August 1998
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Poetry Page

JACK

I sit on the shores of Lake Michigan,
watching the azure meld with the blue,
marred only by the sight of a sewage treatment plant.
If I had a cigarrette,
the scene would be complete.
If only I smoked.
My thoughts turn to her.
I wonder if she'd like this too,
or if the chill of the Hawk coming off the lake would be too much for her?
I wonder if she'd catch the palette of blues,
or would she just see water?
I wonder if she'd even stay with me,
out here in the December cold.
Yeah, a cigarrette would complete the scene.
I'd be like Jack Kerouac
and she, well, she'd be herself.
I'd fill her with the sights I've seen
and the tales I've learned.
She'd listen,
giving me attention, devotion,
and if I'm lucky,
love.
But I'm not Jack and she's not here.
And I'll have to play my own paramour,
as things may be.
Ah well, the problem with reality is that you can't change it.
Maybe I should start smoking...

By Eric Patton


POOR ASSHOLE

I donít care to know
what goes on
in that head of yours
logic skewed 
in my direction
the bars 
are snapped
you canít laugh
on my lap
donít cry on my pillow
or shed blood 
through my tears
sorry you want to die
too bad about your mom
sucks that they all hate you
i donít care
your mistakes are yours
yours to keep
you made them 
hate you
its what youíve 
always wanted
to use
abuse
break trust
step on people
like an old gum wrapper
left in the rain
to rot and disintegrate
if you see my eyes
my brown eyes
red with blood
it is hatred 
it is anger
resistance to your
messed up head
to your undying charm
and your faceless grace
I donít love you
you arenít love
just a little boy
with issues
as your lover put it
I donít feel sorry 
not for how he put it
he just did
what all of us
have been waiting
to do
since the day
we all heard you
sound your sirens
at our innocent ears
how could we know 
what lay
beneath your 
doc marten soul

poor shriveled man
poor heart of coal
poor
poor
poor
poor
poor asshole

By Julie Wernau


SEEING CRIMSON

shudder at the circus tent
ominous green trollop
it's understandable
your likeness in the mirror
screaming obscenities at your quivering body
Cracker Jacks fly through the air
as a spider tip toes across your finger tips
splatter the man like a Pollock painting
tripping through meadows
that's all it ever was
one big wet dream under the sheets
how was Santaís lap my dear?
did you enjoy the monstrosity?
it's dark inside this little shed
sweat dripping through  my motherís tomb
black mascara scars that face
shattered nails wander through the scene
sinking, biting, crushed
to oblivion
whereís the mistletoe?
kiss the tempting cherry of passion
Iíll bite your tongue and make it bleed
you follow my disguise
do you see that doll of a face?
reach up and grab hold of the crimson lining
a sliver of hope
in a motionless world
never turning
and yet always going
and so you go little girl

By Julie Wernau


The Single Girl

                  Smile, nod, giggle and flip my hair back behind my ear

                        High heels, short skirts and lipstick

                        Tiny little self depreciating comments

                               Witty and obscure

                        Quick glances and false expressions

        Twisting and weaving my way throught the ambigious conversation

                        As astute as an international spy

                   Mock jealousy and the tiniest displays of affection

                           Mirroring what I really want

                         But never, never giving it all away

                      Batting my eyelashes, playing hard to get,

              Inventing a sense of mystery that was never really there

                    Flirting and teasing in a game that never ends

                     I've been abandoned in the land of the single

                       and I want to find my own way out again

By Nicole McDougall


Satan

The end is near
Fire all around me
People's screams fill the air
He rises from the ashes
	Smiling gleefuly
His voice booms over the screams
His gaze rests on me
What does he want?
Burning inside
I cry out
Why me?
Again his booming voice pounds my head
	'Cause you don't fear me.

By Hunter

Editor's Note: That poem was really lame. Why do I put this stuff in?


RAIN

In my hand I hold the rain.
I hold the sorrow, fear, and pain.
In my hand I hold the key;
To a broken eternity. 
In my hand I hold something not whole.
For in my hand I hold my soul.
My eyes are cold and hollow,
And fading far away.
They seem to call to everyone "Don't talk to me today!"
And as my head starts slumping, 
slowly to the ground,
No trace of my existance can or will be found.

By Stephanie E. Gee

Editor's Note: That poem was really lame. Why do I put this stuff in?


Do you have poetry?

Send it on in! It can be romantic, heart-warming, humorous, or epic--we dont care! But if it makes the cut, you'll see it in the next issue of The Shrubbery. E-mail it to submit@theshrubbery.prohosting.com

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