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Literature Text
This strange being walks through the abandoned streets of suburbia,
walks with sky mermaid hair matching the
anime raccoon eyes, matching the
coal heart hiding
a rainbow soul to match.
Loose-hipped and tight-lipped,
walking down a suburban road.
I live in a ghost town.
I walked along the empty asphalt paths
where shiny insect-backed cars
tight sealed houses
and piles of cigarette butts ten feet high
glare at me and my intrusion.
I must have shown
too much skin around my feet and too much color around my eyes,
because the silent jeering teenage ghosts
wouldn’t stop staring
at my baggy pants and sackcloth shirt,
no matter how I failed
to quell the swaying of my hips.
All around, sealed houses cringe back
while glaring eerily,
as they try to frighten the sky merman
back to normalcy
(worth sacrificing everything for,
except the sugarless cotton candy spun hair).
And the underwater radiated k-hole
octopus reaches out from behind ears and walls,
up to the sky
and into high resolution digital cameras.
In love and searching for the light
the glowing hair
reaches and swims and tries to find it,
but as soon as it flicks on,
the radiated octopus
hides once more behind the walls of ears
among a dark brown mop of dry and tangled
salty seaweed.
The sky merman sighs;
I like how the dye and bleach and more dye and shampoo-sans-conditioner
make my sky mermaid hair stiff and oddly pliable, like Barbie (TM)
or her fifteen oddly named friends,
or any other child’s plaything. It makes this false face easier to hide behind.
My false face, with the anime raccoon eyes (in colors to match my hair
and powdered on nose and scrubbed off lips. Topping a chain mail neck,
and fiercely brutal, black-ripped T-shirts to ward off all love
—and still attracting what I do not want and cannot resist—
my false face is my perfect disguise. I love how my
brightly-colored-dark-swathed alternate lying life covers the plain pastel grayity of me,
and I love how all my self portraits of a tie-dye soul and cyan lie are the thin and
halfway black halfway white lines of
my cell phone, my necklace and ex-eyeliner tube,
my hand that spells “C-Y-N-I-C” across four knuckles
(the en and the eye resting together);
the halfway black lines that illustrate so well my brightly colored lie.
it’s all over now:
gone
. . . lost and martyred to a Bryn Mawr cause.
The sky merman sighs
and walks again
among the tangled salty streets of suburbia.
Hidden,
dressed down in dark drab drag
“DESTRUCTION” marching proudly up one thigh.
Lost and gone and martyred
to a child’s playground with a stockbroker’s dreams
—everyone knows that freeks can’t succeed—
of individualized creative normalcy.
“So, Sky Merman Superfreek,”
“So, Sky Mermaid Superfreek,”
“So, Sky Merman Superfreek,
you’ll have to understand:
you can only get the creative reward if
you’re as generic as we claim.”
But I’m only mildly trashy,
I whispered into a frightened mirror like a misbegotten fairy tale.
Fingered
the ripped shirt slipping
over one shoulder, showing
absolutely nothing, like a mythically untrue ending.
Running my hands
over my face and tri-colored too-long-too-short hair, trying to
penetrate
my brain to make the thoughts that won’t stop
shaking
cease, make me ignore
the untrue endings of misbegotten fairytales.
Too many capitalist blocks later,
and a loose-hipped, tight-lipped walk,
the sky merman swings back
from creative oblivion back
to where searchingly radiated octopuses in love
and sky mermen
(lightning striped and with the devil in their brains)
have become lost-gone-martyred
with stockbroker dreams like a child’s
plaything.
walks with sky mermaid hair matching the
anime raccoon eyes, matching the
coal heart hiding
a rainbow soul to match.
Loose-hipped and tight-lipped,
walking down a suburban road.
I live in a ghost town.
I walked along the empty asphalt paths
where shiny insect-backed cars
tight sealed houses
and piles of cigarette butts ten feet high
glare at me and my intrusion.
I must have shown
too much skin around my feet and too much color around my eyes,
because the silent jeering teenage ghosts
wouldn’t stop staring
at my baggy pants and sackcloth shirt,
no matter how I failed
to quell the swaying of my hips.
All around, sealed houses cringe back
while glaring eerily,
as they try to frighten the sky merman
back to normalcy
(worth sacrificing everything for,
except the sugarless cotton candy spun hair).
And the underwater radiated k-hole
octopus reaches out from behind ears and walls,
up to the sky
and into high resolution digital cameras.
In love and searching for the light
the glowing hair
reaches and swims and tries to find it,
but as soon as it flicks on,
the radiated octopus
hides once more behind the walls of ears
among a dark brown mop of dry and tangled
salty seaweed.
The sky merman sighs;
I like how the dye and bleach and more dye and shampoo-sans-conditioner
make my sky mermaid hair stiff and oddly pliable, like Barbie (TM)
or her fifteen oddly named friends,
or any other child’s plaything. It makes this false face easier to hide behind.
My false face, with the anime raccoon eyes (in colors to match my hair
and powdered on nose and scrubbed off lips. Topping a chain mail neck,
and fiercely brutal, black-ripped T-shirts to ward off all love
—and still attracting what I do not want and cannot resist—
my false face is my perfect disguise. I love how my
brightly-colored-dark-swathed alternate lying life covers the plain pastel grayity of me,
and I love how all my self portraits of a tie-dye soul and cyan lie are the thin and
halfway black halfway white lines of
my cell phone, my necklace and ex-eyeliner tube,
my hand that spells “C-Y-N-I-C” across four knuckles
(the en and the eye resting together);
the halfway black lines that illustrate so well my brightly colored lie.
it’s all over now:
gone
. . . lost and martyred to a Bryn Mawr cause.
The sky merman sighs
and walks again
among the tangled salty streets of suburbia.
Hidden,
dressed down in dark drab drag
“DESTRUCTION” marching proudly up one thigh.
Lost and gone and martyred
to a child’s playground with a stockbroker’s dreams
—everyone knows that freeks can’t succeed—
of individualized creative normalcy.
“So, Sky Merman Superfreek,”
“So, Sky Mermaid Superfreek,”
“So, Sky Merman Superfreek,
you’ll have to understand:
you can only get the creative reward if
you’re as generic as we claim.”
But I’m only mildly trashy,
I whispered into a frightened mirror like a misbegotten fairy tale.
Fingered
the ripped shirt slipping
over one shoulder, showing
absolutely nothing, like a mythically untrue ending.
Running my hands
over my face and tri-colored too-long-too-short hair, trying to
penetrate
my brain to make the thoughts that won’t stop
shaking
cease, make me ignore
the untrue endings of misbegotten fairytales.
Too many capitalist blocks later,
and a loose-hipped, tight-lipped walk,
the sky merman swings back
from creative oblivion back
to where searchingly radiated octopuses in love
and sky mermen
(lightning striped and with the devil in their brains)
have become lost-gone-martyred
with stockbroker dreams like a child’s
plaything.
Literature
Mayfly
-
When we were mayflies our wings were
worn from wire screens, but the tentative
beats of your belly chimed like iron.
And it occurred to me that through
the breeze of burning leaves our eyes
were open to wasps and weeds.
-
Literature
What Was Left of Joan Marie
-
Her lashes cracked and barked like thunder,
but it was a mild summer -
a mild slumber
on her door step.
Her mouth slipped under stones
to dining rooms and
dinner parties but
her breath was raw and baited-
So she waited
by the back door.
-
Literature
A low slung sun
`
A low slung sun, the tide of winter
retreating with a colourful regalia
of leaf-shaped sailing ships, blown
by a North wind sweeping low, weeping
into newly bare-branch hands.
barely peeking
over my neighbors fence—
the sunrise
The sad sky blues a one-four-five,
deepening into that summerless groove,
jet-streamed smooth & shaped in streaks—
cirrusly in need of an audience, to applaud
that fall-song dirge of slow-death tones.
even the ocea
Suggested Collections
Dedication: For the almighty K-hole. Because she is.
I feel like I'm plagarising half my ideas from books I've read. So here goes the bibliograpy... (What the fuck kind of poem has a bibliography?)
= The octopus in love with the sky: 'Feed,' by M. T. Anderson.
= The mermaid hair: 'Echo,' by the scary-faced-woman. I added sky 'cause mine was halfway blue.
= 'Superfreek' is ripped off from the band Supertramp. And 'freek' has an extra 'e' to distinguish it from the bad kind of freak. Who can spell, I guess. (And, 'OneMoreFreak' was already taken on Yahoo.)
= The insect cars are, again, stolen from the scary-faced-woman (Francesca Lia Block), but 'I Was a Teenage Fairy' this time.
= Lightning-striped is from psuedomommy. Face-painting with non-face paint burns, but s'worth it. [link]
= The k-hole is from 'ary Monster,' by the eternally fabulous James St James. He is not, however, as kick-ass-awesome as Michael Alig. (Evil must be baked at 650 degrees, love.)
And, no, it wasn't my idea to have glowing hair. And it has not.
I feel like I'm plagarising half my ideas from books I've read. So here goes the bibliograpy... (What the fuck kind of poem has a bibliography?)
= The octopus in love with the sky: 'Feed,' by M. T. Anderson.
= The mermaid hair: 'Echo,' by the scary-faced-woman. I added sky 'cause mine was halfway blue.
= 'Superfreek' is ripped off from the band Supertramp. And 'freek' has an extra 'e' to distinguish it from the bad kind of freak. Who can spell, I guess. (And, 'OneMoreFreak' was already taken on Yahoo.)
= The insect cars are, again, stolen from the scary-faced-woman (Francesca Lia Block), but 'I Was a Teenage Fairy' this time.
= Lightning-striped is from psuedomommy. Face-painting with non-face paint burns, but s'worth it. [link]
= The k-hole is from 'ary Monster,' by the eternally fabulous James St James. He is not, however, as kick-ass-awesome as Michael Alig. (Evil must be baked at 650 degrees, love.)
And, no, it wasn't my idea to have glowing hair. And it has not.
© 2005 - 2024 OneMoreFreek
Comments2
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...wow. You awe me. Where do you get this stuff?!
That was...awesome. I'm being redundant...
That was...awesome. I'm being redundant...