Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Strange brew.

Weird things happen. A series of random events led me to discover (on the net, where else?) three pieces of poetry written about six years ago. Two prove that I've always been this angsted out. The third, that I always wanted to write.


Runs through a crystal clear vodka maze

Shots for energy
Screwdrivers for war
Bloody Marys for symbolism
Martinis for style

Sees life through a crystal clear vodka haze

Olives for nutrition
Tomato juice and tabasco for zing
Tonic for, well, tonic's sake
Ice for climate control

Props her eyelids open with celery sticks
Turns the volume down to a manageable din
Loosens her grip on reality
And the lid on the aspirin

(I'll have another, thanks)


I'm tomorrow's child, I am
Today asked me to hold on for a bit
Yesterday claims to have never seen my face
I'm firmly put in my place

I'm an uneasy truce, I am
Trapped endlessly between here and there
I'm the pièce-de-résistance of too many cooks
I don't exist outside of books

I'm a contradiction, I am
I question answers, I flow with the go
I conspire with myself to foil the enemy
Then I give myself up, turn to the law, try me

I'm not, I am
Sometimes, at least, that's true
I'm not, I am, I'm not again
And how I wish that I were you

We all have our demons

Mine is a cranky, nagging voice much like my own
That reminds me I wanted to be
A writer.

Which I am.
Just not the kind
The Voice finds

Copywriting fun, fashionable
Is never 17.65% as respectable
As its less-paying cousin.

The good sister.

Pure for its own sake

In the dim, distant hope someday, somehow
Someone will see it for what it is
Its merit.
Dash off
A few million editions.
Announce to
The fickle, fickle world
That it had yet another one
A writer in its midst.

To be followed by cocktail parties, book signings, the occasional newspaper column
Happily ever after.

You always wanted to write the Great Indian
A novel.
28 years is too late, too late
A frightening old time to forfeit, forget
To remember.

Other writers have stolen marches Bookers, Bookers
Over you.

Old, it is.
Too late, maybe

She lent me the words that graceful goddess of language
To tell my stories, find my way, lose my religion
Sing my life.
The patience I had to buy 30% extra free
From the marketplace.


Dark Knight said...

i love 'Not'.
After gracefully declaring 'i'm fucked up'it converts that into a bunch of beautiful lines with a poet's quality of much needed self deception.

Anonymous said...

The poet. I'm not
In love with the poetess. I am.
May the writer emerge from the carefully chosen garb. Bookies and Booker beware...

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