This one’s possibly two years old now. Since I’m writing so many new poems a day for NaNoWriMo (and my book), I thought I should share a few of my older poems.
What he said was good grammar
good tone, good smile
How much does an artichoke weigh
How much Truth Do You Want
How Hard do I Tap my Feet so he Hears I wanna be light
as a dancer on a drum
Do I sing or scream through my window
& how sweet do I make the sound?
The longer I stay the faster my forearms feel dumb
From him I inherit a thousand
tiny vases of jagged glass
in my gums and stutter
on the first word I think to say
and find there is nothing to express
-So I Leave
you are warmer than fever in
me that was
the wing-ed beast
of legend in
a moment that soft
every where I felt
it was how light
is so fast and
blind to itself.
Holy shit. My body is made from cheese. I’m cheesy. So much so, in fact, that the Earth’s gravity will let go of me. It’s happening tomorrow. The moon will take me. I’ll stick to it like bird shit on the bench you’re trying to sit on.
The Moon. The Mothership. A whole giant rock made of Me. I’ll throw the man on the moon a retirement party. He’ll ask what the final straw was that made the Earth eject me. I’ll show him part 1 of this poem and he’ll say that’s not so bad. Watch this.
“In the age of romance and chivalry, steam seeped through open hearts now it’s a gas leak up the nose and on fire. Love is now combustible. Love is now the library. Love is now the golden gilded spine of ancient text.
July 1st 2017.”
like: “love is now the library”
dislike: “ancient text”
Here’s the new version. As you can see, I’ve added a title and altered the imagery. This poem did not undergo a heavy edit, and that’s okay. Sometimes, I write a long poem only to keep one or two lines, or images, or ideas. Other times, like in this case, I keep it mostly the same.
King Arthur was a Tragedy
In the age of romance and chivalry
steam seeped through open hearts
now it’s a gas leak.
Up the nose.
Love is now combustible.
Love is now the library.
Love is now the golden
gilded spine of mildew books
that bury in your head
songs and hatchets alike.
you only commit to illusions like me
pulling fists from my pockets
but they’re bees
in your stomach
your mouth is full with the honey of my language
yes, it’s Crimson and Clover
dripping over and over
you ran up the alp to whip your heart in shape
but worked too hard
it’s over zealous
you caught a bird in your hands
who flew you south for the winter
now your blood’s with the crows
and you’ll never learn my syntax
In Subplot, Seeking Help
From: Damsel Underwhelmed
all my poetry is about romance
isn’t that totally gross?
i mean, i run my phone down to 24% in a day
for a notification or a gif or a meme
with this that the other person’s charming face
good god when comes the part where i don’t look for trouble, it finds me?
and Wait there’s more, i have no blood
i have no herbs to add in my tea
i have no spellbound trickster leaves
i have no flapping stomach bees
i have this sexy actor meme
i want to be the meanest woman and i want to be forgiven immediately.
only one person can fall hopeless and it’s the guy in the produce aisle.