Suddenly you realise you've not done anything all week. You've ridden to work, filled the hours with fiddling, came home and ate. The sleeping part is the best because you don't realise you're not doing anything. And every morning your spine hurts from the lies it's been keeping, carrying all week. That's Fridays. What will I be sixty years onwards?

The Old Poet

Pen and hand, prying the words
from the tip as they fail fall
and she sits
with it on her tongue

On the island of letters where
a Sea lion's syntaxed
to form

Geriatric with glasses look
back on the straw
meek with grasping

Dawns a terrible beast
in the light she's
created a monster

Words words words, and they won't come

[drab poetry.....]




Paste them on
and leave 'em there
sticky

sticky like my fingers
after Chinese
in summer

Far off the moon
is coming
But you give my sticky kisses
till Morning

[/drab poetry]

These are just words, and you are just a picture in my head

Friday poetry!!! And I'm adding illustrations for those who like to look at picture books rather than read. I know words can be hard.

Now I'm going to find myself a cute outfit and enjoy the summer sunshine with an Ice Cappucino and a hat.



The End, or something like it.

Look honey,
I've never said that we'd last
A long time ago the swing still worked,
the bikes not yet so rusty

I've lost my sunglasses and
too tired from looking directly into you
Let us part like the rust on my pedals
when I cycle away from here.

Right. So I didn't. Come up. With a better poem.

...

But I have an excuse! I graduated for the second time (this time round I'm proud owner of a Dutch as a Second Language degree) and I had to house-sit for a month. Hence no writing during the last couple of weeks. I did write another library poem the other day. It's silly, nonsensical and most of all senseless. But I didn't name my Blog the way I did for no reason.

Again, this is raw material and there was no intention for it to rhyme. Damn head, why do you insist on such symmetry!?

Eternal Shelf life

I am the ghost in the library, stuck
with letters for curses and books for a chain.
I while away hours by scolding loud coughers,
Loudly proclaim my disdain

In Law there are blouses that smell of Armani
The French students talk to Voltaire
The classics have noses so deep in papyrus
They don't see Philosophy stare

And I am the ghost in the library aisles
Condemned to wander these halls
I learn nothing, do nothing, clearly bone idle
Stuck here eternal in library walls


Basically dedicated to Jonathan and Lisette, still pounding away on those thesï. Poor guys....

If wishes were horses then beggars might ride

I'm so deprived of inspiration I wrote the corniest love poem ever concocted by a human brain. I shall not bore you with it. Instead here's an older poem I wrote months ago. I know it's not the rules, but hopefully I'll come up with something better before Sunday.

Leave the streets empty for me

I sold you books for a beer

Your paintings for peanuts

And bartered your love for a fix

Too easy my fingers

That sweated the handshake

Relaxed on the touch of a kiss

Understand that these lines are a shambles

These fingers too stiff for the words

My head devastated and plastered

With memories too hard to drink short.

I won’t be here this time tomorrow

You’ll find this in mind numbing dawn

I’m sorry my love, sorry, I’m sorry

Three’s not even close to the charm

I've had my vitamins today and felt like taking the first steps towards a longer poem. This is just a draft though.

-Every time I take the tram home I have the same unworldy feeling of movement verses the dark. I don't belong in the tram, but everyone else doesn't either. We are travellers on this small but solid mode of transport that is so predictable in it's tracks. I there every night, same time, roughly same seat and everything else does what it does every night. We are a defeated bunch, on our way home, itching for our stops. And I'm always last to get off.


Homebound

I am two in the window world
Outside dark is eminent but
the night creaks, then budges for Number 6

the carriage's street-lighted tracks
lie heavy as metal in frontwindow future
as soon as behind us lost grip on the night

And filthy beats from the last seat on the left
succumbing to the autumn draft
into my doubled eardrums again.

I am still here, two for the terminus
Where the driver is halfway in bed.

I don't need you

Take it from me, cus I no longer
stand it near me
I feel weak without it
lost inside it

Where you've hid it
I can't find it
Tell me
don't
I need it

Can this be considered to be an (almost) fail already? I blame Pentecost and the art of shopping. Now for something short.

The Fly

Of all the bodies
of all the water
in all the land,

you choose my custard to drown in

This week there's even two. This one was inspired by a morning fingertap on my desk, and also a little bit by Twelve Monkeys' Brad Pitt.

Sufferer, conjurer, can't take no restraining
Make believe, steal the thieve
It's hard to keep sane here

Undergo a transformation
Bigger than a railway station
Keep your peace, Steal the keys
Time to get outta here

Let's breath some new life into this old lady

Sense and stupidity is not dead yet. My Liverpool blogging days are over, but my poetry blogging hours have only just begun. I'm all about recycling so why not recycle this thing too. If Belgian prime ministers can post a haiku every day then sure as my auntie's big bottom can I post a poem every week. Let's make that a challenge. One week, One poem, One poet.

I'm going to start with a witless ditty that I wrote to the beat of a Palms Out Sounds remix. (Mind that the best is saved for last and that all beginning is hard)

Kicking and screaming
Loving and dreaming
Messy but happy
You can't catch me you can't stop me

Beat 'em, join 'em
Hear it, soul jam
Sexy but not slutty
You're a joke, but you're not funny

So that's a start. Let's see where this baby will take me.

Love,
Mixy