"irons" poems
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love ********
and like ******* hug butts
like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing
like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
that's
how i love you
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Handcuffed to a post, body chained to death.
Rusted irons pulling his spirit towards Hell.
Shackled souls who cry in hope.
His name in blood on white-washed walls.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
and
just like that
I am falling
unfolding in your eyes
layers of shadows unraveling
in polar-laced
spirals of hunger
deep freeze melting upon tongue
an icy build-up
thawed in seconds
for my very cells burn
beneath your gaze
as you take in the fullness
of my presence
despite the smoky,
glass-paned haze
My presence-
suffused with
the darkness of silk-
I want it to graze your skin
the most gentle feather
stroking emotion
coaxing out the
delicately-wrapped
firestones in you
spinning them into
a frenzied lava-slaked ocean
and then those unexplained,
flurried lattice flakes
that somehow soothe and cool
within this inferno
of just-missed proximity
My essence
is cast like a net
over you
as we dive into
the volumes
as I pull the
heated visions out of your mind
feel your heart's closest
most tiny reverberations
little beats barely heard
yet in some unlikely way
pump blood into mine
Undo me
as my wet blue pools
dissolve into yours
my trussed-up implosions
flowing out in air-spun tempest
Unwrap my defenses
a soldered-up dam breaking
a glass tubular bell
hairline fracture quaking
Strip me bare
no need to even touch me
for the vapors of
your voice
remove the layers
of debris
like the steam of earth
irons out
the blackened quilt of sky
to reveal
the altar
of our
stars
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Dedicated to Autumn Nolen and Katie Ormsby
Sewed little pink stitches,
all over my broken heart.
Soothed my worries
with sweet words
and reality T.V.
I had forgot how important,
friendship is.
Late night talks and afternoon hikes,
little black dresses and curling irons
Our hands interwoven,
laughed through dark streets,
and bright rooms.
Smoke and sunshine and sisterhood.
I am so thankful,
to have friends like you.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.
Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.
I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.
There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.
"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.
I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.
Francisco,
Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.
Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night,
****** up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
2.8k
With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.
Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.
But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.
So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.
Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:47 AM UTC
The demons live with me –
They have their own blankets ready,
So later we would go visit the creeks
And they will push me to the water and let me suffocate,
They will drown me in muds
They will blind me so all I could see is dark.
The demons live with me –
They invite me to our special hideout,
Decaying building and magical asbestos
And they will prepare an empty room full of irons and knives,
They will slit me with them
They will kiss me with them 'till I become numb.
The demons, the demons live with me –
They will celebrate my birthday party,
Their presents are bouquet of blights
And they also give me flaming matches for me to light up an inferno,
They will burn with me, laugh
They will burn every sadness I felt.
The demons live with me.
They are inside, they are calling me.
The demons, demons, demons,
THESE DEMONS,
Demons, d e m o n s
are me.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Phone rings, only breathing
Landlord yelling, dog barking,
Mexican music, nosey neighbors
Long cigarette and goodbye girl
She’s absent and she’s catatonic
She’s boiling in unwanted fever
She hums as she irons unplugged
She hums as she cleans up the blood
She’s levitating against her will
She’s nailing the door shut with a candle
She’s rolling him up in a carpet
Yeah, your high horse and your sports
Are just heavy metaphors
For something a lot sweatier
****** Made Her Menstrual
You supplied the weapons
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)
If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces
I would never love an artist
because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin
No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)
no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins
And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters
I would never love an artist
because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt
For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)
If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer
But I am.
And I understand.
And I would never love an artist
For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed
And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
plied playful pied piper oh puppeteer dream writer of a wonder and future so bright,
oh tell pray chance the grand wonders in morrows to come a stored store for the wondering fools of this world tonight.
casting, the irons so hot, malleable, tender in the hearts delights, here in this awkwardly worded flight, of fearless tendency, oh **** necromancy?
**** yeah, that, that can stay far from sight. now, lets lead with the fixxen to wack the mole of ridiculous vixxen and fiction so true, so true the crookedly made house, rousted clout, for he is an ego far too large this alley mouse, pretending to be a cat without a house, oh wait that's me, scratch that last part, before someone figures out i was only a silly little roustabout, and hoping to rooster, and goose the calling of mine own loud *** mouth out. crap. this ***** but we are far from done, oh almost forgot you standing there, will you do us all a solid and tell us the way out? or at least what horse to bet on in the triple crown and the powered ***** all hanging out? your a Daisey if ya do.
SuperStar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EreTOvelQ
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Gone, gone, gone…
Want me, want me, want me
Gone, gone, gone…
Want me, want me, want me...
It's out of sight and out of mind, Now no more me, you're out of time
Just be glad for what we had, That's too bad, Love is so sad
Tomorrows no good as the day before, There's no way I'll ever give you more
Strike while the irons hot or you'll never know what you could have got
Stop calling me, face the fact now you've failed the test
I was the best, you can have the rest, Just got to get it off, get it off my chest
Don't wait till I'm gone to want me, cause if you do I won't want you!
Don't wait till I'm gone to try and find me, you'll only find that we are through!
Don't wait till I'm gone to want me
Don't wait till I'm gone
Wait till I'm Gone
Till I'm Gone
I'm Gone!
(The Anagram of MARRIAGE = A GRIM ERA)
&
(The Anagram of I WANT A DIVORCE = WEIRD VACATION)
© In Perpetuity All Rights Reserved By The Author: D. Clare
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create
Something beautiful.
The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.
Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.
Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva
Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.
Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.
Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.
The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.
A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.
Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.
A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.
The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt
Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.
The breaking wheel
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
2.1k
Glitterati Gangsters gaze
with commanding stares
and broken plates glass blown and open gates
There she sits eyes
all holding
all knowing
synchronicities shatter the scene
Sparkling
each blink initiates a flood of flaming diamonds
that lash out like hot irons
Eyes like this entice and take
Each blink unlocks a new mystery
as she grinds resistance in her teeth
Igniting my lust
Sparkling
each blink creates a dawning sun
Her gaze inflames ten thousand ways
She wields sparkle
like madmen spray sarin
With sparkling abandon
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
Days and nights at home alone
Swiping left and right
Tiny movements seeking love
A quest for someone right
Profiles pass before their eyes
One stands from the batch
Buzz and flash goes the phone
Tinder, it’s a match!
A chat ensues so they court
To find rapport is great
Best to strike whilst irons hot
And so arrange a date
To meet and greet by the sea
For coffee and a stroll
First impressions made are good
Seems they’re on a roll
Finding common ground they laugh
And think themselves hilarious
Keen for more, dates arranged
This one could be serious
And then it starts to blossom
The months ahead are booked
These two people fall in love
Now for life they’re hooked
What a wondrous thing this app
Without it meet they’d never
Parallel lives yet hadn’t crossed
It brought these souls together
There’s no need to go to bars
Or parade upon a stage
Stay at home with phone and swipe
It’s dating modern age
It served them well this app of love
Used wisely there’s no folly
Happily into sunset they ride
That’s how Brian met Holly
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,
So I am pulling out all the stops.
I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-
I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,
-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-
I have found sack cloth and ash and I,
Intend to,
Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.
There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-
I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!
But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage only to elicit,
Splendid chuckles from my nephew.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
******** The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.
Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-
Mine?
Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.
Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"
"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."
I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside
I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-
Beauty is the greatest lie
Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise
imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake
but have never even opened their eyes.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC