Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

By Shel Silverstein**

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

Mighty arms give a tender cuddle from behind
Eternal heater
Sensation of chest and stomach against spine
"tell me a secret"
soft lips on foreheads and noses
narwhals nudge
"I've got a secret ..."
"What's that?"
"You make life, interesting ..."
" … Good or bad?"
"Good ... you show me things I've never done before."

My name is Barnacle, calcified to you
Your name is Boa constrictor, squeezing till the last breathe
Inadequate sum of memories, so
drifting nowhere any time soon

Forever ago
I looked you in the eye
And made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.

You smiled at me --
Crooked, imperfect
Utterly charming --
And asked me to lend you a light.
A lighter passed between our hands
Before a tiny flame illuminated our faces in the dark
A silent 'I do.'

From that night on
I've had things that other girls
Only possess in their wildest dreams
And, even then
Wouldn't dare say they desired.

I ride shotgun by default
In a ******* car
Much too fancy to legally be yours.
Gifts come in the form
Of beat-up leather articles
That you once wore
Though the lingering shadow of smoke
Is hardly enough
To mask the hint of drugstore perfume.
Sometimes
If you're feeling especially charitable
These offerings are accompanied by the more traditional heart shaped box --
Filled with bullets, of course--
Or a single deep red rose.
For some reason
Every flower you pick
Seems to have many more thorns
Than most of the ones I've known before.

What you seem to consider the best gift of all, however
Is your presence.
I suppose you think it works both ways
When you parade around town
Arm slung around my shoulders or waist
Smiling like I'm some pricey badge
Your signature accessory.
Your performance draws attention, of course --
Awe-stricken once-overs
Envious double takes
Lingering looks that make overzealous Average Joes
Trip over their own feet.
As far as my own feelings go
The envious rush I used to get from the lust-filled eyes of other women
Has long since faded
But the crawling feeling of some depraved pervert's eyes flitting from you to me
And your proud smile, devoid of any visible love
Continue to make my stomach twist itself into painful knots.

What all those adventure-hungry good girls don't know
Is that I haven't felt as powerful as they do in their dreams
In a very long time.
What those green-eyed Plain Janes won't understand
Is that I am little more than arm candy
Your passenger-seat second-in-command
Posed like some special edition, leather-donning Barbie doll
Instructed to sit still
Hold the gun
Look pretty.
They don't realize
That the ache that comes with loving you
Feels absolutely nothing like the feeling described
In the lovelorn writings they post to their blogs.
There's nothing beautiful about it
No reward for staying up all night
Chest aching
Sobbing into a limp pillow in some random hotel room
Trying my best to keep you from hearing it.
As much as I hate to admit it
Nothing you do for me
Makes it worth it.

They all seem to forget
That it was Bonnie
Running from one man who didn't love her
Falling into the arms of another
Already broken
Hoping he might be able to mend a piece or two.
They don't realize
That it was Bonnie
Who **** near got her leg burned off
Because Clyde flipped the car.
The fault was completely his
And yet
She was the one who took the brunt of the damage
Being reduced to having Clyde carry her around
For the rest of their numbered days.
They don't stop to think that this is anything other than 'romantic'
How unfair it is that the world allowed him to ruin her
That maybe --
Just maybe --
She didn't want to be a weapon for him to carry
But a self-firing rifle.
Something intimidating
Unpredictable
Never dependent
On some hotshot
That everybody believes that she was in love with.
The idea never occurs to them
That maybe
When the two of them went down in that infamous hail of bullets
Maybe she wasn't enveloped in warm thoughts of going out in a blaze of glory
But anger
That she didn't get away with it this time
And never would again.


I understand now
That
For all intent and purposes
Bonnie and Clyde are a concept that should have been left behind
Way back in the 30s.
There is no passion
In dying --
On the inside or the outside --
Next to someone everyone thinks that you love.
There is no love
In your arm around me
Squeezing the humanity out of me
Like a man-shaped boa constrictor.
There is no glamour
In sitting loyally by your side
Gripping my seat until my knuckles are white
As you drive your own getaway car
Laughing to yourself
Without ever chancing a glance at me.
There is no beauty
In being wrapped in a jacket
That smells like another woman
No satisfaction
In mechanically handing you a brand new lighter
So you can light another cigarette
To prematurely age your beautiful, James Dean number one-million-and-one face.
I feel no affection now
Watching you smoke up like the nicotine glutton burnout that you are
And I will feel only contempt if --
Heaven forbid --
I ever die by your side.
You exhale
And turn to look at me with sleepy, empty eyes
Letting the remains of your cigarette flicker out
Just like the novelty of having you around did.

Why I resent those girls now --
The ones with those eyes, so hungry and green with envy --
Is that, when we first met
I was just another one of them.
So pampered
So inanely bored
Such a 'hopeless romantic'
That I promptly decided to follow you the ends of the Earth
To every grimy hotel
Even to our demise in the desert, if you wanted me to.
It took me forever to realize I deserved better
And, by then
It was all too late.

While I despise those girls who stare at us now
Swooning, like they're so jealous of the position I'm in
My heart also aches for them --
A bit like the way you make it ache.
Though there's passion in this ache
That being the fact
That my heart is screaming
Telling them to run
Run while they still can
Run before someone like you
Finds them.

For all intent and purposes
There absolutely should not be
A 21st century Bonnie and Clyde.
These should be the days
Of girls spitting their own fire
And boys fighting their own battles.
This should be a generation
Of people learning to find solace in themselves
And reliance taking an unceremonious dive
Off a very steep cliff.
There should be no more green-eyed girls
And James Dean boys
Making each other miserable
And calling it beautiful.
This is the point where we should let Bonnie and Clyde rest in peace
Along with Romeo and Juliet
Annabel Lee
Homer Barron
And every other tragic antihero
Who died at the hands of love.

Forever ago
I made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.
Now
What seems like centuries later
I close my eyes
And try to fly somewhere else
In my dreams.
My last thought
Before I drift off
Is that --
Maybe someday --
They'll write poems about us.

“Big change, huh? Bet you could take some awesome shots here, Max.”

Max nodded, only hearing the last part of Warren’s sentence. Truth was, she was distracted by how beautiful this place was. If Max stood at the end of the street, she could get a killer depth-of-field perceptive image by aiming towards the long and skinny winding roads being enveloped by the building’s shadows. San Diego seemed to flourish with art and photography culture, and great opportune shots to shoot photographs.

“Earth to Max.” That seemed to knock her out of her thoughts. *****, focus. “Are you going to go swimming with me and Brooke?”

From the look on Brooke’s face, she was hoping to God that Max said no. Brooke is the relationship equivalent of a boa constrictor, and she wasn’t sure how this hasn’t dawned on Warren yet. “I’m not sure. Maybe. Let me unpack first.”

After Kate dropped out of going to San Diego Comic Con last second, Max was nearly going to join her when Warren practically begged her to come. Coming back to the present - equipped with her suitcase and messenger bag - Max lingered behind the couple by several feet. This was her way of trying to avoid the reminder that she was third-wheeling with a boy who used to have a very awkward crush on her and his salty girlfriend.

“I’m going to go down to the pool.” Warren said, sliding his key card into room #228, turning his head to face Max before opening the door. “Maximillian, are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

The moment the three of them walked in, Brooke and Warren beelined for the restroom with their bathing suits in hand. Once they came out, Warren had a blue and black plaid board short swimsuit on whereas Brooke came out with a highlighter-colored graffiti two piece.  “Alright, Mad Max. We’re out of this joint. Catch us at the pool if you need something or want to swim. If not, we’ll be back in an hour.”

Max waved them off, digging through her bag for that bathing suit. The crimson colored ruched one-piece vintage bathing suit sat abandoned at the bottom of her matching vermillion suitcase. Down below at the pool area, she could hear screaming and laughing and splashing of the pool water. Max got up from her suitcase, and opened the curtain enough to look out at the hotel pool. Several other people were down there, pushing the time limit very close to closing in an hour from now. Come on, Max, you’re really going to let your whole adventure be ruined by the usual high-strung Brooke?

**** it.

Max nabbed the swimsuit from the hidden corners of her suitcase, stripping herself down to pull the swimsuit onto her body. Once the swimsuit was on, she turned her waist feeling the soft fabric conform to her small but still vaguely prominent curves. Max can remember Mom always saying that she looked good in red, so she recommended a red one-piece since Max doesn't have the confidence to show her stomach to anyone.

Well, except her best friend Chloe. They used to take bubble baths together as toddlers so it used to be the most natural thing in the world to get dressed in the same room together. It must have been a better time, where there were no insecurities. Now Max has trouble calling her up without her finger freezing up as she attempts to type the very last digit of Chloe’s phone number into her phone.

As Max turned around in the mirror, she noticed how her lack of a rear end was a lot more distinguishable in red. Wowser, Max thought, this looks really good on me.

“Wowser.” Max said aloud to her reflection, and threw on a bathrobe.

It must have been ten minutes into Warren and Brooke swimming when Max opened up the pool gate, entering the vast perimeter of the pool area. There were significantly less people around the pool, where most of the people still inside the pool area were kids our age. “Max, you’re here!”  

This made two teenagers stop in their tracks as they were opening up the pool gate at the other end of the pool to leave. One of them whipped around so fast that it was a blur of blue hair.  “Wait…”

“Is that…Max Caulfield? It looks a lot like her.” Rachel asked to Chloe, who hung her jaw open in disbelief. No ******* way.

Furrowing her eyebrows, she watched Max drop the robe on a nearby chair. Like an awkward penguin, Chloe watched her best friend waddle up to the pool edge & cannonball into the waters below oblivious to the two girls standing at the gate watching her. “You’re going to wake up the neighbors and the owner of this hotel's parents forty miles away, Warren!”

“Do you want to go say hi to her?” Rachel asked Chloe.

As Chloe decided on actually going to surprise her, Max's friend said something that made Chloe change her mind in a split second.

“How would you know? Besides, you’ll eventually forgive me for that once you meet the entire cast of Star Trek tomorrow, Max.” Warren yelled at Max, and Chloe did a small grin as she turned away from her best friend, closing the gate on both of the girls.

“No. Guess the oblivious nerd is going to Comic Con too.“ Chloe took one last look at Max before going back inside the hotel with Rachel Amber at her tail. "Do you think she'll recognize me in cosplay?"

"Probably not. Unless I drop the bomb on you guys."

“Shhh. I don’t need you ruining my surprise party, *******.”

Max, Brooke, and Warren weren’t in the pool for long, since Warren bumped his head into the side of the pool while doing laps with Brooke. They had to get out, and put an ice pack on Warren’s sore bump on his head. “Now how am I going to cosplay the 11th Doctor? I need to gel my hair back, but I have this gargantuan bump on my head.”

“We’ll figure it out, sweetie.” Brooke said, and Max nearly gagged.

Max went back to the hotel room first, since being around Brooke made her want to strangle her.  This whole third-wheeling thing was annoying, and Max was regretting coming alone without Kate as her faithful chauffeur. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to let that ruin her trip. She was here to have fun. And to take a bunch of photographs, of course.

The next morning around 4:00 am, Max was rudely awoken by Brooke who shoved her in her shoulder. “Get up, Max. We’re leaving in thirty minutes from now.”

Was that necessary? Max thought, crawling out of bed. From the bathroom, she could hear Warren fretting over the mammoth-sized bump on his head as both of them got dressed in their cosplay outfits. “Okay. That hurt a lot. Ow, ow, ow.”

“Oh, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Shut up, guys.”

Feeling slightly irritable from the loud ruckus Brooke and Warren were making in the other room Max rolled out of bed. She rustled through her suitcase for a pair of skinny jeans and a white t-shirt with the print of a doe on the front. Once she had her clothes, she stood up to walk into the restroom to change when she noticed the ending result of both of her companions.

Brooke’s multicolored dark hair was pulled down in waves framing the scarlet dress with a black belt fastened around her waist. As for Warren, his usually shaggy brown hair was gelled back for his cosplay. She had to admit, he looked handsome in his mahogany jacket, red bow-tie and matching suspenders, and the cotton collared button-up he wore underneath. For a cosplay of The Eleventh Doctor and Clara Oswald, it was quite impressive how close they looked like the actual characters of the TV show Doctor Who.

“Take a picture of us, Max!” Warren said in a chirpy voice.

“On it.”

Max pulled out her camera, and pointed it at the couple who held up peace signs together. Once the picture rolled out, the couple split apart to put on the finishing touches of their cosplay.  As for Max, all she had to do was throw on her clothes. There wasn’t a lot of work in dressing up like normal people. Besides, she’s never really been a fan of cosplay.

If you want to count dressing up as pirates with her best friend Chloe on Halloween five years ago cosplay, then yeah, Max has cosplayed several times before.

“Max, hurry your *** up. It looks like the amphitheater is getting crowded from here.” Warren yelled from outside the bathroom door towards Max, who sloppily tied her shoes.

As they exited out of the large double doors of the four star hotel, Warren and Brooke took the crosswalk, pointing out people cosplaying as characters from TV shows or video games. They were smiling and laughing, leaving Max to third-wheel again. Instead of lingering on it, Max put in her headphones and turned on Crosses by José González tuning them out.

“Where is the line?” Max asked Warren as they approached the crowded complex filled with restaurants on one side and the amphitheater on the other side. Tents were set up here, even.

“This is what I call natural selection. If you come prepared with prior knowledge on how this works, you can conquer this haphazard looking line.” Warren spread his arms out, motioning towards the crowd that was rapidly growing in size.

“Let’s go, Warren.”

“Wait!”

Like an octopus, Brooke latched onto Warren dragging him into the depths of the growing sea of people. After three painful hours of waiting, Max felt the crowd start to lighten up around her as excited but deafening chatter filled the air of the surrounding herd of people. Everyone was clamoring loudly, quickly rushing into the open doors with their San Diego Comic Con day pass thrown around their neck.

As soon as Max received hers, she eagerly threw her day pass around her neck. After buying a small breakfast sandwich from a booth, Max decided to start people watching. Some of the cosplays made her laugh like the Darth Vader cosplayer leading a conga line of faithful storm troopers, taking long confident strides.

Max took several photographs of several different cosplayers, ranging from Doctor Who, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, The X-Files, Breaking Bad, Undertale, Magic: The Gathering, and Family Guy. When it started getting crowded, she got up from her chair and entered the large archway into the convention center filled with colorful tents and cosplay galore.

Wielding her camera bag close to her waist, Max carefully maneuvered her way through the sea of people as she took a look at the booths. Suddenly, the throng of people became too much for Max. An elbow into Max's side pushed her into the left side of her waist, throwing her into a booth.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Max’s eyes glanced up towards a blue-haired girl cosplaying as Pris from Blade Runner, who had grabbed her waist. Something about her was actually kind of familiar, however, Max couldn’t tell. “You hit that table pretty hard.”

Max felt the warmth from her waist leave slowly. “This crowd is suffocating. I need a place to breathe around here. It’s too claustrophobic for my liking.”

“Are you alone or something? Because I could always use company in my tent. It gets hella boring inside this tent sometimes.”

“Do you say that to all of your customers?” Max asked, chuckling nervously at the blue-haired cosplayer’s comment.

“No.” She mumbled something under her breath that Max didn’t quite catch. “I mean – unless you’re uncomfortable with it. I’ve seen people faint multiple times from claustrophobia here.”

Since her head was bent down over a sketch she was doing in a journal, the only way Max could tell that the girl was blushing was by how red her ears had gotten. The realization that the girl became a nervous wreck all of a sudden after that comment had made Max’s day already.

“Maybe you’re right. I should just sit down. There’s no places to sit around here, though.”

The blue-haired girl patted the armrest of the empty fold-out chair behind the table. “This is Rachel’s chair, but Rachel is helping out with the convention rave for later. She’s on the committee or some ****.”

“Coworker?”

“And an annoyance at times.” Max went around the table, taking a seat in the chair the girl patted. It was itching at her brain that there is something about this girl that is so nostalgic.

Suddenly, a long brunette-haired girl billowed through the back curtains of the booth, where Max saw a tattoo chair in the back along with an extended table with clutter everywhere. “Chloe, do you have my phone? I really need it right now.”

Wait a second. “Chloe?”

“Great. Thanks a lot, Rachel. You ruined the element of surprise.”

"No ******* way!"

After Chloe handed the phone to Rachel, Max followed with her first impulse, throwing her arms around Chloe. Immediately, Chloe laughed as Max nuzzled her head into Chloe's shoulder blade. Max could feel the initial excitement pounding in her chest as Chloe tightened her grip on her as well. “Get a room, Chloe.”

“I will shove this combat boot so far up your *** –”

“Okay, I’m leaving. I need to call Frank and see when he was going to get here.” Rachel stated matter-of-factly, then added as she was leaving, “Hope you have a fun reunion.”

Once Chloe let go of Max, she held onto her arms staring into her face. “Wowser. This is crazy. You’re dressed as Pris from Blade Runner. That is definitely my ****.”

“I hope so. Someone asked me if I’m cosplaying Ramona Flowers from Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Now I will accept that misunderstanding because Ramona Flowers is my woman crush.” Chloe glanced over at Max, changing the mood merely by narrowing her eyes at the brunette. “Alright, are you going to explain why you didn’t call or text me for five years?”

It was so sudden that Max suddenly felt inferior to Chloe. "I'm sorry. My parent's decision to suddenly move to Seattle wasn't my choice."

"That's not a good enough reason." Chloe attempted to change the tone of the mood lighter, since this wasn't exactly the place to discuss that. "So what's up with you? Living it up here in San Diego or something?"

"I - uh - moved back to Arcadia Bay. Two months ago."

"Without a phone call, telling me that you moved back." Chloe pressed her lips together, annoyed. "Nice one, Caulfield. That's just ******* peachy."

Max started to get a little irritated herself. "Look, I'm sorry. Can we just drop it?"

"I’m sorry, Max. I don’t want to be the ******* to ruin your day. In fact, this was the complete opposite impression I was going for. If you want to punch me for being such an annoying rat, go right on ahead.” Chloe pointed at the bicep of her left arm.

I shook my head – chuckling as Chloe kicked back her chair – propping her feet onto the table cluttered with various types of artwork. There was a dozen pieces of art here, but I noticed Chloe was really into abstract watercolor paintings. Mostly Chloe did sketches of characters from TV shows and video games and painted it in watercolor. One of the paintings in particular caught my eye.

Of course – like all of Chloe’s paintings – it was strikingly beautiful: In front of an obsidian background was a butterfly with eye-popping azure wings. One of the wings seemed to be slightly blurred to give more definition to the closest wing. “Wow, you’re a real artist.”

“I’m also a tattoo artist. If you want to get a tattoo, just hit your girl up. It’s on the house for you.” Chloe said, holding out her arm to show me. “Rachel helped me with both designs.”

Chloe had a beautiful sleeve on her arm and a tattoo on the top of her hand of a red chrysanthemum. Max traced the red ribbon detail on her arm tattoo with one finger, making Chloe shiver. “Dude, you can look, but you can’t touch the tats.”

“Sorry, it’s beautiful.”

“Hopefully it will still look beautiful when I look like the human equivalent of a raisin when I’m 80.” Chloe joked, holding out her arm in front of her face. “How about it, Max? Wanna get tatted up by your best friend Chloe? It might be a great experience for you, hippie. No gang related tattoos, though.”

“Yeah, because I’m totally a part of a gang.”

The smile that lit up Chloe’s face sent Max into a comatose state of delirium. Her eyes focused in on Chloe like a lens, taking shots in her head so she didn’t forget this moment with her best friend. For once, Max was having fun. “You’re still a ******* geek. That’s good news.”

“Always.”

Chloe shook her head before getting up. “Alright, so do you want a tattoo or not? This is your final offer, Max. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“I don’t know. You know I’m scared of needles.”

“Still?” Chloe grabbed Max’s shoulders. “Come o

POEMS ABOUT EROS AND CUPID

These are translations of ancient Greek poems about Eros. Eros was the Greek counterpart of the Roman god Cupid. While today we tend to think of Cupid as an angelic cherub shooting arrows and making people fall in love, the ancient Greek and Roman poets often portrayed Cupid/Eros as a troublemaker who was driving them mad with uncontrollable desires.


Sappho, fragment 42
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wilds winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.



Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.



Sappho, fragment 54
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros
descends from heaven,
discarding his imperial purple mantle.



Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch

“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga

Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.



Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.



Sappho, fragment 102
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?



Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I lust!
I crave!
Take me!


Around the same time Sappho was writing in ******, in nearby Greece, circa 564 B.C., we have another poem about the power of Eros:

Ibykos Fragment 286
translation by Michael R. Burch

Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.

Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening―
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.



I hate Eros! Why does that gargantuan God dart my heart, rather than wild beasts? What can a God think to gain by inflaming a man? What trophies can he hope to win with my head?
―Alcaeus of Messene, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Have mercy, dear Phoebus, drawer of the bow, for were you not also wounded by love’s streaking arrows?
―Claudianus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Greek mythology, Cupid shoots Phoebus Apollo to make him fall in love with Daphne, then shoots Daphne with an arrow that prevents her from falling in love with her suitor.



Matchmaker Love, if you can’t set a couple equally aflame, why not ***** out your torch?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



I have armed myself with wisdom against Love;
he cannot defeat me in single combat.
I, a mere mortal, have withstood a God!
But if he enlists the aid of Bacchus,
what odds do I have against the two of them?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love, if you aim your arrows at both of us impartially, you’re a God, but if you favor one over the other, you’re the Devil!
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Either put an end to lust, Eros, or else insist on reciprocity: abolish desire or heighten it.
―Lucilius or Polemo of Pontus, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Steady your bow, Cypris, and at your leisure select a likelier target ... for I am too full of arrows to take another wound.
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cypris was another name for Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. Here the poet may be suggesting, “Like mother, like son.”



Little Love, lay my heart waste;
empty your quiver into me;
leave not an arrow unshot!
Slay me with your cruel shafts,
but when you’d shoot someone else,
you’ll find yourself out of ammo!
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



You say I should flee from Love, but it’s hopeless!
How can a man on foot escape from a winged creature with unerring accuracy?
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Many centuries later, poets would still be complaining about the overpoweringness of ****** desire, and/or the unfairness of unrequited love, by which they often meant not getting laid!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.


Fast-forwarding again, we find the great Scottish poet William Dunbar, who was born around 1460:

Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar
translation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear,
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

Keywords/Tags: Eros, Cupid, Phoebus Apollo, Cypris, Aphrodite, love, blind love, cute love, love god, love goddess, bow, arrow, arrows, desire, passion, lust, heart

SAPPHO'S POEMS FOR ATTIS AND ANACTORIA

Most of Sappho's poems are fragments but the first poem below, variously titled "The Anactoria Poem, " "Helen's Eidolon" and "Some People Say" is largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first 'make love, not war' poem?

Some People Say
Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16 / Voigt 16)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.

Nor am I unique,
since she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
departed for distant Troy,
abandoned her celebrated husband,
turned her back on her parents and child!

Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or their columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.



Ode to Anactoria or Ode to Attis
Sappho, fragment 94 (Lobel-Page 94 / Voigt 94)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So my Attis has not returned
and thus, let the truth be said,
I wish I were dead...

'Honestly, I just want to die! '
Attis sighed,
shedding heartfelt tears,
inconsolably sad
when she
left me.

'How deeply we have loved,
we two,
Sappho!
Oh,
I really don't want to go! '

I answered her tenderly,
'Go as you must
and be happy,
trust-
ing your remembrance of me,
for you know how much
I loved you.

And if you begin to forget,
please try to recall
all
the heavenly emotions we felt
as with many wreathes of violets,
roses and crocuses
you sat beside me
adorning your delicate neck.

Once garlands had been fashioned of many woven flowers,
with much expensive myrrh
we anointed our bodies like royalty
on soft couches,
then my tender caresses
fulfilled your desire...'

Unfortunately, fragment 94 has several gaps and I have tried to imagine what Sappho might have been saying.



The following are Sappho's poems for Attis or Atthis...

Sappho, fragment 49 (Lobel-Page 49 / Voigt 49)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
I loved you, Attis, long ago...
even when you seemed a graceless child.

2.
I fell in love with you, Attis, long ago...
You seemed immature to me then, and not all that graceful.

(Source: Hephaestion, Plutarch and others.)



Sappho, fragment 131 (Lobel-Page 131 / Voigt 130)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You reject me, Attis,
as if you find me distasteful,
flitting off to Andrómeda...


Sappho, fragment 96 (Lobel-Page 96.1-22 / Voigt 96 / Diehl 98)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Attis, our beloved, dwells in distant Sardis, but her thoughts often return here, to our island, and how we honored her like a goddess, and how she loved to hear us singing her praises. Now she surpasses all Sardinian women, as, after sunset the rosy-fingered moon outshines the surrounding stars, illuminating salt seas and meadows alike. Thus the dew sparkles, the rose revives, and the tender chervil and sweetclover blossom. Now oftentimes when our beloved goes wandering abroad, she is reminded of our gentle Attis; then her heart assaults her tender breast with its painful pangs and she cries aloud for us to console her. Truly, we understand all too well the distress she feels, because Night, the many-eared, calls to us from across the dividing sea. But to go there is not easy, nor to rival a goddess in her loveliness.



Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can I compete with that ****** man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his 'eloquence' …
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you...



Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To me that boy seems
blessed by the gods
because he sits beside you,
basking in your brilliant presence.
My heart races at the sound of your voice!
Your laughter? ―bright water, dislodging pebbles
in a chaotic vortex. I can't catch my breath!
My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak.
My ******* glow with intense heat;
desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh.
My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily.
My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof.
I sweat profusely. I shiver.
Suddenly, I grow pale
and feel only a second short of dying.
And yet I must endure, somehow,
despite my poverty.



The following poems by Sappho may have been addressed to Attis or Anactoria, or written with them in mind…

Sappho, fragment 22 (Lobel-Page 22 / Diehl 33,36)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.



Sappho, fragment 34 (Lobel-Page 34 / Voigt 34)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Awed by the Moon's splendor,
the stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.



Sappho, fragment 39
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We're merely mortal women,
it's true;
the Goddesses have no rivals
but You.



Sappho, fragment 5
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We're eclipsed here by your presence—
you outshine all the ladies of Lydia
as the bright-haloed moon outsplendors the stars.

I suspect the fragment above is about Anactoria, since Sappho associates Anactoria with Lydia in fragment 16.



Sappho, fragment 2 (Lobel-Page 2.1A)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaving your heavenly summit,
I submit
to the mountain,
then plummet.

Sappho associates her lovers with higher elevations: the moon, stars, mountain peaks.



Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May the gods prolong the night
—yes, let it last forever! —
as long as you sleep in my sight.



Sappho, fragment 102 (Lobel-Page 102 / Voigt 102)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?



Sappho, fragment 147 (Lobel-Page 147 / *** 30)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Someone, somewhere
will remember us,
I swear!

'From Dio Chrysostom, who, writing about A.D.100, remarks that this is said 'with perfect beauty.''―Edwin Marion ***



Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I lust!
I crave!
**** me!



Sappho, fragment 11 (*** 109)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You inflame me!



Sappho, fragment 36 (Lobel-Page 36 / *** 24 & 25)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
I yearn for―I burn for―the one I miss!

2.
While you learn,
I burn.

3.
While you discern your will,
I burn still.

According to Edwin Marion ***, this fragment is from the Etymologicum Magnum.



Sappho, fragment 155
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!

Pollux wrote: 'Sappho used the word beudos for a woman's dress, a kimbericon, a kind of short transparent frock.'



Sappho, fragment 156
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.

Phrynichus wrote: 'Sappho calls a woman's dressing-case, where she keeps her scents and such things, grute.'



Sappho, fragment 47 (Lobel-Page 47 / Voigt 47)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.

The poem above is my favorite Sappho epigram. The metaphor of Eros (****** desire)  harrowing mountain slopes, leveling oaks and leaving them desolate, is really something―truly powerful and evocative. According to Edwin Marion ***, this Sapphic epigram was 'Quoted by Maximus Tyrius about 150 B.C. He speaks of Socrates exciting Phaedus to madness, when he speaks of love.'



Sappho, fragment 130 (Lobel-Page 130 / Voigt 130)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.



Sappho, unnumbered fragment
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What cannot be swept
aside
must be wept.



Sappho, fragment 138 (Lobel-Page 138)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.

2.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.

3.
Look me in the face,
smile,
reveal your eyes' grace...

4.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' acceptance.

5.
Darling, let me see your smiling face;
favor me again with your eyes' grace.



Sappho, fragment 38 (Incertum 25, *** 36)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I flutter
after you
like a chick after its mother...

From the 'Etymologicum Magnum' according to Edwin Marion ***.



In the following poem Sappho asks Aphrodite to "persuade" someone to fall in love with her. The poem strikes me as a sort of love charm or enchantment…

Hymn to Aphrodite (Lobel-Page 1)
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with such vigor!

But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers, as you did so graciously before;
O, come Divine One, descend once more
from heaven's golden dominions!

Then with your chariot yoked to love's
white consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you came gliding from heaven's shining heights,
to this dark gutter.

Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.

Asking me what I sought in my bewildered desire.
Asking, 'Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion
summon here? '

'Although today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, soon she shall give them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly! '

Come to me now, O most Holy Aphrodite!
Free me now from my heavy heartache and anguish!
Graciously grant me all I request!
Be once again my ally and protector!

'Hymn to Aphrodite' is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his 'On Literary Composition, ' published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, 'Hymn to Aphrodite' may have been composed for performance within the cult. However, we have few verifiable details about the 'real' Sappho, and much conjecture based on fragments of her poetry and what other people said about her, in many cases centuries after her death. We do know, however, that she was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called 'the Tenth Muse' and the other nine were goddesses. Here is another translation of the same poem...



Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rainbow-appareled, immortal-throned Aphrodite,
daughter of Zeus, wile-weaver, I beseech you: Hail!
Spare me your reproaches and chastisements.
Do not punish, dire Lady, my penitent soul!
But come now, descend, favor me with your presence.
Please hear my voice now beseeching, however unclear or afar,
your own dear voice, which is Olympus's essence —
golden, wherever you are...
Begging you to harness your sun-chariot's chargers —
those swift doves now winging you above the black earth,
till their white pinions whirring bring you down to me from heaven
through earth's middle air...
Suddenly they arrived, and you, O my Blessed One,
smiling with your immortal countenance,
asked what hurt me, and for what reason
I cried out...
And what did I want to happen most
in my crazed heart? 'Whom then shall Persuasion
bring to you, my dearest? Who,
Sappho, hurts you? "
"For if she flees, soon will she follow;
and if she does not accept gifts, soon she will give them;
and if she does not love, soon she will love
despite herself! '
Come to me now, relieve my harsh worries,
free me heart from its anguish,
and once again be
my battle-ally!



Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!


Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Neither the honey
nor the bee
for me!



Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has long since set;
The Pleiades are gone;
Now half the night is spent,
Yet here I lie ... alone.



Sappho, fragment 2 (Lobel-Page 2 / Voigt 2)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, Cypris, from Crete
to meet me at this holy temple
where a lovely grove of apple awaits our presence
bowering altars
  fuming with frankincense.

Here brisk waters babble beneath apple branches,
the grounds are overshadowed by roses,
and through the flickering leaves
  enchantments shimmer.

Here the horses will nibble flowers
as we gorge on apples
and the breezes blow
  honey-sweet with nectar ...

Here, Cypris, we will gather up garlands,
pour the nectar gracefully into golden cups
and with gladness
  commence our festivities.


Sappho, fragment 58 (Lobel-Page 58)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Virgins, be zealous for the violet-scented Muses' lovely gifts
and those of the melodious lyre ...
but my once-supple skin sags now;
my arthritic bones creak;
my ravenblack hair's turned white;
my lighthearted heart's grown heavy;
my knees buckle;
my feet, once fleet as fawns, fail the dance.
I often bemoan my fate ... but what's the use?
Not to grow old is, of course, not an option.

I am reminded of Tithonus, adored by Dawn with her arms full of roses,
who, overwhelmed by love, carried him off beyond death's dark dominion.
Handsome for a day, but soon withered with age,
he became an object of pity to his ageless wife.



Sappho, fragment 132 (Lobel-Page 132)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
I have a delightful daughter
fairer than the fairest flowers, Cleis,
whom I cherish more than all Lydia and lovely ******.

2.
I have a lovely daughter
with a face like the fairest flowers,
my beloved Cleis …

It bears noting that Sappho mentions her daughter and brothers, but not her husband. We do not know if this means she was unmarried, because so many of her verses have been lost.



Sappho, fragment 131 (Lobel-Page 131)
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
You reject me, Attis,
as if you find me distasteful,
flitting off to Andromeda ...

2.
Attis, you forsake me
and flit off to Andromeda ...



Sappho, fragment 140 (Lobel-Page 140)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He is dying, Cytherea, the delicate Adonis.
What shall we lovers do?
Rip off your clothes, bare your ******* and abuse them!



Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Vain woman, foolish thing!
Do you base your worth on a ring?



Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May the gods prolong the night
—yes, let it last forever!—
as long as you sleep in my sight.



... a sweet-voiced maiden ...
—Sappho, fragment 153, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have the most childlike heart ...
—Sappho, fragment 120, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There was no dance,
no sacred dalliance,
from which we were absent.
—Sappho, fragment 19, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the sensual
as I love the sun’s ecstatic brilliance.
—Sappho, fragment 9, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the sensual
as I love the sun’s splendor.
—Sappho, fragment 9, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You anointed yourself
with most exquisite perfume.
—Sappho, fragment 19, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Awed by the moon’s splendor,
stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.
—Sappho, fragment 34, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sappho, fragment 138, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.

2.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.

3.
Look me in the face,
           smile,
reveal your eyes' grace ...

4.
Turn to me,
favor me
with your eyes’ indulgence

Those I most charm
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Those I charm the most
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Midnight.
The hours drone on
as I moan here, alone.
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean,
intoxicated by lust.
—Sappho, after Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Did this epigram perhaps inspire the legend that Sappho leapt into the sea to her doom, over her despair for her love for the ferryman Phaon? See the following poem ...

The Legend of Sappho and Phaon, after Menander
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Some say Sappho was an ardent maiden
goaded by wild emotion
to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks of Leukas
into this raging ocean
for love of Phaon ...

but others reject that premise
and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis.

In Menander's play The Leukadia he refers to a legend that Sappho flung herself from the White Rock of Leukas in pursuit of Phaon. We owe the preservation of those verses to Strabo, who cited them. Phaon appears in works by Ovid, Lucian and Aelian. He is also mentioned by Plautus in Miles Gloriosus as being one of only two men in the whole world, who "ever had the luck to be so passionately loved by a woman."

Sappho, fragment 24, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1a.
Dear, don't you remember how, in days long gone,
we did such things, being young?

1b.
Dear, don't you remember, in days long gone,
how we did such things, being young?

2.
Don't you remember, in days bygone,
how we did such things, being young?

3.
Remember? In our youth
we too did such reckless things.

Sappho, fragment 154, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
The moon rose and we women
thronged it like an altar.

2.
Maidens throng
at the altar of Love
all night long.


Even as their hearts froze,
their feathers molted.
—Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your voice beguiles me.
Your laughter lifts my heart’s wings.
If I listen to you, even for a moment, I am left speechless.
—Sappho, fragment 31, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sappho, fragment 57
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1a.
That country ***** bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking her dress
to ****** you with her ankles' nakedness!

1b.
That country ***** bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art
is hiking her dress
to reveal her ankles' nakedness!

2.
That hayseed ****
bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking her dress
to ****** you with her ankles' nakedness!

3.
That rustic girl bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking the hem of her dress
to ****** you with her ankles' nakedness!

Keywords/Tags: Sappho, ******, Greek, translation, epigram, epigrams, love, ***, desire, passion, lust

You know things
most others don't.
I move serpentine,
perpendicular,
slithering
across the floor,
coiling myself
around
your brutal heart.
Constrictor-like,
slowly I squeeze,
until you blossom.

I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul
Now had complete control.

He fought kicking and screaming
The night the men in white came to take him
On his final journey
Like a great wildebeest
Struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken
Down by young lions. The way so many had said he
Probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail
Throughout his life from the very beginning.

That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed
Staring out the huge ceiling to floor window
Of the medical centre
At the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of straight
Stationary lights in-between fluid winding rows of
Transient lights and thought how the light of This window
Is just one of many thousands. At that moment it seemed
More like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields
Worlds above this city of light.

My father had spent most of his life just a short
Six-mile drive from here, under the scattered lights of His
Hometown.

He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"

Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
Slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky Snake
?Handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body.
But it was good to see much of the bitterness
And bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.

I could not say it then
But it has been many years
Where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.

In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
Bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up
From a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"

If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard.
All I could do then was sit by his bed
Lean in close to his ear
And sing softly his favourite hymns. 

By morning his lifeless
Dilapidated body lay in the fetal position.
His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen
Looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think
Of how weak and frail we humans truly are.

Like compassion forged with objectivity,
Weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of Strength.
We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
The pedestals the former is made of
To somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.

               --Daniel Irwin Tucker

Fight the fight, and
Rage into the silent night.
Bid goodbye only to
Hubris. Trust in instinct,
Trust in insight.
What you know and can prove,
Not what you hope inside.
Love, guard, and take the word of
Those who are allies;
Act only in turn, when you are more wise.
Barter acting in plain sight with guise;
It is not the sacrifice of advantage,
Nor the trade of surprise.
Keep to your bonds, keep to promise;
Protect the people, protect the country.
Protect the planet; nature, everything.
Uplift virtue, promote democracy,
Prioritize education, ensure & expand rights

Love your neighbor like a brother,
Cherish your community;
Across collective nations,
We can have paradise

.oh i don't know, why would i have a "problem" with christianity... where and whence it went into the new lands like some conquering reject... i'm all still hot & bothered that so few people read the counter mainstream: **** me... the atom bomb didn't wake them up, why would the discovery of the nag hammadi library wake them up? st. thomas' gospel: like... jesus playing chinese whispers with thomas, who wrote, after hey'zeus took him aside, told him something, upon returning to the other disciples they inquired, and thomas replied: if i told you what he told me, you'd stone me... back in hey'zeus' time... sure... social ostracism: b'ah b'ah black sheep says: wolf! the clown cries, the theatre burns down and everyone enjoys a night out... back to basics i guess: we're not talking about outright social ostracism... we're talking about psychological ostracicism: is it me... or has cogitans per se reached a zenith when it was to tickle the traits of calustrophobia... it's no longer ego cogito... it's... ego cogito: superego noose quasi- / semi- "thinking" and the unconscious id aspect of ego... whenever attached to "thought": short-circuits and goes into an epileptic spasm of: what to do?! what to do?! what to do?! *******: you have your new freudian pseudo christian trinity: mental gymnastics provided by the israeli co-op to teach you to count pythagoras via spaghetti curly-whirly... fun! fun fun fun! i once lived alone in my head, having only one body... now i have one body, but many paranomal "telepathic" insurgents living with me... who do not concern themselves with the concept of space... ego, head, toe, does it really matter whether a manicure is to be exacted? i don't like smoke, i don't like mirrors: i rather melt in the fire... i am the son, i am the heir... of a shyness that is criminally ******... probably the best lyrics in the world... i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does... magic, par excellence... please... jesus basish died when it left europe, now a h'american resurgence... happy people happy sheep go to sleep without question... happiness is an act of levitation in terms of existentialism... and when it shatters... it's not a nervous breakdown... even on the scale of the individual... the fall of the tower of babel comes with the fifth horseman of the apocalypse... riding a ******* unicorn... well... he's actually the sixth... the fifth is already riding... ha ha... horseman... he's riding a donkey to the site of execution... who needs drungs when you can measure what the co-op convenience stores are selling as a liter of whiskey... they're actually selling 1.425 liters of whiskey... i measured the sloppy herring slitherings and salmon high jumps... see... the atom bomb was dropped... but the mainstream christian never mention my angst... the nag hammadi library is never mentioned... why isn't the unearthing of the nag hammadi library never mentioned? the hebrews are all over the discovery of the dead sea scrolls, their dissociation simulated with their 2000 year old the penance for unrightfully sentencing the prophet isaiah to be cut in half... and he was a courtesan (isaiah): so what?! did he speak truly? 2000 years of jewish history... summed up by the unjust killing of the prophet isaiah... lesson learned... the lawful killing of hey'zeus: well, 2000 years of masochism of willing converts to "appease" the god: coincidental shared "circumstances"... why am i not a christian? if love is what is and what is the cross: sorry... can i decline having a fetish for a latex ******* *** fantasy?! or... you know that story of the perverted dog? the one that is so ***** is latches onto your leg and starts to ******* you, imitating the **** of you with a curled hand to propose the **** itch-tight simulation? oh no... we hide the socially ostracised... so we wheeled out the retards for full display... and monger... the critique has become elevated... it's harder to pick-out the knitty-picky intentions of people who want to differentiate before the grand c.c.t.v. altar of the omni-unus watching via the terms: proselyte... pharisee... sadducee... baptist mongrel presbyterian... honestly... spew me all this post-atom-bomb *******... oblivious regarding the nag hammadi library... mainstream h'american christianity: honestly, with this amount of reading even atheism doesn't suffice! atheism doesn't suffice! the antithesis yet to be explored by the masses is my curriculum motus... mea motus vitae! h'america is yesterday... yesterday being late 90s early 00s... now it's a quasi-balkan paranormal export cultural affair of tarantula bit-frames of former convo... it's like watching a regurgitating boa constrictor snake rather than an ingesting boa constrictor with 2 weeks spare of waiting in smog for the next meal... why didn't i follow the catholic bureucracy and be confirmed? well... why don't mainstream h'american "christians" come out and say: yes, the emergence of the nag hammadi library is problematic for us... it's sure as **** problematic for me... and what will come later, and reach the mainstream... with be the sort of explanation associated to the clarity of depiction of a human face, as close as picasso came "close" within the framework of cubism... hellish contortions and exponential deviations... imagine how hellish the human face is depicted in cubism... now imagine that same face smiling: within cubism.

there you have it, automated phone service,
the pinnacle of the national health service,
the surgery got rated 1.7* (stars),
1 for the fact they exist, and 0.7 for the service
they provide; god almighty i hope you
don't fall ill in england these days,
it's like trying to buy a ******* turnip at
the butchers or fishmongers...
dial the number... a robot answers
'hello, thank you for calling the north street
medical centre... please note that we do
not deal with repeat prescriptions over the
telephone; please press 1 to book or cancel
a triage appointment; press 2 if you have a
query concerning a prescription...'
2...
'thank you, if you have an urgent query
concerning your prescription please press
0 to speak to a receptionist...'
0...
'hello, welcome to north street medical care
multiple choice questionnaire...'
oh for ****'s sake...
what now?
when was the battle of Hastings?!
1066                    yesterday               mm, maybe tomorrow?!
there i am with a simple need, just write
the ****** prescription and i'll be off,
it's not like i'm asking you to do 7 hours of surgery on me;
no wonder they got 1.7 stars...
there are more receptionists than actual doctors:
ooh spooky spooky ****** doo in the bag too,
ooh look at me, i am Microsoft word proficient,
i'm the cream of the crop... fair enough,
and i'm a ventriloquist in my spare time -
pour me a pint while you're at it,
my throat's dry from all the cursing...
because why the hell do you even have a contact
number for a surgery... if it just cuts you off?!
might as well return to the antiquity of using my
legs and seeing you face to face,
because that's what i seem to have to do...
go for a walk, come back with some poor somali
girl who walked 5 miles for a bucket of water.

you will never know where you forget it
or lose it,
the night is an overstuffed  suitcase
that you never know when it will open wild,

i saw you walking, even more
i touched you a little with my elbow
everywhere
on the platform, it opened like the mouth of a boa constrictor,
i see myself running with a red ribbon in my hand,
for the first time, we are face to face
overwhelmed by our presence
we become dwarfs: ”poems, poems,… how much lipothymia,
these poems really did it to us, it brought us into exasperation ”- you bite your chapped lips,
i look at your fingers, searching  to hold a cigarette between your lips
no words
naive, i repeat "stay, stay", the train is coming
it's time to live, you lift your suitcase (tightly tied)
i see a rabbit with wet, bright eyes running,

it's autumn, the leaves are like red ***** hanging in the trees,
i clench my teeth, my hands, my eyes tighten, again
determined i want to squeeze all the pain (i would make a fat must),
i want to slap my face,
so, i wake up
to remember how in school i had to learn the names of every war battle,
to learn the name of each river, bridge,
the name of each soldier,
if i knew them, i would be given a red pioneer tie
(which needed to be ironed and kept close to my bed)
at night
stuffed like an old suitcase
the train leaves,
as if through the fog I see you on the platform: - do you want a cigarette,
- thank you, i don't smoke.

(the smoke rolls like a boa constrictor)

You tell me you're empty
And I know you want my sympathies
My acknowledgement of the problem
But all I can give you is the gawking gaze
Of a child on his first trip to the zoo
Leaving smudges on the snake tank as he tries to fathom
How something could be so alien and smooth and powerful.
You tell me you're empty
And all I can think is
That I have not a moment of my life to compare that to-
A day without suffering, without pain or danger,
Without that or joy so intense it tips right back over into treachery
I have no memory of any such day
To draw from for empathy.
I stand and stare at you
Empty you
And I know your sadness should be respected
And I know I shouldn't wonder so perversely
What it must feel like
Not to feel
But I can't help it
I feel like I'm standing on the other side of glass
Staring into the beady eyes of a boa constrictor
Wondering irresistibly
What its embrace must feel like for the mice it devours.
I know you are suffocating
But I
Am drowning
And I wonder
What empty feels like.

I've handed you
every missed opportunity I have ever had with a beautiful,
intelligent man. You are now
the object of my affection, like
everyone who came before you wasn't real,
only practice, but the sting of their rejection
has lasted. It's still burned into my memory.
I am giving it all to you.
Please hold it, for a little while, don't let
my chaos burn your skin, juggle it
between fingers and let it wind around your arm
like a boa constrictor.
You have the weight of the world
on your shoulders, it's up to you to redeem
all mankind, in my mind.
Please, smoke out the bad memories
from the empty, needy cavern of my mind.
Please, replace them with good, with your
jokes, and smile, and kisses on the
small of my back.
******* Bukowski was right, you have
no knife, the knife is mine. But I gave
it to you. Sharp as hell.
Please, don't use it
yet.

To craft a poem
is to carve a small wooden figurine
of an Arabian horse
out of a redwood tree—
a trinket
whose sole purpose is to gather dust.

And when comes
the boa constrictor of slow sleep,
you, young author, will have this poem
as the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt
had their treasures—
beads, idols, canopic jars—
accompanying them in their tombs
like a crowd of onlookers
surrounding the silent scene of a car crash.

Novelty items, family members, memories—
words to be whittled down
into useless artifacts.

Poems about Things that Break

These are poems about things that break and/or shatter: a bubble, glass, a mirror, a twig or tree limb, a thunderstorm, cities and towers in times of war, old habits, our hearts, and sometimes Love itself.



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch



As grief reaches its breaking point
someone snaps a nearby branch.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
―Sappho, fragment 130, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



My heart is unsteady as a rocking boat;
besieged by such longing I weaken with age
and come close to breaking.
―Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My era’s obscuring mirror  
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.            
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.



Mirror Images
by Michael R. Burch

She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutchwork shack
she is
much like us ...

tamping the bread
into edible forms,
regarding her children
at play
with something akin to relief ...

ignoring the towers ablaze
in the distance
because they are not revelations
but things of glass,
easily shattered ...

and if you were to ask her,
she might say―
sometimes God visits his wrath
upon an impious nation
for its leaders’ sins,

and we might agree:
seeing her mutilations.

Published by Poetry SuperHighway and Modern War Poems



Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch

I never touched you―
that was my mistake.

Deep within,
I still feel the ache.

Can an unformed thing
eternally break?

Now, from a great distance,
I see you again

not as you are now,
but as you were then―

eternally present
and Sovereign.



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not the blossomings of song nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.

You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my black, pensive thoughts.

We congratulate ourselves that we two are different
but this weakness has burdened us both with inchoate grief.

Now you are here, and I find myself bowing:
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.

I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.



Bubble
by Michael R. Burch

.................Love
..........fragile elusive
.......if held too closely
....cannot.........withstand
..the inter..................ruption
of its.............................. bright
..unmalleable.............tension
....and breaks disintegrates
......at the............touch of
.........an undiscerning
..................hand.

I believe this is my only shape/shaped/concrete poem.



Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,”
Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET,”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET”
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine and Other Voices International



Break Time
by Michael R. Burch

for those who lost loved ones on 9-11

Intrude upon my grief; sit; take a spot
of milk to cloud the blackness that you feel;
add artificial sweeteners to conceal
the bitter aftertaste of loss. You’ll heal
if I do not. The coffee’s hot. You speak:
of bundt cakes, polls, the price of eggs. You glance
twice at your watch, cough, look at me askance.
The TV drones oeuvres of high romance
in syncopated lip-synch. Should I feel
the underbelly of Love’s warm Ideal,
its fuzzy-wuzzy tummy, and not reel
toward some dark conclusion? Disappear
to pale, dissolving atoms. Were you here?
I brush you off: like saccharine, like a tear.



Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: "Frail things must break!"
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

Love is an ache hearts willingly secure
then break the bank to cure.



Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch

You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy’s a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.

You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.

You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.

I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.

Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times



Resemblance
by Michael R. Burch

Take this geode with its rough exterior―
crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ...

a diode of amethyst―wild, electric;
its sequined cavity―parted, revealing.

Find in its fire all brittle passion,
each jagged shard relentlessly aching.

Each spire inward―a fission startled;
in its shattered entrails―fractured light,

the heart ice breaking.

Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition



In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some raging ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze:
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse



Distances
by Michael R. Burch

There is a small cleanness about her,
as if she has always just been washed,
and there is a dull obedience to convention
in her accommodating slenderness
as she feints at her salad.

She has never heard of Faust, or Frost,
and she is unlikely to have been seen
rummaging through bookstores
for mementos of others
more difficult to name.

She might imagine “poetry”
to be something in common between us,
as we write, bridging the expanse
between convention and something . . .
something the world calls “art”
for want of a better word.

At night I scream
at the conventions of both our worlds,
at the distances between words
and their objects: distances
come lately between us,
like a clean break.

Published by Verse Libre, Triplopia and Lone Stars



The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.

Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.

The Greeks erected shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.

Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.



Once Upon a Frozen Star
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world
we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields
and did not know ourselves for weight of snow
upon our laden parkas? White as sheets,
as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands
****** deep into our pockets, holding what
we thought were tickets home: what did we know
of anything that night? Were we deceived
by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees
that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs
of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who?

And if that night I looked and smiled at you
a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed
the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand,
so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished
upon a frozen star . . .  that I could give
you something of myself to keep you warm . . .
yet something still not love . . . if I embraced
the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . .

How could I know the years would strip away
the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay
your heart of consolation, that my words
would break like ice between us, till the void
of words became eternal? Oh, my love,
I never knew. I never knew at all,
that anything so vast could curl so small.

Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review



Eras Poetica II
by Michael R. Burch

“... poetry makes nothing happen ...”―W. H. Auden

Poetry is the art of words: beautiful words.
So that we who are destitute of all other beauties exist
in worlds of our own making; where, if we persist,
the unicorns gather in phantomlike herds,
whinnying to see us; where dark flocks of birds,
hooting, screeching and cawing, all madly insist:
“We too are wild migrants lost in this pale mist
which strangeness allows us, which beauty affords!”

We stormproof our windows with duct tape and boards.
We stockpile provisions. We cull the small list
of possessions worth keeping. Our listless lips, kissed,
mouth pointless enigmas. Time’s bare pantry hoards
dust motes of past grandeurs. Yet here Mars’s sword
lies shattered on the anvil of the enduring Word.



The Higher Atmospheres
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever we became climbed on the thought
of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings
ten thousand miles above the breasted earth
that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things
seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ...

I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling
my human form about; I writhe; I writhe.
Invention is not Mastery, nor wings
Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides
and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ...

Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love
melts callow wax the higher atmospheres
leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough
to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers.



Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!



Having Touched You (The Boy in the Bubble)
by Michael R. Burch

What I have lost
is not less
than what I have gained.

And for each moment passed
like the sun to the west,
another remained

suspended in memory
like a flower
in crystal

so that eternity
is but an hour
and fall

is no longer a season
but a state
of mind.

I have no reason
to wait;
the wind

does not pause
for remembrance
or regret

because
there is only fate and chance.
And so then, forget...

Forget that we were very happy
for a day.
That day was my lifetime.

Before that day I was empty
and the sky was grey.
You were the sunshine,

the sunshine that gave me life.
I took root
and I grew.

Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife,
and yet I can bear it,
having touched you.

I wrote this poem as a teenager after watching "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble" with John Travolta playing a young man with a defective immune system who risks death for a chance at love.



Published as the collection "Poems about Things that Break"

Keywords/Tags: break, breaking, breakings, shatter, shattered, shattering, delicate, fragility, fragment, touch, cruelty, brutality, abuse, stress, love, pain, relationships, society, mrbreak, mrbbreak

The words spill out of your mouth
they pool around my ankles
they snake up my body,
wrap around my middle.
I cannot breathe.
the words coil tighter, tighter;
my ribs start to crack,
the splinters lodging in my lungs.
they are deflating like popped balloons.
the words do not care. they constrict my sides even more
my chest cannot take the pressure
I drop to my knees
trying to formulate a response
but my brain will not work
there is no oxygen anymore.
I wheeze out one last breath,
before my body hits the floor

Ugly and repulsive
nek twisted backwards
facing forward
my path twisted
raining sulphuric acid
looking up
eyes and mouth wide open
I'm thirsty..
taken drugs
crack, ****, krokodile
the rain biting through my bones
necrosis from the drugs have made their way home.
tongue kissed a komodo dragon
wearing a boa constrictor for a scarf
parasites eating away at my innards
so I don't have to ****
and Imma just go on
floor made purely out of bullet ants
keep walking this path of insanity

it has been two and a half months
(really it’s been seven years, three months,
fifteen days, twelve hours, five minutes and thirty-three
seconds)

but my jacket is back.
(except it smells like you)

acoustic guitar, the redolence of ****
and mistakes pungent in the sort of summer air.

but my jacket is back.
(except it tastes like you)

i felt your footsteps, imagined the way your fingers
held my hair, tight, yanking. a doll with loose threads.

but my jacket is back.
(except it looks like you)

your teeth reminded me of the oceans i could never find,
your eyelashes like razors begging to slice me open.

but my jacket is back.
(except it feels like you)

it felt heavy in my bruised hands, your hug
was a boa constrictor killing prey. main course.(dessert)

but my jacket is back.
yet when i wear it,
all i can think is you mounting, hands
rigid, your fingers venom.

i cannot breathe with it on

tactile touching

a severed caress

a withered arrangement

the sort that belongs

to an abstract expressionist painting

suspended for all time

like a contemplated constrictor

who has asked

why he wishes to split

his personality in three

but has been denied an answer

instead gazes upon the

disunity of his vision

The fuzzy hug that never loosens its grasp
Clutching as a barbed wire hugs and puppies cuddle and love,
whiskers and noses nuzzling, the straitjacket loves your mind,
wishes it could just squeeze the nightmares out and streaming as juices from an orange,
but its might only pressurizes, the more you fight the more you hurt,
bruising our precious straitjacket heart, he’s here to help us
take the tasks of fettering hands
just to hug and coil about us
Learn to love them, the society blanket,
the crazy snuggler, the bunny constrictor
Crazy’s not useful and our little straitjacket cures our woes
strangling us within linen cotton folds
simmer our fires
breaking our bronc
hushing our tantrum cry
It’s the mother we Learn to love
Kin that keeps us in heavenly grip
The Straitjacket’s here for all our insanists

I think about you everyday and I know you think I'm insane. you're the reason I take those pills when I can't sleep and you're the reason I don't wake up in the morning and gag when I eat and I still feel the way you touched my heart (what's left of it) and I remember how you felt pushing into me like the wind blowing a cloud with such force and comfort and is it bad i remember the way your nails looked and the way the hair peekabooed out of your nose like a hare in a hole and your arms soft and strong when you wrapped yourself around me like a boa constrictor with its prey
but let that not be just a metaphor for the way that you held me, I mean you squeezed the life out of me with your anger and jealousy, you used me and ate what was left of the security I thought I had. If you hadn't killed me when you left I wouldn't miss you so bad. You took parts of me I didn't know Id miss, you took parts of me I didn't know I had. You gave me a new name and bad habits. Now I smoke when I think of you and I miss sharing a cigarette with you in the car like we didn't have a **** in the world. We were lonely sinners that no one cared about. Who'd give a **** about the couple that cut each other and snuck out at midnight to make love and lied our ***** off because we didn't have anything better to do. Partners in crime, slowly killing ourselves, slowly killing each other.

My bones were vibrating,
Grinding the bite out of my teeth.
My arms wrapped around my stomach
Tighter than a boa constrictor
Trying to stop the shaking
The vibrating
Originating in the pit of my hopeless stomach.
The churning black hole that could erupt at one twitch.
I ****** at the side of my finger,
Avoiding the nausia,
And avoiding the acid nipping at my tonsils.
Chewing away at my bouncing teeth.
My hunched back leaned against the brick,
Spine curved into my shoulders
Enclosing my frozen chest,
My nose threatening to fall off.
And at that time
I wanted to be anywhere
Just to
Get away
From
There.

She ascends the plane. The plane might ascend.
She immediately comprehends
How on earth will she stifle her cries
''You won't be on earth'' her head replies.
The metal box purrs and roars to life
She doesn't have time to say her goodbyes.

...Tempestuous earthquakes in the sky
Preposterous thoughts infect the mind
Of falling, falling through the clouds...
Fear take hold and pulls her down...
Faster, faster into the ground...

Awakes. Inhales. A bawling baby fails
To lift her dropping spirits. Exhales.
Relief. No mask required to breath.
The hell that dwelt inside her mind
Was deeper than what's beneath.

Complimentary napkins to the head
On board cardboard digested
Fear is weaker but it clings
Like a constrictor on the wing
'Snakes on a plane' she thinks
A smile that's almost willing
Surfaces, but the plane shakes it away.
Smiles are reserved for better days
For now she's bolted to the chair
She returns to the nightmares...

Feeble is love.
Weak as a kitten.
Indiscreet and tiny.
Hidden in corners.
Lands in laps unexpectedly.
Feisty as a puppy.
With needle teeth he nips.
Needle teeth and eyes combined.
Snares sweetheart, love is blind.
Puppy love hides in corners.
Think love is simple?
He's not.
A constrictor, he is waiting to crush you.
Before he slithers slowly away.
Revealed yesterday.
Departing today.
(C) LIVVI X 2014

My Heart has been asleep.
Boa constrictor
coiled --
squeezing
with all his strength.

Heart numb,
there is no feeling
constrict --
tighter, tighter --
I cannot breathe.

He releases my Heart;
he does not want it
any longer.
Heart still asleep --
I cannot move.

To move is to feel pain.
Heart mangled --
he slithers away,
so unfeeling --
he cannot love.

But slowly,
light, dark,
light, dark,
Heart begins -- ever so slowly
to tingle.

With eager eyes
we spin the dice
Nebulous haze
Frantic gaze
Gates agape
Let's start the chase

Everybody's in for the craze
There's no time to waste
Flushed faces
Biting snares
Constrictor snakes
We rush in till we cascade

Not to realize
This is but a masquerade
Chasing our tails
In a daze
We stumble
Helter skelter

Life ask you to be in control of your pace
Stay calm, at ease, and humble
Do not listen to all the drunkard's tales
because no one's going to pay for your bail
Do what's right
until we reach the finish line
With dimes in our eyes
Prepared
for a deep slumber in our graves



-A Race To Our Graves, Margaret Austin Go

I've escaped cupid's clutches many times
I locked my heart away each time he came to say "Here you go"
He shoots his arrows at me, and I block them away
Except for a couple days ago..
My wall had fallen and my heart was broken
"Here you go"
Though I was upset about this, my heart suddenly restitched and I've fallen in love again
Now I feel like I've been sentenced to death
Each moment spent that I can't look into those big, beady eyes of his, I'd rather be dead
I'm just scared to get broken again
But, ****, his smile brings all of butterfly world into my stomach
And I can't stomach the fact that I'm plummeting into my own mind's demise
"He'll hurt you like the others" My brain claims
Yet, my heart says otherwise.
I've avoided cupid many times
However, I know I can't evade my fate
So, in this state of mind,
I'm fully bonded by this Boa constrictor of hopes and doubts
Or maybe I'm just overthinking
Maybe I should just listen to cupid for once

Diving into a cornfield of despair, a creamy boa constrictor hugging my chest. Unable to reach the pliers sticking out of my pocket, painfully teasing. It releases briefly to allow the venomous shards of tolerance to reach my lungs for a moment. No matter the seemingly friendly gesture, just one puncture after the other.

Conspirators directing their standard march, strangling on cue with as much enthusiasm as a turtle gnawing at its brunch. Useless ******* schedule, condemned to it for a life-long demise.

To stop and ingest, a team of euphoric soldiers filing into my beaten past and creating a future that never would have been. Dispersed evenly so as to cancel out that which is to always be present in memory. A ray of sun kissing my cheeks as a symbol of hope and thrill. A smooth, unceasing sense of gratitude enjoying its residence and occupation, never feeling the need to vacation.

So, here's this:

Every third breath is made by a boa constrictor.
He lives in my ribcage, you see,
and sometimes like to see what his musculature can do compared to mine.

If every night star story started with a clear light,
what would happen to cloud cover?
What would happen to all the silver linings?

I felt what you meant when you said sometimes you yearn more for a body to hold,
someone whose arms say more than their breath,
than their breadth.
Boa knew it all along,
but I've just been letting him grow and gripe.

I knew it all along, that it would feel better then worse,
as he grew he'd need more space,
he'd demand more space and take up more space.
Except I always thought space was just a place for stars,
and if you needed to moonbounce,
you always had another planet available.
Except you didn't, and I didn't know if I wanted one, or a different you.
I want bits and pieces, I want to build my own puzzle with preference,
500 pieces that are hand picked by yours truly.

A puzzle is still a puzzle if all the pieces mostly fit, right?
Even in designated cutouts, with enough use they fade,
and become questionable in their habits.
"Are you sure this goes here? These reds are not the same"
"Sure hon, it's been like that for years, it's supposed to be like that".
When do you seek your better fitting other half, though?

Boa can twine, at least. Better to be fluid and versatile, than stock and habit.