Posts Tagged ‘Self-observation poetry’


CYNTHIA
When our chops roar
she seems reticent.
She has witnessed
so many.
Why is she coy
observing our osculation?
Does she know we’re
for other lips?

 


 

artist:  janis anton

j a c k s

 

 

today,

I said my ‘good byes’

and cut my ties

 

with you,

and

 

grew up.

 

 


My Heart is Not My Own

My hearts beats in my chest
But it is not my own
It was here one day
Then gone the next
When his eyes caught mine
And set me on fire
A longing desire
My heart now to him it belongs
My soul has also drifted along

 

 


AS NIGHT APPROACHES

Shadows of late afternoon,

closed sign in a shop window…

dusk drives out the light,

tamps the business,

sends the people home.

I look at my silhouette

as I hang out here,

stretched interminably,

longer than I’ll ever be.

My flesh is so perilously close

to being just a tenth of what I am,

as I read the sorry tale

of Bessie’s luncheonette…

it’s much too late to feed you,

even to call you by your name,

speak to you.

There’s just me in her window,

half reflection, half closed-sign.

And my shadow’s off

to link with other shadows,

until their shapes have nothing to do

with me, with signs, with restaurants.

Soon, I’ll be alone in the dark,

sitting on some broken steps,

as hungry as tomorrow must be,

a closed sign in a window,

open for business.


Legal Jargon

Always
copyright your life
story
so that nobody
steals your unique
plot
better yet
dictate your
autobiography
to a dedicated
biographer
some in-house
stenographer
who has the infinite
patience to transcribe
the intimate first person
subjective narrative
that you describe
in painstaking
love-making
detail
and make sure not
to gloss over
every he-said she-said
moment that
made your epic
journey so special
this way you
can always sue
anybody
who tries to
infringe on
the fringe benefit
of having the patent
on being the one
and only
insufferable
you


Desperaturbia

 

Clipping toenails scatter

in the

sink

 

My anxiety

needs to

rethink

 

desperately of us

 

Your cigarette butt ashes

embed on my

tongue

 

And your black market

perfume reeks

of maggot

beauty

 


lovely day

 

it’s sunny outside

76+ degree weather

birds soar high

the rivers look serene

Bill Withers sings

 

i’ve packed

everything

in a tiny

little box;

 

i couldn’t have planned

a better day

to leave you

 


Contemptible You

You tattooed
my affections
with all the
delicacy
of a meth addicted sadist
with daddy issues & a jackhammer

your ink
a mixture
of nightshade & cyanide
seeped from your lips
& into my pores
in [toxic] ating me…..

nicotine scented swirls
& ethanol procured smiles
lead to ecstasy induced spasms

little deaths
of my soul


WAY WAY BACK

 

I hadn’t thought of her

in a very long time

and

she probably hasn’t

thought of me

in a very long time

and

I can’t think why

she would think of me

for I hurt her terribly;

I’ve long since forgiven

myself

for the teenage

asshole I was

but I still carry this

with me today

and

I hope that she doesn’t

and

that I’m as good as dead

as far as her

memory is concerned;

I deserve to be.

 

 


 

THINKING ABOUT FUCKING

Naturally, for decades, I’ve thought more about

fucking than actually fucking;

and over the decades the gap between

thinking and fucking

has grown but the thought of fucking

hasn’t slowed any but the acting on the

thought and making it real has slowed,

although the thoughts burn fiercely as ever

and the spirit surges violently and the touch,

the sensation, the visual

the audio pleasures are all very much alive

and the obsessive

mysterious desires continues

but the energy and physical lust

has slowed

like a ticking clock-hand

getting ready

for a forever

midnight.