"abdomens" poems
Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don’t misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist’s stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That’s it the artist says we’ll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist’s blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC
Let me in
Shut the door and let the sheets cover us both
and let's breathe oxygen into each others mouths
until we both pass out and die together
intertwine our fingers and criss cross our arms
melt my chest into yours
hairs bonding
tears dripping
belly buttons closing on each others abdomens
fusing and refusing
to let go
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Cicadas gather on the grapevine,
a mass of wings and vibrating abdomens.
Males call out to females
but it is the grey squirrels who answer,
chattering loudly as they feast on insect flesh.
I sip cold wine and tap my fingers
on thin glass, watching and waiting.
My phone buzzes next to me;
you, calling, again.
I ignore it and turn my gaze back to the feast.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:08 PM UTC
Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
⠀
But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
⠀
I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
⠀
With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
⠀
After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
Slick,
slick yellow lining
it protrudes from chins
and abdomens
and arms.
one can pass down genes
but just as easily
chicken fried steak
crisco
lard.
siempre son gordos
that is not genetic.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:12 AM UTC
a black horse and a white horse tangle in the blue black of midnight, somehow i hold on with a bridle laughing within my outer palm and pads of my fingertips. no framing nails no concrete shoes nothing holding me down with the pure rpm’s shellacking left to right like speed reading, or a flicker of fire just like it used to dance across your eyes when we lit the candles. i never saw my wildest dreams til i closed my eyes but neverthewhile did i fall asleep, neverdid i break any rules to get here, and somehow “never” became this personification that i used all the time- soon settled, cyclical sans stopping. ****
always. i always horizoned my pillowtop mattress, sunrise coming up across abdomens of sculpted morning-after a long sunday shut inside a curtain made of framed carpentry drywall and what have you. i sat along the crevasse of the bed with my legs becoming two telescoping camera stands, eyes hungover from all of the imagery that monsoons couldnt drench myself in- i lie here still, partly, and i wonder. where we were alone, i am alone. where we would sleep, i am sleep. where we would love, i am love.
and i guess that’s the map key, the legend, the gold standard.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
With iron and honey I glaze both cheeks
while two bees bumble up each cascade
pressing curvy pumping abdomens
with points plying as they scrape
each presses into a cheekbone producing
blossoms of irritated wine and grape
pixilated with pyrexia I collapse in a
webbed hammock perplexed
and wait and wait
my mouth blazing I gaze up and despise
the puffy diluted masses in fields of blue
my cheeks dilated threatening to thunder
and then a pause as sweat brings honey
tumbling uncontrolled
out from within
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
If you are falling in love with collar bones,
Defined abdomens,
Back dimples,
Visible rib cages,
Thigh gaps,
Straight, white teeth,
Long, endless hair,
Spakling eyes,
Dainty fingers,
You are doing it wrong.
If you are falling in love with the way his collarbone slight juts out,
How his abdomen flexes when he's stretching in the morning,
How his back dimples are indications where you can rest your hands,
How her visible rib cage only means you have something to strum your fingers across before bed,
How her thigh gap is just apart of her exterior,
How her straight, white teeth look when she's smiling,
How her long, endless hair is perfect to run your fingers through,
How his sparkling eyes are always fixated on you,
How her dainty fingers always find yours,
You are doing it right.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
My life has been molded
by the world of 15 minute increment agendas
and 150 character updates by the second.
My body has been pacified
by the world of liquid sugar satiation
and instant edible gratification.
My mind has been conditioned
by the world that favors extroverted personalities
and introverted abdomens and collarbones.
I live, move and breathe
in the world that is scared of freethinkers
and will not succeed in boxing me in.
In my world, I define my own worth.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Hypocrisy tastes like a burning flag, metallic and too sweet, like prepackaged lemonade and the sweat on your upper lip. Ghost girls with skin the color of special facilities linger in map-less forests, fleeing from camps where they dip chin-dimpled children in ice bucket lies. It’s only a game, gentlemen. Don’t think too loud or they’ll paint ribbons around your neck faster than you can whisper “this is wrong,” faster than “this is inhumane,” and even faster than “where is God?” Faster than the pale, fleshy worms that creep into the orbs of innocence embedded in girls’ abdomens and turns them crimson, and what escapes is only soggy snow and whimpers of protest. But no, you can’t blame those vermes. It’s human nature. This is all human nature, and we still find ourselves better than the trees, faster than sound, higher than the clouds.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
There are bees in my brain again.
All that's in my eardrums is the
picking,
gnawing,
chewing;
the incessant buzzing of their wings beating against my prefrontal cortex.
I can hear them working away, relentlessly, day&night;,
trying to make a home for themselves.
A hive in my head.
They have taken up residence.
They are quite comfortable.
I imagine their tiny bee legs mixing a golden, syrupysweet substance.
Thoraxes and abdomens dancing a little bee dance on my brainstem,
happily humming,
poised to pour the poison.
The sauce saturates my cerebrum.
Thickerthanhoney...molasses.
It weighs me down--adheres me to the ground.
Now I am suspended in a tub of the suffocating stuff.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
I remember how heavy you were;
you left footprints in the grass
and on my chest.
I remember your eyes;
glazed crimson
dripping sweat on my *******
clenched beneath white knuckles
and stained cotton sheets.
I remember the birthmark on your left hip;
its ugly face smirking
past greasy thrusts.
Your breath a heavy whiskey drowning my lungs;
whispered in my ear
hot sticky grunts.
An ink splotched lion tattooed on your thigh
grinded into me,
twisted itself into my heart
ate away at my preserved innocence.
I’d saved myself for long.
And then there was nothing left after that.
“Have fun in college.”
A closed door.
I carry you in every moment.
My hands pressed firm against his abdomens
as he tries to make love to me,
I wait for that lion to reach out and
scratch my face velvet.
I wait for the pain and the shudder of his pleasure
As it ripples through his shoulders and he presses into me.
I wait for it to be over
So I can bury your face back down into blankets.
I wait for him to smile and kiss my temple before he drifts to sleep
And then I shower to scrub you off of me and out of me.
But I’m never clean enough
I walk around with your dirt caked around my core
I’m branded by you,
I’m drifting to sleep and my fall awakes me to your snarling neck.
I remember hearing that now you’re a youth pastor,
a true saint.
you’re working in South America with empty children
and hopeless mothers
you’re building homes for the homeless
and saving lives
you’re teaching the lost
all about God’s reining love for us
but guess what baby—
I’ll never forget the night you ****** me.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:29 PM UTC
A sensation
Of cold air
Shivering
Chattering teeth.
I'm back sitting by the chain link fence,
Waiting for them to pick teams for dodgeball,
Or basketball,
Or what was it?
"Fred" ball?
I remember looking for you.
Wondering where you'd gone.
It was overcast,
I could smell the rain coming in.
First time I realized,
It was late in fall that I remembered,
Snow had a smell.
And dragons and dogs and animals filled our days at school,
We played games, different name, same game of tag over and over
When at home I'd go back to the screaming,
To the cold,
To the hunger.
A girl and her dog,
Wondering what her friends were up to.
Black outs and ****** paper clips
Turned to livid men and bruised abdomens and hips.
And every other month,
During September and January,
I wondered what would have happened if I had
Given you that valentine I threw away.
I want to tell you so many things,
But how do I tell you,
How do I tell you
I care more than
I knew.
I was shivering when I got home,
Teeth clattering,
Bad day,
Tears in my eyes.
I put on my nightgown,
Your sweatshirt,
And wrapped myself in a blanket,
Wanting to hear back from you.
Is it odd
That I don't know how to say
You've made my day.
I hope you know
I was okay without you,
But part of me is a little (a lot)
More whole by your side.
And sometimes I think of your laugh,
Then and now,
And I remember
The butterflies then,
And the warmth now.
And it's just ******* crazy,
Because I was a little bird,
With a broken wing.
Who was convinced I couldn't fly.
You were the bluebird of peace,
I had been searching for
For so long.
And I could listen
To your voice
Your heartbeat
Your words
All day.
I don't know what this means,
But it's easier by your side,
Than any place I've ever lived,
Any halfway house I've ever been.
I've always wanted to belong,
And finally I can see
The problem wasn't me.
It was a me without a you.
Tonight I want to dream
Of spiraling sunset red and soft oranges
Draped over a background of
The most beautiful seafoam blues and greens
I've ever come to know.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
We are all reverberating shrapnel of an explosive kaleidoscope of organized chaos
We’re scurrying ants piggybacking bread crumbs that press too-heavily on our abdomens
We’d scratch our way up to the constellations on the ceiling if we could just be weightless; if we could just find the right handgrips and footholds
But shoelaces get tangled, palms get sweaty, knuckles get scratched, bodies get heavy
So instead we settle for ducking into tunnels, seeking out the empty train-cars and avoiding eye contact with strangers
Seated alone in tattered pleather seats, we wish we could dissolve the stained grimy window-glass that stands between us and everything that could matter
We’ll force smile-lines into our cheeks when we reach our destinations while quietly scrabbling at the semiprecious dream of a place that we can’t articulate: the unattainable, inexplicable else else elsewhere
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
I turned bated breath on my blind eyes and tick
tock
tick
tock
august strode away. august bloated on july and june and
god knows what because august is a bit of an alcoholic,
if you’ll please be discreet about that—we don’t want word to get around
the curtains drawn and folded, I balled my fists and white
knuckled touched chests and abdomens and shoulders but never doors;
somersaults between my ears and over
and over
and over
hardwood against your cranium
you feel it eventually
or I do
and then august screams a marissa-by-the-pool scream but not aloud
and she doesn’t talk to you she doesn’t
talk to you
she’s got nothing to say and you
you
you’ve got nothing to say and
everything is better now it’s so much better
but she doesn’t shake hands for more than a two-count now and
you don’t feel your heartbeat in your ears, usually
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
On my morning Stroll again the air is heavy
impenetrable thickets of humidity and mist
The gravel underneath me cracks ready to cave in
Concave burial for my feet I need to rest
On the lawn where i must wait
There is always one little blue ant
Nibbling at the decomposing skin of an apple
Devouring the essence
It carries away with it something
for this warm morning
a star DID shine
With this now i know why i write
the things i do about you in pencil.
I walked again this morning this time the air has stopped
A mass of red abdomens lurk over the gravel
and underneath there is an earth quake
The red ants snatched the apple leaving the one blue
and i wonder if i could crush such a force
without you
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
words what more than silence, criminal
shaded meanings plump like the mien of a night-strewn beast.
words what more than sounding for it
the night hemming into, less than a fugitive by definition
words do I deny the static of soul when quiet then
places the cholera in our abdomens ?
to say when the nature of the tangent is a voyage
of the story you’re telling, masked behind a non-sequitur
that does not intersect elsewhere issued by
a lack. where else are we only slightly connected
when we move to break a point, or to distract
a face once again foreign, your name emerging as whimper.
coming out denied.
words what more than revenge, your sound less than an alternative
bandwidth confusing its meaning
coming out undisguised.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
So many butterflies;
on my arms, my thighs,
my hips.
I want to let them
free, let them fade from
each layer of skin,
but the razor wants them
dead.
It wants to nip off their
wings like little pieces of
construction paper,
slice off their antennaes,
rip open their
abdomens.
Blood is what it
lusts for,
its trophy, its
pride.
It is no longer a
tool, but a
self-destructive weapon.
It kills the living and
the hope,
takes away every
color from their
wings until there's
only red.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
nary the further root(nor nearer neither)shoots
reaching similar jeering your carnal fold whoops
a crown of pink, whose gentler thorns enshrined
the meekest cruel sweetness of with mouth combined
posits a slender abrupt howl from the heaving
noose of abdomens 2 backed seething
(a beast twained)
or so sayeth William
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
It's that time of the month
That makes your emotions run amuck
They seem to be like a stick shift in a truck
Never staying in one gear
Your mood is like spoiled food
As you explain how much your in pain
Lying in anguish
As each ache corse through your veins
Blame eve
For the invisible sledge hammer being lodged into your back
Crippling cramps riddle your body
Violent pain
Like your abdomens are being flirted with
Tiny incisions foreplay
Caressed by shards of glass
Temptations of sleep a figment of the past
Blame eve
For the hormones that sprout like weeds
Appetite expand and recedes
Like the moonlight tides
The pain come in strides
Punches in its time card
Each month
And you can blame eve
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
I'm sorry for the sweat
that drips down my neck,
past the hairs of my chest,
races across my abdomens
like it's running from the
Native Americans with
arrows and bows in hand,
following the hair trail
to my skin cave,
down the passage way
speeding to the tip
to drop to my toes
then roll on the floor
to melt in the dirt.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
I pressed my body into yours hoping our ribcages would fracture into one another and butterflies would pour out with scintillating wings in shades of orange and yellow and blue and we would marvel at the beauty of their colors in the fading light but from the depths of our bleeding cavities would flutter the stammering, shamefaced creatures with plum-black wings and cracks navigating their way through the chalky paste of dust and blood clinging to their delicate bodies --
and these were the butterflies to marvel at --
these were the insects we found comfort in as our abdomens bled out
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
In you I left a little kiss
A speck on lip of lip.
Like a leaf may
On a leaf spring-coated
Before it slides off and off
And into the brown below.
Like a star may,
On the window of a house
Cold in houses cold.
I lingered by the shores of you
Dried, a bone,
Memorising the hues of
A sweet, sweet marrow—
In sun it glittered, in moon sang—
In you, in you, you.
This restless room—
And ants devour around
With their fast steps and abdomens angry
And a scene of us
Through deep, hardened dirt, I dig out:
You held a garland, of foliage weaved,
I smiled a kingdom
All alive and gold.
And the young leaf will forget
Of the rusty feather
That stumbled past it,
One young dawn—
And the house
In houses lone,
Will sublime
In the day’s pretty love, but
In the blue, a bottled letter—
Too small a gift
For an illiterate sea, but
Hold it it does still,
In its secretive embrace.
So, when you born
To an arid tree—
And in blood of stars I wade
As down descends
The sky we built,
Do not cut open the insects
In your frenzied search for me—
All the kingdoms
Could I smile
In you I left with their riches and green.
Dried, a bone, I
Remember the hues
Of a sweet, sweet fruit—
In blooms it blooms, in stars
On frosted windows
In you, in me, you.
So, when I sway
In this lovely quiet,
You sway too
In the dawn.
And born you
Then born you
And reborn on a spring—
In you lives a little kiss
And wilt you,
It wilts.
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 7:15 AM UTC
Hello my friend
How have you been
Don’t answer yet
But don't fret
See me and you debate
About everything to the date
I guess opposites do attract
And sometimes we lose contact
But you are always there
When the weather is fair
So we can go to the park
Until it turns dark
Then we go to your place
Like its our secret base
Those where the good days
Thinking of ways
To mess with madison
Laughing so much to hurt our abdomens
I miss the feeling
Of our hearts sealing
So how are you
And the crew
Do to miss it
The night where we talk and sit
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC