Tag Archives: prose

Sep12

Things you Need to Become Invisible:

Posted on September 12, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

note: I swear on my sock drawer I’m 100% fine. this is a character.

x x x x x x

a knife (but be sure a poisonous tip)
a mallet (to play rhythms with up like your heart too hard too scared to do this,)
a tangerine (to counteract the taste of blood)
murky water (filled with soap. you’ll want to sterilize yourself first.)
old photos (the ones you almost burned before)
a lighter (to burn the photos. chickening out isn’t an option anymore.
they need to know you don’t care about them. let them rot from your temporal lobe)
a mirror
(to see what you’ve done.)

I’ve done it;
now you
reach into the pool,
and pull out dead bodies.
which one is yours?
nobody is born with the same face,
but yet they all look just like you.

turn over your shoulder:
you’ve got company tonight.

Aug31

No One Can See Thru My BulletProof Eyes, Least of All You

Posted on August 31, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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I without feeling,
And you least of all.
This is how I like to draw it;
Smooth and small.
No spill bigger than a pin,
And blood without the vinegar in.

If we hold our eyes like that I’m
Afraid to stall and spin,
If we keep our grip you’re bound to say
“You’ve got her grin”
As if there even was a begging to begin
Where the mask started and the skin of the scalp ended,
And whether you were looking at me or
If you just pretended

Tomorow is always a mile long high
Trying to get you to smile,
On a fifteen minute ride
Of fake goodbyes and fake goodnights
And made up kiss and falsifieds
One short connection and you die.

Aug10

Yes, it’s Nice to Know

Posted on August 10, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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the way in which
we sat,
and how the day on the sun dial cement
against the shadow umbrella
i spoke the first words of clarity,
as my cheek began to burn.
(was i lying?)
we walked, and we walked, and we walked,
slightly paranoid,
feeling stalked.
thrill as how my hand slipped through your fingers,
deep as how my chin rested on your shoulder,
and i finally felt twenty years older,
but held longer than you held on me.

Aug2

Diminuto

Posted on August 2, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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miles and miles of green
and the monks meditate
watching the green,
the single drip from a leaky faucet
or a continuous stream of music,
sans-pause.
can we believe?
can we relate to these statues and
long dead saints that
children begged candy from
and who now rest,
unknown in their stone sets
like the cut grass on the
lawn,
each inch cut growing back
with less and less of
itself,
and how,
now,
the only way I can remember
you is how you sat on the bench
crumpling into yourself
into yourself?

Jun9

A Girl That is Not Me

Posted on June 9, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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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.

Jun8

Nonexistent Party

Posted on June 8, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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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.

Jun2

Falling for Voices

Posted on June 2, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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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?

May23

18 days

Posted on May 23, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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all that is left
are the small things in my memory:
i remember you smiling
but that is all,
and i remember you smiling
but not very much.
i said hello,
you said give me some time.

Mar29

Stream of Consciousness 19: Pardon my French

Posted on March 29, 2016 by goldenstarpoetry

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Pastry where’s the thinking you eat chocolate like there’s no tomorrow
Wendy’s eaten three hamburgers this week my mouthful is stuffed where’s chicken where’s the turnkey I’m eating from sandwiches every day where’s pasta where’s lasagna where’s my mother’s baked goods

I miss the sky I miss crying I miss dying or wanting to feel like sh– where’s the pasta where’s mamma where’s tangos and having s– in the garden where’s my meals where’s the oregano where’s your hands on me where’s the lipstick I asked for where’s your angles sides on me and I’m probably going to throw up and these books list things like a laundry all the things you f——saw in Paris we don’t give a f— he says f— every other sentence and I thought he was a real weirdo he plays video games and curses three times a sentence but he’s good looking and he does accents what the fuck and he’s–

here’s to being single ha we’re only just five years older than five years ago that was when I dreamed about everything I was so f—— hopeful and where’s the glory in being single the easy self-gratification self-gratification my ass my ass can tell you we’re all going to hell, and there’s zero tolerance policy around here mister I hate to have to haze you but there are certain rules you do not break and Antoinette has better yet to come and eat and serve the meals get to it hup hup and old men on the f——bus It’s disgusting get some f—— manners, and he’s on the train he’s always on the f—— train get off already