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Riq Schwartz Jul 2018
All I have to do is, "Hello, how's it going?"
and the scene is set.
Some swell of social masochism
stuck inside my head at best.
That step one is a doozie,
but not taking it means staying in.
So going out's the other side, ****
seems I've lost my coin again.
Alright then.
Here, let's try this then.
"Ain't seen you in a while, man."
-Been busy. Girlfriend, house, and job.
-No time for getting out a lot.
-I'm moving next month, see ya round.
Oh. Now I see.
Seems everybody else but me
is doing fine, is growing, building, going,
getting paid and getting laid
and all I said
was, "Hello, how's it going?"
Now I know. I'm either made
of stoic parts expressing little
keeping down these feelings brittle
cracked, sharp spines in blood seek sunlight
or to contrast this, they just might
be the other side of same.
I mean, they could be saying things
convincing arguments of health where
they don't have to face themselves.
Regardless. I'm unguarded
and this talk was quite unhelpful.
I'mma go now. Think I see a friend who just came in.
I'll try again.
"Hello, how's it going?"
And I'm answering this time,  I'm fine.
I'll take a double short
with *** and coke and wedge of lime.
Aug 2016 · 783
The Trials of Writistry
Riq Schwartz Aug 2016
It's so hard to compete
with well shaped human form.
My lines are all bulky,
uneven, and lumpy.
I've no ******* to caress,
no hips and no rear.
That is, I do have them,
but you'll not find them here.
It's so hard to compete
sipping long slurps of mead,
somewhat sweet, something biting,
when shots come much quicker,
they get you there
down the line
move along
spending time
wisely. I
have to take mine.
I can't rush this.
You must understand.
I'm a poet. I hold these words
tight in my hands.
I release them, but slowly,
like time's grains of sand.
There's no **** here,
just titles.
No models, just writers.
Our words are our craft.
We drink, we expire.
If photos are worth just one thousand words each,
then I am the camera
with the film out of reach.
I struggle with knowing that I'll never get the coverage other artists do. I married a photographer, and I won't presume that their work is easy. Mine is difficult to interact with, though. I demand time, I demand attention, I demand thought. This is okay; this is even good. I need to demand the same level of attention to my writing that I expect from a reader, even if it won't get as many <3's as the next GIF over.
Aug 2016 · 829
Riq Schwartz Aug 2016
So many things to say.
Between the floods and raindrops,
pain and heartthrobs,
living for better, for worse,
for now,
for following through
on the sins we commit to.
we expect to see light.
I can feel with my skin
but it's blistering,
I can't hear,
but I know you're not listening.
You'd be here
anon and otherwise
Instead you're a societal gut-punch
who makes me puke.
Truthfully, I'd set camp come the dusk
where I knew I could feel the warmth
from your bridges burned.
Feel the light, dried and cracked.
Tell me what you learned.
Aug 2016 · 634
Riq Schwartz Aug 2016
So today, I think, I
will simply search out my own people.
The thinkers, believers,
soothsayers speaking in acrylic discrepancies
between what is and what will,
what might and ought but won't as long as.

It's so simple, they say.
Just apply yourself daily
and try not to sway
lest your habit break.
Then striped of practice,
you take up your vows again.
Simple, it seems.
Except that I'm swearing daily
"**** all this!
Tropes and tricks!
There's no ease here.
How could there be?
Baring me scarcely seems
to meet the measures
of rarely seen wear and tear
but these **** seams are holding true."

Remember you have only to apply
once daily doses of madness and hope.
If memory serves, it's these
worthwhile self-service tricks
that have woven our sails.
Drink the seas. Come and capsize.
You'll finally meet me.
Jun 2016 · 545
Riq Schwartz Jun 2016
I might be a budding botanist.

You see I watch you take root
in the back of my mind,
while your deepviolet dreams
flower up from behind.
With my withering construct
and green disposition
your ivy league discord
leaves fetid pollution.
my limbs aren't strong enough
to hold you at bay
so I'm prone to let grow on me
whatever you say
these seedlings sap strength
and succor my faults
i could fight back
but what use against this garden gestalt
i am tripping on lilacs
or maybe just lies
and its only a matter of time
till we die
so im keeping my footing
my head above water
and were i a fish
not a lamb to the slaughter
my frame it grows thin
growing gaunt, growing weak
and i cant help but feel
this is what you would seek
then i cant help but feel
i was wrong, and so then
i will try not to go
about feeling again
Riq Schwartz Jun 2016
Oh, I can't - can't you see -
witness such things as these
and stay entirely nonplussed as waves on the seas;
as the sun sets and swaddles
the canvas of clouds
in her shadows and shrouds, while the stars come out
peppering & salting the night sky
we meanwhile lay by
and get baptized again and again
'til we both die and rise to the heavens
of rich conversation
alive in the wealth of ourselves
But there's no Saint Peter here.
These celestial bodies maintain what can only be seen
as an esoteric echelon with humanity eschewed
and no regard for our whims and wiles.
This is where our verse breaks down.
     Here is where.

We don't have words to fuel their fires,
make them burn brighter,
send them our life - we can only admire
and pray that our subjugation is enough
to appease these pocks against pureblack.
These rebels mirror us in some manifest destiny
blended with beautiful blasphemy
that they presume to appease God
by simply not being human.

Well this does not bode well for us, I dare say.
I can no more avoid abusing the air for a day
than I can embody radiance.
I've learned my place.
Here beside you, I've collected myself,
my thoughts, my things,
and I can swallow mortality as its own punishment.
I cannot allow myself to go unnoticed, though,
so I'll show myself out.
No idea where I'll go.
You are welcome to stay still, lay on the grass.
I'm certain keep watching and some comet may pass
but I'm off to find somewhere the sun won't set
and these hands can be bathed in warmth of work and wealth
and these bead-eyed bodies can look down through ozone
and I...
I can simply ignore
and carry on my merry way.
May 2016 · 479
Riq Schwartz May 2016
you and me
we barter like kings
and haggle away
deplorable things
wage wars, set siege
whatever it brings
and care not until
our epitaph sings

you sit swaddled in morality
wide-eyed with ideology
and conversational felonies
beneath a narcissist cowl

I sit asunder thunder rolling
let my thoughts get lost while strolling
meanwhile you are stalling, drawling
your self-inflicted toothless scowl

you and me
we barter like kings
we wear our wealth
in copper rings
until tomorrow's
daylight stings
the whites of our eyes;
the stumps of our wings.
Oct 2014 · 522
Redefine Daydream
Riq Schwartz Oct 2014
His thoughts smell like caffeine.
Defied the day/night drummer, he did.
Watched the world nearly die
     then awaken unaware.
Ready, though, for the autopsy,
searching for the COD
he read in the wrinkles
of street lamps and satellites,
"Death due to the search for life."

Instead he wrote, inadvertently,
the biography of the day,
playful and concise,
wise despite his best efforts.
I'll not write it all down here,
so as not to plagiarize.
Suffice it did no more that night
to keep the world from sleep.
Supine he waited, wished with
baited breath. Each fulcrum
of solar ascent went
slowly, wholly over his head.
Each night laid him down
something elaborately unseen.
Each of us heard his rhymes
                and in turn
         wrote him off.

Daylight simply hides the shadows -
passive state of things.
Life simply hides the death
which time inevitably brings.
Mourning dove finds company
and to the other sings.
I pick for you these roses,
but we're waiting for the rings.

                               - unsung
Oct 2014 · 733
Tonguing It
Riq Schwartz Oct 2014
I's stuffed with mouthfulls
stuck bombastic swabs back, silly tonsils
attract this kind of swelling
blood flow filling brash, crass
rusted filter engorged but not gorgeous.
Leaking, not porous. I'd fight for us
but you're the one fighting me.
So I stuff this all down from the surface.
It's worth it. You see,
argumentatively I concede to the truth.
You withhold resolute and spew weather.
I'm better. I hold it inside. Stuff it down,
bottle up all my thoughts and I swallow them
frothing and foaming in cheeks around teeth
gargle responses, apologize
but I's stuffed with this awful,
awful mouthful.
Disturbed? Bueno.
Oct 2014 · 855
Let Linger Lightning
Riq Schwartz Oct 2014
I've resolved to hold out hope
Some offering resilient
Passed down, an heirloom
From day to day to day
Through this damning night courier
I sell this trinket for a pittance of sleep
Please, just ten more minutes of pittance
And so hopelessly I'm found
Face first in down, safe swaddled dreams
Abound to excavate another vein
And so hopefully I'm found
Panning for dreams for passing tomorrow
Wishing that the sun would rise reminds us that it will.
Sep 2014 · 500
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
You dressed
In early morning pallor
Faded like half
     forgotten memory
Free like a beggar
Lost like the rest of us
     with somewhere else to be
You walked with
Dignified aggression
Regal like a
     Queen elect
Static as a storm cloud
Displaced by sunrise
Sep 2014 · 683
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
There is a churning,
spurning surge
like sickly sushi
or bad first dates
Take it slow, I say
take it no more
than two days at a time
like when your brother
slipped, fell fell fell
down the basement steps
Remember that?
Let it fester
lactic acid
Let it drown
Let it bloat
Then make your
chalk outline
of feelings deceased
Let it waver or
whimper or wallow
but don't let it go.

This is the beginning
of your next great write.
Sep 2014 · 551
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
The pitter patter
Of your words smelting against
My inner ear forge
Aug 2014 · 478
About time.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
I heard clockwork songs,
sprockets and cogs
lost, stolen tocks
swept through swift hands,
and ticks slipped by
whistfully shy and shallow;
lapping up time in
long tongues and trappings
on and on, anon
singing suddenly daylight!
Laughing larks earnest for tomorrow
while we, heart shot in sorrow,
swallow our pride, hide
face first
while versed well in this chorus
crowing, "See! See!
It is sleep that damns,
these dreams, contagion!"
Step we back,
through stars never sleeping
as we wound tightly with
lunar ties
to the tides of these cardiac shores,
sanguine swells
beneath onyx allure,
dampened air, dew gathered in reverence.
We were immortal
until daylight.
We were wrought with cast shadows
as indomitable as dreams.
Yes we were.
Like dew to fog and
stars to sun
and we may just
dissolve like
de_ to fog nd
s to su
d we ay js
issove _ie
e t_ og d
s to u
a_ w ay s
sov_ i
e_ _ _o
a t
_ w_ a _
s_ _i

Aug 2014 · 824
Sonnet 2.8
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
I'm languished here in lack of lit'rature,
for treading words - writ oceans black and pale.
I woe my want of discipline demure
to hoist my mental canvas and set sail.
To set this sextant sentence south to north,
my odyssey sees strange sands lap aground
with trepidation slipping slowly forth,
and omnipresent, inauspicious sound.
Please show me now around this simple isle.
Lead me by hand to cliffs by time distressed.
Forgive me then if I retreat a while
to cast off, searching ****** shorelines' rest.
This covered ground, font foliage, anon
will meet me once this weary world is gone.
Aug 2014 · 1.2k
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.

Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'

And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Sometimes you need to
Jul 2014 · 511
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
"You are one line."
I tell myself

"Here on this freeway
blacktop layered
in a toxic parfait
shoulders narrow like
avian supermodels
thousands of wheels
in perfect disregard
carcasses and
engine failure and
you are just
one dashed line."
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
We were all sitting here alone
spiking our breakfast cereal
monochrome and melancholy
unique like bad grammar
we stammer and stumble
through thoughts sepia
and savor each sip
from bourbon laced Special K
our amber memories matching
the luxurious proof that we need
each other like broken toes
need designer moccasins
more or less useless in stupors
suave though still
as captains Morgan and Crunch
sail the high seas of our internal struggle
and pitch with unspoken conversation starters
and serene belief that the storm over head
is just a migraine like any other
meanwhile we sing seaworthy refrains of how
Honey Jack and Cheerios were made for each other
sending our feelings down to Davey Jones' deep
Now I lay me down to sleep.
l pray my mother not to weep.
And if I die before I wake,
t'was all one ******* huge mistake.
Jul 2014 · 986
Trite; Contrite
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
You stole my breath
but needed only ask.
Gave love freely
and demanded the same back.
You took no ****
so never gave one.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
to feel no regret.

You were bold and brazen,
I was empathetically italicized,
leaning on you
in times of duress.
You gave and gave and gave and gave and gave
two-bit trinkets
half-assed like alimony.
I took and took and took until
I was overburdened and
rooted in place.
You walked away like an action hero
and never looked back.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
straight out the window.

Yesterday you gave
     me a call. Said
     you were fine.
I didn't ask
     if you felt my eyes
     searching you out
     in dreams,
digging deeper through memories
to us, together.
You teaching me to love
showing me the way you did.
My eyes followed you,
  followed yours
     following her,
and you showed me the way
you felt no regrets.

Perhaps sometime I can show you
how I find my way
straight out the window
and let your eyes follow me
Lots of help from Jamie L Johnson ( and my dear friend Blu. As always, thanks for reading!
Jul 2014 · 804
Down feathers, Down falling
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Being blessed with wings
does not endow you with the
strength you need to fly.
Sometimes you gotta hit the gym if you don't wanna hit the pavement.
Jul 2014 · 1.4k
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
We perceive the deep
like some siren song
sinking depths below
where our skin ripples
and runs laps around
and around and around
the surface tension
and cool breaking breezes.

The sunken sand and
rusted portholes
don't draw down
the moisture in our skin.
Next to the slowly sloping
dunes of deep
we are a skin-shod Sahara.

We are pulled by and against gravity
because, in fact, the bleak black
crushing back against our ankles
begs for the darkness we hold
shackled out of sight.
The death of the sea finds
the secrets in me
and it makes them it's own
as it swallows me whole.
Jul 2014 · 1.4k
Cafe Casa
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Even with the mood lighting inside
this lethargy induced spiced chai
I find these things elusive
like good cell phone pictures of concerts
or, dare I say, a happy poet.

Despite generations of artistic indulgence
I find these things apathetic
androgynous, as it were
with indiscernible discrepancies drawing
daft conclusions from the quick-sought eye.

I too struggle to find the truth behind the lines.
I craft as though I know my medium.
I create broad sweeping arcs across
my own right side brain
but see them smudged and distorted, distended,
dripping their dynamics through the cracks in my floorboards.

Cinnamon vanilla maple ginger
shots at first class from coach
and here on my three foot throne
I squander the warmth of my ******* latte.
Jul 2014 · 930
Solar Scriptura
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Less notable
than the day we set still our pens
and let rest our wandering muses
is the day the sun
does not rise.
Jul 2014 · 3.3k
Bubble Gum Girl
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
My time with you is
the first few seconds before
all your flavor's gone.
Jul 2014 · 2.4k
Chemically Inducted
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Everything she writes is tagged

You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.

The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.

My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.

Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
I have a bad habit if writing poems that are too personal about people I don't really know. This is one of them, so I threw in a bit about myself for good measure.
Jul 2014 · 595
Response to "X"
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Love is found not
in fixation
obsession and attraction to
the point of abstraction.
Love does not demand
sacrifice of soul and will,
sitting still, sifting
through emotional ruminants.
Love does not need me.

Love is what I need to be.

(S)he finds me trapped
strength sapped
and gives me heart to heart
This is love.
I am free to die and weep
and hate and wallow;
love is unfettered by languish,
not lackluster if let to age.
In time, we find, we see the truth
of love's supposed strength in youth,
and instead see
grows vines around our walls, and through
windows and doors, inside and out.
Now, when we crumble into dust,
our framework cracks like cheap glass,
we find this love, slow and insidious,
to be the only thing holding us aloft.
*This is your heart becoming mine.
I can understand X's point, but I wanted to make my own argument.

Original post:
Jun 2014 · 468
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
His name was Adam Chester,
          and I killed him.

He was something early thirties
still built like twenty-two.
His eyes were as green as life
and the corners of his mouth could
shine enough certainly to

He was dying.

I was something late twenties,
young enough in Hollywood
to still be exposing my ******* for parts.
My hair still had more red than shame,
and my body still looked like a
parenthetical aside
in all the right places.

I had never felt more dead.

He said he saw me in some room
with some people sometime
and that the spark in my eyes had
restarted his heart,
cause he was surely dead,
just waiting to die.
I said I understood,
and I drank daiquiris.
Later, he would tell me
my skin felt softer than the
Egyptian cotton sarcophagus
entangling our legs,
that my lips tasted like cherry,
my breath like alcohol,
and my skin like so many
     squandered summer nights,
     bikini tops and Tanqueray,
     riding solar flares between friendships
     and not taking no **** from no one.

For weeks and months we were together. He didn't seem to be wasting any way but spiritually, and I didn't seem to be wasting anything but time. He told me that everybody dies alone, and that he would give anything to break the trend. I told him that of course I would help, and that I didn't love him, but I loved the thought of him, and that in me that thought would live forever. I promised I would find a way. He would touch my hair and smile without showing his teeth - either because it seemed too aggressive or too disingenuous. He told me how our lives resembled Moulin Rouge, except that he was the one on the clock, and I just wanted to drink and ****, and that was precisely why he chose me; perhaps if he was never alone, he would never have time to die.

It was the kind of arid night that makes you want to water your plants compulsively.
The air had our lips cracking like sarcastic smiles
and skin too dry like a sense of humor,
unable to turn the pages of our paperbacks.
I asked him to be my chapstick.
He asked me to be his lotion.
I told him that he was gross.
He told me to go to hell.
               I told him...
          He told me...
     I told him...
He told me...
I told...

I woke in the cold embrace of solitude.
She kissed my neck and called me Lover.
I told Solitude to leave me sleep.
She told me she was lonely.
Told me I was breathing, if barely.
More than could be said for some.
She kissed my neck.
My heart stopped.

Time flows not like grains of sand,
but like grains of wood,
back and forth, swaying, dancing,
some ****** understanding within itself
which we have no place in,
no fate with or without.
I saw him laying alone,
saw him stand beside himself.
Saw him wonder
where I had gone.
Saw him go.
Saw him, gone.
When you die alone, you leave even yourself behind.

I went back to bed,
back to my body,

where Solitude could have her way with me.
Every living creature on earth dies alone.
          ~Roberta Sparrow, "Donnie Darko"
Jun 2014 · 1.6k
Matters of Podiatry
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
I count my steps,
my heart like some
mis-ticking pedometer
uneven and syncopated
disassociated and dislocated
     with my head in the clouds
I found, retracing my steps,
my foot in my mouth
all the while we kissed.

No wonder, then
that you tasted like
the roads we traveled together,
each time more insipid than the last,
and each word I spoke
was muddled
dry and bland
or saturated and sticking
under fingernails
between your teeth
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
Feel too much

if you find folly in those
freeloading fascist hacks
who tell you to write prose
or shoot photography,
tell them to take notes
      -a mental picture-
because you're headed off to the heart;
Taking back roads through
the bile of memory
to touch what it might just mean
to be.
Journalists content to watch.
Sojourners just might find.
A poet will be your guide.

Feel too much.
Please know that I do love our prose-bound brothers and sisters, and I married a photographer. I'm simply embellishing to help the thing earn it's title, as it were.

Inspired by/in response to "Feeling Too Much" by Alyanne Copper
Jun 2014 · 1.3k
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
My laundry consists
of clumps of socks, jeans, bed sheets
Once-used towels, and you.
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Collector's Item
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
You're too loud for
your porcelain throat;
your rose blushed
china doll cheeks
crack each time you smile
     -- just a little
That silk-smooth black
hair does nothing
to keep you warm in winter
but frames your face
in perpetually delicate contrast

Your words are hammers
Actions are sparks
as much a threat to yourself.

I'm not afraid of you, only
of when you come to life
and your expression never changes.
Eyes glazed over
standing silent sentry
unaware that features
are only paint thin;
thinking a silk-shod body
makes you a princess
rather than a plaything.
Jun 2014 · 548
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
My body is flaking
like some ashen mistake
crispy, true
wispy too
as the breeze makes me break
So assemble your respirators
don't breathe me in
You'd hate if you let me get under your skin
I am forlorn
and airborne
I'm whimsically
whittling oxygen
out of the air that you breathe.
Yes you're probably all
better off without me.
Nothing like some high quality self-deprication to ring in a real ******* of a morning.
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
'Tis the season for
and rebirth with rebar
'Tis the time for me
to create the word
To drink
more than my doctor wants
but less than my audience deserves
'Tis a passing, flashing
immolating infatuation
toward progress
through denial and other forms
of self medication
It's summer
and I not-so-secretly
******* hate it.
I do, I really hate summer. I want my arctic vortex back.
Jun 2014 · 1.3k
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
Thy blowing blue breakers
sweep overboard,
take color away from
the faces of the men,
washed in white walled foam
and cyanotic sapphire
speak novels in seconds
no well placed punctuation
such is the way of the sea

I'm searching the heavens
for happy notes
over sour tones
and mis-pitched harmonies.
As I stargaze, I'm trampled
by depressive episodes and felonies.

your bold bone breakers
bring drought and salt
but nothing savory here.
Nothing ventured and
nothing gained,
streets washed of life, weeds,
wear and tears
the only water to be found
wasted on self expression
instead of survival.
Such is the bane of our fathers.

Women's feet shuffled like playing cards
and men's backs bare a striking resemblance
- striking? stricken -
to the laugh-lashed shaming
of their own emotional dilapidation.
And might your mind be free
from weather and tears
you have but to hear/see/smell the broken
to become undone
Like so many pages, dead dry leaves
nestled inside leather-bound luxury with a broken spine.
Thy mindless diction fixes
namebrand problems to
hot button topics,
trafficked into pipelines
down polluted broadcasts of
girls girls girls...

Your voice bellows and breaks.
We are nothing.
Whatever color or shape you take,
We are nothing.
Whenever you go and
whichever language you abuse,
remember in your heart that we are

Women's feet shuffle on hardwoods
bringing heart to the beat
as men's whitewashed canvases carry
the quintessence of quixotic movements
in and about key changes
the same as we paint our love
around the fringes of each other
and frame unfamiliar faces in lip-locked sepia
blushing, brushing
we carry the color of previous strokes until
we are each our own historic hue
staining others for future use
in cobalt, mauve, maroon, chartreuse

We harness our pain
in the alchemy of experience
to create beauty.
May 2014 · 615
Riq Schwartz May 2014
Quick spiraling up
dust, cut through
particulate, converse
for wear - no worse
lines taut, held terse
for sure, bravely held
when expected projected,
and shown to the rest with
confection rejected
Tested, tried true, you
tread boldly into
stone cold reserves told
tritely, mighty fine end
This spring/summer confection
     inside of my head
Riq Schwartz May 2014
The sound of flesh tones
takes me back to you,
The flavor of your words,
the smell of snow
sending your skin crawling;
windows pain and
suffer in ice.
We perch precariously
hardly inside my car,
bleed into night
breathing delicacies
into the hollow air,
our hands full of each others'.

If this poem had melody,
it would sound alarms.
Sickly sweet thumps from
drums dripping discord
hard lines
lead down
lead down
lead down
Keys to carry our
lock-boxed thoughts
overseas, we
are just unaccustomed
to these breeds
of attuning, intoning,
singing serenades
in shameless shades
like ghosts of each other
found only here,
some haunted isle.

I hear your breath in the fog
See your body like a moment
Taste you bitter in recital
like some copiously black coffee
which your tongue taught me to love.
You burn my hands,
my lips,
my lungs.
You burn.

Syncopate and center,
taking this legal pad
for some sort of joy ride
to break all the rules with.
Warm now beneath tips
of pen and ink and finger,
blues bleeding;
You stay, still
stuck in my mind,
impervious to scrawls,
and immune to memory,
yet found in songs of
another's composition.
May 2014 · 1.1k
Verbivore, pt 2
Riq Schwartz May 2014
I'll swath my cliches
in over verbose decadence
and ask forgiveness in the morning.

the fine line in between
Fighting to *live

- or -
living to fight
in champagne surged soirees
of surreptitious allergens

Some ******* ballad
donning metalcore methods
aggressive to a fault
     that is to say, earth-shattering
unyielding, unwavering, unapproachable

You, me,
they, we,
but never forgotten
but never spent
but never lost

Your name is in my autocorrect
with siren songs and call signs
from generational grievances,
Chivalrous misandry,
chorus discord

Chandeliers swing
low like chariots.
Samson told us to keep dancing.
We were only listening,
abreast one another,
clad only in our genres.
We were so much more
until we were

but never mattered.
May 2014 · 3.2k
Verbivore, pt 1
Riq Schwartz May 2014
I live
to create
each letter
         turning phrase and
         thought-out straightaway

You read
every syllable
letters strung
like a popcorn necklace
fingerpainted fragment sentences
authoritatively artistic and
defended in brazen resolve

my keeper of the slight,
the nuanced, softly sung,
down-quilted gerunds:
holding, brushing, sweeping
tasting, loving

There is no sound in space.
No quiet nothings whispered.
The sunlight on my face
now scorching, cracking, blistered,

comes quickly
when the cook's not around;
so when the words stop
if need be,
feast on me.
May 2014 · 473
Riq Schwartz May 2014
I can write out the sounds,
     prepositions and nouns
          that would help us to better relate,
but I can't stand to keep
     all these things in the deep,
          so allow me to pontificate.

I have wrings on my hands,
     broken bones in my tongue.
          I have methods of making me sane.
But this madness escapes
     when my feeling berates
          sensibilities trapped in my brain.

I feel stupid and foolish,
     unsightly and ghoulish,
          like I'm breaking my back as I walk.
I have whispers and sighs
     just in back of my eyes
          cause I can't stand to hear myself talk.

There are reasons and doubts
     that I can't live without,
          and my mind's a marina of stone
where excuses abound,
     and you won't hear a sound
          cause in here, you're completely alone.

I have struggled and sought
     to direct where I walk
          so my steps stray away from this place.
But with each passing day,
     I examine the way
          that I'm losing the whole human race.

I'll escape with my pride,
     and my veins open wide -
          even then, only once in a while -
just to trip down the street,
     keeping quick on my feet,
          holding fast to my Cheshire smile.
Apr 2014 · 561
Riq Schwartz Apr 2014
What acclaim is there
for the man who breaks
the heart of a *****?

What worthwhile service
can assuage the soul
so torn in malcontent.
He prophesies of Eden
telling Eve to hide her shame
in lieu of his land perfected.
"What other hell do you threaten?"
He claims, "Fire! Fire!"
But her lungs hold smoke
to keep hands from shaking
breaking spirits and homes
as Priest rushes
to the safety of Soap Box
lightheaded from the height.

What solace is there
for the arsonist in the convent?

His speech its own
blend of herbs and spices;
sour prepositions
and capsaicin soaked subjects
caught in the heat of judgment
like some wrathful deity,
holier than thou.
Resisting respite despite
facing the fire of his deeds,
the innocent frolic, carefree.
He finds he
is the tinder,
caught in his conflagration.

What pity have we
for the lost life of kings?*

Caught between revelries
and pomp,
caustic circumstantial froth
from his echelon elect
as we revel in flames
and fight *** with sins.
You know these things,
see them, taste them.
Spiteful planet, we adore thee,
eschewing humanity
with piety and privilege
and soft-spoken actions wont to liberate
the conscience.

Sing me the song of the sword
and I won't say a word.
Mar 2014 · 750
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
This bottle bleeds like heartbeats
inebriating grass
contesting dew drops
     heartstopping plot lines
meanwhile fireflight christens
the night that listens
to our intoxicated forgetfulness
a cheap libation
young-morning dream sleep
waking walking, weaving
half-heard whispers of stubborn solemnity, we
wrought havoc;
we were not in love
it was just the cold night air
     and the field that smelled of chardonnay
Mar 2014 · 587
Dreams of Men and Menthol
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
She smiles sickly sweet;

wears nicotine stained skin.

"Go **** yourself," she sings.

We're never going to win.
Mar 2014 · 731
A Trouble With Merfolk
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
It was with:
and servitude,
she sought to tell me
of living proclivities -
voice and demeanor
while dancing with candor
that surely would show us
the damning demanding
of each one another
and there
in those words
in that flight
I was shown
the topography of
all the love I had known
where without I would be
just a speck in the sea
but to me,
it would seem
there was nowhere to land
so we took to the skies
and we took what was ours
so she took from my eyes
all the color and life
and replaced it with hers
so that I too might find
there was no need for wings
when the flight through the sky
was to float through the sea
the reflection set free
as we drowned, I and she
we obeyed, as they say,
Feb 2014 · 986
Riq Schwartz Feb 2014
We're too old now.

Too old to indulge in

partitioned plastic plates

shatter resistant

but molded to hold in

three ounces of fun

per serving.

We've outgrown yesterday's

gaudy voice acting

and crude cartoon lines

washed out, two dimensional

color schemes

and character types, now

redux in high gloss CGI,

300 dpi


5.1 surrounding

both of our senses.

What's that?

We have three others?

But we've no time

for scented markers

on monochrome pages

Breakfast food no longer

simply sugar and bread

We swath ourselves

with succulent self-importance

tech savvy misanthropy

dolled up in decadent


We are too old

to go to a friends house and play.

A list of woes and throes

gives us nothing-

leaves us nowhere

except in thinking

patiently praying

that we may never outgrow

our love for the things

which we've long since outgrown.
Dec 2013 · 815
Ritardando, Crescendo
Riq Schwartz Dec 2013
There was nothing ahead
but the blazing red
brazen brake lights watching
for the likes of us,
with somewhere to be
besides the whipping chills
of concrete and ice
spliced into our state,
uniquely white.

Inside, the air
surged the song out
and over our bundled bodies
thermal anomalies
in the amalgamating night.
wrapped and coiled,
covered the lazy silence
like insulation commitment
to keep us safe,
deployed in case of a conversational
head on collision,
curtailed with soft sounds,
in amber lamps

Your particulate words
freckles in the face of ill
conceived ideas of entitled
Sirs and Madams,
my van Gogh brush
damning them all to hell.
Dec 2013 · 908
Riq Schwartz Dec 2013
she tells me how my touch is deft -
scribes lightly through the morning haze
pedestrian within the fog
traversing nights transpire days
     your shouting shatters solitude
     it brings me back mortality
     ethereal my thoughts to write
     these poems' eventuality
a heartbeat muffles crackling lungs
while veins write words upon the breath
and what great privilege given to
the last ones spoken till your death
          you find me speaking lyrics to
          the harmonies I find in you
Juxtaposing simple rhymes and easy meter with a sonnet build - just for funsies. Iambic pentameter escapes me at the moment.
Riq Schwartz Dec 2013
This church is haunted,
so they say,
the sanctuary possessed,
filled with the melancholy
lingering spirits
like the echoes of
cheap communion wine
and halfhearted Hail Marys.
Those who think that
sitting in a pew
is next to godliness.
So they stay here-
too afraid of hell
to ever embark for heaven.
A poem about inaction.
Nov 2013 · 705
Sonnet 2.7
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
The ink spills dark as lights are flitting on,
the thoughts and dreams and very souls of ours.
Though bright the future, waiting, poised anon,
it notices but flippantly our scars.

A man might make his words into a deed,
might voice his hopes too loudly and be heard,
or else might sleep his days and so accede
the universe refuses to be stirred.

We came onto this planet lame and cold,
with Time already plotting our demise.
But rue the world which fetters us in gold;
We see the black and gaze into its eyes.

The moon sits innocently, just and fair.
The Devil's footsteps kiss the evening air.
Top words from Sara L. Russell (I used the second row of words this time - they seemed more challenging) reconfigured to fit a poem. The English sonnet form was fitting, I felt.
Nov 2013 · 371
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
If I
am the man
you thought I would be, how
could you have thought
so little
of me?
Nov 2013 · 553
Sonnet 2.6
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
I'm living in a skin that's not my own -
instead resembling something of a man
who hides for fear, or else confronted, ran.
Now as I wear this self, so loosely sewn,
with shreds of muscle hanging off of bone,
it seems to be that anything I can,
I do to dodge the truth of who I am.
In multitudes or mirrors, I'm alone.
So I take solace here, that in my rest,
as surely as I'm speaking to you now,
you'll know the truth about my state of heart.
And though I am no Nietzsche or Descartes,
I'll postulate, grey templed, furrowed brow,
my heart has ne'er beat truer in my breast.
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