Let's dust off our thees and thou'dsts and elevate the tone round about these parts.
Here I sit, broken hearted.
Had to shit but only farted.
I feel more cultured already.
I am not ashamed of this.
And be you not ashamed of this.
It is not glorious,
But neither loathsome,
We are beings whom to meet
Is what prognostication taught:
Familiar to the touch of self
By many wounds, though healed,
And simple to the eyes of time
By the disappearance of the scars.
Nothing is happening: rightly sees
The present impassive look.
Rightly our memory stings
With an incredible aliveness:
Long ago and not long ago
We were committing those outrages
Which breed the heroic title
And privately make aghast.
It has become less horrible to be.
The loss of splendour was the loss of fright -
Gigantic steps in the dark,
An advancing as toward pain that made it pain
When senses shrieked encounter.
Widely we groped, as if brave;
Closing on something - that was love,
By accident of night inflicted
And borne like fate, tragically
To explore as if an empty universe
And have the shield of solitude pierced
By the existence of another!
It has grown less foolish to be.
We knew it would become as it is.
Fate was but the ringing in our ears
Of a resolution of deafness
Against the shock of hearing ourselves speak;
And pain, the lie of astonishment
That being should be so much -
We knew it was not over-much,
Not more than what beings needed
Minutely to spell being.
Oh, simpering, self-awe,
The pretence of never having meant this!
Let us not mock our own sincerity.
Who has forgotten how we first began
To take ourselves to pieces?
You ain't shit
THOU ART NOT FALSE BUT THOU ART FICKLE
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, to those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle are doubly bitter from that thought;
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises, and spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises, whose love is as sincere as sweet-
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow, we scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.
What must they feel whom no false vision, but truest tenderest passion warm'd?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition; as if a dream alone had charm'd it?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!
Appeal to the Grammarians
We, the naturally hopeful,
Need a simple sign
For the myriad ways we're capsized.
We who love precise language
Need a finer way to convey
Disappointment and perplexity.
For speechlessness and all its inflections,
For up-ended expectations,
For every time. we're ambushed
By trivial or stupefying irony,
For pure incredulity, we need
The inverted exclamation point.
For the dropped smile, the limp handshake,
For whoever has just unwrapped a dumb gift
Or taken the first sip of a flat beer,
Or felt love or pond ice
Give way underfoot, we deserve it.
We need it for the air pocket, the scratch shot,
The child whose ball doesn't bounce back,
The flat tire at journey's outset,
The odyssey that ends up in Weehawken.
But mainly because I need it—here and now
As I sit outside the Caffe Reggio
Staring at my espresso and cannoli
After this middle-aged couple
Came strolling by and he suddenly
Veered and sneezed all over my table
And she said to him, "See, that's why
I don't like to eat outside."
I HATE poetry, always have and always will and I'm a nellie queen too.
"When I am an Old Queen I Shall Wear Abercrombie"
With an A&F shirt that doesn't fit, and $90 jeans that don't suit me.
I shall spend my pension on Abercrombie & Fitch clothing and apparel.
And, Birkenstock sandals, and say I have no money to rent boys.
I shall sit down in the middle of Abercrombie on the big leather chairs when I am tired.
And, gobble up an enormous Mrs. Field's chocolate chip cookie.
And, lay across the chair, cookie in hand, imitating the Abercrombie models on the giant posters pretending I am them.
And, make up for the loneliness of my youth.
I shall go out in the winter in my A&F Cargo shorts.
And, go to keggers at Michigan State.
And, learn to say "bro".
When you are an old queen, you can wear tight fitted 1892 shirts to the club. And, feel good.
You can stand on the side of the walls, sipping your favorite mixed drink, bobbing your head to Filo and Peri, looking at all of the beautiful young men, looking at you...looking through you like you're a ghost. And, feel good.
You can put on your fake tanner, Regenerist anti-wrinkle cream, and stand farther and farther away from the mirror when getting ready. And, feel good.
But, with age comes wisdom, and I know that because I work out seven days a week, don't smoke or drink, and eat healthy, that I can be eternally young and spry. Confused for 19 to the average eye.
And, when I walk out of the mall with my Abercrombie bag in hand, people will stare and I will not care. For when I am an old queen I shall wear Abercrombie.