(The following slightly risque poem was inspired by a passage from Ulysses by James Joyce, which turned out to be a lot dirtier (and nonsensical) than I thought it would be lol.)
Stop. Knocking.
Silly man!
Want women by the score?
Quit throwing flowers
at their feet
and singing sappy
songs outside
in your feathered cap.
Gifts? Words? Music?
No.
Tip her.
Tap her.
Top her.
I already told this story
but if you insist,
here it is again
condensed
into one word –
bestiality.
the dead rest
one upon another
with dull, open eyes
and red rum trickling
out the side
of their mouths
unafraid
of the future
because
they no longer
have one.
freedom finally found.
Act 1. I don’t know if being alive matters.
Act 2. I don’t know if this world matters.
Act 3. I don’t know if me being alive in this world matters.
Astaroth:
guidance counselor
to the fallen –
because, hey,
even demons
get discouraged.
(Note: Lately I have been reading a book about fallen angels and their mythology. I had to write something about it when I came across the information that the demon Astaroth supposedly fulfilled the role of “guidance counselor” to the other demons in hell lol.)
Do you know how I
picture God myself?
As one single fish,
enormous,
creative,
scattering millions
of lucky little accidents
like caviar –
deep in his dark sea
caverns,
each tiny black marble
waiting their turn
to wash up
on life’s sandy
shore.
I thought I wanted
to be an actress,
but now I realize,
I only wanted
the chance
to be someone else.
The rhythm
of the dryer
is soothing.
As the clothing
tumbles, I hear
a high-pitched ping –
like coins
shaken
in a pocket,
and the heavy thump
of footless shoes.
You read
faster
than I can
turn the page,
so I’ve
learned how
to make up the story
as we go.
