josiahcowens

www.instagram.com/josiahcowens/

Me, whatever that may be. Don't waste your time on truth, seek beauty instead.

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  • josiahcowens 5d

    Shudders

    I once loved a girl
    who would shudder in her sleep.
    Her silver torso would tremor,
    and gasp,
    and grief would moisten the air.
    She would roll into me
    crossing a gulf of gray sheets,
    until finding purchase in my chest
    with eyes closed.

    Deep depth charges would burst
    springing forth from
    her burgundy hair pooled on the pillows,
    the shock waves welting my skin,
    then falling as echoes,
    joining the carpet,
    joining the adorned sheets,
    the discarded clothes.

    In those late hours I would kill monsters.
    I would crash against shadows within shadows.
    Would watch her hours long visage,
    her furrowed eyebrows and gray eyelids.
    Watch her fathers slacken,
    and release from her face.

    In those hours I knew
    what her oak trees knew,
    when the limbs were further away,
    branching overhead with knotted eyes
    cross stitching sunbeams,
    wind-kissing vocals shuddering
    with orange and red tongues

    while she watched black spiders
    spin venom in the peace.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 2w

    Lover

    I was called Lover,
    by her.
    I found this pet name
    so unique,
    so endearing and alluring.
    The quickness of her
    September soaked words
    fading into falsehoods,
    framing and propping up
    another bed,
    another shape of skin,
    hollows out that capital L,
    and fills it with different blood.

    Foolish, stupid, child.
    You were just lover.
    Not Lover.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 7w

    Bleed For....

    I bleed in front
    of her.
    Cut my chest with words
    like
    undulate
    and silver.
    The streams flow as wine stems,
    drunk like Cabernet,
    suffusing so warmly across
    my nakedness.
    She is prone below me,
    in a Malbec pool,
    bathing and plucking the vines,
    consuming red words
    straight from the source.
    My fingers reach inward,
    gripping heart heavy lust,
    ripping out lines and muscle,
    blood and prose,
    a fistful of tangled limbs
    looping round veins of ink.
    We are aged in trauma soaked
    barrels.
    Blooming from plump hollow grapes,
    culled within pens,
    stolen from the body
    by my hand.
    A craft leaking blood,
    to soak soft skin,
    sold for a few
    fucking
    hours.

    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 7w

    Everyday in a Control Room

    A shrieking phone hits alert,
    we all wish for a stroke,
    a stroke would be preferable,
    to the mother wailing like
    pipe bombs,
    and the father who now
    understands
    gravity.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 8w

    I will not let
    inconsistency and dishonesty
    gouge my eyes
    and blind me to the promise
    of this world.
    I will strike back
    with clenched faith
    and wild, reckless
    trust.
    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 8w

    Prairie Evening With....

    Even when watching
    cobblestone clouds
    float upon tide pool skies,
    and bronze fields dapple the surface,
    I
    See
    You.
    Not in any effigy,
    or body as true as trees,
    but in your absence,
    which looms like water towers.
    The quiet moments now roar,
    like funerals,
    stretching the tall grass with
    black shawls and silent motorcades.
    Your body should be here,
    holding hands with the cracked earth
    and placing the evening clouds

    with me.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 8w

    Words should be anvils,
    fashioning steel beneath blows,
    blazing brilliant red,
    popping sparks against a
    sooty night.
    On your tongue,
    words are crumpled notes
    muddy and frayed
    floating in oily puddles.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 8w

    I have friends.
    I am loved.
    A fermented front porch
    pushes wind
    and inward emptiness
    to the stars,
    which we see,
    together,
    and laugh at god knows what.
    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 8w

    A Girl at a Vineyard

    She's all arms
    and legs,
    propping up
    a bashful downward stare,
    while she flushes strawberries
    from above eyes,
    that smile through the horizon.
    Smile through hours,
    days even.


    ©josiahcowens

  • josiahcowens 11w

    Brothers Round a Stove

    My brother's blood no longer
    floats
    in the thin waters of the Current
    and the Buffalo.
    Now, it laps the Pacific,
    thickened with ferns and hanging moss.

    He keeps the thermostat
    at sixty five,
    back and front doors open,
    so we gather round
    his black wood-pellet stove,
    which spits and pops with the gloom,
    like the fires we absorbed
    next to those gentle rivers.

    Between the embers and words,
    beauty and truth,
    circle with Pamplona pirouettes,
    the dance no less ornate,
    no less invested in death.
    And the flowing flames
    reach back through the mountains,
    and the endless empty prairie,
    The Endless
    Empty
    Years
    To bind the blood with campfires,
    and release the powers of place.


    ©josiahcowens