Future Concussions/Domesticated Percussions

Future Concussions/Domesticated Percussions

A Poem by Julianna Marie

Nothing you say matters if you don't speak the language,
I'll go back to Seattle and forget 
to speak pretentious,
go to work and forget the word "coffee,"
go out with friends and forget
how to cough up hipster hairballs.
Blame it on jet lag. Allergies.

The worth of myrhh went down in Mesopotamia on this day
before mythology was discovered.
Stacks of stocks fell down like
knocked-off socks.
Mythbusters said it was impossible,
but you said
I
was
too.

George Washington's teeth were mistaken for kindling
three times on this day,
So we called him the SPITFIRE our generation needed to look up to.
And today rumbles like a stomach,
my legs shake like maracas:
Our future concussions sound like
domesticated percussions.

There was nothing that mattered
until you spoke the language of poetry:
she would be your rebound, your fall-back, your late-night-lover,
she would be
all that was left
in the times in which 
you lost
your self.
She would be
the only one
still speaking your language.

The planets aligned for a fleeting moment
on this day,
before we realized there was anything else
out there
other than ourselves,
Our white blood cells aligned into Grecian cavalries,
our imaginations sharpened like 
the swords
of kings,
we stood taller,
burned brighter,
but only
for a fleeting moment.

Through the corpses of antiqued ideologies,
through the limbs of the previous selves you thought you could be,
through masks,
through bloodshed,
through contradictions,
through helplessness,
through insecurity,
through loss,
the frailty of poetry
remained.

I can stand beneath the shade of this:
planets holding one another through intangibility,
giving us a temporary haven
from the battles within.
I can stand beneath the shade of this,
but will you 
fall
to your hands
when the fleeting moment
falls
to her knees?

An impossible battle
of self versus self,
An impossible battle
of ghost versus newborn,
An impossible battle
of language versus abstracted.
An impossible battle
of the 
impossible 
surrendering
to 
the impossible.



© 2011 Julianna Marie



Author's Note

Julianna Marie
unfinished

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Reviews

your thoughtful intelligence is on display again. i dig it. (old school for i like it)

Posted 6 Years Ago


I wondered if it was finished ?
Just kidding. I am on the verge of
not saying a nice thing again, because'
no one answers me anyway.
Why should I tAKe it out on you ?
Yur nice. you write good, it`s a good
poem, everybody will like it.
There,
----- Eagle Cruagh

Posted 6 Years Ago



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Added on September 7, 2011
Last Updated on September 7, 2011

Author

Julianna Marie
Julianna Marie

Seattle, WA



About
I'm a 21 year old girl living in Seattle, student/poet/barista. I believe in art, poetry, psychology, and music-- I don't think its safe to believe in much else. more..

Writing