In Good Sentences Vo. 1
Author: Little Spontaneities
Based in New York
This collection covers a variety of themes: mortality, love, heartbreak, insanity, self-development, and depression. It questions what it means to live vivaciously and how this intersects with one's sense of self-esteem and interpersonal relations, whether this be romantic or familial love.
You always feared Her;
it was the creeping feet of
common sense that saved you.
In the back of your mind you saw her
smoking a cigarette
(its ends suited Her)
as She waited for you.
The smoke weaved up and down;
you tried not to breathe it in,
but it rolled off your tongue all sweet
glazed your lips so fine
that you let yourself grow older
and She came in crawling atop your back;
you told Her to never come back and fourth
dimensions like time shattered around you.
As you drowned the wait and sea
smelled like ticking minutes.
it never suited you to tie bonds with any lovers.
You tried to live under your own reign;
you always said that
prophets pray in green for profit
because crosses weave a God of dollars,
that love wasn’t something you buy and large
hearts bled grey promises.
You expected your happiness to rise and Fall
was coming, so everyone knew
She would touch everything:
in your garden She tinged tulips yellow to mock the sun.
Next to church bells you howled
because you had made yourself forget Her
until your body couldn’t anymore,
until Her cold touch felt like wind’s embrace,
until you stopped fearing
the final celebration:
moths nestled themselves into your hair like flowers
bats wove a leathery robe around your torso
even crows sang for you as they flew into red-poppy skyline.
Sometimes a trail of feathers fell into your eyes like raindrops.
She whipped three vultures to
fly the Carriage to you.
Within Her misty black eyes you saw yourself-
prayers stashed under the bed
lovers lingering within your fingers-
you had feigned yourself like a painting
but She knew
so this time you didn’t bother to hide
as you stepped inside;
it was the leaping feet of
feeling alive that ended you.
"You Are Going to Want to"
I will not tell you what to do,
only in my head.
I will smile tightly
until you see my face as a maid’s drawn sheets
(I fired her after you called her ‘Mama’);
I will look up at the ceiling and together we will shake our heads
in silent contempt for your mistakes.
Dear Herculean task,
I am a sage of dead herbs,
I am your savior;
but I will not tell you what to do,
only in my head
which gloats its unveiling
like the glint in king’s eye;
you will only see from absence;
you can learn from nods
bought in dimes coining slang like ‘I love you’
but don’t ever think you can cheat me:
no cashier will accept your change
because everyone knows I am stubborn,
the pebbles in my glare spell stagnancy.
Muddied whirlpool, I will reflect your future
once you stoop down to see it;
you are deliciously young
and questions run through your veins
more than blood;
you are starved for certainty
but even though my bones have shriveled
and my skin has cracked
you never listen,
you think you already know all books and wiles;
so us two puppets will play each other
I will not tell you what to do,
only in my head
until, a faded veteran,
one of us submits —
and it won’t be me.
"Before You Meet Me"
Dear Past Self:
You are an innocent swimmer,
soles unblemished by prickling heartbreak-sands,
pulsing against waves polluted with skulls
(my feeble feather, I pity you;
my sweet seed, I am jealous of you).
But when the sun melts into yellowed tar
and fish crawl into each other’s gills,
or winds whistle haunting shark’s lullaby,
only I can stand on islands of wrinkles.
Fresh mornings draw my cheeks in cloudy smile-lines.
You are yet to become me:
I am future’s glimmering summer
(I taste like wild honey,
smell like forget-me-nots);
I am your evergreen tree.
You will despise the seawater that eroded your soul’s castle
(you decorate its walls with wishes and diamonds;
from the left-wing turret you watch
the sky drop prayers in liquid blueberries),
but you will grow to love who you become.
flatten all raindrops,
color tea leaves in orchid’s pink,
bask in the bleats of your calf-heart
like a sunflowered girl in the prairie;
forget I exist,
(or you will meet me too soon).
"An Hour From a Minute from Now"
You will find happiness
an hour from a minute from now
and that’s it,
she tells herself.
But is now present or perpetual?
All she sees are
haphazard “routines” stacking up in front of her
like rotting pancakes
Time was an illusion until it wasn’t;
sanity’s queen, she had dictated the clock’s pace
to twist little moments
into candy canes
But now the clock runs by its own hands;
it has grown fat with time and power,
boasts beer-belly of gloat
as mobs of ticks imitate each other.
The chords ring like madness.
All anyone spouts is,
so she tries to find new little moments:
she runs a manic search for escapism.
Eventually she can only interrogate herself:
Why do you only appreciate
presence from absence?
Or are people simply fickle, and the world mad?
But do you really dare define anything
in this crumbling dictionary?
She pretends to find small nothings in herself
that she knows do not matter,
will never matter
(what is ‘matter?’
it, too, has lost itself
underneath the clock's meaty arm)
But she won’t stop
until time starts being subjective again,
until an hour from a minute from now
"March 13, 2020"
When the world comes to an end,
I’ll hold you tight as, like a simmering cat,
the darkness curls in around us.
If we had all the time in the world
I would admit that I loved you;
we would pass our days into honeyed sunsets;
we would read each other’s soul like a Bible.
Beyond the plagues and indecisions
of rowdy self-editing men,
we would end the tyranny of clocks
in a revolution of two.
But we don’t have all the time in the world,
and as you look up at me I say
hold me, dear love,
until every light fades away
and we are caught in the
frozen goodbye of winter's shadow.