Ryan Hunter Phillips is a writer and filmmaker from
Inculcating red Waves and repetition will be a
Sash that wraps Heavy thought reminding like dawn
Your worries electric As they recede metronoming
reason, you fuck, you love of mine, why I, though four
times as likely, (and empty my lungs) hear
of an E.M.T. unsheathing tarry
“sleeve to inspect horizontal,” (should have been vertical, you fuck, you love of mine, vertical), “clotted” ravines, clever stanzas from the hungry gills of Ol’ Blade
He hid in the blamed purse.
The nights descended on us like a benediction, L, merrily, merrily, merrily, L.
Perhaps no biological gender, though Zach,
Pops, myself, we prove otherwise. I,
In those nights, you in those nights, we eviscerated well
Fell supine to fill
Pediatric spoons with “I
do.” “Fuck you.” “Love you.” “Well, L…”
We shine (Your words, not mine), quake in reunion / (But now Time cometh with my goodbyes)
Deter from the pomegranate’s tremolo,
I do, when the buds of my tongue peek
From behind the bone shutter to seed
The insidious pauper argument—
Charity-borne, repetitus, sand upon sand
In a war of attrition. There, the amethyst
And mauve trouble the lock or spring
In a way that makes truth unable to be received.
Sweet sugar skulls to color the past for the future
For our dead and for our children.
This is what moves us:
That we never forget,
And what is remembered
Concerns the future, not the past.
The sweetness of juice
Lasts only a moment,
But ensures a little food
When the fruit is consumed.
Fast, Quickly, to Slow Everything Down
Gyrate knots (In electric shock of throat pulses)
And don’t code on the bus.
And flip or mark a page or two (Under eyes that quiver in the eye quivers)
To: Midway upon the journey of our lives…
The hour of time…
…seemed as if against me…
Where deglutition of a deluge (Of cardboard tongue)
Only seems natural
Where nothing becomes.
Where the stuffy Western separation
of mind and body withers in the shadows
like a paper sickle moon behind a heavy
silhouette of leaves as the sun rises
to steal their austere separation.
The honeybee’s slick prismic reflection of dandelion yellow
sheathes its threatening fuselage of goop.
in its accidental consequence,
the coincidence of my shadow,
in the comfort of skin’s smell
Forgetfulness is a boon I must bring home
from somewhere far away made close
if I am to build castles from ash and water
or raise an art in grayscale and promote
it before a river’s wall of gardenias.
But in learning the art of forgetfulness
I cannot remember my trade in the metropolis’ dementia.
Keep walking and moving and track of time
and the change and on keeping.
So I must take time to acknowledge the bee and
how it’s sudden yellow breaks the black distorted
reflections of a curtainwall.