they must often dream

I'm Savanna. I like to eat, rant, and watch cartoons. I'm 25 and I live in Toronto.

This is mostly reblogs. You can find my personal blog here.

Stop using two spaces between sentences!

It’s incorrect and has been since we’ve stopped using typewriters! And it annoys copyeditors. And it fucks up paragraph alignment.

According to current typesetting convention, two spaces never appear side by side, regardless of what your typing teacher taught you. In fact, one editing job is to ensure that double spaces are turned into single spaces.

—Lecture slide from a Ryerson publishing course 


The brittle clockwork
of my ovaries
grinds slowly to a halt
and I’m left
persecuted in the aftermath
of a slow season, waiting.

A whore I am and a whore
I shall be
but bless,
oh bless me,
in your crucified shadow.

Forget me not.
I’ve leapt through time,
and I swear
I’ve come back for you.

The fool on the hill
died smiling, smiling,
and who would I be—
but come with me instead.

It isn’t so bleak as that
and we’ll dance on
in flowers
and suspended chords. 

A couple weeks ago I wrote a bit of a weird fantasy novella based on a dream that I probably won’t finish so here it is for posterity.

There are already so few of us left. It’s scarcely been two months and already we’re down to nine. Nine students—outnumbered by the instructors now. But I mustn’t let myself be distracted. My purpose with this log is to better analyze events to stay as competitive as possible. I have to focus on the details before I forget them so I can anticipate new threats quickly enough and learn from my errors. I don’t have time to dwell on the others. I’m risking enough as it is by working with Augite.

It was a trying day for her. She’s quick and she’s powerful but sometimes she hesitates. I’m worried that will fail her in the end. She had been ranking highly all semester but lately her scores have been lagging. She needs to wake up. She’s increasingly dazed by the intensity of the training as more students fall. Of course we’ve always known that the majority of postulants won’t advance as neophytes, but it’s hard to really anticipate the violence and suddenness of the deaths before enrolment at the academy. 

One morning there are ten postulants at the lecture. The next morning there are nine…

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Once again lingering
among the weeds
and the silence
broken only
by a sigh.


The word,
however, is
bone-dry and
too gangrenous
to slip free and fly.


That forest is verdant, now,
and sprinkled with flowers
as well as thorns.

The nails stay crucifixed
within that ancient black oak,
but they’re made gentle by rust.

And I am no skeleton
crumpled on its mossy floor—
I am no soil-dampened heap.

No, I am crowned in laurels now
and sit, regnant, on a fallen log:

Alone, I reign slowly
behind the veils of vine and bough,
hidden in honeyed sovereignty.

♔ My ghostly past.
♕ My crystalline present.
♛ My shaped but empty future. 


syphon me out of this vacuum 
where I already see the conclusion
where I know I’ll be my own extraction
spitting blood in your open eyes 


In dreams
I foresee the turned shoulders
the forgetfulness
I see it—what you dismiss
and I predict infidelity
and I know it already, the deception. 

And I’m chauvinistic in my dismissals
but I know what I am
and what they are
and the other disparity,

Je l’ai gâché et
l’ho perso e
я не знаю но
what you are and what I am. 

You and I in absurdity. 


"No, clammy
as in death,”
I said.
And left it there.

and show courage
in the face of

At present

Brazen and clanging like a brass bell,
your words spill out across the floor:
jagged things in a confused heap,
gleaming mysteries before my feet
and humming backwards music
and glimmering weird, heavy scenes
of elegant and grizzly diversity.

Where are we?
Whence came the snow?
And who brought us here?

Second coming

It’s only when you’re on the precipice, lashed by winds that originate with your breaths and dizzied by heights you yourself built up, nauseas and about to vomit up the words and thoughts you’ve swallowed, indifferent to your destruction and made invincible by the void, that you can suddenly crack like a whip and come hurtling, slithering back down to yourself through the salty rain and the barbed clouds that encircle you. There is a settling in that has the patience of a golden hourglass’s relentless but gradual fulfillment, but crystallized in the electricity of an instant.

The pressure fades, the lightning recedes, and there is an austere calm, drenched in the memory of the storm and wearing its favours with innocent pride. You look down to see that the mountain has ground itself into the earth, and you find yourself on a stone plateau whose clear view is unobstructed and free.

The Sun is missing. Against the vast canvas of the sky hangs only the crescent mirror of the moon, which reflects your worn but tranquil gaze out across the world. It is a sharp peace that whispers forth as you pick the orange crystal from the stone before you. It had been a star—it had been the star—and the world without it should not have continued. Yet the beats of motion rap steadily on, and the majesty of your own gaze in the far-off satellite more than compensates for the solar absence. A breeze stirs you lusciously. You close your fingers over the cold mineral and exhale.

♔ ♕ ♛

I glide up the the empty throne
and lay myself down gently from cupped hands
on the cool blue floor before the daïs.

The walls hum softly with my exhalation,
acknowledging our mutual being
so we are both made cavernous. 

last night

I dreamt last night
of malevolent impostors
infiltrating my Home
and stealing my name—
such Violence.

I awoke feeling terrified
(in the stale dark—
in the massive room)
with the tendrils of shadow
clinging tenaciously to corners
and made startling
by the moonlight;
I was a deafened child.

Beside me you slept deeply,
but your dreams
were obviously
under fire as well.

Why didn’t I wake you?— 
You shivered and kept
pressing your eyes.

I lay wide-and-shifty eyed
beside and apart from you
until dawn cut me loose. 


I will be
the light and nectar
that flows down
from your smile. 

I will flow
across all beings:
collecting dew
and returning home. 

Some more moroseness

The riptide of those moments
forever captures and recaptures me;
so that escape is superficial.

His saliva is either molten gold
or toxic waste beguiling;
I can’t see or decide.

I believed I wouldn’t tie myself to him
but in this picture knives lay hidden
which atrophy forbidden bonds.

You could live without me;
you don’t mythologize
as I do.