Day to Day Poetry # 50

Read one of Bukowski’s posthumous poems,
sing to Gronlandic Edit,
scroll through endless pictures on Deviantart,
lick dry lips,
pound down old, black coffee,
read one of Hemingway’s short stories
compiled in an anthology given by your best friend
using a dried, marijuana leaf for a bookmark,
sing to Oxford Comma,
remember the way the smooth curve of her back felt
underneath your fingers,
regret all the friendships you’ve lost,
write a crappy poem,
attempt to re-establish yourself
in an apathetic world,
remember the way he rambled about
our Type 0 civilization,
while you laid horizontally on his bed,
wondering when to go,
count the hours, minutes and seconds
of his return,
bearing the gift that will keep you awake
until 6 in the morning –
the one thing you’ve been waiting for
since you ran out
four days ago –
addiction is seeking comfort
from that which is destroying you –
because real life stopped doing it for you
a long time ago,
waiting endlessly for Godot,
how long can this clever, cover-up story
and day-to-day charade
keep going
before it catches up to you?

Hemingway said
that all it takes is one unnecessary word
in your narrative
to transform it
into an ego trip
rather than a

6:49 PM.
Just enough time for another lit incense,
and a paragraph from Sartre,
before you offer your brain and creativity
as sacrifice,
just to feel



Waiting for Godot by cloistering

Waiting for Godot by cloistering

On most days, I stare at her pictures, wondering what it’s like to be her.

I try to emulate the happiness that burst out of her chest when she walked down the streets of London, waiting for Godot, searching for that pint she would gladly sip at the corners of her lips while smiling erratically, nodding enthusiastically to every Pinter reference blasted across her way, in dashes and ellipses.

I try to encapsulate the curiosity that filled the girth of her mind as she scanned pages upon pages of dust-covered literature, as she traced with her fingertips,

the cupids and the monks decorating this goliardic poetry — and I wonder, with intensity, how many times she’s read The Divine Comedy, with her legs curled under her, her blonde hair forming an illusionary halo that floats in perpetuity, for she loves to chase the sun when she reads.

Chase – may not be a good verb for someone so sedentary, as she was so pedantically described. But I like to see her as vibrant, as a one-woman wonder made of superheroes all DC-like, the strength of Supergirl with the graciousness of Selina Kyle, combined with the sarcastic humour of Amaya, topped with girl-next-door realism and you’ve got the perfect woman. Although that could just be the wishful thinking in me.

On most days, I sit back and think about what it’s like to be loved and adored as much as she was, that a wordplay on her name became the one signifying, all-encompassing, all-encapsulating word to describe the entire life of one person: marzipan (don’t think I didn’t catch that). I wonder if she will ever know about my existence, who pines for her life, who longs for the normalcy and intelligence she emanates.

Although I guess, as most of her admirers will go, we will always remain unnoticed, and prefer to be unknown.