"bedded" poems
In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.
Up now. Rise. Up periscope!
Dive. Dive!
Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.
Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Without grounded words,
Senses have so much to say,
. . . Tongues, fingers flying.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Only the open sky
Could take my wings
Mold them into essences of purity
I was forged within
Rapid rivers of forsaken modesty
Left alone and sore below
Because my insecurities undressed me
And bedded me savagely
Before the watchful eye of the moon
The minds glowing aphrodisiac
As feathered hate falls from blackened flight
A finger is raised in denial of sunlight
A symbol of woebegone sensuality
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
5.2k
Drip drop the whiskey drops,
shattered glass,
broken heart,
consciousness lost,
but faith not,
I see myself lying on the cold bedded rock..
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Puddles in meadow . . .
Speckled wings of butterfly,
. . . Mirror wild flowers.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 4:07 AM UTC
He was lonely, as was his heart, carver
Of wood, he searched upon forest &
Glade till before his eyes laid sight of a masterpiece,
Home he hurried
Carving,
Smoothing,
Varnishing
Not noticing or ignoring the black knot
But unbeknown, this was a deeper
Problem. Rotten, decayed black festered
Within not showing on the outside,
But things are missed in joy,
Things that will haunt, but he was finished
His boy of wood stood before
His so tearful eyes, your only wood
Only inanimate, sitting before my weeping eyes.
Heard where his whispers
Upon a night were they asked back,
"You are of sound heart"
"You are of compassion"
"You will have a son of wood with life in his heart"
As he looked upward,
A sight befell his reddened eyes
"FATHER"
Words fell forth unto his ears,
"Did you just speak??
"Father"
He hugged upon wood given life,
"Son"
"Son"
"A boy of my own given life"
"I love you son"
"I love you father"
His nose grew,
leaves sprouted forth,
"Aaghhhhh"
As Pinocchio snapped what grew forth,
And throw it upon the floor,
In pain he reeled,
"Son be calm"
For lies will be greeted by growth
Shall a lie be told, only good boys
And girls realise that honesty will be rewarded.
With that he cuddled his father, you know
Not love but I will show you unconditionally
Till you understand honesty also love,
Upon those words both bedded
For the night was late and father was old,
But he never slept, upon the floor
Part of him that broke off,
Now tainted black,
As it had succumb to its chosen fate,
As he fashioned upon tools
A living weapon,
"Blackest as night"
He felt connected
They were apart but one.
Into the bedroom he crept,
"Father"
"Father"
"Awaken"
Startled old eyes widen, I have a gift,
As he plunges it forth,
Son whhhhy I loveeee youuu
"I am but wooden given life"
"Blackness rots inside"
"It must feed"
For without it I will cease,
When I was just cold
It was my end no difference to any one.
And now given life
That is all that matters this night,
And with that he ****** into his
"Fathers heart"
He felt relief inside no more ties
But he cried splintered tears upon his
Blood they mixed upon the floor
He had extinguished his first life.
He needed to stem the flow as
He felt the veins rooting further
Life was his not easily given up,
The town fell silent that night,
As he fed well, he charred his
Finger tips black upon once so tanned,
So to feed with both knife and hand.
He would travel the world, death in his wake
All thought
"How unique"
"How harmless"
"How sweet"
But when the hunger craved,
Life was bled, life was ceased
All for the rot to not **** this wooden boy
"Rotten core in a boys shell"
Prey his nose does not grow just a little
Because your time in life will be up.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Chrissie dried after her bath,
towelled under arms and legs,
a radio played from the other room,
cello sonatas, Bach,
Delia listened,
played a pretend cello
drawing an invisible bow
across invisible strings,
she'd played this that time
to that music teacher at college
before having her(sexually)
in her student bed,
Chrissie dried between thighs,
eyed her mirrored self,
plumpish, pink of skin,
love bites where Delia
had ****** and ******
Delia drew the bow slower
as the music slowed,
head to one side,
invisible cello
between opened thighs,
smiled, the woman
her father hired
to care for her
at term breaks
from boarding school,
Delia has seduced
and bedded in the first
Easter term,
Chrissie dried
between toes and feet,
towelled a final area
of skin, stood,
washed out the bath,
the Bach flowed on,
cello sounds,
recalling Delia moving
over her body like a snake,
tonguing over and over,
Delia closed her eyes,
the cello stilled,
invisible bow
blown away
like leaves in wind,
she lay back
and waited for Chrissie
to return, bathed,
dried wanting her
*** to heat
and burn.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood’s cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
3.3k
Bedded soul in the soil
Casket cassette spins
Tears in Heaven
Ripples into waves
I turn my head in the bed I lay
Now I become Death in his name
While Eric Clapton plays
I light travel dark vivaciously
Garnering the souls in the soil
Feb 8, 2022
Feb 8, 2022 at 10:04 PM UTC
The machinesed drones droning ozones
made of homogenised genes by replicants
from clinical doctrines and empirical indulgences
Soulless and efficient, bred for duties destructives
Capitalist fodder, programmed ready for earth's ****
Regulate as required, inputted subs with pigs hearts
Made followers with voracious appetite for blood
mechanised barbarians on leash with one track mix
Human shire horses in designer shods and faulty gauges
Manufactured manufacturers limited and corollated
Factories, dormitories partnered with like, watered
and bedded till tomorrow, audiod to the Sterling whip
Given ample ales, keep blinded and chained
Distract and cater to baser instincts, *** *** ***
Free 'love' free *** valueless values, what values
Enjoy kids must return to work desk seven on the dot
Time is money, clogs and production
waits for no man, do or your pleasures denied
Money, money money, honey for bees, honey for drones
Soulless, dehumanised, pale, aged at thirty, heart attacks next
Vacuous ghost programmed dunces
Malfunctioning entities devoid of humanity
Superficial plasticated robots, destruction default
Industrial pieces with industrial minds
Chemicalized drunks with wired brains
They roam around screaming freedom and power!
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
Delia
once seduced
the house maid
in half term
home from school
some posh place
where she had
with success
oft bedded
the new young
maths teacher
whose glasses
thin wired
she took off
before ***
in her room
for extra
tuition
(her father
from his fat
wallet paid
for extra
maths not ***
then after
leaving school
and the young
maths teacher
(sad female)
and having
bedded her
young cousin's
French nanny
she went to
some college
to study
the cello
and music
she had ***
the first day
with the thin
trumpeter
on the floor
above her
a girl with
luscious lips
and dark eyes
who after
a good ****
could play like
Miles Davis
so cool that
Delia
would play her
cello ****
like lovers
embracing
she and her
instrument
then have ***
to the sound
of Coltrane's
saxophone
and the girls'
******
wanting more
sighs and moans.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
truck-bedded teens smoke leaves above the tree branch cathedral;
treefort,
& fumes from her lips. her lips/
crush me oh my.
climb down to the street.
snap into a slim jim.
smash into a television.
skateboard kids:
blackboy bent into dust and old motel.
whiteboy with fireworks spitting modern mallrat jazz.
girls of stuffed tiger and bottles shattered,
by blood
by beer
by now. she dreams
of the coast henceforth
& grips glass to imagine it like good futures.
/bong-hit.
/swallow the pizza.
into the arcade ******
like denim jackets and the mohawked-heads of foul foolish boys.
like little sister vanished into the music.
she presents her flesh before needled ink in the neon-rung afterlife.
she tongues flame.
she thumbs for fame and a highway to california.
she speaks in tongues to win enough tickets for the big panda bear.
her boyfriends punch faces in parking lots.
their generations gather at the apricot tree.
they pull at the seams of eachother’s tricky slips,
& watch hyenas tear through the trash
in the lawn across the street.
old factory:
old shrine of sky & night & bottles & bottlerockets
& her hair & us.
take the bus, or
walk the paths of backyards, home.
sneak thru the window,
cracked lip and shower.
to appear,
in a sunday dress.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
we blossomed once
in the desert
two green weeds
seeking rootless pleasure
now flower bedded
horticultured—yet wistfully I miss
the *****
of cactus lips
Aug 20, 2020
Aug 20, 2020 at 8:51 PM UTC
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sand, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.
There will the river whispering run,
Warmed by thy eyes more than the sun.
And there the enamoured fish will stay.
Begging themselves they may betray.
When wilt thou swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, beest loath,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both;
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset
With strangling snare, or windowy net.
Let course bold hand from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wandering eyes.
For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself are thine own bait;
That fish that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
1.8k
Inviting.
The thin blue flame in my night-burnt fire
grows dim as dawn unquiets
another day's numberless happenings,
culls light from dark and carries
life forward while I, in sated mood, watch
first ***** in sparrowed pools lost
on those still bedded and fastened to sleep,
hear Spring-born lambs' early bleat,
smell warming grass dewed with new morning
and catch first breeze stirring shored
boats as sand twirls grasses in shivering dunes.
Unlatched my window wafts lures
to ****** some moments of closer approach
as closeted dawn opens
eyes and secretes rising smoke on sun's thaw
inviting a barefoot cavort
to wild-life's awesome nature, all on my own.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
Your cheek rested on my chest light
pressing the silence bright for a moment
in your dark porch feelings had weight
but I was reluctant to detach to speculate
about where we were and what we held
too secure to need to share talk at all
like the black cat blending into the explored
our world still unbound by word patrolled walls
the street lamp flickered with temptation
asking elemental questions on decisions
reason on or off proving only a distraction
illuminating your attractions from a distance
above us a curtain stirred
up against an open window
lulled by slight rain cloud
blurring the moon to slow
cuddle in love with a dream
seen sweetly on half show
to only a lonely lane
and me in the light kiss
you gave with all that's pure
from a girly whirly place
full of pink hats and allure
making the darkness shake
when I saw the look in your eyes
sure with what I couldn't mistake
as yet told only in storybook ways
I almost dared to try and speak
but you felt the twinkle of stars too
shyness fluttering your lashes
and passion escaped and flew
skies beyond intensity to catch
respite in what little sleep it could
before getting bedded by an au revoir
which l foolishly leapt into turning round
pulling up a collar against the late hour
leaving you a wave to hide my two minds
I notice you pull your curtains together
cold sheets made bearable
when you phoned
to see I was safe
to hear your voice
saved me from strife
and though not face to face
we spoke of what in our lives
was finally in place
behind your curtain of love
my fingers slid down the natural gradient
stretching the fabric all the more sensitive
felt as a soft moan might pad on a sheet
intent on some scheme or hunt secretive
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
I used to play games
Where I'd walk on the ceiling
And pretend I was a fly
My hair would climb down
From where it rested on my spine
And walk the corridors of my childhood home.
I used to play games
Where my closet I'd be cleaning
As I watched my parents cry
As the skeletons came out
Slurring and shouting
And clawing at the heart
Of my oh-so-fragile mother.
I used to play games
Where I would die while sleeping
And on my single bedded coffin I would lie
A knock on the door followed by
"Are you okay?"
My parents made the most repetitive sounds.
"I'm fine," I'd whisper, clawing at my own grave.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
*** for me generally lives in one of two places, either the primal or the spiritual realm.
Primal *** is the *** I share with others because of our mutual, base level attraction, whether it’s in a smile, or a smell, a physical feature, or even something like a mannerism. You compel me, is what we’re saying, and our desire to learn each other is way way up there — though likely naked and on top of each other, wherever it may be.
Spiritual *** is the *** that happens where our entire lives cross and our minds collide and invite each other. What happens when our eyes tie together, dressed or bedded, sharing a look that says, “I know. Exactly.” What happens where words are few or many, and each one custom tailored, in willing wishes to reach specific ears clearly.
What happens under equalizing warm or cold wind in the snow or in the sand.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.
Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.
A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
*"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."*
A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:
"Recognize the perfume?"
The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.
Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.
*"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."*
Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.
I never heard from her again.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
you cornered me wicked, mid drift in the high
consumed. bluntly exposed.
you placed your thin fingers upon my lips. staggered. bent.
begged me not to breathe
I call onto you like the ocean in heat
like nature in its furious cause to prove that
man has no power over her, that he does not have her cure
in his superficial thoughts that wake in midnights rising
in between yen hungry rich peasants
you have no remote dignity
you have all your pride buried above your blistering smile
that burns openly to my naked eyes in the honest sun
I see everything that makes you up
I see your nose that bleeds
I see your feeble state
and that God forsaken disease
you moved the core of my woman with the taboo
in the thin yet powerful essence that danced between
our darkest places
so hidden from the light
you turned me exhausted with matrimony
driven you blinded basked in your polygamy
and you do still
even when our eyes do not see each other
even when your hands cook feasts in the morning
for that beautiful woman I met
because of you a part of me has become exile and remote to myself
because of you I have become a foreigner to my most permanent assets
I loose myself simply within the thought of my smile bedded
beside your humble surrounding
I find it hard to sleep at night
May 18, 2011
May 18, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room,
I play the father to a brace of boys,
Ailing but apt for every sort of noise,
Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom.
Roden, the Irishman, is 'sieven past,'
Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face.
Willie's but six, and seems to like the place,
A cheerful little collier to the last.
They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day;
All night they sleep like dormice. See them play
At Operations:- Roden, the Professor,
Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties;
Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes,
Holding the limb and moaning--Case and Dresser.
1.5k