Simplest of names,
So plain, But how I love to say it
A promise for warmth in igloo block prison eyes
And tone of Daria,
just whelmed enough to respond
A chance of sarcasm is air
Venom in plain daylight.

Plain tone.
Plain mood.
Plain old abuse.
And most would take it from her.
As she would and certainly has taken it from us.

Petit feminine fighter with no haymakers or KO records.
****** face, that rested war and peace between chin and brow.
Baroness of motherhood or is it the queen of hearts and depression?

Stars and music always forever
Anchor tattoos with a key to a heart, now a predator.
Forever enchanted by the la-de-dah and bleeding heart affairs
A savior in no motion or fashion but I dare not call you hypothetical

But a standard broad, beauty and-
So shameless I celebrate seeing you, awkward and so ****
Cleopatra, to be a bit dramatic-
Yes Cleo-mantra, I collectively disintegrate all charm and physical form
And you,  unfazed or unimpressed with either detail of romance

My friend, compromised by style and NO amusement.
There is much more to you than ****** faces and belittling arguments.
There is more to you then practicing soapbox rants in your kitchen.
There is more to you than a shallow mothers intoxications and material.
There is more to you than the new hair dye or the wigs you collect.

The things you store in the boxes cluttering your room with everything not in those boxes
The clothes on your floor, decorations from your teenaged 3rd or 4th personality.
The smell of perfume and coffee and more perfume all over,
stuck to papers, next to wine bottles, borrowed and never returned books, unfinished snacks,
used paper towels, lipstick stained mugs and glasses, your sons toy I stepped on 4 times,
pictures of gone lovers and notes, your license; now found again after the second time ordering a new one.
And…it's expired,
Then finally under the aftermath of years, doubt, clutter, your cell phone vibrating in the fray of sheets.

"found it."

Least we forget that, as we forgot we are both in this room together.
You are so much more than this mess I picked up for you countless times
And though I complain I will pick it up for you and not ask your permission
I won't scold you, I can only exhale failure and help.

Staring blankly into your screen discussing all genres of worldly horror and ways to divert.
Such plans and opinions but no federal funding!
We would pay homage to girl power and the early 90's and call her G.I. Jayne-
(Or not cause she doesn’t have that kind of sense of humor.)
But imagine a solider, a true solider of the meek.
That is theoretically, G.I. Jayne.
Has all of our best interest at hearts, our hero.
Songs of children are said to give her strength-
(She really doesn't like this kind of humor, I must move on.)

My friend truly distressed by the world she can't control from her tiny screen.
I place all comfort I can to her and understandably rejected like a stranger making rounds.
No trust comes from her nowadays, None for me at least. I can't speak for all.
I try to climb over the steep absurdity, alluding to her self-mutilation and task this is
but not going as far as just telling her this is ******* killing me.

I have no lesser or sophisticated words.
I'm dying every time we reach these altitudes.
Fingers and my tone raising at every disagreement .
How you can break me down to my atomic core and decimate miles of friendship.
My closest star in the sky, use to bring me morning tea, flowers and maternity
We now stand in quasar as our space and stardust find mass in thousands of millions of years in development
For me to be sent to the loony bin and you to prison like our heroes from Clinton to Lazaretto.

She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.

A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.

She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.

If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.

She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.

Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****.

She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?

He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?

My love, my faire, I dream of thee
Thine softest smile, golden haire

All things mine would I forsake
Of thy love might I partake

Faire Gwendolyn, easily, would I spurn
This broken kingdom sure return

My king, betrayal, I would not have shown
Had thy beauty then been known

And now with greate sorrow do I behold
Thy sweet love and fairness untold

Your servant in all things,  Lancelot

Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV

A group show in a city church.
Nothing religious,
but selections from an evening class
occupying otherwise vacant space:
only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there.

These are 'advanced' painters,
and decoding their statements,
examining their work,
it's possible to imagine daily lives
where art lives in the spare room.

Lewis paints you know.
After Laura died, and with the children distant,
he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think.
That large landscape in the sitting room is his,
all sky and salt marsh.

Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps,
the contents of skips, what's left after a fire.
Her photographs she prints herself you know.
She says she loves to control the image,
chemically, and you can tell.

And more and others,
their 'work' holding stories,
other worlds of imagination and
depths of looking;
the silent collecting of things,
photograph after photograph,
the tidy sketchbook
(with last week's life class experiments).
And yet and yet

at the group show the finished pieces glow
in this badly-lit corner of a city church
where few visitors venture - but you must see this.
It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose.
This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning,
intense with intention, good, affecting, good
well-chosen tutor-curated;
good enough to come back to.

Consoling? Yes, consoling.
I needed consoling.
It consoled me.
I was consoled.

I straightened my hair
And got ready for the day;
Another day without you here…
Just another normal Saturday.

“Hey! Over here! Don’t you see me still?”
I don’t understand. Who gives me these chills?
“It’s me, Jayne Mansfield.
Won’t you come out to play?”

Don’t talk to me that way.
I don’t know you.
“You’re wasting away your day!
What else is there to say?”

Leave me alone.
You’re not my friend;
How do I put these strange thoughts
To an end?

“It’s me, Lady Diana, Queen of the Land;
I’ve come to free you from slavery
And give you a hand.”
Leave me now! and that’s a demand!

”Now, hold on one moment;
I may not be Queen,
But you are still speaking
to supreme royalty…”

What? Who are you?
Are you friends with them too?
“I am Grace Kelly,
The Princess of Doom.”

Shoo! Shoo! I don’t need you.
I need my best friend
Who was lost in her youth…
Just gone – like, ****.

“It’s alright,” said sweet Jayne,
Kneeled down on all fours…
“It’s okay,” said the Queen,
Who cried even more…

“Don’t be scared,” said the Princess,
Who just wasn’t sure
How to convince me that death
Unfolds into something much more…

"Live on," they all chanted,
and all I heard was love
coming from the voices
which now lived above.

I was asking around for poem ideas, and one of my friends told me to write about past relationships. I was looking through an old box of notes and cards and stuff that I still have, and this poem just kind of bubbled up inside of me. I'm not sure that I like it, I was just kind of writing to write and then FEELS.



When I was young
and my family told me boys (or girls) would be
"breaking down the door to date me"
I didn't realise quite how many people
would say they loved me
and how many people I'd say I loved
in a lifetime.
It's amazing how love can be given away
so freely,
so willingly
yet so painfully...
I have memories
of each one.
Lucas will always be my Percy Jackson.
Devon was a constant "babe" and "baby",
"you and me,"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed bear that I still have.
Evan was "1... 2... 3"
playing Doctor Who with my little brother,
I wonder if he still keeps that 4th grade picture
of me in his wallet?
Derick was "#dickerdoodles"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed Pikachu that I still have,
Netflix, a rainy day, a pack of cigarettes
a notebook
and a promise of New York City in a year.
Hannah was a bass
duct tape wallets
carmex,
a song lyric or three, and
"How do I love thee?"
Ellie was the Tumblr Accent Challenge
cigarettes, alcohol
a homecoming dance
and incredible music.
Magus was Zelda, movie nights, and
"I love you with all my heart,
with all that I am, with
everything I have."
Jayne was (and is) "kiddo," and now "baby girl"
JannaLee was "Stay strong, babe, and burn bright.
You're my fire; I'm your hurricane.
Those nights belong to us."
Jason L. was "Aw, butts..."
Scooty is "John SNOOOOWW",
"Groot..."
heart-to-hearts, and
Jekyll and Hyde,
#TeamApplesauce.
Travion was "Hey, let's face battle"
a note on yellow lined paper
and Hotel Transylvania.
Andrew was a lick of the lips,
my 9th Doctor,
"Hey, Nii-san."
Randi was "honeybabe" to me;
I still think that's a cute nickname.
Matt F. was "You're DIGAUGFN... I <B you."
(and I still don't quite know how to say
how much the jumble of letters "DIGAUGFN"
still makes my stomach flutter.)
I've made sure not to replicate
with current lovers things I've done
things I've said
special phrases, special actions
with past lovers
Memories are sacred, see.
I don't believe that any men or women
have hindered my ability to love
but at the same time I want to hold
the ones that I've loved
(or maybe don't want to admit to myself
that I still do love)
in the back of my brain,
in the bottom of my heart,
in my palms, rolling them into joints
and inhaling them until all that's left
is a labyrinth of white smoke and a smile,
lightheadedness and a moment of peace
I want to make this explicitly clear:
Just because I have loved many
and still hold many dear to me...
That does NOT hinder my ability to love
any given person at a time.
After breaking up with my boyfriend of 3 years
for a man whom I didn't know I could love
as much as I do
I realise that with all the people in my heart
I still have room
and as awful as it sounds,
I live in the past
as well as the present.
I can't let memories of people
things, places go
but please do remember that
I do know how to be faithful
in mind and in action.
I know how to hold only one,
how to kiss only one,
how to date only one,
how to marry only one,
how to live with only one,
when I say I'll never leave,
please believe that my words ring true
but I'm sorry...
I do not know how to love
only one.

"If you look closer, you can see my scar. It's a tiny little indention on my right cheek. It's the most flawed thing about me," I told him.*

I was with my best friend, Samantha Jayne. It was her birthday party, and everyone was invited. You could call it a lot of things, but we just said it the best best birthday party ever.
We left school, and a limo pulled up. I swear every girl almost fainted. I tried to make my way next to Sam, but I knew this was her one chance to talk to the popular girls. So, I sat down in the back next to the school loser, Miranda.

The whole limo ride was awful, and I was hoping Sam would pay more attention to me as the night went on. We arrived at Sam's soon, and everyone stepped out of the limo. She was still next to the girls that wanted nothing to do with me.
As the night went on: we danced, sang, and ate.. a lot. Here's where the scar plays its part.

We were all dancing. Almost 40 girls were crammed into one small shed. I was having the time of my life. That was until the lights wen out. I t was all right. We had the strobe lights.
I went to go sit down, and a huge girl bumped right into me. I tried to move out of her way, but she just wouldn't quit dancing. I remember her turning around, and I saw a flash of metal on her teeth. She dove straight for my face with hers, and her braces came clawing through my cheek. Blood instantly began pouring down my face.

*He looked at me, concerned, and said, "Faith, you're beautiful. One tiny scar won't make any difference to me. We could say my baseball hit you. We could say you tried to kiss me, and you fell."
I laughed, and I ran my hands through his brown, curly hair.
"Hey, I love you forever, ok?" I said.
"Forever. It'll always be you and me, girl. Just you and me."

The first game of spring
It was the first game of the year.
The go lump ducks vs the hot rugrats.
On 1st base for the hot rugrats is: Tiny judy mad cat
On 2nd is Flash betty furball
At shortstop is lucky slip maybell
On 3rd three leg piggy polecat
Rt field Cassy cool cat
Cfield Tiffy Mudcat
Lt field Vicky short pants Field cat.
Pitching Wild arm Jayne legcat
Catching Junk Cat Kitty
The game is cancel due to Rats on the field  the team is hard to control
A real mess the lump ducks left after the first rat was tore apart.
But that's your line up for tomorrow's game.

i know, i should have attempted to collect black sabbath's oeuvre, instead  i missed out on master of reality's song solitude, loved that song, learned to play it apart from the solo, and a girl remarked 'i did't know you could play country music', country?! ah, you mean country as in: sleepy hollow haunted woods and wide open fields and remote routes into isolation? ah, well then yes. shame really, but i'm not going to feel ashamed having collected iron maiden and slayer oeuvres (up to a sensible point), but **** me, that song! and thank god i smashed my guitar on the stones, bye bye, you haunted guitar.*

you know, after reading a lot of books,
esp. in your ****** prime and want of party party,
you digest things a lot easier,
mind you, i used to visit my grandparents
in the summer religiously, a perfect environment
to have read major books:
kierkegaard's either / or, bertrand russell's
history of western philosophy,
dostoyevsky's the karamazov brothers,
bolesław prus' the doll,
don quixote, tatarkiewicz's on joy...
i mean mammoth-sized books (by the way,
mammoth is a word derived from estonian,
and they didn't become extinct as far back
as you might think)... but the perfect environment
to read them... and after you've done that,
and enjoyed a few other books in between
you just turn to writing, and reading book
reviews... like today, i sneezed four times
to protect me against the guilt of laughing
reading a book review, rather than the book itself:
death drive - there are no accidents,
a book about celebrities crashing their cars,
fatal car accidents; enlisted examples refer to:
jayne mansfield, albert camus, james dean,
eddie cochran, mike hailwood, mike hawthorn,
marc bolan, tara browne, isadora duncan.
i guess you just forget reading books,
having testified to yourself an adequate cultural
canon being possessed: well, i mean,
imagine going back to the town of your birth
you left aged 8 and spending time with your
grandparents for a month - you have to
make shroud economics in such scenarios.

"Finally decided to do your hair for once."
"Chris, thank you, but let's focus on the dance."
"With this awful song?.. 2, 3, and hup!"
"We walked the aisle to this.. do try to keep up."
"Now now Jayne, that was probably ages ago."
"Oh, then explain why first anniversary's tomorrow."
"Ahem, now lunge, slowly, 4, embrace me."
"Can I ask one question? Why the hell did we marry?"
"That's two - you really should work on your spending."
"Sniff, and you should spend much more on washing."
"Judge Michel looks concerned, would you stop being upset."
"But I'm the one smiling, with great hair I might add."
"Steady, and land.. Yes speaking of which, why now?"
"I'm leaving you for Michel.. do not forget to bow."

im the son of a gun, speak my name and i'll shoot
a bullet **** smoke, left the cover in soot
the ensuite ensured entropy disabled
disaster dictates what destruction enabled
they ramble and sweat, their decisions are rash
through brambles, and yet, all others were trash

So I’m sitting here,
Alone again.
Thinking about you.
Giving up on most things in my life,
Cause I enjoy thinking about you more.
Do I feel comfort in the pain that your memory brings?
No, the memory’s comfort my head, my heart,
They sooth my soul,
Not the pain.
Yes, your memory brings sadness upon life,
But id rather feel pain then nothing at all.

So I sit here and write.
Something I haven’t been doing for long,
Expressing myself.
Its just another thing you helped me with,
In my confused existence.
So why do I want you back?
The same old story of I cant live without you.
Well I could live without you,
But it wouldn’t be as good as with you.
I don’t want a shallow existence,
Living in your shadow.
Even trying to disappear,
Out of sight, out of mind,
Didn’t work, I tried it.

So why do I want you?
Why cant I get you out of my head?
Why do I love you?
Why cant I answer any of these questions?

Its simple, the answer,
Its cause I love you,
I enjoy being with you,
I enjoy just being around you.
You make me laugh,
Without even trying you cheer me up when I’m down.
Just touching you fills my body with warmth,
with love.
Kissing you I cant even begin to describe.
Better then anyone I could have ever dreamed of.
I still don’t know how or why I was able to call you mine,
But that is why I’m so sad now,
Cause I know nobody compares to you.

I devoted myself to you.
Without even realising I was trying.
I wanted to make you happy,
To spoil you.
To see your lovely smile.
Looking after you, made me smile.
No you’re not perfect, and neither am I.
But one thing I know is,
I love you.

So what will I do if I never get you back?
I don’t know.
What I can tell you,
Is that I will be sad,
Alone,
And confused.
Doesn’t love conquer all?
But I’ll be a better person for having known you,
For having learned, having grown, from our time together.

I’ll keep thinking of our time together,
I will always be thinking of our time,
One day the memories will make me smile,
And bring me back from the pits of despair,
When I need it most.
Just knowing that I was happy,
I had a life,
A life I loved,
With you, Jayne.

You can't survive through music only
Here I was thinking that is what I'm trying to do
And I'm not even half as good as my little sister Jayne
Her voice is flawless, when she sings the world stops
Her chords reach to the hands of time
I am sure they refered to this peculiar being
When they said "I heard angels sing"
The neighborhood stops
And elokshin it barely does
It's as if her voice clears clean the environment of clumsy noises
Only hers reigns
But here I am a struggling poet
Barely making anything of my life
Watching my dream outgrow me like an unwanted hedge
Yet still I believe in these words
As clumsy as they are
They will speak for me
To my daughter Nealah
To my granddaughters
To the next generation
Of Jokonia

I had a dream