"pasty" poems
I don't apologize for my blackness and your fear seems like this beautiful melanin enriched skin is a blessing and a curse. police offers using our young men's as target practice ripping our rich black roots from the ground and scathing them them all over the cold blood stained concrete streets that my people paved.they just want us to dance sing and play ball to entertain them. they don't want us to succeed and move on to bigger and better things so sinister grins creep upon their faces as they watch us slaughter eachother in the streets. they watch us struggle to get out of poverty they say we're all on welfare and ain't **** but how can we move up in the world and get out of poverty when this system wasn't built to benefit us? we are more than the stereotypes. we are doctors lawyers entrepreneurs nurses designers filmmakers activist.we are intelligent intellectual beings with knowledge that surpasses all understanding. they don't want us to open our mouths and speak our truth...they want us to shut up and chuck and jive and kiss their pasty white ***** to the bone they want us to ignore the blatant racism and discrimination we face everyday and be content that we aren't enduring as much pain as the ones before us have. but we will not shut up. we do experience racism. we do experience discrimination. and our people are dying everyday from it.how dare you utter the words respect yourself and well respect your from the same mouth that slandered my ppl and taught us to hate ourselves with? we were taught to love everything that was white and hate everything that was black and love blonde long straight hair and blue eyes and hate our chocolate skin and ***** hair but these ***** roots are deep...no matter how much you try and destroy them they are deep and run through us all. so my brothers and sisters... be proud of your roots take care of your roots embrace your roots love everything about yourself from that ***** *** hair that breaks all the teeth of your comb to your chocolate skin that glows in the sunlight and those strong minds and powerful voices because black is beautiful, black is powerful black is brilliant, black matters.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
NY
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Bag
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?
She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
Hustler
And on the other, two
Strictly
Business
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration
It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against
pale
pale
Skin.
Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that
Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?
We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that the three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull
She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we already know one another?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
The wild blackberry
plume bursts,
effervescent under briar
and brambles,
brilliant indigo and magenta prior.
We picked the posy
and sweet fruits
which scalloped along the ditch
until our baskets were full and rich.
The bronzey leaves quiver gently
but do not fall
however thick thorns plenty
tear our long skirts
and scratch our pasty legs.
Stained with dirt
And blood and mud
We skip home through thyme.
Through our childhood as
The blackbirds caw.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
Its about to get ugly up in here.
I'm talking
Worlds ugliest
Thalidomide baby
contest winner
Ugly.
I'm talking
Michael Jacksons
rotten *** corpse
falling apart
in the coffin
Ugly.
I'm talking
pasty ***
fat and sweaty
old white dude
in a Cambodian brothel
****** little girls
until he runs out of money
Ugly.
Its going to get ugly...
Standby.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
weaved into her thoughts
are the disturbed images and the maniacal music
carousel music from the macabre circus of the mad
and in the absolute center of this
steampunk master vision is her pretty little face
sitting with a lace umbrella
and a slow thick smile
she eyes you head to boot
and reaches out a single blood stained finger
and says accusations are for the weak
her pasty red lips are
sour to the touch
she makes no apologies
but rather relies of her smile like charms
which she wears like
a patchwork quilt of maniacal methods
stitched with loving care
and the devotions of the needy
who pay her fare without questions
she is stylin on the main street bus tonight
with her entourage of hungry strangers
just looking for a bed and breakfast
and its delusion that
after a time
the clouds passed
after a time
measured in the millions of years
that her touching your face lasted
looking into your eyes and telling you that she loves you
after a time everything would change
and she would remember what it means to be happy
after a time under a maniacal lace umbrella
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor.
Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms.
On thermal air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots
blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness,
competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by.
Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love.
To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock
As time slipped way and was some where else.
With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace.
And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,
kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs.
A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling, pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,
then fades on the breeze.
A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach.
So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone.
Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow
down
through
the
years.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
Can she have another coffee please?
And fill it to the top
She doesn’t have much milk you see
Yes, up to there, now stop
Can he have that breakfast there?
But change the egg for beans
And swap the bacon for tomato
Are you getting what he means?
He’ll have a sandwich, hold the butter
He’s not allowed much fat
But then he asks for chips
And mayonnaise to go with that
All six of them want carrot cake
But don’t all want to pay
Can I cut a piece in half for them?
If not then they won’t stay
Can she have a salad?
No wait a Cornish pasty
No, hang on, now she wants a cake
And still I don’t get nasty
If it’s not there on the menu
Why do they always ask?
It’s as if just being awkward
Is for them a daily task
I could easily say no each time
Not go that extra mile
But that not how it works here
It’s always service with a smile
The customer is always right
Even when they’re wrong
We keep our smile in place because
They’re never here for long
And so we keep the rictus grin
The smile will never slip
Because without service with a smile
We’d never get a tip.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
My sky is blue
Broken-china-blue
Today
Not as yours or his or anyone’s
Not robin’s egg happy-hue
Or hopeful cornflower-color
Not rolling-ocean-peace
No endless expanse
Over a world full of possibility
But my sky is blue
Crying-eye- blue
Today
I don’t remember
The exact color of the car
That took you away
But in my mind’s eye
It should be this blue
My blue
Because my sky was blue
Teardrop-truth-blue
That day
Such a contrived color,
Overused metaphor:
Sad-blue, dead-blue
Burning-blue-gray like my hate
For all the words
We’ll never share
For desperation
For lost beginnings
Estranged from happy endings
And foregone conclusions
And decisions made
By a woman whose pasty face
Is still burned as
A blue-print in my mind
Of the person I
Never want to become
The woman who
Unknowingly
Painted my world
In red-fury and
Burnt-orange-bitter goodbyes
Thoughtless paintbrush
Strokes making sure
That my sky was blue
Crisp-autumn-cloudless blue
That day
When you and I
Were both too young
For understanding
Just
Children caught up
In the real world
For the first time
Yes, my sky is blue
Snapdragon-fire-blue
Today
When seven years later
I think I’m
Still not old enough
To comprehend
Why my sky is blue
Bittersweet-baby-blue
Today
Because they
Took you away
Because you’ll never
Know my name
Even though I’ll
Remember yours
For the rest of my life
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
Demon from Depressed Depths
Horror lurking in the murk, squirting myself through liquid nightmares, paranormal animal portrait
The walls of my bedroom are black, the ceiling navy, ****** sun above me winks in mockery
My friends are few in this frozen almost-society; I wander the briny fog in boredom, purposeless
Eyes swollen from swimming, swallowing so much salt: dehydrated underwater, skin pasty and ill
I hide from starving sharks and their terrible tiny teeth, but duel the diving whale: he I can drown
I can ***** forth literature; the pens of Whitman and Carroll were filled from my blackened innards
From fingertip to toetip I am nearly biggest, in a world without fingers or toes, primitive appendages
I am all knowing: I commune with the dead: I can operate a Ouija board alone with all these arms
I was killed off by Tennyson after just 14 lines, but Lovecraft made me what I am: heathen deity
Wonderful creature, yet I find myself here: battered next to chips in a polystyrene tray: Beach food
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
her silent monologue inside the cage of her mind
leaves fleeting expressions catapulting across her vacant face
like a strange circus act
the pasty face clowns in silent repetition
weakly grin as they grind through the dance
the lovely high wire girls seeking the perfect tuck and roll
her expressions move through this deranged carnival
of the mad again and again
never releasing its warped players to
the solace of privacy's ease
over and over they dance and roll
her lips stumble through misbegotten phrases
ten word haiku's written by the voices in her mind
written in lipstick on the mirrors of gas station restrooms
and truck stop shower stalls
haiku's of loves desperado warring against loneliness
the heart dose not actually make a sound when it breaks
her hearts deeper waters
like tidal pools in moonlight
the surface reflects the beautiful sky above
but in its cool depths other things live
some have no name
her silent monologue slows and fades away
the exhausted clowns of her madness laughter crawling
to lay their pasty white faces in reflection of sleep
the high wire girls to dressing rooms where they moan
for long departed heroic villains
who were last seen folding up diabolical schemes
and her silverware and making for the sun coast
where you can find them on beaches of paradise
sipping cool water under a neon moon
she slips into slumber
and dreams sweetly of all these players
in her silent minds story
she loves her madness
as she loves the rain
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Most people grow gardens with flowers and peas.
