I hope you guys are in the mood for a little dash of ridiculousness, because man, do I have a treat for you tonight!
I do not write poetry. I just don't. I appreciate poetry-- I've had to remind myself not to lick the pages of my John Donne anthology in public-- but my thoughts and feelings and emotions (even the best ones) simply do not translate into a world without punctuation rules. I've worked on it, I've taken classes, I've stared frustratedly at botched pieces of notebook paper and willed them to become art, but it has yet to work. Sadly, I've somehow found myself enrolled in a workshop intended for people who, like, know what they're doing. My strategy so far has been to write prose and then go back and add haphazard line breaks and delete all the periods. My professor has actually liked them, by some crazy, demented twist of fate... but I still cringe every time I glance at my class folder. But what better way to overcome anxiety than to dip your whole head into a freezing cold bucket of it?
I'm sharing this one with you because the prompt is awesome, and I want to invite you to write your own original poems under the same guidelines. So I can selfishly read them and feel like some kind of proud aunt. You can leave your poem as a comment, or just comment with a link to your own blog. I'll pick a favorite and then praise the hell out of its author in a future post. Are you down? Will you do this with me? Cool.
In your poem, include at least fourteen of the following items: a statistic, a dish eaten cold, three forms of heat, a smell you can't forget, a line from a movie, something out of a textbook, two things you wish you had said, a reference to an aunt or uncle, some kind of moving vehicle, two words beginning with R and ending with "-ion", a stage direction, two distinct hours of the day, an historical figure, an adhesive, an animal only seen up close in the zoo, a slang expression ("call it quits," for example), something really bad that you did, something that undermines or negates everything else you've said.
Here's mine!
Is this punishment for when I was ten
and I scratched my brother’s arm so hard
that it left permanent half-moon scars?
Is that why I saw my eleventh birthday come
and go without receiving a single piece of parchment
stamped with the imprint of an owl’s beak?
They say revenge is a dish served cold,
and goddamn it, I am freezing.
I belong in a toasty wand-knit sweater
with my blocky first initial on its front!
I belong with my legs tucked under me
on a red couch next to a furnacey fireplace!
I belong gulping steamy potato leak soup
that I charmed out of the kitchen after hours!
Where are all my adventures?
Where is my 8AM air tingling my cheekbones
as my thighs hold tightly to a wooden handle?
Where is my midnight foray into the forest
under my friend’s dad’s uncle’s old cloak?
Where is the unforgettable smell of butterbeer,
all caramel-colored and homey and in my throat?
For Merlin’s sake, just let me in!
Let me in or I’ll use the Expoximise charm
and glue my ass to the front gate!
Let all the “deserving” eleven-year-olds watch
as I lean, center stage, gate-to-ass like a zoo elephant
and yell all the things I should have said!
I should have sent them my own letter
and been like, “Dear Hogwarts School.
I am pleased to inform you that you have been
invited to accept me into your establishment!”
I should’ve found Dumbledore’s email address
and said, “Hey, buddy. I’ll set you up on Grindr
if you let me be a Gryffindor!”
Whatever. Out of everyone in the world,
.0355% of us are special enough for your castle,
and I was supposed to grow old and jaded
without you. Was that the plan?
Well, I found a loophole!
You didn’t admit me, but I snuck in!
And every time I open those heavy,
beautiful books, I will have the adventure
and the food and the burgundy sweater!
And even longer than my brother
will have half-moon scars,
I will have my own personal magic.
I can't wait to see what you guys come up with. I may never even reach angry-eighth-grade-diary-scribbler levels of poet talent, but at least I just posted the phrase "gate-to-ass" on my blog. I hope you all have a lovely day. I'll see you guys soon!
42 comments:
That was insanely amazing Hayley. I'll work on mine and get back to you on that! Also...FIRST!
I'll get to work! Esp now that my semester is done, I have no real motivation to write
Hayley, you're honestly my favorite poet. You won my heart with a poem about Hogwarts.
14% of people will read this
The same amount of people are lactose intolerant!
A pile of garbage is not good
Go ahead, make my day!
Richard Nixon then resigned the office of President of the United States
Vehicles are good things.
The noon and the night argue.
That cougar oughtta bust a move.
Band-aids are not the item, but a brand.
That fire alarm at Kohls? I pulled it
Relations like to make reflation
END SCENE
Hahahahahah oh god. That was hilarious. And the end may have resulted in a slightly tearful smile.
Maybe i'll try this. The prompt looked really challenging, but I'll give it a shot. (later. when I'm not procrastinating from homework...)
You're awesome.
Bahaha. But also, awww.
I've never been big into poetry-writing either, but last year I started trying it out after being crazy amazed by spoken word poets like Shane Koyczan. I don't know if you've heard much spoken word, but you should definitely check Shane out. Its's technically poetry, but it can be so casual and intense and great annnnd I hope you like it.
Oh, also, I sent you a rather terrible poem for <3, so I might have to make up for that with this poem... I'll try, at least.
Oh dear, just finished
Only for you, Hayley G Hoover
http://raechalnarvie.blogspot.ca/
Wow! That was so good and so much fun to read! I'm not a poet and I'm not a writer so I'll leave it to the experts to write theirs and I'll sit here enjoying all y'alls creativity. Yeah. :)
I loved it, Hayley. I wrote one; it's a little angsty and doesn't portray me in the best light, but it's honest. Don't judge me.
6:30; the first time I hit snooze.
7:10; the moment I toss myself out of bed
and prepare for the awaiting Hellhole.
A slice of cold pizza, quick glance at my reflection,
and then running out the door still battling my hair,
racing lights and other cars to get there.
In the door of the Hellhole,
running down the hall as the bell tolls.
Late. Not surprising, not a problem;
I’m never marked tardy.
And that’s assuming I even show up.
They say you need 95% attendance
But mine’s under ninety and no one’s ever said a word.
Perform well on standardized tests
and no one cares what you do.
It’s the ‘below-average’ kids they worry about.
Play nice with the teachers,
suck up with the administrators,
and those meant to shape your mind
become your puppets.
Do the taxpayers know what manipulation is spanning the nation?
That education only worries about the slackers
and forgets the high-achievers?
Is it any wonder that I don’t care,
hate school, don’t want to be there,
and don’t go because they only want me for my test scores?
I’m not a statistic, I’m a human being
but all they seem to see is my score on the EOCs,
making me push so hard to make up for the kids they didn’t teach,
the ones who didn’t learn,
leaving me to make up the difference,
to earn the As but find no recognition.
But if there’s no test, they don’t want to even see me.
They just want me to slink through the hall with the other sloths,
to hang behind the curtains, away from the spotlight,
whispering the lines to kids from stage right
because they didn’t learn them on their own.
Make those kids perform because the government
commands it, god-damn it!
Because Cs aren’t what Uncle Sam wants to see!
Average is failing;
you better have at least a B or your life is over.
Education is in the shitter
and the kids aren’t to blame;
it’s the adults.
The parents grounding Jimmy for a C,
Aunt Macy telling Suzie that her GPA has to start with a 3,
And Principal Prick worried more about test scores than students.
So kids cheat.
The test on the teacher’s desk
disappears into Billy’s hands.
Lizzie pays Eric to write her paper
because she really needs an A if she wants to get that full ride.
The ‘honors kids’ are the least honorable,
the most willing to cheat, to run each other over
if that’s what it takes to be the best.
How do I know? I’ve done it.
I’ve cheated more times that I can count
and I’m the Salutatorian.
I wish I had said no to letting my friends cheat off of me.
I wish I had said no when asked if I wanted the test answers.
I didn’t.
Because grades shouldn’t matter to me,
but they do.
I wrote this in about 5 minutes and it's pretty crappy but hey, you ask, and I give.
"Iceberg Ahead!"
Over Ice cream in a red and white striped booth
It’s 7 at night already but the sun still is up above the mountains
I can feel my hand trying to move of its own will
Like a truck with the parking break left off
I want to know the feel of your fingers
The heart is a muscle so technically it can’t break
But every second I stay in this booth I can feel it break a little more
95% of smart people would say you just aren’t that into me
I know they are right but the fire I’m playing with is so warm and cozy
Realization is not in my plans for this evening
I want to yell how crazy I am about you
Want to shout it from the rooftops like a crazed baboon
A baboon who makes crazed calls to find a mate
But no, I sit here and chatter on about my day
Covering up the fact that all I want to do is jump your bones
A noise as loud as a hairdryer comes from up front
The Iceberg isn’t exactly quiet
It brings me out of my ruminations
Of me repeating our names together as one
Trying out your last name with my first
The clock strikes 9, how is it that we’ve been sitting here talking
For two whole hours watching our crappy shakes melt into messy puddles
“I wanna have your babies” hides itself right behind my lips
Trying to burn its way through so that I’ll say it out loud
I feel like I just made out with an iron
But now we are sitting in front of your house and you are exiting
Stage right…or is it stage left? I was never good at that.
Anyway, you exit leaving only behind the smell of your cologne
I wonder if this is how Jane Austen felt, watching the love of her life leave?
Man I hate you.
I honestly don't know what the fuck just happened because I almost never write about this, and if I do, it's never been publicly. Please don't judge me too harshly...
The Other 10%
90% of the time
I wish I’d never gotten sick.
I wonder whether my high school years
would still feel like I watched them pass through the window of a car
on the highway
on a hot summer afternoon.
A blur of color as the trees rush by, with details like signposts
and unfollowed exit ramps
coming into focus
if I really concentrate.
Sometimes the window shows only black, as the road ducks
into the shadows under an overpass and the concrete walls
that hold up the bridge above hide any scenery from my view.
I got sick though.
I did.
I got sick.
And after a month or so my parents began to panic
because their kid was sick and no one knew why.
My mom wouldn’t let me see how worried she was
but I would hear her tone when she talked to her sister
on the phone on Saturday mornings
and her tone told me what she couldn’t tell me.
They didn’t know what to do.
I should have told them,
it’s ok,
they didn’t have to.
But I didn’t.
I still haven’t.
I wonder if I should.
And I’d sit silently at the kitchen table,
Trying to ignore the cold bottle of foggy blue Powerade the doctor ordered I drink every day,
clinging to a Harry Potter book like it was glued to my hands,
wanting
needing
to find safety in its pages,
the safety my body couldn’t give me.
Through dozens of doctors and tests and medications and sleepless nights
I took refuge in the castle contained in its pages
and my chest burned with the knowledge that
I’d never feel as safe
in the world my body inhabited.
The world my body dragged me back into
when it screamed with the heat of fever
and ached from the unceasing nausea.
When I began to get better,
after months of missed school,
after the get well cards had been read,
after the flowers had died,
after my mom grew thin and pale,
after my dad stopped asking “How are you feeling?” when he got home from work
I still wasn’t ok.
I’m not ok.
I’m not.
I don’t feel well.
I feel like a tiger in a too-small cage.
Pacing, anxious, nervous, unsettled,
sick.
Watched. Stared at.
By people who want to understand where it came from
but can’t.
Because how do I explain feeling sick for six years.
How do I explain why I panic when I hear liquid being poured.
How do I explain why I’m unsettled by seeing certain shades of pink or yellow.
How do I explain sobbing like a lost toddler when I saw Dumbledore drink from the basin in the cave
and Harry heard telling him, “You’ve got to keep drinking, remember?”.
How do I explain the lies to my friends about why I am constantly anxious.
How do I explain the pain and worry it still causes my mom.
How do I explain the flashbacks,
the fear,
the anxiety,
the months spent alone and wondering what’s wrong,
the years spent being sick.
Wasted being sick.
I can’t explain it.
90% of the time
I wish I’d never gotten sick.
But for the other 10%,
I wonder,
if it hadn’t happened to me,
would it have been someone else?
I wonder,
if it hadn’t happened to me,
would I still be me?
I think, if it had to be someone,
it’s ok it was me.
I should tell my parents that it’s ok.
Here's mine:
https://ifimjuliet.wordpress.com/
I did not see that as becoming a Harry Potter inspired poem, but I probably really should have.
If I remember, I'll get back to you about the trade off of poems.
It's weird that I chose to write about this, but somehow it made sense. This is a day that happened about 5 years ago:
They say that Max is one of the most popular dog names in the world
However mine was called Cody
He was big and yellow and old and smelly
But he was a member of our family all the same
When we went on trips he was packed into our minivan
On the road people would stare, wondering if they’d just seen an escaped lion
But no, it was only our giant smelly dog
Who smelled of dog food and whatever he had rolled in previously that day
Cody was so large and gentle
He reminded me of Andre the Giant
At any moment I expected him to stand up and ask,
“Anybody want a peanut?”
On the morning he died I wish I had done more than cry all over him
I wish I had told him he was the best dog a kid could ask for,
That he was going to Dog Heaven
Where he could eat as many apples as he wanted
Our giant smelly dog passed on at eleven o’clock in the morning
And when my mom returned,
She suggested we take a trip to the local theme park
I felt wrong having fun on such a sad day
At one o’clock we arrived and immediately treated ourselves to ice cream
That quickly melted, leaving me with tears building up behind my sunglasses
We went on a roller coaster that looked as if it was held together using tape
And my mother, trying to relate to us teenagers, then exclaimed, “That was rad.”
With the sun beating down on us
The fight against tears making my face red and warm
And the closeness of strangers in the hour long line in front of Ghost Hunt
I realized that it had to be the worst day of my life
My half-asleep uncle had said a better goodbye than I did
And through tears I screamed on roller coasters, and laughed on water slides
I remembered the good times I had shared with my giant smelly dog
And now as I remember the day he died, I think of it as one of the best days I’ve ever had
(Also I'm not sure if I wrote that correctly. I wrote it on Word and pasted it here so sorry if it looks like a mess!)
I know that feel bro, poetry hasn't really been my thing, despite my attempts...Still, I'm up for a challenge and here's mine!
http://russiannovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/little-piece-of-you.html
Hayley: Excellent use of the word "furnacey" by the way! I'm a big fan of turning any noun into an adjective by adding a "y." :D
This was utterly awesome to write.
http://wendtanna.blogspot.com is where mine can be found. DO ENJOY!
HAhaha, I love it. Harry Potter poetry is a genre of it's own. :D By the way, I'm with you on the whole poetry-writing-ability thing. I suck at it to the point that I'm amazed that people are capable of writing poetry at all - I simply cannot fathom it.
(It was 4am and I thought.. I'm not too sure what I was thinking. But I'm laughing now!)
Maybe I’d be the prune enthusiastic about bath towels
Perfectly emulating the crazy streak reminiscent of Martha Stuart’s heyday.
The woman unknowingly eating a napkin wrapped about her glazed baguette.
On the brink of a nursing home
full of old, dying friends
and mocking employees.
“My Dear, you look like a picture!”
Waking at the crack of dawn
To wear a heavy sweater in the dead of summer and
Leaving the stovetop on too long while boiling my morning tea.
Only to doze off by midday
Clinging to the day’s knitting.
I’d reach for the newspaper on my front step every other morning
while the neighbors would feel slightly unsettled
by the sickly pale arm appearing and quickly receding
back into the unkempt house across the street.
I’d depend on the body heat of my cat to keep me warm on frosty evenings
Desperately cranking the heater that unbeknownst to me harvests
The corpse of a rat
Which permeates the air like an onion left out in the sun
Filling the small room with more than a slight rotting stench.
Relying on terms of another decade trying to desperately connect with
My children’s children who know me only for my bountiful,
Oven-fresh cookie supply.
And just as awkwardly fumbling through conversation with the bank tellers too,
Because I just don’t understand where my social security has gone
Nor why my hair curlers are still in or how my car drove off without me.
With 80% of my medication dedicated to helping my bowels move
And my clothing smelling of mothballs and four decades of dust
I’d sit wanting to run to the store for bread
but the vitality to do so just wouldn’t be there.
While recalling childhood dreams
Would I entertain the idea that I was now
the equivalent of a Cat Whisperer
until my Mr. Vanilla bit through my sweater
puncturing my brittle skin and soul?
Upstaged by time and
Plagued with silly regrets
I should have told my friend, Margaret
Her hair was just as frazzled as she believed
And her blouse just as ugly
when I had the chance.
Petty and bitter till the end.
I’d recoil from the man, center stage on the television set,
Accusing me for the diminishing ice caps and saying that I should have done
More when there was still a “fighting chance.”
He’s nothing but A Bad News Bear” I’d tell myself,
Reluctant to take on yet another regret.
They would duck tape a Life-Alert to my collar,
Wouldn’t they?
Fearing that stack of ill-placed biographies of the 16th President
finding its way under my shuffling slipper
To land me unceremoniously on the floor like a rusted penny on the sidewalk
Waiting for the unsuspecting person to chance by
To pick me up and until that time
Toiling there with the words of my long-deceased aunt resounding
In my mind, “Don't wait.
The time will never be just right.”
Also, gate-to-ass? Totally unexpected and hilarious
Your poem reminds me A LOT of George Watsky's work
Only you, Hayley. Only you.
I'm right there with ya, Hayley. No one can write an extended metaphor on sex using a flea the way Donne can. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.
Anyway, here's my attempt: http://wordisdead.tumblr.com/post/21760462931/
I think I have 14 but once it started getting a bit too personal, I felt wrong forcing it. Also, did you know you are the ONLY person I'm comfortable submitting my writing to? Which is weird because your skill with words intimidates me like whoa.
Somewhere between watching classmates swallow peppermint paste
and strolling down the tiled halls of good ole SBRHS
I became unable to locate the YOU ARE HERE dot on my road map.
But, “These are the best years of your life!”
The teacher reads an essay, the name has been removed from the page.
Although the author basks in his warm aura of self worth, shouting to the room “I am superior”
With that smug smile, wearing a position traditional of Nobel Prize Winners.
Pride is the drained ration of human emotion, microwaved then freeze-dried for convenience, Enjoyable anytime, all the time.
Not served on ice, after a slow roast, when it's relevancy will last longer than a semester, as it should.
8:47 says the clock, accompanied by a bell
Before I am herded like the rest into another room with no windows,
Florescent bulbs serve as pathetic substitution for rays of sunshine.
We read, “Taft would not have become president if his wife had not pressured him to do so.”
My lab partner receives what will soon be scar from a Bunsen burner,
99% of lab injuries are preventable, I recite.
Fudge the numbers in the data table and still receive the highest mark in the class.
Now move on to lunch time the mystery of meat is it's ability to steam
Even if the center sunk the Titanic. The only apple left decorated with more bruises than my psyche.
Sat in the bathroom stall, enjoying the newest sharpie philosophy on the wall.
“I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me…but I can’t help it that I’m so popular.”
Only an hour left, but the science lab radiation makes my head swirl.
Why didn't I try harder? Why do I care? Why are we so proud when we beat others?
Why can't the golden rule, become the golden law? Isn't school for teaching social etiquette?
I don't need a box, filled with smaller boxes filled with adolescents, that every member of the previous generation attended.
An aunt named homecoming queen, my father lead saxophone.
Somewhere between the 4:20's and anatomically incorrect phallusi
I scrawl Run as far and fast as you can!
We barrel to the large yellow vehicle, seeking salvation from the concrete walls
“Oh, you're home?
How was school?”
“Typical”
so, uh, this is really long but...
There were nine of us
Within the mirror
Nine like the planets
And nine like the muses
Full of reflection
Pluto was the first to go
We left from him
He was too cold.
We thought not of the sun
How Pluto did not catch the radiation
For Urania had us stand first.
So there were eight
Behind the glass
Eight like the factors in the path
And like the black billiard
We thought for us
Too soon was the eighth hit
Sunk amongst us all
And we intended so
We thought not of the set ups
Of the hit
How divine; a hit for me.
Seven we were
Within the liquid nail
The Kings, The gifts
Unlike the any other
We were holy
Tullus lacked ardor for gifts
Not like our spirits
And we moved on
We knew not each other
We melted
Lacking courage to speak up
Amending to six
Behind the crack
Butterflies
Strung together
We were changing
The sixth broke off
Snapped in a cocoon
Dawn of our song
We saw not who played the note
Pushing it out of mind
Did we fall from favor?
Five moved on
Within the crack
All in different speeds
Like gears
And so we grinded
James was too slow
He did not leave the heart of day
So we ruled out red
We need not see him standing up
He left us
In a suffocation train of smoke
Four was better
Coating the glass
As elements
As seasons
We were opposite
The wind blew away
Saw better elsewhere
As you wish
We did not fight
We moved over
Growing weak
Three remained
Looking back on the glass
The unholy trinity
The triangle
But we could not touch
When the third left
It felt the same
Like natural progression
We thought it better
For them to leave
But we held on
Two continued
Not seeing the mirror
Good and bad
Black and white
We were lost
The second left
Or I left it
And it was gone
At the time I thought
That I was better
That I left them
It was gray
It was I
That saw no room
No mirror or cracks
Or signs of us
I remembered when we were nine
And I was gone.
Did we ever exist?
When will there be an update on Less Than Three?
Here's mine...it's about convocating university.
http://theotherdani.blogspot.ca/2012/04/hayleys-poem-prompt-beda-25.html
Thanks for the inspiration, Hayley!
I, too, am TERRIBLE at poetry, but I tried my best, here it is :)
Nine AM is punishment enough,
Without a ration of equations I don’t understand.
The girl in front beams like a hyena,
The radiation of her ego burning into my self-esteem.
“That’s not how you do it. You can’t divide logarithms.”
And then she passes back the latest tests, grimacing.
“Not your best,” as she flashes her perfect score.
I’ll have what she’s having, whatever’s making her so smart,
Whatever stops my calculus-induced nightmares that strike at midnight.
But I’m still sitting downstage right with no clue and no chance,
The rest of class speeding away in their own little math mobile,
I’m the hitchhiker no one bothered to pick up off the highway,
And my thumbs are just too tired.
Do the following problems without use of a calculator,
But I cheat anyway, because what else can my hopeless self do?
My Uncle Bob is a mathematician, but I didn’t inherit the gene.
The ghost of Albert Einstein is shaking his jagged head at me,
While I plead with him for an answer, I’ve become that desperate.
As the distinct burning smell of an eraser trying to forget stupid mistakes
Fills me with embarrassment and jitters.
Can’t I just call it quits? Can’t I rip math off my shaking body,
Like a Band-Aid sticking to a bright red scrape or sore
I just want to write books or teach English, not find slopes or limits,
But math is force-feeding with a cold spoonful of food I can’t swallow.
I wish I had told my guidance counselor I didn’t care about credits,
When it called for all of this precise, calculated pain.
I should have told the girl sitting up front to shut her damn mouth,
But I took the paper she gave out, folded it to a crisp,
And walked back out to the highway, thumb in the air.
Beautiful. Inspired. Hilarious! When do we get the next one?
Sarah Allen
(my creative writing blog)
Hello Hayley,
By all means, I know it's not "poetically" correct and I fear it's grammar, but I still hope you like it! It was something I was thinking about on the way home.
driving home there was a fog
unlike any kind before ,
the high beams made no difference,
all was opaque,
resemblance to a story
from a distance relation
my great aunt told me once
of when she lived in London
a putrid, musky smell
walking home in toxic fog
because the buses would not run
being completely blinded
guided by a fence
the next day
she caught the train
and learnt 65% of her elderly patients
had died in the night
it was not solely her hospital
but all over England
it was the final straw
the worst fog
word got back of all the deaths
and the government proclaimed
no more coal burning fires
in every house
wood would do
she said she learnt at 3:00 pm
that day, way back when
that coal burning fires and toxic fogs
would be no more
but here she was today
almost a century later at 1: 12 am
with super nations
using coal powered factories
side effects, smog
where smog levels are displayed
on weather networks
right beside a chance of rain
why was it forgotten?
how was it forgotten?
we are not gold fish
weather records may be dull
but that is no excuse
the yellowish fog was in Sherlock Holmes!
A well known piece of work!
in the public eye,
how many more deaths?
thought causes reflection
accepting facts is easy,
pi is 3.14,
but as my aunt told her tale
I ate my desert and thought it an amusement,
not an issue
wish a powerful person
would hear my aunt’s story,
wish no more harm
by a easily fixed problem
http://nedierthanyou.blogspot.com/
Please check it out!
Okay, I FINALLY finished this poem so I posted it on my blog, if you could check it out :)
http://aimeelikescheese.blogspot.com/2012/04/poetry.html
By the way, your poem was awesome Hayley. Pfft, and you say you can't write poetry.
Got 'em all in verse. I kind of like this and it had a theme that bled out in spite of the randomness.
The memory of burning hair that fills
My nostrils when I hold a zippos flame
Will persist as long as I live and I
Recall the foolish urge to know the smell
Of burning lighter fluid from the wick.
And didn’t Humphrey Bogart say something
Like “Here’s looking at you kid,” as he struck
A match and lit his cigarette? Or was
It Rick? Or are they both the same person
In my memory? When last I heard those
Words it was 2 o’clock in the morning
And one half-drunk rusty nail sat on the
Table in front of me next to whiskey.
A radiation leak inside my brain
Undoes the logical walls I have built
Between what I want and what I can’t have.
From stage left enters my un-met desire
And like the burning scent of zippo fuel
I cannot free myself from duct-tape pull
Of the “you only live once” expression.
“The brightest stars the the most short-lived ones”
The Cosmic Perspective Fundamentals
Had proclaimed when I took astronomy.
But what about the light that they had made?
The burning plasma rare as panda cubs
Suggests great things will never fade
But linger on beyond the hero’s life
Like CuChulain’s victories on the field
Beyond the ration of the human mind.
Perhaps that’s why my uncle Steve likes to
Ride motorcycles without a helmet.
It’s not too late to tell him to burn long
And last like pizza for another meal
Rather than cremation and early sleep.
Just over seven in twelve men regret
The things they never said but in this three
O clock lethargy I’m not one of these.
I wish I kept my tongue and dignity
And with it my longevity but I
Became one of these burning stars. Forgive
Me but these only are more foolish words.
A ponderosa pine tree sheds its spines fully every 2-3 years. I try to imagine what that must feel like. Shedding that skin of needles, so fine to the eyes and yet sharp to the touch.
As I sit here in my restaurant with the waiters and their suits and constant breathing I feel nothing. The dust in the air is my metaphorical, and yet very physical, skin. It weaves patterns through the room.
By the time my soup arrives it is cold, though I don't complain. It's fitting with the mood. The heat from the lamp on my table a substitute for the lack in my heart. Not quite enough to warm the seat where she would have sat.
Her perfume had lingered. Upon her clothes. Upon her hair. Not totally unforgettable. It's sad. Me being sat here. Demented and sad, but social.
I'm home.
I always switch the light off.
I don't mean to. It just happens. Mentally. I'm not THERE anymore. I always knew that I'm dettached more than you, but that doesn't mean that I want to leave.
I wish we'd been close. Like Mum. Her and her sister had been so close. So inseperable.
Comparatively it's as if we're of no relation. Sometimes it's as though I have no recollection of a time when it was different. I suppose I'm wrong. I'd like to think I'm wrong. But maybe we just took a wrong turn somewhere along the road. It seems like we've been on this hard shoulder for a good long while now.
If my life were turned into a play. I'd like to think I'd be played by Cate Blanchett. But Upstage Left, there she'd be... All dolled up, the spotlight unmoving as she delivers her monologue. The clock shifts from 10... 11.... 12 Midnight. Still she's there. A living Mona Lisa.
We used to watch Blue Peter together, her and me. Sitting there. I would have joined in, but we never had the double-sided stickytape, so we made do with paperclips. She has always been clever. She always had her own voice. Her mind worked at a different speed. Often in a violent way, but I didn't mind. To be honest, I agreed, sometimes I did wish that a tiger would eat Kirsten from 'Smart'.
Ultimately it's that childhood that made it worse. I was so invested in her. Those empty promises. She left me hanging.
I never did tell her I was sorry. She never told me either. It was an unspoken impasse.
But we've moved on.
(Hope it's not too late!)
I've encountered one too many masturbatory failures.
Be it a raccoon running across the roof,
Phil Collins singing on the radio,
or a fly walking across the magazine in my lap,
any incident that shrouds me in mild discomfort has me flaccid in seconds.
...That's my poem.
I done this really quickly and it's pretty short...
Open my bleary eyes at 1pm,
Last nights pizza rifling in the air,
Too much food, never again.
1/10th remained, take a bite-
Cold and hard and tasty,
That is no revelation.
Feel like an elephant,
Thatcher of the food,
Should have said 'no'
Enough is enough.
Relations would shake their heads,
My aunt, 'eat properly!'
But, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
At 6pm, 'Can I order a pizza please?'
So, I know I'm considerably late, but I was bored, and I took this as somewhat of a challenge. So, here's a little ditty I call the Writer's Block Anthem. I hope you see it, read it, and enjoy it. (This technically, by my standards, fulfills the necessary requirements!
As I sketch on my pad so dearly
Trying to make the words read clearly
In my blank phone, I see my reflection
Desperately trying to get reception
So I can call my fake uncle in Wales
For he'd be able to tell me
And, quite surely sell me
On the percentage of cats in Cheshire
Or the guy on that show with Fran Drescher
Who played that woman in cosmetic sales!
Because somehow, I know
That the words will soon flow
"I'll overcome the block," I wrote
On a sticky post-it note
That I then pasted on my forehead
"Surely I'll get the hang of this
"Writing thing," I viciously hiss
As my head slams down the pad
And I begin to get so mad
That I scream out "I'm so bor-ED!"
With my own mind, I am simply fighting
The urge to exit stage left out of writing
And instead go work for a guy named Gonzalez
At the zoo picking up after messy koalas
Working 9 to 5 at a job I don't want to do
But I stop myself, cause I know I would get
The smell of koala poo stuck in my head
And if it never came out I'd go more insane
And want to go back to picking my brain
For words to write, so I'd leave the zoo
So I get up from my chair, simply grumbling
And I walk to the refrigerator, softly mumbling
Something about rotten potato salad
Or lightly singing a Taylor Swift ballad
Trying only to think of what to write next
So as I begin to ponder, "I'm thinkin'
"Maybe I'll write about Abraham Lincoln,
and he'll be attacking a kid with a book
As one of the Hardesty's shouted, 'Look!'
And Abe shoved it down his throat, and he farted text."
After I'm through torturing my figure
I bandage him up and then reconfigure
Him inside my little character ambulance
But for his feelings we must call the WAAAMbulance
Because the kid has been so emotionally scarred
And suddenly my little written dumbass
No longer writes when he passes gas
And my ridiculous little story has served
Only to make me more unnerved
And shout, "Why must writing be sofa king hard?"
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NCAA Brackets 2013: Most Impressive Individual Performances Through 3 Rounds | Bleacher Report
Every year, a few players use the NCAA tournament as their coming-out party. They step up and have huge games throughout the tourney and can single-handedly impact just how far their teams go
Dallas Cowboys jerseys.As the Sweet 16 comes to a close and the Elite Eight field is set, let's take some time to remember some of the best individual player performances in the early rounds of this year's NCAA tournament.Russ Smith, LouisvilleRuss Smith has had two incredible performances for Rick Pitino and the Louisville Cardinals. In the first round against North Carolina A&T, Smith racked up 23 points on almost 63 percent shooting from the field. Not only was he scoring efficiently, but his defensive game was on as well. Smith swiped eight steals in the first game and helped lead his team to a 79-48 win in the second round
San Francisco 49ers jerseys.In the third round, Louisville was matched up with Colorado State. Smith put on another great performance, putting up 27 points and shooting 4-of-7 from the three-point line, allowing Louisville to get another easy win.Sherwood Brown has become one of the faces of the "Dunk City" Eagles of FGCU.Rob Carr/Getty ImagesSherwood Brown, FGCUYou can't have an impressive player list without Sherwood Brown. Brown and the FGCU Eagles have become the nation's team, capturing the hearts of millions, scoring upset after upset on their way to the Sweet 16
Green Bay Packers jerseys. In FGCU's insane upset over Georgetown, Brown made his name known across the country by scoring 24 points and grabbing nine rebounds against the Hoyas.In FGCU's second game against San Diego State, Brown wasn't needed as much, as the Eagles beat SDSU 81-71, but he still managed to drop 17 points with eight rebounds as he led the Eagles to the Sweet 16.McDermott has shown that he's one of the most talented big men in all of D-1 basketball in this year's NCAA tournament.Elsa/Getty ImagesDoug McDermott, CreightonMcDermott has been strong for the Bluejays all season, averaging over 23 points and seven rebounds a game. He didn't slow down once they got to the tourney.McDermott put up a double-double against Cincinnati with 27 points and 11 rebounds as Creighton eked out a 67-63 victory to move on. In the second game, McDermott couldn't muster another double-double, but he got pretty close. Even though Creighton would lose to Duke, McDermott showed up and dropped 21 points and grabbed nine rebounds against a couple of the best bigs in all of D-1 basketball.Hollins may have been overshadowed in the regular season, but he made his name known during the tournament.Ronald Martinez/Getty ImagesAndre Hollins, MinnesotaHere's a guy who isn't on a lot of people's radars. Hollins had a decent year with the Golden Gophers in a very strong Big Ten conference, putting up just over 14 points per game
Baltimore Ravens jerseys.In this year's tourney, 14 just wasn't enough for Hollins. The sophomore helped lead his team to a second-round upset over UCLA by dropping 28 points and nine rebounds on the Bruins NFL shirts. He also shot a perfect 7-of-7 from the free-throw line and knocked down five of his eight three-point attempts.In Minnesota's next game, the Golden Gophers couldn't pull out a victory against Florida, but Hollins still had a good night. Hollins hung 25 points on the Gators and knocked down six shots from beyond the arc.
NCAA Brackets 2013: Most Impressive Individual Performances Through 3 Rounds | Bleacher Report
Every year, a few players use the NCAA tournament as their coming-out party. They step up and have huge games throughout the tourney and can single-handedly impact just how far their teams go
Dallas Cowboys jerseys.As the Sweet 16 comes to a close and the Elite Eight field is set, let's take some time to remember some of the best individual player performances in the early rounds of this year's NCAA tournament.Russ Smith, LouisvilleRuss Smith has had two incredible performances for Rick Pitino and the Louisville Cardinals. In the first round against North Carolina A&T, Smith racked up 23 points on almost 63 percent shooting from the field. Not only was he scoring efficiently, but his defensive game was on as well. Smith swiped eight steals in the first game and helped lead his team to a 79-48 win in the second round
San Francisco 49ers jerseys.In the third round, Louisville was matched up with Colorado State. Smith put on another great performance, putting up 27 points and shooting 4-of-7 from the three-point line, allowing Louisville to get another easy win.Sherwood Brown has become one of the faces of the "Dunk City" Eagles of FGCU.Rob Carr/Getty ImagesSherwood Brown, FGCUYou can't have an impressive player list without Sherwood Brown. Brown and the FGCU Eagles have become the nation's team, capturing the hearts of millions, scoring upset after upset on their way to the Sweet 16
Green Bay Packers jerseys. In FGCU's insane upset over Georgetown, Brown made his name known across the country by scoring 24 points and grabbing nine rebounds against the Hoyas.In FGCU's second game against San Diego State, Brown wasn't needed as much, as the Eagles beat SDSU 81-71, but he still managed to drop 17 points with eight rebounds as he led the Eagles to the Sweet 16.McDermott has shown that he's one of the most talented big men in all of D-1 basketball in this year's NCAA tournament.Elsa/Getty ImagesDoug McDermott, CreightonMcDermott has been strong for the Bluejays all season, averaging over 23 points and seven rebounds a game. He didn't slow down once they got to the tourney.McDermott put up a double-double against Cincinnati with 27 points and 11 rebounds as Creighton eked out a 67-63 victory to move on. In the second game, McDermott couldn't muster another double-double, but he got pretty close. Even though Creighton would lose to Duke, McDermott showed up and dropped 21 points and grabbed nine rebounds against a couple of the best bigs in all of D-1 basketball.Hollins may have been overshadowed in the regular season, but he made his name known during the tournament.Ronald Martinez/Getty ImagesAndre Hollins, MinnesotaHere's a guy who isn't on a lot of people's radars. Hollins had a decent year with the Golden Gophers in a very strong Big Ten conference, putting up just over 14 points per game
Baltimore Ravens jerseys.In this year's tourney, 14 just wasn't enough for Hollins. The sophomore helped lead his team to a second-round upset over UCLA by dropping 28 points and nine rebounds on the Bruins NFL shirts. He also shot a perfect 7-of-7 from the free-throw line and knocked down five of his eight three-point attempts.In Minnesota's next game, the Golden Gophers couldn't pull out a victory against Florida, but Hollins still had a good night. Hollins hung 25 points on the Gators and knocked down six shots from beyond the arc.
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