"taped" poems
i’ve given up on days that begin in late afternoon,
skipped breakfast and lunch,
days that fade slowly and end with
****** cut-out holes in eyelids because
the second i close them and it all goes black,
every moment with you comes back
played on fast-forward, the memories moving so quickly
that both our faces are blurred
and it feels like everything i’ve ever felt for you
is overflowing the tub, filling the washroom with
suds that take forever to melt
i’ve given up on those days.
i’ve traded them for ones that begin with
sunrises instead of sunsets,
days that are spent falling forward
instead of trying to chase the past, and i don’t
look back and see something broken, or
something that was better off left unopened
i look back and see our bodies so close together
that you can’t tell where yours begins and mine ends,
i see my heart that grew twenty-three times its size,
i see you and me wrapped up in something that
i didn’t know existed outside of blurry 35 mm
and overdue and falling-apart library books
that sit on the nightstands of middle-aged women
who are bored with their lives
and i’m just so happy i got to love you at all.
but i’ve folded up all the days spent with you
and taped them in the messy pages of my journal
and now i’m running into the sun,
running away from every lie that’s trying to
wedge its way in between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction of words like "regret"
and any feeling that insists that none of it was worth it
because all of it was worth it.
every moment we were together pumps
through my veins, and it will always be there;
it will be there when we’ve both graduated,
when you move out west,
when you kiss your family goodnight,
when you sit in your backyard with tears
in your eyes because you’ve lived a life
you are proud of
it will be there when i finally make it to new york city,
when i kiss someone who isn’t you,
when i find the answers you inspired me to search for,
when i sit on my rooftop with tears on my cheeks
because i’ve lived a life fuller than i could’ve ever imagined
and you and i will live these lives apart,
we’ll move on and forget what it felt like
to wake up beside one another;
we’ll find what we’re looking for elsewhere
and we’ll understand why this all had to happen the way that it did
but what we had will always exist somewhere,
in rotting apples and old mail and unplayed mix CDs,
in mosaics that line the city streets, in sirens and
red and white flashing lights that shine through
your window while you are asleep
you and i were magic,
we always will be.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
The beach smells of tranquillity and salty sea air
The rhythm of the waves gently caresses my skin
The horizon seems elusive, a dream always chased
Yet night foreshadows traumas waiting to be let in
Oh where do I begin?
*I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time*
I'm scared of silent reflections, solemn and reclusive
I float futher from myself with each passing day
I have a note addressed to myself taped to a mirror
I'm scared of reading it aloud and being lead astray
And I have to accept that it's okay
*"I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time"*
Seashells coated in sand tickle the edge of my ear
The fog carried on the wind sends chills deep inside
The sun will always be there to break the duskiness
Daunting across the sky and waking up the tide
And the breeze slowly sighed
Please don't run away,
don't run away from me
Please don't run away,
don't run away from help
Please don't run away,
don't run away from the sea
Please don't run away,
don't run away from yourself
Angel wings take me further than I've ever gone before
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.
Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.
That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.
So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Infinitely and often nightly but very quietly
I creep into the garden shed
and make a bed among the flower pots
where those dainty blooms with purple spots
spot me
and open up their eyes to see who sits among the rakes and spades
and somewhere in those dappled glades
my eyes will rest upon a cur-ved apparition and entirely of an auto responsive
suggestion
I will greet her with a midnight smile taped on my lips
and when my heart has done its forty skips and my body settles down
I invite her to come a little close and sit beside me by the oak tree
she
smiles in a light to brighten any night and any day I know would be proud to say
go with the moment it is yours to own
but on my own trapped in a shady place
I face the fact that
this place in the garden shed is only pictures in my head
and I retreat
beat it back indoors where the thunderous snores of all my many days
come back to haze me in some juvenilish way
it's the way of it
it is the way and I have bitten off more than a piece or two
and flown too close to sit upon the heat
of the sun
burned my bridges
burned my ***
and never learnt to hold my tongue
but it is the way
and one day the way will become oh so clear
the potting shed that's in my head will disappear
and in its place
the face I look to meet
will greet me
deferentially I shall shape my tongue to fit around the words I want to say
It is and always has been
this way.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
I would've given birth
To you,
Endured whatever
Mothers do.
Instead, I did
What Dads do.
I rocked you
Til my future shook;
Watched you til
I couldn't look.
As you changed,
I changed too,
To do the things
That Dads do.
You were bathed,
Dressed and fed;
I loved you so much
I was saved.
If there's credit,
Well, I get it,
For teaching you to read.
I took the blame
When you got bored
With school's ABC's.
I followed you
In all your roles,
Your teams,
Your solos,
Your trips,
Your shows.
First to clap,
Last to sit;
I taped it all,
From start -
To finish.
I taught you
How to tie a lace,
Ride a bike,
Golf and skate.
When time arrived
For you to drive,
You learned
On standard,
Never stranded,
You came home alive.
Your highs
I took in stride,
By example taught
Humility's pride.
Your lows,
I couldn't internalize,
I dropped my guard
With my eyes.
When Dad's do well
It's a double edge,
The future wedge.
The world
Revealed
Desired you too.
I don't dismiss
What mothers do,
But when Dads do well,
Both lose you.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Never will I be covered in tattoos
My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised.
I’ll never paint or carry a tune
Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu.
I won’t dye my hair pink or blue
My piercings will stay as the simple two
Nails cut short and hair in a bun
In ballet, this must be done.
Pink tights by the mound
Bobby pins all around
Leotards on the floor
Pointe shoes by the door.
Toes taped so tightly
Smiling big and brightly
Red lipstick adding to her beauty
The dancer moves so smoothly.
Turned out from my hips
No words coming from my lips
I dance sweetly to the sound
Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound.
Full of grace, never haste
Filling perfectly my costume of lace
Ever so sweet, my dancing feet
Step after step, I repeat and repeat.
Obtaining perfection is my key
It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me
Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal
It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul.
My toes may bleed
And my knees, grow weak
But I’ll never stop dancing…
Not until I reach my peak.
Pirouette, Pirouette
Dancer’s silhouette
Practicing at dusk
Dedication is a must.
Stretching my limbs
Choreographing on a whim
Alway aiming to be stronger
To hold my arabesque longer.
When I do finally reach that triple pirouette
and all is done and all is set
I put myself back into class
Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last.
This is the life of a dancer en point
Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints
Just for that one perfect moment on stage
Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
i loved to paint using your colour.
i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.
i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.
one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.
all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.
it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.
i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.
now you’re just a memory.
your colour will only exist inside my mind.
those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.
it’s been years now. your colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.
i paint with a different colour now.
actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.
all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.
now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.
now,
i’m happy. i’m content.
i’m colourful.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
Sarah
Sarah is a virgo
but she is no ******
She is full of experience,
and im not talking about *** or drugs.
( though she had her fair share.)
Im talking about life.
Sarah hasnt lived in a fairy tale,
but if she did,
she would be a prince.
She is charming,
bold,
kind,
and tenacious.
Sarah would **** a dragon
just to make sure you were safe.
She will make you laugh,
and iron soap,
Dancing as she watches you with
her precious knowledge of Amity.
Sarah will hold you when you cry,
and she will tell you its okay to be sad.
Sarah had her vision turn gray when she was a child;
words tore at her skin,
but she is still alive.
Her vision turned back to technicolor
but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn back to gray.
Sarah dosent like to talk about herself,
but you can talk to her,
She will help you see the world.
If you can’t see the flowers
Sarah will hold your hand and
sing you a picture.
Sarah holds all of her friends,
there names taped to the front of her heart.
She plants her seed of friendship
deep in the roots of your garden.
You dont need to meet her more than once,
you can tell that she is always there.
Sarah can be mean,
but thats just cause shes tired.
Sarah carries the troubles she has with her,
they are wrapped with the sign
“do not enter”
but she dosen’t let them weigh her down.
Sarah dosent ask for help
she is given it,
and she will always return the favor
but she will complain about you giving
even before you finish your task.
Sarah is a mystery,
She smokes a lot of
cigarettes
but she still
smells like
Sarah.
She is far from perfect,
she animates her life with overdramatic hand movements
and tells her wisdom with sonnets or
Monologues from act i scene ii,
She plays overtures from her heart,
and talks lyrics from her soul.
Sarah is a musical of a life
full of future.
She is a name in lights
not yet recognized.
Sarah hasn’t finished her life yet,
but she is the lines
of poetry, and songs
not yet written.
Sarah adds years to peoples lives.
