(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hoarding anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making dick jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and vagina. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)
But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own sex, thought he doesn't know about that)
A spec of cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention to
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?
I'm partying down at a Hollywood bash
The reason I'm here is that I crashed
I figured that if I would have asked
I would have been told to kiss their...
Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies
I'm not even close to being a famous guy
Something I often ponder and question why
But that's another story for another...
Time to see if there's anyone that I know
As I'm rubbing shoulders with the escargot
Something smells fishy at this table bro
Wondering should I stay or should I...
Go ahead and think what you will of me
I'm just here to meet Justin "The Bieb"
Once I do then I can leave
Wait a minute, in the corner is that...
She gave me a glimpse from behind the bar
I'd take her home but don't have a car
With that deduction I wont get very far
Still do you think she thinks I'm a...
Star light helps to guide me home
I was found out and kicked out of the Hollywood bowl
It's a lonely walk that I'm walking home
Hey look! Another party, what the heck, you never know...
for my Aunt Shirley
Fervis F. Ferville
Of South Street, North West
Could count, count, count, count
With incredible zest!
He was a very good counter,
And he would not hesitate!
For he would get up real early,
And he would stay up real late
Counting everything that could
Be owned by a Mouse,
As long as it could fit
In a little Mouse House.
And with his Shadow as Witness,
He would begin every day
Counting each little grain
Of his Bucklewheat Hay.
He would sound out each number.
That’s just what he’d do!
And he would always begin
All of his counting with “Two.”
He would count every minute
On the clock on his wall.
He then counted the hours,
The Seconds, and all
Of the in-between moments
That we never admit
Have a smidgen of good
Honest counting in it.
He then climbed very carefully
On his ABC blocks,
And counted each button
Safely tucked in its box,
Which came right to twenty-one,
All quite safe and sound.
The Greatest Button Collection
That a Mouse ever found.
Then he counted his fingers,
And he counted his toes,
His counting-type eyes,
And his counting-type nose.
He counted his ears,
And he counted his knees
And he smiled with pride,
For Fervis was pleased.
He had counted two eyes,
And one counting-type nose.
He had counted two knees,
And two stringy elbows.
He had counted two ears
That hung over his head.
And he counted the stripes
On his little Mouse bed.
He had counted each whisker,
And every brow of his eye.
And then he turned his attention
To his french fry supply.
There were twenty-two long ones,
And thirty-four short ones,
Ten busted-up ones
And eighteen athwart ones.
And there were his books,
Lots of books on a shelf
That he hid,
For he wanted them
All to himself.
With his vast and unique
Set of Counting-Mouse Skills,
And the speed and agility
Of trained Whippoorwills
He counted and counted,
And counted them all,
Every book he could find,
Every book that he saw.
All the big ones
And small ones,
And the tall ones,
Every green one
And blue one
Each old and
Each new one.
He counted his Nickets,
He counted his Nukks,
He counted every one
Of his Poppletoff Pucks.
He counted his ear lobes,
Then counted his keys,
And recounted every one
Of his ones, twos and threes.
He counted with such
A fine skill and finesse
That he proudly turned his attention
To Checkers and Chess
And he counted each Rook,
Every Bishop and Queen,
Every foul little Knight
That tormented his King.
Every Pawn en Passant,
Every possible move,
Oh, he counted them all
If only to prove
That he, as a Mouse,
Could indeed hold his own
When it came to a fine
Game of Chess in his home.
The very next thing
He would count were his socks.
He took great care of them.
So he unlocked all the locks
On his Secret Sock-Drawer,
And he counted each Two.
Then he seemed rather puzzled
When he was finally through.
For yesterday’s count
Came to Thirty-Eight pair.
Which meant that one pair was missing!
Yes, Missing! But where?
Now, this called for a re-count,
Something a Counting-Type Mouse
Does all of the time
In his little Mouse House.
So, Fervis F. Ferville,
In his perfect Mouse timing,
Counted and re-counted
Without even rhyming!
The Two and the Four
And the Six and the Eight!
He counted each sock
Until it seemed rather late.
Then he sighed as he sat
In his little Mouse chair.
And he took a deep breath
With a haunt of despair.
And he thought:
Never lose track of socks.
They never forget their neckties
Or popcicle blocks.
They do not misplace their Hourglass,
Or lose track of the time.
And Counting-Type Mouses
Are on time
All the time! ”
He fuddled and fudged,
And scratched at his ear,
Took a deep breath
Just to let his mind clear.
And he spied at his Shadow,
Who had nothing to say,
Who simply shrugged long
In its shadowy way.
So, he counted again,
Very slowly this time,
Sounding each number out,
Every succinct little rhyme.
Every four, every two,
Every ten, every eight.
Every twelve, and each twenty,
Until it was later than late.
“This simply does not make sense, ”
He mumbled to himself.
“Where could they be?
I’ve looked on every shelf.”
He searched through his house,
Very high, then down low,
Every place they could hide,
Every place they could go.
He looked deep in his cupboards,
And inside every jar.
He searched as close as he could,
And then he searched far.
He looked in his freezer,
And then in his hat,
On nights such as this
Mice will do things like that.
He hunted deep in his closet,
And then in every shoe
That he kept always ready
Underneath his canoe.
He searched up the small staircase,
And then down through the vent.
He hunted inside his chimney,
And above the bell tent.
He looked behind every picture
That hung on his wall.
And then he decided
To check behind his baseball.
He searched through his Bob-Bobbers,
And inside his fly sheet.
And, just to be safe,
He looked down at his feet.
And his eyes peered so narrow
He bit down on his lip,
And he twizzled and twozzled
Every single toe tip.
There were his socks,
Safely there, rightly put
As well as can be
On each little Mouse foot.
He hadn’t lost them at all,
And they hadn’t lost him.
They’d been there all the time
Very proper and prim.
And Fervis F. Ferville
Jumped up with a snap,
He sang out a “Woohoo, ”
And he let his toes tap.
He danced with a jig
And a biggillowigg,
With his toes hanging out.
He looked at the clock
That hung high on his wall,
And he stretched out, refreshed,
Like a porcupine ball.
And Fervis F. Ferville adjusted his tie.
And breathed deep the evening air.
"Why-ever have I been so distraught?
This simply does not seem fair."
I have every toe, every ear, every sock.
I have every number that ticks on my clock.
I have every whoo that has ever said hey.
It is a grand and new, wonderful day.
And wonderful days, as the story is said-
Are filled with those numbers that dance off the head,
And tap tap tap wonders of yellow and blue,
Wonders that shimmer much newer than new.
And he smiled so warmly the evening shined,
As though Fervis had one more adventure in mind.
He spied his fine Shadow, on the dash of a whim,
And his top secret Shadow spied right back at him,
And then Fervis F. Ferville so calmly called out,
"I've counted one hundred eleventy-two!
And that's a very fine count, an impressive amount.
I am certain I've counted much higher than you.
But his Shadow just leaned against the far wall,
Unwilling to join in the foray.
Shadows never re-count a good count,
Not when there's still time for Shadows to play.
And Fervis agreed.
For a fine Mouse was he,
Oh, there was so much more
To counting young Fervis could see.
And he smiled a wide smile, fine as any wise Mouse,
And returned to the joys of his little Mouse House.
Copyright © 2010 By Richard D. Remler
'I still find each day too short for
all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,
and all the friends I want to see. '
The clock slowly ticks, ticking ticking ticking,
As time has come to a stop.
All we can hear is the ticking,
The ticking of the broken clocks.
We'll be lost in forever, over and over
Repeating our lives.
Memories are spilling over,
Hey, remember that time?
We met by accident,
Serendipity you could say.
I liked the way your eyes shined,
As you smiled that day.
But one problem led to another,
Nights blended into days.
What's the difference between midnight,
And the middle of the afternoon?
The clocks tick away the memories,
Tick Tick tick...
We dance across the realities,
Laugh at our lives.
We act so happily,
As our dreams are torn with time.
The clocks are ticking...
Every second is another year.
Everything was okay,
Everything began to disappear.
Hey do you remember?
"Do I remember?
I can't say that I can..."
The clock slowly ticks, ticking, ticking, ticking...
And my memories of you begin to fade.
All I can remember is the ticking,
Our lives ticking away...
Tick tick tick...
Who are you?
my anxiety’s been getting worse lately
making me dread sad people and being called baby
But hey, when you're lonely you’ll take what you get
And worrying about holding hands isn't much of a threat
of course, you get worried going a different way to school
like every little thing you do must follow certain rules
When you need to talk to strangers your pulse speeds
And bussing down to movies makes you weak in the knees
You can't let people know and you can't let it show
You need to ask for the check even though
Speeds up, your muscles contract
And you find it hard to breathe and the waitress passes by
And you try to get her attention but she's obviously busy with other customers
Your friends are looking at you weird but you smile
Awkwardly wave your hands until she notices and you're beet red in the face
You laugh it off and pay your bill and get the fuck out of there
And nobody asks why you're so flustered but
you can feel their gazes in the flush on the back of your neck
And you feel it the rest of the way home
I don't know what I would do without caution, or
looking both ways when crossing an empty street, or
Checking my phone every five minutes to see if they're getting home alright
Because it's the only way I know how to care
Hey there (if you're there at all),
I sincerely hope all is well.
Guess you're really swamped with work,
honestly no need to explain, I could just tell.
See the thing is... the thing is, there is actually a thing.
Something has come up.
It's quite hard to explain cause I don't yet know what we are,
so if we are kind of a 'thing', then I want to breakup.
You don't write to me any more
and I really miss those emails
witty comments, sarcasm and hardcore banter
strung together with immaculate grammar and ample clichés.
You seem to have forgotten that I didn't fall for you back then
and very little had changed since.
So three years later when you contacted me out of the blue
I was hardly convinced.
As a preplanned holiday got in our way
placing you 5 hours behind and 5000 miles apart
it was that daily email exchange over a month
which gave whatever it is we have now, its start
not calls, not facebook nor skype,
just words, simple phrases and our ability to type.
Essence of your raw personality seeped through
enticing me to a very pure, untampered version of you.
Since I returned, since we met, things haven't been the same.
Are you trying to gain the upper hand of this game?
Because, I wasn't even aware we were playing,
so technically neither can win, such a shame.
I appreciate your intellect, ambition, success
and middle class upbringing,
those random gestures of affection
and passionate lovemaking.
I understand your commitments
and the hierarchy of your priority que
But just because I get it
doesn't mean I'll agree to put up with them too.
It's true, my future is rather blurry
but that's a different thing.
I might be chronically needy
but I'm not asking you for a ring.
I do however fancy flowers
and would really like to go dancing
a daily doze of 'you're thinking of me'
topped with very large amounts of cuddling.
If all I wanted was to get laid,
there was plenty of opportunity to be swayed.
Time to end this hand has come a little too late
with a Royal Flush in Spades.
I will miss those endearing emails,
and the 12th floor of your office with its magnificent view.
I will miss the idea of having a man in my life,
but I won't so much miss you.
The words of anger you spill can penetrate deep into my soul, your icy chill makes my blood run cold.
The constant judging glances that you cast my way can instantly make my courage fold.
But that's just a family affair.
It cuts so much deeper when the knife thrusted into my back is wielded by one that shares my family name.
A person that I would die to protect suddenly has me second guessing if they would do the same.
But hey , that's a family affair.
You can bring out of me a rage like no other person can and in an instant all I can see is a fiery red hue.
But despite it all we are family, you will always be connected me and I will always be connected to you.
That's how it goes when it's a family affair
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the Virgin of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
In A Calm Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,
Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,
I Thought I Saw A Mermaid Resting,
She Was Lying There In The Raft.
I Called The Girl Out Without Knowing Her Name,
"Hey Young Lady!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,
She Just Looked Up To Me Once In Anguish And Collapsed,
I Thought I Saw Despair In Her Amber Eyes & Must Help Her.
The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,
I Called My Captain & Asked Him, "Do You See A Girl In A Raft,"
The Captain Smiled & Replied, "Commodore You Should Get Married,"
I looked Apprehensive And To Which He Simply Replied, "There's No Girl."
True He Was The Girl Had Just Disappeared,
I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,
I Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,
I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.
I Immediately Thought It Was My Wild Phantasm,
That It Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,
No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,
I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.
When I Climbed Down The Stairs To Enter My Room Amazed & Confused,
I Saw Her Standing As She Waited For Me By The Side Of My Bed,
I Accepted That Deception Of My Mind & Started To Lie Down,
She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."
She & I, Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,
In The Morning She Was Gone & Simply Gone,
Disappeared Into Thin Air When I Was Asleep,
Each Day I Dearly Long For Her To Return.
© Atul Kaushal
He has been with me ever since I used to be a toddler!
We share the same bathroom & even the underwear!!
He has been my best secret-keeper apart from you!!!
We have been in love with each other crazily but now even he loves you so I have maintained a safe distance!!!!
Don't you think of me as a madman or retard because the other person who is my best friend is me only!!!!!