"mentholated" poems
it's not you
it's not you
i'm not sorry.
cotton candy kisses
valentine candies
forgive me not
poison chocolates
forget me not
this bloodlust is driving me crazy
maybe I'll be a ****** baby
velvet and blood
and creamy lace and pink guts
bitter coffee and venom laced lips
and hesitant sips
nightshade tea and pills of three
flirting with death
and stealing my breath
this murderlust is driving me mad
I'm intoxicated and I'm high
I'm in love and I'm bad
belladonna coffee in threes
mentholated cigarettes and
forgive me not
'cause I'm not
oh honey, it's all regrets
it's not me
it's not me
I'm not sorry.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Amerikeisha tapping out the drumbeat with her see through plastic mechanical pencil
Me sidewinding my way through highschool
Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet waking the souls that are buried in the lockers,
Chick Corea and I are returning to forever
The land where summer is the only season
And daisy dukes are greatly appreciated,
John Coltrane is helping me realize
How beautiful girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes are,
I've been dancing to Dave Brubeck since this morning
And I can't get Maria out of my head
I just picture Maria
As this girl
Feeling Pretty
Oh so pretty
I imagine if I saw her in the street
I wouldn't double take
But Take Five
Charlie Parker playing saxophone like
It's as easy as brushing his teeth,
Nat King Cole
Serenading Hispanic women with his soothing tone
Robert Glasper experimenting with his music
Burning you brain like mentholated cough drops
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Most of us write
of how bitter
our first kisses
tasted
Mine
tasted like
a limited edition candy
found in an old candyshop
after three years
Like
exhaled smoke
of your first
mentholated cigarrete
it tasted
like home
after years of
being lost
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
a matter of missing: the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on his skin, warm hugs that seem to make everything okay (even if in reality the world is ****** for that split second, you’re there and nothing else matters), the visits that seem to happen when you’re just about to go to sleep on a bad day, having to watch the sunrise, the sunset, the sky (anything that has to do with the sun makes you smile). you know that the most perfect moment is when he holds your hand and you’re drunk on red wine, and the world slips away because he is, and you swear you could die at that moment, happy.
a matter of not forgetting. everything will remind you of him: street children, smells on your street, coffee and pasta (something you will never do again), mentholated cigarettes, the lines about him you attempt to write, the lines that you don’t write, neruda (the only book that stays untouched on your bookshelf. you try to read it, but all you can really hear is his voice reading you “body of a woman”, from the night you didn’t sleep because the air in your dorm room was thick with something you’ve never really felt in that room, air used to be so stale. but he was there, and you watched him sleep thinking he’s beautiful that way, and you smile.
21.09.09
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 2:49 AM UTC
Ten miles of white air: mentholated space
ignited by the sun. The pea-soup fog
becomes a crystal mist, reveals earth's face
unshadowed, though the birds we catalogue
are silhouettes and we are blackened sticks
with muddy boots, like lumps of coal on snow.
Enormous soul, or tiny? Take your pick.
I had to go behind a bush you know,
and saw the winter grasses curling, gray,
like frozen fireworks waiting just for me
to witness their patterned, subtle display.
I pish a bit but no birds do I see.
I'm happy anyway. I've seen the earth
and know that every moment is its birth.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC