"blonder" poems
- Hi, I'm calling to tell you that:
I wrote down everything you ever said to me (in the literal sense, standing stretched against my own uncultured and violently ****** vocabulary)
- And am regurgitating it back to innocent passerby - my sincerest apologies to those poor victims of circumstance, suspended in the projectile ***** of my dysfunctional disdain
(In a slew of worm guts and warm bodies, mama-bird to baby-bird saying "please don't leave the nest" - it's too hot for blankets anyways)
My original letter to you was written on the backside of an airplane **** bag, where I detailed my favorite scenes from a movie we subconsciously made entitled "Baby's First Time", while blissfully unaware of my stern faced in-flight companion.
My first draft, though, was a series of half-hearted winks and very, very drunk texts, beginning with:
SEXT: I offer my services as sacrificial ******
(and followed a whopping six months later by)
SEXT: I am still young enough to accuse you of statutory ****
(The art of seduction seems to be less of an art and more of a particular science)
You are:
- My own personal Edgar Allan Poe, just blonder and younger, with a bigger gut and a bigger ego and (alas!) a complete lack of interest in your sweet Annabel (but I could change my name)
- And oddly enough, I'm the one writing the poems here
(The whole world's a stage, with me just watching your sad indie boy band from the nosebleed seats)
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
whatever. i'm so clever. yeah. whatever. i can break the lame guys in when they give last rites. the deader the better the girls sigh. open up to new norms. electric rules the old worms. fortune anorexic wonder. blonder, longer, simpler, subtler. partial to the flower you think and forever after ....
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
Built on a foundation of wormwood
Cause Absinthe makes the heart grow ... Blonder
Oops, having one of those moments
But isn't that sexist, Redler?
Yea, if you believe in duality
And I'm Dogmatica to an end
My end is Anisotropica
I got there through Riparia
And the Bidirectional Reflectance Distribution Function
BRDF for short
Basically, seeing all sides independent of illumination source
And, of course, interdependent of POV
Okely Dokely
Peas out
And care rotz
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
she has bad tattoos
and wears converse
a totoro hat
over her over bleached hair
sounds familiar
does she watch anime?
does she go to the lego store with you?
does target trips feel the same?
does she comfort you?
do you get the same rush,
when you want to kiss her?
does she let you?
do you get the same nerves,
when you message her on facebook?
do you crave her body,
in the way that you did mine?
so much so that you kept going when I told you no?
do you wish she was prettier,
like you wanted me to be?
do you wish she was blonder,
like the anime character you ********** to?
do you also wish your ***** was bigger,
like I wished it was?
do you also wish that you were more caring to me,
like I wished you were?
do you wish I was still with you..?
do you?
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Aye well let me tell you here
Bout a man to me so dear
When ever after seemed
Like it was simply meant to be
I wish I was a maiden fair
But eyes did stray to blonder hair
So secrets in the dark did keep
And my devotions left to weep
Bowing low before the throne
And pleading never to have known
The last of men to which I bowed
Before I left the solid ground
Now I sail the ocean blue
And the only men here are my crew
So pop the cork and drink away
The sea is where I'll always stay
Now tyrant monarchs may rule the lands
But they cannot stop our merry band
So call us scoundrels and call us thieves
We live on the water and sing to the breeze
So if you are lost, listen to our sound
The wind on the water tells ya you've been found
The compass will guide us so hoist up the sail
The Last Chance is our vessel for which we prevail
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 11:38 AM UTC
For my fellow woman I cringe.
I cringe every time we have a conversation about how white our teeth are...or should be.
I cringe every time we talk about
Our hair,
How soft,
How long,
How short,
How healthy,
How bout how it falls out because I'm starving myself or on some God-forsaken supplement that is nearly killing me.
How bout how it breaks because I **** it wanting it to be
Blonder,
Straighter,
Better.
For the fellow woman I cringe every time we talk about our weight.
Our freaking weight.
My weight.
My **** weight.
My **** exhausted mind.
My **** exhausted body.
.....tired.
TIRED.
Tired of keeping up.
For my fellow woman I cringe,
Because I walked on the treadmill like a **** robot while my body begged for rest.
For my fellow woman I cringe,
Because we play the game.
For my fellow woman I cringe,
Because my young boy asked if I ever considered that my body may be happy just as it is.
My fellow woman,
Consider.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
If someone were
standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe on a camel, maybe with a cough)
along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have heard
two voices
one accented thickly enough to leave an aftertaste,
one small forced into lower registers for old reasons echoed in new habits
bouncing along the water like insects, like light
“Talk to me in Hebrew” “Want
to see me walk on water?”
