I don’t really smoke.
I do every now and then.
warm yellow light, coming from inside
you can see the dust motes in the air
you’re framed in the doorway
the negative space between the apertures of the porch lights
snap snap snap electricity
on a hot summer night.
cigarette balanced precariously on your fingertips.
mud outlining your shoes,
faded and dusty.
home- we’re getting there.
might take a while
three years out of high school, two hundred miles from birth
and we’re not sure if we ever really learned anything
numbers and textbooks maybe but
we don’t really know where we should go
home- we’ll get there.
I think. I sure hope so.
You’re my anchor in muggy air
and you sunk down into me
carved a trench in my muddy insides
kept me from floating away.
just out of earshot
you ask me if I’d like to go inside.
just another minute out here
gotta finish thinking about things
and finish this cigarette
I don’t really smoke,
but I will every now and then.
under the porchlight, on a hot summer night
i’m beginning to see things clearer.
I’ll be inside in a minute.
If anyone else is in Oregon/Eugene area next weekend and does game jam stuff, this is a thing you should go to! More details can be found at the website!
An Open Letter to Clyde
Let me pour you a glass of water.
Here, let me give you the keys back,
the empty suitcases, the breaths we took
in the car mid-November, the ignition stuttering for miles.
These are our hips, our shivering fingers,
our mouths warm and ripe. Here are the clementines,
the bullets. The moon filtered like dead weight
through the window, your hand curved over mine,
waiting for someone to see. The bank teller, her rotten teeth,
the way you always burned two bills after we got away.
Your hand on my knee in the get away car.
I spread my thighs in the front seat, you look out
the window, and I say selfish things that’ll make you stay.
Even now, I should apologize for that horse’s broken jaw.
For the sand still stuck in her hooves. The sway of the lighthouse
kept me up that night. All of those missing ships.
Let me refill your glass. Let me go back to the beach,
to the room at the Motel 6. The carpet was broken mirrors,
the highway outside a sort of forever.
I spilled sugar out the window as you counted the cash,
made a point not to look me in the eyes. A phone booth,
the rain, your pocket full of orange peels. Let me go anywhere
but here. Are you thirsty? This house grows bigger
every time you leave, this love swollen and infected,
red and bruised. Let me remind you:
this should have ended before.
made a new blog
this one is def just gonna be poetry from now on. And maybe some cool serious stuff i like.
If you want just dumb shit and stupid pictures you can follow my other blog here
Gone Home didn’t have the budget for 3D rigged women, which is the argument big budget studios also give for not including women characters. But Gone Home didn’t include men’s bodies either. The Fullbright Company designed to make people real without having to consider the one constraint that consistently objectifies and dehumanises women: the gaze of the player and a fixation on bodies.
Instead the discourse is given wholesale to women in direct contradiction to what usually happens. The first narrative discourse Gone Home indulges is to have one young woman leave another a note, seasoned with a kick of emotion, on the front door. The second is to have Sam’s calm voice speak to you via audio diary. And suddenly, in your head, these young women are not invisible any more in the storm. They become people who are just like you."
"Tell me again about the wedding
we did not have. How I did not wear white,
did not choke on tradition, did not blush.
All the weddings that were not weddings,
the vows that were just sneezing.
The road ahead painted on a wall and how
we sped over and over again into the brick. I say “we”
like you weren’t just watching me bruise.
Did you know I built us a home, laid the brick,
filled it with Jameson and apple-cheeked
children? I tried to slip the key onto your tongue
but you cannot kiss a smile. So my home is not
an honest home. So my home is an empty bed.
That’s the thing about heart break. It’s the
smallest of worlds ending. Everyone goes around you
smiling, like it’s nothing to close a door"
A cornered mouse will bite a cat.
This does not reclassify the mouse as a predator or the cat as prey.
did a song, it’s okay
"I feel like all poems are essentially hopeful. Even if a poem is depressing and hopeless, its existence, the feeling that it has conveyed something, is miraculous and hopeful."
while you were out
I’ve written you
rock n roll love songs
on liquor store
filled my bedside
endless cups of
I’ve lived near the edge
with unfiltered cigarettes,
and thin walls
I’ve stood on
drank to you
on silent weekend nights
at the ceiling
I’ve driven for miles
worn out songs
and arrived one more time
SMALL POEM ABOUT BAD THINGS
I wish things were better
I don’t expect them to get there
issue number one
In comic book parlance,
a reboot happens whenever the governing board of editors decides that a character needs a refresh.
Often they will be recently dead, or just getting old
and the editors, gods of their own designs, will weave together
the loose threads of personality of the previous incarnation
with the strongest aspects of steel cording that make up the character.
The superhero will be reborn, they will be modern, sleek
probably a black costume- because black is cool. We all know that.
They will have all the memories they need and none they do not,
they will be so much better equipped for the modern age.
The soul of a comic book superhero, then, is unchanged
they do not have recollection of their previous endeavours unless it is prudent
for them to recollect
they do not have to worry about past faults coming to haunt them
unless, in the end, they will grow from the experience.
They do have to worry about the harm that has been done to them
because they can simply erase it.
There is security in pulp serial immortality.
there is a knowledge, shared between artist and writer and character
that no one ever really dies- the sacred convenant.
Everyone had a backup plan, everyone was a clone at just the right time
it wasn’t them, it was a hologram.
No one special ever has to die. Not even the villains.
Everyone can be rewritten.
It must feel nice, to have that.
to know that whatever happens, is but a minute of your infinite voyage
a blink of the eye in a passage through time
each word, set down. Each action, recorded.
No pain is forever, no little death goes unnoticed.
Never having to worry about growing old, about going through trauma
about losing a child, about grieving over death
everything is cumulative, nothing is subtractive
for everything can be reset.
Just one reboot away from the original.
One universe denomination from the truth.
Write away those tears, turn the page away.
One little pen stroke from life again.
One little pen stroke back to normal.
Did you see me
the day they pulled your body from the tracks?
I carved your name into your favorite oak tree in the park
and underneath it, 2009 and a heart,
I picked up all the wood shavings
slipped them in my pocket,
I keep them on my nightstand,
I want so badly
to paint those numbers in superglue
to push the bark back into place,
if I could see your face
if I could have you back,
I would give all of heaven for that,
to have seven more minutes
to eat Fritos and laugh,
and tell you,
you are the coolest person in the room.
No matter where you are.
Brenna Twohy, Fritos make every romantic encounter better