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.