My birthday is today.
I’m now twenty-four years old, and that’s okay somehow. On the 21st of April, there’s going to be a 24 Hour Read-A-Thon, in which I will participate. I’ve been doing more recreational reading lately anyway. Meanwhile, I’ve also been writing poetry and suffering from absurd insomnia. If you read my last poetry post, I really do stay awake for all the interesting things I see and feel on the edge of sleep. Brain, why do you produce such lovely things?
Here are also some poems. All of this week is work safe. Wish me a good year.
Lips to flesh, cool and yielding
tart to tongue and sweet
my reward for waxy peelings
nails invaded by soft white skin
Red beaded jacket over sugar core
after the first bite, my tongue explores
helplessly consuming, juice exuding…
again! green leaves littering the plate
only one box will never sate.
At the Apartment’s Poolside…
You, in the pool, your legs bending
sun cast shifting shadows into blue
hair soggy, but my heart raced from
the safe deck chair in shade
rubber cool against my thighs
eyes hidden under wayfarers.
You will never know, your arms wafting
floating calmly, sun reddening your
shoulders; that I loved you all midday
beautiful bikini lady.
That last one feels very Bukowski to me.
Under the cut, there’s a tribute to a dead guy, some blasphemy, and Baby’s First Joint Checking Account.
Ode to Percy Byshe Shelley
He whose unseen presence seeps
inkly, wanting through verse and lore,
phantasms, imagined peaks
sublime! He whose bloated corpse ashore
broke hearts, left an era lost and weak…
Ghostly, haunting student tomes, the
pestilence-striken multitude of poems to
rote, recite, and perform for fleeting tests!
So rare the student holds you dear to her breast.
But I, my passion unextinguish’d and
reputation undistinguished, I ache for
Gordon and Mary, idyll Geneva,
your moments prolific, yet condemed as evil?
For powdered collars and stiff society,
love freely given; Byron’s philandry, a
Godless isle you wrote and crafted, for wives
discarded and drowned in strife —
What crimes you committed, poet Satanic!
For pages you inhabit, eyes that you strain,
all those who recall you in academic panic —
Books have salvaged your salt-water pain
Bringing winds of hope to romantics again.
Forgotten, not made, one in being with the
Aether. Through this, let’s drift away
for us strays and our salvation,
come down from heaven,
move on from this romance,
don’t cling; tomorrow you are merely man…
For our sake, let me love you today,
caressing, breathing, and sighing
But the next day, it’s life again
in fulfillment of the routine, so
come down from heaven
hold my hand tonight
no one can judge us, living or dead
but this vision shall have an end.
We believe in one dream, a
Kiss compelling, affection,
heaven on earth. Genuine,
all that is said and unsaid.
We believed in one love, freely given
which is not just Yours or Mine
but by You and I is worshipped and glorified
but only for this moment.
Please acknolwedge the inconstant and tomorrow
Please love me wholly and without possession
Don’t look for the resurrection of the dead,
for there is life of the world to come. Amen.
This last poem is for today. My 13th poem for 4/13, the day I was born.
Baby’s First Joint Checking Account
For we sat in a sterile waiting room
more like a designated area,
pamphlets in Spanish on end-tables
afraid of speaking too loud…
For we signed some paper work, but I’m
primary, it’s all mostly mine still,
“survivorship” standing out in the
contract, til death do we part
For everyone is engaged, pierced
tattoo’d, pregnant; permanent and I
will never marry and you want no kids
and yet this contract is secure
(but you have bad credit)
For now. Outside the bank the
sun is warm, my hand in yours, you
sweat. We wipe it off and laugh and
this is us right now.
(Angela, age 24.)