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Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Chemicals and Errata


oh Father, I have never known
disappointment like yours.

the crows that left their feet
dented in your drawing board
dive into view as I defy my destiny.

we are reckless because we evolve;
we are mortal and motionless and instincts
for survival collide at ninety degrees:
an instant made solely of broken feathers,
broken glass, and broken blood.

—–

I’ve had this partial poem in medias res stuck in a word document for over 8 years. Like a lot of things in my life, I have no idea how to begin or finish it. So here it is. Something with the potential to come in third place at a poetry reading if only it had a frame.

This is the first time I’m depressed during the summer for no distinct, discernible reason. The variable here is the Seroquel, which is great for the panic disorder, terrible for things like paying attention or enjoying life. Oh, and the being stuck in a poverty trap, because I need to keep my income low to qualify for Medicaid.  ‘Merica.

This is a pretty emotive acoustic piano cover of Brand New’s Jesus Christ:


—-

I’m still an atheist, but I’ve always been fascinated with the cultural power of religious imagery and also as literary archetypes. The doctrines might be bullshit, but stories have staying power for a reason. And that’s the part that interests me. How do you pierce the collective consciousness with your words?

Mary Karr does it pretty damn well in this piece that was obviously about David Foster Wallace:

  I loved so my ghost might inhabit you and you ingest my belief

in your otherwise-only-probable soul. I wonder does your
     death feel like failure to everybody who ever
           loved you as if our collective cpr stopped
too soon, the defib paddles lost charge, the corpse
     punished us by never sitting up. And forgive my conviction
           that every suicide’s an asshole. There is a good reason I am not
God, for I would cruelly smite the self-smitten.

  I just wanted to say ha-ha, despite

           your best efforts you are every second
alive in a hard-gnawing way for all who breathed you deeply in,
     each set of lungs, those rosy implanted wings, pink balloons.
          We sigh you out into air and watch you rise like rain.
We are just interjections, enjambed upon the line breaks of our lives.

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“You should change your blog name to ‘Clantily Sad'”

December 16, 2013 1 comment

I’m still alive, sort of. Still lacking in motivation to produce any form of original content. My blog is like the stepchild in a broken home that I give inconsistent amounts of attention to and can’t decide if I like or not.

Filler post for December.

I’m running out filler material for this place actually; most of the poetry I wrote in high school does not stand the test of time. (Oh, the angst. Never quite The Pain Tree bad, but still cringe-worthy enough to never be shared.) But there was some clever enjambment in here that I still like.

Nerdy, Angry, Fuck

  • Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I think it’s hot when strippers cry on their master’s
degrees, when meteorologists make innuendos
when your mother pretends to be Jewish.

Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia
so I could palpate youtube’s
myriad turtle sex clips with my retinas
though I wish there was more to do
on a Friday night than watching
ugly animals fuck online.

I have a Dukakis sticker on my teenage
mutant ninja turtles lunchbox from 88′
It’s currently filled with positive
pregnancy tests, disposable cell phones
and a picture of your mother.

Love insurance premiums:  $99.99 a month!
Good student discounts. Press 1 for more options.

It’s like that time I asked why she didn’t
love me anymore and she replied
“supply side economics.”

I told her her metaphor sucked;
our relationship had too many uncertainty principles
to be graphed criss-cross on an X and Y axis,

We were more like 2 out-of-sync sine waves reaching for infinity
until the tequila ran out.

Para continuar en las lenguas románticas
oprime el número dos.

I sent a letter of complaint to her new
PO Box in MN, asking her to return my soul
for the full amount, in the payment method
in which it was received.

She doesn’t know it, but she’s still
the spaces between my fingers
when I’m clawing for sanity in my sleep
and the moment mid-clasp, when I stop.
Go limp.
Lips.

Categories: I arted Tags: , , , , ,

Poem For Sunday – “Something for the Boys” by Heather Bell

October 6, 2013 1 comment

(CC) Creative Commons, attribution, noncommercial, 2005. Candice Hall.

Something for the Boys

by Heather Bell

1. i sure as hell wasn’t east of eden, more like west of grant boulevard in a city that should be burned down. He was test-driving my new car, i was thinking how people are kind of “exit only,” and i’m always the stupid kid jiggling the handle outside for hours.

2. i don’t know if people wear hearts on sleeves anymore. it seems a stupid idea anyway. when you’re drunk and fucking you’re most likely naked too.

3. in the parking lot of walgreen’s an orange cat hit his car’s hood and i jumped, frightened. he was smiling a little when he said he didn’t love me anymore but let’s be friends! let’s get our prescriptions together! let’s be the regularly scheduled program! and still drink pepsi and go to church! in the parking lot of walgreen’s i kept thinking about that cat. like, what if it was homeless. and needed me.

4. i collect magnets on my refrigerator and coffee mugs from displaced little towns. so far i have one mug. and two magnets. i also collect love letters. i have almost the same amount of letters as the amount of blowjobs i have given and handjobs i have given and times i have worked like a drug mule for the united states government. which is not very much.

5. he told me he wanted proof of this love thing i was always talking about. i said here’s your proof you asshole and i flicked him off. some people will just never get it.

6. i just want to love someone like a jew about to be led away to crucifixion.

7. mama tells me its like archeology. at the top is mostly used condoms and old beer bottles. don’t mistake dirt for beauty. unless you want dirt, she says. some people want that, she says. some people do.

8. my most recent finding sleeps in my bed like a roman arch. he told me he might want to live by elephant head road. i think that sounds fine to me. i wonder if you hear them at night, the thunder of their mating so clumsy and outrageous. he says maybe maybe doll baby and trips over our suitcases, laughing.

9. i start collecting postage stamps for all the places we will go. a couple years ago i was dating this guy who had a box in his room labeled “human remains,” but when i opened it there was nothing inside. i’m so glad i no longer know that guy. postage stamps seem much easier to keep track of.

10. i wake up suddenly at four am just to make sure the man i love is still breathing. he finds me in the closet hours later ripping up the love letters, laughing, calling them communist propaganda, mosquito nets, pornographic material. i say look at these, these chain letters. don’t you hate chain letters? so do i. so do i. no one ever replies unless they are really desperate or really in love.

From Heather Bell’s Poetry Collection: “How to Make People Love You.”

Categories: Cool Shit Tags: , , , , ,

Gamer Girls Poem

Helllllllllo wordpress.  Been a while.   Have a poem.   Originally from my deviantart.

Tricks are for chicks.

When I screamed “BITCH!”
after you shot me in the spine,
you were as silent as your gun.

You simply gyrated your shoulders,
mouth in a little “O [snap]” shape
and danced.

I didn’t mean it, you know
and next time I get the magnum
your eyes will bulge,
a bovine before a poleaxe
and I’ll aim for your neck.

and it’ll be
“CUNT!’
“WHORE!”
“SLUT!”
“FUCK!”
and so on

until someone has to pee.

At which point
the other will unpause
and proceed to slaughter
the helpless unmanned man.

Cause gamer girls,
unlike boys,
are bitches.