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Resurrection
Scratch, scratch, scratch
My skin itches tonight -
too old and tight to fit.
I need to shed,
be coral snake bright again.
I file my nails to points.
Crack, crack, crack
The thermostat says it's 75,
but it's not real.
There's icicles crying off my fingers.
My head pounds like Kodos drums,
but there's no one left
to get the message.
Rip, rip, rip
You give me a paper valentine.
I rip it apart
to see what's underneath.
You glue it back together
before I can peek.
We talk of daily needs while you
stand a million miles away.
My skin screams
for oxygen.
More, more, more
I've turned to stone;
outside four walls
they want a "real" me.
Hot flesh melts granite exterior
Ha! What cliché bullshit!
Flesh disintegrates before reaching
rock melting temperatures.
The sculptor gets frustrated
when his masterpiece refuses to emerge.
Disappointed
he turns back.
Slam, slam, slam
Stupid arguments
over insignificants.
Ignore the importants.
Push
and when the wall caves in,
you have proof you were right
about nothing.
Disjointed, disconnected, disassembled
Escape is a poem away -
No.
Someone repainted the café.
Rose walls scraped in favor of
plastic bag decoration.
Poetry d-evolves to
"fuck" and "pussy"--
makes little girls giggle.
Forty people sit in daydream blankness
to wait for 5 minutes of fame
every other Tuesday.
But old men with little time
need more.
The night drags on.
Escape, escape, escape
Just once
I want to hold something real
something that repels plastic rain.
Chisel, chisel, chisel
The air between us ignites.
I've said the wrong thing
again.
No, we are not "cool" anymore.
That much is
obvious.
The sculptor picks up angry tools.
"How real are you?", he asks stone.
If you can't tell.
Fuck you.
Good night.
Sleep, sleep, sleep
The thermostat says it's 75,
but it's not real.
My favorite blanket is missing.
I search every room.
Cold crystallizes my fingers.
Buk was right -
Sometimes you feel so alone,
it just
makes
sense.
I give up
the search.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
My skin itches tonight.
I file my nails to points.
Rant
This is not a poem
This is a rant.
This is a wake-up-and-smell-the-fucking-coffee rant.
This is an I'm-so-pissed-off-I'
d-climb-to-the-top-of-Golden-Gate-Bridge-and-scream-if-anyone'
d-fucking-listen rant.
This is an I'm-beyond-fed-up-so-you'd-better-watch-your-step-buddy rant
cuz the next time you tell me listening to Beethoven's 4th gives you wood,
I'm liable to scratch your eyes out.
You obviously don't have any vision anyway.
News Flash:
It's not always about sex.
You say, "Women make no sense"
well, DUH
Want a clue?
Want to know why women wear makeup?
It's because we've watched you give and forgive all the
skinny-young-tight-assed-sex-oozing-oh-you're-such-a-hunk-dipshit-blondes
all the fucking breaks.
Hey, why not make MY life a little easier?
It's only paint.
And you don't have the sight or foresight to see under it anyway.
Hell, you don't even have the sight to see
two-members-of-the-opposite-sex-can-be-friends-and-NOT-BE-FUCKING!
Am I the only one that finds this attitude insulting?
Am I the only one that honestly believes most women in this country do NOT
walk down the street for the expressed purpose of having every strange male
they come in contact with stare at their tits.
Sure sex sells,
but it's a
dime-store-bargin-basement-over-stocked-nobody-wants-this-shit-anyway-cheap-
ass-sell-out sell.
Open your eyes and get passed Freud's Third Stage.
The world doesn't revolve around you,
and it sure as hell doesn't revolve around your dick.
There are cosmic forces at work here,
but all you talk about is how they affect your libido.
YOU'RE the only one that gives a rat's ass about your libido.
Gravity makes the world go round,
and I don't care how good you are in bed,
you're not better than gravity!
So just once, try looking at a woman and seeing a person instead of a
possible fuck
and then maybe, just maybe, you'll start to figure it out!
You want that skinny-young-tight-assed-sex-oozing-oh-you'
re-such-a-hunk-dipshit so much
you'll loop your pencil-thin-pathetic weenie into pretzel knots just to have
Trina Stolec
the possibility to maybe get her in bed
so you can call her a whore the next day.
You boys invented the dick tease - some women just play along
until we get sick of hearing your weenie whines on
women-only-want-the-hunks-and-I-can't-get-any.
At which point some of us would like to just slap ya silly.
Tell me, when's the last time YOU put the make on an ugly girl?!?
I say we take anyone who can't hold a 1 hour conversation without mentioning
sex and anyone turned on Venus De Milo or Michelangelo's David, put them all
together in one room and let them fuck themselves to death
then the world can get on with something important.
No, this is not a poem
This is a get-a-life-doesn'
t-mean-a-sex-life-you-sightless-Neandreathalic-moron rant.
And, yes,
I do feel better now.
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