Notes on Hibernation
There are certain cells
that are quiet as cats, laying down
their small curvatures of course dark decrescendos
arcing across the landscapes of my body.
Transformation!
Let us lift up our hands
(which are merely the delicate evolution of leaves)
and laud the great silence. Let us spread our toes
and ease our roots, craggling into the frostbitten concrete,
seeking heat, that steam that once lay so heavy on our shoulders.
(how soon we forget,
the thick ropes of summer).
Once or twice,
When I waited for death to notice me,
I made brief acquaintance with the frozen lake.
I saw it in a series of mirrors, obscured
by the dashboard and wisps of smoke
from my grandfather’s brand of cigarette.
My reflection did not surface
and no answer awaited me ashore.
(such a luxury
to expect the fleecy sheets of sympathy.
such indulgence
to think that those chemicals squatting in my blood
were to make a home of me.)
You are not what you were,
little sister,
little self.
The Moon and the Sailor’s Wife
How natural, it seems,
in our youth, to bear our throats
to the splendid jaws of love.
How logical
to lay our hands on the thorn of a stem
so that we might retrieve it’s bloom.
How practical,
to call the names of old gods into our mirrors
and watch for wisps of vengeful shades,
whispering prayers, blundering through
bygone incantations.
I have been charting
the slow exhibitions and censorships of the moon.
She choose orange for her debut.
(What was she thinking?
What was I expecting?)
I would not compare you to a sailor, Stewart,
but you wander like one.
You curse like one.
You have been known to taste of salt and clove oranges.
Your hands, your stocky fingers,
Ten suspects of indulgence,
align themselves across keys
which fluoresce for you, just
for you.
I want to yearn for you
like an old sea hag.
I want to twist my stomach into nautical knots and bows
until your return, frayed satin
on the attic floor.
the fleet
each month, another poem:
the envelope sealed and sent through
this tube
or that.
they are a litter of sea turtles, stumbling toward
the rabid maw of the tide.
they are moon worshippers, the bald ascetics,
a crop of virgins led to sacrifice,
a thousand others wait in the harbors
to unfurl their sails.
my womb must be
the edge of the world,
that little sailor,
that lonely Magellan
topples off the edge
into such a coppery sea.
What a swamp of tangled roots.
It is loosed,
deposited,
set adrift
it must seem to some
a graveyard, an ocean
of ghosts that were never living long enough
for a fleet of mourners.
(this is what aches.)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
write me in--11/24/09
i always wanted to be a figment of imagination,
a doll in the attic, mint at first glance,
but lined with saliva and falling apart
at each disjointed seam.
the poet is a whore, no better
than the freudian voodoo doll that you keep
under your pillow, no grander
than the magazine squeezed under your box spring.
so write me in, stewart. i have been dying
to be in a class rage fairy tale.
fitzgerald's glamour in salinger's squalor.
i'm a costume jewelry diamond necklace,
the grand dame's folly.
and so, for the gods of comedy,
you'll sacrifice me on the altar of belly laughs
and alligator tears. imagine it!
the college dropout in connecticut,
the librarian in LA.
the lemon in your eye
(spit take)rousing applause. the camera loves you,
baby doll.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
ghosts (9/3)
ghosts
Stewart and I made love, and the fog climbed into bed with us
casting white shadows on pale figures.
I can read your thoughts, Stewart:
too many times have you put me in daisy gardens,
too many times have I seen a blur of myself
trumpeting through the woods.
Too many times have you pictured me as I was.
In my mind, though,
I am always near the frozen lake
under a yellow light
and in that stillness, I search for you beneath the ice.
I am always birthing something.
Stewart and I made love, and the fog climbed into bed with us
casting white shadows on pale figures.
I can read your thoughts, Stewart:
too many times have you put me in daisy gardens,
too many times have I seen a blur of myself
trumpeting through the woods.
Too many times have you pictured me as I was.
In my mind, though,
I am always near the frozen lake
under a yellow light
and in that stillness, I search for you beneath the ice.
I am always birthing something.
martha in europe
Martha in Europe
I.
That summer, I travelled alone,
like we all must do when we grow old.
I cut a perfect diagonal line across Europe
for once, all things were exact.
I left my home without any promise of return.
I made ghosts of my furniature, of photographs,
of the moose head mounted on the wall.
Of course, I asked nothing of the mirror anymore
I already knew it's answer.
II.
In Germany, I wandered with a pocket of coins
(out of all of these countries, it was most like home.)
I passed by his old apartment, wherein I once came apart
stripped and shaved.
I shed enough blood to keep his heart alive for twenty minutes,
drunk on his roommate's stolen beer.
Maybe I wanted to be captured. I was in a dark womb, so
maybe I craved the adreniline rush in that moment before death.
When you taste the wet paper of cabbages and bruised sausages
and you see the shadows over the faces of everyone you've known.
I did not enter that room, charm the new tenant,
some leggy fraulein to see it one more time
I was looking for something more unexpected.
III.
England should have stoned me for my sins
but I lay alone in the heath, thinking of the hill where
I had once made love constantly for an entire month in autumn
with a boy who gave me nothing but sweetness and black tea
which I, of course, clouded with milk.
In a red birdcage of a phone booth, I dialed
he answered and his glasses lay on the coffee table.
We did not undress. We did not wish to see what we had become.
"Martha, my dear. What happened to us?"
was what the phantom whispered.
I did not reply, I just tasted his withered lips
and watched the rabbits dance in his garden
and listened to his record player skip.
In the state I was in, I couldn't say:
"Oh, my gentleman, I could have you
but I do not want you."
IV.
I put on my black dress and headed south
for Greece, maybe Sicily
if time would allow. I never felt
in those days when I wore the red bathing cap
that I ever had enough time.
My skin, still too pale for that region
made them stare, that, at least,
had not changed.
What I was looking for was unattainable. I knew that.
Through new moon sunglasses, I watched
drunk on torsos and stomachs, I sunk
into the Mediterranean, careful not to let them study
my legs, think as olive trees with purple rivers
surfacing like cuneiform.
At sunset, when they had gone to kiss their sweethearts,
the village girls (dumb as kittens)
or play soccer in the foothills
I pressed my feet into their footprints
following their path at a slow pace.
I got a busboy drunk on the patio of my hotel room,
but I didn't dare to touch his face
(not even when he lolled his curly head onto my shoulder
and called me something that I knew had to mean "grandmother".)
I just looked to the stars and wept.
V.
Last of all, the Paris cemetery.
I'd gotten lost, but I had an old map and sturdy leather shoes.
I'd purchased nothing in that city to remember it by:
just train tickets
and a citron presse to stir
as if I needed to pass the time.
A transvestite in Montmartre read my palm
smacking her lips, she told me in broken English
that I had many more years to live.
I paid her and thanked her
but I did not believe her.
Another hotel, my last night on earth.
I could not sleep with the lights clamoring outside my window
like gawking angels waiting to watch me die.
The phone did not ring. God did not call to warn me
or offer me some last chance.
I crushed my cigarette,
and said good-night.
I.
That summer, I travelled alone,
like we all must do when we grow old.
I cut a perfect diagonal line across Europe
for once, all things were exact.
I left my home without any promise of return.
I made ghosts of my furniature, of photographs,
of the moose head mounted on the wall.
Of course, I asked nothing of the mirror anymore
I already knew it's answer.
II.
In Germany, I wandered with a pocket of coins
(out of all of these countries, it was most like home.)
I passed by his old apartment, wherein I once came apart
stripped and shaved.
I shed enough blood to keep his heart alive for twenty minutes,
drunk on his roommate's stolen beer.
Maybe I wanted to be captured. I was in a dark womb, so
maybe I craved the adreniline rush in that moment before death.
When you taste the wet paper of cabbages and bruised sausages
and you see the shadows over the faces of everyone you've known.
I did not enter that room, charm the new tenant,
some leggy fraulein to see it one more time
I was looking for something more unexpected.
III.
England should have stoned me for my sins
but I lay alone in the heath, thinking of the hill where
I had once made love constantly for an entire month in autumn
with a boy who gave me nothing but sweetness and black tea
which I, of course, clouded with milk.
In a red birdcage of a phone booth, I dialed
he answered and his glasses lay on the coffee table.
We did not undress. We did not wish to see what we had become.
"Martha, my dear. What happened to us?"
was what the phantom whispered.
I did not reply, I just tasted his withered lips
and watched the rabbits dance in his garden
and listened to his record player skip.
In the state I was in, I couldn't say:
"Oh, my gentleman, I could have you
but I do not want you."
IV.
I put on my black dress and headed south
for Greece, maybe Sicily
if time would allow. I never felt
in those days when I wore the red bathing cap
that I ever had enough time.
My skin, still too pale for that region
made them stare, that, at least,
had not changed.
What I was looking for was unattainable. I knew that.
Through new moon sunglasses, I watched
drunk on torsos and stomachs, I sunk
into the Mediterranean, careful not to let them study
my legs, think as olive trees with purple rivers
surfacing like cuneiform.
At sunset, when they had gone to kiss their sweethearts,
the village girls (dumb as kittens)
or play soccer in the foothills
I pressed my feet into their footprints
following their path at a slow pace.
I got a busboy drunk on the patio of my hotel room,
but I didn't dare to touch his face
(not even when he lolled his curly head onto my shoulder
and called me something that I knew had to mean "grandmother".)
I just looked to the stars and wept.
V.
Last of all, the Paris cemetery.
I'd gotten lost, but I had an old map and sturdy leather shoes.
I'd purchased nothing in that city to remember it by:
just train tickets
and a citron presse to stir
as if I needed to pass the time.
A transvestite in Montmartre read my palm
smacking her lips, she told me in broken English
that I had many more years to live.
I paid her and thanked her
but I did not believe her.
Another hotel, my last night on earth.
I could not sleep with the lights clamoring outside my window
like gawking angels waiting to watch me die.
The phone did not ring. God did not call to warn me
or offer me some last chance.
I crushed my cigarette,
and said good-night.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
random poetry from the last couple of weeks....
Listening to the Oldies Station at Work, July 2009
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it, let’s make it last.
I peered out through the weeds
(as Eve must have done with Adam)
and our eyes danced and shimmied like peacocks.
I walked past, and you got a bad case of vertigo
looking up my skirt.
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it, let’s make it last.
I’m glad I didn’t listen to my well-meaning Catholic mother
when she said “Nothing good happens after midnight.”
I’ll compulsively eat tic tacs and hope to god’s empty throne
that you don’t notice my tobacco-stained fingers.
Oh, for fuck’s sake
just kiss me
I’m ready!
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it
let’s make it last.
Let’s sleep in our clothes.
Let’s smoke two bowls.
Let’s make frozen pizza.
Let’s talk about Nietszche.
Let’s break in
end before we begin.
Baby, let’s dance
because it won’t last.
Ashing into an Empty Heineken Bottle, April 2009
Oh my god! You’re so punk rock!
Just try to squeeze that beer belly
into Joey Ramone’s skinny jeans.
It would be justice (she’s a sweetheart
but not too bright. Just your type.)
Oh my god!
The train is crashing through the toll booth
but it only made the sound of paper plates against linoleum
and a few shattered 40s.
So no one looked up from their magazines.
Oh my god!
You’ve got a pile of my discarded clothes in a plastic sack,
but you can keep them as personal relics of your failures.
Write a song about it, you son of a bitch,
make some of that food bank mac and cheese
and remember, the world is my ash tray
and my most convenient spot, your sock drawer.
El Dorado
I thought the cup was overflowing
but the wine had run dry.
We walked home from the party
as if we were tearing down Parisian alleyways.
I whirled like a kaleidoscope
and you popped like a cork.
In this orgy of mirrors,
everyone is beautiful.
and we emerge with red ears
and bitten bottom lips.
It is the carnival of eternal youth
but I have a secret…
I watched our fuse burn
and it was short
disintegrating into ash.
Virus
Once a satyr put a curse on me,
one autumn night in his sticky grove.
There were no magical apples to cure me,
no handsome prince could lift it,
no fairy godmother to baptize me
and make me pure again.
Morning in the leper colony:
a dog waits at the gate
dreaming of mangling a man like a chicken.
I crawl from my cave
begging for scraps of food from your table.
I clutch the brim of your hat:
“Please, sir! Make me pure again!”
but you ran shrieking down the hot black streets,
“Unclean,
unclean,
unclean!”
Last winter, they stretched me out
setting matches to the roots of the tree inside me,
and burned it to white ash.
Like hydras, the branches resurfaced,
and they could not make me pure again.
Tattoo Parlor
Your pen is not like mine.
the ink can’t be washed away
in a basement flood or a madwoman’s campfire.
It is eternal as math
and you paint π on someone’s neck
in Einstein’s black spit.
In this savage planet,
all the men are sailors and soldiers
and the women, trapeze freaks and burlesque dancers.
There are no puritans,
no fluttering aristocracy.
Anchors are buried deep in flesh
and our lovers occupy only two dimensions.
The wound oozes and flakes off,
the amniotic fluid wiped from the baby’s skin.
It reveals this:
I am fragile, tiny as the three bones
hiding in the inner-ear.
My children are false gods
not muddy lotuses or butterflies caught in thorn,
simply bruises and woodcuts.
I wake to the sound of bees.
Something is being born.
Letter to My Mother
Dear Mother,
I wish I could have been you in 1975.
Nineteen years old, your round wire glasses
taking in the cold rush of Minneapolis
sneaking around the Walker’s sharp white angles
to glimpse Warhol’s soup cans behind a closed door.
Standing before it, did you have a moment
where you saw the future?
Did you see that you’d forsake art for god
(anything to get that man back on your side)
and that you’d tell your little blonde girl the horrors of Greek proportion,
the piss-christ sacrilege of photography
the eye-rape of a life drawing model
so that she’d never fall into their oily hands.
And when you knew I chose the pen instead
did you weep when I did not write prayers?
O bleeding saint,
save your bats in your Japanese silks.
I no longer fear them.
House Party
Picture yourself here:
a small town house party in the mid ‘70s.
My father, who never claimed to be a rock star or cowboy
who had always dreamed of that blonde California girl,
that freckled, Protestant Cheryl Tiegs
smiling as she emerged from his can of Busch Light.
Imagine my father
the alphabet not yet hanging from his nose,
the Buddha not yet sitting on his weak right knee
pulled from the orange velour couch
by a friend, some shotgun buddy or other:
“I want you to meet this girl.”
Imagine my mother
two years younger than he, her shy brown eyes swimming and diving
through that little pond of acquaintances
to see my father turned inside out.
Through the curtain of ironed hair, maybe she smiled
and turned away to light her cigarette
and thought of that night years ago
when her own mother met her father
in that post-war dance hall
eight babies swinging over their heads.
Picture yourself here:
my father, craving sobriety.
Three Dog Night record skipping, people passing joints
my mother, shutting the screen door behind her.
The President’s Au Pair
Thank you, Mr. President
that was a great sandwich.
I wouldn’t be surprised
if you adopted me
a white, working class Catholic poet (nothing like
a Kennedy, but just as cursed.)
who could live in the White House basement
and make your daughters s’mores
and sew buttons on your jackets.
Would you be my benefactor?
Would your wife give me interview fashion tips
(smart suits and black patent pumps)
and I’d rise like a red balloon
out of a den of tobacco and ashy knees.
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it, let’s make it last.
I peered out through the weeds
(as Eve must have done with Adam)
and our eyes danced and shimmied like peacocks.
I walked past, and you got a bad case of vertigo
looking up my skirt.
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it, let’s make it last.
I’m glad I didn’t listen to my well-meaning Catholic mother
when she said “Nothing good happens after midnight.”
I’ll compulsively eat tic tacs and hope to god’s empty throne
that you don’t notice my tobacco-stained fingers.
Oh, for fuck’s sake
just kiss me
I’m ready!
Baby, let’s dance
let’s make it
let’s make it last.
Let’s sleep in our clothes.
Let’s smoke two bowls.
Let’s make frozen pizza.
Let’s talk about Nietszche.
Let’s break in
end before we begin.
Baby, let’s dance
because it won’t last.
Ashing into an Empty Heineken Bottle, April 2009
Oh my god! You’re so punk rock!
Just try to squeeze that beer belly
into Joey Ramone’s skinny jeans.
It would be justice (she’s a sweetheart
but not too bright. Just your type.)
Oh my god!
The train is crashing through the toll booth
but it only made the sound of paper plates against linoleum
and a few shattered 40s.
So no one looked up from their magazines.
Oh my god!
You’ve got a pile of my discarded clothes in a plastic sack,
but you can keep them as personal relics of your failures.
Write a song about it, you son of a bitch,
make some of that food bank mac and cheese
and remember, the world is my ash tray
and my most convenient spot, your sock drawer.
El Dorado
I thought the cup was overflowing
but the wine had run dry.
We walked home from the party
as if we were tearing down Parisian alleyways.
I whirled like a kaleidoscope
and you popped like a cork.
In this orgy of mirrors,
everyone is beautiful.
and we emerge with red ears
and bitten bottom lips.
It is the carnival of eternal youth
but I have a secret…
I watched our fuse burn
and it was short
disintegrating into ash.
Virus
Once a satyr put a curse on me,
one autumn night in his sticky grove.
There were no magical apples to cure me,
no handsome prince could lift it,
no fairy godmother to baptize me
and make me pure again.
Morning in the leper colony:
a dog waits at the gate
dreaming of mangling a man like a chicken.
I crawl from my cave
begging for scraps of food from your table.
