"argyle" poems
Plaid slacks
Feather cap
Argyle socks
Flip phone
Mullet hair
Greasy hands
Crusted fingernails
White belt
Sketchy beard
Members only
Casio watch
Deck shoes
Muscle shirt
Tribal tattoo
Chest hair
Plumbers crack
You look great, Mom!
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Hair flecked with silver streams
Grooves in the skin creating ripples of wisdom
Wisdom shown in the glossy eyes
Body of watery experience sitting in the rickety chair,
the chair that squeaks with every rocky wave
If wisdom had a visible aura
it would be seeping out of his eye sockets
creating rivers of tears flowing down the cheekbones
It would be pouring out of his ears,
watering the thirsty hydrangeas that rest by his feet
It would be running out of his nose
into the decades of wisdom gathering around his chin
It would be salivating out of the corners of his mouth,
down his chin
drenching the front of his argyle sweater vest
But people walk by
blinded by nearsightedness
They don't see the water that creates a tsunami
strong and tall
People walk by
content on their dry scratchy gravel,
not wanting to dip their toes
into the murky pond before them
People walk by
closer toward the desert
where they get stuck
waiting for something to quench their thirst.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
you are the light at the end of a tendril. a spindle of dread, woven in caustic guile of argyle
parallelograms...phantom realms of solid waste. you are the pin in the subject. gating satan through a thimble
of crocodile tears, the new symbol.
the rude glyph in black bibles and strong drink, en-kindling the dead. rodents ponzi the scheme
of hell’s maze, with lies...your lies...
you have eyes that lead aside from your heart’s plot
you are saboteur. banal.
unrestrained waste. you are the fin in the barracuda puppet, grazing the wrist of Dim Henson
huffing crystal gorillas in the congo of your foyer
you are
the black chandelier.
teach me your cheap trick
striking off ‘ iron-on’ pinkie swears
your praline heresies... your ‘ no remorse’ code
lay bare to me.
better my better angels, to fathom the loathsome ****
of your actual mind. keep me abreast of your wretched games...
apply the rod of your wrong love, above all.... you must betray.
you must know in your fetid rot
of a third eye... the phlegm genius of **** blindness.... teach me the rictus of
cold hearted. a false god in my lotus !
spare me the chaste suzette
flip me the ***** that spits fables.
learn me the savage puns
to pummel you sustaining your worst done.
grant me the lethal beans for my sacred cow
trade me the idylls of your forked heart
for your crushed null
and crossed
bones.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I've delivered your messages
Transcribed your letters
Worn heels and tight dresses
For you the past four years
No one knows better
Your favorite tie is argyle
You like your coffee lukewarm
And you prefer the pickle on the side
It began with passion-filled glances
But soon we were taking all our chances
To share stolen kisses
In the privacy of a custodial closet
Then came the late work nights
Telling my mother we had production to boost
When the only thing you were boosting
Was me onto your paper-littered desk
And I felt *****
Even though you said you'd do nothing to hurt me
I knew it was lies because you did nothing to help me either
And I loved you
I could care less for the moon
All I want is you to no longer make me suffer
Make me a wife or a mother
Something, anything other than just your secretary/lover
All because God made my skin the wrong color.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC
We are two animals trapped inside a glass box
Nothing to say or do that isn't lost inside our thoughts
You hope to find an inkling inside the broken chatterbox
But mostly deny what's inside the two time Goldilocks
Is it too cold, too hot, or just right?
Hit me up on the flip side and I'll keep you lukewarm tonight.
Who's eyes light up your insides like a rotten Jack O'lantern?
Who's argyle style lies in all the wrong patterns?
I'm loose like a cannon or a bad set of tie rods.
You can hear the truth speak when you read it in my scrimshaws.
Bear claws
I'll Tear apart your life like the jaws of life.
Tear you apart like a knife like jaws did Richard Dreyfuss
What?
Say what?
This guy writes like Jackson ******* drinks
And paints like Charles Bukowski.
His life pours out in lines like the inside of a chocolate factory.
When asked where is his mind he pointed to his heart,
and said to them:
"you shouldn't play with knives when you're dancing in the dark."
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
You are the unbearable sort of thing that I wouldn’t want to wear on my feet, even with boots laced up to the knees, because wearing you would force me to cover my polka-dotted toes,
And anyone who would want to compromise my innocence like that is horribly patterned and dull,
Like the lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate, gathering dust on that shelf in the rain, where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts have found place
The ones that can’t cover my insecurities
Or don’t flatter my figure at all
There’s an obvious scab on my ankle that won’t heal
Embarrassing, really
It came from my unwavering faith in open-toed stilettos
You saw it just the other day
And I blushed as I tried to pull my pant leg over the sore, but you knew (I think)
Oh, the puzzling urge I have to be made over by the brains of your outfits!
So I can open a closet of conversation topics that would suit both of us just fine
I think
I have shed 18 years of ideas in the past two weeks
I starved myself until I could fit into the apparel of your approval
Which I claw through my closets but still cannot find
But I know that somewhere in my brain beneath an empty toilet paper roll or stuck on a dead branch of ideas is a match to your unbearable pattern-
Perhaps if I’d kept my opinions more alphabetized, I would’ve found it sooner
Blast, my scattered brain that can’t seem to produce any fashion but faux pas for you
Logic and emotion were never meant to mix like this- trust me, I know well
Give me a summer to rearrange myself, hmm?
Or will I have no use of you then…
If only I’d started to realize sooner
We’d be peeling oranges and discussing the oldest styles of thought, you and I
Beneath an umbrella in the rain
You wouldn’t be able to see that odd scab on my ankle
Because I would have the other lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate-
I feel that perhaps
you are only unbearable because I wish you complimented me better, that perhaps the reason I’m starving myself of all reason is because I’d like nothing more than to openly say
that I hate you, my lone, little argyle sock
but that is only
because right now, I could never possibly hope to wear you
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes
and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen
amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
This not quite the underground, but still a strange corridor-
Scurrying in skirts and argyle and
Two-piece research paper suits.
They get together in the new Underground, they
Smoke old memories and sit in a stoner semicircle
To listen to old attendance records.
Humming the anecdotal lark, a man with a prim tie
Rises and steps into the middle to slam. Over the deafening
Hookah comes David Copperfield.
Hello Voltaire, have you brought your
Reading glasses? The secret anatomies
Held in the inked atomies
Are all we come for. Let us in on this electric
Canvas. Let us paint out plots of plots that
All of us have known,
Around and underneath, and speak out our
Crayon set opinions, to tell the dim-eyed boys and girls
About in detail later. Ooh, say eight o’clock?
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
Puking on a vest made of argyle
Passing out on kitchen tile
A checker board mattress after
Chatting with a girl, whose *** is fantastic
She's hotter than struck matchsticks
Playing chess with her chest
Moves are nothing short of the best
You can pull on 3 leaf clovers
But you can't push your luck
King me, Crown me, Get royally ******
I've got the wood she's got the chuck
How much?
Bedside Manner is enough
But she'd rather talk about being stuck like cassettes
With a useless boyfriend
And a ton of financial debt
Had I mentioned this was turning into a drag
Minus the cigarette
The size of a rolled telegram and gazette
Has it become clear yet
*I'm not looking at you
I'm looking past you*
Transparent
Like a ghost
It's apparent
I'm into you like a foreign host
It's hard to tell
When the air is hazy
She's blind to the fact
Like her eye is lazy
Choked on words that she never learned to chew
Why don't you call Sherlock, boo
Get yourself a Clue
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
I’m laughing with you.
We sit at my piano
Video media records,
and I have the pleasure of watching us toss our heads back
Breaking neck smiles.
Play back our giggles
Mismatched notes
We don’t search our own accord,
Clash of chords
corded around each key.
Sitting on that bench is wearing socks of different pairs.
I am a fuzzy mid-calf, and you are an argyle knee high.
Socked in laughter.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
A Cerulean precipice grows
wrinkles. Blouses scatter into oblivion.
Rusty chain, in the room with no time.
Tea-kettles antagonize moonlit lovers.
Shotglasses chase, through ghastly cornstalks.
Cascading lights speak incantation.
Flash dance to late night serenades.
Phoenix plumes in Sunday hats.
Laying poolside, argyle splashes.
A magnetic lioness creeps.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies.
Alabaster halls consume infant minds, while
Dusty caps unlock elusive touches.
Black widows drink white wine.
Anise waters drown lycra mermaids.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
i am the blood in the sink
you are **** on the bathmat
wash me off so we forget this
failed flailing at repose's feet.
("maybe we can make each other's
winter's feel all right.")
no, i cannot make you quake
in my mocha movement,
draped in careful quirk
pastel enraptures
fantasies of argyle.
drawing your fingers into motion
along fantastical bony parts,
effulgent with the newness
of thrush april wetness,
i have never felt so pasty dry.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Black widows drink white wine.
Magnetic lionesses creep, cold and calculating.
Drunken sobs echo, under locked bedroom doors.
As toppled shot-glasses lay, in scattered pools of ***
Poolside lounge chairs plummet, making argyle splashes,
Coming to rest with cell phones and wallets.
Frigid lake water, antagonizes moonlit lovers.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies, unlocking elusive touches.
These alabaster halls consume infant minds, yet
Not tonight.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Cries ring out around the room.
Beg me once more. I will not stoop.
The shelter is crumbling. Walls turning pink.
Windows fogging up, the gas has leaked.
Trembling hands reach, no satisfaction is given.
The argyle rug we live on is frayed. Rat bones
pile in the corners.
Starvation came and went.
Matted hair is stretched with the fingers.
Plucking and prodding. Dirtied face,
green as the curtains. Pressing deeper
into the walls. The next course is served.
A dead dream, warts, rotted meat.
The others fight for the meat. I rip a
piece of the dream. Bring a finger
to the lips and shush. The dream stops
screaming. Blue skies and honeyed words
capture. Fading into the carpet, resting
my head on the bones. A scratch strikes
the entrance. Silence. Screech. Hiss.
Silence. We open the door, then close it.
It is not an exit after all.
The girl to my left, blinks at me.
I tell her no, not yet. I will wait
for the exit. She blinks once more.
We just have to wait for it. Glazed
eyes meet mine. She crumbles.
The next course has been served.
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 12:51 PM UTC
There are beautiful girls everywhere,
Some are stupid, and won't care,
Some are there just for a day,
Some are easy, some are game,
When you reach a mature age,
You will meet one that is wise,
A girl that is fun and true,
Will not give in, will be hard to rule,
She's not looking for a night,
She's looking for a brave true knight,
Shell refuse to play your game,
With all the players she does the same,
She knows what you're after,
But she'll want forever after,
She will scold you and test you and outwit your play,
If you're looking for easy then expect a delay,
Maybe you should walk away...Hot Shot!
She is pretty, and has a brain,
She will beat you at your own game,
Not only can her beauty captivate,
She has something special, it's called class,
She knows what she wants,
She's a perfect catch,
She is rare and born of the sun,
She will burn you with her rays,
If you catch one hold on tight,
She's a star born of daylight,
Shell be the one to light your night,
But be aware, stars like these are sought by many,
Like pink argyle diamonds, worth every penny,
Their value increases, with time,
So hold on with all your might,
You're in for the ride of your life!
True love that never dies, is the sparkle in her eyes,
She is the one, and will love you for the rest of her life.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
When you get home,
You won't help me in the kitchen.
So you walk into the living room
And I get an idea.
I call your name
And you come back in and see me there,
Shirtless, stirring cookie dough.
We end up on that putrid brown sofa
Your arms around my waist
You kiss me until my lips are raw, and...
After, we lay there with your arms around me
And you fall asleep, your breath heavy and slow.
You're dreaming now,
About that pretty girl from San Fransisco.
I roll over and it wakes you up
And we don't know what time it is
But I don't care if we're late
Because you're warm and you smell so sweet
And you kissed my forehead like you did the first time.
I know you wouldn't stop me if I tried to leave
And it kills me
But I'll always be here with you
Even though I know I should be with him
With his camel blues and his tight jeans and his argyle sweater.
He's perfect and
We both know it.
You're nothing and I love you.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC
It was in my mother’s father’s final days when Beckham curled it in against Greece
It should have been wrapped up months or at least minutes prior
But for the English
Football is a beautiful form of torture
Some relief in the dark and painful last of his days
It may sound dramatic from the outside
But from the inside
When you’re in on the secret
Football has always been the beautiful game for a reason
And fate was sealed that day
The infamous Zidane headbutt
It came at a time when I was realising people aren’t perfect and heroes are human
For me, not a disgrace, but a lesson
The world’s greatest are also flawed
Lampard 2010 World Cup
It was over the line
I know it
You know it
But the greatest journeys all have their ups and downs
Their misfortunes and their injustices
Our time is nigh
It’s coming home
The psychopathic work ethic of Ronaldo
The glue on the boots of Messi
The precision of the Pirlo pass
The ‘Why always me?’
The ‘You’ll never walk alone’
The wins, the losses
The joy, the heartbreak
The frustration of supporting a yo-yo that never goes all the way up
An ode to my forever unmentioned Plymouth Argyle
The screamers, the blunders
From Thierry to Titus Bramble
Alonso to Okocha
The once-club-record-signing whose name now evades you
The heroes, the villains
The naive dream that maybe one day you’ll make it
And the hope that maybe this will be our year
The diving, the referees, the relegations, the failure
The 4-0 thrashings by the rivals, the penalties and quarter finals
I don’t know why I do it to myself
But I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way
This is the beautiful game
This is football
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
I am older
You are younger
You are brown
And I am white.
I eat well while
Your folks hunger.
You work hard
So that isn’t right.
You are religious,
I am surely not.
This almost the only
Difference we’ve got.
You eat veggies
And I eat meat.
You can kiss your
Lover in the street.
You like watching football
I like swimming laps.
That doesn’t mean
Football games are crap.
You like pickup trucks
I prefer a speedy coupe.
I like a four course meal
You like salad and soup.
You like hip hop songs
I prefer classic rock.
You think my music went
Out with argyle socks.
You like horror flicks
I prefer great comedies.
There’s nothing wrong with us
We don’t need any remedies.
We are simply different
In what we know and choose.
Being who and what we are
Should not bring on the blues.
Humanity is growing up
And seeing differences exist.
You are you and I am I.
Who has the right to insist?
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
im alive
im sleeping on a roof right now
in my dream i stand
in my dreams i spend most of my time thinking
sane beauty
*****
cut
fade
angels pray
driving home
my path is perfect
swallow loose bolts
weighed down by crosses
my crutches
shifting
getting sweaty
sweet odor
barely born waiting
strong gaps end
a big gun going
crushed by lead
fresh loving numbed
tried tight
bitter falls spent falling
gaze constantly
mistakes eventually
perfection is nostalgia
a mad scene with important colors
darker cool shades of summer routine
a small orange
think its called a tangerine
you melted trying to understand me
puppets control the telescoping cathedral glass
we are wooden
i am holy benedict
existence overrun
you'll try a new direction
holy benedict patron
12 minutes
11 moments
walking frigid down the crest of a wave
kept spinning deeply free
i am green and red and yellow
holding hands with elves on daytime trowels
on shoals of sandy beaches creaking
creeping deathly towards peaches hidden meaning in my mind
help me say peace and green lively words
heavens receipt
he owes you a lot more than his life
eternal sin wrapped in a rapture unfurling
you kept passing saturn underneath the no and yes
david started to say before you cut him off
safe bridges cross memories corner
painted a house insane colors
too bright for morning eyes or evening skies
tomorrow is mist
their heads are held on tightly by glues brought in by alien exporter importers in the late early century of passing grace
passing tightly daily ladies keep spinning ten fer a dollar
filled to the brim
fix the wide hook looked deeper for a picture of my childhood reflected on my sneakers floatng in argyle lake
stuck in the slots of a bridge passing
sleeping tv
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
did you know, azaleas only bloom in the shade.
she's much like that,
bundled in argyle sheets on my couch
with her hair up
and golden hoops in her ears
little red nailpolish on the tips of her fingers,
the colour of Mother Earth on her skin,
she's just like a bouquet of wild petals
spilling heirlooms of universal beauty
upon this room
my eyes
and my soul.
i wonder when it was
i noticed
my relationships with family
and friends
had started to become warmer
kinder,
Gentler. she is--subtle ethereal
change
touching up the darkness
in there, the mystery of
where my heart had gone.
where the good remained.
she is turning the furniture inside
gold.
everything she touches
turns to gold.
she is like Midas.
her laugh
is like spring rain,
she is blooming
blooming
on my couch
delivered through the seasons
without being tainted by
the autumns,
and the winters, someone
else's hand
had never been allowed
none of this
world
had reached her.
in pure,
untouched
uncorrupted
rapture,
my fingers are the first
to trace the contours
and the painted lines
that form her cheeks
and her hips,
i am the luckiest man on earth.
i am in love.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
I tend to sit awake
and dream
of what could be.
could have been.
I can't stay still
around him,
but he lets me choose.
"don't make me choose."
I need him
on grey, dewy mornings
on humid nights crouched in the back
of my scope of reason.
he tells me everything.
he never shrouds himself
but he isn't proud of his pain.
the nettles sticking to the pelt,
two bodies melt
as they meet
in the middle.
what a lovely cup
of lemonade.
I wish it was mine.
I wish the boy with the argyle socks
had the sense in him
not to follow me.
I wish I had the courage
to be the compass.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
the deepest of green lies below his forehead
waves of emerald and evergreen laced around his pupil
they are the kind of eyes that tell you it will be all right
enchanting,
mesmerizing.
the kind of beauty you want to be the last thing you see each night and the first each morning
he holds the kind of eyes that posses the power to change your mind
assuring,
promising.
somewhere between the specks of argyle and the streaks of julep
his eyes tell you to stay
compassionate,
soothing.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
Thomas Haji, Son of Christ, Thomas,
Thomas, Thomas, German History.
France, businesses, many parks, gyms
and Caliph rocks, but the king's problem.
That's why he understood the Mexican
law, the permanent seat of the veil.
Doctors from around the world, in English,
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and save time. Equestrian cycling
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In Spain, parents and parents open at any time.
I was ready to go to the future - in the store,
but the bad people were blocked. Apart from flat volcanoes,
Western Post security - 50% faster than the first model.
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and three times in American universities,
coin olijiyila, Canadian, Canadian
Hamemeni soldiers of John,
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Thomas half an hour, dogs,
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O seven masters of the year of No matter what,
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Cathy's Autumn Nun Avatar
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Germany and sorrow, and many gardens,
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of Lee Leeson, King of the Jmnazyumn,
Nninnaneyulla Mountain, have English,
communications, communications and so on.
In the northwestern restaurant,
a great future for Spain's parents, and their parents;
but the evil people were arrested.
On the other hand, an explosion
occurred in 50% of West Bengal. Five-Year Test of
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Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC
17
FEB
2011
The old man was looking for Argyle street,
I couldn’t meet
His face.
He was out of place.
He said,
I used to know where it was once,
But that was long ago
Way back twenty years or so.
I think his mind was on a slab
So I hailed an Advertisement clustered taxi cab,
And said Take him to where he wants to be,
He’s not all there,
I paid the fare.
And thought about him and what he faced,
With his shirt undone and his shoes unlaced
And wondered why if we care so much
That a crippled man without a crutch,
Could be alone,
Be on his own,
Not in this zone.
It just ain't right.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC