Fuck it, I'm posting in here more
I feel like I should. Let's! A poem based in myth, a sonnet, and one inspired by Pablo.
Argo Agrarian
In an effort to show our neighbors
that I am not a tame and house-broken
boyfriend, I sometimes like to lamely
hobble to our door, piss-drunk,
and demand what I left on your floor.
One sandal and my shark-tooth necklace
that I carry like it's a rosary.
I see you peek out of the window,
and with a quick toss to the dirt you sow the teeth,
have my sins grow from the face of dark
soil like warriors who're here to bring back
sobriety. They remind me that I've already
won the Golden Fleece, and that's it's OK
that my grain-punch night ends,
and hopefully that we can still sleep in peace.
Burning a Confederate Flag
You’re moving to the Deep South
which to me is basically
a foreign country, a land
of beer and peaches
I know they’re paying you
and now you can joke
about your parent’s fortunes
and opulence, as if it didn’t matter
and to make it easy on you,
I’ll only demand one call
every two weeks or so,
forfeit you to Jesus and libraries
We’ll never come home,
and I’ll never get my summers back
Third Row Back, at your Brother’s Wedding
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dream
-Pablo Neruda
(so close, that I speak yes before
you even ask me to dance)
(so close that you know what the dinner plate
whispered in my ear, as you so graciously missed my head)
(so close that you pass out drunk
after I take too many glasses of wine)
(so close that when you try on that dress,
I find myself looking in mirrors)
(so close that your hands, and your eyes
are my hands, and my eyes)
(so close that I age just a little
when your brother dies)
So close that we both turn
and enter each other’s sights.
Argo Agrarian
In an effort to show our neighbors
that I am not a tame and house-broken
boyfriend, I sometimes like to lamely
hobble to our door, piss-drunk,
and demand what I left on your floor.
One sandal and my shark-tooth necklace
that I carry like it's a rosary.
I see you peek out of the window,
and with a quick toss to the dirt you sow the teeth,
have my sins grow from the face of dark
soil like warriors who're here to bring back
sobriety. They remind me that I've already
won the Golden Fleece, and that's it's OK
that my grain-punch night ends,
and hopefully that we can still sleep in peace.
Burning a Confederate Flag
You’re moving to the Deep South
which to me is basically
a foreign country, a land
of beer and peaches
I know they’re paying you
and now you can joke
about your parent’s fortunes
and opulence, as if it didn’t matter
and to make it easy on you,
I’ll only demand one call
every two weeks or so,
forfeit you to Jesus and libraries
We’ll never come home,
and I’ll never get my summers back
Third Row Back, at your Brother’s Wedding
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dream
-Pablo Neruda
(so close, that I speak yes before
you even ask me to dance)
(so close that you know what the dinner plate
whispered in my ear, as you so graciously missed my head)
(so close that you pass out drunk
after I take too many glasses of wine)
(so close that when you try on that dress,
I find myself looking in mirrors)
(so close that your hands, and your eyes
are my hands, and my eyes)
(so close that I age just a little
when your brother dies)
So close that we both turn
and enter each other’s sights.