"acrylic" poems
Lipstick kisses,
we're both wearing red.
I motion her over and onto our bed.
Blood red smeared across our lips.
I keep her enticed, I straddle her hips.
Seductively playing,
I'm touching my lips.
Long acrylic nails,
for us never fails.
I show her a ***** and
she gently wails.
She's waiting,
my sweetheart,
I lust her so much.
We **** we're on fire
and I wonder,
which of us holds the power.
I, in all honesty is hoping it's her,
'cause then I'll continue this life
in her beautiful blur.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
I am adept
In the art of being okay
I have mastered the craft
Of covering my troubles
I use all sorts of fancy facades
Acrylic, oil, watercolor
You name it.
I can paint over nearly anything
You will never know
How late I was up last night
Or why.
My eyes flicker
Like candlelight
But you couldn’t see
You couldn’t possibly see
I’m too good
For that.
I can dance, too
Waltzing away my sorrows
Carefully tip toe-ing the
Pas-de-I-am-fine
I get a standing ovation every time
I’m very talented, you see.
But my all time favorite
Is my disappearing act
I’m still perfecting it
Right now
But one of these days
I’ll show you
How I
Slip
Slip
Slip
Away
Right through your fingers.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
You were born near the warm ocean,
grew up around there,
With your clear acrylic smile
and sun-kissed blonde hair
I, the winter cold
More north than I can remember,
We met that day you visited,
a brisk chill, that December
We drank and danced,
while the years passed over
Argued and grew apart,
our greatest fears, now sober
My memories of you, once treasured
Now, faded
as sun deprived lands complain,
Forever, jaded
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 2:04 PM UTC
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
Lady Macbeth washed her hands
cleaner than Pontius Pilate
with a new improved, bio-enzyme
oxy-bursting, 99.9% germ-scouring
recommended by dermato-logists
scented with rose attar
oils from Arabia
and spermaceti soothing
unguents from long dead whales.
She’s going to the nail bar
for a manicure and application
of semi-permanent, diamond-
tipped, acrylic base-coated
in red blood enamel.
She’ll scratch
and etch rich tattoos
on her husband’s back
with every ****** he will shudder
with pain and delight
He’ll soon forget long, dark nights
bewitched by ghosts and ambition.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with
premium acrylic.
it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work, for mending.
today is hallow e’en
sbm
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.
(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)
she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Setting off a rollicking charge… like a waiting rocket to countdown
Solo pugilist in the ring… lancing darts at butterflies in cloistered air
10…. 9…. 8….
Boxed in from all sides… whichever way turning… meets unsettling walls
Notes unseen and unheard… magic windows stripped away… acrylic drips dry
7…. 6….. 5….
Tap runs on… letting of foundation-blood…no fear nor fret… yet exacts converse
Gentle persuasion to reach shores… hard credence yet so true… all in good time
4…. 3…. 2….
One vision
Two hearts
Three kisses..
Forever :)
No countdown needed....ever
Count to one…only
and breathe...
It’s all ok
all in good time...
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
the truth is no one ever taught me how to fix a flat tire or how to ask for help or what love was even good for in the first place
and the truth is that the cookie was good but the lemon icing wasn't and the truth is baking should be done without any kind of lemon at all
and the truth is i wish you'd hold me close enough that our skin fused together and i could burrow into your spine and learn all the things you won't teach me
and the truth is you were never good at making eye contact but i dare you to look at me long enough that i can trace the line that connects your iris to your pupil and count how many shades of black a person can produce
and the truth is i don't know if the grass has fingerprints but i know that yours are cigarette stained and no better at letting go than mine
and the truth is i am a dump site and you are an inhale and i am clockwork and you are a melody and i can't keep my teeth off your eloquence
and the truth is my feet are covered in acrylic paint from leaving smudged footprints in sparkly things
and the truth is i don't want you all to myself but you can pretend i'm yours when i'm engulfed in the ocean and making it hard for you to breathe
and the truth is i'm looking for a different kind of intimacy from you
and maybe it's just some teenage girl talking but the truth is that i want to drown with you. i want to burn with you. i want to scream with you so violently that the body that crushes my lungs crumbles and i become a balloon for real this time
and the truth is, if you hadn't called me beautiful, i would have mistaken last night for a paradise i don't believe in
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
V. Ethereal
Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.
My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).
Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.
Star light,
{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}
star bright,
{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}
first star I see tonight,
{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}
I wish I may,
{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}
I wish I might,
{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}
have this wish I wish tonight--
to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.
Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:
Lovely.
Ethereal.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
My father always had a picture
hanging up over the mantle.
It was an oil,
possibly acrylic, painting.
I've always been terrible with art,
and the definitions and distinctions
therein.
It had a gold-leaf frame, and I recall,
as a child, staring at the shine
that the sun reflected off of the
beautiful gold that surrounded the
picture.
The picture itself, however, was
far more extraneous:
a deer head and the body of a businessman.
The suited businessman's body sat in a chair,
within the painting, but instead of a man's head
poking out of the collar, there was a deer's head.
It was adorned with antlers, two to be exact, and
it sat above that mantle, staring emotionless into you
or the distance.
I was never sure which it was.
And after my father passed, I inherited the deer head
and the body of a businessman.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Not one thing!
Not a bottle, nor a song
nor a conversation
could 'ere last too long
Not a heartbeat, nor a rhyme
Never a marriage
not this time
Nothing lasts forever my friend!
Not even the pages we scribe!
Neither oil nor acrylic
even water based leaks
under the test of time
No ink will outlast us
No pencil could describe
either of our loneliness
completely erased by the tide
Nothing lasts forever
The sunset taught me that!
The sunrise fools us into thinking
that the sun will stay where it sat
It's why we keep on going
knowing, nothing will ever last
We die each night only to wake
pretending we forgot the past
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
applying his
lingual buds
to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
as a lava lake,
no stone skipped
just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
pounding thunder
in consonants of
taut skin drum
nuances in vowels
uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
before time
now ready
to be filled by the
essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
apart
heart
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
O eraser! O eraser!
You were supposed to make it white
Instead you made it gray
O eraser! O eraser!
You smudge my work all day
O eraser! O eraser!
I'm throwing you away
O eraser! O eraser!
You're hard and black from pencil dust
You're sticky gray from acrylic crust
O eraser! O eraser!
Away!
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 4:14 AM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
I wear no sunglasses that Shield my
eyes from the realities
of this world
that put a Valencia filter over the
things that I see or a sensor
over the things that I hear.
I do not push the news stations
through a small strainer only
allowing the ”easy to
handle” stories to reach my
cup for me to consume.
I know that red is this world's favorite
acrylic,
black it's favorite oil paint,
and blue it's favorite watercolor.
the painting of our world has red
splattered across every
building and seeping out of every
wrist,
black in every sidewalk crack, every
alleyway, and across
every, screaming, mouth,
and blue welling in every eye.
I know this, but I have ripped the tape
from my mouth, bandaged my
wrists, and wiped my eyes
I have become comfortable.
opening my mouth
Like pulling the trigger of a gun
Aimed at anyone trying to Paint those
colors back into my life
shooting their thoughts down making
pastel bullet holes so the light can
shine in.
I have become too comfortable.
I only come to this realization when I
hear gunshots coming from a hand
who does not know what it is
holding
when I hear seemingly Innocent
Voices say
“Well, why does it even matter,
if you've given a ******* before, what's the hesitation to doing it
again?”
“ Because I said no.”
“ But you've already done it, before.”
I've told you, I do not wear filtered
glasses.
but sometimes I forget that people are
programmed with black paint on
their brushes ready to cover over
your mouth again.
I remember that as soon as I learned
to rip the tape from my mouth
I realize that I can't just watch them
bring the tape closer until they
push it over my lips
I have to scream, as soon as I see it,
Because that is what my mouth is for.
And I have to fight to keep it of,
because that is what my hands and
wrists are for.
And I have to look- not like the prey
trying to stay out of sight,
but like a warrior with eyes like
swords
and a mouth...
like a gun.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
Single. Double. Pull it through.
Single. Double. Pull it through.
Chain after chain
Row after row
Blisters on fingers that pull tight
I work well into the night
Only when I have the light
Baskets spill over
Sari silk yarn
Acrylic blends that mold and stretch
A thousand colors tangled
Before my eyes
Into warm, cozy gifts, a birthday surprise
The feel of the hook is home to me
Ask me nicely and I may see
If I can make something gorgeous for you
With hook and yarn as I am known to do
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Gold and silver in the night
Texaco sign burning bright.
There's freedom in her lies,
there's summer in her eyes.
She's far away now
cartoon lips, bottle blonde and how?
She sells her soul, crying.
Claiming she's happy and yet she's lying.
In the Sunset Boulevard,
she's living fast and playing hard.
Light up that sequin dress
in the spotlight and smoke, god bless.
Bless her young life, having fun.
Just drive till dawn in the sparkling midnight sun.
She says "Don't worry, I'll be fine."
She's slowly dying, drowning in the risen moonshine.
The girl with the Arctic Mind, left behind and she's doing time.
Broken down dreams are the crime.
Acrylic paint and golden curls
in the pink light, she dances and twirls.
Lives her life on,
depending on his paper love and his con.
Furs, diamonds and thick smoke,
happiness for her is turning out to be a sick joke.
She was the girl with the Arctic Mind.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
Drowning out through seeping acrylic
Unconventional canvas on a rickety easel
Not even possessing the power to paint
The broken wing of a broken swan
Despite her weakened frailty
She paints
Using her beak, using her feet
The swan finds it consoling to know
That the littlest, infinitesimal purposes
Are purposes
None the same
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
I am from the towering oak and pine trees
That sway on the old forest’s edge,
Coyotes howling in the shadows
A haunting lamentation
I am from the creaky stairs and floorboards
At the house on Liberty Street,
From the ancient gas heater and its tendrils of flame
That never seemed to be quite hot enough
I am from the sound of my father’s voice
Heavy with sleep as he whispers to us
A late night bedtime story,
Scaring away the monsters under our beds
I am from Sunday mornings
Bursting with rays of golden light and
Filtering through glimmering church windows
Lingering on familiar faces
I am from ‘make good choices’
'Be a peacemaker’
‘You are greatness’ and
‘Oiaue!’
I am from the scent of Mom’s cookies
Chocolate chip and butterscotch
Melting away winters and
Warming cold hearts
I am from acrylic paint,
Graphite, ink and canvas
From smudged hands, stained clothes,
And a sketchbook full of scribblings
I am from the crisp chill of autumn
In the mountains of Vermont,
Staring into a sea of stars
As dazzling sparks float skyward in the distance
I am from the cool sea breeze
And the salty mist over the water
Waves crashing fiercely in the haze
Of Newport’s rocky shores
I am from the quiet peace
That can only come from the words
“I love you” and the warm embrace
That often follows
I am from endless words
Written with shaking, ink-stained hands
On crumpled bone white paper
Hoping to be good enough to keep
I am from weak muscles and fragile bones
From hesitant first steps and training wheels
From stubborn no’s and penitent yes’s
From late nights and shadowy eyes
I am from the past
I am from the present
I am from the trembling, changing
Pathway to my future
I am from this house
This family and
This home
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.
No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.
I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.
The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.
Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
*"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."*
as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.
I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."
"What?"
She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.
"Tell me something beautiful."
"I can't think of anything," I said.
"Try."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
The picture frame is slanted
Because every time I tried to make it straight again
I remember the moment
In the photograph
When it was
You and I
Suddenly
I remember all the things
You weren't
In all the things
That were
And I see the start of my
Misery
The clothes are hanging out
In the sun
And i watched as the same light that dried them
Resembled
The spark we once had
But that wasnt the only spot
In the house
The house of flaw and misunderstandings
The house that still echoed "i love you"'s
That you didn't mean
That wasnt the only spot
That reminded me of where it all went wrong
Because upstairs
My blanket is messy
I spent
Night after night
Thinking of when it would cover the both of us again
In the living room
I have gifts left unopened
Because I spent the entire Christmas morning
Thinking
Of what I could give back to you
And even the narrowest corner
In the abandoned attic
My guitar seemed only to have five strings
And I wondered
How
Could something incomplete
Still
Sound so beautiful
But our love
Wasn't like that
I had to remind myself time in
And time out
That bluberries don't start out ripe
There was a time your porcelain teeth
Bit into the plump berry
And it didnt quite taste right
But you kept chewing even with your face
Splattered with the unripe juice
This
Is what it was like
This
Is what we were like
Because our love was a lot like the time
I ran out of acrylic paint
But the watercolors I replaced them with
Made every other picture
Blurry
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
Stroke, stroke, dip
Stroke, stroke, dip
The writings on the wall
The words from my lips
The vibrant red is live
On the brush it drips
Paintings of my pain
Sanity losing grip
A world now warped
The handle starts to slip
Years of wear and tear
A heart with a small chip
Cracks began to grow
As the wall starts to bleed
Stains scar the surface
A wounded soul in need
Acrylic love ascends
Brushes with such speed
Paintings of my love
An attempt of good deeds
Soon is forgotten
As the walls start to strip
Unable to let go
The paint starts to rip
The tears began to form
The shaft loses grip
The writings on the wall
The words from my lips
The vibrant red is dead
On the brush it drips
Paintings of my pain
Stroke, stroke, dip
Unable to escape
Stroke, stroke, dip
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC