Written Words of Natasha T. Champney

writing

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 23 May 2009 22:20:00 +0000

Forgotten Beauty

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 22:00:00 +0000

The same images,
repeat themselves again in
a freeze frame of
history.
Colors fade
as I struggle to
remember the glitter of
innocent visions before
the eye had become crude and
unmoved by illuminating lights.
I see a child moved by
'red apple',
simple beauty stired the mind and
imagination,
before the eyes, ears, nose took
on too many senses and attached thoughts,
dulling joy with each encounter,
I search once again for my childhood senses for
the magic of 'red apple' and each thing in the moment as
simple beauty.

Boring Confession

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 05:08:00 +0000

Wandering the city lost,
it could be this city or another,
searching
for meaning.
At night I can't sleep,
sleepwalking throughout the day.
Sometimes it is the the warmth from coffee,
heat from the cup is
the thing that makes me know I'm alive
like cut skin or a woman's softness rubbing on my skin,
sensations that say
I feel, I'm real
I must be here.
Yet where is here?
No wonder people smoke
to pass time
feel warmth
see it all go up in smoke
like our existence...
hazy.
This is what it seems like to go on & on
like Sinclair's Babbit,
mechanical clock or robot
working , working, working some brain-less job to pay the bills,
sleeping, fucking, drinking, eating, shiting, bleeding, loving, loosing,
and on and on it goes.
Should I expect more?
I wanted the sun,
the stars,
the universe.
All I have is the morning walk to the bus stop
a cup of coffee and
an occassional fuck or love affair,
and I can't keep this up to I'm 40 or 50 or 60,
it's like someone who stops using their body-- atraphy--
that is how my mind and heart feels.
I need intense real connections, deep conversations, helping others,love &
close stable interactions & passionate loving touch & energetic creative work, a purpose or
this dream will end
exactly as it is now...
dull as a old rusty unsharpened knife.

Strange Life Vision

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:54:00 +0000

"Where are the ancient rivals to
be found?" (in your mind/heart),
a fire stirs there,
that won't stop,
uncontrolled,
like rage,
fire (desire) it's all the same,
try to escape from the
pain (is that what it means
to be insane?)
"So they tell me."
"who?"
The ghost walker in my visions,
as I sleep
they awaken...
"Is this so?"
No. (an illusion?)
perhaps. (Most likely a trap.)
like this life?
so it seems. (Yes.)
it was a dream (one
with screams.)
a vision?
"Yes, a vision." (existence itself.)
a mirror. (that is all),
the fall,
the call,
it's all the same
intrusion/delusion
what are these loud words I hear?
(a nightmare?)
a tear in the eye,
as I try to speak,
stifling
why? ('cause I'm shy),
quiet/silent,
why? (because I am to die.)
( creation is death & death creation),
there goes the gray fly,
by,
has this all been a lie?
"No"
"then what?"
just a vision (strange.)
I know,
that is how life goes....
slow?
fast like a star's final glow? (strange.)

I. The Move

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:45:00 +0000

Watching
"Wild At Heart" on video
wound up &
ready to be wild,
tired of Bowling Green Ohio's
Bowling allies,
pool halls &
coffee shops,
ready to become college drop out,
society drop out.
Escape from the dying falcons
farms
fantasies
into a city of gold & flames,
time to hop on the train &
enter a poet hipsters domain.
Enter
dangerous terrain
alleviate the pain of boredom
for a bigger ache
feel the quake of San Francisco,
ride on cigarette highs &
women's sexy thighs,
this is the night life
for the young & reclessly ripe,
EAT this
Chinatown
sweet & sour flesh,
visit Haight & Ashbury on a profound journey,
get high on the sidewalks &
camp out in the Castro,
What does today's fortune cookie read?
Another adventure under the Bay moon.

Addiction (The Forgotten Milk)

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:41:00 +0000

She sucks
on that
cigarette,
like the Mother's tit
she never had,
guzzling that
beer
like an infant
starving and searching for
food,
love.
Crying for milk,
nourishment.
Now it is an addiction
for a slow death,
her replacement and form of comfort,
in a world without
a Mother or teacher.

Daddy's Games:The Torturing of a Child

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:35:00 +0000

He was a sadistic Cowboy
garbed in black,
carrying his gun with pleasure,
as he took wrangler rope & belts,
tied me up tight,
I cried like a calf shivering
in fright
as I squirmed &
wiggled
crying& trying to escape the nose
around my frail neck
as my flesh burned,
died in the sensation of being branded.
Dad said
slaughtering was fun,
I shouldn't be so fragile.
He yelled,
"You must be strong,
Need no one!"
Words are needles
that bite through ears.
Brain &
heart tied up in knots,
silenced in shame & loeliness
childhood bondage
holds me motionless,
as I try to break free
of the entanglement of the past.

When Earth Becomes

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:29:00 +0000

Under the golden moon snake river
fists twist & turn & wolves
growl and the crow swoons--
stars weep & moan.
The ocean sighs
the tides come & go
screaming of drowned fish
fumigated by poison juice
dropped into Mother Earth's belly
disease doom in the
shadow of a soaring seagull's
gray wings stretching
like spoons sipping & sifting
through the smog-infested sky
clouds rumble in agony
as she is wet from the sorrow
death multiplies as a species
drops to dust each day
as humans accumalate
gold watches & autos
speeding by the meadow where
the gray rabbit nibbles her
last bite of moist green grass
another mall built there
another steel machine comes
into invention another steel heart.

The Farmer

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:23:00 +0000

I dreamnt of grandfather again;
& in a field he was pulling back the green skin on corn,
I was eight walking carefully over the cracks in the dirt.
His boots were dirty & he spoke to me,
rough hands touching this plant & that, telling
about planting seeds.
He named the things of the Earth;
I was impressed but did not listen,
distracted by the cattails in the distance,
some blackbird with red-banded wings.
I was remembering the tickle of nostrils as
the neighbor's horses teased sugar cubes off my hands,
another trick he taught me.
I didn't remember the words for the trees around me,
I just left the landscape to daydream of some fantastic creation,
living inside my head on most days with only
glimpses of the way the green grass stalks blew in the wind.

Cracking Bones & Dreams or For Those Who Contemplate Suicide

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 04:11:00 +0000

I disappoint all friends,
humans & trees & bumble bees.
I lose sight in my misery.
Contemplating death is not easy.
She intrigues me
with her illusioned lips, fulfilling dreams &
the promise of peace.
All I am is cold bones.
Yet she never convinces me.
Although I have been dead for at least 15 years,
she can not bury all of my bones.
These cracking bones,
are good for more than
storing & upholding flesh.
These aches prove I exist.
These snappings of my skeleton
clinking together are
promises that I am a daughter
to the planet,
that these bones &
this flesh are not empty &
meaningless.
A cracking bone
tells me I am human &
moving & walking towards the Earth.
Feeling my pain,
Feeling my worth as human,
as a part of the universe.
When my nerves sting,
I remember
to be human is
to be dreams & bones.
Without this skull & hands,
visions will die &
without imagination,
the flesh starves.

Night Rhythm

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 21:43:00 +0000

Smell of cigarettes, & whiskey wear themselves in the wind,
The lyrical melody of an ambulance plays in the night, on lonely streets.
He is heading to another bar at 1am. "Give me beer,
beer baby,blues, gotta dull the pain."
He takes his motorcycle to the next stop,
getting off in a smoky club.
He hasn't had his fill.
There is rain chiseling through his skin.
Rubbing his mustache he thinks it all looks better by moonlight &
Through the vision weaving in & out of strip clubs,
wasted , man, wasted, he
staggers to a cheap motel,
waking up to a strange pair of
tits,
grabbing on,
sucking to remind him
he is alive.

Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 08:35:00 +0000

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A Prayer for Manufactured Idleness

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:47:00 +0000

Let us bow our heads & contemplate
the superficiality of America,
land of neon signs & K marts & mini-malls & mega malls,
sounds of diesels driving on dark pavement,
moving through the buzzing of the grim night,
the contempoarary fool flirting on wooden bar stolls,
drunk on the wavering of artifical multi-colored lights &
the shallowness of conversations in restaurants &
the empty eyed man nodding, saying,
"he was so drunk that's why he survived," &
mad laughter filling the polluted air &
adults giggle &
talk joyfully of farts & burps.
our destination is "The Kingdom of bang & blab"
or perhaps its tweedle dee & tweedle dumb to be had,
but here we are, land where money buys freedom &
bullshit talking tricksters tapping down cracked sidewalks,
jibbering trivia & useless clucking of tongues,
this nonsensical rhetoric is our National Anthem sung,
let us forget our babbling & buying ,
let us dwindle our days away,
sway in the comfort of cash & silly stutterings,
let us forgive our ignorance,
we are as unenlightened as a cockroach.
Let us pray for more dharma lions & buddhas
to deconstruct the triteness of this Nation

The Corpse Of Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:30:00 +0000

I wake, but I'm already dead.
I look to your lips for grace. A single kiss.
I slip out of my clothes & give myself to you,
and you turn off the lights & pull away. More darkness.
I feel like a skin on a potato peel being peeled off,
image of my body sliced off with each rejection.
I touch no one.
The room grows cold. Ice.
Blue fingers, blue sad heart aching for warmth, touch.
I do not know anothers gentle love.
This body feels like a banged up doll,
a sack to be tossed around without softness.
I know the agony of love unfillfilled,
It's been my life long torture.
Wasted fire inside my flesh,
a body not accustomed to pleasure.
Is my skin hard yet?
I am wailing, weeping to be set free,
pour kerosine on me quick. Is somebody in this sack of flesh?
Feed me gasoline if you must, but please don't let me rust over
tin man like, scarecrow like, stiched up monster of Frankenstein like,
I am dying from lack of brightness fed,
I am a corpse of fire, the living dead,
splotches of marks upon my skin silently ignored,
and I am waiting for the ice pick to melt away &
feel sunshine of soft hands dancing on my skin,
heating up my cells,
like a fire thrower shaving off this deep freeze,
so I can leave this coma, for life, in its golden form &
still I sit as plastic as a disregarded old barbie doll,
and again ask ,is my skin hard yet?

Brother Cactus

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:22:00 +0000

The man on Hawthorne street
in dirty clothes, red back pack &
arms up like a prickly pear
staggers into oncoming traffic.
Cars & a bus nearly hit him.
He crosses the street as people stare & smirk.
I look into his eyes that are glazed over &
say "sit down. we're worried about you."
My friend calls for help on the pay phone that is far away,
The thirty year old man seems lost & sad.
I ask, "what's your name?"
but he doesn't remember.
Perhaps he feels as if his skin is sharp & cannot be touched.
We try to sooth him but he falls to the sidewalk &
I try to keep his head from cracking open,
hold his hand saying, "help is on the way."
A group of well dressed people walk by.
I ask them to call for help with their cell phone,
they pass by in disgust as
if to get involved they might feel
a prick of something.

The man stinks & is dirty,
I hold his hand as he closes his eyes &
relaxes some as if this is his first comfort.
Police arrive & smirk & tell me to leave,
as they can't stand to feel compassion for
something so ugly.

The Mythology Of Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:12:00 +0000

I do not know bliss,
the romance of passion that plays in films--
reels skip by me as I play at celibacy,
never knowing what true connection and passion is,
because the body never brings me anything but trouble,
women dominate me with fists or words &
men try to jab their penis in me as if I were plastic &
one night stands leave me raw &
I've had 'lovers' that refuse to touch.
Skin must be like sandpaper because the touching is never right,
I am aging & have not awakened sexually.
My hair is graying & I still blush red
at the sight of an attractive woman,
& wonder if I will become a wrinkled old woman who never knows
what it is like for the bosy and mind and heart to be fulfilled, or
if on my death bed I will think ecstasy and true connection an illusion.

September 11, 2001: The Third Coming

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 03:37:00 +0000

What would you think Whitman this second?
What say you of your visions of America today?
There is fire blazing in the sky,
flames bursting from the Pentagon,
ashes of the New York World Trade Center,
people running through streets of the great city.
Blood, dead, rubble, tears, screams,
shock, fear, & more blazes.

What would you think Ginsberg?
wish your Mantras were with us now,
your beard & wisdom upon us with
your hands chiming Buddhist bells,
chimes to clamor for world peace.

Today on the news all we see is evil,
grief & President Bush promising more blood.
What do we see America?
Roethke, can we recover from this wound?
The innocent are dying all around us &
on TV some Arabs are smiling in celebration.

The death of the innocent is never something to celebrate,
there were people of color in the rubble, janitors, mothers, daughters.
Killing is never something to celebrate,
but Nations seem to retaliate daily and
grandmothers, children, babies die in this insanity.
Where will it get us?
There are rivers of blood forming.

I find myself crying throughout the day for the fallen Americans,
for the fallen of every Nation & for the falling of those to come.
I never felt it fully until today,
the brittleness of my bones.
Knowing this, how should we live life?

Splendid buildings & thousands die in seconds,
as if all of beauty can be destroyed in a flash quicker
than lightning.
It can all be over in a breath.
It can all be over in a breath.

What do we do with this wisdom?
Bomb another Nation so
their children can weep too?
What conditons have created this battleground Earth?
An eye for an eye and all will be blind.
Turn the cheek and love. peace. communication.

I hear the screams of sirens,
and smoke is in the sky today,
images of planes colliding into towers,
screams from living rooms as people watch the TV in horror,
we cannot feel the isolation anymore.

Those on ground Zero reporting of
the foul smell and taste of the stench of burning flesh.

The young wonder if there will be war,
and the word TERROISTS gets imprinted in brains &
a wave of fear is rumbling .
There are moments where things are never the same,
moments when everything collapses & must be rebuilt.
This is such a moment.

Frantic searches for loved ones,
unanswered questions,
No one is talking in America but of tragedy.

There is a mourning in Americs,
a sorrow too deep for words.
Tom Clancy saw it,
planes as bombs,
how all things can be weapons.

Blood banks fill,
American flags go up,
people are searching for something to do.

Prophecies are everywhere.
Is this fire in the sky that of Nostradamus of the New City?
All our worries seem so absurd today,
the girl we couldn't sleep with,
things we didn't get,
problems at work,
lack of friends,
financial concerns.
Does it really matter when there are sufferings so great we can
not speak of?
Does anything really matter but love?

Buildings & malls shut down--
Never seen anything like this before.
What would you say Ginsberg?

Security will tighten &
America will not be the same.

I live near an airport,
but today is the first time I heard no planes in the sky.
It's eerie how silence can be frightening.

High rises still blaze & blaze,
hundred feet piles of rubble,
rescue workers searching for alive & dead.

O Whitman, will we find what we are looking for under that rubble & dead bodies? Will we find peace somewhere in another's grave?
will we start to form new visions of America or what will
future poets write on America's tombstone?

The Lesson Of Beautiful Corpses

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 03:02:00 +0000

O Whitman , the visions I see! Green seeds in soil,
decayed roses in the sun &
cocoons on trees, yellow butterflies.
Meditations in everything.
Souls, energy everywhere!
We live in moments you & I;
in a web of life we can leave ourselves behind.
How can I sing of the Earth & of love of life?
How can we sing unless we know death?
Know the moment of renal failure,
piss & bile spilling from hanging mouths &
bodies that dangle.
Our shaking pets die in our arms.
Across the land what do we see but life & death?
We live in weeping.
Who are we?
Be with me Whitman & Roethke,
guide me in this moment.
We are alive in our despair.

Oregon White Sturgeon burnt black by the sun
fish the size of a Siberean Husky
swim in a hatchery pond
with coins and cigarette butts.
A crewcut man casts stones
bragging about fish he has killed.
Two hawks circle the sky, sweeping downward
for a glimpse of prey,
families with cameras capture the image of a mountain.
They do not notice the birds.
At the Grand Canyon coke bottles clutter the rim and
pennies tumble over the edge thrown by tourists.
Children attempt to pet and feed a squirrel.

O Whitman, in Yellowstone are fools
who think they are in Disney World,
approaching buffalo with camera in hand.
On the road "Going To The Sun" the asses of two white rams
bounce away from vans and cars and campers,
and charcoal fumes fill the air from exhaust pipes.
Beaches of California display dead fish & oil,
& jellyfish graveyards liter the sand.

In cities pigeons fatten on crumbs,
& crows feed off the dead.
On shores seagulls gather junk,
& crab shells pile on the stony ground.
In Arizona desert scorpions sting & snakes shed skin,
& a black bear sneaks feasts from a garbage can.
Michigan's former town of Hogs Hollow has a slaughterhouse.
Stench of hogs in trucks across America &
cries in the killing &
pork chop barbeques corrupt the air.

O Whitman, where is your vision?
This is the meditation of America,
land of waste, dying, & decay before its time.
President Bush wants to dig up the last of the oil in
the National Parks & the Alaska wilderness.
So some say let's dig it all up
Let's sing songs of sorrow, songs of death.
Let's kill everything so we can all die young.

Are we all an apparition?
There must be love of all things to survive and thrive,
there must be an end still--an end--yet
there could be songs of joy for the next seven generations.
Where is the fresh water for the grabdchildren?
There will be wars for water & many dead.
A landscape full of bones.

I think of America as a place of destruction & lessons.
I do not see condors often anymore.
Can we sing of life from learning from the dead?
Can we sing of love giving birth
to love in the care of all things?

The Pleasure Of Lesbian Sex

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:56:00 +0000

When a woman sucks my nipple,
it rises,
erect &
ready to grow,
it penetrates outward,
as my body stretches like a cat,
in a yoga like trance,
as soft skin rubs my flesh,
& I feel the hot breath
of female lips intoxicating me,
in the rhythm of fire,
in the ancient dance of lust,
where orgasms build
out of control,
in a cave,
in a valley,
where a river flows,
wet & deep
the secrets
of two women
trembling,
embracing
the Goddess with
each fiery soft kiss.
This is the proper
worshipping technique,
for any religion,
kissing the feminine with
pleasure & passion.
pleasure & pass

When Spiders Fuck

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:49:00 +0000

Your cock, the faucet, pumps up,
so I will know how turned on
this heat & silence make you.
We don't speak, only fuck like spiders,
mating & killing in the same hour.
This is how it is:
I've got the pussy to prove it.
Open your mouth,
I'll give you a taste of cunt
you'll never forget.
Like a Black Widow, I'll get my moment,
make your balls bleed good,
then throw your ass off the planet.

On Fantasies

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:46:00 +0000

I made love last night
to my pillow.
Rubbing my genitals
releasing a waterfall onto my sheets.
I thought of
Sylvia Plath
on top of me,
showing me the tricks to the trade.
I imagined Poe & Gandhi
had been lovers.
How sexy it was to see pain in bed with love &
watching
the two fondle each other in awe.
In life I am a stone woman,
standing without an erection.
At night, anything is possible,
as I thrive in fantasies of being a hermaphrodite,
bringing pleasure to all.

Wanting You To Love Me Deeper

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:41:00 +0000

My cunt is deep wet, water flowing to your lips.
Can you rub me?
Touch my breasts with your tongue,
& take me down to screams
of joy once again?
Undress me,
caress me,
touch your fingers to my smooth face,
slide your tongue around my flesh.
Mesmerize me with kisses,
let me forgive you
with your hands melting on & into me,
breathing fire & love
slide across my spine
with smooth & gentle strokes &
take your mouth to my ear,
press your vulva to mine &
wrap around my shoulders,
clutching & stroking,
let's lick & feel untl
we're soaked in a creamy river.

Tap Those Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:34:00 +0000

She fidgeted and coughed.
"Hmmm". Her glasses slid down
her nose and she smiled.
"Haven't you seen
a WASP with breasts
before?" she laughed.
The joker danced on the table
with three Pan antlers. Two on
his head & one erect.
The Twin Peaks midget
did a three step.
"This ain't Oz you know".
I nodded my head &
wished I didn't have to be
stuck in bed with the
Strawman itching my sides.
"Conformity sucks,", said the
Wizard.
"Ah--so it does," I agreed
as I wished for the good witch
to kiss me.
Dorothy wanted
Kansas & Mediocrity
All I want to do is go home.
"You know,
the place beyond the rainbow."
The midget hummed another tune.

Language

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:28:00 +0000

As a child I swung fiercely on my swing,
staring at the red fire in the sky, crying silently,
pumping my thin legs & arms trying to reach the golden sun,
hoping this would give me warmth,
in a world where children laughed in numbers,
and I was alone, seven and somber,
stuttering or slurring words when I attempted to speak of
my Father's bad breath biting into my face,
yelling "Shut up, be quiet" until
I sewed up my mouth in attempt to keep the peace.
I didn't tell of the ropes that held me tight,
or the crazy man that screamed,
or the Mother that left me at four,
apologizing in some coded tongue that I will never understand.

O Pioneer Poets

noreply@blogger.com (Natasha Champney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:13:00 +0000

O pioneer poets, this is a ode to
your drunken Rimbaud ways,
the drum of fury & rage beats on,
O America, O requiem,
the dirge continues year after year.
O lovers yelling at each other into
endless hours of the American night,
Lonely even with a hitting,
a bruise lost in more mascara,
the dirge sways,
into the dance of death,
the American night,
the American freeways,
traveling in a fast car,
going nowhere,
the dry prairies fly by,
like a mirage
like existence itself,
fading.
We drink, we eat, we fuck,
here we go again on
a carnival journey,
step right on up boys & girls,
buy another ticket to
lost days of thrills,
another roll of the dice,
& here we arrive in another
cheap diner or motel,
over coffee or smoke,
we choke,
madness in the darkness,
darkness in the madness,
O lost wanderers
sway in the western winds,
moving route to route
on maps, money, madness,
moving to more requiems,
we sing songs in silence,
on steel streets &
crazy corridors of nowhere stores &
strange gas station salvations
we sail into the American
fright,
a nation of nameless
with graves of the unknown poets,
O pioneer poets, this is a ode to
your drunken Rimbaud ways,
the drum of fury & rage beats on.