"blu" poems
Ah, the season of gifting.
Antagonist of year-long thrifting.
Tradition sadistic,
Materialistic,
Four quarters in pockets worth sifting.
This year I hereby proclaim
I shan’t be consumed by the game.
Cycle of curse
Purpose perverse
The namesake, an oversight became.
Christ’s birth did in fact begin,
Holiday distracted by sin.
Misguided it be
To forget idly
The sacrifice He made for all men.
We naively regard generosity
As holiday’s behavioral piosity.
But if dollars and cents
Are the tools of offense
Over shadow favor luminosity.
Water in Africa is *****
American child in poverty.
Politics aside,
Convenient homicide,
To enable the ills of society.
In the global economy we flaunt
Wealth by comparison, bitter taunt.
First world problems abound
Pass the turkey around
Central heating and air, what a jaunt!
What if this season we decide
To extend two palms open wide?
Sacrificing ourselves
Rather than stocking our shelves
Dying whispers echo true: “we tried.”
Don’t spend your money on me this year.
Not iPhones, not tickets, not Blu-ray or beer.
Instead know you can
Distribute more than
A snort, a lie, and a tear.
(optional conclusion to assist interpretation of last line)
Snort of derision,
Lies of provision,
Tears, even true,
Hardly subdue
Anguish deprived of tradition’s revision.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
the sun drips
like
a
yellow yolk
oozes
down
the gold knots
of my spine
breathe the first of Spring days
the radio plays our favorite song
i see you backwards
quickly
all the times we had
vulnerable;
gone.
the sky is blue, the lake is blue
your eyes are blu
and they say i look like your
sister
oh gods. help me
i can’t feel anything
except you
and everything here is you
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Plastic bags are my super villain
and no I am not Aqua Man
I am Michael a normal male civilian
of some young-adult age,
whom is still willing to inconvenience himself.
Not so old, where holding multiple objects
sounds like an obstacle too acrobatic for the limbs to handle.
One can too many knock's off the balance of the elderly
and cast them off the trapeze of a sidewalk
into a net of asphalt, where being caught is a broken hip.
No that is not me, although it does remind me
of my grandma, because to her plastic bags are her life-savers.
It is a struggle to convince my grandma that I am a great trapezist
so we can leave these bags to their solitude
and finally defeat this enemy.
Although with plastic bags it is never so easy
they have plenty of goons who are willing to do the ***** work
forcing themselves upon us at any opportunity,
even those that don't make any sense, even for my grandma.
I Went to Best Buy and bought a brand new movie,"Unfriended"
and I got it for my grandma to watch, since she's a bit technophobic.
This movie will haunt her; for ghosts **** people through the internet.
What will haunt me is Destiny, the worker, handing me a plastic bag:
with a 13-ounce, smaller than a piece of paper Blu-Ray inside
...without even asking if I wanted a plastic bag.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
.
Blue
Collar B lue
Collar Bl ue Co
Blue Co l lar Blu
e Collar Bl ue Co
Blue Col lar Bl ue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue
Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blue Collar Blue Collar
Blue Collar Blu e Collar Blue
Blue Collar Blue Collar
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
1/17/10
dopesick boy
make me dope sick
his black in the blue
eyes vanish
he vanishes
the skeletal frame
of his guitar
& all the almosts
that got shot
cause he shot up
the broken window in time
the self steams out of in
the night
his black & blu eyes
pinned
pinned wings in a glass
case
another face
wings evaporate
dust where a boy once sat
holdng my hand in love
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 3:22 PM UTC
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.
you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.
you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.
you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.
spread me across your bones, you make me cold
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.
there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.
and electric ***
i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.
i'm watching the end of the world
from underneath your clothes.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
There is always Orpheus, where there is a song,
There are always veins, where there is love,
And they are always bursting with so much grief,
Pero il cielo è sempre piu blu quando sono con te.
Dio is an enveloping death, nature consumes and embraces,
Inertia, an ally among us there, the smile of an ending here,
But all endings, always ora, orbiting our feigned vita,
Ma, il vero sole esce per giocare, solo alla fine.
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 11:46 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
“it will become a habit you get into
or i’ll just cut it off
it will become a habit”
the habit of the knuckle dragged in gorse
the salt of the crisp packet burned, a curse
upon my fingers, numbed by cold
bled daily, blistered on the pan
and branded with the bone structure
of man, of man, of man
the habit of the knuckle crushed on concrete
of the flick knife opened leisurely and drawn across the thigh
but gently, dragging in the skin
halted by fear of jelly flesh
and metal sticking in the bone
the sickness that made ritual of coughing
poisoned christmas dinner, and the presents
and new year
the muscles taut upon the ribs from coughing
pulled to string like blu-tack, snapped
lopsiding me for days, and days
the new bad habit
of the scratch of metal keys
the catch in purple folds of flesh
with one foot on the skirting board
the shirt held in the mouth
the boxers down around the knees
the metal digging in again, again, again
the rise of rosy bump, and ****** blush
camden canal, past midnight, new year’s day:
“i deserve to die
i deserve to die”
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Mr Blu came to visit me today.
He wrapped me in pain, cradled me with sorrow
and told me not to wait till tomorrow
It is time he said.
He told me to follow his lead
Count to three
And not to look back
There’s nothing left here for me
but pain
He said with him I’ll be free
Free like birds flying in the summer breeze
Oh Mr Blu,
you do make a good offer
I could play with the other lost kids all winter and summer
Just a second I’ll be there in a few
Just need to pack a thing or two
Jun 22, 2022
Jun 22, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
If I told you my surname, you would start to laugh
It's silly, but it's mine, and it's meant to last.
F
L
Y
It's a noun, not a verb,
it's a little bug which lives everywhere.
I am a fly but I can't explore the sky,
"I don't have any wings" I repeated as a child.
But when were are together,
no chain can forbid me to reach the heavens.
You are to me
something that no one else could be.
I feel more like that bug when I'm with you
than when I'm on my own,
How you manage to do so, it's something I'll never know.
I am a fly but I can't explore the sky,
"I don't have any wings" I repeated as a child.
But touching this light blu sky
I finally realize
That that was not the truth.
My wings?
It's you.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
How many days could I count that I have left to me?
Would I dare to count, knowing that finite they must be?
I know that there are far fewer than when it all began.
None the wiser am I, as to whether it was to some plan.
I find I have come to ponder the complex and the small.
To wonder if there be a purpose or just no point at all?
Why be given to the thoughts and give time to such things?
Looking for answers but deepest thoughts no answer brings.
Why give the imagining to some ethereal immortal goal,
and wrap it up so fragile in such a flimsy mortal soul?
Were there ever choices that I made as I took life's risk?
Or was it all pre-recorded on some universal Blu-ray disc?
I know the day's sun is setting, another day so newly passed,
Mortal mind taunts me, in the tally, will tomorrow be my last?
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 6:07 AM UTC
bluffing fingers
blue ****
blur lurch
blush lush
blubber burn
bluster stern
blunt
bluebird
bluish wish
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
How are you?
How’s London?
How’s having the last word?
How’s looking in the mirror and sleeping at night?
I’m great thanks for not asking.
You were wrong about him,
He’s a good friend of mine and we talk everyday.
Talking is this thing you do with other people and like I’ll say something and then you respond and we just go back and forth and have this thing called a conversation.
Oxford dictionary defines communication as the successful conveying or sharing of ideas and feelings.
I feel like you we could explore this idea of never speaking ever again,
But then again I feel like you’ve already made that decision without me.
When you get back,
I’d like the Wonder Woman Blu-ray I lent to you that you never bothered to watch.
I’d also like every impulse that caused me to reach out the first time to not let me do it again.
Anyways, I’m sure you’re having a great time and I can’t wait to not hear about it.
— p.d.e
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
A promise of sunsets
a dream that came true
and all of the wishes
I caught here for you
my first born, my cherub
my blue-eyed child
I sought out your name
from the wet and the wild
Be free mommy's faery
don't forget who you are
you're as precious and rare
as a gold shooting star
and when people wonder
about what I called you
tell them you're as tranquil
as Kariba is blue.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
A stark realization.
I'm, for lack of a better word, obsessed with South Park.
Not like collectables, clothing, or other cluttered stuff.
But like ingrained into my personality, seriously, like a face hugger planting seeds in my core. Hatching into satirical, political, ridiculous obsession
Half my inside jokes.
The majority of my random noises.
Sewn within my vocabulary.
Constantly murmuring on the TV like old friends at dinner.
In my achievement list on Steam.
On my blu-ray shelf.
Gently nudging me with phone notifications to collect my free pack.
Definitely used in comparisons at work.
Equally tearing down the walls of anyone and everyone.
I eat it up.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
The marvelous thing
is how I hear this bird
sing,
from morning to night
and from winter to spring.
It happily glees,
never sad, never in fright.
It glides with purpose
from darkness to light.
Aggression it welcomes
from predators (weak)
for its mind is superior
and respect it will seek.
Underestimate, only a fool
will dare.
With intellect,
vibrancy,
and vigilance
there
will be a surprise
-- most minds will be blown --
with glory it ravages,
but dignity shown.
Above all else,
I prefer to mention,
something vital
to bring to your attention;
you must look beyond
my observation
for all things beautiful,
in adoration
this bird holds dear
to heart and mind
a one true love
its meant to find.
The heavens,
the sea,
the corporeal plains
it tours the earth,
again and again
but never alone,
but with another;
one’s promised,
confidante,
Jay’s one true lover.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Do you remember those old VHS tapes?
The predecessor to dvds,
which were the predecessor to blu rays,
and it goes on and on.
Anyways back to the VHS tapes,
I don’t know I’ve always loved them.
I know it’s weird
They were such a hassle
You’d have to stick it in the VCR,
rewind it,
fast forward it,
so on and so forth.
DVD’s are so much easier
Yet I’ve always loved the VHS tapes.
Maybe it’s because they remind me of my childhood.
Or because they contain the finest films to ever grace the silver screen.
Or it might even be because,
no matter how long ago I last watched them,
they ALWAYS pick up right where I left off.
I think that’s beautiful.
The Mary Kate and Ashley and Rugrat VHS tapes,
sitting in my basement haven’t been placed in that VCR for years,
but it’s comforting to know that someday
when I’m feeling nostalgic enough
to watch one of them,
once it enters that VCR,
it will be in the EXACT spot I left it 6 years ago
when I watched it last.
It would be amazing if life were like those VHS tapes.
All the people you haven’t seen in years,
are just waiting there for you to arrive again,
just to pick up right where you left off.
No need to rewind or fast forward.
It’s not quite that easy though.
There are people in this life,
that I know are just like those tapes.
I may not have seen them for months,
but once I do it’s a straight shot back to where we were.
Then there are people like DVDs who don’t wait,
they don’t stay just where you want them to,
they keep moving and moving,
until one day you’re not sure where they’ve gone.
So you have no other choice then to restart,
and find someone new.
I know that there are people in this life,
just like the people in the films
on those VHS tapes.
There are people in this life that see the loveliness of it all
They understand the beautiful gift they’ve been given each day
They know that people are sacred,
living,
breathing,
feeling,
beings.
And then there are people like me,
who look at life with confusion,
and concern,
and wonder everyday,
what the hell is going on.
Who know that life isn’t like that VHS tape,
but wish more than anything that it was
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
il tuo sorriso,
come le stelle sopra di noi stasera
Non credo che potrei abbastanza confrontare
il modo in cui i tuoi occhi brillano alla luce della luna pallida
essi sono di colore blu
sono sempre stati
ma è diverso questa volta
perché questa volta ti piaccio troppo
questa volta siamo completamente persi
in un mondo tutto nostro
ma mi rendo conto di minuetti dopo
sveglio nel mio letto
lacrime sulle mie guance
era solo un sogno
e questo è tutto ciò che non potrà mai verificarsi
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
I
quel giorno, quando mi hai lasciato sola sul prato bagnato, sono morta per ben 13 secondi & tu non te ne sei accorto neanche.
** lavato la mia faccia con whiskey scadente & tutto è andato per il meglio.
II
se dovessi scegliere un'altra vita vorrei tanto che fosse un'esistenza fatta di cristallo & acqua ghiacciata, penso al profumo della lavanda e a lunghi, lunghissimi nastri blu.
III
passo il mio tempo a graffiare con le chiavi la vernice delle auto e a raccontare in simboli tutto ciò che non so
il mio tempo perduto in cambio del tuo primogenito.
IV
vivevamo in una casa bianca & tu sparavi ai conigli davanti ai miei occhi & io ti amavo ma allo stesso tempo speravo di poter sparare in faccia te, faceva caldo, a casa nostra era sempre giugnoluglioagosto, esisteva solo una stagione, nelle altre dormivamo.
V
io sono viola scuro, sono polvere, sono sostanze luccicanti, sono fumo, sono nulla, sono tutto ciò che intasa i tuoi polmoni, tutto ciò che ti rovina il fegato.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
Beautiful are you, second to none
Radiant face, daughter of Son
Gifted I am, from God with you
Blue I was, now with Rose Blu
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
Maybe i am going insane,
and nobody notices,
because they're all kinda crazy too.
But not my crazy.
It's said that everyone is on a road to somewhere,
so don't be upset if someone is not walking with you.
But i am tired, and i am lost,
and these feet are weighing me down,
my mouth, it voices abuse, that my ears, can't handle,
my brain is my noose,
my hands seek refuge from listlessness of not being held.
My eyes are tired, they weep tears of nothingness
because my road is being paved
and i must walk it anyhow, without you
And how i miss those moments,
when i had you with me,
those few fragile moments when our paths collided.
And i am sorry i fell apart
because i couldn't bare another person walking with me
because i was so used to being alone.
And how i miss you, and your words
and your conversation, and i could watch your mouth move,
forever.
I can't look back because its too hard to remember
but i know i miss you,
and my brain is heavy from it all
and my heart is wrapped in sticky tape
and i blu-tacked your name to the back of my hand
so i would never forget you, and i am scared to forget, you.
But you were not my crazy, some other kind, but not mine
and maybe i am going insane
but not your kinda, insane...
so i had to walk away,
for my sanity, what is left of it, tagged me on the back, and said 'it's time'.
Still my hand hangs listless, waiting for your touch,
but my arms know there will be no holding you tonight.
Oh god, i cry, but i don't believe in such things..
Funny old thing, in this world, love,
because it comes and goes, at a cost,
and its why my head hangs low from all the insanity that my heart has brought to the table,
in loving you.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Allontanato gettò acqua aperta
Vedo bei colori
Rosso, blu, verde, viola
vedere il maestro del mare
Si scivola da me sapendo im ci
Egli mantiene nuoto
È così bello
i colori
la luce
Io vedo il mare per quello che è
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC