Here's the deal, sparky. A long time ago (make it about 6 months), I got togethers a whole bunch of poems which I liked and typed them up. And saved them all together. There are a few which are ok, and I like the meanings of most of them, but, on the whole, they aren't masterpieces...
Take the preceeding as your warning.
Without further ado:
Rain as cold as you
i am always so thirsty
when drowining in the rain.
the November rain
chills me the same
as August rain.
i inebriate myself
from free falling torents
only chilling myself further.
rain can make one so sad
or ecstatic.
it just makes me tremble.
Water sensuously drips from my body
as I tremble, trying to resist the cold.
Somehow, it seems colder than yesterday
or maybe it was just a really hot shower.
The kind that happens on the coldest day
when the air is more cruel
when I am left without a towel
or the pulsating beat of the water on body
and even the billows of steam have dissipated.
Or maybe I�m just more mad than I seemed.
Somethings do that to a girl.
i carry two Tylenol in my pocket wherever i am.
i suppose i could have used them a long time ago.
one learns to manage headaches quickly enough.
just think a pretty thought in the drear and it�s all better.
i found them buried in the lint in the corner of my pocket.
the gelcoating had lost its glisten.
the shinny exterior now dulled to match its organs.
a smear of red and yellow on my pocket liner.
harkening to the days of freshman science.
dying coffee filters in the name of chromatography.
now we create sulfuric fumes in the name of oxygen.
i carried a water-bottle of juice to my freshman science class.
last night, we didn't want to part.
so we didn't.
standing on the porch, enveloped in moonlight
in each other.
i grinned privately, lowering my eyes.
(smirked!)
and all was so right in the universe.
(discounting atrocity)
his hand gently grazing my hip
and finding its way down my back.
we eventually fell from our brief paradise
and i went inside, his car pulled away.
i complained of the cold
(68 degrees is so comparable to a winter's Siberian Gulag)
and i long for him,
and our contenting companionship.
and i wish he were closer
(spanning realities and fortifications of picket fences alone)
and i ponder the difficulties of my existence.
She is always the one for the dramatic effect.
slicing the supple tangerine skin with a razor
and crying alligator tears when squirted by the citric acid
dilute, as it is.
like when he had the accident.
sitting by his bedside for days.
tapping her feet to the rhythm of the life-support machines.
she shaved her legs in the cubical bathroom
dry as a bone.
she said the little shower was too cramped.
not wanting to be unfaithful,
she lived off tiny potato chip bags for three weeks.
and they were so surprised that she lived when they pulled his plug.
though she tore her hair like an impassioned maenad.
I cried a bit, the vacancy was raw and painful.
and I read a little poem at his funeral
and all of the necessary pleasantries
while she left awash in tears about half way through.
last night, I cooked some onion soup.
i was squirted by its acidic juice
for some reason, the fumes have never made me cry.
shifty eyes
shifting away from the piercing glares
inquisitive and cruel
and so condescending.
so what if her socks never matched
and her eye-shadow goes up over her eyebrows.
sitting in the field, stringing together daisies
at twenty-two.
she even has the audacity to hum
and it was Mary Has a Little Lamb
and she was so out of tune.
and the page-a-day calendar a day or two late
postponing her life
not desiring to catch up with their likes
an instant sooner than she needed to.
but resistance is futile
everyone is eventually swallowed up by something greater
despite pleading free-spirits
and drinking purified mineral water.
daisies do not resent their transitory existence
reveling in the beauty, dazzling all
with simplistic charm.
although never aspiring,
what is there to aspire to when one is contented
and one is so beautiful.
or so far beyond.
Funny how long I could stare at the back of your neck.
You would never seem to notice.
My witticism an inane little remarks utterly lost on you.
And all of my longing and kindness was in vain.
And you seemed to be benighted of my very existence.
And then I wore a tight little shirt and a tiny little skirt.
It�s amazing how quickly you picked up on me.
i prance in the mud
gleefully dirtying my shoes
i am free! i am so free!
they cannot touch me,
they are abandoned.
running over the roll over and over
a vacancy in the sea of faces.
where is she?
never mind her, she was always aloof.
and i do not care, i rejoice.
i prance, i dance!
the rain pours over my body
caressing my every pore.
soothing the burns of my numbness
i laugh, i rejoice
i dance in the rain, my arms free and swinging
i drink up my freedom desperately, greedily
intoxicating myself with the liberation.
but my thirst is not quelled; it is eternal.
i greedily attain my lot.
years of depravation can do that to a girl.
they abandon the building,
i am free to roam through the vacant corridors.
i cautiously explore the void,
peering inquisitively around the corners
naive as a newborn, first gazing on the world.
a janitor mops dutifully,
and i skip behind him, soaked and filthy as i am.
i muddy his diligence
and i laugh with girlish glee.
and i prance in the mud.
C'est tout.
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