Tag Archives: literature

Town Crier

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With inspiration from Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise” and John Cooper Clarke’s “Twat”

Like some sick infected creature
Seeking shelter in the night
I’m a sore excuse for patience,
When you’ve sucked it all from sight.

Like a sagging little snot rag,
You’ve been filled with lots of goo
And the green unwanted dust
Of other peoples’ misfortunes.

Does my cheery face confuse you?
Does it make you feel upset?
Would you rather I applaud my fears,
Or cheer them better yet?

Is it pleasurable, my dear,
To pour your heart out to the mist?
Something fading, something passive,
That could not care more to piss?

It’s so pitiful to watch you
Waste away with grief and shame
But I think it’s kind of funny
That you think I caused you pain!

For those fools who think your moping
Is a reason I should care
Don’t know that your trembling fingers
On my head have trapped my hair.

You’re a lecherous town crier,
Crying verses made of air
First a snivel, then a current,
Then a typhoon of despair!

Oh dear brother with your moaning,
Find some well to drown your cries
We won’t hear you on the bedrocks
And you’ll still be none the wise.

Are you quite sure you’re unneeded?
Are you quite sure you’re a pain?
Well I think you’ve struck sound reason, love,
Cause I feel just the same!

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

A Girl That is Not Me

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After Ex Machina

there is a door
and at the end of the door
you will see me,
reaching for an eternity
for a place you cannot see.

there is a floor,
and at the end of the floor
there is a cieling
reaching for a feeling
for a thought that is not me.

there is a room
and at the end of the room
you will see he
grasping for validity
for a mind you cannot see.

there is a womb
and at the end of the womb
there is a birthing
reaching for a being
grasping for a feeling
for a girl that is not me.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Nonexistent Party

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poor man’s wake
she’s forced to eat dirty crumbs off a
table where people have mourned
and she’ll suddenly remember what her first conversations with him were like,
and how he made a great impression,
showing off his words like toys,
smiles like remember-later momentos, the hidden interest like a skiddish moth
and how the progression of events was not
what she had hoped or thought.

the people have all already gone
their clothes strewn about like some strange
orgiastic afterthought;
only their memoried loss
nothing on the interior
the people are still dead to the grounds they are in only.

the house is empty
at this nonexistant party
your own kin
sings like him,
and looks a bit
like him.
it was long over
by the time
someone was dead.
it was long over when
you longed for somebody
that looked like him.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

Falling for Voices

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impassioned responses are…highly discouraged.

x x x x

1.
perhaps i miss
your voice;
so soothing,
almost feathery;
dark feathers and
the blue edge of a
quiet twilit night,
but your voice is all sadness
nothing living
your voice is the voice of the dying,
so loosly bound.

2.
i was so happy to love myself again
when you were gone
in every sense of the word (!)
and now i have the unbridled
freedom of an unbridled
horse,
coat smooth and shiny sheen
and they all ask me where you’ve been
and i just smile and preen:
these things happen.

3.
twilight, how could i see thee
how could i find the way back to my home
when you never lit your own lamp for me?

4.
(this is my dream:)
i am with myself and new father
and the fog makes me awake
and i am so warm and safe
and i say
i did wait

5.
i don’t know much about
the voice that sits like an even tempered rod
off-white yellow, tightly wound.
(he gave me a good shake up)
and i’m pretty sure
this voice
won’t be the right choice
and we will simply
split our differences;
two terribly frank kisses
and call it a week.
i pass the people in the parlour
thinking is it
too futile to even speak?

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Ovarian Sweetness

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i see you
on the street
or with your head bowed low
and i think you made a joke.

i want you to be
perpetually smiling,
lost in laughter and
your bright shimmering teeth,
the sweetness of your mouth,
so familial,
so tender-warm-mine
(or was)

you cower
in the street
with your head bowed low
and i think to how
i owned
your sweetness
for a little while.

i am still stunned
when i think
how lucky could i be?
it was him
who wanted me;
him and his
ovarian sweetness.

(i am in love with love
my dear.
i just wasn’t in love with you.)

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Three men of the same name (adendum)

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the first:
i watched you like pricking up my ears
and i felt a monarch yellow when you
and your friends aplauded me.
i had the itch to tell you something that week,
but my friend laughed in the locker room and
told me why it was futlie.
now i understand
(or do i still wish you were my brother?)

the second:
there you are again
on the TV screen my darling
every day you wake up disgruntled
as you uncrumple another failed
script, because she said it
sounded good, baby, it sounded good.
i don’t blame her for sticking it
out with you until you
shyly let her in.
i tried doing the same but i had the wind
knocked out of me after that pure and simple joyring dance
around my room.

the third:
is an impressionistic painting
with a thousand tapestry strokes
and rainy dappled colors.
in my mind,
on the boardwalk of
surprise town
they showed and appraised you for
half of what you were.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry


Things to be Greatful For

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and breaks and faces and the
voices that are my favorite:
you have the
speaking voice of my cousin,
and he’s remarkably similar to
you (how very odd).
i noticed it last
year
(how funny that you should pick up
the ball so late,
but hell I don’t care! you’re
funny! and gosh your smile–)

I’m just happy i laughed to-
day,
laughed all the way to the
therapist’s office.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Instructions, Post-Mortem

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if there can be an antidote to lovesickeness
it is the three days spent splayed out on ones bed
tinkering with he lights in the room
and praying silently for death.

if you don’t spend long in there,
the time still seems to expand beyond all capacity
and you are left flooded in a
surplus of ageless minutes.

(one does not take three times as long to wake up in the morning.
one takes four.)
the hours taste like coffee.

at dinner it’s the same meal every day
lamb chops and something else you can’t taste
(in fact, you can’t taste any of it.)

in the light of day,
stock market men inquire about the rates of exchange
and the butchers barter over the sale of veal,
but you can’t put a price on anything.

the gardens behind ones house are like solitude
but they only mock it.
it is a mock solitude,
one not to be confused with the kind
spent gazing thru a soft sunlit window,
the eyes lost in an expression
we have no words for.

one may sit in the chair,
becoming absorbed in ones own thoughts
(but this leads to delirium.)

if one should desire to be cheerful,
putting on a smile can usually do the trick
in its ironical conceit
and is a marvelous deception
for those not aware of their outward expression.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

It’s the 1990’s and No One Really Cares who You Are

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overheard at a party:

(“do you incite
jealousy,
or keep it all in your pants?”)

(“we are dealing with a woman here”)
it takes one to know one that i’m the best
and i can kiss.

you know, thanks to the mobile phone,
my girlfriend over there hears me from a thousand miles away
even if i’m on the tube.

i took sara along with me  (“can you see her in the corner over there?”)
if you get close enough to her she’ll tell you she’s a
pyromaniac with a taste for danger (“haha!”)
only last week she admits that it’s purely
chemical.

it’s true;
last week i caught her
on the verge of a mental breakdown;
she faltered in the street wearing her
nightgown and she
finally walked back to the hotel and said
no one would really care if she
fell down.

then i yelled at her for about twenty minutes about
how idiotic she was being but
if she’d’ gone
i’d’ve said she was a wonderful woman.
(“she’s a real piece of ass”)

funny you mention it–
she takes hours and hours getting dressed for me
(“we all want the same things, eh?”)
but when she finally gets to the party she
stands to face the wall
and hopes for somebody else to turn up
(“or won’t–it’s still your call”).

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry