Taigé Lauren
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"Maybe you never lived, maybe
only your coat hung on the chair."
-Marina Tsvetaeva

Poetry

XIX

Je ne m'efface pas
Plutôt un masque


Devient moi
Cela reconte l'état


Des choses dans 
Mon regard:


Des plumes 
Des spectacles limités

XVIII

​Je suis une fille fluide.

Je parle simplement. 
Je me trouve 
Entre autre choses
Étranges et solides
Specificamente:
Les briques.
Avec mon paume,
Je touche chaque.
Sur la craie,
Un chuchoter avant
Je les mets
​Dans le ciment. 

-
Les horloges 
Ne sont pas vraies

Quand j'ai appris le passé
Tout s'est ouvert

Mais c'est immuable 
Pas comme l'horloge

Ou comme l'horloge

Çela dépend des yeux

XVII

​Playing the Stewardess

of which I am the title player
so I cram - yes, cram - 
my infected fat ankle 
into pumps (consider:
this impressive dedication
but also *sigh of relief* 
there are no thin red lines
yet)

Next, 

Bird in Flight
this is the action sequence
my mouth is very familiar 
with dirt. 
Very. 

Next,

the Quite-Quite-Afflicted-Lover
of bankrupted brain
and no insufficient funds 
following (it’s easy to put out 
for anything - poetry, attention, 
bank - that’s not the 
discomforting part - it's more
...)


It’s the corset.

I didn't tell you about that. 

The playing at
the feeling. 

XVI

​The impossibility 
of coming
anywhere
leads to bed.
I am proud 
of very little:
nocturnal vision
also my impeccably reliable 
unreliability. 
I let in no sun. 
In a while, 
sure as a clock works 
-ha ha- 
I will scrape my knees
across carpet
for the insensitive 
faucet. 
"Move," I will say. 
Move I cannot. 
It is wrinkles
that expel me.
Nothing else.
-
My days:  
looking 
for freeways 
eating 
bread 
leaving
crumbs

XV

​There is this

And also

Goal:
Unpredictable rationality
And also searching for lost
Bobby pins wherever
They are not

Liberation

Reality:
Predictable misfortune
And also fake it
Until you make it

I've shattered many mirrors

There is this:
Women in Rwanda are the majority
Of Parliament and iron
Their husband’s socks
Also

Promotion is fragile
So silence is practiced

And also:
I ask for equality
And my hair to be pulled

Also

XIV

​Pocono looks

Like a painting
I obviously haven’t been
Aired out
Enough
-
I’m in need of a good airing out
Because the trees look
Like paintings
-
Overdue
Airing out
Paints the landscape
-
Trees paint
So I’m overdue

For air

XIII

​Hollow river’s echo

Wooded secrets make no fire
The old woman unfolded
My laundry on a wire

I waited drumming silence
Ticking thick like lead
I asked of her to drown
The remains of my head

She sat for a while
Her hair long and gray
She could have been a rock
And yet she could not stay

She left me in the hollow
She left me to the wood
The old woman told me

Never is there good

XII

​A tank

Was placed
By this pond
In memoriam to...

?
-
Contenders
Don't know
That running wins
Little
More than waiting
And inventors
Can confirm
Exercise is good
But can't negate
Genetics
-
A tank
Was placed

By the pond

It is

XI

in seven hours and forty five minutes

I will wake to the sound
of no lovers breathing
but the air conditioner
with its double depression
-
In some hours
I will wake

Cold to the breath
Of no lover

But the doubly depressed
Air conditioner
-
No lover
But the air
Conditioner

To wake to

X

​packed up to the zipper

I traded my job
with spasms
and now await

electrocution at the border

IX

​Salutations

from electric soldiers
occupying the streets
like power lines.
No foreshadowing
to Chicago's ocean
or losing at night
to the ear of the sirens
to the hand of machinery
to the man sweeping gas
station concrete and barking
lucid as a dog
to the chic apartment
on a shit street (named
something like ambrosia)
and especially the wild eyed
conscious insomnia coiling
from the center until
all extremities are itching

wind up toys or orgasms

VIII

​Driving in the dark for many hours left me without pictures and without my mind. 
-
A good place from irony
and refrigerators: corn fields full 
of contortion witches: up from the dust
and tangle trees sucking from the air:
wind to use for the next hundred years
cantations: a refilling of the spaces:
we'll choke on fate

A litmus test for the screen 
addicted: does the deep hurt your arms?
for how long? can you tread? or suck it up
until shallow waters run within:
use later for lubricant or thirsty children
to replenish stimulation capability:
choke

A dry spell to conjure if you are one
who does not drink: a holy rock: rest
your head holding a sprig of lavender 
for aesthetic affect: pretty martyr:
you're no different:

VII

​-
​He'll request

his ashes scattered
in Paris

But I will drive them
straight to the Badlands
smash the ceramic urn
and whisper,
in French of course,
"But you've always been in hell."
-
There's sun stained blood
stratified on these faces
these rising mounds
these flat top beds of stone
these openings
stretched wide
like the yellow breasted birds
erupting from the wheat
fields house cows
grazing sweet and sweetly
kissed or obsessively doused
with sun
But where is the water!
I must wash the wound
that will never heal
lest my own legs stain
plain with the obvious mark

of one who misses

VI

​-
​We're already thirty miles

From revolution
Like horses raised
In a pen
The gate opens
Then nothing
But the sprinklers
In the morning
Feeding time
-
What do you think
about the revolution
asks one sister to another
answers
I like
totally would like
like that
but like my goal
isn't to change
the world but
to like
like
no love

people

V

​In bargaining

With neither devil
Nor terra cotta warrior
All trades belong
To you and you
Know this

I traded my eyesight for silver
Haired testaments to countless
Neglecting
colanders and condoms

Good judgement’s payment:
Better whiskey
Toasting wit
And poor pockets

A warm shower
Hit my bruises but
I still had to deal
With a burn on my bagel 

We got a mattress
In the middle
Of hospitals, bar tabs,
a bleached bathroom rug,
Jigsaw puzzle pieces,
a stack of harmonicas, and lists
Aside, how the fuck
Could we sleep
In that mess?

But hey, at least
I got good theory
And a willing tongue -
A sapiophilic
Marxist on paper

Remember the amalgams
Of flesh:
Having run all night
Through sticker bushes
I fell as a skinned
Tiger
At your feet and trusted
A pair of hands
That weren’t mine

I have no delusions
All trades belong
To me and I

Alone

IV

​When love is romantic
​
It's an apple, either too high up to pick  
or overripe and rotting and mixed in to the dirt. 
It's cinnamon lips and blurry vision. 
Cracked palms and manicured calloused feet. 
It's hot pavement and cold coffee - old odors sweet.
Firewood, teflon burning and sea salt. 
It's saliva dripping from the tongue and sweat pouring 
for exhaustion or lust or fuck you 
and isn't that fun? 
It's go away come quick run here 
change the same as me and shave 
my pussy when I'm pregnant. It's a cell phone 
drying in a bag of rice overnight and forever 
holding the gritty residue 
but it works.
It's a long lost well hung even tempered 
picture frame. It's a bad bag and a worse egg 
and an even better bandaid. It's drinking water 
out of nickel because metallic is pretty 
and also tastes like blood. 
And it is bloody but not like a battle 
just more like a bird that stopped breathing in mid air and fell, 
breaking open. It's going to bleed
until it's done or until a bigger bird 
eats it. It's going to breath
until its lung gives out or until
a bigger lung beats it. 
What I'm trying to say is
love is breathless. 
It's romantic as in 
Here honey, 
eat my apple 
I'm not hungry 

It's poison.

III

​I the sea floor stuck with secrets keep

A sunken heart still yet to be revealed
And eyes that teem with likeness of the deep
That by the salt might injuries be healed

Full of fish bones picked to clean and bare
I've wished to meet the grand expansive swell
I've longed to drown in depths of dark unknown
To hear the waves tide life tide death tide knell

And when the gentle song wash over me
Tide's toll shall ring with quiet coupling news
For I the seafloor evermore shall be

Joined all my sense with sea my soul with you

II

​There is a tree on Sixteenth

Between Here and There
Surrounded by barren comrades

She holds her leaves like weapons
Against Winter's bare teeth
Bullets blank and unaware

Blow winds howl winds
Crack winds coo
Tree stands in between

Tree stands like you

I
​
The sky tonight
is pencil shades.
A smudgy thrashing shrine
to the ravishing Selene
who usually arrives
in mediated time.
But the shadows ask
if she might make her entrance tonight
whiplash fast and
smack-clap cracked
through the ashen shelter.

The sky tonight
is not quite inky.
Had I taken
the plump part of my fist
and pulled it
across the expanse,
it would have been leaden
heavy with
the newly accumulated charcoal.
Had I ran my thumb
among the clouds,
the moon would have appeared
luminous and exhausted.

​But the sky tonight
needs me not
and my hand,
a whisper itch,
remains at my side.
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