Picasso
you give us things
which
bulge:grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind

you make us shrill
presents always
shut in the sumptuous screech of
simplicity

(out of the
black unbunged
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or

between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness
solid screams whispers.)
Lumberman of the Distinct

your brain’s
axe only chops hugest inherent
Trees of Ego,from
whose living and biggest

bodies lopped
of every
prettiness

you hew form truly

I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.

I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G.  Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who  wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly  B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with  Conan Doyle.

And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.

I feeleth so anxious as the fleshy winds outside,
Invisible as their turquoise screams, I feeleth like everything is just not right;
Ah, but how if even all later suns shan't be fair,
And t'is passivity shan't ever be bound to fade?
For my soul declares-t'at he, it wants not any more to care;
And about thee only, it wants to be quiet, yet witty still-like yon pale lovesick summer glade;
I want to attach myself to our captivated hours right now;
With thee in my lap, and thy gentle whispers-as today shall be replaced by tomorrow.
I want to dream of thee once more tonight, o sweet Nikolaas;
My darling at present and from the future, whilst my only dearest, from the past.
Ah, sweetheart, why are but our subsequent hours-and perhaps paths, to suffer;
If thou art not by my side, and maketh not all t'is terseness better?
Ah, and wouldst it ever make sense any longer;
To live by him-but without thee, wouldst it but make my wild heart easier?
For censure is to which my answer, and is hatred-for I cannot help loving thee more;
I wanteth to love, and age-by thee, and by thee only, within my most passionate core,
And I wanteth not to understand anything-for comprehension shall but renew our last sorrow;
I wanteth instead-to renew t'is despaired wholeness, and its proven compassion-our love has once made nature show.

I still wanteth to remain quiet; to cherish and glitter within my wholesome devotion;
But which duly keepest me sober, and maketh my doubled heart tremble not;
Calmeth me, calmeth me with thy kisses-so enormous and tasty, like a quiet can of little soda;
Maketh me accursed, petty, and corny-maketh me thy lands' most dreaded infanta.
Tease me like I am a quivering little darling, who cannot but tries shyly still-to sing;
With a coarse voice descended from sunlight, where the worst are joy, and lovingly mean everything.
Maketh me honest, and tempteth me deeper and more;
Until I sighest and flittest myself away, with agility like never before.
Consumeth my greed-and with it, drinkest away its all befallen vitality;
For I knoweth thou shalt restore me, and reneweth all my endeavoured weaponry.
Ah, Nikolaas, how sweet doth feel t'ese blessings, by thy very side!
Nikolaas, Nikolaas, my lover-my sweet husband, from whom my hungry soul canst never hide!
Oh, and darling, Amsterdam might be cold, and plastered with one slippery tantrum;
But thou art still too comely to me-with those familiar eyes like a poem;
A poem t'at my very heart owns, and is graciously fat'd to be thine;
And thine only-for as I danceth later-in my princess' frock, I knoweth t'at thou art mine.
Ah, but fear thou not-for shall I protect thee like t'is;
I shall slander thy rival west and east, I shall degrade t'em all to'a yawning beast!
And upon my victory be I at ease-and finely grateful;
On which truth shall spring, and maketh our love venerated-and more fruitful!
Ah, just like I had b'fore-how canst kissing thee be extremely pleasant,
Even whenst he be t'ere, or perhaps-be the one concerned?
I hath to admit, t'at 'tis thee-and not him, I so dearly want;
Thee who hath painted my love, and made everything cross but all fun;
Thee whose disguise is my airs, and who hath ceaselessly promised to be fair,
Thee whom I'th dreamt of t' be my lifelong prince, with whom I wish to be paired,
Thee whose recitations lift my heart upwards, and my delight proud;
Thee whose poems hath I crafted, and oftentimes recited sensibly, out loud.

Ah, t'at devil-who told us t'at our joys cannot be real;
For they are not at all virtuous-nor by any chance, vigorous?
Ah, fear not those human serpents, darling, whose mouths are moth-like-bloodless but who canst ****;
For to God they are mortal still, and to His eyes whose jokes are not fun, nor humorous;
And thus we shall be together, as we indeed already are;
For our delight is not to be altered-no longer, as dwells already, in our heart;
We shall come back to it soon, as tonight's full moon smilingly starts;
And exalt it as wint'r comes-dear winter, as perhaps only be it, one few months' far;
Ah, and be I then, crush all t'is impatient longing, and sorely missed affection;
And vanquish all the way, t'is all omnipotent sin-of having loved only, a severe affliction;
Oh, but under whose guidance, Amsterdam shall embark again, and smile upon us;
And lift our tosses of joys, into the lapses of its sweet thunders, fast!
Ah, Nikolaas, shall we thus be together, under the wings of Amsterdam's rainbow;
To which endings shan't even once appear; as guilt be then dead-and is not to show;
The only left opus of love be ours to sing, as heaven is-so benevolent;
Betray us not, with fruits of indifference-much less once of one malice, and gay impediment;
And our happiness shall be pure-and entangled, like a pair of newborn twins;
To which our fantasies are finally correct, and thus its affixed lust-shall no more be a sin.

Such love and lust-whose fidelities shall be our abode;
But by whose words-delusions shall never arrive, and thus be put aside;
Novelties shall be fine, and their definitions shall be lovely;
They shall twitch not-for a simple moment of starched felicity!
Oh my darling, I needst to come and visit my wealthy Amsterdam;
With authenticity now I entreat: myself, myself, ah, run there-whenst stop doth time!
For as we embarketh, no more worrisome medleys shall they come again, to bring;
And to no more sonata, shall they retort-nor so adversely, and dishonestly, sing.
Ah, Nikolaas, the stars are now obediently looking down at us;
Jealous of our shimmering love, which is the lush garden's yonder, giddy beaut;
Ah, who is shy to its own mirror, and oft' looks away so fast;
But needst not to swerve, factually, for 'tis, on its really own-has but very much truth!
But still, whose hastiness maketh it succumb-and even more bashful then the sky;
Ah, as if those pastimes of its ****** soul are always about-and be termed but as a single lie!
For it shall never happen, to it-who owns our midnight hours-with one promise to be skirted away too fast;
With not even a single pause, nor a second of rest-while it passes?
Ah love, our very love; its circular stains, nevertheless, as left hurriedly-too massive to resist;
For they giveth taste to our plain moonlight-and thick'ning flavours to our kiss;
So at our first night of gaiety thereof-we won't be hunger for earning too much bliss!
Ah, Nikolaas, all shall be perfect-for felicity is no longer on our part-to miss,
And t'is part of our earthly journey shall feel, defiantly like heaven!
I shall be thine-and claim no more my thine self as his;
In thee doth I find my salvation, my fancy dome-and my most studious cavern!
All which, certainly-is his not; all which shall be ripe, and thus fragrant-like a rose perfume;
And by whose spell-we shall be love itself, and even be loved-within the walls of our private haven;
And even then, we shall love each other more-as be cradled in each other's arms; and lost like this, in such a league of harmonious poems.

Amsterdam shan't be rigorous, it shall be all fair,
Its notions are curious, like these but entrancing summer days;
Thinking of which is but a sweat-but a bead of sweat for which I most care,
Which is neither dreadful nor boastful, as I devour it avidly, amongst t'is poem I'm 'bout to say!
And t' mindfulness of which, I shall no more hastily rid of;
I was too dreary back then, crudely foreshadowed by a crippled love!
'Twas my mistake-my supposedly most punished, punished mistake;
For faking a love I ought not t've ever made, and one I ought not t' ever take!
A mere dream I hath now fiercely pushed away;
And from which I hath now returned, to my most precious loyalty,
As thou knoweth-thou hath never wholly, and so freely-left me,
Thou art all too genuine, and pristine, like yon silvery river-as I oft' picture thee.
Ah, so t'at is all true; t'at thou art my most gracious, and unswept loving angel,
A prince of royalty, and my very, very own nighttime spell.
Just like thou hath done hundreds of time, thou maketh me but delight and mischief;
And notions t'at bubble within my most, giving me charms and comfort-for me to continue to live!
Together, our lips shall be warm-and no more joy shall be left naked;
Soon as there are more tears, we shall throttle and fairly feast on it;
Making it all but remotely conscious, and forcibly-but sensibly, deluded;
Making it writhe away impaired, and its all possible soul awesomely flattened!
Ah, Nikolaas, thou shalt be the mere charm t'at leaves my odes too fabulous-by thy wit,
Oh, my darling, for thou art so sweet; o, Nikolaas, I really hath only my words, to play with!

And guess what, my darling, heaven shall but gift us nobly, all too soon;
An heir shall we claim; as descendeth one day beneath the excited full moon.
For he shall be born into our naughtiest perusal;
And demand our affection excitedly, as time is long, as arrives winter-from last fall!
Soft is his hair, clutched in his skin-so bare and naive;
He shall be our triumph, and a farther everyday desire, to continue to live!
And we shall consider him our undefined, yet a priceless fortune;
Light as the night, at times singular but cheery-like the sketch of a fine moon.
And portray in us both the loveliness of a million words;
He shall be handsome, just like our love-which is damp but funny, in whose two brilliant worlds!
Oh, my darling, I now looketh forward to my heavenly Amsterdam;
Whose prettiness shall be thoughtful, as I thinketh of it-from time to time.
Ah, thus-when all finally happeneth, I shall know thou art worth the whole entity of my thousand longings;
Thou art the miracle t'at I hath decently prayed for-and thus fathomably, the very sweet soul-of my everything.

Centered around your neck, the prettiness of the stainless steel shines locked in to place, your Daddy loves you more this day.
On bended knees, you wait, as I approach with it in my hand, tilt your head back as I place it around, and snap the lock down.
Let it dangle, feel the weight, feel the love, the symbolism of you and I, is more then a piece of metal, it is pure love I say.
Little One, you are the first, truly are to be offered this gift, No one before you, no not even her, your loved removed a frown.
Ask yourself, are you worthy to be my submissive? Worthy to be my baby girl? Worthy to love me forever? Worthy to be mine.
Remember this, remember it clearly, the answer to those questions is simple, the answer is yes, forever you will be.
Only you will forever be my property, the stainless around your neck is the significance of this, missing with no shine.
N**ever, forget my love, forget that I own you, please show the world in our own little way, that you are owned, not free.

Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt

tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up

she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground

after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me

I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me

yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her

and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms

over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?

she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods

and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys

call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks

ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses

or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses

and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go

she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses

and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps

leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly

she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up

and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think

I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid

like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day

could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider

and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground

and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk

down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.

Then there are days
When with a sulking face
I go through everyone's poems
Including my own
And wonder with bitter scorn
What kick do these people get
From all this rhyme-rhyme business
Just say it all in one line, no
Why coat it with metaphorical prettiness

Don't worry friends,
I hope to self-heal out of this strange daze
Probably just going through
A grumpy phase.

I often wonder,
sometimes, if I’m
pretty.

My mother and
friends will tell me
it’s a silly question,
but is it? And what
is the answer I’m
looking for?

I know the way
my hair, in russet
mantle clad, springs
down my back is
pleasing to the eye
(at least to mine).

I know the way my
tall figure—yet not like
a statue or a pillar—
asserts itself into
the open air, similar
to a curved vase—at
times smiling, at times
the sudden night.

My hands, perfect
for piano playing
as grandpa always
said, are long stalks
of wheat that reach
toward heaven, wait-
ing to be reaped.

My eyes, green
when choleric
and hazel when
stable, are the
exclamation points
and periods of
my face—who
could interpret
my action-prose
without them?

And my face…
my face…what
do I think of you?

Are you pretty?
Even beautiful?

I can answer
this question
on my own—
without a lover’s
flattering tongue.

Face, you are
like my heart—
blemished of
course, but still
clean and pleasant.

There is indeed
a beauty in your
length and modest
smile—a forehead
too high like my
pride—but still,
balanced—but still,
pretty.

You’ll never see me again. Who’s going to cry for you? This pen writes in black, but its green. I want to dance under a silly disco ball. I want to feel the earth on my skin. dig in the dirt, bury myself in the sand, climb a tree and swim in the sea. looking over me. I want to paint my nails with every color in those kindergarten classrooms, every pattern we learn in geometry. I want to no longer feel the need to look this color (arrow pointing to the color of the paper: red).  I want to do yoga when I can and go for runs and eat healthy. I want to starve and feel hungry and weightless 24/7. I want to make a decision. I want to make music. I want to dance with a stranger, hands held, eyes close and sweaty bodys. I want to get their number and fall in love. I want a movie moment. I want to kiss everyone. I want to be wanted. I want to apologize to everyone. I want to stare into someones eyes; not longingly, but lovingly. I want them to look back just the same. I want them to make me things and work for me and only me. “make sure to write a poem about my prettiness”. I want to have a higher self esteem than her. I want people to come when not directly called. I want to look ****. I want to hold someone ****. I want *** to be my celebration for (arrow for where my self esteem is better). I want to think rationally always. I want to stop disappointing people I care about. I want to know the difference between a good impulse and a bad impulse. I want people to be okay with what I want. I want to sleep. I want to kiss. I want to give up smoking. I want to give up on my quest for the perfection every one speaks of. I want to foster dogs.

we were sisters, weren't we?
i remember when we were young -
everything was easy then, wasn't it?
before your beauty bloomed and
my plainness stayed,
before the curve of your hips and the sparks of your smile,
set my mother's heart on fire.

we were sisters, weren't we?
when we used to kneel by the hearth for fun,
digging up buried treasure,
sifting through the ashes with our clean-girl hearts,
laughing.

that was before the bitterness choked our home.

we were sisters, weren't we?
you used to crawl under the covers with me,
whisper ghost stories and laugh at me when i got scared.
i reflected your prettiness then,
it shone on me like
the sun on a mirror,
my glass face unmemorable and making yours
all the more dazzling
(not that we knew it:
we were both beautiful,
before we knew any better)

we were sisters, weren't we?
i held your hand when my mother cut you with her words,
i stood up for you when she worked you, i did.
i never once raised a word when you would come to my room,
crying and
raving about her.
i held you when your missing for your own mother rose up sharp in your heart, and i
defended you when my mother spread words like thorns in the villages.

i never once envied you your beauty.

we were sisters, weren't we?
and when that prince came for you,
laughing and
pebbling our window with stones,
i helped you shimmy out into his arms.
i would clean the mud off your shoes when you would stumble back in,
right before the sun came up,
i would put you to bed and make you tea to warm the early-morning chill out of your rose-pink cheeks,
and i waited for you that night you didn't come back.

we were sisters, weren't we?

and you left us.

High on the mountain, overlooking the valley,
the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench.
Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V
are houses, all the same, all in a row.
From the bench the village can be watched
It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping
talking about nothing and everything.
Everyone is there down below,
John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread,
Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale.
A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually
Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first.
Those of us that get out, stay out.
Old feuds still burn, families not talking,
not remembering how it started.
Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension,
the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held
in the ***** of the valley.
How green was my valley?
It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire.
Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious
but that valley was poison.

when i was just a little girl
mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
and at four years old, sitting with a mirror
i batted my big green eyes, and simply believed her
for this was just something that i'd always been told
it was a fact of the world that i was beautiful

six years old, with long, blonde curls
and mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
i remembered the phrase, but doubted her words
i had no front teeth, and a voice too soft to be heard
but it must've been true, 'cause mama's don't lie
but how could it be that the prettiest girl would be so shy?

eight years old, with a baseball cap on my head
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i looked down at my soccer jersey and cleats
"if i'm so pretty how come i have such big feet?"
but mama didn't miss a beat, she was so smart
she said, "you're prettiness shines through your great big heart"

ten years old, with a notebook and a pencil full of lead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i barely heard the words, and decided i was fat
pretty girls like shopping, not books and baseball bats
and the pretty girls don't need to constantly be reading
because when you see a pretty boy, a pretty girl is leading

twelve years old, and wishing i was dead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, and i was severely ******
if i'm so pretty then what are all these ugly scars left on my wrist?
but i nodded to my mother, and told her that i knew
maybe i was dying, but i wouldn't bring mom down, too

fourteen years old, lying in my bed
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, but i'd made my peace with that
i'd always be a little ugly, i'd always be a little fat
i didn't look like a model, but that was okay
i never would be pretty, but who cares, anyways?

now i'm fifteen, and i'm starting to be okay
"you're the prettiest girl in the world" is what mama will say
i know i'm not the prettiest, but more importantly, i'm kind
real beauty isn't in the face, real beauty's in the mind
i'm learning to accept the hand that i've been dealt
and i'm starting to heal my heart after all the pain i've felt