Ode on Manic Pixie Dream Girls
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under '11 Spring: We Real Cool, Poetry, Print
I.
I’ve always had a thing for filmmakers.
From the time I was little, even my dreams had credits as long as I fell asleep “properly.”
I’d cover my eyes with one hand, and slowly turn the knob of the dimmer with the other.
My mom never understood why.
Sometimes, she’d flip the switch on the wall to “help me out.”
And I’d scream, “No, Mom! The colors!”
Orbs of glowing colors appeared on the insides of my eyelids.
I formed them into shapes. Most often, Jesus.
Like that optical illusion where you stare at the four dots, then close your eyes and stare at something bright, then Jesus’ face appears.
Also, ghosts.
I knew they were evil because they spelled out ‘Booooo’ in Comic Sans.
With Helvetica, they might’ve stood a chance.
But with this as my nightly routine, I certainly never did.
So, I’m a little strange.
I don’t like drawing attention to myself,
but don’t mind telling secrets to 600 of my closest friends.
Like how I often woke up home alone when I was little.
I feared everyone went to heaven without me.
I still fear being left behind, but I’d rather be right than happy.
II.
It is always brooding males who understand this.
Introspective loners who view life through a lens and write how things could be.
I’ve always admired the minds of men brave enough to create stories.
The type of men who only know conversation as character development.
The type of men who fall in love with Manic Pixie Dream Girls.
Manic—the A-side of self-loathing.
Pixie—delicate, yet supernatural.
Dream—Altered consciousness has never felt so real.
Girl—The only explicit thing about her.
She’ll ease your pain, tell you to be spontaneous,
to frolic through Ikea, to change your life with mediocre indie pop.
Through her quirks, you’ll become well-adjusted.
You’ll filter your troubles through her like she’s a pair of rose-colored glasses,
which makes sense because she’s always been a spectacle.
You’ll claim you can see through her, unaware that reflection is her pastime.
And past times love shifting shapes.
She’s as long as everything and as widespread as goodness,
but still there’s little depth.
She is a fantasy, who assigns herself your peace of mind,
but no one cares about her story.
She is easy to miss.
III.
I am easy to miss.
Even on Broad Street in a gold “Shakespeare is my homeboy” T-shirt
and a neon coral sweater.
I never said I was nondescript,
Just that you’ll aim for me, but never quite get me.
I am easy to miss.
Because somewhere in your mind, the idea of me will complete you.
You’ve scripted me as your foil, written me as what you’re not
instead of what I am.
I am not your Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
I have struggles of my own, and it’s not my job to charm away your fears.
It’s funny that you think of me as a character, but refuse to acknowledge my flaws.
Right now, you’re too wrapped up in your own
to see I’m queuing up the credits from the director’s chair,
and I intend to fall asleep properly.
My Pen is Full
Posted by Simone Stolzoff | Filed under '11 Spring: We Real Cool, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
Imagine all your friends on the dance floor.
All your friends.
Well this was my night—
all my friends.
All my white, jewish, sweat stained,
can-barely-jump-over-a-box-of-matzah
friends on the dance floor.
I imagine our future sons bar-mitzvahs—
us trying to clap to the beat
like bad sprinters trying to anticipate the gun,
always reacting a little too late—
but we were doing our thing.
A girl comes up to my friend saying “you look like you need someone to dance with,”
and with a I just ate a half hour ago look in his eyes he smiles,
“Nah I’m just dancing with my boys.”
That night we were dancing
like there were shot clocks on our ankles
and pop rocks in our socks.
I felt the same way about my moves
as I did about my hand jobs—
no girl in the world could do them better!
And we could care less that there less girls on the dancefloor
than at a no-shave-november convention
cuz fuck girls, we just wanted to dance!
So unike most my other nights
and all my other poems
this one was for the fellas.
And to the few ladies who’ve
I’ve had the pleasure of showing
my, well yano.
You prolly wish it was longer…
but if it grows at the same rate its grown for the last 10 years
I’m gonna die with a penis at least three feet long.
Now we’re back on the dancefloor
And CeeLo Green comes on
And even the most stubborn wallflower
starts dancing cuz that piano intro is happier
than golden arches for a big mac junkie.
More middle fingers infiltrate the air than when Sarah Palin visited San Francisco.
And all us on the dancefloor could care less about
the fact the sprinkler and the shopping cart stopped being cool about 10 years ago.
Becuase for all my life,
I’ve had the same 3 man wolfpack.
This Italian Jew, a Pizza Bagel if you will,
with guy who used to have me over for thanksgiving dinner on my right
and the guy that taught me how to masturbate on my left.
We danced until the morning
and we couldn’t be happier stumbling home to our parent’s houses
cause we had reached our full bro-tencial.
So at that cheesburgers and regret point in the late evening,
we decided right then and then that when we’re older we’ll get
tattoos across our shafts that read “my penis is beautiful.”
And hopefully I’ll get it when I’m hard,
so when I’m soft it’ll read “my pen is full.”
And that’s really all I need.
Cuz with a full pen
and a full heart
the girls might come,
but even if they don’t come around any more
I still got my boys on the dance floor!
Papas
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
I know you.
Pompous in exterior,
The extant,
Ex wrought iron armor.
Glistening like mornings dew.
About face,to
a mirror.
Droplets plummet,
Accompanied by slumber’s evidence.
Wide awake.
My Mr. Potatohead,
Dense, fibrous and rooted,
Key to amygdaloid compass.
Palms acquainted with sun, raised
Infinitely to greet her face.
My face.
I watch you in awe.
Curve of jaw, bone
Of nose ready to take flight.
Lifted in proud cognizance of
self.
Treading lightly on rest,
More apt to show power,
Motion in steering towards.
Drawing lines, uniting us.
Oh how you love me.
I won’t know it,
For it is not to be known.
The X factor, making my
Reflection over why I love axes,
And my exes weren’t it.
You are the sonnet to my starstruck map,
Leading to kneeling at altars,
Needing what can’t be altered,
Rocking bands, no games,
Play-doh and tiny socks.
I know you.
The one who won’t leave,
For sake of me and your seed.
Contrary to my own,
Is everything you will be.
Papa, food for the soul.
What Man Feels for Muse
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I am meta for
you. Change me for the better.
All of this must grow.
