"guildenstern" poems
every night since Rosencrantz died,
I've had dreams about dead goldfish,
their silver and gold scales gleaming sickly
red roses of blood blooming from beneath them
dead and bulging eyes staring at me.
every day I come home to find
Guildenstern still swimming is a gift
but the goldfish are still dead in my dreams.
They are always there
and I never know why.
Their bodies are piling up.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Darkness calls on us like the Siren's Song,
with the optimism of Candide, we charge on
because we know "things are exactly how they should be,"
But we're ignoring the fact that we cannot see!
We cannot be free!
No wonder Yossarian went so **** crazy,
trapped with no way out...
Like the old woman protecting her individuality in her burning house.
In this day and age,
Individuality burns out faster than paper in flames.
As fragile as Hamlet's mental state,
**** it's gone.
We're left as scared and self-conscious as J. Alfred Prufrock.
Questioning ourselves,
We don't dare disturb the universe.
Forced back by scrutinizing hands
through the shrunken entrances of our comfort zones,
Left torn and scarred
because they don't accept who we are.
I walk the halls with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
Watch identity evaporate without concern.
Ignorant voices, the poison dripping into my ears.
I walk the halls a ghost.
They think I'm weird,
Maybe a few screws loose,
but I'll tell you what...
"Crazy" Orr is the one who escaped Catch-22.
Though I fear there is not an Odysseus within all of us,
I fear we are not prepared.
For when Darkness calls on us like the Siren's Song,
temptation is seldom overcome.
6/13/14
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Under this grave deep in beneath all the dirt,
Heads of two men pulled an opposite Kurt.
Together skipped through the state of Denmark,
Pestered Hamlet 'bout madness till he barked.
Kissing the hands that always seems to feed,
Loved to be servants to the King and Queen.
Promoted to the most difficult task,
Cruise to England to rid Hamlet at last.
But Captain Jack Sparrow saved the poor fools,
Left them sailing in a sea of their drool.
Letter in hands they had it delivered,
Words in it though will have them bewildered.
Turned to the King they asked what's it about,
Twas the last time the two ever hanged out.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Life presents you with many gifts.
Some may be opportunities,
Some may be material things.
My favorite gift is the people in my life,
Especially her.
Who is she?
She is a fierce dark angel who is not afraid to fight,
But do not be fooled by the masks she wears.
Her closet is filled with them,
And she chooses multiple options for her day ahead.
They have never fooled me.
My favorite mask is the one she was born with,
Her in her natural state.
She shakes off her beauty,
Denying it to the world.
Her blue-green eyes are hidden behind books,
Or they hide under her mane of dark hair when she writes.
She will smile when you approach her,
But it is just another mask she employs to hide the pain I see in her eyes.
The masks have never fooled me.
In my thoughts she is my Bellona,
Fighting battles on a terrifying battlefield.
Her choice of weapon is inconsequential,
Her eyes and words can be fatal.
Her friendship is rare and unique,
She is my Guildenstern and I am Rosencratz.
I would follow her across the galaxy,
And together we would be kicked out of Elysium.
Deep secrets are traded between us,
A currency worth more than money.
She is a woman of many layers.
Every day is full of surprise, laughter, and mischief.
No one could manage us.
Conversations are endless,
Hearts are placed on the table.
Trust is gained and built,
Each brick of trust adding to the celestial temple of our friendship,
Where masks are left at the door.
She is a precious and stubborn gift life presented me with,
No matter how much she denies her importance.
She is my dark angel...my master of masks.
She is my war goddess...my protector and supporter.
She is my partner in crime...my creator of oh so delicious ides.
She is the thread that keeps me tethered today this enchanting life.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
As the Artichoke, succulent when raw
Add stunning Flavours when allowed to roast
Whose Heart, seeped Marrow richer my Tongue saw
Spells a better Taste when eaten the most
Yet in your School, Time has honoured your Bake
Which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern took Like
Seems so, for Tested Barrels be your Make
Cross that of Swollen Souls which took Excite
Such was your Work - your pink, spongy Brioche
Rowdily kempt though tempting to enjoy
Which they Both consume; Then reserve their Broth
Hoping some Dames would savour your Specialty.
And Savour indeed, I Hope in Expense
Till such Recipe goes beyond Intense.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC