Marsbert
04-19-05, 10:32PM
see if you can guess who these poems are about, for a clue: I'm a dork
SCREEN SIREN
Between
my tits – below
pale skin – stuck in the tar
of my lungs – how did you get in?
Slither
up my
nose? My ears……blood?
You are invisible
to everyone’s scent, to
that pulse –
a vibe
no one can snatch –
as a butterfly on
a pin – you wiggle deep within –
my stem,
my base
and beginning.
Fusion through oxygen –
take me over – spill me up –
become
the one
you’re advertised
as – The Colonel – Mister
Stench. I feel you when I breathe –
in/out.
MR. SCISSORHANDS
There once was an actor in France,
who played in fedoras and took a chance:
a pirate who’d fight,
an impish play write,
he should’ve had Oscar entranced.
RECIPE FOR MORNINGS DONE
Ingredients:
2 cups of piss yellow sunshine bleeding through dusty fake steel blinds
1 roommate out through dirt and grind like a fat kid in a dodge ball game
½ tablespoon glistening droplets of fire water grasping to pores for a life gone by
2 ½ cups of a toothpick-thick curtain of ply shading away nesting fondles
1 poster of Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom pirating their wares through eyeball gates
3 hours of vibrating silence drilling into ear holes through a funnel cake of a pulse
Directions:
1- Make sure your roommate plugs their eyes to the sound of your business.
2- Add the bloody sunshine and tickling silence to a bowl filled with those clingy droplets and mix with some sort of time-keeping device until smooth.
3- Plunge the control-room lock into Deep Space Nine for assured privacy and vigilance and add to the hot, bloody, ticklish mixture.
4- Keep all eyes on JD and OB before the walls fall back into their beds and the air vacuums itself into your nose for the thrill ride of its own lifetime.
5- Bake at 4,000,000,000° or until crispy brown to flake off on your feet in tiny puddles of leaves in between your toes when you go skinny diving.
JOHN CHRISTOPHER
About that movie – what was it again? Some
badly written, Bruce-Campbell-esque piece of
crap. But you were there, you and your
Deppness. What is it? Those
eyes? Those lips? That George-Clinton-and-the-Parliament-
Funkadelic swagger? Watching you is like
getting drunk upside down. That
hell-fire warmth starts deep under my
intestine – squirming like a
Jell-O-egg-jiggler, mushed into my eye socket. You’re the
king of a thousand hearts, beating together as
long as they can – without
melting into tarred mush. One look and
nobody stands a Hitchhiker’s chance against the
onslaught of those Scissorhands. Those cool,
pulsing metal fingers pulsing inside a
quiet, pretty-boy giggle. You can’t be human; so
ravishing, so intoxicating, it
seeps through our eyelids and into our
teeth to grind against the grain. I know what lies
underneath that Wanted-Dead-or-Alive hide and
violent bees nest of
wild, just-fucked hair – it’s the
xenophobia that we all own with a bow, to some degree. But
your degree, like your swagger – lips – eyes – your minerals, add up to
zero, when we realize you’re just the air, only breath – life –
SCREEN SIREN
Between
my tits – below
pale skin – stuck in the tar
of my lungs – how did you get in?
Slither
up my
nose? My ears……blood?
You are invisible
to everyone’s scent, to
that pulse –
a vibe
no one can snatch –
as a butterfly on
a pin – you wiggle deep within –
my stem,
my base
and beginning.
Fusion through oxygen –
take me over – spill me up –
become
the one
you’re advertised
as – The Colonel – Mister
Stench. I feel you when I breathe –
in/out.
MR. SCISSORHANDS
There once was an actor in France,
who played in fedoras and took a chance:
a pirate who’d fight,
an impish play write,
he should’ve had Oscar entranced.
RECIPE FOR MORNINGS DONE
Ingredients:
2 cups of piss yellow sunshine bleeding through dusty fake steel blinds
1 roommate out through dirt and grind like a fat kid in a dodge ball game
½ tablespoon glistening droplets of fire water grasping to pores for a life gone by
2 ½ cups of a toothpick-thick curtain of ply shading away nesting fondles
1 poster of Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom pirating their wares through eyeball gates
3 hours of vibrating silence drilling into ear holes through a funnel cake of a pulse
Directions:
1- Make sure your roommate plugs their eyes to the sound of your business.
2- Add the bloody sunshine and tickling silence to a bowl filled with those clingy droplets and mix with some sort of time-keeping device until smooth.
3- Plunge the control-room lock into Deep Space Nine for assured privacy and vigilance and add to the hot, bloody, ticklish mixture.
4- Keep all eyes on JD and OB before the walls fall back into their beds and the air vacuums itself into your nose for the thrill ride of its own lifetime.
5- Bake at 4,000,000,000° or until crispy brown to flake off on your feet in tiny puddles of leaves in between your toes when you go skinny diving.
JOHN CHRISTOPHER
About that movie – what was it again? Some
badly written, Bruce-Campbell-esque piece of
crap. But you were there, you and your
Deppness. What is it? Those
eyes? Those lips? That George-Clinton-and-the-Parliament-
Funkadelic swagger? Watching you is like
getting drunk upside down. That
hell-fire warmth starts deep under my
intestine – squirming like a
Jell-O-egg-jiggler, mushed into my eye socket. You’re the
king of a thousand hearts, beating together as
long as they can – without
melting into tarred mush. One look and
nobody stands a Hitchhiker’s chance against the
onslaught of those Scissorhands. Those cool,
pulsing metal fingers pulsing inside a
quiet, pretty-boy giggle. You can’t be human; so
ravishing, so intoxicating, it
seeps through our eyelids and into our
teeth to grind against the grain. I know what lies
underneath that Wanted-Dead-or-Alive hide and
violent bees nest of
wild, just-fucked hair – it’s the
xenophobia that we all own with a bow, to some degree. But
your degree, like your swagger – lips – eyes – your minerals, add up to
zero, when we realize you’re just the air, only breath – life –