"chique" poems
when you talk, you
hook little clusters of words
to my collar and call it the most
beautiful crochet.
communication, my dear
it doesn’t mean:
biting my tongue
until little drops of truth
drip from my lip and
onto my sweater.
(exposed to the world
- so unfashionably)
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
Several years have passed,
Since I entered last,
It all went by too fast,
But what is past, is past,
To roll down one's cheek,
Like a little blue streak,
To be all but meek,
About being chique,
To fall in love with a boy,
To tease and be coy,
To be bored out of your mind,
and to play with a toy,
To move and relocate,
The urge to populate,
To quietly suffocate and,
To want to defenestrate,
To tap and to pop,
And cafeteria slop,
Ask about a sad mop,
And to epicly rock,
To create a playlist,
and to tease balled fists,
To hide amongst swollen mist,
And not to have time on your wrist,
To drop a spork,
and to study a cork,
In order to work,
And to stalk Bjork,
Which brings us to now,
And I don't know how,
With the time I'm allowed,
Through these lines, I quickly plowed,
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
my mother went mad, beat me with
a belt,
after she found me walking back
with hubert from an abandoned house,
just days prior hubert's mother
committed suicide by drinking
vinegar, and then eating a whole
chicken, bloating her stomach till
it exploded -
me and ol' hubert,
who-ber-chique -
apologies for missing diacritical marks...
i remember those two belts
and the warm bath afterwards...
but i also rather prefer
hubert and his mother's suicide,
and his mother drinking vinegar
to shrink her stomach...
and why do i still remember that?
the sunset...
doesn't matter if i still live
with the people that used the double-belt
snapper of correction...
i've become immune to a lot of
things down the years:
it's almost a boring affair to hear of
lawsuits...
to hear of whatever "needs" to
be heard...
i'm more interested in
oysters whistlings,
or lobsters singing an opera;
than the elevated simultaneously disgraced
humanity: weak, as if collectively
stricken by a holocaust memorial need
to rather remember: than to celebrate!
these days, man is just that:
a creature memorised,
rather than a creature jubilant!
**** sapiens is dodo!
these days we are talking:
homo memento versus
**** celebro!
we cannot be conditioned by
the schizoid fabrication of the supposed
"sapiens" by both the memorisation
and by both the celebration...
it's rather irrational to celebrate while
forgetting, while at the same time
"rational" to remember while
not celebrating...
it's 5 am and i'm drunk,
and i don't actually feel like
guiding what could have been
a rather decent dialogue,
but is, rather, a perfected drinking
insinuation of a . being the:
reclining artefact of a full-stop.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
Everyone walks a certain way
I akways decide to skip instead
A hop and skip is more fun
Until everyone starts to run
They run faster
Leaving me in the dust
I slow down
And begin to rust
I've always been different
Never realized just how much
I want to fit in somewhere
But I'm afraid to be bare
Show everyone my skin
Show everyone the colors
But colors are also made with scars
Scars came from to many wars
Battling myself
Everyone made fun
I was always a sad little freak
Never glamorous or Chique
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC