(Parenthesis)
{Dream-logic rarely succeeds.}Archive for poetry
Kings and Giants
We are the kings and queens
of a very personal hell,
which we have warped and twisted
until it became a heaven far more vast
than the one we were always promised.
We are giants in our own back-yard,
where the grass stalks
stand like oak trees
of a bygone age,
and we tower over them,
forever unsurprised.
We sit here as we always have,
the most serene of malcontents,
Reveling in what makes us miserable
and knowing that nothing hurts
more than what we love.
A Change of Pace
It is largely out of principle that I refuse to write love poems. I’ve written poems about love, if you will, and far more than that about losing it…but never a love poem. I think, perhaps, that is all about to change.
To only somewhat savagely misquote Kurt Vonnegut, “if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
something–
“Something is missing–”
the sad man said,
“something is missing
inside my head.
A million things I knew to say,
but none of them ever came to stay.”
“Something is missing–”
the dead man said,
“something is missing,
it might be my head.
I fooled you one, I fooled you twice,
but you killed my afore I could do it thrice.”
“Something is missing–”
my daughter said,
“something is missing
a long red thread.
I had a lover one short may,
’til you killed him on that day.”
“Something is missing–”
I know I said,
“something is missing,
my soul has fled.
Daughter buried, her lover dead,
my heart unto the end has bled.”
Black Hole
the hole is far larger than
we though it would be
statistically speaking
(the first two years don’t count)
it shouldn’t have happened this way
what use now is medical expertise?
there never was a doctor in the house
just a lot of regret
and a lot of hate
and one scared little girl
who wishes she was god
(because then she wouldn’t have to ask
to beg
for love)
because of her own stupidity
Don’t Tell Me
baby, don’t tell me that you lost your soul
I’ve been carrying mine ’round in a bowl
so at least you don’t have to look at yours
dirty thing that it is I’m kind of surprised
that I haven’t gotten rid of it yet
(thrown it out with all that emotional baggage
and the entire contents of my filing cabinets)
I’m drowning under a sea of my childhood
kicking and screaming as hundreds of years
of fallible ways and infantile curses
press down upon me and I heave
HEAVE and up comes the soul
like so much poisoned shellfish.
I had a valid excuse for living before the universe exploded.
There’s a good reason for
memories to be trigged by things
besides touch
(all she’s done is hurt you)
besides words
(none of them you understand).
Because when the night is over
and you’re safe in your bed
all that you’ll have is the
lingering scent of lavender shampoo.
Stranger Things
Stranger things have happened than
coming to terms with the fact that
you’ve lost someone twice
and the third time’s the charm.
(to harm and to hold, to set free for a day)
Stranger loves have prospered than
that of stupid Helen and vainer Paris,
despite the words that’ve been traded
instead of blows, up until the mind slows.
(I promise to love you, but only if you never speak)
So which continues, which one dies?
The laws of physics do not apply
any more than faulty logic
based on misfiring synapses and
hatred fueled hormones.
Knowing and Going
I’ve know love before
(if that’s what you want to call it)
leaking through lacerations
on an all too smooth (too cool) facade
made of lies and misinterpretations.
The association was not a healthy one,
there isn’t much getting around that.
But what’s health
when the only thing keeping you
tied to the ground is a string
of the precariously nonsensical,
the slightest blank waiting to
cut you free to
the unbidding sky?
So I knew love of a sort,
if you will,
and cherished it well above all,
despite the scalpel looming
above my head.
Je Veux Manger tes Ovaires.
“I hate you for what you represent”
is all he needed to (should) have said.
So nothing happened, no words said,
his lover would gladly have stabbed
him well and dead
(yet I’m not the one who kissed him).
It was either that, or. . .
something.
Someday when things are more
concrete, I think perhaps I’ll love again.
(under a grayer sky of eyes)
If and only then,
because I know the words to be said.
“Hush, my darling. Tou dree lieltva, tou dree dratzva.”
“Please die.”
– – – – – – – –
I sat in the library during 4th period today and spewed nonsense. This is the result.
If only Donne had known. . .
It seems that my somewhat encyclopedic knowledge of sexual innuendo is classic British poetry will finally come in handy come mid-May when I take the AP English Exam. One of the questions on the practice test I took on Monday was regarding just that, so of course I knew the answer. There is a lot of sex in Donne’s poetry, the pervy bastard.
I’m almost tempted to compose on the subject myself, however, given recent events which have come to my attention.
It seems Zagreus has been dreaming again, and this time about Aylin. This is the second time this has happened that I can remember. The first time they kissed. This time. . . this time they went rather further. Zagreus appears to be quite traumatized by the situation, since he refuses to give Aylin any information besides the fact that the dream occurred without her having to drag it out of him. Hazael and I are fairly certain that he’s probably worried that Aylin will take offense in some way, possibly because of a possible extrapolation of the pocket-incident involving reenacting that dream in a more concrete setting.
I can’t say I think Aylin would much mind.
She’s grown distant of late, a result of constant pining after Zagreus. But I can’t blame her. It’s hard to be alone again after knowing human touch.
Personal God
There’s something about being his own personal god,
stuck up on a pedestal that for once in your life
isn’t of your own devising,
that disturbs you more than it has any right to.
Some days you wonder if perhaps it’s worth it
to demand tribute of the silly love-sick loon.
And perhaps it would be, if he hadn’t already
given you everything he had and more.
Right down to the soul.
Some days you wonder which is more shameful,
that you’ve let him get this far in stripping
himself of his dignity,
or that you’ve so thoroughly enjoyed it.
There’s something about that pedestal,
something that’s gone to your head and isn’t
much likely to be letting go before one or
both of is disturbed from this reverie.
(Parenthesis) 