"clarice" poems
Beaumaris,
carnival of soft pastel tones
of damp evenings
of tramway cars
with small orange lights
distracted bystanders
the empty bridges
the silent horizons
pale lace on a parasol,
light sepia dreams
of a particular Monet,
forgotten, unseen
before the rains came.
Many years later,
I found her
so tenuous, so subtle
in what little was left
yet there it was, her soul
all new shades
of melancholy.
Now I just swim,
every now and then
in that blue ocean
of her blueness,
the Sea of Oblivion.
In the glimpse
of bright reflections
of sunshine
on the water,
of salted afternoons
in a country
where it no longer
rains
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
I was drinking from the skull
Of a long dead bird, I had eaten
It a while back, it tasted like
Chicken!!
But not much to the bone.
I wondered if I was like
Hannah,
Henry,
Hello
Brain remember it, any way
Mind did wonder past my
Teeth, tongue it slid like
That jelly mother did make.
I gagged a moment, but then
All settled not a zombie,
But not a bad tasting brain.
"Hannibal"
"Lecture"
"Lector"
Snuck down stairs, DVD on
I remember the noise and
"Clarice"
Remember pinkie raised
When drinking from a cup
Haha...
Its the little things that make me
Smile. How you doing there friend
He doesn't talk much now, smells
Funny too, but even the dead are
Company when you only have you.
Apocalyptic
Apocalypse
Stopped
Everything, screaming, crying, chill
Its not that bad no tax, no big
Brother looking down on you.
"Ok running for your life"
"Keeps you healthy"
Plus
"Eating leftovers mouldy in a bin"
*"What doesn't **** you makes you stronger"*
"Negative"
As I regurgitate it back to the bin,
It has its pros and cons
But I miss the chatter
The one on one,
"How was your day"
"You look tasty"
"Why you looking at me that way"
Knife to the side of the head.
"BOOOM"
"O'no you didn't"
Skinny little freak trying biting moves,
This isn't PAC MANtm fool.
You meet interesting people on the road,
All I want to do is have some
"Apocalyptic Chatter"
"Howdy Mam"
That's a big knife I say!!
As I pull out old faithful,
She screams I cant take that
And runs off screaming the other way
**Run ***** Run,**
The Apocalypse isn't boring
But I do miss the day to day chatter waking each day.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Jack and Jill were two mentally ill verbally armed cannibals
Doing there best to switch their diet to farm animals
They found this rough, like eating crackers with cotton mouth, this task proved to be little more than tough
They promised each other no more cadavers, but a month after this, they called each others bluff
Jack ended up addicted to crack, dope, and smack
Cause the supply of bodies was beginning to lack, spinning more off track
He began to look at Jill more like a tasty snack
Jill took the pharmaceutical cryptic approach
A pill could **** her flesh craving will and keep her from feeling like a post apocalyptic roach
She too was starting to drool and think of Jack like a snack bar,
and couldn't help but remember her first taste when she bit the arm of that high school track star
One night when Jack was asleep, Jill began to slowly creep
Into his room she crept as he slept stuck the knife in and drained the blood from his neck
Jack was gonna be her tastiest snack yet
Jill always seems to forget
Jack is always playing games and putting her to the test
She ends up paying, for Jack knew their growing hunger would soon cause a mess
Jack stepped out of the closet
Jill pulled back the covers to see she just killed her own niece
Jack said "Haven't you ever seen "Hannibal?". "If your gonna be a cannibal, you gotta be smarter than Clarice".
-J.A.M
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Grandma Clarice,
or Chub as I prefer to call her,
is tough as nails.
All 90 pounds of her on her
not-even-five-feet-tall-frame,
she always told the funniest jokes,
and her laugh was one of
those laughs
that just
reverberated so warm against your
eardrums,
contagious like the
common cold,
you couldn't help but catch it.
Chub always made the best pies,
any kind your gluttonous mind could
imagine:
cherry, blueberry, apple, peach, lemon chiffon, anything creamed;
don't get me wrong,
my mama inherited the gene,
her peach pie my absolute favorite
in the summertime,
but still,
mama learned from the master, and Chub was
the master indeed.
Chub was witty,
she was poised,
she was so many things that I
don't even feel like I ever really have figured out
what all she was, she is.
But I can't deny the
memories I have of Chub
smiling
as I played Christmas tunes on the piano,
looking collected and cool as she
whipped up another perfect meal,
her voice inquisitive as she
asked me about school,
the teacher in her proud yet astute.
Chub can't remember anymore,
but I remember for her,
the laughter, the
impeccable odors wafting from her all-white kitchen,
the late night games of Rummikub,
that tough-as-nails Chub who will always
exist in my
memories.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
Dear insert your name here.
I can hear you in his whispers; I feel your memory in his pulse when it beats against mine. Dear insert your name here; I have seen the private parts of your smile in his old photos and your heart break in the edges of his glare. I have felt your longing in his silent touch.
Dear, insert your name here, you may be nameless to me but I can see your tortured past whenever he refuses to tell another person his name. You have wrapped yourself so tightly next to his heart, in the cavities of his mouth I can still hear you screaming.
Dear. Clarice, please… I’d like to know.
Please tell me how you let up and let him go?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
the only time id ever seen her talk romantically was when she described a car engine to me,
she named her car Clarice
something about break pads and lambs
the brake pads didn't work very well
and the passenger door didn't open
she was passionate about music
the way i was passionate about sleeping
she was in a band
i said that was awesome but i never saw her play
my mom did which was awkward for the band
they always had a tough time talking to mothers while really high
she moved south while i moved north
she walked with grace and looked like someone took a sailor and made them take way too much acid
but she pulled it off with style
hitting concerts and working on the water like she always wanted to
and even when i dropped her on the dance floor she fell gracefully
which takes skill when youve drank more than the entire british navy
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
I lay awake with hopeless thoughts of you.
It seems that somewhere down this path,
I lost the smile and the laughter too.
Where did our passion flea?
How could something done with ease,
Just disappear like a winter breeze?
Staring at this canvas of my soul,
my thoughts start to fade away.
Deep into my lost subconscious,
I hope to find the words to say.
Farther down the hole i tumble,
until I land on that rainy day.
The storm was screaming with it’s tears.
The wind was blowing in every direction.
Soaked to the bone your makeup smears,
Unmasked by the storm inside,
I noticed the angel doomed to hide.
I was lost and forgotten in a crowd of faces.
Nothing worth your praised attention.
Yet you picked on me day to day.
You colored my arms in every shade.
The words you wrote I wished to say.
I love Clarice
I love Clarice
Everywhere you wrote.
I love Clarice
Is what I should have spoke.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
i’m measuring my life out in the amount of
breathes it takes me to say i love you
and i’m becoming fond of the taste of
your tastebuds and i seem to dream too much
and never wake up.
and in my dreams i write novels and i’m
looking for answers on what to name my chapters.
a few months ago i named chapter seventeen
*
Clarice* because i swore someone was leaving me
clues on where to search next but everything was jumbled
together and mismatched like a pair of parents
who hate each other and argue in the night so that their innocent child does not have to hear a word of what god told them.
lay next to me, sweet angel; stay for the night, i will show
you what a home is like next to the snowfall of december.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
I. Look how far I've gotten living like this, kiss my angelic attitude goodbye when mania arrives because I won't be able to control where I stick the knife. You can't find me in a cell no, this isn't no Hannibal Lector story.
II. There are a lot a lot a lot of things people don't understand about depression, like I wanna **** myself a lot but I can't tie knots. But tying the knot isn't as important to me as tying the one 10 years from now with a man with brunette hair and eyes just like yours. He will have skin as soft as your mothers old rug.
III. I can feel the world turning around me and how my poems can't define me. I write a lot of poems about sad **** bad **** and more sad **** but all that sad **** amounts to one happy girl. You forget I spit sunshine right into the face of tragedy. And sometimes I find good luck charms in the form of bottle caps. And those brought me a boy with an Irish name.
IV. This is the silence of the lambs, I have learned to live with it. And you're gonna be taking butterflies out of my throat because you bet it, I'm screaming color into this gray world.
V. It puts the ******* lotion in the basket or else it gets the pills again, and temptation is far worse than death, isn't it?
VI. We covet, Clarice. My brave starling, what you haven't seen is what I have, flight. Bodies flattening on the concrete of Boston is a familiar memory, I haven't lived it but I have seen it.
VII. We all have our lambs don't we?
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
i mount my heart on a wall,
still and discolored
where my taxidermist hands had pressed.
it breathes life into dead walls:
a hanging irony made of
soft cyclamens
and the closed, white fist of a tormented girl.
i mount my teeth on a wooden wall,
write my letters,
pour salt on spaces where i used to stand;
may i not stand here
once again.
i mount my hands on a wooden wall;
they do not knock. i do not answer.
silent as a lamb — down to a pit,
i watch the sheer cliff of my back
from where i have jumped
and the sundry sorrows shrink
into black, blinking dots
like a hidden villain
exposed.
i fall over myself
like in a slow-moving dream —
lead-like it flows like the acheron river.
and here comes the ferryman.
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 12:06 AM UTC
It only looks like we mean but looks are?
and then I get stuck because what is a look
and what does it mean?
Art Deco does things to me,
twentieth century?
mention me to
Clarice
I can't come to terms with germs
remember ' Monk?'
sunk without a trace
his final case
was himself.
"It's a jungle out there"
Wednesday brings a ray of sun
in the weak light
we pray
for Friday to come
I hate 5am
nothing stirs
not me
not the spoon in the tea
nothing
but
it's not 5am for long
that's what looks are
I mean
maybe.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
Her tattoos echo Art Deco
tattood
on an easel to swoon for
for her
I could be more,
could see more than the ink
would be more than one
fragile link
in the chain.
I imagine again and again
I imagine if
life becomes nouveau
what would I do and where
could I go?
Her tattoos echo
Art Deco
I
bounce of the walls.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC