Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Hands Jun 2016
know you see me

semper dreamy

slip-ping on - and - off

in the spacey place

almost convinced , (was it?)

“empire free me ,

soldiers see me   ,

envious armies are after me

because broken me is all they see

i patch my self invisibly --”

so in retreat i lay my self,

an icon to vanity and decay-

soon enough i know the soldiers may

hunt, may find, may trap, may bind

never right - NEVER WRITE ,

always blind

inside my rotten mind ,

(oh it was) it was not -

naught but tongue twists and brain rot

easy enough to force, forget

the pleasantness of title : Pet -

was it, will it, could I  build it ?

it never will -

it never was -

a different thought ,

for beggars sought

to free them from their cups and coins -

to seek release from their ***** -

along the railroad tracks out back

we find the air is acrid, black

and children polish stones for sale

for some enormous, bloated whale

that cracks the whip but bears a treat --

I have Orders I must meet .
they even hunt me in my sleep
Hands Mar 2015
empty buses rolled on down
the busy downtown street--
faceless figures flying by
that have no time to meet.
shifting, swerving, shapeless shadows
and a muffled shuffling of feet.
I wonder if they ever wonder
about intimacy with me.
I keep on tracking every bus
that passes through the sleet,
but angry beeping, noxious fumes
and that harsh thumping beat
keeps me still and keeps me silent--
motionless in my seat.
nervous glances, twitchy fingers
and a tippy tap of feet
makes me asks myself in silence
if I should get something to eat.
jagged cracks sound through the air
as verbal tacks pin here and there
and spoken word and shouting, too
all the noises the humans like to do.
The high-pitched whining;
the deep, low rattling;
the stark, empty sighing;
the unguided battling
all of these condensed into one
with more added in for added fun.
the neural wires unlock and retract
as vine-like growths along the spine
come undone across the back;
cure it with wine,
cure it with liquor,
a tonic make it quicker.
smoke a little grass and ****
chew a little on a seed,
take the stem between your lips
and snap it right in two--
Let it stand,
a monument to the experiences
wrongly cut before completion.

a crook in the neck and
a creek out back,
behind the lines of grass
and stately shapes of trees
with blades of wild oats and wheat
stretching all the way up the knee.
the pretty kind of loveliness
across the flower's face,
the dull, ignored cruelty
of symmetry and grace
all coalesce in me tonight
all pile up bit by bit inside my bones
all collect in gasps and sighs and tiny moans
all create in me a tiny pile waiting to be set alight
give me panic give me terror give me dread and fright and
it might come alive and on fire
burning the backs of my soles
making me restlessly wired.
plugging me in and powering me up
they wanted a show so i had to grow
they wanted to see my cute little pout
and so they sought and shook me out
from my voided, unknown cave
to have me put upon the collective
a hidden ornament on the human race--
I need to leave, to flee, to run
and never wonder why
if leaving were so important then
why didn't I simply fly?
no flight for birds of plastic wings
and a body made of artificial things:

concrete, plaster, bits of brick, glass
and the darkest, densest mass
rise into the air above
as gas clouds they float on up
into the darkening sky
covered by cowardly clouds
too afraid to fly
dial tone sounds and it becomes clear
there was never anything to connect
Hands Nov 2014
red you’re flowing red

your words came out like an overdose

dark gray bags and rags for clothes

black and gray and tones morose

red you’re flowing red

a ravenous cavern has eaten all our time

it felt so unkind

I lost my mind

horrible expectations—

lower them

everything drains away to the riverbed

lower then

everything remains hidden until said

lower then

everything flows out to the oceanic carpet

stomach somersault sea green

red you’re flowing red

gushing down to the gulley

you-you sound in a hurry

and complexion unsullied

wait, please wait for me

love isn’t a spectacle

feelings cannot be seen

looking over the shoulder, eyes narrowed,

hips locked in place

you call to me with a look of amusement and I can’t help but cringe

my spirit jumps out of my skin

I hope you like my body

I hope you remember my mind

I hope you know that I flattened on the floor

when you flicked me off your shoulder

and looked menacingly at the door

here I am

a cosmic ant

scurrying about with my feelers hanging low

shake it all off

pretend you aren’t a demon disguised as a simple ****

pretend you aren’t a newspaper clipping in the wind

a single-day story

filler on the news

speech in a bottle

drifting on the sea

a lonely dance hall made for people

to shake off empty flesh

in flakes of gold and steel and lead

what a waste

as it falls onto the floor,

flowing into the drain directly in the center

inch long nails digging in

just like we see on TV

I have to agree

it’s disgusting

but we all have to do it sometimes

****** in the car, whorechild

three years later and I’m ****** on the floor

I’m ****** on the sofa

I’m ****** on the futon

I’m ****** in a stranger’s bed every night

****** by nameless, faceless specters

of masculinity mixed with contempt

users and abusers who love to dissect

but only when *****.

well **** me I’m so tired of being ****** by everyone else

I’m ****** on the street

I’m ****** on the stairs

I’m ****** in the bathroom

I’m ****** in the air

I hang there

a modest bauble on the Christmas tree

no fancy lights lingering on my surface

only the darkness and me

build a house in the middle of the desert and fill it with water

open the door and it all gushes out

draining in tiny valleys and pathways carved from the silent sand

used-up little fool

empty vessel for a ghost

empty vases filled with dead tulips

and a sink filled with ***** water

sunlight has long since left

it’s so simple to see—

only the darkness and me.

this is socialization,

running to work

running to the store

running straight home

running out of places to run

distrust before you disguise the beggar

lying in a pavement grave meant

to be a home

slimy fingers sticking up there—



imagine a world without any *******

imagine a world that is free;

I am only filled more with hate

each time you penetrate

I lose a little more gold

a little more water

a little more spirit

a little more soul

each time you **** me

all I can see is red,

flowing red

draining in the stagnant pools of the narrow bed
all on the tiniest bed
Hands Nov 2014
sitting in my seat

all I do is think

saving every breath

counting every blink

thinking fashionably about death

I watch their eyes begin to wander

up and down each others’ bodies

I close

stick a hand into my thoracic cavity

and pretend it’s a clock to wind

backward through time

like they do in magazines

and in front of well lighted storefronts

and downtown mini malls across America.

any beauty column will tell you the tricks

and what you have to trade,

every weight has a balance

and every product has a price.

hands in your pockets

chin in the air

eyes on the pavement—

almost there,

almost there

button your buttons

string your shoes

"I think I can,

I think I can”

you can’t, of course,

but the emptiness of cleared out commercial blocks

and brown brick buildings

and wide streets that are empty in the night

they all call out

antagonizing you with imposing angles

narrowing density

constricting construction

walk away from it all

hide your naked figure alone and cold in the crippling dark
do not open
Hands Mar 2014
ya want some love but not for keeps,
ya play us well and make the sweeps,
we swept right up off the floor,
we hurried and broomed on out the door.
so take it or go,
make it real slow,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
baby, my fine **** man,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
'When is he gonna trip onto that
fat ****** face?
Pale, ignorant race?'
Not even a trace,
no, no, no."
No, no, no,
not even a single ****** trace
of warmth or love or kindness
or recognition of my humanity,
the sole thing that makes me
a likewise piece of the Earth.
I'm gonna sweep away those ships,
******, doggoned grisly wrecks,
sweep 'em right over the passing waves
and right off the edge of the Earth.
Cuz I don't call NOBODY "Daddy,"
though I call one person "dad,"
"father," "pops" and it pops
I stick my needle through the
pulsing air and it pops
your **** heart pops.
and ya had your fun,
your day in the Sun,
our little run and now,
and now, and now,
oh, now, it's done,
don't make me get a gun.
I know nothin' exists in singularities,
nothin' exists on its own,
vacuums only are in theory,
we are living to our bones
and the living state rests
right into our **** bones,
I can hate you for what you have done.
I can hate you and I will hate you
for every single thing that you have done,
"Mommy," too,
the systems of patronizing pater familias
and all working gears of institutional
my ships may be wrecks, now, too,
but the wind and the breeze are quick to blow
and the direction of the currents are fast and strong.
So just sit there ya ****,
sit and **** into your ***** being
just sit there and ya think,
"Why ya fingerin' that doorknob
when I thought I played ya for keeps?"
I don't call nobody 'Daddy'
Hands Mar 2014
and I gotta tell you all now
when your skin isn't
pure like satin
clean like silk
it ain't so easy walkin
on that street
of yours
or to go and greet
on those
feet of yours
I don't wanna go out, today, mama
I don't want to deal with the world today,
where you been,
I only feel raindrops, anger, teardrops and irony
I am made of needles and sticks and chopped up bits
I am a demon made to destroy from within
I am a half breed **** who don't have no wits--
no use, old thing,
better give it up
and let them hit
and hit
how they hit
it's the bit that gets
when you're layin in your bed
and your mama ain't here no more
and there ain't no baby baby baby ******
you think you too dark to get beat?

we meet

they hit

i fall

the concrete ain't white neither
Hands Mar 2014
my grandmother washed her skin in olive oil

and ate whole cloves of garlic

and let me play with her good china

and had Rodgers and Hammerstein

fill the room with music

for play time every day

as my tiny lungs filled with her air

and my tiny heart filled with my blood

transferred from my poetry blog on tumblr,
Next page