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Marina Bessel Poem
i raise to you a glass, my dear -
of sour lemon juice
you've gone from me at last, my dear -
ah yes, i love you too
your sticky flesh on everyone, excluding me -
so kind
and the odor of mixed sweat and rum -
the marks on your behind
he hit, my dear? and who is he? -
or rather, who are they...
that bind their lips to your thin lips -
a bountiful buffet
enjoy, enjoy! oh tasty treat! your withered body -
spoiling meat
i'd have strangled you in the midst of night -
if not your smell so sweet
that's all, my dear, i bid adieu -
in hopes you'll see this from my view
and take the time to really read this love poem
just for you
and take the time to burn in hell -
this Requiem's for you
Copyright © Marina Bessel | Year Posted 2005
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Marina Bessel Poem
how could i have missed you?
you sat on the same bench
in the same clothes
in the same park
for eternity.
but nowhere in the million years that i ran my errands:
walk my dog
walk my kids to school
walk myself to work
did i consciously perceive you.
you were hidden behind frost-glazen branches
of a tree i could have sworn did not exist.
your faded yellow paint-peel covered jacket
was justified by a bench bare in patches.
the first day you weren't there,
my eye caught the empty bench
and i realized something was wrong.
and i wracked the crevices of my brain for an answer
and only then did i remember you:
the stillness of your contemplating face
in need of creme and a razor.
i blushingly realized that all this time
i had been intruding on your property,
walking in your park.
i'm sorry... i did not mean to disturb.
but you never returned since that fateful day,
and i wonder if the park
the soil
Nature
absorbed you, grasped you to its bosom.
and i wish that i had seen you
while you were still there.
trust me, i would have walked over to say hello
and asked you what you were thinking
remembering
understanding.
Copyright © Marina Bessel | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Marina Bessel Poem
You asked me to paint you a picture
Remember?
I laughed at the cliché but asked you what of
And you said: Anything.
As long as the Earth serves as the canvas
And succulent red raspberries the paint.
Remember when we took our clothes off?
After the berries collected in a hand-woven basket
The firmest ones you had ever seen, you said:
How beautiful it will be to paint a picture
A magnificent, natural creation
Remember?
Later that evening, we created the paint
We stood, pressed together, in that raggedy basket
And one at a time, we lifted our feet
And stomped them back down, up and down, up and down
Remember how disappointed you with the deep puddle of red?
Not vibrant, not viscid, or deep enough, you said
Remember? Because that’s the last I remember.
Remember coming back to consciousness
Under the muddy boot of... thirty-five years the sheriff
And never had he experienced something so frightening
Armed and ready, he let you stand, and you got to your feet,
Feet stained with a deep, bright red
Remember?
You gazed at the ground and spotted your creation and you
Remembered everything, and you were finally pleased
The Earth before you displayed an arresting painting
A viscous red pigment maneuvered into excellent designs
So beautifully contrasted against the freshness of the brown soil
Your natural, magnificent creation
Your paintbrush had been a knife
And my body, your hand-woven basket
There I lay: tattered, torn, raggedy
And you thanked me for painting you a picture
Remember?
Copyright © Marina Bessel | Year Posted 2005
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