"blotched" poems
Went to my magwinya lady today,
she's contained at the canteens on north campus,
As she rose up her left eye was bluish ****** grey,
A lump in my throat formed not as big as the one on her face,
my eyes secreted their salty solution,
my mind quickly processed confusion,
"M-m-m-m-may i-i-i p-p-lease have five magwinyas"
She smirked at my muttered utterance as she began to fill the thin transparent plastic with the oily flour-filled *****
I reluctantly asked "What happened to your eye?"
She responded in Xhosa reasonably assuming my common cocoa coating meant our tongues matched until I told her otherwise.
Eventually she simply said, "Fight".
I said, "you got in to a fight?"
She said "Mmm".
I went over to my banana lady and said the magwinya lady has a black eye and she casually claimed, "Her boyfriend beat her yesterday."
Confirming what my teary eyes and lumpy throat knew to be true when I saw my sweet magwinya lady with a swollen eye ****** grey and blue.
Frustrated at the nothing I could do.
Powerlessly pirched on a brown bench as the black sparrows chirped pleading for a piece of my last magwinya,
Should I tell her to escape?
Is that even my place?
How many black eyes are blotched on this bruised land i, a fearful foreigner, trace?
I'll bury my brain in my book,
somewhat cowardly crook,
I'll see what i saw but take no second look,
like a camel's head in the sand,
I'll timidly tell myself these things are just too hard to understand.
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 6:43 AM UTC
I began to notice the
Fade.
Blotched ink, frayed seams
yet those who can't see
can't care
It was most familiar to a weary box
Which spent weekdays and nights
Traveling
To warm faces and comfort Sundays
I struggled when the
torch of permanent portions was passed to
me. Each word felt unworthy and full of
stain
I always strived for
realism
I used to clutch the cloth
carefully folding and unfolding
fearing the sendoff, knowing the return
would become rare
If at all.
it was a pricked finger and
remembrance
It was right to hideaway
At the time
I crumbled under the stage lights
The audience was expecting
More
All I could provide was
Myself
And like a spoiled child
I still pout
Demanding fame under my demanded
Street Lamps
Faded
Donated
What is, is
But. I do remember. Even if you figure the pants don't fit
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
In bed, I lay
upon my cushioned existence I stay
but outside the world's at play
birds swimming in the sky
and trees that gently sway
dancing the day away
and I continue to lie
the distant sounds
of yawning grounds
two parched lips
as the Earth does rip
let the rain come
so we may take a sip
heavens nectar
falls upon a discarded deckchair
striped like candy cane
blotched with the rain
scattered upon sandy dunes
could this be a monsoon
ironically late
but still worth the wait
paid patience admission at the gate
one ticket to wet wet wet
this is what patience gets
just need a raincoat
so I can appear in the matrix
how can you hate this
a neopolitan sky
dripping with colour
if I were a scholar
I could espouse on its many virtues
instead, I turn up my collar
and tip my hat
a little milk won't hurt you
an umbrella swung round a lamppost
and now I'm Gene Kelly
still wearing a raincoat
but dancing
romancing the moonlight
for night has snuck in the back door
like an absent teenager
but this too shall pass
soon the dunes turn to grass
and I too return to task
a new day
at play.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Tears;
Fallen, unchecked,
Onto red blotched cheeks;
Won't someone wipe them away?
Tears;
Stray for the dead,
Ones who have gone;
Won't someone wipe them away?
Tears;
What good they do,
For you,
And me,
Won't someone wipe them away?
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
everyone has a story.
some, beautifully written.
others with torn pages and blotched ink.
you read, absorb, comprehend.
you learn
the fears and hopes and well hidden pain
the mountain of anger and regrets
the beautiful smiles masking lonely hearts.
after awhile you realise
that empathy,
in its cold uncomfortableness,
hurts if you give too much.
still you grow,
strong enough to love the world
yet empty enough to dine with its demons.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
3.3k
i want to peel the skin from my limbs
strip by strip
with broken glass making jagged incisions
then watch the blood drip
down my body
dark red is pretty.
i want to scratch my eyes out
i've seen too much now
they'd look better splattered on the floor
just like ***** blotched decor
i want to pluck my nails out from the beds of my fingers and toes
and with a torch burn it all, melt the cartilage off my ears and nose
its too much extra baggage
for when i jump off the ledge
i like to mutilate myself
i’m a ********* as well
i love slicing deep into my skin
or puncturing myself, with a needle or pin.
seeing my blood escape captivity
makes me feel more alive than if it was still inside me
even more so when i carve out an artery
it falls so gracefully down to my feet
i want to display my own bones in my home
and replace them in my body with metal poles
i think feeling pain is better than feeling nothing
and seeing a sharp razor to grate my skin is always enticing
i love how it stings.
blood is the liquid of life yet symbolizes death
i corrupted my soul, now an expired body is left
i want to reach inside my chest
and grab my heart
and squeeze so hard
it oozes like jello through my fingers
and stops beating forever.
