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Literature
I fly too close
If door hinges were acid, where would all-time go-
Crumbled stars on tightropes, rope burns,
Burns turned gears away, folded up like paper
Airplanes, vapor trails leave me breathless from before.
Crumbling wheels, wherever they may bind the soul,
I cannot lock these melting doors at the doorstep
Of supernovas,
I fly too close.
You need these flower tears, petals, fertile fruit,
And yet those gears are turning, artificial, sickly-sweet,
Sweetly boiling – my lungs are filling to the brim,
Can you escape this endless pirouette – ballerina with
A broken neck, at the core of our lonesome star,
Blooming, beautiful?
I fly too close.
If acid could not corrode the chains that held my wheels,
I would not fly so close, melted-metal-encased, petal
But rather I would take all-time from these cellar-doors,
And floating far away, my wheels would take me
Further home.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 2 11
Literature
1915
Your world was cut out on the backs of my people,
Quiet, beautiful, and pure
From the earth raised like apricots, sun-kissed;
Uprooted.
Taken from the mountaintops, our tears revived (y)our land
Our ancestors fertilized (y)our soil
We carry the scars on our back, deep-cut, raised, and red.
You refuse to see them,
(Yet from them my people bloom.)
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 3 2
Literature
lunar
I wished for the stars
to come down from their heavens,
rays interlocked like fingers,
floating on my veins,
skin consumed by time,
their eyes sagging and crossed.
I wished for the stars to dance,
while falling from their heavens,
a sinking waltz of desperation,
and screams of supernovas,
filling the universe,
my macrocosm,
and the stars, aging,
on my veins.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 5 4
Literature
the search
you gave me a green stem to a yellow flower,
i said i wanted the sun, and you climbed a mountain
for a dandelion in bloom, white seed piercing the clouds;
you gave me a green stem to a wilting flower,
beneath an upturned crescent moon.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 5 3
Literature
god can't fly
It was better when we took walks on tight-ropes,
and teased the stars, tickling the undersides of their bellies,
burning our fingertips,
and cooling them on pluto, faint and far,
so that when your arms outstretched to stroke it,
you had to stand on the tips of your toes, pirouetting,
ballerina with a broken neck.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 24 9
Literature
pollen
wasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 147 50
Literature
blindfold
He wished for curtains,
so that he could swing them closed
like eyelids with tassel lashes,
to keep the moonlight from
invading his sleep-seduced body.
(Crouched, head buried into knees,
hands in weakened prayer.)
They would frame the sunlit glass,
(when the sun awoke, arms outstretched,
translucent fingers that stroked clouds)
with the silhouette of the city,
faint and far, peering into the room,
and the hand-print of a lover smudged into the color.
If the curtains parted, he would glance down,
and see the scratches the ladder left on the windowsill.
Instead the tassels were made of rusted iron,
and the glass was tinted black.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 14 9
Literature
swimming, not a strength
would he pull a maiden's hands,
white, adorned with veins and cooling blood
from swamps and running rivers
had he been Poseidon's son?
perhaps his grip would run through her fingers
and escape like eels into her lungs,
coiling like wet string dipped into mucus,
and sleeping to the breaths, which ran faster than Atlanta,
firm breasted, and golden-haired
tangled in a rose-bed Poseidon laid to grow
absorbing sunshine curls
of a maiden plunged below.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 13 9
Literature
Hearing Test
whirring helicopters are the hammers twirling in my temples,
and in the trenches of my brain
soldiers march in heavy boots.
they squeeze the spongy soil; blood seeps out like groundwater.
if i were the earth, i'd wail with the songbirds,
and caves would howl as tornadoes whistle into them.
ammunition would rust in puddles, and gunpowder would be sprinkled in tea.
in a japanese cherry-blossom garden, kimonos would be hung out to dry,
and a b-29 would chime with the silver spoons dropped on the china
helmets litter the streets, and medals cling onto trees in december,
children croaked carols; crouched underneath rubble, knocking on horizontal doors.
migraines stirred clouds and lightning so that planes would decorate the oceans
with steel-green and red paint, and if i were the earth,
i would string them up in a pretty necklace, polished with stockings covered in grit.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 9 8
Literature
if luxury was rain and poured onto us
he sang with a chorus of a child's cries
as if they connected stars into dotted pictures
that broke the fall of andromeda,
when perseus' winged-sandals wouldn't fit.
he shared hera's milk with hercules, and painted the milky way.
with bristled-fingers, he stroked the vacuum and threw molecules together
as if they were a sari strewn on the floor at the foot of a charpoy,
and he and hera were thrown in between the sheets,
halos on her breasts, and Saint stripped from her,
if saintliness was pale and made love in a humble room in the googolplex of luxury.
(luxury is a saint) he would whisper,
and among the grunts and gasps, it crept into the room
and settled on their lower backs and between their thighs.
their breath fell cold, and the ceiling dripped with monsoon rain,
and snakes slithered sleepily by winged-sandals, green with mold.
(they fell from the sky, from the feet of saints
who all followed in a chorus of wails and outstretched wrists.
if children's cries could weave nets of star
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 12 5
Literature
Microcosm
I was a shard of something not quite present,
fitting its form over a blanket of various halogens
hungry and horny for valence electrons,
and I was that electron; not quite rotating,
waiting for recurrence time, he an unmemorable loop:
clever, unobserved, named Recurrence at an age
when bones bury themselves into rocks,
and dogs hunt for meat instead.
I was not the time, for he has taken that title;
a king bound by mucus, thicker than blood.
Mother has sewn for him poppies with heroin needles,
I was the stem and the thread,
I tightened nooses around viruses
and seeped of cytoplasm.
Aye,
For him I was oxygen not yet breathed
by his noble nose, and he was the neon, not quite pink,
for Mother has color-blinded with soap his virgin eyes,
as if colors were letters mutually masturbating in her presence.
Hymen yet not stretched with the gradient shaft of bouncing color,
he was time, and I was not quite present after all:
a prism.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 6 8
Literature
1109
he brushed his cheeks with hair dye,
he was woven by punnet squares,
with shoe polish stuck in his teeth,
and his pupils wearing Iris as a dress.
acid knew no form, nor did
his misplaced organs, they played flutes
made out of bone, and bone marrow
was scraped out of him for pathetic pocket change,
which he kept in a drawer labeled №1065,
for no particular reason:
when poppies grew that season,
and that season took no form,
in a container he would whisk it,
frothy white, white, foam.
in the ocean dwelled the fingers fair,
dirt was hidden under shoe polish
and under shoe polish, his feet.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 7 14
Literature
was it them that said, i do?
Let's go on tightrope walks.
Cross-eyed stars, played with string and oiled fruit.
With greasy fingers, they touched blue suns:
(Young mothers that nurse orbits,
milk lacking gravity and taste,
robbed of dwarfish years.)
Of course then... perhaps he forgot;
soon to be a wife, shackles on ring fingers,
minds on flecked bosoms.
Necks can break, their thin fibers,
woven into skin,
where moons tickle royal pores,
and never wonder why.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 7 3
Literature
I missed your voice, once upon a time.
Echoes perched on vulture's wings, glazed beaks
mirror milky bones, and the west wind,
whistling, traveled through bleeding valleys.
Your head was resting on a royal
spear, your tongue no longer spoke. Once, if
I can remember, it tied for me
clever knots of pretty words: a quilt.
(I kept it on my silken breast, you
know, later buried in my ribs.) I want
to spin a robe for you as well: as
new as newborn dawn. One day it will
grow a beard, and knock on your empty
skull. The echo will silence her loud
screams, and shall arise from vulture's wings.
She will hold a needle to her throat,
and she will make pretty quilts for me.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 15 13
Literature
of course you do
i remember the
trees evading liquid swords,
sinking into flesh,
of jolly hordes, and
soil-songs: roots, and endless nerves,
not quite gleaming eyes,
like rubies buried
under years, and lengthy beards,
back when pupils saw.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 15 12
Literature
acida
withered rain-bricks are
patch-sunken, hollow and starved,
reflected in grass-
blades, fainting mirrors,
trap light years in spider-eggs,
and lotus pods clap
at doves connecting
constellations in river-
soaked skies, boats quaver.
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile
:iconjaani-androphile:jaani-androphile 14 10

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Literature
Fading eyelashes
In his heart of hearts,
the husband knew she would always fear
the home,
would always fear
retiring from the desk in charge,
would always be
the nun who would excommunicate
all popes and priests,
-the heretical demons!-
who would grow up to gush
at her friends who married
blond, clear looking foreigners
-while she is stuck in her
cold too cold hot too hot
rainy too rainy country
He forgot to tell
his secretary
to not answer his
home phone
but at least he
lost himself in another city
in another job
other children
another time
unshackled of everything
unclouded of everything
perhaps he is lounging
in the mountains
with his new children
unpestered
to go and get some
fresh air
while my left eye
is fogging
like the eyes
of my old aunts
the rotten grandparents
or the memory
of a woman
who desperately
wants to build
a sentence in English
a life
not her own
to her whim and fancy
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 46 26

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If door hinges were acid, where would all-time go-
Crumbled stars on tightropes, rope burns,
Burns turned gears away, folded up like paper
Airplanes, vapor trails leave me breathless from before.
Crumbling wheels, wherever they may bind the soul,
I cannot lock these melting doors at the doorstep
Of supernovas,
I fly too close.
You need these flower tears, petals, fertile fruit,
And yet those gears are turning, artificial, sickly-sweet,
Sweetly boiling – my lungs are filling to the brim,
Can you escape this endless pirouette – ballerina with
A broken neck, at the core of our lonesome star,
Blooming, beautiful?
I fly too close.
If acid could not corrode the chains that held my wheels,
I would not fly so close, melted-metal-encased, petal
But rather I would take all-time from these cellar-doors,
And floating far away, my wheels would take me
Further home.
Your world was cut out on the backs of my people,
Quiet, beautiful, and pure
From the earth raised like apricots, sun-kissed;
Uprooted.
Taken from the mountaintops, our tears revived (y)our land
Our ancestors fertilized (y)our soil
We carry the scars on our back, deep-cut, raised, and red.
You refuse to see them,
(Yet from them my people bloom.)

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jaani-androphile's Profile Picture
jaani-androphile
Ida K.
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
I am just a 19yo girl. I came here to write poems. The end.
Interests
I absolutely cannot believe it, it's a wonderful and amazing feeling and I am so happy! Thank you so much for the feature. c: 

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:icondragonscreative:
dragonscreative Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Many thanks for faving!Hug It means a lot! :D (Big Grin) Also, please consider scoring my design here: bit.ly/1mwQo9j, it would help me a lot! Nod 
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:iconjaani-androphile:
jaani-androphile Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
no problem <3
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Bziulka Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the fav ;)
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jaani-androphile Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
no problem :3
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ChristineKalliri Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist

~Thank You So Much~

 

 

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:iconjaani-androphile:
jaani-androphile Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
no problem <3
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queerartist Featured By Owner Dec 17, 2013  Professional Traditional Artist
Thanks for the+fav !
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jaani-androphile Featured By Owner Dec 17, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
no problem :P
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EPIllustrations Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2013  Professional Digital Artist
Hi, thank you so much for the fav :heart:
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jaani-androphile Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
No problem c:
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