Bus PoemThe stress puts on a mask of illnessBus Poem by ClamShellHeart
tells me that I hate my body
steps into caffeine shoes
crushes my lungs under it.
CInnamon lips and peppermint teeth
biting down on rose quartz, I could be
a boy if I wanted to, I could
exhale shaky hands,
excommunicate myself from my head.
Only crunch numbers, only
A little girl stuffing newspaper,
rape allegations, murder charges and
classified ads into the shirt of a scarecrow.
With a mouth stuffed full of cigarettes
and wrists chained to a treadmill,
was anyone surprised when I choked?
I’ll keep everything underneath nerves,
what doesn’t feel doesn’t hurt.
I’ve always been cold but I used to be light,
old stone lamp post wanting a candle,
someone paved my neck,
I’m trying to see the sun
through the cracks in that asphalt so I shatter
into a thousand birds, each carrying one thought, fly up through,
squeeze what’s left between what’s broken,
we don’t have to meet again.
If I were a tre
Working BackwardsMaybe this is what it means.Working Backwards by ClamShellHeart
When all I wanna do is be held, but those arms
straighten and wander,
instead of ironing the stress out in the bathroom
I sit with it, let
the frustration settle
absorbing the voice, I make an angel
out of the space
in my corner of the room.
I drink my discipline and get to work
wondering about all the books I’m not reading,
all the skin I’m not feeling,
and the numbers
turn to leaves
in the autumn, the smell
of a path I promised Robyn we’d wander.
The snow doesn’t melt because the silence is lingering,
but the wind dies down in my head.
My eyes are smooth like black stones
tumbling from the tip of a finger,
almost splashless, into the silence
of cool still water.
A blind body, tip of the chin up from the bed,
and suddenly I can see again.
DecreationIf I were a god it would rain furniture staples and moulding nailsDecreation by ClamShellHeart
As I pulled apart the fragile world I built.
I'd struggle sleepy with ladders for want of floating keystones,
Armfuls of balustrades to and from heavenly sheds.
I would lay drop cloths fashioned from cloud skins to keep the paint stains from the mountains,
Pull color from lumber using man-made acid rain,
Rip down papering and gardenian upholstery,
Pull up the floorboards and the piping stowed beneath.
I've long since lost my sense of disgust
And replaced it with the need for deconstruction
Of the ugly child I so lovingly crafted
That deforms its own insides so much the skin knots and buckles,
But if I found it all started feeling like you,
Your hair and skin and bones under my hands,
I hesitate to tear at all to pieces
Even as the creation folds in on itself.
I couldn't build you out if anything inside of me,
Not ribs or words or dreams,
But robins resting in their eggs
And your eyes staring into mine meet the same
drinking on sundaysmy stomach was screamingdrinking on sundays by ClamShellHeart
so i sat on the toilet
to floss my teeth this morning
hungover and holding
myself on the bus ride
standing room only
pressed my cheek on the plastic
trying to force coffee down
i didn’t mean to do it
drinking on sunday
trying not to
think about monday
my eyes leaking out of me
onto the table
my accidental capitalist brain
just wants so bad to feel useful
so on the walls
in empty buildings
hollowed shopping malls
with my spray paint can
so use me then