"caulfield" poems
i don't/can't/won't/shouldn't/ write this essay
instead i'll write poems
in procrastination
about girls that don't exist
guys that don't know i exist
unicorns i wish i was riding
holden caulfield
my brother
death and general grayness
procrastination poems
are better than my essay
writing essays are 95% procrastination and maybe 2% work
3% denial
this poem is already longer than my essay is
should i get to work or
read another article on my favourite band
or hover over the email tab
someone talk to me? no?
but music!
no good music is this a sign
minutes tick by drawing closer to midnight
my fingers have yet to fly over keys
like a reporter's with the Next Big Thing
i suppose i will sleep
and let the essay write itself
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Tormented by his past
And by his open mind
This sad and tired young man
Did try at last and fast
To escape from real life.
Death of young sibling,
Elder brother’s absence,
Gore and agony
Experienced in the past
From a boy who jumped at last.
This is the basic background
Of Holden’s dreadful past
And he of twisted mind
He who feels hopeless
Holden is crying in the inside.
Children game recalled
The Catcher in the Rye
Wishing he was the one
Children’s worriless lives
When everything was alright.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
I'm going to marry a writer.
How could I not?
She won't be Holden Caulfield because I'm too much of a phony.
She won't be Gatsby because I'll never be a Daisy.
She won't be the moon because I'll never shine as bright as the sun.
I won't be Caulfield, but she won't be a phony.
I won't be Gatsby, but I'll fall madly in love with her.
I won't be the moon, but she'll shine brighter then the sun.
We'll drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, stay up to late.
We'll wear sweaters and carve pumpkins and listen to Tigers Jaw.
We'll read books and we'll write poetry and we'll live our lives.
with each other forever.
We will live happily
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
when you hear someone
discussing
the wedding
instead of
the marriage,
just remember
the phoniest
are also
the loneliest
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
I promised you I'd take you away
From here one day
And that's a promise I intend to keep.
If given the chance,
I would take you with me on my every daily endeavor
And I would kiss you with every passing second
To make up for all the ones you deserved
But didn't receive
When I was just a little girl
And the world was turning it's back on you
So harshly.
And I would be criticized
For my loving you;
Too wide of an age gap,
To vast of a difference
But I am closer to you
That I have ever been
With anyone else.
I will take you to the beaches of California
I have never seen
And I will make love to you
In the crisp Colorado air,
So long as you're willing to run with me.
We can go to New York
And skip rocks in the pond
In Central Park where Holden Caulfield
Almost drowned himself because he was drunk,
But not quite as drunk as I perpetually am
On your excellence.
Maybe we could go to the Natural History Museum
And we could look at the really cool Indian statues
That emulate my love for you
By never changing.
Wherever it is you want me to go
I will follow you with no questions asked
So long as when I'm finally able to save you
From this wretched place,
You will take my hand and save yourself
With me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
my jewels bestowed onto me are hanging from my dead limbs like a noose,
but due to my inferior intellect, these delusional gods will bring me to hell's gates
for the world's stigma on my definition of jewels has a red stamp with
the words WARNING on it, my dull inane shadow cannot compare
to the hundreds suffering in the same recession i am, mouths are speaking
to me, but my ears aren't listening, like once the repeated record from you
plays, a sound proof room surrounds the vicinity and intrudes the space
between you and me, my body is not translucent, i was carved out of
marble but vines and weeds entangled my crevices and made me grotesque
this dystopia people are telling me about that i live in is a utopia to myself
i'm near the condition of declining into a whirlwind of nothing and i'm fine
with it, as long as Holden Caulfield catches me when I fall into the rye alone
- kra
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
My childhood was a lonely one,
sat dust-lunged in my room,
while others had fun,
I'd sit in the gloom.
Surrounded, with old books and toys,
football, at all, wasn't my thing.
Not 'one of the boys',
my own lonely king.
Ruled empires, of plastic and prose,
my imagination, sensational flights of ideas!
It actively rose,
along with my fears.
