A Displeasure with Her (Own) Company.
Writing by Chandler Crump
November sixth.
written by
Chandler Crump
I feel agony-
she quietly soothes my breasts.
Her touch light
hollow,
intentioned like the battered sea
against the metal ship.
My pleasure comes from the thrill
of despair-
Wet from the urge to
sit at window’s edge and make up stories
before bed.
Melancholy in warm water
soothes the loneliest of
young women.
she quietly soothes my breasts.
Her touch light
hollow,
intentioned like the battered sea
against the metal ship.
My pleasure comes from the thrill
of despair-
Wet from the urge to
sit at window’s edge and make up stories
before bed.
Melancholy in warm water
soothes the loneliest of
young women.
Poetry & Prose
Wednesday
written by
Chandler Crump
I watched the morning over East and prayed through a blink of an eye. What comes tomorrow is today, raw at the edges of sunrise.
Keep the cool breeze, don’t hurt my feelings – a sonnet sung with sorrow.
Blast the tides of drunk men’s bellows, woefully at the corner. Stung with alcohol and weed, Wednesday night still fresh in the breeze of morning. Regret the deep air breath of promises, of other people’s quest for control.
Keep the cool breeze, don’t hurt my feelings – a sonnet sung with sorrow.
Blast the tides of drunk men’s bellows, woefully at the corner. Stung with alcohol and weed, Wednesday night still fresh in the breeze of morning. Regret the deep air breath of promises, of other people’s quest for control.
Poetry & Prose
A prompt for “Training the Poetic Ear & Eye” and “Nature poetry and the Lyric ‘I’”.
written by
Chandler Crump
I. My voice sounds like an elated magpie filled with sorrow and joy. She builds her nest out of burnt twigs and pink feathers covered in sweet sap. Tricky and clear.
I want my voice to bring forth conversations on the fractures and sharp edges of patriarchy and the unyielding obsidian of the female gaze and diamond panes of female rage.
If the sun doesn’t set in the East does it cry to the light of moon and stay or continue to wait?
II. I want to hold rain the way my body holds my blood, sweeping through my bones and brain, tripping over scars and bruises, ushered out of me through safe hands, guaranteed to replenish where it stood.
Reflection on my perception beats:
Raw chestnuts break [at my hands they are dust]
Bitter bark [,] rough as a father’s stubble
[this man’s razor remains cold]; broken as dry hands
Wet leaves at the base [atop screaming tours]
Ombre leaves [black] yellow as [bright white] stained carpet [,]
Bright as pale sun, green as the tall grass
[mowed to death] barbed wire,
Downhill [up] broken patches [seeping light]
Grass [not] stone
Charred [lily] stems
Live spider.
I want my voice to bring forth conversations on the fractures and sharp edges of patriarchy and the unyielding obsidian of the female gaze and diamond panes of female rage.
If the sun doesn’t set in the East does it cry to the light of moon and stay or continue to wait?
II. I want to hold rain the way my body holds my blood, sweeping through my bones and brain, tripping over scars and bruises, ushered out of me through safe hands, guaranteed to replenish where it stood.
Reflection on my perception beats:
Raw chestnuts break [at my hands they are dust]
Bitter bark [,] rough as a father’s stubble
[this man’s razor remains cold]; broken as dry hands
Wet leaves at the base [atop screaming tours]
Ombre leaves [black] yellow as [bright white] stained carpet [,]
Bright as pale sun, green as the tall grass
[mowed to death] barbed wire,
Downhill [up] broken patches [seeping light]
Grass [not] stone
Charred [lily] stems
Live spider.
Poetry & Prose