"genies" poems
So I heard once that there’s always
some gnarly looking carrot
in every bag of carrots
and you’re supposed make a wish on it
if you get it.
But I didn’t have a bag of veggies
I had a jar of Gumby and Poki
shaped gummies.
Finally the day came when there
were only two Gumbys left.
One was bent in half and
smashed together
and the other looked as all the rest had.
I pulled out the sad little gummy and
made a wish
like it was some ugly carrot.
I wished my crush would kiss me,
And giddily I walked to a coffee house
because I was hoping he would be there
even though I sternly told myself that
he had no reason to be there.
I found the coffee house closed and knew
my wish wasn’t happening that night.
I talked with a friend about my woes
and she confessed her heartache.
We smiled and laughed and died
just a little on the inside.
We had hoped that in college we wouldn’t
feel like middle school girls
with unrequited crushes.
The next day he dropped off a fish
(and this is no euphemism
or pretty poetry slang,
I opted to fish-sit while
he went home for break).
After he left, and
feeling more than silly
I took out the last Gumby
and pretended.
I pretended that it was every wish
on a boy I had made
since I realized boys weren’t
completely disgusting.
On my way to class
I held the little gummy in my
frozen, clenched fist
and wished
that’d he’d kiss me before he left.
I made it really specific
because every movie I’d ever seen
with genies in it had taught me that
specifics were key to avoiding
mishap and mayhem.
Obviously, it didn’t come true.
And I feel like I’m back in middle school,
wishing on ugly carrots and stars
that look suspiciously like airplanes.
Everyone has crushes,
and still more wishes.
Why I thought
at the age of nineteen
when the glamour of Disney-endings
and romantic-comedy plots
had tarnished to realism,
that a Gumby gummy prayer
would come true,
well I’m not entirely sure.
Maybe it’s no matter how old you are
there are always ugly carrots
and shooting stars
and fast airplanes
and romantic comedies
and gummies in the shape of
kids’ show characters.
Maybe no matter how disappointed I am
there will always be unrequited crushes
and genies for wishes
and God for prayers
and heaven forbid
hope.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
i was told not to read that book
it said right there on the cover
that if i did
i would become a scourge
like a hidden genies dagger
the sight of which would terrorize some
and draw others to me
those strange few
who cry to feel it wound their flesh
and crave its rupturing cold edge
an obsession in motion
demanding they lose themselves in the rapture
of dangerous weapons of pleasure and pain
their kiss an obscenity
sure i thought
and as i read it anyway
it's words
where like a cocked gun blasting
a slow-motion bullet
like a bomb in the skull
shattering brains
with a storm of licking tongues
and kicking feet
my death scattered me
into a great light that casts a long shadow
of headless prancing nymphs
their menstruum,
kaleidoscopic winding red ribbons
fruits of both heaven and nightmares
like a river of elastic mouths
shifting form like chewed gum
thunder filled the house
a dark paradise found
lost in the realm of the senses
quaking and torn
from
this gleaming blade
its caress a sanctuary
pulled tight
over searching fingers
that roam for damp places
in a flickering daze
hiding a frozen scowl
in
impossible times
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
If I had found a magic lamp in 1982,
And it produced a genie,
As magic lamps are wont to do,
And the genie granted me one wish,
Not three or even two,
I’d have wished to have a daughter –
A daughter just like you.
She’d be the perfect baby, she’d never cry (too loud),
She’d be smart - almost a genius,
My friends would all be wowed!
She’d be a scholar AND an athlete,
She’d stand out in every crowd,
She would win at everything she tried,
And make me very proud!
She be cute just like her Mother,
Blue eyes, and long blond hair,
Though her smile might sometimes cover
A sadness in her heart,
There could never be another,
If the genie did his part.
I don’t believe in genies, the magic lamp I must have missed.
I’ve never found a princess,
In any frog I’ve ever kissed.
But of all the things that I AM proud of,
At the far top of the list,
Is the daughter that I wished for,
Because she DOES exist.
I love YOU, Keri!
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
He has coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels.
White wide paths of knives
Are curved deep among the mountain passes
Of ribs wrapped in soft desert of skin.
A tongue athlet and a sound alchemist,
A reluctant nomad with wheat hair,
Who's driven by his crazy-grooving heart
So rarely though so far.
Sometimes a train, sometimes a net,
Sometimes a piece of paper
Will take him.
But most often he is joining with genies
In their bottles. And spirits take him
To the caves, the deep blood-vessels.
He's silent mostly and his back is bent
Though he is tall.
He walks all cloaked in weary clothes
And idle anger both.
As it dictates him his prideful eagle's nose.
He bears also marks of roots,
Of runes, of flame, of anchors,
Dancers.
His bones look at you in their clutches
From beneath the skin
Of his thin fingers.
He builds the towers shaky,
Weak. And so, they're almost living,
Breathing.
He've found a cat in a banana
And lets it live inside his elbow.
The grey in northern sky is his.
He reached his fine hands
And left it there. He touched the sun
And then again. He put it in his lighter
With his fingertips.
So he occasionally has a light from the sun.
He prays to metal and walks two roads at once.
He tolls the tree from which he hails.
He hangs from a branch.
Or does he just stand
Downwords and his back is lying on
The branch on which he stands?
He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and jokes, for bitter and smoke.
A cow of three eyes and a bee on his blazen
Are joing in drawing.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
one of the first songs i learnt to play on a guitar
was about a guy in space
while planet earth was blue
and there was nothing he could do
so he came back
and wrote a bunch more songs i can can play on a guitar
about heathens and spaceboys
and a guy called picasso
who was never an *******
but never came back
and in between he morphed a few times
assumed many guises
genies, heroes and dancers
rebels, dreamers and monsters
and never looked back
and i chuckle to think that up there on mars
whoever he's selling the world to
be it all the young dudes
or you in your red shoes
needn't give it back
i feel grateful for being part of it
all you've left behind
at least one thing is sure
there isn't any more pressure
and i've got your back
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.
A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.
Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
I write to remember myself
as the gray groggy foggy world hisses static noises
the loud clouds with jagged glass edges look to shred.
Sometimes I don't even feel pieces stuck in my bleeding spirit--
leaking ancient memories of magical imagination lands
where genies, centaurs and shadowy demons threw parties
with me as as the effigy on a pyre.
I write to remind myself
of my gypsy campfire spirit of honest expression--
each written word strips away another layer of clothing
dancing, a **** psychedelic sufi with Rorschach wings
watercolor tattoos of musical grooves pour out from my throat
as the roaring noises of cult-ure's hymns billow
around with clash jangling crankling sounds.
I write to remember
echoed words from eons past
beating and breathing through me,
an infinity of laughing gasps gassing anxious neurons
screaming from the shattered shards of surrounding glass clouds--
reminding myself I can choose the reality.
I write so I'm not in a fugue of confused pain.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.
A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.
Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
i had to discard, but that brought the butterflies and the angler-fish.
it kept the genies and the shrink-wrap in stainless-steel steel traps... in the permanent traps.
we drag our baskets haphazard. beneath the undulation of the Under.
below the Was.
i slept on thin gems and dust mites.
i built a clock from the errant gears of your heart and charmed nowhere out of harm's way on time.
i bought you a Man O' War jellyfish and stone kisses from a derelict wish.
we gag the drastic Mamet, till we Stoppard.
Just Because.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
Blow me a kiss, doll
And I'll lead the way;
I'll show you where all those mermaid lay,
give you a carriage of pumpkins and magic
name what you want, and there you shall have it;
I'll go and bow down to the Elven Kings,
and watch you with pride as he gives you a ring;
We'll talk to the sprites and flee from the ghosts,
Meet pretty princesses (I love you most)
We'll watch unicorns as they gallop and prance,
And when we see stars we'll just get up and dance,
Make several wishes from genies aplenty,
So many nymphs, at least fifteen or twenty
Will take us to dragons that are blowing blue fire,
And knights with bright swords (of which I'll admire)
We'll run to the place where the phoenix all meet,
See them slack-jawed as they sparkle with heat,
And then when it's time to finally sleep,
Please close your eyes and then kiss me so sweet,
And when we wake up in lands of metal machines,
I know we're not where there's ogres and queens,
But you're still my princess, and trust me my dear,
Somehow your kisses are sweeter right here.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
We walk like vapor-genies
in old growth forests,
ghostlike & elegant,
we move
like true fairytales,
gnomes whittle the way
for us
past exploding ferns.
It’s true,
we have seen the rain
coming down in torrents
along blue ridge trails,
fallen logs strewn about
like matchsticks,
fungi licks our shins
while lightning cracks
thunder like bullwhips.
I love moments like that…….
I hear Creedence every time we go.
And didn’t you know dear friends,
it’s spiritual medicine
for restless souls,
like my fellow companions & me.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
-
•fig•ment : something made up or contrived
•re•al•i•ty : the quality or state of being real
-
*Dreaming while sleeping, and sometimes awake
Whimsical fancies fueling escape
Wishing is for the uncertainties
Collecting more than three from genies
Checking out my daily horoscope
Astrology might give me some hope
Calling out all the deities I know
Bending my knees, blessings they might bestow
The magic still holds expectations
Of this world its seen from all views
But the signs are unclear, faded
It doesn't feel useful when put to use
And I still await, alone
For something that may just come passing by
Or maybe in the form of an angel
Dancing with howling clouds across the sky*
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
There is a light that shines-
Blue bright light-
Where Genies and magic-
Explore worlds of delight-
Hearts are Patched to the core-
Never lands to explore-
Deep from the meaning-
Good morning no war-
No doubt that the fire-
Still burns in his soul-
Poetical King just fishing for more-
Alone is the pain-that one should never bare-
Aliens to this planet-are more common than rare-
Willing is the hunt-for a calmness of game-
Laughing is the cure-Awaken ailments of pain-
Though it may never be said-
Though it may never escape-
Off to Ork we must go-
To close this chapter of fate-
RIP Cap
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
What if that bug you splat was not there to bug you?
That spider actually spoke until you smacked all senses out of its skin.
The fruit fly sang beautifully, at least the spider said so.
The centipede liked shiny things and tap danced Morse code.
The June bug loved to braid but its grip is so small, you hardly noticed at all.
The water bug was going for a run when you saw it slip past and you grabbed her fast and dunked her til she drown.
The sweet cricket was tuning his romantic notes when you pulled the window closed.
The bumble bee full of honey humbly bumped you, squealing you swat the sky until its wings were too damaged to fly.
The ant hill, nearly rebuilt seemed the perfect place for you to plant your foot, the colony cried as they began to drag their dead brethren in.
What if these were your genies,
The wishes you wished.
The friends you needed,
but were so quick to squish.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Boastful cat
Saturn rain
Night is dull
Dull blades still slay
City craves rustic sway
And these white houses
Are the grave
(Thunder brings a night of lust
Christmas lights are empty trust)
Should've been a raindog time
But the clouds had fate for eyes
Someone shot a feverish arrow
And laughed as I went blind
*Pink room
Red womb
Blackened heart
***** spoon*
Opened my eyes -- The mirror fooled and did tricks on me -- Pelicans and temporary ghosts -- Like a pleasant phantom come to visit -- Until it reared its ugly head and showed its face -- It took all my grace -- Swan lake -- Sky high -- Pace and word -- Makes clear as it distorts -- No war and peace -- Foes and cohorts -- Just everything you've adored and everything they'll abhor -- And nothing more -- Should have put thoughts on paper -- Couldn't hold a pen -- Three days of geometric chaos -- And a lifetime of no symmetry -- Should have never reentered the cave -- Shadows on the walls -- Filled with tattooed luck -- Now I'm Cecilia in a bathtub -- Waiting for the inevitable -- With demons on my shoulders -- Incubi atop me -- Genies above me -- Elves behind me -- Dirt below me -- And cult claws on my walls -- Stuck in symbol-land with constant mock cymbals -- TV laugh-track plays every step I take -- Sterile and over-sensitive -- Can't ever get numb -- Screaming babies and French sirens -- Eureka's ball court -- Xibalba's darkhouse -- Doomed to rot -- Would've aced the other tests -- Eating glass -- Metnal mental -- Raggedy Ann -- .Extravagant *** -- Yellow wallpaper on every face -- Painted blue for sacrifice -- Puppet overnight -- Trying to gut truth -- But so far the mystagogues have webbed tongues -- And the angels all have angles --
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 1:44 AM UTC
Is a genie blue?
such myths are unclear.
Will a genie grant your wishes?
ridiculous or pure.
In a bottled prison,
will a genie stay?
lounging in cramped conditions
will a genie grey?
Be mindful what is wished
watch each word that is missed
Genies tend to twist a promise.
magic fogs ellipse
Dizzy are these questions
certain I must be,
before I set to seek
a genie just for me.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
I wish that I was braver – a little less shy. But genies are a thing of make believe, so this wish remains inside
Of my mind
It is false like the sheep herder who calls,
Out about a ferocious beast who feeds on his sheep,
Even if there was no ferocious beast at all.
But at least he cried wolf, at least he cried out.
While I sit here in silence with the worst case of cotton mouth.
I've been struck by a drought, Words dry up faster than my ability to speak.
My tongue has been barren for days, no sound, genies are a thing of make believe.
I fear what might happen, meaning I embrace deciding not to take action. But when it comes to hoping, all of my thinking is wishful.
So if a genie were to be reading this, may he grant my three wishes in the form of spoken word delivered from my lips to her ears:
You're really Cute.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Don't look at me
Stare straight ahead
The camera sees
And hears what's said
Fear 'Little' Brother'
In the phone for when
Everything's discovered
You turned you in
Bots with your social
Your facebooked look
And alexiacon vocals
Read you like a book
It was you but only you
Who fed 'Big Data' bots
Letting trackers through
Accessing all you got
Surveillance in any hand
A.I. genies in all reflections
Takes itself from every man
Knowing every direction
Losing a piece of me
Is losing a piece of you
If you come close you see
You're a chess piece too
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 10:22 AM UTC
You will have to excuse me
This will definitely not be my best work.
I was sort of blindsided.
This poetry café is not normal,
And as you could imagine
I had a hard time writing something hype
This was unexpected.
But sometimes the best things come out of unexpected moments.
A faint cheer in a cloud of fear.
Sometimes there are times where you can’t expect a thing.
So I guess this poem is supposed to be about believing we can do it.
I think we all know we can.
But sometimes even the strongest people fall.
Confidence is great, but ignorance is not.
We are not indestructible.
In fact, failure is inevitable.
The bigger picture is often obscure.
But if one is lucky enough to prevail
It seems as if they sail,
While the rest watch wondering,
What happened to us in which we couldn’t go that far?
We all have a jealous part of us.
We all have those feelings in which we are not proud.
Humanity is sometimes just as evil as it is beautiful.
If we look at history,
It seems to be crowded with pain and unfathomable mistakes.
But pain is not what it takes.
Don’t get me wrong
Life is no fantasy.
There is no magic.
No genies to make our dreams come true.
Instead we have to work hard for the things we get
And sometimes more often than not, we lose what we work so hard to build.
And I know, I know
I can hear it
What the hell am I talking about?
I’m not hitting the theme at all.
And I’m not, or am I?
Because yes we are going to fail
It is impossible not to.
But in fact when we fail,
We have just as big a chance to make a comeback.
Yes that failure leaves us cussin and fussin
But in reality that big picture that once looked obscure
Becomes just a bit clearer now that we have failed.
We cannot go on living life thinking we know everything because there is no room to learn.
If you want to believe that you can do something
You have to prove it to yourself before you tell others.
It starts with you.
You are the beginning of your story,
And you will be there to see the end.
You are present through all of your story.
That is important.
So you know how if you get into an argument
And you say, “You don’t know me”
Well who does know you?
No one truly knows you but yourself.
So you are the only one who can take you where you want to go.
So if you want to go far
You have to get yourself there.
And to get yourself there
You have to be willing to put in the work to get there.
So it’s up to you whether or not you can make it.
It’s your choice to believe that you can do it.
Because in the end
You will be the one to fly, or catch yourself when you fall.
I can stand here and tell you cliché
Don’t do drugs and never smoke,
Or I can simply tell you that the choice is yours.
An inspiring pep talk is only a pep talk
This poem is just a poem.
It’s up to you if you listen to me and what I’m saying
It’s also up to you to criticize my every word.
You can do anything.
But anything can be good or bad.
It’s your choice.
No one is stopping you,
And if they do,
Who cares?
Because they don’t know you, right?
It’s up to you.
Choose to succeed or fall
Either way,
You can do it.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
Death would be too kind
See there's a special place
A certain hell for kids like you and I
Genies, or maybe genius
It doesn't exist, we can't fake it
And once again I can't explain..
You just can't take it
No matter how many ways I
Try to tell you the facts,
I was just changing masks
A new day, a new face,
You never even tried, It felt like
Never even cared to look past
To find what was underneath
And it's taken me captive, so long ago
Can't remember How long I've been gone
Still you believed in whatever you saw
I knew, but just couldn't prove you wrong
So I tore myself apart
Dug to the deepest trenches of this tattered heart
I broke all of the masks,
Untied every knot in my cluttered mind
Only to find
There was nothing inside.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
I wish Magic were real
I wish Elves lived next door and Fairies really had wings and Dragons roared through the skies
I wish Witches flew on broom sticks and Sirens really did sing and that Magic coated the air in a multitude of colors
I wish Genies granted three wishes and that time travel were possible and Mermaids swam with dolphins
I wish a Pegasus could give me a ride while I watched Unicorns grazing through open fields below us
I wish Water Sprites danced in our waters and Fire Nymphs danced in our flames
I wish I still saw through the eyes of a child and my very, very best imaginary friend would come for a visit
I wish I still danced in my underwear and dreamed about finding my Prince Charming
But most of all I wish I could take a leap, jump out on faith, SOAR THROUGH THE SKIES and just FLY
Maybe
Just Maybe
I still can
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
The news was new, surprising,
as well as not boring
The flying carpet came with the magic lamp
My town has altered
Sometimes I can't recognise it
Selfishness seems to me
like the darkness of the abyss
Genies ring the doorbell
ding ding ding ding ding
I ask myself, what's wrong?
Finally I sang a sad song.
Apr 13, 2024
Apr 13, 2024 at 2:19 AM UTC
I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.
A tight-jowled youth
of the twenty-first century,
tan-white skin of olive grove
and modest treasury;
I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.
A heterozygotic individual
walking over the glass floor,
I watch women on computer screens
and I walk them to the door.
I sign off to the world at night,
laptop glow polluting the stars,
I fall asleep to a lullaby hum,
the mating calls of intersecting cars.
Eyes roll at the demands
of twenty-first century life,
I curse the death of all poetry
in the elimination of strife.
Oh, I have no reason to moan,
please forgive me this.
Information genies commentate the world.
Screens deliver me lands fractured
in drought, oh, disconnected reality
and always living in doubt.
I weep at the sights of sadness
and I purge all longing onto paper,
I watch as the sky returns my tears,
polluted air and puncturing skyscraper.
In modern joy, I curse all comfort.
Through art I pretend to praise,
I pretend to feel real emotion
beyond my usual haze.
But still, I have no reason to moan,
forgive me this.
Old Leonard sings his ******* poetry
in clumsy awe and wonder,
he sings to me as I count collected tips
and he always pulls me under.
My greatest ailments require cocoa butter
and my greatest rival is myself,
my rival is my best friend too
but he doesn't take care of his health.
But the curtains will close in the night-time
and they'll open again come morn,
and in my comfortable surrender,
I plead only for innocence reborn.
With that I know, there's no reason to moan,
you'll have to forgive me this.
So for love undiluted and pure,
I will call out my miserable answer,
I will walk these streets,
grow old in the face
and fall in love with a dancer.
I will dream of forgiveness
and of yesterday's returns,
I will dream of stirring the flame
that rather gifts heat, than burns.
And in the process of waking dream
and suicidal kiss,
I ask only that you understand
and that you forgive me this.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
The angel with the black eyes in the script that I ripped up,
came back to haunt the pens I use.
I thought I knew her well, had undressed and pressed the cartridge ink but now I think,
creation's just a demon that stupefies the mind of men.
So,
now I'm very careful even fearful of my imaginings
djinns and genies mean me harm,
no lamps can light my way.
I cut to the phone and with the lead around my neck
my therapist says,
'go home and have a rest'
he thinks that he knows best but he doesn't know I'm not paying him,
one more genie
one more djinn
the demon eyes me,begins to grin
I'm scoring well
three more points for free entry to hell.
The angel with the black eyes,
I should have given her wings,
sings to me of a mutiny.
The genie laughs
the djinn drinks gin
and heaven is closed
they won't let me in.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC