Today’s Girl: Waiting By The Phone

You promised you’d call!
I’ll give you a ring
In a couple of days, you’d
Promised.
Liar!

It’s been four days
And I’ve still not
      heard from you.

Alright, I understand
Your weekends are yours
Alone -
But you’d promised to call
Damnit!

I’ve started planning my schedule
Around you,
Trying to anticipate
When you’d call,
Hoping (desperately now)
For good news –
Hell, any news from you
Will be good!
Just call me.
Please.

I can’t eat,
I can’t sleep,
I’m a live wire,
I’m a rigged bomb
Waiting to explode –
Waiting for your call.
You haven’t forgotten me …
Have you?

I know a modern girl’s
Gotta take the initiative,
But I don’t want to
Bother you while you’re working
(Very industriously I hope),
And I won’t dare dream
Of pressurizing you
(All this, you realize,
Is part of my desperate
Hopefulness for
Good news from you) –
But will you hurry
      the hell up and
Call me already?!

Every day, every minute,
I keep a vigil by my phone,
Willing it to ring,
And that I’d hear from you.
Why won’t you call me?

It’s been nearly a week.
Call me, damnit;
Call me already!
Tell me you’ve got
Good news for me:

Tell me you’ve managed to
Rescue my harddrive –
Or save most of my data
Before you’d reformatted my
Entire harddrive.

You'd be my hero,
You'd be my savior -
You'd be my Superstar!

Oh call me.
Please.
Call me.

I’ll be waiting by the phone
Twenty-four-seven.
Just call.
Call me now -
I’m waiting by the goddamn phone.

untitled

Oh you –
Who are you?
Do I know you?
Maybe at one point
I knew you -
Maybe not.
At least not anymore.
Not now.

I don’t recognize you.
You have – must have –
Changed
A lot.
I’m not sure I
Remember you
At all.

A distant memory now -
Maybe I’d imagined it;
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe you
Are a dream,
A dream I can’t remember.



27^th – 31^st October 2004

who am i

who am i if i’ve lost my voice
my memories and dreams?
who am i if i have no voice?
history – Herstory – is an empty bank;
my story a complete blank.
you can always write new stories
and pen new dreams and fantasies –
but when you’ve lost your voice and story,
who are you?

untitled

please leave a message at the tone
because i don’t think i’ll be home



say something – say anything

say casually you are wondering
how i am doing

say you haven’t seen me
for some time

say you’re thinking of me

ask if i’m happy
ask if i’m alone

say you’re thinking of
      dropping by for a visit

say when

don’t ask if it’d be fine
      with me

just say when

say you’re looking forward
      to seeing me

don’t say goodbye



when you arrive
don’t bother knocking
i’d leave the front door
unlocked for you

i’d be waiting for you
i’d be waiting for you
      to find me



and when you find me
give me a hug
give me a kiss
tell me i’d be missed

when you find me
remember
don’t cry
don’t ask why

and
don’t say goodbye

Little Girl

Little girl, why are you crying?
Is everything not going fine?

Your life
Your life so far has been a dream
And your childhood a blessing;
And you have nearly everything
That a girl would want, it seem.

Little girl, why are you crying?
Are you not happy, are you not fine?

Your wishes
Your wishes have nearly all been granted
And you are given nearly everything you wanted;
Right now, another wish is coming true –
What is it that you so rue?

Have you not always wanted to
Grow up, little girl?

Cry no more, little girl -
You now have to learn to suck it up;
You now are a grown up.

Cry no more, little girl,
Cry no more;
You are now a grown up –
A little girl no more.

Little Boy Blue

(for Germ & Jason)

Little boy blue
Tying your shoe,
Soon you’ll be on your way
To yet another soul-destroying day,
Another meaningless foray
      on the hamster wheel.
Go, quick! Join the queue, join the queue!

What are people, what are we
But automatons? Don’t you see –
Day in, day out, year after year,
We’re all just little cogs turning in gear.

Leave your individuality at the front desk
And whatever you do, don’t protest!
At least you’re getting paid for your time –
Some of us, our lives aren’t even worth a dime!

Go, go contribute to the economy.
Go, go do your bit for society.
Remember: it’s nation before community,
And your self comes after society.

Now, little boy blue, with your work shoes on,
Quick, go! Go join the mouse marathon!
Go join the faceless herd;
Try not to get your face kicked in the dirt.

(I know all this is making you blue – me too;
But really, what else can we do?)

To my Bed

Oh how I love throwing myself at you
Belly-down! And I’d bounce and bounce
Up and down on you – soft, soft,
Soft you. It makes me laugh
For some reason, and I feel
A gentle eruption of
Bubbly bliss – pure, pure,
Pure joy! I’ll throw myself,
I’ll fling myself,
With a newborn abandonment
I’ll jump on you and feel my belly
Thump on the mound of pillows I’d
Hidden under your duvet! It
Makes me so happy, happy,
So very happy,
So belly happy,
So happily happy,
So verily happy,
So very belly happily verily happy,
Beddy!

This is not ‘poetry’

It’s really difficult to write in i-
ambic pentameters; sonnets are diff-
icult too. In fact, all forms (prescribed by
the Past Masters) are tough. Why had they give-
n themselves the headache of rhyme schemes, met-
ers, and structures? Most revered master po-
ets, you have pulled off a most spiteful feat -
screwing over would-be poets! Some go
mad trying to write in such rigid struc-
tures while the ones who would not give a fuck
about your ‘rules’ and write in free verse are
scorned and snubbed. To hell with your little club!
Who cares about poetry? I would ra-
ther read the insipid Harper’s Bazaar.

Fairytale

Blame it on the fairytales –
I am waiting to be rescued,
I want to be saved!

In case my rescuer –
Tall, dark, dangerous
And gorgeous –
Should miss me;
In case whoever it is
Should not be able to
Recognize me,
Damsel in Distress,

I’ve rented a siren-red cape
(good thing red’s my color)
And will be wearing one
Glass slipper
(it’s really made of clear PVC –
you’ve no idea how difficult it is
to find glass slippers in the stores
these days).

It might be awhile before my hair
Grows to a Guinness Book of
World Record length, but that’s
Not a problem;

I’ve got all the time in the world
To let it grow out –
After I prick myself with this
Spindle
(found it at an antique shop –
had to spend some time
bargaining the price down
but it’s worth it),

And take a bite out of this
Poisoned apple
(it’s not really poisoned –
I’m not that dumb –
I’ve merely coated it with
A bottle of crushed
Sleeping pills).

All right, so here I go …

Yucks!
(Note to Self:
Pills are bitter –
Mix a little sugar
In it next time.)

What?
What’s that you’re saying about
Rip Va

Hot breakfasts and coffee

An evangelist stopped me
on the streets today
and handed me a pamphlet.
“Believe in Christ our Savior,”
it said, “and repent
your Godless, sinful ways!”

I politely declined
and walked away
but the mulish bugger persisted.
“God owns your soul, you know!”
he brayed, “He’d redeemed it
in the most painful way!”

Oh my god! Stolen my soul
in broad daylight!
Don’t tell me I’d handed it over
without a fight!

Now how would I be
able to trade it for free
hot breakfasts and coffee,
courtesy of the
christian chaplaincy?
(It’s always advertised as “free”
but even suckers like me
know nothing’s for free –
they just ask for your soul
in lieu of money.)

Bugger immortality.
All I want is just
hot breakfasts and coffee.

Identity: no one, nobody

The
Name:
Not a proper noun -
An adjective
As defined by the dictionary -
Common and public -
It belongs to no one
And everyone.

The
Body:
Nobody’s -
A philosopher’s axe -
Its cells are replaced
Every seven years;
Twenty-three years old -
It is a whole new body
Three times over

The
Person:
Is there one -
Should there be
One?

No name
No body
No one
Nobody

No i
No me

Identity:
non-entity -
no one,
nobody.

The Female of the Species

I didn’t have to ask if
It was good for you -
I knew.
Oh I knew – by the way
You chanted my name
When you came
Once,
Twice,
Thrice;
Would’ve been more
But you said I wore
You out.

                  I knew
It was good for you.
It was so good you
Sent a bouquet
The next day.
A dozen roses –
I’ve to tell you, sweetie:
That’s passé.

You kept calling me up –
Kept wanting to hook up.

Ha.
No way, José.
I’ve already had my way
With you. I’ve had you
When and where and
In every fucking which way
I wanted you.

So,
What can I say?

Some (Hopefully) Outdated Nonsense-Rhymes

I’m not a male-basher – I’ll have you know –
But some of your idiosyncrasies are really getting old.

I
Walking hand-in-hand is fine
As long as you don’t keep me a couple of steps behind.
I’m not a toddler; I don’t have to be led;
Besides, who are you to do so? You're not my dad.

II
Nor do I appreciate your arm around my neck.
If you want to show affection, try a different tack.
This Neanderthal show of possession
Does not equate a public display of affection.

III
I don’t mind – in fact I think it’s nice –
That you hold the door for me
But I really must insist I mind
That you won’t let me repay this courtesy.

IV
Yes, I can’t read a map – you don’t have to gloat.
I mean, when you get lost, I can’t even make a joke.
At least I’d stop and ask for directions;
But you – you’ve never had such intentions!

V
And I really don’t mind that you pee in the shower;
All that I ask is that you give it a good scour after.
It’s just a matter of hygiene –
I don’t need the shower sparkling clean.

VI
Oh, and one last tiny thing:
You know your stacks of girly magazines?
I’ve dumped them all in the recycling bin.




(… Jesus! Will you relax? I’m just kidding!)

Mistake

Don’t be mistaken.

When on your Ducati,
When I wrap my arms a-
Round your waist so tightly,
It is not affection:
Don’t be mistaken.
I’m not feeling especially
      friendly,
I’m not getting cozy -
No, not at all.

When you gun your engines,
When you speed up round a
      wicked curve,
When my arms tighten round
      your gut,
Yes, you may be right to observe
That I’m feeling a little
Scared, a mite terrified.

But I cling on to you so tightly
Not out of sheer anxiety;
Not for the security you
      think you provide,
Not because I feel secure -
No, not at all –

Don’t be mistaken.

Yes, I’m clinging,
But it’s not what you think.
And I won’t let go -
Ever.

Don’t be mistaken;
Don’t misunderstand -
This is all part of my
Deliberate plan.

I’m hanging on so tight
Because I’m not going
Without a fight.

If and when your Ducati veers,
If and when your Ducati swerves
Around that wicked curve,
And I, pillion rider in the rear,
Get flung twenty feet
Across the damn tarmac
(while having a This
      Was Your Life! flashback),
Rest assured –
And I promise you this:
I won’t let go -
No, not ever.

If I’m getting thrown,
I won’t be going
      on my own.

Make no mistake about it:
If I’m ever going to meet
The Great Mechanic in the sky -
Guess what? –
You’d be coming with me
      for the ride.

For Dar, via k. d.

I’m still stuck at Ingénue
In my constant craving for you;
Waiting for you to save me
From this season of hollow soul,
To make me whole: I’m incomplete.

Will I ever get to All You Can Eat?

Acquiesce, please; don’t tell me maybe.
I want it all – all of your sexuality.

Maybe I’m just a daydreamer
But I dream of basking in the Invincible Summer.

We won’t be just a summerfling –
We’d bear the consequences of falling
When we collide. It's got nothing
To do with curiosity that we
Two halves should fit so suddenly
Together, all too perfectly.

Don’t be surprised even if it’s undreamed of:
You and me together – it’s only love.

Being dense

Being dense is not a bad thing
Sure, you may be slow on the uptake
And be ridiculed by people
But that’s just ’cuz you’re dense
And slow on the uptake
Which is why people ridicule you
’Cuz you’re dense
’Cuz you’re slow on the uptake
And people ridicule you
For being dense
For being slow on the uptake
People ridicule you
Who are dense
Who are slow on the uptake
When people ridicule you.

My mother tongue

Tongue of my mother
My mother tongue

What cooed at me
What sang to me
What comforted me
When I was young

The calming language
The familiar rhyme
The lilting cadence
That never became mine

Tongue of my mother
Became the Other

When my own tongue
Tried to curl around it
What was once familiar
Was mangled and estranged
Was then something unfamiliar
Something alien-strange

Tongue of my mother
My mother tongue
Now a queer vernacular
The Other has become

hoarder

i am a hoarder of every
joy and every blessing
every single one
sometimes when i’m sad
i’d take each and every one
out and polish it till
it gleams like it were new
on really bad days i
dive into the pool of my
hoard i submerge in the
deep end and then backstroke
my way to the shallow
when i get out of my pool
i’m drenched from head to toe
every strand of hair coated
every pore filled
with each glistening joy
and blessing of my hoard

The Pot & Kettle

Why are you whining?
Why do you always whine?
Why whine?
Why?
Why?

              :::

You shout
Loud
Shut up
You fuck-up
Shut up

Virgin Terrain

these fingers are bold
these hands gentle
they paint landscape
explore topography

fingers that lovingly outline each contour
hands that tenderly sculpt every surface

fingers that patiently trace each hill
hands that delicately refine every peak

fingers that painstakingly unearth each valley
hands that thoroughly reveal every secret

they create and compose
they paint and draw
very gently, very boldly
going where no man has gone before

Waste & Function

Men are like the doo-doo of undigest-
      ed food: their appearance
Often preceded, announced by a loud and smelly
Fart – not something you’d like to see
Or look at or think about, but damn good
For fertilization. Not dirty, but we
Like to think they are – dogs’d
Eat them if we didn’t stop them.
Smelly - but ecological – biological waste.

Women are like the wee-wee of too much beer
And too much tea: they hit you with the
Insidious urgency of a full bladder – unrelenting-
    ly persistent, always demand attention
Immediately now now now. Threatening to
Burst out any second and embarrass you.
Actually very clean – much cleaner than you think;
And mark your personal territories.
Easily triggered - bothersome - biological function.

Untitled

… she let fall
Hire look a lite aside in swich manere,
Ascaunces, “What, may I nat stonden here?”



I.290-292
Troilus and Criseyde, Geoffrey Chaucer

I look at the world in the eyes.
And why not? Should I be gazing
Demurely at the ground then?
Observe the cracks in the pavements,
The political and obscene graffiti
Etched, scratched, and spray-painted
On the concrete? Words
“Unfit for a lady’s eyes”
Yet more acceptable to be looked at
Than the world at large?
Than strangers? Than men?

I make eye-contact with men
On the streets. And why not?
Should I not return your looks,
Reciprocate your judgments
And your assessments?
Would you feel threatened or flattered
As my eyes rake over your legs and your ass,
As I openly leer at your chest?
Would my stare be mistaken for
A come-hither, free-for-all, invite?

What, may I not stand here and stare?
My eyes are a warning,
Brazen, intense solar flares:
All you blokes beware -

            I am my own subject,
            Am subject to none;
            I am nobody’s object,
            Subordinate to no one.

I look at the world in the eyes.
I make eye-contact with strangers,
Men on the streets.
I will act, I won't appear:
I will assume the voice,
Write the story, compose the picture –
You be my subject and appear.