First, I don't write poetry. I'm just doing this for fun. Second, I'm going to be away for pretty much two weeks of this so I won't update for awhile. But I'll probably hand-write them.
Yeah. And there's not really a theme. The theme has sort of developed into sort of an "I [something]". I think.
There's language in some.
Last edited by Lavvie on Fri Apr 06, 2012 11:59 am, edited 4 times in total.
I used to hate it, you and those God-awful cigarettes. You’d smoke in the house and I’d yell at you goddamn go outside and kill some animals but you really wouldn’t listen. Then I got annoyed and made five cakes instead of one, because who honestly wants to eat nicotine for dessert?
I won't be posting anything more for a few days at least. I'm going to be out of town.
2. April 2, 2012
I like standing in the shower, wasting water, hating on the environment and getting screamed at to please stop dawdling you’re costing us and people need to use the bathroom. There’s a fly drowning in the soapy puddle at my feet and teary walls with some ugly frosted pattern (like cornflakes). And I can feel a word, heavy like jammed-up earwax or a throbbing toe, stubbed on the chesterfield when you tried to kick the cat away. When I look down, though, I can see that the word’s in Polaroid, tattooed crookedly on my wrist.
These are really great. They flow nicely and I love your use of language. You create very powerful imagery. I love; "because who honestly wants to eat nicotine for dessert" and "There’s a fly drowning in the soapy puddle at my feet and teary walls with some ugly frosted pattern (like cornflakes)."
Wonderful stuff.
"Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise." -Maya Angelou
And these are the ones I wrote while in Berlin - the third, fourth and fifth.I included the date on which I wrote each one. They're so blahhhhhh.
3. April 3rd, 2012
I am seeing her memories of past summers, autumns, winters and springs. They are gas in the wilderness and bloody gunshots, sounding the dead of the night. (I can see the shredded striped pant, handing out a death sentence from the branch of a tree.)
4. April 4th, 2012
I really love Berlin, but fucking hell, I don't want to go to a car show or sit in your damned Hofbraeuhaus, getting fat over sauerkraut and some sort of organic bratwurst.
5. April 5th, 2012
I think that I've been standing here for a very long (∞) time. But the thing is that I can't decide between Charles NotDickens and Sylvia Plath. Maybe NotDickens is better because remember Plath stuck her head in a gas oven? Hah.
The line breaks are little stupid here but in MS Word they worked fine so ignore that.
6. April 6
I jumped out at one-forty-three, the time of night when all you can hear is that sound of trains crashing on rails and cars running over blind dogs and don’t be daft don’t get killed. When I reached up, I felt the stroke of white blossom against my fingers so I held and didn’t let go. Then I swung like that fat fucking monkey up and up until I touched a moon (made of cheese) and we slept well and when I revisit that place, I like to think and lie and say that no way in hell was that a dream.
There’s something about stillness (but lacking peace) that gets to me every time. It’s when the first hail drums against car hoods and dents mercedes, cadillac, then slides down the gutter falls into that nook and melts and then Christ you think deep and creates (1)elasticity (2)equilibrium (3)gravity
I became acquainted with someone once and they said they liked sleep so much, it’s the safest thing on earth but I really couldn’t agree less. What’s safe about vulnerability, about singular darkness and medioc[h]re thoughts? And gotta confess, what if he never came,and left you huddling beneath limbic overhangs? I don’t ever want to get stuck, clinging on to insubstantial colours and nonexistent sent-i-ments.
Well, I needed something before I left. Mrrr. I'll be back in six days.
Line breaks, I hate you.
April 9
I had a paint palette of three (and 32) different colours and a 23 x 31 canvas and misplaced my glasses so when I leaned up close, I saw the interwoven fibers, the film of dust and imagined bacteria running amuck, having one hell of a party. I made an ugly green smear, grumbled androgynous, and I can't wash it off. (Oh, the irony.)
Hey look someone says in Italian (theoretically, I can understand them), there's your laundry waving in the wind. I want to correct them, say no it's flying. That's my blouse, white-winged moth fluttering next to a striped purple-blue Champion caterpillar. (The other ran away.) And that's no cord, no, it's the horizon, little animals hanging onto the last minutes of day.
11. April 11
It happened twice today, bitch, and don't prove me wrong - I know I'm right and let's not push my faults babe. At eight you yelled it was time to go, I asked where? and there was silence and I asked again and there was your answer ("to dinner"). You said oh you must have forgot but, really, the thing is, it's impossible to forget something in a shit language. Second time, when I looked like a drowned cat and my make-up ran (and I was a right copy of that fat slut from Mulan with the tea). Wiped it off, smeared it like black snakeskin down my fingers. You said something and I kind of forced myself to forget since I kept asking myself since when did satan adopt a vagina?
12. April 13
I ran into my dream yesterday, parked right in front of it, opened the door, turned (around) and there it was: oval, dark gray. I think I cried a bit, talked to a little bird and pranced about because there's nothing better than seeing a dream in real life.
13. April 13
I'm going to tell you about my day. First I awoke to a nightmare of some 7 year old kid humping my leg. And then I had to eat a breakfast that tasted like the smell of an outhouse not cleaned for a little while (gorgonzola).
14. April 13
When the rain fell down, it swept across my hair in little crystalline flakes. Then it slid over my glasses, something akin to a magnifying glass and I really wished I had a pair of windshield wipers.
I can smell it. It stinks of cynic honesty, of i’m a deep thinker kiddo but I have pins in the wall so you can laugh when they fall and stick me in the leg and (then) fuck doesn’t blood stain? That needle’s sharp (I understand) (that’s why you go to me). I liked that conversation; I like compliments.
I think I fell in love with you sixteen days ago, when in 1911, something of a supernatural sentience. People watched us work together, b&w, commented you’re somewhat like a silent film and we really couldn’t agree more. We only talked between and I kept you for myself, cutting out your words and pasting it into a papier-mâché heart of headlines.
I ran over a kid in Italy and I didn’t feel so bad (ohsorrytutmirleid). I know it’s kind of awful, but he was talking lots and I haven’t got my licence yet. The gravel made little silver studs in the dimples of his cheeks, the twinkle of his eye. And when the wind pushed me further, it was only then that I saw: his brains were made of cottonballs.
Oh dear. But I needed something to make up for the 18th (which I missed).
18. April 19
It began as a little tremor, the crane of a neck, the blink of an eye. Then rolled the wave, a thick, red and gushing tsunami bursting past barriers. When it collapsed on the city, time stopped, slowed and waited. But I was only dreaming.
I like it when you talk, ask me in kilo-meters how fast? and I say no more than 110 and that’s the reason I don’t drive, chameleon, because I’m already going 213 (winding bc roads; I like to lie to you).
