| (no subject) |
[Jul. 9th, 2009|12:07 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  hip | ] |
I've decided to move on up in the internet world and get myself a hip new blog.
You can find my poems at http://julietburgess.tumblr.com/ complete with a nifty design and photographs.
Thanks for reading! |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 27th, 2009|11:31 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  Home | ] |
We're too short for these celings,
or maybe it's just me. I feel stunted in these rooms;
perfectly mimicking cardboard in color and strength.
Now we call this place ours, but maybe it belongs
to those who really lived here once. Those who ate in
circles on the floor, danced in the perfect afternoon sunlight,
released sexual tensions in every cardboard room,
absorbing the nature of love and seeping it into
rusty walls.
Though we're feng shui literate and learning life together,
we stack pizza boxes and send sticky, awkward negative vibes
to stucco above. We go outside to find the sunlight and
then forget to dance for it's warmth. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 9th, 2009|08:28 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  metropolitian | ] |
Maybe it's the humidity,
or the lingering hummmm in my ears
from a little too much cough syrup-
but the profoundness of this city is hitting me
in waves.
Feeling the warmth of a homeless man
as he lunges at me for change, or conversation-
his expectations are high, but his reach falls short;
only his breeze sweeps over me, the same (but different)
as trains pushing warm air up my dress.
I stand on the very edge of sidewalks to feel
the distinct energy from the side of a taxi cab,
skimming my lower body- too common a rush
to be fatal, in this city.
The profundities scream to me, they urge me
toward neon lights and parties full of strangers -
to find the one thing that is too much to explain,
and then, to learn to explain it. |
|
|
| Understand |
[May. 21st, 2009|05:35 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | click, click | ] |
I like that you don't understand my photographs.
You look at them like well-posed party shots
from sweaty point-and-shoots
lost on public transportation
after being out all night.
There's an uncomfortable secret in each of them
that you're probably not supposed to know.
And, because you do not - I'm sure we'll part.
Eventually, Inevitably.
It's rare that my poems point at you
like a giant Monty Python finger from space.
Like an announcement from the heavens to humans:
Please be aware! Please understand! |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[May. 6th, 2009|08:29 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  heaving | ] |
It's work to even convince myself to stay here.
It's effort exhausted when you just look at me -
a sleeping effect which I mistook for calm.
There's nothing but the door between us now,
no exchanging of pleasantries to regret or over-think.
Just Oak and simple mechanisms built so that you could leave.
|
|
|
| Traveller |
[May. 2nd, 2009|11:16 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  disappointed | ] |
Please come to me. Please take time to speak to me, speak at me.
Fill me with your eyes, looking at every thing in my room
as if it were a piece of art. Come into my life,
invade my perfectly positioned bookshelves, give me homemade tattoos,
speak. speak to me. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 9th, 2009|05:39 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | filled up | ] |
When I am full, take me to Dubai.
Leave me there under the setting sun,
buried beneath glimmering buildings
insufficiently instilling productivity
in it's uncounted and wondrous workers.
Face me towards the Gulf Sand; tiny building blocks
of society, blowing carelessly with the breath,
impatiently scratching at the base of cargo boats,
dotting wildly up hairs of a desert fox, ticking it's nose,
freeing my mind. Feeding my spirit.
Find me here years later, posed tourist-like in reflection.
I will have been kissed wildly by the sun and tossed a little
by the wind. Drawn on by children, gawked at by men in suits,
(bathing and business alike) touched by foreign women and
spoken to by lonely dwellers. I am, for all purposes, God -
and you've planted me. Intentionally sprawling me, feeding me
drama, religion and propaganda until I was full. |
|
|
| This party has been over for too long. |
[Apr. 4th, 2009|11:51 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | contemptful | ] |
We are bound together with silly string.
Sticky, tangled, chemical, informal, immature.
I don't see you in the mess of neon. I see myself,
showering this off, watching painfully as colors circle the drain.
I am cold and soaked, but determined.
I see myself, selfish and alone, older - wiser. Alone.
I see myself absorbed by my surroundings, the perfection
overwhelming me, bringing me to tears at the abundance of beauty
in the emptiness of my life. Somehow, I prefer this to being full
of love yet feeling contempt rearing it's head, charging at redness.
The series finale is next week; the world waits with bated breath. |
|
|
| Paper Cuts |
[Mar. 31st, 2009|01:05 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  compartmental | ] |
Looking at photos from years ago,
as if you were already dead.
As if your eyes had a shine
that can't exist anymore. |
|
|
| Humans are Sticky |
[Mar. 19th, 2009|10:00 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
Her and I made vows. Held hands across phone-lines saying,
"I promise positivity, support and to work it out." together.
I sit in the usual silence, wondering if it's you or I
who is not doing the talking.
Facing flashing season finales, feeling inwardly but not out.
Desperate for company before meaning; I am clinging, crying,
making less of myself with addiction to helping you.
Helping myself, through cuddle-therapy.
I notice things like slanted shadows on your perfect paleness,
I trace your face with my finger-tips, like they do in the movies,
showering you with validity and myself with whimsy. There is
perhaps no substance in it, but I have yet to decide what
is romantic and what is realistic.
It still seems unfair to find out through you. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
julietburgess's journal