HONELIX Rx.

apropos.

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 10:00:09 -0700

A perfect cup of coffee, an equally apropos mug;
Push their scent up swirling towards an infinite form
Of horizon, these lines we make up with eyes,
Make sense of all these angles, perspectives
Pulsing and crossing, swing like Tarzan
On ropes of binding
Particles from see
To shining sea.

Video

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 09:30:43 -0700

(via pilarelizabethv)

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 16:45:37 -0700

(via pilarelizabethv)

Cumbias

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:36:08 -0700

botchednosejob:

Lurched above Avenida Velasco

eucalyptus leaves clack and clatter

.

palsy torrents of tambourines dubbed

lightly against the plum desert night.

.

A peepshow of branches grasp

the burlesque of stars, skin flashes

.

a moonish cream and marble innards

of chlorophyll: aloe vera green,

.

cardboard brown, varicose purple.

Questions carved like lovers names

.

beneath the bark in razor blade—rusty

tetanus rambling strung in clef

.

across the blurred measure of sky.

The tongue of lyric, sorrow of jazz,

.

meticulous movement of matador.

Notes that crumple unpublished.

.

The language of a thousand slit wrist

bleed onto the grass onto the soil.

.

The self-inflicted song of mariachi

forbears the world in favor of music.

havent-got-a-prayer:Happy Pi Day!

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:20:03 -0700

havent-got-a-prayer:Happy Pi Day!

Violet Rain.

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 12:01:00 -0700

She wasn’t one to cheat on a lover. When that time came the act was replaced by difficult conversation, which ended in puddles of love even deeper, or a new friend. Her path wasn’t paved in fame nor fortune; infamous among mice and men. Violet didn’t mind, her path was precisely: hers.

aspettandoellis:L’aiuola (via AspettandoEllis)

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 12:00:00 -0700

aspettandoellis:L’aiuola (via AspettandoEllis)

A night like any other

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:34:03 -0700

revolvigmindpoetry:

Crisp autumn nights make me feel

alive. While I sit on a stairway

in Long Beach, the cold ocean mist

slowly pours through 14^th street

and begins to flow from my legs,

enwrapping at my waist, and settles

finally into my chest. I chase it down

with a drag from my cigarette, and the

two mix throughout my body. It is

as if I were immersed in a warm bath.

You know this feeling, this serenity

that only comes when you are fully

submerged underwater, and looking

up towards the sky. That perfect moment

of separation from all that you have ever known,

and the hauntingly recalled memories of all

that you were too young to remember

condenses into a stone in the deepest

part’s of your stomach.

It is here that the only sound you hear

is the deafening exhale from your nose

as the air bubbles scream and race towards

the water’s surface telling you that you are

alive. And in this moment one can appreciate

the tranquility, and beauty of a shattered world.

Sitting at this stairway through the soft exhales of my breath,

your muffled voice rings from the next room, and forces

my mind, which is gasping for air, back

towards the surface of this night.

Silently your shadow precedes your exit

from the door, and beckons me

like a siren. A slow sweet song emanates

from your soul. And if I were but to hazard

the journey up the two or three stairs

could we, just this once, slow dance

under the orange streams of a lamp shade?

We could, watch it shatter through the mist

like remnants of a mosaic never to be placed in time.

We, exist like the threads of a tapestry that recounts

a story of two intertwining

beings of light waltzing in time

to the orchestrations of the night, floating

atop the flowing pavement as it

slowly pours out towards a future

not yet known. And you, and I, could make

the future whatever we want it to be. So we can

slow dance a waltz atop a river of asphalt.

The deliberate movements of our bodies

in perfect harmony scarcely touches the pavement

like a feather floats serenely down a river. As

the sullen moon looks down upon us

reeling in unison among a world that is

so dark, and cold that sometimes, her light

fails, even to reach me, a smile will spread

across her fractured, deep rutted face

and she shall rest easier knowing that beauty

can exist in this world. It will be then

that I shall realize that seeing you on a crisp

autumn night makes me feel alive. But then, you were never there were you?

brennen Estrada 11/30/08

Eve in the Garden

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:30:19 -0700

imagineadreamer:

I never asked to be the daughter
Of an apple-eating serpent-loving temptress.
Or to have these child bearing hips
when the ladies in the magazines
All look like starving prepubescent boys.
Still, I remember the night when I found
Blood-red splatters between my snowy thighs
And my mother didn’t make me do the dishes.
The boys- oh the boys- they learned
To whistle at these roses budding relentlessly
Over our hearts. We learned,
In the face of a shaking finger,
Shame to show even the earthy ridge
Where these hills meet. And boys,
They learn to fuck like rabbits when and where
They can and with no consequences.
We learn to writhe in agony, a week each month
With this wound between our thighs. Bleeds
For days deep red and impure. I’ve become
A temple meant to hold the sacrament of life
Yet I never asked, hoped, or prayed
To be a mother. This fear of these words
Planted deep in the vines
Of our minds. This fear of these words—
Slut— Whore— Cunt—
Rings never ending and I’m the one
Supposed to carry this child
For nine months in my belly,
That’s too soft for these boys- My womb
That wakes me in the small hours of the night
With piercing pain no man understands,
Bleeding blood society says is impure.
Twelve weeks of the year
This pain, the blood
Nine months to carry children
Of men who suffer never, point the finger
Shouting whore when we embrace
Sensuality that we were also born with.
Somehow we tell these stories to our children,
Written by men that claim we originated sin.
Claim even that it took one rib
Of the perfect man to create us.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe
They told the story backwards. My mother
Used to say these struggles of women
Only made us stronger, but this wound
Between my legs and the suffering buried
Somewhere deep in my curves leaves me wondering
Whether its strength I’ve found or weakness

(via pilarelizabethv) back when she was romantic. maybe she...

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:29:24 -0700

(via pilarelizabethv) back when she was romantic. maybe she still is.

Penis Envy

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:28:14 -0700

pilarelizabethv: botchednosejob:

The day my penis quit

            he didn’t give his two weeks,

he wasn’t worried about the possibilities

of future references and resumes.

He just up and left

citing a bad office environment

and lack of action. He placed his cubical

in a cardboard box. I offered a raise

but it was beyond that point

and not about the money.

Unlike the notorious

tales of undersexed wives

testing the blade on finger-tips

to ensure emasculation,

the day my penis slid

            passed me and out the front door

he was calm. I ran to the window

bludgeoned with empathy:

            Isn’t that what we all want?

To live and leave on our own terms,

to spatter an indelible mark of our own?

            Perhaps not–

I, watching from the window,

desperately fought the urge to follow.

(via postcardsfromjapan)

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 08:24:00 -0700

(via postcardsfromjapan)

havent-got-a-prayer:aydreeinkosel:

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 00:10:18 -0800

havent-got-a-prayer:aydreeinkosel:

SPREAD THE INFLECTION:

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 00:04:42 -0800

Angelina Weld Grimke

Peter Andrade

shetoldmesomemore:thiswontlastlong:(via ktroseknows) oh yes,...

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 17:59:22 -0800

shetoldmesomemore:thiswontlastlong:(via ktroseknows)

oh yes, and then we start the staring, amiright?

aspettandoellis:tessar:beautiful typography

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 14:33:06 -0800

aspettandoellis:tessar:beautiful typography

EVENT

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 16:27:34 -0800

Live @ hot java

Wednesday 10 December 2008 a.d.

@ 7:00 PM * 2101 E. Broadway

Photo

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 22:07:26 -0800

Struck by a light bookmark clad balloon, have you?

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 22:04:49 -0800

SALUTATIONS!

You made your way to the right place. HONELIX.com is an experimental poetry movement by the Long Beach Bastard Poets in attempt at inflecting the world— one mind at a time. We’re relatively new, so we welcome you—gentle comrade, roam around, comment, suggest, submit your own name for consideration and direct all questions to: thewordishoney@honelix.com.

Photo

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 21:43:48 -0800