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All works 1998


Writer's Block

I cannot write (and this I know)
As well as Parker, Plath, or Poe;
I merely ask the muses send
One clever poem from out my pen.

A Hymn for the Ages

Come all ye who seek salvation
Pay homage to our divine administration
Sell us your soul
We don't know where it goes
But for a small fee
We'll stamp handle with care on the box
Wanna fuck?
No such luck!
We must rule your beds and abodes
But we have choir boys under our robes
Join the feast
Seek the peace
Eat your God-cookie
And follow our lead

Portrait of an Artist

It isn't very pretty,
Black oil on canvas,
Deranged visions
Of a mad genius
Covered by curators
And forgotten.
It's splintered frame
Bares an inscription plate,
Disclaimer of illusion,
To reassure the voyers
Who fail to see
Behind the layers of paint

What Dorothy Parker Would Say
at the Meeting of a High School Lit.Arts.Mag.

Take a trite word,
Run it in to the ground.

part 2

You write your sad poetry,
A pain you call "olden".
I won't call it bad poetry,
But silence is golden.

A brunch poem
or Note upon watching a friend devour a semi-cremated animal carcass

Laugh at my vegitarianity.
Say I'm overly P.C.
But if you're having steak instead of tea,
Do not eat in front of me.

For those of you who don't know, Centos are poems made by combining lines from others poems.
All of these lines were taken from Sylvia Plath's Ariel volume


My boy, it's your last resort,
Religion. Drinking
Black, sweet blood mouthfuls,
Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Shutting their mouths on it like a communion tablet.
Let us eat like Christ,
The apples are golden.

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Your body,
It thinks they are the voice of God.
A window, holy gold,
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God.
But it has no soul.

line 1 - The Applicant; line 2 - Nick and the Candle Stick; line 3 - Ariel; line 4 - Lady Lazarus; line 5 - Tulips; line 6 - Totem; line 7 - Poppies in July; line 8 - Fever 103; line 9 - The Swarm; line 10 - Mary's Song; line 11 - The Rival; line 12 - Kindness.

(...let's just say the only reason this poem is on here, is because the person it's about doesn't have a computer; but, by no means, does that imply that any of this description is negative.)

What is it behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
The box is locked, it is dangerous,
The black bunched in there like a bat.
Of something beautiful, but annihalating,
Is it any wonder he puts on dark sunglasses?

Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disapear,
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit,
It's the theatrical.
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible;
The blood jet is poetry.
Jealousy can open the blood,
A vice of knives,
Ready to roll like a devil's
Wants, desires,
Having no reflection.
But no less a devil for that, no not
Pure? What does that mean?
The fire makes it precious,
The absolute sacrifice.
There is no terminus, only suitcases.

line 1 - A birthday Present; line 2 - The Arrival of the Bee Box; line 3 - Wintering; line 4 - Ariel; line 5 - The Rival; line 6 - Berck-Plage; line 7 - Lesbos; line 8 - The Applicant; line 9 - Lady Lazarus; line 10 - The Bee Meeting; line 11 - Kindness; line 12 - The Swarm; line 13 - Nick and the Candle Stick; line 14 - Getting There; line 15 - Paralytic; line 16 - gulliver; line 17 - Daddy; line 18 - Fever 103; line 19 - Mary's Song; line 20 - The Munich Mannequins; line 21 - Totem

(This one is about me.)

I am not a smile.
I am nobody, I have nothing to do with explosions.
These women who only scurry
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I never wanted it.
I can not undo myself, and train is steaming.
Now I have lost myself, Iam sick of baggage.
I am exhausted, I am exhausted,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony,
With my gypsy ancestresses and my weird luck,
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells,
I would have killed myself gladly at that time any way possible.
I am still raw.
It seems perfectly natural now,
I like black statements.

What I love is
The pain.
I do it so it feels like hell,
Bleeding and peeling,
Straight from the heart.
The blood jet is poetry,
It can make black roses;
It stuck in a barbwire snare,
And drank my blood for a year.
A vice of knives,
Or a bit of blood,
And a love of the rack and the screw.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch,
I put my hand in the flame and nothing burns.
The fire makes it precious.

I will only take it and go quietly.
How I would like to belive in tenderness,
Pillar of hope in a black out of knives,
They do not die.
Love, love my season
Of licking clean,
Of a snuffed candle.
But in 25 years she'll be silver,
I survive the while.
Did I escape, I wonder?

Berck-Plage - 1; Tulips - 2,8; Stings - 3; Sheep in Fog - 4; Elm - 5; Years - 6,17; Getting There - 7, 10; The Bee Meeting - 9, 29; Daddy - 11,24,25,28,40; Medusa - 12, 41; A Birthday Present - 13,32; Lesbos - 14; Death & Co. - 15; Little Fuge - 16; Nick and the Candle Stick - 18,26,34; Lady Lazarus - 19,27; The Night Dances - 20; Cut - 21; Kindness - 22; The Swarm - 23; Poppies in July - 30; Mary's Song - 31,35; The Moon and the Yew Tree - 33; The Couriers - 36; Fever 103 - 37,38; The Applicant - 39

Don't bother to E-Mail me just because you're offended by subject matter or opinions,
I'm probably offended by you too,
so constructive comments only, please.