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iloveturbulence.bsky.social
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@iloveturbulence.bsky.social
41 followers 93 following 43 posts
more action! less tears! they!them
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iloveturbulence.bsky.social
"Prometheus," by me.
Like fire
long since liver-ripped #poetry
A poem titled "Prometheus", which reads: With the spike I cut down withered and mangled Prometheus; as the pulp-dust cleared gingerly I counted every ring, accounting old kingdom, christ, copper, every single blasted year of tear and tears and I felt good. Like fire in fleeting coals, carbon long since liver-ripped and flown away. I tasted then the future: salt in my skin sulfur in my sight silt in my spit--ta, with image out I turned away and roved out randomly; the borer was loose and undamaged and my grad-funding secured my shoulders not cured and not splintered, so I shrugged. An additional column of text on the right side of the image made up of words taken from the poem, reads: flown away I tasted then my skin my sight my spit image I was undamaged and shoulders splintered so I shrugged. With Prometheus; gingerly every ring, dom, every tear felt good. in fleeting liver and then salt y sulfur y silt y I turned out the borer damaged my fun and I shrugged. With the spike withered Prom us clear old kin in tears and I felt fleet long since away.
August 16, 2025 at 3:05 PM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
August 3, 2025 at 3:32 AM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
A slightly updated version of my poem "Swimming" that i read at a conference recently
Swimming i emerge from English waters like a poor haddock, who is toss'd back to join as something changed irrevocably; hook-gash in lip. real pain is in vogue, incensed like deep Irish spring. if i were a chicken they'd tear my flesh--my family own would rend me to bone. or else by men in slacks; at least they may tip my head up, gently, and let me see the blue sky. the sky that is an endless ocean. over America or Indonesia. but i am not a chicken, i am in water, down with cod and carp, so-called clarity. Patience, Cleanness, Pearl. i ought to keep my bearing straight, encompassed in force, substance fate gliding along my rippled grey. but see i know no way to live: now that the big hands have touched me-- in their realm free of movement's heavy comfort-- decided i'm no good. will a wound ever really heal? a prick in the neck festers in busy Bombay ports, like Ahuitzotl coast. i want to write something young, while i am young. i don't want to be beholden to wit and wisdom. sorry. i am dreaming of a different river a different embarrassed youth. give me something stupid to say, let me feel helpless now, and let me be embarrassed when i recite my days.
July 10, 2025 at 7:56 PM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
Working on this poem, not sure about the final three lines yet
a poem titled prometheus which reads: With the spike I cut down withered and mangled Prometheus; as the pulp-dust cleared gingerly I counted every ring, accounting old kingdom, christ, copper, every single blasted year of tear and tears and I felt good. Like fire in fleeting coals, carbon long since liver-ripped and flown away. Putting down my tool, I tasted then the future: the salt in my skin, the sulfur in my sight; and with gentle shoulders cured not yet splintered I shrugged.
December 9, 2024 at 7:59 PM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
"Running," a poem by me.
for the body
A poem which reads: This one is for Pheidippides for casting aside his spear his scroll his cloth his name dearest Thersipus Erchius Eucles Mnangat He Lucero your frame was already broken rushing up the grecian coast this one is for the field flicked with dew and drenched in sweat clutching that for which in precious few moments the men-at-arms will sever the now from then from atop their galloping-beasts for now my legs explode on the track only meat and only bone toward no name with no past at my back for the body which will always go past me we have won we have won we have won.
October 29, 2024 at 3:00 AM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
"Against Thee Wickedly," a poem by me.
Amid dove and white dust.
A poem, with text in the light of the trees: "After the war, I tried at living out my century, amid dove and white dust, marble and illness all. Sweet-sonorous sigh haunts my new station--ruin'd boughs too blossom goodly reds before the winter. The sway of the nape and the clutching-hand, among the curve, corners and angles; shock'd I was from the image of architects. Hook-gash lip is wet, dripping down the skin: I want to write something so saccharine it makes you sick."
October 23, 2024 at 8:11 AM
iloveturbulence.bsky.social
Swimming, a poem by me.
let me be embarrassed when i recite my days
PATIENCE CLEANLINESS PEARL i ought to keep my bearing straight, encompassed in force, substance fate gliding along my rippled grey. but see i know no way to live: now that the big hands have touched me in their realm free of movement's heavy comfort decided i'm no good. will a wound ever really heal? a prick in the neck festers in busy Bombay ports like Ahuitzotl coasts. i want to write something young, when i am young, i don't want to be beholden to wit and wisdom. sorry. give me something stupid to say, let me feel helpless now, and let me be embarrassed when i recite my days. i emerge from English waters like a pour haddock, who is toss'd back to join as something changed irrevocably; hook-gash in lip real pain in vogue, incensed like deep Irish spring. if i were a chicken they'd tear my flesh--my family own would rend me to bone. or else by men in slacks; at least they may tip my head up, gently, and let me see the blue sky. the sky that is an endless ocean continued from previous image as the text is the same and I ran out of space: over America or Indonesia. but i am not a chicken, i am in water. down with cod and carp, so-called clarity, Patience, Cleanliness, Pearl. --- from here it repeats
February 7, 2024 at 5:57 AM