”I have the same handwriting as
my mother” ”Let’s start a religion”
“You can see it in the R’s”
”I was in a war” ”My shoulders
are turning brown”
“Summer is coming” “Your back is smooth”
”I don’t believe in anything” “I got on a plane”
“My fingers are salty” ”There’s
mud in my mouth”
“Your hair is blonder than yesterday”
“I don’t
love you”
If someone had been
standing on top of a mountain of sand (maybe itchy, maybe pregnant)
along the Dead Sea at four this morning they might have seen
two bodies
one white, one brown
floating on the surface, the light coming over the ripples like a thousand slaves carrying morning on their backs
one head on one chest, one palm on one shoulder
“Nothing can
live in this water”
“I’m trying”
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 8:45 AM UTC
1.
I flew into LA
At sunrise:
Clipped wings,
Pockets of nickels.
2.
I could have died
With my heart exposed
And lips silent
(It would have been easier).
3.
My repressed homosexual tendencies
Got me into your veins.
I can’t taste coffee any more,
Even if I drink it off your smile.
4.
Yes, my mind did go there.
My stomach knots when
I realize I want your hands
Hovering in the darkness.
5.
He doesn’t watch me at night
When your name is fleeting
And my heart throbs too fast.
This could have been ours.
6.
I don’t think women
Look as good in blue, with
LAPD adorning their heaving *******
The gunshot still rings in my eyes.
7.
I wish it were zombies.
Let’s start over from here,
And you can wade my shallow puddle
To begin our end over again.
8.
They’re like us, but older
And younger, and blonder, and
More human than I could ever
Pretend to be.
9.
Goodnight.
It is empty in the abyss
That is the absence of
Your smile.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
You are
The sun-kissed skin that had an iridescent glow
That time we went to an ice cream parlor
For your birthday
The time I almost drowned in that community pool
The game we played with your Mom
An extension of her auburn-soaked locks
Although yours are blonder
But you have the same ruby red smile.
A kind spirit in a tiny body
The eyes that flared with the flames of a gentle spirit.
Days spent as we played with animals
On farms, at the pumpkin patch
We loved them so dearly when we were young.
A two and a half hour commute, yet worth it every time.
Horse riding with our sisters
As we complained about how annoying they were.
The first time we made ceramics
Yours, of course, were better than mine.
The way our parents would tell us
Of memories of ski trips and college endeavors
That made us hope to be university bound
Even though we were in grade school.
Things have changed.
Now you are motherless
As lung cancer took her life
Eight years ago in March.
Which also happened to be the last time I spoke with you.
I remember,
Dad wouldn't let me go to the funeral.
He said I was too young
I couldn't miss school
The usual.
At the time,
I didn't know if I longed to go to honor her
Or to see you.
It wouldn't be the last funeral he denied me
For various reasons.
I still miss her
But I miss you more.
We lost contact
And the questions I had for you at eight
Still resonate in my overbearing brain.
What was it like to lose her?
How did your father cope?
Did your grandparents move in
To take care of you and your young sister?
Do you remember these memories like I do?
Do you ever think about me?
Do you miss me at all?
New questions compete for their spots.
Do you have a boyfriend?
Do you plan to go to college?
Do you still love to draw?
I would assume you are still putting that angelic singing voice
To good use.
I hope I'm right.
Sometimes, I wonder.
Wonder what it would be like
If we still kept in touch.
Dad said your father
Lost contact with him after your mother's passing.
I know, this is petty
But I still miss every summer day
For the first eight years of my life that I spent with
My very first best friend.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
I miss the girl that I once knew
The girl with hair blonder than dust
And cheeks rounder than apples
I miss the girl that I once knew
The girl with nerves of a wet napkin
And legs clumsier than spaghetti
I miss the girl I once knew
The girl who always did what she was told
And was always afraid to speak
I miss the girl I once knew,
That's all true.
But she grew up.
And I don't miss that little girl so much
Anymore.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
I once wrote a poem
Of a girl that I knew
But I no longer feel the same
So take this poem to be true
This girl that I know
Acts blonder than her hair
She likes to put on a show
And got caught shoplifting at Claire's
She surrounds herself with guys
And Miley Cyrus magazines
She has the prettiest eyes
And would die for a benzodiazepine
She hates her size, and her thighs
But she really just can't see
It's in vain that she tries
Because she is nothing but perfect to me
I've never felt better
Than with this girl that I know
She's cuter than an Irish Red and White Setter
Hannah, I love you
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Would he still feel comfortable
in brooks brothers felt trousers or those loafers
with golden ornamentation or with pale white
business cards being traded between moisturized
fingers. With hands clutching a cold metal
pole on the subway and swaying to coltrane
from his headphones would he still trade glances
with the woman in good humor whites with two
black babies and a clear tub of windex and fresheners
and rubber yellow gloves. Or just stand tall and straight
and rigid and lifeless and keep his eyes
on the black floors and the loafers
and the illuminated emails shining from his palm.
With a newer suit and pay raise and the snarling of his new office and the desk with his middle aged secretary, would he still treat her kindly and keep her father's cancer in mind or instead, (next month), ask for a younger blonder girl from a better school (and bigger ****
after the man finally makes his seven figures.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
turn on the shower
hot, hot, hot,
unbraid my hair on the scale
119.9, 2 less than friday,
too much
for my 5 foot tall body.
sit on the shower floor
breathe in only steam,
rest my chin
lipstick marks on my knees
like blood.
my roommate's dark hair
tethered in the grooves of the shower floor,
sweeps back and forth
I twirl it around my finger
force it down the drain.
stand up
too fast, too fast, too fast,
dizzy
sit back down,
try again.
orange face wash
to keep my skin bright
washes away perfectly sculpted
cheek bones and nose
lips pale pink,
I bite them.
charcoal scrub
to clean out pores
blackheads are no good
only smooth skin
will do.
purple shampoo
to keep my hair blonde
purple conditioner
blonder, softer
gentle waves.
pink razor
removes unladylike hair
soft, delicate,
for surface use only
don't cut, don't cut, don't cut.
coffee scrub
to lighten scars
soften stretch marks,
eliminating the reminders
of what my skin,
my body,
has been through.
face in the water,
wash away my tears,
naked face like a child
wet hair dripping down my back
hands and feet pruned.
turn off the shower
twist my hair in a towel
soften skin with lotion,
coconut
boyfriends favorite.
vaseline lips
soft, kissable, desirable,
float to bed
the sheets are clean,
folded in the laundry basket
on the floor.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
a lot can happen in a year, maybe four;
a lot can happen in an hour, maybe more.
talking is fine, but can you take on the risk?
now, i’m not just talking about an ordinary task.
whether it be a lifetime of love, the love of your life,
or one particularly special night,
it all comes down to this:
a right
of passage, a race.
who’s better?
he’s taller, but he has the nice hair;
she’s blonder, while she tries not to care.
he can’t dance, and he won’t try;
she won’t admit to the tear in her eye.
he knows what he wants, and he knows nothing;
she tries to distinguish a little bit of everything.
stop it.
there’s no winning the race yet because his shoe is untied;
she can’t stand and go face that finish line.
he tripped and fell, but so did she;
the other guy ran, only to fall to his knees.
stop panting and collect yourself- just breathe.
a lifetime led to four years, and four years to that day;
she ran and chased too many check points along the way.
afraid of being alone, she asked too many times;
afraid of dancing alone, she asked, but was still denied.
him, him, him, him, he who was possibly that sacred hymn:
one he wondered impatiently,
another he pursued contradictingly,
another he fell flawlessly;
however, no he was to be lawfully,
but only so rightfully.
this is no lifetime, but only
one evening not meant to be lonely.
the only way to win is to face them directly in the eye
and have every question answered. why?
because this is that special night,
senior year, and you have the right.
step back, step up, have courage, calm down.
ASK her to a quaint place in town,
but before she even knows you’re listening,
just as both your hearts are quickening,
surprise HER with that special something.
if she knows, you may think you blew it,
when really, this whole time, she probably knew it.
it won’t be easy, but if it comes from the heart,
there’s the finish line. all you’ve got TO do is start…
ya know, sometimes Poems Reveal Oblivious Messages...
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
I asked myself a question.
The One or the Other?
And I have decided
I'm choosing the One
Yes, the younger
Blonder one.
I'm choosing him.
But will he accept?
That is the question
I must now mull over
A question I must ask myself
Until it is my time
Today.
Today I will find out
And I'm terrified
His answer can break me
Or it can make me.
It can make me fly
Higher than I could
On any drug
He'll probably accept.
What's he got to lose?
Maybe his dignity
If anything
I don't know
I just hope this all goes well
Thanks for reading
I needed support.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
I've realized if you're poison,
I will drink to the bottom of your barrel.
And if I told you summer was two sleeps away,
would you fall in love again?
Or did you swallow all the nice things? The yarn bindings and the leather I collected from beach sand graves?
If I say goodnight to you every morning will you gift me moonbeams like Christmas wrapped knuckles beneath balsam necks in the basement
Recall the theater lights that turned your hair
And ever slightly blonder shade of brown
My sonnet went to hell the same night I threw up mix tapes into cereal boxes
I'm terrified of you and you're as meek as they come
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
I could say I'm still
Drinking ink on the kitchen floor
But that would be a lie
I've moved now
To the rafters of the theater (you know the one)
Perhaps the smell of hot pavement will always call to mind that one night after the concert
(you know, the one with the tambourine)
Perhaps the mildew scent of a basement boiler room will always be their first kiss
And perhaps the stale smell of fire lingering in long hair will always be the night they went on a bear hunt
We all have sacred ground -
The tree where they strung lights and spent one Fourth of July
(And three nights in May)
(And maybe even one in early October)
The theater lobby where the lights turn his hair a slightly blonder shade of brown
Maybe even the coral basement where four girls choked down their first bitter buckets of her father's old beer
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC