Hi! Kyle speaking. I’m trying to write daily-ish and this is the blog where stuff I like gets posted. Expect mostly poetry. (Any pronouns) About Page Icon picture from arianwen44
nosebleedclub : Do you want to be noticed? There are different kinds of eyes, in this world. Or maybe different days, Sometimes my gauze worn thinner than others. Some souls just listen too loudly, Whirring like vacuums, And I can feel the mountains in my skin sticking To the flypaper in their yawning mouths. I want to brush by on the dance floor, One beat in the bassline, drowned out, Gliding on…
goneahead : goneahead : kirkshiresloss : goneahead : 2025 Poetry Roll Call! Let’s give everyone more poets to follow in 2025! Reblog if you are a Tumblr poet! I’ll start - I’m @goneahead & I write original poetry. I also reblog other people’s poems twice a day👋 Washed up but present @kirkshiresloss 😂😂😂 @theanity well we need to lure your muse back out!!! 🍫🍫🍫🍫**hands…
It’s not quite fog, no stubborn goosebumps, No gentle fade. It’s just a vastness, Just a gap. I’m straining through pudding, Through that dream-air thicker where I struggle. I flail for miles and only wriggle farther From my own skin. -kph
Every layer of this great spinning onion Is one sneaking heat, an eternal build To a storm that skirts us by. I didn’t know the air could get This hot, could hold This much wet anticipation. The world here is more liquid than me. Osmosing something out my pores That’s not quite water. That just won’t fall into rain. -kph
Turtle on a tek dek Like a fish to fluid air, Like a flame fed by oil wick, Proof that nature and the beast Have different hearts: One ticks, One thrums. -kph
We have given our world A new kind of eye More like an ear, Some seventh sense That feels, palpably, the Far edges With the still, empty under-ice. It makes me wonder How many parts of the human body We haven’t named, How many parts of me Are basic, are ancient, and How many forever doomed to Seven syllables, Tertiary rings Held loose together. -kph
To join wood, you must first predict the future. Will these need to come apart again? To clean? To move your whole world on your back? How many miles? And who will be walking with you? -kph
The lingering twinge above my hip reminds me– I need to crack myself open again. I must be careful what I carry with me. I must keep my bones close at hand, I must call them by their names. The monsters knocking From inside the closet– Scarred, Too-many-limbed, Neon-haired. We are interlaced, Not merely superimposed. The mirror is fogging me Up inside and I live In my own well-worn…
I’ve got out the tools that Etch, and magnify, and pierce So the light might pass through The translated essence of the thing. This one’s full of horses, Yours, And they keep jostling my long, slender tongs. If you stab a horse, even One this small, The blood that comes out Isn’t a horse at all. It doesn’t know where it came from, Even the adrenaline, doesn’t know…
They ask who wouldn’t like this weather. Our one voice answers “me”. Prophecy for The way we’ll fill up your car with warm breaths Just as the sun’s grip starts to loosen. Your shoulders carry that heavy heat All the way home. It stretches easily To my own skin, still only dusk-cool. It’s nice, To share this thing neither of us asked for. To be simmering but not…
Here is a poem That is not about fixing anything: There is one bright violet Pressed into the fresh cheese Under curd-tight cellophane. There are two red lights, Lazy and out of sync, Blinking in the darkness. There is one teen crow outside Framed by my shoddy kitchen window Who will not eat my walnuts. -kph
You and I are accidents of complexity, The fight to keep our eyes awake for Five more minutes of this tree in this sunrise A sort of virus smuggled in. We could burn life out, chasing this. It’s hard to remember what a killing thing becomes When it’s used up even the unwelcome. -kph
Let me tell you about the deeply cool @worldbeyondzine while you can still buy leftover copies! It’s a transmasc sci-fi anthology featuring art, poetry, and fiction. I have a poem in it called Dead Men Flying , which I’m extremely proud of. It was a really cool project to be involved in, it really stretched me as an artist to write a character poem like this, and all of the proceeds go directly to…
I pray, if nothing else, I will be a good vinegar To be licked off of salty fingers In the ruby red booth of a diner, Loud young conversation Exploding out past the vinyl And into the musical din Of the kitchen. -kph
worldbeyondzine : 3… 2… 1… and leftover sales are open! did you miss your opportunity to pick up a World Beyond transmasc sci-fi zine last year? want a specific merch item? now’s your chance! sales are open until June 1st or supplies run out, so act now! https://worldbeyondzine.bigcartel.com ID: Advertising graphic featuring a blue alien holding out a display of various pieces of art and…
I’ve been wrapping sticks in string Almost longer than anything else. I don’t think I even breathe like I did, When I was just starting out. My heart is a gentle woodclack, now. When I first learned it was all metal. When a machine learns, All it does is make and make and Keep pulling at the air Where the thread just happens to be. It’s the motion, regardless Of outcome. Chrome doesn’t get cold,…
It’s kind eyes looking around, Seeing what you see in the broken Armchair, quietly lifting the impossible Weight of your half-finished dreams For the future. It’s rough hands being Delicate, showing you how to use A pulley. It stacks your shoulders tall Against the wall you never decorated. It smells like your first good beer. It’s wanting this possibility, too, To come in…
paradoxfragments : I’ve never known the things that spread to be holy– The soot in wash after wash scrubbing at clinging ghosts, sure, The stink of firecatching fumes through family trees, sure, But where’s the potion I can dump down the drain To cure the mother I don’t talk to through that thing that still connects us– Call it a city. I’m trying to learn to believe, But it’s harder, now, after…
Something on the wind– Like imitation butter, Like sawdust, Like a whiff of adhesive And gold foil. Like stale ink and rubber, Like dry cracking plastic Sent through the dishwasher Too many times On sanitize. It does not smell nice But it covers up the faint musk Of unwashed sheets. -kph
I have this idea that One day I might read Ulysses. It’s all sunbleached and peeling, Like anything you’ve carried with you Since you were sixteen. But There’s this spark of recognition That keeps saving it from joyless exile, A thought this box wasn’t meant for but Still only fits here–Imagine Pinning your soul to paper, saying look , Only for the world to speak in…