"blurb" poems
I'm anti-attachment
and I cant help that
I'm a hardback book bound tight-
Always on the rewrite
every word placed right
because it's so important;
that you read me right;
that you see things right;
undress your mind for me
under the right light
because
God above
I don't want tears tonight
if I tell you it's not serious
or when I make you work or wait
it's obviously worth the work
and even more than worth your wait.
I don't like games
I play it straight;
you're either with it
or you ain't.
So if you do not like the blurb
don't bother reading my first page.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
viewer discretion is advised. The following program has graphic images that may not be suitable for all audiences
The television stains my eyes
I can barely see myself in the mirror
While steady reporters shed not one tear
Don't you see the dead behind you?
Don't you feel the pain of their families
While you just "tell the story"?
27 dead, most of which young children, in a school shooting
The sickness creeps into my bones
Its impact rattles my spine
Debilitating me, confining me to a stupor
Why? Why?
Why end such bright futures and presents?
Do you not see the damage that you've done?
Do you not feel the blood pouring from
Your own body? Do you?
back to you, overpaid talking man
A three minute blurb
That's it
Hundreds of people have been forever changed
Millions more afraid
And all you can do is harass them
Beg for interviews
While they still are in disbelief?
But beyond that
You show it over and over and over
All with the political lean
Of your respective stations
Could you not stop for once
And let mourners mourn?
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Did I tell you?
I’m kind of quiet… no, really, I am. You should see me around people I don’t know…. Ha, yes, I know you don’t believe me… I talk my socks off around you. But, you’re different. You already know the contents of me… I mean, you may not have read every page in detail, but you get the rough draft. Not many people get that. Man, what a stuck up ***** they say… Miss goody two shoes is too good for us… Not all of us are rich like you they say. Oh, how I wish I was any of those things…it wouldn’t sting when they mistook me for anything but the plains, but instead they see skylines and frosted mountains. I am not as complex, I am not as breathtaking, I am not such a climb. It’s funny. i have it together - it appears from the outside looking in. On the inside, I’m so tired. I know you know this - but they don’t. They don’t see 14 hour days, 98 hour weeks, 5,784 hour years… of on the go, here you can have my time, my peace, my arms, my legs, my soul. They don’t see that. They don’t see me helping the family when they need food that week..and me not eating. They don’t see my sore back, my restless nights, or the loneliness that follows endless hours. I’m the one missing out… and they think I am better than them. If they only knew how much I wished I could be more like them and less like me…. how they are the morning skies… and I am merely a spectacle to their bold colors. They’re outspoken, care free, sociable, …extroverted. I wouldn’t dare say a word. I know even then they wouldn’t get me… not like you do. I just sit back - quietly, watching, listening, absorbing…an abused sponge from one too many passes on the burnt pan. Ha, that’s me. Still giving my all - in whatever pieces are left of me, trying to shine the world. Silly I am. I’m ready to get out of here… or find myself again, and stop smothering my heart. It’s an out of control fire and my day to day has become the dirt. I think if I exhale in a week you may just see smoke pouring from my lungs… I’m burning out. Can you tell?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or a memoir of a man who remembers nothing but
danger that passed him by,
ruffling his hair as it passed,
ignoring his pleas:
stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something,
he would say
(that could be the subtitle
or the blurb,
something to draw the reader in; if floating bodies aren’t enough)
i just want to mean something,
and near-death experiences are the flavor of the day.
i’m not brave enough to do it myself,
i’m not a hero
or a villain,
just a lonely boy, undefined individual,
and your 350 teeth can help me mean
so much more,
350 individual teeth that float above my head,
falling out one by one as you bloat with seawater
(and here the first chapter would end,
here we would break for intermission,
audience smiling over martinis.
only 32 teeth, did some fall out?
too many maraschino cherries will do that to you.
too much sugar on the rim of that glass)
dead sharks in the current and none glance twice
i keep yelling but they just
deflect my bubbles,
and the surface swallows them like the heartless ***** she is
i keep yelling but they just move farther
i keep yelling but stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something.
i just want some blood on my hands
is that so much to ask?
i just want some of my blood in the water,
to be a survivor
or a victim
(whichever gets more press coverage;
who cares about a memoir that nobody reads?
who cares about a memoir where nobody gets hurt?)
i just want shark teeth in my heart,
he would say,
i don’t want to make a mark on the world,
i want the world to make a mark on me.
