secret secret

30 Apr

Lately I have been feeling more private about my work and constrained by the public access to my blog. I would like to write more personally, more dirty, more raw. My only option to do this in a way that felt good as an artist and as a person who considers writing my career was to charge for a subscription.

If you are still reading and interested in reading the meatier stuff, please consider becoming a subscriber to my blog. You can paypal alysia dot angel at gmail dot com  with a one time ever fee of $50. It gets you a personal to you password and lifetime access to my online work. I strongly encourage people to contact me if that amount feels like a hardship. I am always looking for trade from folks with strong editing skills to finesse my pieces.

Love.

Image

number three hundred and forty seven

24 May

i like a girl with a messy mouth
the kind that looks like it has told off more people than could ever be counted
lipstick won’t stay on
lips like ripe picked berries on the side of a summer road
hard won lines curving around the outside of it like the grooves of racing tires
i like a girl with fucked up teeth
broke down picket fence smile
wide gaps for tongues to delight
wolf whistles loud enough to hail a lover from up the street
shining silver caps in the back like chewed up knife points
i like a girl with pretty vocal chords
off key singing voice when she’s in the shower or the car
justice bells ringing for all to hear
silky feline motor purr when everything done gone right
perfect and ugly when the tears have scraped them raw
on stage when everyone is looking and clapping until their hands are scarlet
i like a girl with a velvety tongue
kitten napping in the afternoon window seat
gentle comforting when asked for it (and sometimes when not)
silty beach sand pounded by muscled surf
languid asking seeking wondering curiosity
i like a girl with a messy mouth
sloppy drinker
cheap wine mustache
and red stained teeth

field notes from a cyclone

23 May

it started with a small series of earthquakes
under my mantle
then the volcanoes began hissing
long brown bodies arching up
splitting open and spitting
mists of hot blooded
desire
to suffocate my oasis
from there the gorgeous ice sculptures
made especially for our party
melted into slush at my feet
filthy oceans
even the great whites would not swim in
all this to say that even the smallest
natural disasters can
shift a loyal gait left
then right
then off course
completely
where the earth’s core
is the only lover
hot enough to
to ride with
mother nature

tap once for yes

19 May

i didn’t mean to start again

but here i am again

on my knees

fists in my chest

pulling weeds

this is a night chore

must be done when

the good are sleeping

the hunters are sharpening

the innocent are floating

somewhere close to holy

in my garden of a heart

there was a spring monsoon

kudzu grew

blackberry bushes raged

then came the weeds

threading themselves

into tender ropes

wrapping into perfect bows

if you are not taught to be a

gardener

if you do not come with

tools

sometimes

setting your heart

on fire

works

 

 

find a penny lose a penny

18 May

it seems like i can use my hands to make a frame
but i can’t remember your name
but in this frame i can see you standing like you do
like i know you to
body perpetually in the shape of a question mark
impatient with me for taking too long
to dance among the tornadoes of
cherry blossoms
patient with me for misunderstanding
your unfunny jokes
in this frame i see you muttering like you do
ruminating and gnashing your teeth
hair askew from slashing your well bitten
nails through it as you pace
like you do
here you are in my line of vision again
a perfect picture of the complications
that happen when you think you
are loving
while taking a pair of scissors
to your own
soul

tie a ribbon around your wrist

9 May

from the edge of the world
i am watching you become legend
stories tumble from the mouths
of strangers
effigies of you in heroic stances
are erected in town squares
your face becomes a painting
a holy thing
something to aspire to
your queenly finery is sewn
to make flags for those headed to battle
your very hair spins into blankets for the sick
one of my hands is holding
the north star
the other is holding ash
here at the edge of the world
where i might try my best to
forget
but all of your strangers
intend to never give
you peace

if you want a wild horse

23 Mar

at the end of my life

when they ask “how did she love”

let them say 

like 

tree sap

the hottest texan summer sidewalk

volcano ash

cool leafy branches making an arch

an immediate response across a mountain with smoke signals 

sharpest teeth and claws

the longest dive ever recorded

the feeling a star has as its light sputters out

the way the river is fickle only in its swells and eddies

your best dog’s nose touching your calf

at the end of my life 

let them never feel anything but 

saturated

soaked to the bone

buoyed on the storm of an ocean

shaded by my very 

home made soul umbrella

saving sylvia

21 Feb

in the morning before everyone wakes up
pull on your feral cloak and go hunting
walk along the half frozen grass
pads bare
whiskers alert
in the quiet of four a.m.
you can find everyone’s hidden secrets
shake them out and hang them on tree branches
knowing the sun will dry them sweet and clean
on a walk when it is still dark
you can whistle other feral creatures awake
pulling on ferine feathers, fur, and claws
yawning sleepily into a stealthy line of wild
you can band together and do good deeds
sing the songs of the warriors before you
bathe in yesterday’s rain alongside
sleek body
dark shadow
grizzled head
or
you can hunt with your
luckiest rabbit
just your fastest
laurel eater
in a world where a lion
and a bunny
are one
or none
or everything

there are rules to being 

11 Jan

do not cry
or if you cry
do it alone in the shower
where all of your tears
pool together to make the
saltiest
darkest
deepest
ocean
(fish don’t tell secrets)

do not ask for help
or if you do ask for help
whisper it into
all of the dark corners
you have collected
on your window sill
line them up
in a precise row
tie them together
with your own hair
do not need anyone
or if you do need someone
need them in small ways
said with a yawn
languid wrists gesturing
that it’s no big deal
if they can’t get to it
you are fine
just fine

do not break
or if you break
don’t let anyone hear
your heart shatter
use your bare
winter feet
to stifle
tinkling
crashing
scattering
sounds of
the broken shards
careful not to track
blood
across the perfectly
clean
floor

do not love
because to love is to
cry
need someone
ask for help
and
break

the bells are ringing

9 Jan

mother is a moon face

staring down from way too high

if you reach with your furthest fingertips

stretch your body so long it creaks

you will get close enough to see

mother is barb wire 

cordoned around a beautiful house 

if you try to cross over

it will reach out to bite 

vulnerable wrists

mother is a landmine

a ghost ship

swaddled in a dream

Protected: saturn’s rings are too tight

26 Dec

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