They took away the only thing that held me
Cheap, clever girls with their red, red lips
Gloss, they tasted of mint
Hooked to the luscious body of an old maid
Dying within her
But on the outside she burns pink
Like a cherub’s cheeks
They panted underneath and I
Became a breathing edifice of horror
Oh! That absolutely enchanted look
Can it be that it’s not real?
Is it only just something painted on
By another senseless human being?
And so they told me I wasn’t really flying
Only like a kite held up by a string. But I
Breakfasted with those women anyway
Did you know they had things to do at dawn
Flying pantyhose and curled up wigs
A jumbled up rope lay on the floor, even.
I lit my first cigarette- the ash tray enlightened me
Of a clandestine venture in the deep darkness
But with sunshine and lit skies it wasn’t real
There were some children somewhere
Not here but gut-wrenchingly near enough
How was I to know?
It was morning and I
A creature of habit, a creature of the night.
I didn’t really belong here.
The more poems I have been writing, the more often I have started to feel- not judgmental or in any way emotionally associated to what the poem represents, but just like an objective, impartial observer whose only job is to express a certain viewpoint. So I often find myself in the shoes of an imagined character, often whipped up on the spot. This person can be talking about anything- an incident I might have actually had, but more often than not, one I imagine somebody having. In that moment I am on another plane. I’m someone else and it isn’t my job to question objectives or motives but just to put into words certain emotions this character might have undergone. Poems always have helped me think in shades of grey (not fifty). And so these poems- dark, serious, sarcastic, ironical or anything else- are just a means for me to be (or try to be) an impartial witness to the phenomena of people’s lives. Cheers!