"morrissey" poems
I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Hello, I'm
Very pleased to meet you, it's just
you can't see it underneath my chronic "resting ***** face."
I've actually been told that it's more of a chronic "sad and brooding" face, but, I'll take what I can get.
Some things you need to know before dating me are
I do like long walks to the bottom of the ocean,
and I spent most of my childhood under bridges. I know what it's like to walk with two left feet - or no feet at all, so to speak.
I smoke cigarettes when I'm sad because I like the feel and when I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to be Morrissey when I grew up.
Plot twist:
I grew up, and I'm still not Morrissey.
But I can write you a mean love poem, and I'll do it on many occasions, even if I'm just meeting you. There won't be a second when I'm not falling in love with something, and, to be honest, I don't know how to live with (or without) that feeling.
I guess I'll just fall in love with trees, then
or something inanimate
to break my fall.
But in the meantime, some things you need to know before dating me are
That there are often days where I can't even stand to face the wind that greets me
and I flinch at every turn when I hear noise.
I'm more timid than I look and yet
I find comfort
in dark things, a fake sense of the macabre
and a firm grasp of words, see
I could make anyone want to want me
I just don't care to
because people are ******* terrifying.
And, in the end
when my star burns out,
all that is left in the center
will be old words
and photographs.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale ******* that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
You will not miss me
Oh you, she kills him every day
Being good is not hers style
She is grumpy
Cause money can't buy happiness is like the biggest lie ever and forever
Slow dancing in a burning room
Are you thinking about me?
Oh yes, everyday!
But you know, I'm bad
I'm falling in love everyday with every winsome stranger
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
I remember when I dreamed that boy
My body was shivering like a hurricane
I'm trying to live in the real world
That's why I love summer
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Morrissey whispers in my ear:
I was happy in the haze of drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
In Morrissey fuel
and cigarette vice,
a map pinned up
with dreams of travel,
in eyes darkened
and swollen wrists,
in paralysed belonging
to established hypnotists
of hunger, of servitude
and self-discipline,
of not nurturing the childhood
nestled within,
and of friends now fable,
and of friends ill-spent,
now is the time
for the young man's repent.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I tip my hat to Kierkegaard
Who was there when things were hard,
To Mr. Hofstadter
Loading my cannon with fodder,
To Willie Yeats
Who showed me my poetic cognates,
To the Buddha
Who, mentally being a barracuda,
Illuminated what patience really means,
To Graham Greene's
"Brighton Rock"'s influence on Morrissey,
Which made me smile at the sea
And recognize "in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content."
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
"Where literature is concerned,
I will not cooperate at all":
A mind resolutely turned
From the social crusades of fall.
Seventy-eight years later
I agree with the "dilettante";
Twenty-five years cater
To reclusion in a shanty,
"Writing frightening verse
To a straight-toothed dude
In New York." Curse
My reckless solitude!
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
She used to write poetry,
what would make
Morrissey cry?
The one who left
with all his depth,
the holiest ghost
to ever stick
around his bed.
What would you give to me?
French press,
Japanese guitar,
Dominican cigar spark?
Hearts can grow colder
as they try to feel,
try to push it out.
Black haired
Italian marble,
darling,
we are nothing
to nobody now.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
driving at Kennon (treacherous zigzag
resembles hopscotch with death)
as i play Morrissey on the radio and the
woman sleeps, sometimes waking up lamenting the death of moths I ran over, splattered on the windshield, "Poor little creatures!" she said. no, baby, i am the poor little creature and so are you,
relentless against the dark
past Urdaneta — her being mineward,
i play with death as i turn the headlamps
off (pure blackness, nothing as if falling
into a bottomless pit as void sits on its
throne waiting) and on (all white as pains
now, trucks flare up and down the bend,
the tumbled boulders keep meting out
some forceful way of disturbances,
our collapse, the afterthought of it all)
i sensed from the beginning that the
old moon will wade out and soon the sun
will throw dissipated shades all across
camps with bonfires dead and stilled.
at the height of all, it becomes so
hot that the birds leave the trees together with the flowers and the Cordillera cannot cry any longer.
my woman wakes up as if rattled
with different pains, her face floating
past the mountains dreaming at the verge
of birds in the morning—
and it is twilight and still the same birds,
now it is the night and you
cannot see the birds anymore,
neither a hint nor a trail of
where they have disappeared
like the glory of Rizal in Luneta.
the lightsome globules in Paris.
the lions of Manila, now a town full of cowards as alleys fill with ******
the kids laying flat on their bellies
as the lawn takes its revenge
on the rest of the surrounding,
beheading the tree, and the
birds fly farther and away.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
*the feminine powerlessness of art, and the then again strict rubric of Darwinism's dictatorial regime to talk cool - sieg heil throughout, as a running honk! honk! (joke) on the sly.*
a testimony to high school:
don't ever listen to The Smiths
or The Cure, or Depeche Mode....
or any of my uncle's **** list...
the point being,
you can swagger among
Eucalyptus trees and feed the frenzy
like any Ibiza patron might;
cos' there's a koala rummaging
your drawers so to speak:
due to an episode of king's testicles
in the attic - hey presto!
a grand piano! hey presto! coronation's
fireproof underwear!
lovey dubby dub dub, and a coercive
test for nibbling on a Maltese ginger...
dabbling the fearsome offence...
the only school Morrissey attended was nostalgia.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
We were at a gay bar for the first time.
I was reminded of friendship,
while she looked for love.
I have a purse full of memories,
and she looked at her empty hands
in disappointment.
I pointed to show her
in them we made her story.
By pushing the door that spoke to her,
that she once ignored
in a fear she couldn't accept.
I thought of you and smiled in comfort.
The women here are so respectful.
And fun loving.
Singing 90s songs.
That is where her love may be.
And mine is home with you.
Because I've been thinking 'bout you
ooh na na na
I've been thinking 'bout you
I shared her cigarette,
and met a woman with a husband outside.
She is a frequent there-
I can't sing for ****
But I heard some melodic voices.
I don't know many good karaoke singers.
I'd like to hear you up there.
Do they have Morrissey?
Lady called my name.
Center stage.
I'll think about you ooh na na na
and sing away.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
He broke his neck thirty years ago
I break mine more with each
promise of keeping you in my life
but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot,
grieving for souls I will never know.
Some of his songs are so sad,
like hearing the premature
snap of his bones
Cannot help but resent
how clever society is
to glamorize the unglamorous,
even I am aware
the flowers upon graves are not just for
aesthetics, but we are still always trying
to cover terrible tragedies
with beautiful things.
Am I just as guilty?
I cheat on you with him.
His spirit through my headphones,
hoped if I listen intently
the narrative changes.
purple marks on your neck
just that weekend you
taught me what a hickey was
and how they felt good
yours’ declare ownership,
not declarations of love.
You walk into art class,
purple painted across your throat.
If love could save Ian,
had I lived in the mid-seventies
he may very well have lived forever
and his throat painted by love,
rather than the bruises of a noose.
The letters I wrote you were in vain,
my mistake quoting those Smiths’
songs:
Morrissey is an *******
and so are you.
I still
am too scared to
wonder how far I am willing
to go
to reap the benefits of sorrow.
"New Dawn Fades"
tears into my heartstrings
feeling responsible in
the prevention of another
suicide
I grapple onto
what a savior complex was,
your dead father
the tracks on your arms made me cry
but I thought it was stupid.
It made me hate myself more
why could I not learn to undo
my drive to save anyone,
but myself
The phone call
where I broke up with
you and you
pretend to
overdose on the speaker
One of us had to grow up,
had to make it out alive
And I love you again,
every time Ian's ghost
sings Isolation.
And I leave you there,
sure, to end the album
after the final song.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 10:31 PM UTC
It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.
His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.
He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.
The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.
I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.
A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?
Ink *** after ink ***
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.
I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
Interior managed.
In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
He told me he likes Bukowski.
