ekphrasis poem
So I wrote an ekphrasis poem (it also sort of a slam poem of sorts) completely based on this prompt over at we_are_cities. I also used heartequals's line "I miss you like you're Earth and I'm ten thousand years away." So, credit to her for that! I'm debating whether or not to post it there since it is a bandom comm. Hm, we'll see.
Here's the thing:
I miss you like you're Earth and I'm ten thousand years away.
And I am pulling, pulling, pulling,
but time is sending me backwards, it seems.
Does that happen to you?
Or is it some extension of deja vu?
And maybe if you listened, too
to that quiet-quiet shush and shoo
(each star trying to comfort you)
doing that glowing thing they do,
you'd figure out they're calling out
noisy silence like virtue voodoo
and the sky is a jewelry box tonight
and every night, maybe,
but baby, they really take up a lot of space,
not much like rings and bracelets do.
You are there, I can see you,
but I can never reach.
And I can hear them, (the stars, keep up please)
almost maybe trying to teach
the in-and-out ways of space and its freeways,
an interstate of praise, obeying raceways,
starspangled screen-plays,
calling out, scream-and-shout, my name, (my name. Because I can be special
in some ways)
And you, you need to listen
raise eardrum decibels like wavelength paydays, just--
shhhhh! Constellations want quiet, like
sometimes you need quiet, you see,
I'm sure you understand.
Because sometimes stars sink like quicksand
and they are picky left-hand-right-hand,
spaceage wasteland, nothing pre-planned, everything so offhand,
no such thing as backhand,
stars can barely withstand their bipolar blackhole backflip headstands,
all inside a dreamland, everywhere a heartland,
and; and; and; and; I just--WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING?
And this could get depressing--
The sky, it is big and unholy and always just there
and there are always whitelight gateways, vast star clusters hunting
you like the wind on your shoulder, lightly pushing, light purple bruise-forming,
stomach slowly churning, maybe a star or two drumming
inside you like cogs and gears turning,
unsettling, unsettling, unsettling, but peace is somewhere out there, maybe,
trying to collect your stardust to create a Galaxy of You
and being afraid is not an option.
I am only trying to let you know,
unfold the inner workings of time and space and dimensions bending,
unblind you from unstars unwinding through unsolarsystems like unfireworks.
Trust me, this is for your benefit.
Do you want great big plumes of burning nuclear gust keeping you from the brightest,
most unreligious, sanctifying, crucifying, condemning, unpersuading
white lights? The ones that you will stare up at,
perhaps through your casket,
or are you a Death Bandit?
Well that's okay, the stars are, too. They are sly little things.
My point is that there isn't one.
My point is that your heart should lie where mine does,
somewhere up where there is no air,
somewhere up where direction is matterless,
where sadness pools at the back of your throat and you swallow it,
because the taste is too much and happiness is never enough.
My point is that you should hear it,
hear that? Do you?
You don't. Not yet.
The trick is to learn it. And the stars, they could either pull you further from it
or guide you toward it.
"It" meaning;;
big bangs bigger than this world and the next one,
slowly but surely,
lightning-bolt-fast, like helicopters spinning, spurring,
never normally, never falling apart, crumbly,
always deadly, Right On Your Heels,
but you never dizzy and you never, ever
dying.
Here's the thing:
I miss you like you're Earth and I'm ten thousand years away.
And I am pulling, pulling, pulling,
but time is sending me backwards, it seems.
Does that happen to you?
Or is it some extension of deja vu?
And maybe if you listened, too
to that quiet-quiet shush and shoo
(each star trying to comfort you)
doing that glowing thing they do,
you'd figure out they're calling out
noisy silence like virtue voodoo
and the sky is a jewelry box tonight
and every night, maybe,
but baby, they really take up a lot of space,
not much like rings and bracelets do.
You are there, I can see you,
but I can never reach.
And I can hear them, (the stars, keep up please)
almost maybe trying to teach
the in-and-out ways of space and its freeways,
an interstate of praise, obeying raceways,
starspangled screen-plays,
calling out, scream-and-shout, my name, (my name. Because I can be special
in some ways)
And you, you need to listen
raise eardrum decibels like wavelength paydays, just--
shhhhh! Constellations want quiet, like
sometimes you need quiet, you see,
I'm sure you understand.
Because sometimes stars sink like quicksand
and they are picky left-hand-right-hand,
spaceage wasteland, nothing pre-planned, everything so offhand,
no such thing as backhand,
stars can barely withstand their bipolar blackhole backflip headstands,
all inside a dreamland, everywhere a heartland,
and; and; and; and; I just--WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING?
And this could get depressing--
The sky, it is big and unholy and always just there
and there are always whitelight gateways, vast star clusters hunting
you like the wind on your shoulder, lightly pushing, light purple bruise-forming,
stomach slowly churning, maybe a star or two drumming
inside you like cogs and gears turning,
unsettling, unsettling, unsettling, but peace is somewhere out there, maybe,
trying to collect your stardust to create a Galaxy of You
and being afraid is not an option.
I am only trying to let you know,
unfold the inner workings of time and space and dimensions bending,
unblind you from unstars unwinding through unsolarsystems like unfireworks.
Trust me, this is for your benefit.
Do you want great big plumes of burning nuclear gust keeping you from the brightest,
most unreligious, sanctifying, crucifying, condemning, unpersuading
white lights? The ones that you will stare up at,
perhaps through your casket,
or are you a Death Bandit?
Well that's okay, the stars are, too. They are sly little things.
My point is that there isn't one.
My point is that your heart should lie where mine does,
somewhere up where there is no air,
somewhere up where direction is matterless,
where sadness pools at the back of your throat and you swallow it,
because the taste is too much and happiness is never enough.
My point is that you should hear it,
hear that? Do you?
You don't. Not yet.
The trick is to learn it. And the stars, they could either pull you further from it
or guide you toward it.
"It" meaning;;
big bangs bigger than this world and the next one,
slowly but surely,
lightning-bolt-fast, like helicopters spinning, spurring,
never normally, never falling apart, crumbly,
always deadly, Right On Your Heels,
but you never dizzy and you never, ever
dying.