Poems by PastaNazi

many thanks, exhale...


and


oodles of noodles miss toodles... enjoy your insanely long weekend... again... you lucky duck

(a lot of ppl know i have a few usernames... yellow, tenaciousA, buttersidown, and one i wont say because of search functions and one particular functioning searcher... blast and damn, one day soon it wont matter... HOWEVER... i'm putting these poems, originally written under the buttersidown moniker, and some special responses here, because... well... because I want them here... anyone who takes the time to read all this should really have kids or something... you have FAR too much time on your hands :P .... with love... me)

04/22/04 "Trainwreck"

And to my Father, I become another listless daughter soaking up the Son like a gray dwarf, like a pea pod, like all those things that hold magic in their seams. And to my father, I become that to believe, to love and to hold and to sweep up shrieking when the tide comes in. And to my father, my father, weak and sure, weak and binding me in his gray faith of universal proof, theorems really, touting that We Are All Already Dead so…, why worry?

We are all already dead. We are worm food. We are dirt. We are dust. And we are condensation.

Raise the blade to your own throat and get whatever it is you’re getting over, over with. Kill yourself and with a paintbrush splay the blood up on a billboard for everyone to see. Because everyone who sees will agree that you never understated anything worth stating in the first place (although they might say, although they probably will say…. “well… she always did ten-gallon-hat God“).

Love itself may be nobody’s martyr, but all of us martyr love just as plain as Jesus mothered sin. So… yeah… I’ll climb up onto that precipitous platform. And I’ll cry a raccoon’s mask onto the cake my face is made of…. and I’ll slip my ankles toward the sky and let the platinum dye-job drip like new soft wheat toward the new soft ground broken… and hide my smile while you take my picture. Then we’ll go get a cheeseburger and fries and everyone will wonder why I’m all dressed up. And after that? After that, we’ll go watch water snakes glide through their boxed abyss, and we’ll hum tunes into each other’s ears, and we’ll hum tunes into the very centers of each other, and we’ll drift off… the tragedy thwarted once more, the new day’s pump now primed, now sure.

And in dreaming I’ll wish I had the ability to split myself into two. Then she and I, we’d sneak out in the darkest part of night and scale back up the ladder to the billboard, the platform. That flat perpendicular to everything larger than life. And one of us would have remembered the knife. We’d draw platinum blonde straws, the shortest one winning, the shortest one falling gently to the iron bars, calling her sister come, come bury the knife. Bounding, slicing skin to ribbons in lip-locked grace. Going, their passion finally a communion, chalised in gold and an always-green blue.

And then the long one? The loser? The long loser would laugh out loud, drenched to puddles in red because she’d finally be Everything that her Father’d said. She’d be dead. Dead by her own hand and not by the Marlborough malaise that her everyday life had become. And, oh my God, would she dance in the rain of her sister’s blood?

And
to their father,
their father,
weak and sure and binding…
she’d become…
she’d become…

a raving lunatic
the chess match done.



….from setaside2...

indeed chess matches set with blade
their games over before they're bade
good day to you, sir, madam, take the spade
we'll bury our bones, our love, our sensual shade
take them all, packed up, paid.

no burial at sea more than flotation
the earth's edge serration rotation
with all false, I say FALSE, martyrs preaching location, location, location

sully the elocution of the thought
bring about the execution and the sieving of the soul
settle your anticipation and your burdened cot
counter and demand and counter and parlay and counter and ripost
the sword and defamation, the castration of the prostrate blindsided and sideswiped before the bowl.

beckon with torn tears
bring the hand in the come to me defiance
salute, tap that blade to forehead,
and begin your twin bladed enchant
meant to prove and to bend
to move and to rend
to tear apart all who may satiate your fears

and if your ferocity and your passion may be swayed by a pierced lung
air escaping from two places and blood the one
may your operatic cry splinter wood, crack the glass and send their minds reeling
fractured and unknowing heatstroked in the ovening sun.

there will lie the hero, the martyr,
remains in pieces, in whole, upon the fertilized loam
fossilization, mineralization, your face will turn to stone.
may it be an opal that sets your eyes
and may it be the gypsum that stole your breath
and may the silver that flees your veins keep the werewolves at bay
while within the last secret room within the heart, the sapphire is kept.

strange how love appears so human when clad in armor while splayed in the shade of the waxing evening, leaking its innards into the mound

I shall take up the sword, the shield, and tenderly foot this softening ground
and one day I shall catch up to those who committed this act upon my love
my blade shall flit and fly, my shield, my dove...

one by one they will fall without a cry

without sense, without fire

and without a sound.

