#salvador - Hello Poetry

Bone-silted river bleeds backward, tide-swallowed and unspooled, coffin-seamed decades slouch against a cindered skyline— time, a lichen-laced beast, starved-thin and echo-lost, chewing the wax-dripped minutes that slip like marrow through dusk. Iron-tasting hours blister against frost-scabbed bones, flesh-stitched days unravel, splinter-throated and root-bound, where clock-hands wilt, tendon-thin and grave-damp, melting into brine-brittle pools beneath sun-scoured echoes. Fog-clot visions smear across the moth-blurred dawn, where hours, once ember-warmed, now lurch husk-heavy, drift-staggered through hollow-gnawed winter’s crooked teeth, grinding time into dust, whispering hearth-ruined lullabies. Mildewed seconds slouch in the tomb-hushed lull, glass-limbed and unspooled, a slow-rotting memory, half-woken, slipping between the cracks of lichen-laced skin— and here I remain, splintering beneath time’s indifferent weight.

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Mar 11, 2025

Mar 11, 2025 at 7:54 PM UTC

MalcolmG

Wax-Dripped Memory

Bone-silted river bleeds backward, tide-swallowed and unspooled, coffin-seamed decades slouch against a cindered skyline— time, a lichen-laced beast, starved-thin and echo-lost, chewing the wax-dripped minutes that slip like marrow through dusk. Iron-tasting hours blister against frost-scabbed bones, flesh-stitched days unravel, splinter-throated and root-bound, where clock-hands wilt, tendon-thin and grave-damp, melting into brine-brittle pools beneath sun-scoured echoes. Fog-clot visions smear across the moth-blurred dawn, where hours, once ember-warmed, now lurch husk-heavy, drift-staggered through hollow-gnawed winter’s crooked teeth, grinding time into dust, whispering hearth-ruined lullabies. Mildewed seconds slouch in the tomb-hushed lull, glass-limbed and unspooled, a slow-rotting memory, half-woken, slipping between the cracks of lichen-laced skin— and here I remain, splintering beneath time’s indifferent weight.

18

Its eighteen months since her delivery Now she is penning odes ostensibly Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall What Dada says? "No writing on the wall." With great care baby writes her graffiti Not much untouched by her audacity He tries to compromise with a new book but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look He has to admit the walls are hers now Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night without the stars; a novice oversight She's more surreal than Salvador Dali The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti

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Dec 11, 2019

Dec 11, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC

u16102

Graffiti: Writing On My Wall

Its eighteen months since her delivery Now she is penning odes ostensibly Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall What Dada says? "No writing on the wall." With great care baby writes her graffiti Not much untouched by her audacity He tries to compromise with a new book but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look He has to admit the walls are hers now Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night without the stars; a novice oversight She's more surreal than Salvador Dali The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti

14

at some queer second not quite between twelve and twelve blue planet dust particles dream suspend midair while sunbeams dance across minute hands in your eyes shag carpet melts into lush dark grass and azure electric runs across petals of daisies dipped in glass air swims carelessly about in a tropical heat and shimmers curiously like glitter in rain or paint splattered koi beneath oil spills you stand at the precipice to purple infinity and curiously ask the darkness "what time it might be" soft words of loved ones echo faintly in distance overhead copper willows generously sprout industrial light-bulbs

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Sep 21, 2017

Sep 21, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC

XNtricity

Organza 213109202017

at some queer second not quite between twelve and twelve blue planet dust particles dream suspend midair while sunbeams dance across minute hands in your eyes shag carpet melts into lush dark grass and azure electric runs across petals of daisies dipped in glass air swims carelessly about in a tropical heat and shimmers curiously like glitter in rain or paint splattered koi beneath oil spills you stand at the precipice to purple infinity and curiously ask the darkness "what time it might be" soft words of loved ones echo faintly in distance overhead copper willows generously sprout industrial light-bulbs

26

I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70 I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree I want to be like Jeff Lebowski I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’ And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be, I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now, I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11! I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be But right now, I am the me, that I want to be And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.

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Aug 11, 2014

Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC

JunkheadRooster

I Want (OVER 9000 THINGS!)

I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70 I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree I want to be like Jeff Lebowski I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’ And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be, I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now, I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11! I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be But right now, I am the me, that I want to be And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.

22

Salvador Dali Rode a Harley-Davidson All the way from Bali To Abu Dhabi With Charley the Cat Riding pillion. Said Charley to Dali All weathered and gnarly I get quite incensed By children's lack of road sense. When I get back to Britain I think I'll start A Road Safety Campaign. Good idea Said Dali To Charley Who replied Thanks a million.

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Apr 25, 2014

Apr 25, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC

david-alexander-jackson

Salvador Dali And Charley The Cat

Salvador Dali Rode a Harley-Davidson All the way from Bali To Abu Dhabi With Charley the Cat Riding pillion. Said Charley to Dali All weathered and gnarly I get quite incensed By children's lack of road sense. When I get back to Britain I think I'll start A Road Safety Campaign. Good idea Said Dali To Charley Who replied Thanks a million.

18