"bristles" poems
as you gazed upon the roses, beautiful, blooming wide,
exposing themselves for your eyes alone, petals scattered,
you spoke to me. unsatisfied.
strewed their precious worth across the dull pavement,
i began to wonder.
if i truly burst open for you, would i suffer the same fate?
if each of my petals shed away, one by one, revealing a bare stem, would my beauty remain?
every rose wilts with time.
as you looked upon the sunset, magnificent, drooping low,
dipping beneath the horizon with a final display of light, heavens shimmering,
you spoke to me. unaffected.
swiped the bristles of a blackened brush across its fading glow,
i cannot help but wonder.
if i began to fade, would your starlight illuminate my beaten path?
or would you only cast a sheet of unforgiving darkness over my vibrant, faltering hues?
every sunset fades to night.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
He awoke.
His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.
He arose.
The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.
He entered.
Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.
He contemplated.
Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.
He wasted.
He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.
He showered.
Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.
He returned.
The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.
He died, once again.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
I watched the fox, rat held firmly in its jaw,
Trot across the street, lithely avoiding the cars,
Ears pricked up.
It slithered under a fence and weaved through the undergrowth,
Not once acknowledging my presence.
Disappearing in the night, it yelped out its echoes in the wood
Licking out worms.
The shadowed moon slung down its light
Like weak silver bristles from the back of a carved out hedgehog
Covered with newly deposited fox saliva.
It had screamed as it was consumed-unable to die!
The crow stabbed at a newly dead rock pigeon
As the stalking cat pounced......
Death mingled!
Joe, who lived near me, waved:
I waved back, wondering why he saw nothing.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
My freckle flecked love
stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
smattering
a scattering of stars,
onto snowy canvas.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.
A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.
There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.
Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.
The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.
See that tree all alone
yet so full?
Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 6:45 PM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Deep in the bottle,
where even the strongest minds fizzle,
perspective sways softly
and judgment is cutting
deep into submission
of stupor and stumble,
a profound lack of commitment
nodded off in the chair.
Wishing away
today and tomorrow,
but shadows can be patient
and wait for the dark.
The lump on the couch,
he bristles with anger,
fed whiskey and Winston’s
to dull those sharp cravings
for death ever-lasting,
for abyssal release.
You left the lump breathing,
withdrew your attention
to his core care and feeding;
you’ve taken to singing
serenades to the sleeping,
but memories keep bleeding,
that puncture your tincture;
for that lump is your fixture
of regret and remorse.
The lump does not whimper
until shadows are long,
the reruns on TV run into
the screaming of your song;
the drum solo hammers
on tomb-like front door;
a concert, just for husband and you;
the social worker’s knocking;
whatever will you do?
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
Press your ear close.
Sometimes you can hear the breath
rattling in my chest like a bone shrugged
its moorings and ought to be tied back down.
It’s the sound of a canyon
trying to expel a marsh:
hear the stones tumble down,
clatter and splash,
the stiff reeds scouring the walls.
Stuck bristles. Sticks.
The marsh is dauntless.
It can’t be pushed out through
the canyon’s narrow mouth.
It’s the sound of a cave-in.
Press your ear close and
listen to picks and shovels
plinking on the rock.
Soon the oxygen gives out
and all the miners go to sleep,
or they punch a hole through
to the sky and breathe,
mouths pressed to the breach,
gasping a little at a time.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
growing in your lungs.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
set on fire.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
I come face-to-face with my Shadow
hungry
devouring
depraved.
The lupine
before a full hunter moon
bristles.
Hot saliva
falls
from hurtful pointed rows
in pearls.
This
in Goodge Street Station's
Underground
where a poster
promotes
The Hunger
a page-turner
The Clown in Soho:
3 Chocolate Martinis
4 lagers
1 gram of *******
300 press-ups
7 mile run and
1 sachet of Kamagra
… the night begins …
I howl with delight
- that’s me -
cracks open
a smile
yellow eddies swirl
in thrawl
to that shadow beast o’ mine.
This monstrous
I
can never satiated be --
a beast to straight jacket under the influence of the waning and waxing moon
and on the night of the carmine moon
release
My phone rings
(Excuse me, while I take this).
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ashley?’
‘Depends on who’s asking,’
I respond
licking my lips.
‘You Ashley Chapman?’
I like this kind o’ game.
‘Like I said,
who’s asking?’
Frustrated he repeats, ‘Confirm your name.’
I yawn and tell him as savagely as I can:
'No!'
Wolves
know 'no'
to the pack.
