Old Joe and Death (20 little poetry projects)
My pen woke me up today just to tell me I was dying.
Death is a baby that smokes a pack a day before it leaves the womb.
I am his mother.
I hear his insatiable cries to feed the habit.
I feel fresh ulcers growing in his stomach as I inhale more smoke.
When he is born his skin smells like tar
and his face is deep sea blue.
He grows up to be a writer and his fans taste Marlboro every time they read his words. Old Joe up on Skid Row is his biggest fan.
Joe doesn’t know how to read.
Death never buys me birthday cards.
He is straight trippin’ to forget his mother.
The lonely face of Death.
Without me where would he be?
Big Steve-o remembers watching Joe go
round and round like planets in orbit around the sun.
Spit in one hand and want in the other and see which gets filled first.
Even the cold sun robs darkness of its kingdom every day.
Ugly children understand.
La vida no es justo.
Old Joe tells his story to his granddaughter but stops for a moment
to cough blood into a handkerchief.
Old Joe can fly like a crow but he rarely goes very far.
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2 comments:
I LOVE what Syd did with this. Its almost a real poem now. hehe, considering I wrote the thing in 1 hour and was supposed to have wrote it weeks ago Id say it turned out wonderfully.
For those that dont know Syd rearranged the stanzas and lines because at the time that I finished this poem I was so frazzled I couldnt even begin to decide how to order the lines, and I had more poems to edit! Syd sort of co-wrote this poem in the sense that she structured it into something coherent.
This was totally fun trying to make a narrative out of your madness. (it was in there all along, it just hadn't found itself yet) Be sure to let me know if you ever have a similar problem. Also, I enjoyed the sneak peek at your portfolio and I'm really impressed you got it all finished on such short notice.
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