but it also meansIt's mundane,
the soda aisle
and my wandering, walking up
then down. I frown to distract.
And buy the soda you love
because you might, you
might be here to have it. Though
with I need a drink.
I don't need a drink.
The same strength, faux-weak
ness that I will always have,
and tell myself I learned from you.
I buy it, afraid I won't like the taste,
or maybe I will and it'll be there
for a few days squishing along inside me.
It's just fucking soda, but it also means
I still love you.
HeldWe loved like arson:Held8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
glow floats around like smoke, and distorts us,
restless, and tangles around the rafters,
the room imbued: remnants of star-fuelled lust.
We loved like fireworks, comets and fireflies.
We traced paths through constellations for hours,
across freckled skies, tasting the stars
with every kiss. The night went on for miles.
Now a cathartic still whispers, lingers
as the room burns orange in the morning's
luster. The carmine light bares a warning:
To keep my distance, or I'd clash with hers.
I leave her to draw the blinds, casting shad-
ows like prison-cell bars across the bed.
Idiom: ThoroughlyIdiom: Thoroughly8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"You said you wanted the reverse stripped out of you,
and that's all I left you with."
V. Kingston Upon Thames
How do fancy it? And do you fancy it at all?
Does it have geography and are we grey? Do we have
a time, do we have
(I am turning British corners and you are there,
I will hear our language drown in their heavy tongues. I
will search for their consonants in vain, and they will call
me foreign when I hit mine
too hard. I will search for you, middle-
We will not look like writers then. (We look like
hell; we look like
authors.) We will be worn down like the effects of
wind or harsh water on certain surfaces.
Speak to me in this language- we've only to open
our mouths a little wid
True StoryMy proudest day yet, and to top it allTrue Story8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you wrote your first poem.
As I drove, you told me our car was
a beautiful white horse
without a name.
And to think, you do not even know that song
or that this is a desert.
We slipped on slick oiled streets,
and you soothed my nerves with a gentle,
and the tires gripped.
I pulled up beside a sedan
turned dapple grey by the weather
and we stepped out onto a badly drained lot.
You closed your poem, saying simply,
"The rain turned into glass."
Our IssuesYour heart grew up in a black wooden boxOur Issues8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
hated by everything: pigeons swerved to on it
wasps went kamikaze on it, black widow spiders
s in its ear while it slept, wild
horses made love to its rear,
trees lashed it, roses
turned their scent away, woodpeckers
pecked at its
the conversationalistthe conversationalist10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
slit-eye winter sun-
rise buried to the hilt
as if you
'd answered my every fucking
question speaking french-
it's October again, my darling
for pity, oh. for pity's sake, this
talking in morse or
semaphore is getting
by the day.
these icy fingers
are not persuaded by my plea of self
defence, the jury's
out, the cock has crowed,
the books are
falling from the shelves
like dodgy tape recordings of
conversations overheard in dreams,
what I want to know is why,
I had my mouth ajar as if to speak,
as though the distance between my
tongue and lip
was suddenly too far.
A Casual FuneralA plane home,A Casual Funeral8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
holding it together like winter in June,
a passed away friends dry ground
hard to find as any
from a mile up,
or only six feet away.
No cocktails, no Dramamine,
Ill sick and seizure just the same;
my manual is made of liquid,
fragile as a prayer
recited in slumber
at the luggage station,
where a conveyer lets go, go, go
until the rollers break;
until the rubber throws up its hands
in split hair strands, and finally says
A plain home,
holding it together like a desert palm,
a seed that strayed from comforts
of tropical showers to root
in spider-webbed salt flats
on a curious, epileptic wind
that carries each and every one of us
a mile up, or six feet down
SonnetAs aeons chart the birth and death of starsSonnet11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Our lives are numbered minutes, hours and days;
The end of time seems far too far away
To try to stretch a mortal love like ours.
To seize the infinite's not in my powers;
An epoch's longer than we can delay
Our lives', our love's inexorable decay;
As temporal as flowers in a vase.
But if we grasp each moment that we get -
Each cigarette, each kiss, each coffee cup,
Each friendly fight about the washing up,
Each smile, each fleeting bliss - then we may yet
Create a universe within each breath,
Immortalised each second; cheating Death.
A Twist of HeroismA Twist of Heroism9 years ago in Humor More Like This
Every woman seeks a hero; a knight in shining armor to sweep them off their feet when they're in distress and carry them away to commit acts of sickeningly sweet romance found only in the backs of Fabio-approved dimestore novels. I have found this to be a universal truth hidden deep within the heart of every heterosexual female regardless of the number of times they deny it or the ounces of pepper spray they use on you.
The only problem with the heroic approach is that many of us guys don't believe we actually have the ability to defeat any foe that doesn't appear on a video game screen. We can barely sweep all the cheese curl residue off our sofas, let alone a woman off her feet.
But fear not, because God did not forget you. He has bestowed upon each of us a special gift that can win us the admiration and, dare I say, love of any female we serve with it.
Yes, men: we can open jars.
No matter how weak and scrawny you may be, you h
CoffeeI'm still stuck in the old motions you taught me, the tiny movements and mannerisms that ground their way into the material of my grey matter with the sequential passing of days. They say a human forms a habit in twenty-one days. Whoever they are. I don't think they know this kind of "habit," this mechanic repetition that anchors me to this plane of existence, this autopilot safeguard. Whatever. I don't need them. I've become something of a misanthrope anyway.Coffee10 years ago in General More Like This
Like every other morning for the past month, I sit on the porch with two mugs of coffee and wait for you to come by and pick me up, and just like every other day I'm late to work. I don't know why Dave hasn't fired me yet; maybe it's pity? Maybe he's just waiting for the perfect, most spectacularly miserable day to come by, so he can pat me on the shoulder with a smile: "Hey, you're fired!"
Work passes in a mind-numbing blur of key-tapping, paper-shuffling and coffee trips. I expect you to walk in at any moment and apologize for
Reasons for the WeekendReasons for the Weekend9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Because human nature zig-zagged in reverse
from wand-waving mornings to night,
plucking on harp-strings with bitten-down nails
and mud-trudging through kitchen floors,
Because we ignored the blue neon signs
that smiled Enter through the gates,
and monkeyed up the glass walls instead,
with the grace of a bullet-filled car,
Love grew a shadow, and splashed Friday with ink
when he dived from a springboard of leather and wood--
but the spectators gave him nil out of ten,
though Perfection had wrapped him in white.
Because human nature keeps sliding down driveways
without elbow guards or mothering smiles,
because we attempt to feel more than our skins can,
stuffing ourselves with reflections of stars--
Sunday grew taller, for Love re-emerged
and de-plugged the pool as he skipped up the side.
His tattered grey scarf soaked the last of the flood,
and he left it behind as he walked past the sky.
Night Of InnocenceLet me light some candles and turn down all the lightsNight Of Innocence7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Put some music on to the set the mood, just right.
I see you looking at me like I've finally lost my mind
But I'll just smile and reassure you "I'm doing fine."
I'll make excuses and claim that last months bill was too high
And I'll pray to mercy that you'll let it slide.
Oh, and the music? Well look at my collection of CDs
Love songs are all I have, you'll see.
Let me break out the strawberries and some cream
I've been trying to eat healthier--just let me be.
Isn't this to die for? Oh please don't leave.
This is a night of innocence. Please just believe.
Except I'm feeling nervous. You're looking at me strange
I try to busy myself and begin to rearrange--
Ah, yes, the pillow looks perfect right there.
Now I'll just comb my fingers through my hair.
As IfIf you can hold your drink when all about youAs If8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
are losing theirs and aiming it at you,
if you can drive your car when all men doubt you,
but make allowance for the coppers too;
or need to pee but not be tired by waiting,
or after peeing dont forget your flies;
on politics or football start debating
and yet dont look too good nor talk too wise.
If you can drink and not make drink your master;
if you can talk and not make sense your aim;
if you can still stand up although youre plastered
and shout at passing women dirty names;
if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrow
of how you acted like a total fool
and caused your girl to sob in shame and sorrow
when you picked up that tart from Liverpool
If you can take your childrens Christmas money
and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
and lose, and laugh like it was funny
and never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force yourself just to continue
to drink another pint of foaming ale
and stay upright whe
Outer DarknessI know you'll always love me just the way I amOuter Darkness8 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
"True love isn't blind; it only chooses to see less"
But for every "cozy twosome" fate will see through thick and thin
There's always someone else left on the outside looking in
While we live out a fairy tale, once upon a time
Weaving memories like poetry to treasure all our lives
He's left out in the cold, just beyond our sphere of light
'Cause there's only room for two at the fireside tonight
Never to be graced by your affection
Unrequited love his only portion
There's no silver medal, in love or in war
Collateral damage is inevitable
Watching embers rise to mingle with the stars cascading by
Like fireflies entangled in the tresses of the sky
Without a doubt, my single wish upon these shooting stars would be
That someone would love him the way you love me
While we live out a fairy tale, once upon a time
Weaving memories like poetry to treasure all our lives
He pines the night away beneath the amethyst moon
Well aware there's only room at
I Hate Myself For Loving Youin intermittent jolts, like a train carriage buttingI Hate Myself For Loving You8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
its forerunner, like the hairs shot by my electric
razor straight into the beartrap of my lashes
or the stutter of rain on a day like this one - like
how I strike through my To Do list, or how I make up
my mind to do something, like cannonfire or Nicholas
Cage acting well or like phonecalls from home
or the shower's skutting start, the goliath wave
that turns over the boat. I know this is no way
to do it - and I know, just as well as you know
I should love you like a bobsleigh
run, like the laser gun in Metal
Slug, like the wind that won't leave
my Homburg alone or the adverts
that play in the cinema foyer
like I drink when I get in from running.
Hortus Venenum CulturaThe rarest flower -Hortus Venenum Cultura7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all vine, dead leaves
A death blue hue
to match the tune,
of winters heart.
Do they not feel?
The damp of dawn,
wet soil, the bodies
so many little lives
the insects, the vermin -
Rotted flesh feeding
poppy fields in France,
for peace -
Healthy anarchy dimmed
by a flow of ecstasy,
oh joy - for green leaves
and mellow afternoons.
Forests fallen -
giants lain to rest
to lace the sky with diamonds.
On ParabolaOn Parabola9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
With subatomic subtlety settling on his brow,
he said 'Time's a broken arrow
that points from then to now.'
Once a grain, I entreated him
to stop this flow of sand,
'You're immersed in the irreversible
until, entropical, I land.'
In that glass all is hours,
the busted bucket and the spade,
and each collapsing castle
that our spilt ice cream made.
Since his hands are tide
we can all be shore,
when the sediment slides
there is no more.
Self datedSelf dated9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I feel most glamorous when I walk
through Target. Look at the sheeple,
now look at me. I've got a
pinstripe blazer. I "do poetry."
I listen to Gwen and Lindsay
but only for the irony. I understand
the Xbox 360 and Lost in Translation
on more levels than you ever do.
And all I'm coming in here to buy
is a marked-down jar of J. Crew.
Kissing Youtoday as we were laying on your bedKissing You9 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
the television talking some nonsense
you asked me,
as you are curiously accustomed to doing,
what i was thinking
what was i thinking?
i blushed and hesitated
as most girls might
i don't talk much you see
(i think you understand that much about me)
and after a period of
f i v e l o n g s e c o n d s
i decided to reply
thought i'd try
Because porn stars aren't fatBecause porn stars aren't fat11 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
So I walk in, sit down on that leather, rotten-plastic smelling chair, and I scrutinize this doctor. She's a wheat blond, the plain face of an intelligent woman, and she looks like the sort of lady that flosses every morning. A floppy body, she looks like she's getting a little chubby, her stomach slightly bulges from her ruffled light green blouse. Menopause will hit her hard. It's not that noticeable, but when you have a body obsession you tend to notice these things. She looks at me, and smiles all wide like she's so glad to have me here to bitch.
"How are you Marieanne"
"Would you care for some peppermints?" She mentions towards the glass bowl of peppermint candies. They're red and white and they look like they're staring at me. Sad, pathetic googly eyes.
"Now I understand that you were requested here because your classmate found you vomiting in the girl's bathroom?"
"Do you do this often"
I couldn't ever be anorexic, what else could I do? Anorexic peo
Faded Orange Carpetfaded orange carpetFaded Orange Carpet10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
cigarettes hiss into the
shoddy, submissive couch.
and half a cent more,
with slum lust leaking through the crevices.
whores creep past
backways and alleyways
huddle their dolorous winter fire
holding onto nothing but their plastic skin.
there's a cold jazz beat
the deep street
with a heavy dose of cocaine.
dilapidated minds and
sleazy flesh fabricate
the district nights.
clustered silence follows a cratered road.
lines packed tight
and good to go.
hustle and dice
tawdry bed creaks
for a dead 10 minutes
--give or take a few
108801PLANESCAPE108801PLANESCAPE9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your shiver-smile is exultant.
i thought that
while i waited for the
suns to fall,
i would sing quietly
of the planescapes;
and how we, hand in hand
held the rising
jewels of the eternal apex
in that void, brimming with
life and interstellar
"your shiver-smile is exultant,"
i breathed in your ear
while you frosted over
and when again the suns
did climb to their zenith,
we were seen
as nothing less than
made of superstrings