Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Mar 2010
uncannysoup
Is love out of focus
or just a warm fuzzy rabbit
with sharp metal teeth gleeming
Is love giving up or giving in
sloppy smiles or showing skin
Can you hear the static beige
of my radar gun
or ride my camel through the trees
Is it water in my bed
Wake you up keep you cold
make you shiver in my soul
Love is all these things and more
and less
vaporize to nothingness
Was it ever there
Oh, cruel trick
Will it ever be?
I ask a thousand starry eyes
while they blink at me
while they blink
Are they winking or blinking
What is this mess inside my chest
Who tied me all in knots
Help me unravel all these ropes
Just set me free
Free to find something more
something more than me
Help me find you.
Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.

Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.

Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.

And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.

But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you

You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***,
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.
http://heterodynemind.blogspot.com/
Does anyone know what it's like to burn
To have your flesh blister like a white hot sun
To feel your nerve endings popping
Skin ablaze with the fire not stopping

Your left leg on fire, wish you were dreaming
Your foot a ball of flame and you keep on screaming
But exactly what was your crime
Only being at the wrong place at the wrong time

So years on this is how the story goes
You got severe scarring and lost two toes
This story is true, it's for me to tell
It's left me slightly unhinged, I've been through hell

So life's a mess, getting women? I'm out of luck
If you don't like looking at me, I don't give a ****
It's okay for you, you can just walk away
For me, I have to live with it every day

— The End —