Poetry
*holy things
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* ․• ◑ ∘ ∗
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Every trinket which had existed while you were still alive has become a holy thing. A relic of a time when angels walked the planet and smoke ring haloes were only broken by your endless laughter. I almost forgot about the cigarette burns creating holes in every blanket and every robe. I almost forgot about the smell of thousand year smoke. There are devils that followed you like shadows and behind your happiness was deep pain. I lament I could not take it away. Sometimes behind my back those devils you would chase. In your wake, I find joy in seeing them choke. Your soul is free, and there is no room for their selfishness to take what is left of you in me. I want to dedicate my life to being stronger. You will live on. –six pm | *holy things
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*
∗
•
.
*
*
*in loving memory
*six pm | 2019
*andrew
I believe in Nothing,
after This is all over,
before Everything began,
So if This is Something,
even just a little bit…
it matters who I spend my time with.
You’re so in love it sets your eyes on fire.
See, I need to feel that too.
I’m simply not falling in love with you.
So take back your gifts of golden bracelets.
I don’t feel comfortable giving them away.
Though soft and made of finer things…
They are chains all the same.
-six pm
Paige Six | 2021
*a draft I’ve been aspiring to finish since I’ve sought to build off of the final stanza since 2017. It’s still sitting on my chest. One of the mornings I’m going to rise and sing the right companion verses. Until then, we have this.
*sentimental physics
⁕ .
*
∗
•
.
∗
⁕
i ◊
· • am a ◦
sentimental ∙
∗ • physicist. ∗ ◦·
⁕· observing ∙ ⋰
º the gravity ⋱
∗· of emotion.
noting the
subtle lensing ∗ ◦·
of light,
∗ ◦· as it
filters •
.
∗ . ⊹ passed you
and ∗ . ⊹
⁕ distorts my ∗ ◦ ·
star weary
eyes.∗
*
· • .
*
.∗ . ⊹
⁕
i must
⊹crunch the∗ .
∗ equations &∗
check them •
.
twice
∗ ◦· before
i don
aluminum,
•
∗ . ⊹ .endure ∗ ◦·
your∗ . ⊹
∗ . ⊹endless
cold,•
.•
.
& shoot
for your ∗ ◦·
∗ ◦· moon.•
○.
⁂⁖
.
the
∗ . ⊹mass
effect∗ . ⊹
of you•
.
•
.consumes.
hypothesis:
•
.your
spirit’s ∗ ◦·
∗ . ⊹path is
visible
light,∗ . ⊹
∗ ◦· racing
towards
a cosmic•
.
wall; to
decorate
galactic sky ∗ ◦·
as microwave
impressionism.
•°.
.
*
· • .
*
.to
make
sense of
your dark,*
· • .
*
.
•
. i spend
my nights
measuring
boundless
black
matter that
surrounds us.
enraptured
by the
•
.scented skyline
prophesying:
jet propulsion,•
.
serenaded, and*
*
*
*
*
*lemonade rainfall;
Armageddon
upon another
acid planet.•
.
your pain
upon the
reaches
•
.still unpinned
by travelled
telescopes;*
*
*
dying
technologies
making me•
.*
*
*
jealous of*
all the
•
.places where
the universe
•
.sees the
parts
of you
i am
physically•
.
incapable
of being. °
•.
⁖ ⁕
.
. º *
* *
⊹as love
moves
in ellipticals
it eclipses
my heart,. º *
* *
⊹
. eventually.
always,
. º *
* *
⊹the awe
never ceases•
.
to inspire me.
invokes my
. º muse .. º
*
* *
⊹
devote my
life to
translating
. ºthe beauty of
its euphoria. º
into the
•
.English
. ºvernacular.•
.
ceaselessly.
•
.
.to release
. ºthe burden of•
it’s memory. º
. º •
⁕ .
* . º
∗
.* •
. .•
.like the sun
•
.burned into
•
.my retinas.•
.• *
.
* i compose &
compute each
. º * intangible •
* .
equation.•
.
nuance•
.
comprises•
.
•
.•
.itself onto
endless notations.
converting numbers,
filtered through
my limbic system,
into colloquial
•
.prose.••
.•
.
.closest words
to illustration,
as my•
.
cerebellum
can
surmise. •
. •°.
•.
code the
sentences
unto
my poems;
my theories
of everything.
•
.presenting
my poetry
•
.to everyone
as my
•
.thesis.
phantoms
obsessing
my mind
•
.my only
tangible
evidence.
am i
•
⁕ .
*
∗
•
..still the
only
person
who can⁕ .
*
∗
•
.
see
how
perfect
we
are?
the
only
person•
.
•
.who
sees
•
.our
future
written•
.•
.
in the
• ⁕ .
*
∗
•
.
.stars?
•
.
-six pm
*sentimental physics ⁕ .
*
∗
•
.
*
§
*
⁕www.by6pm.art
∞
*
*six pm | 2018
rousing thoughts on *someday
Someday, I hope to find an outlet that wants to support my passion projects. I want to make a living hearty enough to support a home in a temperate region, near water, that sustains a large garden by writing poetry books and strange novels.
*california {3 year anniversary
⁖
Wish you could love me
As you loved the sunsets
In California.
I never trust in anyone
But for some reason
I trust you.
And if you fly to the other side
Know, one day, I’ll follow you.
I wish you cared enough about me
To watch the sun rise in the East
We’re New Yorkers, it’s in our blood
Staying out and running the streets before the dawn.
I’m always on the run
And you should be too.
There’s a place out there for us to grab
I am waiting for you
To lace up your shoes
But you, you’ll sleep all fucking day.
I don’t care, I can wait
Trust, I have the patience of a saint.
I’ll always love you, somehow
anyway -six pm
Paige Six | April 2018
Blurb {Writing Down the Bones
Picture this:
It’s a rainy Spring morning in New England and you’ve got both an oversized mug and time to kill. Your mug is porcelain white, but pained a bit at the lip (from accidentally dipping a paintbrush in it a few too many times). You think the paint blends in with the coffee splotter, anyway, and tell yourself that perhaps it gives the cup some personality (happy accidents).If you hold the handle with your left hand the World might read a tiny type-face script in Peace Lily Green that says “𝙱𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚖”. But you’re a righty and you’ve purchased the mug for yourself, anyway, so the little green letters greet you happily with every fleetingly warm sip.
You are a bookworm, so you read a book. It’s the best way to spend a grey morning. You like to save the sunny days for tidying and cleaning, they don’t have the proper blue hue to offset the warm beige of a book page, and you like any excuse to fire up the heated mattress! But you never read very far, do you? How many lines do you fight down before the urge to pen a note turns into a whole notebook page of poetic expressions?
After hours of what feels like total procrastination you say to yourself, “I’m not a bookworm at all, I’m a fraud!”—The day gets away from you and you shelve that book feeling defeated, and prepare to edit that poem for your Poetizer.
You’re a slithering writer who finds relevance to yourself in every line you read that mirrors something extra-terrestrial, or ultra-cosmological, or incredibly mundane… Doesn’t matter, you’re in it, you’re there! But that’s alright!
Lately I’ve been reading a wonderful book on writing, it’s called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, and for the first time I feel the permission to write without the guilt of finishing, and of order. Sometimes (most of the time) I’m too analytical and I forget that sometimes taking divergent paths is a way to grow.
The irony that I find these things in structured books could be a peculiarity to me but I don’t think it is. What’s most appealing to me about Goldberg’s book, so far, is that as opposed to other great books on the writing process (On Writing by Stephen King is a favorite of mine), is that Natalie speaks to the poetic process frequently.
I highly recommend. (*sips cold coffee*)
Links:
- Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
- On Writing by Stephen King
*apples, mirrors, snow
i.
i had a dream
there were polaroids of us.
developing sunken
and strewn across
my pink comforter.
(a soft cosmos.)
i saw how happy we were,
you tall and in your glasses,
arms around me and hunched
to envelope your frame
…around mine.
behold; my real smile.
not where my controlled lips
stiff; cover my gum line,
to feign the sort of “elationship”
i experienced only when
we would speak…
ii.
shut the curtains.
i don’t even want
the sun to filter in
through the fabric
& change the tone
of my pale skin.
i want to stay the same,
i want to be exactly as i was
the day you reached across,
felt me, and i touched you.
iii.
i hope to hold our whole world
and hand it to you in my palm.
(even if mine crumbles.)
Atlas bent & crippled
i am devoted to
holding you up.
i will not shrug.
(oh, i must move on)
iv.
(no.) cleanse my home
w. white sage & string
along my bedpost
bewitched apples cored.
finally biting into you
was like biting into
an apple that hid a star.
and *omitted,
how i adore stars.
i lose sleep
surrounded by them,
counting them, staring
into mirror telescopes
until my eyes burn
and my vision blurs.
i will hold you
in my mind’s eye
forever. i will dedicate
and devote every motion
onward towards the path
which leads back to you.
(even if it feels eerily, like eights.)
(infinity.) behold infinity
within the iris of your
half-m∞n eyes smiling
back in a beam.
v.
i’ll race time to the future,
at the far end of our solar system.
first steps cracking untouched
crust of Pluto’s nitrogen snow,
at the center of her heart-
shaped crater. look back into
space as the glim of Earth
is licked (–flickers)
(the moment of our first kiss.)
like these memories, no more
than a spectacle, a twinkle, in the
otherwise steady shine of Earth
bathed in our Sun’s overcast light.
filtered and shrunk by distance and
gravity as a star–finally, a star
i had never gleaned before. (oh!)
how fortune smiles upon all…
(who behold you, *omitted.) –six pm
Paige Six | 2019
*because lightning struck twice
There is strength in our power, power in our pain. Not everyone can be touched, struck, and survive. Energy is worth the same; passion or pain. Those who have been through the most have the most to let go.
Make music, not excuses. Chase art, not fame. Build something lasting, the empire’s collapsing. Made of paper, and we harness fire. Don’t be afraid to ask the stars for what you desire.
{*rant inspired by good vibes and Guante, because lightning struck twice.
*holy ghost
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When cast upon the barren terrain of loneliness I’ve crafted many castles and shrines to give shape to this flat land. Worshiping Him who merely crossed but did not root.
Every smirk; a sunrise scattering blue light and casting a golden warmth upon my empty sand. I was a sponge; I absorbed every ray of His light and when His star set, I began to pray facing West. I was left alone in the dark with shadows and shapes of the towers looming unoccupied.
To preoccupy myself from the daunting empty and the always alone I painted murals and gilded each shrine with gold. I went hungry to leave rice cakes and fruits at His altar— hoping to lure Him into the home I’d created and love me again for the art I’d devoted to His likenesses and name.
Each note upon which I’d wrote became a poem, became a notebook, became a grimoire full of morbid canticles. Much like space my loneliness spreads infinitely, as vibration and blue songs, as if willing its way towards forever seeking the edge and an end.
Every red candle burned brightly not to satiate the darkness; but as prayers to cast beacons across the liquid night and beckon back His ghostly glow.
If He’d rose again and become my sun, daring only I stare into His deadly radiation I’d have gladly looked boldly until falling blind; so blindly did I seek to feel the embrace of love when I was empty and there was none. –six pm
∗six pm | *holy ghost
◬ɼ† ₪ ₱ʘʓʇɹʎ 