"affixed" poems
Two years ago,
I started drowning
It wasn’t bad
At first
A little tightness
In my lungs
But nothing too bad
One year ago,
I was still drowning
The air wasn’t coming
Back into my lungs
Only ice cold
Freezing water
Blackness started
Edging into my vision
But I ignored it
Because no one else around me
Was drowning
So there was no reason why
I would be, unless
I was weak
I wasn’t weak
I wasn’t drowning
Or so I said
Six months ago
I started drowning
For real, this time
There was no denying
The fact that my hands
Were turning grey
And my lungs were crying out
But my blue lips
Didn’t part to
Let out that scream
And my grey limbs wouldn’t
Flail to show someone,
Anyone at all
That I was drowning
Five months ago,
I kept drowning
I was now far from the surface
Of the water
Where it was light blue
And warm in the
Shallow ends of this water
I had far surpassed that
I was in arctic water
Deep and cold
Murky and unfathomable
Drowning, and not making
A single sound
Thirty-six days ago
I gave into drowning
Well, I had given into it
When I decided that
Greying skin and blue lips
Was fine, for me
But now, I completely gave in
Thirty-six days ago,
I wanted to drown
But I wanted to do it faster
And so I tried to hurry up
The process of drowning
Alone, in those icy waters
Thirty-four days ago
Someone dangled an oxygen mask
In front of my blue lips
They told me to put it on
But I didn’t want to
Drowning was like anything else
Once you had spent enough time
In it, you became afraid
Of what it would be like
Without it
I knew drowning
I knew its pain, I became friends with it
I was comfortable with drowning
And I knew the outcome of it
And I was okay with it
Thirty-three days ago,
Someone jumped into that awful water
Or perhaps they didn’t
Jump in, they swam over
They forced the mask between my lips
And then they stayed
It came loose, a couple times,
And I found other people who were drowning
I hated that they were drowning
But I think that we were all a little glad
To find that we weren’t alone
In our drowning
I’ve kept my oxygen mask
I’m still in that cold water
But now I have others who make sure
That I don’t drown
And I make sure that
Their masks are affixed
They do the same for me
We save each other
And now that I have
Enough air to breathe
I can see, and I can see
Other people who
Are starting to drown
So I take all my effort and energy
And I swim to them
Most of the time, they don’t have a mask
And it hurts me to see that they’re drowning
So I give them my mask
For as long as they need
Until they have their own
Sure, it hurts me, but as long as it helps them
A while ago,
I started drowning
I kept drowning for a while
But then I found others
And together, we found our way
We found our oxygen tanks
We’re still drowning
But now, we can take in enough air
To sometimes swim
A bit closer to the surface
A bit closer to
Not drowning
A bit closer
To real life
And no matter how far we fall
The others will help us start going
To the light blue, peaceful water
Water that we won’t drown in
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
Poems on a Mirror
~for Glenn Currier~
you don’t know me
I don’t know you;
poems on a mirror I ken
truly well
poems on the mirror saved, and then,
comme the seasoning of leave-falling,
poems dropping and drained...the post-it glue loosened by
the daily heat of watery tears,
making a space for
this one, for you...
there are poems and they arrive with fresh arrogance,
each an arrow demanding your all as a target regardless
of what the shooter really thinks or wants, other than
obedient acknowledgment and their self-loving flattery
but some render where no rendering should be allowed
those are the ones affixed - ones you chose to join the chosen,
slapped onto mirrors - so many that they almost
cover complete your image from presentation
almost only because these poems are yours, you,
they’re the truly accurate reflection even if not your words,
indeed especially because they’re not yours
but they start your day as a poem should
and in doing so,
become you
What a Hall of Fame, to be a poem on Glenn’s Hall of Mirrors
go pick the plums...
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Studying the 'Base', 'Hypotenuse', and 'Height'
of a triangle,
My mind recalls what I witnessed in
that sensual night,
You were like an unconceived mathematical notion,
I a novice in geometry trying to draw a straight line
Of kisses on your shivering body,
How fragile those attempts were,
How lovely to see them fail,
Lying idle on the bed like a base of a building
I lured you to stood high above me,
And your hands pressing my chest as a ladder,
We're affixed like a right-angled triangle
Dizzy, and drunk exploring our area of love.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 1:50 PM UTC
What's your take on walking?
My body serves my soul
and tells me how to go.
My heart, affixed -- aims to show.
These ways I’ve walked in my shoes and stockings.
I've looked to heaven’s stars, to daylit clouds,
when I've stepped out, or dropped my gaze
to track the ground.
Yes, it is true—whoever passed me by
could have taken offense and supposed
I lacked my confidence.
And ofttimes, I strode out straight and true
as if toward a far mist horizon.
Un-manifest future,
even peek-a-boo,
could be comprehended?
I should doubt it.
And if I wished to address an occasional
in-the-dumps, lost-at-sea feeling,
I'd shut my eyes, and walk backwards --
owl-like, swivel 360 my head.
Backwards blind circumspection seemed worthy my try;
Ask--Who am I?
I would story where I’d been.
In my most spontaneous of nature foot-trafficking,
in roulette walk; my spin of gun chamber click--
ant, spider, beetle, and the occasional sighing snail
had fled my shadow shoe?
As slow drift clouds in a sky game would play
with the sun to hide—creatures had sought me out,
sung their farewells? (it was an excellent day to die)
Let me tell it, as it had happened today,
and truth says how.
My feet, they had gotten to waltz-walking.
O how my body and soul
danced a-fancy free.
Love was brimming out of me; happiness
whispered her wordless name; and
my tongue tripped nonsensical.
So if, at last, you've kept a-pace with me
in sympathetic striding, then perhaps
you would surmise:
there never could be a flat-footed me,
when I spout off with poem-talking.
Now, what’s your take on walking?
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
(I)
Her hour upon the stage,
She struts and frets.
Applause, admiration
Behind a mask to reflect.
In moments of true emotion,
Behind closed doors,
The mask would slip off
And shatter on the floor.
(II)
As years went by
And her heart withered,
She’d rather keep the mask on.
Revealing her true-self she feared
So secure behind the guise
So full of her-assumed-self.
She diffused into the mask
And the mask into herself.
(III)
Two eyes in the crowd
Shone apart from the rest.
They were there for the she,
She had always neglect.
While the crowds cheered on,
In those eyes at her affixed,
For a few flickering seconds
Her true self she glimpsed.
By the mirror she stood.
Hand clasped to her face,
In futile agony,
This mask to efface.
(IV)
“A mask may be adamant.
It may cover the face whole
But it can never drape
Those windows to the soul.”
“It will be difficult to search
The true-self long concealed.
Let these drape-less windows
The path reveal.”
“Look deep in mine eyes,” said he.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
and then i am left,
at the upmarket stretch of sand
straddling this most unremarkable state,
quietly flicking my thumb against the blue lighter.
but it's too windy, at the water's edge
in an unremarkable state,
where no one recognizes me,
that bagpipes start playing
the wind acts against my fingers,
they are too delicate, too feminine,
no callousness ever affixed to these,
my ten silken extremities.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
I saw an Ulila
Whilst riding a Jeepney
Half-Shoed,
Half-Footed,
Saying, "BAYAD!"
An Endearment for Pay
Yet my Eyes affixed
On his One-Footed Shoe
But due to the Wear
Of a Day's Sweaty Trod
Begging for his Family Dinner
Hoping he could have a Full Meal
And Smiles
For him and his family
And still waiting
For his Final Stop
And still scraping
His Hard-Worn Scar
Thus the Ulila
Handsome to Beg
Despite his Birth-Marked Nose
Which was actually blood
From a flavourful fist-fight
And Soil,
Paints his Tender Body.
Thus the Ulila,
Swollen in his Eyes,
Suddenly remembered
He had nothing to Beg
For since his Time,
Was centred on Smiles
Greeting people,
Wishing them the
Best of Cheers and Holidays
And his Reward,
Sheltered and Soft,
Reaching the end of his Bay,
Cried, "PARA!"
An Endearment for Stop
And disembarked
Full of Flavours and Joy,
Wondering,
If he could Share such with his Family.
Then the Ulila,
Felt a Weight,
And Jingles in his Body.
Thinking of his Thursday's Stones,
He took some out
And all he found,
Were just some Worthless Pesos,
Given secretly,
By the Passengers he Entertained
In the busy Jeepney.
Thus Smiled the Ulila - The Selfless Urchin-Boy.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night
Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams
Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet
Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes
Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience
Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline
“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”
affixed to the cubicle wall
Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
i struggle with the tomb.
i come from the moon to alight upon an earthen vase
to pause upon the lip and swoon.
i am no ghost. but through walls, i come.
lugging a throne of tears and thimbles
of blood... my fire, more dark than the hunter's motive.
my life more spark than the sun's design.
complete me, and i will endure the wane hours
and shun all harm... like the one stroke of lightning
in a cup, swollen with angry bees
affixed to a white sheet of ice... I'll descend into You,
like a lodestone on a chain,
to be hoisted up from the fathoms of Loss
to drown in our madness, just because -
like a noise
in a sound.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:17 AM UTC
Taffeta watches the pigs atop the tables
Glass eyes and stitches where they're enabled
Guts pumping crimson liquid
Sewing 'em up, she's addicted
Family and friends recommend she withdraw
She responded with a twinkle in her eye and a dropped jaw
Scissors and string, that's all she'll need
Besides a corpse, of course, and a bit of stuffing
Lilac eyes affixed on a tattered pillow
Enjoying watching a weeping Willow
Her poor Porky pet has met his end
But everyone knows you can depend
Before your sweet pet starts to smell
On Taffeta's Taxidermy to stuff 'em well
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
**To the girl with the alluring melanin...
skin the enticing & mouth-watering color of caramel
To the girl with the enigmatic mind,
subliminally affixed to mine**
ॐ
To the girl with the beautiful heartbeat
that coexists as one with mine.
To the girl with the winsome name
...my lips feel so much better when it's your name leaving.
To the girl with the mollifying voice,
your voice is the strongest tranquilizer I've ever encountered;
It apprehends all negativity I'm engulfed in
and brings me back to sanity again.
To the girl with the broken heart
shattered into a thousand pieces,
I'll spend 1,000 days putting each piece back together
and on the 1,001 day
you'll see that not only did I mend your heart
but I gave you remnants of mine.
To the girl who was at war with herself,
I've seen your battle scars.
To the girl who constantly goes back to war,
you are not alone and I won't ever allow you to be.
ॐ ॐ ॐ
**To the boy with the perfectly sculpted face...
if you were to ever leave, I'd spend forever recreating it's beauty.
To the boy with the beautifully structured mind,
which never fails to unravel every mystery within mine.**
ॐ
To the boy with the wavering heartbeat
that coexists as one with mine.
To the boy with the voice of a symphony of my favorite melody
that never fails to leaving a distinct sense of perfection in the air.
It scatters positivity throughout my body
reminding me of the purpose of my existence.
To the boy with the faltering heart
which never falters enough to give up on me.
And even if it did, I'd spend all my days
as a cardiovascular surgeon.
To the boy with the artistic fingers that paint with fire,
igniting every inch of my skin they lovingly skim over.
To the boy with the dark parallel lines freckled over his wrists,
reminding me of the heartache, and distress you once endured.
I'd spend every day of my life eradicating each piece
of pain-coated glass embedded in your heart.
You are not alone and I won't ever allow you to be.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
1:12:25 9:20am nyc
Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended
feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly
all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty
so,
***Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being***?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
Shouldering the Load by Himself seemed like toil that He could Easily accomplish. However, The Assignment required at least a Minimum load of that which was EQUAL to One's Body weight! ! " But Child's-Play" He thought, "I can carry my Own Quite Easily ! So,__He signed All the required documents , Applied his Fingerprints in the Appropriate Places, Affixed His Seal and took the Pledge. He then, went over to Stand in the Waiting line for His turn to come ~~ While waiting in Line, it gave Him the Perfect opportunity to Totally review the Upcoming Event ! With Heated Anticipation, WAS how He would LATER describe it ! Just Imagine, To carry the Assigned Load "All by Himself". Should He first Squat with back ***** to get a Better Grip? Should He First put one knee on the ground in front of Him, OR, His foot only, so as to better Stable the Load? He was Really looking forward to this New Adventure, "W O W ", Shouldering the Load ALL by Himself ! This is NEATER than he could ever begin to Imagine. "GEE" He had already moved Up twenty spaces, He MUST be getting Close! Everyone was so Courteous , Absolutely NO Jostling was occurring in the Line. This was,he thought " YEAH, it really was Very Neat!" Maybe, Just Maybe in Attempting his First lift, His feet should be Directly Under His Shoulders ! *Made Sense !~~ The Assignment was to "Shoulder A Load ". Even if He backed under it, His feet could be Directly beneath His Shoulders, That too should Work ! The ULTIMATE Goal could be Achieved, BY GOSH, He could do it ! ! What an Opportunity , He continued to Ponder, as He Moved up another Twenty Spaces. ALL He had to do, was to Shoulder His Own weight ! ALL the Paper work had been put into Action, All the the Necessary Preambles, Done and finished. ALL He had to do WAS, Take On the Task. GEE=Whiz how exciting,,,He was NOW Next in Line! " I, AM NEXT , Good golly Miss Molly, " I AM NEXT" ! As He saw the Task Before Him, A Tugging from His Heart went out for those Behind Him, As the tear formed in His Eye , Should *He-Stay" and help His Friends "SHOULDER A LOAD " .......
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 7:03 AM UTC
The moon changes subtly
Whenever we gaze away,
As our worries evolve swiftly
And our joys stay the same.
Perhaps she is a beacon
Baring light for our souls,
Enticing us into her depths
With glimpses of the heart's gold.
Blessed enchantress,
Affixed in a gentle way,
Dragging all from ached misery
And harboring us in her supple bay.
Reject ye thy sun's beating rays
& dispel lightning's spiteful bright tase,
Look only to the night sky as it glistens
If you seek to bask in nature's grace.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
To live is to die
To die is to live
What is the point of it all
If it all contradicts
Too much I have seen
And not enough I have known
Watching the atlas spin around
As this fable becomes my own
So much I have wanted for
Any yet soul less I have tried
For this motivation to live
I have yet to find
And wasted away again
As another romance blooms
Crushed under the weight
The affixed clench of this gloom
Like a sailor in the night
Searching for land
No plunder to be found upon me
So alone I must stand
No more do I ever want
To be in such state
However much this world gives
Your defiled as it slowly rapes
However ever much are you to be
All the more you are contrived
Fantasy the only escape
On a plane of exilic defile
Muffled are your breaths unto
Another catatonic night
While you patiently wait for something
Something you will never find
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.
inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.
choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
raised higher than the maladroit sky.
I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
falling madly in love with everything that glints.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
watched grains dance playfully
affixed to lengthy golden stalks
the wind sways them gracefully
in-between a hidden world unlocks –
pink-footed mice run
well-trodden paths
the warm summer sun
never granting them baths –
shiny black crickets chirp in the night
while grasshoppers eat through the day
an occasional rabbit scurries with fright
and ant colonies seemingly play –
a dust covered floor
‘neath a ceiling of blue
in the middle, a ruffed hawk soars
striking fear in the heart of a shrew –
nobody suspects the vastness of life
when passing by in their car
the joys of birth, hunger and strife
within a wheat field under the stars –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
*A wimple
To cover a pimple
Affixed squarely on dimple.*
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
There once was a butterfly being chased by a man with a net.
He would try many tricks to get as close as he could get.
He left out her favorite food and plants, but he could never hold her in his hands. Instead he inherited a family of ants.
One day he caught her as she landed on a leaf.
Her colors were magnificent as he admired her in disbelief.
The wait was now over, but soon he began to see that the beautiful butterfly was not very happy.
She moved from one plant to another searching for the perfect meal to eat.
The collector placed another butterfly in this house of which he had quite a few....
Now this butterfly was different because of it's hue.
The moment it spotted Madame Butterfly its wings became heavy and turned a shade of blue.
Madame Butterfly went about her business with no clue at all.....
oblivious about this suitor who sat affixed up on the wall.
He tried hard to gain her attention, but to no avail.
It was like a sailboat moving without a sail.
Eventually they became a couple, but at times she tended to take flight.
She entertained other butterflies who only moved their wings at night.
He chased her many times.....only for her to flee again.
This arrangement wasn't working for him, so it had to come to an end.
Heartbroken he watched the one he grew to love mill about aimlessly in the air.
Madame Butterfly's attention captured by one who didn't care.
The collector observed the behavior of the two and from his research picked up this clue.
Butterfly females are similar to humans before they commit, they often run from the one who truly loves them.
Butterfly females are just like humans too.....
They often run away from the love that has been proven to be true.
Which butterfly are you?
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
subtle distortion
cloudy perception
hazy apprehension
figment of the imagination
fragmented realities
redrawn by consciousness
staged fantasies
drowned by emotions
reality slipping
deteriorating
bit by bit, darkening
details unraveling
slowly spiraling
a world in the making
eyes affixed
a world rendered
by a troubled mind
delusions unfold
illusions, manifold
ecstatic visions
tangible realities
world full of mysteries
crafted by miseries
and then there is me
left to wander
in a new world
that i crafted
that i masterminded
i know it is
not real
i keep telling myself
nothing's real
i keep persuading myself
it's not real
snap out of it
get out of there
before it's too late
wake up from the trance
but for once
it felt so real
so so real
just to let it all go
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
The human being is an inherently contentious creature.
Seven billion rock-wall eyes;
Eyes staring belligerently down seven billion sharp noses;
Noses affixed to seven billion faces;
Faces covered in creases and scars,
Framed in unruly hair
And outlined in stark exactness
By the flames cowering in bipedal shadows.
Into the human heart is chiseled "inexorable".
We are an incongruence:
We row up the rapids,
Scale the waterfall
And taunt the oily heavens from atop Devil's Tower.
We will always get what we want,
Whether it involves killing the albatross
Or playing Gondorff's chess.
Whether we wrest it from Gaia's grasp
Or that of our more miserly peers.
Robert C. crystalised our resolve.
The riot gear-clad Blue and Green with timers in their throats
Stand abreast.
Chanting "Listen to Mother. Mother knows best.",
They begin the forward press.
When an impish grenade leaps our way,
We fling it back between mouthfuls of chips.
The barricades erected
By Mother and ourselves alike
Are many and implacable and incessant,
But they will be broken and overtaken.
They will be broken and overtaken by us,
The humans,
Because we are.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
whenever she's suspended
affixed
at the apex
of my mind'e eye,
she commands my attention
every breath
of hers
is the wind
tempests of life
unfurling
from her tender lips
'pon which
I run
a steady finger
tracing the grooves
of her supple
flesh
as she whispers
my name
her tongue flickers
tasting
the salt of my skin
fresh from the sea
where we first made love
where I carried her
from shore
to fresh water
to be cleansed
by healing waters
and leave the sea's poison
to the creatures
of the deep
the drunkards
of deepest sin
though time has passed
decades now, since then
I can still feel her
straddling my face
beneath
the running waters
silent
save her breaths
long & satisfied
every exhale
was purposeful
and where she lay
I remember
her legs
poised,
inviting
her expression, yearning
the world had passed away
gone, in the midst
of our rapture
and who
could have stopped us
anyway
I remember
my pride vanished
as hours
in my imagination
became minutes
in reality
I had never known
I could be
so weak
spent
how she took everything
I had to give
how she gave me
everything
I ever wanted
how no woman
has ever
given me one moment
as breathless
as a day spent
in love
from the pool
to the beach
to the shower
how no other woman
could trap me
in one room
for decades
and leave me there, waiting
with
no
regrets...
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 11:46 PM UTC
I wish I had a million photos.
Everytime I blinked a snapshot'd flash
The glint of coffee slurp eyes
Perfect pick me up
Six in the morning color
Stinging spicy-sweet skin
Cinnamon spoon smooth
Coughing with a mouthful of the spice
Pugnacious snarl affixed as a precaution
Wicked giggles sneaking out from forced corners
Sinew slim and succulently young
A fresh cocoa berry-burst
Your default is **** and vinegar
So
Is
Mine...
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC