#joyce
It was cold. Outside and in it was cold! You know it would be warm where ever you brought me. I knew too. Two lost hearts walking with out holding hands. That would come later and one heart would find salvation. Cobblestone and brick the color of blood basking in our desired misery. My desired misery that you remedied one time, one night. I would give that back now if I could. It is better to be alone and loved than unwanted and discarded. It is better to be alone and loved, than unwanted and alone. Like a carrot on a stick, tease, all of it. I would give that all back to you my friend. All of it, I no longer feel my heart flutter with your name, I feel my stomach tie and growl. I do not want your life in mine. Not this way, not at all, poor thing, old love. I might live less but my soul is ok. Its a new year, I will breathe until I can not and I will sing.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 9:34 PM UTC
Happy.
To me, this word is beautiful but fragile.
Like a very rare flower, that could wither in your hands.
I guess that’s the mistake of many people.
When they find that flower, they puck it because they think in this way
they could keep it forever, keep it alive.
Instead, they should look at it and adore it.
But we are unable to do that.
We are ruining our own happiness.
At least that’s what I have been doing all my life.
And you know, happiness is not unlimited.
At least for people like me, after a few times, a few opportunities.
There is nothing left.
There is nothing left, because you ****** up the first times.
And then your life is like a garden without flowers.
Without color and butterflies.
Only the tall, cold trees.
Gloomy.
A life in the twilight.
And you are getting jealous at the people, whose garden is full of flowers.
Everyone around me was happy, while I was miserable.
But nobody knew, and I wanted to be happy, too…
That’s one thing that made it worse.
The desire to be happy, but with the disability.
And when a desire is not satisfied, it gets stronger and stronger.
Happy. That was my desire.
And it still is.
And it will forever be.
And so I wander around in my flowerless garden.
Between the tall, cold trees, in the creeping shadows.
For the rest of my life.
Like a widow, who lost her man too early.
Covered in black.
Faceless.
Shapeless.
Fading away, as the years go by.
Will the happy people remember me?
I don’t think so.
And if they do,
only as Joyce.
That Joyce, who was denied happiness.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 6:25 AM UTC
Each dull wheeze
— half-glass-filling lungs, tarred —
records my moments
like reel-to-reel tape
And the heart is a quivering branch
If not a paperweight
Pinning will and testament to the
desk
That plastic wine “glass”
turned out
to be
glass after all
My woman throws me punches
with the gentle touch
— all the virility —
of a little, lonely, old man
feeding bread
to ducks
Then goes to work on the meat of her hand
with the glass
Damages the nerves in her thumb
tussle ensues
My arms are covered in blood
That two-penny copper smell
sister’s fella has anger issues
and wants a straightener
Tells me I need a job —
Is this not work?
If I had Molly’s blessing
I’d go to work on this son of a *****
But she’s crying
And begs me not to
Begs him to calm down
I wanted to widow her
Her
And my bleeding wife
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 9:29 AM UTC
Voidward, Sindark, starknell, Seraphim
Wow! Weird words woven in each other
Neither librarian nor dictionary can help
To figure them out, you have to ask him
All against Imagist instructions
- Where is common language? –
Poem needs to alter its definitions!
Will intellect select help?
Can we get out of the vague cage?
Look! One of the words shaken
Burden of ambiguity, taken
Scorpions shout: send me an angel!
Calm down singer! I said
Look the last word, it’s indeed an angel!
Coming down from heaven with a mantel red
No one can’t help watching, even dead
This is Seraphim! Don’t hesitate to ask him!
Said player of Being wearing ****** red
But I extremely fear of him
It may be a devil in disguise
Like a child I take refuge in ***** of my mom, kim
Although it’s against what done by all other guys
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 11:40 AM UTC
Brightness, darkness, falling both
softly from the spring-time air
teasing dormant life to growth
turning green the golden hair
of grasses dried and brittle now
to the Pleiades they bow
in thanks for rain, which brings new life
to pools and ditches, dark and rife
with strange concoctions, shadowed roots,
tendrils fine exploring through
the muddy depths to find a new
embankment where they push up shoots.
Brightness falls, the rains of spring
Closing now the season's ring.
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
I just read the first page
of James Joyce’s ‘novel’
Finnegan’s Wake;
Joyce makes up new words
and uses so many new words
that I could not comprehend
what Joyce had written.
Should authors make effort
to use words
which their audience
can understand?
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
Face me to the east,
on a riverside run dry.
Tone callously
commenting as an aside.
Judge the unjudged, remind them at their peril.
Eskimos knew no god, and now priests send them to hell.
The sky is a bridge between which humanity sits.
Part the dried flake of my rest, I'll bear the split.
Then pardon myself for having ever exist.
There's a bear in my soul,
and she clamors to remain within.
First Nations knew no devil,
until we taught them about sin.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
Yellow soap for a yellow me.
I don't feel like being pure
means being happy.
- I scrub scarring
with more definition
than a dictionary.
Moldy bread kissing
gravid navel oranges,
in a cherry plastic rib cage.
- Can you find me altruism
hidden in the heart
of ecstasy and rage?
Satellite bobbing above
the air supply,
are you out of reach or am I?
She was taking pictures
of us in the aphotic zone.
Saying, it was the only way
to capture me vulnerable.
Extirpate my species
to save my life.
I am saturnine for
the only adoration I accept
is mine.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
Altogether, the night we wove
a trickled treasure, tangled:
skirted legs spilling out from
the teacup of a denim lap,
validation in the vacuum cove.
- Dusty Nikes before the dusk,
who art in heaven, my god
he thrusts.
- Why'd your mother
let you talk that way:
You smoke cliche cigarettes
in such an unfamiliar way.
- The hanger left welts, weeping
into post-relevance landline love,
body lay like the hands on the clock,
copper landmarks seeping.
What a feeling, ever so same.
Arched eyebrows, a trademarked shame:
like a fighter, like ****** oozing.
Like a functional inability,
divine in its losing.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
(alternate title: in which i reference three things)
there is snow general
all over Ireland
and that's all I know
about Ireland
except that it rarely snows
all over Ireland
so that's what makes the
holiday special
clear white gleam so we
can have epiphanies
and during these epiphanies
we realize sacrifice passion love
is better than things
we can control
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
There was no hope
for Dubliner Dedalus:
a shift from naturalism
into the bizarre
Not enough to effuse
or diffuse: a hero
in the firmest sense
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
James, you make my eyebrows feel so heavy.
To think: if I never find the one and one make too many empty glasses were broken in the mud-
dled my words when she asked for the time for bed –
All during my morning constitutional.
Take your ***** on the Mount and your Sin of the Farter
Because I know there’s nothing behind the artist except falling towers and furniture-sellers.
But can the deaf still listen?
Or should I care what’s inside a box I can never open?
And how many carriages will follow my coffin
And who will be my wormeaten neighbors
And which tongue will be employed to engrave the epitaph
And topped by what symbol or none?
In the beginning the first two words began to breed
And each generation issued reduplication
Evolving vestigial verbiage and new punctuation
All the way down to a young Poet-Hero-Creator:
Use illusory contours to paint the gravity between heavenly bodies, and use
The shared human experience of multistable perception to imply the gestalt of Dublin
(and be sure to use that German term).
We are the artificers of meaning.
Item: the location of the key.
Cat: things I should be thinking about but am not.
Item: the *** organs of strangers and acquaintances.
Category: things I should not be thinking about but am.
Item: the autobiographical component of Shakespeare’s later works.
Cat: things I need you to know that I think about.
Item: the possibility that my presence is not nearly as commanding as I’d formerly assumed.
Item: the increasing inebriatory similarities between myself and my father.
Item: the fear of losing my memory of Mother’s face,
as directly correlated to the expanding passage of time.
Cat: things I need you to think I don’t think about, at all.
Picture a symphony.
Hold the moment when the lights first fall and the cacophony of tuning
Floods into a single, synthesized vibrating tone. After the silence and before the song.
Write what you hear.
Write the chords in semiotic rhyme; transcribe harmony as memory:
Sing lived and unlived love and stride through on inkblot feet.
Now add the missing notes.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
God willing to
play the character
and dress us up accordingly
I want puce gloves and
green boots: a contradiction
Do I contradict myself?
very well then, I contradict
myself
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Heart going like mad
yes, to my mountain flower
I said, I would, yes
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Rejoice!
Joyce!
The girl killed in a tragic car accident
in 1973.
Picked up from the earth.
You were lifted tenderly
to a place
coveted by
forlorn corpses
that walk New York City
in their dry-cleaned business suits,
attending the ritualistic Sundays
in cross buildings.
While it soaks in,
while death is now the life
you live
there’s a
ship coming crewed
by all your favorite people you never knew.
Every missed connection,
lost crush,
pets passed away
they echo in song
to the Nursery shores
your bare feet freshly plant
on.
Joyce Wells,
Farewell!
You’re on to another road, now.
This revenant path
with more sudden turns than Lombard street
on clammy mornings.
However the incessant
afterlife treats you
it was nice to know you, Joyce Wells.
We’ll all miss you dearly.
You’re currently in a Morgue
at some cinder block hospital.
You’re currently on a viking ship
set for a frosty-tipped valley across the sea with
Molly, a stray cat your family adopted when you were three,
and Micheal Donahue, your first love.
While the world keeps spinning,
while your casket is buried.
While in 1974 it rains,
there’s an ease in knowing
that Joyce Wells would be
delighted to hear
that she was
freed.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
"Tell me to stop if
you want me to stop." God, that
was a **** good dream....
Hope of her future,
one there before her, crying.
freedom: white stockings
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
The day of
her affair
And Poldy
-in love-
allowing it
A father invites a son
into the kitchen,
talking before
he walks
him
out
Reentering
the house at night
filled with evidence
of Boylan
Crumbs brushed
off the bed
-ten years
since-
Feet at the head
and head at the
foot, a behind
kiss to Gea-tellus
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
To be like
the older
Dedalus
blood wooed
by grace of
language and
gesture,
blushing
conceding
to take a
cigarette
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC