To My Heroine,
You: daintily as graceful as an off-white
pigeon posing as a dove. Your love,
Poison;
Mercury, an exhilarating rush
Of ever changing toxicity,
Your varying viscosity clogs my veins.
You: a dirty needle, a musty syringe.
Me: naïve, addicted to the rusty pain
Of letting you pierce my system, again
And again, and I gain nothing.
A fleeting shot of adrenaline,
A final pop, a funneling from the heart
Into you: a shit stained sieve
storing my wasted affection. You: part other lover
and part bowel infection.
You: the delicate tulip, nourished by me:
the manure.
You’re an irresistible skewering, a delightful sin.
I send this gift, plain page, marred
with your black tar, to you,
My Heroin.
its an old one. felt like i should post it now. :).
Read more!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Old Poem: Moon in Cancer: A Reprise
Here's an old poem that I originally wrote in HS and revamped for class.
Moon in Cancer: A Reprise
(My tide abides a waning Moon
who wishes to forget me.
While I trek through
these starry seas with a new
satellite.)
I reminisce:
Your incense,
still strong, seething through my heart.
Your jaded eyes
still singed into my mind.
Your sweet, sweet tyranny
still stirs my very soul.
Your name, (Luna)
still dew upon my lips.
Alas, I reprise to a time where bliss
reigned from the skies:
sorbet tears from the Sun.
I press on through the pitter patter of weeping.
Smiling, listening to the wind’s whirling whelps,
Because blue skies weren't always so blue,
Nor I confused.
Once,
I could sift through
Crème Brûlée hued
sand which seemed to be siphoned straight from you.
And daydream with a burning desire,
Lit aflame by fireflies,
Of our own Bermuda nights
Framed with apricot skies
Accenting the rising Moon, these celestial seas,
And blue-black, clear waters.
A tropical asylum,
And an isolated we.
Where I'd sow your fields,
And wander in your emerald greens...
Please leave comments.
Thanks,
D.
Read more!
Moon in Cancer: A Reprise
(My tide abides a waning Moon
who wishes to forget me.
While I trek through
these starry seas with a new
satellite.)
I reminisce:
Your incense,
still strong, seething through my heart.
Your jaded eyes
still singed into my mind.
Your sweet, sweet tyranny
still stirs my very soul.
Your name, (Luna)
still dew upon my lips.
Alas, I reprise to a time where bliss
reigned from the skies:
sorbet tears from the Sun.
I press on through the pitter patter of weeping.
Smiling, listening to the wind’s whirling whelps,
Because blue skies weren't always so blue,
Nor I confused.
Once,
I could sift through
Crème Brûlée hued
sand which seemed to be siphoned straight from you.
And daydream with a burning desire,
Lit aflame by fireflies,
Of our own Bermuda nights
Framed with apricot skies
Accenting the rising Moon, these celestial seas,
And blue-black, clear waters.
A tropical asylum,
And an isolated we.
Where I'd sow your fields,
And wander in your emerald greens...
Please leave comments.
Thanks,
D.
Read more!
Tonight I Can Die (Fiction)
Ok, here's a story I wrote for my creative writing class. I ensure you it's fiction and I am not crazy. Lol. With that said...
Tonight I Can Die
The first time I tried to commit suicide, I wanted it to be something cool, preferably with fire. Yeah, going out in a blaze of glory, that’d be sweet. Like, maybe I’ll plow my 600 horsepower, fire engine red M6, with the camel interior, of course, through a Dunkin’ Donuts or a McDonalds or something. Can’t be nothin’ lame like choking on a marshmallow during a solo session of the “chubby bunny” game or some shit like that. I always thought I’d die young. But to make it cool, you gotta do it yourself. Besides, you always remember your first.
I gotta make my exit honorable, you know, like an episode of Maury Povich. So there I am, standing in the bathroom wearing a silk robe, the kind the emperors in those import movies wear. You know, the ones where the kung fu warrior’s mouth keeps moving for like 15 seconds after he’s done talking. It’s a sentimental robe that never really fit until now. She’ll be happy to know I was wearing it. Using the back of my hand, I smear my skin’s oils across the fogged mirror. The humidity squeezes my lungs like a boa constrictor. I wipe my forehead with a washcloth and think: is it condensation or nerves? The combination of water vapor and my yellow, felt Spongebob slippers make my toes stick together like I’ve just waded through the Everglades. You’d probably wonder why a 20 something is running around in floppy cartoon slippers. Ask me if I give a shit. This is how I want to go out.
The tub is finally full. You know, warm water really gets the blood flowing. Oh, and it gives you options. I could play “Marco Polo” with my laptop or I could dredge an irrigation canal across my ulnar artery and form the Red Sea. Another swig of Henny spreads a wildfire through my chest. It’s fleeting, but it’s the warmest my heart has been in years. Leaning over the faucet, the sink seems to totter like a 10 foot skipper caught in a waterspout. Then I eye my silver single blade razor. I bet it’s made in Asia, just like this cheesy ass robe, those shitty ass movies, and 99% of the shit we buy. Too bad it’s too small for hari-kari, but it’ll get’er done. My fingers shiver as they probe the razor’s bumpy ridges. Then I look in the mirror: She stole your balls too, hunh?
--------------
“Baby, why you so quiet?” I said.
“Oh, nothing.” She responded.
“Well,” I started. “Can’t be nothin’.”
She paused, allowing white noise to fill the 300 miles separating us. My skin grew clammy and started to itch. I fought the urge to kick off my black sheets. I really wanted to feel a recycled breeze numb my skin. Something that felt like a grapefruit grew in my gut.
“Just tired.” She answered.
“You,” I paused. “You need me to let you go?”
“Well, maybe. I guess.” She suggested.
“Fine...” I paused again. “Love you.”
Gazing out the window, I noticed a street light’s amber hum fizzle out. Maybe soaking up the dew on the grass would soothe my skin. Maybe looking for Orion’s belt, kinda like we did two summers ago, would help too. Crickets accented my iTunes: I think -- that - it’s brain-less/to a--ssume that - mak-ing chang--es/to your - wind-ow's view will - give a new per-spect-ive…
My esophagus felt thick, like I just swallowed a handful of mothballs. Breaking the silence, I cleared my throat.
“…I’m sorry, what did you say, babe?” She responded.
…I don't mind re-strict-ions/or if you're - black-ing out the frict-ion/It's just an es-cape it's -- over-rated, anyways...
-----------------------
It’s hard to believe that it’s been seven months since the break up . Back then my intuition served me well, but MySpace gave me proof. You think you know someone after three years, right? Maybe if I were 15 years older and made ends meet by swabbing toilets. Come to think of it, that probably wouldn’t be enough for her exquisite tastes. I’d probably need a kid or two and a live-in baby momma. Unfortunately for me, I was full time college student who slaved full time as a technical analyst. Oh, who am I bullshitting? I was the whipping boy for the noble class of the technologically brain dead who treat computers like nuclear fucking reactors. These days, I drifted through class and waded through the same redundant crap working nights. Instead of plowing through homework, I snuck on the internet to pass the time at work. Shit, sometimes I’ll go take a shit just to get off the goddamn phone. Speaking of the devil, guess who I ran into yesterday at a stoplight on the way to work?
“Take down my new number.” She said.
“O..k…” I said. Scratching something into an old receipt, I prayed I couldn’t decipher it later.
“When’s the last time you had a hair cut?” She asked.
“Damn,” I responded. “Can’t remember.” I eked out a constipated smile.
“Well, call me sometime, ‘kay?” She said.
No, I won’t. “Sure thing,” I lied.
Driving to work I think about all the “shouldas.” Like, I shoulda told her how I could give a rat’s ass about her. Or, I shoulda reminded her how I missed her calling me “moocakes.” Or, I shoulda mentioned how I know she’s still fucking that lame. Or, I shoulda explained how I’ve been trying to throw away that scrapbook she made. But what I really shoulda told her is how karma’s a streetwalker clad in crimson knee-high boots and boy is that bitch burnin’.
“Thank you for calling the helpdesk. My name is Lloyd,” I recited. “Is this Page?”
“Listen, Dee-wayne…” She started.
“Uhm,” I interrupted. “My name is Lloyd.”
“Floyd, you said?” She asked.
No you stupid shit. “Lloyd, my name is Lloyd, ma’am.” I responded.
“Well look,” She replied. “I’m having a major problem. Someone named ‘Daemon’ keeps rejecting my emails and I demand to know why! He doesn’t even know me!”
There’s no way these ass clowns have college degrees. “Ma’am,” I sighed. “Give me the email address you’re typing…”
Loosening my tie, I could smell salty sweat starting to stain my collar. The clock, a dirty aquarium shade of green, read 7:00 p.m. sharp. My grayish-blue chair squealed as I slid further into my cubicle. In between typing, my hands fidgeted about the frayed faux-leather armrest, shedding off volcanic slate colored snowflakes. I turned and examined my neighbor’s desks, full of happy family photos and trinkets from recent vacations. Then I turned back to my coffee stained cubicle, glancing at my two pictures. The first one, I’m wearing a shiny paper cone on my head as I delightfully survey a white sheet cake. There are six burning candles. My friends and my family all look intently, awaiting my approval. The icing is blue, my favorite color. The other picture is of us celebrating our second year together over pasta and cheap wine. White Zinfandel was her favorite. The picture is wrinkled and bent; I found it a few weeks back under my computer. I glanced back at the clock. It looks even slimier than before; charcoal colored hyphens, looking like Bacillus subtilis in a Petri dish, formed the time: 7:06.
“Mondays are the worst.” I said. Using a ball point pen, I started picking at grey dust bolls in my computer’s air vents. The passing janitor parked his rolling trashcan beside my desk, brining the scent of processed onions and used mustard packets with him.
“Tell me about it,” Pablo responded.
“Have you seen the boss-man?” I asked.
“Nah,” Pablo said. “Think he’s gone.”
“Word,” I replied. “Ever feel like you’re spinnin’ your wheels in horse shit?”
“Yea,” Pablo stated. “Take a bath and then write. Gotta get that stink off you and out your head.”
Then he left without saying anything else. Relieved he didn’t investigate further, I pressed my right shoulder against the cubicle wall so my back eclipsed the computer screen. I peered over the cubicle: the coast is clear. You know, you really shouldn’t use the same password for everything. Judging by the Sprint picture mail, they were definitely still fucking. Maybe I should post them for every Dick, Tom, and Harry to pleasure themselves to. No, I decide. I have to fuck them both. Two hours passed and then my phone rang.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“How could you forward those…” her voice cracked. “My parent’s? My Friends? My Pastor?”
“This call is being monitored and recorded…” I responded. A smirk infiltrated the syllables.
Then, ironically, the line fell dead. Just as my smile started fading, my adrenaline kicked back in. “The internet is monitored too, you know?” A lump formed in my throat as my supervisor’s silhouette filled my peripheral. “Pack your things and hand me your badge.” He said. Without blinking or a word, I handed him my badge and headed towards the cavernous hallway.
“Don’t you want your pictures?” my supervisor asked.
“Chuck ‘em.” I responded.
Outside, the sun warmed my newly liberated skin. The trees, their limbs overflowing with dull fool’s gold and bloody crimson, waved to me in the breeze.
-----------------
“Nope,” I announce. “Still got ‘em!”
Fortifying my proclamation, my left hand goofily fumbles to cover my crotch. The mirror is more silver than white now. My neighbor’s dull wall thumping accents my blaring speakers: So you lost your trust/and you never should have/No, you never should have…
“Lemme start the webcam,” I say. Stumbling over to my laptop, I nearly bring the towel rack down as I catch my balance. But don't break your back/If you ever see this/But don't answer that...
“Hope you enjoy the show, Hoe.” I slur.
In a bullet proof vest/with the windows all closed/I'll be doing my best...
“Pablo said,” I start. “But I’mma switch it up: Let this be the last pain that you make me suffer. And these the last words that I dedicate to you.” The consonants running up each other’s backs like a crash at the Tour de France.
And suddenly, the rocking stops. My buzz is gone. The music fades out. With a steady hand, I click record.
For once and for all, I’m able to look into the mirror and objectively rank my wounds. My pupils, as wide as jasmine flower bulbs at witching hour, struggle to focus on the camera’s grayish lens. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back. On cue, the next song comes roaring in: Oh misery, come marshal me in/No better place for me to begin/I’m coming in from out of this rain/the time has come to wash you away…
And the blood falls to the floor like dew to the pasture.
Read more!
Tonight I Can Die
The first time I tried to commit suicide, I wanted it to be something cool, preferably with fire. Yeah, going out in a blaze of glory, that’d be sweet. Like, maybe I’ll plow my 600 horsepower, fire engine red M6, with the camel interior, of course, through a Dunkin’ Donuts or a McDonalds or something. Can’t be nothin’ lame like choking on a marshmallow during a solo session of the “chubby bunny” game or some shit like that. I always thought I’d die young. But to make it cool, you gotta do it yourself. Besides, you always remember your first.
I gotta make my exit honorable, you know, like an episode of Maury Povich. So there I am, standing in the bathroom wearing a silk robe, the kind the emperors in those import movies wear. You know, the ones where the kung fu warrior’s mouth keeps moving for like 15 seconds after he’s done talking. It’s a sentimental robe that never really fit until now. She’ll be happy to know I was wearing it. Using the back of my hand, I smear my skin’s oils across the fogged mirror. The humidity squeezes my lungs like a boa constrictor. I wipe my forehead with a washcloth and think: is it condensation or nerves? The combination of water vapor and my yellow, felt Spongebob slippers make my toes stick together like I’ve just waded through the Everglades. You’d probably wonder why a 20 something is running around in floppy cartoon slippers. Ask me if I give a shit. This is how I want to go out.
The tub is finally full. You know, warm water really gets the blood flowing. Oh, and it gives you options. I could play “Marco Polo” with my laptop or I could dredge an irrigation canal across my ulnar artery and form the Red Sea. Another swig of Henny spreads a wildfire through my chest. It’s fleeting, but it’s the warmest my heart has been in years. Leaning over the faucet, the sink seems to totter like a 10 foot skipper caught in a waterspout. Then I eye my silver single blade razor. I bet it’s made in Asia, just like this cheesy ass robe, those shitty ass movies, and 99% of the shit we buy. Too bad it’s too small for hari-kari, but it’ll get’er done. My fingers shiver as they probe the razor’s bumpy ridges. Then I look in the mirror: She stole your balls too, hunh?
--------------
“Baby, why you so quiet?” I said.
“Oh, nothing.” She responded.
“Well,” I started. “Can’t be nothin’.”
She paused, allowing white noise to fill the 300 miles separating us. My skin grew clammy and started to itch. I fought the urge to kick off my black sheets. I really wanted to feel a recycled breeze numb my skin. Something that felt like a grapefruit grew in my gut.
“Just tired.” She answered.
“You,” I paused. “You need me to let you go?”
“Well, maybe. I guess.” She suggested.
“Fine...” I paused again. “Love you.”
Gazing out the window, I noticed a street light’s amber hum fizzle out. Maybe soaking up the dew on the grass would soothe my skin. Maybe looking for Orion’s belt, kinda like we did two summers ago, would help too. Crickets accented my iTunes: I think -- that - it’s brain-less/to a--ssume that - mak-ing chang--es/to your - wind-ow's view will - give a new per-spect-ive…
My esophagus felt thick, like I just swallowed a handful of mothballs. Breaking the silence, I cleared my throat.
“…I’m sorry, what did you say, babe?” She responded.
…I don't mind re-strict-ions/or if you're - black-ing out the frict-ion/It's just an es-cape it's -- over-rated, anyways...
-----------------------
It’s hard to believe that it’s been seven months since the break up . Back then my intuition served me well, but MySpace gave me proof. You think you know someone after three years, right? Maybe if I were 15 years older and made ends meet by swabbing toilets. Come to think of it, that probably wouldn’t be enough for her exquisite tastes. I’d probably need a kid or two and a live-in baby momma. Unfortunately for me, I was full time college student who slaved full time as a technical analyst. Oh, who am I bullshitting? I was the whipping boy for the noble class of the technologically brain dead who treat computers like nuclear fucking reactors. These days, I drifted through class and waded through the same redundant crap working nights. Instead of plowing through homework, I snuck on the internet to pass the time at work. Shit, sometimes I’ll go take a shit just to get off the goddamn phone. Speaking of the devil, guess who I ran into yesterday at a stoplight on the way to work?
“Take down my new number.” She said.
“O..k…” I said. Scratching something into an old receipt, I prayed I couldn’t decipher it later.
“When’s the last time you had a hair cut?” She asked.
“Damn,” I responded. “Can’t remember.” I eked out a constipated smile.
“Well, call me sometime, ‘kay?” She said.
No, I won’t. “Sure thing,” I lied.
Driving to work I think about all the “shouldas.” Like, I shoulda told her how I could give a rat’s ass about her. Or, I shoulda reminded her how I missed her calling me “moocakes.” Or, I shoulda mentioned how I know she’s still fucking that lame. Or, I shoulda explained how I’ve been trying to throw away that scrapbook she made. But what I really shoulda told her is how karma’s a streetwalker clad in crimson knee-high boots and boy is that bitch burnin’.
“Thank you for calling the helpdesk. My name is Lloyd,” I recited. “Is this Page?”
“Listen, Dee-wayne…” She started.
“Uhm,” I interrupted. “My name is Lloyd.”
“Floyd, you said?” She asked.
No you stupid shit. “Lloyd, my name is Lloyd, ma’am.” I responded.
“Well look,” She replied. “I’m having a major problem. Someone named ‘Daemon’ keeps rejecting my emails and I demand to know why! He doesn’t even know me!”
There’s no way these ass clowns have college degrees. “Ma’am,” I sighed. “Give me the email address you’re typing…”
Loosening my tie, I could smell salty sweat starting to stain my collar. The clock, a dirty aquarium shade of green, read 7:00 p.m. sharp. My grayish-blue chair squealed as I slid further into my cubicle. In between typing, my hands fidgeted about the frayed faux-leather armrest, shedding off volcanic slate colored snowflakes. I turned and examined my neighbor’s desks, full of happy family photos and trinkets from recent vacations. Then I turned back to my coffee stained cubicle, glancing at my two pictures. The first one, I’m wearing a shiny paper cone on my head as I delightfully survey a white sheet cake. There are six burning candles. My friends and my family all look intently, awaiting my approval. The icing is blue, my favorite color. The other picture is of us celebrating our second year together over pasta and cheap wine. White Zinfandel was her favorite. The picture is wrinkled and bent; I found it a few weeks back under my computer. I glanced back at the clock. It looks even slimier than before; charcoal colored hyphens, looking like Bacillus subtilis in a Petri dish, formed the time: 7:06.
“Mondays are the worst.” I said. Using a ball point pen, I started picking at grey dust bolls in my computer’s air vents. The passing janitor parked his rolling trashcan beside my desk, brining the scent of processed onions and used mustard packets with him.
“Tell me about it,” Pablo responded.
“Have you seen the boss-man?” I asked.
“Nah,” Pablo said. “Think he’s gone.”
“Word,” I replied. “Ever feel like you’re spinnin’ your wheels in horse shit?”
“Yea,” Pablo stated. “Take a bath and then write. Gotta get that stink off you and out your head.”
Then he left without saying anything else. Relieved he didn’t investigate further, I pressed my right shoulder against the cubicle wall so my back eclipsed the computer screen. I peered over the cubicle: the coast is clear. You know, you really shouldn’t use the same password for everything. Judging by the Sprint picture mail, they were definitely still fucking. Maybe I should post them for every Dick, Tom, and Harry to pleasure themselves to. No, I decide. I have to fuck them both. Two hours passed and then my phone rang.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“How could you forward those…” her voice cracked. “My parent’s? My Friends? My Pastor?”
“This call is being monitored and recorded…” I responded. A smirk infiltrated the syllables.
Then, ironically, the line fell dead. Just as my smile started fading, my adrenaline kicked back in. “The internet is monitored too, you know?” A lump formed in my throat as my supervisor’s silhouette filled my peripheral. “Pack your things and hand me your badge.” He said. Without blinking or a word, I handed him my badge and headed towards the cavernous hallway.
“Don’t you want your pictures?” my supervisor asked.
“Chuck ‘em.” I responded.
Outside, the sun warmed my newly liberated skin. The trees, their limbs overflowing with dull fool’s gold and bloody crimson, waved to me in the breeze.
-----------------
“Nope,” I announce. “Still got ‘em!”
Fortifying my proclamation, my left hand goofily fumbles to cover my crotch. The mirror is more silver than white now. My neighbor’s dull wall thumping accents my blaring speakers: So you lost your trust/and you never should have/No, you never should have…
“Lemme start the webcam,” I say. Stumbling over to my laptop, I nearly bring the towel rack down as I catch my balance. But don't break your back/If you ever see this/But don't answer that...
“Hope you enjoy the show, Hoe.” I slur.
In a bullet proof vest/with the windows all closed/I'll be doing my best...
“Pablo said,” I start. “But I’mma switch it up: Let this be the last pain that you make me suffer. And these the last words that I dedicate to you.” The consonants running up each other’s backs like a crash at the Tour de France.
And suddenly, the rocking stops. My buzz is gone. The music fades out. With a steady hand, I click record.
For once and for all, I’m able to look into the mirror and objectively rank my wounds. My pupils, as wide as jasmine flower bulbs at witching hour, struggle to focus on the camera’s grayish lens. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back. On cue, the next song comes roaring in: Oh misery, come marshal me in/No better place for me to begin/I’m coming in from out of this rain/the time has come to wash you away…
And the blood falls to the floor like dew to the pasture.
Read more!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Snuggle Season
Snuggle Season
Crisp autumn chills,
the dampened crunch of leaves
beg the question
of what our love could be.
Grand ramparts guard
the hardened hearts we keep.
Those sprawling walls
which, Teflon sheathed, oddly
shield us from
the very warmth we seek. Read more!
Crisp autumn chills,
the dampened crunch of leaves
beg the question
of what our love could be.
Grand ramparts guard
the hardened hearts we keep.
Those sprawling walls
which, Teflon sheathed, oddly
shield us from
the very warmth we seek. Read more!
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