Post by Robin on Feb 1, 2006 17:53:12 GMT -8
When I started this, I was going to trash it, but then I got onto the morning glory thing and though "Hmmm, I could do something with this." So I did. And I actually like this piece. So be really tough, mmm'kay? I want this poem to be the best it can be.
-----------------
You’re a poet’s fantasy
With your eyes like a rain and car exhaust;
With your hair like Poe’s worst nightmare;
With your body like a gardener’s crowning glory.
Glory. Glory. Glory.
Morning glory, that’s what you are.
Rising with the dew fairies, and then wilting with the sun.
I never thought I’d find one as lovely as you, but I did,
Only you weren’t wilted when I found you,
And now you’re fading.
Glory. Glory. Gory. My gory glory.
The sickness is eating you up,
And nobody in the world has enough pesticide to save you.
It’s like little tomato bugs all over, all in you,
And even though the doctors keep smashing them,
They keep coming back for more.
Like me.
I never had my fill of you,
And now I know that I never will,
Because there are little tomato bugs eating you up,
Close to you in a way I never could be,
Not because you love them,
But because you love what they do to you.
My morning glory.
You didn’t like the loving. You hated it.
When I was done, you’d stumble off to the bathroom and take a shower,
An ice cold quickie before you went off to your next job.
And the only reason you kept coming back was because I paid the best.
Nobody else paid enough.
Nobody else loved you enough.
And now when you’re here, wilting, I’m the only one there.
It’s like an airport terminal waiting for a plane to go Mongolia.
Everybody and their mother’s on the plane for Beijing,
And they don’t seem to realize that Mongolia’s the exact same thing, only without the ridiculous merchandise.
Because everybody’s following the story of some tragic little bald girl,
And they don’t seem to realize that what’s happening to the religious kid is happening to the sacrilegious woman, as well.
Nobody’s following your story, my morning glory.
Nobody except for me, and I don’t really count anymore.
I’m a worthless Romeo.
I can’t even go down, down in flames,
Not like Dan Wilson.
Not like Buddy Holly.
No, I’ll take a cold shower like you used to, and then leave the windows open.
I’ll probably die of pneumonia, like Angelo Pignati.
Because I’m not one to drink or stab myself to death.
I think myself to death with the irony of what’s happening.
The irony. The iron-IE. The iron.
I kill myself with IRON-y.
And that’s only fitting.
Because Juliet stabbed herself through the heart and Romeo drank poison,
And it’s only proper that you die in this dramatic, touching way,
And I die like a rat in a lab.
Screaming on the inside, humming on the outside,
Counting down the seconds until I’m finally with my morning glory again.
My morning glory. My glory. Glory. Gory. My gory morning glory.
My love.
-----------------
You’re a poet’s fantasy
With your eyes like a rain and car exhaust;
With your hair like Poe’s worst nightmare;
With your body like a gardener’s crowning glory.
Glory. Glory. Glory.
Morning glory, that’s what you are.
Rising with the dew fairies, and then wilting with the sun.
I never thought I’d find one as lovely as you, but I did,
Only you weren’t wilted when I found you,
And now you’re fading.
Glory. Glory. Gory. My gory glory.
The sickness is eating you up,
And nobody in the world has enough pesticide to save you.
It’s like little tomato bugs all over, all in you,
And even though the doctors keep smashing them,
They keep coming back for more.
Like me.
I never had my fill of you,
And now I know that I never will,
Because there are little tomato bugs eating you up,
Close to you in a way I never could be,
Not because you love them,
But because you love what they do to you.
My morning glory.
You didn’t like the loving. You hated it.
When I was done, you’d stumble off to the bathroom and take a shower,
An ice cold quickie before you went off to your next job.
And the only reason you kept coming back was because I paid the best.
Nobody else paid enough.
Nobody else loved you enough.
And now when you’re here, wilting, I’m the only one there.
It’s like an airport terminal waiting for a plane to go Mongolia.
Everybody and their mother’s on the plane for Beijing,
And they don’t seem to realize that Mongolia’s the exact same thing, only without the ridiculous merchandise.
Because everybody’s following the story of some tragic little bald girl,
And they don’t seem to realize that what’s happening to the religious kid is happening to the sacrilegious woman, as well.
Nobody’s following your story, my morning glory.
Nobody except for me, and I don’t really count anymore.
I’m a worthless Romeo.
I can’t even go down, down in flames,
Not like Dan Wilson.
Not like Buddy Holly.
No, I’ll take a cold shower like you used to, and then leave the windows open.
I’ll probably die of pneumonia, like Angelo Pignati.
Because I’m not one to drink or stab myself to death.
I think myself to death with the irony of what’s happening.
The irony. The iron-IE. The iron.
I kill myself with IRON-y.
And that’s only fitting.
Because Juliet stabbed herself through the heart and Romeo drank poison,
And it’s only proper that you die in this dramatic, touching way,
And I die like a rat in a lab.
Screaming on the inside, humming on the outside,
Counting down the seconds until I’m finally with my morning glory again.
My morning glory. My glory. Glory. Gory. My gory morning glory.
My love.
