"mui" poems
it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down
karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”
it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****
i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael
the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Karen Carpenter, bridged sued cap d'hiver,
(which I hear will be very en vogue this summer)
fringe falling, as gracefully as music flowing through her veins,
(a Pucci jumpsuit, a throwback to times, of rock and roll)
Pinned hair, taped face to secure a wig cap,
(a daily communion bonding her soul to her self)
those Miu Mui boots, leather wrapped sewn to her body
(to which is laying amid candle light gypsy retreat)
A left thigh, glance of the subtly disguised tattoos inscribing her body,
(do we mark our body, to impress others or to claim our own bodies)
silk Chloé gown, gypsy princess of Parisian quarters,
(Jakarta may someday be a resting place for an unsettled soul)
Placing pencil to paper, poetry writes me as lyrics write her,
(do the ivory keys of the Grand Piano fuse inspiration)
piercing red nails, grasping left handed she writes writes writes,
(maybe notes of her future travels dreams aspirations)
A 70's heroine, born to the wrong era standing in the past,
(Yoko Ono Led Zep Stevie Nicks, mahatma's of a lost scene)
innocence purity porcelain ******* torn from a womb too soon,
(not at once a smile, reflective nostalgia unwavering past future)
A fallen tear drop, a hopelessness of peace in her eyes,
(one can see both tattoos of present; ARTPOP, of past; peace symbol)
a fallen angel, legacy leaving her mark on a generation of those lost,
Her left wrist shows a peace sign as a commitment to such peace
Will this ever be a possibility on a planet we call earth?
© Sia Jane
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
(Poppy tears)
"Why you crying baby?
You've been sober ten years!"
Dopamine, slow adrene'
My dog cried tonight
Sad soul was on the rug last night,
Had a shape like my best friend
And a face just like her grin.
There are droves of drugs in all the land
Fitting for every palm- and calm every hand.
For pride, for want, for lust, for hate.
The poppy tears make us salivate.
Sober or not, monster locked in the tower
Monster locked in cellar
Monster in the kitchen with grandpas cancer.
Hereditary,
Dietetic.
We cant help but look at each other and say:-
"The human race is pathetic."
Cold compress holds us back,
Every ant has a poison that gives her heart a heart attack.
With every wasp, and hornet kind
Comes a fever,
That just melts the mind.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC