"bartering" poems
i must give you a full physical exam
to fully grasp my prognosis and plan
of treatment for you... dont be afraid
i feel confident, no need to debate
i can satisfy
and gratify
your pre-dic-ament
in the richest succulent
as a specialist, to some degree
my healing hands work expertly
but to receive full and complete treatment
you must partake my honey rather frequent
for a better plan of action
i require a full body transfusion
a chemical mixture of center fuses
a delicate blending of our juices
this may require several procedures
over time it provides many features
healing properties of your most vital *****
however worth it, even if, it cost a fortune
to this a can guarantee success
but first you must fully undress
i work with energy transference
your help required for successful convergence
of the best possible results
between two consenting adults
bartering is certainly a viable option
for your long term medical condition
providing equal services for each other
helps maintain balance to one another
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
A self confessed dreamer
One that knew no bounds
Can't keep his mind in tether
It's always fleeing from the grounds
He'd always been the dreamer
Picking the shackles of reality
Always hopeful of finding another
A safe haven, an escape, a sanctuary
Madness is thought of this silly little dreamer
Forever bartering reality for a life of fantasy
"He's moonstruck", said one to the other
Obstinate still he chooses to wander free
Alas one day, he stumbled upon a jewel
Glistening, deceivingly within arm's reach
But a beautiful game was played so cruel
Fate wouldn't give easily what it could teach
Glimpses of undefined beauty
Himself drawn closer to this beacon
He craves for this gem so madly
Didn't care for what's to happen
He descended to the surface
One thing he just did realise
That the jewel wasn't in its place
But a reflection of another in the skies
He looked up, he spun and he squinted
Attempting this search he had just begun
For a moment he found himself to be blinded
For the jewel is indeed the sun
He marvels at her beauty
Till his eyes turned red and sore
But he doesn't stop even briefly
For she's the object of his adore
He gazes at his newfound muse
Till the day grew dim and late
When she sets he would hesitate and refuse
To return willingly to his ****** state
Through promise he returns daily
To catch his sun as she would rise
For she fills him with aplenty
And she listens to his forlorn cries
He loves her much as she did him
In each other's magic the two would bask
As time flits by, the day grows dreadfully dim
Too short a time from dawn till dusk
The dreamer waits patiently
As dusk turns to dawn
The dreamer waits painfully
For she will come then she'll be gone
This rise is somewhat special
For his love he had made known
She admits the love is reciprocal
For him her love had also grown
But the dreamer will soon come to realise
Out of reach his sun he can never kiss
Her bountiful love will be the ultimate prize
The prize he can never claim to be fully his
*"Silly little dreamer feeding your childish dreams"
"Silly little dreamer what fanciful notions you make"
"Silly little dreamer you'll be ripped at the seams"
"Silly little dreamer not every heart you just can take"*
He pays no heed to what the others say
He knows his chances run exceedingly slim
He's walking on tightrope that's doomed to fray
But what happens today is what really matters to him
I am that silly little dreamer
Whose feet is never on the ground
I have chosen to live part of my life in wonder
For it is you that I have found
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
somehow sweet in his want of no trouble, the unwashed man takes the door from your father and there they go hand in hand to the backyard where they wrestle as if hurts were people keeping them apart. your father’s jaw comes loose, the man’s ear seems held by too small a magnet. at window you a sickly child with overbite and a scarecrow’s pipe stroke the puppet corn hair of a sister’s doll and walk it cloud to defrosted cloud. amidst this bartering of vanished weight your mother is being made to balance on her bare stomach a glass of lemonade.
in three days the man will come back; your father a bit healed, your mother less angry about straws.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
1.
Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze,
an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance
Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch
fingers float toward parted lips
awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves.
2.
One tentative epidermis approaches another
tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact
attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning,
cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs
who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation.
3.
White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined
laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes
bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust
on their way to blood borne obligations,
leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh
4.
Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops
peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers
bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets
haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets
rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
A conversation over a cup of coffee
(Sainsbury’s low quality)
The kettle burbles in the background
Bartering bubbles for blatant babbling
The granules flop, shake if they stop
Right from the top, into brown slop.
Stir with a spoon,
Stare into the eye of the storm:
Vanilla swirls, auburn curls,
Minding their manners, glances from girls.
Hazelnut eyes, thinking they’re wise.
Smile contradicting the, frankly, **** skies.
Pupils dilate,
Chalk dusted slate,
Tea leaves are telling me this must be fate
Dumb conversation,
Mind saying more,
Something unsaid seems to open a door
I’d rather its shut, its dangerous but
Sugar, im just an emotional ****
I’ll let you in, this time you win
‘Another coffee?’
You ask, with a grin.
Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 9:06 AM UTC
War of the worlds,
men bartering money
Dollar bills left abandoned,
blown to smithereens
Battling dusts of torment,
acceptance of surrender
Waging a money war,
business men flee
In the shadows rises,
a fallen angel
Akin to a phoenix,
from the ashes
She symbolizes a renewal,
dying in fires
Sparks burning a nest,
immortality supplying coffins
Diabolical legacies of past,
bow & arrow
Punctured wounding broken heart,
wings disallow flight
Stumbling a splintered hip,
reborn a chance
Of independent determined autonomy,
la Cuesta Encantada
Fallen at the gates,
an enchanted hill
San Simeon seeking redemption,
death awaits her
Carrying body & soul,
Santa María Maggiore
Of Roman baroque temples,
small cascading pools
Death releases her body,
the Neptune pool
She floats without dissension,
sinking in grace
In all her glory,
Hearst Castle will
Entomb body & soul,
memories of her
release release release
Absolution.
© Sia Jane
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
The old man mumbles in a dying voice
had my sons been alive.
A tear wells in the daughter's eyes.
She pours a spoon of water in his mouth
and wipes his lips and her eyes.
Having lit the pyre of his three sons
he was willing to barter his daughter's life
if that made God grant him another son
and here is the daughter by his bedside
feeding, cleaning and even shaving him
her only prayer to God being to save his life
bartering her entire means.
Outside the thunder cracks the sky
and she spreads a tarpaulin over the bed.
my son laments the father.
Inside her is no cover for rain.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
A lot of people in life will say
You owe them everything
You have because they helped
You get to where
You are.
Those are the kind of people
that have never been put in check.
So always make it clear,
Never get it twisted:
Help should always be charitable.
Help comes from the heart
of a humanitarian
and not that of a businessman.
Help is Help,
not a bartering tool.
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
through graceless steps and cleavaged twirls,
girls shared repost with other girls,
and the upper lips of the ladies curled,
as the married men all swooned.
they got bored all too readily,
so drunk their liquid steadily,
synthetically coloured blue and green,
she'd seen the latest advert.
and the boys in their polo shirts,
drunk and high on testosterone,
they took pictures on their camera phones,
and called each other gay.
the male claws began to itch,
for the feeling of **** and the feeling of ****
and the dancefloor was badly lit,
so they knew they had a chance.
sweaty hands and fluorescent teeth,
moved through crowds to find their niche,
and the necessity for niceties,
was shortly overruled.
uninvited gropes from behind,
on bellies of those who looked like they might,
be easily persuaded to bed that night,
without heavy rhetoric.
then came the bartering stage,
those awkward five minutes in which to arrange,
the consummating details, the exchanging of names,
the reality of night.
there were many things to factor in,
tales of lost friends still waiting,
I said we'd share a taxi home,
and she can't walk alone.
and after the barter is all complete,
the scorned pick fights in the street,
the end draws near finally,
so the masses all go home.
some walked home solemnly,
whilst others share the company,
of people they'd knew they'd never see,
after the night is through.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
Acceptance persuades the release of a wavering spirit's decision
Deeply invading the majestic powers employed
With a false caress in a soft hush of a trusting notice
Swiftly crumbling into a distinctive void
Manipulation clearly receives delight in the pleasure
Provided freely as a marvelous ploy
To confine the wavering spirit in a restraining desert
By the distinctive void containing no joy
Alone and isolated in a twist of silent acceptance
Fate begins bartering with a radiant light
To command a truce without any persuading acceptance
To try and avoid the coldest of desert nights
A triumph disguised as failure has persuaded the release
Of the wavering spirit trapped in the void
No truce is accepted, still the radiant light has brought
The wavering spirit such incredible joy
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 8:26 PM UTC
Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore.
Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway.
The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since "there a big enough hassle on their own".
The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab.
The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner. It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about.
Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play.
Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them.
The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here.
To be continued
Yep, much more to com
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
.
night streets and scars of light
scarves of light
moving subtle bustles of shadowed light
carvings of royal light robes of velvet light
make out expressionist doorways
strobes of light fink and fit in protest
coding behind enemy lines
captured light fires colourful snakes about
in flaring curved science tubes
flagging the bartering night flogging the
urban night
we've made apparition in honour of daylight
and out of the theatre fear
of our own bogged nature
synthetic ghosts of light
charge away ghosts
electronic noises scare away
the horrifying lull of the dead
(a dead we don't believe in)
twenty four seven behaviour
to busy away the very spirits we have hungered
and to plot against
all that unnecessary sleep business
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
Nobody no longer contains the desire for unrefinity
The urge to tap into the void smacks of divinity
What exists in its place in the flesh market place
Are bartering skill sets and chocoalte puddings
When confronted by an invisible elephant
The people, in consensus, turn away
This happens within the day to day
The elephants march on, heedless vessels
Turbans floating downstreat, mainstream.
****** babble replaces conversation
Emblamatic gestures infiltrate the realm of the symbolic
The priests have all taken off their underwear
And the women are putting their brasiers
Back onto their chests, underneath their shirts
Blouses are burnt.
Toast is burnt.
Jams are being made by machines, horses do have dreams
Jelly and ice cream make delicate farts
Ghosts live in pipes and buy and sell art
People whose names are Horace or Rupert
Have been decommisioned
And the stories are locked in pie dishes
And the tale remains the same.
Remember, that future archeologists will exist.
Excavating sites will bring us all
To the kingdom of devon
In the beautiful future of documented tales
Which we are building for
Inside the spaceships.
When ponies are invalid and germs become common currency
Know that it will be time to fly your pillow cases as flags
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
My father always
taught me to
pick my battles,
physical
or otherwise.
To choose
very wisely
what exactly was,
and was not,
worth fighting for.
Years later
I still struggle.
My eyes are black
and swollen
while my father
sits back, laughing
in his sales pitches and
stock options,
bartering cubicles for
candy bars.
"Keep it up, son"
he says,
"keep it up.
You’ll
win one,
eventually.
Keep blowing chances
and closing doors,
don't worry,
you'll grow up
eventually."
Yet I’m still here.
Street cornered with
broken bones
and gutted pride,
late nights spent
throwing fists at
passing shadows.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
A newborn father
wears a path to heaven
in polished holy marble
'neath the pedestal
of stoney saints.
Deific overseers
cast artificial glory
incandescently.
A slice of dimly lit
hospital heaven
is framed with two candles
and the incense of Betadine.
Saint John's shadow
shares confessions
and supplications
over a once-immortal man
now unashamedly broken,
bartering trade with God -
his life for his son's.
This shoebox chapel
is starking cold.
Cold enough to preserve meat,
and doubts
which mock peace
against nun-hardened walls
echoing Satan's laugh.
Hope drowns in the ripples
of a basin filled with water
to wash our sins
but not our fear.
In the air hangs
the promise of eternity
(which is spiritual code for "death", but no one says "death" outloud. The more they don't say it, the more it sounds like "WE AREN'T GOING TO SAY "DEATH", WE CAN'T POSSIBLY SAY "DEATH", UNTIL IT IS SO UNCOMFORTABLE THAT WE MIGHT AS WELL BE SAYING "DEATH, DEAD, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DEATH AND TO TOP IT OFF...ON YOUR MOTHER'S GRAVE").
Yet piercing through
the promise of eternity
is the frail wail
of his baby's voice.
Legacy lingers in a
plastic manger down the hall.
Resurrection is more
than a prayer, it is his spirit
rising for one more miracle.
Faith is summoned
like a woozy fighter
demanding his will
to go on,
beaten,
half-concious
on the mat
refusing to lay down
for the count.
"God, I believe.
Help my unbelief."
The weeping man
stares into a statue's eyes
for salvation.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
if the curves of my stomach offend
you
i suggest you get the
**** off
of
me
but when this rage comes you speak
so
sof
t
ly
and wonder why i look at you
like you burned
me but
you don't understand how predecessors of your gender have treated me.
kind words have never been spoken to me
soberly or
without weight behind them
like bartering in a dark corner bed while everyone else sleeps
where i stop being a woman, an entity, and become an unfeeling orifice whose name has suddenly become
baby
because a few kinds words were mumbled against the shell
of my ear
you don't understand
how hands have grabbed me in the dark
and how my own hands have grabbed
only out of desperation
to feel something
you don't understand how hard it is for you to touch me and
for me not to feel lightening hot repulsion
as i lay drunk, ready to sleep.
you don't understand how when people touch my hair
all i can feel are hands curling against my scalp
and the way cold-shaking hands curled around my dress
and the way fear has been etched into the lines of my brain like a map of the city i know so well
like that alley i can't walk down alone at night
or that part of lexington where men shout at me hungrily
or the way stranger's hands sometimes 'slip'
you will never understand the weight of my insecurity because no amount of sweetness you can pour onto me can replace the venom fed to me by the men before you
no matter how 'enough' i may be with you
you will never understand how 'enough' isn't tangible
how beautiful doesn't really feel like a compliment
and how much
i doubt you actually love me
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
It is not
The sweet, far thing
But that wretched, near
Temptation.
That in shame
Follows my heart
To the safety
Of my soul's chamber.
Temptation
That undresses
My guilty conscious
And makes love
To my dreams.
Temptation
With blue eyes
And the voice of a gypsy,
Speaking only
In lullabies.
