Monthly Archives: November 2010

charlotte

lyrics below in italics are from ‘going to morocco’ by the mountain goats

This never gets easier.
No matter how often it happens —
how glad you are it’s not someone else —
this never gets easier.
It’s terrible every time
and you’re an idiot for crying,
but you do it anyhow.
I’ve been waiting for the call:
my father’s voice at the end of the line,
How are you honey, you got a second…
But it doesn’t soften the blow.
I thought it would.

It’s not the thing itself that bothers you,
it’s the inevitability of the call:
the icy hand at the window,
the icy foot in your step.
It’s my mother’s voice betraying her worry.
It’s that one day,
I’ll be the one to make these calls.

You take my hand and lead me to the car.
You open the door and help me in.
You turn on the engine,
start driving us nowhere,
turn off the music,
watch me talk on the phone.
I’m just trying not to cry.
If this is what maturity is,
I’m hiding in your bed and never coming out.

There’s wetness in my eyes,
tracing lines on my sooty face.
You take my hand and kiss it.
I stutter and choke on my breath.
You touch my face and smile,
and then you begin to sing:

There’s no reason to cry.
There’s no reason to cry.
You can have a seat for a while.
Relax.
Smile.
But don’t touch that dial,
’cause there is no reason to cry.

The tears are coming quicker now;
your fingers reach to wipe them away.
I look up for your smile
and see more in your eyes.
You pull the car into a space
and unbuckle just to hold me:
not saying a word,
not pressing for more;
breath coming steady and keeping me close.
Wipe away my fear like you wipe at my eyes.
There’s snot on your jacket now,
but you say you don’t care.

There’s a guttural stop in my throat.
There’s a guttural stop in my throat.
The wind comes in from far and wide.
Sands blow.
Grains collide.
I’m changing inside.
And there’s a guttural stop in my throat.

Somewhere in a distant place,
it hits me that she’s gone.
And the knowledge comes:
I could be next.
My family,
my distant friends,
my everyone.
But you are the epitome of life:
your smile like being born again,
cleaner than I was before.
And in my newfound salvation, I look into your eyes,
and I have never loved anyone more in my life.

Mid-July 2007

© Charlie Pevensie

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{i’d like to write you}

I’d like to write you
a Valentine’s poem: with
steady lines of undying love
and quiet innuendo
so as to win your heart
(if I haven’t already done so).
And you would open up
your letter box on the Day of Love
to find my note —
written in red-gold, swirling
characters; with tiny
hearts dotting the ‘i’s
and the soft scent of perfume —
and you would smirk
at my immaturity.
And perhaps years from now
I’d be searching through
your desk, looking for
the electric bill, which is
always overdue, and I
would find that poem
and laugh.
And I would read it to you
melodramatically before the fire,
And we’d remember it all.

February 2005

© Charlie Pevensie

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by s. morgenstern; chapter one

he picked her up and settled her in the saddle
and they rode away on four white horses:
past the castle walls and up and out,
onto a hill in the setting sun:
kissing, laughing,
loving.
that’s bullshit, I thought.
bullshit
that doesn’t happen.
even in my six or seven years of life,
messy hair, messy shorts,
my innocence, my Kool-aid covered mouth,
even then I knew.
even while my best friend was sighing and singing,
‘can’t you just wait, sister? can’t you just die?’,
even then I knew.
there aren’t horses in real life,
not pretty white ones,
stamping hooves, shaking manes,
no horses to ride off majestic.
there aren’t castles to be rescued from,
evil princes driving away true loves.
there are pirates and giants,
pits of despair,
but true love doesn’t walk up and slap you on the back,
pull you into its arms,
sing you to sleep.
not in the Midwest.
you can find a cutie for a one-night fuck.
you can get married with your white picket fence.
you can have the dog and the little kids…
you can be comfortable in your life.
but the divorce rate is climbing
and the violence is growing
and sometimes it’s best just to hide.
so I hid.
and I hid.
for months and years at a time
up in the castle of my mind.
until I met you
with your white horse and your dark black mask.
and you smiled at me and told me to hope
hope for it
for you
for the evil princes and the castles and the hills,
feel that strange connection, that desire to just
be
just be
just be with me
and now I’m waiting for the sunset that’s never going to come
and that summer home in the fire swamp.
and despite the evil princes who keep rearing their ugly heads —
some uglier than others, I’ll willingly admit —
I still think there’s a Spaniard with a father to avenge
and,
sooner or later,
he’s going to pull you back to my prison
my false marriage to a false love,
my despair.
you’ll come find me in my bed chamber,
and pull the knife from my breast.
and we’ll hop on your horse and off we’ll go,
just like my best friend told me so.
and when we finally get to our hilltop,
when we’re finally alone,
the kiss we’ll have will never end.
and maybe then I’ll know.

4 April 2007

© Charlie Pevensie

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{your skin is down}

Your skin is down
………Soft
………………….Warm
Insulating you from the elements
………..Insulating me from the world,
…………………From wrongs,
…………………………..From things I want to forget but can’t,
……………………………………..I’ve tried, G-d help me they’re there
But not with you
Not when you look at me
…………Touch me
…………………..Offer a smile
Not when those words pop up again
……….Words I think constantly but can’t say
………………….Won’t say
Will you say them too?
Like you’ve said so many things?
I think I do
Me too
I think I will
Sweet Christ, I will!
Not yet no
Slow take it slow
You’ve got to make the moment last, just–
Those things fade
…………Fade with your laugh like dew
……………………………………………………………………….And sunrise
Metaphors are all I have to offer
At least when those words stay pinned
Pinned underneath you
………..Bubbling up as I watch your face
………………….Blushing face
…………………………..Brows furrowed
……………………………………Eyes lidded
…………………………………………….Lips parted
………………………………………………………..Yes
I think
Yes
This is it
I’m in Heaven
Running with you
So fast they can’t see us
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….Catch us
Stop what’s happening
So fast they won’t hear my words
So you can say them back:
……Kiss me again
………………Hold me
……………………………………Fill my insides with your sentiments
No voyeurs here
Not tucked between us
……………………In the clouds
Behind the Gate
………………….Not again
……………………………’Cause when we passed by St Peter a minute ago,
…………………………………………His smile was so perverted.

20 May 2006

© Charlie Pevensie

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torso

author’s note: this is what i like to call a ‘school girl crush’ poem. i’ve always thought it needs some sort of trite pop melody behind it, but i like it anyway. — c.p.

You’re making it easy,
contagious,
appealing, at that.
The tone of your voice.
The tip of your hat.
You’re making it simple,
incredibly succinct.
But I don’t have the choice
that others might think.
I don’t have her —
whoever she is —
that other one waiting
just off in the wings.
I don’t have that
that troubling past
that waits there and wonders
and draws me back.
I’ve started over
and with heavy steps:
I’ve shed off the sticky-sweet
otherness.
My life is stagnant,
my hands are tied —
the energy slows
and sleeps inside.
If you’d ask, I’d fall with you:
fast and hard
and down the shoot.
My eyes are bright,
I’ve nothing to lose.
I’ll sit aside
and wait for you.
And if you never come to me,
I’ll know that I at last am free:
because those words,
that tone, those eyes
have stamped a mark
on both our lives.

Early December 2006

© Charlie Pevensie

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boxing day

I sit in your car at a quarter to three
and listen to your words.
They cling to my ears like frost on the lawn
and I soak them up with the sun.
Each letter I take & bottle up,
sew it into the seams of my stitched-up heart:
a collection they cannot take or break
for I store it deep inside.
I ring up a friend somewhere in Ohio
as I wander the streets of a post-Christmas town.
You’ll never believe what he’s telling me
and she doesn’t, but somehow she knows that it’s true.
I can’t shake off this feeling inside:
this itching and crawling at the tip of my spine.
I can’t forget the look on your face
each time one of us has to go.
The light in your eyes darkens and dims
as a name saddles the curve of your lip.
It tastes of poison and stinks of dirt
piled up six-foot-high in the earth.
I listen and think far back in my mind
I have to be with you the rest of my life;
There’s something you’ve got I’ve been trying to find…

I purse my lips and swallow my tongue.
Don’t say it now, don’t fess up:
as long as I stay with you in this car,
nothing need go further than where we are.

26 December 2006

© Charlie Pevensie

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