I clutch the brim of your hat:
“Please, sir! Make me pure again!”
but you ran shrieking down the hot black streets,
“Unclean,
unclean,
unclean!”
Last winter, they stretched me out
setting matches to the roots of the tree inside me,
and burned it to white ash.
Like hydras, the branches resurfaced,
and they could not make me pure again.
Tattoo Parlor
Your pen is not like mine.
the ink can’t be washed away
in a basement flood or a madwoman’s campfire.
It is eternal as math
and you paint π on someone’s neck
in Einstein’s black spit.
In this savage planet,
all the men are sailors and soldiers
and the women, trapeze freaks and burlesque dancers.
There are no puritans,
no fluttering aristocracy.
Anchors are buried deep in flesh
and our lovers occupy only two dimensions.
The wound oozes and flakes off,
the amniotic fluid wiped from the baby’s skin.
It reveals this:
I am fragile, tiny as the three bones
hiding in the inner-ear.
My children are false gods
not muddy lotuses or butterflies caught in thorn,
simply bruises and woodcuts.
I wake to the sound of bees.
Something is being born.
Letter to My Mother
Dear Mother,
I wish I could have been you in 1975.
Nineteen years old, your round wire glasses
taking in the cold rush of Minneapolis
sneaking around the Walker’s sharp white angles
to glimpse Warhol’s soup cans behind a closed door.
Standing before it, did you have a moment
where you saw the future?
Did you see that you’d forsake art for god
(anything to get that man back on your side)
and that you’d tell your little blonde girl the horrors of Greek proportion,
the piss-christ sacrilege of photography
the eye-rape of a life drawing model
so that she’d never fall into their oily hands.
And when you knew I chose the pen instead
did you weep when I did not write prayers?
O bleeding saint,
save your bats in your Japanese silks.
I no longer fear them.
House Party
Picture yourself here:
a small town house party in the mid ‘70s.
My father, who never claimed to be a rock star or cowboy
who had always dreamed of that blonde California girl,
that freckled, Protestant Cheryl Tiegs
smiling as she emerged from his can of Busch Light.
Imagine my father
the alphabet not yet hanging from his nose,
the Buddha not yet sitting on his weak right knee
pulled from the orange velour couch
by a friend, some shotgun buddy or other:
“I want you to meet this girl.”
Imagine my mother
two years younger than he, her shy brown eyes swimming and diving
through that little pond of acquaintances
to see my father turned inside out.
Through the curtain of ironed hair, maybe she smiled
and turned away to light her cigarette
and thought of that night years ago
when her own mother met her father
in that post-war dance hall
eight babies swinging over their heads.
Picture yourself here:
my father, craving sobriety.
Three Dog Night record skipping, people passing joints
my mother, shutting the screen door behind her.
The President’s Au Pair
Thank you, Mr. President
that was a great sandwich.
I wouldn’t be surprised
if you adopted me
a white, working class Catholic poet (nothing like
a Kennedy, but just as cursed.)
who could live in the White House basement
and make your daughters s’mores
and sew buttons on your jackets.
Would you be my benefactor?
Would your wife give me interview fashion tips
(smart suits and black patent pumps)
and I’d rise like a red balloon
out of a den of tobacco and ashy knees.
Friday, July 10, 2009
seven deadly sins: class exercises
Sunshine (Yellow Persona poem)
When the princess spun in her buttery skirts,
I was there.
When you were three and painted that maniacal grinning sun,
I was there.
When you sat on the park bench after getting high and fed fleecy ducklings,
I was there.
When you sang incantations into daffodils and durges for maple leaves,
I was there.
When your summer tan faded in that first month of college,
I was there.
When you puked up Easy Mac after one too many shots,
I was there.
When you painted the nursery a gender-neutral color,
I was there.
When the baby god jaundice,
I was there.
When you poured honey into your chamomile tea,
I was there.
When you gummed bananas,
I was there.
When you bought your sullen granddaughter a butterscotch sundae and realized you'd grown old,
I was there.
***
Special Sauce (prose poem)
I am a compliment and nothing else, a culinary color wheel that spins like a Happy Meal kaleidiscope
and ends up smashed onto a red plastic tray. I am a secret known only to toothless meth-heads
and soft-spoken immigrants. They are my gatekeepers, they are like magicians who will never reveal
their tricks. They are like prisoners who are always innocent of their crimes, be it of murder of selling
marijuana to nurses or fucking seventeen year olds. The answer is obvious: it is right between your lips,
but like my counterparts we will be lounging on your hips like the yellow foothills on the coasts of America.
***
George Washington Carver's Dream
There are some things that are eternal,
interchangeable, blatant as god.
I wanted to create something that could shift-shape
that could feed millions, that could sit as I sat
in dusty shelves, waiting like a fat, sweet-toothed guardian angel.
I wanted to create something that could bring peace to nations,
that was the united colors of us.
A compliment to the darkest fruit or the whitest bread.
I wanted something to mend the tears in these feeble fabrics
blot out the negative space. "How did we ever live without it?" they'd ask,
and I'd shrug humbly.
I wanted something that couldn't be ignored,
but ketchup was already taken, and sugar was a cop-out
nothing more than salt's ditzy cousin.
So I crushed 'em,
crushed 'em
crushed 'em.
And so I will be remembered, praised, repackaged and sold
cast in bronze, but only a tiny figure in some pastoral corner
of a Midwestern state university.
Peanut butter.
Big. Deal.
When the princess spun in her buttery skirts,
I was there.
When you were three and painted that maniacal grinning sun,
I was there.
When you sat on the park bench after getting high and fed fleecy ducklings,
I was there.
When you sang incantations into daffodils and durges for maple leaves,
I was there.
When your summer tan faded in that first month of college,
I was there.
When you puked up Easy Mac after one too many shots,
I was there.
When you painted the nursery a gender-neutral color,
I was there.
When the baby god jaundice,
I was there.
When you poured honey into your chamomile tea,
I was there.
When you gummed bananas,
I was there.
When you bought your sullen granddaughter a butterscotch sundae and realized you'd grown old,
I was there.
***
Special Sauce (prose poem)
I am a compliment and nothing else, a culinary color wheel that spins like a Happy Meal kaleidiscope
and ends up smashed onto a red plastic tray. I am a secret known only to toothless meth-heads
and soft-spoken immigrants. They are my gatekeepers, they are like magicians who will never reveal
their tricks. They are like prisoners who are always innocent of their crimes, be it of murder of selling
marijuana to nurses or fucking seventeen year olds. The answer is obvious: it is right between your lips,
but like my counterparts we will be lounging on your hips like the yellow foothills on the coasts of America.
***
George Washington Carver's Dream
There are some things that are eternal,
interchangeable, blatant as god.
I wanted to create something that could shift-shape
that could feed millions, that could sit as I sat
in dusty shelves, waiting like a fat, sweet-toothed guardian angel.
I wanted to create something that could bring peace to nations,
that was the united colors of us.
A compliment to the darkest fruit or the whitest bread.
I wanted something to mend the tears in these feeble fabrics
blot out the negative space. "How did we ever live without it?" they'd ask,
and I'd shrug humbly.
I wanted something that couldn't be ignored,
but ketchup was already taken, and sugar was a cop-out
nothing more than salt's ditzy cousin.
So I crushed 'em,
crushed 'em
crushed 'em.
And so I will be remembered, praised, repackaged and sold
cast in bronze, but only a tiny figure in some pastoral corner
of a Midwestern state university.
Peanut butter.
Big. Deal.
rouge--7/10
Rouge
I will never be pure again.
I was a melancholy princess
but I had yet to bleed.
I have a confession to make:
I am a monster, Prince Charming.
Watch as my delicate hand trembles
in it's red satin glove.
I am transforming...
and you will gasp and faint as disgust
floods in and drowns the lust.
Lover, excuse me,
I am giving birth to my teenage journal.
The pages seemed endless
and some words clotted together.
I am Mademoiselle Werewolf,
and the moon drives me insane.
I am not a modern woman made of sterile linoleum.
I am a witch, an effigy made of apple skins,
an oracle prostrating herself to the virgin goddess:
Mother, my third eye is bleeding.
In the maple grove, I hear her answer...
repent, repent
she says through the red curtain.
you have weeping to do.
I will never be pure again.
I was a melancholy princess
but I had yet to bleed.
I have a confession to make:
I am a monster, Prince Charming.
Watch as my delicate hand trembles
in it's red satin glove.
I am transforming...
and you will gasp and faint as disgust
floods in and drowns the lust.
Lover, excuse me,
I am giving birth to my teenage journal.
The pages seemed endless
and some words clotted together.
I am Mademoiselle Werewolf,
and the moon drives me insane.
I am not a modern woman made of sterile linoleum.
I am a witch, an effigy made of apple skins,
an oracle prostrating herself to the virgin goddess:
Mother, my third eye is bleeding.
In the maple grove, I hear her answer...
repent, repent
she says through the red curtain.
you have weeping to do.
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