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| (Influences: "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyer, II Timothy 1:7-8, recent personal experience.)
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Vampire's Sins
When you walked through that gust of wind
When my eyes turned you cerise-skinned
I breathed to heart
How your blood red
Made my throat ache
Made my mind dread
How you stepped slow but far too close
How your scent pushed me past eros
I seized my thirst
And pinched it down
I couldn't breathe
Or think, and found
That all that I could do was run
Away until my thoughts were done
With your allure
And I'd be sure
That this was love and I'd come to
The point where we would not kill you
What I did when I ran from here
What I saw in my kind of fear:
I thought of you
And hopelessly
Tried to forget
Your taste to me
But then I felt this psyche-flame
As if a Holy Spirit came
To burn me clean
And soundly heal
Me where I would
No longer feel
That all that I could do was run
Away until my thoughts were done
With your allure
And I'd be sure
That this was love and I could see
The point where we would not kill me
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| Overheard this morning; this only took about ten minutes, because all I had to do was write it down.
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Present Progressive (A preparatory beat)
Son, I'm leaving.
That's present tense,
So I've not yet left.
Daughter, I'm going:
I will be gone,
In a future to be.
Man, we're married.
But might not stay
that way, maybe.
But it's all not yet.
So why are you all
leaving, and forcing
the going, divorcing
of me?
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| Because I said her name......and then fell in love. Something like that. Performance note: to be sung shyly, but without losing energy. Lol.
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Calla Lily (Conversations with Plants, No. 2)
Calla lily
Wrap your wing around me
And like that old Pentecost
Warm my heart through the frost
Calla lily
Calla lily
I think I lack purity
'Cause next to your sunny soul
My heart's a midnight black hole
Calla Lily
Calla lily
Though light and dark we may be
We'll in the cool of our dreams
Have heart to rest in our means
Calla Lily
Calla lily
My heart says thank you
My heart says sorry
My heart says 'love you
Calla Lily
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| Next time, BidetsLast assignment for Prof. Zack Jack's Creative Writing class, July 9, 2007. Ta, Premier.
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Homework Assignment on the Subject of Toilets
(Based on Homework Assignment on the Subject of Angels by Tadeusz Różewicz; various inspirations by Mohammed B.)
Thirsty
toilets
evoke
long leeches
white voids
hungry children sitting
in a third world
and evoke doctors
sucking blood
thick silver
hollow needles
thirsty toilets
evoke
zombies
smoothies that make
up the cerebral profits of scholars
serene toilets
evoke the hidden wisdoms
of an anal schoolmaster
they are kept warm
they bask in moonlight
they are like porcelain dolls
they receive patronage
amply
thirsty toilets
are like desperate hermits without a calling
like the dogs in a pound
like frogs in jars with no air holes
like abandoned open heart patients
like over-chewed bits of gum
like rock stars who party
who swig air from deserted drainpipes
a family of toilets
shuns
the one with flushed cheeks
they are all throats
at record slows they stroll
searching for grub on a path curved
like a gob of drool
their flushest busking spots
are at buffets with lax menus
they squat at the starting lines
they sit there for forever
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| "But... it doesn't rhyme."Assignment for Creative Writing class.
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Silvering
Inspired by Tony Hoagland’s Game
The sun adds three parts heat and one light,
and the mirror maker clears the table,
sweeps the floor and hangs
his plummets around the room,
on tables and ceilings and himself,
like round white motion capture markers
which track every wicked gesticulation
and the movements of the soul;
it’s a perfection of himself,
but he tires from step to step,
because he has a long way to go.
And then he turns, and turns again,
finally finding his sheet of glass,
whose sincere invisibility is consternating,
and whose bulk he hulks onto the flatness,
where it looks like himself on the operating table,
distilled water torturing away unrighteousness
all painstaking and repetitive, but it’s worth it
in a himself kind of way.
Mirror maker is wince and grit as he holds
the two devil bottles over the glass,
bombers so sleek and toxic,
One looms in each eye as he pours
them above his own face,
and watches them stream,
nitrate of silver fertilized with ammonia
now gestating with crunchy salts,
gestalt of new life on the placenta of glass,
because he himself is going
to be born himself again.
But then it burns, and burns again,
and he grinds dust of his molars,
until the hour passes and he drains himself,
now not a glass but a mirror all dripping
with dead gray cells and memories
of mucous irritations, rinsed immediately
with distilled water for at least fifteen minutes.
Finally the mirror is rinsed and dry,
and he blinks himself,
to see a brand new himself,
pulsating with new growth and shiny
with reflective actualization,
because himself is pure and painful,
and himself is perfect in every way,
perhaps a god in his gross, deformed brilliance. | | |
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