The Queen of poets
Lays out her muse in me
A women with spaded verse poetry
But together we form good pair of
Words and music
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Robin, Robin
red robin, Red robin with your blushing red breast. Looking with sharp eyes darting pass the spectator a ignorance point.
radiating from the dew that was cried on by the mornings sky. Standing proudly with your bright red chest bestowing to the world look at me look at me!
oh sweet Robin who would come alive the most during the spring I will look at you ahrough the scope of a
beretta 92FS BB gun,
at 4:00 a.m
right before
i pull the
Trigger.
radiating from the dew that was cried on by the mornings sky. Standing proudly with your bright red chest bestowing to the world look at me look at me!
oh sweet Robin who would come alive the most during the spring I will look at you ahrough the scope of a
beretta 92FS BB gun,
at 4:00 a.m
right before
i pull the
Trigger.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Red Robin
Red robin,
Red robin
with your
violent red
blushing red
breast. Sharp
eyes and pointed
looked, like metal
gleeming in the sun reflecting
off dew from the morning rain.
Standing proudly with your vivacious
red chest radiating. Perched with pride
on a branch as if saying look at me world!
Look at me! And extol trills
of goodmornings.
Oh sweet Robin
how you look
so alive the most
through the
scope of a
Beretta 92FS
BB gun, at
4:00 a.m.
Red robin
with your
violent red
blushing red
breast. Sharp
eyes and pointed
looked, like metal
gleeming in the sun reflecting
off dew from the morning rain.
Standing proudly with your vivacious
red chest radiating. Perched with pride
on a branch as if saying look at me world!
Look at me! And extol trills
of goodmornings.
Oh sweet Robin
how you look
so alive the most
through the
scope of a
Beretta 92FS
BB gun, at
4:00 a.m.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Cause and Effect
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
Charles Bukowski
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
Charles Bukowski
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Kite by Unknown
I mistook a garbage truck for thunder.
The morning after the first night we made love,
I dreamt thunder was chasing rain
through your neighborhood,
flooding the streets and keeping the two of us
indoors for days or even weeks,
until some old prophet could drop, by in an ark,
to take us and the rest of the paired-up animals
to a very high place, or an island maybe,
where we could just
sleep naked for a living.
But the thunder was a garbage truck.
And when my eyes woke up
a note on your pillow said:
"Good morning, Sparkle Boy!
I'll be back around noon.
You--make yourself at home."
And so I did.
Maybe.
I'm saying maybe I put on your slippers,
which were as comfortable as bunnies
because they were bunnies,
and then shuffled over my new favorite
hardwood floor to the bathroom
where maybe I took a bubble bath,
which is not something I can do at my place
because, frankly, my tub is way too skanky
to ever sit my bare ass down in.
And then maybe I got so caught up in the romance of the suds
I started quoting old Latin poetry from my college days
like: "fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles..."
You know: "Verily a bright sun does favor me this morning...muthafucka!"
And then maybe I...played with myself.
But it’s not what you’re thinking--
I’m saying possibly I just sorta
stuck my hand up from the water, going:
hand!(HERE I HOLD MY HAND UP LIKE A SOCK PUPPET
hand!WITHOUT THE SOCK AND MY HAND TEASES ME
hand!IN A HIGH, SMUTTY VOICE):
HAND: "Somebody got laid last night!
Ha-ha-haaaa!
It was youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!"
Or whatever.
And then maybe I...played with myself,
and it's exactly what you're thinking.
But if I did, it was only to put
the mental motion picture of our naked night together
on replay and replay and replay
so touching myself was just like...
Tivo in a way.
And yes, I was still wet when I borrowed your bathrobe.
And yes, I baked apples in your oven
and then ate them with your honey, honey.
And yes, I scared the birds away from your balcony
with my antics, dancing full-blast
to your old Prince CD's--
but please let’s just keep that my little secret,
because nothing is as private as a solitary dance
unless--maybe--it's standing in front of a full-length mirror
in a borrowed pair of bunny slippers,
slipping off a bathrobe and then wishing to a lightbulb
that my name, or my game, or my whatever were bigger,
wondering: "What kind of woman wants this skinny kid for her warrior?"
And so I made for you a kite, enormous,
out of coat hangers, brown paper bags
and the masking tape from that drawer in your kitchen,
and I hung it in the hallway
where you couldn’t hardly miss it,
and I tagged that kite with my words,
I wrote:
Just so you know--
My weird mind wanders and my brave heart breaks.
I've nailed some milestones, but I've made mistakes,
Cuz I got more faults than a map of California earthquakes.
I am taking a nap beneath your covers.
Wake me if you like me.
Wake me if you want me
Wake me if you need another poem.
Your once and future lover
has made himself at home.
The morning after the first night we made love,
I dreamt thunder was chasing rain
through your neighborhood,
flooding the streets and keeping the two of us
indoors for days or even weeks,
until some old prophet could drop, by in an ark,
to take us and the rest of the paired-up animals
to a very high place, or an island maybe,
where we could just
sleep naked for a living.
But the thunder was a garbage truck.
And when my eyes woke up
a note on your pillow said:
"Good morning, Sparkle Boy!
I'll be back around noon.
You--make yourself at home."
And so I did.
Maybe.
I'm saying maybe I put on your slippers,
which were as comfortable as bunnies
because they were bunnies,
and then shuffled over my new favorite
hardwood floor to the bathroom
where maybe I took a bubble bath,
which is not something I can do at my place
because, frankly, my tub is way too skanky
to ever sit my bare ass down in.
And then maybe I got so caught up in the romance of the suds
I started quoting old Latin poetry from my college days
like: "fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles..."
You know: "Verily a bright sun does favor me this morning...muthafucka!"
And then maybe I...played with myself.
But it’s not what you’re thinking--
I’m saying possibly I just sorta
stuck my hand up from the water, going:
hand!(HERE I HOLD MY HAND UP LIKE A SOCK PUPPET
hand!WITHOUT THE SOCK AND MY HAND TEASES ME
hand!IN A HIGH, SMUTTY VOICE):
HAND: "Somebody got laid last night!
Ha-ha-haaaa!
It was youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!"
Or whatever.
And then maybe I...played with myself,
and it's exactly what you're thinking.
But if I did, it was only to put
the mental motion picture of our naked night together
on replay and replay and replay
so touching myself was just like...
Tivo in a way.
And yes, I was still wet when I borrowed your bathrobe.
And yes, I baked apples in your oven
and then ate them with your honey, honey.
And yes, I scared the birds away from your balcony
with my antics, dancing full-blast
to your old Prince CD's--
but please let’s just keep that my little secret,
because nothing is as private as a solitary dance
unless--maybe--it's standing in front of a full-length mirror
in a borrowed pair of bunny slippers,
slipping off a bathrobe and then wishing to a lightbulb
that my name, or my game, or my whatever were bigger,
wondering: "What kind of woman wants this skinny kid for her warrior?"
And so I made for you a kite, enormous,
out of coat hangers, brown paper bags
and the masking tape from that drawer in your kitchen,
and I hung it in the hallway
where you couldn’t hardly miss it,
and I tagged that kite with my words,
I wrote:
Just so you know--
My weird mind wanders and my brave heart breaks.
I've nailed some milestones, but I've made mistakes,
Cuz I got more faults than a map of California earthquakes.
I am taking a nap beneath your covers.
Wake me if you like me.
Wake me if you want me
Wake me if you need another poem.
Your once and future lover
has made himself at home.
E.E. Cummings
i like my body when it is with your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh… And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh… And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
pray for sweet dreams
Tonight I am just going to sleep and forget about the world. And pray for sweet dreams.
Monday, May 17, 2010
incomplete
What it is to be a
Fuck up?
Cunning and emotionally destructive, with lies thicker then honey but too sweet to resist. We cant even restrain ourselves most of the time.
But it is especially alluring to the newly made butterflies, who unlike us are not used to the sugar coated filth. We fuck up are additives, the glorified heroine and drunken escapes of the gutter world...
Fuck up?
Cunning and emotionally destructive, with lies thicker then honey but too sweet to resist. We cant even restrain ourselves most of the time.
But it is especially alluring to the newly made butterflies, who unlike us are not used to the sugar coated filth. We fuck up are additives, the glorified heroine and drunken escapes of the gutter world...
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Sorting through the dictionary to find the perfect word. Melancholy isn't quiet right but its the closest I've gotten so far. Hours spent on this meaningless task and yet I cant get out of the mind set of 'I have else nothing better to do.'
The rain makes me sleepy. But the thunder keeps me awake. Laying in this bed, I think I've slept for too long, or is it that I have been up for 3 days? I don't know. Forgetful is another good word that comes to mind.
Either way I have no desire to leave the protection of my blankets, the barrier of my walls and the pillows that brings the temporary comfort I need to keep away the lonelies.
That actually is a depressing thought, when one thinks about it. Okay scratch what I said, melancholy is the exact word I am looking for.
The rain makes me sleepy. But the thunder keeps me awake. Laying in this bed, I think I've slept for too long, or is it that I have been up for 3 days? I don't know. Forgetful is another good word that comes to mind.
Either way I have no desire to leave the protection of my blankets, the barrier of my walls and the pillows that brings the temporary comfort I need to keep away the lonelies.
That actually is a depressing thought, when one thinks about it. Okay scratch what I said, melancholy is the exact word I am looking for.
The blind poet
I'm going blind. And reading in bad light don't help the fading.
But I like the natural light of morning and twilight more than the artificial light of the bulb, which makes the words glisten like a mirage. So unreal, so fantasied, so fake.
But during the in between times of night and day when I can practically feel the inspired words pressing against the inside of my eyes and on the back of my pupils.
I see the world through 20/20 vision
But I like the natural light of morning and twilight more than the artificial light of the bulb, which makes the words glisten like a mirage. So unreal, so fantasied, so fake.
But during the in between times of night and day when I can practically feel the inspired words pressing against the inside of my eyes and on the back of my pupils.
I see the world through 20/20 vision
Friday, May 14, 2010
Why??
Something is burning just below my belly button. It is the pool of disappointment that is marinating my liver in alcohol. All because of broken expectations.
I was asked today why do we do the things we do? Mother answered because she felt profoundly obligated to. And I said because I was afraid of what would happen next if I stopped.
Then I took another shot and another, just to prove my point and kept going.
I was asked today why do we do the things we do? Mother answered because she felt profoundly obligated to. And I said because I was afraid of what would happen next if I stopped.
Then I took another shot and another, just to prove my point and kept going.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Relapse
Relapsing yet again
Injecting more ink from her heart and out
of her hand.
So much writing that her fingers becomes swollen.
Water burns and bandages itch.
It bleeds out pain and bliss unlike no one could ever
hope to understand.
From the start to finish it overwhelms her,
surfing the skin and bringing forth chill bumps to the flesh
with pleasure outlining each hair
But afterwards its always a fight to stay away
She wonders how could it feel this wrong,
It hurts to breath, churns her stomach sick
She always feels so defeated that it disgusting to see
The hold it has on her.
Because the only cure she has for the stinging,
the only ointment available,
to heal the wounds caused by her obsession
is more writing.
Injecting more ink from her heart and out
of her hand.
So much writing that her fingers becomes swollen.
Water burns and bandages itch.
It bleeds out pain and bliss unlike no one could ever
hope to understand.
From the start to finish it overwhelms her,
surfing the skin and bringing forth chill bumps to the flesh
with pleasure outlining each hair
But afterwards its always a fight to stay away
She wonders how could it feel this wrong,
It hurts to breath, churns her stomach sick
She always feels so defeated that it disgusting to see
The hold it has on her.
Because the only cure she has for the stinging,
the only ointment available,
to heal the wounds caused by her obsession
is more writing.
Pessoa
We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept - our own selves - that we love.
This is true in the whole gamut of love. In sexual love we seek our own pleasure via another body. In non-sexual love, we seek our own pleasure via our own idea. The masturbator may be abject, but in point of fact he's the perfect logical expression of the lover. He's the only one who doesn't feign and doesn't fool himself.
This is true in the whole gamut of love. In sexual love we seek our own pleasure via another body. In non-sexual love, we seek our own pleasure via our own idea. The masturbator may be abject, but in point of fact he's the perfect logical expression of the lover. He's the only one who doesn't feign and doesn't fool himself.
Pessoa
I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes. The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is why we can love the saint but cannot love God.(text 64)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pessoa
The clock in the back of the deserted house (everyone's sleeping) slowly lets the clear quadruple sound of four o'clock in the morning fall. I still haven't fallen asleep, and I don't expect to. There's nothing on my mind to keep me from sleeping and no physical pain to prevent me from relaxing, but the dull silence of my strange body just lies there in the darkness, made even more desolate by the feeble moonlight of the street lamps. I'm so sleepy I can't even think, so sleepless I can't feel. (text 31)
Monday, May 10, 2010
fast food blues
The hours come hard but not fast. Each meticulous move is just another routine stapled to the back of the head, dancing an annoying jig on the tip of the spin.
And oh goody!
The joys of giving the customers a ugly fake welcome always did manage to brighten up the morning. But wait! dont forget that their microscopic thought process and face value hate have, is to be served with a smile!
But a chance will occur to make it all worth wild. And it occurs while your giving out familiarized change to the simpleton.
To slip a piece of literacy work on the back of their recites. Telling them in Shakespearean language that you spat in their drink.
And oh goody!
The joys of giving the customers a ugly fake welcome always did manage to brighten up the morning. But wait! dont forget that their microscopic thought process and face value hate have, is to be served with a smile!
But a chance will occur to make it all worth wild. And it occurs while your giving out familiarized change to the simpleton.
To slip a piece of literacy work on the back of their recites. Telling them in Shakespearean language that you spat in their drink.