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Feb. 6th, 2006 | 12:43 am
mood: Just plain loopy
music: Still Buffy
posted by: piratefanatic in mykeysandquills


shouldn’t be that hard
just scribbling words on a page
memorizing facts for a test
reading from textbooks

and yet somehow
I write these words
not the papers I should
but a few nouns and verbs,
and even a handful of adjectives
that have nothing to do with
the ancient world,
or children’s theater,
or critiquing classmate’ poems.

the problem
I’ve figured
is these words

the very same words I should be
putting to paper
for turning in
to professors and fellow students

instead, I twist these letter groups
turn them ‘round
producing this semblance
of a poem

not much, to be sure
no striking images
no brilliant turns of phrase
just these letters
tapped across the keys
as I sit
and refrain
from working.

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Blush- incomplete

Feb. 6th, 2006 | 12:22 am
mood: Unsurprisingly, bashful
music: Buffy, still
posted by: piratefanatic in mykeysandquills


Town park, Saturday afternoon.
Couples tossing a Frisbee,
Playing with the dog,
Splayed on a blanket
in the cool damp grass.

Whispers of heartfelt nothings
make for flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

Smiles all around.
Good for them.
Be happy. Embrace life. Seize the day,
and all that.

But please,
refrain from seizing and embracing
in front of my nose.
‘Cause I can feel the pink climbing
up my neck, across my ears
quietly exploding on my cheeks,
a reminder to any and all
that I take no part in these
Oh, no.


But now I’m thinking once,
Maybe just this once,
I’d like to be something other than a
Fucking third wheel.

I’ve waited
without tapping my foot
(too much),
Or drilling my fingers
(too loudly),
Or making an ass of myself
(too often).
I’ve waited for it.

What’s it?
Love. Relationship. Sex.
A roll in the hay. A Significant Other. Marriage?

Nope. Not for me.
I’ve glimpsed the future.

I rock, hands tucked in a lap
Covered by folds of flannel.
Around me sit cats.
Twenty-seven calicoes, shadow greys, and orange stripies.

And I’m okay with this.
More than okay-
My fingers long for the folds of cloth,
My rear for the oaken rocker,
My toes for the covering of contented kitty.

Except, I’m not supposed to long for the life of
an old maid.
Supposed to shun that, go for
flushed faces and giddy grins,

A task which would be a great deal easier
if these nebulous concepts found some order.

Oh, no.

Synapse fire, chemicals release
And suddenly monsters lurk
Where bone and flesh once stood.

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Feb. 6th, 2006 | 12:11 am
mood: Grrrr
music: Buffy
posted by: piratefanatic in mykeysandquills


flourescence against emptyness
emptyness for eyes
open closed
cold skin
not real

a drip
not orange
not red
not purple
whites and pinks and blues
peeling back
smiling at me

she’s screaming
I think
or maybe just mouthing
I can’t hear
and shaking-
she’s shaking
or I’m shaking
or screaming

it drops
falls from my hands
a blue rag
a blue smear on that ridiculously pristine tile
a red smear
my hands
my fingertips
stuck between the crevases in my fingerprint

I’m struck
beaten nerely senselss by the urge to
get it off
get it out
get me out
I realize I’ve wiped my face
smeared my tears
smeared across my face
her blood

I should scream
I have, I do
my throat burns silence

I shouldn’t scream
too many people
white coats
green scrubs
blue gloves

I want to watch
I don’t want to watch
eyes burn
blink. blink. blink.
I’m afraid if I close my eyes
she will too
only, I’ll open mine
and she won’t.

I should be heaving
emptying my gut of crackers and water
that’s all I’ve eaten for a week
all that sits in a leaden lump
weighing against my pelvis

the needle dips

I can’t look, can’t see
the new spills of that color
I’d close my eyes
only then I see red
my blood, somehow still contained

and him
tongue licking teeth
tasting her,
tasting my sister
and grinning

the fucking cur was grinning

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