perhappened mag
issue 4: MIXTAPE
everything everything,
or how we used to sing fall out boy together (in pieces)
ASHLEY CLINE
after Saturday—Fall Out Boy
i.
there is no need to keep your voice low, now. the
darkness knows you by name, already:
so give in give in to the throbbing bass & watch
how it carries our bodies downstream
of each other.
ii.
all you need for a house party is bodies: bodies willing
to spill, or be spilled by, someone: someone with a
name like survival, or gunpowder or never have i ever
& god how we flock, how we migrate & move through
the rooms of each other & call it conservation of
energy instead of loneliness.
iii.
listen: how someone somewhere sings of love,
(or the lack thereof) & listen, now: how a
room full of people drink amen.
iv.
searching searching—we hunt our hurt like toothless
lions, & convince ourselves that, here,
we are kings.
v.
never have i ever grown fig trees in the wintertime,
never have i ever kissed you & not tasted
my own blood.
vi.
& oh, how no one wants to play games anymore;
& oh, how i press my palms to the speaker
& ask the river to flood.
vii.
everything everything dies in the right mouth, she says—
& someone somewhere sings about the summer;
everything everything dies in the right mouth, she says—
& someone somewhere builds a birdhouse
behind their lover’s teeth.
viii.
& dear, how we’ll write odes to the polished oak tables we
buried beneath our biting fingertips & feral weekend
tongues, one day. & oh, how we’ll call that hunger—
ix.
so give in give in to the crashing night & watch
how the antelope’s neck breaks between the
jaws of the lioness: a body, willing to be spilled
like survival like loneliness like home in the dark
& someone somewhere sings about how
she carries her cubs like
would be kings—
x.
all you need for a funeral is a body: a body
willing to hold everything everything
we tried to grow in other seasons.
there is no need to keep your voice low, now. the
darkness knows you by name, already:
so give in give in to the throbbing bass & watch
how it carries our bodies downstream
of each other.
ii.
all you need for a house party is bodies: bodies willing
to spill, or be spilled by, someone: someone with a
name like survival, or gunpowder or never have i ever
& god how we flock, how we migrate & move through
the rooms of each other & call it conservation of
energy instead of loneliness.
iii.
listen: how someone somewhere sings of love,
(or the lack thereof) & listen, now: how a
room full of people drink amen.
iv.
searching searching—we hunt our hurt like toothless
lions, & convince ourselves that, here,
we are kings.
v.
never have i ever grown fig trees in the wintertime,
never have i ever kissed you & not tasted
my own blood.
vi.
& oh, how no one wants to play games anymore;
& oh, how i press my palms to the speaker
& ask the river to flood.
vii.
everything everything dies in the right mouth, she says—
& someone somewhere sings about the summer;
everything everything dies in the right mouth, she says—
& someone somewhere builds a birdhouse
behind their lover’s teeth.
viii.
& dear, how we’ll write odes to the polished oak tables we
buried beneath our biting fingertips & feral weekend
tongues, one day. & oh, how we’ll call that hunger—
ix.
so give in give in to the crashing night & watch
how the antelope’s neck breaks between the
jaws of the lioness: a body, willing to be spilled
like survival like loneliness like home in the dark
& someone somewhere sings about how
she carries her cubs like
would be kings—
x.
all you need for a funeral is a body: a body
willing to hold everything everything
we tried to grow in other seasons.
An avid introvert & full-time carbon-based life-form, Ashley Cline crash-landed in Jersey 29 years ago & still calls that strange land home. Her first chapbook, “& watch how easily the jaw sings of god” is forthcoming from Glass Poetry Press, & her best at all-you-can-eat sushi is 5 rolls in 11 minutes. Twitter: @the_Cline. Instagram: @clineclinecline.