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or the eulogy of a boring man.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Out of the loop de loop into the swirl of hoopla hoop
Transfer into the oasis of illusion, awaiting the water boat
Fall over the bolder dropped from your shoulder
Rolling and gathering moss, scraping off the parasites
Bowling the ball down the aisle into the skittle alley
Knocking down those fellows who denounce you
Don't hear you, read through your eyes to the back of
Your head and beyond, into their own ace of space
Rolling around the ground belly aching their sound
Machine, mean warriors of gloom, for soon they'll fall
Short of time to relish their pleasure boat, punting along
Paddling their pedalo into the grey below, capsizing
Forlorn arms stretching out to capture, only trickery
Bickering, as you fall through the gaps and rake your ratted
Soul with grit between teeth, spit, of solemn men who
Give out black track thoughts for you to devour.....
Finality bleats, gongs the looming song....the hour, fatal shower
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
Ink staining blank pages,
sentiments caught fire
blurb in the moment,
a notion for the ages
simple inspiration's nectar,
provocation's bedevilment
mockingbird of emotions
all that is sacred and trivial
tempting a blind ear to hear
invoking silent eyes to see
tainted lips to sing for eternity
asunder notes of parchment
one's own big blast of creation
poetry in the making
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
But you are a galaxy
I am merely the moon
orbiting your existence
in an attempt to brighten your surroundings
and nervously contribute to the art that you are
if you are rain
I am a cloud
made up of tiny parts of you
my existence obtaining no other purpose
other than consisting solely of you
growing inside of me
to display you to the world as you proudly pour out of me
if you are a book
I am the blurb
a review
a quote of redcommendation
boasting your brilliance
gleaming with pride
whilst simply being overlooked with no credit
but
if I were a galaxy
you would be the higher power that created me
and if I were a cloud
you would be the sun
as you become present
I would merely disappear behind your greatness
making my grey hue succumb into melting into your light
until I am no longer what I was to begin with
and if I were a book
you would be the author
personally scribing sentences into the pages of my mind
hand carving each word carelessly
without any idea just how important the story that will be created,
as a result of your actions, will be
and you continue to scratch away
not caring about wearing down the fabric of who I am
because I am only pine
and you are mahogany
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Time is a manmade tool used to motivate efficiency
A prop for urgency
We need not stress ourselves out
Time is infinite not allotted or allowed
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Every time our eyes meet
I love you more
Which, our eyes meet a lot
like a whole lot
enough times in a day
that the fact I love you more each time
is quite honestly ridiculous.
But it happens
and i'm not in any way going to try to stop it.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Don’t send me to the hospital
I just left without a cure
Don’t feed me the drugs
My over-dosing habits are not pure
Don’t leave me suffering
Alone as you walk past
Just take me to the sea
Where I can float into infinity
Haunting these hallways
I surround friends with joy
Faking my way of life
So no one pulls me outside
Not like I’m filled inside
And it seems I like to criticize
All those girls for being fake.
While I know it’s true,
I can’t be too hypocritical
When I look at myself
As unrealistic projections
Of a happy adolescent
If you couldn’t tell,
Then I must be doing well
As my walls are built higher
And my skin grows a little tighter
I still get sick
Of going back every day
With all the ****** up acts
People commit inside the hellhole
I’m sworn to go to
Until my legal childhood dies
Most days, I’m scared to go back
When the treatment is this bad
And the punches are dealt the same
When the words leave the their mouths
And leave me hanging to on the edge
Suffering with more blood from razors
The past 12 years seem to merge
Into a big blurb of complete crap
I thought by now, we’d grow taller and mature
From the childish **** of the past
They’re still satisfied with producing slurs
Just because I’m not at their ‘perfect stature’
That’s when I wonder what’s going to change
Am I ever going to take a jump away
And find some way to escape
While a month and a half seems so short
Being told you’re a **** up every day
Makes the days a little bit longer
What if I didn’t come back tomorrow
Or all the days after that
What if I said oh ***** it
And left the world in a snap
What will they say, when someone tells them
It was their faults from their words and their actions
And as every day continues
To be another fight for a healthy mental state
I just lay down at night thinking
Sometimes I wish I could die.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
It was only a line, a flash, a blurb
but it lit a lifeline to
mangrove minds, chandeliers in the street,
peacock feathers,
art ****** sunsets trapped
in bleeding orange and emails
of honesty.
Who was this vibrant artist
waddling colours of purple passion
aubergine temples of trust
murals of majestic visions
nights of bright lights
and poems from the streets of dawn
bohemian Queen
painting ecstasies in double entredres
whispering apologies
collecting little bits of jigsaw life
making sense of sublimation
unafraid to speak the truth
She must be special.
in the selfie of the moment
she opened a window
to let me peer in and
I stayed well past the
unreasonable hour. Fascinated.
Author Notes
The Artist. Have met her many times before.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Insomniacs by NeroameeAlucard
I can't sleep obviously so it's fitting to new to write a little blurb about my sleeping inability for real it seems like ever since I touched this pen to this pad in my head Slumber can't be had I'm glad that I can channel my feelings into words and not stupid actions or acting without any sense of rationality but in reality I need sleep **** it so brain start counting sheep
1.
2..
3...
4....
5.....
6......
7.......
nope the Sheep have failed and recently took an express route to heaven or I'm still sugar buzzed from 7-11 whatever I need sleep so Nero make yourself but you can't even force Sleep on yourself especially since you have next to no wealth I mean **** IT VOICES GO THE **** TO BED or I'll make sure you attempt to wake up in the ocean weighed down by lead
.
..
not talking huh? good :)
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
As I slipped inside the sliding doors,
In silence, I roamed, the reticent floors,
Searching for that impeccable book.
With open eyes, alone, I looked.
Covers as bright as lemon zest
Glittered like gold amongst the rest.
Each blurb I perused, with bated breath,
To find those that sparkled had no depth.
I replaced them gently upon the shelves,
To glimmer and glisten amongst themselves.
I knew they would discover their place,
Within the warmth of another’s embrace.
Deep beneath each cover lies
A soul to be read: to accept, to defy?
With battered heart and broken mind,
I longed for the book I could not find.
Eyes downcast, upon the floor,
I chanced upon an open door.
For there you were, on darker ground,
Waiting patiently to be found.
Your cover worn, and pages frayed;
Intrigued to see how you were made.
My mind was open, I had no doubts,
And with my card, I took you out.
Others scoffed, at my aberrant choice.
To them, my disgust, I had to voice;
They only saw your beaten cover,
But I read deep; now I’m your lover.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
We greet each other with apologies
Followed by instantaneous forgiveness
Silent, mutual
Screamed with half-smiles
Shy and sweet
We are polar in circumstance
From birth and forever imposed by this
Society
but we are connected by the meridian
of silent looks, obvious telepathy
but we are too rational for that
You are explicit with your shame
Your debt to me
You apologise twice more
“I’m sorry I cannot give you time”
“I’m sorry you are lonely”
A benediction,
“I hope you are not stressed”
We both know why you are sorry
You are the one
With the white picket fence
The obstacle
While I am free but kept wanting
You are sorry we only met now
I reply with my best grin
Feign confidence and
Reward you with my most beautiful laugh
Carefree; that would fool most people
But we are not most people
You know how I hurt
You are sharp
Like freshly clipped nails
I am not; I’m only beginning
But I am the loom that slowly weaves
The frays you’ve snagged
I am the carrier of your hopes
The executor of your will
So I write this poem
To keep me warm
in cold evening train rides and
The general banality
A fan-fic, of the thin pamphlet
That is our fleeting meet
I know you want to read me
Like the latest best-seller
You see clues, a blurb
My handwriting, erratic like yours
But more forceful
The authors, films
And tortured rock goddesses
I adore
My English Lit textbook
hidden in my drawer
dog-eared And scribbled
at Lessing, Rushdie and Joyce
I know you read it on Sunday
When no one was at work
Last night I covered my face
With a clean white sheet
And pretended to be your bride
I’d stand in front of headlights
Just to see your shadow
By my side
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
here i am, unidentified.
tho, i have an identity.
pictures of a cat, starfish
and sea shells,
a blurb, that shelters me well.
you know some,
some read and see more
but not all of me, far from all.
you could pass me by,
in the street,
not ever knowing who i am.
few have links to me.
most care not to
and that's ok
i am an ambiguity,
who, tinkers away with words, creating,
sounds to roll off the tongue, tickle the ear
and burrow and settle in the rooms of your mind.
as do,
you all,
do for
and
to me.
we are but, ships upon
a sea of words,
sailing blithely on.
sending semaphore greetings,
across great distances.
before traveling on.
identified only,
by monikers and pseudonyms,
remaining anonymous
except for style and nuances
that give small clues,
to the daily worlds,
we inhabit.
where the veiled secrets
do not dwell openly,
as they do here,
on bright white pages.
here i remain, here
i am unidentified,
bar for a nom de plume.
yet still, more than comfortable with myself.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
I take a marble path to where we met
Underneath the ebony pressure and blowing mini lives
And think of every single thing
That ever chanced to grace your lips
And I walk and I walk and we walk to the bench
Where we aimed at those deaths
How they laughed at our kiss
Trilled down the fragrant spools
Of blurb stained cotton
You and me forever being
Good at bad ideas
Dark stories flying through the pane
Teasing me and never to be seen again
So take take take me to where we met
And where a single moment was greater than this
And even brighter than this
Swirled veins of redundant horrific prayers
Get me out of myself
to infinite
Yes darker than the 'byss
Please believe me
I never wanted this
And never could again
And here I am ready to jump
Into the magnificent song of yours
The gates creak for want of you.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
thoughts of you come in pairs
like stanzas of the most beautiful poem ever written
yes
you
you read like an open book
tattooed with elloquent confessions
and articulate interpretations of the thrum of existence
i'd trade any gem
from the shelves of my library
to be able to run my fingers down your dusty spine once more
and read your vertebrae like braille
my phalanges eagerly slurping the sweetness of your flesh
oh
you
sole proprietor of the laylines of my fingertips
well versed in the science of touch
the world-class professor of the art of feeling
you taught me to feel everything
in a blurb of sunlit hours
ah
what i'd give
to be a page-number in your story
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Should you ever need
a dust jacket blurb
I'll genulexitize, "ise" if you're British,
your opus work
(sans the redundancy).
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 8:56 PM UTC
In the Beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the World was Odd. In the End was the Absurd and the Word was translated and the Meaning was Lost. In the Meantime was the Blurb and the Blurb was simple and the People spoke in riddles.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages.
I am always sat on my empty bookself.
A one of a kind, first edition, tragedy.
My authors working on projects much more important than I.
Chapter 1:
summarises the bliss of fresh flesh, unmarked, unripped, ungrammatical because nothing ever mattered.
By my final chapter I had lost my friends, abandoning all hope I lost everything, as my protagonist writhes in agony from heartbreaks that are as fresh as when they began.
On my bookself, dust collects by my blurb (which is only half unwritten), I cannot move though my spine is unbroken.
Half of my contents, speak of brighter times.
Times of infactuations appearing in spring.
Times where playing in the streets was an everyday thing.
Times of scraped knees, bruised arms and hair which was once neatly plaited turned into tendrils spiraling out of control.
Times of being called in for tea.
Being told to remember suncream otherwise your baby doll face will turn to a shrimp.
Times where the nettles sting would be sweeter than the honey of a bee.
As every day closes each chapter, I know they will continue while I stay stuck in my days. Just a scap of literature upon a shelf with no map nor compass. I sit on my shelf and come 5:43 every evening, I watch. The streetlights flicker on and illuminate brighter every second.
I remember.
A happier time.
Before I was written.
Before my pages became tattered and torn.
Once again, I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
A little birdie upon my sill
Sang a birthday song
Her voice was lovely, mezzo trills
Her voice tripped over yonder hills
She bubbled all along...
