"vasa" poems
I see the way you look at me
a fat girl wearing a crop top at the gym.
Your frown screams how dare you
and I'm sure your mind says it too.
-
The small girl walks in
with perfect hair and shorts barely there.
You will avert your eyes
to avoid the ugly in your gym.
But wait.
You didn't.
You walked over and smiled.
Said hi.
Gave me some advice
and moved on.
-
-
There are boys I know
from middle and high school;
I haven't seen in years.
I see them wonder at my clothes
while acknowledging me
with tiny pursed smiles.
-
-
There are women larger than I
they look at me with disgust
and I don't know why.
-
So many judgements
in a place where walls are mirrors
and sweat is a normal thing.
But do these people really feel
the way I think they do?
Because I look at them
and don't really care.
We're all just working out
in a gym
trying to become
who we want to be.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side
In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway
In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna
In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated
In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes
In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.
In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale
In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies
In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered
In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
kiełbasa - or, alt. kieł - basa - king Vasa of Sweden (Gustav the First), the base of, i.e. based on a canine (kieł); including a rolling pin and a mile of intestines to shove the mince in and later eat.
reading through the style magazine...
what else, a count von Bismarck,
Eton connections - poor schmuck
ought to eat a mouthful of cinnamon
peppered with nail clippings -
it's not jealousy as **** just a sickly Loki
stare at it all - perfect skin, perfect abs,
10 dates a week, whimsical musing
and other attention deficits - i'm just here
to ask about the code of procedures
on the national health service (n.h.s.),
*informer
you no say daddy me snow me-a gon' blame
i lick he *** *** down
'tective man they say, say daddy me snow
me stab someone down the lane
i lick he *** *** down*
days long before Eminem and not quiet
vanilla ice ice baby...
the hippocratic oath shattered on me,
i guess i played the madness game to free myself
from defamation, self-preservation of
the person accused - god, what a parasite i've become,
i never used to obsess, but i've turned into my enemy,
it takes more calories to eat a second of
a thought about that than it would take
drinking a sharpshooter whiskey mix -
so here i am, with my Hölderlin heart -
stone cold stone mad - passive-aggressive infatuated
with Radiohead's kid A - playback from
the heyday of the prog-rock zenith reminded, of;
mind you, i was never into playing solo tennis
against a brick wall with the standard:
violets in may
or should i say
i love the whole affair
of being the spare
in her game of panicky chess
yep, you guessed it, rhyming,
Tenacious D's one note song
summarises what i can't
be bothered to explain
or defend.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
No busco que me quieras, no busco que volvamos a ser como antes, no busto tu mirada hacia mis ojos, no busco que nos complementemos como lo hacíamos, no busco tu mano en medio de la noche esperando a que esté ahí esperandome cuando realmente la necesite, cuando me despierte de una pesadilla.
Esa pesadilla se volvería real al recordar que ya no estás.
Pero en fin, ya no te busco.
Ya no te busco porque es cansado.
Es cansado esperarte con la idea de que vasa a volver cuando en realidad nunca va a suceder.
Es cansado darte todo de mi y que tu solo me empujes al vacío una y otra vez.
Es cansado buscarte porque nunca te voy a encontrar.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
The temptation that the Siren sings,
A slow wave back from shore,
The sorrow that tomorrow brings,
A hundred days, a thousand more,
Casting lines of smoke and steam,
In search of great white whale,
The tragedy with which we dream,
The grace with which we fail,
A map carved upon a liar’s tongue,
Teach us to speak, but never say,
White knuckled on bottom rung,
From which we swing and sway,
As laughter consumes the setting sun,
Those echoes keep us company,
The first regret tells us we’ve just begun,
The last reminds us we’re still free,
But we awake to find familiar coasts,
Ships still bottled on their shelves,
And we realize we’re all just ghosts,
That don’t believe in themselves.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC