A selection of my best poems

The train blow

I heard the train blow its whistle this morning. Louder than ever before. Loud like it was trying to blow someone off the train tracks. I can imagine the lost wanderer. Tired of haunting the broken-down railway stations. He’s done, he thinks of himself. he decidied it a few hours ago when he finally deserted his sack by the side of the tracks. His only firned on the lonely nights for as long as he can remember. He had taken it off a dead man. One day years ago, back when his beard was still trimmed and every city didn’t look and smell and feel all exactly alike. Bak then, when life still held some purpose. He remembers those days fondly. He closes his eyes. The last sound. The mighty smoke stack barreling down his back.


The Girl Who Looked Like She Needed Two Boyfriends

By Burnt Paper Girl
 – Based on a true story

Her hair was bright pink
Her eyes were deep blue
How she liked to think
And make veggie stew

She adored this boy
His name was Andy
He made things from soy
He was real dandy

They were both quite content
Both perfectly fine
Their love – heaven sent
Like strong blood red wine

But then one dark day
Walking to her car
Some boys were at play
They chased her real far

They wanted a kiss
On the hand or lips
She was their princess
With small slender hips

But “No!” she cried out
”I love my Andy!
For he is devout
And tastes like candy.”

”That doesn’t matter.”
One little boy said,
”He is much fatter
And I wish him dead!”

So Annie (our girl)
Drove away real fast
Wishing she could hurl
Some bombs from Belfast

She laughed as she sped
Away from those boys
Her cheeks were quite red
From their kissing ploys

The point of this tale
Is easy to see
Never trust a male
Who is three foot three!


by Burnt Paper Girl

Dreams spill from your lips, caramel sweet in their center. I can’t see where they fall but I imagine them pooling together on the floor, gathering in the corners and hiding together under the bed. They shine like piquid gold, or at least what I imagine a gold lammé evening dress would look like if it were liquified. I try to scoop some up in my fingers, to try and stuff them into my pockets so I can sift through them like spare change later on, once you’re far away again. I can’t concentrate when the words are around, when they drip from your open mouth. They glimmer in the corner of my eye, sometimes sidling quickly away when I look directly at them
You words, they weren’t always this way. At times they were like frozen razors, traipsing their way across my arteries. In the beginning they started a wildfire that grew from somewhere in my belly and spread to the tips of my ears and toes. They could be like vines around my wrists, or like an ankle-biting hungry cat. They could be so many things for me.
I stop and remember to listen to what those shining dreams are. They’re so beautiful it never seems to matter that they never solidify. Just that they were spoken is enough. I wonder which one of your brain whorls they came from. Which chemical reacted with what nerve to create such hopeful poetry.
Your eyes grow darker when you go on like this, as if what you say must tap all of your brightness to become a reality. Can one person be a limitless source of such magic though? Like a restaurant breadbasket – there might be a pause before it’s replenished, but there always seems to be more Tesla? This is more than I wanted to say. It would seem that your verbal glitter has weaved its way to my hand, to my fingers, leading them through the loops and swirls of putting pen to page. This effort alone will keep my own breadbasket empty for days.