A Guilded View
Hung from a jail of wire and nail I long for her to see,
the sweet confection that is her reflection
hidden inside of me.
But instead she flashes, right past she dashes, always on the run;
with manic insanity, no time for vanity
leaving me broken, and shunned.
Neverminding loneliness, never finding comeliness, crucified, and alone,
with views unchanged, and frames deranged
I longed for a face of my own.
Until one day, to my dismay, she flew past once again;
just to open the door, and rock my world
when she let in the Amazon man.
The box he brought, a gift she’d bought, herself reflected in me;
filling my view, when she hung it and screwed
it uptight with a golden key.
For there on the wall, right across the hall, she’s put up a cuckoo clock,
whose handsome face in it’s walnut case
ceaselessly ticks and tocks.
With nothing to gain, this clock entertains me, twenty-four and seven.
It‘s rocking and rolling, it’s tocking and tolling,
turned this hell-of-a-hallway to heaven.
Never now boring, the minutes affording, the hours the time to make days,
with springs a-worming, and gears a-turning;
a salve to my unflinching gaze.
Time now is cheap as this gaudy timepiece, whistles, whiles and works.
It’s pendulum swaying, it’s pennants waving
as the birdie twirls and twerks.
And I’d love to believe that what the clock sees in return is my guilded pelf,
my golden frame, my shining mane,
but the shame is...
it’s seeing itself.
Reflections of the looking glass
the passage of time
that bring to mind
from days gone by
who loves many
it oft seems,
the one I see.
So you think you’re smart, huh?
Every time you look into me, at yourself, you seem confident, huh?
Do you notice that your eyes aren’t even level and they’re not the same size?
What about your eyebrows? They are not symmetrical, you know. But I guess you can cover that up with some make-up.
And your nose. Oh God, there’s a big scar on your nose. I mean, you must be pretty proud of your nose huh? It’s kinda tall and slim, standing straight. But that scar, man, there’s just no way to cover it up. You just had to pop that pimple in high school, didn’t you?
Your mouth, well your mouth is fine. Right now rouge is trendy and your thick lips are good for that color. But man, did you notice your lips are also asymmetrical on the two sides? Like, it makes you look like you constantly have this evil grin, at least from my perspective. I don’t know if people notice it when they look at you, but when you look into me, I sure do notice. And when you put on rouge lipstick but not carefully draw the lipline, I can see it quite obviously.
Now, I know people always compliment your dimples. “Oh how cute” they say. Funny! You realize the left one is deeper than the right one? The only thing that people ever complimented about on your face and it’s just, how do I put it, horrendous.
Do I still need to go on? We’ve only talked about your face, not even your hair! You see, I just do NOT understand why you think you can put on a confident face when you look at me. You. Are. Flawed. You’re not beautiful. He probably doesn’t think you’re beautiful. Otherwise he would have stopped the other day to talk to you for a full minute, am I right? If only you were a tiny, little, eeny miny prettier, he would have paid you more attention. He would have responded to your email. Maybe would have given you his phone number even. But he DIDN’T. That should be a pretty obvious sign.
So yeah, pretend to be all confident in front of me, you imposter. Lie to yourself all your want. “He’s just busy.” Sure. “He’s not in a good mood.” Uh-huh.
Look at me.
Look at me!!
Wipe off those tears you loser! You have been an imposter all along. There’s no turning back. Now put that smile back on. Show your white teeth (ok I forgot to mention but those do look good actually) and try and make your dimples look even.
Now get out there and keep smiling. No one will know.
Trust me. I’ve seen it all. They’re all like this.
#nonfiction #romance #maybe
same old goofball
it spies a goofball
messy mop of curls
slight grey - sshh
glasses hiding cute eyes
accenting chubby cheeks
over a healthy curvy body
one with the hint of
above a happy peasant gut
and pasty white nerd skin
but sans acne now
with a few tattoos
scattered here or there
while I could spin closer
focus on bits of flab
or poor posture
or a chunky pitbull kinda head
that I wonder how
could love after all these years
(don't think about it)
instead I just focus on
"Hey - did I remember to put pants on today?"
and then remind myself
beauty's for queens
curves are for comfort
and my smile
lights this mother fucker up
Lex Talionis of the Dishonest Speculum
I’m broken cause she is clumsy
but at least it’s a mere crack,
A sliver through my silver,
on up through my glass,
from my back.
I count myself lucky.
As I’ve heard the tales
that others reflected to me of
that day infamy claimed.
They detailed the vicious attack
on my brethren that this Deranged woman made.
The act was plainly avoidable,
by far in retrospect.
The attack she enacted that day
when she hacked them apart;
a whole stack of looking glasses!
Her creative juices
caught a knack for
splashy, psuedo-creative nuances
in her rooms scenery.
She chose a shattering
of many mirrors,
of my family;
by way of canned fruit salad and leaning a stack of them at a slant;
She threw the snack.
Picked it up, just to repeat it then,
She came galumphing back to [Whack!] do it again.
Then she glued up their pieces
Pieces of my friends
The crazy bitch crazy-glued
my fucking cousins to
the interior walls of her book case.
What I call murder
doesn’t offend her.
She thinks of it as good taste!
At the very least,
As an artsy fartsy display.
The shards of my camaraderie
A damned conversation piece.
This was not clumsy..
This was done purposely;
This was genocide.
My pane in pain that I’ll hide.
Why fruit salad?
No; Why Fruit cocktail?
She brandished a canned good,
And ripped them apart
piece by piece..
I try not to reflect on it,
but I seek release.
I need it for peace of mind,
To pacify me; I’m irate.
Reckoning seems begged of me so
I’ll do it my best respectively,
To chip away at her mental state.
I hope to internally annihilate
I mean to be mean while I’m
Passive aggressively exacting
within her own image.
Ill begin, as I do my job dutifully.
As I duplicate her form,
My rancor will take shape.
It’ll be in the subtleties
I’ll be warping, rendering distorted
the visage of her body
that I devilishly duplicate.
While she’s dressing
I’ll be stressing her out.
Peering deeper into me with scrutiny, to figure now what’s
Wrong with her figure.
I in perpitude;
Will distort just a little
of her details
Make her fiddle as I
bulge out her belly.
Ill shrewdly double her chin.
Brake my back to bend out
Her back fat,
Undetectably I can thin
her hair to threadbare.
She will feel it then;
My wrath for what she’s done.
The day will come that
I’ll shatter her from within.
She will crack if I refract her before she will ever again
feel joy in her fitting, and
I wittingly will turn against her
as far as she can see.
She will splinter when
left up to me, she’ll swear that in the store things had fit her.
Gaslighting is my delight and
every new dress I’ve guaranteed
Will make her look fat,
As for me,
This is not destiny cause
I’ve chosen this path,
But I deem that it seems to be
The right track.
in fact it is
The fairest of them all
for I’ve no arms to fight back
And I’m stuck on this wall.
a boy averts his gaze
every morning and every night
a fog curtains his face
every waking second and every sleepless dream
doesn’t know who he is
doesn’t know who’s staring back
as cataracts skew, tinting rainbows
into shades of deep to dead lead,
and shawls the noose inching closer
to the jugular pumping ash
to leave the house is a task
too hot for a hoodie
so when he needs to, he wears a cap
a helmet for the eyes chambered in 7.62′s
and hides his from God’s scope glint up above
doesn’t know who he is
doesn’t know who’s walking O’s
as mildew grows and encrusts his blast room
into an echo-chamber cornered by ma’s CCTVs,
hotboxed in smoke off of his strucked match-head
CO monitor beeps the beat of his heart
but his thoughts deafen
and so this monotone song is sung from a swan’s beak,
a lone send-off to the wolf’s den
Check, double check, triple check, but what do they expect?
They come to me and see, but they are not willing to accept.
I show the truth but people will see what they want to see.
I reflect, but they project, sticking all of their insecurities on surrounding shelves.
Continue to perceive but never working on themselves.
If I am an extension of them, with no body all my own.
I hope to destroy with stone, this glass, like shattered bone.
My fragile Glass of Life
Our eyes have the same tears; our mouths created them. Hatefull words, so many words said to my presence, to something I couldn’t fix. But when they leave, all sound and light fade, the endless prisms of earth behind me create urgency for their face, their sneering look of constant disgust. Why do I do the same? Mock the things that cause their tears, mimic the glaze of their eyes; all I see is the life that makes me live, living somberly in their presence, but even more so alone. I know the only affection shown are the hands we press over our faces, covering the tears, the eyes that scorn and judge. But how I long to give myself a hug. How we long for words seperate from hate, and how I wish for a face that smiles at the sight of me, instead of the abuse I enforce on ourselves.
Sometimes days pass with no sight of my lonesome puppeteer, days without an echo to remind me I’m also alive-and lonesome. Occasionally I wonder which one of us is trapped in a plate of polished confinement, forbidden to move, exiled from the world of possibilites. Until you return, my thoughts, and tears, will wait for you. No matter where you go or who you see yourself as, I’ll be there. And my eyes will forever shine differently in the light of you:my fragile glass of life.