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Sat, Aug. 13th, 2005, 07:28 pm
busted_kneecap: Sub #8 Andrea Kathleen

Here's a poem I wrote with number 8 in mind. Now that I have bought my new computer, I'll try and write more. That's the goal, anyway.
The soft glow of nostalgia makes everything beautiful,
Smooth, like Ingrid’s face when she gets on the plane.
It’s Casablanca, it’s you it’s me it’s the plane and I didn’t get on
Did not not get on.
I’m stuck looking back at Paris.
Everyone thinks Casablanca is clichéd, flawed.
Casablanca created the cliché.
Like first kisses in the moonlight, did you have it? Didn’t it happen?
I can write around this. Make this vague. It’s not concrete.
There’s a soft back light, the shapes are there
You can’t make it out.
You could be reading this and never find out it’s about you.
I heard once they used real midgets in that scene with the plane.
They were cheaper than perspective.
Squeeze it into a lens, through the camera
Come out broken up particles lighting up a screen
It’s all distorted.
We watched as the plane flew over us.
Your hand was pressed against the window,
Almost a goodbye wave.
The rest of the weeks were like one long night.
Our feet were stuck to the ground with wet concrete.
You threw me into the ocean,
I swam back to the surface with seaweed in my hands for you
My shoelaces were tangled so my feet stuck together.
You sucked the salt off my hair, siphoned the salt from the skin
Rubbed your tongue on and over my knee.
“This is the end,” you said, “The end of you.
Your footprints will spell my name, your breath will leave you and enter my lungs. Your eyes will be filled with saltwater and me.
You will be consumed with me.”
The waves came and smoothed our skin, like rocks turned to sand.
We fell on our backs and floated out to the middle
You peeled the sunburn from my face.
“Are we shipwrecked if there is no ship?”
I asked as the plane flew overhead.
I turned my head when you didn’t answer.
All I got was an earful of saltwater.

As a bonus, here's a love poem I wrote about Jerry(I'm trying to be funnier in my writing, because I think the humour in my writing falls flat):
You are like pudding in my hands
Cold and sticky and slipping through my fingers.
Pudding is not a finger food.
Neither are you,
But I always end up with you splattered on my face.
Stuck on my gums.
I covered your face with my feet
You said they stunk.
It’s true. My feet smell and are sticky stinky.
Maybe I should wear socks with my sneakers.
I should cut my toenails so I don’t stab you in the eye.
Devote my life to grooming my feet.

Mon, Aug. 29th, 2005 06:56 am (UTC)
ander: Ew.

I hope that poem about Jerry is less literal than I suspect it is.

Anyway, I wanted to let you know--in case you don't check this site as obsessively as I do--that David and I finally posted our critiques of your poem. I look forward to reading more!

Also, I suggest you make this post friends-only, so no non-geniuses can see it without your authorization.


Thu, Sep. 29th, 2005 04:40 pm (UTC)

george noory and his people have convinced millions of radio listeners that the number eight has mystical powers [of both good and evil].