Sometimes,
I like to close my eyes while you read,
So I can pretend
Those lovely things you’ve penned
Were written just for me.
Behind the blackness of my lashes,
Afloat upon waves of the void,
There is no competition.
I sail alone,
And your words caress me like a gentle breeze–
A simple pleasure,
Treasured,
Until your voice recedes.
As the tide of applause roars in,
I step out of my vessel
To stand at your shores and meet the truth.
I watch as the maelstrom of your waters
Swirls down the shitter.
If only she knew what I would choose–
If only she knew what she meant to you.
This is why I drink so much at readings.
First stanza, or short poem? I can’t decide.
The minutes since our farewell kisses
Burn like stars ‘gainst velvet skies–
A backdrop stitched from reminisces
Censored black from prying eyes,
For never was a heart more treasured
Than the heart you gave to me;
My ardor defies worldly measure–
My love moves Love Herself to envy.
Another Poem Fueled By Liquor!
It’s an old one that I just revised, so nobody worry–Cody and I are still doing well. Original draft was written back in…2006, maybe? 2005? I don’t remember. I just came across it before my old laptop died, cleaned it up a bit, and decided to preserve it for posterity.
Up from the depths of a stagnant, green puddle,
‘Mongst sinuous tendrils of white,
The louche dredges memories sunk in the bottle–
All of them drowning, or dead ’til tonight.
Pallid mnemonics of days long repressed
Bob toward the surface en masse,
Filling the brim with his fleeting, sweet kisses–
With him–the grey ghost in the glass.
His image solidified there in the shallows–
A bittersweet glimpse of his emerald-slashed eyes
Rendered blind ‘gainst the yellow-tinged, opaque concoction
That rollicks like stormclouds in afternoon skies–
Falls victim to arabesques, shapeless in nothingness,
Conjuring thoughts that will ne’er come to pass!
My heart still yearns for him–the grey ghost in the glass.
Smooth, Jackass.
A (very bad) poem for day 15 of NovPad 2010. A “just when you thought it was safe” poem:
The world you know is crashing down.
Every gun shop in this town–
And every Wal-Mart,
Every cop,
Every Cabela’s,
Before you had time to start,
Was looted clean,
Or killed,
Leaving you alone,
Unarmed,
And unskilled,
To fend for yourself in the apocalypse.
Hordes of freshly-dead are shambling.
Urban streets, and woodland brambling
Are thick with stink;
With blood
And gore,
And you stop and think.
An inch and a half
Of solid steel
Stands between you
And the shocking surreal!
Surely, no zombie could manage to peel
Away a door of this calibre!
And so, you turn, with a sigh of relief;
Reprived of this world’s ineluctable grief!
You wipe your brow
With the palm of your hand;
Both are drenched with sweat.
And you think you know now
Just how to proceed.
A determined scowl
Set in your face,
You mount the stairs,
Unaware as you prowl,
That there stands Mom, and she’s hungry.
Binary Dirge
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones.
We’ve only just started; we’re already done.
When was the last time we melded as one?
What does it matter? We’ve only begun.
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones.
A handful of months, but our song has been sung.
When was the last time you stood in the sun?
What does it matter? It can’t be as fun.
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones.
The weight of the world; I’ve shouldered my ton.
Technoperfection? It’s already won.
Nothing else matters, just zeroes and ones.
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones.
Zeroes and ones. Zeroes and ones!
Why keep on trying? I know I’m outdone!
By your army of tireless zeroes and ones,
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones,
Zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones!
Why keep on fighting? No Hollywood gun
Has enough bullets to murder what’s none!
The fruit of your labours, I cannot outrun!
No woman, no leisure, could e’er be as fun
As your zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones.
Your thousands of legions of zeroes and ones!
All love and all reason,
All Luddite passion,
All feeling, all mission,
All life and decision,
All hope! All provision!
Sweet Eros’ incision
Succumbs to the might of your zeroes and ones!
True Love is Defined by the Lower Intestine.
This afternoon, I woke up beside my boyfriend
In a sweltering, squalid room that reeked of stale beans.
As he turned to me and opened his eyes,
Still bleary with the exhaustion of slumber,
I opened my mouth to tell him how much I adored him.
“Last night was amazing,” I began, and I inhaled,
My breath catching in my throat as I remembered–
The uncharacteristic passion in his embrace,
His wild, unfamiliar desire to impart to me
As much pleasure as I sought to give him
As we made love to the soundtrack of Avatar‘s tedious exposition.
I hoped to describe exactly how I felt about him.
I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his tolerance,
And how every time I was reduced to tears
By my own insecurity, or by an absence of nicotine and liquor,
That to fall into his arms was the only thing that could calm me.
I wanted him to know that as much as I worried about our finances,
As much as we argued about money and our future,
That no sum of cash, no white picket fence,
No windfall of fortune, or 401k
Could ever replace the past three months,
Where we’ve festered together in a tiny, stifling bedroom
Rented for $250 a month from some high school friends.
I wanted him to know that every day since the day he declared his love
With a drunken, incomprehensible 2 AM phone call
Has been the best day of my life,
And if I had to live here forever, in filth and poverty,
I would be perfectly happy so long as he is with me.
As I began to form the words, my longing gaze locked with his own
I was interrupted.
He hefted one buttcheek, and released a long, loud fart;
The bellowing eruction from his bowels
Reeked of sulphur and cheap Tex-Mex.
Before I could say a thing, he began to laugh uproariously,
And although my annoyance was clear, I giggled a little, too.
And Don’t Let the Door Hit You in the Ass on Your Way Out.
Now that my sister’s relationship with her chauvinistic, abusive significant other has drawn to a permanent close, I can finally share this brief poem I wrote about him the last time he threatened to kick my ass when I called him on being an absolute tool. This one’s for you, Bon. Now do us all a favour, and drop dead.
Build yourself up;
Lay your foundations with feeble phrases.
Make each syllable a brick,
Chipped and broken,
Hastily mortared with the blood upon your hands.
You are such a man.
So virile, and so potent.
Machismo drips from your every deed
Like sweat from a labourer’s brow.
Bastard! Braggart! Faggot!
Each brick you have lain,
A kindling stick,
Snapped. Sundered.
Soon, you will fall.
Ivory towers demand a strong substratum.
Your bricks, battered and cracked,
Will crumble beneath the weight of your pretension.
Seaside Suspiration
I
Am here,
On this beach,
Restless at rest.
Cinereous sands
Dredge longing memories
Of your rakish, tousled hair,
Where, in fits of ardor, my hands
Would find solace; as urgent kisses
Belied the words that words could not describe.
I drag my fingers through the sand, soaking
With the ocean’s brackish, frigid tears,
And remember your calloused hands,
And how you would brush my cheek.
And the look in your eyes,
Virid as the sea;
Tempestuous,
When you said
You loved
Me.
Cruor
A soldier rode into my life,
Bedecked in red instead of white.
Bloodstains, ‘cross his armor striped–
An inauspicious nod to Strife
That ever would assail my life
If me he took to be his wife.
And yet, this vulgar, savage wretch
Did somehow in my heart entrench
A seed, whose roots did ’round that organ clench,
And from the brackish depths of my soul did wrench
A fire that no diluvial rain could quench!
My vision with that russet tinge was drenched,
As if my eyes had suffered a jugular spray–
I was his victim; a corpse in passion’s fray!
And moribund, within his hard embrace I lay,
And know that never could I bear another way.
This murderer, this beast had snared his prey–
I loved him more than love could e’er convey.
And to this day, I look at him, and see red–
The carmine tint of rapture that from so long I had fled!
The sanguineous footsteps of his martial tread,
The rubescent flame of words lying unsaid
That engulfs the tenebrous shadows of fear and dread
To gorge the starving ardor that had hitherto languished unfed.
And as I lock his lips with mine, then pull away to glimpse his virid gaze,
I wonder if his sight is bloodied, too, or if his stalwart heart is left unfazed.
The Waiting Game, Part II
I wonder if you
Are happy where you are now.
Far from here, with her.
The heart on your sleeve
Crushes me beneath the weight
Of uncertainty.
