"axle" poems
two red kites
like pairs of white kittens
locked in
a spiritual
trance
ice-skating
pairs
triple-axle
across
the
ice
blue sky
with a flare
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
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QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.
This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.
Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.
We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.
Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.
They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.
I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.
Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
A rotating wheel. Turning an axle. Grinding. Bolthead. Linear gearbox. Falling sky. Seven holy stakes. A docked ship. A portal to another world. A thin rope tied to a thick rope. A torn harness. Parabolic gearbox. Expanding universe. Time controlled by slipping cogwheels. Existence of God. Swimming with open water in all directions. Drowning. A prayer written in blood. A prayer written in time-devouring snakes with human eyes. A thread connecting all living human eyes. A kaleidoscope of holy stakes. Exponential gearbox. A sky of exploding stars. God disproving the existence of God. A wheel rotating in six dimensions. Forty gears and a ticking clock. A clock that ticks one second for every rotation of the planet. A clock that ticks forty times every time it ticks every second time. A bolthead of holy stakes tied to the existence of a docked ship to another world. A kaleidoscope of blood written in clocks. A time-devouring prayer connecting a sky of forty gears and open human eyes in all directions. Breathing gearbox. Breathing bolthead. Breathing ship. Breathing portal. Breathing snakes. Breathing God. Breathing blood. Breathing holy stakes. Breathing human eyes. Breathing time. Breathing prayer. Breathing sky. Breathing wheel.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 8:43 PM UTC
Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its ****** death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.
His body a bloody-ruby radiant
With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden's imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.
3.7k
I WANDER by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:
Until the axle break
That keeps the stars in their round,
And hands hurl in the deep
The banners of East and West,
And the girdle of light is unhound,
Your breast will not lie by the breast
Of your beloved in sleep.
3.3k
So gradual in those summers was the going
of the age it seemed that the long days setting out
when the stars faded over the mountains were not
leaving us even as the birds woke in full song and the dew
glittered in the webs it appeared then that the clear morning
opening into the sky was something of ours
to have and keep and that the brightness we could not touch
and the air we could not hold had come to be there all the time
for us and would never be gone and that the axle
we did not hear was not turning when the ancient car
coughed in the roofer's barn and rolled out echoing
first thing into the lane and the only tractor
in the village rumbled and went into its rusty
mutterings before heading out of its lean-to
into the cow pats and the shadow of the lime tree
we did not see that the swallows flashing and the sparks
of their cries were fast in the spokes of the hollow
wheel that was turning and turning us taking us
all away as one with the tires of the baker's van
where the wheels of bread were stacked like days in calendars
coming and going all at once we did not hear
the rim of the hour in whatever we were saying
or touching all day we thought it was there and would stay
it was only as the afternoon lengthened on its
dial and the shadows reached out farther and farther
from everything that we began to listen for what
might be escaping us and we heard high voices ringing
the village at sundown calling their animals home
and then the bats after dark and the silence on its road
2.9k
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
The train of thought
That processes as a machine
Turning, creating, assembling
The wheel of thought spinning round the axle
-------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious
The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.
The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.
The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
failing to relay information,
refusing to form a sentence,
still trapped in a realm of limbo
wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.
Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.
Materializing in a classroom
The cage for intellectual minds
Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt
The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
Objects exposed, judged, determined.
No place for the dreamer, who loves
warping reality.
Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
elotes jingling ringing by
ponies munching grass
inevitable sticky arm
pointing to the sky
watching Cooper's pass
buses exhale noxious fumes
singing greasy axle tunes
grainy walk beneath our feet
offers something more than supple street
something more than supple street
something more we can't defeat
a burning penny in blue-tile sky
a charred lily in our green water supply
a pyroclastic flow of people
i'd love to meet
i'd love to meet
i'd love to meet
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
When we were eighteen
sang the three women in chorus
and the bus burst into Spring.
When we were eighteen
they giggled and sang
the bus was a garden
the seats swings in the wind
the passengers angels and fairies
When we were eighteen
sang the three women
men beamed and the women blushed
as they broke into chorus
when we were eighteen
the ride was free
and they all stood up
their bones bellowing the chorus
their skin shining in the Spring
the child grew into eighteen
the old descended into that golden year
never knowing when their stoppage came
when one after the other they got down
and again it was a bus on the road
but with the whiff of Spring
eternal in the crimson blush
of the sun setting and rising
its engine and axle and tyres whirring in chorus
when we were eighteen
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Magickal black light
**** star probe
cylinders bright
Fish of 12
make bread in abundance
for 5000
knead the axle
the sphere that sits
adhere regret
when Jesus wept
for one dead
death the **********
the ******* let loose
Not the original
sleep for all
But the horrible macabre
That us befalls
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain
That shapes each bushy item of the air
Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.
Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs,
Nor hammer back a season in the figs,
But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country;
Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues,
By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow,
In your young years the vegetable century.
And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre,
Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker,
But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet;
Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir,
High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud,
And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.
Roll unmanly over this turning tuft,
O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift
From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile;
Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift
Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds
Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.
Who gave these seas their colour in a shape,
Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven's ark
In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles;
O who is glory in the shapeless maps,
Now make the world of me as I have made
A merry manshape of your walking circle.
1.7k
983
Ideals are the Fairly Oil
With which we help the Wheel
But when the Vital Axle turns
The Eye rejects the Oil.
1.6k
I lie in bed gazing at my bumpy popcorn ceiling
I let my stare settle to follow my fan's revolution
Focusing on one plates trip around its axle
It is without fail and I find in my fan dependability
It deserves its place up there
It knows the right direction and spinning speed
It has no temptations to stop or slow
And rarely does it make a sound
It refuses to fall, to let the pressure win
It does not care its only painted to look like wood
Or that its never dusted clean
It does not complain about how the lights get more attention
Or how central air is more popular
It has purpose on the verge of personality
I lie in bed for my purpose is not so clear
And a personality not so worthy
Yet I am the one with the freedom to choose
Question: But what if my answers
Not to be
This fan seems to have proven a bitter point
It has made a mockery out of my passive glares
I fear its judgements, for it whispers disapproval
I tear myself away from its patronizing winds
And allow my eyes to float and find a mirror
Making sense of looks and location
And the human stare that beams back
Smiles and agrees
Decisively objective in its demeanor
I must admit that my reflection is convincing
But its light is late, and its fancy tricks deceive
Tis a fools mistake to reduce verbs to stale states
Question: To be alive or to live a life
Or choose to gamble with one's talent to lie
I lie; I lie in bed
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
Faster pedal gas
Rev your engine loud spirit
Break loose the chain hold
Sixty flat
Five seconds faster
Left dead locked
Wobble
Unstable
Axle
Nails glass knife
Slash a tire pop
Passenger seat
Three deaths on Oak Road
Valedictorian dead
Terrible the loss
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
The Wheel is not the axle,
nor the spot it touches road.
Reinvention is the brief kiss
of rubber on pavement
as the eternal Idea of Reality
remembers Itself in Time.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
A Poem to My Lilliepad
She's a girl trapped in a world crafted by crooks
Few wrong turns was all it took.
it started off like any other story
growing up full of dreams
until the day she met a boy and fell in love
you should know
nothing is ever what it seems
she was brave, yet everything ends in dust
I feared that everything for her was lost
Then she had her baby girl
that planted an axle in her world
trapped still that she may be
she has something now to keep her clean
keep her ground; safe and sound
Everyday he puts her down
makes her feel small
he isn't even tall
not many can see her frown
but I do.
I see the pain.
I see her confused.
Stuck to the fate that she did choose
back in the day.
She needed to make a change to get away.
He still does those things,
she still lives with him.
But I have faith that she will grow her wings.
Make her escape from her mistakes.
She has all she needs to leave one day.
All her love for her little Lillieanna Mae
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
I watch, at the
prairie of time
the unfurling of nature
the dissertation
of saints
and in the hinterlands
a bare cry of
entrance
barred into the heavens
whispers of the world
residues
of fate and light
and devils
grieving for their
sacrifices
and slipping
into the worlds of men
the partakes in
grey barriers
and lossy colours
periphery
the ancient coliseum
the warface of dread
and acquittals of
memories
moments in time
spinning on the axle
grappling onto thoughts
and endless flows.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
* * * * * * *
I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods,
obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh.
Vision widens where hope seems to narrow
as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods.
Submerged upon the sands my army’s host;
Erythrean currents their secrets keep.
The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep
while God led you forth toward your promised coast.
There was no choice for me, the charioteer.
A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down;
pursuing you, I thought your end was near.
In the descent, I lost my star and crown.
My lord was false, while yours continues strong…
I rise from depths to further you along.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
242
When we stand on the tops of Things—
And like the Trees, look down—
The smoke all cleared away from it—
And Mirrors on the scene—
Just laying light—no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw—
The Sound ones, like the Hills—shall stand—
No Lighting, scares away—
The Perfect, nowhere be afraid—
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds—
The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World—
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held—
907
The love of a woman
Is paramount to life, as he breathes it
One must die to oneself
Before rapture takes over in copious amounts
Inside an embittered heart
Where a mind of morbid thoughts rely on
The earth revolving around its axle
As the soul seeps heaven lost to a physical realm
Forgotten are the languid moments
Of perfection not found in this land
Those only held in humankind
The act of freewill
Kills completion of mind, body and soul
Doomed to failure in a world controlled by greed
Supported by power hungry demons
Sent to diminish the goodness
We only find in our visions of Nirvana
We can only dream of such fulfillment
Until we cross over beyond a material world
Where eternal rest seems so inviting
Peace will bring equilibrium
Love will be of a higher quality
...
O sweetest death...
How I long for you
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
Underinterrupted silence,
none to gather at the gates.
Sell your warey wagon's axle,
feed, the castle masticates.
Oh the joyous altercation,
angled, dangling neatly down.
Hold your elder father's picture
underneath your writing gown.
Words defy the lonesome meeting
of the dogs in golden chains.
Herds arise of loathsome chieftains.
Battlecries as arrows rain.
Open book of monstrous brethren,
teach them how your pages turn.
Loving violence, kindred-hateful;
gutted, for a beat you yearn.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
I am aware that the lights of this city always wash up underground.
it is here we stumble upon an abandoned MRT car.
we celebrate her finding.
Maybe tonight we'll finally knit her together!
We'll make her whole again!
Bones, carbine batteries, and all:
creaky joints brittle, flimsier than
the hour hands drumbeat-beating back
the good,
old times.
We are tired.
of forever chasing
your headlamp leftovers through decaying brick walls,
tired,
of forever waiting on your streetlamp-stained limbs to finally reach the graveyard stations of our subconscious.
tired,
of picking up after
the shadowy remnants of your visage,
now a checklist of unfulfilled promises:
pulley - rusted,
benches - mothballed,
cable strings - straining.
paint - chipping,
engine - huffing,
axle - bleeding,
spirit - broken.
we are tired of waiting.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
With a full tank of gas,
You're easy to avoid
The snow is thick and fluffy
I am overjoyed.
Match my tires to the tracks ahead of me
To hide my trail
I can't let you follow me
All the way to the grail.
I'll hold that cup in my hand
And get the lay of the land
No one else may come aboard
It's just me and the Lord
Patch of ice under the snow
Sends me off the bridge
Photos of the two of us
Under magnets on the fridge
White out conditions
Axle snapped in two
Huddled under a blanket
Nothing else I can do
I'll hold that cup in my hand
And get the lay of the land
No one else may come aboard
It's just me and the Lord
No lights on the freeway
No end to the snow
Little hope of being rescued
North wind continues to blow
Can't let you find me
Away I crawl
And suddenly I'm warm
Forward I am called
I am holding that cup in my hands
Just dug it out of the sand
Sun shining on my weathered face
I am weary of that golden chase
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
The hardest way
It came to my head,
If a linchpin doesn't fit
The axle,
It is as good as dead!
An honest man
Amidst many a ragamuffin
Is just like one the last nail
Is hit on whose coffin!
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC