A Mess Of Poems

Inkblot's picture

Here's a bunch of poems I wrote tonight while I was in a productive vein.


I feel very cold
But I might go stand in the rain

I'm not sure I can see
But I might go sit in the dark

I can't feel my legs
But I might feel the need to run away

I feel very fragile
But I might go stand on the highway

I might be insane
But you can call me modern
Or maybe misunderstood,
If it makes you feel better.



My body is no temple
Rather, it is an empty church
And within its shattered doors
You will perhaps find one lonely widow
Crying for her husband because she has forgotten how to pray.

There is no stained glass in my eyes
Just a broken window,
Looking in on ransacked pews and tattered hymnals
Nobody has ever sung within these walls
Not that anyone would hear.

If you should walk up my dusty aisles
And sift through the dust that covers a long forgotten altar
Perhaps you'll find my great-grandmother's bible
It was left here long ago, and I do not know what to do with it.

There is but one benediction
Within my unholy tabernacle
This broken bombed out shell of faith
Nothing is sacred, and I am a church.



It is odd to be troubled by the nonexistence of scars
Or to take comfort in the patterns
You hope that they'll cut into you
You've memorized them like a catechism, haven't you?
You're wishing for them
For an actual manifestation
To convince you it's not all in your head.
You want to have something to show for it, don't you?
It's still mysterious to you
You're hoping like a frightened child
That you'll even get that far, aren't you?



I've always been fond of keepsakes
Old movie ticket stubs,
Bottle caps, pens, little things
They remind me that there is something out there
Beyond my cold room and coffee pot.

Likewise, I cherish my bruises,
Scratches, scars, the occasional cut
Tiny reactions to something other than myself
They remind me of the things outside my skin
Of cats and tree branches and the hard and reassuring ground
Of lovers, stoves and bookshelves
Things that are comforting
In their distance from my insides.



Lust is phenomenally difficult to write about
In any way that does not seem
Profoundly silly.


Coffee Sonnet

I so long for its bitter caresses
With such thrills the like of which a lover
Feels to watch as his young love undresses
Yet with zeal unknown to any other
For in the predawn hours I have none
Of this inky liquid, my one true love
I await the brewing of my only one
That I might stand and perhaps even move
I will not dilute my lover with cream
Nor with plebeian sugar stain her virtue
For 'tis of blackness that I always dream
To that sable ideal must I be true
My joy, the one thing that can turn my head
My greatest friend, and I'll sleep when I'm dead



I'm still a little boy
And I don't know where I'm going
I'm not sure how I got here
So I'll let her take over
She wears fishnets

I'm unsure, as always
And I have no idea what I'm doing
I'm not sure how to drive this thing
But I think she knows how to steer
And she wears fishnets

Maybe I'm in love with you
But you'd never know from me
I haven't got the balls to tell you
But I'm sure she can handle it
Because she wears fishnets

I'm a tiny thing
Terrified to put my foot down
Without her high heeled shoes
She knows how to use them
After all, they match her fishnets

And I get to be her for a little while
If I wear fishnets.



I am not a plot device, sir
I do not appreciate your artistic vision
As it applies to me.

I refuse to be art directed, sir
Nor do I wish for you to determine my fate
Based only on what is properly metaphorical.

Moreover, sir, I am not dramatic irony,
Innovative staging, or creative writing.
And with all due respect, I decline to be your literature.

I am not a metaphor, sir
Nor simile, or any sort of powerful imagery

I do not appreciate your attempts to write me, sir
Because I do not exist merely
So you can call yourself edgy.


My Apologies To Eve Ensler

I'm very sorry
But my vagina is not a shell
Nor is it an ocean, or a field
Or anything else that sounds like some sort of scented bath salt
Or a Walt Whitman poem.

Likewise, it is not a village
Or a small animal
Or even a red leather sofa.
It is nonpolitical, non-interesting

My vagina does not wear pearls
Nor does it have anything to say
For we are not on speaking terms.

My vagina exists, unfortunately.
That is all the monologue it deserves.


-Ruby-'s picture


you're one hard-core kick-ass poet!

the ghost's picture

i really like your poems. No

i really like your poems.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent-Eleanor Roosevelt

Fiona Rosge's picture

Yeah there really good, each

Yeah there really good, each poet is different i find that sensational
Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up she goes up she goes
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam
In the air she goes there she goes
Up, up, a little bit higher
Oh, my, the moon is on fire

Morgan's picture

My Apologies To Eve Ensler

Been a while since I laughed so hard. These rock. All of them.