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Mary X Poems
There are times when you simply cannot do anything. You lay there in Medusa’s
There was this Barbie-doll girl I knew who grew into a Barbie-doll woman.
Fishing for wood on the edge of my mattress
Dipsy Blonde with Glasses.
The dipsy blonde with glasses Is bending over again, Trying to re-arrange her
A Realization at the Perfect Moment.
Every night when I’m sitting between my walls, writing my poetry,
I open up my book of thoughts And memories, and get struck With a whispery clatter of voices and a blowing force:
Please just kindly slip under the mat and disappear. Don’t come near me,
'Hello'. A blunt nail is being hammered into a slumber
He Once Knew an Angel.
When you hurdle into your pit-painting gargling with salt-water,
A Love Letter.
I sit in the dark niches Alone. Even darkness reminds me Of you. Your sweet fingers Brushing against my neck and
Culture Of iThey/i.
they told me that walking to the shop was best done using a pair of old trainers. that way I’d be able to walk with
Gut through your old torn and dog-eared books of thoughts and philosophies,
Where do the Oceans go.
And where do the birds go when Winter settles its spiralling hands? And where do the worms go
Art of Picture Hanging.
true emotions don’t come easily. not when trying to express
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
There are times when you simply
cannot do anything.
You lay there in Medusa’s
ugly vision, sat in granite
with nothing apart from
the breast you are touching.
It isn’t even a breast,
just a pocket of air
that your mind urges you to think is
a beautifully sculpted woman.
That doesn’t matter though,
we find our pleasures
whether it be a candle’s tone
a man’s fingering hand
or the piece of gentle anatomy
that you have held in your pocket.