With the window through light shadows,
Lies an eternal darkness in the cupboard.
Tempered by the strobes within the cosmos,
Your words make me want to dance in the rain.
Paths on windshields, joining, creating,
Surge the high right to the edge,
We all fall down our shadows remain,
They fade only through the impaired ability to build and live.
Holding on to a time before it was a contest for who could hold a gaze the longest,
Or who could gaze in a general direction or grace my sheets.
I haven't slept in a lifetime, forgot what food feels like, sustenance reduced to a trickle of infinity.
Cigarettes need mouths to feed!
Filter out the toxins within my being,
Rip my bleeding brain from its ruptured myelin sheath,
Remains, heartbeat, steady, increasing,
Reduce me to nothing with the mere whisper of your touch,
Whose turn is it anyway?
I want to run my hair through your fingers and come away trembling with truth.
The liquid voice of judgement leaked static,
Through the veins of my existence.
I want to win so badly it hurts!
My nipples will perk up at the sight of fifty simoleans.
For 48.50 I will gnaw your areolas to shredded shadows of what they once were.
My time has come.
** An Exquisite Corpse collaboration Winter 2011 by:
An Incandescent Firefly, Jack Freedman, John Clinton, Keri English, Lauren Marie, Thomas Fucaloro
14 April 2011
february 16th
words make me cry
eyes filling up
you are reading my life
in a poem
your perfect insecurity
my broken insanity
i don't write love poems
if i did i would write one for you
reminds me of an exquisite corpse
with beauty and pain in its eyes
rock facade on walls
rock music of years passed
passing time in this very place
from the age of fourteen
gathering loud
angsty small fists
in fishnets
in plaid skirts
in docs
in thermals
drinking from a flask
pilfered spirits
liquor cabinets divine
filled with whatever won't be noticed
creme de something
cask and whatever
shots everyday
sips at fifteen minute intervals
kept my words in that flask
they got blocked locked congested
clusterfucked
a new level of way too much
hundred pound girl
tolerance for JD and Jamesons
puts dad's to shame
makes mother cry
but it's fine
that was then
this is now
words make me cry.
eyes filling up
you are reading my life
in a poem
your perfect insecurity
my broken insanity
i don't write love poems
if i did i would write one for you
reminds me of an exquisite corpse
with beauty and pain in its eyes
rock facade on walls
rock music of years passed
passing time in this very place
from the age of fourteen
gathering loud
angsty small fists
in fishnets
in plaid skirts
in docs
in thermals
drinking from a flask
pilfered spirits
liquor cabinets divine
filled with whatever won't be noticed
creme de something
cask and whatever
shots everyday
sips at fifteen minute intervals
kept my words in that flask
they got blocked locked congested
clusterfucked
a new level of way too much
hundred pound girl
tolerance for JD and Jamesons
puts dad's to shame
makes mother cry
but it's fine
that was then
this is now
words make me cry.
open mic poem
she has crushes on guys who smoke weed,
he drinks tall glasses of three dollar beer with fruit,
they make me laugh
they help me smile
and overcome the gravity of a heart leaden and broken
broken like:
ground beef
through a shredder,
tree chipper,
or that thing that Chef Ramsey uses to make pasta.
we sit sipping bourbon,
eating Michters drenched cherries,
tying knots with lonely uncensored tongues.
the cherry stems remind me of me,
twisted yet sweet,
bendable but hard to break.
on the rocks my drink is just like life.
beauty lies in creating this
a ukulele
a rapper with beats on a laptop
old souls in twenty-something poets' bodies
we all know who we aren't.
we daily try to find who we are...sometimes.
we never know what we can do,
thrive on what we are told we can't.
and that's OK
we know we don't have to do it alone.
he drinks tall glasses of three dollar beer with fruit,
they make me laugh
they help me smile
and overcome the gravity of a heart leaden and broken
broken like:
ground beef
through a shredder,
tree chipper,
or that thing that Chef Ramsey uses to make pasta.
we sit sipping bourbon,
eating Michters drenched cherries,
tying knots with lonely uncensored tongues.
the cherry stems remind me of me,
twisted yet sweet,
bendable but hard to break.
on the rocks my drink is just like life.
beauty lies in creating this
a ukulele
a rapper with beats on a laptop
old souls in twenty-something poets' bodies
we all know who we aren't.
we daily try to find who we are...sometimes.
we never know what we can do,
thrive on what we are told we can't.
and that's OK
we know we don't have to do it alone.
180
Life is a 180.
like half a donut,
like a sesame bagel with cream cheese and tomato,
like a bolt of lightening that misses its mark,
like a deluge that I think will put me to sleep but
stirs
my
thoughts
instead.
Thunder gets me out of bed.
like missing a first love but he's dead,
like thinking its done but looking at the one and wondering,
how I ever could have left this,
like the spiced cinnamon scent that hits my nose as I open the door and I am home,
little curled up spotted pit bull chews his rawhide and
smiles
up
at me.
I show you my photos and you tell me you're proud.
there is nobody else who knows me
like peanut butter and jelly on English muffins,
like my pillows that hold a scent like your skin,
like making toast,
like making love,
like making Valentine's decorations and hanging them in a bar,
like rice and beans,
like looking forward to sushi with you or with someone who would actually
pick
up
the
check.
and
like friendship,
like love,
like all of the above,
life is a 180
and
I
can't
stop
spinning.
like half a donut,
like a sesame bagel with cream cheese and tomato,
like a bolt of lightening that misses its mark,
like a deluge that I think will put me to sleep but
stirs
my
thoughts
instead.
Thunder gets me out of bed.
like missing a first love but he's dead,
like thinking its done but looking at the one and wondering,
how I ever could have left this,
like the spiced cinnamon scent that hits my nose as I open the door and I am home,
little curled up spotted pit bull chews his rawhide and
smiles
up
at me.
I show you my photos and you tell me you're proud.
there is nobody else who knows me
like peanut butter and jelly on English muffins,
like my pillows that hold a scent like your skin,
like making toast,
like making love,
like making Valentine's decorations and hanging them in a bar,
like rice and beans,
like looking forward to sushi with you or with someone who would actually
pick
up
the
check.
and
like friendship,
like love,
like all of the above,
life is a 180
and
I
can't
stop
spinning.
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