"barnacled" poems
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
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body genre
at a carnal address
sensory and sensuous effects
materiality
digital images
anthropology of desire
she tied a knot around his ****
a wedding band made of licorice shoelaces
for the art of tongue and ****
driving it in her pink throat
back and forth
like a shift stick
flared for the retina
a puzzlement and fascination
haptic screen of fiction
adventure of being pinned down
an unpremeditated punctum
fucktum sucktum
the stadium of desire
a shop window
banality transcending banality
the literal transformed
into the ******
a ****** smiles red
girl in a suitcase
with a hole to ****
a treasure chest
the leaky boundaries of erotica
sing in
musical blood whistles
I packed her up
limbless and threw
her on the bed
and with tender kisses
of endless
wet permutations
banged
three oozing holes
into finger ponds of oblivion
she taunted
age play- ageless
***** class
a weird ethnicity
from Timbuktu
racially motivated lust for a
conveyance of
fleshy intensities
way past help
a big **** dips
a tender dimple
like a barnacled whale
in a deep dive
the violence of
a preemptive strike
for everything imaginable
across raw lips
in her cosmos
of swinging hips
and cross bone riddles
oh happy *****
suicide ******
at the computer screen
**** bullets birthday cake
in a River Styx of flames
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
I first tried an oyster at a seafood bar in Melbourne,
and it jarred in that far-away place.
Oysters, so intimate, were meant to find me at home,
And they did.
In the crowds of Borough Market,
A barnacled Titan plunged his pickled hand into ice-water,
And presented me with a real beauty;
Lustrous, mother of pearl shell,
And at the centre,
A sea-fairy, glittering,
Living, existing for consumption.
A tickle of tabasco, and down he went,
An ocean in my mouth.
I could have been a mermaid
at Neptune’s banquet;
So briny and life-giving,
My mollusc revelation.
An image for you;
A man and a woman, very much in love
Feast on two dozen at an oyster and porter house,
also at the market.
Glowing in the light of a dripping white candle,
They sit at the corner of the counter,
A perfect white wine clinking in their glasses.
Two years ago, an anniversary oyster-fest,
Look how happy we are…
This is the best table in the house.
Now, if we returned,
We might complain about people pushing past,
And the arrogant city-types, drunk and dropping crab shells,
But…That night, it was just us, though busy, it might have been deserted,
Our eyes and the slide of the oysters down our eager throats
Made promises, later to be kept.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
These wet rocks where the tide has been,
Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
The bottom of the sea once more.
There was a child that wandered through
A giant’s empty house all day,—
House full of wonderful things and new,
But no fit place for a child to play.
1.7k
Constantly dipping through gray and black
Wraith like and silent, slipping through undetected
I, Captain Shadow, stand guard at the wheel
Inky hair liquid alive around my shoulders
Whispers back and forth through the mist
Shady Lady glides easily through calm waters
No light penetrates her hull
***** and women a plenty to plunder
But it's knowledge this captain seeks
Traveling the world over for barnacled secrets
Treasures that spark the mind and illuminate the darkness
A bottle of rot gut fits comfortably in my rough hands
Reinforcing sailor's spines grown weary
They all said a woman belonged on land
I ****** in their ale cups
Jumped my rails and set sail
A cold fire in my heart
Weaving through shadows into the night
Come play in the dark
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
The black night’s ebbing tide
erased the only remaining hints,
the cresting long ocean swells
did not cleanse without a trace.
Adrift and lethargically bobbing
seaweed entangled teakwood box
of water-logged photographs, drowning,
surrendered from the heart of the sea
Like molted wild feathers cast ashore with the tide
to the coarse specks of rasping sands,
Darwin's dream in an emptied sea-bubble popped,
dissipated into its own haplessness,
bestrewn about an untrodden seashore
Washed out snapshots of life’s disregarded minutia
enchained to an ordinary forgotten Kodachrome moment
left out to the consequences of the ever fickle tides,
abandoned happenstance spilled by chance
upon another undiscovered world
The warped and bloated wooden box encasement,
hoary with swollen furrowed woodgrain s,
wearied by an enduring measureless moment adrift;
as if an ill-fated message in a misbegotten leaky bottle,
corked with marooned good intentions,
and images of disappearing dreams
flung out shipwrecked in barnacled azure glass
beneath a sky so far away
someone you used to know
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Here I belong
amongst the rugged greys and guillemots
my heart in league with the furious sea
as it lashes the desolate shore.
