Poem — make me pretty when i am dead

Make me pretty when I am dead

I was never much of a looker while alive

It was pure luck that I managed my first kiss

Perhaps it was out of pity? Well I did cry

Afterwards, for the other persons lips I mean.

Sure, I might have tried human interaction

Once, though it just all felt like busy work

Or more excuses to get drunk (what fun!)

Once I saw people ask each other the kind

Of lover they prefered, I was quick not to reply.

“Dont ask me questions” I would say

“this French Martini cost me 22 fucking bucks, im busy.”

Some of those people in nightclubs, were sweet;

their names are lost to me now, but

Good god they were beautiful.

Along the gender lines I have never exactly

Been a shining example; all they do is confuse and

belittle us out of expectations.

I don’t want to answer or ask questions

That expect a pre meditated answer by ancestral lineage.

So, perhaps, when I finally join the choir;

either the invisible or the one down the street,

sex and gendered life would not worry me,

and perhaps, my lonesome rose-tinted glasses

would find a fabulous new home on my dead, yet pretty, face.

Poem — Thoughts on Sober Nights

Listening to sad songs, you can think
What you used to be and who you are
What made you think, when you sip your mixed drink
Of the last breath over the mistakes of love
And those beautiful regrets that catch you unaware
Is it worse that I will only think of you
In crowded places when I should be happy
Or when the awkward times which we bump into
Each other, at the same time, remembering us
Unhappy queens; now only recalled through therapy

Whether drunk or sober, thinking alone
And listening to a song that reminds me
Of times where love was a snippet of a song
On the loud dance floor, we knew we were free
But cautious of the time where inhibitions ran
And when time would catch up in a frenzy
But we were high and young; what difference was there
When we made love, and us queens felt it instantly
We had a flare for madness, for impossibilities
A hatred for the norm, an obsession of beauty

We found it on the dance floor, or at the back of clubs
And fell in love with our search of love
Sex itself is the act of rebellion itself, with drugs
Or alcohol, we found reason and fun
And found love and sex with the freedom it permitted.
But, it is true, when caught in the sober reflection
Or when our stoner friend dons a suit and tie
A prevailing sense of dangerous introspection
Causes a study of what we tell ourselves and others: lies
That never needed to be said but had always been told

Poem — Nothing Days

Today was another one of those nothing days
It was laden with the shock of winters wind
Of the hell of idiots words, of resolved sin.
Of family squabbles that turned into nursery rhymes
And the pain of the day and tomorrows weariness
Squabbling for my minds wild bastions of privacy.

If sorrow could turn into beauties needs
Would the body need such a restless mind?
One can see how things may fade;
Even as fleeting as faith is, it costs more
To cast it from your mind than to keep it
Though, who needs Eden when all you need
Is your inner instinct such as human love;
To find those lips that should be kissed

Life has found a way to revolve around itself
And the planets have been taught their alignments
From the beauty of gravity and the dimension of nothingness:
Our world is what it is, God had nothing to do with it
And thank god for that; humanities favorite fiction
has caused a great deal of trouble for unknown reasons
Reasons that birth from uncertainties, and uncertainties
birth fear, or even perhaps, visions of paradise.
Squabbles that are birthed in a lovers kiss

Or in claims of dishonesty, are too often cherished
If one where so innocent of the world they live in
Or seeing the storms of rage hurry to its boundaries
Then one would be quick to see Eros and Thanatos
As inconspicuous as they were, never made sense
To begin with, nor were ever worth consulting.
A dedicated Freudian would find birds and bee’s
in “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” or in the name”Eisner Pos”
Anagrams are lovely as jokes; they are never built for analysis.
Thank god for family, for many things I suppose
In their squabbles, I learn to retreat into my own mind
To find my own preferable company.

Even trapped by family obligations
Through the white noise of its arguments
I hear the music of thought in my mind;
personal quips and thoughts that belong
to me, no one else. This is a wonderful feeling
Perhaps the thought of writing these thoughts down
Could be seen as a betrayal, but its cold today
What else is there today on these nothing days
Except enjoy the company of yourself
And sip on tea with a slice of lemon in it.

Poem — Imagine Fear

Imagine fear, in its mess, as a curious errand
A story of bloody places and crude practices
Or a glance from heaven to earth;
in its disdain for conscious thought,
it is something worth breathing life into.

A it stands now; as a curse for the ages,
as a horror of all of the hours of grief
in all honesty: what would we do without it
If it didn’t scare us into work or love.
Fear can be used as a tool for finer things.

Yet when one is scared of fear itself
Or of other peoples minds, of the life’s test
of unkindly hands and executed loves,
One Will play the tyrants cause, of honours garb
defaced over dead intentions and lost causes.

Poem — I Will Read Some Poetry

The worst part is that i cannot see what is right in front of me
Anything worth seeing has a certain immaculate light to it
or a colour that brings beautiful thoughts to a minds might
But there is a beautifully bound book on the desk, calling to me

I cannot remember if it what I placed was a collection of Auden,
Or perhaps of the works of Yeats, Frost, Poe or of Whitman
Or of a sad, perhaps unknown poet, or undiscovered in the west
Like the anger of Pasolini, or the feminist charge of Farrokhzad

I probably have too many books, or too much time on my hands
To read is to imagine, to see what the mind can make, given the time
When Borges was blind, subject to imagination, his writing more refined,
would make anyone wish that blindness could make them understand

But to understand is more or less a folly, since the word itself
is more or less a time constraint of necessity, not of comprehension.
But less of that; poetry doesn’t need to be understood to be good
I would take it over meditation: an empty mind sounds like hell to me.

Whether poetry could teach me things I didn’t know like non fiction
Or involve me in grand tales of lands I will only see in my mind,
poetry is a feeling more than anything else, constrained only by emotion.
So before I attempt sleep, I will know perfection can last in the words of the poets.

Poem — Generation

It is better to think that my generation
would be better off without the thought of a future
Or the humanity of failure constantly at our minds

We were told we were fucked from the start
bitterness was our default position
our anger caused from the old worlds ashes

Or perhaps its because of our lack of sleep
Or that we cared too much perhaps
of things we could not control

We were born knowing that we were different
That the possibility of change was within us
But then we left high school and were told otherwise

Perhaps it all started when the housing bubble burst
Or when we first saw the tallest buildings tumble in fire
either way, it had made us older than we seemed

It was good that many of us gave up booze
And looked away from its awful, zealous troubles
It was enough,it had done nothing to our much sadder parents

Though perhaps, I might be missing the point
the worth of my generation never lied with what it pretended to be
It was desperate to understand what little answers there were

From trigonometry to even more simpler economics
we were provided with answers that made little sense
it was our problem, of course, we would learn wouldn’t we?


Poem — Thunder and Dreams

Dirty words are that title of merit
When you send one word to next

A slight spark can send one shiver
it was worth saving your words darling

Im used to waiting until they would matter
But when they did, it only happened quicker

It was worth the taste of ash
and the crack of war’s whip

We were taught this for a long while
As children we saw towers topple

And ever since we turned on the news
Something bad was sure to happen ever since

Now as we scroll on the internet
we laugh at first, then we snicker

then what was left of laughter turns
into the bitter sorrow of youth

Humankind has done worser things
to deserve such misery and horror

It never lost its vile magic over blood
nor its burning desire to see it spill

The death of children is enough
to make one scream into your pillow

A war may start over that thought
It has happened before, it is a constant

Lets hope we don’t see death
become the only reason for living or killing

We may lose this one yet
but the thunder of war will never leave

We have nothing to gain but everything to lose
But at last, thats never been far from human thought