Tag: poet

Misery

Misery has a halting melody, a rubbery and filthy chord clamoring like chlamydia through throngs of joylessness. I’ve brought my blue sequin shoes to dance, and truly the coagulated chorus matches my hot and discombobulated body perfectly, but I feel self-conscious as my nipples perk up in the tearful rain. Across a bridge of bone, holographic islands dreaming in opalescent bays. I want to travel somewhere original and thrilling, but I find myself lost like the balloon I had for a moment as a child, pink, precious, poppable.

The Accounting and Finance Departments- a poem

Mimeographed Mondays blow around the office of my life in an ancient, unnerving breeze. My boss is capricious and vain. I’m fairly certain the accounting and finance departments are trying to bend me over and make me their bitch. The whole place smells like my grandmother’s carpet. I dream of a beach far away, monochromatic and silent.

Desires

Surprisingly, Death’s door is butter yellow with a pink butterfly wreath. My alter ego is drunk in my neighbor’s garden, touching her pansies in the most unbecoming way. When I cross Death’s threshold tonight in the lingerie I bought at the discount department store, the fraying rayon pulling taut over my eagerness, all my menstrual blood will gush out of the house. My terror will be the breeze on your back as you stand on my grave and say, “Where did you put my satisfaction?”

I Will Never Get What I Want

Irregular dreams snag on the rough edges of my mind. Fortune favors the invited. At the gold boundaries of my name, the breath of my lover moistens me like a valley. One dream is moldy. Another is antiquated. Still another dream is dripping with purple amoebas. But all of them collect on my edges, and I begin to crumble from desire. I will never get what I want. My wishes party like reprobates on the front lawn of Destiny, and they didn’t invite me.

Inspiration- or Crime and Punishment

The raindrops watch me furtively, avoiding my thirsty skin as they fall. The elevator will go down and down until the dead are dancing on you. The resin ballerina at the old wrought iron gate at the precipice of punishment resonates with me. Please commute my sentence or send me to the joy mines. Elegance and Grace get drunk off old rose at my great pearl table.  In the yard with the whip cream colored unicorns, lightning licks little Lisa with bolts of genius like bolts of fabric to stretch over the folds of her cerebrum.  Rainbows croon in every euphoric hue.





The Future Comes to Collect

The future comes to collect minutes from my aging face. Mitosis carries out in every cell to the rhythm of Bailamos. The code corrupts like a politician. The future wears a blue gown and a crimson pelerine. Minutes vacuumed off the edge of my life now will make daisies grow in the future.  I tell her to take them. My bones walked off the job, and I’ve been melting into new days. From the back of my telepathic woods, the past comes to compete for my guilt and my telomeres.

Succulent Batteries

China chips at a touch in this no woman’s land of despicable hungers. In the parlor, Good and Evil spurning their tools of trade. This text is a flashlight in a dark, resentful woods. This text is  a bridge between the two factions of my consciousness. This text is an apology to the blue underside of memory. On the river, the dead decay loudly. But here in the house I give birth to baby’s breath. Good smokes pungent herbs on my back porch telling stories of his youth in New England. Evil sucks the juice from my most succulent batteries. Everywhere satisfaction is missing.