"anticipatory" poems
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
You mean if I don't go extinct,
I guess I'm free,
as free as anyone is in this world,
with Destiny glaring at me from her Window,
Her eyelids fluttering in anticipatory teases,
and yet to flirt with her is to invite Doom into your pocket,
Even if she does gaze the glance of her blessing on you,
your date with her is, ultimately, set
the supper is bitter, and her wine that which lulls in the sleep of the ages,
until thence, she changes tables, and woos another suitor.
we all must have that sour meal with her sitting quaintly across, smiling demurely, yet knowingly,
So, until the time comes to sit at her table, wrest free from her shackles the very smallest bits of will
tho it make her jealous, her envy 'tis thus of you still.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
You hated that
I was such a pessimist.
I complained when
nothing was wrong.
Every time
I opened my heart
to burden you with
my worries, you
sighed with
exasperation.
Your eyes filled
with deep frustration.
Your uncaring words
said with scathing
resolution.
You told me you didn't want to be
with someone who made you feel
like when their sky was falling,
you had to be my Atlas.
Now, I swallow every word.
I know that every
word of worry,
every tear filled eye
will send us closer to
our doom.
Lying to you while
I'm lying in bed,
nightmare scenarios
dance in my head,
I realize loving you
is not enough,
and while you are
sleeping, dreaming
of a life without me,
I am screaming,
and falling,
blood on my knees.
I hurt you. I hurt you.
I didn't know when to
Stop.
When you slipped
away from me, I
had to hide my
fear.
But I knew, deep down,
the end was near.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
*grew my hair too long, watched it get cut and
all the snippets
fell to the floor,
decided my hair had not been
long enough
started all over again,
longer longer deeper longer,
pasting the snippets together
hoping the parts are greater than the
hole I am forever filling with
Haagen Daz vanilla buttermilk,
wise choices of words,
the satisfactory completion
of finishing and the joyous anticipatory
of starting all over again
undecided if today will be
a day where I tend my love, or,
need more being attended to
every poem I every writ
is just a
snip snip snip
of instant instances seconds capsulated
that run on into one long sentence my
gorgeous blonde 5th grade teacher, who had a crush on me,
(and vice versa)
would red ink wink critique as a
run on sentence and I could not agree more
snip snip snip
becomes a life
of one run on sentence to living larger and longer,
want a becoming life,
life becoming comely,
only commas and no periods,
period
exhausting the indecision of living
so pasting snippets seems more manageable
but not so much fun, indeed, in deed,
too much **** work, this cutting and pasting,
so gonna give you the rough and tumble of my words
as they pour out and as long as they keep coming back,
I'll keep on pouring and ******* and godpraise
this word well that runs dry never
my poems are not too long -
if you have learned to taste wisely -
how to taste gloriously languorously language
my poems are not too long,
life is too short to leave all these
demoted spaces of empty,
in between the raging and the loving,
the aching, fretting and the heaven sending thrills
of thanking the powers to be for everything
I got blessed with,
even my curses are just the flip side of*
***snip snip snip
so much from just one cup of coffee***
<>
six minutes of Aug 13, 2016 life, something you might call a
snip snip snip
SIP
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
I have often found greater satisfaction
With the hesitant promise of sunshine
of a cold February day,
than of the complacent June midsummers
anticipating its own decay
They say an end must come
To every good thing
And you see,
I don’t want to wait till summer’s end
to pine,
wistful, for spring.
Hopes swell more malignant
Under promise’s anticipatory doting
So I have chosen a gratification more faithful
When I tell myself
“I shall be in want for nothing.”
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
A shiny gem lending its sparkling edges to the world
all shall look
some may praise it
others will believe in it
then there are some that will over look it
some that may crush it with their apathetic boots
effect is nothing anticipatory
the rocks all landed where they may
there is not much of a past or future
only the present shine
a reflection of a collection of molecules
an absorption of certain colors
a solid produced by the earth
its just a gem stone, lending it's shine to the world
(or the world lending its shine to the gemstone)
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Signals are indicative of current warnings, just like a beacon of light which penetrates the abyss of parliamentary speeches which are designed to evoke contemptuous laughter.
Such animated gestures are not dissimilar to crumbled biscuits which are catapulted before throngs of anticipatory populations.
However, there are varying degrees of rectitude, where the graded fraternity assume grandiosity as they lodge in the fabric of society with loyal deception.
Lurking in the esoteric shadows with the adorned regalia of blatancy and defamed characters - our captors are hidden in plain sight with political sanction.
Gestures are a form of non-verbal communication, where specific messages are planted in anthropological soils with intended purpose.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
an annualized vacation in the mountains with her sisterhood, down in the Mountains of Mexico, hiking (up at daily at 5:00am to drink in the rising sun, climb the mountain literally, and imbibing the wildflowers so delighting), breathing in deeply, yoga-ing, multiple dance classing, and restoring a body/soul impetus that city life makes harder, tho she does do it so well...
yes, she is lucky in life to be open willing and capable of restoration...
arriving at home around 11pm, me in bed, all anticipatory, get a (very) quick kiss on the forehead, and switching my light off, she heads off to the den armed and dangerous with the TV chicheer ( what we call it for so long, I forget the real name), watch 6(!) hours of accumulated TV, with many more hours as yet in need of curating...
which proves nothing
but that she is a creature of the night...
and that nature without fantasy is simply not,
nurture sufficient...
as for me...fantasy is my nature
and my nurture
eye'm happy to see blonde hairs and nothing but
peeking out from underneath the sheets,
and remain
sincerely yours,
Mr. Anticipatory,
but no longer her,
Mr Fantasy
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Fervency referring to effectuality as measured
by men,
I suppose. Positionally, top line.
Challenges are not all games,
all games are challenges.
That which he fears comes.
Anticipate war, teach your son to
access participation trope level
anticipatory experience
imagining dying
now
design a death that does not damage, eh,
no damming, no pile of useless hordes,
dammed to collect the flow
anticipating need
when need is non exist-ant.
Greedy gut.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:28 PM UTC
We are naturally wary of different
Our anticipatory
Participation in fear
Blinds us from the signs
That classification
Of the population
Fuels separation
In our great nation
And the degradation
Of our education
Through miscommunication
Due to deprivation
Of alleviation
As far as the segregation
Taking its formation
In our imagination?
These bounds we set
To set us apart
Take hold in heart
Because we impart
The notion of racism
Through our pride
Proud to be black
Proud to be white
Proud to be
Whatever it is that is me.
I’m sure it is right
Though I did not choose
No I wasn’t trusted with choice
I wasn’t given an option
No opinion to voice
I came as I am
I came as man
With no color in mind
Nor hate in heart
A patch of untrodden
Still smoothed soft snowflakes
Unscathed by the treads
Of worn down soles.
No limits exist
To whom
They were never shown
Never taught
Through words or by deed
Never separated
Through race or creed
Disparity through diversification
Norms forming cult cultures
Secluded islands of identifiers
Imprisoned in our tradition
Caught up in the familial familiarity
Of being a drop in a raincloud
Growing heavier each summer day
Until the burden bursts
Out in thunderous roar.
And yet the race will remain
Runners at their mark
Pushing to get ahead of the pack
Forgetting there is no finish-line
Since it was never a race at all.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
Anticipatory quiet,
and the gathering fullness
builds upon itself in secret,
unknown ways.
Here in this old kitchen,
morning finds you in a shirt
silkscreened with one distant
cluster of stars.
Emblematic, a medicine shield
guarding a silent, wise heart
equally full of light.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
unbeknownst to me, it was here
staring me in the face
our eyes, locked
intertwined views
a static gaze
the face of one
suddenly
without warning
my heart sank
eyes flutter
lungs emptied of air
unable to catch my breath
unwilling to speak
blinded by the sight of it all
all is him
i fidget
he wrinkles
we smile
are such smirks out of fear
or purely of relief
here we are
together
at last
yet
we still long for something more
unsure if it is even attainable
we strive to achieve
our hearts bleed
our souls stretch
like pinched skin
rubber or flesh
we dance
rather stumble about
drunk on a love
high on each other
is this really it
despite my desire to temporally transgress
to seek truths
we must remain in our current state
the fast forward button is broken
wait
maybe this is actually repeat
although it could possibly be shuffled
i would not dare rewind
although the desire to pause is often present
all that's left
is anticipatory anxiety
and dreams
and you
and me
perfection? perhaps
purity? oh please
persuasion? plenty
poetry? positively
i cannot wait to see what happens next.
one thing is for certain
good
bad
happy
sad
this is the forever mix
only one question still remains
are you the dj or the turn table
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
A crooked jaw through the middle of my bottom teeth
is a reward for a night well spent.
Charisma and charm,
the loquacious chasm between a visionary and a car salesmen.
Spent time, people, and energy
on credit
so that no one was left to stand between me and the pavement.
Now a canyon runs through my jaw
and I can’t smile right,
and my ear always hurts,
my chin clicks,
my eyes sit deeper,
my neck aches from looking over my shoulder,
tongue bleeds from biting,
mind’s weak,
linguistic chess,
anticipatory dialogue ripe with plastic fruit.
It leaves me nourished with doubt to speak outloud
and move outside my shadow.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
I speak of being lost often
It’s a feeling that invades me
Without anticipatory thought
Going to bed alone tonight undid me
I thought of my smoke stained hair
I realized that I didn’t smell normal
Without a pause the thought changed
There is no one to tell me I smell good
No quick lean in to inhale
No passing smile from the scent
Warm skin is just warm
No one is there to breathe in who I am
Of all the things to devastate me
The thought of never having anyone
Sneak a breath of me turned my heart
A teary moment is only delayed
For the length of a shower
cc071412
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
Pinnacle moments pass us by quickly and sharply.
Cynical thoughts control the fear marking out goals in Sharpie.
Mental games of why do I deserve such pain, even partly,
and coinciding emotions of loss amongst those not even as lovely, I finally feel this pain heartily.
One bad decision, one bad night, one terrible choice is the only ignition that was needed to begin the arson.
My apology was weak and imitated the sincerity of a disgruntled garçon, still in disbelief that my train of thought was easily that of a *****
Love is a fickle sport we play and the secret formula is still out of my reach.
I will metamorphize into the one who is cracking the glass towards the anticipatory breach.
A lesson you subconsciously teach and I see that not all past stains can be cleaned with even the most powerful bleach.
I now know how I hurt you with my actions and eternal contract breach, like Richard Nixon I deserve the death penalty charge of being impeached, making you now just out of reach.
All I can say is sorry for all I have done, I love you, but I guess it's just a figure of speech.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
Eager and hopeful
Anticipatory nerves
Catching and holding
Each breath for a brief instant
A second of pride,
Almost missed as it passes,
Cannot be deadly
Smile for a moment, in joy
Release the clenched fist
Holding doubt so fervently
Believe you can, and you will
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 10:34 PM UTC
Your sleek, falling apart car.
I'm constantly on the lookout for it, anxiously awaiting the day when we bump into one another after all this time.
We don't live in that big of a city, and yet it hasn't happened.
I'm in constant fear of that occurrence, but I'm sickly anticipatory.
Today I followed a car that I could swear was yours for three miles.
It didn't have your signature license plate border, but I thrusted into auto-pilot and followed.
I followed past where I should have, hoping for a glimpse of your face, or even hand, so I would know you still exist.
So I would know you still exist outside of my mental concentration camp that I can't decide if you set up.
Or did I?
I craved seeing you.
I craved the whole feeling that seeing you might bring.
But I know it would only bring what I ached with after following whom might or might not have been you: dissatisfaction.
Dissatisfaction with you, with me, with the fleeting flings I've attempted to make myself feel whole with again.
Dissatisfaction with the strongly held belief, deep in my heart of hearts, that you were someone special.
You were someone special who I couldn't stop from slipping out of my grasp like sand.
The entire time, following that small black car, my heart was pounding on the inside of my ribcage.
I was on the verge of a cataclysmic breakdown of epic proportions.
I so wanted that driver to be you that I could almost smell your aroma of body spray and hookah smoke.
I so wanted that driver to be you that I made her every movement similar to one you would make while driving to the amusement park or to get ice cream or as you would drive away at 1 a.m.
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
Gorgeous fruit,
You are the mercury and
I the ***** slanted surface;
Faults in the flesh cry
“Scarlet ants
To fill my dreadful purpose!”
My little voice that steals from the page
Can fill the singing water.
But I wonder often
If all my breath
Is in accordance with
That great tome
At the end of all our days
Which instructs us
In the proper use of semicolons.
Until we know, I bar my
Wanton lips.
Get up and bar my wantonness
That I should
Live in the sands I am
Allotted.
O despairing syllabus!
Can you- will you care to number
On the murmuring calendar all
The days you must
Wait for me to clasp
The iron bar?
Ay, with my teeth set as far
Apart as my shoulders
And my very animus
Sewn into the college ruled
Notebooks, records, loose-leafs
With looser thoughts.
What I would do without
The seventy
Anticipatory footsteps in the snow
Might stop the very
Pull
Of land and ship
And pull out every
Stop
From under our deck.
Gorgeous fruit, I ask
You to pull the pencil
From my desk and entice
Me once more from my bed.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 2:21 PM UTC
i am singing soft pinks,
after my too bold reds;
*i mean,
maybe, my great, round bursts of
clumsy heart
didn't bruise as sweetly
as i'd hoped.*
i haven't a thing against
climbing to middleground;
my lips are left
less chapped.
--
I am a
yet, wild queen -
learned-head bowed
low.
heart lifted
-in anticipatory gusts
of questions,
peppered with thanks,
for the inner knowing,
melding into my all-
to the heavens, above,
lifting up fervent
pleas and blessings:
thanks, for the continuing cycle
that continued
long enough
for me to believe
and is continuing,
even still -
this was something
different.
*not singing after?
but, softening to?*
this feels much,
much more like home.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
First, ink and tree leaves
Fresh or processed, it works nonetheless
seek a tranquil abode
And allow creativity to flow through throbbing veins
lock the doors, close your eyes,
Trap yourself in your consciousness
no escape for the wicked and divine
Allow the fear of yourself to boil,
the image of her that burns behind your eyes to scald you,
And the anticipatory chills to soak your entire body.
let them twirl and collide
Car collisions, fists against walls
face these lost horrors living in the depths of your mind
Tickle the subconscious,
drifting enough to dream,
But awake enough to feel the lightening of this storm.
tease and ****** it until it claws for an escape
Poke and **** burn it to squirm
the perfect result will be worth the torture.
Then, at the peak of destruction
when it’s nearing death and combustion
Release it onto the whiteness of the page
tarnishing it, impure.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
meteors and wishes galore
just one more, no one more.
on anticipatory guard
eyes dart in saccadic movement
panoramic view of just a sliver
of the most expansive expanse,
universe at a glance
finger points there
purple raging fire flying
swift and smooth,
fleeting but forever
with an afterglow,
trail of smoky gold
shooting stars are scars
and remember that
scars are stories
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 5:57 PM UTC
Tonight could not come sooner
Tonight could not come soon enough
Tonight could not be more open
Despite how closed shut it is
Tonight has a lot of potential
Tonight is oh so flat
Tonight will be epic
Despite how bad it will be
Will people show up
What will happen
Who knows for sure
Despite the facts, nothing known
I am ready, here we go
Let us see what lays behind the show
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 5:46 PM UTC
Off to the Races
On your mark, get set
No.
We are naturally wary of different
Our anticipatory
Participation in fear
Blinds us from the signs
That classification
Of the population
Fuels separation
In our great nation
And the degradation
Of our education
Through miscommunication
Due to deprivation
Of alleviation
As far as the segregation
Taking its formation
In our imagination.
These bounds we set
To set us apart
Take hold in heart
Because we impart
The notion of racism
Through our pride
Proud to be black
Proud to be white
Proud to be
Whatever it is that is me.
I’m sure it is right
Though I did not choose
No I wasn’t trusted with choice
I wasn’t given an option
No opinion to voice
I came as I am
I came as man
With no color in mind
Nor hate in heart.
No limits exist
To whom
They were never shown
Never taught
Through words or by deed
Never separated
Through race or creed
Disparity through diversification
Norms forming cult cultures
Secluded islands of identifiers
Imprisoned in our tradition
Caught up in the familial familiarity
Of being a drop in a raincloud
Growing heavier each summer day
Until the burden bursts
Out in thunderous roar.
And yet the race will remain
Runners at their mark
Pushing to get ahead of the pack
Forgetting there is no finish-line
Since it was never a race at all.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC