"caricatures" poems
On my skin I wear the bands of shielded sun.
Commitment to the heart makes this skin colour run.
With one liberal hand, I tear down these branches being hung,
to shower in yellowed leaf confetti.
These forest roots ran like hair line skull fractures,
under canopies blooming red from the sunlight rapture
and now these trees leave their taller brothers to fall as ashes,
with ivy on my ankles, stifling hope up to my chin.
Living memories, my forest sheltered, scrambled for home;
small pretty beasts, unrefined, breathing caricatures with bones.
Screaming they beg for attention, inattentive to this situation as a whole.
Our own view is all we can consider.
This house of cards built on paper-cuts, from the trees before.
I'm now growing wiser to my winter freeze and your summer thaw.
I need all of these things I hate about me, and they can never be ignored;
a psychological pre-disposition, the only one I can afford.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Mirrors telling lies makeup
Painting illusions,
Stains
On
Lips
Making caricatures from my face, a
Character in its place, playing
Narcissist every day.
If I love me they will come,
If I love me they will stay.
This part masks insecurity,
If I say I love me, won't they?
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
There’s no point in *********** today,
Because I’m not looking for skin...
Today it’s cosmic electricity.
Because I can’t smell the screen's pheromones,
And there’s something to be said for chemistry.
Because I can touch my own *******
But familiarity is hard-pressed to impress.
Because the only scraping and biting here
Is far from raunchy; my teeth are restless.
Because people have **** opinions and nuances,
And today I see caricatures but no people.
Because it’s all poor, uninspired acting,
And the only singular thing I want is truth.
The only singular thing I want.
Is truth.
Nothing against ***********
Today or ever.
But there are some lonely stretches
When I’m perched on the edge of the world,
Aroused to adventure,
And Life is buzzing past me
And I desperately want to rip into it
And savor and lick and **** out its seed
And reach into its hair and pull hard
As we bruise and break each other
And SCREAM OUT
-- LIFE!
Where redtube just won’t cut it.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 4:50 AM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
/I dreamed that wrinkled fingers pointed me backward down the road to teach me about faith./
there’s this plastic imitation leather
peeling off of my steering wheel
and it caught the edge of my chin tonight:
like a fingernail if I closed my eyes.
I re-find that people are flawed,
that I value flaws in a certain lilt or lighting—
I fall deeply in love with confidence like that
but fail to pull it to my own cheeks.
we’re microwave dinners, have you noticed that?
showcasing our dreams in caricatures we later regret.
we’re rotating in heat—pressurizing for perfection,
warming our raw insides to blend with what we see.
(it felt like a fingernail if I closed my eyes.)
spines are expressive—they make us easier to read.
no spine is more inclined to bring eyes the rising sun than yours.
our spines are expressive—they make us easier to write.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
The words you produce are poison
The type that spreads fear
It's an echo of oppression
That mutters close to ear
You think it's just for fun
Just a quick win
For you it's a passing comment
But for me it's embedded in my skin
'They're just words' you say,
You're a freak, man, ****
'Remember what you're worth'
That's what it really like,
You don't think before you say
Whenever you speak these slurs
You perpetuate the hate
Masking me in caricatures
So next time you begin to say,
Those little words to me
Please check your ego,
And ******* let me be.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
Behold, already on the long parades
The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.
And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.
2.9k
I laugh at the sound
of the wind
As it echoes through my mind
Telling me stories of memories
I had previously left behind
with caricatures of faces
I can no longer remember in reality
And songs from past places
That bring me down
with the emotional gravity
And I was my thoughts spin around
and around
I get dizzy from the intensity
and my sanity
Can no longer be found
Yet
I can still hear the wind
And I laugh at the sound
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
Good Witches do not
wear dresses of peonies
they do not say
“I am a Good Witch”
they are not
caricatures of happiness
Good Witches wear
sunsets like cloaks
they run with
bare feet
exposed limbs
and snake hair
through forests and foggy minds
They jump over stone walls
laughing as the
sticks crack
beneath them
they drum their midnight black claws
against tables
as if they were raised by wolves
and divine your future
in sidewalk cracks
modern-day Cassandras,
better listen
listen
they do not say
“I am a Good Witch”
they smirk, bear fangs
forked tongues spilling magik like moonlight
and make you figure it out yourself
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
I felt you kiss the edges
of my gypsy soul last night.
You laid aside my armour
So rusty, yet so bright.
All the poets in all the bars
hung by Morganna's violet hair
casting ideals towards the stars
wept when they landed elswhere.
I let you take the diamond
from between my broken teeth;
and laid the hunter to rest
tonight never to repeat.
Our bodies told a story
full of puns and lifeless caricatures,
for the people we once were
that lived within this parchment
of our long forgotten dreams.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
We being so hidden from those who
Have quietly borne and fed us,
How can we answer civilly
Their innocent invitations?
How can we say "we see you
As but-for-God's-grace-ourselves, as
Our caricatures (we yours), with
Time's telescope between us"?
How can we say "you presumed on
The accident of kinship,
Assumed our friendship coatlike,
Not as a badge one fights for"?
How say "and you remembered
The sins of our outlived selves and
Your own forgiveness, buried
The hatchet to slow music;
Shared money but not your secrets;
Will leave as your final legacy
A box double-locked by the spider
Packed with your unsolved problems"?
How say all this without capitals,
Italics, anger or pathos,
To those who have seen from the womb come
Enemies? How not say it?
2k
I flirt with falling
Weightless in the illusion
Catch me, air
Catch me, trees
Catch me water
Dangling over ripples
Interrupted, they scatter
Soaring circles
Arcs in time
We are interlocked, intertwined.
"It's like titanic"
But I'm the only one with my arms spread wide
I shuffle my feet closer to the edge
All is emptiness
And fullness
"I feel like I'm floating"
Two smiles hover either side
The third has found solid ground
And my favourite people in all the world are here
And scattered in the other-land
Left behind:
One *** ***** of foreign species
One single-authored message
"He stole the paper back"
Eyes are anxious caricatures
But that's just how he do.
Under now,
Earth clings:
"Don't leave me again"
We serenade our climb
With discordant harmony
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
I am the kind of guy who goes to bars alone with my headphones in, munching on a cigar with half my brain on iambic pentameter and the other half on the feeling of a girls thigh under my lips.
I love the moon and I love the sun but both can be too bright and too dim at the same time. Red lights don't exist and my soul wants to be wild.
The colors of the world scream at me in silence and I smile with closed eyes, just living in the few seconds given to me by whoever is holding the knife next to the string.
This world, these people, living their lives like caricatures of trendy Hollywood films and fashion magazines leave me weary and disoriented. The laughing man next to me in ragged clothes and missing teeth calls to my curiosity more than the man in a pressed tux trying to sell me expensive cologne on expensive advertisements.
I don't understand, but I want to.
There is a pain I feel every morning and every evening.
It flows through my bones and courses through my veins like a patient army, building their palisades around my heart.
It makes my mind swirl in anger and beauty. The pain on being here. The pain of floating through the universe on a spinning fishtank.
The pain in every breath. The hell in the foundations of eden. The pain of my existence.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
6 sides
Latent enabler
Counterpoint to truth, amorphic
Dada to life
Callous Birth
Islands dripped in collagen
Mystic, effortless life
Tempests laden iota in tune
Riven
Licked flat, obtuse
Crescent stench
Pagan cells
Hazard the thought
Pick the Atlantic cherry
Reach further than comfort
Pushed & consumed
Spirited paste
Jesuit told in spheres
Lament interest, matted quill
Totem, Saxon tribe
Inflections of hearsay
And Swastikas on parade
Guilt of the blacksmith, undecided
The arms of tablets
Ashtrays & tropospheric light
Another page turned
Capsules filled with perfume
Loose skin lost in relics
Temporal lobe
Cautioned indignant
Pardon the prose
Sonnets dissolved in ethanol
Caricatures of the fleeting
Of our cities last broadcast
Absorbed by times gone
Glittered pestilence
Canceling subordinates, powdered Semtex
Soup of the sewer
Lift the butcher above your head
Nazca lines
Suborbital
Silk screen with *****
Horizontal qualm toward revulsion
Incursion
Calm, cued and cubed
Lab coats coated in pharmaceuticals
Base compound, ionic bond
Covalent CNS
Sympathetic vibration
Default to nature
To theorise movement
Agitate intolerance, turbulence
Beautiful thought
Calculate causality
Passenger of licked lips
Token to latex
Croft in ear, to taste
Unlaced tips, rings of halothane
Bliss
Intrigued with obscurity
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
*Minkymonks are funny things
I thought you'd like to know
They're neither young nor old
But never seem to growth
Standing proud in a garden
Along the north road sands
We passed them on a Sunday
On our way to Grans
Bright coloured creatures
Beside the trees so tall
In amongst the flowers
Then half way up the wall
Occasionally changed
Making way for new
Creating excitement
Coming into view
Dragon,horse,leprechaun,
Comic caricatures bright
We passed in the morning
Then back again at night
Sitting quietly in father's car
In Grans the front room to
No television or computer games
We knew just what to do
Sometimes playing in the garden
Or drawing thing we had seen
Simple childhood pleasures
Those happy days have been.*
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
If I am not beautiful,
Am I not bountiful?
...........The problem with beauty is
that it gets old
after that, it can not be sold
it is a fleeting commodity
it will never, never last
If I am not successful
am I not relevant?
If I am not rich,
am I not important?
does money really talk?
and can fame
equal true , unspoiled
happiness
or peace of mind?
If I am not powerful
am I merely anonymous?
do I contribute anything at all
and do I matter?
We are living in a world
that does not tolerate mediocrity
it dwells in mores of hypocrisy
and so it breeds profanity
it encourages deception
and if you want to have your
name remembered,
take a few lives in your
gun powdered hands
they will splash your face
all over the papers
and you can hide behind
the curtains of insanity
how sad to be lonely
but these are the
scenes that we condone
plastic caricatures we are
living in lies and
false smiles
we have died while
we are still alive
inhaling the polluted air
that we so happily create
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
How jealous am I
At poetry?
That simple words make the lovely firm
And compact shadowy abstraction?
Every letter holds a bitter love
A fiction made with zeal,
Drawn from pinpricks, imaginings,
A fiction I made real.
Within them, sit, the cloth I weave
My heroic darling love exists
There, sobriety is leastways bearable
And pen to paper I can’t resist.
I see perfection—her complexion,
Written out in words
But she is so stolid
And doesn’t move
Her features fade when I admit,
Stale enterprise, the poem done
and the page I promptly quit.
Rife with guilt and melancholy
I’ve done impulse injustice:
Concretizing the unknowable,
Left caricatures incomplete.
Despite the sense, here, stacked before me,
The envy for this poem
Because it has a solid grasp
At the prickings of my heart.
And still, what have I
And what have he
But two-side written jealousy?
For more words that breed a love
Of which I, voracious, hunt,
More beauty, more glamour, rosy viscera,
Give poetry that fallacy,
That fallacy I want.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
i treat all my physical pains, notably
the sponge of an ***** hidden
inside my cranium like a
testament of hellish arithmetic -
that's the easiest way of transcending
the pain... treat it like an arithmetic
sequence, that not even a genius could
work out... but of course learn some
humanistic deviation from the pain
with de Sade - the charcoal
rubbing of sadism against
placebo most people crumble under...
ponces and puny caricatures of humanity:
but that's how i see pain,
an unsolvable arithmetic sequence...
and sure, they can laugh...
but you're the last one
laughing... which means you're basically
the last / only person laughing.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
I
An orange overcast this
evening splayed pink
hues stripes and
saccharine beads. The
twilight caricatures live golden years.
Restless becoming in the garden of
her drunken sons their flowers
soaked in brass, seams
bursting in uncontrollable
laughter we pause. To
admire the briefness
of that era exploding
its petals peppering
spraying saliently we spill
indoors churning across tabletops.
My arms hang dead by my sides.
Her eyes gaping sway
swiftly biting deeply the dottedfaces
lurch. Streets fall unconditional
amidst tears we comb lips
sharply distinctly
her stubborn *** stumbling
handles loosening she holds
my hand my arms hang
dead we pause.
II
Children babble sunlight across
lawns; I hear sirens traffic icecream nips
our tongues twinge on windless
pipes gust our hair flying smiling
at laughter from the
playground behind us.
Placid smiles stain enamoured
halls; for glimpses
we mumble necks crooked
sheets flap draped over bars
her eyes waver glisten
shiver. A warm breeze
dries my hair.
III
Wallowing I oscillate utmost trep-
-idation entangling grappling but
hushed beneath foliage eyes
downturned soil clings when her
fingers impress deeper through
to where rivers end.
Glowing dawn I turn further
lighter almost her hair caught
between the floors;
gently feverish we see turgid
lines the tinniest cracks we pray
on tranquil mornings.
Window panes blemished it was
spring only darker from
deafened rivers throbbing;
under lucid eyes I fold
and heralds blare. We consume
the silence sounding from still lakes.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Tumbleweed
Ted Old
John Merchant,
Joan Harling
Edith Smith
David Wilkinson,
Mike Waldron
Marie Ainsworth
Ruth Bell,
Lucy Ritchie
A list undignified by death
In an instant deflated, unwound
Vibrant yet now not a breath
Missing, lost, not found
I mourn every one of their names
And all that each one implied
Merely a lifetime ago
They came, they lived, they died.
The bluntness has ruined my mood
With the arrogant stealing of life
It demanded all my attention
Then cynically wielded the knife
I'm trying but their voices are fading
As my brain's recordings wear out
And the clarity of all their faces
Is blurred with the pallor of doubt
So all I have now are some photos
Flat caricatures of their lives
Each one replacing my memory
With a past that cannot be revived
Relentless my list will grow longer
Crushing for each name a line
And my heart will grow ever more heavy
Till the last name that's added,
is mine.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 2:53 AM UTC
Summer lies while river rats gnaw on posts
weathered from the reverence tides.
Hunching over limestone slate,
picture pissed-eyed states of the caricatures.
Loss of limbs in dissociative fugue.
St. Anthony's fire up along the coast.
Ergot Dreams: Such splendid things!
Waking up in a pool with callosum yarns
spinning words of concern.
And i've come so close
time and time
to find the pinhole tube light.
Words keep seeping out,
I hear my mother holding me here.
Frozen solid.
Stuck in a cot.
Letting the little ******* off his chain just to
hear him stream
How many lives to burn in the ecclesia pyre
while jesus sweeps the remainders
off to sea?
Maybe I have died again,
living in this ferrous skin.
Seeded fledgling after all.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Manila is fray
Tough enough to die,
Brave enough to see ****** against
the billboards
***** on the marketplace
***** men haggling for prices
the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions of men take their places in
the esteros
a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.
My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
comes with a cheap price
a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
i sit on marble benches and dream
of artilleries, garlands on snuff-nosed
barrels, nuns grieving dust
in the ground. communal bathrooms
drunk in foolish caricatures,
the tabloids displaying flowerheads --
the democracy in the streets a ****
for kings, no love to lull
me to infantile sleep
tortured are the bulls
matadors hiding behind faces red like
faces of statesmen flushed with
the spirit of bourbon
whereas we are here river-facing
northern tip of its undying source
like wives on balustrades waiting
to catch the fragrance of inamoratas,
light reenters
interstice of chary webs of dull heads hemmed in like canopies in the throat of overthrown ponds, scraps
of metal sold for a night's worth
of gin and Sinatra,
Deep within the grave, the dead laughing
at the dead living. Atop waters,
yachts peering into drowning fish,
in the middle, a jam of buses
belching lassitudes that strangle
the console, the man in all of us
the same, cursing behind the wheel
and everybody else different
dancing at the top of our heads.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC