Thursday, June 23, 2005

Me Versus Verses

I would like to present my walk to work this morning, as told through a series of poems written in the style of myself at particularly embarassing points in my literary growth.

AGE 8:
I was walking down the street,
Walking, walking on my feet.
What is up ahead of me?
There is a dog and also a tree.
There is a dirty cigarette butt.
There is an apartment but not a hut.
There is broken glass from a bottle.
What else is there? There is a model.

AGE 13:
It is morning, and the sun is warm.
Beautiful patterns the shadows form.
Up ahead on the city street
Stand ten male models, on ten model feet.

They talk about Australia as their hair gets combed.
The smoke their cigarettes and talk on their phones.
They do not notice me as I walk by.
I fear that they will see me cry.

They are so hot it is like they are a danger.
I look at them and they look like angels.
Their hair is blonde and their faces are perfect.
I cannot even find one measly defect.

I hope that one day I will a model be
So that the model men will want to model me.
And then I can tell them to go to H-LL.
And then everything in the world will be well.

AGE 15:
i walk down the city street
ALONE
with a sun that shines
in patches on the dirty sidewalk
though i am always
in
the
shadows.

like lightning from a
beautiful storm
a camera flashes
again and again
and makes pictures of the
beautiful faces
and
beautiful clothes
on the
MODELS
running down the street
PRETENDING to be
HAPPY.

they stand around a catering table
the food rotting
untouched
unwanted
in the morning sun
they smoke
and talk
about going home to australia

i pass.


UNTOUCHED.
UNWANTED.
UNNOTICED.

Age 22:

A Model Sonnet

Cheese cubes on the corner are a tip off,
with an intern stationed as the pigeon
guard. She's trying not to laugh as her boss
wrangles a tent leg. The models fidgit.
Ten blonde, tall, Australian men. Hot, also.
They're not the brightest bulbs, but all the same,
they make way more than me. At least I know
that a volta isn't just a band name

and an iamb is a noun, not a verb.
That's right, lit snob coming through, fellas. Move
yer tight Aussie rear ends and let me through.
I win. I'm so the Moses of book nerds,
parting a self-tanned sea. That's right. I'm smooth.
I'm suave. And I will so (paper) cut you.

7 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

by far one of your finest entries.

10:50 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

^
erm. said ms. texas.

10:50 AM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Aw, thanks Ms. T.

11:15 AM  
Anonymous mombi said...

wow, and i thought i was doing good with my stuff that sounds an awful lot like your "at 15".

sigh

4:02 PM  
Blogger Kunaxa said...

Kathy,

You're a lyrical genius -- Why aren't you rich yet?

If only 50 cent (or anyone from G-UNIT) can see this and maybe commission you to write a "hot rhyme" ... something for the club.

4:09 PM  
Anonymous Your favorite little brother, the one that isn't Mike said...

Pretty awesome stuff. I can barely write poetry at your age 8 level.

2:09 PM  
Blogger Buckley said...

Yeah, well nice.
REally enjoyed this one Kathy.

12:09 PM  

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