"kitschy" poems
It tastes like purple
dripping of sugar and avoidance
in a circle
of loitering semi-pubescents.
Wooden sticks
precariously cling to
misshapened ice nuggets
in varying stages of licked, bitten and
melted.
School was out.
Hormones were in.
From the other hand
Becky sipped the ****** of
Strawberry Hill.
She knew things
she shouldn't know.
I wanted to know them too.
Looking over kitschy glasses
her gaze announced
(much to a young boy's excitement and fear)
she was bound
to kiss me.
At the awkward crossroad of
popsicle innocence and cheap wine
I stood clutching
my little piece of lumber
fighting sticky fingers
and the urge
to drink my first liquor
from her lips.
There is no such thing as
12 year old mojo.
The boy's experience
was only under-dated
by the alcohol in the pretty container.
She didn't care
about mojo or
decorum or
crowds.
She cared about RIGHT NOW.
She was an evangelist for the cause,
asking forgiveness
instead of permission
for her lust
...and I was being converted.
Hitchless
she walk into the face
of a clueless child,
tilted her head
and baptized his mouth
in ***** and braggadocio.
It didn't taste like purple anymore.
It tasted like America pie and graduation.
Her unseen signature
authenticates my diploma.
I am still a patriot.
And a warm piece still reminds me
of Strawberry Hill.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
As trite and gray as words
become with time, my heart
becomes an ashen leaf
in fall; or kitschy art;
or something even deader,
as old coals, so far abstract
from life that words should give
them meaning; In fact,
that I might be troubled
to convey this worthless stuff,
I find the lackingness of language
barely dead enough.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
The main reason I've tried around five new recipes a week
and all of a sudden enjoy cooking
and the reason I've bitten my nails down to bone
and texted my good friends way too many times
fragmented and weeping with questions
and the reason I've listened to podcasts minute after minute
and audiobooks
and ******* Damien Rice's creepy voice saying the words **** you
over and over again
and have a wishlist on every overpriced bohemian rag site
and entered multiple contests guessing Bon Jovi's lyrics
to win 50 dollars to Applebees
and the reason I drink red white and blue ****** can after can
after hours that end with "AM"
and the reason I don't feel like hearing my client's problems
and catch myself in fantasies about running away or climbing up into trees and staying there for months
and the reason I go to angry slam poetry events by myself
and watch Sarah Silverman crying on the television
and snorting coke
or scrub my gums until they bleed
to taste the iron with those perfectly prepared meals
I even thought about joining a meetup group
instead I just met up with my therapist and noticed she's wearing the same sweater I am
What the hell is she going to be able to do for me?
Take my seventy dollars and run
and I keep edibles harbored in the corner of my cheek
saving the ounces for the most destitute of moments
when I hear I have to eat lunch with my in-laws at Red Robin
and be blinded by their white supremacy
That's when I get ****** as ****
and find it all funny
and the reason I sprint into the woods at night and look up at the stars
sweaty and haunted
and the reason I keep "getting lost" on my way home from work
and stalk my ex-boyfriend's babies on Facebook
and wet the pages of Charles Bukowski
and then watch his documentary and scream at the TV in horror
and the reason I buy bags and bags of peanut butter stuffed pretzels
and my laugh sounds unnervingly different every day, as if my role keeps changing from **** to lesbian to raging feminist to kitschy wife lover to Eskimo to poet
is due to the fact that I am in a long distance relationship with my own life
my own soul
my screaming energy and robustness
my color
and craving.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
ather aether Katherine
quintessence she’s never been
confess profess depress
transgress the process
A lifecycle.
With little to no progress
repress to the oppress
Obsess the agress
Compress the mess
Say yes to impress
You’re not blessed
Be ready to face
The detest for this
Damsel in distress.
You’re not allowed to egress
We’ve all been trained to stash
All that we have had for the brash
Trash. thats what we are if not unerring
pristine is an acknowledgment to disguise
kitschy fustian ostentatious. Be that.
No less. No more.
Katherine tried but failed to fit anymore
We’re all Katherine. You and me.
we don’t abide. We don’t fit. We don’t belong.
Here.
There.
Everywhere.
Life’s not fair.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
it wasn't until years too late
that the oceans once painting
your skin into a weepy
vacation canvas finally
dried and made their salty
descent down your throat.
i hope that one day
you find your mind wandering
back to some sunbleached
air conditioned antique shop
a cool and dim refuge of
kitschy proportions
and i hope one day you can finally
appreciate an afternoon that
may or may not have held
your greenesque day of peace
*(by greenesque i mean that
not only was it green but
it also held whispers of the last
chapter in your favorite book
the part where all the pieces fall in place
and nobody is happy with the outcome)*
you're just a bundle of
nerves and memories
the kind that keep you up at night
and your hair uneven lengths
the kind that flash before your eyes
through grainy old photographs
and pictures engraved so deep
inside a screen you question
whether or not they
ever even happened.
there are gravel roads
somewhere out there
that smell like home and
kind cold water in a july drought
and i sincerely hope
that you someday find
one of those state-parkish
leafy hollow spring hills
settled deep somewhere
inside your heart
and i hope that someday
you drive all alone for an hour
park on the side of the road and
watch the woods for no reason
except to listen to every love song you
ever knew in your youth
and i hope that your breathing stays steady
and your eyes stay dry and starkissed.
i would cross my fingers
shut my eyes and tie my
esophagus in a knot if i knew
my wishes could grant you peace
and i hope that when you're older
your beachside sunburns and
deep fried fatigue are washed away
by all the seasons of upstate mountain air.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
Simple life, lived as a vintage television set
Ornate, one of the few luxuries exclusively for the well off
Useless.
Kitschy
A banal dream with pleasures devoid of an iota of venom
In a construct, a forsaken place, a planet without form
A perfect encapsulation, almost a replica
Of status, a microcosm
Head in the clouds.
Soul in the blood and bone
Desperate, claimed slowly by unrepentant chunks of flesh
I see the breeze on the horizon, sweeping through the fields
So I
Wake up
I never expected. It's not something I asked for.
But I rise all the same.
Once more, one more story to add to the pile
And as it turns out, I found the cure
Deep within the growths sprouting, and the sick smell
To rise once more
In the conclusion of it, I was an island to myself, but I felt at peace.
As my boots strike the sand, and my heart sinks a little lower
The pinch doesn't feel quite as real.
I could take some dedication to the facts that remain, as a claimant
Vigor worn to a shaggy pulp, my lungs crumble in a wave of synthetic dust
The scorn faced, the harsh lights shone on me, the blistering heat...
Unforgivable, as any reasonable man might conclude
I absolve no one of anything, but it all slips further from my mind, day in and day out
If I want it too or not.
To be so sure I'm awake...
How crazy am I?
The whole world breathes, exhales, in a layer of grey smoke, that soon condenses into clouds to shade me personally in my inaccessible fantasy.
The whole world's slipping further into those muted, docile gray shades.
A whole symphony of colors for these starved eyes
So hollow now...
Along barren halls, I'll run my fingers, across the faces of dead, rotted saints and take my gratification
In simple motions, drinking in the vibrancy, all the intricacy bleeding through the mock notions of simplicity
It didn't feel real then. I remember it all, in vivid detail
In those few moments, though branched and snaking through the tunnels of my fleshy wiring
I didn't feel anything.
The pinch doesn't feel real anymore
I can touch the sides of the sink.
My fingers, with gentle pressure applied, can sink into my skin
It only seems to matter when I touch it...
I stopped bothering doing it, a long time ago
It slipped from my memory
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
every white wedding is exactly the same.
kitschy mason-jar centerpiece displays,
thirsty flowers in ornate vases,
lace-trimmed tablecloths and country-pop
songs blaring from the stereo.
welcome to cookie-cutter suburbia,
copy-and-pasted from half-a-hundred
Pinterest boards depicting
indistinguishable scenes
of smiles stretched paper-thin
on spray-tan painted faces.
my tongue is a skipping record,
regurgitating the same vapid
conversation ad nauseam,
stutter-stepping through
an indistinct refrain:
“how’s school going for you?”
“oh, really? an English degree?”
“and just what do you plan
to do with that, exactly?”
bourgeois blather follows flagrant patterns.
drunk uncles splutter racist rants
at this posh reception, but i’ve been told—
no matter what—don’t stir the ***
avoid any and all discussion
of the current president’s
child concentration camps,
the war on immigrants,
or the escalating tensions
with Venezuela and Iran.
i am sick
to my stomach
of self-indulgence:
watered-down punch bowls, patriarchal
vows to god and government. “i do,”
an endless ******* feedback loop
droning tediously until my ears bleed.
sing the same hymns over acoustic guitars
while vocals peak in microphones.
reread 1 Corinthians 13:13, beg your deity
to bless the BBQ pork and beans.
dance along to the Cupid Shuffle
and be sure
to always follow the rules:
birth, youth,
college, marriage,
work, death.
consume.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 9:11 AM UTC
We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And our poker-playing pups, cheating at cards
Ruslan and Ludmylla dancing on ice
At the Houston Airport Holiday Inn
Did Pushkin paint the poker-playing pups
Or carve tetrameters while in his cups?
That green baize poker table, a samovar
And the Big Giant Head, who needs an ace
We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And too those kitschy dogs, being real bad!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
A kickboxing kingpin, splitting skulls
Boom! There it goes, your mind explodes
Grab a Kleenex as you head out the door.
Kibitz with the cool cats 'bout kibbles 'n bits
And smooth jazz. Bright like a kumquat,
You don't know squat; Knowledge is a knocker
Busting through doors with manners improper.
Cackle with the cattle as they pass over the mantle,
A klutz in the gravel, but the lil' rascal can leave you frazzled
And clinging to the scaffolds with masterful power.
Check the cadastral, he owns God's throne and then some;
Kicking kitschy angels out the nest 'fore they grow their halos.
Shot Happy to killjoy, bound his body to a killick
and the water smacked
Now he's swimming with the goldfish and they smile back.
-SLuR
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
Alexander Pushkin and the Poker-Playing Dogs
We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And our poker-playing pups, cheating at cards
Ruslan and Ludmylla dancing on ice
At the Houston airport Holiday Inn
Did Pushkin paint the poker-playing pups
Or carve tetrameters while in his cups?
That green baize poker table, a samovar
And the Big Giant Head, who needs an ace
We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And too those kitschy dogs, being real bad!
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
You are not the only person i’ve loved looking at that light
Green, blinking over the water
in fact, i said goodbye to my first staring at it
i soared with my second in its glow
but each one, each one
faded, or crashed, either by my malicious hand, or my incompetent rudder
i have pulled so much from so little
i knew that light meant everything
now i have learned, it is just a light
in reality it exists only to demarcate the left side of the safe path
not to me, not to me, to me, like one before me, it was everything
a green light blinking in the Distance
every future i could hope for
each time filled with a different You
i’ve sat in the same spot on the same sandy shore and said the same things the same way
the only difference
You
god, i hope You are different
i hope i feel differently about You
but i do not, i can not know
i hope our ship will not sink like the rest
Illuminated by my kitschy and distracted heart
always looking for the next metaphor
Blinking, noiselessly but immutable
i am sorry
**** me and my poetry
i am sorry
in the fall there will be a fourth.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC