Just me, not taking poetry seriously again.
Did you put that
Clown on me
Gross get it off get it off
Who’s the joker who got the clown off.
I’m leaving this party
It’s getting freaky
In ways that I can’t handle.
Special Agent Foster
Liked lemon cookies
And coffee with coke
And toothpaste in her orange juice
And chocolate with Country Time
And Tang with only a little water so it was a sludge
She died a tragic death too soon
From being just a nasty lady
When I run out of poetry I just start posting my crazed ramblings.
My personal rule is, if I want to post it, it’s probably well written, and worth posting. If I don’t want to post it, it’s probably true, and worth posting. If it leaves no impression in my mind, it’s probably trash.
So. Here we go again!!
Give me grace
I had it briefly
I had it for six months, twelve months, not enough months
I want it for a lifetime
I thirst for it
Sweet on the lips and the soul
Fresh and cleansing.
I don’t want to forget that happiness
I know how to be happy
It’s an art
A difficult practice and an art
It can be done.
We are fools
We can be worse
We can be better.
My art is improving
I’m starting to see things I like here and there
I’ll never be like my idols
But I can be someone I could enjoy reading.
I need a break
From my own neurosis
It can be done
I’ve done it before
I can do it again.
When the trees are glossed in ice
and the sun glances through them with rising fire
They bat the light back and forth, a plaything
And I think
AAAAAAAAAAA THE TREES ARE SPARKLY!!!
Sorry. Poetry is just too grandiose, my brain can’t go there when all that’s running through my tiny mind are oh my fucking god the trees are sparkly, sparkles sparkles sparkles. I’ve regressed. Just in typing this, I’ve keyboard smashed so much that I accidentally opened up a bunch of weird windows for which I didn’t know there were keyboard hotkeys, like an HTML debugger. If it’s not what the sparkles have done to my brain, it’s what the cold has done to my fingers.
Here’s something random. My boyfriend writes songs for fun. Every once in a while I’ll sing one of his songs for him. Hopefully these blues will gently bring us all back down from the sparkle high.
I was really tired when I wrote these!
I want an egg sandwich.
These things make themselves
If you’ve lost enough sleep
You can watch them
Life is easier when your breakfast is sentient
As long as its attitude toward being eaten
A positive attitude
Can really make or break
A good breakfast.
Don’t break my breakfast
By giving it existential dread
Don’t let it start enjoying the real world
Or fearing death
I must eat it
And I hate having to catch my own breakfast.
Swifter than a deer
So does the yolk in my egg sandwich run.
A second attempt:
I must catch my own breakfast
The eggs are runny
The bacon is cooking fast
And these quickbreads won’t get away from me anytime soon.
But they’re going to have to get up earlier than that in the morning!
Double up on armloads of toilet paper,
It’s time for the post Christmas toilet ceremony!
We’ll all rush to our separate homes
Sit on our toilets
And void our regrets.