Autumn Follows SummerI always thought the leaveswould never fall,that summer would last forever,and I'd stay long enoughto see you smile.I always thought the starswould kiss me to sleep each night,that the sun would wait an extra hour,and you'd sleep by my sidein the moonlight.I never thought the raindropswould prove such poor confidantes;they dried faster than my tearsand I couldn't tell them all thesecrets that I'd kept from you.I never thought the snowflakeswould melt into my sorrows;they blanketed the grounds quicklyand I couldn't find the path tohelp me escape the past I'd lead with you.I never thought the leaveswould fall, like I fellfor you, but time played trickswith my heart, and autumn followedsummer, after all.
Making MemoriesI am making memorieswith holes in the placeswhere you could have been,and taking photosmarked with little X'swhere your face would be.Perhaps I will startmarking my eyeswith dots or crossesso that everywhere I lookI can't help but noticethat you're not here.Or perhaps I will cutthe little finger offfrom my left handso that I can't forget -so that I'll always knowthat something isn't there.
Storm in a Tea-cupHe handed me a stormin a tea-cup, his grey-blackeyes smiling at me like nightswithout stars. The cup said"Drink me", so I did.It tasted like coffee mixedwith agony instead of milk;he smiled with his teethbut not his eyes, and leftme with a storm in myveins, a night without stars.
I'mlosingmytouchtouchmeso I caved inand youyou reemergedresplendent in rubblethe alwaysperfect strangerplaying baitbut it's the silenceyou're stillhooked onlast nightI dreamt a parasitedissolved in salt watertodayI splayed myself on concreteconcerned 'bout explanationsthese are the same shakesthese are the same shakesyou should be ashamedsnakesI'm tired of shed skinin lover's clothing
placing you in picturesI dream such small dreamsskin to skin upon wakingplease say you'll come home
I don't have any rules so....from here on outall poems are madefor dancingfrom there on inI only writefor:pretty girlswho can't readsmiling boyswho like boyswho don't like boys(and are okay with that)each perfect little princessparading foreign continentswith words that drip like honeyscripting feelingunashamedactive youthages unbornthroughthought deceasedthose with time to kill(they always make the best of me)the ever faithful strangerall armsas largeas lifethat itchunder skinand the skeletons in my throat
The First Movement-I left my lover on the floor,arms bent like a lamp cord.He said to me things weredifferent looking up;the ceiling was brighter,my eyes were lit up.And he sank into sand tiles,his hands were raw and waiting,and waiting.-
Bathtub EscapadeI am writing this to youdrunk,From a bathtub in Jerusalem.This room is goldlike the city itself:stone sitting smuglyon strata pedestalslooking down haughtilyat my scrawny form:Scribbling egointo scraps. scripts. dusty dreams.Humming historyTill tongue is soakedin movements and images ofpeople burying all mysteryin the same old void.I was speaking tothe Rabbis wife tonight,Slurring my wordsand cursing myselfand only thinking aboutThe dead bird stuck in the Wailing WallIts beak jammed in therelike a personal love letterto God,its wings flapping like dead weights.From here the world looks grey.The faucet dripping behinda backdrop of spinal chordand emerging puddle,The edges of our world are desiccated.In a land that has been ravished, raped, bastardized,I dont go hunting for boundariesSo in my mind,let us live hereUnspoiledsyllables spilling softlydrunk with the drip.Drip.Drip.of this golden tapin this golden city.
Rita Hayworth is 90 nowThe old man sat shoelessOn the side of Grayton CrossThe dust on his face and hands madeHim blackAnd white alongside the stripesOf orangeIn the tired sky.It was April, and still too early toPut away the animalsI slid downBy him and acceptedHis yellow cigarettes.Somewhere buried in the paper of his pocketsLay stale pictures of the dead"Remember Ms. Farrell?" he spit outA little too quickly, landingDried pieces of his lipsOnto my bare feet"Older than me but pretty as a statueremember that?"I could pictureThis woman, frozenIn one placeSitting easily within a smileLike my mothers'.The red in her hairHad faded with the heat and dustOf 60 years.Then down to my own elasticThighs, the tightWrap of my ankles snappingWith early springtime wind.I licked the dust off my lipsIn an effort to talk to this secretMan smoking inside the evening mudBut nothing was pulled out.Later he asked againBy that time I was too grayAnd it was time for night.
If I Were A LineIf I were a lineI think Id be curled,billowed and swirled,and slowly unfurled.Id sweep over a page,if I were a line,with the wind in my hair,and my heart laid bare.Thats what Id be,if I were a line.If I were a spotId be round and fat(now how about that?)like an old, well-fed cat.Id have drizzled and dropped,if I were a spot,pittering and patteringwith a slight hint of smattering.Thats what Id be,if I were a spot.If I were a colourId be a rich red,like a painted deathbedor a sword to the head.Id lunge for macabre,if I were a colour,made oh-so dramatic,my thoughts all sporadic.Thats what Id be,if I were a colour.But I am a human,so pale and flawed,and easily bored,(wishing I was adored).I twist and bend(these hinges, you see?);my shape is no otherthan the one I can be;My colour, it changesalmost constantly,because I am a human:a human thats me.
i can't tell you, or my hearti can't tell if:this heart pain is a side effectof the music or the medicinei can't tell if:these tears are realor just placebos to distract mefrom the real problemi can tell that:this poetry is a result of you
LifeIve seen the world with these two eyes.A movie played inside my mind.Ive traveled the seas in half the timeWithout ever leaving home.Ive spread my wings but didnt flyIve touched heaven, but I didnt dieHad the chance to ask God whyWithout ever receiving an answer.Ive count the stars and made to tenLost track and had to start again.People laughed, but thats how we make friendsWithout ever knowing their name.Ive loved completely and watched them leaveI tell the storysome dont believeLet them go or did you flee?Without seeing what tomorrow brings.Ive cried like I would never smileWalked in darkness for half a mileSaw the sun in the distance for a small whileWithout ever feeling its rays.Ive walked the beachestasted the breezeThere was a time that Ive felt free.Touched my soul and let life beWithout any regrets to hold.Ive laughed until I could not breatheGasped for air a
As IfIf you can hold your drink when all about youare 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 debatingand 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 plasteredand shout at passing women dirty names;if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrowof how you acted like a total fooland caused your girl to sob in shame and sorrowwhen you picked up that tart from LiverpoolIf you can take your childrens Christmas moneyand risk it on one turn of pitch and tossand lose, and laugh like it was funnyand never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force yourself just to continueto drink another pint of foaming aleand stay upright whe
affection driveIf I recycledthe love littered at your feet hearts would starve no more.
if you should prefer...I'm not angryI'm a severed handwith manicured nailsan open letterscatteredeverywherehe wants to drown in your sunshineI'm pulling stringsconnectedto pinsconnectedto limbsin placeit's nightwhere your heartshould beI'm not beautifulI'm a tantrumin throwsthis nose is knownto knoweverythinglike those first whispered bedroom wordsI'm a lowmissing consonantsoundwith no constantaroundreapunsownstumbling
Description of a PoemThoughts on paper,Emotions in ink.Verse that showsWhat the artist may think.Not just wordsThat rhyme or not.It's a writer's emotion,Their deepest thought.To write great poetrySo deep and true,It must come from emotionsDeep inside of you.What you feel is what you write.It helps to let it all out.It's the perfect outletFor those who don't scream and shout.Do not be afraidTo let the world know.Say what you think,And let your emotions go.
Lobotomy for BeginnersIt wasnt the windowless room,the edges of the walls mixing with harsh lightwhile waiting for the doctors knock.Or the sweat-leather straps and buckles braided into her hair.It wasnt the operating utensils on the steel tray,the scalpel that looked more like a butter knifeand the drill plugged in, lying on the floor.Or even the way the doctor complimented her posture,as if a stiff chin was more valuable than a working brain.And it wasnt the taste of copper that filled her mouthbefore she closed her eyes, not wanting to seehim squint at the black dot sketchedin the center of her foreheadbefore picking at it like a tender scab.It was the way she sang My Country Tis of Thee,forcing words out after each prod of the ice pick, soft lips flinchinguntil the tool garbled her song to silenceand the surgery finally stopped.
Love AlphabetThe amour that tinges the air,Blood, beating round my veins.To conclude my combing of society,This dastardly deed must be finished.Each and everyone has to have been seen,Friends, foes and those in between.Groaning under each extra gram of no.My heart must be heated soon,The ignition on the inside.But with the juggling of my job,And life, I know the key is hard to find.The leaping of my soul lately,Means that I might be close.Not knowing how near though,Is the only omen I have.Peculiar looks, with a lot of patience,From one queen, to the next queer person,Raiding and rumbling over acres of earth.Soon, my search will be over.The right time will occur,Under strange circumstances, untilThe blood in my veins will be more volatile.We will find him soon enough.His X and Y chromosomes, playing a xylophone,I will say yes. He will say yes.Our hearts will zoom into the same zone.
existentialist pick ups...where have I been all my life?
Ink StainThe poem is all too plain, but IAm intricately constructed,Octopus armed and lazy fingered,Some great mass growing greater,More spineless with eachInking. You ask, what is it called?And what is the point of it anyway?The oceanographer researches, responds,States the purpose is immeasurable.I offer:One. Distraction,Two. Smoke screen, andThree. Mass confusion.But darling, I am nautilus, andMy tentacles areImaginary.God gave me eight limbs: two arms, two legs,The rest, male, you can imagine,Two labia (why all this counting?), and a clitoris,An umbilical cord suspended, and in its place,I grew a pen.Its got no fancy name; its called an ink sac,A weapon that I have no sense toClaim nor comprehend. And to the numbers?To the years since, to the fingers,Diligent fingers that have entered, exited,And dispersed.
The Laughter of Ducksfisherman and soncatching nothing but minnowsand the laughter of ducks
The PastThe past is behindBut I still feel the ripplesDisrupting my flow.