Poetry has always been our primary outlet throughout life. This archive contains poetry we wrote while we were 23 years old
Almost There
Brilliant bellowing yesterday swept through the door and penetrated my skin,
oozed into my soul and averted my path. Just when I think I am Almost There, I’m nowhere, with swirling madness gurgling black at my feet.
I’d like to pull the darkness over my shoulder and bundle it all up into a paper ball.
There aren’t enough four letter words to ward off the evil soaking into my garments.
If I bleed a cup of perfume and pour it over my porcelain white body in a ceremonial-like ritual, if I gave birth to a farrow in which they could cast their pearls, would I appease the gods?
The answers never comes, I just stumble back and forth over trodden ground
waiting for divine intervention while my skin is jumping out of itself. There is always a capsule, a pipe, a bottle, somewhere to climb, to shelter myself from reality. Lack of intuition pools in my mind while it leads me to the place I am going.
Punk Naked Girl
She’ll scream with wild light
As punk naked as she is
Writhing beneath your sweet rhythm
Blowing blue smoke rings above your language
All the time dancing around your heavy microphone
Singing into it the anthem of drums.
Treacherous Visions
Afterwards, body curling beneath me,
Visions emerge in our embrace.
When I am alight with his honeyed words
There is no possibility of false Knowledge
Floating, nay, plunging back to terra firma
With nothing save a wisp of smoke in my chest;
I avert my eyes at the very notion of his indifference,
Resisting his beguiling paradigm.
He’ll cast aside commonality
With a flit of his wrist exclaiming:
“Nary a person I have been”
With that he will profess his Excellency.
For this I shall bow before his feet
And swoon at his philosophical prose
As though every word were pure light,
Cascading from the heavenly skies.
Thereafter I shall silently chastise myself,
All for the unpretentious purpose
Of partaking of visions that emerge
From our treacherous embrace.
Girl and A Mans Dance
On that night bright lights and music vibrated the hips of boys and men. Stage left a young boy took another by the hand, “this is the box step”, as they stiffly moved to Some People Wait A Lifetime for a Moment Like This. Indeed they do.
She watches as they crowd the dance floor. Old, young, big small, drag queens and cowboys hold onto the moment.
This girl watched on.
The curtain drew the evening to its inevitable end and the beat of You Look Wonderful Tonight played over the couples holding onto, for some, that last dance. Others grab their coats for an evening that parents in this certain area would cringe at the thought of. She smiles.
She wishes for his presence, to be entangled in his arms so that she can whisper to him that everyday he looks more wonderful to her. To experience another moment in life, side by side.
Looking back brings to mind the sweetness of the fall when their hands would intertwine and she marveled at the two different lives brought together, here, under uncertain circumstances. Breathing in the spice of life that is him. Gestures were enough when the night eye set its sight.
She looks to all the lonely nights and those to come, when their will be no fingers to entwine, no spice. The moments fading that she grasps onto. Wanting to capture them in her palms, taste them on her tongue and dance in the moonlight holding his breath in hers.
The dance floor clears, as do the tears, as the men dance off into the night.
Grease
There pied-á-terre may be the back alleys
Or dumpsters
In Brooklyn
But
Those greased hands in midtown are
Part of a Universal Product Code
That the bright lights will never be.
Hollow Existence
A princess she was not,
Razor sharp tongue,
Butched up,
Cut up,
Fucked up,
Tattooed head to toe
Watched in the wings,
Arching in a swans neck,
Two drops zig zag in parallel
Down her perfect chest.
There was a time perhaps,
She bled deep green poison
And lingered too long in decays
Perfect embrace,
As a dirty angel’s prisoner.
Wrapped in obscurity.
Now she has only tears,
Ripped at dreams of empty shadows
And ghosts.
Untitled 1
Dusting off the afterglow
Through vines of furrowed faith.
Against leaps and bounds of tarried states.
Where our tiny paradise lays
And we burn the morning words,
Drink,
Smoke,
Coffee
And other such synthetic desires.
All along sundered by varied loyalties.
Pounding our vestigial conception onto stone-deaf ears.
Untitled 2
Candid translucent beating flags
Waving in yesterdays peace
And
Abhorring profits in the name
Of obscure beliefs.
The cryptic white crosses ensconce
The scheme
Of concrete oceans ran by
Aristocratic rouges in the guise
Of a false conscientiousness.
