Poems don't make a poetry social network - people do.
~emily has a crush~
Poems By: aksania xenogrette
emily has a crush this boy has clay on his hands. he carries his camerabox like salvadordali's panties. this boy rides across town like the death of silence. with clay on his hands past the migrant workers. they stopped him and told him that he does chiva because he caught the spider webs in the corners of their eyes. this boy stops pedestrian traffic in polyester levis and still... when the 30 something ladies notice his legs pop he pulls the cord. the bus stops. emily gets up discretely. he carries his camera box like 30 lead shells. on the way home she knows he knows she's there, and still... he eats flowers and chews the petals like bubblegum. cute as hell he coughs he wasnt even trying its just that the flowers were that bitter. this boy with clay on his hands is that disgusting and pretty, blackberryvine gashes slit like knuckleblushes on his heavy hands and still... emily will follow him home, like raindrops on tulips not even roses in oil look so wet her lashes not even the ravens are so black not even spider-drops are so fat this boy is smearing cherry wax and nicotine all over his lips the meadowlark bawls out like hot thrushes throat-open in the morning light he turns left on pine like another dead lover this boy with the elastics round his wrists writes a list of many things to do in his mind. #1 paint a matchbox green as this moss #2 tattoo the toes of these chucktaylors pomegranite #3 tuesday livingwench is not imaginary so smile because nobody in the world is uglier than you she pulls a thread from her sleeve she catches it on a violet flower he tells himself he's gonna fall asleep in a hummingbird's nest and wipes his nose on his hand the girl with the jade green eyes stops for a moment. bloodsugar running low. she asks herself... if this is the length of love, then where is the end? this boy smirks like smarch weather and swares a silent k at the volvo p-1800 if this is the length of love then i'm not listening i'll drink oil and stand on my head she blows her nose into her sleeve and rolls her eyeballs round the puddle on the street if this is the length of love then i dont care because even this earthworm is dead she takes out her camera and says... i should have gone dancing instead if this is the length of love ill draw a heart between my sleeves and eight arms to hold you when you freeze the stars all look like shit. nobody ever gets it. not even me. this boy looks like spades with clay on his hands and leaves emily passed out later on around nine she shot him black and white and wet when the printer quit she was in her kitchen drawing a tiny heart below her index knuckle she cracked a rockstar 21 energy drink metal heart on repeat in her apartment not even orchids are so clean she glares out the window postcard number nine shakes at armslenght he is clutching his hair in relief she writes in tiny print, all we ever do is die all the time. she imagines tomorrow falling asleep on the couch her voice ringing out clear as a bird getting off the bus the sound of her footsteps trailing behind she will laugh out loud and say it with dragons on her teeth hello dirty boy he will stop and turn around probably sniff his runny nose and smile and she will say hello dirty boy, would you like a postcard? except that's the wrong thing and nothing sounds like that bird she corrects herself and slides #9 into place behind the others. hello boy? hello? no. it's not enough. she will ask him for a cigarette. and he will stand still for an instant. she will take a picture. and take the cigarette. and he will light it for her. and she will smile. and cough. she will slide her camera back into her purse. and pull out the postcards and hand them to him. and she wont say a word. they will walk along. he will pause on frame #4 where the petals are screaming-pink all over the sidewalk. and the hot thrush will ring out all the tears in her heart. he will ask her where she lives. she will say, oh, over there on ash street. and he will take a drag on his cigarette and in the silence. she will ask what he's got in his camera box. and he will laugh. and say, oh nothing. just alot of paint and art supplies and stuff like that. and, wow, i love these photos. you're really good. so, what's your name? and she will say emily like the orbitz bubblegum girl. and he will ask her if she drinks coffee. and she will say yes. and he will laugh at her because she smokes like a nine-year-old girl. and she will fucking die. she wakes up 3 hours later and takes a shower. later she goes to the record store to see if annie is working. she wears lime green leg-warmers. she buys an e.p. from the other guy who works there. it's a dirty band she never heard of. the cover looks like how she feels. magic marker redemtion. chore. on her way home she decides to buy some violet pansies for her windowbox. she walks them around the market for awhile. buys a frozen pizza. the boy who rings her up is cute. he even compliments her nails. but he's too tall. and he looks like a pussy. not like the boy with clay on his hands. he draws paisleys like vomit on his jeans, and enough bracelets to choke a horse. she walks out the door and spits. stops. looks at all the other pansies. looks down at her breasts. realizes hers is the best. and reminds herself she needs to draw on her legwarmers or else. when she gets home she throws 2 liptons and a bag of chamomile into the coffeepot. plugs in the cell-phone that never rings. she goes to her computer to check the mail. suzy sent another brief smug letter. she clicks on i-tunes and cranks the volume. photo #9 is on the desktop. my beautiful leah. there is nothing so violent as her love for this boy.
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OpenMicVoices wrote 450 days ago (positive)1To be inside your head- That's a field trip dreams are meade of! Woooooo! Wow My only "nit pic" would be the form of the poem. You have genius here. I love it. But, it loses something by being in this format. You have so many lines of verse that "pop", poke, prod, nudge and smash. There is so much that putting it into the form of a poem would allow the reader to see more clearly. I choose the following as an example: (This is wicked :) "emily will follow him home, like raindrops on tulips not even roses in oil look so wet her lashes not even the ravens are so black not even spider-drops are so fat this boy is smearing cherry wax and nicotine all over his lips the meadowlark bawls out like hot thrushes throat-open in the morning light he turns left on pine like another dead lover this boy with the elastics round his wrists writes a list of many things to do in his mind." This heroin for the mind, man! But, it's just tossed out there, one big mesh of words. in the structure and form of a poem this goes straight into the veins leading to the cerebellum.0 points