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    dots Submission Name: the gentle memory of bluenessdots

    Author: blackbird
    ASL Info:    31/male/reykjavik iceland
    Elite Ratio:    2.35 - 194/328/300
    Words: 161
    Class/Type: Poetry/Love
    Total Views: 537
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1197


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsthe gentle memory of bluenessdots

    until this world melts again
    i am an island,
    the moths fluttering at my fingertips,
    the cherry
    burning amongst the wet leaves.
    the colours explore me
    while i'm missing
    & i wait for you...

    as i move,
    everything pops
    & swizzles away.
    i remember the ocean
    & it's dark purpose
    moving away from me,
    the scent of its victims
    on the air.

    i touch blood
    as if it's dreaming,
    as if i could love
    despite the seasons,
    the coolness of the winter
    on my lips.
    i break into the air
    with the gentle memory
    of blueness,
    leaf creatures ignore me
    in the night.

    i touched the heart of it all
    to find
    the chrimsom coral
    beneath me
    explaining god.
    along the way
    i've discovered nothing
    but this;
    that in the end
    i'm left to wonder:

    what if,
    despite geometry,
    i'm less for knowing love at all?

    Submitted on 2009-02-21 00:18:26     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Another thing i like about your work is its sure cadence, nothing ever really feels out of place or forced, and i think you've mentioned that you usually write these pieces of your in a rush.

    it's like you are are there and yet detached, while seemingly at one, or holding some mastery of observation.

    break into the air
    with the gentle memory
    of blueness,
    leaf creatures ignore me
    in the night.

    I very much like these lines:

    'what if,
    despite geometry,
    i'm less for knowing love at all?'

    it just reminds of what a lottery it is, the coming together of two people, the matching of one egg with one of many millions of sperm zaigots or some bloody thing:

    six billion people and half of them are male, 99.9999999 % of them you'll never meet, the one you were meant to? attached at the time, another cycling of the numbers and how is she meant to meet up with you?

    Sometimes I think about it in the way of love/sex being a biological function and we, just organisms inflicted with those very strong feelings as if we are microbes whose purpose is to grow a tail and love is the illusion that stretches us toward it. And when you think about that crazy stuff it makes you question purpose for sure.

    So, this was where your poem lead me, and that is wordy, and good.

    good good.
    | Posted on 2009-12-21 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]

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