That was the first sign.
You see, boys who like Bukowski and me
Don’t get along.
You see, Bukowski and me
Don’t get along.
I’m a Sylvia.
I’m an Anne.
A Maya and a Virginia.
You see, I am well versed
In death and silence.
You see, I have no interest in
Alcohol and misogyny.
He told me he likes The Smiths.
Now The Smiths
In and of themselves are great.
I’ve always been a fan of melancholy,
Of heartbreak.
Now The Smiths
Who have been morphed into this
Pseudo intellectual mirror are not my thing.
You see, boys pin me to a pedestal
For merely knowing who Morrissey is.
You see, I don’t care if
Dying by my side is such a heavenly way to die.
You see, I don’t plan on dying with him.
He told me he drinks his coffee black.
That would explain
Why when he kissed me
I tasted nothing but bitterness.
That should have been a warning.
You see, I need a little sweetness.
He told me he smokes cigarettes.
You see, cigarettes remind me of my father.
He told me I’m not like other girls.
As if other girls are a disease.
As if I am this magical creature.
This manic pixie dream girl with wings.
You see, there is nothing special about me.
I am me. Simple.
I told him he was a sad boy.
A boy who pretends like he’s wrapped in barbed wire
But is really a caged petting zoo animal.
A boy who will smile like he has a secret
But really has nothing to share.
You see, sad boys drink whiskey.
To me, whiskey tastes like listerine without the mint.
You see, he tasted like whiskey.
You see, he reads Bukowski.
You see, he listens to The Smiths.
You see, he drinks his coffee black every morning
And smokes a cigarette on his balcony
While reading the newspaper
And listening to a vinyl record.
You see he doesn’t love me.
He loves the idea of me.
He loves the idea of sad girl.
You see, there’s nothing romantic
About a boy who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
You see, I hate Hemingway.
You see, sad boys and me don’t get along.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
we drove through snowbanks today;
one for the first time behind the wheel
-- one with his eyes fixed on the road
and me, just another passenger along
for the ride.
it was still lacing over the
world with white, like nature pulling
up her comforter and settling herself in
for the season -- heavy down muting even
the quietest quiets; we followed suit, put
on the smiths and sent our tumultuous
evening back to bed to curl up with a
blanket or two, swap stories with tucked-
in and tuckered out madam nature until
we realize we're still alive -- and at this
juncture (both figurative and literal)
during the supposed shift in energy,
spiritual awakening, consciousness, etc,
we embraced the contradictory side
of our cynical teenage bodies and
sent our thoughts back to sleep with
the current of his lilting voice and the
subsequent waterfall of grieving
piano notes, tinkling and sending
splinters of icy shivers down each
of our spines as we drove on through
the gently imposed quiet of a cold
down comforter.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
-morrissey
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
This song makes me feel extremely melancholic.
Because well I over think things a lot.
Like the corners in rooms eyes have never laid on.
Or little pieces of your skin that I don't get to kiss
I've finally cleaned my room
I swept all the little specs of you that's been in my carpet for some time now
It still smells like your favorite cigarettes
And there is no point of me airing it out because pretty soon that toxic scent will be all I have left of you
I hope I won't forget you but I've never been good at promising
But then again who could forget you
The words you noted
The times lips touched my neck
Or when our teeth clashed against each other
How could I?
Every now and then I poke myself with the Morrissey pin you gave me while looking for the notes you wrote me
The point punctures the tip of my finger slightly
But I've already bled myself dry trying to forget how your hair smelled
And I've gone blind trying to forget what your skin felt like during the summer near the old school
Winter bites near a frozen stream
I pinched myself but your not just a bad dream
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
** Collaboration with Morrissey Smith**
Come forward young poet
and teIl me your tales
of youthful existence,
let your words flow forth
with freedom your call
let eyes see new meaning
in the world that you know
My music's my heartbeat
my camera my friend
I've no room for ego
swag isn't my trend.
I sit in my bedroom
as vinyl spins round
I walk through this life
with both feet on the ground.
So tell me dear poet
what moves you to write
as you sit in your chamber
late into the night?
My hero writes lyrics
like none have before,
one man, now my namesake
did open the door.
He writes of depression
and bitterness strong
I subscribe to his outlook
I'm sure we'd get along.
Some say he's acerbic
judgemental, a *****
But I really love him and think he's the ****
Then take inspiration,
as it comes to you
As last night I dreamt somebody loved me too.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Sung epics from afar
Half-shouted prayers nearby
Cat's meows by the window
and familiar howls by my bedside
Jesus christ, won't you
hear my cries?
Shut all these noises,
hush all these voices.
I want none of these songs
for these won't pacify me.
I want none of the prayers
for these won't save me.
But please thank your father
for introducing Joy Division,
The Cure and Morrissey to me,
for me.
They're the best substitute to noose,
knives and pills.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 9:20 AM UTC
You've been painting, over paintings
That you painted to be free
I've been singing over lyrics
I'm destroying Morrissey
Trudging slowly over wet sand
Why can't we just be?
Brush strokes over my shoulder
An acrylic catastrophe
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Why am I alive?
Without fate, what's the point?
I believe in fate, I do.
I was born to die, like you.
To live connected. Disconnected.
I am an image macro.
The part and sum of an underground facebook group.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
9:57
Vinyl Morrissey on the record player:
Window down,
Hair riffling in the breeze.
Guitar in hand,
strumming patterns guaranteed to relax my shoulders.
Crinkled papers line the floor
Covered in unused song lyrics
And scribbled what ifs about the girl you used to love.
For a second the sun hits your eyes and you look
Fragile.
Sensitive and vulnerable like myself.
Drops of rain shoot from the sky and kiss your window sill.
I slide my hand toward yours,
Stroke the outline of your fingertips
Until morning came,
and changed your eyes from blue
To gray.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
It's Wednesday. It's raining. I'm in my car at my schools parking lot listening to Beach House on one of my favourite college radio stations. My hands are going back to their pale colour (sign of autumns bloom.) I am wearing my favourite beige trench coat and my favourite noir beret. So many favourites, you being one of them. For once in what seems like a long time, I do not feel utterly discontent with myself. In fact, I feel quite good. I'm alright, Bryan. I'm alright, and so are you. I crave warm soup and hot green tea. I crave a metro ride to somewhere far, far away. I crave heart-felt embrace and mail packages with my name on them. My tights are starting to tear. I've always had this thing for beaten up things; books with loose-leaf pages, worn out t-shirts and sneakers, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Jack Kerouac. I like the spurs of sea shell rainbow that form in puddles on black concrete. They remind me of the ** Coexist album cover, as well as bits of recalled memories from my childhood. "Why do you come here? Why do you hang around? I'm so sorry. Why do you come here when you know it makes things hard for me?" Goodness, Morrissey in his Smiths days makes me feel so in tact with my youth. Black is such a cool colour. Cool is such a cool word.
Swim in a puddle with me, Bryan. We can leave our coats on if you'd like.
I want to be foolish with you. Be my autumn valentine.
February doesn't need to know we're here.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
4/19/2015
dedicated to the girl I used to be
crushed right next to the
broken glass.
"*I don't write
nearly as much poetry
as I used to,*"
I tell her in the orange light
of the German café
this time it is shining in through.
"*Like you used to
before you were sedated?*"
No.
I suppose it must be the weather.
I remember dancing to morrissey
in my darkened room at 3:43 am
on a January tuesday,
it was a good lay, good lay,good lay
Like some sort of charicature of teenage one dimensionality
I remember picking up a half empty
Heineken at a dorm room right before
winter finals like some sort of charcature of teenage pretentiousness and
putting my tights on, "my mom thinks I'm shopping, cute, right?"
Old floor crushing my shins minute before like some sort of charcature of teenage indulgences
"Don't you sort of miss the cold?"
I ask, picking at the cake and
the girl I used to be this time last year
infinitely more innocent weeps at
confrontation
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC