"caveats" poems
Dear Azi, I'm full of broken thoughts.
My insides are like a box of matches.
The moisture from my sorrow, wont allow combustion.
I get up every morning with a tourniquet in my hand,
seeking the self in the vestibule of my childhood.
Your caveats no longer reach me.
But, the sweet carousel of your laughter still does.
Each loss is a new vulnerability.
A subscript, for a long past bludgeon.
The only whisper that still holds,
is the one that tells of your past love for me.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
maybe I should encourage violence within conformity and seek to end impressionism or maybe NOT!- create perversions within a song split-ting hairs of the long dead being found at a youthful age washed ashore no longer breeding nor bleeding ceased of breathing to be now an exact science- scaled back models of when it was brave to be bold but hidden from news cameras for leftover caveats - I wanna go else-where and find redemption to shout **** you - desktop plants dried out from foul air and aspirin bottles ******** clad in old skin next to a banana peel- no remorse no recourse no answers for in my brain
prescribed lies conjunct with irreversible truth complexity.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
I made a list of caveats
For the designs you constructed,
From thoughts in my mind
And for one, you know me too closely
It is too frightening
The way you find constellations
In broken skies
And propriety from my colouring
Outside the lines
Then, within my bones, too unstructured,
You found the sun in their moonlight complexion
And you confess your secrets
That these letters and conversations we’ve exchanged
Hang in a gallery in your head
Etched sentiments
And faded drawings of everything resolute
Oct 13, 2021
Oct 13, 2021 at 10:51 PM UTC
kiss me with a mouthful of mango sorbet;
you taste like
home and feel like
winter.
my craven desires, and
innocence in the arch of your
neck: caveats concealed in
kisses; you have
misgivings and we have
lain here for years upon years
desiring little more than to be
swallowed up by our
sins and shadows.
I'll be honest, if your moral
halflife is longer than the
school year, then
what's the point?
your beta decay is
pathetic, you're impotent, the
radiation is too weak to be
of any harm;
set my geiger counter
abuzz, like my phone
begging for attention like
you should beg for mine, and I
Love It,
you know I
do, quand tu manges
Le Gateaux, such an
eager little **** seeking
absolution like I have anything other than
Absolut to offer you.
you drink with the
desperation of a desert-dehydrated
man, with the
fervor of a woman throwing herself,
time and again, at the
Glass Ceiling, further success
visible and attainable:
you always spoke to me like
you had a mouthful of
broken Faberge eggs, and to
close your mouth would be to
Invite Pain.
you were always averse to pain, though you
relished in inflicting it, and I
loved little more than to be
bruised and beaten and bloodied by your
ardent affections.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
odium
reproaching his fellow man
eyes all with burning coals
yearning for the rising sun
the caveats fuel
yet he is without service,
his engine block rusted
the firing pistons stunted
driving the flat stretch
inching nearer
the blank star
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 11:39 PM UTC
*Arcadia, or what is now spliced of aeons' great
Gates of gold that rust in hate
Islands on grim sulfur lakes;
I have no demeanors that wait
They've left and gone away
To the rise of demise and acid rain
Where epidermis boils
Quintessence abolished and spoiled;
Grand scent of desiccant
Miff's so indelicate
Caveats and feats of nothing; No rise
My apotheosis' hellish paradise*
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 4:48 AM UTC
I eagerly await another day of attempting to meet new people.
Students amble through our campus, up and down the hill,
Listening to music, staring at the ground, or caught up in their head,
Past a new potential friend: me.
I’ve got my friends, ones of the highest quality,
In the city, just half an hour north of me.
I don’t see them much, though, and I have no way to leave.
We can’t speak much, either; they’ve got jobs and loves and lives.
So, to maximize my social potential, I put myself to work.
I’ve mastered the art and science alike of socializing;
“Use this register”; “smile at this distance”; “speak to listen, don’t wait to talk”.
Studying it all extensively to figure out what’s best.
They’re everywhere, I hear, in the dozens, maybe hundreds.
Folks just like me: trying to overcome the awkward and build a bond.
So where are they all, and why do my paintings remain unseen?
Why do my endless chemistry attempts produce no reaction?
Well, a girl said “hello” in the stairwell as I headed for my dorm.
She smiled, seeming to be one of few to acknowledge my attempts.
Just a friendly gesture, sure, yet I think of it often, her unaware of its value.
I cross paths with many daily, yet I’ve seen no interaction like it since.
I let my confidence carry me toward new opportunities and situations I desire,
Yet, whenever I go to approach them, something nags at me.
A hand that pulls me back; a wall that stops me in my tracks.
It’s Anxiety, and he’s back, worse than ever.
Within this conundrum lies a great irony; a twist that tears at my conscience.
The closer I get to making friends, the tighter Anxiety’s grasp grips me.
“No, what if your words are taken wrong?”. “The bond won’t last.” “...But your eating…”
The reward, even if achieved, seems not to be without caveats, he claims.
He’s right; at a distance, I am safe; nobody can see me struggle to eat,
Yet this sentences me to suffer the animosity of my esophagus in solitude.
I am shielded from criticism, watchful eyes, and the projections of my mind,
Yet I am my most isolated in the most social of the places I’ve ever lived.
So, I eagerly await that new day of attempting to meet new people.
Fellow loners who walk ‘cross pathways, through buildings, and to their dorms.
Cradling their digital safety net in-hand, perhaps fearing what I fear,
Past their new potential friend.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:41 PM UTC
there are certain caveats of masculinity
which every guy hears at one point
my favorite is don't stick your **** in crazy,
yeah,
unless you want to have some fun
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Hopeless endeavour.
The desecration of vitality,
Melancholy entices the pond of hope, repelling golden shimmering.
Infernal tendrils bringing insight to carress in snide
Dug its sharp elongated thorns inside, mending its stride
Gently encompass its roots around the mask,
The concrete veil that shone brightly in false atonement.
Expulsion from the realm of gold, sent astray for an eternity;
Such naïve, brazen happiness, ignorant of the caveats
The mere playground of unbridled mania quarantined.
Faux manifestations of an illusory smile,
For the horizon cast mere wisps of blight,
Rejecting heartbeat of rays gone awry.
They smirk as they watch you flee.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
The first lesson they teach us in EMT class
Is to never lose our compassion,
Never forget that every patient is
A human being with a story, a family, a life.
They tell us to keep our emotions in check
But to never lose our respect,
The trust in the competency and freedom of choice,
For we are the link of survival
On the worst day of their lives.
We were not there to know the reason that led
Up to the call,
But we are there to get them through the danger that followed.
Why then does the text book instruct us to abandon our respect,
Abandon the presumption of humanity
At the mere thought of the words 'developmental disability?'
Why do the words Autism and Down Syndrome suddenly
Make it okay to condescend and patronize as if to a child,
To infantilize an adult whose intelligence we are not qualified to assume?
Why is it my duty to respect a neurotypical patient
And my job to abandon it for the developmentally disabled?
I wonder if they would encourage my peers to treat me the same?
After all, who cares that I am top of the class and squad leader to boot?
Who cares that I answer the most questions or scored highest on the test?
I am autistic. I am considered less than human.
No.
The textbook is wrong,
Primitive despite being updated in 2018.
Respect every patient means Respect ALL,
No exceptions,
No diagnostic caveats.
'First, do no harm.'
Treat with empathy and compassion.
It is their own inhumanity that prevents them
From recognizing the humanity inside us,
The developmentally challenged.
I live on planet Autism,
Population 1 in 59,
No less of a person than any other,
Perhaps more human really.
That humanity is the force behind my First Responder drive.
Do not deign to treat me as small child or foreign planet inhabitant.
Forget the basis in the archaic.
Respect and compassion for all cannot be checked at the door.
I am not less than.
My struggles have, if anything,
Forced me to become more.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
I’m enjoying spending time with my mom - we have an intimacy braided like rope. I forgot how funny she is. At the same time, we’ve been softcore arguing for days.
She wants me to accomplish something this summer - to pad my med-school resume - do anything but relax. But I refuse. If I’m going to complete a master's degree next summer, then I’m going to have fun this summer. Periodt. I’m not an automaton for her to wind. Her stress radiates, as I play Animal Crossing on the couch.
I reach up towards her forehead, “Is there an off button?” I ask.
“Go away,” she chuckles, blocking my hand.
Before I turn away, I add, “You’re the most fun when you’re not giving advice or saying the wrong things..”
“Or breathing incorrectly?” She finished my sentence.
“Exactly,” I laughed, “then you’re practically perfect.”
The boys - Peter (my BF) and Step (my stepfather) - sit or stand, uninvolved, outside the action, like we’re in some other dimension - they try and look at anything but us when we’re wrangling.
Poetry time!
The phantoms of my discontent
are held at bay, by leisure,
are mollified by pleasure.
Am I crazy to set boundaries?
Am I lazy, cause I won’t let her chivvy me?
I’ve got my own voice; I’ll make my own choices.
We have the same goals - but I’m in control.
For every plan I’ve got, she has a hundred caveats.
Sure, I’ve done nothing, while she’s done it all.
I’m her little rocket that she doesn’t want to stall.
But she needs to understand, I’ve left the launching pad.
.
.
songs for this…
Mama by Spice Girls
Hey Mama by Kanye West
Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now by Nikki Blonsky, Marissa Jaret Winokur, Ricki Lake, Motion Picture Cast of Hairspray
.
periodt ← slang for absolute period
May 18, 2024
May 18, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
You doting companions,
masters of mercy,
full of faults
and ever-forgiving,
delighters of spoils,
caveats of violence,
greeters of God,
givers of light,
gatekeepers of disaster,
lost in the balance
of chaos and necessity
and are most deserving
of love.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
two concepts
dance around
in my mind
from time to time
the first one is
secure
small towns and
familiar faces
streets with grass
growing in the cracks
and parking lots with
the footprint of my
disintegrating shoe
pressed into fresh asphalt
streetlights that
come on to let
me know it’s time
to go home
a soft place
to call my own
the second one is
romantic
intriguing and scary
traffic and lights
and people and buildings
that fight to reach
into the clouds
an unfamiliar city
with corners and caveats
to explore for the first time
lights that never
burn out
restless crowds
to fade into
as soon as someone
learns your name
two very different thoughts
both equally
concerning in
two very different ways
complacency or
out of place?
i refuse to give
myself an answer
or maybe i’m afraid
to let myself wander
but a third question
knocks on my
skull and
lets itself in
and i can’t help
but wonder
what does
five in the morning
feel like when you
can’t see the sunrise
casting shadows
on empty fields?
does the world still
find a moment to
release its breath
before the day begins
when the city didn’t
even sleep the night before?
what if i don’t
belong here?
which outcome would
leave me least misplaced?
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 11:39 PM UTC
You learn, and generally to your discontent
That wishes and horses have much in common
Each likely to prove less than obliging
To take to the bit and bridle
No matter how fine the metal and leather may appear
And should the procurer demur,
He may find there are provisos and caveats
Governing that which can’t be recanted
Returns and refunds being frowned upon
As such items, being one of a kind,
Custom accoutrements which only one can don
And regrettably one is apt to find
That you may not have found a perfect fit
And once it breaks, you’ll find you bought it.
Jun 24, 2022
Jun 24, 2022 at 4:13 PM UTC
The acquisition of a son
With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats,
Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity,
Had awaken something in the old man,
Certain forces leading him to the altar
And, subsequently, to the nursery once more
(A second son, brought to bear in the established manner.
With a minimum of drama and fanfare.)
The child was loved, in a rudimentary fashion;
While his flesh-and-blood bona fides were beyond question,
He was a consumer, a thing of constant need
More akin to a hardship than his celebrated half-sibling,
Whose command of the spotlight
Served as a gravitational pull for parental affections.
The old man passed on after a spell,
Hanging on long enough for his second son
To stumble onto the precipice of adulthood
(His mother had hot-footed it out
Almost immediately after the burial,
Choosing to stage-mother her feted stepchild)
Though his fatherly wisdom
Was limited to matters of his craft, his business,
Which was left to the young man, though grudgingly at that,
As a sop, a means of getting shet of two unwanted encumbrances.
He’d proved to have much of the old man’s gift,
Whittling and carving puppets and toys and dolls
(Though with a certain grim fury making it evident to all
That the work was not a labor of love)
Rarely stopping to speak to or even acknowledge his clientele,
Except if one of them happened to repeat the time-worn chestnut
That the toy chooses the child, in which case he laughed harshly,
All but barking *It’s the purse that closes the deal, not the ****
And then he would return to carving some doll or marionette,
Which would always seem to have a certain wan look
Around the corners of the eyes, the edge of the lips,
The look of a child’s toy equipped with the foreknowledge
That it was destined for the back of some closet shelf,
The bottom of some attic-bound chest.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Hey! Play it really low
War in control, when we were young
And now we are old, the chrome guns
Are the same as the charming wine of the nuns
The metaphysics of the majestic soul
Is just an entitlement, it's strong in this one
She says "I deserve this." unable to hide her inadequacies
And reservations about presidential fools, like the rogue agents
Like me and fela grupi, till the clocks run out
The guns come out in the Brixton Sun
Time for gun control, like the paper planes
That fly like the paper dreams
The taste of thin rhymes that you had your singles on
Singularity, I interest your plural discretionary warning
I have been given many caveats by the ladies at the Taco Bell
The eatery still welcomes the immigrants, like the American Government
I felt better about changing my mind, regarding the tall sights
And the people digging ditches and splitting the bleeding cigarettes and marijuana bills
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
you are my treasured pain—
and i am your inebriation secret joy
the wonders of it all,
over whiskey and wonderland talk
so wistful and gay
playing dress up for faux first dates
and dancing around inevitability
but i was her in black and red,
with joy and caveats to hold at night
and you were the boy with the velvet voice,
so quiet at day, but bold in the evening tides
how we walked this far
on such rough terrain,
with a third hand in mine,
i’ll never know.
i trip and fall down the coastline,
allowing for bumps and bruises
along my blushed face and jawline
you were not magnificent,
only marred,
with tattered tales of torment and your demise
but the demise was mine instead,
all for the taste of a secret wine
and we became the last of the great faux pas
and I became a dissection at my desk
again
your words are meaning to you,
but we crumple them and
spit on your intentions,
which until then were never seen
out of your mouth
i’ll never know how you tasted,
but i know
how it tastes
to never have you.
and you’ll not hold me in wintertime
below the shadows of december,
but you’ll hold on to the fragments
of Almost
and Settling
until you pass.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
Golden ooze emanating as sticky velvet shimmering
Incandescent mellow slime adheres to my eyes.
The instant that fireflies cluttered the sky
In tufts of effulgent light, illuminating the heavens
From the sins of glory frolicking above, without resent
I would play my heart's desire in the lustrous glow
Affluent of romance, in the critters' dance
The warm daydream in exuberant daze
Idyllic illustrations so vivacious and serene
Of embers and wisps fluttering, in harmony
The amber of the deities stroking the world's vitality
Bloating the shells with determination
Fragrant seeds amongst the barren fields
That sow and yield the feats of fraternity - a wonderful time together
Does that spirited desire brim many chalices
That hold the essence they cherished and held dear?
Alas, the mere beaks of the mountains display
Mere creeks that seep discretely
Infallible caveats, seething with deceit,
Retracting the essence replacing the grief
Hurt tangles caressing their cheeks
In fluffy, soothing melancholy
Gazing at the lilac sky, a cruel epiphany
When the judgement of burnt genocide condemned me;
It embraced me in an exalted, wayward dazzle.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC