For me, positive feelings such as joy, satisfaction, bliss, and even lasciviousness are not as reliable nor as prolific of muses when compared to negative emotions such as neglect, wrath, disappointment, confusion, and even longing. My Happy poems can be quaint and crunchy (but not corny) like a good Snickers bar, but my Sad and Angry poems hit closer to the bone.

Case in point, two Happy followed by an Angry, and then Sad–the newest.

Concession Confection

Sweet vanilla bean rolls around on my tongue
Boiled sugar drips into caramel
Yummy yummy
It’s heaven
Choco chunks
The cool ribbon of cream
Remind me of you
That night in the park
You vowed to go fat free
I watched you fail so miserably
You broke your promise
Biting hungrily into a pint of Chunky Monkey.

–cc 15 April 01

 

 

not accustomed to directness
not raised by here & now
not even jesus jones on the radio
could formulate an intermediary position

do my fingers go there
my hair in the air
flying like a sundae
with chocolate ripples
i do care,

you seem kind enough
to defend my comfort
in the sideways hip-huggers
if my inseams unravel
my skin slips thru

throw in the jack of spades
ride in the back of

suddenly yesterday
it all came thru
the whys, the wheres,
who cares

i have you.

–cc 5 feb 03 10:19 pm

 

 

*self-abuse comes in many forms*

the shepherd ties his flock to the car
hoping they will chew their binds off

but they stand there staring
then kick, shit, and dent the shepherd’s car

he sits in the mess pile
breathing in the rotten stench

of unrequited cliches
the shepherd shouldve been a princess

to be dominated and controlled
with a voice to protest

and politely endure the rest
of bondage humiliation

as hunter-gatherer kingsmen
chase and quell

after an ambivalent little girl
who will happily eat all the filth in the world.

–yiqi 19 dec 06 11:32AM

And all that you wish for


Gladiator footsteps pound
the palace halls
Ladies of the court wait
in silent exaltation
for a window to speak,
unleash
etchings of discoveries

so quietly threaded
under pools of satin skin

close enough to divide

a cherished love in twain

“I’ll know more in the morning,”
the centaur tells me

and so

the Ladies of the court
groan into the wild grass,
smelling of a victory march
Two by two they commingle
until the red one, the only one,
clings to the up right
arms of a worshiping night

Gladiator footfalls echo
down the abandoned entryway

of this lonely, frozen start.

–yiqi 26 march 08 8:49AM

Originally posted at Sthemingway.