i, Poetry

i, Woman pic 3

he took me to the point

of no return,

tore open my skirt,

ripped the panties

from my bodice

& dragged me

into the river deep

asking through a sensual man’s whir ~

 

                                         ‘how deep is your poetry?’

 

as spools of sodden moist

violated every center of my sanity

gripping the depth of my insanity,

utopia & euphoria

settled

in the holiest temple of my doom;

& there

did I occur to me

that poetry is in the eye

of the beholder

particularly

when I saw my legs

dangling over his bare shoulders;

but it was

in the harden thrusts

of his verses,

the orgasmic taunt

in his stanzas

had I realized the depth

of my own poetry

didn’t matter ~

 

orally

     anally

          vaginally

 

 

 

for I was Poetry

in itself

 

Drifter

Take a look at heartbreak

’cause this is what I’ve become

 

   [heartbreak]

 

in a hotel where the sun never sets

and the air is always warm and the bed

is always hard and the bed never vibrates

unless there’s a woman lying beneath me

on dingy sheets over bleached where

the headboard has no handle and where

I’m always asked what I want out of life

like I had an angle on life based on the way

I fucked as if my moans and groans and

thrusts knew the secret to happiness

 

The truth is, is that my heart is broken

excavated a thousand times by selfish

and superficial women disguised as Indian dolls

in long black braided hair and weary eyes

who have helped themselves to a great scalping

and now pieces of my heart sit as trophies

in their tinker toy drawers and I’m left holding

this vacant heart made of stone and ash

 

And the last woman who left me tonight

did not put up a fight with herself to stay

she had complained that the beer was hot

and that drifters were the worst kind of men

’cause they were unstable, unable and incapable

of being nothing more than a broken heart

 

So why do I feel so fucking disappointed?

 

Poemless

fields

of whisky

black

 

under

a sunless day

under

a cloudy sky…

heart is a

cardboard box;

 

forgotten rhythm(s)

& impotent stroke(s)

numb these thoughts

of thoughtlessness;

 

versus are shiftless

stanzas wander

prose(s) indisposed ~

drunk is the poet

 

with a leadless pen in hand

& a tattered notebook

with pages of dirty white

crinkle[ing]

against the wind…

                              scream;

 

in quoted brackets

I am read:

 

[Please Insert Poem Here]

 

Reviewed: She Poems by Mike Meraz

As the Editor and Founder of BoySlut who’s had her share [aplenty] of reading poems on a daily basis and from some of the most renowned underground poets from around the world, I must admit I was not prepared for what Mike Meraz had in store for She Poems.

Read in as little as 15 minutes, not only was each and every poem cleverly versed and multifaceted depicted (with much respect to the women who inspired such genu~ism) these candid and satirical poetic trinkets are sure to not disappoint and to encourage the idea of what “underground” poetry really and truly is.

 

 

 

*reviewers note: If you haven’t read She Poems or anything by Mike Meraz. . .Shame on you!  But here is a list of his chapbooks (in no chronological order):  43, Black~Listed Thoughts, Writhing & Alive, Watching it Burn, Black~Listed Poems; and the link where you can view his online Journal, Black~Listed Magazine:

http://www.black-listedmagazine.blogspot.com/

 

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