"blanch" poems
The Man of Yellow Teeth
Those yellow teeth have always been with you, he asked?
I tried to Blanch them, but nothing said.
Still and all his heart and his emotions were more.
And when they met, the earth also turned to find them.
Somewhere in his memory, that distant question:
What may I do with those dreams that you brought into my life?
Maybe continue with you, and maybe you should find your own answers, he said.
It is best to think, I come from the other side of your door, perhaps a new opportunity, to live your life from another evening and their stars.
Everything seems to indicate that he never caresses his hair.
Of course, he would like to keep that detail in his memory and evoke it.
Like Proust, when dipped in his cup of tea the cupcake, and the indelible memory emerged from him.
Yes, the hours of the winter were insufficient.
Texts traveled from side to side of the city, although it was snowing.
Any excuse was used to see each other. Every morning, afternoon or night, as a whole existed for them.
And at dawn, when nearly frozen returning home, his wife read those messages while he was sleeping, and thought it came from a girlfriend.
Everything seems to indicate that it was, what something else may think? Never in her mind the idea that his husband was loved by a man.
Every minute that passed, each one lived and dreamed, the planet inhabited by two.
But as the day passes, it also drains the time, and is incessant understanding that it was the man with yellow teeth, who gave him the courage to open the doors of his life to the unstoppable force of love.
His wife and himself never wanted that it had happened and the man of yellow teeth either.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
Some days I think I could love you
If the grass was green enough
If I didn't associate your musk with the flannel
I search for at every goodwill
At every thrift store
Trying them on relentlessly
Button up, button down
As if each little plaid square could shrink my ******* smaller
Stretch my back vertically
Aesthetically speaking.
Some days I think I could love you
If was smaller and wiser
If I could believe in nothing
Rather than the absence of something
Every time I close my eyes and pray once more
Beneath the shadow of the hospital-tainted shower curtain.
Some days I think I could love you
If I remember the piercing blanch
Of whiskey burning in the back of my throat
If I recall the tears in your eyes on a mid-May afternoon
Standing closely in a gravel parking lot
Telling me "See ya later" instead of goodbye
Kissing my forehead, nose, and eyes.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me it didn't matter how prominent my collar bones are
Or that it didn't take the catalyst of pickling my insides
******* a lonely man while you were away
To make you want for me.
Some days I think I could love you
When you trace the lines of my waist
Asking me not to lose any more weight
When you tell me I'm beautiful
That you envy my heaven
When you ask to see me simply to hear my thoughts.
Some days I think I could love you
If you told me you loved me
If that alone didn't set you apart from the rest
Aligning yourself a whole in one with the others
Only greater.
Some days I think I could love you
If I couldn't recall the misshapen line
Between a large vocabulary and eloquencey
Between a man and a frightened boy
Between an eating disorder and self-motivation.
Some days, I think I might love you
If I could silence my mind of all the fragrances of adultery
If I could leap elegantly past the fear of such a concept
Without wondering how I appear to you compared to the rest.
Some days I think I could love you
If I could forget that you can't
If I could remember how to open my own hatch
Without fear, as the key
If I could remember to love myself.
Some days, I think I could love you
Some days, I believe it.
Some days, I don't.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
I
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
II
There is intent when the addict mutters --
Estranged in his unhappy gutters --
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
There is derision in the dealer's call --
Osmium-heat in an unimpeded fall --
"You can't change who you are."
Greed could tear down a star
To sculpt into a Cardiff shell.
Warrant breeds within a child's yell.
III
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
396
There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain—
’Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul
Has suffered all it can—
A Drowsiness—diffuses—
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness—
As Mists—obliterate a Crag.
The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain
His Habit—is severe—
But tell him that it ceased to feel—
The Creature lying there—
And he will tell you—skill is late—
A Mightier than He—
Has ministered before Him—
There’s no Vitality.
2.8k
These lovers’ inklings which our loves enmesh,
Lost to the cunning and dimensional eye,
Though tenemented in the selves we see,
Not more perforce than azure to the sky,
Were necromancy-juggled to the flesh,
And startled from no daylight you or me.
For trance and silvermess those moons commend,
Which blanch the warm life silver-pale; or look
What ghostly portent mist distorts from slight
Clay shapes; the willows that the waters took
Liquid and brightened in the waters bend,
And we, in love’s reflex, seemed loved of right.
Then no more think to net forthwith love’s thing,
But cast for it by spirit sleight-of-hand;
Then only in the slant glass contemplate,
Where lineament outstripping line is scanned,
Then on the perplexed text leave pondering,
Love’s proverb is set down transliterate.
2.6k
I
I am in Cardiff,
Where waves pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff,
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am nowhere
II
Where the sun severs the street and
Slowly, methodically,
They come, they come.
Electrifyingly stupefied in the dawn,
Tenantry not bound to cause and
Helpless as marred lead in the wind,
Stuck to strata and
Battered under **** pale-green
Thinned on spread fingers.
III
There is intent when the addict mutters ---
Alienated in his nettled gutters ---
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
IV
And I am in Cardiff,
Where waves pummel the jetty
And I am in Cardiff,
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
And I am nowhere
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
326
I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider *****
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It’s full as Opera—
2.2k
Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Look, how they come,--a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on!
As idly might I weep, at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles;
And let the cheerful future go,
With all her promises and smiles?
The future!--cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart.
Thou sweetener of the present hour!
We cannot--no--we will not part.
Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day;
The months that touch, with added grace,
This little prattler at my knee,
In whose arch eye and speaking face
New meaning every hour I see;
The years, that o'er each sister land
Shall lift the country of my birth,
And nurse her strength, till she shall stand
The pride and pattern of the earth:
Till younger commonwealths, for aid,
Shall cling about her ample robe,
And from her frown shall shrink afraid
The crowned oppressors of the globe.
True--time will seam and blanch my brow--
Well--I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grizzly beard becomes me then.
And then should no dishonour lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time--'tis kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast:
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes,
And as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
2.2k
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
A cold wall of dis-associative amnesia
Low crawling across the bay
A transient sea ischemia
That spills across the quay
A tide of ghostly blanch
Enveloping all in its way
Like a timid avalanche
On a fugue state winter's day
r 18Jan14
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
I have had ideas, many times;
I have had anger at all the world
And its plates and cups and knives and forks
And pots and pans.
I have used coffee scrub, up
To my elbows
And sugar scrub on my face.
I have stood over rose beds
With my legs far apart
And bled colour to the world below,
Trailing my hell along behind me.
I have had bitter blandness
Blanch the back
Of my throat and the roof of my mouth
Until all that was left was bleach.
I have held glass bottles to the sky
Waiting for thunderstorms.
I have whispered my love to the palm of your hand,
Then watched it drain out through the cracks into sand.
But still I will eat
All my meals out of teacups/
I will let my blemished body be/
I will smell every flower
Growing along the side of a drain/
I will gargle before bed
With pinecone and cherry grain/
I will watch
Outside my window for hail/
I will whisper other things to you
Until the end
Of time
Or tomorrow --
Whichever comes first
-- and hope that inspiration strikes.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
The Witches stir a cauldron
Encased in rust and mold
In it is burning fire
And many screaming Souls
They do not see the witches
They do not smell the stench
They only fight each other
With words that make me blanch
There are higher powers
Who constantly make war
They love the low emotions
And Thrive when there are more
The Witches stir The Cauldron
And laugh when they do see
Their victims fight each other
As they do continually.
And they may keep on fighting
*Into ETERNITY.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/6/2016
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
1.
Diaphanous dragons disgorge a deluge of diamonds
into the shadowed crevices of cumulus clouds.
Ruby-red sapphires overpopulate the glistening sky
like carbon-hardened locust: gorgeous messengers of the gods.
The Earth wears a crimson helmet, shielded from
the odious absence of ozone above the North and South poles.
Near Minneapolis, John Berryman's wizened body shatters
on the frozen riverbed below the Washington Avenue Bridge.
Angels weep to see him jump, as he waves a vaudevillian goodbye.
The sapphires blanch, then turn an angry, violent violet. Black holes ahead.
2.
Shakespeare and Mr. Bones **** on mortality's skimpy
skeleton of life. Will this broken body be resurrected?
Does it deserve such distinction? Better yet, does its daring,
drunken destroyer? Four hundred Dream Songs nod yes.
Berryman toddled ticklishly toward the last traces of transcendence.
Love & Fame broadcast how terribly his faith failed to trade
daily delirium tremens for the mysterium tremendum.
The God he prayed to demanded a syntax pure, plain.and perfect.
With jolts of jest, He jimmied paradoxes into koans. Berryman
howls for the sound of one diamond scratching the outline of his body on ice.
3.
He left a legacy broader than liquor, lechery and the love-struck ladies.
Lust seeded his fallow lacunae and lazily broke his wife's heart.
Scholarship scooted him to the squeamish, secluded top
of his Shakespearean class: Signal student turns trusted teacher.
Poetry cloned the Oklahoma clown in him. No successors,
no schools, no savvy peers, save Lowell. his fellow manic-depressive.
He dreamed songs of hilarity, humility, history, dehumanization.
Poetry proved serious business until it learned to laugh at itself.
Sapphires crackle under the weight of the creaking sun. They spin a kaleidoscopic rainbow of colors onto Berryman's obituary. Somehow, he has won:
An irreplaceable jewel of the sky.
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC
The
Drowsy dews
Engraves your name
Boldly amid the thorns of chilled~roses
■
So
Twerk nobly
And roll the blue pigeons
In me for trophies
■
But then
Let's marry together our lips
But to share,a sweet reverend kiss
And tune these red~roses blanch
■
Feel
The stars move
Roundabout my head
And together let's hold the rainbow
Splendour by sight
■
Toll
My hands
For every tender touch
But then,fathom deeply all the blush in me
■
Wrangle
Vanilla your arms around my neck
And rouse me to fear
But jocund,when I look into your eyes
Yet,impregnate me with your celestial desires
■
Civility!
You
Make me wonder
How you solemn calm my sighs
Of which haste in pants
■
Indeed
You are a sober tigeress
Misspoke of your elegant prowl
■
But now
Turn off the lights
And loft me the ranks
Of melting naked incense
And let's depart with a serene~peace
Beginners
©Historian E.Lexano
historianelexano.wordpress.com
Please kindly share
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
Boardwalk beach goers
Strolled in ball caps
And in wide-brimmed hats
And in flip flops
And in cover-ups casually tied over low-slung bikinis
Lining the railing of the weathered pier
Eyes half closed, hands folded, heads atilt
Shoulders squared to a fading sun
A familiar form among the silhouettes
Twenty years hence
A cascade of raven hair
A billowing summer dress
My single breath
Then across rutted planks
To finally slake the thirst for another and
Be free of the malfeased heart
The lilt of perfume
Light, breathless, familiar
Transported back through time
To burn white hot again
Only to blanch at the precipice
Before the gray water
Silent
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
Im serving lifes with this pen/
Convicted for Killing time
Im
Eternally trapped within/
For my sins
Solitarily confined
In these lines
where do I begin/
Can you read between them
It never ends/
The margin is marginal/
Carte blanch
Ive over stepped my boundaries
Broke the rule cardinal/
Now Im in an invisible/
cell feeling miserable/
My time shouldve been
More productive
This is NA Not Applicable/
23 hours in the whole
Lost ours in part
Another 60 gone/
Thought is food
scarf down words/
Appetite absurd clearly just observe/
work the mind
Stay fit/
only way to survive inside
Mental aerobics Various signs/
Shape it
chin up chin down equals a syllable/
My own worst enemy
My dictions despicable/
Train everyday to enhance
Considerable/
For I know never leaving
These sentences for life/
Are habitual/
Even before I got booked
They extradited my freedom/
The right to write
When I tried to free lance
I was just free writing/
They cuffed my free hands
Life sentence to this pen
Now they want my annihilation
Too many things gone missing punctuations
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
...WHO GOES THERE...fires back
flesh and bone.
The vacuum of self-hood in
abhorrence...I was, and wasn't the preemptive
strike of an inmost/out-most take that could...
but should not have.
Yet...this nagging cart blanch informs everything
issued.
Absolutely flawlessly.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Flakes slide on the window
as frost crawls under the pane;
in the gloom he sags in today’s suit.
Always pressed and draped, tie laid over
the back of a chair, yesterday’s was
and tomorrow’s will be.
He uses his fingers and drags out his face.
In the bed where he finds it hard to breathe
she lies asleep. He watches her, suit presser,
tries to rewind her then grips his shoulders
and fastens his elbows. Her wicker cabinet,
it’s pink top ringed by tea, is a cityscape
of tubs and bottles; plastic skyscrapers push together.
In the dark her skin smears like buttered chicken.
Each morning he scrubs his hands
to remove the grease, belly dented, soft against the sink.
His jaw works to swallow the blood and grit he tastes.
A clearing in the clutter sees a photo of their wedding day.
The landing light cuts flashes of silver into the glass
and he shrinks there, cuffs fall below hands,
trousers gape without a belt.
She’s wearing age like gold he thought would suit him,
but he hears the whispers before the speeches;
slit eyed guests, slack mouths behind order of service cards.
Burning through the picture, blanch knuckles
and crescents in his palms, the reflection shatters him.
Rigid, he should kneel and kiss the face
that folded too quickly, but his cheeks shine
and disgust drips into his collar. Slipping away,
with tomorrow's suit over his arm,
he filters himself through the gap in the door.
She doesn't move, though her eyelids shine.
Later today he will drink with friends
and tell them it was mutual.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
I guess the leaves are on the lawn now,
like Fall always comes and thank God for October
but too many grandparents have died this month, and
on the first day, the rain keeps
coming.
And I have been
obliterated by simple things,
like October or
the coming and going of people.
I have been
shocked silent into this room,
I am still never
sure of what left there is to say;
there are too many people that I have left with semicolons
and no following independent clauses
or independent thought.
Shake me the most awake,
or I will blanch and putter and
scream in the morning.
How nightmares upon nightmares
upon daymares
have thrown me for something—
a loop maybe? A figure-eight?
———
I have always
wondered why we collect shells on the beach.
(I know I do it too, but)
they once held life
and I am wondering why we celebrate
the shell of things.
———
I am not sure how to end this,
but in the ever so common way of ending
without really an ending at all.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Oh, how perfect it is to want you,
how perfect it is to long for that which I know
I can never have, to see
the futility in my desires and to
desire them in spite of,
how perfect it is that you do not love me
anymore,
that we will not fall into mutual complacency
which would inevitably tarnish and blanch,
that the
unknown
will remain
unknowable,
that anything will continue to be possible
because nothing has been tested against fate,
how perfect it is to wish for the infeasible,
to strive toward a goal I will
never attain, to
never lack
something to search for,
oh, how perfect it is to want you;
how perfect it is to want too much.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC