"blobs" poems
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.
II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.
III
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.
IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.
V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.
The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.
5.6k
Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you
Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay
The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up
Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:
I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers
Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me
Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight
Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
wasted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC
Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.
I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.
Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.
Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.
Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.
Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.
Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.
Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.
Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.
So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.
Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
Welcome to the new age .
Where your new god is your T.V.
Like mindless blobs
You sit
Transformed
Mezmerize
Hypnotized
Fixed on the Misery of others
As its
Teaching our young to hate.
Kneel down
Give praise to your new god
The TV.
as the news spreads hate and fear.
It's all washed in lies.
Come people stand in line .
It's black Friday
As you punch and trample over
Your mother
For the low price
On your god the TV
Your kids are brain washed
Taught to hate
Hypnotized
And taught to live in fear.
Your God in an instant spreads lies to the masses.
As you sit Hypnotize
mesmerize
Listing to lies.
People turn off your god
get up off your sofa and go out side
There's a beautiful world out there
Full of amazement and wonder
Listin to the river flowing
The birds singing
Smell the roses
In the soft wind blowing
Listing to the Laughter of the kids playing.
Remember when this was you.
Laughing.
Turn off your TV
Go out side
Be amazed
It's a
Beautiful world just
Open your eyes
Love cost nothing
And hurts no one.
Turn off your
Tv.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
1
**My dad suddenly walks in,
as if nothing has happened,
and he hasn't gone anywhere, leaving
six of us behind, notwithstanding-
all these years of absence and
pain unimaginable that changed us all
to see life in a new light that gets dim
without the lamp he held in front of us.
A shadow transparent gets in to the room,
he stands near mom sitting inside her cocoon,
lost in an ancient evening, pensive, forlorn
as if she feels an absence, tangible right there.
Dad's absence stands silent, perhaps
curiously looking at her with loving eyes
that's how he was, after a period of absence.
The pantomime, tears my sense of reality
in to shreds, I sit upright,
with my hands pressed against my palpitating heart.
Do I see it really or hallucinate him looking,
wistfully at the coconut groves dancing
beyond the extending rice paddy billowing,
in front of our farm yard, sleepy these days,
for a moment I think time has
taken liberty to flow back
and everything is right there
where we'd love it to be.
2
The absence was a hollow,
in the middle of everything,
breaking the mirror of reality
in to smithereens, the dark space,
in between sprang-
opening its mouth to swallow,
wherever one turned,
it stood in front defiantly,
posing a challenge at times,
it came behind hollering noiselessly,
bringing unbearable memories,
from moments hard to forget
spent in his company,
in my palmy days of yore.
3
Absence was fire within,
that needs no fuel to burn,
flood waters without a source,
that can wash away,
till one becomes nothing;
then little by little,
one comes in to terms with the absence
and at last it too is laid to rest,
and that eats a part of the soul,
causing bleeding in slushy green,
transparent white and blobs of sad black.**
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
thoroughly babbling,
whatever,
etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools
The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.
"What's on your mind?"
Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.
Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,
Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.
Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.
Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.
But what is inadequacy?
Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?
Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?
Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...
This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.
This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.
My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.
My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.
I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.
Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end
Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.
And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”
And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain
Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.
But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.
These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,
Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...
Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.
So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?
Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
Two eyes appeared from under a broadrimmed hat.
They looked around with astonishment.
In a schoolroom, far off in the distance, a boy was
Busy making a wooden bowl.
The teacher unaccustomed to such slowness
Requested a completion date.
“I am not slow thought the boy, just working
Away until I get it right.”
He met the teacher’s gaze with an expression
Of opacity and a sense of bewilderment.
On another day, at a later date, this same boy
Was found in his metalwork class applying
Cylinders of gases to his small creation, quietly,
Hoping for a connection before he was blown
To smithereans. Two blue eyes concentrated as
The jets of flames hissed into space.
Too long the gases flowed.
The master rose, the boy shook and his eyes
Widened.
In a playground, sometime earlier,
A small boy could be seen playing without a coat.
Gossiping women spoke of this unnatural act,
This exception to the fold. The boy stared back
Hearing their words with his eyes.
Decades later when his hair had turned from
Brown to grey but his eyes were still blue
And wide apart, he painted a little ***
Sitting on a pale surface, gazing into nothingness.
This painting took him a long time.
He had to get it right, the tones , the lines,
The connections.
After he finished ‘Little *** he sat down
And stared into the two blue blobs set wide
Apart on its surface and he thought, “this is
Me, the boy, the man, the painter, of wide
Apart, unnameable moments.”
The Beginning.
Love Mary ***
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
Cases of old records sat
Waiting for someone to buy
Along with mismatched tea cups
And plates as blue as sky
Vultures jumped at everything
Leaving cars running in park
Picking through the yard sale scraps
Like a raccoon in the dark
Bickering for savings
Saying a quarter is too much
I'll only pay a nickel
To buy a broken crutch
Ice skates, ball gloves, baseball hats
tossed and thrown around the yard
To watch these jackals fighting
Over a half pound piece of lard
It's amazing that one's treasures
Are reduced to blobs of crap
By bargain hunters set to pay
For unused Christmas wrap
They jostle and they tussle
To get close for a deal
They try to bundle things together
To them....it is a steal
You smile, take their money
Tell them thank you, as they shriek
Over deals they think that they have got
On stuff...they'll sell next week!!
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
our circles of right and wrong,
fractured in absence of fickle zen,
stand now across the sky
diagramed on clouds in venn
and smiling the grey
blobs block the meteors;
it’s love of life that may
chain our bodies in the center
of that shifty airy water space
where waffles are gentrification
and the hands we hold are separation
and its happening everyplace
we go. so to talk and act
separately, is to deny that cloudy venn;
to go where mind is scarcely fact
and establish a dangerous distance
cuz yesterday I meditated
but today I must’ve particulated
cuz I see we’re one big contradiction
inside love that’s bound to mediation.
friere would say this occupation
is precisely our ontological vocation,
but to subjectify ourselves at the very
center of the venn is to carry
a weight upon the column
of my spinal cord unknown
even to the days
of my very best posture.
yet, your resistance to the slump—
it guides me to listen for the thump
thump of distant drums:
a revolutionary battlecry
through which I extend my hand
to hold yours across the waffled
space which we’ve so ******
our heartbeat races through my mind.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
the first and the single greatest
discouragement from writing
always begins when people
ask you about money,
not necessarily that they want
money, but that they see
art as frivulous, something
to do on the side... and sure enough
most of art is done that way...
on the side... but then such art, what it
becomes, is an expression of chance
opportunism... i mean...
surely there's enough people in
the world that can allow one
man to write a few ******** poems
out, it's not like they're conscripting
young men to join salvation army
in syria or anything as ridiculous as that;
but in all honesty i don't know what
it's all about - first they tell you
to not get in trouble, then they tell
you art belongs in a high school art room,
then they put artists on peddlestools
when all they produce are massive blobs
of colour in a random way, or
make a messy bedroom an art work,
or pickle a shark in a plastic aquarium,
open spaces, strings of metal, ropes
around rodin's kiss... all kinds of airy fairy
bits 'n' bobs... then mediocre seasonal
greetings poetry: rhyme christmas with
business with busy bees with jabberwocky
or something like that -
but indeed the foremost discouragement
people place on you is to get your worried
about money, concerned enough that
you begin to wonder - are they really
chasing their own tail and insert that
serpent-eating-itself into you?
i mean, all the italian renaissance masters
didn't bother with adorments and fashion
for proof of being rich - they had a motto,
only one: we're not a bunch dumb peacocks!
how about i paint you a mona lisa
and make myself shine like gold in rags?!
surely enough modern art, on that
massive scale, in galleries across countries
is obsessed with space, perhaps the lack
of space in real life, the almost claustrophobic,
the sheer number of people on the streets,
all it's fighting is technique and detail,
it's trying to be a child again,
it cannot stomach the fact that old techniques
were never passed on, or if they were
they are like a magician's deception -
whatever that means - i just think that
what modern art has become is almost
architectural - how on earth could
you elaborate on a square is beyond me -
unless of course it isn't, in which case
it's forceful intellectualism:
trying to squeeze out some orange juice
from an old & dry orange.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
Humans are silly
Little blobs of ***** and eggs mix together to turn into little flabby flesh things that churn out a bunch of farts and yell about stuff
Those blobs of flesh things get told how to do stuff by the older flesh egg ***** things who are starting to go bad, so they compensate by laying down rules about how to be a flesh egg ***** thing
They make up different reasons for why they're all here swimming around bumping into each other and making noises that only their own groups of ***** egg meat people can understand, because that's what the older eggs taught them
They try to add some **** they call beauty to all of this by scribbling on stuff, or making noises they think sound good, or building stuff, and they think they're clever.
They'll tell you if it's not proper art it's not good art, but they'll also tell you art is subjective
They won't stop themselves and realize this whole omelette they're a part of is just being made up as they go
Sometimes, people are just Omelettes.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
We think it's in the protection:
above, the vast canopy called Sky;
then we want freedom
when pervasive is intrusive
and seek shelter
Searching, we expend lives. Rain
finds a way in, we run seeking new.
We think this is unique,
then neither vast not endless,
but blobs floating in space:
it is in the beauty of illusion; then
disbelieve, hopping bruised on.
Neither in protection nor in freedom
nor in anything other;
Under the canopy again,
up on a hill, until
buried deep somewhere in us,
we see, it was there, all along,
and we grow up.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
like benny profane
@ the sailors' grave
boot heels etch
Hieroglyphic cuneiform
on saw dusted floors,
while blobs of mercury
nailed to the bar
drip
down
nauseatingly poetic
accomplishing nothing
proving even less.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The pains too deep.
I just can't sleep.
I feel the monsters as they creep.
Demons dancing.
Goblins prancing.
Nameless blobs won't stop laughing!
I did this!
I am why they all exist.
And with my mind they play and twist.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
Okay, let's be profound for a second, let's be cheesy, sappy, gross or whatever you want to call it for just a second. Because it's better to have it out there then to bottle it all up inside of yourself.
Do you feel?
I try to, in the shower. I attempt to feel something, anything, so I take off my glasses, and I turn the water temperature to boiling. And I just stand there, hot water streaming down my back, trying to feel something. I guess I do, I feel the heat radiating off my back, I feel the cold when I step away. But I don't feel.
When I take off my glasses, all I can see are blobs of color, sometimes I prefer that to the world I see through my glasses, here, everything is whatever you want it to be, you can see a mixture of blues and reds and you don't have to just assume it's a balled up sheet. It can be anything you want it to be.
So when I take off my glasses in the shower I hope to be transported to this realm, but I don't. I stay, where the walls are white and shampoo bottles line the shelves. I stay in the place where I can't have creativity, where I don't feel like anything.
Do you ever think to yourself, I exist, try it sometime. I acknowledge that I exist as a person, I exist, but for what purpose? Will you find that purpose with another human being? With an animal? With a job? Who knows. I just hope that I find mine soon. Because standing in the shower, hot water pouring down onto my body, I think of this, I think, is this what I'm supposed to be doing? Is this what I'm meant to be? Someone who tries desperately to cling onto people, someone who hates sharing her friends because I am scared they will run away, someone who can't trust her best friend not to leave just like the other ones who stole the label best friend has. Someone who doesn't think she is good enough for anyone.
Since I can't feel anything don't you think that I should be a thrill seeker, I'm the absolute opposite, I've tried stuff like that before, it doesn't help, it just makes people worry, makes people judge, I don't like that. The only time I think I feel something is when I'm in the shower or reading. Reading is my escape, I go into someone else, I see what they see I finally feel. People think it is weird that I don't think when I read. It's because I Feel when I read.
I don't enjoy reading in between the lines while enjoying a good book, I Like to just go with what the author is attempting to get across. When I do this, I feel something. Even if it's a fake rush of adrenaline, or anxiety because of something a character did in a book. I still feel something.
Do you feel?
I try to, in the shower.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
A glass jar lay in the refrigerator
a shallow pool of dark juice inside
dated last summer
last legs.
Rewind a little and its filled to the brim
white blobs are packed tight
white but purple
color revealed.
Rewind even farther and it's 'new'
I say we should make it last
dad's excited too
pickled beets!
Rewind more and two friends are picking
***** hands, sweaty brow, farm day fun
thanks for company
kind charity.
Rewind more and friend is picking beets
family trip to the farm for groceries
preserving the extra
time shares.
Roots like community spirit,
purple juice infectious like kindness.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand homes, nestled in the raw
slumber of soft shadows -
moon cast, in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...
a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,
crowding the dark knolls
of some beautiful assembly -
An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal
stammering
the eye of our stillness ...
A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens
shimmering in the dialect
of mute jewels.
The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -
An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether
bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...
the extraordinary -
blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~
O'Sacred things that devour flame
to disgorge supernova As tapestry.....
A garden of stars most hostile
to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -
The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds
Of a desperate mirror
One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~
but hasn't the Silver to shine.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
apart at the seams
apart
at the
yes
me split
ting
stretch of whatever
wet
blobs leave
a st ain
break
ing
cra ck ing
a clay *** in a kiln
pieces of myself
fraz
zled
myself
coarse
to touch
making beetroot
pentagons on thumbs
these rag ged
moments
they cannot be undone
I have not won
they only go
on
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Foreign doll
A wonderwall
Writes poetry on receipts
Where coffee stains
Are soak brown blobs,
Her words are sweetened
As candy cane dialect to god
I wait for her many hours in incompletion
For her mine heart throbs!!!
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC