"gauche" poems
She came floating in
Her presence felt by all those around.
She tosses her hair and teases her fans.
This past love of a love of mine.
Dances from place to place
On the affection of her loves,
Never looking back
Not believing in mistakes.
Feathers of turquoise and emerald
She holds her head high,
For she is a great peacock
The past love of a love of mine.
I am but the swan in the lake.
A body of white, a beak of gold
Some say graceful, other say gauche
Though I have found my Neuschwanstein.
Everything I am is for him
So now I am sure
She will only ever be
A past love of a love of mine.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 7:53 PM UTC
I'll take your hand as I've had in many dreams
and together we'll fly in the night's sky
our love braided with the numberless stars
will make angels cry.
We'll find our place next to the moon
caressed by the light of the stars
I'll lay my head on your chest
and in the sweetest dream forever we'll be
tasting the joy of living
our bodies will float above the mortality
untouched by death's sour kiss.
I'll take your hand and fly with you to the stars
and there our souls will discover immortality.
*À gauche de la lune et parmi les étoiles
nous trouverons l'amour éternel.*
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Wrong
Wrung
Ring
Ring my doorbell,
Wring my neck,
Rid me of this mortal wretch.
*****
Wrench
Can you fix it?
Get your toolbox
You're ill-equipped
I don't qualify
Quality
Quantity
I am not enough
For this.
Too tough
To kiss.
Rough life I've lived.
Live
Life
Lie
Lay back.
Just take it.
Let it happen.
Swallow
Swallow me up.
Swallow me whole.
Throw me down into a hole.
Wholly
Holy
Even God forgot me.
Oh his drones did try.
Saxophone & sweat
Promised hell when I die.
Choir girls & Inquisition
Tore my words, tried to burn me alive.
Then the good chaplain,
Samaritan?
Charlatan.
Daddy out of the way,
Me on the streets,
Mommy where he wants her
Worship at his feet.
Fret
Bet.
I am not afraid.
My debt is paid.
In blood, in tears.
Lost dreams, lost years.
Country roads, cold beers.
Bare
Bear
Burdens
I am brave.
Strength
Truth
Power
You'll have to cut them from my flesh.
Fresh
Blood
Brooding o'er my funeral,
Don't worry about my death.
I still feel pain,
I still draw breath.
My hearts not cold,
My soul is still old.
I haven't set a thing in stone.
******
Skipping rocks.
Flying planes,
Sail away from the docks.
Shoot me into outer space,
If this is Hell,
Heaven can wait.
I'm dancing with the Devil
& God is always fashionably late.
Create.
Tell
Tales
Tails
I'm not done yet.
Evolving
Incomplete
Completely me.
Pecan pie & sweet tea.
Nature
Treks
Blessed Be.
Naked
Exposed
Second for the money,
First for the show.
This is a test,
No time to be gauche.
Gross
Shocking grace.
There's still sand in my grave.
This cannibal inside
Still has a taste.
Human body beneath my tongue,
It's essence still fills my lungs.
Chest
Heart
Beats against this cage.
I'm too young to feel this age,
So don't you dare save the date.
Once the wolf works with the mirror
It's finally free.
Then I promise,
You'll be seeing me.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Adieu, belle Cassandre, et vous, belle Marie,
Pour qui je fus trois ans en servage à Bourgueil,
L'une vit, l'autre est morte, et ores, de son œil
Le Ciel se réjouit, dont la terre est marrie.
Sur mon premier Avril, d'une amoureuse envie
J'adorais vos beautés, mais votre fier orgueil
Ne s'amollit jamais pour larmes ni pour deuil,
Tant d'une gauche main la Parque ourdit ma vie.
Maintenant en Automne, encore malheureux,
Je vis comme au Printemps, de nature amoureux,
Afin que tout mon âge aille au gré de la peine.
Et or que je deusse être affranchi du harnois,
Mon Colonel m'envoie, à grand coups de carquois,
Rassiéger Ilion pour conquérir Hélène.
2.2k
I am not reliably informed whether it were
hearsays or rumours, but it feels like an
apocalypse.
I neither relate to gauche nor belligerence
Connoisseur not cynical but I've been made an
adjective,described as a Curmudgeon.
See I have enemies, camouflage had to I, but
then it seems to cloud my judgement like an
eclipse.
These people are all schoolbags
because they said this behind my back.
Unbeknownst to me
I am a Curmudgeon.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
Just because a girl is pretty
they chain you to a freaking rock,
invite the tide to nibble? ******
way to treat a Princess, and mock
a future Galaxy! Oh, crap --
now what the hell is this? A monster,
seaweed dripping, snip-snap
jaws agape? How gauche! It wants to
ravish me? Take a number,
Frankenstein! Start at zero!
Oh, save me, Perseus, come on
future hubby, Action Hero!
Let's get down to the nitty-gritty!
Can't you see this girl is pretty?
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 12:21 PM UTC
I have half-written confessions about you
And all of them are simultaneously as weak and gauche as the struggling flight of a butterfly with half its wings ripped off.
I have no coordination when it comes to dancing, Darling, and it's probably becoming more and more prevalent as you catch me tripping around my declarations
Because I am filled with so much self-doubt, but I can't help it that this new piece of my life has me second-guessing the placement of my feet and the rhythm I'm swaying to.
And with you being so honest from the dawn of our affair, it's made me guilty for doubting anything at all.
But I can't help it that you're a natural dancer and I'm just a mess.
I felt that the strength in my emotions were something to be ashamed of and in turn I've put them on display
A lewd circus performance to weigh the mass of my words and predict the approximate level they could wriggle down beneath your skin
Because I can deal with the stern looks and careless scoffs from sporadic digital strangers,
It's just that you aren't one and that means your opinion counts most of all.
I want to dazzle you with crazy dance moves like the Charlie Brown or Jitterbug or even twerk a couple of times because I can't impress with my mastering of the Hokey Pokey and the Cha Cha Slide
But I digress;
It just seems that all I can talk about when you're not around is how swell it'd be if you were.
And making our sweet dancing anything but comprised of candlelight and champagne and red roses just insults the beautiful parts of myself I want to so desperately share with you.
I'm no poet, dude,
And I've got no graces in dance,
But I'll rearrange the constellations in the sky to help better express myself if it meant figuring out how I managed to fall in love
With you
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Je festine ici et là
Je festine dans l’au delà
Je festine indécemment
Ma sauvage est de retour.
Je m’accouple aux vents boucs
Je m’accouple aux pluies vipères
Je m’accouple diaboliquement
Ma sage-femme est de retour.
Je sodomise les mares crapauds
Je sodomise les fleuves lézards
Je sodomise exécrablement
Ma guérisseuse est de retour.
Je blasphème aux solstices
Je blasphème aux équinoxes
Je blasphème scandaleusement
Mon infirmière est de retour.
Je me venge en la noyant
Je me venge en la brûlant
Je me venge insidieusement
Mon hérétique est de retour
Je cours après tous onguents
Je cours après tous poisons
Je cours brutalement
Ma dénaturée est de retour.
J’aime sa danse surnaturelle
J’aime ses pas diaboliques
J’aime ardemment
Ma forcluse est de retour.
Je caresse le soufre de son âme
Je caresse son pied gauche
Je caresse amoureusement
Ma Maligne est de retour.
Je m’accointe à sa lumière
Je m’accointe à son derrière
Je m’accointe horriblement
Ma pécheresse est de retour.
Je badine avec la lune
Je badine avec les étoiles
Je badine imprudemment
Ma prêtresse est de retour.
Je pèche des poissons capitaux
Je pèche des poissons capiteux
Je pèche lubriquement
Ma catin est de retour.
Je vénère les toisons
Je vénère les vipères
Je vénère précieusement
Mon dragon est de retour.
Je me frictionne l’entre-deux-jambes
Je me frictionne entre deux outre-tombes
Je me frictionne inlassablement
Mon ombre est de retour.
Je tremble de peur
Je tremble de joie
Je tremble frénétiquement
Ma sorcière est de retour.
Je décharge à tous vents
Je décharge à tout va
Je décharge instantanément
Ma bougresse est de retour.
Je danse en bégayant
Je danse en babillant
Je danse ordement jusqu'au chant du coq
Ma muse est de retour
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:55 AM UTC
wake up
desensitized, oversanitized
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
Dab all over with aches, pains, and itches.
Struggle with gauche and forced interactions, coworkers and family. Friends?
No God.
POSITIVE THOUGHTS
POSITIVE THINKING
cloying, choking fear.
fear
Fear
FEAR
F E A R
Rub your face in the mirror.
Think deep thoughts that you believe are unique.
They are not. You are very uninteresting, probably.
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
drink until you sleep,
if not use the pills.
Use both.
Your room is warm.
You will have nightmares.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Madrigal.
Mes deux mains a l'envi disputent de leur gloire,
Et dans leurs sentiments jaloux
Je ne sais ce que j'en dois croire.
Philis, je m'en rapporte à vous,
Réglez mon amour par le vôtre :
Vous savez leurs honneurs divers,
La droite a mis au jour un million de vers ;
Mais votre belle bouche a daigné baiser l'autre ;
Adorable Philis, peut-on mieux décider,
Que la droite lui doit céder ?
(Réponse de Mademoiselle Serment.)
Si vous parlez sincèrement
Lorsque vous préférez la main gauche à la droite,
De votre jugement je suis mal satisfaite.
Le baiser le plus doux ne dure qu'un moment ;
Un million de vers dure éternellement,
Quand ils sont beaux comme les vôtres :
Mais vous parlez comme un amant,
Et peut-être comme un Normand ;
Vendez vos coquilles à d'autres.
1.6k
Oh, I should have been fog and not a person.
Fog or sunlight,
Something untouchable
And unintrusive.
Something easily waved away or shaded from.
It is so tiresome
To be a person,
To crave the way souls do.
I am sorry, love,
That I am so coarse and revealed,
That I cannot fade into the background
So quickly
So seamlessly
As I usually can.
I promise I usually can- I have made a life of it.
This is bad form, on my part,
A slip, a trip-and-fall, a faux pas.
I have been undone
And it seems I'm caught unaware and unprepared,
Scrambling, trying to tug my skin over the parts of my soul
Where it has unraveled and failed me
Its usual disguise.
Where, I wonder, does my mind's gory skin-and-bones sense of touch come from?
Maybe my body
Is where the feelings live and char everything.
Maybe if I could lose the canvas and frame,
The paintings in blood scrawled by all my stumbles into love,
Maybe this gauche, needy thing I call a soul
Would get gone too,
And I could comfortably be something....
Untouchable- Fog, or sunlight.
Something less lonely and less weak.
But I have this pounding pulse
And this fluttering stomach
And this aching heart
And these bones full of hollow light,
And they control me,
And my skin is a fragile lantern that makes a blazing holocaust look like a tealight candle
From outside.
It is flimsy as wet paper, stretched tight
Over the searing claws and fangs of a soul
So
Hungry for this world,
For the things I love
That in fear and resignation my heart
Scores little hashmarks into the cage of my ribs
Counting each tremulous day
One more
That hasn't ripped me to shreds just yet.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
After the well-know,
charismatic,
extremely photogenic,
wonderfully articulate,
jeweller-turned-gardener,
your mother dotes on,
this cat is named.
He is none of the above
I should say
but I like him.
He reminds me of my late cat
Poppy, a more gauche pusscat
you’d be hard to find.
Poppy was a farm cat
of uncertain progeny.
Monty is certainly better bred
but (as we say in West Yorkshire)
‘daft as a brush’.
And now for the T.S.Eliot bit . . .
**(in the style of
Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats)**
Curled up upon the green chair
With his head against his paws
You can see his body breathing
Up and down
He’s been busy all day long
Doing absolutely nothing
Save a bit of this a bit of that
And washing clean his paws.
Life’s so hard
For such a busy cat,
When you’re asleep in bed
He’s about and out
Networking the side streets
Monty likes to know the scene.
These cats could teach us all
A thing or two.
In the morning he may be dozy
But you should see him after dark
Sharp and bright and really
On his toes.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
I always wonder why it is
That seeing someone else's tears
Creates such awe in me.
I want to ease your pain
But I am also
Transfixed by it.
The mask slips
When people cry.
The seams rip
And all of a sudden parts of them
That are never meant to be seen
Writhe in the light,
Raw and agonized and
Beautiful
As hell.
I do mean that- hell.
It is both
Divine and perverse
To witness someone else's pain.
I always hold my breath
As if I could shatter their soul
Just with the knife's edge of my gaze.
When you cry
Most people politely look away
For their own comfort
And tug their disguises closer,
Check their pinnings
Reminded of their fragility
By the gauche display
Of yours.
When you cry
I
Freeze like a photograph
And I see you as a child
I see you as a god
I see you
As a rainstorm reaching its fingers across
All the ugly concrete and glass we build
And getting inside
Underneath
To make the trees bloom.
When you cry
I see you like I see a painting
Hung in a museum so quiet you want to hush your heartbeat
Just to keep the stillness electric.
When you cry
You are so bright that when I glance at you
And look away
I am blind for a moment.
There is something about seeing that loss of control in another person
That one second of utter truth
The brutal, consuming honesty that comes with tears
That reaches inside, for those who dare let it,
And wounds exquisitely.
There is a bare second
When the part of them that recoils from the light
Clasps shriveled hands with the answering piece of you
And both hurt-
To see and to be seen
But that moment
Reminds you that you are alive
And
Why.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Beautiful, gentle, feminine grace
Her essence redolent of future nostalgic days
Supplement for the eyes
Taste of sweet hope
drive away consternation
Fragile, lithe confidence
Feline cockiness
unblemished control
So bold and self-assured
Insecurities tucked so deep
She walks with the air of
superior knowledge
And she has it
She knows things we wished
Intelligent in all her undertaking
As simple as they are.
likeness to the purest
Shes a magnificent creature
There is strength in her confidence.
Then there are the others
similar species
The ones who lack
Beastly
Trod like a giant
Callous to the touch
Gauche by comparisson
Constant yearning To be so sure of themselves
Constantly seeking others approval
Watching her
Studying her.
Long hours of staring And inhaling her
Pretending to be her.
Failing
Its innate
But only in women like her
"We are not all meant to be the same"
They are fed
"It would be boring"
She's manufactured by society
To endure society
Survival of the fittest
She will survive.
Don't we all deserve to survive?
Some say its science down to the atom
Invariably convinced that they are not members
of the "protected" feminine gender
But definitely not welcomed to the esteemed masculine gender.
Born in the right body
Trapped in the wrong mind.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
Don't let the Human Race down
theres too much loitering on the breeze.
Best un- invite their crypto smiles.
and Everything is Corporate,
bumbling politicians with no screen presence,
gauche PR and easy pretensions.
Foreign intervention snowballs
as an afterthought
by men of limited intellect
balancing their variegated inconsistencies.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
The winter was unkind
Yet you loved it
So much,
It was your gauche friend,
Reclusive in its blankness,
Complicit with its demands for
Many layers,
As snow is complicit in ****** -
Snuggling coldly into
Footprints.
And I remember the simpering
Light
That night,
As it squeaked into the
Room like
Lab rats bred for death.
I remember the slip
Of your body on the sheets
And your
Speech bubble breath
Spearmint ellipses,
Your teeth white
Your eyeballs white
Your watch-face white
The witch behind you
White,
Whispering the content
Of her
Turkish delight
And sculpting you
For her museum.
(Nothing ever really warmed you up.
How I hated that winter.)
I put the heating on and
Showed you the
Wedding dress –
An antique affair
That had been passed down.
My sister did not want it,
As she is not at all romantic.
When I got back from
The bathroom
You were out of bed,
Holding the dress against yourself,
Stuck in the mirror,
Head turned,
Absolutely lost -
A tiny bride
White as a
Snow tongued branch
And just as still,
Waiting for the wind
Or the clouds
Or some kind of joy
To move you.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
I’m all for pretty girls getting drunk and making bad decisions at 2 am on a Saturday night
Tongue kissing, bodies pinned against the door, hot ***
To last no more than the night does.
The sun came up in the morning, yellow and bright
And me in her bathroom taking a ****
Thinking
And her still on her bed, awake, both hands on her forehead, eyes closed
Sinking.
What in the name of all that is holy had she done?
This was that same girl: the one who's always hated my guts,
Is repulsed by so much as someone mentioning my name
This was that same girl: buttoned up blouse and pressed trousers
Impeccable manners
Reserved demeanour
Innocent, sweet
What the hell had she just done?
I never liked her attitude
Never liked her friends
Never liked the way she looked at me,
Everything about her made me angry
Until the alcohol.
To me it was different girl
Different hair
Different lips, eyes
Different hips, stomach
Thighs,
Different everything.
To her it was simply a mistake.
In her bedroom I look around
A few pictures of some people I don’t know cut out from magazines and stuck on her walls
A couple of romance novels
A porcelain vase on her desk
With no flowers in it.
God knows I don’t belong here,
I really don’t.
The night before she'd told me she was bisexual
It just sort of slipped off her tongue,
I realised this when we got naked
Because she appeared gauche in front of my ****
Kind of awkward but I didn’t mind,
All I wanted was to **** her
Hate **** her
All I wanted was for her to get on her knees
Me to hold her by her hair and ********* her
Into a coma.
Andrea Dworkin is turning in her grave right now,
She has ****** me to hell a thousand times
But I could care less,
I never felt such strong anger and deep pleasure at the same time,
It was glorious.
Just glorious.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
There lived a witch in olden times
Of the quizzical variety
A firm grasp of the arcane arts
Though sadly not sobriety
She hatched a certain theory
Causing general consternation
But she turned away from doubters
And towards her new salvation
Go deosil, never widdershins
Avoid a deadly plight
For turning left is sinister
And that just isn't right
Rotating anticlockwise
Is officially redundant
Keep turning right for victory
Examples are abundant
My cousin said she knew a man
His name is immaterial
He turned left one too many times
Whilst searching for the cereal
Reality was torn apart
And through the gap he fell
He landed in a tangled heap
Outside the gates of hell
Go deosil, never widdershins
As daytime follows night
For hard to port is oh so gauche
But starboard's always right
Moving counter to the clock
Will ever be unwise
So keep on going rightwards
And away from your demise
Wendy failed to plan her route
With careful dedication
To turn only the rightest way
And reach her destination
Her lack of forward thinking
Led to tragic complication
She came upon a roundabout
And died of dehydration
Go deosil, never widdershins
Stay right and on the level
For only flaccid penises
Hang limp towards the devil
And those who turn to face the dark
The gods will surely smite
So if you think of turning left
Instead, go three times right
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
Why does the right hand get all the good jobs,
like greeting visiting dignitaries
(such a pleasure) ,
or blowing farewell kisses to the one you love
(such sweet sorrow) ,
or playing the melody while the left
has to oompah along in the bass?
Right-handers get the best adjectives too.
I mean, we’d all like to be
adroit (as the French have it) .
So why do we poor southpaws have to be
gauche or, while we’re about it, gawky?
Tactless, without grace, ungainly, awkward,
physically and socially inept, that’s us.
And Latin’s no better.
We’d like to be dextrous too.
What makes us
sinister? Was Dracula
left-handed, or something?
Even when we can hammer
or saw or paint or drive a *****
with either hand equally,
or cut the nails on both sets of fingers,
they only say we are ambi-
dextrous, which is a bit of a left-handed
compliment, treating the left
as if it were an honorary right,
as if it had no right
to be skilful
in its own right.
I suppose my left hand ought to be grateful
(in this respect) that I was not born
into a tradition where it is laid down
what each hand can do. It could have been
condemned to a lifetime
of bottom-wiping and not much else,
and becoming cack-
handed in more ways than one.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
Un couloir de carrelage
Windows 95
Lumière turquoise
Mouette virtuelle
Soudain un glitch
Statue de marbre
Triste seul
Salle d'ordinateur
Il s'étrangle dans ses files
Si bien qu'il na jamais vu ses amis
Lunette de cristal
Serveur de ferraille
Larme du corps
Il y m'est tous ses efforts
Incompris lâche et tourmenté
Religion planqué
Tous à genoux devant lui
Hacker des PC inactif
Et modérateur soumis
Solitude parcourue de références
Incompris par les autres.
Et admirer par les uns
Des yeux triste et pétillant le suivent
Pendouillent de droit à gauche
Le long de son câble Internet...
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
La nuit. La pluie. Un ciel blafard que déchiquette
De flèches et de tours à jour la silhouette
D'une ville gothique éteinte au lointain gris.
La plaine. Un gibet plein de pendus rabougris
Secoués par le bec avide des corneilles
Et dansant dans l'air noir des gigues nonpareilles,
Tandis, que leurs pieds sont la pâture des loups.
Quelques buissons d'épine épars, et quelques houx
Dressant l'horreur de leur feuillage à droite, à gauche,
Sur le fuligineux fouillis d'un fond d'ébauche.
Et puis, autour de trois livides prisonniers
Qui vont pieds nus, un gros de hauts pertuisaniers
En marche, et leurs fers droits, comme des fers de herse,
Luisent à contresens des lances de l'averse.
1.1k
the shadow in the corner,
looks at me, whispers,
and whispers, at me ear,
looking for a way, to
become and merge with me.
as an insisting parasite,
as a shadow inside me,
but futile, and vain,
i'm too egotic, to let him.
enjoying my years of pain,
as a heartless man,
but the whispers, share his
childish flashes, a futile pursuit.
to myself, to be merge,
with creeps, cowards,
and annoyingly vain.
the poets secret crown, of
lovers in heaven, golden and
invisible, but made of pain.
cover my head, as a dead poet,
passing at this era, not blind or
vain, but true, and loving every girl.
even those i hate, the sexi hip bones.
the ego of a lion, never can be merge,
with a creep, pathetic and weak,
but he tries still.
wise by pain and deceit,
a lover in the prime, longing,
loving, watching, smelling them all.
with or without, gauche or droit.
tout le femme, e belle et magnifique,
comme le pleure de madeleine,
le sacre femme.
and this shadow, in me ear,
wants to be me,and make them feel,
complete and divine, as a goddess.
as y make them feel.
or a lioness, in the hand of a fouling,
and feverishly beast. burning and longing,
for the tresor, in their chalis, as mother earth,
smelling as her, as a jungle, and a door,
to infinite delights, between their thighs.
the shadow in my ear, y can see her pain,
but, it was his ******* choice, trie to be me,
and didn't make it, for being weak.
as an adult, inside the veil,
of a mouse's in a suit, the persistence
is futile, a shadow, trying in vain,
to be as me, but can't be but himself.
a lame little shadow mouse, in loved,
with a beast, can't love until she love
herself.
can't live or know anybody,
until he knows himself, and accept
his truth, until that happens, nothing,
will save him from him,
and his shame, is a cross.
as a man, can't live, as a boy either.
just as a shadow, in my body, trying to be me.
but failing at it, to weak and vain, to be me.
all y think, as i watch her, is thinking,
and for this **** almost burn my ***
and destroy my life, good choices, babes
but all wrongs, can't be forgiven,
or excused. all the pain was
hell on earth, but still unbreakable.
and loving even those that y still
hate, the lover's love even **** haters.
covered by lies, y emerge from the hell
some girls create, for the one, who wasn't.
an they where never me.
and now anyone can see. it was only
lies and deceit, little girls playing dodgeball,
for the shame of the creeps
not everything can be forgiven,
as y say, good choice babes.
20 years later, they still can't be me,
or not feel ashamed for their weakness,
or accepting their fate, and being without
feeling a ******* disgrace,
but nothing to
be ashamed of,
just their cowardness,
like tigers not accepting
the stripes,
creepy shadow on my wall,
you will never be me.
accept it and be free,
or you'll end up blowing lucy,
in the basement, loving the burning,
of HELL.
as THE shadow of a mouse,
in Lucy's playground,
suffering, and being only
you, the one you hate.
but you never were me.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
In the month that I popped a pharmaceutical drug to feel better,
I smiled for the first time in months
at a lame joke,
I stopped worrying
about where I was going to be
if the zombie apocalypse was to happen,
I ceased feeling terrified
of waking up to the voice of Joey Ramone
to not want to be or feel anymore,
I wondered how Hemingway felt
as he stared at the glittering city lights of the Rive Gauche,
typing down his dark thoughts,
I walked to the blinking white silhouette of a tiny person across the street,
without hoping that the cars would magically skewer to the side
and consequentially crush my skull in,
I felt my heart enlarging like a balloon, while I stared into
his magnetic eyes,
that remind me of the glistening candlelit lights of Paris
after the war,
I craved the chocolate ice cream
my imaginary little brother bought me
while annoying me,
I listened to the world
and heard it's rambles and jangles
and knew that "every little thing is gonna be alright",
and I watch myself in the mirror
to realize that I
this person staring back at me is a shell
enveloping in the shock at my utter disbelief
that I don't know who I am anymore.
Perhaps somewhere out there,
in a parallel universe,
wherein lies reality or fantasy,
I have already given up
and is watching me here
to mock me.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:29 AM UTC
Oh darling,
I've been at this game for a long, long time.
I can play it like a fiddle, this little tune.
I can win at it like a gladiator.
It was only a moment that I thought you noticed
The blood caked under my fingernails.
I realized quick
You thought it was mud
From the grave I'd dug out of.
Us here in the gutter,
We can't afford to be righteous.
We know our kind. We know our hearts.
For whatever I may be,
A little weak, a little cruel, a little vicious,
A little unfair
At least I have no delusions.
I refuse to dress up
The wickedness in me.
I am what I am, take it or leave it.
*(You've left it,
Whether or not you admit it to yourself:
I hear it in the sharp edges of your voice
A How dare you?
As if I'm causing so much pain to the shambling masses
By managing mine through wit.
Cut me a break, with your broken chinadoll fingers,
Because I am shards on the floor
Doing my best.)*
But I will recover:
I've been at this game for my entire life.
I am
Superb
At being abandoned.
You'll not see a thing from me-
It is my art.
Not a single tear, not a quirk in my smile,
You'll not hear a false note in my laugh
And I
Will always be laughing when it hurts
Because that
Is when it counts.
I am the warmer, the more charming, the life of the party,
The spark
Of the conversation
When I am hurting.
It
Is
My
Art.
I can play this tune like a fiddle,
And your mind with it.
My claws and fangs are my smiles
My "Go ahead, it's fine"s.
You'll feel not a whisper of resistance from me,
You'll see not a flicker of hurt
When with a flick of your tongue you lash me to ribbons
Over the pain I've disguised poorly for a moment-
For I'll not be so careless again: work will go into my outlets
So that no gauche misspeech can provide a thread for you to tug
And unravel me- no.
You'll see none of it, now that I am truly prepared.
Come to the rescue, guns blazing!
Add your bullets to the holes in my chest
Protecting someone who can more than handle
Little, limping old me.
I won't let it get me down
That you turn on a dime, dear.
Cause honestly, the only thing I have learned consistently from this life is:
*You only lose
If you care.*
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC