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I promise to show lots of restraint and not post all the bits of poetry I have been reading of late.
Or not. ^_~
Dude, sooo hyper and 'up' lately. Eek. In a way I hate it because sooner or later I know I'll come down and be all, "Life can KISS MY ASS. Wah! Poor me!"
*cough*
Went to see Kill Bill 2 and rather enjoyed it in the way I enjoy Quentin films: "EWWWWW! Cool! That probably hurt. Nice dialogue. Cliche! Cliche! Homage at 12 o'clock! Mmmm...love what he did there. Gross!"
I don't particularly go for all the blood, but it's stylistic blood, so it's okay. LOL...the man can make a movie. Yes, he can. The only bad thing was we went to the theater that serves alcohol and it REEKED of old beer and when I got home, my jeans and the back of my shirt smelled like a brewery. Yuck. I don't want to smell it, I just want to drink it!
In other news, the girls are talking about going out on Friday night in lieu of the scrapped Padre trip. *shrugs* We'll see...
Okay, sorry. I lied. But I MUST fangirl Michael Ondaatje because his writing is just GUH!
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers . . .
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
Or not. ^_~
Dude, sooo hyper and 'up' lately. Eek. In a way I hate it because sooner or later I know I'll come down and be all, "Life can KISS MY ASS. Wah! Poor me!"
*cough*
Went to see Kill Bill 2 and rather enjoyed it in the way I enjoy Quentin films: "EWWWWW! Cool! That probably hurt. Nice dialogue. Cliche! Cliche! Homage at 12 o'clock! Mmmm...love what he did there. Gross!"
I don't particularly go for all the blood, but it's stylistic blood, so it's okay. LOL...the man can make a movie. Yes, he can. The only bad thing was we went to the theater that serves alcohol and it REEKED of old beer and when I got home, my jeans and the back of my shirt smelled like a brewery. Yuck. I don't want to smell it, I just want to drink it!
In other news, the girls are talking about going out on Friday night in lieu of the scrapped Padre trip. *shrugs* We'll see...
Okay, sorry. I lied. But I MUST fangirl Michael Ondaatje because his writing is just GUH!
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers . . .
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