Sarah is a friend,
and im happy to know her
even if a short minute of her hourglass
is all I ever see.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
When is it the right time
To open the closet door
To look in on a journey paused
To risk the truth and find
Boxes taped up with angry haste
Adventures stifled within four walls
When is the right time
To sit with the papers, the moments, the times
To make the decisions
To be brave in the face of pain and find
Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away
Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm
When is the right time
To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn
To acknowledge the truth
To risk the unpredictable path that leads to
A heart ready, open for healing
And a closet - with room for someone else
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Here at Kinkos
We have a saying, “copies of copies”
You are trained to always ask for a source file
The digital file of the picture the camera took
The negatives of digital cameras
You see because when you print a picture from that file it’s the best it will ever be
Every detail captured in that moment stored in bits and bytes ready
If you make a copy of that picture it will never be as good
And if you make a copy of that copy it’ll be even worse
And if you were to make a copy of the hundredth copy of the ninety ninth copy you might not even recognize the image
Whether it’s a speck of dust on the scanner
Or a crease in the print out
Sun stains from prolonged exposure to the elements
Or simply from time
Copies never look as good as the original
Even if you try and protect them
And even if you were to magically protect that photo from any external forces
The next copy still won’t be the same quality
A scanner can never pick up every detail from the print on the glass
Copies of copies are never the same
Sometimes the printer is calibrated different
Sometimes it’s a heavy magenta day
Sometimes it’s a saturated cyan day
Maybe you touched her face when you handed it over
And now every copy has a feint of your thumb print above her eyebrow
You had him taped to your rearview mirror for a whole year
And now every copy you make has a glare where the tape used to be
It blocks out his heart shaped hands he was making you from the bus window
Folded in your wallet and now all the copies have white spaces where her face was
I mean where the creases were
I’ve heard that when you remember something you are simply remembering the last time you remembered it
Memories of memories
So that after you’ve remembered her a thousand times you’ve forgotten all the details you forgot to remember the time before
So that the more you remember something, the faster you’ll forget
Maybe that’s why we forget exes faster than family
Maybe that’s why we forget the great parts of high school before the painful ones
I remember that you had red hair, that your eyes were kind, that your hands fit my cheek
I remember that you were bad at pool and that it felt like love, and if it wasn’t you’re the only one that knew it
And now I’m wondering after all these years what I’m forgetting to remember
What I forgot to remember last time
What did I forget this time
What won’t I remember next time
Memories of memories
Like copies of copies
Fading over time
If I never wanted to forget the best moments of my life
Should I never remember them
Is the fastest way to forget the bad ones
To remember them often
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
"I'm better, I'm better." She lies to herself
as it hides tucked away, taped under her shelf.
"I am loved, I am loved." She convincingly yelped
as her vice hides away until she calls for help.
"I am strong! I am strong!" The poor girl carries on.
He's unhidden and waiting to come sliding along.
Drip, drip, drip. The girl's hand must have slipped
for her razor is laying, right there, where she sits.
kd
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
My first impression of the children's hospital was how nice everything was. It was new, with fish tanks and red sofas; pastel windows which made pretty colors on the floor when the sun went through them; walls were freshly painted and everyone talked with a smile. Everything just looked so peaceful.
It wasn't until my second visit that I saw the flaws. I was sitting on one of the red couches, waiting for my name to be called, and I was looking at the fish tank. A little girl was pressed up to the glass telling her mother that she could see nemo. But when I looked closer, I saw a little fish turned over floating at the surface. A man behind the glass quickly pulled it out of the tank, but I saw. That's when I started noticing other things. Like the bloodstain on the cushion next to me. And the fact that a few tiles were missing from the floor. The wood paneling had scratches on it; one of the pastel windows was taped up; and every parent was smiling, but the little kids holding on to them kept asking what was wrong.
Maybe that's just how hospitals are. They want you to think that everything's okay; that all that goes on inside are couches and fishtanks. They think that if they write out the word HOSPITAL in bubbly pink letters people might get it into their brains that everything's okay. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a hospital. Masking pain only works for so long, until broken bits and pieces push their way through.
I think hospitals are just fish tanks. Everyone is put on display for doctors and visitors and things seem okay for a while, you know, until they aren't. When a little nemo dies, they send away his body and just replace him with another orange fish that people can look at. We are all the cracks in the pavement; elevators shut down for repair; a phantom pain that nobody wants to believe is real. If you stand far enough away; if you distance yourselves from anything close to the word hospital, you can just let yourself focus on the mask they put up. But once it's time, and you're sitting on a red couch in the lobby of the children's wing, with a kid asking you where her older brother went, you'll find yourself staring at the cracks in the facade with a single tear running down your face and with emptiness in your stomach.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Be still. The words I thought of when you were ill. I prayed with you every night, then God let me feel your heartbeat. Time was collecting your bloodflow. Heartbeat. Repeat, repeating the pain I felt that day when cousin' came in and said,"God took your mother up today."I was nine years old. You died about two weeks before my birthday. All I got was, packed up cardboard boxes with scotched taped ribbon that glistened in the sun as we made room for it in storage. Stored heartbeats. No one could take your place. The sad thing is I barely remember your face. Chemo. You had to take all those tests, and in the end they still cut off your left breast. Heartbeat. Time finally took your breath. Time ended our time. Why was it that after you died the doctor's found a cure to this genocide? I wish you were still here by my side. I was your baby. I asked the doctor if you were going to live, and all I got was, "maybe." Maybe you might come back someday. You used to appear all the time but then you drifted away. Heartbeat. I saw you laying in red. That red that, filled my eyes with hopelessness. I wished that red were still hanging in your closet in the dry cleaners bag, and the your aroma were in the stiches. After 7 years, I still can't believe you're dead. Even though you're not here, I think about you everydat. I ask a question that every child asks. "Why did God take my mother away?" Heartbeat. Time has finished this poem.
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 2:25 PM UTC
The time sways
Forth and back
Through the light
Happiness shines
Smiling bright
Everything that felt fine
Now are crowded in a sack
Closed, taped, not my way
It kills me,little slow deaths
To have them go with
A part of me alive
Why do the cure of emptyness
Has to have an end
Left with that painless ache
That creates a hole deep in pain
A member lost in my chaos
Returned by their ignorance
In the place which thy fitted
Now asks for coverage
It can't even be masked
For they cutted it broad and wide
It kills me,little slow deaths
To have them go
With a part of me alive.
That they never feel
How my elated heart smiled
When their smiles were around
They never cared for what
I gave up in the flick of eyes
Mesmerised by the sunkissed times
All they did was,
Find the ink to my page
And filled me up with their
Promising words
All they did then was
Give up on me
When they found that
I was filled up to brimm
So they took away me from me
With some that belonged there's
And with some that I never cared.
All they did was left me bereft.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
i had little parrot all it did was swear
no matter who was in no matter who was there
i was so embarrassed my face was always red
getting any visitors i used to always dread
everything he said was always very crude
every word he spoke was so very rude
i covered up his cage this it made him worse
no matter what i did he always used to curse
i taped up his beak and left him overnight
this had done the trick now he his polite
now the cursing gone so has my red face
he his back to normal gone has my disgrace
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
you wedge your pointer finger between your canines-
in an attempt to appear sublime- or nervous- or seductive
either way it doesn't succeed.
your tooth, teeth
speck of blood, bleed
emerging as you pierce your calloused
yellow patch of skin
(layers & layers of the girls you've touched before)
but you crave one more-
for in every sleepless night
there's a quote to be fill- a new slit to drill-
you're a man.
i can sense it-
throbbing and shaking beneath your olive exterior
how you long to drag
your now bloodied, prior prettied
finger up an off white thigh-
to disregard the things obliged-
to forge the paradigm
from faulty tools,
splintered and battered in a worn down knapsack
duct taped to a hunching back,
you're a man.
thoughts of droning monotone
quiet your hungry bones
(i can hear them)
rattling as you ****
your head and lift that heavy glance up to me.
i can see you,
flopping and thrusting and sweating, which
after years of curiosity has handed me
nothing,
but sweaty sheets and burning ***
i lay beneath you, silent
i'm a woman.
avert your eyes ( i am tempted to plead)
from the onset of premature varicose veins
(i am pale, glasslike, arched & stained)
allow me to suffocate the already immune-
girls born into the world with big black brandings
stamped onto their lightly acne ridden foreheads.
(SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE)
trim your ribs, shave off the cellulite-
turning a blind eye to accessible insight..
a salad for lunch, make it dinner too.
finger down your throat, orange acid hurling,
stick like dancers twirling,
they bring tears to your eyes,
if only {you} possessed the grace-
but there are pounds to erase.
i'm a woman.
thirteen years of advertisements stapled to your eyes
standing barefoot in a bath tub with chunks of blood
running down shaking legs
kicking off a now crimson pair of old underwear-
stuck & tangled on trembling feet
[ silence your voice and push up your *******
til they're touching your neck.
get a nose job
get a blow job
you're a woman ]
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
Bare feet
Teared clothes
Eyes with tears
Consoling her fear
She was *****
Broken and burned
Still people taped
Her parents told her
You'll be not married
Nor have kids
It's better to be silent and mild
Her voice being shivered
Shouted! If my words
Will not shout
Rapists voice will be loud
World will make me choose
Tough honor or life
I have nothing to loose
Nothing to loose
People may refuse
May repel my voice
But i being robbed
And justice is what
I wanna eloped ♥️
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 12:36 AM UTC
Turn off the light,
Force my eyes to adjust
So for a brief point in time
I don’t have to deal with the world.
The roués of an instance
Pressing and compressing
Ideas once held so dearly,
So close to the chest,
Fundamental morals that are nurtured and grown to define who I am, to determine what defines me,
to know what best explains who, what, when, where and why I become ‘I’;
...Has warped.
We are all required
To develop an acquired
Taste of territoriality
Over who we are, and what we have
Or,
Who we have and why we are.
“She is mine. From the second I laid eyes on her I knew.”- The Landlord
That determinism,
That ‘I am who I am, and the only thing that changes is time’
Is flawed.
Time does not change!
Who we are changes!
Change only comes from within.
The unfathomable amount of people I can and will be,
Stems from me and myself alone.
However poignant this is,
The matter arises that,
No question how much responsibility I have for why I am, who I am, and who I need to be;
These people will never meet.
We are told to dream,
That we can be whoever we want to be,
Though we never want to be who we are.
The closer we get to the carrot,
The more we realise
It is dangling from the pole taped to our heads.
Never live for the dream
Just be existent in the present,
For the vision does not exist.
And never will.
It just changes.
*And I am sick of dreaming… But I lack sleep.
…Oh god, what have I done?*
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
I am a helpless hopeless witness
sitting idle on a courtroom bench
as if in church
kneeling backwards beneath slanted
stain glass
light
with my hands clasped tight
and pressed neat against my forehead
but there is
no
one
to pray to when
there is no faith;
I am invisible in the eyes of a clairvoyant god.
My heart beats rough
almost
p
o
u
n
d
i
n
g
straight out of my chest
to the beat of the grand judge's gavel.
"Guilty,
guilty,
guilty,"
they chant, and
"Selfish,
selfish,
selfish," too.
"We find the defendant cowardly."
They never even put me on the stand.
They will not sentence me to execution--
for that would be too kindly.
I am destined to a life
of praying for death without parole
and folding
a plethora of pervasive glances
tightly between the
lines
on
my
palms.
They shoot their looks from
all
different
angles,
and
even with this accumulation of grayscale smoke above my head,
I
can't
escape
it.
After every much belittled blink
they taunt me with another slice of glass
that scrapes off my skin cells
one
by
one
and leaves my body hair in a standing ovation
pulsing with anticipation--
but they never draw blood. A cruel
and unusual punishment.
At confession I can never find the breath to reveal
the heart I've taped to my chest to keep from f
a
l
l
i
n
g
or the soul in my hands that's been
crushed
between sweaty fingers.
How can they punish me when I am already a walking jail cell
with skinny white lines for bars on my wrists?
I am to repent until I am no longer human, but here's the thing--
I never was.
I am much
much
more.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
what am i supposed to do
when the people
*who picked me up
taped me back together*
shattered and ripped me
walked away
and never
turned back
~ ~ ~
**cut open
i bleed water
rusty and brown
in myself
i've started to drown**
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!
Colorful banderitas drape
This town street.
Here comes the
Pagan parade
Going to the church,
Lead by gay majorettes
Flaunting their legs while
Blowing kisses to the priests.
There is a river
Of people each holding
A portrayal of the living God,
A glossy Sto. Nino statue
Dressed in peasant clothes,
A chef's uniform,
A crisp black suit,
A traditional Chinese costume,
And a striped swimwear even.
Some people are masked
As zombies and ghouls
Quite like Halloween in January.
Their face paints start to get
Smeared in their sweaty cheeks
In this scorching 2 pm sun.
At the middle of the parade comes
A pick-up decked with a stereo.
A portrait of lady in a bikini is
Taped on one of its speakers.
As the parade moves on
The kids moshed and fist pumped
To tribal rhythms and hiphop hits
With cuss words in every beat.
The sun is setting and
The celebration finally arrives
At the crowded church plaza.
People make their way,
Inching slowly to the grand church door.
The great parade ends in a bang, well
A slap rather.
A ***** boy hits
A lady's behind
In yellow micro shorts.
A brawl erupts
In the midst of the crowd,
In front of the saints
Petrified in the stained glass windows.
The mass starts soon after
As if nothing happened.
*Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!*
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
Your eyes smoulder with an imagination that is even bolder than I could have dreamed and colder than this toxic air we've been forced to breathe.
You write poetry across your face to form a Gas mask of rythym, blocking out the hate yet sealing in ideas that might frustrate you.
You hear the birds in the trees and you read the articles in every magazine, you take in information like the bees to the Queen.
Your thoughts radiate an aura surrounding your entire body, you bleed history and pop culture facts, you need the written word like an addict needs their cigarette packs.
You're empathetic to your core, you feel what everyone else does so you hide yourself in your mind until you can categorize the emotions from the lies.
I know you can feel the love in your heart even through all the cracks, like a weathered and torn apart roadmap but you're taped together perfectly and even with a few wrong turns you always find your way back to me.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC