unfeeling Thursday

by Melanie Ducharme

Cold hearted, unfeeling, they call that frigid… or call me a bitch. What do they know? I sink to my knees with a need that no one bothers to look through my purpling skin to see. But for now… when will I feel heat? In this deep freeze. The heat that wakes me at 3am. The heat passion lust night day morning eat breathe heat. That heat. To fill my skin with something else wouldn’t be enough. The skin that needs. Insensitive to all that could wrongly try to fill your shoes. Heat.

Lovely Doll.

Lovely Doll
Lovely little doll, daughter, sitting on the velvet couch. the daughter with the dark eyes sitting there digesting every action. (“but she’s so quiet!”) never spoke unless spoken to. Oh what a good little fucking angel I was. wanting to spit in the face of authority that shrunk my insides, took the butterflies of life and spit out creeping cockroaches. the authority always taking my heart.

the little anorexic-looking ballet girl dressed the way Mom intended at age 9,10,11,12, 13. doing/saying (mostly) what was expected of me. swallowing it all – chocking. Oh what a fucking little angel in pink, wishing to explode, to express those untold words, worlds that I could barely keep under my tongue. Oh what an up roar when I wore men’s clothes: “I thought I had a daugher!”

Oh and my anger/upset feelings are of no concern, as a matter of fact I was told to “be quiet,” as I always am if I express any emotion that is too excited. (what a moody little girl at age 32.) just medium emotions here, we don’t do any extreme of emotion that would be too… eh, extreme. that would be having an opinion, that would mean I have one, that I matter, that I think – have the gaul to think I matter, to exist. to exist as something other than a play doll that came from my mother’s womb. that would mean I do more than what I am told, that would mean I think! thinking would make me a person who reasons, who has butterflies in her tummy for things that maybe matter to me. that have personal symbolization. I’d be human! I’d err. I’d also kick, scream, laugh, cry, reel, fuck, breathe. I’d be a puzzle to unravel and that would mean I was more than a doll, dressed like a ballerina, twirling when you wind the music box

hunger pains

I have almost completed what I was starting to consider my arch-nemesis of an art piece.. I’m calling it “the beauty processes” after all those essays I had written about the subject at hand. The finishing touches have finally brought the whole thing together opposed to bringing right to the landfill. Also, I finished that poem I attempted yesterday afternoon…

hunger pains
by Melanie Ducharme

this feeling, grows its obsessive little self every day. blossoms like a spring day in the gloom of January. everything alive and bustling to ignore: jewels glittering from their abundant limbs, silver lights through the dingy blinds, the pile of dishes in the sink, bed-sheet stained, the spiders freeze to their webs, a draft from an unknown source while nude… meanwhile, groping in moonlight looking for each others mouths to hunger after.

the sickness or lust wraps around mindful, unsuspecting hearts, lips push bodies against brick walls to fondle. no time to think about time – we toss it to the side like unwashed clothes.

piles up the mail, bills, the obnoxious little pitfalls of living without the host to ones’ desire. piles up on the thought processes. there’s only one thought: how to feed the hunger, itching, surfacing.

doomed or destined….

doomed or destined…
by Melanie Ducharme

I want to live in the movie still. If only one could capture a perfect day so perfectly on film! the intensity of colors. the feel of skin under fingertips. the blur of time passing. the feeling of kissing you. lips tug lips. the moment(s) that I take with me walking down tree lined streets, music buzzes around me. I feel you. all through me. you… and think, fuck. I’m smashed, like those girls from the 1800′s with their ‘romantic friendships.’ Or Anaïs and Henry: full of poetry, life, lust, love. I’m either doomed or destined….

the feel of being with you, I want to bottle it up for a rainy day. when the sun doesn’t glint off the asphalt. for a day when the dirty convenient store really looks dirty and the clerk too. I want to curl around the feeling of late afternoon kissing, the summer heat slowly lifting. the feeling of you there. kissing under tree lined streets, cars passing, life being life.. its all stopped for me…this moment.

numb dumb love

I haven’t wrote a poem in awhile, lately the only time I can is when I am almost beyond words and I’ve gone straight to impressions, images, feelings and such that are not easily described in sentence/paragraph form:

“numb dumb love”

standing on washington st. trying to achieve numb. trying to get past the desperation that lack of love leads to. I tell myself it won’t be only about just sex. i relive the dream of last night and the one before that – where the hell is that person?! the static on the other end of my cellphone, in real life. conversations drown in the fading daylight. just like everyone that promised something. fading. every second I stop and think makes me think I shouldn’t. sinking into the concrete. the heartbreak. the fool-heartedness of the dumb romantic hopes. dreams that mean jack-fucking-shit now.. in light of the now… somehow we/i still beat, breathe and wish.

earlier pain seems so far away speeding down 95, tears mixed with the sounds of rushing cars, wind, vision blurring, music blaring… always a sound to fall numb into. numb and yet rushing – rushing to nowhere really, there’s no one waiting. its the lovely lonely one a.m hour… the radio says, “i believe in a thing called love…” why do those that are so full of it, feel so full of shit? what’s the point of feeling if there’s empty rooms, singing to the radio, silent nights, trying to figure out one’s potential love life in a phone call to your best friend, standing on Washington St. feeling it all fall but not so much into place. the lack of hope, falls to my feet, gets crushed by the rush of cars.

I could use some luck potion, some love potion, some sort of charm. my charm has failed yet again. I think maybe this time – unfeeling – it should just be about sex. sex is easy. its everything else that gets in the way. if I’d had a concrete sinking to my knees chance.

detour

detour
by melanie ducharme

all the road signs point to “detour ahead.” pavement breaks my skull. jilted like a lover. breaking it off with your brain wave greed. you break me down, by the road signs. you thought lord over me. with a big faced thumb. back breaking stabbing gossip – wow! wow wee what fun!

the road sign says, “Jesus! still the answer!” when I/we/country hungry belly no money. we all break down on the side of the road. we call help, its not Jesus who comes. shit! that’s sucked. all this religion to zealot and your still jaded after all these bitch times.. bitch… bitch and moan. it only gets to be a more snooze alarm stories. whoring your monies like when you swing on a pole. still it doesn’t add up like you/i never seem to amount to the meat hooks in the grocery store. what’s human? failure. success. lets measure it by the bodies we excess…that’s the story.

I AM the failure you hoped for! you should be happy now, but you sit with a grim face humiliated by my sense of human. human race. i wasn’t purchased with a soul! what’s human? fish out in the desert. flounder, flip, I twist. how many are twisted up in this mess?! the numbers change with the date and time.

all the roads point to “dead end.” pavement breaks my skull. garbage gossip greed/lust for the green and power point presentations falls from your full lips. the hope (foolish) for one less crying night will be filled up with more stuff to cry about. one less person with feelings like a person – here’s your number: 1594563778g89909jkn – what you/i really am – memorize it. loser your soul. loser your not a breathe. don’t bother to breathe, but breed more to tango in this mess. loser your soul.

oooh a poem!

that girl

arrested by your charms.
a smile through crowded rooms…
deafening drums
clatter of bodies
beer fuzz
swelling lust
words stuck
stumble like a reeling fool rolling
on the beer soaked floor of dive bars at 12am
its that kind of heart skip of
oh if I could!
your smoldering eyes
that kind of look…

deep under the influence of
what that kind of a smile is…
crooked teeth
could later touching
crooked smile
could later be less than inches from me
with
bass lines thundering
fools rolling rollicking
talking their slurs
but your – we
we’re there
dark corners, keeping company.

poetry

*untitled*

like a song stuck inside: sound pattern, rhythm, loop-de-loop. lovely sweet, mid-weak sweating, sultry riddle? love the way you blur the truth, don’t I always love the blur? the dreamy white wash over the whole damn thing. makes it all the more pretty. stories go loop-de-loop. love the lovely glistening white, i see you inside my head. that’s where i pack you up. that’s where you stay. breathing a dreamy dream like it was all just yesterday.

did I ever mention?

did I ever mention?
by superfluous

Did I ever mention… love? The big scary word you only say if you don’t want to scare away the person who freely gives kisses and sex. I kept it beneath my ribcage, scared, sacred. inside my words. I kept it for myself afraid I’d scare you way away if I moved too too quickly. I loved the touch kiss passion unrelieved… I also loved you. I kept it to myself. so there.

After the fact, after the anger, hurt, I would’ve crumpled at your small feet for an apology. I was a fool for every piece of dust attention that could come to me via you. it does that, makes us all a fool, every minute with you, was the most perfect moment. every inattention was the worst moments of my life. I was something and nothing. an objective object.

I foolishly looked for you, waited for a word. how was it, it all happened? how was life there breathing, beating. It was a few months, that was it?! It felt like a lifetime, like the trip would never end. I thought we’d always be something, a something to each other. I loved the momentum when you made my world spin. The world stopped with the words “this isn’t going to work out…”

—–

*sore*

there seems to be nothing i can scream in beauty from the rooftops (that i wish i would’ve prior.) i may as well screw off and die. i may as well think of the ‘what if’s’ that hindsight forgets to tell you after the words come spewing out on the page. sitting there in black and white ten point type for the world to see what an asshole i can really be. what luck of the written word!

ssssssorry-sorryyyyy-sorrysorry-sssorry… i don’t deserve the second chance i beg for, yet i ask for it just the same. everything hurts and i can’t believe this hurt that i caused. i forget how to eat/sleep/smile. i’m a selfish bitch – now i’m sorry. alone and sorry.

curled up with music playing – it soothes with alcohol in the cut, doesn’t erase, doesn’t come prepackaged with an anti-depressant, or an apology. You can’t hear, won’t listen. i don’t blame you.i blame me: i can’t forgive and forget myself.