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Similar Deviations
I weep.
I am alone.
I am a squished banana
Under the foot of a clown
he laughs
they laugh
at me
I weep.

Peel back my yellow layers
Reveal the soft white child inside
I am slightly mushy
Perhaps you should have eaten me sooner.

Today they forgot to give me crackers with my soup.
I think they did it on purpose.
Why should I have crackers
If nobody loves me?

I sit alone outside the library.
There is no place to sit inside.
It's always like this.
I weep.

Oh! What a cruel existance is this?
Satan does not acknowlege my letters!
Perhaps I gave the wrong postal code.

Santa does not exist.
I weep.

The blood trickles down my chin
And onto my inadequately-developed chest.

The clown laughs no more.
Dedicated to Crys, who never ceases to amaze me with her lack of talent in pubescent lamentation.
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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
through the San Marcos Pass, their
bright scarves trailing like kite tails

in the same wind she'd ride her roan
along the spine ridge of Rancho Laguna
with no sense of dominion, and the land
with its wild fires that went on forever,

where the ashes of her brothers
and their self-possessed
and possessing father of eight
had been far-flung blown, and one day,
so too would hers, in the valley of Santa Inez.
:bulletred:Edie Sedgwick (1943 - 1971)

:bulletblue:Youthquaker of 1965, Warhol's underground superstar at his NYC factory with the silver foil walls, the Girl in the Black Tights. And the fine actress Kyra Sedgewick is related to Edith as her niece.

:bulletorange:Noh - Japanese classic theatre
:bulletgreen:*Suky - the youngest sister
:bulletyellow:Rancho Laguna - the 6,000 acre family ranch
:bulletpurple:San Marcos Pass, and Santa Inez Valley - near Santa Barbara, California

(preview photo from Wikipedia stock)
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deranged organs
conspiring their exodus
clamoring for the cool negligence
of concrete;

lost tongues in long weeping throats
glut of heartmatter
alabaster, pollen, necrotic silk

i'll empty their blasphemies
from broken tusks

spilling the elocution of bliss
so it does not reach the dead.
sad organs.


preview image source: [link]
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She weaves a dress upon the loom,
her neighbors knowing it's a shroud,
window dressing for a tomb -
she weaves a dress upon the loom.
Forbidden fruit has scarred the womb,
a stranger's face amidst the crowd,
she weaves a dress upon the loom -
her neighbors knowing it's a shroud.
For the DFC :iconkiwi-damnation:

This poem is a triolet.
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Four a.m is uneasy -
time purloined and left
hanging on the bed posts.
You said I crowd your sleep,
feet and hands slipping cotton,
pulling dreams in paper streams
like the nest of wasps
growing restless in the tree.

Your legs make room for me,
for the sound of weather
happening on the roof,
and warm the space above us,
setting fire to the drapes again.
Just let me feel your clavicle
press under my hips
where daylight squeezes in
and hinges us.

So we both can waken slowly,
you know, like kids in summer
who long for everything to never end

and the sky to be an orchestra
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When the lights snap out
do you think of my breath,
a hot map
between your shoulders,
disturbing memories
and asking questions
like we did in school?
How many times has my image
slipped between your sheets
and kept you at the window,
counting stars and cars,
the highway owning us both.
I would kiss your pulse -
drink you down
in those thick gulps
that made you spin
and grasp my fingers
to keep us both

from falling.
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Place your poems
on the lips of angels
so you can teach their wings
how it feels to fly
always upward.
Mark the summer evenings
soon to come
with the grace
that carried you
among us,
warm and cherished softly

and know we will always place
your words
among the stars.
Relationships are not part-time jobs
in run down cafes
where you wear bad attitudes,
low wages
bad hours
rude patrons
and knocks to your ego.

Relationships are careers
earned and worked for
that grow and support you,
retirement plans
sick days
and a reminder that you're worth something.

Your love gives back what you invest
and I am not a part-time lover
and refuse to accept a business partner
aspiring for anything less
Love is beautiful and not a dead-end job.