hi hello! i am no longer orignal but a plain brick wall

An ode to a chopstick and earwigs

I am still learning my lefts and rights yet new markings appear here and there

The bath is cracked and the milk curdles once your toes touch the surface,

Toes that have written anthologies which made internet poets weep

You are no poet

 An ink scribbled daydream with your cardigan drooping

Sucking on the teats of culture,

 a boiling heartbreak

Reborn of stolen originality. 

Yet here we are

singing with the earwigs whilst drumming a chopstick

teach me my left and rights and 

I will teach you the art of throwing spare change into the well

 or how to have tea parties with car guards

let us be the definition of art breathing through life,

let our toes dangle and voices rise

with the earwigs.

 

Catacombs (of yourself)

Wondrous light fading

a symphony of the catacombs

as our light light follows endlessly,

into the belly of the serpent.

Slithering this way and that

While the rotten souls point in your direction.

Woken up

Youre in bed with a monster

who roars his endless love for you with a voice that shudders the earth

you are a filthy monster, accusing bitch goddess

which is the dream, which is the monster?

 

Saying Sorry is as simple as the use of a comma

I am learning what is mine and what is yours.

I have learnt how to tie my shoes and when to stop stirring the jam.

I have also learnt where to put the stamp and how to rescue a bee

also how to read the recipes and when to pronounce a silent letter

along with where to walk on the pavement and when to lick the ice-cream

however 

the art of when to not say sorry is which i am still new to.

I'm awfully sorry that I forgot to sing happy birthday in tune

I'm really sorry that I didn't want to go to that one party

Truly I'm sorry when I talked too much about Yeats

I must apologize for that one time when I kept humming

Or when I cried too much looking at a mere copy of Klimt

And I am sorry for holding your hand too much 

Also I forgot to apologize for when i got the hiccups 

I'm just sorry for apologizing about my self-worth

Im sorry if this is too much about me

Im sorry if this makes no sense

I'm sorry for writing this poem.

the violation in picking flowers

Long grass was supposed to be our comparison to our childhood

but now i all think of is allergies and bee stings.

i dont enjoy the poppies,

far too flamboyant in that red dress,

tapping her black shoes until till we are a heaving migraine 

of self-pity and poppies.

It is a violation to pick flowers

the abortion of a blooming field.

Leave the flowers child

and back to the long grass I go,

water dripping down the tip of my nose

whilst the poppies dance once again.

Shakespeare beat me to it but i thought i was in love

To compare the moon to you would be a sin

with her ever changing pattern of sadness

To compare you to a daisy,oh how would i cry

for her plain petals could never douse your passionate heart

To compare the summers day

 in all honesty would be best

For the biting ants and sunshine glare

would most definetly be best to compare

I destest the thought of everlasting love

soon to compare me to that of a dead flower

letting the sun wither me away

in the fields of comparison

Words from a carrot cake splattered notebook

Sunshine streaming dust

Blake would have said it better

but the ice cream is all gone 

and the tears are all finished

I dislike our presence in the library

I dislike your presence in my memory 

boots are scuffed and muddy

sleeves are soggy and wet

the tea went cold

I dislike your presence in the kitchen

I dislike your presence in my memory

The milk is off 

thick,vile and yellow

much like the protection of your heart 

get out wild beast

lead your trail of rotting nostalgia somewhere else.

one time i just mixed words like a cake and the result was arrogrance.

WRITING LITTLE WORDS

the little words dance and groan in my mouth

silly words which serve no meaning other than sounding pleaseing to the ear of a stranger.

at some godforsaken time of midnight is when the little words are born

imagine that of thousands of bubbles being delivered  between the legs of a thesaurus,

the torn out libary pages and dog eared steals from school.

this is not a confession,

simply the beginning 

the little words are diseases of the mind

romanticizing the horrors of what should and should not be conformed or condoned

they are the leaky eyes of the last pomegranate on the rotten tree

mere words or ocillating comparisons repeating themselves until 

heaving up the result;

the out of tune piano recital,

the burnt bread.

this is not a confession

this is an illusion,

of a self pitying prince wishing himself in a castle to complain of dragons and loneliness 

these are the odd words which dance in my mouth and on my fingertips

i am no poet

i am just trying to find my way

in the upsidedown reality of  breakfast before brushing your teeth

and taking your clothes off before your shoes

these words are tunes i wish to play

this is me calming down

breathing in the words

and repeating them in my head

the traffic lights are confused whilst pigeons are the image of anarchy

i am done

the words have left me

these are not confessions

these are just words.

Confessions from one who talks too much (and worries too much)

I was in between National Geographic articles and dusty gramophones.

I was stuck on thoughts about capitalism over tea with my mother

who never really left the asylum of materialism

I was told it was just a phase over coffee with my teacher

that i should bow my head and pray 

to become a doctor

or afford a sunny suburban 3 bedroom house.

i was told by my art teacher that Rococo was useless 

and had I read Freud?

i was told not to take the crusts off sandwiches i ate

on my way to pick grapes for the dogs wine.

I was told that I did not know myself.

However I know that the fish would die 

and our seas would be empty by 2048.

But hey, have you ever tried sushi?

I know to never fall in love with a boy who recites Bukowski  while asking for a lighter.

I know of the secrets that English teachers refuse to share

about the secret meaning of Yeats and Burroughs.

I know it is not just a phase.

I know that the monotonous circle of dreary suburbia

will grip my friends with microwaves and tucked in shirts.

I will break that circle.

I will play with the crazies until 

we collapse on the floor,

drunk off words and DADA cafes of 1916.

I will wear yellow gumboots to a politicians dinner

and spit in their beef rather than protesting.

I will burn my microwave and not tuck in my shirt.

I will socialize with the untouchables whilst drinking

the finest champagne out of a boot.

I will not listen to the radio while making eggs for my alcoholic husband on a Sunday.

I will tattoo poetry on my eyebrows,

causing distress in my fathers eyes

over pickled onions on a Tuesday.

I will dust the left corner but not the right

I will nbe upside down and cut my own hair.

I will be my own wild thing

I know that this isn't a phase. 

Oliver De Sagazan is my imaginary friend

                                                  

On one side I wish to be a writer,

to get drunk and

  see what words an altered state would say

about the world,shoes and the creepy neighbor.

One side craves the bright lights and city lust

whilst abstinence tempts my words.

the color of paint goes 

from 

red

to blue

to purple

like the veins on my spidery arm while i try to sing in tune.

My church has stained tear windows

and a backyard priest foaming about ideas 

of the world and physics.

The barefoot shaman battles with the 

practically depressed artist draped in stained denim.

The insecurity of what and who to feel and be

is eating my existence whole 

while i drink skinny green tea hoping to feel something.

I am not taken seriously because my maths sums are never correct

and i forget to punctuate my sentences

i am falling but rising.

i am just trying to exist.

Words written in maths class

words i wrote when it seemed that everything was back to front and odd.

this pen  made 2 million rand and now writes the words of a saddened adolescent cheated by the guided works of young adult books

this pen just ran out of ink

wear your sadness on your sleeve

show your heartbreak 

hold your head up

and wear your socks odd

the artists felt something i will never posses in my conscious thoughts and words

the world appeared upside down paired with mismatched  cutlery and a glare from her mother

i want Dali to illustrate my dreams

while Turner  tampers with my nightmares to create a cacophony

 of heaven found in a boy who i loved.

wearing buttons in your hair

and clips on your coat to a garden tea party

spit in the sandwiches 

sneeze in the cordial

become a dismay of the dictionary to put your name in the thesaurus

A side way street for existential crises

and another for the addicts 

do not become your medication

do not conform to your prescription 

do not write poetry in maths class 

Cupboard

Cupboard

(a pantry)

let us hide in our sanctuary of dried fruits and spices

where did the cat go?

a hide and seek game is essential in between the biscuits and sugar

watch the ants form renaissance art in search for the honey

where did you put that homemade jam?

ink your childhood lovers name in the cracks so mother wont see

lick icing sugar off fingers when the tears are salty and splattered

drop the flour and create a snowstorm in the summer

make a rainbow in the spice rack 

a city with the bowls and plates 

let your imagination drip with the syrup 

watch the ants 

and hope that you wont be found.

Bliss

Bliss

B is for bliss

The frozen-cherry-summer lips bliss

evil ignorant bliss

Cold toes and rotten milk bliss

The evil ignorant bliss

Bliss for stony pavements,melting ice creams

The bliss of red scratches oozing red blood

The Bliss of the unknown

Our forgotten bliss for each other

B is for Bliss.

The Apple

An Apple 

An old man gives himself to you and becomes an apple

Your apple

This apple is the apple of your eye

Hidden in your pocket is the apple

Until it starts to rot

To rot and mold

To produce the stench of death it does

Your apple

You take your rotten burden everywhere with you

Young children wont be alone in a room with you

Family wont look you in the eye

You carry the apple until you begin to rot

Turning black and moldy

Until you give yourself to someone else

And become an apple

Their apple

An apple of their eye

A death to their existence

Their apple.

With the luck of lust

Here it is

Me in my gold framed glasses

 And you in your unshined shoes

We are the scuff marks of this party

Seen and unspoken of

Apparently we are in love

 Apparently we are part of a cult

Our punch glasses are empty since no one offers us a drink

The music is not of our taste, god don’t you just love techno?

There’s whispers that we’ve just snorted coke in the loo and I have heroin pock marks

The blonde girl closet to us giggles that we wear our underwear inside out

But to heck with that, we dance and chatter as if it was just us

And it is

The techno isn’t too bad when we waltz and I definitely enjoyed the tango to deephouse

My!

 We must come to uninvited parties more often

With the luck of lust there’s one tomorrow.

The Beginning.

Hello there!

After being tired of scribbling poetry and being too scared to show it to anyone,

I have decided to start a little blog to jot down all the strange words that come to my head and hopefully connect with others who enjoy the works of poetry.

My grammar is not particularly the best and neither is my spelling so please try and bear with me.

Certain subjects in my works are not afflicted with anyone particular nor is there an underlying meaning in any of my work unless i have expressed it before hand.

All poems are original unless started otherwise.

I hope you enjoy the words as much as i have enjoyed the process.

happy reading!

Izzy