I wiped the spittle
from the side of my mouth.
I really didn’t like kissing her;
she always wanted me to,
I know she did the way
she always looked into my eyes
and how she would
run up and hug me,
throwing her arms around me
to hold on – that’s all most everyone
wants is to touch someone else
and not have them flinch,
but it is hard to tell
someone you’re kissing
that they don’t know how to.
Archive for May, 1991
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Derivation of Philip Larkin: And the Wave Sings Because it is Moving
Posted: May 15, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dead, Dragon, Ocean, Sea, Wave
“And the waves sing because they are moving
And the waves sing above a cemetery of waves.”
the waves sing great Viking songs,
full of mead and adventures in stormy seas,
songs of lifting mighty dragon-prows
across many leagues of untamed oceans,
of bravery and of tales of distant lands,
but deep in the midst of the deeper sea,
the waves roll quietly in respect of the dead
over cities festooned with age-old seaweed.
from nothing to green
to water to serpents,
the moon-eyed piper played on.
his tune coiled around my ears,
writhing with the tides
of a thousand shallow seas.
–
the wail of his eerie pipes
are misleading tendrils of smoke
green curling, a wreath for his hair.
fog twisting from the mane
of the moon wraps blindfolds
sewn over the sockets of my eyes.
–
slithering under my old skin
move the piper’s summoned snakes;
below the ocean chant thousands more.
the moon-eyed piper plays on,
from serpents to water
to green to nothing.
I leap from rock to rock
Back arched
Feet in blurred motion,
Minds of their own
Weight carrying me forward,
Mind calculating, correcting
Eyes searching
So fast it is blinding
Instinct,
Easy.
I just do it and end up on high
On top of another rock
Looking back
Out of breath
Soaring on winged feet
Most like a wolf spider
Most beautiful.
Imitation of Sylvia Plath: The Everlasting Monday
Posted: May 14, 1991 in PoetryTags: Monday, Moon, Sea
“Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday
And stand on the moon.”
oh please, oh please,
break the monotony
of my mundane Monday;
let me stand, I pray,
upon the dusty moon
to escape my current gloom.
anything would be better
than this letter after letter
reading, writing; boring
me, I’d rather be exploring
the empty seven seas
oh please, oh please,
how can I get away
from this everlasting Monday?
Derivations of Sylvia Plath: The Snowman on the Moor
Posted: May 14, 1991 in PoetryTags: Crow, Imagination, Snow
Derivation One
mighty snowmen tower tall
hulk as somber snowflakes fall
stand as frozen testimony
that I should be in bed with tea.
Derivation Two
grim phantoms rise through wind-blown snow
summoned by cries of a solitary crow,
black-winged among the hanging sheets of grey;
its lonesome call does dim the day.
trees stand burnt by the wintry blasts
and skeletal shadows their limbs outcast.
pushing quickly through the moor’s deep snow
my thoughts are homeward bent; I go
hurrying, for imagination has me chased
by coal grinned spectres. my tracks, erased.
window rattling monster,
go away.
I have no patience with your
fleshless screaming skull
plummeting meaningful to earth,
runnels of molten bone flayed
as streamers fly from a maypole.
gravel crunching beast,
leave me.
I am alone with my artifacts,
my talismans, my treasures and
think little of your rancorous immaturity.
I sleep upon your doorstep to dream,
shrieking names of blind polypous gods
shambling aimlessly in realms of ether.
I grope shudderingly for the covers
to pull over my too-sensitive ears.
rubbery night walker,
begone.
damn.
dey wuz nekkid.
yes dey wuz!
oooooooh don’t you tell me they wasn’t;
dey wuz butt nekkid an’
I saw parts bajanglin’ aroun’…
Lawd.
now if’n I wuz jest a little bit younger,
I’d be butt bajanglin’ mah jewels
out’n da air jest like dem.
it’s good to get nekkid sometimes,
but don’t get caught.
jest seen.
You Really Should
Posted: May 9, 1991 in PoetryTags: Bones, Dreams, Eat, Imagination, Kiss, Lightning, Naked, Time
I am here to waste your time.
come: step into my world of castles,
Legos, action figures, Transformers, things
only found in active imaginations
caged in flesh, hair, and bone.
come. follow me through idle dreams.
I am here to waste your time.
I am here to slap you with lightning.
a candy bar you know you want to eat.
never let yourself never let your S-E-L-F.
I am here to tell you what I see.
I dream. I feel. I want to tell you:
waste your time; it’s yours to waste.
come,
I am here to waste your time.
startled, surprised: it’s fun!
it’s good, so sharp, like biting your tongue.
get drunk on it, spin it around,
waste your time or don’t then.
listen to it with the volume way up.
relax. I am here to let you play my Nintendo.
yes you can. you deserve it.
you can do what you want; run naked.
make a mess. run me over with a lawnmower.
give me a big kiss. eat all of those cookies.
I am here to help you
waste your time.
fongous gnatts.
shriek bloodcurdling buzz.
swarm around.
swarm
around.
Working Title
Posted: May 8, 1991 in PoetryTags: Byron, Clock, Dark, Dreams, Drug, Light, Lightning, Naked, Shelley, Universe, Window
I want to stand naked on a rooftop in the lightning
like Shelley and tell the world that we are gods
and god is nothing, let me be
my own god, my own master. I am only
my own, naked, standing, hit by lightning,
drugged, dying, depressed, damned
but all this so I choose.
I will fall when the universe breaks
the subatomic clockwork monotone.
embracing the light, welcoming the darkness,
thinking to myself of Disneyland
to allay my fears of falling and falling down,
the cross behind you unsupportive,
catch me, Shelley, catch me, opium,
follow me, Byron, kill me, poetry.
my dreams are made from sand
as my flesh, as the mind is dimensioned.
the skull is an appropriate sieve
for the ashes, the ashes, the ashes
we all fall down. the wind turns circles
in the dust, draws the face of a clock with one hand.
drip castles; elephants; lightning again.
my cheek is pressed against the cold rainy windowpane.
Derivation of Philip Larkin
Posted: May 7, 1991 in PoetryTags: Earth, Grass, Imagination, Philip Larkin
my imagination has nailed my hands
to the earth and
will not allow me to pass.
the grass
presses into the shape of me
and the earth forgives, crumbles away.
I writhe on my stakes,
arch my back and strain to tear them free
my hands. poor blistered and chafed.
I live.
I am clear.
the moon, branches crosshatch
her light.
shot, I bleed.
I rot.
waving my arms about
to fling the blood.
I’ve bled.
all I want [no] I cannot
see.have.wish.
P-A-T-I-E-N-C-E
I will drop dead
to (get it?) over with.
I have killed you before in a dream
and I was savagely happy with myself
playing in the sandbox alone
with my painted toys and
turning the hose on and washing
your blood from my dump truck.
don’t worry if I dream without you
I won’t care if you hang me
by my left foot and burn my skin
off until I bleed wetly, just
a pinata even after we’re dead
I regenerate, you’ll heal, I’ll get you
a taxi.
I don’t understand you
sometimes.
I don’t pretend to.
this is like a coal
forced down my throat
and dropped into my stomach.
this anger,
petty and full-fledged,
ripping the roots from the soil,
shaking the dirt off,
packing down what is left.
taking out frustrations,
biting down on the toothache,
I clutch my stomach;
you curse my name.
it all is okay.
I
do
drugs.
I do lots of drugs.
I do I do
drugs.
of drugs
I do lots of drugs I
lots I lots of drugs I
do I lots of drugs I do
drugs lots lots I I lots.
drugs.
lots I do.
show me show me show me how you do that trick,
the one that makes me scream she said,
the one that makes me laugh she said,
so I did I cut her head off
and then I jumped up and down on it
and then I threw it off a cliff into the ocean.
Imitations of Izumi no Shikibu
Posted: May 1, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Death, Frog, Light, Magic, Moon, Mountains, Sky
Shikibu Imitation One (serious Buddha remix)
the mountains at the edge
of the moon shine wetly.
they have the viscosity
of freshly spilled blood.
the mountains have been torn and
thrown down from the sky.
they sit still, meditating,
slowly settling in the mud.
Shikibu Imitation Two (silly dance version)
I am a mountain
showered by the magic
of the gaze from a beetling moon.
squat and froggy I am.
the dark paths of my tongues;
they all lead to my gullet.
ha! quit watching me you stupid poet.
so I can get up and stretch.
Shikibu Imitation Three (acid ecstatic vocal)
death lurks as looming mountains
hurling the moon into the sky.
the ghastly light stings so I
reach out and draw the curtains.
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