a little bit of anaconda

the talking semiaquatic serpent
grinned,
at least i think i did

i have learned well to never look a basilisk in the eyes

or else turn to frozen warmth of stone

with a glaze of white clouds,
painted over my eyes
blind and unseeing.

i just feel it smiles at me
would it be so perilous?

i feel that i will regret not seeing this marvelous view

of the terrestrial eel with the mona lisa smile

no larger, much larger than a mona lisa smile
it stretches as a fault line
cracks branch off from the boldest line
along the dusty ravines of its skin

oh but, i can not see.

indeed.
i will endeavor to carefully look.

....




it is no longer there.
the anaconda in the room is gone
and i have missed my opportunity.
and it makes all the difference.

-Pamplemousse

A little bit of propoganda

Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. 

And if your mockingbird gets shot
well honey that's a sin, so don't get caught.

If you get caught you'll go to jail,
though Mommy will probably pay your bail.

And if she has no money in hand,
I'm sure she'll deal with the loaning man

And if his interest is too high
Your mommy will trade her kidneys and eyes,

And if the zombies are found to be poor
She'll sell herself traveling door to door

Cause zombies are real and she will be blind,
And they'll try to eat you too, cause your smell they can find.

But you just have to shoot everybody you can
And make sure to short-shrift that loaning man

Cause if you're cool enough you'll get lots of girls
And the meaning of life is diamonds and pearls.

So don't forget son, that God hates gays
That commercial's there's not for a passing craze

Minorities are stupid and murder is funny,
if you can't make bail you can sell your mummy. 

Maybe she deserves it since she let you
Play those video games when you were two

Because there's a difference between bubble wrapping kids
And filtering their intake of adult YouTube vids.

Their brains aren't devloped, so that's your job,
You don't want their role models to be in the Mob.

Your mom tried to be cool and she raised you wrong
I'm sorry, I hate that, so have a song. 


-Citron

in need of an atlas

the world is a medley of taupish violet,
as far as i can see
between the heavy blinkings of my eye
the curtains close so swiftly
the blinds come down so violently
the spotlights have grown dim


there is no atlas to carry my eyelids

-Pamplemousse

blue roses

'tween the leaves inside my head
the roses bloom a dusky red
the petals see such sights as those
that depress to make them close

and on the trunk sprung from my neck
the birds with sharp beaks sorely peck
and cause my aching wood to pain
as the sap is washed away by the rain.

and in this trunk, this wooden chest
with padlock, rusty, and at rest,
lies the velvet secret of my soul
that lies slowly burning hot as coal.

and soon this treasure chest will burn
and that from trunk can not discern
the aching birch from frosty fern.

-Pamplemousse

I have finally bought the house.

You are my best friend, she said,
and we were, but the "my" she mentioned
was not all the soul floating around in her brain.
There were dark patches I could not actively
befriend just because
I could not find them. 

There was no trace of the pools in the world of "My"
that reflected and conformed, as we agreed to be distinct people,
because only followers change for others. 

Reflections are beautiful, mirrors are useful.  Caves she boarded up as well,
like a homeowner paints over nail holes before showing, selling their house. 
They used to hold art,
but I cannot see them.  I see mountains, and I can draw
extremely accurate topographical maps, I can list plants
and campgrounds
and I know when the sun rises and sets.  These are things I know in her. 

Some things I don't yet:  cracks and perennialy leaky faucets, rodents and hidden attic windows by which the reading light
is the very best,
I had to save and save
and buy the house.  I owned them,
and she owned my dripping ceiling, squeaky air conditioning, splintering floorboards,
even though
they had yet
to be discovered,

and even though I will not live here forever,
a house you own
is a very special thing 
as is a best friend. 


-Citron

Maslow

I am
         sick and tired and hungry
                                                and
sick and tired and hungry
                                      and sick and
tired and hungry
                          I am. 

-Citron

Expellation of cerebreal mucus

Sleep is such an inconvenient thing. Oh to be immune to such a disease. Have you ever thought about how horrible sleep really is? Necessary for life and happiness, it is a giant vaccuum that sucks away half of your life. People want super powers such as invisibility, X-ray vision, the ability to fly. But, what I would give, to be able to live happily sans sleep. At night, in the seclusion of my room, not interrupted or bothered to be able to do whatever pleased me. This would be the perfect setting to write a book, better than jail,citron. All by myself, with vampire weekend playing in the background, sprawled out on my bed in gingham pajamas, writing leagues and leagues of pages. All this in an idyllic world.

-Pamplemousse

Random Thought Vomits

Excuses sicken me, and the only things that sicken are things you consume.  Even smells are small particles of the thing.  Habits sicken me, and losing them does.  Either way it feels as though you have lost something, whether free will or good things to sicken.  I don't know what to say sometimes.  I don't know what to say a lot of the time.  I can say I am sorry but I'm not.  I've gotten into the habit of not feeling anything I can't fix.  I think that's the only reason we have feelings.  I would like to go prison to find time to write a book.  I wouldnt be able to fix anything in there.  I wouldn't feel at all. 

-Citron

Random Thought Vomits

bonjour citron, when i read the word cumbersome, i thought it said cucumber, thinking of food aren't we? just a little bit.  you know, i really enjoy creepy things.  i don't know why, is there some deep psychological reasoning for adoring the strange and dark? the threatening storm yesterday made me so happy.  it was so beautiful, i mean the sky was a giant fluffy gray brain.  with its curved ridges, and the wet texture.  and the air was snippy and little darts seemed to come from the surroundings and puncture my cheeks.  and then the thunder late at night. it was divine to lay on my bed, the only soul in the world, calm and content, listening to the terrific booms and the shrieks of the lighting.  my bed sheets cold and soft, trembling under the force of the giant outside my bedroom window.  how romantic.  oh, that i could take that moment and wrap it up, with layers and layers of green silky chiffon, and stuff it between A Catcher in the Rye, and Hercule Poirot's Christmas and take it out, and inhale it.  and be there in my bed, in my temperate coccoon in the middle of the violet tempest. 

Random Thought Vomit Day (4 minutes)

Hey pamplemousse (wouldn't that be a funny name to have in real life?  so cumbersome) I think whoever posts first on certain days (usually me) should come up with a new way to say what we have, up until now, referred to "uncensored mind rambles."  You said thought vomit.  I wonder how unoriginal the name will be next Saturday. 

I was thinking about mapquest, and directions in general.  What if the opposite of right wasn't left, but it had an option of being either left or another direction?  Let's call it wild, pronounced like "willed"  So if I had directions, I knew that to get where I wanted to go I had to turn right, left, right, but I would never be able to get back.  I turned right before.  Do I turn left now, or do I turn wild?  I wonder what maps would look like.  Probably they would have to be three-dimmensional and bendy, like a crochet pattern.  I wonder what life would be like in the fourth dimension. 

Speaking of four, my four minutes are up.  Can't wait to read yours. 

-Citron

frozen strawberry lemonade

the skies are near their climax
they are nearly open
ladies and gentlemen
the fear of god is approaching
the thunderous applause
the tears of anticipation
the lights darken
the neon lights
stark and loud
tear open the tempest gray
peek out of the curtains
with your garish hues.

and here it is,
the fear of god
with a mighty clap
the skies open and rain steel liquid.

-Pamplemousse

discus

the flying disk
with its violet shines
upon its invisible legs
runs as a hart
and spins and spins
around whirling
around the pivot
around the conical center
playing the soulful
mournful
sorrowful
notes
of the ---

-Pamplemousse

forced hiatus

I'm sorry to all of the three
Who like to read my poetry
I'm taking exams now you see
And they're a set priority. 

I have not quit, I've not forgot.
I miss my poems quite a lot.

But I can not philosophize
When math takes up all my brain-ties.
I'll return soon, and shout "SURPRISE!"

But for now, I apologize. 

-Citron

the rose rose

the wind brought a maelstrom of gusts and blusters of all sorts.
it was a frightening day as the whirlpools of air surrounded the world
and crushed it in its monstrous claws of smoke.
the leaves became knives as they were savagely ripped from their mother branch.
and the ground became bloodied with petals and twig fragments.
the mighty oaks swayed spasmatically and swung their hair as if screaming,
the docile creek became a demonic rage of bubbled liquid
as it stung the undew'd grass with its vile spray.

and among all the pandemonium of the tempest
the apocalyptic warring of nature,
there was a dash of sanguineous red
in the middle of the clearing,
with the trees and the earth and all of nature
spinning desperately, tormentedly in a spheric 'round
a small eye of the hurricane
and there was the home of the crimson hue
the petals intact and calm
still as the folded hands of sleeping old women
and the stem, a rigid and straight serpent
dead and petrified in a severe path

and the rose rose
caught up in the storm and yet raised up on a pedestal
to observe the destruction of the world.

-Pamplemousse

scientific method

the world has learned to suppress their thoughts,

quell their emotions in a way that they do not allow

the eager, ready train, to ever leave the station.

one learns to focus focus focus

and to discourage the flight of fantasy

no, that quetzal must remain extinct in the jungle.

the mind is a compact tuber, born boring and thick

over time we carve it, and the tuber grows

it can grow high, and cast a long shadow

or it can flatten out into a pancake

a worthless two dimensional floppy saucer.

when one writes poetry, or at least when i do

somehow, i naturally encourage my mind to unravel

i even push it, eagerly waiting to see the intricate henna it will paint

i pursue every haphazard thought

every ridiculous idea, i believe and stand by it

and each interruption, i embrace

for it will affect the outcome in its own way.

each poem i write is a ball of yarn i toss with all my might

it might bounce off a paint-chipped wall 

or roll aimlessly in spherical eights

i might kick it towards the stairs and observe it tangle up

gleefully i witness the chaos,

the confused uncertainty

and then it comes to rest.

still as a deathly dawn.

and there i have my product.

-Pamplemousse

Planning poems

Note to self: 

Insert something witty and deep.  Be sure to include wordplay even the you you'll be tomorrow won't remember the meaning of
oh, and stay away from sunshine, you've been stuck on it lately

(This poem remains
unfinished)


-Citron

communication

Hello dear friend, how could you understand my need to speak to someone? you are the happy victim of my cannon of words.  Please answer, comprehend that I am counting on you to help me through these secret difficulties that lie as spoiled milk, fermenting in my chest.  I want to know you, i want to know that you will not judge me, that you perceive with an open, welcoming mind.  I don't know you well at all i is true.  That far corner of the classroom that you inhabit, a swerving trail among tables is the only way to reach you, you seem so distant.  Often i have wished that you would come join us in our trivial conversations.  But please, i am alone, i need someone.  Do not turn me away.


Hi.

What do you want? what could possibly be the motive for you to contact me. we do not mix in our high school soup of society.  I wonder what your reasons are.  Most likely case is that you want answers to some test, or homework, or you want to find out something and attempt to skillfully extract it from my wandering, reposing mind.  I scorn your selfish attempts.  Indeed, why even use formalities? hellos are not necessary, just be up front about it.  i am no fool, i know what you want.  just tell me what you want of me and then be done with it...i truly am quite cynical am i not? perhaps he really does want to speak to me.  perhaps these hidden motives are as invisible as the graying hairs i feel but can not find.  in class, there is a silent hidden worry about him.  surrounded by friends, i feel he must have none. yes, i will try to be open, and give him the benefit of the doubt.  i will give him a chance to accomplish whatever he is trying to accomplish with his monosyllabic salutation.


Hey!

-Pamplemousse