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Original Poetry by Mary McIntyre-Terranson Once, when my soul was truly ensconced in the west So Present and Home I saw a Timber Wolf, who In the Infinite "wisdom" of those with thumbs
Wherefore art thou? It's been much too long Since last we met My lover awaits At my window The portal to another world In his heated embrace.
I'm scared of the dark, She says. In a wave of humble confession. No, I'm terrified of it.
You ooze confidence Seeping through that sleazy smile But I know just what you are Won't fool me anymore.
You are the scumbag king The narcissistic liar Manipulative coward Embodiment of Evil. The snake that slithered Hissing secrets That led to Eve's mortal mistake.
You look at me I avert my eyes It's like avoiding staring Straight into the sun. Like I will be blinded Should I look too long.
My mind may seem like a dark place to most Full of monsters, untold horrors That are present in my artistic expressions But I do not fear the same monsters that others might. I do not fear false monsters.
In a world where we worship False prophets and pop stars Instead of praising intelligence And peace makers...
I always get asked, "Why is your poetry so serious and dark? Why don't you write about something happy?" I could be wrong on this, but aren't poets supposed to be Somewhat angsty? The world isn't all rainbows and unicorns. It has real pain and suffering Sadness, disappointment, death....Sarah Palin.
You know that feeling Deep down in your gut That tells you When something isn't right? I ignored it.
I am that dying star Hurdling through space at unimaginable speeds Leaving a trail of light in my wake I will not let you see me fall...
A zombie courted a pirate wench Upon the seven seas Decaying smiles across the miles He only wished to please.
Day and night, I ref an internal fight. Nothing seems to win, nothing loses life. Of all the thoughts and all the prizes, I never once knew what a pointless life meant.
Chosen generation. It is time. Shout your victory and let it be Mine.
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"You want a cigarette?" Calin asked a young American law student. I'll never remember which Ivy League school he was getting his degree from, but he lived in Chicago. There were a surprising number of us Illinoisans passing through Calin's hostel in Bucharest that March.
"Oh, we don't smoke much in America." The awkwardness of his response made me flinch subconsciously.
"In Romania, we DO." Calin responded without missing a beat.
We laughed. It was true. In Romania, it wasn't a question of weather or not someone smoked. Some smoked lights, some smoked full flavors. Beautiful Romanian women smoked Virginia Slims, or similar slender, delicate and feminine things. I was not a Romanian woman. I smoked Pall Malls, and the Zippo that lit them was attached to a paratrooper in the French Foreign Legion; it was engraved with a skull and crossbones, and the words "SPECIAL FORCES: mess with the best, die like the rest". Sorin was extremely proud of his lighter and was convinced he was the only soldier in Romania who owned one. He was probably right.
At half past ten we ventured out into the beautiful historical district to El Comandante. It was a bar owned by a guy with a serious hard-on for Che Guevara, but the music was good and the beer was cheap. It was also open until six in the morning.
"Jane! Where the FUCK is your BEER?" Sorin would say to me, shaking his fist in my face.
I would throw my hands up in the air and say, "I DRANK IIIT!"
"I buy you another!"
Only a few days before I had planned on staying in Bucharest for two days before traveling to Istanbul. The night before I was supposed to catch my train, I went to El Comndante with Sorin and a few other people.
"This club is too crowded, we go to Revenge." Sorin said to us.
I downed the last of the beer in my bottle, and stuck my cigarette between my teeth as I pushed my way through the crowd.
The morning after I woke up with with the most nauseating, skull-grinding hangover of my entire twenty years. The cheapest beds in the hostel were in the fourteen room dorm, where anyone who was staying for an extended period of time lived. I had chosen it to save cash, as I was traveling with money from a scholarship to study printmaking and drawing in Austria.
For the third morning in a row I woke up to Sorin laughing at me from his top bunk by the door.
"Somebody missed their train.... but, I am not naming names."
"Oh, we don't smoke much in America." The awkwardness of his response made me flinch subconsciously.
"In Romania, we DO." Calin responded without missing a beat.
We laughed. It was true. In Romania, it wasn't a question of weather or not someone smoked. Some smoked lights, some smoked full flavors. Beautiful Romanian women smoked Virginia Slims, or similar slender, delicate and feminine things. I was not a Romanian woman. I smoked Pall Malls, and the Zippo that lit them was attached to a paratrooper in the French Foreign Legion; it was engraved with a skull and crossbones, and the words "SPECIAL FORCES: mess with the best, die like the rest". Sorin was extremely proud of his lighter and was convinced he was the only soldier in Romania who owned one. He was probably right.
At half past ten we ventured out into the beautiful historical district to El Comandante. It was a bar owned by a guy with a serious hard-on for Che Guevara, but the music was good and the beer was cheap. It was also open until six in the morning.
"Jane! Where the FUCK is your BEER?" Sorin would say to me, shaking his fist in my face.
I would throw my hands up in the air and say, "I DRANK IIIT!"
"I buy you another!"
Only a few days before I had planned on staying in Bucharest for two days before traveling to Istanbul. The night before I was supposed to catch my train, I went to El Comndante with Sorin and a few other people.
"This club is too crowded, we go to Revenge." Sorin said to us.
I downed the last of the beer in my bottle, and stuck my cigarette between my teeth as I pushed my way through the crowd.
The morning after I woke up with with the most nauseating, skull-grinding hangover of my entire twenty years. The cheapest beds in the hostel were in the fourteen room dorm, where anyone who was staying for an extended period of time lived. I had chosen it to save cash, as I was traveling with money from a scholarship to study printmaking and drawing in Austria.
For the third morning in a row I woke up to Sorin laughing at me from his top bunk by the door.
"Somebody missed their train.... but, I am not naming names."
Comments
Jessie
, 2010-05-28 13:52:23
I love this story!
I love this story!