absinthetears - Tumblr blog

absinthetears · 3 years

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"And pray That you have been everything I'll never become"

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absinthetears · 3 years

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l a m p s h a d e

Old man, I told you not to cry when they Come to knock your teeth out. I told you they'd come for you, Oh, desolate man. A rocking chair By the fireplace Fueled by a thousand Drafts of your will Written down with a shaking hand. You have nothing to leave. Burn.

Burn your bones. Let the blood stain your shirt. I told you they'd come To give you a cup of your teeth, Bleeding gums on white enamel. Sit them down in the kitchen And offer some tea. And now, Tell them why

You still sit in your studio, Staring at the dirty canvas And eyeing the room in search Of everything you should've been. Tell them why You still sit With all your dirty fantasies And watch them fade away exactly When it's time to paint them out Because you don't have much to lose. Not anymore. Not even in time. Let.

Your ash will make the air colder When I'm cold at home. I'll look at your photograph Framed in black ribbons And pray

That you have been everything I'll never become.

#poetry #poeticstories #poetryportal #writerscreed #smittenbypoetry #writeundertheinfluence #inkstay #bitsofstarglow #inspireamuse #brokensoulsreborn #deadwatered #poets on tumblr #spilled ink #twcpoetry #new poets society #free verse

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absinthetears · 3 years

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"There will be no going home"

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absinthetears · 3 years

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b u l l e t s

The dead hold bullets in their teeth. This is a face I've seen before. Roaches, a floor lamp, dead frogs In nearby sewers. That’s how it goes: Motel air, Cry of a whale, Scream of a rat, And smile of despair.

Ashen mattress, a bottle of bullets, A can with every knocked-out tooth. Body twisting and turning, Praying to hear the whisper Of roaches from under the bed. At least it's a voice. At least it still talks. Where do the dead go when bullets run out? When there's nothing left of what killed them And there's nothing else they've got left to kill with. Trees whisper of violent deaths. Volition isn't enough to scratch me out of bed. The roaches lived days After their heads got chopped off By the heels of a lady who came here Last night.

She wasn't alone. She came by with a bottle of whiskey And a phone number written out In black lipstick On a piece of toilet paper. The number's a slush now. Just spots and black stains. Squeal of an empty eye-socket. She might've killed a man. She might've loved a man. She couldn't get wine so She settled for whiskey. She couldn't find home So roaches kept whispering. She killed them all in a step. Step. Barely seeing the body. Barely hearing last whispers. There will be no going home. No going back to where

The dead hold bullets in their teeth. The last bullets they have, Crawling through walls and smiling. Smile, smile, smile, The immaculate metal smile. Happy the dead man. Mort et heureux.

I might disappear tomorrow. Motel down the road Where no one ever goes

Except those hunting for happiness.

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absinthetears · 3 years

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"the debris of sunset was still stuck in your eyes"

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absinthetears · 3 years

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s e a g u l l s s c r e a m

the seagulls scream scream of an animal chasing you walking you home chasing you before the car nearly took your life chasing you as if there was no one else walking home by the dumpster chasing me like the swings in the park where I played as a child before I saw it demolished cars came all their heavy machinery brought down the playhouse with love notes and graffiti chasing me nothing left to decipher the walls I once loved are just a pile of wood preparing for a new demolition by fire chasing me run before that ash cuts through my eyes before the capillaries burst unable to take this smoke tears red eyes you were born and you wept the debris of sunset was still stuck in your eyes corroding them a dream they took away chasing you and then you learned that the sun was mortal like you. unreachable it will burn for a million years and then it will die in a flash of infernal flame it will die so that everything dies as it dies everything cries as it cries the smoke will be too much to take but dear you are better than the sun because you know you are mortal our death will be a pantomime with a few witnesses and earth drinking the rain the earth raising a glass to receive what always belonged to it but the sun still has to learn how to die and fire will descent to the world

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absinthetears · 3 years

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“Giving us time to reimagine misfortunes, To reimagine every fairy tale That didn't have a happy ending”

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absinthetears · 3 years

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R E D L I G H T S

I know you'd still be there. There, as I open my cupboards To look for a half-empty bottle of gin. It's night and I can't be alone. I can't be alone With all my broken records, With all these city lights, And with this sky that never gets dark. It keeps on watching me, A silent visitor that never speaks to me, That never has a word to say Or even just a tender glance to stain my retinas. Parallel lives running in the distance, Running as I run back to your arms. I am afraid to be alone. I know you are, too.

