
The content on this web page is not to be reused or reprinted without permission of the writer and The Lipstick Pages.

Image courtesy of www.angryflower.com.
The Fuck Poem (or For David)
I am not a prude.
Rest assured, I fuck.
**Gasp**
Thats right, I fuck.
And not only do I fuck,
But I also have sex, sleep with and make love.
So if I am not fucking, having sex, sleeping with or making love to
you-
It isn't because I'm "waiting"
I'm not
It isn't because I don't know you that well
I do
And it certainly isn't because I'm a tease.
If I'm not sleeping with you,
it is because I don't WANT to.
Do not delude yourself into thinking that I am some kind of goddess
That can't find 20 minutes to come down off her pedestal and fuck you!
And while we're on the subject
The same goes for my time.
You're right
I can't be *that* busy.
Although I am one fuckin' busy girl,
If I liked you, I would make time for you.
As much as women needed to hear the sage advice
I think you need to hear it to:
So please, stop
And consider the possibility
That... I'm just not that into you.
Now stop whining.
Stop telling me I'm not paying enough attention to you,
And for your self respect's sake,
Stop accepting less than everything you want!
If I am not laying out the sexual buffet of your dreams followed by
molten chocolate cake
Covered in sprinkles of romance and emotional attachment that you
desire so deeply--
Move on!
This kitchen, is fresh out of sprinkles
And I am not the only fish in the sea...
Why am I the one who has to tell you this?
You are a catch, for sure
But you were not what I cast my lure for
And thus, I release you back into the deep
to be caught by someone who can appreciate what they have
better than I
You see I, sir, am not hunting
I am gathering.
I am gathering stories and scars
Bar tabs too big and nights too small
I am gathering training-wheel mistakes mixed with tight-rope-walk successes
And personalities perfectly poised on the verge of self-destruction
just for the fun of it.
I am collecting pictures and tokens to fill the scrap book of my skin
So that when all the other gals in the nursing home
Complain about that their white picket fence was always dirty
And their good for nothing 2.5 never visit anymore
I can lift my moo-moo to my knees and show them the starting point
Of a map that leads to a road less traveled.
So I'm not going to say I'm sorry;
'Cause I'm not.
Here there is nothing to be sorry for
And I'm not going to pretend that it breaks my heart
Because I respect you more than that.
Instead I will kiss you scales
Remove the hook from your mouth
And release you.
Hilary Hancock
The content on this web page is not to be reused or reprinted without permission of the writer and The Lipstick Pages.

Daytona
Wandering around.
I am barefoot in the parking lot
of this shitty motel.
Sounds of vehicles swooshing by, and
I close my eyes to feel the Sun burning my
pale skin.
The Ocean’s tide begins to roll in
and out
rolls in
and out
in and
out
in
and out.
Pigeons fly by one after another
leaving marks like seagulls would.
They fly in circles swooping
in and
out and in
and out
in, out, in and out
and into formation.
Under the stars
one after another they fall.
In the back seat of your Impala--
Our motions of sex mimicked the Ocean’s tide.
Our hands fumble in the dark
Eventually finding their way.
salty skin
sweet lips
tastes from our tongues
rolling in and out
in and out
in
and
out…
The heat from the sun triggers effects of experimentations.
Conciseness questionable.
By Puppet P. Noisemaker
Discontinuity
Wandering around
Sweat glistening;
Westward skies glow like the demise of Rome,
Oil rigs and windmills in distant
How strange is the sun light
Feet beat the drums of mans existence
This farm not only grows food
The perfectly symmetrical maze
I was drinking with Johnson’s grandmother
I sat in the airport in a foreign land and waited for my flight home.
I take the same road to work every morning.
Tom must have been a genius
We both knew the truth
Looking out the window into the darkness
Fall of 1983, I was 9 years old.
Puppet P Noismaker
Nostalgic
I sit around typing in my underpants--
scratching the dog with my foot to appease morning barks.
All of these habitual rituals are what keep me from slipping
back to the place I was before we met
when I stayed up all night and slept all day—
drinking cheap whiskey from the bottle and riding my bicycle through the city drunk
and alone—
Lover after lover I lost.
One, two, three, to heroin and number four to the Mormons…
Oh those Mormons!
Broken hearted and unable to breathe--
You met me unexpectedly.
My hair was a mess and I was on too much ecstasy-
I said I loved you and you remembered.
And all the rest…
History.
Puppet P Noisemaker
Untitled
Dogs will fight over your remains
just like Jesus.
They will pick you apart with your words.
Manipulate your works
Until they become politically correct.
Cash-in on your beauty.
design suits with your doings to fit their lives.
Claim that they knew you—
yet never broke bread with you.
Place their words on your tongue
And then swear to god that it is what you said—
Swear to god this is what you would do.
Swear to god that it is what you would want.
Everything that you stood for
will have been wasted.
Until all that there is left --
is their interpretation of your love.
Puppet P Noismaker

7 Poems (1996-2000) by Janet Hammer
1.
I’m looking for you in a dust storm
Sand cuts my eyes
Like tiny razors
I reach out to touch you
Wind rips tiny tears
In my skin
I call out to you
Dirt fills my throat
Heavy in my stomach
I can almost see you
Standing in the shade
A beer in hand
Smile on your face
Laughing
And waving goodbye.
Jeh
3/00
2.
I imagine myself
Faraway from my surroundings
Staring at a fountain
Full of Lily pads
A frog atop each one
The frogs see me
Staring at them
Knowing
That I’m not really there at all
They are singing
A lovely froggy courting song
To the girly frogs
In an adjacent fountain
The frogs pair off
Singing together
I, back in my chair
Smile silently to myself
Thinking of the tadpoles to come.
Jeh
6/99
3.
Reclining in a chair
Drinking the days go by
Daydreaming about you
The sun lays on me like a blanket
Phantom caresses
Pass over my shoulders
Sending chills down my spine
I almost see you
But it’s just a ghost of my emotions
It’s just me and this beer
No one else
My friends all sick of my ramblings
But I can’t blame them
I am too.
Jeh
8/99
4.
I saw a man on the bus
He looked right through me
Like a dirty window pane
I noticed some dried food on his shirt
It looked like pizza
He talked to himself
In hurried and hushed words
The thoughts seemed important
As I sat back and tried to ignore him
I heard one last sentence
“I loved her damnit, I loved her”
jeh
7/96
5.
He stares at me with bloodshot eyes
We tell jokes between drinks
Always drinking
We gaze at each other
Across tables filled with empty glasses
I know what thoughts he has
A secret language spoken
Involving brief looks,
Misguided gestures,
Short and small kisses
We stumble along
Holding hands
Listening to a world moving around us
We go on, side by side, every day
Never knowing
This could be our last
But we know we’re lucky
So we hold tightly to each other
Just hoping
That this time
Our luck doesn’t run out.
Jeh
5/99
6.
The lights in the sky are fading
Spreading like butter
On a hot frying pan
The reflection of the sun
On the water of the river
Like a penny in a fountain
On child’s wish
Never to be told
It could involve this place
This moment
These skies
Like a painting in a museum
This is only a moment
One out of a million
And at which point I die
So it does also.
Jeh
8/99
7.
I can’t stay anymore
Somewhere on this dirty street
Another bar is waiting
Shiny bottles
With different colors of liquid
Whispering my name
I’m not the only one who hears
Because if you notice
You’re never alone in a bar
Even open only one minute
There are already three others
Eagerly awaiting
The most sacred of fluids
Ever the after work crowd
Practically slashes throats
For a spot in the front
So you see, I can’t stay anymore
Because somewhere
Out there
Is the drink
That understands me.
Jeh
3/00