Poetry XII.

(It's been a while I know; writing works sometimes, flowing through every vein, but sometimes life needs to be experienced so as to have a reason to write)

Rising nostalgia swirling past birthday wishes that never came true

strike a match to take me back

happy times my dear with far too much hype they could never live up to

there were always tears on my birthday, happy birthday to you

happy birthday to you

someone is always off key.

Never had enough time to shut eyes tight make a wish and blow

they were always wasted on falling stars and could never think of anything good enough, worthy enough for such a special day

stars fallen from the dark, presents without a careful wrapping job

melancholy sigh slips out between bites of wax dripped cake

elbows on the table

Poetry XI.

Dissipation Prescribed

All I want to do is sleep away the afternoon,

after fucking your warm body all morning on the musty futon in the den.

I'll wake up sleepy eyed in the evening as the nightly news broadcast starts,

and think about those strong calloused hands, their gentle caress.

Why I get you in the mornings never seems to faze me,

as I close my eyes at the stroke of noon you lock the door behind you;

I disregard the truth and dream of dawn approaching.

Poetry X.

It seems there's always a sparkle on your face,

just one,

not in the gleam of your eyes,

not in the shine of your lipgloss,

one sparkle, a hint at the secret buried beneath.

Poetry IX.

I hate to be lonely,

but company brings me back to reality,

making me itch to be alone once more,

thoughts and dreams carry scenes of prosper,

the life in my head keeps me occupied.

Reality is adequate,

mediocre.

Pale in comparison to the the conjured truths,

technicolor dreams keep mind's eye bright,

leaves real life begging at it it's feet.

something

I drew this awhile ago, just uploaded it and digitally added the vignette.

It's just a sketch, nothing special.

Poetry VIII.

Mystery in Text:

What's it going to be then, eh?

Mr. Burgess inquired me, from behind the page;

This got me thinking, real hard and hot,

my reply, a weak collision on the page,

I know not how to respond,

"oh shit, oh man where do I begin,

I know all that I want, know not what will be".

bloglovin

Follow my blog with bloglovin

Poetry VII.

"Nobody wants to die in a pile of their own shit."

I'm pretty sure you're sick,

Stay up all night a convulsion on the floor,

Mind goings left to right,

Left right left right stop,

Another broken genius added to the notorious bunch.

Poetry VI.

Summer Romantic rides down the Road

I'm deathly scared of falling off,

Tipping over, not being able to stop.

So far from the ground I'd perch rolling fast,

You tell me it's easy,

You'll teach me this summer.

We'll take it real slow, practicing daily,

You guide me with ease down the sidewalk pedaling pedaling,

I make you promise not to let go.

I've done this before you know.

He pushed and I fell heart first on the pavement,

Bloody knees soak through ripped jeans,

I had to pick myself up, wipe my own tears on my sleeve.

Promise me you wont let me go?

Poetry V.

1a.m. showers

Down to the pore the soap doesn't cleanse me,

makes me weaker and makes my heavy

footsteps drag their tread,

loud down the hallway

wake up all the rest,

they're sleepless as always

anyways.

Nightmare of You -Thumbelina

Thumbelina
Hey, dainty girl,
Flailing on the side of the road,
With your great thumb in the air.
I hope you don't mind my asking
But what happened to your underwear?
And does your husband know
A thing of your succeeding path
With car operating?

Sexual deviance!
But Julian would never understand.
And doesn't he know?
That just because he's a painter and he loves you,
It doesn't mean that he has got a clue.

About my Thumbelina!
I've never seen a pair of digits quite like your's... before.
And I've been travelling shore to shore,
Into arduous palour.
Your almost perfect body's got me quivering
In a ball.

To that brash cowgirl,
With her hands petting your crotch.
And humping you in towering grass.
Naked & gender-bending.
What makes you think the two of you will last?
For there's no damer man for her.
There's just this open road,
Where she'll hail down some pervert!

With the usage of her giant thumb!
But Jellybean,
You could never comprehend
The intellect of her mind.
And just because you can make her cum with your hand,
It doesn't mean that she'll be your woman.

My Thumbelina!
I've never seen a pair of digits quite like your's... before.
And I have travelled shore to shore,
Into arduous palour.
Your almost perfect body's got be quivering
In a ball.

But twas a loon on a hillside.
Planting a seed between your thighs.
You fancied his therapies,
But he's just a sadistic sadonist
Who gave you that bastard kid.

My Thumbelina!
I've never seen a pair of digits quite like your's... before.
And I have travelled shore to shore,
Into arduous palour.
Your almost perfect body's got me quivering
In a ball.

Yeah!

My Thumbelina,
My Thumbelina.
My Thumbelina,
My Thumbelina.
My Thumbelina,
Hey, have you seen a... oh.

Poetry IV.

Board Games for the Heart

How could I ever let myself get this way,

I tried so hard to separate myself from their reality,

From the regulars enrolled in the fucking game.

My instructions: never say love, never say your name,

Never utter a sentence in either of those directions,

Those were my rules and I used to follow them well,

They kept trouble out of my clutch, kept the dice out of my grasp.

Until one day, I let one slip, one seven syllable phrase changed my game,

Of course only now do I realize what an idiot, a fucking fool I became,

Because from that point forth I enter The Game.

The game you start playing once Shoots and Ladders becomes too passé.

Poetry III.

Lonely darlings can't see me pout can't hear me moan.

Lonely darlings,

Can't see me pout can't hear me moan.

Lonely darlings,

Can't see me pout,

Can't hear my moan.

Film Noir

Poetry II.

It took me two and a half seconds to think this through,

but I spend the rest of my hours stripping it,

of all the hidden details,

over romanticized it all to an ugly ,

guilty pleasure.

Poetry I.

How can I fill space with all that I know not

never experienced and never once known, how can

I expect to convince the prevailing ears that I've

time and time again been there and done that.

All lies.

Just lies, filled with imagery falsely presented in verse

so sure of itself, but never once understood

the power of what it narrates.

Nostalgia

I found this polaroid on the sidewalk between ice and stone, walking to the bus stop after getting coffee downtown.

It's always unbearable to leave the aroma of roasting coffee and the clink of silverware on porcelain that creates that unique atmosphere of that tried and true cafe. The one that doesn't make the soy latte too sweet, it always comes to you hot and steaming to defrost frozen digits.

Beached Whales

So here were are, first blog, first post-sort of-and what to say... want some of my naive insight?

Okay this will do. I'll give you this analogy:

My life is like that of a suppressed minister's daughter. Except the thing is there is no one suppressing me. The tide is rising and are bringing anguish and frustration to the shore. Beached whales ruining the scenery, my beach is full of them and it smells unbearable.

Things have gotta change, or I will go ape shit.

yeah that'll have to do.

Kurt Vonnegut

"All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies."- the book of bokonon