Oh! But if chance would be given,
to redo those days in new ways,
same way I'd live 'em,
in radiant haze.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
it is easy to become lost in the blinding lights of new york city
and the deafening sound of yellow taxi cabs and screaming
neighbors and the chatter of mundane conversations between
people who are ghosts in every sense of the word with
their paper thin hearts and transparent minds and the inability
to feel something other than the heavy weight of coffee
in their stomachs
it is easy for people to say that when new york city was made
God himself struck down and said "let their be light" but all i ever
see is the blur of motion as everyone runs to jobs they
all hate working with people they despise and then spending
their money at stars that don't even shine in poorly lit movie
theaters when the real ones are in the sky and in new york
every expensive restaurant is vegan friendly and boasts animal
rights and shames everyone who doesn't but no one
ever wonders what happens to the ducks in central park during december
it is easy to fall in love with new york city.
with the magic that it spreads with the euphoria that you feel being
surrounded by others with it's almost frightening ability to
take away your loneliness and manipulate you into thinking you
are happy, it is easy to fall in love with new york city.
it is also easy for you to say that you lost yourself in new york
because even when you say it no one will hear you
over the sound of madison square garden and it is easy to
call new york paradise it is easy to call it the city that never
sleeps because everyone stuck there is paralyzed
(h.l.)
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
i get it.
you're more frustrated than Holden Caulfield.
don't blame the taxes
for your poverty,
blame the suits who impose the taxes.
"Gosh **** it, my phresh new frames broke."
but her anger made her happy.
Jamaican me frustrated.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Where I'm from multicultural means multicultural and not just “lacking in white people”.
Where I'm from people say they're from Toronto even though they hate the Jays, Raptors and Leafs and hardly ever go into the city itself.
Where I'm from any day can be cynically mundane enough to read The Catcher In The Rye and mistake it for the Gospel according to Holden Caulfield.
Where I'm from everyone hates the mall, but everyone's a mall rat and if you ever go you see everyone, at least everyone you hate, and buy nothing.
Where I'm from there's signs that say “Flowertown” everywhere and an unremarkable amount of flowers. Unless there is a remarkable amount of flowers and where I'm from everyone's just spoiled.
Probably spoiled.
Where I'm from you could walk to Tim Horton's but you drive to Starbucks anyway.
Where I'm from everyone's considering a career in rap. Even the people who aren't considering a career in rap are considering a career in rap.
Where I'm from every teenager will tell you their Michael Cera encounter story.
Where I'm from is where he's from too, or he went to school there, or near there, or now his parents live near there. He's been there, multiple times, I'm sure.
Where I'm from there's an old quarry that everyone calls a lake now. Swimmers used to circulate the urban myth of a dead body at the bottom, until they found it. Now they just circulate the stale news story.
Where I'm from there used to be trees. Nature put some there until we cut them down to build. Then the people put some there to accent the houses until Nature piled ice on them and cut them down again.
Where I'm from someone needs to have a good talk with this Nature fellow.
Where I'm from the brand new hospital screams, “good things come to those who wait, and wait and wait, unless you need to see a specialist. Then you're ******
Where I'm from there are streets that have so many young kids playing on them that ice cream trucks aren't allowed to go there. They go anyway.
Kids learn early that the law is optional where I'm from.
Where I'm from people don't pronounce the “gua” in “Chinguacousy Park”. Kids used to spend time there splashing around diluted *** in the kiddie pool in summer and tubing down the landfill mountain in winter. Now they just pass it by on the way to the mall.
Where I'm from car insurance costs more than cars because everyone's late, lost and angry, but none of them would call themselves a bad driver, just unlucky.
Where I'm from boys take pretty girls skating at Gage Park. I guess they take ugly girls there too, I just know the one I took was pretty.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
she asked if i knew what i wanted when i was 18
of course i ******* knew what i wanted back then
that is when i first fell in love with a soul sucker
and my life whent completely off course. what i wanted
****** me over, and now i don't know if i should give in
since then i sold my soul to the devil, just to give in
to get what ever i want, and still i don't really *******
think i need what i really ******* think i want
**** what i want. i want what i need
i need the old **** the **** that got me so high
that i didn't need to sleep for days, or i could sleep
and it wouldn't matter because you were watching
and i could ******* sleep as deep as i wanted to
and know that when i come up for air, you would be there
waiting to know that i fell asleep and made it alright
and that high became life, i stayed high off you so much
so that it doesn't really scare me that i talk to you at night
in my writing, or when I'm singing, or when i do *******
anything you stupid ***** what the **** did you slip in my drink????
im poisoned after the fact and i can't get you out of my blood
the way i see it, is not the same way my therapist sees it
so i keep going to him, just kidding i never see him, he hates me
or maybe he doesn't, either way he never tells me how he feels,
he just asks me questions and lets me sit in my feelings for seconds
**** that i sit in them all day, i don't need to pay to find the pain
i just ******* really need to stop sleeping or find a way to fall asleep
either of the two because i only live when I'm dreaming now,
its not the drugs, no i mean real ******* full blown dreams
like god ****** how it was back before we ****** and i told
your lover that i only enjoyed dreaming and not waking life
just because i could be with you, and yet he didn't take my warning
**** no! no one ever takes my warning, they are all too busy listening
to their own god **** ***** and hearts and blood pumping rust and
their own god **** thoughts and feelings, and it never ever occurs or
comes back to me in the end, always to them, so **** them, wait also
im gonna stop thinking about you in the end, because **** you too
youre not special enough to deserve two separate entities of people
waking up everyday thinking about how selfish, or pretty you are
or whatever else i do think about you, more like wonder because youre fake
imagination or maybe you are still alive and still exist and i didn't make you up
to hurt myself , maybe i only think about me now, i don't know yet
great . i just ******* think about how possessed i am that i have nothing
nice to say about you, good thing i say nothing at all to you, and i just spend
all this time, painting you into pictures, even tho I'm using my own blood
i say that now but until i
blow my brains out onto venetian blinds, just for the splatter effect
and because i hate them enough to waste my life on them
whatever will i do , but waste my life on you
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
I’m not a talkative person
In fact I have sewn my mouth shut
To keep my thoughts
From spilling out
With the force of a fire hydrant
When I do talk
It’s in mumbles and murmurs
I let my words run together
I don’t even remember the last time
I finished a real sentence
Poetry runs through my veins
Every night I unzip my forearms
And let my blood
Spill out onto paper
I’m sorry I can’t bleed for you
I’m selfish
I take, take, take, and take
I buy myself Christmas presents
Birthday presents
Because I ******* deserve it presents
Grace never came easy to me
I stumble over my shoelaces
Like I stumble over my words
Thank god none of you have a pet fish
Because I would probably
Break the bowl
Cigarettes
I don’t smoke them
But **** do I find them attractive
I think bruises are beautiful
Purple, blue, and black splotches
On pale skin
Soreness when you press your fingers
Into them
Give me bruises
And I’ll give you kisses
Your eardrums can and will shatter
Under my screeches of rage
I don’t always scream
But when I do
I turn into a ******* demon
I wear granny ******* casually
Because being comfortable
Is more important
Than being ****
Every bouquet you give me
I will keep
Until they are petal-less
And brown
They will sit in a vase
And decay
And I will use the scent
As perfume
I have a skinny waist
But fat thighs
I’m a size nine
Please don’t buy me size three jeans
Most people’s voices change
With puberty
My voice changes depending
On who I’m with
When I’m with you
My voice is deep with a sarcastic tint
When I’m with your parents
I sound like a ten year old boy
I have a cranberry juice addiction
That’s getting out of hand
Sometimes I break under
Magnifying glasses
My heart drums behind my ribs
There’s a reason why
They call it a cage
I’ve read Catcher in the Rye
Five times and I still
Hate Holden Caulfield
A good day for me
Is finding socks
Without holes in them
I don’t plan on being
A mother
I can’t give you
An heir
My heart explodes
Regenerates
Explodes
Regenerates
Explodes
Explodes
Explodes
Regenerates
I love myself more
Than I could ever love anyone else
And I’ve yet to find someone
Who understands that
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
you are a daughter of the stars
& so you are a miraculous beam of light with mysteries inside you that even the wisest & bravest can only dream of understanding (but be kind to those who try, for they are rare)
the breath upon your lips is new
but my love, your soul knew the moon when it was a child & together you played, altering the tides
your bones are extinguished comets, desperate for flight
all this to say that right now
you may feel a long way from home,
& the darkness may be overwhelming, but never forget where you come from
shine, shine, shine
& one day you will find a home within yourself and all the starlight that once seemed so far away will be at your fingertips
& you will form constellations to light up even the darkest corners of your soul
& you will finally realize that the universe has been inside you all along
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Holden Caulfield
A boy
Not yet a man
Stuck in the middle
Of two worlds
Ambivalence
Holden Caulfield
Calls up Sunny
The depressing
**********
Holden is nothing
But a boy
Not yet a man
Still stuck in the middle
Of two worlds
His virginity
Remains intact
Holden Caulfield
Thinks you’re a phony
A fake
Not who you really are
Old Stradlater
Old Ackley
Old Sally
Old Holden
Is a phony
Holden Caulfield
Isn’t who he really is
either
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
if i meant nothing to you the w
indows are not my friends and
the wind hits me my response i
s always 'ow! so who was i to
begin with? broken, disgusted
with this man made tragedy c
alled * l i f e * and who was i to
begin with? holden caulfield or
dead, perhaps, or said as you s
peak of me in past tense and i
speak of you with tenseness of
the neuron you are always smi
ling in my mind and you are al
ways smiling for someone else a
nd you never cry for me and as y
ou fade in the physical you becom
e the ghost inside of me haunting
every waking moment and dream
s. and dreams, for godsakes, drea
ms. i was never your other half bu
t you were mine - and i am looking o
utwards for solutions because the insi
de has been lampooned scorched eart
h history no longer eats me alive, you
are not dead - but you are not alive i
nside my head - you simply gaze and
smile and i know that smile is not for
me - he thrusts his throbbing **** ba
ck inside and you forget me with ever
y heaving breath and every successful
****** - i map the categories of a boo
kstore and the crevasses of my mind on
ly to find you with every corner turned
and every door i open.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Eyes out of focus, ears echoing with a hint of reverb,
Pupils alternating on perfect loop, a period to a black hole,
Hair becomes like static, a sound that goes unnoticed ,
Fingers numb, fingertips like nubs, bitten to the core like a rotting apple,
Nerves in the kneecap relay a rhythm to freezer burnt toes,
Bouncing a heel - a nervous and impatient tick -
The words in front are smudged by internal noise, binding brain activity,
Reality renders room for a romantic razor to ready the troops,
Slicing and dicing the fruit - on the cutting board - falling seeds like a hailstorm in July,
To be stuck forever, a coma with a comma to separate answers to commence,
Answers bladed sharp and split open by the distracted mind,
An attention disorder that lives in the people,
The people take drugs, die faster, and hide away from the natural,
The unexplored realm where one can truly find a companion,
Holding hands with Caulfield, innocence is immobilized for eternity,
The shuttle returns - all words loitering become visible, feasible, and manageable once again.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
project yourself through the eyes of a chain-smoker. he tastes cigarette matches and drinks staled coffee but eats nothing else. when he lies, feel your empathetic fingers curl around the throat of his soul. when he says he want to die, feel the birds in your chest tremble. when he stumbles through time, through city streets, dead hallways—watch him go. he is asking everyone for innocence. he remembers the days when the sun was bright, and the museum was cold, and there was a frail, freckled hand clutching at the blood in his washed-out skin. but today he cannot buy anything because his pockets are only full of ashen questions—the kind all the quiet people burn away in their loud, loud lives. they keep spinning and he can’t make it to the end of the street.
your heart hurts. watch him ask for innocence back and whisper, to yourself, “i want it too.” fight over it. you know you will both lose. his last words are ink. he’s sick. he never had it. you will go to war with the pavement. it will slip. simmer. bleed. fall.
no one has it. it died.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
You wrinkle your nose, No
I laughed. ‘Why?’
‘It’s silly.’
‘Sillier than driving
In the middle of the night
To my house and
Pulling me away
To eat pizza and
Drink milkshakes and
Write poetry in our arms
And sing and scream
And driving into a
Miraculously open
Carnival?’
You rolled your eyes
‘I’d rather do a Holden Caulfield on you,’
Would that mean that
To you
I’m just...Phoebe?
I shot you a sceptical look
And told you that
One ride at a carousel
Won’t taint your
Masculinity.
I sure as hell hoped
That I convinced you because
I don’t want you to be Holden
If I’m just Phoebe,
I’d rather be Jane Gallagher even
If there wasn’t a scene in the book
Written for us.
I know that if I could be Jane,
We could write
Our own **** story
And our story would
Be better.
So please, please, please
Say yes
To going to the carrousel
With me
And we could start writing
Our story as Jane
And Holden.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
I actually thought about what I would do if this exact thing happened.
I thought about how I would be cool and pop a cigarette in my mouth all slick and say "Sup"
I would be a ******* lady killer. The hateful and sad feelings from before, during and after our relationship will be burned down with that cigarette.
We'll wonder what it's like to be inside a burning ember.
We'll talk about how we're turning into Holden Caulfield.
And about how Hemingway is God.
And cummings is the best.
We'll do all these things and everything will be perfect.
Our thoughts will be put to rest and our broken hearts will be mended.
We will finally go to sleep and all will be well.
There will be love in the valley and mountains and the strings of our collective being.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
i. listen to lo-fi music. feel nostalgic about places you've never been to.
ii. take pictures of strangers, never of your friends.
iii. read the same book over and over for three months straight. find non-existant hidden meanings.
iv. keep five notebooks full of quotes, none full of how you're feeling.
v. write letters to imaginary people. sign them as holden caulfield, then switch to ****** then jay gatsby.
vi. look at yourself in the mirror until your eyes get out of focus. convince yourself that you're not really there.
vii. complain about being stuck in one place.
do nothing about it
stay there
don't move
you made it.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Cold and clinging
Kind of evening
At the steps of
The Dakota archway
Are you banging your head
against a wall, Holden Caulfield?
Beautiful boy
(Darling boy)
But the limousine was waiting
Annie Leibovitz had the final image
"And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff.
That's all I do all day.
I'd just be
the catcher in the rye and all."
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 11:19 PM UTC
***** girls with lousy guys, drives me crazy
Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry.
Old Sally, so **** good-looking but a pain in the ***
"Oh, darling, I love you."
"You're probably the only reason I'm in New York right now"
I told her I loved her; it was a lie.
felt like five hundred thousand years, looking at all the phonies.
Ivey League guys with snobby voices,
a witty bunch of actors drinking their tea
and rubbernecks stand around to watch.
I was a ******* wolf, just wondering for intellectual conversation.
Someone, Anyone!
Just give old Caulfield the time to spoil your evening
because he's not sorry at all.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
to fall for someone means catching them, right?
like holden caulfield pictured it, there should
logically be someone who can catch the kids who
start to go over the cliff if they’re not paying
attention to where they’re going metaphorically.
however, the rules of love does not play fair.
a lot of times, the catcher in the rye becomes
a phantom limb. everything is disillusioned
and phony, don't let the world try to trick you.
then what kind of ******** am i pushing when
i'm pushing myself towards the cliff? do i
kiss you out of loneliness? do i miss love?
don't let the absence swallow you, or you'll
be riding for a fall—it’s a special kind of fall,
a horrible kind. i'm not permitted to feel or
hear myself hit bottom. i just keep falling
and falling. the moment i turned towards
the cliff, i was letting you crawl into my skin,
and you infected me like a plague so fast
that i could see my vision get blurry from
the sides from running towards that cliff.
all i know is i’m one of the kids in the field
of rye sprinting towards the edge of the cliff
with open eyes hoping the catcher in the rye
will rope his arm around my stomach before
i plummet. the fall i think i’m riding for - it’s
a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. i’m not
permitted to feel or hear myself hit the bottom.
i just keep falling and falling until the catcher
helps me get back onto my feet, however, i can
not pitch the ball and catch it too.
- kra
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC