February 2011
38 posts
Bars
Feb.4th 2010
A voice reaches me in the gloom.
Is it my mother’s?
No, she’s drunk and laughing with the
Gay boys in the adjacent room.
A dog’s bark launches through the trees.
Is it one of mine?
No, they curled on couches
Furry and half-asleep.
Am I inside, peering through my
Neighbor’s window?
No, I am the old, white Volvo
Stuck in the drive.
Dusted over with...
January 2011
41 posts
"Singing to Strangers" via Kickstarters...could be... →
One Fish...Two Fish..
July 8th, 2010
I am killing myself right now, as we speak. ( Is it really that hard to believe? Not to one half of me at least.. Damn my fickle duality it’s so sickeningly..CONCRETE!) I don’t want to die. Who wants to? What kind of person what sort of life only leads to the decision that, for some reason, it would be better not existing? Not me, no, not mine. So why the slow...
Anonymous asked: Have you ever thought about going for a big band, swinger kind of sound with your music? I listen to groups like Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings and other gospel like music and think you definitely have the kind of big voice that you can belt out with tons of emotion. Just a curious question by an anonymous listener.
Losing Your Virginity
Mother makes buds out of cigarette butts
smashed into the clay dish
( though it may not have intended to be used this way )
given to her some countless Mothers days ago.
Daughter lies on her back.
Her tan legs, orange filters, stuck out
at nasty angles from the mess of unkempt ashes,
She only thinks of the hundreds of Sundays that went to waste
(though she never intended to be used this...
Raleigh people! Reblog this! I'd like to follow...
Voodoo Child
January 2007 The voodoo child is faceless, string leaks out at places where the blocks meet knots and braids. Elementary colors, such an odd green bent at getting even, it curls and cracks at someone far away with no arms or legs. That half-assed spell, that fell out of the trash heap, who came across you but I, a lone soul-keeper. Voodoo child, left in the grass behind the collection bin where...
burmesejorjiapits asked: Could it, maybe
it could be..
This estranged one
came to follow me?
Well, sheesh..
Tell me, tell me,
is she an Austinite too?
:)
it could be..
This estranged one
came to follow me?
Well, sheesh..
Tell me, tell me,
is she an Austinite too?
:)
Public Transportation
August 22nd 2009 Austin, TX There’s a young man at the bus stop praying in awkward angles, ( adjusting his antenna - trying to get a decent signal) No one here wears helmets on motorcycles and today women fight for a right to be topless. To darken their nipples, to pick up on that same “signal” (as a man in angel wings walks down congress) I’m in a city where everyone...
Heading Down North...do it. →
To my followers..
The majority of my posts from now on are, most likely, going to be poetry/art/music related. I’m trying to reach out to you fellow poets and artists so.. Stay with me, let me know your opinions ( good and critical!) and I’ll give you a hug :)
-Arielle
Porn and Poetry
July 2006 Nothing ever is exactly where it should be. (only far enough away to teach.)
Purse on the floor, phone in the drawer and you… so much farther than furniture.
Living in a Building
October 2007 Voices through the vents, conversations pass me by in the elevator tube as the slight sensation of falling yanks them seductively from my ears. I stretch, I pull, I drip slowly to the first floor where the men ask for numbers as they open the door.
Chaque Matin
2007
Above my half-dream head
is a cold squeek
or whine,
a noise I’m not quite sure
how to define..
(The breezy chirp that is always
way, too much. )
Beside me is the pillow
that I pretend is you,
pressed to a cuddle
against my figure
(living like a placebo,
and never quite enough.)
Twenty-Two
September, 2007
I could have been a streetlight if I were born in your city. I might have been a skyscraper and stared dark and blankly, shaking at your soft earthquakes. I could have watched you in that curious way that little boys watch ants drag and bring dead things into their mounds. Only, you carry a recording of my rotten voice up the hills of Harlem. You know…
I could have been...