Cries, mournful in their lament
soar through smothered skies
bearing tales of wrecks and lost lobster pots
empty now of precious cargo
ghostly on the ocean floor.
Salt air swirls and dips above the churning foam,
bringing stinging cold to ruddy cheeks and numbed hands.
A distant bell chimes as tides caress barnacled bows
lost at once within the swirling mists
that lay their sheen upon the dusk.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
A barnacled bow beneath booted feet
Captain's quarters stifling and close tonight
The wind whips through my hair
An inky exspanse of Caribbean ocean lays ahead
Twinkling stars fade out above me
Dawn breaks over a hazy horizon
Dreams have taken root inside a cold heart
I gave up the hope of treasure
Content with the sea and a bottle
Her siren's song pulling me ever farther into the
ocean's expansive wilderness
Anxious for daylight
Salt for veins
Land feels unnatural, unmoving, but I must find you
Scents of coconut and spice penetrate memories of being whole
*"Land ** Captain!"*
Pulse kicks in
Fire replaces salt
A true treasure hunt begins
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
bosnian bumble bees bounce borrishly
'bout Bambi's barnacled buttocks.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
Spent.
Rusted.
Encrusted.
Barnacled.
Manacled.
Chaffed.
Reddened.
Arrested.
Transfixed.
Calmed.
Balmed.
Blamed.
Inflamed.
Infiltrated.
Intrigued.
Embarked.
Engaged.
Encompassed.
Decompressed.
Cold-compressed.
Chilled.
Thrilled.
Spilled.
Spent.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
Me and Robin
rockhopping
round seaweeded,
barnacled beaches
where the river
shakes hands
with the sea
When up pops an otter.
Straight out the silver waves
it comes
and starts chattering at us
in Japanese.
I scratch my head.
Robin looks baffled.
The otter is urgently
incomprehensible.
We look around
on the offchance
that a Japanese tourist might be around
and willing to translate,
but we're the only ones there.
"I wish my dad was here,"
I say,
"Or Auntie Lynn,"
adds Robin,
but they're not
and we lack their talent
for languages.
We try our best
with shrugs and gestures
but all we have is apologies.
Eventually,
with a tetchy 'sayonara',
the otter slips back through the waves
leaving us
none the wiser.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
the sun glints off his wet, dark hair,
the breeze pulls at his sun-bleached, torn shirt,
the kelp brushes his cold, bare toes,
the salt sticks in his still lashes,
the waves reach for his lifeless body,
I watch from behind my rock,
my alcove,
my arch,
waves push my body against barnacled surface,
his first mistake was being alone,
his second was listening to my song,
his last was our kiss,
holding him against my lips,
underneath the white foam,
I took his last breath,
I'll never love again.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
eye of storm
feels good
inanely safe
cloak of unreality
supplanting sense
as trap shuts
butterfly hovers
gently
in silken web
rests stupidly
charmed
while harm beckons
illusions numb
cerebral
space
battle weary
instincts spent
on long haul
gusts of
warning winds
ignored
as incongruent
aberrations
unworthy of note
but sword will drop
mayhem eclipse
former state
past suspension
truncated
exposed
as raw reality
severs dreams
barnacled
to beguiling
specious
notion
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
You celebrated me
when I was a flower,
but you denied my roots.
When autumn came,
you did not know
what to do about me.
You could only understand
the surface, not the
barnacled fabric in the soil.
Like an empty glass of water,
you drained your feelings
and
let
your
eyes
close.
What you do not see
is the mud I am.
You want glitter and shine.
You want transparency.
You will not
acknowledge
the
depth
I
can
offer.
You hollered in glee
when I was shallow.
But you were
confused
with
how
to
treat me
when I was depth.
We are all like that.
Truth is bothersome.
It lacks plastic.
We are afraid.
Always afraid.
Pick up the umbrella
and cover the head.
Protect the surface
from the drops of reality.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
wounds winding the
drawstrings of my heart
closed shut. sharp tongued
words twisted right into my
tight lipped barnacled edge
trying to pry me open.
cracked ajar salt water flushes
flooding nicked skin bled red
into soft pink flesh tip me
over slid out of shell and
swallow me whole. tell me the
last time someone left a sweet taste in your mouth
and i will eat the clock.
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
'Will you be my daddy?'
the girl in the woman whispered
to yet another lover, acquaintance,
man in the street who looked remotely
like he might just step in the phantom's shoes
...and the ache burned on
the searing, tearing
rags aflame
screamed
hot
and cold
as dry ice,
as unsuitable
whiskered men
became barnacled
to a little child's longing
to have a better papa than
the one that arrived to bash
all decency out of the fibre of
a life torn
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
When we met I had passion aplenty
But little experience
My heart knew only the tepid depths of emotion
Wanting desperately to feel the jagged edges all the way down
To know what the space around your tired eyes knows
And to be able to soothe it away with practiced efficiency
The wintery dry call of a Russian desert summer
Lingers in your fingertips
Painting softly, brushing cosmic mysteries in to the shining voice of my soul
Our moonshine syllables weaving in and out of a violent love affair
The aftermath cutting off cold parts of you that would shut down
Into migrating islands of solitude and sand castle suicides
You draw points and theories, advanced,alien intellect
Looking over and around what was always solid, concrete
Embedded into the barnacled underbelly of black sheet melodies
I miss the reflection of heat in your dark corners
Tracing lightly over stitch and bone dreams
I could never get close enough to calm my racing heart
You never asked me to stay
So I never did...leave my body...but I was around
Breathing in your incense and glittering morgue scent
Closing my eyes to savor
Relishing what's its like inside all of your empty spaces
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
For you who called for a moment,
One filled with seasons of house lightning,
Storms booming in the eyes of sofa cushions,
Splitting a room from chandelier thunder clouds,
This hilltop hierarchy has made mountains of molehills,
Barnacled itself unto the names of our forefathers,
Made porcelain tears in the eyes of mothers,
Do you not see all the spotlight in this tragedy?
All this powder and masquerade,
Simply to be seen whole again
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
One by one, individual then group
Faces look up, shine to the sky
Elation rippled, and the town shuttered
A horrible creature, stood once more
Stepping from the sea, building beneath foot
Timber to toothpick, stone ground to sand
It stretched, edge of horizon to edge
Wing tips ripped the sky, lightning crashed
It's eyes, madness dripped from dark orbs
Claws tips fingers, hung on heavy arms
Muscles grew and gathered, ignoring effort
As it dragged tails, seaweeds barnacled and old
It had come to Bon Homme, as legends foretold
Villagers succupiants now, of purest joy; driven mad
Tearing at their hair and flesh, screams announcing its rebirth
It cast its eyes west, as if it's gaze focused on a desire
And it's head turned, toward sea once more
Almost reluctant to leave its womb, cold embrace
It's mouth bellowed, no earthy sound
Tentacled fingers around its mouth, stretching; writhing
That sound, not heard but shattering minds
Eyes began to bleed, then run down
Ichor down faces, ruined with black
Ears drained, sick yellow
One by one, individual then group
As this God strode, once more
Dropped, lifeless bodies shone
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Cracked and caked the streets secrete
Fumes that are frothy with a drip
Of stunning poison
A throne now gold cast in the moonlight
Whimpers with its King now dead; He
Was to be overthrown
And a gown sewn from hippo hides
Crocodile tongues and the forgotten memories
Of past elder's of lore
In the kingdom that bards are sheathed
With kisses from the Devil Himself
Note by note by note
Time pushes on without a need for us
We fill it but we are not necessary
Unless you think the later'
Cans of conquest rattle on the swords
Of barnacled men
Their ocean has washed up
The eye in him is heavy
The heart is still light
The soul gone
Long ago
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:50 AM UTC
Oceans morning moon winking, at
sea gate keys rusted pleasures,
opening loves barnacled secrets, clutched
by tentacles intertwined forever silted
Rocks carved by crashing waves,
shadowing moments before instants, of
loves memory building sand castles
in the rain guided by passing masts
What could be drove her into the surf;
it was never the man as he was,
but what her heart told her was waiting
beyond rip tides and winds that didn’t care
Morning after’s had to wait for dawn,
nights alone knew that mornings alone
felt the same; but the hold of a ship at sea
at least carried her memory with him
Birds picking the lustfully heaving waters
at midnight, dodgy flowers in a stormy garden,
she could only wonder about such things,
while he could only wait for the night before
The wash behind drew life near, expectant;
she could feel the life in his wake, including
her own; but he knew what she could not
believe; this bow longs for her port
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC