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11.0k · Jul 2014
What does Love taste like?
the Sandman Jul 2014
Love* tastes like beauty, devotion and affection, rolled into a wafer together.

Love is the beauty of the vain, lone rose of the wild,
fading on the skin of your arms like a lotion.

Love is the devotion of watery jasmine and apples,
running smoothly down the back of your throat.

Love is the affection of thick, chocolatey hazelnuts,
dying so they can remain for everafter on the tip of your tongue.

the sweet, smoky taste of Love rubs in your limbs and your veins
until it is one with your blood and is the only thing you feel.

You devour Love, but it consumes you.
just wondered what the taste of love was and came out with this.
6.2k · Aug 2014
the Sandman Aug 2014
Often people,
mesmerised by
the depth of others,
comment that they had
no idea they had so many layers,
that such profundity existed. I have myself
been likened to a coconut with a hard shell,
with undiscovered realms within. Hah.
I think perhaps though, that I
am more of an onion.
You can peel all
that you
-I'm just the same inside.
Maybe I could even
make you cry.
5.3k · Mar 2016
Trance\\Dance (haiku)
the Sandman Mar 2016
We will pirouette
On browned grass, until it turns
Into faery rings.
5.2k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
A dizzy flake of snow falls,
perfectly balanced, upon
one outstretched finger's squat end.
It clings tight for a second-
a sticky, icy second
where I hold with fragile care
the weak sliver, and my breath.
Yet, the next moment, only
water my digit holds up.
It melts away instantly
with the dry warmth I supply,
and I find that, always, all
the delicate, pretty ones
with exquisite tender grace
burn out ever the fastest, first.
So snowdrop kisses, on the
frosty, red nip of my nose
now only make me shiver.
It's all just skin and ice,
and more ice and skin.
Peels of snow and chips of freeze
make chilled my blood and glazed eyes.
4.6k · Apr 2016
Plastic Crystals (haiku)
the Sandman Apr 2016
Lack-luster, in dull
Clusters, tall pylons reign with
Gods that look like you.
3.8k · May 2016
the Sandman May 2016
It is 1:20 am
And I am at 7%
And I have only one bar of signal
And my screen tells me
                              I'm 93% done with 'us;'
                              You have drained each per cent of my patience.
                              I'm getting mixed signals
                              From the language of your body,
                              And very few at that.
                              But I take a chance on us,
                              Another chance,
                              At this hour of lateness,
                              Maybe we can rebound and re-bond
                              And not just reminisce.
                              I reckon we could
3.4k · Feb 2016
Hallowe'en (haiku)
the Sandman Feb 2016
Hallowe'en night's here!
The kids go out in costume,
Dressed up as Muslims.
3.3k · Jan 2015
book mark
the Sandman Jan 2015
I want to grow a pair of wings
-Sharp, beautiful, majestic ones-
To hold you in and press you tight
inside them, Like the tender silken
roses you sent, That dozed deep in
the pages Of our favourite book,
So I can keep you
For ever.
2.3k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
I sit on a droopy windowsill and gaze out
at the stars above me in the stately sky of coal.
I let the smoke fill me, pollute my corrupted lungs,
‘til it plugs me, completely consumes my sticky soul,
and midnight sorrow blanket hugs the heart in my hole.

I sit and I consider the sky
with its million-and-one jewels
that adorn the vast carpet of night
and its one, lone cloud that slowly drools
fat, drippy drops of deep fed'ral blues.

The ashy, burnt taste is still in my throat;
it lingers- a dull, cloying candy cane.
The muted flavour chokes and jabs and pecks
persistently, in the back of my brain
and leaves a steel blue/gray trailing stain.

Vague memories of fourth-grade English lessons
take me with a deep sigh to forgotten thoughts
of Roger McGough and unrequited love-
dazed recollections of school poetry taught
in obscure slate-blue classrooms, littered with blots.

It seems feeling unreturned affection
isn't quite as great as I’d thought after all.
I must've been wrong, all those hazed years ago,
when I yearned to feel unrequited love’s fall,
convinced it would be a wondrous, dazzling ball

Instead, I'm just ******* in the pale-ing sky
that seems to be growing into lighter hues-
the navy’s turned to electric, to powder,
matching the sapphire in my soul of glue.
I'm suppose I'm feeling somewhat, slightly blue.

Romanticised notions of unrequited love are rarely ever as much fun as the ideas make them seem.

2.2k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
Words belong to everyone
but you could put some together
in the order that you wish
like no one else could
and they become yours

Words belong to everyone
these mystical, magical things
they can be twisted and turned
to the way your tongue talks
and they are your own

Words belong to everyone
*but some of them are mine
I've always found it amusing how a group of words can be put together by a person the way that nobody else would be able to and that just becomes *their* way- and then those words in that sequence become theirs.

2.0k · Jul 2016
the Sandman Jul 2016
I hold glass bottles to the sky
In thunderstorms,
I go home and shelf them for light.
I crawl up and back into you
In thunderstorms
and wrap in warmth till I can't breathe.
Drown me
In thunderstorms;
Hold my head down inside your veins.
Your goosebumps hug me to you, snug,
In thunderstorms
When I find asylum under
Your thumb.
In thunderstorms,
I love you again. Just for a while,
While my mind pours columns of cold,
In thunderstorms
That hang over my head and haunt
Me with self-doubt till I stress out.
In thunderstorms,
I watch the rain drip down my brain
And cut through ice and chloroform.
1.8k · Aug 2014
-time- (haiku)
the Sandman Aug 2014
Time dons His thief's mask.
While we count days and hours,
He steals my stopwatch.
1.7k · Feb 2016
Big City Dreams
the Sandman Feb 2016
Our city
of forts and malls and cinema halls
is littered with the filth of our minds
and our mouths.
We are lost; we are broken;
we are muffled and soft-spoken.
Big city dreams
of art and changing the world
slip away every time we wake up
on grimy beds we’ve never seen before
with soot on our feet, and our hands
bound with ***** hair,
backs bent under the weight of all they’ve left us.
The mud in our fingernails leaves us a mess,
in the shapes of the night's sticky, grubbiness:
a twisted Rorscharch inkblot.
We see it all replaying,
—flickering, as we’re swaying—
on grimy ceilings, where the light bulb
seems askew, and dangling
in an effort to hypnotise us,
left, and right, and left.
Every day is a repeat of the same,
chai glasses, and cigarette butts
with redlipstickstains,
rickshaw rides (exactly thirty rupees steeper
than the rate on the meter),
cat calls that slap in one ear and slip spit out the other.
Our roads are lit by TV-light,
a muted glow that follows us everywhere.
Anonymous blankness follows blankness
and the dark dankness
of grocery stores and souls
that can’t recognise each other anymore.
Silly young things dreaming of bliss,
And new couches, and tiny feet
Instead hear only
"Scrub harder," "Needs more salt," and
"Turn over; come closer; be quiet."
Bare feet in splotchy grass
with brown and green ankles
are replaced by sore heels and push-up bras.
Pens scratching on paper
are replaced by knives slashing skin
and flesh and bones
hitting sharply so that the onomatopoeia
of the shlick-crack-crack
draws out delighted laughter
from blackened, smoky mouths
— and peals of screams that no one hears,
the afterthoughts of parking lots.
The fire of fingers leaves marks, scars;
and their tips grow spikes
into the goosebumps on our arms;
knuckles peel away skin,
everywhere they trace;
and fists clench
around our bodies,
that don’t belong to us.

But we know, one day,
our spring will come
and we will leave the heat on our backs
in dust.
We will go down with Persephone
and take our flowers with us.
We will swim upside down
so we feel like we can fly.
Every rock laying unturned, we know,
has a cosmic universe throbbing
patiently under it.
We will lie, resilient, awake at night,
dreaming cautiously, softly,
so no one hears,
but dreaming nonetheless.
Dreaming of our wings melting
over and over again,
when we get too close to the denied,
day after day, until
we can build wings strong enough
to hold the heat of the sun
inside them, and then propel further.
We’ll show them
— tell your sisters and daughters and friends!—
we’ll show them,
Because your sticks and stones
Can break only our bones
And not our minds. We are
Goddesses, even in a dimly lit bar
Or the back of a fast car,
Just as in temples. We are
Goddesses, whether we whisper in soft tones
Or shout it in the streets,
Whether we lie in strangers' sheets
Or break our backs bending
to ***** feet.
When we're beaten by a spouse,
Or changing tactic,
We'll be both your angels in the house,
And your madwomen in the attic.
1.7k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
I'm only lukewarm, marginally mediocre.
Not quite laid-back enough to be considered cool
Nor adequately exciting for red hot.
Just going by, average, as a rule.
I'm much too old to be reckless and immature,
Yet not as old as wisdom and a good war story.
Not so rich to live out luxurious abandon
but far too rich to be tragically sorry.
I'm unremarkable, uneventful, uninteresting,
Uncool and unattractive, unfit and unaware.
I assume I'm just not- I'm everything 'un' already,
A stale glass of water, gone oddly warm in stagnant air
I am lukewarm, at best.
Perhaps some day I'll be blast frozen
Or I had once been boiled hot.
For now though, there are no cubes of ice
That I can swallow and be more than not.
I am the everyday masses, lost in the throng,
The not-particularly-bright, non-slacker, no-name brands
That believe they're not good enough- or quite the sharpest prong.
We, the herd lost in the middle bench lands-
We're wild and we're sober,
Frightened and unafraid.
We're nothing like you, but we're just the same.
But we, the ones who spend our lives
In the middle bench,
                                                          ­ will be alright.
           We can persevere, *we can.

Representation to the majority,
the unnoticed masses.
To all the forgotten faces of the herd.

1.7k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
The sky’s a light carnelian’s shade
and, as the brightness starts to fade,
from carnelian to carmine he turns, too-
soft to vivid tones of the hue.
Looks into the ‘windows to my soul,’
     (‘windows to one’s soul’ he called them)
The intensity nearly swallows me whole-
his windows a pair of solitary gems.
Eyes the colour that fire should be,
a fury to turn flames green with envy.

So as carnelian turns to carmine
and the heavens light up with his glow,
a firefly’s brightness is overshadowed,
but the yellow is whitened down in snow

A lone, saphhired rhododendron in full bloom
unaware of its death in a pluck so soon

The furious ball of rage sets
and us (three!) need to return
-a lingering gaze for a moment too long,
cheeks of crimson and burn!
For too long have we tarried,
our hours have wasted the day
Find no longer a reason
nor any excuse to stay

Peer over the edge a last time
     (indecision, in control)
At the vast expanse of cerulean, sublime
     (pause to contemplate my goal)

Tucks the blooming rhod’ between a lock and an ear,
breathes, “it looks prettier still here,”
for another second holds ( ) near
and in parting’s ‘sweet sorrow’ starts to disappear

A gunshot echoing, a resounding sound,
as he turns away from the mead’.
His body slowly hits the ground,
and I know I’ve killed him dead.
For the first time, a lamenting tear’s grace
rolls down one side of my face
and all I see is red.

A gunshot, a second time, lying in bed,
*brow, hair, pillow- all soaked in red.
1.6k · Apr 2016
Shards of Light
the Sandman Apr 2016
                         in light,
                In blinding light:
Lights on cars; and buildings;
and lit up trees lining lit up streets;
             Houses with sills all lined in gold
And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould;
Street lamps; and laser pointers; and
Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers
Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards,
With bright teeth and skin and red words
Everywhere you turn,
Telling you what you want
And never knew you wanted;
Shop windows; chandeliers;
Presents for that time of year;
Cell phone pylons with twinkling,
Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees;
Christmas trees, with stars and angels
Speckled, Frosted,
Dusted on the tops;
Disgusting glare on sunglasses,
And a smiting gaze along the arms;
Bridges and fountains with gold poured on;
Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn;
Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands;
Every window, but the ones
Being jumped off of;
TVs and refrigerators, opened
Thoughtlessly at night;
Screens shooting onto impassive glass
That used to be faces;
Cameras, going off in quick succession,
Quicker than you can keep up;
I'm drowning.
We are taught desire, in light,
We learn to read in light
and scarlet letters of fluorescence
We are blind,
Now that the road is paved for us,
To the light that was before.
Goodbye, jungle of pylons and scrapers of the sky. I will live among your shards no longer.

My first list poem (that actually remained a list poem by the time I was done with it)
1.6k · Jan 2015
the Sandman Jan 2015
I gave him my favourite book
And laughed it off as expanding his "cultural horizons."
I showed him my favourite movie
And shrugged it off as "chillin' and killin' time."
I sent him all my favourite music
But could not write it off as anything
Other than pure devotion.
I want to scoop out
His eyes that read my most beloved works,
His unworthy ears that heard the tunes of my heart,
His awful, **** smile that enjoyed my dearest film.
And so now here I sit,
With his organs lying before me,
Looking lovelier than on him;
And still, I am not at peace.
The rumbling in my heart, and the twitching in my fingers
Has not stopped.

I dive for his heart;
I will sew it on my sleeve.
1.6k · Jan 2015
An Ode, In Code.
the Sandman Jan 2015
You are
The whispering of the sea
Crashing anger at violent shores-
Lapping lovingly at lonely rocks.

You are
The affectionate bite,
And pressed tooth on lip. A brutish
But gentle expression of passion.

You are
The soft murmur of uncertainty,
Rustling against soft skin-
A (lost) exhale of heaving breath.

*Your skin and flesh and bones
Are I think not made of
All the same stuff as mine.

   You are water; you're iron;
   You are whistling wind.
   You're the purest sin
   In which I've ever sunk.
1.5k · Feb 2016
In our Alternate Universe
the Sandman Feb 2016
The US will drive like the rest of the world,
And declare peace on the Middle East for all times ahead;
Good films and books will be successful;
And punk’s not dead.

Justin Bieber will bottom all the charts; Pink Floyd'll be back together;
Bond will like his martinis stirred, not shaken;
Race, gender, class and orientation will be nonsense words;
And there’ll be no sequels to Taken.

Teenagers will fawn reading Tolstoy and not Meyer;
Old, black men will order the "extra whip, non-fat, caramel latte, venti;"
Art galleries will be closed to people over 21;
And poets will feature in the Top 20.

There will be equal jobs and opportunities for everyone;
Humans will give up on colonising mars and the moon;
We will bring down the imperialistic, capitalist, racist, misogynistic hetero-patriarchy;
And you will love me, tonight at noon.
1.5k · Aug 2016
the Sandman Aug 2016
They show me vast expanse of virginal lands.
They tell me words like breathtaking and lush.
They gaze at dusty trees and sprawling sands.
They point and gasp and they hum and they hush.
They show me all of Uganda at once,
Holding the globe in their palm and their whim;
They capture it with their drones, blazing guns,
Riding jeeps that cut jungles to a trim.
Their mirrors shine brighter than all the suns
They show me with praise and awe to the brim.
They rant about how clean, and how unbound,
How pure, as they yell and laugh and drop their
Trash, but not their attitudes, to the ground.
They cut through grass and leave cracks in their wake.
They screen their footage and their findings on
Flat-screens and talk of wonder and splendour,
Five-stars in forests and lights blinding on,
Massacring on hot days in December.
People who don their hypocritical explorers' hats, and gush about new places while destroying them.
1.5k · Apr 2016
the Sandman Apr 2016
You told me
(As I laughed at you for
Your draining phone memory)
That you have 7,936 images
Because you photograph everything
You fear losing.
                            I can't help but notice
                            In all our 2,190 days
                            You never took a photo of me,
                           ­ I suppose there isn't room
                            In your memory
                            For me.
March 31, 2016.
1.4k · Feb 2015
the Sandman Feb 2015
I want to write you a poem.
I want to carve it into
Your skin and your flesh
With my pen knife.
-I knew the word pen
Was not in there for nothing.-
I want you to feel the sting of my words
As I drive and drag them
Into your split skin.
I want you to feel the burn of my body,
carving calligraphy
into yours.
I want you to feel my emotions
Running out in blood,
Leaking out of you
In dark, watery cascades.
I want the poison of your kisses
That has spread through my body
To find you again.
I want to write your promises
On the stones I will press
Onto you. So you too
Can feel their o'erburdening weight
The way I did
-and carried, all this time.
1.3k · Feb 2015
Ink Black.
the Sandman Feb 2015
Burn me still, when you do,
With ink on the pads of my fingers
And with my meter scrawled hastily
On the centre of my ticklish palm,
And let me find my sour/sweet chaos
In the order you placed me into,
For I know now and will ever know;
In the madness, there is love.
1.3k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
I punctuate with close precision,
aware of where
I'm placing my semi-colons and
using Oxford commas
like a grammar geek.

Your punctuation always bothers me
but you, with your misplaced apostrophes
and oddly abbreviated words
that you cradle in speech marks,
never care.

You were constantly callous in your conduct,
your handling of punctuation marks.
I assumed you never understood
the significance I attached to your words.

I could feel the excitement
and anxiety and apprehension
build in my belly every time
with your exclamation points!

I could feel my brows furrow together
deep in confusion,
every time you sent me just
one little question mark?

I suppose I never did tell you this
but when last month you ended your sentence
(accidentally, of course) with a dash,
well, I knew then that we’d be for ever.

and when last week you sent me
a comma to end your speech
I knew for certain that
more was to come.

but I see now it was silly
to attach such hope to a hyphen
because yesterday you concluded
with the biggest full stop I've ever seen
and let me know that that was all.

I felt that period’s punch
deep inside my gut
like you were trying to make me
throw up my jam and toast.

I had never before known
one small,
to be so powerful
and hurt so much.

It did though,
and you couldn't even tell-
1.3k · Aug 2014
-bare- (haiku)
the Sandman Aug 2014
This world, of beauty,
lifts myriad vacant skies
for blank world to view.
My first attempt at a haiku
1.3k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
My lids peel back slow to let another
weary day tackle me to the floor.
I push aside overbearing blankets
and shuffle down an empty hallway
into another more bare than afore.
Dragging my feet seems to require
more power than I had thought before.

Nothing but dark rooms ahead await
dully lit by open ‘fridgerators
that make monster shadows of purple,
frightening paintings that taunt Fate.
The shifting faces mock chance of late.

My reveries halt to disturbance that
a noise from somewhere below brings out.
I breathe deeply in as hope fills me-
a hope of the promise of a frozen mouth.

I think in that breath it is you I hear
rumbling and padding ‘round down the stairs
and I tell myself I am right, for it has to be you;
if it is not, no one else seemingly cares.
Morning breaks open the torment of day
like a ripped wound exposed to salty air.

I swallow back like every day the tears;
wrap myself up in old, cold sit-coms
and warm blankets to banish my fears.
Force myself to endure the hefty bombs
showered at my skull like a falsified norm.

The house lies vacant, in wait of you,
haunted by memories etched on paling skin.
Pacing remains the only thing I can do
to strain against the barrage of pins.

As always, I grin and I jump and I wave
so everyone can see just how brave
I am.
         I am.

But I can’t be anymore
and the salt-water behind my eyes
screams to exit the pores.
I can’t hold them in much longer
and I’m all out of supplies
that keep me stronger
                                      than I am.

I’ve run out of the fog
that my brain runs on, and
my heart condones.

       I have painted on a clown-smile
       and I'm quelled inside, flat.
All that is left in me now
is a crushed can of cola
shoving hard at my ribcage.

I am waiting still and know for sure
all will be as it was in times of yore.
1.2k · Mar 2016
the Sandman Mar 2016
Lost soul visits the store across the road
To pick up some rope and a stool;
He looks both ways before crossing the street.
1.2k · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
Vile photos and sounds play on 'palace' walls;
mud in her fingernails form shapes of the night's sticky, grubby events-
a twisted, ****** Rorscharch-esque blot.
Knee-deep in grit and grime, soot on her feet,
she sludges on, puking night after night on assorted side-walks
with soaked, soily calves.

'Just pretty pictures' painted on a wall
show her a true reflection of her mind;
she seeks familiarity, hides/searches in them for herself.
In distorted jumbles, she looks for her kind.

The splayed stuff stutter and splutter
and stop and grind.

Insomnia and intoxication,
a victim of lack of inspiration-
life falls into a slow degradation.

Nothingness swallows all once more.
She thrusts against the shoddy shut doors
while the slimy sticky dross glues her shoes to gory floors.

-she trails off with a wince
at the hat man's scoff.

Foul filth fills the squalid air; and
sullied and smoky, sighing, she (s)tumbles
halfway to sleep.
1.2k · Apr 2016
Ride to Me (haiku)
the Sandman Apr 2016
Love’s rising tide, from
Rest to rest; your moon-obsessed
Gleam rolled, on ripples
1.2k · Apr 2015
the Sandman Apr 2015
I don't have a distinct poetic agenda
And I can never recollect accurately in tranquility.
All I am is a voice, but
I want to be a loud one
-Not seeking inspiration
Under every rock laying unturned
With a cosmic universe throbbing
Patiently under it.
I want to lie awake at night,
Vowing not to sleep until I reach my next goal-
I want to have goals
And not be a dreamless drunk;
I want to fly
And not flutter;
I want my wings to melt,
Over and over again,
Day after day,
Until I can build wings strong enough
To hold the heat of the sun
Inside them, and then propel further.
I am not Icarus. I am not
An aimless butterfly.
I am with direction.
1.1k · Mar 2016
Breaking Even
the Sandman Mar 2016
The girl you see on the train
With a piercing to commemorate each heartbreak
Has a few in places you can't see
— Because you can't know her relationships;
You don't know her heartbreak, or pain.
Instead, you count the suitcases and handbags she is lugging.

The girl who got a new piercing each time her heart broke
Has more smile lines on her face than studs,
So you can see she has had a fair measure
Of good moments:
She is not all rough edges and elbows.

But what you don't know,
And can't tell
From looking at her alone,
Is that she got a tattoo
Each time that she moved on.

The girl with as many piercings as heartbreaks
-And as many tattoos as movings on-
Has eight pieces of jewellery
Strung through her skin,
But only seven markings
Inked into it,
Because she knows she'll never quite get over
The one she can't quite forget.

You'll have to speak to her to know her—
A stranger on the train—
And let her tell you about her life;
And one day you'll hold her hand
As she gets her eighth tattoo done.
Break out of your bubble, if only because
One day, eight heartbreaks in, you'll help her break even.
1.1k · Mar 2016
the Sandman Mar 2016
rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.
957 · Feb 2016
We Are Not Alone
the Sandman Feb 2016
“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
That's Arthur C. Clarke.
My wife always believed we are not;
She was convinced we are not alone.
11 months ago,
My sweet wife said to me,
“Wouldn’t a pair of tiny feet
Pattering around the house
Sound so sugary sweet?”
10 months ago,
The doctor told me how
My count was pretty low and
Asked my wife about a bike accident
From when she was 10.
My wife cried a little, and then
At home, she cried
More than I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said,
But I told her we’re never alone,
As long as we have God.
She told me, in one of the worlds out there,
We are complete.
The ‘S’ in universes keeps her hopeful,
And content.
8 months ago,
I sat in the waiting room
With my sweet wife who had
Been puking and aching for weeks.
The doctor called it a miracle
And said our lonely days were gone.
My wife said she was glad
We weren’t going to be alone,
With just her and me.
7 months ago,
My wife ate right, and exercised,
And sang to her belly, and
Did all of the things
She was told to do;
But it was not enough, because
1 month ago,
My wife — my sweet, lovely wife —
She tripped on the staircase-
That last creaky step I swore I’d fix-
And fell, and bled and bled.
The doctor said he was sorry,
That my wife, she’d be okay, but
That there was nothing to be done
About the young one.
My wife cried much more
Than she had cried 4 months before.
She said she didn’t want to be alone.
“But we are not alone,”
I held her and I said,
“We have God in our midst,
we are not alone.”
A week ago,
I put out a sign
That declared ‘Garage Sale’
(Unabashedly, as if mocking us)
And lay out a motley of miniature clothes and objects-
Unused cribs and
Tiny, unworn shoes.

One day ago,
I said all the right things,
And loved and supported her,
And held her through her tears, but
Right now, as I cry
More than I’ve ever cried before,
And ask why I couldn’t be enough,
She is packing up her trunk,
Saying she can’t take it, saying
*“I just want to be alone.”
956 · Jun 2016
Brain Freeze
the Sandman Jun 2016
I have had ideas, many times;
I have had anger at all the world
And its plates and cups and knives and forks
And pots and pans.

I have used coffee scrub, up
To my elbows
And sugar scrub on my face.

I have stood over rose beds
With my legs far apart
And bled colour to the world below,
Trailing my hell along behind me.

I have had bitter blandness
Blanch the back
Of my throat and the roof of my mouth
Until all that was left was bleach.

I have held glass bottles to the sky
Waiting for thunderstorms.

I have whispered my love to the palm of your hand,
Then watched it drain out through the cracks into sand.

But still I will eat
All my meals out of teacups/
I will let my blemished body be/
I will smell every flower
Growing along the side of a drain/
I will gargle before bed
With pinecone and cherry grain/
I will watch
Outside my window for hail/
I will whisper other things to you
Until the end
Of time
Or tomorrow --
Whichever comes first
-- and hope that inspiration strikes.
894 · Mar 2016
Thought Bubble (haiku)
the Sandman Mar 2016
Leave thought of her-in-
Often-thought-of-you; Virtue
Makes way for torment
885 · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
My body runs on anger
what shall I do with despair?
I am uncertain of how
to handle gloom and sorrow

my body runs on anger
I’ve no use of thee, despair
so out with you, oh, fowl cow
and return to the dark of below

what did this to you, my strong one?
what reduced you to such a state
so cold and pale and weak and frail
as though someone didst sedate..
wake! wake! I cannot take the wait.

you, never meek, who forbade me to weep
how can you lie so, with no trace of life?
I choked at the sight
but did not shed a single tear
I did not, I promise, not even one

the needles and pipes and tubes and pins
cover every available inch of skin
no stretch of wrinkled flesh remains unprobed
icy skin makes my blood to fire akin

vile, putrid bile rises in my throat_
wretched sorrow, arointh thee!
-I cannot handle woe.
861 · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
Your heart is ice,
but my hands can be fire,
I promise.
                just stay.
I can melt through you-
let me hold you,
and take the pain
But I can't help but leave
destruction in my wake.
I'm burning up
                          our days.
An apology for my selfish ways

856 · Nov 2015
the Sandman Nov 2015
You reach for your fifth sugar cube
To drop into your third cup of liquid gold
That holds more sugar and ice cubes
Than actual tea.
Tumbling cube after cube
-of sugar or ice I've lost track,-
You pause mid-tumble in contemplation
Then start to fidget with one,
Turning it over
In dry palms.
Neither hear the cacophony
Below our bubbled balcony.
My bluewhite, brown-streaked saucer
Is hopeful, and holds your gaze,
Its dripping brownstains braver than I in that.
My every clink-a-clink-a-clink
Of spoon on cupedge
breaks your concentration
And you have to start over
(With what, I'm not certain)
And we both know I'm clinking on purpose,
Counting beats with the cuckoo clock,
With a heart as full of hope
As your cup is with hexagonal once-cubes.
When you look up again,
I can feel inside me
The number of universes in the world
Double instantly,
     and I wonder
          Which one we're in--
Will you say what you want
Or what (you think) you should?
803 · Sep 2015
the Sandman Sep 2015
I bleed outside the lines
from the insides of my knees.
The thousand-at-once ******
of your mild affection
that paint my sore, chafed skin
take my breath away- Like
you've never done before.
Your hurt hurts me more Than
your loving ever could.
You're the corner of the table
that I keep bruising my thighs on,
but it's a round table conference
&nd; they're telling me that love
is just around the corner.
I have to climb over the corner
of bruising, vicious love!
But my table is round;
how do I get over you?
~when love is "around the corner," and you're trapped in a round room
787 · Apr 2015
Love Me
the Sandman Apr 2015
Would you love me with blue-stained hands,
in the bleary hours of sand-crusted haste?
Would you love me in oversized sweatshirts and sweaty hairbands,
when I have ink on my fingers and creams on my face?

Would you love me barefoot in splotchy grass,
after my ankles have turned brown and green?
Would you love me when I'm crass and when I'm slacking off in class,
or doodling in the corner of a notebook in a dream?

Would you love me anyway
and, if it's not too much trouble,
would you love me every way?

Would you love me as much in a push-up bra
with red-stained lips and curled (combed) hair,
when I love with all the love I have
in the hope of getting some loving back?

Love me fierce and love me gentle;
Love me till all my love is gone.
hold me close till I am warm.

To trying and failing and trying again
because hope springs eternal
in our foolish hearts.
782 · Jun 2015
Sleep (a haiku!)
the Sandman Jun 2015
I have risen but
Have not shone, and will not do.
Remind me at noon.
755 · Jul 2014
the Sandman Jul 2014
We’re standing here, again- again
where we were all those months ago
I stand and I wait for you say something
I need you to tell me you miss me and want me

I don't know what I'm doing, I'm
unclear and I'm hesitating-
going straight and calculating.

turn away, turn around
look back / walk straight

you duck your head and trudge past me,
make me want to strangle you with dental floss
or a rope of some kind would do
I’m not that picky when it comes down to means

wheels rolling past crunch down on
assorted, random chunks of tar and asphalt

I drift away to happier thoughts- unable
as I am to control myself
around you, in particular

turn away
then turn around
glance back
walk straight

but you don’t have anything new to tell me

so I just turn up my music
let some obscure bands, with less recognition
than they deserve, sing to me
of far off lands I've never seen
and you've never heard of; and I turn away
turn around
look back, but
walk straight

I don't choke you with dental floss after all
but I'm so consumed in anger,
stuttering and stumbling over syllables,
I cannot get my meter right.

I measure out our short-lived run in eights and elevens.
751 · Mar 2016
the Sandman Mar 2016
She was in her heavy, heavy
          Auspicious reds
On that cold winter's night,
When he arrived in white.

She stood shivering, dreaming
Of domestic bliss
And watching mindless films
On new couches with the plastic still on them
And pitter-pattering little feet.
She didn't know the names
Of some of the things she wanted
But she wanted them anyway.

All she got was barked orders
Of "have tea ready by 6 am sharp,"
And "you missed a spot."

And she is shackled
Under the weight
Of her oppressive reds.
She is scrubbing; she is trapped;
She lines her forehead every day,
Right where her hair is parted,
With the red of her blood
And devotion.

And he whispers to her
In the silence of the night that's on their shoulders by now
When they're at a traffic light,
Waiting on the blink,
"I'll send you a bill,
For each day and
741 · Jun 2016
the Sandman Jun 2016
Everything looks whitewashed
----Against the rain on panes---
---Of glass. Every smile looks--
----Painted on, and stuck in-----
-----Place, fitting in perfect------
----Squares of frozen 4 by 4.-----
the Sandman Jul 2014
The Sun, red as night’s carnage
crashes down
As colours bleed deep blues
and mix into the wave’s crown.

Sky’s witch in raging fury
fingers down
Bright bolts of light that crash
And melt into grey; they drown.

Grey shards, pelting like bombs
Forks falling ‘to an abyss
Flailing, floundering they drop into blue
But the hue seems to drown them in bliss.

The sky’s beams breathe bright beads
Yellowing the neon string
sinking with the thundering rain that feeds
A large and hungry monstrous thing.

Sky runs down to see the sea
sisters bound and still so free
while the roaring thunder laughed
dark closed its jaws ‘round the sun.
650 · Sep 2015
Seasonal Breeze
the Sandman Sep 2015
You are winter afternoons;
You're light jackets and khakhi shirts;
You are long fingers twined around a cup of chai;
You're the authentic exotic experience without the strings.
My cool heat that stings the back and caresses the arms,
You blow hot/blow cold
When you're hot
And my hands are stuffed in my pockets,
You are gentle and intense
And full of purpose
But with the spring,
You whirl away in dust,
Leaving your tropical wonderland
Bitter, barren and absent.
My Persephone that retreats to the underworld,
You take away my flowers
Too soon.
Let me have May with you;
Wait for me to catch up.
Slow down.
I'm counting in clicks of the clock
Our ons and our offs.
644 · Jun 2015
the Sandman Jun 2015
When I love, I
Don't just fall in-
I trip, and land
In face-first crash.
633 · May 2015
Swimming Pool;
the Sandman May 2015
You do a simultaneous favour
To spiderwebs and fire
As they dance in your depth
And I skim across your surface
Watching the blue flow up into blue
And the blue sink down into blue
Reaching fingers reluctantly down, and up,
Broken only
By the water-colour green in between-
I want to be the surface
That only I can break,
That holds the horizontal
Between you & your sky; I
I want to be within
And outside of your
Deep, light body
At once
(Till I can no longer feel the hot burn
On soles and blazen palms)
And then stay so until spiders
Build their home on my shoulders.

I'll stay still for them,
And you.
So you can make patterns across my arms-
Cobwebby patterns of (strobe) light-
And I will fly inside you,
Because you are my sky.
This is why I now only swim
Because I feel like I am flying
630 · Apr 2015
You (and your limbs).
the Sandman Apr 2015
Your hands/your fingers/your palms,
Twined -a vine- delicate and proper
-The one point of softness in you,
I swear-
Around a cigarette that whispers its
Spiral tower wisps
Before it sizzles when you bite it
By accident (you say)
Before it whimpers, and gives-
The best way to die, surely,
To die on the pad of the tip of your
Finger protruding out your
Lovely balmy palm-
Look pretty fab I think! I want
To jump into them
So you can hold me so close
And I can crawl over, unsteady
On new, shortened (further!) legs
To the point on your wrist where
Your heart throbs the most.
In other words,
Be mine.
618 · Nov 2015
the Sandman Nov 2015
You promise me your Watchlist
on IMDb
Will tell me more about you
Than dessert and another round of coffee
Ever could,
But I know a Shazam history
Will reveal nothing at all,
So I then order
—for I must—
That coffee and dessert
And stay until
They tell us they're shutting down.
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