Chanting mantras on the way home
from whatever useless and monotone activity
which occupies our day this time.
I reach for my keys, but the door is already open.
I spy tender skin and soft eyes. I spy, I spy.
The back of a neck, all golden curls and pale
composition. Until she opens her eyes,
and I spy no more.
Her name is Goldilocks and she came into my house,
ate my porridge, sat on my chair, slept on my bed,
then complained about it!
And I cherished her smile while I listened
to her passionate tales about invasion of private property.
when we remembered to check on her, she had made a mess of herself. shame on her.
Saturday, 22 March 2014
after hallow's eve
my poetry sucks
the life out of you
the fun out of parties
my own little soul
and leaves me all alone
empty as a bowl
without candies
the life out of you
the fun out of parties
my own little soul
and leaves me all alone
empty as a bowl
without candies
false rhymes
a recluse and a poet,
to be blunt, like many others
life has passed -unexplored
both petty and bigoted
so immature, it's already rotten
life has passed
simply that
to be blunt, like many others
life has passed -unexplored
both petty and bigoted
so immature, it's already rotten
life has passed
simply that
chug chug chug chug
i write in fear of being found. pour in the pan words that will never rise. recipes never work. mix it all but not too well.
twenty Russians replacing a light bulb with a vodka lamp.
i drink the vodka to confuse them. they love it, shouting my name.
i knew you could do it.
it never makes any sense, does it?
but there's a reason i'm called "perverse"
and not perseverant
i copy paste my own life,
typos and syntactical errors,
letting myself feel proudly wrong, wrongly proud,
the mirror is inside out
as i out my insights
fearing otherwise they will know
i am only as deep as the kiddie's side of the pool
twenty Russians replacing a light bulb with a vodka lamp.
i drink the vodka to confuse them. they love it, shouting my name.
i knew you could do it.
it never makes any sense, does it?
but there's a reason i'm called "perverse"
and not perseverant
i copy paste my own life,
typos and syntactical errors,
letting myself feel proudly wrong, wrongly proud,
the mirror is inside out
as i out my insights
fearing otherwise they will know
i am only as deep as the kiddie's side of the pool
not all poetry is a piece of art
I keep recalling all the tiny details, I'm crazy like that.
The feel of your hands around my neck,
of my knees on the floor,
that moment when thoughts died.
You want to be nice to me.
Don't.
Lay on the top of me and crush me until unconsciousness.
You looked like Jesus in your undies.
It was glorious.
All my sins washed away
in a pure bliss of subservience.
I would love to be love, to be kissed,
but I don't deserve love
if only shudder with roughness.
The feel of your hands around my neck,
of my knees on the floor,
that moment when thoughts died.
You want to be nice to me.
Don't.
Lay on the top of me and crush me until unconsciousness.
You looked like Jesus in your undies.
It was glorious.
All my sins washed away
in a pure bliss of subservience.
I would love to be love, to be kissed,
but I don't deserve love
if only shudder with roughness.
language as a barrier
it's only a matter of time
but time does not even matter
for it has no matter at all
it's only time
but only is a measurement
and only
but time does not even matter
for it has no matter at all
it's only time
but only is a measurement
and only
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