I thought I'd post some of my poetry and shit here, because I'm bored and I can't sleep. Nothing new, some of you have seen it before, but I like second opinions.
intellectual snob
out for a walk on the week before summer of my 16th summer of the
most hectic beautiful disconsolate summer of my life
too ready to see too ready to hear too ready to believe.
walking memorized with my pearl headphones attached to my
gramophone walkman cd player mp3 player ipod accessories not included have a lovely day
techno music from some tripped up band thumping bumping groaning grinding
in my eardrums in my cerebrum in the space between my spine
I feel petty I feel weak I feel muderous vulnerable pathetic enraged
I feel like wicked wantonness, my upper lip tastes of salt and smoke and catharsis.
sweat gathering under my hair under my fingernails under every cell in my entire body
sweat gathering in the crook of my elbow, the back of my neck, behind my knees
underneath my oversized jeans
handmade in Mexico thank you very much senorita,
your nimble honeyed fingers which have touched a thousand eyes
sewing dutifully the blue denim faded like the night.
surrounded by light, yellowed, dying, chrystalized light casting shadows
giving me three in front in back to my side,
my guardians my stalkers the hollow men of Eliot's nightmare
swinging the plastic bag embracing Ginsberg and Yeats paperbacks only
thinking of the world we live in just like an intellectual snob would do
where watching the news is global negative reinforcement
where victims of car accidents are listed in a bathroom stall on the second
floor outside my history classroom
where a little girl thinks homosexuality is weird simply because females are given a different name
where the phrase 'just nuke em' is heard at least thrice a day
where hair can be the same color as a radiation bomb
where a young girl writes poetry in the nude with the hum of the air condition and the voice of her mother saying 'let them eat cake' you know, she didn't actually say that 'then what did she say?' nothing really. i dunno.
'bonjour,' mum said, 'let zem eat cakke.'
you're bitter and you're desperate and that's okay that's okay
you're hostile and you're inauspicious and that's okay that's okay
you're twisted and you're shitfaced and that's okay that's okay
and Bowie in your ear singing whispering shrieking breathing
that it's been so long it's been so long
you're naiive Eve jugglin' with His apples
you're selfish Faustus dancin' with the devil
you're ambitous Caesar who ain't seen it comin'
you are yourself i am myself we are the meteors about to collide with the might of a million suns.
--Gemma Solomons
05.28.05
like a Hemingway novel
You're thinking of a world:
where laughter is like the smell of blood and tears are shaped like semi-automatic rifles
and everyone who is anyone is beautiful and young and faceless
and every picture frame is crooked as is every politician and beauty queen
they're all beauty queens and chain gangs and the sight of dirt underneath your fingertips is like a sign
from God and nothing is as it seems except when it is
in your world it rains all the time except at six o'clock on a friday afternoon when the birds come out
and the crocodile feasts
the impassioned words of a poet dead decades before
glitter on the page writing about loving war and warring love and
everything in between as though life was just about
emotions and not about timing
it's all about timing
just ask the dying man blind but capable of seeing the ticking clock to it's last detail
or
just listen to the desperate babble of a homeless man shrieking about the end the end the apocalypse and God no time to say goodbye hello i'm late i'm late i'm late
your world is like a Hemingway novel
and women sit on the edge of bathtubs and seduce the tile wall
and draw veins on their faces and shadows under their eyes
and paint their lips the color of a bruise
it's a world of apathy and longing we shall fit in like a glove
a world of empty stomachs and drunk on church wine
and the infants ask the age old questions
where are we going?
what do we live for?
excuse me, do you have the time?
how many devils can boogie on the tip of a syringe?
there's a woman floating in a pool of leeches beckoning and whispering
'i'm gonna letcha in on a secret, mi amigos. The exoskeleton and the nucleus are our very best friends.'
who's that creeping 'round the corner not mack the knife but the unholy ghost
you read horror tales as bedtime stories and the monsters under your beds are just your decapitated dreams
and your parents arguements are nothing but dust and the fingers in your ears are nothing but wind
my friends, can your heart stand the shocking facts about the grave robbers from outer space?
and that's the worst that's the worst of it oh dear i think i'm rambling again
oh wait not rambling but rampaging across the deserted road
where is Vincent Price and Bela Lugosi when you need them, hey?
in your world fish have horns and devils have wings and guns have spikes and
the prophets are just lurking lurking waiting for their time to strike to hit you over the head then run
and we don't want to hear it anymore
--Gemma Solomons
o7.o2.o5
Sometimes Smells of Honeysuckle
Virtue is brown, not even in the spectrum.
We don't die in our streets, we die in our homes.
We die for our tilted royalty and their sharpened beaks.
I'm missing the hammer, I'm missing the chain.
And through the void of sin, I hear on the radio,
Someone crying:
'We know the order of order,
and the order of disorder.'
And struts the tiger, all a-doom and gloom.
His padded paws achingly silent on the stained carpet.
His eyes, like burnt-out lightbulbs in a dingy pub toilet.
He comes to me, and grins his tiger grin. His teeth are diamonds.
'Run,' he says, 'or I will eat your life.'
I can't, says I, for I haven't any feet.
'Hide,' he says, 'or I will eat your life.'
I can't, says I, for I haven't any hands.
He pounces--
Coughing lightning. Wheezing thunder. Spitting fire.
Infecting the lob-sided princess with his manic grin,
And I realize it is the cancer itself.
--Gemma Solomons
05.05.05
The Epitome of Animosity
But you are wrong, so sorely mistaken.
Heaven isn't a place but a time, from when
You wake to when you fall, but nothing in between.
And Hell isn't a place but feeling,
So difficult to detect, so easy to ignore, so cold it burns.
Hell washes over us as Heaven passes us by.
Your tales so thick and heavy,
Clogging my veins like poison.
The lies hang over us like smoke behind closed doors.
But I can't see your eyes so I stare at your hands,
Covered in wrinkles, each one spreading out
Like the branches of a dying tree.
And you're not quite twisted but thoroughly bent,
Like an African sickle, gripped in the hands
Of an ancient warrior, ready to strike from behind.
--Gemma Solomons
Date unknown to me
Yeah, I'm planning on writing some new stuff soon, and by soon, I mean whenever I'm inspired. Just so you know, my attitude towards each poem posted here decreases as it goes down, so the ones I like are first.