Dramatic Monologue to a Hesitant Reader
Why hello there -
what's your name?
What type do you say?
Well, what type do you prefer?
I can be a naughty little diddy-
Ooh, look at that body, girl!
I can be a wicked lez: butch or femme.
Eat me, eat you - either way, I’m good.
I can be a straight rich white man, listen:
For the stars in the sky never fell
So hard as the night you left me.
I’m trying too hard, aren’t I?
It’s just that I feel like
there could be something more between us.
It’s been so long since I felt that.
My writer tells me
I need to get my shit together
and win her some money -
Be in a chapbook,
sell some copies.
I have no idea what she is talking about.
Besides, the writer is essentially a spy.
See, I just like to meander along
taking you with me
Like the tracks under a train
I follow a path to a destination
But I will never let on to where we’re headin’
‘till we get there -
That’s a rule of the poetic craft, she told me.
All them abbreviations, that’s my rule
of the ff’ing craft.
A trick, if you will -
casual word play to make you feel safe with me;
To win you over, to seduce you
to make you mine, all mine.
I’ll hide you away, then do what I like...
That was too much, wasn’t it -
No, please don’t leave!
I’ll stop, I promise.
Take it easy there, poem…
Back to the
like overripe bananas
I think again and again
I am like… I am like…
Searching for the perfect metaphor
so you will know what
I look like, taste like, smell like
So you will KNOW me, finally -
and then in the end you will love me -
as I love you, and I’ll be your poem
Your one and only,
your Guy de Vere
Lenore, Lenore I am knocking at your door.
Can you just open it already?
I am cold and tired
and hungry and lonely
- mostly lonely.
Also poor, suggests my poet lady.
You may not remember
but you loved me once before -
The woods were lovely dark and deep.
I was the thing of hope and feathers
As the Soul selects Her own society -
Till you shut the door (in my face).
Two roads diverged and I went one way,
you chose another path
in those horrid yellow woods
I thought I would never see you again.
I picked up rocks and mended walls, trying to earn a buck;
I heard you were killing brutes using stakes to the heart;
navigating the luftwaffe and the gobbledegoo.
Those were dark times - ugly angels spoke to me.
Strong was the phenomenology of anger;
I, in the house of Bedlam;
You, my daughter in law, with shaven legs like tusks.
But you must remember the woods!
Her softness and her midnight sighs
The easy wind and downy flake, let me take you there again!
Let me put my words on your skin, you’ll never go back to them…
Don’t let the ground open up and envelope you!
Refuse the broad edged silly music the wind
tries to make -
Let’s go back to the times when
I was just a simile -
So that we may touch, love, explain - when
everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
I am a poem hear me roar
despite I’ve nothing to say anymore -
Yet still I rise
with the diamonds between my thighs -
And fester in the sun;
like a raisin, like meat
Night funeral in Harlem
got me beat -
I’m unravelling at the seems
aching hungry hands might touch
her as they touch a reed.
Like I can touch you.
All the feelings have been used up
like toilet paper,
one fuck or shit after the next
There is nothing left for me to master.
I can copy the brilliance and do it again
But nothing new will ever come into my head.
So they say, The jig is up!
Mein Kampf… Buttercup.
I’m a poem, nothing more, I am very, very small.
I have nothing to say except Trump this, Trump that;
My dreams, my dreams: Look at me!
I’m falling down the rabbit hole - thank you Lewis Carroll:
(Now slay I the Jabberwock with my silver blade of vorpal!)
Watch it like a train wreck you will - Cantcha look away lil’ lady?
What’s that? Ditch the inappropriate colloquialisms, did you say?
They are making you uncomfortable, aren’t they… I’m getting carried away
I do that sometimes with the casual speak - I’ll try to be more formal:
Stars like holes of endless ebon, dippedinblather
Turkeys! I’ll take a stab at them too for that matter:
Toms hens: cluckingpecking
pathos pathos: rachelzucker
ECT video games for shock value: [feel free to insert anything here in metaphor of my brain]
Eg: a sieve/a net/a gourd/a rattle/an urn/a coconut/a chasm/violent spasms/my mother’s/
Schloopy messes of phrases and stanzas. Who cares?
No meter - no idea. Just me me me, ad nauseum.
No lagos (sic.) logos to be found around here! Nevermore, Lenore.
So what the hell - then, a formal feeling comes.
How do they get that spark? Those poems!
The ones they read and buy.
The ones they spend them hard earned dimes on, boy!
Is it in the lines, the words, the characters?
Or that certain élan - that I never figured upon.
It’s their magic - like fairy dust sifted over the readers’ eyes, and they become believers -
The big ones have it but I’m no Baraka, no Sexton, no Cullen, no Hughes.
Never Etheridge, never Frost, never Angelou - I’m neither Rich nor a Dove.
No Bishop, Plath or Poe… not even Ashbery, love.
But I have to keep going - exist on a page of pixels, trapped in her Chromebook -
for the world could stop turning if I got deleted.
The sun up at night and the moon in the day - she who writes me: she needs me, she loves me -
pursues then divorces me. We fight like dogs then fuck under the covers -
For she has me taped to her wall - like a lost ancestor
I could fall, forgotten; flutter to the floor - the tape yellowed with crackled time.
She would be alone and frightened without me; might summon the guards, even call her family -
They are farmers, I am a thief. Her kin would never know how to care for her as I do.
So, remember me, when that Block arrives,
Panic not, lest ye parse to write, love
Me for the chance at words, love me
Though our words, like birds, must die -
For only I, her Romeo, protect
I must, this little pet - if she doth walk,
then I to follow; e’er she is my Juliet.
I am her nurse and come, Anon! These rules
We’ve made are fair and just, so if she be
my spy - Cruel Editor begone! I guard
Her gates, her words entrust - For be I truth
This day, come morrow: I’m a lie. Who then
To sift the stardust upon her weary eyes?
Who then to kiss her loyal lips, judge me
I am super happy to have work in this anthology, it supports an amazing cause, The Trevor Project, which supports LBGTQ humans recovering from abuse - so go buy a copy - you won't regret it, promise, :) click here for a sample
I Am Friend to the Worm
I saved a worm today.
He didn’t try to get away.
He didn’t know who I was.
He writhed in a ball of fear because -
He felt my finger touching him.
His worm brain sensed medieval sin:
dry skin upon his wet skin,
both only dead and grey in the end.
Today is the day - I declare him to be my friend.
I didn’t save him yesterday -
I left him and his brothers there to die.
I just strolled on by -
afraid the human mothers standing by
would point and whisper at me.
Laugh and declare me shit-crazy.
But this worm - my little, dirty lover
he keeps my earth in order.
In the rain storm last night
he came up for air -
the dirt no more his lair.
Yet cruel concrete has no more fault
than the timid topsoil, saturated as it was -
Meant to extol death
upon my invertebrate kin
I too, am crying tears of rain.
I am the worm’s friend.
I am just molecules of oxygen and carbon.
Tomorrow, a giant beast, an ogre, a dragon
could pluck me from some deadly tsunami -
re-bestow my life upon me
- if it be his will -
As I select an outcome for the worm.
Defy the mores of man’s un-natural planning:
the simple grains of sand he’s morphed
into blackened plains of worm-killing fire.
If I decide to flee -
to stroll on by and let him be
am I complicit in (that)human’s plans?
So I played God today -
did you know I have that power everyday?
There is no rest for people like me.
There are witch hunts happening all the time for us.
If others aren’t chasing us;
We are chasing our own tails at midnight.
People like you haven’t known
People like me -
What I’m like -
Or how nice I really can be.
You have been unnerved by me,
Made uncomfortable by me,
Understandably, you had to protect your kids from me.
But what you forgot is that I am your sister, your husband, your mother, your lover.
I am you in mixed acrylic on a Pollack canvas.
My Chip, Metastasizing
I feel it all.
Like last night when a tumor of epic proportion
Erupted on my shoulder. The chip it had grown out of
Had been metastasizing all day, and when my husband forgot to call -
I had no way to radiate it before it
Grew a bulbous head - a poisonous mushroom cloud
And eyes like my Sensei’s daggers; it’s round mouth like that O -
Opened and slickly spat: I’m so sick of you!
I feel it all.
A wet worm bit in half, writhing;
A small grey pancake in the road
That burn in my belly when you didn't say hello.
I feel my mother's lack of meds
I feel my father's whiskey -up
I feel your womb - wanting eggs
I feel your frustration in dealing with me.
I feel it all.
The shame of my past licking its lips
As it hunts me in dreams and the fear of my future is so
Frickin’ bright, that goggles are what I need
To face the day - And my own ruddy face.
Discolored and a-ged in the mirror
Red veins my road map of pain.
And all the soles that stepped on my palms
As I lay prone in penance, never knew I was scheming
That once they were done stepping on my soul
I would drink myself silly; to forget the pattern of their tread on my skin.
I feel it all.
Like when I write this knowing it's not going to
Shrink the tumor nor remove the microchip
That keeps tabs on me -when my mouth runs off,
Chasing the trail of my hips.
I've never been good at lying.
Like when I try to say I’m sorry
It catches on that bone in my throat and chokes me till I give in -
Then happily coalesces with my cacophony of tumors
That lay in wait - Only to erupt again some other day.
I’m Tim Robbins
There is no free pass in this new born dawn
whether it be blue black or gold green
it's all hard work
it's all humbling.
This is the new me you see
the better one; the reinvented
the not so scary, beary one
The one that doesn’t yell at the kids
the one that doesn't cry in the car
saying, why me, God, why?
This one's got pills
this one's got a friend that listens
so very patiently
every single goddamn week for
five - count ‘em five whole years of
Wednesdays at one.
Where would you rather be -
chatting with Freud just for fun?
This new time’s got a choke on me
tisn’t easy being in the world now
as a member, not an inmate
My own warden.
My own crawl through a pipe of sewage
a Shawshank Redemption
the murderer was you old foe - so fuck you...
I’m Tim Robbins.
I am a Yoyo
I am a yoyo -
I know how to walk the dog.
Roll him alongside - he heels like a servant;
my tools take hold - I am your alpha bitch, baby.
I am a yoyo -
I can be like Yoko and love John;
I can survive and be a widow when he’s gone -
spreading my message of peace and love,
despite the cauldron of hate we sip from.
I am a yoyo -
I can suck you off like a dam unleashed
your ire released.
I am a damsel in distress,
gloves, garter, anything you want - you got it.
I am a yoyo -
I like women
but I married a man.
I like children, but prefer growing old
to my teenage years.
I am a yoyo -
You can hold me tightly to you
but I'm like the dove
I’ll always fly away -
As soon as you release me
never knowing where the hell my nest might be.
I am a yoyo -
You will never see me cry
You will never see me cry, cuz boyz don’t cry
But girls do and I am a girl and if beaten,
My tears are real saltwater.
- Either gender -
you brute you.
I am a yoyo -
You do not do, Daddy;
yet I will keep snapping back up to you -
An accordion blind,
a wrinkle in time -
When you flick your wrist,
landing safely in your hand -
Only to be shot out again
at your whimsy -
To be walked like a dog
crank the merciless cog.
Loving and hating you
all the whiling away of this hardest time.
Under a Sunrise, I am Holding up the Sky
Like an anonymous gift bag wafting free,
pink ribbons float in the canary sea -
While cuttlefish cumulum shimmer in the sky,
porous, inviting, devilishly divine.
All atop the shoulders of a woman on her knees:
she is holding up the weight of an entire Northern Sky.
The dirt lies ruddy on her back like a blanket -
my afterbirth warm and heavy, yet static.
Manuscripts on mastodons
explain the terror of her days
Shark tooth shackles
endowed by human ways.
Only we remain the burden,
worms released her - up she goes!
She is a mountain of a woman
and she is finally free -
From the bottomless floor of fire
her toes painted in iron -
550 million years old - a taconic orogeny,
such evidence to behold!
Slathe lotion in my silicate pores
she shuns the vulcan ties of yore -
Lying deep in bedrock sheets -
so deathly tired, let me sleep.
Her effigy now history under all this limey shale.
The potash, the pumice -
Even as the plates collided:
Pangea divided -
She strokes my hair
I lie aware, of the
Mother Earth in me.
And finally, I am She.
Prior Publication Credits
"My, Chip, Metastasizing" and “My Self” appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, December, 2016 issue.
“I’m Tim Robbins” previously appeared as "Therapy" in the January, 2017 issue of Anti-Heroin Chic.
OH MY GOD, U R AMAZING. | BY ELISABETH
on August 23, 2017 ByocculumInpoetry
Thank you always for you.
For all of your Selves – your Hells;
if it indeed plays out that
we can burn alive in more than one –
let it conflag around us
for there is no other wound
I’d prefer to endure
than the hot kiss of a She-Devil
who rents us a room;
be it red-lit and ready for She-Rage;
I say Fuck to Repenting.
Our words are the aloe / our tongues the spit
that can seduce a million demons in one lick –
When God is ready for us, sound the alarm
I’m still waiting for Him / to donate alms
I’m gonna settle down
amidst all the tests / analyzations –
Let me see that Rorschach:
it looks an awful lot like me
in profile, I’m a real beauty ~
Might I suggest a doppleganger of Ye ~
and I’m not embarrassed to say,
the crazy ones make me hottest to this day –
so let’s stay put, Whaddyasay?
My dad was Chief Psych when I waltzed about the Ward
how’s that for a test,
– not sure how my therapy went
since my pain was integral to one Honest Irishman.
I digress Sugar,
bring that Inpatient Portfolio up in here
I’m gonna deduce the shit out of Her
and still leave some for supper-
all Dante, Gay-folk and Witches invited.
Just no Jesus Thumpers;
please, no Shrinks.
Only got room for me and you, crazy style…
so Baby-Doll, don’t you blink.
Get in my mouth, I said
get in my
mouth! erst i crawl after you,
crumbing over linoleum.
my napkin; delicate and
in the slick of ooze mud
like four score and flour
in my saliva netting –
Be gone and get into my mouth,
as if ocean sand.
Don’t muffin me; i told you;
just get in! i said.
Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She hopes her poetry might make the world a slightly better place, at least to let others they are not alone in their struggles with depression and isolation.