2:17 pm.
Two Seventeen in the Post Meridiem.
December 19th.
That single minute was all it took
To single-handedly arrest my façade;
My safe house of pretending,
And greedily swallow the key.
The hands of the clock
Grasping for something more than ticks silly - tocks mundane
Decanted its truth-potion
Into my ears.
A choir of soothsayers,
A rapier spitting bitter water,
The viscous greying yolk unfurling on my hair
That flushingly frustratingly furiously simple statement:
“You live a life of indifference.”
I wasn’t always so blasé
No no no no no
I remember when I could light up rooms –
Somewhere between the sultry yellow of a naked bulb
And the illicit giggles of a jay’s electric spark.
I was the life. I was the party. I was the fucking maraschino cherry.
My voice shimmying like miniature glass wisterias,
Effervescent petals playing footsie with each other,
“Clink” “Clink” “Clink”
Sending a toast to the ever-lasting night of my elan.
I used to leap off the swing and into the air – skirt above my head,
I used to pilfer petty drugstore chocolates and smile toothy with lips sincere,
I used to recite Proust and Pushkin before painting the town leather red,
I used to look up at the stars and wonder. Actually genuinely wonder.
The times they change, or so they say,
I know that I did regardless.
Then
Secret grins ignited contraband ice cream cones,
Virgin laughs were tasted before tearing through the ether
Now
Sheepish shrugs adorn the moments; gracing them with perfect reticence,
Vapid exclamations bedeck the uproar… the pure white noise aloof.
It’s hilarious isn’t it?
How the little act of being carded past the age of 35 can spark so much
Most would have silly sambaed out of the 7-11
But Melissa?
Oh, I realized that I really didn’t care.
Author notes
Audition piece for Melissa.
A contest entry
- AUDITION WITH YOUR POETRY - A POETRY 'PLAY' 18 + by Dalaney.
525 points, ended August 31, 2007, 13 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - POETRY OF HONORABLE MENTION ONLY by Three Doves.
300 points, ended September 5, 2007, 40 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - For the love of god CONFUSE ME by h202.
450 points, ended February 10, 2008, 64 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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if this is how you write at only 16 years of age i can't wait till you get older ha
i mean at your age i was still writing pretty simple straight forward writes.. so wow... this is impressive.
"Somewhere between the sultry yellow of a naked bulb
And the illicit giggles of a jay’s electric spark.
I was the life. I was the party. I was the fucking maraschino cherry.
My voice shimmying like miniature glass wisterias,
Effervescent petals playing footsie with each other,
“Clink” “Clink” “Clink”"
damn good bunch of lines there.
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Thank you for entering the contest and best wishes.
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Really impressive writing!
Line upon line of entertaining images that made me smile! 
I could just imagine you, as you describe it so beautifully! 
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Glass wisterias? You're a fucking word-alchemist, Demetra. This piece is radiant with some of the most inventive imagery you've ever employed. Not only that but your wording is fucking hypnotic.
used to leap off the swing and into the air – skirt above my head,
I used to pilfer petty drugstore chocolates and smile toothy with lips sincere,
I used to recite Proust and Pushkin before painting the town leather red,
I used to look up at the stars and wonder. Actually genuinely wonder.
God how fucking heart-wrenching not only in the wrought vividness of its contents but in the pure dirge-melody of its cadence!
Demetra, you are- at heart- a creature of drama. Hence when you are building a character- you are at your absolute finest. I see this woman being sculpted out of stale-lipstick and preperation H under the eyelids before my very eyes. She is complete- she is dashing- and most wonderfully, she's consistent. She's real, Demetra- as you or I. I imagine crawling into the skin of so many heroines and villanesses over the years has given you quite the ability- somewhere between prose and play- Proust and Pinter- there is your work. I am madly fucking in love with you
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Beaming... yet again.
Pintor? I'm afraid I am a bit ignorant of that name. Care to elucidate? -
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Sorry darling, Pinter. Harold Pinter. The playwright who believed silences were the key to the most brilliant pieces of drama.
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brilliant
brilliant brilliant brilliant use of the word decant.
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Why thank you kind sir.
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