#aaa - Hello Poetry

The clock gets me. It comes to me in the middle of the night Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko." Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids, It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go Out to do something, whatever something is. Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me Again. And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your Boyfriend, say Fighting the Nazis, say, Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to That rando guy we met in that club that lives in Prague- I throw the clock at the ******* wall. Because who knows, I make the bed wrong Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or Smile the right way at the right Time. And you start thinking that I have to die. The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're Supposed to be, say Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of David Attenborough. Instead you're thumbing through that index of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes A feat, an unjust cause of mine to Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've Been sewing up Monday twilight. That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

0

May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC

martin-narrod

F**k Jaw

The clock gets me. It comes to me in the middle of the night Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko." Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids, It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go Out to do something, whatever something is. Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me Again. And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your Boyfriend, say Fighting the Nazis, say, Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to That rando guy we met in that club that lives in Prague- I throw the clock at the ******* wall. Because who knows, I make the bed wrong Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or Smile the right way at the right Time. And you start thinking that I have to die. The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're Supposed to be, say Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of David Attenborough. Instead you're thumbing through that index of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes A feat, an unjust cause of mine to Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've Been sewing up Monday twilight. That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

37

I am not scared and I will be strong. I’ve been lonely for ten years and now, I can see what has been gone. I am taken to a different place, far from home. The plane took me high and soared until things got low. I walked down the hallway of doom and distress. This wouldn't be a problem if he had never left. Walk into a room thats plain yet, engaged in activity. A conveyor belt and tags that say names, scrambled in my mind going their separate ways. I tell myself to focus and find my bags from here. The voices and the noises distract me, nothing has been clear. I see my name as nauseous as I can be. My stomach has taken a turn on me. I find my bag and look around my vision is blurred and I can not hear a sound. I see his face threw the sea of people. Wearing the same flannel sweater he had ten years ago. He dominates the atmosphere with his torn up pants and his messed up hair. He looks the same but his hair is receding. His face is drooped down like paint that just won't dry. He grew tall but skinny like a plant that has withered. His face is pale but his eyes are rich brown. He has a genuine smile with teeth that had fallen out. I walk up to this man I haven't seen in years we looked at each other and, we burst out in tears. Even though I don’t know him, I remember his face. From ten years passing by I’d imagine he's changed. He use to be plump and his face well rounded now it looks like he had been beaten by thoughts and loneliness. I can tell when he seen me his life already got better. He couldn’t stop talking like he was gone for forever. I talked right back to him because, I know how it feels. I look back on all the years without him and realized we feel the same. The difference is he made the choice of being alone ,I had no need to be left. I felt lost my whole life, until he came back. Lost from what I can’t quite figure out. I just needed to feel the feeling of him being around. We walked out the crowded place and, went on from there. No one really changes, he still smelled like beer. You think someone would give up the little things for something so big. I left a couple days after, and haven’t seen my dad since. He chooses to be lonely and, I still suffer from it.

0

Mar 3, 2015

Mar 3, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC

jeanette-korbel

Memoir still lonely

I am not scared and I will be strong. I’ve been lonely for ten years and now, I can see what has been gone. I am taken to a different place, far from home. The plane took me high and soared until things got low. I walked down the hallway of doom and distress. This wouldn't be a problem if he had never left. Walk into a room thats plain yet, engaged in activity. A conveyor belt and tags that say names, scrambled in my mind going their separate ways. I tell myself to focus and find my bags from here. The voices and the noises distract me, nothing has been clear. I see my name as nauseous as I can be. My stomach has taken a turn on me. I find my bag and look around my vision is blurred and I can not hear a sound. I see his face threw the sea of people. Wearing the same flannel sweater he had ten years ago. He dominates the atmosphere with his torn up pants and his messed up hair. He looks the same but his hair is receding. His face is drooped down like paint that just won't dry. He grew tall but skinny like a plant that has withered. His face is pale but his eyes are rich brown. He has a genuine smile with teeth that had fallen out. I walk up to this man I haven't seen in years we looked at each other and, we burst out in tears. Even though I don’t know him, I remember his face. From ten years passing by I’d imagine he's changed. He use to be plump and his face well rounded now it looks like he had been beaten by thoughts and loneliness. I can tell when he seen me his life already got better. He couldn’t stop talking like he was gone for forever. I talked right back to him because, I know how it feels. I look back on all the years without him and realized we feel the same. The difference is he made the choice of being alone ,I had no need to be left. I felt lost my whole life, until he came back. Lost from what I can’t quite figure out. I just needed to feel the feeling of him being around. We walked out the crowded place and, went on from there. No one really changes, he still smelled like beer. You think someone would give up the little things for something so big. I left a couple days after, and haven’t seen my dad since. He chooses to be lonely and, I still suffer from it.

4

The saddest day, it was yesterday. Smoky sullen pushy congested lightless sky day. Wrecked and weathered, gluey, obtuse and penned with Melancholy and wanton desire. Wanting on and selling off The Vampires and wretched thieves hibernating back in coach, Seated in peacock-scoundrel dress. There's was the rudimentary Yet pertinent foulness of childlike hatred, but they wore it under Coarsely fitting suits to cover their hefty bags of ginormous fat. Fatty ***** to scrutinize. Fatty ***** to wallow in the throes of Dark fatty dementia. Purses of alabaster filled with hemoglobin. Obfuscating zilch. Scurvy on the arms, reptiles in their ears, and a million miles of Stenchy, noisome, in glut. Wallowing, heavy and anti-professional. Loff-less, un-catchy, unkempt, and in a clamor. Boarish and obtrusive. Gushy of anguish and the uncomfortable hide of rhino Replaced for the swill excrement vetted porcine hocks of a Kaleidoscope rich, aftermarket slug-pact for the bowels of This century's egoes. Heavy on the cheeses, Cheetos, and Pathos. In the hutch, a gaily brimming sunswept valley chimes With the fruitful gaiety around the crowned Pantone TX1333 and Sienna heads that does keep. Homes are heavier, heaving the shrills. Archaic muted cries of childhood, upsetted tummies serving at the Sighs of Lucifer. There are scoundrels here and in the underwear and in The water and under the water. Frogs moo, chimney's weep, most other's Mother's have done true **** Jobs keeping their reared up to par with the others to avoid being Other'd. And our own language isn't being kept. It's undoing itself atop The bridges of mouths and the ridges of jawlines, and they have faded Swiftly, and no surrogate or custodial colloquialism has lived up to the Shadows and forethought of our greatest grandparents. And what has Your Jesus brought you except uncertainty, foul-play, and foul players And despondent and boarish chicas. So now there you have this: brevity. Another soft-tipped dactylic hand for undertaking. By the end of days there will be the licking of butts, Poor movies with Salma Hayek, and the lot of children's books No children, not even these triplets will remember their fine names: Tee, Bee, and Cee. Crocus and sourdough lilies Brimming over the nostril opera's of These adopted gospels. Only the ramparts of our literary apartheid and totally ****** Sexualness in kids and dults of all ages.

0

Mar 27, 2016

Mar 27, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC

martin-narrod

The Saddest Day

The saddest day, it was yesterday. Smoky sullen pushy congested lightless sky day. Wrecked and weathered, gluey, obtuse and penned with Melancholy and wanton desire. Wanting on and selling off The Vampires and wretched thieves hibernating back in coach, Seated in peacock-scoundrel dress. There's was the rudimentary Yet pertinent foulness of childlike hatred, but they wore it under Coarsely fitting suits to cover their hefty bags of ginormous fat. Fatty ***** to scrutinize. Fatty ***** to wallow in the throes of Dark fatty dementia. Purses of alabaster filled with hemoglobin. Obfuscating zilch. Scurvy on the arms, reptiles in their ears, and a million miles of Stenchy, noisome, in glut. Wallowing, heavy and anti-professional. Loff-less, un-catchy, unkempt, and in a clamor. Boarish and obtrusive. Gushy of anguish and the uncomfortable hide of rhino Replaced for the swill excrement vetted porcine hocks of a Kaleidoscope rich, aftermarket slug-pact for the bowels of This century's egoes. Heavy on the cheeses, Cheetos, and Pathos. In the hutch, a gaily brimming sunswept valley chimes With the fruitful gaiety around the crowned Pantone TX1333 and Sienna heads that does keep. Homes are heavier, heaving the shrills. Archaic muted cries of childhood, upsetted tummies serving at the Sighs of Lucifer. There are scoundrels here and in the underwear and in The water and under the water. Frogs moo, chimney's weep, most other's Mother's have done true **** Jobs keeping their reared up to par with the others to avoid being Other'd. And our own language isn't being kept. It's undoing itself atop The bridges of mouths and the ridges of jawlines, and they have faded Swiftly, and no surrogate or custodial colloquialism has lived up to the Shadows and forethought of our greatest grandparents. And what has Your Jesus brought you except uncertainty, foul-play, and foul players And despondent and boarish chicas. So now there you have this: brevity. Another soft-tipped dactylic hand for undertaking. By the end of days there will be the licking of butts, Poor movies with Salma Hayek, and the lot of children's books No children, not even these triplets will remember their fine names: Tee, Bee, and Cee. Crocus and sourdough lilies Brimming over the nostril opera's of These adopted gospels. Only the ramparts of our literary apartheid and totally ****** Sexualness in kids and dults of all ages.

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