Julieville- two poems
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I woke up wif a dream i wrote a poem called Julieville. So I am testing out the poem name on 2 poems. Although one has nothing to do with julie in any form. wrote these two just now. Hope you like. Both need copious editing, esp 1st one. (on second reading i can point out rhythm faults already, lol)
-Julieville-
Julie in her ville
A contract unto another,
watches the ramifications of her brain washing itself in tears
poor loneliness, it says, 'like a dog chewing her arm,
she persists on.'
Julie spits.
The drought in her rises, scratching her heart's contract
She uses herself,
in detachment, fear, despair and shame
But a quirk lifts her lips
She thinks of funny men in her underwear
a sweetened Cure song through the radio
a hairbrush on her hair.
These things last too little.
And then it is again, still,
dawn's air swept away judiciously
by cranking crass drive-bys
The asphalt hardens into veins of wizened ash
& crystals of shit come to sleepers' eyes.-------
This other poem was based on 2 quotes I heard from a recent event. Came freestyle off the top of my head, but familiar topic of observation that happens in my poems.
-Julieville-
"Before I started dating I was lonely."
"Maybe this story is about me, psychoanalysing myself"
he dreams too much,
maybe he doesn't, I wouldn't know, not someone like him,
not that i spoke to him.
it's just he is too quiet,
like a gentleman drawn into our rancorous era
trying to appear unobtrusive
"the umbrella stand just right over here, mdm."
he folds his arms too much,
probably hates the chattering masses,
their jewelled cocktails scare him more than their paralysed faces,
never knowing how frankenstein the wine might be
nor the awful truth from their childhoods
something he would never repeat after.
Oh no, now he watches,
Holding up the looking glass, milling around
like he just walked out from an alcove
looking for his security number,
a lady wearing a shirt as big as a blanket
the truth is hard to say,
he probably came alone paired with his handphone
but that is not true, either
But he thinks, he dreams,
Not minding the light in which he is standing in,
as he observes the dark which sees him but cannot act,
they are untouched as he is untouchable
not pariah in his hermitage, but closed,
a dream written in a cloud in the azure sky
until he is deciphered alone. -
Hi ellzrae,
I am confuses with both poems. Are you writing about 2 IMH patients? Because I can surly identify the poems with some of my clients.
Thanks for sharing.
