1. Name: ilquix
2. Age: 17
3. Location: Maryland
4. Three favorite/ influential writers: Charles simic, Ezra Pound, Carol ann Duffy
5. *Preface to your poems: Not a lot to say other than to state that I'm new to poetry so please excuse any ignorance you might see in here. Also, poems two and three are variations of the same image.
6. Three poems:
In excess of hedonism
On Christmas morning, starcrust binding and stinging at my eyelids,
I clambered down the stairs, my hurried feet rattling the banister, and
followed the sounds of glitter, gasps and awe.
Then by boxing day: wrapping paper shifting and twinkling in a bin.
I crouched to grasp and fondle bland toys
and sighed a sigh that lasted three hundred and sixty four days
each second of each one spent with my eyes
skewering at the curves of perfect girls
wearing sex like a habit.
And, when the black clouds unclasped, I’d trample into sweltering puddles
in a storm, phasing my reflection and rebounding it towards the edge
and back again.
Until I grew used to getting wet
and dampness became nothing more than another way to make me sneeze.
When umbrellas became a novelty, a way to stay spotless,
and to drown out the whole wideness of the sky.
Then what was there to look forward to
Or being carried off into a place without sensation or surprise.
A place where the events are born of their reactions instead of the other way around.
A place with nothing real
but the languid reassurance that I can make the whole world up
as I go along.
Learning to swim
When my parents threw me in
it was everywhere
except the space inside my silhouette.
I realised immediately what I had to fight for
As the bubbles slipped from my lips
and bounded out of sight like prayers.
At first I tried to kick and climb and tug
Startled to see the atmosphere
Like the reflection of a ladder
Or a grasp of hair.
I choked and sank
Helpless with fear
Until I learned
To caress the water,
Make it purr and sway
It was then I managed to dance upwards
Until the mucousy fuzz above me
Became a sky.
Diluting the moon
For the pickled eyes of wandering Pisces
who drifts through naïve seclusion
of the tide’s left side
blinded and repulsed by a deflated rippling
of molten silver.