A Compulsion to Spill Words

it's the fish that swims inside my viens
it's a rush from dancing near the flames
it's misery and it's regret
it's so I can remember, so I can forget


its ancient visions come back around
its water flowing under ground
its madness and it is pain
its summer snow and winter rain

its crawling underneath my skin
its breaking out and sneaking in
its glory and its release
it holds me captive, sets me free

its solid and it is hollow
its gone today but sought tommorow
it's muse and hunger and instinct
catch the tiger, slay the dream

muse, hunger and instinct
why I spill these words
all over me

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
I'd wake and hear the cold- splintering, breaking-
and slowly I would rise and dress.

I was born to be lonely.
A child's blood so red,
fear the chronic anger of this house.

I was born to be lonely,
and watch light slowly close
against the yellow drawn shades.

I was born to be lonely,
dance naked grotesquely,
on water I'm not sure is there.

I was born to be lonely,
What did I know? What did I know?
But that's all right.

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
But that's all right.



* This is a cento. That means this poem is comprised of lines from other poets works:
Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Whose Mouth Do I Speak With by Suzanne Rancourt
My Father's Hat by Mark Irwin
Father's Song by Gregory Orr

This was done for the site Patchwork Poetry.

Hollywoodland Hunger

"Fame

is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Always the camera is angled so we look up
and nothing will come of our lovelock.

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

That lady with her garments on
is Life but is she Art?

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Nothing! Nothing but air, thin air.....
"This," says the voice, "can be laid to the natural greed."

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Men eat of it and die.
Food!
Just Food!
Just any old kind of food!

Dying to taste it. Take a slice-
only a pun for bread- seductive
visually, but you could starve.

"Fame is a fickle food
Men eat of it and

die."





This is a cento. None of the lines above are mine. The poems used were:
Running Away Together by Maxine W. Kumin
Video Cuisine by Maxine W. Kumin
Fame is a Fickle Food by Emily Dickerson
Ode to the Lemon by Pablo Neruda, translated by Jodey Bateman
Wonderbread by Alfred Corn
The Clean Platter by Ogden Nash.

The poems were suggested by Jilly Poet,Lissa, gautami tripathy, and Lirone. This was written for Patchwork Poetry.