"madonnas" poems
Decisions
Eanie meanie minie mo
one can not decide like so
your past is gone, let it go
eanie meanie minie mo
We think they were childish games to play
yet it tells our future each and every day
Its a 50-50 shot
you could go ether way
But there is no turning back
One step in the wrong direction and you are done for
Because the key was thrown into the ocean that could only open the locked door behind you
Like hot lava
A playground game
If you stumble off the side and landed in that hot firey pit of lava you were done for
That ocean where the key was thrown into has turned into a nasty green
The waves and seaweed churning under the dark stormy sky
This is not a message in a bottle but more of a lost man at sea
Every stepping stone could result in a broken heart
A bruise
A forgotten friend
One wrong decision could cause a prodigy to die
Like ******
His Mother almost got an abortion
Her family told her over and over to just go through with the pregnancy
She probably tossed that decision back and forth in her mind
But her family won the match
If she had decided to go against her family I wonder where society would be today
Would there be dozens of Einsteins?
A million Madonnas?
Would there be a cure for all the cancers?
For the common cold?
Every judgement is a puzzle piece
Every step you take back or turn in the unexpected direction is another step towards your fate
Everything matters
If you had gotten one more gallon of milk you wouldn't have run out so you wouldn't have gone to the store and meet your best friend there so you wouldn't be going to that Zumba class
Then you wouldn't have met five of you new best friends and your husband
All of that for a jug of milk
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
We aren't keepers anymore.
They've stopped taking us home to meet their mothers.
They mask our names with cute little lies in their cell phones.
They take us out, but only after dark,
when we disappear into the walls
and camouflage into the bar stools.
With every drink, our eyes dance darker,
our lashes grow longer,
our lips flush redder,
our hair flies wilder,
our hips swing looser,
our nails dig deeper.
We leave the Madonnas alone in their wicker beds,
fading smaller into the back of their minds,
as we slowly take over.
With our foreheads kissing theirs
and their lips brushing ours,
for the night, the Madonnas are the ones that meant nothing to me, baby.
For the night, they're ours forever.
For the night, they will never let us go.
We almost forget that in the morning,
we aren't keepers anymore.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
———*"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."
ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change. in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen; i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes before the world could end in my mouth. and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)
how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs. i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.
it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name. this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds— and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead. i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.
i have learned to stop loving falsehoods. i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming. we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.
"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"*———
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
722
Sweet Mountains—Ye tell Me no lie—
Never deny Me—Never fly—
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain—
Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—
My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—
The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—
Whose service—is to You—
Her latest Worship—When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away—
To lift Her Brows on You—
1.6k
things are going beautifully; the light is black
the head of a poet; his dead face filled w/ space;
white & dark, big & hot golden years
on the green earth's fertile body
[the - age - of - **** - & - snooch -
in - art - & - thought];
her feet browning in the sun
**** this place
& this small room, where things |
the living Jesus wrote are too ******* young
to be committed to the left-wing
poetry of hard queens;
the poets' nouns, America's ancient war
of the mind lost among the real stars who
knew how to find
her long, | clean, | | hair made of
the flames of hell calling the moon; she
called me instead;
drunk & told me the
German blue universe's [ ] green money hand
was thinking of death; she was a
baby female abandoned to the streets &
Eli is great w/;
kids: door: leading to her ***** [living]
just below her heart:
beneath an invisible sky: | *****
future beauty Medusa lives - [ ] in the sea of blood
& words
wanted to go walking, calling in three Madonnas;
coming
[inside - *** - city - goddess]
whore's children true hands are pink
w/ fire; her open-minded ugly son heard [this]
yeh, I'd better write about the old cat's high times
[bad - holy - american - dream - poem]
the guy's Greek & he's sweet
but Igor turns teenage boys
into ladies just like his wife;
fully blaming their cold fathers
for the truth beneath their human days
the boy was kind of late;
although his mouth was gay - -
keeps rock
star heaven: history: born to work
I hear u & drink to the new century
[stone wild; Eve finally feeling
her wet skin in the first [ ] person
& [ ] leaving the [ ] blonde child
wet set in the middle of the street
Barbie in the window | dancing beside | [the souls of lost mothers]:
the perfect dark matter of the deep
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Forget pre-Madonnas
We want to get away from all the self-proposed Shakespeares that think their opinions matter more here
Humanity should rid itself from elitism and stop being insincere
It would put our contributions in the clear.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
Granddad had a front room
full of treasures
to your child’s eyes
from paintings of Madonnas
or other holies
to bowls of fruit
filling the room
with that applely smell
and vases
of all colours
and shapes
and only opened up
when Gran opened
the door on the way through
to the lounge
where your granddad sat
or when you managed
to steal a moment alone
while the elders
where busy
you opened the door
and gazed around
the room like
an Aladdin’s cave
the statues of spaniel dogs
or wiry cats
your ears listening
for the voices of the others
from the lower part
of the house
waiting in the doorway
your eyes wide
taking it all in
right down
to the smell of fruit
that filled the room
the half light
the dark shade
where another world
seemed to begin or end
until on hearing
your parent’s voice
or Granddad’s call
echoing along the hall.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
Men have scoured the earth
In search of lesser women than you.
Wars and famine,
In veneration,
Have been stricken in pursuit
Of the likes of half your substance.
Lain waste, the kingdoms of men,
And religion alike
In the name of madonnas
A mere fraction of your awe.
Tearing hell through this earth,
Here you stand before me:
Never prostrate, but exhilerant!
Sparks flowing from your hairtips:
A woman scorned!
All for the adoration of a poet:
The subject of your wrath
For his perception.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
a painting of
Mother and Child
with heavier influences
of a pieta;
for in this one,
the mother holds her child
dead in her arms
but it is no grown Messiah –
it’s a drugged up teenager,
supposedly deserving
to be the centerpiece
of a demented madonna
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
We walked to Sealers Bay, four of us, all women
Bleeding Madonnas on a pilgrimage in the rain, together yet alone
each to her own journey
Moving like the floods of 2011, ready to take out any obstruction
Mud ******* at our feet, rainforest leeches suckling our blood like desperate children
The rhythm of my feet set off a reverie of how I lost my mind just a moment ago.
I found it again, blood pumping in my ears, heart pounding like thunder
The sweat running down my neck made me think of you…wondering where, how, who?
A futile fancy
Still the rainforest clings to me, my feet echoing on the boardwalk,
the sound of running water filled with tannins
emotions of the forest flowing beneath my feet to Sealers Bay
A beach once stained with the blood of whales lies calm and blue, deceptive
A moment of sunshine found me sprawled on the sand, waves of exertion washed over me
The repose was fleeting.
Nature interrupted sending a shower, and a chill up my spine
A journey is rarely one way and retracing my steps is like retracing a lifetime
…would it have been better if?..
Eventually I turn my mind skyward to a flock of black cockatoos screeching like banshees at the women trudging one foot in front of the other in a winter forest
Nineteen kilometres of contemplation can quieten a busy mind, it is the number of surrender and endurance
The feeling of my toenail lifting in my boot is strangely cathartic
like a mistress, how pain focuses thoughts on the detail
I see tiny red Correas, the *** organs of plants, there for the pleasure of others
My buttocks and calves scream as the incline of the hill steepens, spurring me on
pleasure in pain makes you forget yourself, and the forest
there's just breathe and movement and rhythm
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 6:39 PM UTC
Stretching out like a lion before a fight, dressing like Madonna before a flight.
The scene is filled with blurred out faces, using cigar filled spaces, with big fat snout that grin behind champagne cases. Using tux and hat to hide its hideous face.
The music starts, curtains drop, the dress is on, breath is held. The **** show is to start.
Stand up and start to spin.
Spin and twist like a quiz with questions of riches.
The growing snouts are getting greater as the ash trays are getting major.
The ace and break of broken pines and spine that been rearranged to fit the Madonnas dress.
The show must continue, continue to stand and twist and jump and smile like some sort of an idiot.
Stand at the tiptoes reaching for the gold above while the tips are dripping thru. The bleeding tips that keep painting the ceiling red are painting runes on the ceiling and floor like a sign for the sos.
The pigs are wheezing, the ash is in the air, the gold has fallen. Just the ash that builds up the throat, the only motivation that keeps the smile on and the floors glowing red. The curtain drops the wheezing stop. The floor is so close and the gold is so far. Bette luck next time is all I hear.
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 6:09 PM UTC
see...
(sniffing sound) -
the problem with tiki torches
when compared to flares?
you haven't experienced
football hooliganism...
one has the assumption
of being menacing,
the other? an assertion
of being menacing...
oh i know a football chant...
ooh ah! cantona!
and ł.k.s.! jebał pies! -
even though i originate from
an insignificantly small town,
we still managed to play
with the "titans"...
hooliganism...
hmm... a type of mafia, right?
a group effort not riddled
by bloated ego?
which is the exact point
why tiki torches are funny...
and a crimson flare so menacing
in comparison...
you can't nuance conviction...
appearance is politics...
Louis XIV knew that all too well...
foolery, double standards,
and the must of every earthly court
to boot: a jester to serve
compliments of ridicule...
the sort of punching bag
that punches some sense back
into the lead head...
given: heavy "hangs" the crown.
i can't believe that i lived
in england for over 20 years
and spent most of those years
rummaging between the irish
and the scots...
the only english person
i've had "intimate" time with,
is probably mummified
by a t.v. screen...
i'm actually jokingly
convinced that the english
are not even existentially valid,
in the sense of: lurking in shadows;
it has also become a "game" of:
and who the **** would want
to **** this pyjama party of
walking Madonnas with
their exuberance into faking the fashion
of 15 minutes later:
trash in hand, donning
cling hair rollers
(10 minutes trying to find the correct
term... how autistic of me)
buying a bottle of *****
yeah, really,
no wonder i drink
to define excess...
about as desirable as a
penny on a pavement...
mate with what? that?!
make it short,
i'm done with dramatics that
have no memorable quote.
flares still feel more authentic than
tiki torches...
then again,
american football is so stupid
that cricket makes
sense, and
there's no need for a hooligan
making a stance.
seriously... american football
is the most idiotic game in encompassing
the need for a coliseum!
i'm authentic
in my bewilderment at the complexity
of cricket, that, i get,
american football makes
about as much sense as
american foreign policy outside
of the poker face of f. d. Roosevelt;
i must be ******** or something,
or, something else, i just don't know.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
The same Madonnas,
the same pitying faces,
the same arched necks
of the same saints...
Clear it all
for a new palette.
Stone over pine blaze,
fringed gentian blot.
Broken-columned sun,
splayed in glade sand.
Drift water stroke.
Rescind
the School of Athens,
the Madonnas,
the arched necks.
What can they say
about lilies plunged
in the moon's syrup?
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
σoφια - Σophia - is a common name / term / noun,
ascribed to what many women find abhorring in men -
in that they are better off choosing
learning than become adamant
in shared expenses of life -
σoφια to them means *******
not wisdom - and every man
who'd rather sacrifice his life
in pursuing her, wilts when
the shared expectation is one-sided -
and doesn't include women
in his life - in the end a love of Sophie
is a tale of a man going into a brothel,
because of the Fe skirt
and what women do gambling while
men do gambling on the horse or hound...
women abhor the man making woman
a famine of interest,
because, it seems, they aren't fit to compete,
how they loath Sophie in her earnest,
attracting so many men into her
harem of capable thinking deviating from
woman in her prime...
just a pitiful sight to behold...
the said interwoven: crucible for
sustaining life and some mad argument...
she really is a ***** about the Madonnas -
women loath her, and undermine
the men who cling with Siamese intent
to her, more than they loath going
into a brothel -
but she's a Madonna, and her adherents
are not thinkers, mere fornicators -
what a shame that her adherents are shunned
and left to rot in abandon -
such is the jealousy of
woman - she decided: i will be more
jealous should a man choose σoφια rather than
some other woman...
i will not become an object
of apathy for him! i will be the cherry!
how sure she trotted on this gravel path
attempting to instruct stones into becoming
mountains... or sand into becoming pebbles -
she lost to the Madonna **********
quiet simply, and in practice,
very far away the ****** birth -
for how many men engaged
in ******* themselves upon that famous altar
that the common man called marriage?
ah, the lost entertainment -
σoφια is named ***** on the lips of women
who couldn't attain union with man -
but σoφια is named freedom on the lips of men
who couldn't find mankind, attaining union with woman;
which is why women find philosophers stupid,
and they fame them with little readership -
which is why women find philosophers stupid -
self-explanatory in them thus writing romance novels...
a stick has two ends... you can hold it
and hit with it, but at the same time it can be
gripped from your grip... and you get hit over your head.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
For peace is my profession
And I teach it like a Spartan
But my Athens begs the question
Do I come from planet Martian?
To keep council with your leaders
And to teach them how to build
In my likeness amphitheaters
And pay tribute to my guild
My Pax Romana in nirvana
Specializing in the art
Of planting seeds inside Madonnas
With my heathen Eden heart
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC