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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
A Love Letter.
I sit in the dark niches Alone. Even darkness reminds me Of you. Your sweet fingers Brushing against my neck and
I open up my book of thoughts And memories, and get struck With a whispery clatter of voices and a blowing force:
A Realization At The Perfect Moment.
Every night when I’m sitting between my walls, writing my poetry,
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
Dipsy Blonde With Glasses.
The dipsy blonde with glasses Is bending over again, Trying to re-arrange her
He Once Knew An Angel.
When you hurdle into your pit-painting gargling with salt-water,
Please just kindly slip under the mat and disappear. Don’t come near me,
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
No Critical Understanding.
did. did. the words.
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.