, 
because he always holds her. 

Maybe his arms would be nice. 
Solid. 

I am supposed to want the boy who plays his flute by the river. I am supposed to want more than his arms and his sweet smile. But my shining womanhood is just too bright. He is warm, but lacks Marylin Manroe’s luster.  

I want to laugh with him, to dance with him. I want to talk our way around each other in clever curves. I want to love him.

 
Oct 22
Yellow Sweater's picture

Pottery

In perfect history,
creation was practical, 
a potter's wheel rhythm. 

Hands in the clay, 
monotony was made beautiful. 
We spun ourselves into vessels
that carried:
Our water, 
Our grain, 
Our precious ordinary things. 

Life is less tangible these days. 
Our artistry is enabled by our ingenuity. 
And honestly, I am tired of broken pots.  

Will you carry me to the stars when I die?

I want a constellation of my very own. 
I want to refine my methodology. 
I want to distill my motions into a single image.
But that’s not living. 
 
Oct 22
Yellow Sweater's picture

Name Brand Democracy

If I had a pair of Gucci heels, 
I would wear them with socks. 

Contextual legitimacy: 
my screams are subtle.  

Why does absolute cultural revolution so often end in genocide? 
That’s the question plaguing revolutionaries. 

Name brand democracy: 
America. 

Can I wear America with socks?

 
Oct 21
Yellow Sweater's picture

Music from Vinyl

Music from vinyl. 
It’s a miracle really. 

God, I just want to fly.   

No actually, I want to run
and pant 
and sweat
and pound
and fly.

I read a book slowly. 
A word with each breath.
I pieced together a story.  

My desk is piled with objects, 
but I haven't sorted them. 

Untranslated French, 
Untranslated calculus, 
untranslated comics,
and tea cups, 

a banal stack, 
high and heavy enough, 
to be precarious.

God, give me wings. 

No actually, I want a pair of feet. 
I want the mountain under them
as I sing. 
 
Oct 19
Yellow Sweater's picture

Bad Poetry

Give me a pair of corduroy bell-bottoms. 

Pin my heart to one sleeve
and a flower to the other, 
as I pen my manifesto.  

I want to smash through windows
and logic,
impaling myself on splintered ideology. 

A martyr who:
traipses, 
skips, 
dances, 
to the cross.

I want to fertilize a hopeless revolution
with bad poetry, 
and proud insolence.

Qouting Lenin, 
singing to Lennon, 

a cocktail in one hand, 
a bomb in the other,  

I want to preach peace, 
like it’s war.

 
Oct 18
Yellow Sweater's picture

Dolce

When the soft rain comes,
Mama whispers my secret name. 
All is sweet. 

The rain has the ocean behind it. 

And I have your jaw, 
Solid. 
I have your dancing, 
unfettered.

I have Mama to hold me through the storm.

 
Oct 17
Yellow Sweater's picture

Sky-Grey

Sky-grey tastes like dirt. 
LIke the gritty emptiness underneath. 

Sublime: Hands in the mud 
And fresh dew in my lungs. 

I transcend. 

A pounding, 
the taut silence between beats

My heart sings like my flowering skin. 
I smell new and dusty. 

Life from water and oil. 
The delineation of the violently combined.

Soaked through, 
I am dirty and sky-grey. 

 

Pages