Another substandard poem. I don't read poetry, and there lies the problem. (I'm a prose-minded, literal person.:p)

I don't understand poets and I don't understand poetry. But I will, I will, when I get my hands on poetry collections this year.

And yes, I am a pretentious son of a bitch.

Dirt

Heavy flapping wings
caught in the folds
of my window curtain:
the struggle of a trespassing
Gregor Samsa.

But it was huge, dark,
and ancient:
a dragonfly.

Its wings, nets
that filtered the city
filth;
its shiny shell
dull with grime;
its glassy eyes
a fishbowl me.

It fluttered about,
tired, heaving, aimless,
just beneath the white ceiling,
and circled the light bulb
that used to be there.

With a worn broom
I chased it out the door,
out the hallway,
down three floors
of dizzying stairs,
and out the building.

The dragonfly faded
back into the city smog,
and I into my room,
holding my broom up
that shed flecks of dirt
on my pale skin.

I forgot
how a poem
should start

I forgot
how we slept
underneath
the stars

I forgot
how to use
imagery

I forgot
how we lay
under a pine tree

I forgot
how to write
out loud

I forgot
how I'd wake
elsewhere

I forgot
where a poem
should go

I forgot
how I got
there

I forgot
the texture
of your shaven head

I forgot
how texts
should feel

I forgot
the warmth
of your belly

I forgot
my line cuts
and my silence
theory

I forgot
the roughness
of your voice

I forgot
the voice
a speaker should
take

I forgot
our first day
of brandy

I forgot
your brand
of ludic poetry

I forgot
our three weeks
of rum

I forgot
the rules
of punctuation

I forgot
our last day
of beer

I forgot
my rhymes
syllables
meter

I forgot
how you left me
on the couch
in the open field
and
at the airport

I forgot
how a poem
should be sweet
and short

I forgot
your goodbye kiss
on my hair

I forgot
how I even got
here

Where am I?
What just happened?

I forgot
how to end
this

Forgot what?
Forgot who?

Three weeks of liquor
and I forgot you.

A
Anti--
A ladder to change
The broken light bulb

B
Sunglasses
To frame the intense
Into something duller

C
Crescent moon
A witch's clipped fingernail
Hanging

D
The yang of yin
Forever searching
The frozen smile

E
Pitchfork
Three roads
All dead ends

F
An unfinished flag
Of defeat
Procrastination

G
The door
Opened to space
More empty

H
Two employees
Meant to be
Never met

I
Unbending ruler
Scratched
By Isis

J
An empty hook
An empty wall
An empty house

K
Seesaw:
The universe tiptoes
On an equal sign

L
The horse
Jumped over
The fence

M
Two wings
Two mountains
Two pyramids

N
Shortcut
To the furthest
A suicide

O
The curious mouth
Zero
Nothing
Zen

P
Dinosaur's head
Above all
Searching God

Q
Fallen cherry
Trajectory of a sperm
Cigarette on an ashtray

R
A pirate's emotions
His poetic expression
Almost a purr

S
She says,
I dare you:
Bite.

T
Jesus crucified
Electric posts that make the city
A graveyard

U
Underground: Mutants
Under underground: Monsters
Under under-underground: You

V
The peace symbol
The lost symbol
The vagina

W
A magnificent ass
Upon my soul
Amen

X
Lost treasure
Mathematical Nirvana
Crossbones

Y
A wishbone--yes
The female chromosome
Why?

Z
ZOMG!!!
Zombie alert!
Control Z

I look at you and hate the thing I see;
But nay, my eyes mark not a single flaw,
For it's my heart that loathes you faithfully,
That you be cursed--but why? I do not know.
My ears would not shut out your pleasant voice;
My skin, purge the thought of your gentlest touch;
I won't, by taste or smell, had I the choice
To be with you, indeed, would be too much.
What point is wit or sense to pen this hate,
Which fails in most disgust yet I persist;
My airy rhymes and thoughts remain dead weight;
But in these words sublime, you, scorned, exist.
         Love is blind, fools say; hate, with just one eye;
         The other wide to blithely watch him cry.

My very first sonnet! Waharharhar.XD In your face, Shakespeare!

I've been suffering from severe depression lately. (Nay, melancholia, not depression.:p) Can't think, can't write, can't cartwheel and hoola-hoop. It's the hormones, see, they tend to plunge into the dead center of the universe sometimes.

Foreign fingers writing poetry
on a brown sandy shore
the sun is setting
casting long slanted shadows
dancing on the beach
inscribing a dream
that vanished that morning
of brown fingers writing poetry
on a white powdery shore
whose verse was of the same dream
only opposite, reverse, and inverse
but conceived the same thing:
fingers spewing invisible ink
on virgin sands
a mirage of two strange creatures
a gremlin and a pixie celebrating
their disparate nakedness
immiscible yet inseparable
all airy stuff of magical nothing
only to be swept by waves
and forgotten.

Uhm. So I had a nocturnal emission yesternight.

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