Hola reflexivo amigos,
I wish I had some exciting adventures to share with you, but as of late, I haven’t been up to all that much (beyond writing, as you will discover below).
One thing I have been doing is falling deeply and irrevocably in love with Jane The Virgin. The first season was released on Netflix, and I decided to try it out and see if I would enjoy it. I honestly cannot think of words to describe how much I love this show. I love every character, I love every story, and I can hardly go a day without an episode. I have an extra special place in my heart for Rogelio, because I’ve honestly never identified so much with a character in my entire life. He is perfect. They are all so perfect. Please, do something nice for yourself and watch this show, and don’t forget to come back in a few months to my blog, when I’m several years late on falling in love with the next hit show that Netflix uploads.
In other, and less blissful news, I have been working on my previously mentioned novel, and when I say working on, I mean sighing over the same few pages or so, procrastinating, and them returning to the sighing, due to me being unsure of just how cruel I can be to my own creations. I would have given up with the whole thing, but I’ve been writing it since 2012, and I really should see it through. I’ve been with this mess of a novel longer than I’ve ever been in a relationship, which is both lovely, and horrifying. I’m not even sure if we love each other anymore. We’re just together for the kids. It is what it is.
The thing is, I know it could be good, or at least half decent, if I could just decide on an ending and get it all together. I have genuinely considered just doing a choose your own adventure style ending, but I don’t think that quite fits with the seriousness of the rest of the story.
Anyway, enough about my
marital novel writing problems, and onto some poetry, which you can find below the cut.
COME FIND ME
I ran, marred by stupid heels and break up blues.
I tripped on us, inhaling your bad attitude, like cocaine,
until I saw stars in the flaccid fallacy you fed,
and a unicorn sprung from the sky, to tell me that I still loved you.
Yet, I ran, through clichéd clearings, my corpses hanging from the trees,
swinging back and forth, gazing doe eyed at the past.
The credits cracked in the sky as the moon sighed and said,
“Move on, kiddo. Move on.”
Never seen a fiercer lily,
but his house has the best you’ll meet.
The world peeks through the windows,
at the middle fingers of his projects.
They line up for his inspection,
the doors have trembled, all night long.
He’s on the floor, dolls, pristine.
Be careful with his paint work, look, don’t touch.
I’d seen you so many times, on torn down trees,
surrounded by perfect, pencilled snow,
and inside you, empty holiday hopes.
It wasn’t until I saw you cross the street,
surrounded by serendipity,
that my hopes became full, for the first time.
Be True To Your School
Be true to your school,
where your old body lies,
and the narrative lies,
that those were the best days of our lives.
Be true to your school,
those days of the past,
the time that has passed,
and when we hurt each other last.
Be true to your school,
the things that you read,
in a uniform red,
bathroom wall slander, was nothing, in the end.
Geography escaped me,
until I found myself languishing,
locked inside you.
but suddenly, I saw the world.
Technicolour, the earth flashed,
haunted by language I had longed for,
I can’t speak,
but I’ve learned all the key phrases.
stripped my new countries of their beauty,
End of days,
when our kiss ends, and you leave me.
It’s time. Curtain up. Me down.
Not quite yet, not tonight.
I had more seasons planned out,
don’t cancel me.
I’ve hit the ground, in the sky.
The fatal finale.
No sweeps week kiss, or spin off.
Off air in ten.
I cling to the battling boots,
dragging myself to doom.
I always wanted the lights,
but not like this.
Slow Ballads And Solitude
We sit at the window.
Together, but apart.
Me, just where I’ve always been.
You, an ocean and an ex wife away.
The blankets do nothing for me,
but our last kiss warms my bones,
and has yours in the air.
I’d call out, into the streets,
filled with their own heartbreak,
but my voice is tired of me,
so silent tears suffice.
I’m running out of times to say that I’m running out of time.
That was just distraction,
like the exclusive club of boys I’d never look twice at,
that inexplicably got a third look,
and the sculptures of staples,
on my excuse for a desk.
and I’ll probably fall,
when the waves in my ear,
that are sometimes my heartbeat,
tip me over,
and I am pinned by the limits of my balance.
I don’t even have time for all this,
because I’ve so much to do,
and yet so little need to do it.
It’s all been done,
by someone before me who thought they were your first.
I get far more done,
when I just do nothing.
Sean (Who Hated To Be Called The Sheep)
Eleven, and still learning.
We trudged to council estate Eden,
we loved to be well to do,
even though we didn’t know what to do.
We’d picked up the made up kids,
played house for years before it was cool,
behind the bike shed wedding,
but no kisses, please. That’s for the bad kids.
We learned to love in fiction,
before the tracing paper divorce.
We each took a kid, and wept.
The passionate shepherdess lost her sheep.
Nice Girl Noir
Your mind lives in the iTunes alt charts,
quotes you wish you lived by.
Where did it go wrong? Being just fine.
It’s all fine, get out your brushes,
paint pain where you wish it hid,
so you have something to scream.
Steal from Stephen, nice girl noir,
life did a bunk, when you thought you tailored over the Taylor,
and you’re playing catch up, with thrift store ennui.
Swallow the thesaurus, and what the world said it wanted,
until you find it, behind the boas that mock you, from the mirror.
Write back where you started from.
On the upside, or the downside, I am still breathing.
You have to cling to something, to survive.
Oh yes, I clung. I always do.
When you sautéed my soul,
hung my heart from hallowed gallows,
eviscerated my essence.
Oh, yes. I cried. I always do.
I cried and clung, but I lived.
I cried and clung, but I breathed.
I still will, even when neither of us wishes it so.
I thought my heart couldn’t break through into yours,
and so I went to the beach,
where our minds first kissed,
and I tore it from myself.
Threw it into the sea.
Did you see?
Watched it sink,
kicking down the waves,
into the rising tide,
as the sun fell in shock,
at what a day it had been.
my quiet, careful love,
when you dived in,
after my tired but true heart,
and kissed it like never before.
Holistic hostility, unintended.
I’ve healed and I’ve ailed.
My crayon doctor degree,
isn’t meant for use.
I wanted to fix myself,
paper patch up,
years of silence leaks downward,
into a room of relation.
Tipped red over tragedy,
dip your brush in death,
make a macabre mural.
The truth cried in court.
The truth chased you out.
The truth never darkened your dismal, dirty door.
As Long As She Needs Me To Need Her
I’ll never tell her that I love her.
It isn’t my place, no matter how much she insists.
I was never here to play hero,
and carry her to soft, safe sunsets.
I’ll be the one who sends her,
to the one she deserves,
but I’ll make the misery she craves,
for her magnum opus first.
As silver sped, I almost stepped,
no accident, not even instinct,
just the most despairing, despised desire,
that’s most unlike me, so they say.
I couldn’t find peace, underneath that car,
but I’m running low on places to look.
Dear Mr Dandelion
You couldn’t be kind enough,
to almost hit me with your car.
You’re just not that kind of man,
and the cruelty kept me keen.
I heard it, on crackling needle,
from darling Judy, at the party,
cross legged across from the embers,
that would grow into fan girl flames.
I’ll send my love, first class,
with tear stained terms of endearment.
Please, when I wait, silent outside your studio,
won’t you send me a smile in return?
La Otra Mujer
Awake by ten.
Shame comes out in the wash,
but I’ll wear the blame,
like the diamonds from our last siniversary.
I have messages, and I have mess.
I fix my face and hit the streets,
each regret placated by the pavement,
the only one who doesn’t look at me,
like I’ve just shot a dog on periscope.
I want to call you,
but I mustn’t call you,
and tempt fate,
collapsing into your voice mail,
entangled in the runaway reverie,
I know has already unravelled.
We kissed the castles into the air,
furnished our fanciful notion,
then the lightning lens struck,
and you pushed me into the moat.
Staring contest with the pavement,
to collect a morning paper,
tear the paparazzi picture from the front,
for our bastard child’s scrapbook.
© Jennifer Juan 2016