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For You
Let me lead you beyond the words --
the crisp white imagination of those old lonely days,
penetrated briefly by only music and prayer,
to hours that never depart from that raw want
of satisfaction, of lips –love
stretched out soft and warm in
dark twisted ache.
Let me place my fragile breath,
my very fear of days,
in your sweet mouth
so that you might, for once, take and have.
And I will be for you,
like the endless tug and twist
of purple-gray Time,
fanning out and wrenching inward,
But yielding, in flesh, like clay.
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 2
A Warm Wish
Will the nights still be mine,
Once you've found your provider?
Your chest still aching,
Your fingers still shaking;
Your pain still profound,
And still profoundly yours,
In all its cold crimson ache--
However distant it may seem
From your warm catharsis.
Will your body still arch empty in the darkness?
Will I embrace you, whimpering,
And put your every little bone
in place, holding you at rest?
Your flesh, your pain
Upon my imperfect breast.
I pray, instead, you leave no trail of crumbs,
I pray you bask in oven-light glow--
Your skin taking on a smoothness
You've only coveted in the past.
Then by the fringe of a skirt she will lead you,
To something sun-ripened and pure.
And while breathing out your frosty past,
She will fill you--
And, softly, it will be enough.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 3
Mature content
You :icongormanda:gormanda 1 6
Summer Job Description
      Your first day will be awkward.  No one will give you an ounce of instruction, oddly enough, even though this is a very structured place.  You won't know how any of this works.  You went to public school.  Liam will come in first.  His tiny body will not at all match up with his elevated vocabulary.  You will find his Aspbergian quality rather charming, very much akin to a wonderfully overactive imagination that never gets shut off.   This may be problematic when you sit with him and slog through math problems, math problems that he could do in his sleep.  You may get through five in an hour, and this will be considered "pretty good".  It is pretty good, though, because during this time, you will also hear the story of how he time travelled to help beat the Hessians, and receive very specific instructions on how to perform an illusionist trick that he made
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 0
Sparkly Artifact of the Self
Sparkly Purple Artifact of the Self
      George Washington wrote in his diary, "about ten o'clock I bade adieu to Mount Vernon, to private life, with the best dispositions to render service to my country in obedience to its call, but with less hope of answering its expectations."
Sylvia Plath wrote in her diary, "today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems entitled Rain pour in from across the nation."
John Steinbeck wrote in his diary that he thought The Grapes of Wrath to be just a run-of-the-mill book.
Joe DiMaggio wrote in his diary that plane food should be fed to pigs.
Diary writing is the best kind of writing.  It is the only time we truly allow ourselves to write our unedited thoughts, unfettered by the upholding of our social roles and personae.  Its subject matter may occasionally be munda
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 0
Apartment 1018
This is the closet
That she locked herself in
When she knew that what they had
Would no longer be enough.
This is the bed
That they, faithfully,
Slept on every night,
Even though she was with another man.
This is the bathroom
Where they tried to clean
Their faces stained by tears
And ruddied by screams
This is the rug,
That they swept the whole affair under,
Until one day, while cleaning, it oozed out
Filling the room and suffocating them
This lovely one bedroom
One and a half bathroom apartment
Abutting a pet-friendly neighborhood
Is sure to sell fast, call now.
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 3
For Lauren
An unnaturally thorny rose
Tattooed across your flat belly--  
To protect you, you said.
Lauren- I wish I could see you only in that vague sense that I once did,
Seeing you, knowing you, only from a picture,
Fake black hair and ballet clothes,
Neither a smile nor a frown on your thin white face.
I am not to say which of your daily aches were real,
And which were manufactured like your leather-boots;
But you made sure the pain of each stomp was shared.  
Lauren- I wish I could talk to you like I imagined I might have, once
Before you hurt your leg and spoke only in commands,
Before you hurt your back and spoke only in pained tones,
Before your friend hurt himself and you spoke only in anger.
The night you slammed the door
And shook my bedposts loose,
I dreamt you ripped the last page out of all my books,
Leaving all conflicts unresolved.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 0
The Difference
The Difference
      I am a Yankee living a in a foreign world of okra and grits.  I was born and raised in Northern New Jersey but attend college five hours away in Fredericksburg, Virginia.  At first glance, some may find the differences between New Jersey and Virginia to be few, or of little consequence, but they are terribly mistaken.    Virginians wear gym uniforms in high school, they go to grocery stores with bizarre names like Giant and Food Lion, and they talk to strangers in public restrooms.  They don't have diners or authentic Jewish bagels, and their pizza doesn't even deserve the title "pizza".   But what's worse than all of that?  They pump their own gas.
This difference became crucial to me one Sunday night, this past May.  I been allowed to keep a car on campus freshman year, but I was allowed to bring my trusty sky-blue Civic with me while taking summer c
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 0
The State of Things
I am lonely and you can't help me,
You say, flatly.
But you have articulated it so well.
You lie thin in the grass
Looking at beauty you will never hold
And never have
You are so small, you are almost nothing.
You are laughing and you are being so strong
finding promise of happiness in what is bittersweet
I try to do the same.
Looking at you looking at her,
I almost want to call that whole thing love
But it is not.
It is something else.
When I touch you,
When I glow in your admiration of her
(If I make myself love her)
I am still nothing
And you are still lonely.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 4
The Calm
My small feet
Are resting on your belly, soft
Your breathing, slow
I think only of bread and warmth and home
And you
Inhaling, as though breathing in
The flower, her
And something perfect
Becomes, quietly
Somehow attainable.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 0
The First Night
His lips are steady,
Muscled, prying
Sighs from her
Open, trembling
Fallen in around
Emptinesses she has
Been unable to fill
All her life, that he
Softly, has filled.
Now she has
discovered poetry,
Now she has
tasted the honey,
And, she thinks,
whatever beauty is,
it must include this,
--his body and her body,
twisted up, pressing, just so,
must include this nowness
this sweet calmness
in the face of
:icongormanda:gormanda 0 4
The Kiss by gormanda The Kiss :icongormanda:gormanda 0 2
I become your Heloise...
In your home, I become your Heloise,
feeling at once:
low-class and enlightened
by your beautiful life and your beautiful spirit.
And your sweet and subtle kisses-
No I must never have kissed before!
Your soft, safe arms hold
me, like I am being rescued from the wild,
And oh, I am.
In this pitch-tar black bedroom
of your Virginia castle
We, as eager lovers, whisper:
to soothe each other
from this intimacy, so great and overwhelming,
as to not wake your parents.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 7
On Three Lovers
We were pinning corsages to lifetimes,
Articulating some future-
peach and pale yellow;
Enumerating flaws.
We twisted words and bones
like putty, and
yes, we said we loved,
yes, we said we did, but--
we loved of one another
only aspects, artifacts:
the kind
we could dig up,
stick on someone else,
and love just the same.
We were testing the limits of
fingers, cloaked by evening air.
But when our faces turned--
human to one-night silhouettes,
they hijacked momentary feelings
And crushed them to a pulp.
We are doing the laundry.
This thing builds up inside of me,
and a little part of me wants to cry.
(what Providence it is
just to know you!)
And it never goes away.
:icongormanda:gormanda 2 2
Mature content
Cancun :icongormanda:gormanda 1 2
Mature content
Here :icongormanda:gormanda 0 1


.1. by Helen-Carter .1. :iconhelen-carter:Helen-Carter 1,666 246
How dare you overlook this, my
     crumbling form. I,
once your swan, now battered, torn
'tween the breaths we held amongst our words,
and the fear, fearing the moments may fade;
     I still feel your laughter
playing out of your mouth, coming to rest,
     stilling, softly, 'cross my breast.
     And now, this same figure,
your administration has left.
Memories- pawned off
to wet your lips
     and my bones are weeping-
cracking, crumbling- worn from
the use you put them through
     (all that grinding's left it's mark:
late nights, erect, throbbing in the dark)
parched, my mouth bleeds sand
     and I grasp for the hole once in your hands
that mine could take, fill up-
     but all there is is dust and dust.
Let me set you among the stars
     (on my shoulders)
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 15
l et my t
l et my t
                    e cry             out
the or
s of this
my words,
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 2 4
Ballade 4 part 2
It feels like I’ve written you this note for the hundredth time. I just had to tell you that life is good and beautiful and I don’t care about all the war and the hate and pain, I know it is inherently gorgeous and I see it reflected in the speckles of your eyes everyday and I long to speak the words that would mean so little in comparison to the emotion I’d be feeling. I’d say love and you’d sift through your thoughts and think of your memories of love or lack of love and you’d tell me, yes, yes you understand, but how do I know you understand? Words are so inert compared to what is corrupting my insides – they’re intangible, just symbols. They’re dead in a way. God but I long to express what I perceive every time you give thought to my name or acknowledge my existence. I feel I must tell you everyday through allusions due to cowardice of your reprimand or some such nonsense represented through this irrational wording. I feel I have to spea
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 2 0
Stop Stalling
My pen is burning
and there's tar back in my lungs,
but god damn it feels good
to have fire back on my tongue,
sparking sympathies off this page
and leaving smoke rings
circling about the flames.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 28
Fisher of Men
Your absence left only hooks,
waving about my face, sparkling and drunk.
The sand stings my feet,
unbearably, suffocating my toes
while that stench that stems
from broken sun's rays
leaves me trapped and scared.
I am almost waiting for someone,
maybe God, to come along
and strip me of everything,
save kindness and this:
blood jet stream of poetry.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 10
Abeille de Miel
You stand, proud and elegant,
in the sleeveless summer dress
I helped you pick off the rack.
I am naked.
Bare as fresh born cattle;
I pray the bees will not smell
my fear, my fear, my fears.
You lead me to, through, a field,
losing me at every bend.
I struggle to keep pace,
but your legs are still (unstoppable),
marching past sunflowers
with bored hearts and swollen clots-
no, no, those are only swarms,
black as fresh blood.
I can see the hives now,
all shut tight as virgins.
Their comb and honey and residents,
sealed off and humming.
You stand before the queen,
an equal: clever, kind and quiet.
I collapse at your feet,
bone white against the cloud of hornets.
I am exhausted, I am exhausted-
I beg you,
Leave me in the long picket box
used to collect your harvest.
Leave me- cold and ungrateful,
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 10
Measure for Measure
        this is dimming:
every little tawdry scrap of gift
and photograph, glass-wrapped
so as to better burn
before the shining multiples
of your absence.
And there's no getting back-
not by hook or crook or elephant.
How dare you want the world
        whilst my handful of notes
rises, so clear, like balloons.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 0
Sinking Stone
I heard an axe crack in the wood we walked together,
        one-hundred nights
all through summer.
It broke my dream,
the little knot of sound
hanging in the void,
creating holy caves
        and waves of words,
leaping for life,
be they made of wine or rhythm or even blood
(nothing you can name)
I wake up dreaming
        and I'll crush you
and build you all over again
of wood and flesh and marble-
shape your face of high wild notes
the Muses themselves dare not to sing.
(it seems madness gobbles even demons to ruin)
Bear with me, love, while I grope and stutter,
mutter words in any tongue
so long as you can see the corners of my mouth move.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 10
Damien's Kiss by cypherx Damien's Kiss :iconcypherx:cypherx 28,388 3,211
She's A Maple-sugar Saint
Oh, let me talk some nonsense
or romance into you, perched upon
your branch of birch (or bow)– your smile
in mock distress; laughing lightning:
Sonnets, the color of a rose.
How I revel in your cheeks!
     (flushed from fresh morn’s air)
And, here I go, running through
my very own catalogue of emotion
within mere seconds to find some kind of lyric;
one I know is fit to suit your standard.
So take my arm with force and open wide
your eyes, filled with lazy sweetness,
in order to better satisfy what some mad
crazed Greek dreamt of sculpting all his life;
(if only he could’ve gotten the visions just right)
All on this: our night of stars and singing.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 2 2
November Debutante
Meet me in a breathless hush
where stark skeletons will watch us
dance out this spell in reckless platitudes
on the hard-hearted moon and, soon, oh yes
soon, our paradise of rose and flame will transform,
blossom (bloom) and transmute this spectacle
into flowered fame; noted, only, among
     the blank, untenanted air
and the resurrections in the sun.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 2 2
No Country
We are just voices now, (in the dark),
under that shelter of vines,
shielding our eyes (from one another),
and cradling us beneath
     hidden moonbeams' light.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 3 5
Wednesday Morning, 10 AM
We started out, some light music and a rush of wind for your face, your skin
to cool it from that blinding risen sun, freshly born out of the dim.
We, all three of us, took our time,
let our words flow freely, easily, as the concrete soared underneath
and mutated, right before my eyes, your eyes, her eyes, into gravel.
We sat on grass and earth and woven threads,
and while I sweat out silent secrets and screams,
we, all three of us, were dazzled and watched with
amazement the mother be stamped on, over and over- delicately.
We posed, before god and the heavens and that woman with the camera
and shared our smiles and pieces of our sloppy minds
before leaving, retiring back to that gravel,
mutating, right before my eyes, your eyes, hers, back into concrete.
Our legs carried us the rest of the way,
straight into the heart of unfamiliar familiar territory.
(mine nearly stopped) But, thank god,
your skin and hair and eyes were there to hold me on my feet.
I threw my money away, all away,
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 2 4
All That I Am by sots All That I Am :iconsots:sots 40 21 Apathy by yuumei Apathy :iconyuumei:yuumei 1,964 194



United States
Current Residence: NJ
Favourite genre of music: folk
Favourite photographer: andy goldsworthy
Favourite style of art: fauvism
Operating System: microsoft
MP3 player of choice: ipod
Favourite cartoon character: hey arnold
Personal Quote: " life there is an immanent justice that fulfills itself slowly but without fail."


:iconumbilicalblisters: :iconpunchdrunklover:


Add a Comment:
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2008
Thanks for the favorite. It's one of mine too.
gormanda Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2008
It's truly gorgeous, dear.
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2008

Written 10 days before her death.

I sometimes fear I'll become like her, when I get older. I'm afraid I might see the goal of life as death, and discard all notions of love and relationships.

But then I remember she was a little crazy and, with some luck, I'm not. :P
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2008
By the way, if I haven't mentioned it before: Thanks for staying up so damn late and talking to me. I'd be positively, dreadfully bored without you. :P
gormanda Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2008
Don't be silly. It's always a pleasure to talk to you.
And I would be dreadfully bored without you as well.
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2008
Well glad to know we can keep each other company then.
Saphriel Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2008
Thank you for the fave!
gormanda Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2008
welcome :)
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2008
Thank you, for all of the favourites.
gormanda Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2008
You're welcome, for all of the favourites.
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