Soliloquy of Repression
I do not care much to write; soliloquy of repression: The sensation of men I do not love atop me. The texture of a season that peels warmth from my skin like a facial. The grooves of change, the jostles. The canyons I crawl from with justifications. The maddening hum of a lonely, noiseless night. The arteries severed with painful truths. Poetry solidifies, but it does not tourniquet the wound. ...
You’re older now, graying— sagging around the mouth, fraught with worry about things no one believes you did— stories and fables you tell when someone asks where your daughters are. One of them is fine, by the way. She’s doing well, really. She wakes only once or twice screaming at night. She has an apartment in the city with a white desk and a lime green chair and nice cabinets....
a hybrid storm is sweeping Autumn’s mess of leaves up and down the East coast, and even the highlights in my hair are gone with the wind.
It would be three years before I would let another man touch me like that, sprawled out like two continents who drifted together and then apart. Untitled by Poetic-Euphemisms. ©Gabrielle Martin 2013
I asked for you in a seashell, engulfed by sea foam, sea green, sea swell but I did not want you in one clammed up, shut up, cursed to clamor in a cage. I wanted you to tumble, to struggle to ride the ebb and the flow. I wanted you to reach the beach and exclaim, mighty breathe taken like seashells for collection, that you had learned to swim for me. Sea Foam by Poetic-Euphemisms ©Gabrielle...
Eve's Red Dress
was a size too small, and I didn’t have the hips for it— silk and satin stretched over ivory carved too sharply. These bones he grasped like handle bars when the tires went skidding out of Eden. Eve’s Red Dress by Poetic-Euphemisms. ©Gabrielle Martin 2012
Anonymous asked: Your poetry is amazing. Really. I write also and I must say it's inspiring.
Anonymous asked: Hi, I was wondering if there was anyway you could read through some of my work? It'd be great to get some criticism e.t.c from another wonderful poetry author. And really, your work touched me.
Anonymous asked: ask anything? OK. Would you put more on here. I love your poetry
Anonymous asked: I am sorry.
Brace yourselves for Poetry!
My queue overfloweth, hehe.
Prepare for an influx in poetry this weekend.
I’ve been writing up a storm. Rain. Rain. Rain.
I hate writing, I love having written.– Dorothy Parker (via aaronjohnson-rpc)
Anonymous asked: do you think people can change, as in become a new person ?
All this for one night cradled in your open fist (closed as the dawn came around). © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
I've so many unfinished poems on my desktop.
It is getting cluttered, and I really should give them a go. Not sure why I am announcing this… I wish that any of them were worth the several KBs of space they take up a piece.
Nothing’s funny, but we’re laughing like no one will have the last laugh tomorrow— when the same sun that now sets rises on glittering bodies in a water that cleanses but damns. © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
There was a poem I wrote months ago
left untouched on my desktop. I’ve opened it impatient to finish it at least a dozen times since then. Something urged me to leave it be each time I read it through, assured me that I would know the proper moment to defile it. Quotes from it have buzzed in my head in various instances, words choppy and misused. That moment came (at nearly 5am on little sleep), and I am ill-equipped to...
Please forgive the absence of poetry lately,
I’ve been having a bit of writer’s block. No fear! I will be up and posting again within the next day or so. Promise.
Anonymous asked: You're amazing. <3
Tactless girl, callous bitch, sociopathic whore. (And these were the compliments). © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
I like to read about physicists with Austrian names I cannot pronounce, written with foreign letters I do not know how to reproduce on the number pad of my computer. Schrodinger: The man who unwittingly verified the entanglement of soul. Tell me, with your crooked teeth and round rim glasses, if that cat was your pet would you have cried if you had observed it dead? Would your entangled partner...
Scribbles and Courier New Font
Because she was an artist. The way he would grapple with the phrase like it was sacred; exaggerating artist like her being so was more than scribbles and courier new font. Like she was spectacular—- sprawled against the backdrop of her muses melodrama. She thought herself tortured and thus she was; because artists are not brilliant without bandaged knuckles—-and hair that has been...
Scarlet forged beauty, a fierce harlot stomping in combat boots like a general with a thick mustache and slicked back hair. Her soul (a calico pioneer’s or rococo maiden dress) molten and simmered down to elements cast aside. On the anvil, a thrashing beast of breasts and winged eyeliner and thigh-highs congealed like the blood from a corpse. A Zombie waged war on the universe, her creation...
Tonight, a finite joy; A silhouette of sorrow etched in the valleys of hips. © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
Equations and essays, timed, written, solved, formulated. Sleepless mornings (too much caffeine). Four years of back and forth and sideways—- all to one end: a cap, a gown, a handshake, and a diploma signifying nothing but equations and essays. © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
New York Parallels
Now entering New York; Empire state. The sun doesn’t shine here: Fake tans for color and a tinge of orange on the horizon. We’re cruising at seventy miles an hour— 4am freeway into New Jersey. A few days ago this time I was going down on the devil in Maine, and now, I am blowing on home to him home from the underworld home with Demeter in the driver’s seat home where my...
france-before-pants asked: So, I have a question for you! I saw on your to-do list - "Write three poems." How do you get in the mindset to just sit down and write? When something specific has inspired me, the words just flow out without much thought... But the rest of the time, it's like I have permanent writer's block. I can go weeks or months without writing, unless something triggers a thought or...
In a cleaning frenzy,
I found a book of poetry of mine from before I knew what punctuation was. Oh my goodness it was so awful. Painfully so. It so clearly is me before I found myself. I do not think I was this same person as I am now until I was about fifteen. I wonder who inhabited my body before that, because it was certainly not me.
You are a heartsick I recognize by hair dangling and grazing the bathroom floor, by open lid, by clutching of the rim. A heartsick I recognize by a lunch eaten and wasted in a bowl of a different kind. You are a heartsick of a poem that is nasty and crude, and I am throwing up poetry and vomit and your voice and your penis and your penis and your penis down my throat. © Gabrielle Martin 2012...
Post Emotional Mortem
Post emotional mortem, we scrape our pride from the ground like gum from the sidewalk, kneaded into the concrete like dough—-baked in the sun like bread that crusts and hardens. We pray there is salvation beneath the stuffing and fluff we rummage. We dig for a heart of gold and shudder at what we find (post emotional mortem): a heart of rocksalt and stone © Gabrielle Martin 2012...
france-before-pants asked: OMG, you are FABULOUS...! I write as well, though my poetry is nothing like yours. I am just another admirer of the written word, and your work is flawless...
Untitled Musing #1
We do not love the poet so much as we love the poem—- which can be passed like salt about the table and spinkled on the plates of the hungry (as needed). No one loves the critical hits that distinguish the poet from the common man, the beauty in the breakdown. We like to read about who slashed whose heart like tires, who went to bed with whom and woke up with another. We do not like the...
eiderfalls asked: your words are beautiful.
youarenotnormal asked: I love your poem "Sicker" i could practically see it. SO FOLLOWING YOU.
rhythm-of-raindrops asked: I can't even begin to explain how amazing this poetry is. Thank you so much for sharing it. It's truly touching.
heridas-demente asked: Do you hope one day to do something more with your poetry, such as have it published? Do you fear that if you post your poetry up here it will be stolen?
Good Morning, Love
Just 4th, 2012 6:30pm When the spirals of life (crooked like your morning smile) straightened—- you yawned like a dandelion on a pristine lawn, frightened that you might be beheaded by the lawn mower. © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
Oh, I would like to add
that constructive criticism is always welcome, always encouraged, and always appreciated. My ask box can be found here.
At the Beginning of All Things
You could have asked. You could have asked, and I would have given my rib, my rib for you Adam. You could have asked. You did not need to take, Adam—- you could have asked you could have asked, Adam. You could have asked. For my rib, my ribs, my rib my heart, my heart you could have asked for my heart, Adam. You could have asked and I would have given my rib, my rib for you, my heart. ©...
Who knew that a pair of scissors (snip snip) could so cleanly slash the damage of men from my roots. Two hands prints (one of a man I hated and one of a man I loved) donated with eleven inches of hair—-now on the head of a patient even sicker than I. © Gabrielle Martin 2012 (Poetic-Euphemisms).
June 6th, 2012 4:28pm How do you get on with breasts alone? Do you tuck your personality in your cleavage as if it were a pocket? Do you run it through the wash? accidentally? Purposefully? Is it soggy? Do you drain it? How do you get on with a pearly smile, like that? Do the boys like it when you gleam? Do they come in droves or do they wait patiently for their turn at the slot machine? How...