Because I don't tidy often enough and my brain's been too frazzled to write anything substantial. This poetry lark is coming surprisingly easy which goes to show you shouldn't claim you can't do something in front of people because your brain may freak out and prove yourself wrong. 12 angry men are still out on this new form of expression for me though.
The slow walk homeward
Turn it up, turn me on
Louder I can still hear myself think
And I don't wanna think
Too much
Not enough
I've been over this countless times
In my head
You spoke eloquent
Words of comforting romance
But in reality
You are deafening silence.
It won't go any louder
Press the plastic closer
The sleeping houses
Lean in, archways of
Curtains and lawns and families
I can't see the stars past their
Slanting roofs, only streetlights
Flickering amber flames
A dog barks
I shouldn't be able to hear him
But the music won't go any louder
So I open my mouth and sing
Along with the voices in my ears
This song was made for me.
Hips swing the sandstone buildings
Back into place
Arms embrace the skies
As curious eyes of light peep
Through veils of cloud.
Melodies splutter to a halt
And I clap a hand over my mouth
Perch on the hood of a
Red Renault
This silence is not unlike your
silence.
I'm watching and waiting
Holding my breath to
Hear better
Some whisper on the wind
An answer
or a hint
Angry buzzing drowns
My epiphany
in vicious beeps
You fell up the stairs to
Your flat hope
I made it home safe
There's a ringing
I can't shake in my head
And all I hear is you.
Better to reign (incomplete)
One can’t help believing gentlemen with Roman noses
even if one hears the most remarkable nonsense
from the mouths lurking underneath such striking features
and Lucy was a particularly gullible one to start with.
She wore her long hair up loosely
bleached blonde waves;
a halo with a rechargeable battery
and wings of blue cotton.
Not since Eve was there such a Fall
no apple this time but a ring
in a smart black coffin
made a hell of heaven.
Noteworthy (incomplete)
Every Monday afternoon
Emily goes to the library
and picks a new book
working her way through the alphabet
Today she is on D.
Dahl, Dickens, Dumas;
she selects a thinnish volume
by an author she hasn't heard
of: Darling, F.
but he has been checked out
twice since September
The paper is violet this month
which complements the denim
blue of the cover and in
methodical print
Emily says hello.
Her note in Cann was removed
Bukowski had been ignored
but Austen held a reply
a thin sheet of yellow
with a tiny lion drawn in the corner
with an over-sized mane.
Taste You
Apathy
is lying on a beat up couch
all day watching
clouds drift by
and people bustle,
hustle, dawdle, laugh, cry, live
down
below
elongated legs on the windowsill.
Numb
is being still
for days waiting
until hair sticks
to the cushions
and slick stains
are left behind
in the shower.
It was raining when I met you;
grey, washed out city
colours clogging drains.
Group therapy
bullshitted behind me
psychobabble
my mother pushed me
too far
my father was never
proud
there was a boyfriend
who beat
a girlfriend
who ditched
I'm my own worst enemy
I have to open up to feel
Bored now, I asked for a light
Arrogant prick
stubbed your own cigarette out on
my arm.
I never knew there were men like you.
every one of my senses craves your attention
bite me
scratch me
pull me
break me
i am yours
lines on my hip
bruises on my thighs
welts on my arm
you made me a heart of burns
don't ever quit
but fill our lungs with
black treacle tar
strangling smoke
lingers forever
in my hair
in my bed
the shape of your mouth
blooms
bright on my marble breast
When you left you took with you my faithful friends:
apathy and nullity
so I ran a bath
steaming water meet shivering skin
scissors hang languidly
in my hand
carving your name in
yielding flesh
crimson swirls in the dirty
bathwater.
I only wish your name was longer
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Bittersweet chocolate revenge
Snow white skin and cherry bomb lips she enticed me
back to her four post bed; a princess on rumpled sheets
a tyrant on my hips
I’m conquered by smoky glances and sultry sighs.
“Trust me,” were her words
murmured through my beltloops,
whispered on my chest,
gasped in my ear,
begged in my mouth.
Implicitly, I complied.
Sunlight rouses me from dreams
of raven hair and alabaster flesh
laughter shakes me from sleep but
cold metal holds me still, exposed
to the man in the chair before me.
Laughing
he makes to leave
wipes the smile from my face
deadens the twist in my stomach
but last minute he turns
holding my dignity on a rusted circle; my jailor
lips curling in a sneer
as he snaps the key in the lock.
First my left, then my right
freedom was never as sweet as her snare.
FUCK
YOU
DAN
lipstick, scarlet hate on my chest.
i’m so sorry scott
black eyeliner apology on my thigh.
He shows me the door, an apparition
by his side blows me a red kiss, smears one on his cheek
and waves a diamond
goodbye.
“You got off lightly,” she drags him by his hair
“Trust me.”
I do.
back to her four post bed; a princess on rumpled sheets
a tyrant on my hips
I’m conquered by smoky glances and sultry sighs.
“Trust me,” were her words
murmured through my beltloops,
whispered on my chest,
gasped in my ear,
begged in my mouth.
Implicitly, I complied.
Sunlight rouses me from dreams
of raven hair and alabaster flesh
laughter shakes me from sleep but
cold metal holds me still, exposed
to the man in the chair before me.
Laughing
he makes to leave
wipes the smile from my face
deadens the twist in my stomach
but last minute he turns
holding my dignity on a rusted circle; my jailor
lips curling in a sneer
as he snaps the key in the lock.
First my left, then my right
freedom was never as sweet as her snare.
FUCK
YOU
DAN
lipstick, scarlet hate on my chest.
i’m so sorry scott
black eyeliner apology on my thigh.
He shows me the door, an apparition
by his side blows me a red kiss, smears one on his cheek
and waves a diamond
goodbye.
“You got off lightly,” she drags him by his hair
“Trust me.”
I do.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
"I am half sick of shadows," said the Lady of Shallot
Yesterday, despite feeling like my face was slowly being crushed by some sort of giant vice I got up, got dressed and sat and watched the clock as I realised I was ten minutes early. Mama came through and asked if I was going in to which I intended to say yes but instead said nah. Half an hour later I was curled up on my sofa, checking my emails (and shouting I am not a number, I am a free man! everytime I had to trot out my matric number) and there's the Histoire secretary with yet another red coded envelope flashing away in my inbox. She sends so many. My eyes scanned the paragraph of notices and noticed that wonderful phrase: "lecture cancelled". Ya beauty.
Feeling much better I proceeded to spend my free morning watching Who's line is it anyway since it seems to be on constantly now and there's only so much Judge Judy one girl can take. I contemplated the several films I have recorded but half of them are french and the other half are black and white, both of which require glasses which involves getting up. My pen burst whilst I was scribbling over Joe's second chapter but somehow the ink stayed inside and just left little constellations all over my hands. Combined with the edges of the Union stamp on my hand that I haven't scrubbed off yet I look like I wrestled a squid. Well, the sailor look is very in so the lady in topshop told me. I was like no kidding, is that why you've slapped anchors over everything. I like going into topshop and giggling. I mean they picked a coked up model who thinks Pete Doherty is husband material. Not so smart.
Also in my inbox were several emails from bands I haven't listened to in a long while. Like Hot Hot Heat, who are rather like the Kooks only with better lyrics and music and accents. Apparently they have a new album out but I couldn't be bothered checking it out. Then there was We Are Scientists. Now I love this band but their music is kinda boring. I mean you can listen to them a couple of times and think yeah, pretty good, might see them live (I didn't) but then you skip them when your ipod does a shuffle. Their email begins thusly: You Androgynous Amorists, The pre-sale has ended, and general sale has begun, for The Back In Style Tour -- and if you have ANY intention of EVER seeing We Are Scientists again (this spring in the UK) and paying for it, may we POLITELY SUGGEST that you sort yourself out. Hee thought I. And I popped their CD on for all of five minutes when I then got bored and changed it back to that crazy Icelandic lass that everybody slags me off for liking. But then I remembered their website full of 'advice'. They answer submitted questions which sometimes leads to comedy results or at least kills an hour reading. For example: query: how can you understand poetry?
Ah, but that is the point of poetry: to narrowly skirt the line on whose other side lies total gibberish. A poem should suggest meaning, but you should never be sure of what it's saying. A poem that you fully understand is a terrible poem that fails in poetry's one objective: to mystify the reader.
I thought I may as well see if the idea that had struck me at 1 in the morning was workable, especially since it was task orientated and that way I'd be hitting 2 goals. Course I had to wait for my dad to return before I could fill in most of the blanks, I don't trust Wikipedia so much when it comes to religion, and luckily saying the words "Hail Mary?" led to him reeling off the prayer as fast as he could with a little bow of his head at the word Jesus. God bless him. I shan't tell him what I want to do with it but then he won't ask. I told him once that if I had been a religious girl I would have been a Catholic and now I can ask him anything I want. When anybody else makes reference to the fact that he is religious he gets all defensive. Probably because Julie treats Catholicism as this strange and weird thing, which is the school's fault really.
So I wrote a little, I was reminded of Tennyson so I read the Lady of Shallot again, the vague Lesbian relented to my complaints of being dirt poor so we're staying in tomorrow night instead and the boy who thinks he's in love with me told me he wanted to 'sex me up' and then went back offline. All in all, not a bad Wednesday.
I'm really torn this morning. I could go take a healthy dose of as many vitamins and pills as I can swallow and go back to bed or I can pull myself together and go to Archaeology. The timetable says we're doing Archaeology and Lawyers. I don't know what the hell that can even be about. Bed seems to be winning. A day in bed with poetry, Catholic doctrines to rip apart and soup. That's a pretty good Thursday.
Feeling much better I proceeded to spend my free morning watching Who's line is it anyway since it seems to be on constantly now and there's only so much Judge Judy one girl can take. I contemplated the several films I have recorded but half of them are french and the other half are black and white, both of which require glasses which involves getting up. My pen burst whilst I was scribbling over Joe's second chapter but somehow the ink stayed inside and just left little constellations all over my hands. Combined with the edges of the Union stamp on my hand that I haven't scrubbed off yet I look like I wrestled a squid. Well, the sailor look is very in so the lady in topshop told me. I was like no kidding, is that why you've slapped anchors over everything. I like going into topshop and giggling. I mean they picked a coked up model who thinks Pete Doherty is husband material. Not so smart.
Also in my inbox were several emails from bands I haven't listened to in a long while. Like Hot Hot Heat, who are rather like the Kooks only with better lyrics and music and accents. Apparently they have a new album out but I couldn't be bothered checking it out. Then there was We Are Scientists. Now I love this band but their music is kinda boring. I mean you can listen to them a couple of times and think yeah, pretty good, might see them live (I didn't) but then you skip them when your ipod does a shuffle. Their email begins thusly: You Androgynous Amorists, The pre-sale has ended, and general sale has begun, for The Back In Style Tour -- and if you have ANY intention of EVER seeing We Are Scientists again (this spring in the UK) and paying for it, may we POLITELY SUGGEST that you sort yourself out. Hee thought I. And I popped their CD on for all of five minutes when I then got bored and changed it back to that crazy Icelandic lass that everybody slags me off for liking. But then I remembered their website full of 'advice'. They answer submitted questions which sometimes leads to comedy results or at least kills an hour reading. For example: query: how can you understand poetry?
Ah, but that is the point of poetry: to narrowly skirt the line on whose other side lies total gibberish. A poem should suggest meaning, but you should never be sure of what it's saying. A poem that you fully understand is a terrible poem that fails in poetry's one objective: to mystify the reader.
I thought I may as well see if the idea that had struck me at 1 in the morning was workable, especially since it was task orientated and that way I'd be hitting 2 goals. Course I had to wait for my dad to return before I could fill in most of the blanks, I don't trust Wikipedia so much when it comes to religion, and luckily saying the words "Hail Mary?" led to him reeling off the prayer as fast as he could with a little bow of his head at the word Jesus. God bless him. I shan't tell him what I want to do with it but then he won't ask. I told him once that if I had been a religious girl I would have been a Catholic and now I can ask him anything I want. When anybody else makes reference to the fact that he is religious he gets all defensive. Probably because Julie treats Catholicism as this strange and weird thing, which is the school's fault really.
So I wrote a little, I was reminded of Tennyson so I read the Lady of Shallot again, the vague Lesbian relented to my complaints of being dirt poor so we're staying in tomorrow night instead and the boy who thinks he's in love with me told me he wanted to 'sex me up' and then went back offline. All in all, not a bad Wednesday.
I'm really torn this morning. I could go take a healthy dose of as many vitamins and pills as I can swallow and go back to bed or I can pull myself together and go to Archaeology. The timetable says we're doing Archaeology and Lawyers. I don't know what the hell that can even be about. Bed seems to be winning. A day in bed with poetry, Catholic doctrines to rip apart and soup. That's a pretty good Thursday.
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