apocalypsos: (Default)
Okay, I think I have this one done, but like the haiku I'm open to suggestions.


Kiss With A Fist

Tight abs,
smooth skin,
those divots of muscle
toned and honed
Hold firm, still, strong,
a granite catcher's mitt
for a balled-up fist.

You think of Houdini with
each thump and whoosh,
muscle and bone against muscle and bone.
Houdini died because he wasn't
you, didn't expect a punch
at all hours, didn't see those
scarred knuckles comin'.

People compliment your whipcord middle,
your rope-a-dope stomach,
so you make up an exercise regimen,
one with fewer poundings, less torn flesh,
no bruised kidneys or bloody urine.

Whenever you claim yoga class, you lick
the forever taste of copper from your
lips, your teeth, the red-raw ridges
of your gums.

You're envied, your twine-and-wire physique,
your running-away legs.
No one ever asks you why you're running,
or in which direction,
or why you go back for more, more, more:
shredded skin, blue-black contusions, shards
of teeth like ground china in your mouth.

You'll throw the final punch one day,
your silent bloody answer.
apocalypsos: (i saw daddy kissing christmas troy)
So I'm currently editing the poetry I'm going to submit with my portfolio for my creative writing final. The first one is a haiku. I wasn't going to submit a haiku, but I wrote this in class and it got a great reaction. Any suggestions are more than welcome, for this and any of the other poetry I'm going to work on today. :)



Abandoned market
Each time I hear a siren
I hope it's on fire.
apocalypsos: (Default)
First up, haikus!



Yowling Siamese
crying in the kitchen -- stop
it, I just fed you.



Cinnamon candy
A blaze across my tongue, this
compact inferno



A swig of Pepsi,
two handfuls of Frosted Flakes
-- this is a breakfast?


And another poem I wrote based on some artwork we viewed in the library.

Cut for triggery miscarriage stuff )
apocalypsos: (Default)
More poetry!



Come out, come out, wherever you are.
That's a joke, of course - we know you're in there,
pants off and laptop on,
streaming British panel shows on YouTube
or writing another unpublished novel.
Now put down the gay male werewolf erotica,
abandon that enormous bag of chips, shove
the purring cat off your lap and
come out, come out, wherever you are

To the bar, the mall, a fancy restaurant
To the front stoop of your cousin's boyfriend's house,
where the beer flows like a burst pipe
and the conversation sparks like July 4th
in the crackling winter air.
Come out, come out,
to the curb outside your own front door,
to the fresh air, the outside world,
to any damn place you want
where people gather to laugh,
packed tight like coffee stirrers
or loose and scattered like spilled sequins,
where people swill water or liquor,
snack and chat and interact,
out in the wide unguarded open.

Just please, please, we're begging you here,
come out, come out, wherever you are.


Make It Work

Boy meets girl; Boy measures girl's inseam.
Boy pitters and patters over beige tattered patterns
and hires seamstresses with sharp eyes to shear and to shape.
Boy sticks straight pins in swatches, matches made-up models
with trimmed hems and notched necklines.
Then Boy presents a collection of sublime perfection
to a girl who stalks the runway
or might like to, given half a chance.


Kiss With A Fist

Tight abs,
smooth skin,
those divots of muscle
toned and honed
Hold firm, still, strong,
a granite catcher's mitt
for a balled-up fist.

You think of Houdini with
each thump and whoosh,
muscle and bone against muscle and bone.
Houdini died because he wasn't
you, didn't expect a punch
at all hours, didn't see those
scarred knuckles comin'.

People compliment your whipcord middle,
your rope-a-dope stomach,
so you make up an exercise regimen,
one with fewer poundings, less torn flesh,
no bruised kidneys or bloody urine.

You're envied, your twine-and-wire physique,
your running-away legs.
Too bad no one ever asks why you're running.
apocalypsos: (i think that's going to leave a mark)
I wrote this today for next weekend's creative writing class. I know Mouse is the other poem I want to bring in, but I'm not sure which one I want to workshop and which I want to turn in to my teacher for him to go over.


Depression, n.: A pressing down

I have an announcement to make
to the aunt who called me lazy
for napping away my weekends
and the mom who ordered me to stop sobbing
over my fourth locked car tire in a month.
I'd like to have your undivided attention –
no, not to have another breakdown over
a Thanksgiving speeding ticket
or to flunk out of college all over again.
We need to have a serious talk about
that time I burst into lonely
childless tears over
my cousin's new baby –
no, the other time;
no, the time after that.
You should all be informed
I knock back Lexapro like Smarties,
combat your casual racism with Xanax,
have walked a mile uphill during
my very first panic attack because of
you, all of you.
I'd like to tell the world
how I know by heart the ten feet, three inches
from my front door to the impacted grill
of a speeding Mack truck.
I'd like to thank you all for that sweet loving way
I chased my breath in fitful starts on your kitchen floor
and you apologized to your party guests,
“Oh, that's just my daughter, the
shameless attention whore.”
You all deserve a medal, it can't be said enough,
for that handful of pills, those shiny
new bullets, that polished
razor blade all for me,
and those overflowing ounces of
satisfying sympathy.
apocalypsos: (i am surprised by you)
This one is based on a prompt to write about a character from a movie, TV show, cartoon, etc. I picked Twilight. ;)


So this one night I slip into this girl's bedroom,
a handsome specter, a dreamy shadow,
a teenage girl's ultimate fantasy
if you don't count the stalking.

Or maybe you're supposed to count the stalking.
Maybe it's hot when teenage boys aren't
really teenage boys but age-old monsters.
Maybe it's sexy to
rip smooth cheeks and girlish lashes
off the cover of Tiger Beat
(if people still read that)
and stick lashes and cheeks on a boy
who's got no problem committing
B&E and "peeping Tom" crimes.

What do I see in her, anyway?
Is it the empty mind, or the unlocked window?



For six months they employ me as a house mouse,
curled in a tight ball
in my dusty cubby of a bedroom.

They hired me for my shyness, my tremulous fear, that sneaky
tip-toe dance I perform every morning as
I escape.

I don't start fights. That's a bonus.

I possess a degree in doormat science, can lie
motionless for days, weeks, months as
people walk all over me.

My qualifications are my smallness, that admirable way
I don't get in the way, my ability to take a blow.
I can note my insult-proof skin on future resumes.

I get a deduction for living out of the deli fridge
at the mini-mart, for subsisting on hard-boiled eggs and
instant oatmeal, cheesecake bars and the cheap soda.

I haven't seen the inside of a kitchen in six months.

I type 75 escape routes per minute, but I'm still here.
They pay me well, in pure gold condescension.
apocalypsos: (Default)

My breaks are my time,
me and a book
me and my music
me and a chai.
I prop up two plastic chairs,
one to sit on, one for my feet,
and dive into a good book,
focus with practiced intent
on a soppy romance or
true tales of sordid crimes.
I though I looked forward to this,
to a trashy novel and
some bubblegum pop.
But I was wrong.
I'm a snob, see - I don't
love my books in short ravenous bursts,
or use my headphones as an effective shield.
You get it, don't you?
That I really want your attention,
that I walked past your crowded table
and sat alone because
I need you.
You understand, I know you do,
because you interrupted me and
dragged away my headphones,
and told me this much more fascinating story about
your spoiled kid and her irritating
cell phone.
apocalypsos: (i am surprised by you)
*stomach growls*



How I begin to make my tea is,
I sneer in disgust at the
economy-sized box of Lipton bags
at the coffee station at work.
I like my tea like I like my men,
loose and free and bursting with flavor,
and preferably not scrapped off the floor
of some faraway factory,
lawnmower leavings and sawdust flakes
dumped into cheap teabags.
I take my tea with
four packets of shame and
two tiny plastic tubs of discomfort,
paper sleeves of Splenda and restaurant-grade creamer,
the only things I can afford to enjoy,
my spoiled taste buds ruined forever.
apocalypsos: (i'm walking in the doorway)
This is another poem I wrote today. I may or may not use it for next weekend's class, but we'll see. I have a feeling I'll write more poems between now and then.

(I totally blame my teacher for this sudden OMG MUST WRITE ALL THE POETRY jones. He's kind of awesome.)


First Visit to the Gay Bar

In the parking lot she asks,
“Can I tell them I'm with you?”
And I shrug because – well, why not?
Tell them we met online on some quirky blog
For biker chicks or knitters.
Tell them we saw each other at that Thai place,
That I picked out all my peanuts
And you scattered them on your salad.
If anyone asks,
Say we first kissed in your bedroom,
Sweet and silent and dear,
With your mom downstairs watching “Jeopardy”.
Make up some story about our first time,
How you'd never been with another girl
And you giggled as you fumbled
With my broken bra clasp.
They won't ask, but go ahead –
Tell them we march in parades,
Make lame jokes about U-hauls,
And show them pictures of our “kids,” the cats.
No one's going to check your credentials,
But you can kiss me if you want:
A light buss on the cheek,
Something more if you're brave.
Pretend we're engaged, or – hell,
Invite the bartender to our New York wedding.
We're getting married in a month –
We're in love,
Haven't you heard?
And if all else fails,
Hold onto my hand and just
Smile, smile, smile
If you're so damn afraid
Of another girl calling you beautiful.
apocalypsos: (i'm walking in the doorway)
I have to turn in at least two drafts of poems next week -- one for my teacher and one to get workshopped. I think I'm handing in this one to be workshopped.



Invisible in the driver's seat
So I can bop along with Gaga like I'm in the club
Wiggle my hips like it's a drunken wedding reception.
I can belt out Adele, Florence + the Machine, Queen
a little bit of everything
I can sing like I can sing
I've got a sterling record contract and everything.
No one can see me
So I don't have to feel even a ounce of shame
When as an itty bitty white girl from an itty bitty white town
I drawl, “Aw, yeah, that's my jam,” over something like
Will Smith – or worse, Vanilla Ice.
There's a force field around the driver's seat
That hides the fact I'm wearing the paper crown
From my Big Kid's Meal all the way home.
(It's a present from Burger King, see –
Restrain those empty calories and get a paper hat
and a small stuffed penguin that squeaks when you squeeze it.)
I'm in another dimension when I'm driving
Where no one can see me yelling at the DJ
For implying that Santorum isn't that much of a bigot,
Or saying without shame that she loves Twilight
It's a textbook for stalking, for Pete's sake.
Hidden away behind clear windows in a public place
No one can see me pretend to give interviews
to People and Entertainment Weekly
About my glorious writing career
And how glad I am about the casting in the
film adaptation of my first book.
(I take lunch with one of the guys from Supernatural now –
isn't that the best?)
In the driver's seat I disappear,
Hopefully every single time
I prefer not to break down and sob in public some days.


apocalypsos: (Default)
tatty bojangles

July 2017

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