memory, dream and prayer

A slow drive through memory.
The kind of sweet that
shatters in your mouth.
A love like chewing glass,
Every word a chance to choke.
Waking up shaking sand out of my mouth
from grinding your glass all night.

Always misdressed for the occasion,
watching everyone else’s feet,
trying to remember how to walk.
Go where they go, drink what they drink,
smoke what they smoke,
lie what they lie.
Still couldn’t sing the song right.

Pacing the open road to nowhere
and back again.
From your home to mine
more than a stretch of the imagination.
Voice turned inside out with rage
and salted lungs.

Occasionally a face gives me a jolt
of fear and revulsion.
An instantaneous prayer:
no.

One of my favorite ways to write is to put on some strange music and see what it stirs up, so last night, I found this song and produced this poem. I’ve been writing all my life and still don’t know what’s good. I can hear in my mind the critiques my various teachers would give it, and I’m trying to learn to write despite their voices in my head.

 

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the poetry journal

This week, I found a bunch of old poems I wrote during high school.
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It always makes me sad to look at those notebooks because for a minute there, I was this cocksure little punkass — starting around the acid incident, leading into the ecstasy incident, peaking somewhere during the friendship with Kat, then plummetting when I met J. It raises a distressing issue for me. In the past, my creativity was wrapped up in drugs and sex, and when I got into that relationship, I let it all go.
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I had once written that using was like being in a bad relationship, but then I went and actually gave up drugs for a bad relationship. Why’d I do that? Well, at least now I can vouch for my own words. They really are quite similar, except that one destroyed my writing and the other didn’t. And that’s where I have trouble — the belief that he destroyed my writing — that because I gave up so much for him, I can never get it back.
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I had created … I had been given a sanctuary in which to flourish. In my parents’ house, I had the run of the entire second story, and I transformed it into a temple of my own creativity. As a little kid, I’d thought of becoming a nun, but by 16, I’d discovered the myth of the sacred whore, and I became a different kind of nun — one who celebrated the body electric. I immersed myself in poetry and lust — for life, for art, for bodies, for language. I truly believed in ecstasy — not the drug but the state of being.
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It was a small, predictable and very costly failure when I, like a completely average teenage girl, left all that behind for the approval of an older man — just some guy — an imbecil with a penis. This is why I’m a feminist now: If there is some other girl who has cultivated this incredible artistic existence for herself, I want her to know her own sovereignty. I’m talking about the power of self-validation.
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It’s true that I will always write — I can’t not write — but if I knew then what I know how, I would have become a very different kind of writer.

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poem on waking with thunder

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You can read the poem yourself below or click to hear me read it. Or both. :)

This is my first time uploading anything with Soundcloud, so let me know what you think. If you like this one, you can follow me there to hear new work.
Poem On Waking With Thunder by Durght
i wish
they would come
at night
cold-handed
in the rain
when the revelers
are drunk
and the sweet smoke
clings
they should come
with thunder
unexpected
and shake us
from slumber
and dreams
of sunny days
and forever
when old loves
scream drunkly
and new queens
smirk boldly
they should come
like bombs
sobering
and dark

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Dreams of Lions Mating

This morning, I dreamed I was at the zoo.

The lions were mating out in the open in their “habitat.” The crowd was standing around, mouths agape, like an illustration from a Curious George book.

I went to the side of the habitat/exhibit, and I found there was no fence. It was wide open, and the lions could come out at any time, and the people could go in, only none of them knew it.

I stood at the opening in the gate and watched as the lion bit the back of the lioness’s neck to officially begin their mating ritual.

The lions passed so close by me that I could’ve touched them, or they could’ve eaten me. But we kept our distance.

What will I do now that I know I can go into the lion’s cage …

Or let the lions out.

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carry on

I dreamed I was in love
and love compelled me to run
sixty miles to the lake
using my favorite scarf
as a cape.
Unlike other dreams
where running is slow and pained,
this time I was light
and quick,
fueled by pure joy
and the energy of being
in love.
I held my scarf
with both hands above
my head, like a victory flag
or a sail,
and I laughed the whole way.
It was quite an accomplishment.

When I told everyone how far I’d run,
they said,
“That’s nice,”
and carried on
washing the dishes.

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