Temptation
Bartering my love
For those limpid pools of ocean,
Upon which I sail
When drifting to sleep.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
people always talk too much
and I try to sleep anyway
but silence is hard to come by
and you must silence
everything
with a knife.
(purebred aggressiveness
is preferable to casual ******
even when solace arrives
in the morning,
as punctual as the mail,
your bloodstained hands
have still come away empty
and you still want to be held.
(too bad you don't let nobody
touch you, too bad they get the idea
after the riposte to the heart)
Of course they have survived it;
we lived in a civilized day and age,
after all,but they will still
steal furtive glances at you,
like they're waiting for something to
drain away the remaining time
until you next explode.
it's a fair price to pay
for the skill to breathe words
like mere ambient gases,
for free thought
and a good pen.
at least , I fell for it.
I was never good at bartering,
and what more could I ask
than to wield words?
and so the cycle continues!
life,death,ashes to egg,egg to
firebird,
firebird to ashes.
people will continue to
misjudge where they've stabbed you
and you will continue to
obediently burn all letters
and end up
listening
to Thom Yorke sing about
cheap *** and sad films.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
Halloween was always one of my
Favorite nights of the year,
Although the waiting was torturous
As the date drew near.
What to wear? was always the question.
Not rich enough to be trendy,
We put together makeshift costumes,
And Dad would always pretend he
Didn't have enough money
To spend on fancy treats.
"Besides," he said, "my theory
Is basically sweets are sweets."
We didn't have Darth Vader back then;
Kids were pirates and cats,
Skeletons, hobos, cowboys and Indians,
Devils, witches, and bats.
Mummies, scarecrows, fairies, clowns--
Whatever we could devise.
Many kids were simply ghosts
In sheets with holes for eyes.
Ah, the treats: chocolate coins,
Cookies, Milky Ways,
Popcorn ***** candy corn,
Necco Wafers for days,
Abba-Zabas, Tootsie Rolls,
Bubble gum cigars,
Licorice, Candy cigarettes,
And Snickers candy bars.
We got Double Bubble in packs,
Taffy, Cup-O-Gold,
Milk Duds, Jujifruits--
A mountain of treats all told.
The experts had TWO costumes
And made the rounds twice,
As if one giant bag of candy
Was never going to suffice.
Back at home we'd pour out our candy,
And then the bartering started.
Since I had two older brothers,
I was usually outsmarted.
Mom and Dad let us monitor
Our own candy stash,
And we survived the candy feast
Without a sugar crash.
Until I was fourteen years of age,
I'd never had a cavity,
Despite living in Candyland
In utter sugar depravity.
But I can still eat candy now
And not go trick-or-treating,
Though, granted, there are more nutritious
Foods that I should be eating.
- by Bob B
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
The stars blinked out one by one,
and for a second, I thought I had won.
You always said I needed too much,
that the world owed me nothing.
But I wanted the debt anyway—
wanted it piled high enough
to scrape the edge of the moon.
I wanted the universe to notice
how I stayed up nights,
bartering my breath for forgiveness
and my spine for love.
I thought the quiet was mine to keep.
I thought I had tamed it—
a wild joy, caged
in the ruins of what we built.
I bartered with silence,
traded my dreams for detours,
hoping to bend the night into something
I could swallow whole—
but it swallowed me first.
The dark wasn’t empty.
It was you—sharp as every breath
I tried to hold, under a sky
too proud to care if I fell beneath it.
And the stars?
They just didn’t want to watch anymore.
Jan 7, 2025
Jan 7, 2025 at 9:50 AM UTC
Yesterday I fell asleep in class
There was a soft humming
Coming from the heater
A girl was chewing gum
And the professor kept talking
And clicking on the PowerPoint
I dreamt of Greenland
How funny was it
That the Vikings fibbed
But if they were here today
It wouldn't matter
I dreamt of my feet
Walking on rusted earth
Warm and arid
Comforting and challenging
Leaving silt on my soles
As the sun beat down
Bleaching my hair
I dreamt of bazaars and crowds within them
Bartering, staring, leaning
Turmeric coloring hands
Cinnamon choking the streets
Fathers teaching their sons
How to run the business
I dreamt of cold fogs
In San Francisco
Sticking under my eyes
And under my clothes
Towering green
On top of steep cliffs
Still yet ready to evolve
Reminders of my hometown
Of loud sirens and higher ground
Prayers for the parking break
I dreamt of snowfall in the city
In the dank steam rising
From the manholes and the sewers
The palms all frozen and weeping
The sea softly still
The beach deserted
The crowds piled into cafes
Rubbing their hands
Fiddling with Chapstick
I dreamt of the broken White House fences
Of small eyes turned downward
Of everyone screaming
Of my conscience ringing
A bell
It was too late for us from the beginning
I awoke
The professor kept clicking
The girl had spit out her gum
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC