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sadgirl May 2018
i have done it again
once a day,
lean

a sort of walking miracle, my skin,
look at my wrist, about ten
my *******

a paperweight
my body clothed in supreme
and bape

peel off the layers of autotune
do i terrify?
or do the rooftops i jump from come back to haunt me?

the wide nose, the pink and blonde
the dilated eyes
all vanish within a recording session

soon, soon the skin
the thots, the tricks
they will be at home on me

and i, a frowning man
only sixteen
and like the cat, i have nine times to live

this is my last leg,
what trash
what lies we tell

with a million filaments of light
the xanax-crushing crowd
stops for one ******* second

and looks down at the stage
the beat starts, my mouth is powder dry
ladies and gentleman

these are my tattoos,
my war paint,
i may be skin and bones

nevertheless, i am far from who i once was
the first time i drank lean, i was ten
my brother dared me

the second time i meant it,
some way to escape
and become liquid
over beats

when i drank too much, they had to call and call
and wash the ***** off me like bloodthirsty leeches
singing/rapping/living

is an art
and like everything else, i do it way too well
i do it so it feels like midnight

i do it so it feels so real
i guess you could say i’m dope
it’s easy enough to loose hope

it’s easy enough to go crazy waiting for fame
but fame comes, and it plays games
come back with me,

to the same place, the same face,
the same dreaming eyes of a high woman
an amused shout,

get out of here, eskeetit
but there is always a change
for the touching of my hair, there is a change

inside, for the eying of my new gucci sneakers
there is a change inside, that rarely goes outside
and there is a change, a really big change

for any pill or drink
or drug
or a strip of fur or silk that i wear with pride

so, so my child, unborn within a groupie
so, my enemy behind a mic or a show curtain
i am your high

i am everything you ever wanted
the pure silver bullet
that melts with no bang or pop

i turn and burn
do not forget, mama’s still concerned
and and

you push and pull
xannies and perkies, there nothing there
a red stripe

across a wrist with
a broken whiskey bottle.
my mother, my father

remember?
remember?

out of the bitter smoke
i rise with rainbow hair
and i devour pills like air
A riff on Sylvia Plath's poem, Lady Lazarus.
Joshua Haines Feb 2018
Gangling ghosts cause trouble inside
this meaty microwave--
I am on these streets and don't know
how I got here.
I'm carrying 2% milk, in my left hand,
and a carton of extra-large eggs in my right--
I drop the jug and it bursts. I joke about how
I still have 2%, but no one laughs because
no one has ever really been around to hear me.
So, I'm scrambling eggs and wishing I had that
milk because who doesn't like voluminous eggs.
I stop whisking and ask who is there.
Why am I afraid of you, Why am I afraid of you
the raw scrambled eggs on the floor, touched by
ceramic seashells.
And it's you.
You are the Lord, a naked lover, that absence
caused by my auto-pilot parents
Forever,
right here.
A T Bockholdt Dec 2017
Cold coffee
spilled jam
blackberry

punched stains
on white
skin

wash away
the sweet
sweat

and clean
the bed
sheets

I want
more than
you

hope calls
one ring
echoes

between us
I reach
you

leave instead
“I am
alone.”

On the
other end
nothing

which might
be better
when

nothing means
exactly the
same

when he’s
here or
not.

Breaking silence
a sigh
“Oh,

my Dear
what a
waste.”
This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

Another Plath imitation, "My Mother Called to Say," is another poem reflecting the anxieties of being female dependent on only being "whole," and created through a man's desire.
Charming Blather Nov 2017
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?---
When I look at you:
I am going to look at you while the
napkin is slowly peeled from
my face.
I am going to look at you
while I stand rooted into the ground,
my feet covered in cloth, rooted into reality.
Into the Earth
I manage it---
I have done it again.
I have won the theatrical:
beaten the odds, defeated the Queen--Myself:
a goddess. A God.
Beware.
Beware.
I do not rise like the ashes;
I sink like a charm.
Joshua Haines Oct 2017
No doorknobs exist on this floor.
I can't find any outlets.
The belt that lady--I didn't mean to
disappoint--bought me is coiled,
surrounded by Tupperware walls.
A nurse checked herself in. No
affect; asking for charge; reset.
I'm twenty and letting down my dad.
My belt used to live at JC Penny
and has navy-outlined bass on it.
One of the counselors is black,
from Africa, was adopted, moved
here to be raised by two JP Morgan
lifers, played collegiate soccer, married,
got pregnant, lost the boy--which he said
he had a feeling it would have been.
So, he can relate.
No doorknobs exist on this floor.
I am twenty and this exists in the past.
Wheeling in due to an inability to walk
--totally her brain's fault; a real former-
controllable, current-uncontrollable thing
that her mind pulled on her, on account
from the cold, Vaseline touch of a relative
--this redheaded girl pretends to smile
before apologizing for pretending to smile.
Our black counselor, former soccer player
and father says to not apologize and that
we are all pretending, all the time, even
when we don't think we are.
I find this strangely comforting.
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