"buchanan" poems
Gatsby, Gatsby, oh you protagonist young man;
To work for a millionaire and be a soldier.
To do criminal activity just for a single girl
Who once did love you but never will again.
With all your fabulous wealth and fame;
In that mansion you live in filled with Goth
Having lavishing parties on late Saturday nights;
Not to mingle but to look, to look for her.
Living in the West Egg with a distant view
Of a lake in front to separate you and your love.
Only a light of green to comfort your loneliness;
With a friend as your only connection to them.
You are the mysterious type of man that you are.
A person whom no one knows where he is from,
What he does in life or how he makes his fortune.
But in reality you are from a farm in North Dakota.
You are also a flawed, dishonest, and ****** man;
Lie about your past and the name that people know.
Left your farm life at age 17 to change who you were;
Forgot your name as Jimmy Gatz to become Jay Gatsby.
Jay Gatsby, Jimmy Gatz, you did this for your love;
For the love you had for Miss Daisy Buchanan, for her.
As a man, you were known to be extraordinary optimism;
For you were determine to take your dream and make it a reality.
The dream that you had of only you and her.
A dream that was too far from reality;
So far that it blinded you from true reality.
This dream is what brought death upon you.
For Jay Gatsby and Jimmy Gatz are one and the same.
Both blinded by love for Miss Daisy Buchanan.
Both determine to change their social status
Both dreamt a dream that would not come true.
But yet both denied the truth of themselves.
For this brought the death and the heartache
Of a father who knew so little of his only son.
For a friend who truly knew nothing of him at all.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
I'm a Beautiful Fool
Daisy Buchanan said,
It's the best thing a woman could be -
a Beautiful Fool.
That's me.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
"shall we?" Jay Gatsby uttered.
we took each step
cautiously,
as if we were
treading carefully
on each other's
soul.
and it made me a little sad,
that I could never be his
anymore.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
She described me as Tom Buchanan.
She immediately said that I wasn't violent like him,
but that I could easily be him...
I could easily show his side.
I could be brutish and abusive
and dishonest and an adulterer
and greedy and pretentious.
I could be all of those things so easily.
It's as if a switch goes off in my brain that says,
***"Hey, let's be an ******* today."***
I don't want to be.
I don't want to be seen as Tom Buchanan.
I don't want to be the man who hurts so many
and truly loves so few.
I want to be so much more than that.
I don't necessarily want to be like Daisy or Jordan or Myrtle or Nick or
even like Gatsby himself.
I want to be like myself.
I want to be the girl that I'm meant to be
and I know that I am not right now
nor have I been for quite some time.
I just want to be the woman God made me to be and
I'm tired of being such a catastrophe in the making and
for ruining and hurting those around me.
I don't want to be that girl.
I don't want to be like Tom Buchanan.
I want to be me...
The real me.
...who am I?
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
THE BOXING DAY SALES
WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO
DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE
IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER
THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY
BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE
AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN
KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL
LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE
YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY
IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL
NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY
CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY
CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY
TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU
TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH
YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST
AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD
AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES
TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED
I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL
I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING
BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN
AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING
THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT
I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON
YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES
I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG
THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI
I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH
BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL
I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING
THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN
A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE
WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN
I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING
JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY
DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE ***
TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN
I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST
BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT
AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES
AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE
BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE
THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
(this is a revised version of my earlier poem, "i like to wear big hats")
on a day between winter and summer that does not feel like spring
i stand in the mirror and pinch my cheeks 'til my eyes water
to make them look like roses.
i put on my great grandmother's gray cloche hat
and pretend i am a famous actress playing daisy buchanan
in the great gatsby.
teary eyed, i gaze beyond my own reflection
and listen to that man.
"don't you love me, daisy?"
the phone rings.
it's you.
we see a romantic comedy, which fills us both
with something like cotton candy.
but it's temporary so we get chinese food
because you say you like sweet
and sour pork.
i never liked the aftertaste.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Let’s go back to 1.
To start again, to meet you, to seventeen, to yellow
and hugs, to hammers and strings.
Nobody knew me then, and I ****** up
told them the true story.
Let’s go back, and I’ll tell you a different one.
It started out a prepschool fantasy. I had a
Great Perhaps, and you
(were there, probably)
And then I ****** up, my friend.
I’d like to revert to 1: a second round
I’m ready, now.
Hello, nice to meet you
Would you like to have a drink with me?
I will say yes. I will be thin again for you
And when you touch my arm
I will not shrink
from you.
Let us. Let me, at least
Revert to 1
and promise
(I do—to do better now).
On money-soaked leather, we’ll make angels
no I’m sorry—we’ll make amends
I will talk breathy and flutter my eyelashes; I will be Daisy Buchanan
a rosewater anachronism that needs no cigarettes and no pretense, only
Attention
(I stood at, when you said goodbye)
There will be no end. There was no end. Not a goodbye.
On rust-red rooftops we will soliloquize
(about what?) (it doesn’t matter)
We will throw lit matches and watch how fire makes its mark
And we will separately wonder where it goes
and—are you listening?—we will watch the sunrise
and I will tell my daughter about that day when she is older.
A prepschool fantasy. We will drink to the word “contraband”
and it will be 1966—the rich kids’ 1966, the whitewashed one we pretend we are ashamed of.
I will be Daisy Buchanan, and thin again for you.
Let’s go back to 1. I would love to
try again, and better now.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
No matter how much you come to mind, you are not mine
and when I leave the feeling of muscle memory coats me in your toxins, your sweet toxins, an odor I'm already fond of
coaxed I am by you, for you and no matter how much I want or crave to be even near you and have you around, to laugh and cry with
you won't be there
Here we go again and I will not give into my own dreams and wishes, we were so close today, I felt your breath from a mile away and your lips on mine for that brief second before your head peered away and looked towards a sea of distraction
Who can touch me tonight and make my skin feel bare?
I feel the hands of the sun roaming my skin as my lower back is held in a warming embrace, but I will not loose my mind as my breathing and heart beats.
A sorry letter is what I meet when I return home and I view the handwriting, recognizing it's yours a little clarification point you recite to me every now and then, I've got it mate.
People have plans and I wanna help others, as they try an encourage me to get through, oh if only they truly knew, I still smell you you're here, Ha!
Honestly I'm not gonna leave you behind, no matter what heat you might have had for me, you think you're better on your own, caress my thighs and grip my *** like it's completely fine, it doesn't mean anything to me.
Maybe I should leave, and react the normal way, but I can't because I just don't care, this is a Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby thing? Minus the money and on off love.
No this is a different version, filled with lust and lack of concern, it's like you have no emotions that reside in you, only hands and a **** that control you
others might say I should escape and hate you, cause I'll be better on my own without the venom of someone who's not even there.
You're not a Tom Buchanan, but you're certainly a Jay Gatsby my lord
Why should I escape though, I'm okay, I'm not dead and I haven't been stripped of everything even if I know not where his hands have been, its just an illusion
Not Real At All
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
The gentle pull on my waist as sleep left your body.
The steady stare as the alcohol and lust consumed you.
Your strong and firm kiss when you could not convince me that you loved me more.
The unabated honesty as you confessed that I'm your Daisy Buchanan, and she's our Tom.
The look of sorry deep within your tired blue eyes.
The way you say coffee and hockey and my name.
When you talk about our kids and our home and your job and our future and us.
The anger when you think about him or her or it.
The gentle pecks on my forehead and fingers through my hair and interlaced fingers.
And when you let me in and let me look through the window to your heart.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
You were a good man who died to soon
You had a great heart
You was the type that would do anything for anyone
You'd put people you cared about before yourself
Give them your last dollar...the clothes off your back
But like the rest of us
You had your issues
And all though you never showed it..
life messed you up
••••••••••••••••
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:09 AM UTC
for Jay Buchanan
Clearer than a ringing bell,
calling me to stand beneath you--
I am rapt in music’s spell;
your subject, in your thrall I dwell.
Swaying slowly to the beat,
as I stand before your feet,
I yearn to touch, but thrill in listening,
and watching your sweat-drenched body,
glistening.
Recorded song brings me much pleasure,
but it cannot match the measure
of an evening in the presence
of your fleshly, human essence.
I stand witness at the living
breathing body, angelic singing.
Mournful verse, hypnotic chorus
throb in heartbeat’s time before us.
So close to me, you drip with sweat;
flip your hair and I’ll get wet--
drench me with your raw emotion,
drown me in an aural ocean.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
Presidents
Washington, Adams and Jefferson,
had *** with slaves just for fun.
Madison, Monroe and Adams,
I'm sure had secret madams.
Jackson, Van Buren and Harrison,
not sure how they ever won.
Tyler, Polk and Taylor,
before elected lived in a trailer.
Fillmore, Pierce and Buchanan,
should have been shot from a cannon.
Lincoln, Johnson and Grant,
each once had a cotton plant.
Hayes, Garfield and Arthur,
sinking fast with no life preserver.
Cleveland, Harrison and again Cleveland,
both of them killed at least one Indian.
McKinley, Roosevelt and Taft,
all too fat to float on a raft.
Wilson, Harding and Coolidge,
should have jumped from a bridge.
Hoover, Roosevelt and Truman,
wondering if they were even human.
Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson,
neither of them can still run.
Nixon, Ford and Carter,
not sure which one was smarter.
Reagan, Bush and Clinton,
shot, stupid and a Monica.
Bush and now Obama,
one was dumb,
and the other looks like a black llama.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Keep Pat and Chris in, we need them to be shy boys
2 of the coolest kids in school were suddenly locked in a basement
By a hooded bandit, who wants them killed, and nobody can save them
Except for shy boys Brendan and Brian, but because they were shy boys
They prefer to play together in Brian's room, and forgetting about the silly fact
That Pat and Chris were being held captive in a basement
Their parents were worried, but Brian and Brendan didn't care
All they wanted to do is play little shy boys games and let Pat and Chris suffer
Pat yelled out, come on Brian, be a little cool kid, and save your mate Pat
I will like you forever, and ever forever to come
But of course Brian didn't believe in that sort of tripe and said to Brendan
Do you think we should save Pat and Chris, buddy and Brendan said, no Brian
Let, them suffer, you see those two think nobody will capture them
No, Brian you aren't like them, no dude, be a little cool kid, and stay with me
I will show you how to be a real cool kid, and we will much around forever, dude
Brian said, yes, I aren't like Pat and Chris, they are two Christiana who believe
That God will save them, well, where is their God now, yes this is sweet revenge
Pat and Chris are my two little shy boys, keep them there, Charnwood murderer
Brian and Brendan went outside at night to find where Peter Buchanan
Lived so they can have some fun and on their way, Brian and Brendan
Ran into a prowler and ran as hard as they could to get away
While Brian and Brendan got back home before he caught them
The prowler said the next day at the mall, treat Brian and Brendan like shy boys
As long as we have Pat and Chris, that is all worth while
And Pat and Chris were screaming so loud they can be heard from the other side
Of the world and beyond, and Chris was yelling, let me go you ****** punk
Or I will get my fiat free, and whack it straight through your fucken head
And Pat said, I will bash you up, mr kidnapper, and he said, come on Chris and Pat
Treat Brian and Brendan like two little cool kids, you 2 aren't like us anymore
Treat them like cool kids or you will be tied up here forever
And Chris was gagged and buried alive in a coffin, but Pat was free
Because he promised to treat Brian and Brendan like 2 cool kids
But he will still tease then a little, so Pat went to Brian and Brendan's house
And teased them by saying, you kids no nothing about the world
You go about thinking you are better, but your ****
But your still cool kids. So don't stray away, you are 2 cool kids
I will never let harm get in your way, cause you are both cool kids
Chris was being buried, and Pat told Brian because Brian teaeed Pat
Then a young hooded man came around and tied up Brian and Pat
And then locked them both in a cage together, while Brendan
Was being buried alive with Chris, and Brian and Pat, are now victims
Of this kidnapping that was planned to get Pat and Brian together
And the man yelled, ding **** the kid's are dead
We have Brian and Par with us, the kids are dead
But who gives a **** so ding **** Brian and Pat are dead
With Brendan and Chris, oh yeah they are so dead to us
Brian and Pat were struggling saying to each other, why have you snatched us
We are your cool kids, and we are cool kids, your a **** mate
And now, Brendan, Chris, Brian and Pat dead
The world is free of the cool kids, let the vonerable run
****** *********
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Are you happy, Daisy
with your voice all full of money
and your golden locks blowing?
Do you hide your face
embarrassed by Tom's racist harangues
while seeking comfort in the embrace
of your careless, noble friends?
Have you ever seen shirts
as nice as these or suits so pink
and glimmering of tea cakes
and novelty on sweltering Manhattan
gilded ash-worn evenings?
Are you happy now sauntering
through inconsequence adrift in moonlight
and forgetful of your maiden promises
as the air sweeps over that fragile
crown and you swerve drunkenly
about lane to lane letting me
face the consequences worrying
only about you?
The inebriation is mine alone to bear.
That's all I want for you,
the dignified Mrs. Buchanan—
as a moth I fly toward green flame,
enamored—remembering your smile
& eyes as they were!
My heart's last beats are for you,
and I just want to know you're happy
as the transparent water that drowns me
warms and grows turbid like America
and my selfish love.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.
Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.
The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a big black coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.
The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.
I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?
Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.
And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.
I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’
Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.
And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’
I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
You are a budding Casanova
A Brett Ashley in the making
Rhett Butler would be proud
Daisy Buchanan might bat her eyelashes
George Wickham would tip his hat
That's all you ever wanted
To be wanted
To be "loved"
You won't get it by chasing every person who enters your life
It doesn't work that way
It isn't that easy
But how would you know?
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Dear Daisy Dilly Dalley
You noticed I wrote Dilly Dally,
It's because I've been to large valleys,
Roamed through the darkest alleys,
Saw exquisite masterpiece in art galleries,
Met people named Margaret and Mallory
But I still can't address you as Daisy Buchanan.
The green light across the pier still flickers
And even though I bicker
with my subconscious state of mind,
I wonder, is this luxury life-
worth living without you?
Without you by my side?
The green light is but a taunt now,
saying go- yet at the same time
creating a tension in my heart-
saying this.....
will never happen.
Please come back to me,
or at least write a letter back to me-
Give my best to Tom as well...
Love you always,
Jay Gatsby
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Is there a better tradition than Halloween?
When I was a child, cloaked in the velvety darkness,
The night felt like it was crackling with electricity, possibility.
Swapping candy, riding the trailer, being out late on a school night;
I realized from a young age nothing emboldens you like friends and the nighttime.
When I was a freshman in college, I saw Rocky Horror for the first time.
"Creature of the Night" rings in my ears as I
Put on makeup,
Take a swig of *****
Place on the final touches of my costume.
Halloween becomes a blurred vision of masks, laughter, and kisses.
Locking eyes across a room,
I am more alluring as
Daisy Buchanan
Holly Golightly
A fairy
Mary Poppins
Alice in Wonderland.
They're all cute, animated, familiar, warm.
Each day after Halloween is a sickly feeling,
nausea from overindulgence
I will always be emboldened by the night.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
The literal worst.
Some might say Nixon- the criminal in charge
Martin for the tear he let the native’s tread
Hoover for the shanty towns that rose
Fillmore who let the escaped and finally free be returned to captivity.
John Taylor the whig who wasn't a whig but manifested his Ideas in us going west.
Warren G Harding and the Affairs
James Buchanan who started the war.
But the worst were the ones who never got to be.
The literal worst because I got to see a world that will remain unknown to me.
And they are:
Jessie
Charlene
Victoria and Shirley
Belva
Elaine
Carol ‘n Patsy and
Cynthia McKinney
And who can forget Joan Jett Blakk the black Drag Queen
Because Despite what the winners want you to think WE do not look like James Buchanan!
Warren Harding!
John Taylor and all the other men who have persisted to reign.
And still, we sit here and watch as all other make strides in the field we claim to have created.
Brazil
Germany
India
Israel
Iceland
Ireland
Liberia
Norway
Pakistan
The Philippines
Sri Lanka
South Korea
And the UK
I hope I live long enough to see America rise to the silent challenge of its peers.
To see a woman at the podium
To see a woman at the desk.
To see
The black woman
The trans woman
The bisexual woman
The old woman
The unmarried, unmothered woman
The minority woman
The asexual woman
The not so average American woman woman.
The bleeding woman.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Daisy Buchanan
Once said
That there was nothing better
A girl could be in this world
Than a beautiful
Fool
When I smile
With flowers in my hair
And innocence
Pooled with naivety
In my eyes
I hate myself
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
His voice is full of money. A masculine imitation of Daisy Buchanan, raised by southern rich folk who once might've migrated from somewhere up north. He was tall and fair, sophisticated but still youthful in the shadows of his speech. He appeared god-like, a prince heir to the throne of a cloud's eternity, towering over you like riches in the sky, full of untouchable beauty, just out of reach.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
*I want someone to love me
like jay gatsby
loved daisy buchanan.
c.r.k.*
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC