page-seventy-three - Hello Poetry

An Informal Bit of Nothing

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Aug 11, 2014

Aug 11, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC

Rouge, threaded dragons intertwined with oriental cherries stain a mockery of silk spread across an unsteady table. The lady, dwarfed by the redwood counter, has skin stretched taught across the bones of her temples only to softly be drooped and draped around her jowls. She caught both my eyes in the little dips of her palms but wrinkles worked onto her face are focused on receipts and she is obviously oblivious that her hands, veined with sickly blue, had struck me so hard that my head is thudding numbly. Her nails are narrow and naturally long, set into the spotted skin of her delicate fingers, pulling at a memory bathed in red by the Chinese lanterns hanging over me, the couple near the kitchen and tiny Mrs Huang. Her hands gesture to me after calling my order twice and I walk towards them to take the sterile, plastic packet so that I can finally exit to the alley and spit into the gutter a touch of an image much too familiar to only belong to Mrs Huang.

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Aug 1, 2014

Aug 1, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC

I Found your Hands.

Rouge, threaded dragons intertwined with oriental cherries stain a mockery of silk spread across an unsteady table. The lady, dwarfed by the redwood counter, has skin stretched taught across the bones of her temples only to softly be drooped and draped around her jowls. She caught both my eyes in the little dips of her palms but wrinkles worked onto her face are focused on receipts and she is obviously oblivious that her hands, veined with sickly blue, had struck me so hard that my head is thudding numbly. Her nails are narrow and naturally long, set into the spotted skin of her delicate fingers, pulling at a memory bathed in red by the Chinese lanterns hanging over me, the couple near the kitchen and tiny Mrs Huang. Her hands gesture to me after calling my order twice and I walk towards them to take the sterile, plastic packet so that I can finally exit to the alley and spit into the gutter a touch of an image much too familiar to only belong to Mrs Huang.

18

A big, dark creature is the velvet landscape, Perforated, so that tiny origins of luminescence Freckle the breathing mountain’s gently sloped nape And validates the distant city’s inner flamboyance. The spine of wet tar, peppered with lustre, Arcs the creature’s hunch of a back - It summons me to the city’s sordid muster To wean me of myself and to render its flak. Instead, I think I’ll stay on the footed side of the nameless beast Where I can soak in my tatters and be but my own, homeless priest.

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Jul 28, 2014

Jul 28, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC

The Fool On the Hill.

A big, dark creature is the velvet landscape, Perforated, so that tiny origins of luminescence Freckle the breathing mountain’s gently sloped nape And validates the distant city’s inner flamboyance. The spine of wet tar, peppered with lustre, Arcs the creature’s hunch of a back - It summons me to the city’s sordid muster To wean me of myself and to render its flak. Instead, I think I’ll stay on the footed side of the nameless beast Where I can soak in my tatters and be but my own, homeless priest.

10

Words run down rutty cheeks and phrases pour out of ears and snotty clauses pool on a top lip. A sleeping lizard with tough skin fills the mouth with a little bit of space for the foot propped up against the molars in the back. Some magnificent ******** can part their jaws to let cascades of magnificent sense pass from them. This unfortunate individual, however, cannot stream any quips out of the correct orifice. If some promising witticism manages to squeeze past the big fat iguana under that palate then the bitter thing would flick at the uvula with its tail and the witty remark would be gagged out in the most broken form it could possibly take. The lie it cultivates is that everything inside is at least a little embarrassing. Desperately romanticising about growing a soft, lizard-less mouth must somehow cure the hard working mute someday. Because what the hell else is there to do when one needs to be undaunted and well-spoken?

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC

Daunt the lizard.

Words run down rutty cheeks and phrases pour out of ears and snotty clauses pool on a top lip. A sleeping lizard with tough skin fills the mouth with a little bit of space for the foot propped up against the molars in the back. Some magnificent ******** can part their jaws to let cascades of magnificent sense pass from them. This unfortunate individual, however, cannot stream any quips out of the correct orifice. If some promising witticism manages to squeeze past the big fat iguana under that palate then the bitter thing would flick at the uvula with its tail and the witty remark would be gagged out in the most broken form it could possibly take. The lie it cultivates is that everything inside is at least a little embarrassing. Desperately romanticising about growing a soft, lizard-less mouth must somehow cure the hard working mute someday. Because what the hell else is there to do when one needs to be undaunted and well-spoken?

1

Light emanating from distant ***** of burning gas are intimidated from the children’s vision by the unruly, central licks fluffing about their little fire. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The wind, streaming in from the warm side of the nearby ocean, picks up waves of genuine laughter and stunning, off-key voices. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A bloodline of salt water curls the group into a circular haven where there is no need for corners to shadow defensive secrets. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is a time of absolute purity as the children’s minds drift to Never-never land and their hearts float within the red wine spilling into their mouths. =============================================================== They are all the happiest that they have ever been - on the seams of their spines, dallying until the currents will overtake them someday to bury their bodies at the bottom of the sea. =============================================================== Darkness thickly pastes the surrounding beach, longing for the fleecy little fire to cease its bravado so that the children can fall deeply into sleep. ===============================================================

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Jul 22, 2014

Jul 22, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC

Comfortable Ending.

12

Your cards are something that I desperately would like to fix But my fingers are terribly stupid with those witty kinds of tricks If I could, I would move the conceited constellations by degrees After re-tossing all your bewitched leaves from your stupid teas And I don’t know whether God just weighted your dice for kicks But I wish I could be an ill sport and pick for you a face of any six Because, although I can only see nonsense when you grin about your Belief, It has moulded you into something perfect and you deserve all there is of any relief.

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Jul 22, 2014

Jul 22, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC

To The Most Beautiful Person I have Ever Met.

Your cards are something that I desperately would like to fix But my fingers are terribly stupid with those witty kinds of tricks If I could, I would move the conceited constellations by degrees After re-tossing all your bewitched leaves from your stupid teas And I don’t know whether God just weighted your dice for kicks But I wish I could be an ill sport and pick for you a face of any six Because, although I can only see nonsense when you grin about your Belief, It has moulded you into something perfect and you deserve all there is of any relief.

9

Your droopy eyes are palpable But their leakage is so very liquid That everything from your frown and down are only streaks of monochrome colours. The shine from your bottom lip’s pout Is the sole indication of any protuberance In between the misty, misplaced smudges And now I’ve gone and lost your focal point. Your wilted close is tangible But the reasoning is so volatile That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head And whether *** just simply is a sin. The parameters are but blurred And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex Among smears of arrogant ignorance And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point. But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?

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Jul 22, 2014

Jul 22, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC

You Are From The Impressionistic Period.

Your droopy eyes are palpable But their leakage is so very liquid That everything from your frown and down are only streaks of monochrome colours. The shine from your bottom lip’s pout Is the sole indication of any protuberance In between the misty, misplaced smudges And now I’ve gone and lost your focal point. Your wilted close is tangible But the reasoning is so volatile That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head And whether *** just simply is a sin. The parameters are but blurred And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex Among smears of arrogant ignorance And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point. But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?

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