(no subject)
i am a girl who did no wrong,
i walked this side of gesu when i could
i kept an angel in my pocket,
i do not think it did me any good
i am a woman who slept w/ my father the Pope
they say i did, at least, and so does he
and who am i to make of the Pope a liar
who is he to make one of me?
i am a rock whose hands have appetites,
i am a rock whose appetites have hands,
i am a thing unresolved into curious shapeliness
i am a creature excluded from limbo and hell,
a thing of which heaven prefers to stay well unaware,
neither pet, nor best of the fields, nor best of the woods,
nor idiot kept, more or less, in the warmth of the hearth,
for the sometimes amusement of humans and sarcastic angels.
nothing exists but it rests on me, at the start,
and at the end; but i keep to myself, as no one will have me
i am i gooseboy or am i a goose,
the margin that sparates us is loose.
i am a hunter who cannot kill,
the yearling unicorn haunts w/ taunting eyes,
ready to lay it sacrificial head
b/t my quivering thighs,
asking the clemency of death
so it can yield
the song for which it lived.
but i am a man whose heart is stiff as stone
let unicirns and maidens plead for mercy
for the wisdom death reaveals, for a right of passage,
through the gates of horn to the sacred city
to gesu on it's steps, to incorruptible parents
restored from the grave and waiting w/ open arms
i will not grant that privelege to any
i don;t pessess credentials bright enough
to vouchsafe anyone passage to paradise.
i am a rock, and my bothers are rocks
and our family name is patience.
grinding our lunch can take most of a decade,
step soft, we're a beach; firmly,we're a landslide
at the head of the sky is a burning stone
a circlet of stars, a mirroring moon, an eye of blinding gold
at the bottom of every sky is a world
at the foot of its forrested mountains, always a stream
we aren't the gold, nor the blue, nor the slope,
we aren't the stream, nor the sound of its rushing
we are the bed on which the world rests
its criminal patience, its bleak stupid patience
i am a girl who did little wrong
i courted lonliness to be my lover
i spoke in toungues to insensible rocks, pretending
only i thier natures could discover
each of us wishes more than the world can offer
the hermit his coffin, the prince his princely coffer
to thirst for solitude while the carnival rages,
is the curse of fools or saintly goal of sages.
neither a simpleton nor a saint, i suffer
the attentions of my coldly and unvarying lover.
i am a woman who killed for love.
i am a woman who killed for lack of love.
the mirror declares that the two accusations are equal.
i am the black dove who pecks at the coffin.
waiting to manage a more reliable insult,
to chew her eyes from her sockets, say, to wring
he hair from her head, to descrate the silk
if her unblemished skin the way that birds do best.
don't ask why this is on here, i found it and liked it, i especially liked the second to last paragraph and the line about the humans and sarcastic angels, which is kinda a oxymoron, how can something be sarcastic and angelic??? easter was interesting, found out that none of my family goes to church anymore, which in itself is ironic enough, but also fitting for the people in my family, oh, well, maybe they all realized what i knew a long time ago: everyone sees their god in a different way, but everyone's got it right in their head. gonna go now, shit's not any better, and i've even been yelled at for defending two friends, but whatever, i'm leaving in a couple of months, would rather be around monkeys than bitching girls, but i wont have to deal w/ this crap once i leave, few people will hear from me after i leave, tired, need sleep, good night
i walked this side of gesu when i could
i kept an angel in my pocket,
i do not think it did me any good
i am a woman who slept w/ my father the Pope
they say i did, at least, and so does he
and who am i to make of the Pope a liar
who is he to make one of me?
i am a rock whose hands have appetites,
i am a rock whose appetites have hands,
i am a thing unresolved into curious shapeliness
i am a creature excluded from limbo and hell,
a thing of which heaven prefers to stay well unaware,
neither pet, nor best of the fields, nor best of the woods,
nor idiot kept, more or less, in the warmth of the hearth,
for the sometimes amusement of humans and sarcastic angels.
nothing exists but it rests on me, at the start,
and at the end; but i keep to myself, as no one will have me
i am i gooseboy or am i a goose,
the margin that sparates us is loose.
i am a hunter who cannot kill,
the yearling unicorn haunts w/ taunting eyes,
ready to lay it sacrificial head
b/t my quivering thighs,
asking the clemency of death
so it can yield
the song for which it lived.
but i am a man whose heart is stiff as stone
let unicirns and maidens plead for mercy
for the wisdom death reaveals, for a right of passage,
through the gates of horn to the sacred city
to gesu on it's steps, to incorruptible parents
restored from the grave and waiting w/ open arms
i will not grant that privelege to any
i don;t pessess credentials bright enough
to vouchsafe anyone passage to paradise.
i am a rock, and my bothers are rocks
and our family name is patience.
grinding our lunch can take most of a decade,
step soft, we're a beach; firmly,we're a landslide
at the head of the sky is a burning stone
a circlet of stars, a mirroring moon, an eye of blinding gold
at the bottom of every sky is a world
at the foot of its forrested mountains, always a stream
we aren't the gold, nor the blue, nor the slope,
we aren't the stream, nor the sound of its rushing
we are the bed on which the world rests
its criminal patience, its bleak stupid patience
i am a girl who did little wrong
i courted lonliness to be my lover
i spoke in toungues to insensible rocks, pretending
only i thier natures could discover
each of us wishes more than the world can offer
the hermit his coffin, the prince his princely coffer
to thirst for solitude while the carnival rages,
is the curse of fools or saintly goal of sages.
neither a simpleton nor a saint, i suffer
the attentions of my coldly and unvarying lover.
i am a woman who killed for love.
i am a woman who killed for lack of love.
the mirror declares that the two accusations are equal.
i am the black dove who pecks at the coffin.
waiting to manage a more reliable insult,
to chew her eyes from her sockets, say, to wring
he hair from her head, to descrate the silk
if her unblemished skin the way that birds do best.
don't ask why this is on here, i found it and liked it, i especially liked the second to last paragraph and the line about the humans and sarcastic angels, which is kinda a oxymoron, how can something be sarcastic and angelic??? easter was interesting, found out that none of my family goes to church anymore, which in itself is ironic enough, but also fitting for the people in my family, oh, well, maybe they all realized what i knew a long time ago: everyone sees their god in a different way, but everyone's got it right in their head. gonna go now, shit's not any better, and i've even been yelled at for defending two friends, but whatever, i'm leaving in a couple of months, would rather be around monkeys than bitching girls, but i wont have to deal w/ this crap once i leave, few people will hear from me after i leave, tired, need sleep, good night