This was another poem I wrote for my Performance poetry class, it is meant to be read aloud and it is based on how soppy people become in relationships!
The Soppy Cynic
I was proud to be a cynic,
with that negative kind of logic,
the pinnacle of which,
was the selfish, indulgent buzz I'd get,
when I'd sneer and snide,
at all the ways,
with their public displays,
that the soppy handholders
and adolescent facerapers
would come to a messy end.
I would relish in a couple's blatent flaws,
how that 15 year old,
with her fake gold hoops and body of velour,
is so bloody premature,
and seems so sure of her and 'STEEVE'.
Who for the record,
I'm sure this week has already gone out with
Rochelle,
Michelle,
Chantelle,
Shaniqua,
Laquisha
and Teniqua.
It hardly restores the little faith a cynic has left.
But then again I'd never have thought a year ago,
that I would be one of those,
that whispered to my boyfriend down the phone.
Its safe to say my sanity began to be sorely missed,
when we would kiss down the reciever. (look sheepish)
I wonder how it its that way back then,
my mind could find so many faults and make so many quips,
at the grappling couples expense.
But that in time, these faults, these crimes,
have now become mine!
And so today I am still that cynic,
who is somewhat a hypocrite.
As I sit in a pub in a close knit crowd,
and loudly mouth,
to the person next to me.
'I LOVE YOU'
for all to see.
I may have become repulsively compulsive,
but I have started to embrace it.
After all no one wants to be the lonely moaner,
and so after I've weighed it all up,
I can proudly hold that phone and say,
'You hang up....No, you hang up'
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Student Life
As I sit in my garden and think about life,
I listen to sirens, content, with no strife.
No birds in my birdbath, no water there either.
The cupboards are empty, no food on my platter.
My belly it rumbles and aches and it quakes.
Not much I can do,
As no money I make.
But my book is alight,
It’s the life of a student,
I sit here and write,
because that seems more prudent.
I listen to sirens, content, with no strife.
No birds in my birdbath, no water there either.
The cupboards are empty, no food on my platter.
My belly it rumbles and aches and it quakes.
Not much I can do,
As no money I make.
But my book is alight,
It’s the life of a student,
I sit here and write,
because that seems more prudent.
High Eyed
This is the first poem I performed in my Performance poetry class, and the brief was to take inspiration and use it like the Beat Poets did. So this is about my experience on mushrooms.
High Eyed
As my saliva collects, I sit,
And wait until my head ,my face
With their overbearing weight
drop through my mouth, in a laugh
and stick at an angle on his shoulder .
My body is no more.
But my mind is there,
Aware, of how funny it all is.
The advert with the goose on t.v,
And the whole universe, and him and me
All slow in motion and reason,
and I know that we are there,
but not why or how,
only conscious of the here and now.
And the programmes we do watch flutter past
At a speed faster than us,
Faster than that living room.
Until I see a face.
Central to the screen.
Of an old bullfrog of a woman,
Or rather,
something in between.
Morris dancing with her dog,
And I can feel that she is real,
Not something from my mind, or his,
And to me, in this state,
Her face may be funny,
but her life should not,
but it is.
And I laugh,
And I debate,
that the only thing she ever won,
In all her time
was University challenge,
in the sixties-the only time,
she shined.
And it’s sad,
That her life should act as warning
to my high objective eyes,
but her wastage is a blessing
and reminds me,
to live life.
High Eyed
As my saliva collects, I sit,
And wait until my head ,my face
With their overbearing weight
drop through my mouth, in a laugh
and stick at an angle on his shoulder .
My body is no more.
But my mind is there,
Aware, of how funny it all is.
The advert with the goose on t.v,
And the whole universe, and him and me
All slow in motion and reason,
and I know that we are there,
but not why or how,
only conscious of the here and now.
And the programmes we do watch flutter past
At a speed faster than us,
Faster than that living room.
Until I see a face.
Central to the screen.
Of an old bullfrog of a woman,
Or rather,
something in between.
Morris dancing with her dog,
And I can feel that she is real,
Not something from my mind, or his,
And to me, in this state,
Her face may be funny,
but her life should not,
but it is.
And I laugh,
And I debate,
that the only thing she ever won,
In all her time
was University challenge,
in the sixties-the only time,
she shined.
And it’s sad,
That her life should act as warning
to my high objective eyes,
but her wastage is a blessing
and reminds me,
to live life.
Sick of the same
I've begun to realise that a lot of the prose I write centres around pretty dark themes, so sorry about that!
Sick of the same
I’m sick of the same.
Sick of the same sounds, the same tastes, the same smells, the same comfort, the same life, the same touch. I want the sun to go away, and the rain, in its reiterating personification to return. But it won’t. I know it won’t. I’m stuck in a world of want, with no way to fulfil my needs. I physically can’t. The mind prevails over body. My body. And so I stay here laying in this bed, covered in these painful sores looking out the window or looking at the drawn curtains. Watching the floating flecks of dust coming in and out of my focus.
I have a lot of time. Most of it is spent watching nurses come and go, they follow a routine. In the morning they come and draw the curtains, and feed me. Through a pipe. In the evening, the curtains are drawn again. And I am left in the dark to sit here and think. As nothing inspires me in the daytime, I use this time to think deeper, I use this time to keep myself entertained. Sometimes I think about how the world outside this drab room must have changed since my incarceration. Sometimes, I like to think about how the world outside this drab room has been destroyed by some wayward apocalypse. That thought makes me happy. But most of all I think about leaving this room. In the darkness, I cannot see my lifeless body, its crippled spine, its flaking skin. In the darkness I cannot see myself slowly dying. And so, it is in the darkness my hope returns and I think of escape. An escape that isn’t death.
Sick of the same
I’m sick of the same.
Sick of the same sounds, the same tastes, the same smells, the same comfort, the same life, the same touch. I want the sun to go away, and the rain, in its reiterating personification to return. But it won’t. I know it won’t. I’m stuck in a world of want, with no way to fulfil my needs. I physically can’t. The mind prevails over body. My body. And so I stay here laying in this bed, covered in these painful sores looking out the window or looking at the drawn curtains. Watching the floating flecks of dust coming in and out of my focus.
I have a lot of time. Most of it is spent watching nurses come and go, they follow a routine. In the morning they come and draw the curtains, and feed me. Through a pipe. In the evening, the curtains are drawn again. And I am left in the dark to sit here and think. As nothing inspires me in the daytime, I use this time to think deeper, I use this time to keep myself entertained. Sometimes I think about how the world outside this drab room must have changed since my incarceration. Sometimes, I like to think about how the world outside this drab room has been destroyed by some wayward apocalypse. That thought makes me happy. But most of all I think about leaving this room. In the darkness, I cannot see my lifeless body, its crippled spine, its flaking skin. In the darkness I cannot see myself slowly dying. And so, it is in the darkness my hope returns and I think of escape. An escape that isn’t death.
Cotton and Rubber
I wrote this a while ago...
Cotton and rubber.
Cotton fabric,
and rubber soles.
Alone.
In their pair,
in there.
In that cupboard in Brazil.
One year later,
he tells me,
That instead of throwing them away,
creating waste.
He placed them neatly,
hidden.
In that cupboard.
To wait.
And this melts me,
This tells me,
so much.
This act,
is in actuality,
The showing of a soul,
through a sole.
The leaving of a footprint,
A memory for him,
a discovery for the finder,
and for me.
The one who must now take this soul,
and his soles,
and place them in my own cupboard.
And so we are
not alone,
in our pair,
in there,
in my chest.
One year later,
he tells me,
that he is going back.
And so,
what may have been,
what began as cotton sheets
and rubber condoms,
is gone.
And now I sit,
alone,
one of our pair,
and I wait.
Cotton and rubber.
Cotton fabric,
and rubber soles.
Alone.
In their pair,
in there.
In that cupboard in Brazil.
One year later,
he tells me,
That instead of throwing them away,
creating waste.
He placed them neatly,
hidden.
In that cupboard.
To wait.
And this melts me,
This tells me,
so much.
This act,
is in actuality,
The showing of a soul,
through a sole.
The leaving of a footprint,
A memory for him,
a discovery for the finder,
and for me.
The one who must now take this soul,
and his soles,
and place them in my own cupboard.
And so we are
not alone,
in our pair,
in there,
in my chest.
One year later,
he tells me,
that he is going back.
And so,
what may have been,
what began as cotton sheets
and rubber condoms,
is gone.
And now I sit,
alone,
one of our pair,
and I wait.
Anonymous Meeting
I am not here.
Not here, in this room, with these people. I am merely hallucinating, delusional or drugged. That must be it. I would never willingly agree to this. That is a certainty. Why would I humiliate myself in such a manner? Why would I lower my standards to this? It bears no thinking about. But then again, how did I get here?
The room is large, the circle of people on chairs in it is small. A hum of tense conversation filters through this space. Physically, I am within this circle. However, mentally I try to project myself to a better place. Some sandy shore, a cosy pub, the Alps.
To no avail.
The Hum drums my ears, infiltrating my mental retreats. and so instead I focus again on the dingy characters surrounding me. The slim pickings of society. An array of stereotypes and failures. I am one of these. Am I the crone princess to my left? wrinkled , plastered with diamonds that shine so bright they have tarnished the spark within. Or instead, the fleshy man to my right? sides sagging over the child’s school chair. Skin so stretched and drooping no smile can be seen. Not that any of this mottled circle have reason to smile. Myself included.
Although I refuse to believe it, we are all here for one reason. The same reason. We are all here to admit that we are dependent beings, beings that need. To admit that we cannot function as individuals, we have tried, and failed, no doubt numerous times. And so now we are here. Face to face with our own replicas, sitting in this dim room, amidst the stacked tables and chairs. And like us they too have been discarded. Left behind. Forgotten.
The ringleader stands, and starts this evenings proceedings. I name her Joyce. I figure this by the obvious smile, the bright clothes, the patronising empathy. A fitting name for someone who emanates such ‘joy’. I can tell that she is getting some form of pleasure from telling us that we are worthless. She chides us, tells us that if we admit to ourselves that we have a problem we will recover. The first step.
As the meeting stretches on I learn of a mere forty-eight steps that can help me recover. Do they not realise that it is easier to stay like this then be proactive enough to actually undergo a great deal of steps. The too small child’s chair I sit on is starting to make the lower regions of my back ache, so I shuffle and stretch until this pain has marginally subsided . Joyce however takes this as a sign that I have something to say. I don’t, and I haven’t been paying attention so do not know how to answer the question she has just asked the circle. I take a guess, think of a generic answer that would fit such a situation.
“Yes”
She seems startled, I can tell it’s a new expression for her. The Circle stare at me, I have obviously made a faux pas. Great, not only do I have to come to these meeting for many months to come , but I have now alienated myself from any chance I had of making ‘friends’. She stammers. Her sneering smile slips, just for a second. Then returns, even more patronising than before.
This slip in her character reinforces my bitterness for her facade.
Not here, in this room, with these people. I am merely hallucinating, delusional or drugged. That must be it. I would never willingly agree to this. That is a certainty. Why would I humiliate myself in such a manner? Why would I lower my standards to this? It bears no thinking about. But then again, how did I get here?
The room is large, the circle of people on chairs in it is small. A hum of tense conversation filters through this space. Physically, I am within this circle. However, mentally I try to project myself to a better place. Some sandy shore, a cosy pub, the Alps.
To no avail.
The Hum drums my ears, infiltrating my mental retreats. and so instead I focus again on the dingy characters surrounding me. The slim pickings of society. An array of stereotypes and failures. I am one of these. Am I the crone princess to my left? wrinkled , plastered with diamonds that shine so bright they have tarnished the spark within. Or instead, the fleshy man to my right? sides sagging over the child’s school chair. Skin so stretched and drooping no smile can be seen. Not that any of this mottled circle have reason to smile. Myself included.
Although I refuse to believe it, we are all here for one reason. The same reason. We are all here to admit that we are dependent beings, beings that need. To admit that we cannot function as individuals, we have tried, and failed, no doubt numerous times. And so now we are here. Face to face with our own replicas, sitting in this dim room, amidst the stacked tables and chairs. And like us they too have been discarded. Left behind. Forgotten.
The ringleader stands, and starts this evenings proceedings. I name her Joyce. I figure this by the obvious smile, the bright clothes, the patronising empathy. A fitting name for someone who emanates such ‘joy’. I can tell that she is getting some form of pleasure from telling us that we are worthless. She chides us, tells us that if we admit to ourselves that we have a problem we will recover. The first step.
As the meeting stretches on I learn of a mere forty-eight steps that can help me recover. Do they not realise that it is easier to stay like this then be proactive enough to actually undergo a great deal of steps. The too small child’s chair I sit on is starting to make the lower regions of my back ache, so I shuffle and stretch until this pain has marginally subsided . Joyce however takes this as a sign that I have something to say. I don’t, and I haven’t been paying attention so do not know how to answer the question she has just asked the circle. I take a guess, think of a generic answer that would fit such a situation.
“Yes”
She seems startled, I can tell it’s a new expression for her. The Circle stare at me, I have obviously made a faux pas. Great, not only do I have to come to these meeting for many months to come , but I have now alienated myself from any chance I had of making ‘friends’. She stammers. Her sneering smile slips, just for a second. Then returns, even more patronising than before.
This slip in her character reinforces my bitterness for her facade.
Small little Thai child.
Small little Thai child,
oblivious,
walking small,
with your green bumbag.
I look at you,
with my brother and sister.
And feel no connection.
It is only when you smile
small little Thai child,
I see it,
I see us,
I see me.
oblivious,
walking small,
with your green bumbag.
I look at you,
with my brother and sister.
And feel no connection.
It is only when you smile
small little Thai child,
I see it,
I see us,
I see me.
On Display
Last year I went on a trip to NYC, with my friend for her birthday, the first day there, fresh off the plane she requested we went to a corpse museum. This is a poem based on the experience!
On Display
Chelsea Russell.
In New York.
That time you touched the corpse
on display.
In that museum,
where we wandered the black halls.
Eyed the rigour mortis set in colourful resins,
the skulls sliced at cross-sections to show
how the brain dies
after a stroke.
The displays themselves,
the previous people.
Frozen in their deathly silence.
Their mutilated bodies,
and useless genitalia hanging,
on display.
In that museum,
you asked me to keep an eye out for you.
I relished the irony.
The way you ignored
the multiple lifeless eyes,
with their fixed stares,
already watching over you.
As you reached your small hand out
and touched the formaldehyde hide.
I saw no problem with this,
the only thing
really on display
that day,
was our friendship.
On Display
Chelsea Russell.
In New York.
That time you touched the corpse
on display.
In that museum,
where we wandered the black halls.
Eyed the rigour mortis set in colourful resins,
the skulls sliced at cross-sections to show
how the brain dies
after a stroke.
The displays themselves,
the previous people.
Frozen in their deathly silence.
Their mutilated bodies,
and useless genitalia hanging,
on display.
In that museum,
you asked me to keep an eye out for you.
I relished the irony.
The way you ignored
the multiple lifeless eyes,
with their fixed stares,
already watching over you.
As you reached your small hand out
and touched the formaldehyde hide.
I saw no problem with this,
the only thing
really on display
that day,
was our friendship.
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