"thereness" poems
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.
There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.
But what about the skinny girls?
The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.
The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.
Aren’t they beautiful?
The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?
All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.
But ****** so am I.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 11:58 PM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
~
*First we close our eyes
Then we build a cloud
From the late heavy bombardment
A thermodynamic love, this
Like Chinese lanterns
In weightless ecstasy
Aloft from the surface of our sea of rains
--Marriage chords:
Thatness and thereness
Trust and remembrance
Learning to breathe without lungs
Learning to speak without words
It feels not so much like soaring through
Clouds as being made one with them*
~
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 10:11 AM UTC
I sit back
And my heart is warm
Physically
Like the heater in his car.
And I cannot, though it feels so good
I cannot stand it.
If I could pick my infinity
Any moment to live forever
Moments from today would be high on the list
Because nothing turned it bitter
I would most prefer
The last hour in the almost-dark
A moment from that would be beautiful
The soft reek of dog food and dogs themselves
Watching him work with the broad head
Of a Lab under my hand
Would be wonderful.
But I know what I want most.
I want the infinity of those kisses.
His lips softer than I thought
They always are, somehow
His warmth and his
THERENESS
I want that to be for me.
And I know I can't have it, I know
He cannot
Love
Me.
But this was by mutual agreement.
I signed myself over to confusion
As did he, but
I can't
Help but feel
That I long for
More.
I sit
Lean and trembling
And I want any part of my day with him
To be forever.
I love the sweetness of the coffee
Though it was too much
Because of the smile
In his eyes
I love his understanding
Of so much
My wants and my feelings
And I know
I will not find this elsewhere
But it's like
I promised
Not to give my heart and I know
If I did he would not take it.
Though he will hold me, and kiss me and
That
Is enough.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
LIFE IS A HORIZONTAL FALL
"I...wouldn't do that...if I...were you!"
smiles the mirror
in a voice
silvered with silence.
"Well. . ." I tell it
"You...are not!"
I retrieve my image
from the back of the mirror.
"The bird sings with its fingers. . ."
I say in an Apollinaire-ish way.
This shuts the mirror up.
It not being au fait with the French poets
But, Death takes on
innumerable forms.
Here, it has no human face.
A tablecloth full of holes
more present by its "not-thereness"
than its...
"there-ness."
Only the table tells
what it is.
It haunts me.
"I am the door to your death!"
it says in its holey voice.
There, a staircase climbs into the air
only to turn and return
to where it began.
"I can connect
nothing with nothing!"
so says the rocking horse
staring me in the eye.
Death shows me a room
I will never ever know
as if I were to live in
an installation
in some future
art gallery.
I run & hide
from myself
in my
self.
Death is waiting for me
in my every cell.
She smiles
like cancer.
As Death kisses me
the world turns
on its axis
&
day
becomes
night.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
We were good.
While you were ****** and I was intoxicated.
I saw you through a Rosé tinted wine glass and felt your eyes caress me through the
Constant,
Concupiscent
THC haze.
We were junkies.
Sybarites on substances,
Addicted to lingered kisses.
****** on lust, wrapped golden.
Eye to eye and skin on skin.
Our altered minds in synchronicity.
Our bodies
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing
To instinct's beat, the almost thereness.
The best bit was always the almost thereness
while high as a kiteness because
After there,
Comes
Here and nowness
And
my mouth is dry
And your lips are tight
And you won’t speak to me.
So I try to ask you if...
But you shut your eyes so you don’t hear me and I know the answer.
You make me hate myself almost as much as you hate me so I know you’ll never love me.
But.
Your lips part in the coldest lie as we lie cold and lonely,
In the shared bed.
Sober and resentful.
La petite mort melancholic.
Me? Do I hate you too?
No!
I just don’t like you any more.
I’m not sure that I ever did.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Someone once said to me, “It’s the little things that drive you crazy!”
It’s not.
It’s the little things that drive you sane — pills, pats and pets.
All honor for what is small: dollops and gobs and dabs, the edges of pie crusts, chocolate shavings.
Hail micro-sacredness of life, tiny flotsam and mini-jetsam — veins, mists, creeks, fogs.
Is it not life’s micro-detail, womp and woof of wondrous world, that moves us to gratitude?
Drops, pinches, dashes, rain, cinnamon, lotion; fermions, flounces, hadrons, hats, bosons, bacon bits, antiquarks — there is a breath-taking thereness in the smallest things.
And then at last there is the weight and force of slivered, severed time.
The massive power of one, tiny, single “was.”
The mighty microsity of one “will be.”
And the astonishing force of this quickly, quarky, snarky second’s “is.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC