everything was fine.
the night was
a great big juicy apple
and we were enjoying it
together.
until.
two tiny worms
rankled and crawled
at the bottom of
my heart and left
a bad taste
in my mind’s
mouth:
crimes against humanity IV
to the people
who were talking about us
while we were on stage:
fuck you! I didn’t even
hear your shitty ass
comments but they
distracted my boyfriend
and musical partner.
you’ve got some nerve.
if I knew who you were,
I’d call you out in a
very personal manner.
to be continued, you
motherfuckers.
the window II
you left it
open. to the elements,
to thieves, to squirrels,
to everyone
but me. you’re lucky
that all your crappy,
crappy stuff
was still there when
we came back
to the car. no one
stole your sweet ride,
just like no one stole
your sealed-up
heart.
N.B.: this is the poem
I didn’t write
back when said incident
occurred. is it the same
as what I would have done
then?
missed construction
the fact that
you even thought
that I would think
that your leaving
that window open
was some kind
of subconscious invitation
makes me laugh.
I wasn’t
even going to
go there. in fact I literally
had not noticed
the offending state
of said window
until you
pointed it out.
you’re the one
who presumed I would
think that, got
annoyed by the nerve of my
presumption, and then
sang a whole slam
about it.
okay, then. I’m
now the one
who is paging
Dr. Freud, on
your behalf. Siggy,
pickup line 1.
schoolyard days
I put a frog in your desk
the other day,
did you notice?
I was the one who pulled
out your chair
just before you sat down,
it was my foot that tripped you
that time in the lunch room,
it was me who carved your
initials in that back wall.
I poke you and poke you
but you never pull
my pigtails. what do I
have to do to get you
to notice me?
the taste of victory
her latest battle song sung, the bard
sits back and enjoys
the angry squawking
and sputtering
of her rival, while she partakes
of the epic feast before her,
savoring every bite
as if it were his jealous heart
on a platter.
false alarm
last night I was outside
the regular haunt,
in the doorway, smoking, when
I saw someone come around
the corner, see me,
and promptly turn around
to go back
from whence he came.
I didn’t see
his face, so I was
briefly confused, until
a minute later you
came back, breezed right
by me and went to talk to
some people who
have yet to learn
how much of a snake
you really are.
speechwritten II
maybe I’m wrong
for being a little bit annoyed
that in your touching tribute
in which you read my words
as if you had written them
you preferred to keep the author
anonymous.
maybe you wanted
to make me mad
because my words taste better
well-seasoned with
fiery rage.
the crack, and the child
who put the crack
in the window at the side
of Sidewalk Café? were they
drunk and disorderly, lost
and confused, or just
having a bad day? and why
does it bother me
so very much? is it
a reminder that everything
I love is fragile and can
be shattered far too
easily?
on rereading some of my old poems
wow, those were the days.
I wrote some halfway decent
shite. some of them
were dumb but some were
not at all awful. why is it
that when I try to write
a new one, it always seems
to come out wrong?
I’m out of the habit
of looking at the world
as inspiration for poetry
these days. now I think
more of songs and less
of poetry. my muse has changed
her clothes. she hums
in my ear now instead
of whispering. you’d think
they’re pretty similar –
what are songs if not
poems set to music? –
but to me they aren’t at all
the same. Terpsichore
rules my days now
instead of Euterpe.
R. Brookes McKenzie 