Bound. more love for you


…from coleen..

who is you beauty? begs this beast
you remind you remind you remind me
of a brilliant fox that left our warm cozy fox hole
billowing with pillows and dylan and wine
he was charmed he was charmed he was
charmed away from our precious den by the pied piper
humming a mythical tune about cod pieces and ssshhhhhh.....
and i wandered and i wondered and i followed
best as best as best i could
looking up at the sky above for traces of the comet's shimmering trail and to the horizon where his boldness bled into the mountains
only i stumbled over what happened to be my heart on the ground
gathering myself to myself i was gathering
and being more careful and careless all at the same time
only somehow my brilliant beauty i am missing you
remembering to forget my way home
listening to the melody lost in the snow
and this secret
our secret
your secret
is safest with me



later…


"Dust Devil Pitch "

I am the bride
on the funeral pyre
wailing and carrying
though I held the knife
that went into my dear dying
husband's blind eye.

And the townsmen all leer
at the tear in my sheer
at the gash in my cheek
i got being thrown in the slammer
when my face hit the padlock
that still swings on the hook.

Yes, I am the bride
binge-purging my love
for an ominous man
who comes like a ghost
to my bed everynight
and haunts my happiness
with laughing delight.

And in dreams my fist hits his face like a stop light ignored.
And he smiles, grabbing my ass, calling me petnames, making small
petty
dust devils pitch
fits that mean absolutely nothing
no how
to no one.

I can do naught but spin and spit.

(The rings on this carousel ride
are but hammer handles.)
I hold my hands wide
keeping centripital forces
from forcing me into tornado swirl.


And I CRY, oh my dear God how I cry.

It's supposed to be dead
so go on, love... die.



…later still


"no velvet rope here "

I am talking about the Train Wreck, Dude...
The thirty-car pile-up on I-25?
The skyscraper on fire?
That, no matter how hard I try to be the cool one who didn't look
(Cuz, cool is cool, baby, and fuck, It hurts way less to drive by a silent fire, face turned to the side, than it does to watch it burn with NO hose, and NO cell phone.)

Yeah, but anyway, I still fucking look.

And my imagination straps on it's high-heeled Nike's and takes a long walk
Between the pyre builders
The Fire Engines
The Fashion Police Cars
And Tonka
Emergency
Response
Trucks.... (The kind with the little plastic people driving? Yeah. You know.)

I don't know what's in that building.
Last I saw was some Dude with a
Zippo and a little Yellow can of lighter Fluid.

And a Pearl Jam T-shirt on..

So who knows?

My Apologies

Sometimes the first finger points and it goes
"Oh come on. You knew. I knew. Didn't you?"
You promised me bliss in those cheek-turned kiss missives,
and the ground where you round up the fists and the fissures?
It's really quite solid from my view permissive.
Permitting me see things from right where I stand,
while I hold out my hand and I ask you to dance.

Ignoring the blood in your shoes.
The wild left eye.
The pang to the sigh.
The arrow... sticking out of your back.

It was easy to do.
To find flight in hope's mirrored promise?
I wish that I didn't, but...
I needed you, too.

So, the first finger, yeah, it knows how it goes.
To the front, to the out
To the "you should've known."

And under it, here,
we find more than one. Three.
Each all of them pointing
directly at me.

Here, another one lay
on another one's length
like the air drinking dew
from God's Good and Green Earth.

It's the salt, oh the salt!
What a fabulous thing!
A crude rolled gold seeping
from a purple peach song
that this petite little woman
oh, so loves to sing.

mmmmmm... I have never before known the arms of a writer, you come to me experienced, I see.

you delight me, mister side... infathomably thank you.

El diablo del polvo hoy
en dos las diez de la tarde
super altos
y super flacos
cinco minutos después que
yo regresé en



para ti mi amore