Because it's cold, and that keeps me from being interesting

yes there is love beyond sex

so cunning
so cunnilingual
the lifestyle she had led
poking tongues between thighs
all the time in her hometown
or in the city where she studied
the anatomy of girls
at some all-girls school
where taxonomy was limited
to butch and femme
where even clips
not clits
were controlled by the nuns
all of whom were repressed
where everyone was in love
with everyone else
(or so she said)
—but only for a week
swapping spit and tongues
lovers and partners
in shockingly modern
melrose place-fashion
and she didn’t care at all about fashion
just books and music and neither did he
when they met in college
—instant connection—
only he was a boy
and the only boys she liked
were brad pitt and jude law
plus she liked reading cortes
(carlos not the conquistador)
else it was purely girls
the type who could stick
their fingers up her center of gravity
her favorite spot
it didn’t matter whether
she loved them or not
whether she really knew them or not
whether they stank or not
in her favorite spot
so long as she had their names at least
and they were beautiful
(hmm no they didn’t have to be beautiful
whatever)
anyway he and she finally got together
and he didn’t really know
what led her to fall for him
previous lifestyle and all
always curious about
and experimenting with her body
but experimenting only with girls
he cannot at all comprehend
henceforth his fear of her loving
his fingers and tongue
inside her
because it can remind her
of the feel of girls inside her again
now he’s scared
of her longing
for womanly arms and womanly scents
doesn’t want her to draw water
with the cup of her mouth
from womanly wells
he’s scared each time
and all the time
he creeps a finger in
once he realizes
she’s wet enough for it (if not yet
he goes down on her
to help her get wet enough for it)
what calms him down
is the intermittent
yes
escaping from her breath
yes as if a brief response
to an imagined proposal
yes
of living the rest of their lives
with each other yes
regardless of his boyness
yes

and finally she comes

home to him

yes


-- Angelo V. Suarez

Ooh, poetry.

[mood| content]
[music| Dramatic - YUKI]


I can vaguely recall the last time I wrote poetry because I felt like it. No, scratch that. I do remember. It was in senior year, for my Creative Writing/Journalism elective class. It was a set of acrostic poems. It was something like:

For dreams to happen,
Leaps of faith should be made.

Yearning alone will not suffice.

And for that to happen, my teacher practically had to twist my arm. Ironic, since she was the one who just about told me I couldn't write.

High school bitterness aside!

I was hanging out with Cor & some of the other girls in my Poetry class at the Cafe Entrep this afternoon. Over cheesecake (which Jesz suckered me into buying) & a capuccino shake, we engaged in this little poetry workshop... thing.

Oh! And before I go on (I suck at coherency)-- quotable quote ahoy!

Jesz: You already have a muse, you just need to stop questioning it so much.
Me: I'm not questioning my muse, I'm questioning my craft.
Jesz: Your crap?
Me: Exactly.

Anyway, through that little exercise, I managed to produce this:

Last Train

Battery dead,
the warning is silenced
with a sleek flick of the wrist.
Hot venom taking its course--
slowly, steadily, surely--
to fuel happy thoughts
of dismantled anatomy.
(falling off a cliff, perhaps?)

Love is a bubble.
Next time,
I'll write my name on it.

(Reading it again, I can see how much Japanese pop music has influenced me. Listen to Morning Musume & you'll understand, hahah.)