But I am not most people.
My garden is rather unique.
Come quickly outside if you dare take a peek.
Follow me out the door
but don't be too hasty
I will return you here looking awfully pasty.
Into the woods we go
with a feeling of unease
remind yourself you may turn 'round if you please.
You wear an expression of bravery
plastered to your face
I'll warn you that is entirely out of place.
My garden lies far, far away
The entrance: this long narrow path
Upon return I suggest a nice lukewarm bath.
We march on silently
Straight to my clearing
Where all that dwells is hardly endearing.
We arrive at gates
I push them wide open
and glance at your face, the expression most potent.
You stare out at my garden
Your weary eyes cautious
Searching for normality with obvious malice.
There is nothing of that sort to be found here.
So sorry to disappoint you, my dear.
From the unicorn pasture
to the golden archer
near the tentacle bed
and the swooping vulture
Round the corner lives my large pet dino
being lead by a petite albino
by the pond grows my crop of egg head
while nearby lies a heard of enormous sized rhino
Your gaze falls on my pink sparkly pegasus
being rode by a tiara topped princess
on a field of grass that is blood-red
bordering a lake worthy of the great greek god Isis.
As I watch your face change with shock and a pinch of delight
I see you won't put up a fight
You'll help me grow and raise my unparalleled garden
You might even defend it and be my trusty warden.
All that matters is that my garden is safe.
And to be honest, I couldn't be happier.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Handsome shades of murk crackle the joints in your bony fingers while she drapes purple towels over a broken window no one has bothered to sort. It's a quiet and moldy sort of night, with even a starry sky lying shamelessly over tranquil lakes under closed willows. There are no secrets though between her eyes and yours, who find joy in absently breaking the bleached porcelain cups your in laws bought, on this blood stained floor. With all this abstracted silence dying to burn your dog hearing thoughts, she finally manages a whisper.
'Dare not let the light in and wake you from this memory.
It might be putrid but it's the best you'll ever have'
Leaning back, the chair you sit on sobs wordlessly about the strain of living and the piles of laundry no one has bothered to fold. The moon overlooks your surroundings, watching pine trees in the distance exhale their last breath and drop weights of hope omitted from the stars for this Earth. Perhaps ignorance is bliss or someone cut off her ears and yours because no one turned to notice while those same pasty fingers count back the pages ripped out of old journals, all meant for her. With all the trains missed and reminders dismissed, you realize who's caught in a fog of sighs.
She paints your portrait in distress because she'll never finish what once was. Termites are biting the wooden legs of this chair and rotting is the flesh on your arms. Reflecting back on your life is worth nothing more than a refrigerator note she scribbled on for last weeks groceries and now she sleeps in a place far more silent than in a coffin deep under roots where some proud oak trees once stood. Being found in the middle of a lost labyrinth with her hand no longer warm, you finally manage a sentence.
'Who cares about the dying trees, I'm running out of paper.
She might be dead but well alive in a writer's promise'
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Memory of your mother
rolling pastry
and you watching
her hands
and the rolling pin
and the way the pastry
was pushed down
and out
and then she took
the pastry
and put it over a dish
and spooned in
the cooked beef
and onions
and then placed another
rolled out piece
of pastry on top
and forked down
the edges of the pastry
and she said
do you want
the end clippings?
and you said
sure why not
and she gave you
the clipped off pasty
raw in your hands
and you began to eat
noticing how red
and raw and worn
her fingers
and hands were
and how tired
her eyes looked
and wiping hair
from her eyes
with the back
of her floured hand
she pushed out a sigh
and you saw there
how a thousand dreams
of young girls die.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC
Your beauty is unmatched
your essence unscathed
you could wrap me in your curls
and leave me bound for days
The thick bristles on your face
resemble a forest to discovery,
your mouth a cave to explore
lighting the way with electricity
generating from our rapport
Sweeter than a glob of icing
on the last slice of cake—
Your twisted expressions
make my chest quake
You’re a lot to take in—clean cut nails
and pasty speckled skin; the
trail of hair on your belly and
your form soundly sleeping
where our motions had been
Now you are far a fields away
frolicking in colorless grass,
lost and in denial of what
you could have made last.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole god **** sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.
“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.
White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation
wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl
brush
minty hairy pasty headed ********
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches
shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter
breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene
work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune
lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin
work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without ***********
dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin
sleep
a felon’s holiday
repeat
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 3:56 AM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people
And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******
Where I would never have my fill.
A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone
Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star
That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.
It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me
And bathe me
In equal measure.
I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides
And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways
That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more
And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner
Or gave myself up.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Consent is **** Reality is not.
He picked me up from the Taco Bell, hot summer
day. Played music in the car, but denied me air. “It wastes gas.”
The man I gave my virginity to made me sweat it out on the way to do so.
His pasty torso was covered in unfinished tattoos,
a lifetime reminder of unfinished business. “Would you
like to see my rabbit?” he asked, and I thought that
rabbit was a euphemism for ***** but it wasn’t. He pulled
out a literal white rabbit, and placed it in my hands. The
soft fur burned with a sense of impending doom; of
the contract I’d foolishly signed in my mind. “His name is lucky.”
But I wasn’t. He ****** me hard against his
bed frame while I stared up at a reproduction of a Wicked
poster his fiancé had painted, but not before singing me
an original song- to make you cringe a little harder- off key.
I didn’t know how to give a ******* so I let him split me
in half. And then I suited up in my crisp white shirt, slipped
on my black bow tie, and served people popcorn for seven hours.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
I tried to tickle my vegan fancy
With bushels of quinoa and kale,
I was told no meat or dairy
Was the healthy Holy Grail.
But I was sad and hungry
With every burger I declined,
See me toss away my salad bowl,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.
I filled my fridge with veggies,
Bean sprouts and legumes,
But I dreamt of pancetta
And links of sausage to consume.
Breakfast was plain yogurt
Lunch was collard greens,
Snacks were roasted edamame,
**** they’re just soy beans.
I was getting much too skinny,
My ribs were protruding,
I became short-tempered,
And was dark and brooding.
I covered all the mirrors,
I looked so pale and pasty,
All day I would salivate,
Craving something hot and tasty.
My vegan days are over
Enjoying pork chops, ham and bacon
I thought veggies were the answer,
But it seems I was mistaken.
Feel free to live off plants,
If you are so inclined,
But I’m firing up the grill,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.
Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.
I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.
I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.
I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.
Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.
I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.
I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.
Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart
and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its slope as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,
just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.
- g.d.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning.
"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"
The old man said. A dry smile creased his face
With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!
That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?
The time that I remember best is this --
A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,
And all the trees were harried by cold rain
That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,
Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist
Over the school. The walks were like blurred glass.
The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh
Against the deepening darkness of the sky;
And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,
Filling the space about with golden motes,
And making all things larger than they were.
One yellow halo hung above a door,
That gave on a black passage. Round about
Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,
Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea,
With shouting faces, turned a pasty white
By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods,
Or slimy ***** of mud. A few gripped stones.
And there, his back against the battered door,
His pile of books scattered about his feet,
Stood Shelley while two others held him fast,
And the clods beat upon him. 'Shelley! Shelley!'
The high shouts rang through all the corridors,
'Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!'
And all the crowd dug madly at the earth,
Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud,
And fouled each other and themselves. And still
Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame
Set in some white, still room; for all his face
Was white, a whiteness like no human color,
But white and dreadful as consuming fire.
His hands shook now and then, like slender cords
Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.
So I saw Shelley plain."
"And you?" I said.
"I? I threw straighter than the most of them,
And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least
Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."
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