"aglet" poems
*the lotus floats on waters
silhouettes dance in spastic-joints
a sombre-figure with a spiky do
cavorts behind invisible-mirrors
which reflect the lost motions of unchaperoned-pedestal
in corrugated-shadows*
don’t forget to lift that hem a little higher, lady
and give over to the pulsing rhythm
undo your leather-strap, it’s enough to whip out some frenzy
do what you want: you’re not awake, anyway
what have gone and done, dear girl?
is true-love to be found in the arms of a bearded Japanese?
yes, open that white blouse of yours with the silky-buttons on
while your eyes pearl-glaze over attending-cliffs
hold that slow-unfolding palm over your breast and
let busy aglet-fingers shake loose some nuciferous-reward
stems hold up sweet-flora and its waiting-petals
the gyrations match the ripped-space in your ceilinged-heart
slow-motion coy-boy on stand-by in heated-debate
where stickety-words carry the burden
of
knock-out honeyed-pleasure
high-pitched comes and you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be
than to fit your explosive jigsaw-piece up my nostrils
so that I can finally breathe
lithe and limber
*later, when you nod off
your dreams’ll take care of lost-thread and thorough-floss your mind
yank off the binding-straps
take it down muddy-banks into pools of upside-down sky
and the only light will be the reflected-glint of moon
as it winks its very firm OK*
S T – 21 nov 13
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
an aglet bouncing
to an unheard beat
those fingers tapping
on her phone
a baggy shirt
flapping in the wind
hair everywhere
following her head
she is dancing
like no one can see her
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
You and I are like the ends
of shoelaces.
Twisting and dancing
on the surfaces we know.
Sometimes our paths will cross
and one might seem higher
than the other.
Things always come around
as life leaves us the holes
to fit through.
This far into our journey
we seem so far apart.
Our dance through life will see
us collide together and
let the knot be tied at last.
I may end up on your side
and you upon mine,
but that is how two crossed threads
seem to wind up when they return
again as one.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
My aglets are wearing thin
from the miles crossed
by the traversing of my soul
rivers run in valleys unseen
and unheard of from the
cockpit of horseless carriages
fair Columbia boasts of beauty untold
ancient Gaia all the more
Psyche prevails
topography of the mind
vast and uncharted with room
for leviathans and behemoths
lurking in the recesses of our soul
my aglet is wearing thin
Jupiter can never measure
Neptune can never fathom
nor Hades bind
the content of my character
I have perceived mysteries unheard
before a quarter past
awake from slumber
your aglet is wearing thin
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like closing my eyes
Shutting out the world
But the world will not be shut out
It bounces the walls of my mind.
Sometimes I feel like a stranger
To myself
Therefore a stranger to all
Yet somehow everyone knows me.
Sometimes I feel like I'm fighting
For everything
For nothing
For myself and for you.
But why should I fight for you?
Sometimes I feel like I'm not
pretty
worth it
alive
fillintheblank.
Sometimes I feel like I
really deserve everything
that's happened to me.
Or will.
Sometimes I feel like I
Should have done things differently
I never should have told you
I never should have told you
That day in the park.
That day on a walk.
I told you so may times.
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me?
Sometimes I feel like
You didn't hear me.
You listened
But you didn't hear me.
I have to believe that if you heard me
Things would be different.
Sometimes I feel like
You heard me.
But you didn't care.
You didn't believe me.
You thought I was kidding.
Sometimes I feel hurt.
When I see you and you smile at me
While you hold onto her hand.
What do you see?
What do you see?
What do you see?
Look at her at me.
What do you see?
Sometimes I wonder.
What did I do wrong.
Everyone said we'd be so right.
What did I do?
What did I do?
What did I do?
Is there anything to do?
What can I do?
Sometimes I want to know
Why?
Why everything?
Why are the tears welling up in my eyes?
Why am I here?
Why did I do this to myself?
Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?
No good will come of this.
I've been here before.
Or so I thought
You're different
from everyone else
that has never made me feel this way
like I matter
like I'm important
Sometimes I speculate
Is it different?
Oh it is.
I've lost my filter around you
you make me
say
feel
do
things I wouldn't normally.
I can
say
feel
do
things I always think
but never say
and you accept them
you welcome them
Why?
Better question
Do you even know what you do to me?
Do you even know?
I don't think you do.
It doesn't matter if I've told you or not.
I don't think you really know.
I thought we could be something.
Maybe I'm just impatient.
I'm impatient.
I'm a hypocrite.
I can feel the tears
they are behind my eyes
threatening to well up.
But they will not fall
because i refuse to cry for you
i will not cry for you
i will not cry for you
because i do not regret this
hardship
learning experience.
it takes two
i am one.
i cannot do this
i cannot keep
wanting
pining
longing
liking
crushing
thinking
thinking
thinking
of you
I need you
out of my head
out of my heart
not that you were ever there in the first place
because you didn't want my heart
not yet?
Not ever.
I wish I would let myself cry.
because then you could be like everyone else
just another night
crying
crying
crying
till I
sleep.
But you have to be different.
I'm resigned to sleepless nights
writing
writing
writing
this nonsense of thoughts
that have been piled in my head
waiting for me to throw at you
like little daggers
but these words don't hurt you
they only hurt me
because you feel nothing
did you hear me?
what did i do?
what can i do?
thinkingwritingwhy
I want you to be the same
because then i can get over it
the same way i do everyone else
but you are not everyone else
you are different.
why are you different?
please stop.
i need you to be the same
i need you to not care
i need you to make me cry.
because the fact that
i can feel these tears
but they
will
not
f
a
l
l
.
It makes me mad
sad.
but not sad enough to
cry.
I want to cry myself to sleep
but your differentness keeps me awake.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-turd
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
orange peel
foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
a tambourine tabernacle
with st. thomas ********* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
cunt's ouch
five multipliers mono
********
softy
doughnut
peach;
'bitch where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
steam;
choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin ************
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-dong of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
The one who knows what an aglet is
And the one who found a cure to break outs
Are neck and neck
In the race to critical acclaim
The pure of heart take aim towards the regency
With flushed flesh
As if they were the ones racing
The chaste one vexes them all
They hope her chest caves in
And her vital organs fail
They see her as an appalling misuse of DNA
In this sequence
There is a strong emphasis of hate
But why?
Because hate is one of the fundamentals of life that's ubiquitous
Until an outbreak of letting go comes
And the appeals for torment to befall others come to and end
With that said, I want to see who wins this race, if that ***** little ***** gets what she has coming to her and those know-nothings on the throne get over thrown
As I enjoy this rhubarb and turpentine pie
It looks mouthwatering as ever
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Petrichor is blue on sad days
sometimes comes back as fire
but on happy wamble it's pink
as a flower
Aglet! Aglet! i tore your
armour now i walk with loose
shoelace!
Only on myleftFoot do i fear
life
AND vagitus speaks clearly
suing me within my heart
cut a star at glabella space
watching the cosmos drink
the memories of all my love
and pain
And she wore natiform on her
chest with a big heart bursting
seeds of flowers one that fell
between her legs and grew a
wild rose that ate me whole
i should be comforted
i should be comforted
i should be arrested
I'm my favorite patient
writing prescription
for mental constipation
burnt like cornicione
but i'm relaxing
and took ferrule stabbing
the tip of my eyes
which hides my burnt brain
:: 07-04-2016 ::
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
the truth of the search
no matter how long it took
is that everything you saught
was always in the last place you'd look
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
At T's funeral
Fat Carlo took his shoes off
first thing
and he did it with that secret little smile of his
. . . watching . . .
He stretched out the laces all crooked
like mangled snakes
mud-brown and sickly pistachio-green
with aglet heads worn down to
nubs
right in front of everyone
. . . goading . . .
The wound on his big toe
'that don't never heal'
is a trophy of his careless barefoot run
with his crip-dog
Hopsack
and that violent tantrum after reading
Colosimo's political column
in the Daley Herold
about democrats stealing water shares
. . . seething . . .
Chalk up Fat Carlo's actions
to his constant fits of
revenge
and his hillbilly upbringing
. . . prodding . . .
And, it's because he won't listen to Paola's demands
about keeping his shoes on in public
or not picking his teeth with a safety pin --
always riding him in lowdown ways
. . . taunting . . .
Just keep praising Paola
for her stupid things
like O-Cedar-waxing the casket
or the raspberry-Renuzit-spray-shower
she gave the mortuary
before the service
'just in case'
. . . showboating . . .
Carlo gets mad whenever he hears
anyone complement his Paola --
but
do it anyway
'cause
it really gets to him
and if you make Paola smile
she might give you a slice
of her special mocha cake
later
after we're all done grievin'
. . . faking . . .
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 2:41 AM UTC