I
“I didn’t know anything”
Astrapia,
the beautiful arcs of plum and golden
wrap in you a security.
It is disconcerting to see you know
so little--
to not see such daunting arcs
for rhetoric.
Hold steady.
II
“about the facts of life and that I didn’t know that I would conceive or so on.”
Misconceptions most fed,
generational ignorance liberating
throb and leisure and pleasure and…
Seemingly perfectly perched.
Feathery flow and bend
swoons over the exotic excitement
naturally--
unknowingly.
The color flushes,
flashing bright, a melting beauty.
To know of this must be to know serenity…
III
“I stayed with him and he said he loved me.”
Every
prismatic fiber
is yours.
IV
“He said this was the only true way to show that you loved somebody.”
Paradise, what alluring shades you show.
The better to attract you, my love.
Oh, what mysterious gaze you hold.
The better to captivate you, my love.
Oh, what sturdy frame you stand.
The better to surround you, my love.
Oh, what fierce talons you stretch.
The better to clutch you, my dearest love.
V
“And I met him again then, and he said, Well you did it before; why can’t you do it now?”
He reaches for her once more,
as if for lifetimes
this had been the norm.
She settles in the familiarity and
loveliness that is,
or so would seem.
Neither flushed
nor melting,
with one door another opens.
“And that was the time I got pregnant.”
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.
And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.
“Gifts”.
Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.
Or unforgetful vengeance--
So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--
Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.
Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.
Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.
Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?
The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.
And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC