"And my beer tasted like chalk..."
Dec. 2nd, 2003 09:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starfrostingSo wow, I can see how this journal shite can get addictive. So I'll cut to the chase, for once.
The night that Danielle and I broke up was a Saturday. We had seen Dar sing songs to us all in the chapel. Dar was like a substitute teacher with a folksinger past and she stole my heart with her sweet lyrics. At any rate, the night ended with me choking back tears in Su's room and covering it up with bravado as I walked with Su+the-rugby-dykes to the infamous deli. My beer tasted, indeed, like chalk. And then I crawled into my peony comforter and listened to the Melissa Ferrick songs I'd swiped from Danielle and cried.
Alack alas my mateys, that was many a moon ago. Days, I tell ya. But obviously I'm not completely over it otherwise I wouldn't be mentioning it. The brief span of our togetherness was pretty good, and now it's over, and it feels so fake. Rather than get into this boring (and sorta private anyway) relationship shit, I'm gonna post a couple of poems written in the interim between when I thought of D-dog as my girlfriend and when I don't. La da.
(I can't fucken figure out how to shrink the font size, which means the lines of my writing will get fucked up, which means only poems whose lines fit into this dialogue box perfectly will go on.)
This was written Saturday the 22nd. It doesn't have a name.
* * *
To write about Persephone is, I know,
a cliché older than dirt.
but I just want to talk about the pomegranate
the kernels ruby + so sweet + sharp
tart like blood pricked on a thorn
and drawn into your lover's mouth, sucked like fruit.
Yr finger a fruit.
She ate six seeds, but I would have cracked the honeycomb membranes
to release the red
and not stopped til my fingers were stained.
The stain is pink, the seed is red.
Yr fist a fruit.
Yr heart a fist.
I would be in the underworld all year,
for that fruit.
my teeth piercing the seeds' smooth shells,
hands pulling clumps of them from rind like
the ripe words of a poem
or a heart found buried in dirt, over + over again.
I would be in yr otherworld all the years of my life.
Spring would roll over the hills + my roots would
reach
deeper + darker towards those veins of juice in the earth.
My heart a fruit.
* * *
Cut to the next night, Sunday the 23rd...
maybe you are a guardian at the gate,
2 months and now I've passed through.
maybe you were just there to initiate me,
show me the bitter taste of trust
like glue hardening in my throat.
To this poem I added the jab, "You could never write good poetry and now I can't either." Ouch.
The night that Danielle and I broke up was a Saturday. We had seen Dar sing songs to us all in the chapel. Dar was like a substitute teacher with a folksinger past and she stole my heart with her sweet lyrics. At any rate, the night ended with me choking back tears in Su's room and covering it up with bravado as I walked with Su+the-rugby-dykes to the infamous deli. My beer tasted, indeed, like chalk. And then I crawled into my peony comforter and listened to the Melissa Ferrick songs I'd swiped from Danielle and cried.
Alack alas my mateys, that was many a moon ago. Days, I tell ya. But obviously I'm not completely over it otherwise I wouldn't be mentioning it. The brief span of our togetherness was pretty good, and now it's over, and it feels so fake. Rather than get into this boring (and sorta private anyway) relationship shit, I'm gonna post a couple of poems written in the interim between when I thought of D-dog as my girlfriend and when I don't. La da.
(I can't fucken figure out how to shrink the font size, which means the lines of my writing will get fucked up, which means only poems whose lines fit into this dialogue box perfectly will go on.)
This was written Saturday the 22nd. It doesn't have a name.
* * *
To write about Persephone is, I know,
a cliché older than dirt.
but I just want to talk about the pomegranate
the kernels ruby + so sweet + sharp
tart like blood pricked on a thorn
and drawn into your lover's mouth, sucked like fruit.
Yr finger a fruit.
She ate six seeds, but I would have cracked the honeycomb membranes
to release the red
and not stopped til my fingers were stained.
The stain is pink, the seed is red.
Yr fist a fruit.
Yr heart a fist.
I would be in the underworld all year,
for that fruit.
my teeth piercing the seeds' smooth shells,
hands pulling clumps of them from rind like
the ripe words of a poem
or a heart found buried in dirt, over + over again.
I would be in yr otherworld all the years of my life.
Spring would roll over the hills + my roots would
reach
deeper + darker towards those veins of juice in the earth.
My heart a fruit.
* * *
Cut to the next night, Sunday the 23rd...
maybe you are a guardian at the gate,
2 months and now I've passed through.
maybe you were just there to initiate me,
show me the bitter taste of trust
like glue hardening in my throat.
To this poem I added the jab, "You could never write good poetry and now I can't either." Ouch.
