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Spurned.I've tried to be as impartial as possible.
But today I stopped you and spoke to you and tried to tell you without really telling you that I've really, really missed you
against my better judgement...
I haven't spoken before now out of fear that I'd make things worse for you
salt on the wound and all that...
But when I turned to go, our bodies perpendicular, instead of turning to pull me in you waved
and kept on walking.
Down, But Not OutFeel free to forget
that which festers in places only reachable by trespass.
There is so little point to counting your blessings
when in dreaming you revel in things that have passed beyond resurrection
and into personal history.
And they have always loved "that story";
Even in a drunken stuper she remembers.
And in sleep...
beneath the turbid waters of a dark ocean the wounds are as fresh --
as tender and as bloodied --
as they were before the salt,
five years buried...
I wonder all the time if you remember it like I do.
Fondly, if with thorns.
But I miss that touch.
I miss the violence
of your selective intimacy.
You were so patient when I was constantly chewing bitter roots
that resolved themselves to contact that you only gently discouraged,
never a harsh word traded in the summer darkness.
It's been years since you've been home.
And you can't lie anymore, can't cover up what I know has been
the reason for your absence...
You were a different person here.
A boy with changing eyes a
Read and Recite.Poetry is not
pushed from the mouth
like a race
is the sound of the mind
stripping its gears, measured
by the opening
of a cranial trap door.
a single drop
in an ocean of pomegranate juice
(the refined palette
tastes the salt) --
Who knew words
is a headache like your daughter's headache.
The kind of thing you
shut your eyes for, because
the truth hurts, and you're not quite willing to see it.
He has taken
That is to say the thing you kept so safely guarded,
so secret beneath your newly blossomed belly,
so delicate and pure and if you'll forgive me,
is an illness below the spiritual level.
A kind of dirty man accepts
and God condemns as cruelty:
thou shalt not covet, no,
not in my sight.
And rape is a kind of jealousy
A kind of twisted theft from
another man, another woman, or
from the self.
has changed the way you do things,
has altered and made your belly grow and
thanks to metal and no particular skill
has made you sick from the inside to the deep inside,
from venereal to arterial to soul on the animal level.
I loved you!
I trusted you!
You didn't even know my name...
has become synanymous with
has become an extension of he,
there is no shame
in counting crows on bedposts.
Maybe if I had laughed you would
drum on windows
like rain across shutters:
somebody knew, and nobody
man is a lake
and woman a river:
I knew the salt. The ocean froze
we told ourselves
was nothing to the distance.
It crushes dreams like so many
God knows we tried.
But when that morning comes
there will be no brackish streams. No;
No Wallpaper.I'm mystified by the complexity of skin.
Wrapping for crags and spurs,
jutting over illustrious injuries,
jammed up and furrowed over skulls that crack in confrontations,
and we never remember the reasons
Rational, that so severely peaked a being should preserve itself in epidermal cellophane.
Ridiculous, perhaps, that we pick at scabs with edges like curling carpets,
work to peel what's doing its best to fix itself.
And to think
to fix what chance or negligence broke,
we use knives.
Sharp apexes inclined toward shot appendixes,
a red canyon with crimson warriors in blue and purple trenches.
Stitch it closed: an irregular patchwork over rough places.
A heart is not a heart that beats
to beat its brethren to the punch.
extricated remnants of a feral past,
in a thousand years made thicker by rockslides and fire.
A story of intervening centuries,
the human right to exist,
a very vertical vector graph that shows the sharpness
of our willingness to survive.
Try to curtail it.
Shipping Out.His eyes water, but never spill over.
My chest heaves, but never bursts.
The last time we say "I love you,"
is the time he says it first.
The Man That I Love.For the first time his hands
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
Relational Cryogenics.You have six saved voice messages.
You couldn't understand then
the violence that raged inside this cage of skin,
like iron bars,
around the animal whose name I've always feared.
First saved voice message.
I doubt even years from now I'll know
just what it was that shifted in the earth last August,
when I was rage
and you were apathy
and he, that lascivious angel.
I wanted to say I love you and I hope you had sweet dreams.
Your words had fiery tendrils that spit passion
and dripped determination into distance,
the most empty and barren of bowls.
And though I made every effort to reach you our hands,
like the painted metacarpals of the creator on that ancient ceiling
never touched but by my will,
and my will alone.
I miss you, babe.
The ending was cruel,
for both of us.
It wasn't until I'd screamed my throat songless that I realized
I'd handed you the weapon.
reached through the cage, and with claws like broken bottles
ripped holes in the fabric o
Playing AngelYou stare up at a strong, neutral being.
A being who cannot help but love without condition.
Your pure human tears run down your cheeks,
Splattering onto the cold stone floor on which you kneel.
She allows you to cling to her skirts,
Bury your face in them and sob.
She promises to take care of you.
She is only playing Angel.
Inside she breaks herself to show care in her eyes,
For those who demand it from her,
Who think she is safety.
No one could imagine she could hurt.
You think she is the strongest you have seen.
Her love is without condition.
She is forever generous.
She is only playing your Angel.
In secret, her heart lies in pieces.
Her love is little given to those who seek comfort.
Though her care isn't truly there.
Angel is all she plays for you.
Do you know?His hand found hers from the other end of the sofa, teasing her fingers until it finally settled on top of her small hand. For a while, there were no words. Even the greatest of poets and the most flexible writers of prose can't say everything with their art. Sometimes it's a touch that means the world, the contact of a hug or the comforting presence of a heartbeat. He used to listen to hers, back when he thought he deserved it.
"Because it's yours, and it's there."
Her breathing became labored, indicating that she was forcing back the tears which she knew would accomplish nothing. It wasn't logical, anyway, to be sad. Everyone must part ways. Even the deepest emotions are nothing more than a farce, that's what she always told herself during those nights when her only comfort was found in tracing the lines of the ceiling tiles until she ended up back at where she had begun, anything better than watching the clock tell her time was moving without her. If the great thinkers of our
The GoddessWhen she walks her hips sway like a hypnotist's watch
All the men stare and follow her lure wherever she goes
When she turns to them her perky breasts call out
Instincts take over, friends become foes before her
The men tustle to get their chance with the goddess
Standing before her gaze they see wanton eyes
Her lush lips say hello and ask their names
The men tell her all about themselves
There is little truth to the stories they tell
They must stand out above their rivals
They must taste her sex appeal
They must continue talking
They ask her nothing of herself
They feel they've seen all she has to offer
They'll never really know what's held within her body
That the heart behind her bosom is filled with love and poetry
PathsIf a single embrace could outlast the world
Would the two of us cling
to be sure
but lightly enough
to be pure
If a sentence made of hopeful thought-paths
Could bind two lives for good
to be sure
but lightly enough
to be pure
Could. We. Take. It?
I must admit I don't know how this works
How it moves
How it changes
How this should feel
We are young, stupid, and reckless
But (the magic word)
If the world could completely ignore us
Would we have time alone
to be sure
but just enough
to be pure
If money grew on trees and ripened quick
Would we have enough then?
to be sure
but just enough
to be pure
At the end of the day I'm trying
The False HeroI lean back against the door
As I watch him take a deep breath
For a moment or two it looks like he isn't sure anymore
But soon enough he steadies his breath
I have known for a long time I'd live to see this day -
The day I send him off to war
As a child, he kept telling me about how he wanted to become a "hero", like the ones in all of those glorious stories.
But as he grew up, he found out that those kinds of "heroes" didn't really exist.
Yet, he foolishly did not give up
He still wanted to be a "hero"
Instead of being someones knight in shining armor
He settled with being some nations` puppet solider.
I couldn't help but think he was out of his mind
But looking into his eyes I saw a hardened resolve
A resolve which could only lead him down a dark road
Going to war meant protecting some people, while killing others
Whether it be right or wrong...
Then again, that to him was the definition of a "hero"
For it, he would do what needed to be done
Still, he was not doing it for any man or
Love Has ExpiredI never thought I’d see the day where it happened
The world should just look away in shame
They always make it sound like love makes the world go round
But they know that it’s already expired
So why do they keep trying to look for me?
This world is filled with so many liars that it’s simply unreal
But nobody cares that most of them get into power
And people only care if they take away their rights
Or if they take away something that they either need or want
That’s what the world is always like
I’m surprised that it took this long to see the truth
That the feeling love has expired by the time you’re in your teens
You think that you know what love feels like
But only because you’re getting what you want
And most of the time all you simply want is to have sex
Unleashing you into the world that is filled with desire
I bet that a lot of fathers are worried about their daughters these days
Since rape is so popular amongst the greedy bastards out ther
I'm A VaseI'm a vase
With a beautiful, porcelain face
etched in gold.
But I'm cold.
And I yearn to know life.
Instead, I'm an urn
meant but to hold life.
Bound with chains of impropriety
The sculptor's hands never gave a damn about me.
I sit on a shelf, hoping for a chance
to be held, to be loved.
Instead, just a glance
to make sure the flowers haven't wilted yet
is all I ever get.
And these flowers, these flowers
they knew life, once
I'm mud and I'm clay and I'm earth all at once
and that's never been enough
Not for you, not for anyone
So all I can say to you is
I'm sorry I can't be a flower.
Your DaughterI chew cinnamon gum because it reminds me
of the way you used to smell on average days.
I burn pumpkin and spice scented candles
so that it's your favorite holiday all year round.
My favorite color is orange because it's most like
the autumn sunsets that you love so much.
And I love these things because I am your daughter.
I choose comedies more often than not because it helps me
remember the laugh lines around your lips.
I cook too much food at dinner time because you always say,
"It's better to have too much than not enough."
I tell everyone who's never seen them that my eyes are green
because I want to believe they look like yours.
And I do all these things because I am your daughter.
I put family first, even before my own needs
because it's what you would have done.
I cheer for football and baseball teams though I'm scorned
because they were your favorites.
I only started writing these sad excuses for poems
because I found a book of your masterpieces.
And I don't know how to be any
Given UpGiven Up
This paper has never been whiter.
This pencil has never been sharper.
This pen has never been so functional.
This garbage bin has never been emptier.
This garbage bin is as empty as my head.
But sure, I'll still try, right?
I've tried writing.
A thousand times I've tried!
And for what?
I'm done with the dissapointment,
My hopes, trashed.
My dreams, dead.
I give up.
I can't do this anymore,
Trying to write when I clearly can't.
I can't do this.
Karma.The truth is
I have hoarded your words.
Made haphazard stacks on on the stairs,
on the grand piano
so I would not forget as well
or as thoroughly
as you have.
For now, new beds play host to the faded pages
of a notebook, the one I used to write letters to you
that I never sent, that spent so many years under the pillows.
Washed in the laundry, the ink leaves black stains on white sheets,
determined to exist,
There are ghosts beyond the shadow of the fabric.
In that place where poetry comes from,
they're counting the threads of our histories.
They intersected, I know they did:
You read it.
I wrote it down.
Flames lick the edges of the bound volume.
than leather --
But you knew that.
It burns faster.
I suppose you knew that too.
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