Punctuation Poems
I blot people onto me, just to buff them away. Soakin em, and pressin em on.
Dabbin, pressin, soakin, like temporary tattoos.
Easy to apply, and pretty to look at.
Fun to show off, without any commitments, and then I just let em peel away after some time.
After their bright pigment fades, or their adhesive fails, I just rub em off.
Scratch em with my fingernails sometimes, when I get impatient.
Rub, scratch, off. Now, right now. I’m tired of lookin at you, feelin you on my skin.
I wore you for a bit,
Now it’s time for a new one.
Rub, scratch, dab, press, soak, press again again again.
Skin red, dry skin rub rub dab dab dab peel peel dab peel.
And then,
the ones I like the most, the most beautiful, the most vibrant,
color, color, color.
Purple, green.
purple purple
Purple,
are the ones I try to keep the longest,
they’re always the quickest to fade,
and to peel,
and to fail.
Fail fail fail, come unglued.
Keep em out of the sunlight, outta the wind. In the dry. But they peel.
Peel peel peel, fail.
They fail.
And then,
I can’t find others quite like em. So I press on any old picture. Any color.
Gray, red, yellow, blue. Not quite right, no blue, no citron, no salmon.
Not quite purple enough.
Not quite green.
Not quite, never quite the same.
The same purple, the same green.
Just soak soak soak soak,
Press. Peel.
Until, again, something might feel right.
Did you leave yet?
I know I said and say how I'm glad you have left
but tend to recall sometimes before slumber some
choppy cropped segments of our
f
l
u
t t er
i
n
ggg
crimson red capes, attempting to save one another,
we never should have
memories
In desperate times you used to kindly with an open arm
say such sweet--
and I
it doesn't matter left away so a hurt doesn't heart
dumb screams from my mouth why don't you just--
and you can fade
fraction /
by /
fraction
while I grab legs
confusing myself
tundra of explicit you
continue from time to time a late night caress
in questionable style have great imaginary sex (with you)
Sometimes forgetting while coming if you as well came--
then clumsily remember
you already left
Sighting her,
fair heaven--
the truth is--
I was smitten.
.
.
.
.
Feel me tonight.
..
Close your eyes
My fingers through your hair...
slowly my hands move down
intertwine my fingers with yours.
Warmth.
I move to be on top of you,
And I only
Look at you.
Our eyes close
When I kiss your lips.
Closer, I rest my head on your shoulder
and with our eyes still closed,
we breathe.
I kiss your neck and your shoulder and chin and scar and cheeks and ears.
I like your face. I like touching and kissing it. Kiss kiss kiss.
I breathe in and I can feel our bodies wrap around each other-––
So warm, this energy.
The lightness,
This melding-soaking
That is so natural.
And we are clinging and tightening and tugging. --Squeeze!
Squeeze!
Tighter, ––tighter!
I won't stop squeezing!
...
Its hard
To Not touch you, you know.
It makes me want to cry.
'I kiss your tears.'
I wipe your snot.
I give you some water with lemon to drink.
Man, I could put my cheek so close to you
and feel the flutter of your eyelashes against my skin as we laugh.
Shit.
Wish you were here.
Your lips.
To
my fingers,
my cheek,
my own...
See I had my senses
repeat repeat to themselves,
soaking in
what to remember
of you.
.
Around me and in my mind
.
.
Then, I open my eyes..
and it's just me.
Drawn out, and
Brought back to this moment that says,
I am alone.
... Counting the minutes until I see you.
Less than 24,000 to go.
Close your Eyes...
Review, Relax, Sleep.
I'll see you soon.
And sooner in a moment.
Is to think in pictures rather than words...
To understand, is to imagine sounds unheard...
To break the tactless comparisons within yourself...
Is to become a passionate metaphor.....
This is what it means to think clearly...
even a computer can sleep
nothing is perpetual
except my consciousness
apparently
the image etched
on the back of my eyelids
must be horrifying
because I just can’t
make myself
close them.
love is,
quite honestly,
relinquishing control
to someone
who has no idea
what's going on
in life and stuff
(just like you)
and trusting them,
for some reason
or other,
not to
fuck
everything
up
(or at least
not
too
badly).
As an artist
I'd say I was
fairly spiritual
in some ways
I like to burn candles
meditate
and feel Frankincense
coating my hair
of a Sunday morning
and I truly believe
that my (and everyone's) soul is capable
of transcendence.
I like to believe that there
is
a soul.
But I find myself gazing
horrified
into a time-constrained void
filled with everything
that means nothing
and has no significance
just day-to-day banality
and the meaningless loveless
university 'culture'
by which I am surrounded.
The body is a temple
of primal pleasure
and I will admit that readily
but still I think I am searching
for something more
real
and if there really is
God
or divine power out there
then I want You to know that
yes, I am sort of
a party-girl cynic
but behind that is only
human fragility
and a terror of mundanity
and I get kinda mad
and sad
because I ask You to come
and repaint my life
and help me believe that
this isn't just
more shades of grey
but You don't (or You won't).
I'm scared of
meaningless
reasonless
emptiness
because love is my superhero
and they say that You're
love supercharged,
and with purpose.
So I suppose what I'm
trying to say is
I really am trying to find You
but I don't think I know
where to look.
To those who like
(you could say I'm fishing
to see who's)
reading between
(paying attention to
the meaning of)
the lines
There is no
.
to this poem
In all my life I never tried to
.
out the wisdom I didn't know
I re
ac
(hed)
ted
the wrong way a few
x
I still do at
x
but I care about *s
and try not to care about #s
I pay attention to i's
both of them
One day someone will find me in the
lab
r
(nth degree - the lengths I'd go to to hide and wish to be found)
I think that's the
.
of the tongue
and body
as it beats
the demons
of my own silence to a gentle hum –
a drunk laced
representation
of what the watching eyes
desire,
crave,
emulate
in their sacred spaces –
center stage
with every performer
abroad this conditioned
disillusion –
how it masks
all the confusion
for those that
jumped in early –
the lights
look so friendly
when you need them,
but it's you
who feeds
them –
and you die
without knowing it,
you cry
without showing it –
mourn, in distractions,
what could have been;
what could have been
if you didn't have
to keep on
searching –
the pen marks
rely on the same security,
lost in its
contrived purity –
the light is blinding,
but it keeps us from
rewinding,
reminding
our hearts of the pain
or the game,
all the same –
wanting too much
for no good reason -
