Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#6 Exegesis

There’s nothing happening
and no one knows what it is

It’s the divine and the apocalypse
calling out to me

Murder and rapes and suicides – oh my,
trigger me happy, my dear
those words mean nothing
to me.

Despicable, your middle name,
tangled in the viscous consistency
of your
cold
dead
logic.

I’m the joke you like to spread in your bed
on mornings when loneliness becomes
the lump in your throat
you
just
can’t
swallow

Not really sure
what sort of facade
I’m supposed to be
seeing through.

I trust your lies
because you have nothing else
to give.

There’s a gulf of dead stories
I have to cross
to get to you –

..

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, Short Fiction

#76

Hold his hand at Benicassim Festival: 17th of July
Tilt his head to the side, smile and say: “Scarier than Portishead”

I once said, teasingly, “I’ll be ready with my tommy gun,”
To which he grinned and replied: “Interesting choice.”

One night I saw him smile because of an assumption:
He was thinking Alice Gull, I was thinking Alice Ayres
I made sure to correct him: “You know… the stripper.”
A wince: “The pink hair?”
He wanted Alice Gull from Ondaatje: the activist, the nun
I wanted Alice Ayres from Closer: the stripper, the younger
Who once said, that famous line: “Here’s the truth so you can hate me.”
“Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood.
Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar!”

–I like you because you think differently than other people (another assumption)
–(made sure to correct him: don’t idealize, it’s fatal) How do you know that?
–Pardon me? (hearing is different from believing)
–I SAID: How do you know that?
–(The Blonde Beauty looked away before replying with sad eyes) I guess.. I guess I don’t know that.

an was denken Sie? 
Answer (the hateful one): What am I doing here, why am I here, what am I doing
what do you want, what do I want, are you being truthful?
This pounding heart is screaming guilt, not love–
“Oh I was just thinking.. about your friend.. and the drive-in movie.. that’s hilarious.”
Told me in great detail his special relationship with a cat
“I don’t like (name of the other cat)”
Why not?
“Because you can do anything to her—roll her around in the floor—and she’d let you.”
Rolled my eyes. “She’s not special (because she loves everybody?)”
“Naaaah, but this cat—he only likes me. We have a special relationship.”

–I feel like a secret agent and we’re on a special mission!
–Over and out

–Have you ever had a sex dream about someone you are not remotely attracted to—and you enjoyed it so much that you woke up and started to doubt yourself?
–Someone I’m not remotely attracted to?
–If you have to think you’ve never had it.
–Yeah, not really.
REALLY?!
–No, I just kinda go with it
–Jesus man, that’s fucking hilarious!

We watched a raccoon cross the street stealthily
Its little fat belly dragging
— you know what racoons are called in German?
–What?
-Waschbär (Vash-bear)
-Like a bear??
-Like a tiny bear!

I remember our conversations. I remember your accusation: -You close-reading me?
My reply: -I close-read everybody, it’s a great hobby
(dodging, dodging: making you seem insignificant)
It also feeds my paranoia.
-Why paranoia?
-I don’t know…I think maybe close-reading people too much and making their actions mean more than they intend is a kind of paranoia.
And your rebuttal: I think it’s a kind of sensitivity.
And me asking, so slyly: what’s your favourite smell?
Your reply that made my heart leap: Women.

Try to recall the little tidbits that happened:
Concise, condense, narrativize
I am thinking of eternal car rides and euphemistic insults
of the war in the suburbs, you and me against the world
of jail times and punishments, of alpha females
of a single word that can change the world:
“This is the only immortality you and I may share, Lolita”

–You know what racoons are called in German?
— Waschbär
— Waschbär, that’s right. How do you know that?
–You told me.
–All right, wrong question: how do you remember?

–Oh my god! You can never move!
–what do you mean?
–I mean you can’t move! Look at all your books!
–I know right? That’s why people love being my friend—I won’t ever leave them.

–Do it, do it!
Hold up a warning finger: Please don’t.
Why not? You don’t want me to encourage you?
–That’s lust talking.

Clad in black leather, she stands in front of the class
A .45 Winchester magnum in her hand
The better ending to this otherwise deplorable story
A colourful one to fit your fiction

–but wait for the penultimate:
damsel in distress still in distress
the evil bitch that won’t, so she doesn’t:
and leave you with (though you [probably] don’t deserve it)
silence and
nothingness.

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Day to Day Poetry

#69

–vibrating cellphones, blue blinking light like
a searching helicopter halo above darkened alleys, futuristic Tokyo settling
in to reveal Robert Deckard in a tan trench coat hunched in front of a noodle shop
inhaling soup in a torrent of rain with men in blue behind him, the retired Blade Runner
his eyebrows wrinkled, cheeks set in, I ask, “Do you  like working there?”
looks away before distractedly replying, “yeah yeah I guess” and hopes nobody notice–
how about the old sunken face of a woman with black hair just moaning
a big bowl in front of her–catching what, I guess drool, like those scary faces you see
in walls of B list movies, mouth opened so wide just endlessly screaming, reaching
for something you can’t really see, she’s barely moving just groaning little sounds of
“Ugggghhhhh” zombie livified, I whisper, “do you want these (curtains) drawn all the way
round?” she smiles and says, “yes, yes please yes” and I pull them back, privacy
fraudulently manifested although such a thin piece of cloth still can’t erase that moaning
groaning pained face of the zombified woman whose bed is so close it
refuses to be separate–”they’re giving me poisoned water,” one old man in a cricketing
wheelchair keeps insisting at reception, “poisssooooonnneeed wattterrrrrrrrrr” his voice
so spidery you can almost trace the barely visible tendrils floating out of his dried up lips
in white wisps of smoke that curls at the tip–the first time she spoke it was through
dried spouts of breaths, little whispers so grey it felt like fog, like the one that scattered
that early morning drive to Barrie inside a tiny Honda with a hippie teacher who once
sported a purple beard while he TA’d–who offered to buy me a burger, she said “if you don’t like coffee,
try cafe mocha” and it was divine, I squealed at the whipped cream and she laughed and
said, “that’s my favourite part.”

Now, with a shaking finger, she points and whispers, “That’s my doctor.”
And I said, “Yes, I’ve met him.”

–which floor? the question drawn on her face, she turns to us and
he pressed 3, she withdraws a finger back (it was hovering at 2)
smiles and apologizes, “this place is a maze” –like Union station?
Remember? We laughed and I
took your hand to go
wherever they wanted us to go
where you said, “We’re just one
big experiment
inside a rat maze
here at Union Station”–but she looked confused when
I showed up in her favourite dress, the one she
danced in, pranced in, would not let anyone touch that night
a piece of clothing she loved and adored for twelve straight hours
and now can’t remember, that’s okay, there’s always time for
remakes and
please tell me  you haven’t forgotten me – as selfish as it is, as profoundly,
incredibly, divinely selfish as it is –
don’t forget me don’t forget me don’t forget me
even in your comatose dreams, please don’t forget me – and

endless games of crib.

In between the poisoned water man and the zombified woman and the
fake blonde with the bulging tan she gave all her milk to because they thought she
was lactose intolerant so she ate her cereal dry, and those big megaheadphones
to keep all the sounds out at night,
she smiled and bit a strawberry, red going down her cheek,
and says, “Babe, that’s more of a start
than you could have ever asked for” with
as much suave as her namesake could say
while she married Mickey Knox in a white flowing dress
with flowers in her hair
on top of a highway.

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#64

Choosing to love is
ripping apart old skin
exposing vulnerable flesh underneath
wet, pulsing meat ready to be
pierced, torn and engorged –

or

engulfed in the old skin of your beloved
and promises of eternal care and
safekeeping,

destroyed only to
resurface,
molded together

yet

the only way to get there
is to stand alone,
a gaping, open wound,

trusting

waiting.

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