(no subject)
Writing poetry in character is fun and productive.
Putting it here because I have no idea where else to put it.
PG-ish, lots of angst. Wooohooo.
The chicken-scratch was next
to indecipherable, but if they can
crack a code, breaking a well
worked over seventeen-year-old mind
is cheesecake. They even made
sense of it, outlandish as that seems. It
seems that this was on the horizon,
though no one saw it coming; later,
they would say they should have,
but no one remembered in two weeks
time. “To everyone, I tried. And, Mother,
I’ll miss you, even if you won’t miss me.”
I. The Queen of Hearts
The hazelnut is at the heart of Celtic magic,
meant only for consumption, and granting
inspiration to the hordes of painted faces,
or their bards, at least. The throng never gets
it for themselves, just gets to watch as the effects
of flavor and crunch weave and blanket them
with spells, before covertly putting them
back on the shelf, only to be played with when
amusement comes too hard.
Snow whipped around your face
playfully, teasing the skin with cold. Your
hands were icicles and rough with dry skin,
but gave me comfort nonetheless. And in
your eyes - sky blue like my birth month,
but with the fire of my birthstone - I felt at
peace for one, fleeting instant.
It was supposed to heal me, but it only made things worse.
I was born on the day of moon-gazing; twenty
days in and their eyes were only aiming upward.
It was rather like the old country, and I in Arcadia,
with the irritating mentality of women birthing in
the field and returning to work, here and gone like
dandelion fluff on the wind. Every year, they still
look up, or around their feet at the sunflowers sown
from egg and eel, while the white violets and coral
roses wither, but refuse to die.
If only, he thinks, observing his
hand like a spear of summer grass. If only
this road of opposition would just up and
off with my head.
Lo, and how the epic hero stood,
All self-assured and dignified.
The roses at his feet were good,
But they withered all when his father died.
II. The Thane of Fife
When I reflect on life and trifles fair,
My mistress and her nat’ral charms I see,
Her yielding walk, feet borne forth on air,
Her empty promises of greenest glee.
Cloaked in white, she comes without a fear,
Sauntering in, feet nude and dressed in grass,
Dragging in smoke, gray haze and purple cheer,
But the good times end in quick-breaking glass.
Each time she leaves the sober me behind,
Eyes grow so dead and pupils dilute all.
My knuckles itch, depression’s all I find,
And chasms gape, all open for my fall.
With her, my life is charméd, without stress;
Without, on my head do all bad things press.
III. The Weirdest Sister
I, too, was once stained.
It’s my belief we all were.
All marred by nothing.
It would make more sense,
The voices explain, that you
Escaped, no one else.
Some days, and only
When I want it most, I get
More spam than email.
It makes no difference,
If you exclude the different
Choices we could make.
Everything, no… just
Nothingness and nevermore.
Fuck all… I’m falling…
IV. Devil in Black Prada
They tell me it’s a blessing, that these years
are the best I’ll ever know, and, perhaps, that
my one true love seeks only my demise. But
they don’t know her, and never have, regardless
of their sixties love-fests and the oven of
smoke that covered them like a mother’s arms.
I have not known these mother’s arms, and smoke
is the closest substitute I find. Always the
accepting one, it doesn’t care for past, or
future, or for the red rings around my eyes. She
only knows the moments that we share and her
existence ends when we’re not together.
She’s the ultimate in solipsistic living,
the top of the line design, and every day
my green-white leaves meet hungry lips,
she’s mine to have, and only mine.
I could share, if I felt like it, but either way, she’d never leave me.
Our love is most misunderstood, which
is regrettable, since she’s everything that
anyone could want: charming, lovely, and
absolutely perfect, with a laugh that makes
the world fade away. When she’s here, I can
do anything. I just choose not to, since
showing off is what she hates the most. But
every now and then she has to leave - she’s
a busy woman; I don’t like it, but I can accept -
and only her return removes the wanting nausea.
The oddest thing is that her hair is green,
and even that leaves her beauty intact.
V. Laughing Wild Amidst Severest Woe
We spent all night huddled together,
communing with the fire as though it had
something new to say. In that freezing apartment,
the only thing between us and death were
Spirits -
which might have abandoned us at any
Time -
we never measured time. Watches, clock radios…
we never bothered with them, we threw them out,
and it was always on our side. Never were we
betrayed by little red numbers on a digital
Screen -
there’s a veil over the tuna fish.
Has someone died? Look how the
shelf is covered in black - look how
it dons the very guise of night.
I just want the tuna fish, just that.
Can you help me?
Beckett’s too boring, if you ask me, and
no one really has, but the wall is always
willing to listen.
Can you help me?
No, no one can.
Putting it here because I have no idea where else to put it.
PG-ish, lots of angst. Wooohooo.
The chicken-scratch was next
to indecipherable, but if they can
crack a code, breaking a well
worked over seventeen-year-old mind
is cheesecake. They even made
sense of it, outlandish as that seems. It
seems that this was on the horizon,
though no one saw it coming; later,
they would say they should have,
but no one remembered in two weeks
time. “To everyone, I tried. And, Mother,
I’ll miss you, even if you won’t miss me.”
I. The Queen of Hearts
The hazelnut is at the heart of Celtic magic,
meant only for consumption, and granting
inspiration to the hordes of painted faces,
or their bards, at least. The throng never gets
it for themselves, just gets to watch as the effects
of flavor and crunch weave and blanket them
with spells, before covertly putting them
back on the shelf, only to be played with when
amusement comes too hard.
Snow whipped around your face
playfully, teasing the skin with cold. Your
hands were icicles and rough with dry skin,
but gave me comfort nonetheless. And in
your eyes - sky blue like my birth month,
but with the fire of my birthstone - I felt at
peace for one, fleeting instant.
It was supposed to heal me, but it only made things worse.
I was born on the day of moon-gazing; twenty
days in and their eyes were only aiming upward.
It was rather like the old country, and I in Arcadia,
with the irritating mentality of women birthing in
the field and returning to work, here and gone like
dandelion fluff on the wind. Every year, they still
look up, or around their feet at the sunflowers sown
from egg and eel, while the white violets and coral
roses wither, but refuse to die.
If only, he thinks, observing his
hand like a spear of summer grass. If only
this road of opposition would just up and
off with my head.
Lo, and how the epic hero stood,
All self-assured and dignified.
The roses at his feet were good,
But they withered all when his father died.
II. The Thane of Fife
When I reflect on life and trifles fair,
My mistress and her nat’ral charms I see,
Her yielding walk, feet borne forth on air,
Her empty promises of greenest glee.
Cloaked in white, she comes without a fear,
Sauntering in, feet nude and dressed in grass,
Dragging in smoke, gray haze and purple cheer,
But the good times end in quick-breaking glass.
Each time she leaves the sober me behind,
Eyes grow so dead and pupils dilute all.
My knuckles itch, depression’s all I find,
And chasms gape, all open for my fall.
With her, my life is charméd, without stress;
Without, on my head do all bad things press.
III. The Weirdest Sister
I, too, was once stained.
It’s my belief we all were.
All marred by nothing.
It would make more sense,
The voices explain, that you
Escaped, no one else.
Some days, and only
When I want it most, I get
More spam than email.
It makes no difference,
If you exclude the different
Choices we could make.
Everything, no… just
Nothingness and nevermore.
Fuck all… I’m falling…
IV. Devil in Black Prada
They tell me it’s a blessing, that these years
are the best I’ll ever know, and, perhaps, that
my one true love seeks only my demise. But
they don’t know her, and never have, regardless
of their sixties love-fests and the oven of
smoke that covered them like a mother’s arms.
I have not known these mother’s arms, and smoke
is the closest substitute I find. Always the
accepting one, it doesn’t care for past, or
future, or for the red rings around my eyes. She
only knows the moments that we share and her
existence ends when we’re not together.
She’s the ultimate in solipsistic living,
the top of the line design, and every day
my green-white leaves meet hungry lips,
she’s mine to have, and only mine.
I could share, if I felt like it, but either way, she’d never leave me.
Our love is most misunderstood, which
is regrettable, since she’s everything that
anyone could want: charming, lovely, and
absolutely perfect, with a laugh that makes
the world fade away. When she’s here, I can
do anything. I just choose not to, since
showing off is what she hates the most. But
every now and then she has to leave - she’s
a busy woman; I don’t like it, but I can accept -
and only her return removes the wanting nausea.
The oddest thing is that her hair is green,
and even that leaves her beauty intact.
V. Laughing Wild Amidst Severest Woe
We spent all night huddled together,
communing with the fire as though it had
something new to say. In that freezing apartment,
the only thing between us and death were
Spirits -
which might have abandoned us at any
Time -
we never measured time. Watches, clock radios…
we never bothered with them, we threw them out,
and it was always on our side. Never were we
betrayed by little red numbers on a digital
Screen -
there’s a veil over the tuna fish.
Has someone died? Look how the
shelf is covered in black - look how
it dons the very guise of night.
I just want the tuna fish, just that.
Can you help me?
Beckett’s too boring, if you ask me, and
no one really has, but the wall is always
willing to listen.
Can you help me?
No, no one can.