"59 birdies" warbled she!
"A bird for every year!
They fly the air for all to see!
They fill the sky, so wild! So free!
Everyone will hear!"
"59 birds?" I just blinked and said,
"There should be another ten!"
The little birdie cocked her head,
"She's too youthful, so instead
We went and shut the pen!
So onward flew the fifty nine!
Different colors for every year
The birdies soared over the pines,
They sang and said they didn't mind,
They all gave a cheer!
Ì have just reread my poem
Just for a little fùn
The number of birds
Was just absurd
They just gave a birdie blurb
They should be a hole in one!!
This is a poem for my sister's birthday card...
She'll be 69
🥰 Cathy
SøułSurvivør
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 11:50 PM UTC
As I slipped inside the sliding doors,
In silence, I roamed, the reticent floors,
Searching for an impeccable book.
With open eyes, alone, I looked.
Covers as bright as lemon zest
Glittered like gold amongst the rest.
Each blurb I perused, with bated breath,
To find those that sparkled, had no depth.
I placed them gently, upon the shelves,
To patiently wait amongst themselves.
I knew that they would discover their place,
Within the warmth of another’s embrace.
Deep beneath each cover lies
A soul to read: to accept, defy?
With battered heart and broken mind,
I longed for the book I couldn’t find.
Eyes downcast upon the floor,
I chanced upon an open door.
For there you were, on darker ground,
Waiting, like a dog at a pound.
Your cover worn, and pages frayed;
Intrigued to see how you were made.
Open mind, I removed my doubt,
And with my card, I took you out.
Others scoffed, at my aberrant choice
To them, my disgust, I had to voice;
They only saw your beaten cover,
But I read deep; now I’m your lover.
My love has blossomed, though sometimes we fight.
We can’t always agree on what is right.
But in the end, our lover’s quarrel,
Has taught me yet, another moral.
Although your pages are black and white,
Does not mean, that you are always right.
I feel that there are shades of grey;
That everyone should have their say.
Each night I spend with you in bed,
Helps me rest my somnolent head;
Dreaming of lands I’ve never been
And people that I’ve never seen.
You show me sunsets, on the foreshore,
Make me giggle, whilst the seagulls soar.
A range of emotions you elicit;
No path in my mind, do you prohibit.
Now I, take you, to be my guide,
As man takes woman to be his bride;
For you wrote deep on the tablet of my heart,
I shall treasure you forth, ‘til death do us part.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Milka and I
played
my Elvis Presley discs
in my room
on the old
blue record player
on the floor
she sat
on my bed
while I sat
on the floor
changing the discs
as I went along
she held up
one of the LP sleeves
Fun in Acapulco
she said
I like the cover
isn't he cute?
not sure
I’d say cute
I said
I like him
but not in a
cute sense
she read the blurb
at the back
can you play this?
sure
I said
so she handed me
the LP
and I put it on
the player
come sit next to me
she said
so I went
sat next to her
on the bed
and she leaned
against me
her head
on my shoulder
and I put my arm
about her
while Elvis sang
I can tell
you like Elvis
she said
you even comb
your hair like him
and smile like him
I smelt her scent
(borrowed
from her mother
no doubt)
felt the soft cloth
on her flesh
my fingers touching
her arm
where'd you get
the red stockings?
I asked
seeing them clearly
for the first time
they went well
with the green skirt
I thought
Mum got them for me
the other week
do they look ****
she asked
you're already ****
I said
she kissed me
and Elvis sang
a Mexican
sounding song
as she did so
I sensed the wetness
of her lips
her tongue poking
between my lips
tongues meeting
her arms
about my waist
my spare hand
on her thigh
Elvis singing
guitars playing
a trumpet blowing
we lay back
on the bed
the blue lampshade overhead
she closed her eyes
lips met
tongues engaged
hands moved
in the background
Elvis grooved.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
I want to back in that bookstore with you.
I want to sit next to you by the window
while we read together your favourite poet.
I want to watch your eyes skim the spines
as you search for something to share with me.
I want to feel your arms around my waist
as I scan the blurb of something I might buy,
because I enjoy reading with you
much more then trying to read you.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC