happy happywhat a super duper feelinghappy happy11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
what a happy fucking day
what a sunny disposition
what a cheery sunshine ray
its all daisies and kittens
its peaches and fucking cream
its sugar sweet and rainbow bright
its like a fucking dream
my brain bubbles hopelessly
my smile speaks for me first
my happiness on overdrive
my heart might fucking burst
i want to run and scream
like a fucking maniac
i want to do a backflip
but i'll break my fucking back
poetry like teaI never want to know you.poetry like tea7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to wonder, want to slide back-down and backwards across your glissandos,
linger over the breaths and pauses,
pour into the warm and dark hollows that you curve into your words,
nestle there like water or skin:
I want to sink into the cracks between consonants, smooth them over,
find the sighs folded into the velvet roundness of an O,
contemplate each brightly fractured e in your name, how it
is wrenched open to the world, wounded, and still
curled tight as a fist over the wound:
I want to drink poetry like tea,
in sips, with sugar,
and then in longer draughts until it washes down my throat like heat
and I forget, for a moment, that winter lasts longer than this
and I am far from home:
I want to find you in dead trees and bathroom stalls,
carved with some memory of permanence into the flat surfaces of my world
accompanied by numbers I will never call
for fear of breaking the intimacy of anonymity:
I want to picture you (a picture of you) wi
291010early autumn is spreading her legs for winter and2910105 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my breath reaches the stale air
like celtic knots, writhing in shapes of
there are subtle clouds
shrouding the sky
and hushed rosemary wind
time spent on wondering which words exist,
peach blossom in a sky of tapering velvet
we both look above
in search of a god, or stars which belong on your teeth
she was is could be a sunset and
he is the sunrise
blissful history, sheltered and surreal
a spine which kisses shower
pupils like a eclipsed moon
arrowed by cupid,
misanthropic and so sudden,
can you talk without it breaking glass?
soothed and sullen cheeks, ribs
attached to a sphinx laying
like stray cats, fingernails wander
blunder and bludgeon
bruises of rhubarb and custard
prey on pretty bones
on the smell of smokethe scent of oldon the smell of smoke3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and unhidden smoke
smells good to me.
'and me,' says she.
'it reminds me of the comfort
my father used to be.'
'and me,' says she.
'it reminds me of my mother
and the love she made for me.'
it is a comfort-
but a bitter one.
the only thing i miss
is laying heat-stricken, sweat-slicken
cigarette stench sweetly floating-
my naked body carving
your hollows and responding
to your echoes-
the nicotine you sweat out
while you fucked me.
during the post-fuck cigarette,
sleepy-eyed with cum,cancer,glory.
your arms both saved and trapped me-
your love was a burnt
and shitty offering.
seven things to do.i. they say that there areseven things to do.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
seven natural wonders
in the world. well,
i think theyve got it
all wrong. i think
the seventh one is
a place called
and i need to find it.
ii. i can name all of my
weaknesses. they are
ugly and obvious and
i am aware
of all of them.
now, i need
iii. people have given me
'unconditional love and
unbreakable promises but
they took away both.
so im sorry
if im just a bit
i have reasons.
and id like it if someone
made me forget
every last one of them.
iv. seven is supposed to be
the luckiest number, right?
and it stands for
note to self:
figure out why
seven hates me so much.
v. i need to hear
again. i need
to know that you
were not only
in my imagination.
i need to know
that you are
(and i want to ask
you if you still feel
when we talk.)
vi. i still have
and phone number
d.i.di.d.i.d6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the first time i saw her
alone in the cafeteria
scrap of cling film
wrapped tightly around her finger
i had a friend
but she died
and now i am not the same
she is the one i love
touching the edges
of a kitten sticker
on her french notes like it was her dead
grandmother in an open casket
blanched white fingertips
no i am not the same
she hurts the world and
rapes the earth and
the rabbits scream and
the trees scream and
the air screams and
she sits at the hearth with fur in her hands
i go into work with bruises on my breasts
we do not kiss
or make love
because it makes her cry
but she loves me best when we are
and she is mine
my little golden idol
little sleeping one
she says why did you give him a rabbit?
why are you taking him away from me?
i cannot see what she has written
she says there is a baby now
it hasn't a name and it never cries
and no one ever holds it
it grows and spreads like a weed
You Poor ThingI am sorry for your skeleton,You Poor Thing5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the way you carry yourself when you walk into a room
like your arms are tied and your mouth is empty and you've been
kept prisoner for a year, waiting for a bird to arrive
at your window. Your eyes are full and I spread my hands and say this;
sorry, like a man abandoning his lover in a cloud of dust. I am sorry for
your eyes, resentful like a North American river.
Sorry, for everything, for your breasts and womanhood.
You are standing on the edge of eighteen
relunctant and awkward; you do not want
to spread your legs wide and let the world drop its' pants
to fuck you. You are standing on the edge of something
looking afraid and saying no,
I don't want any spaghetti. I'm not hungry.
I'm hurting and horrible the way that a person feels
when they shatter the shell of a snail by
accident. I cannot say sorry
enough for your hands, scrabbling at the surface
of a wooden panel unheard, clawing at one another
like you're putting a deer in the headlights
My Heart Always Returns To MeMy sagging heart alwaysMy Heart Always Returns To Me5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Returns to me; cringing
Like a wounded animal,
Tail between its legs, an
India-ink river of blood
Mapped across the kitchen floor.
I blindly follow these maps
Back to myself.
Like a wounded animal it lies
Whimpering and grotesque
On the tiles, flayed and shaking,
Reeking of iron and fur.
In my arms, my little animal
Slackens, shudders, is still for a while.
In it I can bury my breath, my face
As I wait for it to howl.
the lonely planet's guideIt was three AMthe lonely planet's guide7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was three AM
we were talking about
and I was too ashamed
to admit that I couldn't
remember how that felt,
staring stupidly at the
piss-stained bed and then
at the ceiling. There was a moth
the size of my heart and coloured
in like autumn and pain. That's me,
and then threw my shoes at it.
The next day on the metro
somebody had scratched C'EST
A CHIER onto the window
and it was only then that
I felt the papery beating of
winged grief in my
You might think that it's
pretentious to write about
Paris, but that's where I was.
nique ta mère.
EdieEdie6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her skin of powdered rice paper
the scent of rotting orchids,
a drug-induced Noh dancer with
slow-writhing limbs akimbo-
silver-gilded girl of the moment
at the factory that turned out
Monroe silk screens, and porn
to the drone of a refrigerator,
from asylum to the Big Apple,
the apple of her father's eye
and of his desires, she'd sleep
among the gay lovers, pretty boys
with erotic names of exotic birds,
knowing she was safe for a while
as they quarreled amongst themselves-
who'd bring her chocolate shakes,
and chauffeur their princess
to her doctor's for injections
(she was too much a lady to do it herself)
until her fingertips became match-heads
setting fire to hotel rooms,
flailing from inside a closet
while bellboys stole her furs-
face of a comatose junkie drawing deep
on filter-less cigarettes
(she wasn't afraid). And yet, what deeds
have you, Edith, what deeds?
But wasn't she fabulous! remembering
back when she and Suky spent trips
screaming from an open convertible
PainThey had told me how it was going to be.Pain3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I was to lie still, and let them do the work, but hey, I never agreed to not scream, did I?
So I screamed. I screamed as if there was no tomorrow. I screamed because the local anesthesia didn't quite mask the effect of the six inch knife that was now slicing its way across my gut, the blood flowing down the sides, onto the table.
"Clench on this." The orderly pressed down a cloth firmly into my open mouth. The dry cloth smelt, but there was nothing I could do about it. So I clenched, as hard as I could. I must have been clenching really hard, since I think I passed out.
When I woke up the bearded doctor was standing over me, his pearly white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light that hung over the window. A sulking nurse stood on the other side of the bed.
"It was a successful operation. You rest for now," he patted me on the shoulder. Leaving, he motioned to the nurse, "If you will."
From the corner of my eye, I saw the nurse inject something
From Whence She CameBack down to the sea-floor she goesFrom Whence She Came4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
back to the coracle-clusters and starfish that
clamour, cling to her heart too tight,
walking barefoot towards where she
came from. It is too hard walking on
earth, the way she wears pain like a wedding ring
Back down, down, crawling on her belly
on the forest-floor, alive with the buzz and crawl
of worms and bird-prey. Back where she belongs with her
crazy palpitating wolf-heart, her bloody
deer-throat leaking in the snow, her yellow
eyes in the dark.
Back down, beyond subway trains, piano lessons,
falling rain, from whence she came, to the snow-covered womb
where she first gulped air.
Back down to a place before wildflowers,
fish on land, back to a locked box
full of old souls, from whence
the politics of sleepthe politics of sleep10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you can feel
the black hands of old whores,
we are the mere jangle
in God's pocket.
they never quite doMara made pictures without a thousand words, without sounds or touches; Mara made pictures with a whisper, when she least wanted to, much to her chagrin. They hung thick on her walls; faces frozen, eyes wide at Maras word.they never quite do7 years ago in Horror More Like This
Mara was thinner than she seemed, taking steps towards the bright light at the end of the hallway. Not as sure as she was stoned, she meandered; her feet leaving strange skinny marks in the thick carpet. Her hair, blonde on black, wagged back and forth as music played somewhere between her ears. She rounded the corner and asked the man on the wall a simple question. Where were you while we were getting high?&
bipolar or in love?i ate lemon cake for breakfast today, well actually it wasn't lemon it was vanilla. not that it really matters what flavour the cake was, only the cake itself mattered. it would be like saying you had jam on toast then freaking out over whether it was strawberry or raspberry. its like having a bad trip on acid, but what's a good trip? if its not losing all of your money gambling over a peanut butter sandwich, when you don't even like peanut butter. or losing your virginity in the back of a limo, to 'wonderwall' by oasis. if its not all of that then, no, i've never had a good trip.bipolar or in love?6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but hey, maybe that's just me.
i'm like a car crash
only slightly sexier
and with a better sense of
there is a humming bird sitting on my window sill
next to my clock which refuses to keep time
but i don't really mind, 'cause who really wants to be on time for anything?
other than your period.
if i were an animal i would like to be a magpie
mainly because i like the reference to pie
of storms and skysee my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you dont deserve gods beautiful violence.of storms and sky7 years ago in Other More Like This
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
still.one.still.6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
her name is alice. there is a slight blood stain on the valley where her lips part, and her eyes are two supermassive black stars that can't show anything but hurt. she can't bring herself to look in the broken mirror puddles that are all over the ground.
(and i don't blame her)
she borrows her mother's raincoat because it smells like home. not the homes that are flooded with laundry soap or soft candles burning in the family room, but more like the paint she spilled on the carpet, or the whiskey on her father's breath.
(and sometimes, she swears she can smell her mother's sadness.)
when alice was little she remembers playing freeze tag with her mother. she remembers feeling anxious, and now she feels sick. "if daddy touches you, stay still, and don't make a sound."
The irony of poetry and sexShift things around in your head and you're single with skin to skin contact attaching heavy breath.The irony of poetry and sex4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You're flexing your body, eyes rolling, jaw lifting there is nothing but increasing pressure on your hips.
The guilt is left inside your chest propelling your heart and jolting adredelaine showing up in your heightened
movements and sinking lungs.
Thoughts are only given the power to let you know it's wrong not the right to connect to your heart
when you have pushed it below the surface. The wrong is what makes it so good too. It's the pressure
on your hips that activates the thrust not the pounding of your pulse or the dividing of your mind
between your id and your superego.
You know nothing but what your body wants you to know and that's what feels good. Shadows are
crawling throughout the room hollowing out cheek bones and hips, you end up thinking it's something
fucking beautiful, when it's just fucking. There is nothing poetic about fucking a body when it's only
a body, there is no
on being a woman'what's a pretty ladyon being a woman3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
like you doin' smokin' cigarettes?'
'if i fucked you
for every time i've
you wouldn't think i was such
a lady anymore,
and what's a clever fella like you
doing minding my business for me,
i am not a lady-
i do not curve my appetites,
i do not curve through the waist and hips,
i please for my own pleasure,
i soak in my own sweat,
i fuck for my own glory.
tiddly tum, hidden harems and come,
i am the singular player in my play,
i am the prologue, intermission, and final act
every love i have known has been fueled by
my own fury, every discovery dug up by my own
destiny, every body of water i touched, i touched
with my own skin, i am not domestic, i am imported-
virgin beer on saintly lips, i am not comely nor
forthcoming, i offer my bed to no soldier, i take
what i can and give what i can, i do not plea or
placate or play the victim with my eyelashes-
my father says one day, i will be a lady and
take my rightful place to the left and behind
I dreamed of a door...I wore the thread that slipped from my daughter's baby blanket around my wrist,I dreamed of a door...4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
white against tan, bumpy yarn, it's been four years
since my mother patiently crocheted the stitches together
while my daughter rolled in my belly,
impatient. I dream and there are doors under my fingers and
I am alone.
I go down to watch the water rippling slowly past, carrying barges
for hundreds of years, my shoulders tan darker, I am absorbing the sun,
eating strawberries, writing a will. I wonder what will become of you.
I pray to old Native American gods, they do not see the world in black and white.
I investigate the trickster gods, in my dream a coyote trots across a field of waving grain.
Why does anyone go home? There are places that we live, places that we've been,
places that have never been exactly what we are looking for.
Skipping rocks out across the water,
I want more to be said to meTell me about your mother, tell me about the time you lived in that run down apartment and you met a girl named Emily with pretty lips and a salty mouth. Remember fucking her against a dead oak tree in the woods down the street from your mother's work. Tell me about the stale bark and how it spit crimson and wax all down her back...hot and sticky. It made her shake, shift, squirm, and all that did was make your eager body push harder. It made her shirt stick to her hell bitten back and you only noticed when she gasped as you slid your fingers down her spine while walking a half mile back to your mother's work. When she sat down she crossed her scraped and chapped legs (the forest floors aren't forgiving when lovers run.) and you could see the burning in the way she bit her bottom lip til' it bled. Just another crimson stain for your list. she can't breathe though, and your eager body and sprinting feet live in her til' this day. Tell me about moving away a few days later and howI want more to be said to me6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Fisher Girl The Fisher-girlFisher Girl4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
And words will fail a girl;
Staring about in this empty grey;
Straining eyes against the frosting fog which lies
Thicker than a shroud about a vault.
(How insignificant one can seem)
No separation exists here, between the heaven and the hell.
A lonely craft and its occupant
Suspended in a monotone
Like a spider in its web.
Friendly, creaking wood;
The stark realism of a tiny spire
Standing like a shot against the empty mist
She is alone
Her sun now hidden
In that rich and tasteless fog.
And her Earth?
Is it a million miles away?
Or does it lie ahead
Perhaps to wound her tiny craft, and leave her
Struck with fears of dying.
Where are the gulls?
Where is her home?
And the sea is so still
And the fisher-girl, does not.
Oh, you dreaded day, you monster!
Do you come to petrify a soul?
If so, go away
Your job is done .
But, it does not
And the sea is lonelier still.