Let's spend the night Watching the same neon signs That I see from my window. Giving us time to reimagine misfortunes, To reimagine every fairy tale That didn't have a happy ending. Maybe this one will. Stains of flashing red lights, Stains of descending smoke. I think I could tell you everything.

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absinthetears · 3 years

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“The Noise, it is ubiquitous”

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absinthetears · 3 years

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N O I S E

Noise. It is ubiquitous. It is in everything.

It never goes silent, never knows tiredness. I still don't know whether it's us living with the Noise or Noise living with us…

City streets are never empty, not even in the darkest hours of night. The city is an eternal flow of faces and identities. Not all of them know where they are headed to, what they are searching and yearning for. But all of them are firmly convinced of the opposite. They are engulfed by the Noise. It is ubiquitous. There is no shelter from it. There is nowhere to run from it. A never-ending flow of colors, voices, faces, events, streetlights, flowers, puddles, roads, sidewalks! All of this unites into one disordered whole without shape or color. It is a mass that devours everything on its way. It is the all-consuming Noise, the soul of the city which killed its every star.

The stars. Countless guns loaded with bullets of artificial light were aimed at them. They have been trying for long, very long to stay away from the bullets and fight for their lives. A myriad electric moons polluted their nocturnal souls until no one could see the stars anymore. In the end, they could no longer handle this futile battle. The stars preferred getting a bullet fired through their frail bodies to spilling their useless light on this hysterical, sleepless city. Faded.

Alas, the Noise is heartless and perfectly indifferent to the mass suicide of stars in the darkening skies. He is the soul of the city which killed its every star, and this soul is wounded. The Noise’s body is slowly gnawed on by the teeth of Emptiness which came to temporarily fill a few decayed parts his soul, lost by him forevermore. After all, it's better to be bitten and scarred than to feel nothing, and the Noise knows this simple fact not only of the spirits, but of human lives. Bites are still bites on a body that's bloodless and lacks tangible substance that forms it, but at least the pain is there, the pain that's close to human. To say the truth, the Noise is awfully lonely. And so it haunts every corner of this city and every face contained within it in hopes of finding some company. He is just like a drunk walking down the street late at night, step-by-step coming back home knowing that no one is waiting for him.

The Noise levitates above the street, watching, observing. Of course, you cannot find human company without a disguise comprehensible to the human mind. Time for a quick and simple metamorphosis: what face will the Noise choose today? A video ad unexpectedly screaming from a stranger's phone, an Instagram post eager to yell about how to finally live a great life that nobody has, the grey scratches of a glitching TV screen, or the never-ending hissing of a boulevard? Let's go with the hissing. Hiss, hiss, hiss, honk, hoooonk! Cars passing by, a lazy metal bloodstream. The city mind is, of course, accustomed to all of this hissing - no way anyone will notice a spirit hiding behind the hisses of this snake named Boulevard. Perfect face, perfect disguise. Like this, at least some late-night passerby will take Noise home with him, routinely listening to this machine-driven lullaby. Poor passerby! The Noise will dwell in his head, overfilling it with an infernal cacophony of images. The poor soul will think that he has - yet again - drunk to excess, and will try to silence this torturous flood with water, or medicine, or more to drink. It will not go, and the Noise will keep on dwelling in this clouded mind.

But the Noise is not malicious, not at all. It only tries to understand what it means to be human. And so it lives in the minds of people, fills them, makes them lose sight of their paths, and leaves them unable to continue moving through the mundane restlessness of life. The Noise removes all else except itself. Isn't it true that by forcing all the contents of the mind out, one could discover what is inside? Isn't this the way to know the abyss of human thoughts and emotions?

And again, no matter how much the Noise would try filling people's heads and dwelling in them, it will never understand human life. The Noise, it was born dead, and how can the dead understand the living?

The Noise. It is terribly lonely and fills everything with its own being, without ever experiencing any connection with this world or its dwellers.

The Noise. It is just an illness of the sleepless city that cannot be cured with sleeping pills.

The Noise. It is ubiquitous.

~From the short story collection “City Dwellers”

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absinthetears · 3 years

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“Just knowing I can hold you Makes it easier to carry the weight of the world”

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absinthetears · 3 years

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L O V E S O N G

These are the words  For all the times I’d tell myself,  “I made you up inside my head.”

You are the joy I searched for, A joy I used to seek  So desperately  Inside a box of pills, At the bottom of a bottle, And on the blistered neon floor. I thought I had to burn my heart out With a lighter I’d always fidget in hands.  I thought I had to burn my heart out,  A piece of flesh and muscle, nothing else.  I thought I’d always see my empty bed, Nothing but it, nothing but me. Just an empty bed, An empty glass, An empty shelf,   An empty polaroid.  Empty, empty, empty!  Can my heart get a refill Of the substance that makes it alive? Please? Is this a mad girl’s confession? 

“I made you up inside my head.” I don’t know how to live with this happiness. A subject I haven’t learned of yet. A sweet foreign substance. Don’t let this end. Please, stay. Don’t let time be our enemy. Don’t let us slip away before I tell you everything, Everything I know of the world, Before our memories link into one, Before our words become forget-me-nots Somewhere within my skull and my ribcage. 

“I think I made you up inside my head.” This time, I want to be mistaken. Hold me. Please.  If this world is an oyster,  I used to be a pearl in exile.  I might’ve come back from the dead. Song to a word, song to a whisper. Hold.  Just knowing I can hold you Makes it easier to carry the weight of the world. 

Now, It is as real as it gets.  Don’t let time be our enemy.

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absinthetears · 3 years

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“I’m nothing but a passerby, Except now I have memories”

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absinthetears · 3 years

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H O T E L R O O M

I used to live inside a hotel room Where the mirror would never remember my face And the concierge would always get my name wrong. Where white linen smells of shameless novelty And I'd only use shampoos packed up in travel bottles, Pretending there's nothing else I could take. I used to live inside a hotel room In the city I'm from, In desperate hopes that there can still be a place Where no one knows me, and Where no one knows who I've been.

Inside a hotel room, I am a blank slate. White linen smells of shameless novelty And a washing powder I've never heard of before. An empty closet to arrange clothing from scratch, A new shelf for sweaters and a new place for shirts. A new place to bring shopping bags for company Along with twenty polaroids I've taken Of the places that are sick of my footsteps.

Inside my upstairs room, I get to be a stranger. A tourist looking for a temporary home, A temporary place to be, A tourist looking for an ashtray Below the sign 'forbidden to smoke.' What a disgrace! I'm dragging myself to the street, Lighter in hand, The last star in the night In the city where the sky's never dark.

Light and noise, light and noise, The laughter of neighbors Inside our common cardboard walls. Back to the foyer with no one around, Not even at the reception desk Where I laid out my passports a few days before, Not knowing which one is mine. By definition, an identity document. An identity document stripped from the identity. Letters, a photograph, numbers. And honestly, not much else.

Back, upstairs, card instead of a key, Head against pillows, Plunged into reverie to songs Playing back in my head, Much like when we listened to them From the car radio. Looks like this city I’m from Is becoming my home again, A home that's more than just temporary.

I’m nothing but a passerby, Except now I have memories. Like quiet voices in the night, When the sky clings to the ceiling And there's little left to say.

I'm always ready to shove my soul Into a suitcase And take a step through the door. Maybe not now, Maybe not today. Can I postpone my checkout date? Stay for a little while longer To get more memories sent To a temporary address, That I could pack up as I go.

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absinthetears · 4 years

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“Our steps will echo in eternity, In this one or some other, In a world where nothing stays the same”

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absinthetears · 4 years

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E C H O

We carry the universe within our hands, And it took just an instant, an accident For us to hear it again. Like a long-forgotten record That no one remembers the sound of, Rotting in the lonely attic. We're touching the void But there is nothing to fear. A glance, a longer look, And now the sun no longer burns And stars no longer suffocate With their calls to search for distant light.

It's morning again. Open your bloodshot eyes. What do you see? A half-demolished boulevard And an endless march of concrete souls. The universe trapped in our fingers Was a weight that seemed almost unbearable. A burden to bury in the ground. A temptation to surrender it all, To run back to that boulevard, Run back to vanished house numbers, Run back to spirits of dust and destruction! We used to know nothing else. Only rain breaking itself against glass. Only houses that burned. Only beds turned to ash. Only empty pill boxes.

Now, hand in hand, It almost doesn't matter If tomorrow comes. If cities burn and skies Come crashing down. We've trapped the universe within our fingers, And now, it's finally speaking to us.

It only took a spark To mend all shattered streetlights And build up all the crumbling walls. A spark, the only shining star To tell us that our worlds are always more Than just a temporary carcass And just a half-demolished boulevard.

It almost doesn't matter if the sky Collapses now. Hand in hand, A spark, a firefly, a lighter in the night. Our steps will echo in eternity, In this one or some other, In a world where nothing stays the same.

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absinthetears · 4 years

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“What are you running away from?”

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