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
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.