don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~

<>

that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain

I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing

slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed

give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity

then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
our futures becoming
our pasts

11:07am
19-9-30

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https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i2­39c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB

Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls  in 4 languages. 4 squalls in  once was a plage
their dancing  flames asked me to come closer

I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting  (reminded me of a  fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers  solidly sat speechless.  Sleepless.

The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater.  130 years later the odor of its curators  
I ran closer. I fell.  I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way.  I did not care.

When I arrived  the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated  into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil  
For a second  they transformed into torches again.  One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.

The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.

:  come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward  embracing fairy arms  
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)

So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach  pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all.  Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same  words : Keep up the struggle .  Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town

Chattering calls  in 4 voices.   4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless.  Pointless.  



(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )

i
you are dreaming: dreaming about your brother in spirit, brother in arms, you two sides of the one coin, him without his name but in every other way all the same. oh my brother, hiding in a hotel room with no windows, speaking in tongues, speaking in nadsat—dreaming of bowing your head to him, bearing your neck. if it is dissatisfying to you, cut it off.

ii
here it is perfectly silent. your mouth moves without a single sound and the fish clean away every trace of your blood: their gills tremble, inwards, outwards, endless; their scales shine like the moon upon the surface. you are born today into a monstrous world, a better world, and Lilith's womb ends at the shoreline—seaweed entangles itself round your ankles, the last despairing traces of an umbilical cord, sixteen years late. if it is dissatisfying to you, cut it off.

iii
serpent, sink your teeth into the apple of Adam; his throat wields to your fangs like the tired breath of a lingering lovers mouth. his hands are rough but your skin is rougher. today, Eve laid down asleep under your bones, your heart beats its last. everyone you have loathed is forgiven. everyone you have loved is not. but forget theology for a moment. you are dreaming. you are dreaming, and the rush of a thousand years of rain around you is your wakeup call—in your navel collects an ocean, in your eyes is painted a storm. civilisation on fast-forward sets up between your bones. sorrow makes a home of your heart. ashes to ashes, water to blood: if it is dissatisfying to you, stand and let it die.

My thoughts are dazed…
Claustrophobic and hazed.
I’m exhausted and unamazed,
Fatigueness of some kind, low from the natural high.
Thoughts in my mind are delusive and unkind.
Dizzy and feeling quite fizzy
Not in the mood for studying, excitement, and fun.
Sitting by my lonesome self just writing what I can process.
Head feels heavy, got me feeling a bit queasy
Uneasy
Zoned out and lost in my thoughts
Sun is out and the wind is harsh…
It’s skin prickling and dissatisfying.
My exhaustion is sickening.
Absolute death and no reason
No fret
But anguished in my enclosed mind
But no threat…

System overkill
Discredit and disregard
Explain but disagree and make it hard
Exhalation and permutation
Loss of existence and clouded perception

Obsessive minds and sniffed up lines
Excessive amounts and numbers you cannot even count.
Broken, ripped, torn, and outwardly worn.
A lost ghoul, selfish, and for more you mourn.
Poor and dead, not yourself, completely blacked out and unconscious in bed.

Overdosed on the ******’ pills, suicide attempts never work…
Let the meds pour…
Gone, so gone…
Just let the meds pour...

The light dims.
The fire dies.
Darkness fills in the blanks.
Sweet release.
Tears against my cheek.
Now met with the dissatisfying drought.
Left alone in desolate cold.
Fear overwhelms.
Not fear of monsters or the simple unknown.
Fear that when my eyes grow heavy I will never lift them again.
I will become a stone.
Unmoved and cold.
To survive these nights alone.

Why employ an ordinary word
When an extraordinary one
Excels?

Let us wed, let us vow,
Henceforth, let us never
Wish ourselves away plain humbly,
Goodbye.

Let us end our day,
Bid our lovely comings,
The tragedy of our departures
With a gentling
Fare thee well.

In the company of the dawn,
Let us greet the one
Who lies besides us a stirring,
Not with merest hello, morning or
The accursed howareyou,
Replace haste with a deliberate
Welcome, well comely,
To this newborn day!

Tho do confess,
That like numerous others
Who have counted the ways,
There is no sweetener substitute for
I love you.

I will n'ere address thy grace
With appellation dissatisfying of "girl"
When woman suits thee best,
With all its attendant glories.

Should we encounter upon the street,
Address me as man,
For of that word I am a fan,
But say it not with routine irrelevance,
But in tones of softest reverence,
For I am not a child or dude,
A sir or sire, a mister mister,
But I am a man.

Our lives are not a game of chance,
Yet chance aplenty do we countenance.

Having stumbled, fallen into a subterranean,
A place where I know thee well
But likely not your face, your visage,
Thy honest name,
Accept these excelsiors as mine
Poeming opening gambit,
My closing statement,
Summary of the that, that has and yet to pass
Between us:

Peace be upon you.

The moment my eyes locked with his green depths, I wept.
I tried to hide my instant reaction to my extreme attraction but a fraction of a quiver coated my speech as I reached,
inconspicuously, to smooth out my jeans.

Sweat gleamed on my skin as the room started to spin beneath my feet.
I took a seat across from him, careful not to sit too close,
for I didn't want him to know how fast
my heart was beating beneath my clothes.

Woah, a spark started humming in my tummy, strumming a chord
that cut into my heart as deep as a double edged sword.
Breathy air bequeathed from my teeth as I held my ground.
Soundless beads of sweat zig zagged down my brow.

I frowned, "This is delusional", I thought to myself.
How many times have I been duped into thinking that
I could be even an inkling of what a man like him
dreams of and wants in a girl.

My churlish attitude certainly isn't intriguing.
I'm blight with below average height.
Freckles invade every inch of my skin.
Sinful words escape my lips as common as the air I breathe.
I seethe with anger, as if second nature.
I bicker with my sisters.
My hair is thin and flaccid.
I'm plastered with fake smiles
and encased in pallid, pale skin that sits grimly on my bones.
Groans are constantly escaping my throat as I complain.
I'm a grain of the being I once dreamt I could be.
I reek of desperation for some love or attention
that I've been seeking for since my contraception.

Yet, I still foolishly yearn for his mutual attraction.
There's an insolent fraction of hope that invades my heart and
fogs my smarts, blurring the truth.
**** my indiscretion is showing my youth.

So I do what I do best, I hide myself behind my wall.
I stall real conversation with humor, almost in a drunken stupor
I act as if I have nothing to offer.
For my offer is inadequate even to the loveless romantic.

I'm not a cynic, I'm a realist and realistically
I'm informed on the fact that I'm whacked in the mind
and my dissatisfying outer appearance does
little to make up for my complete unrefined kind.

So I grind away any chemistry I felt.
I've dealt with this before so I continue to implore myself
to forget his sea green stare, before I wear out my words
describing his full, pink lips that are rounded and firm.

Remember your place, you stupid, silly girl.
Hurl those sweet, tempting thoughts away for they are wrong.
You belong on the wall, holed up in the corner like swine,
to make way for those who are really meant to shine.

To Whom it may concern,

I am unable to locate or purchase Dijonnaise at any local store in my area. This has been an issue since the beginning of 2021. Is this product being discontinued? Amazon and other online retailers offer highly marked up versions of this product but this East Coast/West Coast, Hellmann's/Bestfoods branding has always been off-putting to me, especially in this day and age plus I despise supporting Amazon or similar box stores/corporations. I would also be more likely to purchase Dijonnaise if it came in a glass container. Plastic is not what millennials want and it no longer "makes it possible" as the ads of yesteryear have stated. I use Dijonnaise very often, I am highly disappointed with the small and awkwardly shaped plastic containers, plastic squeeze bottles make it very difficult to expel or retrieve the entirety of the product. I am strongly considering switching to Durkee's brand mustard in the future as they have always used glass containers, I would mix it with Trader Joe's mayonnaise since it is the only one I can find in a glass container. I understand that the added weight of glass cuts into your profits when distributing your products but I have not seen an advertisement for Dijonnaise in years, where are all these profits being spent? The main reason I purchase Dijonnaise is for the nostalgia of the television ads I grew up watching containing a parody of the song "Duke of Earl". I would strongly recommend re-running these retro advertisements on YouTube ad services in the future if you want to keep this product in production. I feel there is no need to attempt re-creating these ads either, it would be a waste of resources and a disappointment to those who grew up with the original versions. I work in marketing and people are voting with their dollars nowadays, your structure and model could benefit from some evaluation. Please tell me how to buy your product locally and take note that myself and many others prefer plastic free packaging. Thanks for your time. Please do not sell my information or use it to contact me for anything not mentioned above.
Sincerely

...

The response I received was that the product has been discontinued. I was offered a coupon for a complimentary 8oz jar of Mayonnaise as it's the only product still available in a glass container. Unfortunately this is only sold on the opposite side of the Rocky Mountains from my location and only at limited locations. How dissatisfying...

I love all good poems,
and how they make me
feel whole but deboned,
de~parted,
sometimes cleansed
sometimes *****,
sometimes ashamed,
occasionally fried,
occasionally enlived,
often all of these,
simultaneously

I love how mine please you,
breaking the knots of anonymity,
unleashing the little white package
strings of connection, and, when yours,
make me guffaw, or even  a better, person-age,
when we weep deep in our  recesses where the
just-beneath-the-surface emotes, are pricked and
brought to the surface, for the first time, or the last of time,
exposed, curated, healed, leaving but a tiny sore, that lingers
on the body's surfaces,where all things.are etched that
are needy for a reminding of the when,
and here, right there, is the where,

but your loving of likes somehow
dissatisfying, like a kiss, perfunctory, skullduggery
or dis genuine, a hit and a move on,which is why,
I treasure your comments, long or short,
insightful or delightful, critical or critique(e),
just a tender heart of appreciation, a snuggle
from the sea, throned out of Jonah's whale...
rounded bellicose belly

but they render me
alive,
when they split and spit me, to you,
you, to each, defined in pieces, gratitude
nuggets, each, treasured, each hugged, each letter,
a custom bespoke of  connectivity and

who needs friends, when your words
embrace me so deep repeat and touch me
in places where my heart must follow on & on.
now many poems you commission with every exposition.
even the dimplest thanks is a vibrato of pleasuring sounds, that
you, you, you, took that particular moment of time to
express the heartfelt, destroys the invidious
that does quiet creepily slides inside us,  
saying I am your comforter false,
but is not!

use your words, that,
they to the children teach; let us too
embrace this honorific so terrific, and touch each other with
comments, a sharing, and the sol shines on
'*we two too, for all to seer and see

(Not those dissatisfying)

Sugar water memories
Sweet without substance
Our turn to flavor
The drink of the day

Fighting with hoses and sticks
Sprinting after cars
Chasing down a train
Fueling our fires

Cramming into a phone booth
Rocking out to Queen
Picking up 2am trash
Cooking awful things

And after every night
We're drunk on coffee
And late night window shopping
With lots more to keep

(Than sugarwater drinks)

I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)

These burdens-- this burden--  I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)

I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a **** thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.

I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)

My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional *******, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a ****** for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every **** day)

I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a ***** doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my ******* are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep **** from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.


(you're kinda gross, you know.)

you want to take a look into my self-image?
my mirror is not even cracked
(i would hate that symbolism)
but **** do i look distorted.
I'm always too fat and my acne is impressive,
my hair is too flat or frizzy or greased,
Every look there's something dissatisfying
but god, sometimes the way you look at me...

not even that, I guess. I don't need another's affection
to forget about my own distaste (though it helps)
but mainly it's just the moments I am smiling and with the right people
that I forget about the distortions of my body and my face

There is a certain uncertainty within me that i cannot quite identify. It is unsettling. I think it somehow connected with my dissatisfaction when it comes to the doctrine of universal-ism. I do believe that it is both true and fair that all men must be saved through the blood of the Lord- God -Jesus Christ,shed to reconcile man and God upon a cross at Calvary. I find  dissatisfying the idea that God would somehow choose what men go to hell and what men do not, and think even that If god were such a God, i would not want to be his son. I think it foolish to apply some philosophical extension of guilt to God, when God is guilty only of love, the creation of man and man's free will to love, and be loved. God is no more guilty of man's decisions to reject Christ than the father of a murderer is guilty of the blood of his son's ****** victims. Surely, there may seem to be some guilt, but there is no perpetration of violence or wrong, there is only adherence to nature. A man's nature to produce children, alongside the nature of a murderer to ****, result in due consequence. God's nature to love and to seek his own glory, and to magnify these qualities in the universe, alongside with man's nature to seek his own glory and interest, result in due consequence. Surely, you may say "God is more guilty because of his omniscience", but is he? I for one, were i to father a murderous child, would, despite his murderous nature , love him. I would not wish he did not exist. But what i would do, was wish that he had not perpetrated his murderous actions-  for my love for my son, and for my love for others, my compassion, and my humanity. This is much like God. He, though he knows there are those that are among his children who would be murderers, in a sense, killers of their own eternal souls through the rejection of Christ, persists in love and compassion for humanity through the creation of those humans. You may also say that there is some difference in that God chooses how he creates a man to be, whereas a father does not choose exactly the child he creates, so much as simply choosing to create. This, i will admit, is true.  But, i do not think constitutes the guilt of God in choosing. The reason is thus: ****** is indeed an act of free will. Free will is necessary unto love, that love does not  descend to become slavery. Love is the very nature of God, and though God is supreme in power, and has the ability to make any choice he chooses, choosing not to love would be contrary to the very being of God. This makes creating, even a murderer, an act of love, and an act much less of a choice than it may seem.

God is not guilty after all.

I realized we were temporary
When he explained to me
That intimacy
Took on one form: *****

It was more pleasing
To call me obscenities
Referring to me romantically
Felt "unnatural" and "dissatisfying"

To him, I was a fantasy
A tangible painting
But I knew he was momentary
Our fix was temporary

The tiredness that sank into his bones felt so real.

He had no reason to feel exhausted, yet he was.

He rolled out of bed, exhausted.

He went to school, exhausted.

He did everything a good scholar should, exhausted.

Nothing felt energizing.

Everything was another chore on his mental list.


The anxiety of who he was curled in his stomach.

He peered into the mirror, anxious.

He compared his body, anxious.

He thought about what he said, anxious.

He pondered his every action, anxious.

Nothing felt right.

Everything incited an internal panic.


The sadness weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He stayed up at night, feeling blue.

He stayed quiet when out with friends, feeling blue.

He ate constantly, feeling blue.

He immersed himself in his work, feeling blue.

Nothing felt exciting.

Everything was dissatisfying.

Stale glass of water
A dissatisfying sip
I drink it again

hangs jacketed and small
erratic and unattractive
difficult to wake and tires easily
hirsute and untidy in wiry facade
nestling against mushy spongy white prop
weak, ineffectual, lazy and unimaginative
quick firing tool of tools hanging loose in useless repose
most walk away rather than engage this dissatisfying goon
always spotted in pharmacies asking for some blue pills

I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)

These burdens-- this burden--  I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)

I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a **** thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.

I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)

My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional *******, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a ****** for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every **** day)

I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a ***** doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my ******* are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep **** from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.


(you're kinda gross, you know.)

So few of us left, the ones who leave a litter of thoughts in our wake—across gazes and glances, perhaps a rare scrawling of a punchy one-liner.

Something like “Fear is dissatisfying.”

Why didn’t you just go after what you really wanted?

Or “Everything will always change.”

Why do you keep holding onto what no longer exists?

People will believe what they set out to believe, mishandling the truth of what is real to escape from what never was or can never be again.

For the few, there is no solace in this knowledge. Only more questions leading to more questions. More thoughts against the grain.