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Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
if the woman
    .
        If the woman is a stone
        bury her in blue water,
        If the woman is a knife
        rub her til she's sharp.
His voice is a rattle at the bottom of a tin cup.
His arms are spurs, and rusted
where metal pinches leather.
He shakes like a drum in firelight
with the last fist still fresh on his back:
        ama sa'ni, she grow curved low like a horseshoe,
        she pull stories from lamb wool, wrap up
        our toes in cotton words,
        I go walk on her clouds when I sleep.
she say:
        Before the men with chins like rocks and the women
       
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 217 51
Literature
mice and men
.
beyond the wave-break days
I could not stand the pyramid of shoes,
and treated key holes in locked doors
as bone keys on an upright:
       a frantic surprise, a brave horn,
       the whip snap of a mouse trap
when the brass knob turns
my face unfolds.
when they bent my father's head back,
I still remember the laughter as his own,
caught in the air before the spine
struck lightning on sky flesh.
he had held my ear the way they peeled
back his lips to unearth gold,
he had held my ear and spoke
in oily slips of smoke:
"be smaller than dust,
expand in sun, divide self
in cold night,
hold your mother where the breath
passes in chimneys by the heart,
and run within the walls-
they want men, not mice."
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 13 9
Literature
the hard year
.
in the hard year
the house was a bruise-
blood clotting and pregnant
beneath the wood.
the rooms held darkness longer
than light
and smelled of life in reverse-
      our young bodies bent, but tight as clothes-pins.
the flowers in the yard were firecrackers
and more than once I slept
in a weed jungle, fingers stripped cables,
wrapped in chicken wire boxing gloves.
in the hard year,
you hit like your father
and I climbed stairs
without making a sound.
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 27 12
Literature
winter song
.
I paid for you in silver dollars,
rabbit bones, and snail shells.
Beneath the flannel crush,
a twining of lash fingers,
I weight you with catamount claws,
I bury you in firewarmed stone
You are mine,
and I eat you with moth mouth
and spin you to silk.
When the winter stripped aspen bark
and the elk starved til their hooves
were too light to keep them tethered-
I carved the shape of a palm beneath the doorwood
and you tied three husk dolls to the tallest sapling.
We were a bowl, carved hollow and narrow
as pine needles and pressed against coals
and dog fur, leaning like lightning away
from blistered earth, taut with freeze,
away from wood, shrunk and sap-sticky-
dove tails untied and ribboned and bare.
Your spine is a naked rope and I climb you
to clouds rippled like sea-sand, my eyes
are bottle glass green.
I seize waves and swallow them to smoke.
You pad my throat with ash and
settle my bones with sandstone
and sink me to mud, coffined in ice.
You sell my teeth for cornmeal and
pick
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 76 33
Literature
pink carnations
.
West Delmar Jimmy carries pink carnations
tied with pixie stick paper
home to a woman who dips string in wax
and braids the hair of half-black babies.
He stands behind the bus driver,
he walks uneven red brick
and stops to collect cigarette tails.
The church where he married her has a broken window-
and the aspersorium lies on its side,
and the pew where he cried for King is burned,
and ash whispers the secret language of cracks in wood.
He kisses her where the ear blossoms into floss hair
and her gate-mouth reveals a tongue like pink carnations.
He speaks of rains between cloud cheeks,
he speaks of honey and orange slices to catch fruit flies.
She speaks of tomorrow’s good day,
she lies on sunflower sheets and dreams the ceiling will cave.
When the flood comes,
they pour chalk around the yard and wait for the white line to rise.
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 25 15
Literature
I do recall
.
I do recall:
curled smoke on pillows never meant to see light,
wishing the window sill were deeper-
     so I could sleep against the glass.
a candle brushing cigarettes,
a bowl of money by the lamp
but it's not Spring,
and your arms were never thrilling.
I get along without you very well
black lace to cover modest breasts,
you wear your uniform to town and drink.
I kiss you roughly when you come home with lipstick
between the bullet and the tree house scars
but when rain drips from leaves shaped like coins,
I get along without you very well.
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 26 23
Literature
incomplete verse
I
We hovered the barrow from the milkhouse roof,
      little cleft hooves straw-dancing,
      scribing moon shapes in the floor wood.
The broke-walk boy with a toothpick cane
      tickled the peach-eared sow
      and we watched like light bulbs brightening before burst.
Then the swine went spinning from the crisscrossed door,
      twine thatched around her swell belly.
She took to the earth like a gravedigger’s child and bore
      her weight into the night swifter than an owl.
And we waited like those demons before Jesus,
begging to be sent out into that herd,
Watching the pig drown itself in the creek,
       our handprints in her flesh.
II
I took to the river in a shoe horn boat,
widdlin’ the water with a finger hollowed to bone.
hid a hundred prayin’
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 12 10
Literature
May Day
.
Today is a May day
and I am tent-faced
yellow swarms
are stiffering to flap-leaves-
I would cheek them, but oh,
those stingers never drip with honey
the deer with the pendulum ear
walked from Cimarron through eight lights
and a prattling fort (boys who’ve discovered splinters
are worth hand-built homes)
and licked the gravestone moss
'til he broke from the gates
(as lava wrinkles around stones)
and was struck by the car who’d sounded its horn
You were on the airplane
until breadcrusts soaked up the puddles
in your lap
from the pillow sweats of that small child
whose mother you’ll love in a month
and I am tent-faced,
dusting din from the sleeves
of the never-wash dress
and tucking silver forks
between the mattress and the wall
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 7 8
Literature
I should tell him
..
I am on an airplane.  It’s not in the air.  So I guess it’s more of a groundplane, or
a tarmacplane.  It’s not just me.  There are twenty-two rows, with four seats and an aisle.  No one sits in the aisle, but everyone seems really excited to stand in it.
I am sitting because I wore too-small shoes.  I saw them at the store and didn’t care that they weren’t in my size.  My love will make them fit.  
I adore you, can’t you tell?  Just try not to hurt me.
I am sitting, and there is a man in the aisle (of course), and his pocket is touching my cheek.  This pocket is empty. It is the most empty pocket I have ever seen.  It is so empty that something must be missing.  I want to tell the man that he lost his wallet, or his phone, or a deck of playing cards or cigarettes.  I want to tell the pocket to be brave.  It is his d
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 34 34
Literature
yellow bird
.
yellow-bird with coffin breast,
roosted sling of matchsticks and spider legs-
I’ve watched her strip them in twilight
from bulging blood bodies, grapes she’ll eat,
wine to throat, a song to sing beneath slated roof.
A screw, a bolt, I’ve turned a winding fir
branch into mechanics of hands and clutching.
A trap: salted fish with thumbtack scales-
an unkeeping of flight, on the snow of the perch.
I sweep song to ring with muted clapper,
between beak hammered shut,  
wool-bite moth with snap-close wings,
pinned to a curl behind my ear.
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 137 27
Literature
georgia
When they hanged the black man from Roopville, my mama burned
all the white curtains in the house and buried the ashes under a rattleweed,
and said He will send the teeth of beasts upon them.  
Then those Clifford boys strung their shoelaces
together and rolled their sister’s Kewpie in mud
and left her swinging from a yellow poplar;
      you wouldn’t think honey could roll so slowly in the middle of summer
      but then you remember that honey ain’t sweat, and it sure ain’t blood.  
      And you could hear the bees for days.
They hanged that man for resting his chin on fence of a woman
whose husband used to hold her head
under bathwater, while he dyed his brown shoes unrecognizable.
(A couple years later, that lady’s husband caught some guilt
between his collarbones, and choked to death on the Flint River,
the same year all those folks died in a shar
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 29 41
Literature
Bell
her teeth are bricks;
mortar sweet Spanish,
        she speaks in velvets and reds
and puts the phalanges on the fire hydrant.
a baby, round and ringing like a bell,
tucked between denim and lanugo
and silver through ears.
twelve years old:
she's weighty,
like a cigar man blew smoke into her stomach
like a cloud was mistakenly inhaled
from a laugh,
from a saturday morning floor-sleep-wait
for gunslinging,
         that un-comes,
replaced with staccato of cartoons.
on the train,
her paddle feet tucked under the rain mat,
she tells her baby "Georgia tastes
like peppermint-cool summers"
and her braid sways like a Cherokee Rose
and the boy balls his fists like Tiger Flowers-
         they will unfurl as butterfly wings,
         stained-glass and webbed,
         when she sips gold tea
         and bends up her legs
         and starts to breathe.  
he cries; he speaks in a drawl.
She learns to fake it.
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
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Literature
shiv'ah
.
Our feet bled from seashells
under the lighthouse stove light
beaming raccoon streaks in
saltwater sky.
We looked all night, where the bottle glass
was licked smooth;
we pulled seaweed from whalebone ribcages
calling it her hair dissected from a comb.
The soul is the lamp of god
Ve'imru omeyn
Mother walked backward into the ocean
the morning I married that siren-eyed boy.
The blood orange
segmented on ashwood tabletop:
     I'll see a sunset running-juice
     tucked between your lips,
     spilling into cupped hands.
and he rose before the deer woke
and took a shotgun to the edge of the water
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 23 50
Literature
good weather for fishing
.
He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
                 and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
                 turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
                 whispering "Bia, Bia".
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
                 And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
                 up the road with scatterpaws,
                 a fishing rod tucked behind his terracotta fur.
A tick to tell time by; that water must be teaming.
The second woman hangs her body in the air
long enough to say "I never trust a man whose mama
didn't teach him the piano."  
And what kind of fool, with the pockmark face,
lopes in a room beneath the kitchen floor
building trains no man can sit in,
building engines to run on
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 63 60
Literature
Leaves are scales
.
Winter makes fish skeletons of trees.
The spine-curved man with broom and dustpan
kicks water from the third floor
to the second
to the ground
and hot air balloon eyes deflate.
His rain shower fills imprints from a foot dragged
left and stale, perpendicular and mad,
farming and raking brass dirt.
The grass-bottomed heart, grown high and unwoven
by fingers (hers, another's, his own),
rests in the mirrored cabinet of the upstairs bathroom
where the screen on the window breaks a cat on the roof rail
into inky squares.  He hopes they drip
down the paint chipping yellow,
he hopes the cat-squares run like meteors.
He would see them before anyone else, if anyone at all.
The spine-curved man is building a boat
out of leaves- as leaves are scales, and fish
are efficient and formidable fleets.  He fills the
grass-bottomed heart with pheasants and sparrows
and clay feathered doves and lets the tautness
of almost-song be his anchor.
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 11 45
Literature
go down, in history,
/
he found me
,a penny,
and palmed off my dirt.
and made me read poetry
under the influence
in a parked Cadillac.
that first night
when he carried me upstairs
I counted ceiling beams
and named them after
elementary school teachers
who probably died
of emphysema the year I
learned to drive.
/
I am using him
to get well known
and he has grown-up food
in his fridge, so I
can stop going hungry.
I missed four meals last week
and I can see weight loss
in my shower drain,
in my round brush.
/
I hate that he has
a tie like my father's
and keeps tissues in his coat pockets
and offers me antacids before I
undo my mouth.
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:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 19 46

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jazz
Jazz me.
I wanna be.
Jazz me.
Let those white, white teeth
Shine out like blue-note stars
In the gloom of the smoky
Backstreet bar.
Spill that husky, rusty voice
Over ambience and background
Noise. Scribe those notes over
My late-night skin,
Watch the goose-bumps rise
As you begin to sing.
Don't take it fast.
Don't want it slow.
I want it sweet.
So jazz me.
Transport me to your
Saxaphone dream, take my
Hand with your soul-sound band
and tell mr bass it ain't no race,
It's just jazz.
So make it smooth.
Take your trumpet fantasy and
relay all your thoughts to me
through improvised sighs and
Mr Jive Eyes.
Jazz me,
Just jazz me.
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if it has, has
-
And supposing it came on a Tuesday.
I would be listening to glad music
or playing cards with my friends,
I would be carrying a roll of microphone cables.
The birds wouldn't tell me;
I have no such connections.
The ships would leave
with slow grace
all the same, even as I press
my heavy ear to the docks.
You would be holding hands and being stapled
to the harvest automatics.
The meddle wish,
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please
send me the name of your rainmaker in the mail.
And let me know when you've been introduced.
-
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Tractatus
perhaps it's illogical
the way i count your eyelashes
when you sleep
i had gotten so high one night
that i swore i climbed them
like ladders leading towards
the place where you held thoughts
that you kept secreted away
i saw the first moment you knew
that i would break your heart
and it was okay that my name
echoed in your head when i mis-stepped
and caused a grimace and then a smile
were you an infant it would have been
attributed to some sort of gas
i found out that you loved the way
i could not commit to a thing
especially you.
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gods face my face
-
soft time cheeks
breathe
in and out
tongue-talk I want to hide
inside your mouth
blue curve yielding
better phrases, you were frail
you were serious and aflame
and I have saught
the trembling of your
swollen heart
to press against me in the dark
tiptoe trip to pretty things
the flutter of my lover's wings
night skies like his
featherflesh,
reliance wilting on the shelf
but two by two
with freckle pins
I fasten you
to myself.
-
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deviantID

WhoKilledKirov
crotchety old man
French Southern Territories
Current Residence: snow
Favourite genre of music: blues
Favourite photographer: Bisson Freres
Skin of choice: yours
Interests

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Comments


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:iconunlockedthoughts:
unlockedthoughts Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2015
I hope someday the ink finds its way to the paper again.  And the computer gets involved.  You are beautiful.
Reply
:iconloganstonehurt:
LoganStonehurt Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Miss your work sometimes :)
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:iconserotoninsage:
SerotoninSage Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2014
i like you
Reply
:iconwhokilledkirov:
WhoKilledKirov Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2014
me too
Reply
:iconselfishlyconscious:
selfishlyconscious Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Me three
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2014   Writer
Hope your birthday is a good one, wherever you may be.
Reply
:iconbamseisunix:
BamseIsUnix Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2013
You still here? Nice little universe, this was. Whatever this thing here represented, I guess we will never stop lovin' it.
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
Reply
:iconwhokilledkirov:
WhoKilledKirov Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2013
thanks :)
Reply
:iconpositivitize:
positivitize Featured By Owner Jun 18, 2012
hi (-:
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