Plugged

I am gathering up my boredom,
My hurt,
My sticky loneliness that coats this room,
My depression,
My pride--there are still a few scattered bits around.

I am rolling it all together,
Firing it with the heat of
My anger

I will shape it as a plug, a cork to stop up
This hole in my centre.
I'm tired of my will leaking out, the wind
Blowing through.

I'm tired of bleeding.

Since your knife was the last
To reopen the hole, perhaps
I'll name the plug in your
Honour.

superheroes

We all want to
fight evil
We want our lives to be important.
So we label things
and people
evil
and slay them like dragons.

I don't have any dragons, just
Pigeons, and they are an annoyance,
sure,
but not really evil.

I have no purpose beyond ennui.

That's why I wrap my thin
layer of self around
sawdust
and dream of
fire.

tell the witch I will pay
she can have my cats, my
sister, my
prettiest beads and even
the hug my mother gives me at
bedtime, and all the golden
love that it holds

take it all

if only she will take her straw and
suck this extra flesh from my bones
like Marie Claire said she did to her

now Marie Claire is fine and
slim while I plod like a work pony
and all the boys coo
when she walks by

take my sister, witch, take
my horse, and take
my future

i want a now.

i don't

i don't see a problem with
sitting conversing driving around
feeling this way if i don't
tell you

you like it
knowing that while i
am nodding and talking about
weather and
our friends

i am picturing you naked sometimes

i respect your
disinterest i
will work out
my desires
elsewhere and
you won't
know
you will think i am a saint
or repressed or
maybe you will wonder but
it doesn't matter one
whit does it?

the breeze from the window
and we drive
and this is good.

blood drinker

tongue running over
canines that she'd
always wanted to be
less prominent
power
surging
thirsty
bored

somewhere here
is the new
taste she
craves
and she knows
deep down
that she
will
have
her
way

Do men feel
it this way
all the time?
The sexpowerlust
is that why they ruled history for so long?

more vice
more

James Taylor

Don't read these
words and imagine,
James Taylor,
That I am talking about you,
Or only about you.
You're so vain.

Any poem I write
Is a process end-product
Raw experience and emotion
Meet their own echoes in my
Mind, and they
Combine, entwine
So that when I record
Reaction it is shaded, metaphoric,
Catalytic and cathartic.

At least, that's the intention.

Don't imagine any emotion I record
That might be a reaction to you,
Your proximity, your heady fragrance and
air of what might be,
Is a permanent fixture in my stratosphere.
A poem is a snapshot, interpreted through
Filters, a frozen moment of how it was
When you brushed my hand
That one time.

Don't imagine, James Taylor, that all
my dreams of falling end in your
arms.

Don't even imagine that this
Poem is entirely about
You.

Still

A repost from my other blog, a poem I'd forgotten:

23.10.05

still

Mostly it's the stillness I avoid

healing quiet
reveals the gaping hole
where i should be

The stillness creeps up on rainy days and when I sense it near I
dive for the remote the computer the phone
the noise will hide me

I can't abide
me.

I don't want to be
still.