Gold teeth and a curse for this town
were all in my mouth.
Only, I don’t know how
they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet
I was when we met.
I was happier then
with no mind-set.
And if you’d took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, I’d have jumped from my tree
And I’d a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would of fared well.
New slang when you notice the stripes,
the dirt in your fries.
Hope it’s right when you die,
old and bony.
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall,
Never should have called
But my head’s to the wall and I’m lonely.
And if you’d took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, I’d have jumped from my tree
And I’d danced like the kind of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would of fared well.
God speed all the bakers at dawn
may they all cut their thumbs,
And bleed into their buns ’till they melt away.
I’m looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find.
Without a trust or flaming fields am I too dumb to refine?
And if you’d took to me like
Well I’d danced like the queen of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would of fared well.
The odd thing about this writing by Amy Gerstler in Bitter Angel: Poems is how scary it sounds to someone who has sailed across an ocean.
I have a fish’s tail, so I’m not qualified to love you.
But I do. Pale as an August sky, pale as flour milled
a thousand times, pale as the icebergs I have never seen,
and twice as numb–my skin is such a contrast to the rough
rocks I lie on, that from far away it looks like I’m a baby
riding a dinosaur. The turn of centuries or the turn
of a page means the same to me, little or nothing.
I have teeth in places you’d never suspect. Come. Kiss me
and die soon. I slap my tail in the shallows–which is to say
I appreciate nature. You see my sisters and me perched
on rocks and tiny island here and there for miles:
untangling our hair with our fingers, eating seaweed.
Late at night, with a bright moon over dark shimmery waters and a light enough breeze to just echo the “slap” of a tail meant to “appreciate nature”… you definitely can hear that Siren song. It’s both the worst and best kind of pretty.
When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgement.
If you’re a Facebook user, you may get a message such as this, supposedly from a “friend”. Since the message was sent by a friend, the likelihood that you would click on the link is much higher. Upon clicking the link, you would be redirected to a hi5.com site that looks something like the one below.
The BBC tries to argue that most people are condemned to follow the reactions of those around them:
One of the first habits we acquire is to glance at mum before deciding how to react to what’s around us. It is called social referencing. How do I know if I should be afraid or eager? I check the reaction elsewhere.
That characteristic equips us well. To find out what others think before we act makes sense: they might know something.
Sure, some find comfort in groups and will only follow others but this hardly explains the opaqueness, lying and selfish parts of the equation. Clearly some are interested in riding a wave they know will fail and fall hard as they see themselves disconnected and immune from the forces of water.