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Atomic Platonics I am vulnerable, so sick of sentimental sentences. The Adderall The Alimony Way too horny for way too many. But you, you are The simile that smiles at me The right on red I just can’t take The shamrock that I’ll never shake The rhyme scheme I don’t want to break— Off with the head of Mother Nature! This is your Senorita Synthetic speaking. Try me on for size. If the shoe fits, bite me. I am a mouth most clammy when ajar I am the medusa of your membrane I am my father’s stab in the dark How’s that for road rage on a naked page? © 2013 Daria Tavana

Bruises for the Movies The colors come to me on what they call a bruise wheel. I begin below her elbow, my canvas for the time being, with heavy maize-yellow so the healing looks all-natural. I am super messy with this step when I push my fingers into her flesh then around in circles. I prefer the patch to be misshapen, like a sick dog’s piss spot seeping into carpet fibers. Then I add the army green all up in the belly of the goldenrod beast. Mix. Mix. Still incomplete, but closer to the end. From now on, everything is fuzzy because I always sweat during the fun step! Anyway, other than the darkest blue you have never tasted, the only remaining colors are as follows: burnt maroon, midnight violet, bloody rose, dirty burgundy, and tropical purple. I paint them perfectly and so quickly she feels it’s all at once. While redefining the meaning of dimension, I can see the feigned pain building in the eyes of the actress with the fucked up funny bone. Lastly, I add that dead-bird-belly blue. Everyone on set laughs despite disgust. My actress is in character. She looks perfect, and I am glad to be of service. © 2013 Daria Tavana

Chowing Down Always rolled up like hot dogs in my uncomfortable comforter. I savored three sandwiched paperbacks in 2003 and killing time is killing me. Now I need a landfill chock-full of promise, endearment, and onomatopoeia. You have five minutes. Currently I covet your bean bag cheeks in the icy summer heat. Sometimes I make sense. On Wednesdays I don’t. Okay, allow me to delineate: I’m fluent in Farsi and understand sex better than I can speak it. Look at me. I can’t multiply, but I can juxtapose like it’s my job. Take pictures of pictures, drown Jersey in flames. In lieu of October, slash him with leaves. Ask a sailor to flutter and the devil to blubber. I am this close to changing my locks, boarding up my jaw, and damming my veins. Get off my couch, por favor, and stop spell-checking me. You’re so full, but I have never been this famished. © 2013 Daria Tavana

Cut Open Scorpio I was born on Veteran’s Day. Eleven Eleven Eighty-Eight. I was born on a poem eating off its own rhythm. That cloud was a dumbass unlike the fat wish that tears through this page. I am like a bloody camera sinking in a big lake. But, I am bigger than that camera and closer to the guy in the back row’s backyard. I am a dog. I ought to bark. I am a baby. You ought to marry me. The old nurse’s jewelry was covered in fool’s gold when I came out of my mother’s stomach and into your father’s underwear drawer. No one else was in the delivery room. The paint smelled like lace dipped in ocean and my knuckles were pink. My mouth was dry. My eyes were sweating. My fears didn’t exist yet. My fear wasn’t death then. After time, we met- me and death. I’m dead now. I’m dead. My death was a living room falling apart despite the new furniture. My death was red yarn hanging from a sweater showered in see-through sequins that screamed your name. In bed, my death ate off its own rhythm. My death had hair shorter than yours and thin lips like the way inside a little metal suitcase. My death was penciled in like the lines under my eyes. I was born on Veteran’s Day. Eleven Eleven Eighty-Eight. That means nothing to me. That meant nothing to death. © 2013 Daria Tavana

FRANCODE James Franco. We hung out into the wee hours of the morning, and I’ve never been so hot for another human. Not gonna lie- everytime you said “Hi, Daria.” all I could do was imagine the way your hand would feel atop my thigh. Everyone knows your smile raises eyebrows, but I didn’t expect my skirt to fall down at the sight of your animal print underwear. Yummy. I touched your face for thirty six hours, always wondering why you, a Gucci model, even needs makeup. All you need is me. You are so fucking hot. James Franco. Mind if I eat your fingernails for breakfast? Pay rent to live in your waxless earhole? I would molest an elderly woman if you asked me to. I would mow your lawn with a plastic knife if, for just one night, we could play husband and wife. I’m so serious it’s scary. Freak? Geek? What does it matter when your shoe size is a perfect ten and your skin is tanner than a homeless man during summertime. Ugh. You are so fucking hot. James Franco. I have your email address. You have a copy of my new play. Even though we may not have had sex, yet, you’ll be running through my mind next time I do. You are so fucking hot. James Franco. You are so fucking hot. © 2013 Daria Tavana

Fear Me Honestly I love to cuddle after a long night of drunk driving over roads I rename for fun. That and fear. I love fear because my tits get really hard and my legs feel twice as long as they really are and I can feel good about myself for longer than five minutes. I pretend to be a little boy about to fall off a bridge through hoops smothered in the sharpest knives honey can buy onto hungry crocodiles in heat while on fire. I love candles because they smell like your fingers that time I fucked you in the shower. The truth is. I’ve never had sex in the shower. I’m a liar. I love to cuddle after a short day of skipping class and breaking in books written about apes in capes eating grapes regretting their birthdays. This is a mistake. No. It’s not. Wait. Yes. It’s not. I could kill you if I wanted to. But that’s not what this poem is about. It’s about how my skin isn’t soft anymore and my body is falling apart. I talk too much all the time. It’s about time and how it “heals all wounds” but kills you in the meantime. It’s about being happy. Happy. Ha. Ha. Happy. One time I met a pillow and it meowed and I asked it to make that sound again and it punched me so hard in the nose I forgot how much I love to cuddle. How much cuter I looked when I was a little bit younger. Ever since you left me, I’m not afraid of making enemies anymore. But that’s another story. Anyway when the windows are open all the way and the blinds are brought down for the hour, wind makes me feel like a real friend. We are happy. I am happy. In my dreams, I ride a new bicycle every eleven seconds. And I eat chicken pizza with my stiffest competition. And I only think about my family. And I love those apes. Them and Death. That’s more like it. Death. This poem is about Death. I guess! stick me under the sink and whip me out when it’s time to wake up, okay? © 2013 Daria Tavana

How To Be Yourself behave tragically, artistically. bash religion. lie fake high. chew little, tip big. speak beautifully, obscenely, profusely. don the dunce cap when distressed. sit facing the door (popular) and trust friends to call you. feign depression. require rescue. remember a lonely yesterday. talk like your mother; dress like a sailor. never mind the new sheets, leave him marine-blue thinking Her lips were red, her looks were free. put out on time, everytime. reveal your poetic tendencies. wink at a waiter, wince at a waitress. run for office. put away the logorrhea. smoke in wingdings. speak persian after and saying you “really shouldn’t.” tell him you need no one, show him you need him. expose what you have done, not what you will do. be creepy. verbalize your intent to marry. be creepy and shower, for christ’s sake. use the lighting to your advantage. lose sight of what’s important. feel what you shouldn’t. stay when you shouldn’t. be yourself, but not too much. © 2013 Daria Tavana

I can see you can’t see me. But you’re under my microscope. Your picture is pasted beneath my mind, between my eyelids, behind my forehead. I’m too lonely to play this game. Please, please, please. I’m too full to fall down again. The puzzle is scattered on the floor if my clock still blinks 12:00. The blinds are barely broken. Light still tap dances into my room, keeping me up at night. Clouds curse at me and spit fire in my face, waking me up at night. Please, please, please. He tells me to stop begging, so I fasten my seatbelt. “Am I not made of earth, bones, and empathy?” He says I am made of math and letters and cells. Man warns me to watch myself. He claims I am lazy and selfish. I whisper the following phrases to him, “I want to be in your pocket. I want to watch my lipstick arrest your temples. I want to taste the perfume through your hair. I want to be between your teeth when you smile. I want to be locked in your rib cage when you eat. I want to stop trailing and I need to surf through your stream of consciousness .” He scoffs and tells me I’ve gone soft and my poems need some work. Published in Schuylkill Valley Journal (Vol. 25, p 42, Feb. ’07) © 2013 Daria Tavana

Mary Inette Marionette suspended from strings, from school. Patted on the back. Stabbed in the eye. I spat on her hairline. A tug on the skull, two jerks on the shoulder elevated her arm. So I gestured back with one short fingernail. Baffled babies beware: the vampire leach in rose-red hued heels. Mr. German Pope declares, “Take heed the heiress of trash!” It seems sketchy coming from Mr. Opiate of the Masses. Even her disciples gawk at the sun: thrilled as newborns, energized as light bulbs, animated as Picassos. Does your God have mercy for Duracell drones? Fabricated passion has become a contagious fashion. Divide the team. Carry the 1. Verve is mathematics with less problems. I play guitar on greenish stars and piano on Ben’s easel. I talk too often to too many. Awkward prepositions prove my point. Lemmings crucify me, as I do to Mary Inette. Bury me, under an inane hook, with a pageless book. I’m going slightly mad, just like Freddie Mercury. Ha. Haha. NO. Seriously. Fuck my reputation. Fuck rhyming alliteration. Fuck fucking repetition. Your sole has pricked my throat. Never lay a thumb on my art. © 2013 Daria Tavana

New Jersey Poem Hi. I don’t do this very often. But. I’ve been watching you. I’ve been hiding from you just to watch you. Your pine barren eyelashes equal perfection. Filthy brown, filled with shoes and mildew. I noticed your fingernails yesterday. I like the polished on pictures of Jews in Ugg boots. Anyway. Toxic waste is actually both of our middle names. Weird, I know. In my trailer, I have a collection of dead skin (your dead skin). I like to do little tricks with it. I rearrange it, make it spell out certain things- SPRINSTEEN in the summertime and BON JOVI when it’s cold out. I like to overlook your STDs! Which reminds me of your tramp stamp slash spine. and how horny I get when the devil doesn’t let me pump my own gas, because it’s illegal to pump my own gas. Yes. You guessed it. I’m single. Strange. And yes. That’s me. Calling you late at night while I jerk off outside your Wawa cock (eating a hoagie covered in water ice). I hang up because I can’t handle the angelic nature of your fatass-sounding accent. But your body. Your Atlantic City waters taste like earwax and asshair (my two favorite flavors). I smoke crack in Camden just to feel the thrill of being inside you. And honestly, I can’t help but quote Walk Whitman every time I eat at any one of the five diners within walking distance from your shitty house. Will you marry me? What I’m trying to say is. I’m so obsessed with your sexiness that I tattooed your face by my left tit. © 2013 Daria Tavana

Philly cheesemuse my boyfriend starts fires with hot light south street music my boyfriend moves like a scabby tattoo on a stray cat we spit on one another’s ring fingers while we turn our pockets inside out and run around stopping time with cigarette sword fights outside city hall sick-nasty hit-on beaten-down but baby i wouldn’t want my citykiss looking any way other than under the weather exploding for me over the delaware river and everywhere in between the walt whitman and ben franklin bridges lives my knight in shining blue jeans his streets are cobblestone and his stories are old and drunk and armed with guns big enough to bring brotherly love together again he is exploding with love for me my boyfriend is a soft pretzel and a stiff joint my boyfriend is all about me and I am all about Philly Š 2013 Daria Tavana

Salad Undress me, Great Caesar’s Ghost. Handfuls of spooning celery Olive eyes and a lettuce yawn Kaleidoscope of kissing carrots Sheened-out cauliflower afro Cleaned-out Dutch wooden bowl Do not steal me soup. Do not peel me pears. Do not read me Edith Wharton. Get frisky! Feed me salad. f e e d me. © 2013 Daria Tavana

Unpublished Poem Book  
Unpublished Poem Book  

Unpublished Poem Book