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The Aptly Named (poetry) Collection

 

The pdf is now ready! The fancy video-stuff will be a while longer though, but I heard that it’s the way to keep an audience, by making them wait for the next piece of cake just a bit longer. If you don’t want to miss a thing then follow me on facebook.

The reason for this not being a physical book are plenty, mostly that books costs money and since I have the privilige of being able to afford writing (I work half time with other projects) anyway I thought I’d share this for free. The other reason is that paper books as a format aren’t really alive and kicking. It’s a beautiful thing, a book, but the digital format allows for more creative use of typography or illustrations. As an interaction designer (my other job, and yes it sounds fancier and more well payed than it is) I love how the ideas around written text now are turned upside down. Just look at how spelling is changing from fairly unified thing to sociolectic mayhem.

So the aptly named poetry collection was named an aptly named collection, since it is a collection rather than a book, but it has still been worked with in the same way as book would. It took four years to write the text, I cried and fought and loved and died inside a bit along the way. It is a collection, it is a book, it is mine just as much as the three yet unpublished novels I have at home are books in the sence of them containing the very essence of text: The story we all tell.

Welcome, enjoy, and do come back for more.

Download the collection in

PDF: The Aptly Named Poetry Collection – Lovisa Malmgren Appelkvist

 

 


 

Sample:

When your hand connected with my skin, i read your chart in the stars i saw

There was violence in us
not the kind that bruises the unsuspecting
but the unravelling, night battering one
scolding the unwanted skin that lied between us
like an invite to walk all over

I walk rubble fields of borderlines
trying to find a fist to hammer the beats of dreams
too unreal
when the tepid waters of emotions
started swirling away what was actually good

My black eye has started to fade
and the scratch marks on my arms are nothing
but hints of scars at the bottom of this forest of freckles and hairs
piling up and covering anything but the most socially acceptable pigmentations

I’m trying to make this easy for you
putting make up on the outside
and pushing down these restless last remnants of your hands
down to the bottom of these burning lungs
filled with coal mining accidents
where the fire wont go out
even if we just turn our backs and never speak again

I suppose they’ll fit better there
than on my soft outer tissues
that tricked you into caring more
than your self fulfilling prophecy would allow

So now I carry you in my cells
with bars strong enough to keep your fingers
from digging their way back into my hands

There was violence in us
not the kind that punishes the weak and unintended
but the deep withering shell shattering always more craving one
scorching the unwanted ground that lied inside us
like a long lost thump that called to arms, flaying legs and heads
creased with sweat and the willingly shed blood
that mended so much more than ever broke in the seam

I talk humble lines of no magnitude
trying to figure out how not to introduce too much
antidote into these venomous vains
of wishing for other than could be
Would be
We had violence, and in us were nothing but shredded covers
that were left lying about the causes for all they could muster
but we never cared
just looked the other way
and back into the clichés of dark abysses that we held for eyes
I want to immerse myself in the filthy sheets filled
with fluid and hate like a long lost toy of a child grown bad

We were alienated, stumped out, blowing away
because this was never meant to be else than
the dropkicks breaking ribcages open
boxes of archived adrenaline now
surging forward like armies of stampeding wants

This was never meant to be else than the ripping of skin
like woven tapestries hung over molding cravings

This was never meant to be else than covering my needs
but now I see you bend out of your body to look into mine
and I fight to run out of equations to take myself out of

I wade up to my ankles in entangled wishes and i close my eyes to pretend not to see how those deep abysses we held for clichés now contain complex algorithms intended to steer us closer to surface

We had violence,

And this
is how I leave you


I’m in the middle of an identity
It’s not a crisis yet

but i’m getting there
slowly but shorly they say
it goes

I’m not one to disagree
preferring not to be the awkward one
doomed to kitchen wanderings through
party nights in the footsteps of the lost and uninvited

I just smile

And nod
as you do

and it goes stale
the smile with edges
made of uncertain facts
that just doesn’t dare to come out
like little children
in a burning house
they keep claiming
mum said not to open to strangers

it’s a wilderness out there
and my edges knows
it’s a crap idea, letting go
and dissolving
owing everything to the rest of the world
keeping itself intact
it’s not a crisis yet

I haven’t even let the doctor see my charts where i tracked
the changes
or the illustrated picture book
where a is for apple and once upon a time i didn’t have to do this

but your hands are all over the floor and I stand behind you trying to rub out the stains of feelings spluttered out while diving into the safehaven of boozing and oozing of cigarette smoke latched onto my fingertips like they were anchors for your lips while you smiled and said

No
That’s not what I want

And I can’t help but praying midsentence for the end to come and your hips swaying out of sight for once entering the zone of lost ones

I wish i had a broken glass in my hand so i could squeeze it hard enough for you to let go and leave me hanging over my own bed, starring down at the empty space and swirled sheets that curled around your body like the seaweed grabs my ankles when I wade through this mess I’ll always think of as mutual

But it’s not. It’s your fingertips that anchors his skin and pins his love down while I stumble out words a mathematician would be proud of.

