worn out shoe: circulatory
on the first day of all time,
repeat the vitals:
before you have a
veneer or cracks
roundabout loops in
a drenched yearning circle:
where maroon blood islands
are
filled with lionized arteries
reoccurring swimming
through “i like it and
i love it
and so,
i love my
day”
times talk to each other, talk to themselves, time and time again,
during again-times, when all is open: all shapes, stars purple, neon orange
thaws with a pen and the idea aorta pushes into scrolls and skulls, single celled bacteria
little girls who are and are not made of, made from, and made by: words/blood moving
swerve war: proprioception
puzzles and kudzu
experiments become her
in a beautiful cave she’s making her own house out of
instinctive togetherness where one’s grasp of the inner ears
makes sense of where we all are where everyone is in the house
or world, she wrote for me when i didn’t have arms
sometimes each day, i saw tightropes:
sixth sense rendered
tendons don’t look, they juggle, i wobble, we cock labyrinthine heads tender
at patterns and paradigms, like flowering plants, what brain even sees itself?
shape oneself in exposure and refuge in an exponential wild, always we love it
little girl’s phalanges and inquiries make spindles, orbs, spheres, back and forth
what could this mean? from here to there, it’s too close to see
arch skiff: muscular
slime molds weigh on me meaningfully
they divert and deflect
in strange mirrors of small girl worlds
wrapped in taut attention and taut heat
smooth cardiac
manipulates my surroundings
bound by state and time of being
young and unfurled
commemorating my fantasies
i didn’t always hate this world, my brambles bent striations, they contract in child’s play
brush the surface tension with a bow and arrow, i became a common oddity
what can you trust of what someone else tells you about yourself?
almost nothing, nearly, in convening testimonies trembling: life is fraught with living
ha ha: reproductive
are you a good boy or bad girl?
was it ever
not a strange time?
maybe or no
my sprung-off progeny is covered in algae
seeds, hair, womb when it
mattered about boys’
clasp, desire--yes
i made a bat family
then watched thousands fly
pages flapping on babies
books shaped like pregnant bachelors
on top of conception keys from veins form in slit rocks, seeds slithering in pelvic paragraphs
my panic wrenching, groveling, wondering, worn, pouring forlorn laughter from cardinal humours
deep within abandoned mineshafts of mercurial, rambunctious wave-making on the slipstream
silk gulch gushes thousands of black tadpoles, rippling seeds in shallow pools
Lily Rose Kosmicki is a person, but sometimes feels like an alien in this world. She suspects she frequently experiences a form of hypergraphia and/or graphomania and she is obsessed with language and the body. She is working on translating years and years of notebooks into poetry, makes cut-up collage poem-paintings, and illustrates creatures with accompanying poems that are (sort-of) for children. By trade she is a librarian at the public library and by night she is a collector of dreams. Her zine Dream Zine recently won a Broken Pencil Zine Award for Best Art Zine 2018.