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Link me to some dA literature that doesn't use capitals.
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I know some writing that doesn't use capitals.
I know some writers that don't use capitals.
I know some of both!
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And five from my recent favs:
the march of the elephant girlcaress skin-blanched femurs,
carry them to their resting places: my
hands are your coffin, bone boy.
bokeh litters my back,
acacia dust sifts through sunlight to
kiss your skeleton.
savannah grass rises to twine my ankles:
the wild echoes.
your heart is an empty womblast night he said with a paper cup of warm whiskey
sitting between his palms like a prayer on acid
that your love wasn’t as palpable as hers
and you never felt like smashing anyone’s tail lights
and steeping them in a cup of warm water and
letting the glass cut your throat as it goes down
sleazy and easy in the red light district.
cracks in the ceiling remind you of the palms
of his hands- cracked and full of pictures
you can hardly decipher unless your high,
not as palpable, your heart is an empty womb.
sea fogthere are salt-water lakes on my thighs
and on my breath, and i am a tsunami
implosion at the break of day
and you're silent
and you're still
you're so god-damn still; you haven't
spoken all through this great
tidal wave that i've been living
i can't,
i can't leave this alone
you were supposed to be there
lifting the sea fog that rolls
and rolls
and rolls
but you left me on the ocean's lips
to add my salt to the water;
mourning, morning dew
and the fog hasn't lifted
the world doesn't need beauty sleepmother earth is pregnant;
her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
streetlights sparkling.
i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
has become.
the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.
drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
catastrophe, aching;
but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.
maybe it's time to stop cradling and killingit's more common
to press flowers
between age wash
pages
but i was raised
to press weeds
because
there's less guilt
in picking them