I recently edited a few of my older poems. (I have quite a few more to go...somewhere above 200 to be near-exact.) Here are the few that I forced myself to correct and make...well...slightly better. I still think they suck.
2pm Bloom
While walking through your dreams,
I see the trees of your youth,
the cherry blossoms smelling divine,
sweet and sugary
like 2pm sex on a scorching afternoon.
Passing windows,
I see your childhood,
a reel of images from some melancholy movie;
you marinating alone in the sandbox
and the girl who laughed
when you gave her a dandelion.
"This is a weed," she snickered
before throwing it in the dirt and walking away,
her chuckling friends in tow.
A little further now
and there's the annual Fourth of July pool party.
Your mother struts out
in her 'itty, bitty, barely covering the titties' bikini
accompanied by her best friend, Samuel Adams.
The three friends you begged to come
are gawking and bathing you in drool
as they swoon over her and their trunks get tighter.
You swim to the deep end
and spend your time under water,
counting slowly to 10
and only surfacing when your cheeks start to tingle,
your body getting too comfortable.
Keep going and there's a dark red door.
On the other side awaits a fire
and the loose woman who bore you
charring in the middle of that majestic flame
with her best friend permanently attached
to her right hand.
It's your fault she got knocked up.
It's your fault she liked the drink
and cancer on a stick.
It's your fault she got clumsy.
Through the ashes sits a mirror
where sad eyes, bouncy freckles,
and abundant cheeks stare back.
I wink. A sad eye mimics.
I smile. Cheeks pull up the lips.
I realize. You exhale...
and the scent of the 2pm bloom invades my nose
yet I'm still broken and alone,
therefore the sugar isn't nearly as sweet.
Written: date unknown
Edited: September 18, 2010
11 Seconds to Heaven
The way to a woman's heart:
a pair of rickety wheels and a 2 mile
abandoned gravel road.
A wrong right turn
and the blinding sun streams through my windshield,
making the pitch black pupils recede
behind the sweet brown donuts of my eyes.
I brave the heat.
I'm going to sweat anyway...
this is just the icing on the cake.
I roll the windows down,
embracing the short, cool breeze.
The whites of my knuckles ease back
into a light nude, the freckles slowly revealing,
as I lift my grip on the steering wheel.
My hard nipples rip through my shirt
as my lungs expand and deflate -
in, out, up, down, push, pull -
the excitement coursing through my veins.
My right foot begins to ache in anticipation
with the hesitant bend of my ankle,
delaying my joyride a little while longer.
A light bead of sweat burrows out
from underneath my hairline
and falls rapidly down to my eyebrow.
I wipe it clean quickly.
My hesitation has gone on too long
and I let my knee relax, collapsing
my full weight hard onto the pedal,
all the way through the floor of the car.
The engine roars
but is muted by the scream of the blood
pumping through my thighs, making my skin tighten
and form to sand paper with my goose bumps.
The breeze soaks my hair and carries it past my ears
as the car careens over the rocks, gravel, and wood.
The tires bounce,
my breasts plump and full,
bobbers in a fisherman's fantasy lake,
as they toss dirt from the road.
The grind, the friction, heightens my senses.
My eyes suck in the dust.
I can smell the burning rubber singe my nose hair
and ironically, the excitement between my legs builds.
The quickening of my breath swells my chest
and I begin to glisten profusely.
After the one mile mark,
my hands begin to lose control of the wheel,
the sweat sliding through the cracks of my fingers.
My curls begin sticking to my face
and I hear the car moan in ecstasy.
A high, sweet voice like mine.
Glancing at the rearview mirror,
I notice my throat vibrating,
hiding my thick vocal cords, open and loud.
My eyes are illuminated
as the moaning elevates.
As I rev the engine further
to pass an upcoming hill,
a small flame grows inside me.
It breathes; I moan.
And as I release the pedal over the hill,
I leap through the clouds,
my fingers grazing heaven,
and I lick my lips in satisfaction.
Landing awkwardly,
I recompose: light pressure on the brakes
and swift glances at the mirror;
straightening my curls,
dabbing my pores dry.
As the road relaxes to an end,
my heart slows and my mind drifts back
into the dull remainders of work
and grocery lists for two.
I feel relieved, healthy,
and already looking forward to my next wrong right turn
down the road to my simple 11 second heaven.
Written: June 14, 2008
Edited: September 18, 2010
22 Years Passed
In 22 years
I have driven 22 people out of life.
I could not dispose of the hurt
I caused them to throw at me;
22 sleepless years
plagued with the guilt of regret.
In 22 years
I have made well over 22 mistakes.
I called them lessons just to prove
that I could commit them again and again.
In 22 years
I passed up 22 chances
for a better, simpler life,
canceling them out in hopes that one day
they would all return so that I may change
and not remain stagnant
as ink on the paper, a crater on the skin.
In 22 years
I have had 22 feelings
that she was more than divine.
Alas, the concubine fled from me,
unable to accept my failures.
So, I drove her 22 miles away,
certainly not far enough.
In 22 years
my heart has stopped
more than 22 times.
Every second those ice orbs glanced my way
those carefully succulent, indecent thoughts
swam violently through a mind well passed sane.
In 22 years
I have wanted much more
than 22 years of inexperience.
I failed to find solace
in those childlike inner voices
that failed me through a rotten conscience
for which I must now pay the price.
In 22 years
my 22 walks of life
have felt more as a premature grave
visited 22 times too many.
In the unlikely event
that I shall be granted 22 more years,
my fear remains poised
on the vision of my warm, moist death.
Written: 2004
Edited: September 18, 2010
In the words of Anne Boleyn, I would gladly hold on to him "with my thighs". ; ) *sigh*