Posts Tagged ‘Knife’

One lone onion
Singing in the kitchen,
Singing in its red net bag,
Singing on my cutting board.

He’s singing “Faith”
By George Michael:
Faith will keep him
Whole and untouched.

My beef stew simmers nearby,
Watching and waiting.
I hide around the corner,
Knife in my hand and
Tears in my eyes —
His brothers and sisters
Made me weep.
George Michael never makes me weep.
Wham!

Dictation:

Posted: December 22, 1994 in Poetry
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thoughts like knives
— no blunt smile —
grinding to sharpen
against the stone of today.
my low self-esteem
smarts when it’s smart,
because nobody hurts me like me.

Tails Side Up

Posted: December 5, 1994 in Poetry
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I wish on every
lucky penny
that I find (tails side up)
for you
for me
for us and wherever we’re going
in all this fog.

I want that my glasses
were halogen knives
to draw and quarter the mist of the
near future:
is it money?
is it marriage?
is it me?
that has you so distant
when I’m right here
holding your hand?

Maybe I’m a chain of flower petals
— all the “loves-me-not” daisies
of the last few decades;
all the dangling lies of the eternal carrot,
a pinata for
the materialism
of our parents’ generation
leaking into my soil.

But all I ever wanted from money
were my lucky
(tails side up)
pennies.

Between the Devil and the deep blue sea
there is me and a bottle of Smirnoff™ Vodka
destined to drown me in Davy Jones’ Locker.
The pursuit of happiness, wine, women, and song
goes on like the road that never ends, so long
that it sends itself laughing away ‘till you’re lost
lonely and livid at the stupid kid
that let himself grow up into this;
I learned to eat, sleep, work hard, and miss
being young, strong, and full of inspiration,
dreams, songs, and wise magickal imaginations.
My thoughts were real, my dreams weren’t fantastic.
They were attainable goals – feats of magick.
People had done it and I was going to do it,
going under, ‘round, over, or right through it.
Twenty-two and going under in a different way;
the ocean is grey and the Devil is calling –
bastard chased me through nightmares
every night of my life and the knives
that I cut with shine bright like a promise
that I have chosen unwisely; I’m falling.
Surprising? Dreams don’t come true
and you can trace the cause back to
when you stopped believing in Santa Claus.

Notes from Cutting My Wrist

Posted: October 16, 1993 in Poetry
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I : Bloodstain
someday this piece of paper
will contain a dried, flaking bloodstain
that I can laugh at and feel good about because
“I don’t DO that anymore”.
but right now it’s fresh from my wrist
and I do that right now and
life
really
hurts.

II : Recipe
1) one bottle of scotch whiskey
2) one glass
3) several ice cubes
4) one exacto knife kit (or a bunch of razorblades, whatever you prefer)
5) one poetry notebook (or paper of some sort)
6) one pen or pencil
7) one broken promise about no more suicide attempts because you are “past” that.

yes, like I’m past hurting.

I
my knife is bone.
I break in half
my knife of bone.
each half I place
into my mouth;
they’re just like fangs
with which I have
become a wolf.

II
to a weeping spirit woman
saddened by the sky,
I make you cut your hand
and then you break your knife.

III
mother wolf.

Untitled Poem #12

Posted: July 1, 1987 in Poetry
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People say there are always times in your life
When you feel the answer is the blade of a knife
A quick slice across the wrists
Then a convulsive clench of fists
As the blood wells, spurts, and drips
An intake of breath through parted lips
Crimson health pouring out of your hands
No more problems and no more demands.