Mary Kasimor
blue lips
i have an intuitive self-importance
and self-adoration
and self-consumption
for leather briefcases
and lost time
and short memos
to be is to be headed
like a tulip that loses its beauty
wasted on its life
we found the garden when it was young
i gave it my ego
changing the shape
of my body
it was too blue
it was just two lips of too blue
somedays it talked too much
thinking it was heard
thinking it was important
i left you behind and left you outside
my money made me important
so i changed the weather
i lived on a hill
i lost my peasant heart
the stain was a small fallen shadow
i cruised through hell in a convertible
i eclipsed the sore joints of morning
i was only so important as an incident
black silk
mourning red from all those riches
i am the peasant in the window dancing
to special effects
i don’t know how you do it
all those paintings in primary colors
is that how you see yourself—with big breasts
and tiny feet?
i hang onto life and it ends abruptly
she was once beautiful
once was always
when she was 19 she was the question
and the answer
a felt consciousness is better than most
wearing herself thin as a sparrow
one of many or multi-purpose
i loved you even when you threw yourself away
burning to remain light
burning your toes
you fly out of the fire
the room is hot passion
panting she waits to awaken
as though she has never been born before
she rises untouched
so you continued dancing for the pleasure of night’s
invisible black silk
with only your hips you showed the mountains
how to dance
in their moon of rock and dust
here in the night
you grow old like a moonstone
Mary Kasimor has been writing poetry for many years. Her work has appeared in EOAGH, Big Bridge, 2River, Glasgow Review of Books, Nerve Lantern, 3 AM, Touch the Donkey, Posit, Yew Journal, Otoliths, and Pif Magazine. Her recent poetry collections are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014), Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015), The Prometheus Collage (Locofo Press 2017), and Nature Store (Dancing Girl Press 2017). She has also been a reviewer of many small press poetry collections.
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blue lips
i have an intuitive self-importance
and self-adoration
and self-consumption
for leather briefcases
and lost time
and short memos
to be is to be headed
like a tulip that loses its beauty
wasted on its life
we found the garden when it was young
i gave it my ego
changing the shape
of my body
it was too blue
it was just two lips of too blue
somedays it talked too much
thinking it was heard
thinking it was important
i left you behind and left you outside
my money made me important
so i changed the weather
i lived on a hill
i lost my peasant heart
the stain was a small fallen shadow
i cruised through hell in a convertible
i eclipsed the sore joints of morning
i was only so important as an incident
the deer a dazed anxiety breaks a part from winning loss and packed away in an empty box with the fragment of light cracking into fractures old laws bleed words forcing the embroidery of red moons the knots make large x’s the heart attack frightens lost consciousness resumes the drumming a heart ache destroys evidence and pounds without syncopation it is a boring eternity in the dusk rain forgets gravity and marches in boots over heart beats protect us confused appearances tie the horizon onto the trees the deer gracefully fall apart the deer destroy the evidence the deer are graceful with their hidden appearances never having seen themselves they are frightened of no one they wander like echoes hidden trembling without a radius in the diagram of broken lines what we win is never known
black silk
mourning red from all those riches
i am the peasant in the window dancing
to special effects
i don’t know how you do it
all those paintings in primary colors
is that how you see yourself—with big breasts
and tiny feet?
i hang onto life and it ends abruptly
she was once beautiful
once was always
when she was 19 she was the question
and the answer
a felt consciousness is better than most
wearing herself thin as a sparrow
one of many or multi-purpose
i loved you even when you threw yourself away
burning to remain light
burning your toes
you fly out of the fire
the room is hot passion
panting she waits to awaken
as though she has never been born before
she rises untouched
so you continued dancing for the pleasure of night’s
invisible black silk
with only your hips you showed the mountains
how to dance
in their moon of rock and dust
here in the night
you grow old like a moonstone
Mary Kasimor has been writing poetry for many years. Her work has appeared in EOAGH, Big Bridge, 2River, Glasgow Review of Books, Nerve Lantern, 3 AM, Touch the Donkey, Posit, Yew Journal, Otoliths, and Pif Magazine. Her recent poetry collections are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014), Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015), The Prometheus Collage (Locofo Press 2017), and Nature Store (Dancing Girl Press 2017). She has also been a reviewer of many small press poetry collections.
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