After a mouth full of fucking
I guess I could tell you about
the bits of skin I left in Gillettes to which these scars still attest
but I’m bored writing poems about them
I’ve got new marks from planting trees and
making a masterpiece mess in the kitchen.
After a mouth full of fucking
you wipe spit from your cheek when
your lover says it was the hardest they came in their life, and
you believe them
happy to be on your period
writing poems about blood/cum/
when your borage finally bloomed
so did you
Psyched to be Punk Poetry’s first contributor!
PunkPoetry.com is delighted to introduce you to CE Hoffman, our very first Punk Poet contributor ever. This is a historic moment in the arts, ladies and gentleman. And with the current rapid disintegration of the West, it couldn’t come at a better time. We live in interesting times, and we need interesting work to represent them. Describing her work as FemmePunk Poetry, CE Hoffman also has a volume of poetry available at Amazon.com – Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948.
You can also find her at http://visceraluterus.blogspot.com
Nice Day to Get Laid*
Grown-up kid w/ groceries: cheese buns, Pepsi.
White clouds make chaos w/ sickgreen leaves.
The grass is not me, we
Like how whores live alone no matter the number
of lovers they do (or don’t) take home
Like how mothers mourn while Kids get to grow
Like how whores live alone.
Grown-up girl w/ groceries: in-store sushi.
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My skull is abounding with cliches.
Today (most days, every day!) I feel un-right regarding romance.
I don’t function on the same wavelength as society suggests I should. My ideas of dating, sex, love, and emotional attachment can merit an eyebrow raise from even the most open-minded human (and I’m not just talking about my polyamorous feelings).
I don’t get upset about the same things people get upset about and I don’t heal in the same way or at the same speed other people do, and this makes it hard for me to relate to my partner(s).
You’d think someone so (allegedly) sensitive as me would understand that people can’t get over things quite as quickly as I can. (Do I even get over them; do I just repress?)
Sometimes I fret there’s something the doctors didn’t catch- something seriously wrong with me.
I don’t want to be a woman who is defined by her relationships (or lack thereof) and cringe to find myself tracing my steps back to that maddening merry-go-round.
Yet I can’t deny how much these affairs (literal or otherwise) influence me.
My writing thrives whenever I’m faced with sexual liaison, amorous impulse, should-have-seen-it-coming heartbreak. Some of my best works (whether poems, songs, novels or flash fiction slop) are inspired by people I’ve loved or longed for.
I’m not saying all this as if I’m the only creative soul to experience it. I know most (if not all?) writers require a muse outside of themselves.
Yet I wonder if I subconsciously set myself up for emotional torment just so I’ll have something to write about.