Monthly Archives: December 2014

Sometimes, The Truth Is Not Very Poetic

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I am not a leggy blonde.
I do not own a little black dress.
I cannot walk in high heeled shoes.
I do not wear fancy underwear.
I have never been able to apply my eyeliner with a steady hand.
I am not a good dancer.
I drink.
I smoke (sometimes).
I swear (constantly).
I cry when I am sad, when I am angry, and when I am happy.
I am usually sad, angry, and happy all at the same time.
I rarely eat proper meals.
I am not a good judge of character.
I do not know how to spell.
I never learned how to talk about my feelings outside of poetry.
I have never sparkled at a cocktail party.
I am not graceful.
I am not capable of loving like other human beings.

granny_panties

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This work, “Sometimes, The Truth Is Not Very Poetic” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

This Is Why I Think You Should Kiss Me

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Sometimes, I wonder how I would taste on your lips.

Imagine if the best parts of you
Combined with the best parts of me.
We would create something so spectacular
That it would require sequins and theme music.
This is why I think that you should kiss me,
Because there is only one thing that poets can do better than perform poetry,
And that, my friend, is kissing.

For, when two poets kiss,
There are four lips, limber and luscious,
Used to stretching around difficult words and concepts like
Love
Commitment
Trust
Faith    And
Worcestershire sauce.

 When two poets kiss,
There are two tongues, twisting and twirling,
Figure skating across ice rinks of palates,
Triple Salchow-ing in pairs
While Barry Manilow blasts in the background.
Oh, Mandy…Oh, oh, Mandy…

 When two poets kiss,
There are two mouths, moist and moving,
Playing games of charades.
Remember, words are forbidden and only gestures are permitted.
Three words:
Sounds like,
“Mmmmmphhhaaahhh. Mmmmmphhhaaahhh. Mmmmmphhhaaahhh.”

Sometimes, I wonder how you would taste on my lips.

 Look, there are always going to be things that we poets don’t get right.
Words can be misspelled. Lines can be forgotten.
A participle can dangle out of someone’s pants after they have left the bathroom.
We will always be vulnerable.
We will always fuck up and say something stupid,
Because even though we are artists, we are still only human.
Sometimes, it is best for poets to just shut up and do what they do best…
…which is kissing.
And, like I said,
I think we could create something so spectacular
That it would require sequins and theme music…
…That is why I think you should kiss me.

 

kiss me kitty

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This work, “This Is Why I Think You Should Kiss Me” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

All Grown Up

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You told me to “grow up”,
And so I did.
I throw out expired food,
And promptly take the garbage to the chute.
I sort the recycling.
I rinse stray hairs and cocoa butter from the bathtub.
On the 15th of every month,
I pay each of my bills on time, in full.
I check my teeth for lipstick before leaving home.
I carry a sanitary napkin in my purse “just in case”.
When the weather starts turning colder,
I make sure to take extra vitamin C to boost my immune system.
I am responsible.

 I no longer make smiley faces with maple syrup on my waffles.
I don’t blow kisses in the mirror at myself,
Or sing at the top of my lungs as I get dressed.
I place my hand over my mouth when I laugh so that no one will see that my tonsils are missing.
I stopped sticking fake flowers and beads in my hair.
I don’t wear glitter and sparkles anymore.
I am mature.

 The reality of adulthood is that my apartment smells like
Fake lemons and fake pine trees.
I light candles that smell like artificial apple pies,
And watch television shows about reality,
While eating food composed mostly of Styrofoam.
I am reliable.

 Now that I have stopped running barefoot through the grass picking dandelions,
And I wear sensible shoes,
And I wipe the dirt off my face,
And I polish my apples on my blouse before I eat them,
And I worry about interest rates,
Am I enough?

 Growing-Up

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This work. “All Grown Up” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Letters To A Dead Man

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I spend my nights writing letters to a dead man.
Half of me lives in fear that he will answer;
Half of me lives in fear that he won’t.

 My heart floats in a dusty jar of formaldehyde,
Forgotten in the dark corner of a mad scientist’s lab.
I donated it to medical research because I wasn’t really using it.
Besides, it made my rib cage look cluttered,
And I can finally hear myself think now that the dreadful banging has stopped.

 I ask my friend,
“How is it that you, who had a heart so full of love, a heart that held up the entire world, could not survive
When I, someone incapable of love, completely devoid of strength, stumble forward year after year,
Like a zombie tripping over calendar pages?”

 The cold winter sky doesn’t respond.
The hard, frozen ground doesn’t crack open to reveal a revelation.
When I look in the bathroom mirror after taking a shower,
There’s no message written in the steam.

 If this poem were a joke
Instead of a confession,
The punch line would be that talking to a dead man is actually not the most one-sided conversation that I have ever had.

cows_heart_specimen_jar
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This work, “Letters To A Dead Man” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Paste

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You knew there would be blood,
But nobody told you that it would be your own.
You didn’t know that you would be fashioning something out of sinew and bone,
That every moment you would be slicing through layers of golden fat
Just to carve out the most choice parts of yourself for others to toss into the fire like offal.

You knew you would limp along the journey,
But nobody told you that you would crawl in the dust on your belly.
You didn’t know that stinging nettle would scrape your palms,
That your knees would give out until you could not stand,
And that every smile would reveal teeth chipped by gravel.

You knew that there would be a cost,
But nobody told you that it would be everything.
You didn’t realize that the only hands that you would become familiar with
Were the ones caressing the face of the clock that counts down the minutes until your time is up.

Sometimes, a story is all metal gears and oil spills,
Murder victims and unmarked graves,
Ancient plumbing and broken toilets,
And you have to paste some feathers on it
Before you can pass it off as art.

feather glue stick
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This work, “Paste” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.