Angel or Monster, or Both

Our sweet (and deadly) Rommy invited us to play with angels and monsters and poetry. I was all for it, of course. I mean, she quoted the greats (Buffy, Psycho) to remind the world that “I’m the thing monsters have nightmares about”, that “We all go a little mad sometimes.” So, here is my poem *wild giggles and delicious cackles*.

.
Choose to be
angel or monster, or both—
be a miracle, or The Thing
nightmares run screaming from.

Go a bit mad, break bones
to soul music that inspires
wise children and old fools
to tolerate tamed liberals
and life-drunk poets.

Be a rebel—
love Star Trek and Star Wars
equally (if it makes you happy),
be the queerest adventurous
conservatively wild spirit:

different is beautiful,
identical is gorgeous,
choice is best…

…choose to be.

.
the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Of Angels and Monsters, hosted by our Rommy dearest. She asked us to choose a quote and create a poem. But since I was feeling extra rebellious, I used four of the given quotes… and threw one of my blackouts into the mix (yeah, I am bad to the bone):
“I’m the thing monsters have nightmares about.” ~ Buffy the Vampire Slayer
“‘Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!’” ~ Dracula
“One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel.” ~ Doctor Who
“We all go a little mad sometimes.” ~ Psycho
– While proofreading this mildly wild piece, I noticed the phrase “the thing”, thought of the movie by the same name, and felt the urge to capitalize the words. Seriously, no serious poem would ever be complete without Star Trek, Star Wars and The Thing in it. This has been science fictionally proven, seriously.

The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.