justify my thoughts of flight
Pretentious ass writing blog of noelclarkes (main blog)
Reblog . 5

snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails
snap back caps, gruff voices
gargling nails, gargling nails, gargling nails
do you wake up every morning—
do we go out every day—

stand tall, shoulders wide, elbows out
do we construct, every moment?
swagger. you know how to swagger,
don’t you?

snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails
which one is it?
which one are you?
that pair, right there;
the leather ones with the pewter buckles
convinced, am I, are you,

snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails
like being buried in a grave with someone else’s name on it
don’t lay flowers
placing dead things on a dead thing,
but you already have

snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails
what? we always ask what,
but, more importantly—who?
who puts together? who judges? who takes apart?
who makes?

what are little boys made of?

Reblog . 6

I am vital. I am human. I am a force of fucking nature come to storm down these big hideous walls and I draw force from words about anger, about pain, about suffering, about love.
I am vital.
I have to take breaks in between breaths because breathing pulls apart the grouting in my tile-plated armor, because air is a corrosive, oxygen oxidizes my bones and I can’t breathe in when everything I breathe tries to take me apart. Atrophy is ever-present, ever growing and I will not weather, I will not erode because I am eternal, and I
I am vital.

Reblog . 2




I’m like five followers from my next hundred too what the fuck is happening I love you all

Reblog . 70

we used to be like this all the time, you and I
your tiny, chubby hand, pressed tight against mine
(and mine not really all that much bigger),
curled up, limbs and ringleted curls tangled together,
your eyelashes on my nose, and breathing,
warm and safe in one another

I used to think that I would break you,
that I was too young, too sharp,
that I would leave a dent, a mark,
that I didn’t deserve to be in charge
of a tiny brown-eyed angel, with
dimpled baby arms.

and then the grown-ups came,
and I guess you’re not that tiny any more
(and if I’m honest with myself, you
haven’t been for a long while.)
and I thought they did a good job, with
their rules and their structure and they told me
"you’re not his mom any more, and truthfully,
you never should have been.”

but I know, every time they tell me this, and your
grown man’s hands find mine, still soft and childlike,
that the shelter you cling to, and the shoulder you cry on is—
like you always have been, and always will be—

Reblog . 5

you talk about distance
like it’s a person, and you’re
so in love with it

waves smash the sand to pieces,
and the water glimmers
like it knows a secret, and
it’s not telling (me)

you’re like a front row seat
in an empty church,
pews creaking in time to sighs,
loved like an obligation, not a feeling

daydreaming in lukewarm cups
of pick-me-ups, wondering when
you last stopped being asleep
and when your eyes stopped being
made of dreams

Reblog . 3
Innik Rah Tetzawageni

he’s in the corner, there, mud
on the hem of his dress (and
blood in the seams)

between me and you there are two
thousand thousands but i can
feel your suffering on the tips of my fingers,
in the nails scratched down my spine

i can feel your words
whispered into the shell, quenched
in dust, lost in time, too many
moments of space, tomorrow
is a better day

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Scar, scabbed-over, pink lines across skin,
don’t tell me you’re not damaged I can
see the cracks and I love them
(the trouble is I never quite warmed up to the rest of you)

Bundled fibroses take the place
of words unspoken, feelings unexpressed,
soft lumps across skin like mountain ranges,
wilderness never to be explored,
the simple striae of senses snuffed out,
streaming across a twisted spine.

Reblog . 3
I Tiresias, Though Blind

As I walked home from class today,
I heard a girl say “what’s the use of studying language?”
when I was young I always wondered
how those born deaf and blind think, how
even in communicating to ourselves, we have
to use words, but how faulty they are.

Once I wrote a poem in Arabic
it was like writing with the wrong hand
and it was beautiful. Once I wrote a haiku
in French, and it was like writing with the pen
held in my fist and it was perfect, perhaps one
day I will be brave enough to write in Italian.
(It will probably be like writing with my foot)

We are all neural networks, composed
of snippets of experiences that no one else
can duplicate, and really, if I’m honest with myself,
I’m just concerned with being able to write something
to you in the programming language that governs
the night sky inside your head.

Reblog . 3
Come Join the Youth and Beauty Brigade

Firm fingers
press soft flannel
into the curve of my spine—
look, I know you’re trying to
staunch the bleeding, but
that really fucking hurts.

A moment, painted in
tempera, and you can always
pull up the past, and mix
if up again, but some people are
better off left for dead.

I still have the taste of your blood on
my tongue, and soft petechiae
in the wake of your fingers.

Reblog . 6
Rate Yourself and Rake Yourself

I’m teaching myself about the marks on my body,
the tender intersections of muscle and skin,
so delicate, so fragile: split and bloodied by
a bite, a scratch, a finely sharpened blade

But how soft,
embellished by a gentle redness, a caress,
I don’t know how to find myself in the untidy
bits and pieces of this sack of flesh they call
me. And where do I come in? Do I sit at the end
of a fingertip, or the tip of a nose? Poised carefully
between two eyebrows,—

I like scars. You always know where you
stand with them, you always know:
this one’s from the oven, this one’s from a door,
this one’s from a knife, and this one’s from nails
(and some of them were my own)

I think that’s where I am,
between the paper cuts and old bruises,
hiding out in the soft ridges of wrinkle
on my fat sausage fingers.