musings

[novapsyche]

I don't claim that any of this is good. I just feel like airing out my closet, I guess.


breakfast


orange marmalade
on wheat toast

poached eggs

espresso in my

teacup

flapjacks in the
fryer

butter poppin'
on the stove

I hate mornings


betrayal


hear that barbaric pit
your animalistic stomach
screeching rage.
the blood on your cheeks
tells me what
you've been eating.
then
your gut turns Benedict Arnold
lurching itself out
by the white toilet rim
and i laugh and laugh and laugh


broken


looking into the crystal
images of truth
smearing hope on anxious skin
inwardly laughing from fear

who knows where the knife strikes next

canisters of kitchen flour
cracked open on the floor
dusty spirits lying on linoleum
crying for containment

who knows where the knife strikes next

unending agony
endless pit of anguish
bottom of the sea of piranhas
sharky teeth on bones and flesh and feet

who knew where the knife struck next


cemetery shakes


smelling rot and decadence
i shiver close to you
all these graveyard testaments
are frosting in my mind.


Childhood


Look at that lie drip from your lips
your red pucking lips
hanging on a sliver of spit
lingering
as you drool
don't be your baby
'cause babies only know the truth
when I want to hear your spit
I'll tell you
look at you slobber
get away with your filth
I'll never be your baby
until you shit in your diaper
then I'll wipe your lips like a good mommy
and all will be forgiven


communication


t.v. fuzz of confusion
spreading up my skin
cloaking me with fear
shouting blessings and curses
and i know

i listen to the t.v. man
i have no money
worry lines bursting around irises
t.v. man shouting curses
and i know
nothing will ever be all right

trade in for a stereo radio
deejay spinning wildness
splaying inconsistency
emcee shouting curses
and i know

i pray to my deities
and i hope
everything will be all right


coronary


there it is
caramba music
fading now
blood in my veins
jumping wildly
pulsating throbs
the music dies
heart attack


homocide


serenade me with poison
who cares who death is
it's all a disguise
take me to your promise
I swear to cry
my lungs won't stop breathing

am I deep
or are the shadows a defense
in a closet of the mind
it's all a game
the game where cheaters win every time
the apology rings
in your ear
making it bleed
the knife in my voice

the god of sleepy suicide
and tired naivete
overpowers
now I know who death is
no more disguises

Comments

[poetpainter77.livejournal.com]

That's a lot better than the stuff I wrote last year! Ack...I was horrible until I found poetryslamming, heh. That community saved me.

[novapsyche.livejournal.com]

Well, I picked stuff I know now isn't that great but I loved dearly when I wrote it. In fact, I like just about all of these, but I realize my feelings are entirely sentimental.

One of these was accepted for publication. But I won't say which one. :)

There is a poem I was going to post to demonstrate how absolutely horrid my efforts were. This poem was one I showed to many friends in middle school as if it were the strongest, sharpest piece ever. It's embarrassing now to recall it. :)

With all that fanfare, here it is:


Cry


see the baby cry
tears streaming down its face

it's hooked on crack
from its mother's womb

and she just O.D.'d

see the baby cry
see the struggle in its red-rimmed eyes

hear the baby scream for more
hear the baby scream for help

see the baby cry
see its mother die
see the baby starve and die