Samples from Poetry Zine # 1

She Used To Be Such A Nice Girl: Poems 1992-1996

© Love Beth Drew

Poetry Zine #1 Cover
Cover Image

Waxen Images

Some days I feel like drinking wax.
Lighting a match.
And letting the candle's offspring slide down my throat.
Perhaps if we had found our children, the situation would be different.
Do you reside inside my mind or heart or do you even exist at all?
Existentialism or Pre-destination.
Was it a chance meeting, a reaction to an arbitrary action?
One without meaning.
How wonderful it is for you to live forever through my art,
While I to somehow be forgotten in its shadow.
Perhaps that was you that resides in department stores.
Can I resist the temptation
To drink the wax
And let your children roam inside my womb.
Crawling through my arteries.
Pushing on my lungs.
Waiting for their father to open the passage to release them.
Will I ever give birth to something quite as unintelligible as that?
A miscarriage of the heart.
A divorce of our souls.
Perhaps I just did.

This Girl

There never was this girl.
She doesn't exist
And never will.
She didn't live alone.
She didn't feel alone.
She didn't want a family
Of her own. (Belonging.)
She wasn't loved.
She was absorbed.
She was soaked up
For so long
that she never was.
Blotter paper mishap.
Mis-shapen splotches
On his soul.

Photomontage by Love Drew


I'm crushed under your indecisiveness.
It pains me beyond all that I could believe.
I would rather be the last soldier, lone soldier, than pretend as I do.
Please tell me what I need to hear.
Without your limp, meaningless words, I am alone.
Are you the one?
Will you slip past me in this dark ignorance?
(I am the ugly duckling never to become the beautiful swan.)
They don't want me here, they don't want me there.
I am needed nowhere by no one.
Please check the light in the refrigerator door.
It's the only way I'll find my way home.

That Last Night

Very Few words were enuf to express an
Undying, unloving, untouching
relationship he and I
shared that never-happening night
Under the cloudless, star-shined
Painted black sky.
Stars shone like a nightlight
To guide his beauty upwards into
the other room.
Heaven. Zen. Beginning. End.
Drawn out words drawn out from
pale pink perfectly imperfect
nicotine coated marmalade folded
Vegetarian proponent with size 9 too small Converse
and ponytail from an ill-received
childhood pony and leather jacket from a cow he probably didn't eat.
"Wonderful jobs" and standing
ovations that last night
that the ground held our little
"nothing is important action"
bodies while staring up into the
painted black canvas that was some sort of symbolic pornographic
painting from a god he didn't
believe in anyway.
A brother or a husband or an angel
who smokes cigarettes. And how am I
Without my other half?


If God exists
why don't angels fall
from Heaven when they
Why do humans have to
be our angels?
Illusionary angels at best
(the worst they can be).
If God is
why do we need emotions,
when being numb
to everything
I've found is a much better
way to