 

If time could be seen as a multidimensional object our inner beat would line up parallell and still we would never meet, but run further than ever before and maybe find something worth the wait down our lines.

My hair is grey slowling pounding my skull from the outside telling me that I should let go and fall into the void of normality, but it’s not a crisis yet, and I showed you the charts of my landscape and you laughed and said Hey, that one looks like a heart

We opened way too many doors down this hallway and the flames are licking the back of my train of thoughts as I look for the way out of this wreck. I’m sinking like fallen pirates down through the ocean of hands that you left like footprints on my body marking this territory as taken. Aking for the fishes to come making it at least more colorful I scrub my skin with words of reassurance trying to rub out whatever that’s left in here.

Just give back the key to the secrets of summaries, make me feel useless again and take me to the hellbent will where I can use this and drive me to the edge where i can dissolve into oneness and let me find my way back.

I’m having a crisis, it’s not an identity yet
but i fear i’ll get there.
shortly.


 

Just because I’ve got a higgie on my throat
doesn’t mean you can touch my boson, I’d
love to see that large hard on collider, but not
until I tell you so.
So even if my radio activates you, doesn’t
mean my limits argon and liquidated within
these waals.

It doesn’t take a nobel prize
To get that I decide what you can do with me
You shouldn’t have to go through the whole
periodic table before you get that No stands
for No, and that nobelium is not what you
should be looking for.
My legs swing shut like a guillotine, while I
want them to go like a swing door, I want to
take my right to a Yes for granted, heavy with
batting eyelashes and long spinned words
about pinning and pegging loving and legging
it to the next room, quick now, take my top
off.
My cunt develops teeth, but I want it to weep
and fill to the brim with this moist of within,
that only a breathless kiss and a restless hiss in
my ear can bring out.
My arms end in fists, even though I wish they
would grab you and hold you instead of slap
you and scream I TOLD YOU
It doesn’t take a nobel prize
To see that No stands for No, and I decide
what you can do to me.
I want it to rain over us, endless sexfilled
drops of lubricants and pink fluffy unicorns
dancing on hard ons like there was no
tomorrow
I want to have a sky filled with a limitless
supply of silicon toys, bouncing around like
over-exited puppies, I want nakedness and full
on dress up, I want skin on skin and thin thin
membranes, I want touch and love and like
and gone and stay and then begin again
And I want my right to say Yes so I can take it
for granted, through it up in the air and run
out to the woods, find new berries and bush
to push my hands into, pluck those leafs that
cover us needlessly
I want to pinpoint our lust on a map that
stretches as far as your inner walls will let us
go
I want to explore you, expand me, excavate
those old wisdom teeth claiming that a short
skirt makes me a slut, like it would be a bad
thing to burn those shining armours watching
our virginity like hawks over prey
It shouldn’t take a noble prize
to get that I need my right to say NO, so that I can keep saying yes


 

So fuck you

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on
Fuck you and your social conventions
Fuck you and your hands down my back when I lean away
Fuck you and the fingertips down a tingling spine, down a mindless gutter

You break my body but it’s not there to be broken
I have no superglue here, no filler to mend the cracks with
It’s just me with my hands thrown up in front of you, with fists clenched and wrists tensed
With blood gushing through and a mind that keeps humming the same tune over and over
Fuck you

Fuck you and your shining armor
Fuck you and your hipsterisms, postmodernism, deconstructed discarded feminism
You in all your cis-male glory, as you stand above me posing like a savior and swaying like a sailor, claiming to be the brave and rational one, the one who can see instead of me with my eyes filled with so many blind spots my retina has become obsolete

Fuck you for thinking we are done already
Fuck you and your monogamous ideas about how I should love and fuck you

I don’t want to call this body a temple
On my pelvic floor there should be no men praying for god to salvage what they have wrecked
There should be no ministers walking over my mucus membranes looking for holy books left by congregations of past

I don’t want to call this body holy
I’m not a keeper of a void for you to fill

Fuck you and the void you imagine me having
ready for you
Fuck you and the land of the brave that you pretend to come from
Fuck you and the idea that I need to be saved
Fuck you for thinking that my sexuality is a way for you to gain power

My uterus is not a commodity for you to trade
My body is not a political arena for you to spill your arguments all over

I’m not a field to be plowed or a potential foetus with an accidental body around

You stand there with your probes and stained robes telling me what autonomy is sacred.
You stand there with your eyes fixed listening for splitting cells spitting all hells over me for telling you that autonomy is mine.

No.
Fuck you.
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on