deathmarch poetry

deathmarch poetry

Dec 27, 2012

while i'm young i wanna have FUN FUN FUN

and cry cry cry.  i want to think of your body, so far away, the way it lay shivering beneath my lips, my hot hands, my wishes for a better future.

but what of the future?  the new year is so close.  she presses against me like an invalid needing to be carried, needing to be seated on some cold throne; needing milk or meat or salt.  and i want to please her.  i do.  i want to be obedient and diligent.  i want to be thoughtful and poetic.  i want to be ABLE.  the new year breathes against my neck and i wish it were the hot breath of a lover.  that hunger.  that dire need.  that ache.  maybe it is.  while i listen to Lou Reed and drink the apple/vanilla/peppermint vodka my beautiful Annie gave me for Christmas, i think of the year about to be born.  what sheets lay waiting to be tangled beneath my body?  what fist might in catch my hair?  what page might catch what horribly hot poem, what anxiety ridden wish, what letter to my mother written far far far too late?  can i bend beneath your heat, sir?  can i bend beneath your lips?  because i have enough Truth within me, i am not seeking it from you.  i want only the external, the expression, the slip of sweat and spit.  you owe me nothing and i would love to bear witness to that fact.  let my body and face be a record of all that you DO NOT OWE ME.

(it is always a slightly scary moment when one wonders if a lover has yet googled their name.)

but what is it i am after, exactly?  what is it i long for?  every day i hunger after something.  i ache and ache and ache.  i type the words, i let my ink spill, i twist my wool and fashion myself a new poem, a new blanket, a new prayer.  and yet?  and yet?  and yet?  i am without.  i am hungry.  i need a new scene.  a Poetry i can curl below as if it were a man.  i need a Poetry i can be afraid of.  a Poetry with some weight. 

i need a Poetry with a fist.

we count down the days.  we pour the alcohol in to our cups.  we wish for the best.  do we think of our mothers?  we think of ourselves.  we bend to the wind of desire and wait to be kissed.  we hang up our clothes and pretend to be good.



4 comments:

P.C. Fergusson said...

Wow. Gorgeous words. Let your ink spill. Let his fist catch in your hair, and the sheets tangle beneath you. You are Youth incarnate. I am Old Woman, and comfortable here in my familiar bed, beneath my warm blanket. But I remember. I remember that ache.

angela simione said...

that ache follows me EVERWHERE. :)

thank you, miss fergusson.

Radish King said...

Darling girl my beautiful artist for this year the worst has passed. You inspire me EVERY DAY. Art will never abandon you nor will love though it might appear so. I too was old by necessity far before my time but youth lives inside me springs up always and I will never be "old" not like my peers nor will you.
Love
Rebecca

angela simione said...

thank you, rebecca. i have felt your eyes on me as i moved through this wild year and it has always fortified me. the blogosphere has become a strange place this year too- much quieter than it was the year before but maybe we all needed to hunker down in some ways, put the emphasis on exploration rather than conversation? i know i did, at least. thank you for all the encouragement you've given me. YOU inspire ME!

XOXO