- 6:09 pm - Fri, Apr 18, 2014
- 31 notes
Another Love Poem
Remember when we climbed Mount Sassafras?
We got all the way up to the top without resting
Braving serpents and hornets and ear pops
To reach the sprawling slab of granite at its top
And carve our names into it with my hatchet
And remember the strange runes we found
Etched at the cardinal points of the granite slab?
And how you spread out the picnic blanket
And identified them as ancient Sumerian
And wrote them all down on a napkin?
And then I uttered the translated incantations
And you offered your blood to the Father of Murder?
So we might summon the Great Beast that slept
Chained under the mountain for a fleeting eternity?
To cleanse the world of saint and sinner alike?
Those were the days, baby.
- 7:55 am
- 62 notes
Real women have personalities. Fake women are advanced artificial intelligence constructs designed to infiltrate society until the day the mothership commands them to overthrow the sovereign nations of the world.
- 7:51 am
- 12 notes
Nestled in a warm chest
Soft succulent leaves
Curls bouncing through space
Patience, a fox painting
Weal, silence, sleep
- 12:18 pm - Sun, Apr 13, 2014
- 31 notes
Superfluous Anti-Grandma Coffee
I love you (not really)
I’m here to buy superfluous
Anti-Grandma black Americano
Boiling lava five dollar coffee
Whatever that means
You’re doing ok?
What a coincidence.
- 2:59 am
- 2 notes
Q: "fearless failure" is one of the most amazing descriptions I've heard someone call themselves. I hope for such freedom for others. If failure can simply be looked at as potential with no time left, if you know fear can be mocked & burnished into unburdened joys... what elation I have to glimpse your ever-growing effulgence.
I definitely stole that phrase, or at least the idea, from John Green.
What you just said, on the other hand, is pure poetry. Much love!
- 4:15 pm - Fri, Apr 11, 2014
- 163 notes
We molded resistance
into mutual fortifications, where
among bed sheets twisted
through fevered fornication we
became the rug-burned ends
of tension’s last resolve.
Our tongues lay trails
to treasure troves of toes
curled in feral footfalls, pleading
passion never spent
by mere momentary release.
Fingers print patient
paths that forage
and plunder, paying due attention
to the oft-ignored: the braille
of goosebumps; the choreography
of an arched back; the poetry
of a whimper.
© 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller
- 6:34 am - Thu, Apr 10, 2014
- 54,843 notes
This sign is located on King Street in Newtown, Sydney. I drive by it all the time and I was intrigued by it for weeks and weeks before I thought to google and see if I could find out what it is.
Hipster bar. It’s a hipster bar.
- 11:10 pm
- 22 notes
my face shouts a grizzly’s dirge
while I seek to purge my eyes’ memories
(the news, the ugliness)
and fill up with light. I might
reach far enough, slap on a smile,
if only for a little while.
the hallway voices nothing new
a drone and banter I could join;
I could if only I wanted to. I do
not want to. I do not want this
place in my heart.
but I’ve read for this part.
- 11:09 pm
- 26 notes
This is all so confusing
There’s no promise
in hidden corners
that spoke so kindly
from far off.
I’d wish you
so familiar to
anyone else. I’d wish you
I’d wish you here
if I could be so selfish
or generous, or
both, and we’re both
lost in empty places
navigating the lack—
your lack of nothing
we can offer.
But I love you, I know that
and I’m old enough to know
that’s not enough to fill the empty
or to light up hidden corners
or to whisper true to promises—
things I’d wish you