Scatter-brained, too-honest, too-sappy
poetry from a September-born who loves singing Opera and Theatre more anyway.
My name sounds like "Emily".
War-time in the year of sun
I used to call you an eternal paradise.
that I could eat the fruit of another tree and come back to my sweet.
I was never afraid of your groves, your body.
But paradise is a season, all seasons end.
(Maybe they never quite return the same.)
now we are the stage for a cold war, our lands scorched,
our palms are too blistered and burned to press together.
black trees cannot thrive with only a salt-sea.
But I’ve seen jewels of green emerge from concrete.
and
You are still my sweet.
I don’t know how to stop liking skinny girls with red hair.
I don’t know how to stop missing their cunts.
Thus is the plague of the modern day slave
I can’t create anything that’s not about trying to die or my eternally empty gas tank.
Analysis of the body.
Messy, honey colored hair above curved long eyebrows. Two spider-eyes. Usually brown in color each with sets of long, curling lashes. All wrapped in the shape of round eye sockets and purple skin underneath them. Leading to a slightly small, triangular jeweled nose. A set of small, curving ears and two large, healthy, pretty cheekbones lowering to sharp-arched lips and a round chin. A generally heart-shaped face. One short neck on top of two broad shoulders equipped with straight collar bones and a high sternum. Two pale breasts set on a high, wide ribcage, above a short torso, a pale, soft belly and curving back. Two, too long and skinny arms with small, dry and freckled hands. Too wide hips drawing a large backside above another set of too long and skinny limbs. Skinny ankles and small, wide feet. Little toes, smaller nails.
All organs pink and filled with blood that needs more vitamins.
there are people who believe in the gods I do
but they call it an addiction to hands and feet.
but I get tired of thinking about god
so I believe i have an addiction to hands and feet.
Oh,
I but it’s wonderful
to feel your atoms spin and fuse with my organs.
I saw you expand at the belly of a star.
you grew and turned into something
filled with (god knows what.)
bile and puss and hydrogen and helium.
I want to see you decompose
into gray matter.
gray brain.
everything is gray
in seasonal purgatory.
everything makes you want to unravel
the scum of the earth.
(and it’s delicious to want all those things)
I am in the snake pit. The lion’s den. Beelzebub’s private bathroom. The belly of whatever other beast you use to conquer. Without god there is no meaning of life. When I am in pain god does not exist. God is too busy jacking off. Why would a god make me feel as if I am the pulling of the skin of Siamese twins?