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 7:54 PM UTC
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Fashionable entourage
people dance in step
to the beat of hidden
native rituals
Hidden here and there
seeing a pair clad up to the hilt
with colored shades
cool as mountain glades
that never
shakes or simmers
on fire
a real deep desirous searching soul
Rapping about nothing
even though
face to face
words bounce off expressions
as cool as mountain glades
that soon melt-fade
into the distance
Rap, tap, clap
never nap
the cannibus-filled room
embellished by flashing lights
on nights
that take spatial flights
into another world that enters upon
lounging everywhere
people lost in space,
in time,
in androgynous acts
In vogue, you speak to me
about fashions
that dazzle, frazzel, razzle,
and lip curl
and eye twinkle
me to you,
in real
but unreal
cannibus-sweet-dusky-dreamy-rooms
MTV blotched, bleached
Sergio Valente dungarees,
then a real feeling child cries
in the background
and is soon hustled off to bed
And never a hurt we laugh
and smile
and smile
A frozen smile grin;
take it on the chin sport
Keep up the good front
Keep up the grinning fort sport
A sported fort fortified Disneyland
and life's forever
carousel ride
and sweep the dirt under the carpet
A speak about profits
And speak about"ME" yuppie things;
about golden rings
that wrap around ears, around wrists, and cattle noses
Seek time entwined
to search geometrically
the advertisements
that lead you
and nobody but you to you
A love ballad between
one and no one but you
You and you
and you
and you
Being good you
you being good to you,
Being good to nar-sa-see-you
you being good to only you,
to yoou
to yoou
to yoooooooooou
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
The Maple with its tassell flowers of green
That turns to red, a stag horn shapèd seed
Just spreading out its scallopped leaves is seen,
Of yellowish hue yet beautifully green.
Bark ribb’d like corderoy in seamy screed
That farther up the stem is smoother seen,
Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowers
Up each spread stoven to the branches towers
And mossy round the stoven spread dark green
And blotched leaved orchis and the blue-bell flowers—
Thickly they grow and neath the leaves are seen.
I love to see them gemm’d with morning hours.
I love the lone green places where they be
And the sweet clothing of the Maple tree.
2.6k
There is a blue stain from my pajamas blotched upon the white wall from where you pushed me up against. From when your hips gridded against my thighs, a graph with linear equations that doubled and doubled and tripled. From when your fingers found the furrows inside my skin, planting seeds I am eager yet scared to see blossom.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas specked upon the wall, from when our hunger was too ravenous for even the wolves I tried to suppress. From the sweat I licked off and tasted sweeter than gumdrops coated with honey. From when my legs found your waist, squeezing, Medua’s hair demolishing a man too good, too tasty. From where your palms collided with my wrists, blacks and blues and yellows shooting through closely knit pores.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas splattered upon the wall, and I pass it with a smirk, feeling the presence of you. What will be our next victim, I wonder
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
“i wonder what she looks like naked” he thought
it was 11pm
he had been in the shower for 10 minutes now
letting the water get hot
turning his face and skin red
he had sat down
he stared at the blue rags in the corner of the shower
one was used to wash his back
the other to wipe his *** when he ran out of toilet paper
another to scrub his face
Now they've grown mold
They've almost grown together into one big rag
He stared at the hairs on his legs
He stared at his ***** hairs
he closed his eyes and let the hot water cleanse him
He felt good
Looking through the Showers obscured glass
he was able to see the toilet
it was Blotched
zig zagged
smudged by the glass's perception
He felt good in here
he understood things looking through the showers glass
He understood that things were there
but are in many forms all at once
and that perception
is the most beautiful thing
standing up he grabbed a plastic cheap blue razor
sat back down
avoiding the molded rags
and shaved his face
Chin
Left cheek
Right cheek
Above the lip
Neck
He Felt Clean
He felt like a boy
a newborn baby
Unsure of the things around him
but understanding
the unsure was nothing to be afraid of
nothing to worry over
That the unsure was good
It meant you were still curious
He stood up
turned the water off
stepped out
stared at his naked hairy body in the mirror
looked at his face
it was clean and smooth
The things outside of the shower glass window were smooth and cleanly perceived
But the understanding
was the same as a man, naked with bright blue eyes
looking through his warped shower glass window
wondering what her ******* and legs look like.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
I caught that blush
you sly mountainous expanse.
He flirted with you-
breathing light his
nimbus whimsy on your cheeks and now
you sit frosted
defiled and iced
with clear
crystalline fancy.
your rouge smile
left a stain on my mind
your craggy laughter
spreads adventure on my soul.
The light cannot leave you alone
he battles with the clouds
to illuminate your colorful features.
his envious gaze leaves
your autumn blotched cheeks
radiant with reflection
of his affection
Oh mountain of mine,
you stick out in this landscape as
the only maiden worth pursuing-
the strongest mark upon the horizon
and I too,
am in love with you.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
My hand shakes gripping the quill
Shaping and warping words at will
The ink is the blood of my heart
for it is where the fire for my poems start
I cut and carve my life in rhyme
blotched on the paper trapped in time
Life Death Loss and Love
Spilling and splashing to the paper, all of the above
The heart dances as the fire rages
The quill scratches and drips as words come alive off the pages
Throwing you into the realm of my mind
You will exit leaving nothing behind
For poetry is a passion
I am not of any fashion
I merely feed the fire
That my heart will forever desire.
For every poem you read
Is what my heart is willing to bleed
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
Five March, Березень, пятый, these
clouds, butterflies, this old anger and
this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds.
The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze
and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes
(mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete
proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say
I will not be a prime squared again
for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit
clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all
disappointed dogs, life after love.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
it's acidic, sour and bitter.
You feel it bubbling within you.
Sometimes you want to ***** it out.
Or let it seep from your eyes.
You might opt for bleeding it with ripped skin or blotched ink on paper.
And after I've done my best to throw sadness out,
I feel full of emptiness.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Love is a flower open to the sun,
Hate is a cavern, a hole, craven,
Black, empty, a dank drowning,
Under light. Love is one season,
Hate is transitory. Love is eternal,
Of vast nebulas, to outer reaches
In galaxy are nurseries with stars
Being born, light, alive with light.
Love is the lasting of conquerors,
The first line, defense, existence,
Love takes all in one communion,
Breaking the dark as the morning
Sun. Love is conundrum, love IS.
Hate is a construct, the blotched
That bleeds where life is seeding,
Rot better to cut, spoil unneeded,
Hate will come to nothing, for life
Is love, love is all and everything.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Stale yellow teeth spaced between crookedly straight gaps,
constantly inspected with your little finger for forgotten bits of your last meal.
Thinning grey-brown hair combed every morning with dignity,
and a permanent scowl,
which twists into a grin at the most unexpected moments.
The Bulldog is what they used to call you,
though I never found out why.
Old age took your strength and unassuming dignity with which young men relieve themselves
free of painful swollen prostates.
Beneath your sun-blotched skin and flesh-colored hearing aids,
You're the same.
Ready to introduce anyone who gives your family the wrong look
to the glory of Heaven, or the fire of Hades
With your ******* fists.
"A gem" is what grandma always called you.
As though you were the most precious object in her life.
I look at you and see your hunch-backed figure
twisted with time and arthritis.
So un-gemlike.
Yet a gem, just like she said.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
"My head's a whirlwind" you said.
And I was at the centre.
Blown apart by gale forces, we were,
Without escape, rendered
Crippled. We had to be
Euthanised, so you say.
Whatever happened to
A brand new page
To the chronicles of us?
There was no ink
That blotched this page.
Who was to think
A whole pen cartridge would snap
And spill tar black paint
On this clean white page?
And then you hesitate
To wipe away the river
On the paper, and streaming
Down, from your eyes,
Tinged like the ink, screaming
At me, no words being spoken.
Your salty cheeks
Were never neat. But the eye
Of the storm, is a quiet place to be.
It wasn't the decision that hurt.
It was the reaction of inaction.
And the now set in feeling
That I was never more than a distraction.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
before you, sad poems are all i know
words that bleed
pages blotched with tears
my poems were colder than snow
words that plead
torn pages of fears
i thought misery is all i need
to write poems from the soul
until you came
you changed my writing creed
this broken girl felt whole
now my poems will never be the same
thank you for changing the game
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
I am the *****
The hideous, maimed, disfigured--
You look at me with frowns.
My skin, with many tones,
Too scarred and blotched--
Always offensive to your eye.
You laugh at me,
I am one of your many clowns--
Sent to earth for your amusement.
You view me like a sinner--
God punished me and spared you.
I am the oddity, not quite right,
A freak of nature,
A distortion of the Creator’s beauty,
A sacrilege to your righteous self.
I am the mold by which you judge
All imperfection.
I am an outcast, an infidel, a curse,
An illegitimate child of heaven sent
As image of what you could have been--
Cast into the world to be
Looked at as half-human,
Made to feel less than whole, and
Knowing I will never be even a part.
My afflictions are your blessings,
My pain, your joy,
My tears, your happiness.
In me, you have a reason to be thankful.
Yes, I am the ***** and this I know for sure:
My fate was to be different;
My destiny unfolds, but not before
Your prying eyes; and
Most of all, I find great joy
Knowing that regardless my plight,
I will be always be me and
Never be like you.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC