Along with failed blog entries, my poetry is pretty well known with my acquaintences but usually they only know only one specific poem or one type of poem.
Here is a simple poem I have been working on.
Person
You are a Person
You are a special individual person
Just like everybody else
You cry
You hurt
Just like everybody else
But you are a person
You deserve to be happy
So you can be beautiful to me
Inside and Outside
And when you are inside-out
So I insist
Take my happiness
Because I love you
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As you can see, the poem is a really straight forward with the only trick being the punch line at the end. here is another one that might show another style of poetry. Here is the poem Fallen Angels.
Questions, volatile volcanic vehemence, innocent in childish interrogation, bubbled and boiled
from cramped basement dungeons where my sharp mind whittled against her holiness.
She once said that I would resemble a fallen angel if only I shaved and then there was silence and then I replied that we were both fallen angels who are salvation-less and still had hopes higher than heaven.
Innocent in life.
She was a shelter for dreams that cannot be reached.
And each of us, hardened into cocoons that will crack and shatter never crack and open,
Butterfly angels dead before they are sprung, with beautiful malformed wings that crinkle up like autumn leaves.
And somehow, she was like that, but it was different now, as my hand became a spider
crawling over her pale Lilith skin in the dark Garden, each point of contact electric.
She says “Stop” but she does not mean it and the spider legs tickle the bare stomach
And go lower.
As I touch, robotic and contained, I wonder
Did Angels fall from heaven or were they thrown by some divine creed?
Their wings torn and disconnected thinking while they plummeted through beautiful blue;
If only I could fly.
I could fly yesterday.
Where is the hope?
The youth hurts.
The youth dies.
Her body slithers up against me in anticipation but spiders are not quick to kill.
No, pleasure drips sweet and slow like honey, and just as sticky.
Lips touch, wet, and the taste lingers, a honey of its own. Somebody says I love you.
What is love? And the warm, almost alcoholic butterfly-buzz bubbles like lava out of the stomach and the electric spider hands now creep. A second, all things pause, and time stretches, but passion, pent up, stresses against white washed walls.
She hesitates.
Does she remember Sunday school and the plain table and hardwood with old King James Bibles. Does she hate me? Does she hate herself?
Can she fell the ligaments of her white white wings begin to tear.
She looks up, maybe at God, and my lips wrapped around the soft flesh like she was prey.
Was she? She shivered like something poisoned, and melted into my arms in contentment or death, and body wrapped around body slithering together like snakes, shedding clothes, or skin killing Gilgamesh’s youth, her youth, and mine. Her long brown hair fell on my chest as she lay on me, breasts pressed into my chest, and body fitted with mine.
“Stop,” she said, weaker, but I had tasted what I had wanted. Somebody said I love you.
What is love?
But there was no more contemplation for her. First the dexterous creepy crawly electric fingers remove the last shreds of dignity and, with them, the chastity and with it, the virtue and love. Would she scream? Sometimes they screamed. Her body fell limp up to my venomous finger tips. Yes, she would definitely scream.
Her wings torn and disconnected oozing blood, dripping red viscous blood, blood everywhere, more blood than you have ever seen
A beautiful brown eyed butterfly angel, dead before she was sprung, with malformed wings crumpled up like autumn leaves plummeting, crying questions never answered.
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Besides the fact that the blog engine screwed up the form of the poem (it was written in stanzas), one can see the differences in style here. There is alliteration much more frequently and metaphors that are both graphic and stretched out. Also, there are many references to religion and mythology. This next poem has alusions but it is much much different.
2:43 AM
Mumbled thoughts across the darkness swaying to Coltrane,
seeing Water Lilies , contemplating the universe at night.
Dangerous stuff.
Sleep grasps the fringes of consciousness and the universe is dismantled.
Help.
SOS.
I am fading
Never mind, I am just a water lily.
Floating along.
Nonchalantly meandering across water, suspended like divinity,
painted by a revolutionary who has retired to Walden Pond
freezing water lilies in brushstrokes.
Monet Monet Monet
Dearest Monet
We will all float away one faithful day
Like how Coltrane fades into Thelonius Monk’s soft piano.
He is playing Reflections, is it a popular song wherever you are?
Reflections, swirls of music, like brushstrokes of green trees reflected
between water lilies that,
like you when you close your eyes for the last time,
drift ever so slowly away.
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Yeah, if you think the poem is random, it kinda is. It is a tribute to the painter Claude Monet and instead of actually just being presented, it is spoken to a dead Claude Monet. However, the poem still tries to represent a floating on by referencing to the smoothness of a mellow Coltrane or Thelonious Monk’s song Reflections. Also, the title represents a cheesy parallel between the actual title of the song and the reflections Monet sees in the ponds that he paints. Hence, the colors. It was one of those late night things.
Well, more poems are coming. This is Basic Interpretation, signing out.