But as in Beauty and the Beast
(the Cocteau 1946 version, of course)
beneath that thick molting hair pelt
beasts have culture
and feelings, too
(a lion's heart?)
and mostly
(occasionally not)
given
space
food
The Den
a willing mate (or two)
we’re okay
affectionate dogs.
For when all is well with my shadow
-- no problem
in peace
in chains
'til the looped moon!
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
****** universal **** as if the sun
Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.
Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.
Your world is you. I am my world.
You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,
Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
3.1k
Kafka and his Giant Insect
Which Might Be a Cockroach
But Maybe Not
We Could go to Das Schloss and ask Mr. K
An insect woke up one morning and realized
He had been transformed into Gregor Samsa
From a life focused on eating hair and grease
Glue, soup, bread, paper, leather
Sewerage, butter, meat (fresh and decayed)
Makeup, cookies, sugar, toothbrush bristles
Cookies, pizza, flour, tacos, apple pie
Dead bodies, feces, and his own species
He now had to deal with the confusion
The sorrow of being Gregor Samsa
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Place silhouette pieces or outlines of my heart in thirty or more envelopes.
Paste each one with a new soft paintbrush which clean cream bristles. Push them into torn up fragments of clean new watercolour paper. The sharp edges feel through onto the wooden table leaving mistaken, accidental grooves. Glimmers of sawdust are ****** up into the pockets of your lungs, where they contaminated and will permanently sit.
It was a small heart, the colour of grey sky reflected on seas and carried in bloated raindrops. The texture of diamond. Carved up as easily as wax by a blunt butter knife.
The envelopes are neatly labelled with white tailors chalk powders.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Love, such an abstract thing.
Spread across a canvas.
Made seen by the help of brush bristles.
A vivid depiction of clear bottles made a mess.
I hope your not afraid of painting with ***** hands.
The feel of paint staining clean hands.
Here.
No one is innocent.
Not even the canvas which is neither seen nor heard
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
I liked to taste you on my
Lips,
Tongue,
Breath,
Breathing you in
But the taste faded,
I longed for your aroma
To stay,
I was clean shaven,
You liked it that way,
Then a beard erupted
From my
Cheeks,
Throat,
Lips,
Surrounded kept warm,
It grew many colours upon my
Face,
Hard at first, bristles stung your
Features,
But it matured, grew softer
You even stroked it,
I went to taste you, satisfy your needs
I savoured your
Flavour,
Aroma,
Nectar,
Upon my lips
Like before, but better
My fur added sensation to a sensitive
Place,
I was like a kitten with a bowl of milk,
I made you
purr,
Purr,
PURR,
Out loud, louder
Yet I was drinking from your
Soft lips,
I had my fill, a smile upon your face,
I slept satisfied as well as you.
The morning arose
And I breathed in, still upon my face
I curled my top lip inhaled
I could smell you upon my beard
I licked the edges around my fur
Taste,
Smelt,
Nectar,
Was still here, I smiled
What once had faded, now
To be enjoyed a second time during the day
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
I’m searching for Paradise
Beyond the vast ocean on a beach filled with white sand
Under the palm tree in the shadows of untamed land
Where the ocean tides pave over the imprints of a desolate shore
And the wind echoes around caressing the sun drenched floor
In front of the sea, sparkling from the sun’s radiant light
Waiting to set, and be engulfed by the night
In my hand I clasp upon a cold and crisp, refreshing beer
Looking upon the horizon so clear
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On an immeasurable plane of green land tangent only to a white mountain range
Where the prairie has been spared from the time of industrial change
In front of the sun as it strokes the horizon line
I sit, while I clasp upon my tall glass of wine
The sky is painted by an array of colors, reflecting off tranquil clouds
Free from the hustle and bustle of crowds
The grass is soft, like long bristles of velvet fur
As the pollen rises from the flowers, it creates an indescribable blur
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
In the big city, illuminated by artificial light
Surrounded by friends in the chaos of night
We trek, pushing through the people infested street
And pulse to the music of an inescapable beat
In the heat of passion, impossible to explain
We pop bottle after bottle of the most exclusive champagne
Under the stars, beneath the glittering sky
Indulging within the penthouse so high.
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On the edge of the world, perched upon a soaring cliff
Where you can taste the cool crisp air with but only a whiff
As the sun begins to peak out from beneath the earths womb
I pour a drink, full of spirits to consume
The birds begin to sing in metronomic rhyme
I sing along, to count the time
In the twilight hour sets
The new day begins as I’m purged of regrets
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
After an extensive and exhausting day of work
Grueling and toiling for a boss who’s a ****
Breaking my back for the lowest of scraps
Sweating and Striving till my knees collapse
I return to an undersized and meager house
To be greeted by my enduring spouse
Embracing the responsibility of my new role as a father
I look upon the face of my daughter
And within her eyes so nice
I finally find Paradise
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
at the desk, applying for jobs
there is coffee in my cup
and paint in the creases of my fingernails,
on the wall, a whiteboard with new song lyrics
and a list
of things I need to buy,
of course, once I have the money to buy them,
which brings me back to the desk
which an empty bottle of Cabernet Merlot
sits with an empty glass
and notebooks and a mason jar
with cloudy brown-red water
from the bristles of my paintbrushes
my coffee is cold
the french press is in the kitchen
but my flatmate is filming in there
so I’m stuck at my desk
with two sips of cold coffee left,
applying for jobs.
I feel very fragile
right now,
partly because I didn’t go to a job interview
today,
partly because I didn’t go to a job trial,
on friday
though I don’t want to be a waitress
and **** modelling for art classes scares me.
there’s a plant on my windowsill
named Lucy
and she doesn’t have to do anything
and there are two vanilla candles and an incense holder
with lavender incense burning
but **** all the things that
"bring peace"
like small plants, candles, incense, crystals and photographs;
I want a healthy and clean life,
so I have these things
part as a protection
from my own mind
but to be perfectly honest,
I’m at the desk, browsing jobs online,
saving them for later into a bookmark folder entitled
"Wellington Jobs"
instead of actually applying.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
We talk politics in the shower.
You shampoo your beard,
I condition my armpit hair.
Good morning coffee breath.
I love you like a palindrome.
Tragic comedy, our physical love stretched
thin
over distance.
Endings always differ.
Moon circles scream it’s raining on me.
Serotonin’s been locked up for years, I put her somewhere safe.
Check you’re alive with a finger ***** comedy of errors sings an ode in my left ear.
Here
beard bristles
brush hair
light back catch
sensitivity sits
less lower lip
fold
selves
in
scene end
stage right
pick up towel
EXIT.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
Your beauty is unmatched
your essence unscathed
you could wrap me in your curls
and leave me bound for days
The thick bristles on your face
resemble a forest to discovery,
your mouth a cave to explore
lighting the way with electricity
generating from our rapport
Sweeter than a glob of icing
on the last slice of cake—
Your twisted expressions
make my chest quake
You’re a lot to take in—clean cut nails
and pasty speckled skin; the
trail of hair on your belly and
your form soundly sleeping
where our motions had been
Now you are far a fields away
frolicking in colorless grass,
lost and in denial of what
you could have made last.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
It is the day when he was born,
A bitter day that early sank
Behind a purple-frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.
The time admits not flowers or leaves
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
The blast of North and East, and ice
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,
And bristles all the brakes and thorns
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns
Together, in the drifts that pass
To darken on the rolling brine
That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,
Arrange the board and brim the glass;
Bring in great logs and let them lie,
To make a solid core of heat;
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
Of all things ev'n as he were by;
We keep the day. With festal cheer,
With books and music, surely we
Will drink to him, whate'er he be,
And sing the songs he loved to hear.
2.1k
There was one day when the dysfunctionality, obscure and fearful
left my body to slump for once, laid back almost literally,
because we were sitting on a sofa, a boring tone so no descriptive words included.
You're cold marble fingers that greyish tint touched the skin of my cheek.
being nothing but dry terrain accompanied by sudden rain storms, my cheek is pale.
puberty according to american girl dolls books never told me
my first love would bring love to lifeless,
my cheek was only the beginning.
Spinning the corners of my mouth into ringlets,
dancing with empathetic eyebrows,
sweeping my eyelashes into brown billowed bristles,
circling the bridge of my nose.
You thought I was watching as Harrison
hopped round realities
and watched himself lead lovers
to open spaces.
But the time laces were three seconds to long.
I counted 21 kisses
no wrong, just a few misses.
Now that we’re done,
I can feel the mark of your physical wishes.
My soul is love lifeless, as before we begun.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Slowly, the brush caresses my skin.
The bristles feel soft and comforting as they slide across my wrist.
Electricity surges throughout my body,
the crying finally ceases,
the bad thoughts;
gone.
The only thing left,
is the feeling of the soft hair gliding all over;
Over my wrists, arms, legs, and my chest.
As the feeling of the bristles dissipate,
The feeling of cold paint drips down my body.
From my wrists, arms, legs, and my chest.
Red paint trickles slowly.
I can no longer feel the brush in my hand.
I stare down at my body,
My skin has turned red,
and darkness comes in.
In an instant,
my once bright white canvas
turns black with drips of red.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC