"centimetres" poems
Only the moon
Defines our day
With orbit
Only sunshine
Allows our life
Only our ***
Creates our people
Only your love
Made me whole
Now moon drifts away
3.87 centimetres
Each year
The night shall stretch
And die
You left
All at once
Only I cry
I cry
I cry
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:13 AM UTC
my hands
only distance a
few centimetres
from yours
so
why does it feel
like i
have to stretch
a thousand miles
just to
clutch your hand in
mine?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
i'm not looking for pinpointed lights
in the sky or my veins like
emission spectra of petals you leave
around my aorta
with daisy chain bracelets
whilst holding my heart like a
baby hedgehog or a shard
of glass left from broke-into car
windows our getaway driver, misery,
scattered across the pavement of your
gaze i met for five exact seconds
i remember, clean as new linen,
the geometry of your living room
seventy-six centimetres from your
glasses or the symmetry of the
bridge of your nose or the sound
of your soft exhalation.
to three decimal places i
was in love with you, then.
the rain need not spell it out in
morse for me to know that. the
sun need not rise to devour sleep;
through the ten factorial seconds of
each six-week fraction of my
life,
i dream of you.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Cold night breeze.
Serene evening sky.
Dancing city lights.
Walking side by side.
Fingers intertwined.
Memory lane in our path.
People passed us by.
A couple they may think,
but it's our way of bidding the real goodbye...
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 5:22 AM UTC
Lovely unpretentious silhouette
all bruised under dusklight.
You've got a laugh like
Honey-gold
spilling into
cracks in the pavement
*I could walk you back
to the station.*
Don't rush this, fool
Box this ((something)) up in it's
corners.
Keep those
Five centimetres between our fingers.
Inevitable distance.
I'll worship you behind
bulletproof glass.
Not yet, not yet
We love in fractions,
dripping into our hearts until it
spills over.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
*i vent, i'm sure you heard of the invention known as the ventilator... it's like a lung-clone-subservient of a "nanny quality" of automating the words: breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... it precursors the in and outsources the *out, there's a cult-like-scheme involving the use of... the stated tools... worthy of a suggestion that epitomises August as the month of harvest - i.e. the sun finally sets to auburn crops and **** me, isn't the bread rightly puffy?! toad-squidgy aye aye? go on, give us a burping caricature of a squeeze!*
imagine uttering the words:
i hope your mother lies
eternally run-sacked with hopes
of former ****** glory,
***** bleeding,
as if a Mongolian horde just passed
her with a glorious encore of
clapping to match...
because that's what i assert
as been done to my mother,
you don't even understand the verb
or adjective or conjunction behind
the noun.... after all, you're an African
Muslim and a pyramid builder,
a *******
jaded jock-strap and gag's
worth of you the Ben & Jerry...
praise the Koran
but don't understand that behind
each noun there's a collective grammatical
structure, **** you English political correctness,
**** you! **** YOU! have your Reagent's Street
and Oxford Street, have 'em!
behind the noun all grammatical categories
follow suite... universal noun, what category
for the particular? ape transforms into apish,
or Quasimodo or ~ape, nouns are units,
like centimetres, forget the other things, unless you:
let the shoppers drop dead like flies!
but imagine saying the words:
i hope your mother gets gang-raped by
an equivalent of a Mongolian horde;
yep, Mongolian necrophilia.
you said it to my mother, and i'm mourning,
alive, and counting.... once more... so **** you*!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
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Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
It says one-fourth from the bottle
and the rest from the tap
and oh, I most definitely did that.
Filled to the line a few centimetres from
the bottom of my cup
but apparently, that's too little, but isn't it meant to be
too much?
My squash was much too watery today.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
CIRCA 1922
Touching.
Almost but not
quite.
They lie together
exactly 6 centimetres apart
if one were to measure
such a distance
but a universe apart
in terms of the heart.
They have just made love
or rather - had ***
Now he snores.
She is unable to sleep.
She stays awake to see
the dawn enter the tiny room
gild ordinary objects
with a sunlight so golden
even a comb, a brush
a chair
become as wondrous
as objects in a Pharaoh's tomb.
And only does sleep
finally takes her prisoner
standing on the threshold
of a dream
she sees some
future archaeologist
unearth the golden comb
brush...chair...
the thoughts in her
head
her feelings
behind glass
in some museum
of the mind
"Despair"
circa 1922.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
Why do you seem so impossible to me? You are the epitome of all the things I should run from, but choose to love instead. You tell me about the magnificence that comes from your touch; tell me your hands are made of God as if I didn't already know. I look at you as all things heavenly, my lips are drenched in wine and yours are dripping with lust. You turn me in to all the things I want so desperately to become; all the things I fear of becoming. You are a mess of a human being but there are parts of me that I see in you, and you hide behind the heartless when in reality you just want someone to knock down the walls of your heart again. I do not want to waste away waiting for you; he who has been waiting for nothing in particular his entire life.
I want to know every inch of you, but even when we are centimetres apart you still appear to be so far away from me. The truth is that you just see me as some kind of divine forbidden fruit, and so you speak in tongues I don't understand and make me feel cheap and easy. It sickens me because I know you are just another to take advantage of my big heart. You want to take little pieces of me but not the whole of me.
Can't you see? I want to carve you in to my bones so I can hold you eternally, I want to inhale you like cigarette smoke and then never exhale again. You have been ******* me for days without even touching me, without even being in the same place as me. I want you and I want to love you but I refuse, I refuse, I refuse -
I will not be drowned again.
- m.k
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Hearing music,
And songs.
Centimetres cubic,
And prongs.
Feeling deep bass lines,
Drinking the blues,
Echoing shines
Eloquent muse.
Blabbering brooks,
And useless tongues,
Deceiving looks,
And exploding lungs.
Seeing colours saturated,
With patterns that prickle,
Sensing hues evaporated,
With a silly tickle.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Inches apart in our nylon skin,
The distance electric.
You shudder in the corner of my eye
From centimetres to millimetres
But yet we do not touch.
A learning curve,
A lesson in self control
With no self involved.
Summer seems intangible
As if autumn’s been here for years.
The season becomes me:
A brown husk of what I used to be,
Falling away from you
Drifting gently downwards
Whilst you stand tall and proud,
An arching trunk.
But inside you’re rotten.
I think I always knew.
I could slice into your chest
And black would ooze
Like the infected sap
Of a diseased willow
Bending under the strain
Of your bitterness.
Yet to the eye you’re pleasant.
And your voice still rings the same
As when it rang in my ear
Under laboured breaths
Of lusts and desires.
I check myself again
And count the distance between us
Which spans across miles and eras
While you’re seated by my side.
Planes of existence
Separate dimensions
But somewhere the twain shall meet.
And I know that.
Sometimes I want to run.
This closeness is too much distance
For me to bear.
The world is my playground
But I only want your swing
And the motion does not cease,
I do not have the will to stop it.
So I keep the same rhythm
And maintain the distance
Across the inches between
Our nylon skin.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Flecks of colour radiate,
Exploding outwards from a core of emptiness,
Vapour trails of merging shades,
A glint as they reflect bright light from an unknown source,
They try to escape, but find a wall,
Blank,
Unfeeling,
Impassable,
Immovable,
They stretch out, preparing their bombardment,
They push, ignoring the void behind them,
The void expands, stealing the light,
In a panic, they return to hide the dark,
But the black survives, constant, but a suggestion,
A suggestion of more,
That within that cave, something lives,
A fire that burns,
But is blocked somehow,
By the shadow of the eternal pit.
This everlasting struggle,
Of colour trapped between light and dark,
Takes place not across light-years,
But centimetres,
And just a few inches,
From the second void.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Stress is a friend
you can never break ends,
with.
Stress is the kind to sneak as close to your face as
possible
and
scream
" YER STRESSED 'CAUSE YOU HAVE LOTS'A WORK
BUT YOU HAVE NADA MOTIVATION TO DO IT,
YOU HAVE NADA MOTIVATION TO DO IT 'CAUSE
YER STRESSED, ACE ."
and hits you in the face.
Leaving you panda eyes
of black and blue,
your work load piles up
with the never ending post-its of every hue.
You spend a whole day locked up,
though you're free.
Finally facing your work load
5 due tomorrow and 10 due May oh' 3.
You spend your whole day locked up,
not physically but mentally,
your thoughts running around your head,
shaking the bars over and over again,
shaking the stability of your mentality.
These thoughts don't necessarily
connect,
no they reflect over every memory,
again and again and again,
with every word you type it's the same beat, same tune, same words
again and again and again.
These thought don't even necessarily are long,
they could be a word,
a three word pun,
or 2 centimetres of wrong.
Stress is the ***** you seem to understand,
but when you try to describe her the words never end.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
As reckless bound beauty
belies the exhaultation
of standing on the edge
of eternity
God ! There is freedom
in the temptation of the fates
One must kiss the lips of death
to live
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
2nd quarter: you brought me to places i had never been and introduced me to a world i had never known before. you taught me about heights and i learned to trust you as i fall. you showed me the depths of a world that i had heard of; but never quite knew of its existence - until i met you. you showed me the breadth of the universe and showed me just how far the horizon could go.
and the places you took me, i could never go back and
i have never been back since.
the last time i tried, i got so overwhelmed that i had to sit down and curl myself up, contracting my muscles, reminding myself,
you/ are/ stronger/ than/ this
but that did not stop my melancholic self from the innate desire to drown myself in a bottle of whiskey;
even with my father just centimetres away.
1st quarter: it's time you stopped fearing, and learned to let go. for the places that once held these memories will eventually lose their vile allure; and the minute you let go is the moment the hold that the past has over you vanishes. and maybe you will go to these places once again and think of the days you spent there, and realise that you feel nothing at all. you are not desensitised. you are no longer controlled by your past. you are free.
embrace it.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Depression...
This is the feeling,
of burning in hell.
When I jumped off
the cliff of happiness.
I jumped in the depths
of hell the only thing
I learned through this
feeling.
Is the burn don't melt
neither does it turn to gel
I learned that the burn
don't melt! It just burns and burns
Until your the whole
body's immersed...
I feel like I'm trapped,
under water but I cant get up
and I cant swim.
My body pushes further
Until the water is barely
Beneath my chin.
Every single time
You try, You try grab for something
to fail centimetres within,
But every time You risk drowning
Knowing that winning
that special thing? Is once again
slim.
I know what you do
You keep on checking
your phone and nothing...
You feel loneliness
Is better than this feeling?
You want to live,
but your heart stops beating.
Silenced in a crowded room,
yet your insides are screaming!!
Every exit sign is bright green
but every sign is misleading.
We all struggle with it,
because we've dug through
and endless tunnel.
Knees and Nails are bleeding,
we come up for that gasp of air.
Only to realise were back at the beginning.
You want to go to sleep,
and feeling that not waking up
is the best case and the best idea.
Because every action you try
Because every action you do
The outcome of them has no meaning
But you go back to sleep
where demons dance and smile.
on trickled coals
But you carry on believing.
You try and take control
surrounded by the people you love
But you're still alone.
It's like having 52 cards in your
hands but worthless is the feeling
so you decide to fold.
Because my body is useless
the cliff I jumped off?
Killed my soul.
Depression it plays with its toys
depression isn't a choice
its learning, realising,
and expressing a void.
So when you wake up
in the morning.
Wake up knowing..
You're Still Here
Don't get scared
Depressions main meal.
Is Fear
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
i’ve filed away centimetres of mortar
hours after I was ordered into bed
i've slimmed myself down before I was noticed
until i could slip through the cracks
“it must be her fault if she’s trapped.”
people hear me singing. they must think i am not captive
people see me smiling. they believe that i am free
but most days the tonnes of concrete around me are just too heavy.
some then tell me i do not need to destroy myself -
i tell them that otherwise i cannot breathe.
i always sleep with the windows open.
i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
most days i want to take a hammer to my painted wall
to hell with the iron chains.
i want to take rainbow shard and chipped mortar mixed with tears
to build my own **** house
one with wide open windows and wide open doorways
to hell with the bolts on the gates.
i spent fourteen of seventeen years trying to climb the wall
the next three trying to outrun it
i haven’t found where the bricks have stopped to catch their breath
i am not in the habit of giving up.
and when the bricks, one by one, do lift from the wall
and the shackles slowly rust away
i suppose i will be told to shudder at this thought
i suppose i will be expected to thank the gate-keepers
for making **** sure I wasn’t allowed to live
until they decided so.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
your fingers are caught in my hair and honestly i don't quite mind.
as long as it keeps you here and the distance within centimetres, everything'll be perfectly fine.
we'll be perfectly fine, or at least we'll find a way to convince ourselves
find a way to convince ourselves that we'd hold onto each other while we're caught almost this mad and utterly brilliant world.
and when you build a wall to keep yourself safe, don't forget to install a window.
it'll be a pity to forget how the sun never fails to shine down on us each passing day while the moon bathes us in a ghostly glow
and i think of all of this, while your fingers are playing with my hair
you're lovely, so incredibly lovely and i wouldn't mind telling you this every second of the clock
maybe when you look at the stars and realise how their beauty can't compare to what you withhold, you might just believe it
we'll see, won't we?
we'll see if you promise to stay.
because I'll be sitting here, staying at the corner just off the main street near the alley where you left me
i’m not going anywhere soon
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?!
the 1st world belongs
to western europe,
as is the poppy emblem...
but the 2nd world war?
you have no right
upon this platitude of
nostalgia...
you have no right here...
you don't belong here,
go **** yourselves,
and settle the flatlands
of belgium...
you, take you *******
and your other colonial
subordinates from these
pages of reminder!
no, you don't belong
here, on the ukranian plains
of the flat-fields...
you are not
commonwealth sorts...
i don't want you here...
you are on your way home...
and no...
none of the commonwealth
bits & pieces ever worked
the construction site,
like the irish or eastern europeans
did...
q a few sikhs...
but that's about it...
pakis make great
mustafas of the "work"
invoked by the designation of
a prior toward the
authorirty of an imam...
i too never knew i
knew how to read...
must be a literate donkey
somewhere!
i'm trying to love the brits,
but given they're really into
their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial
stress disorder), i'll my stretching
it with nazis...
please call me that...
please, please, please call me a ****
it will make me remember
my great-grandmother affected
by nazis, all the better,
for your **** journalistic
***
please!
i'm begging you! call me a ****
call me what my grandfather
called the ss-mann:
herr-bite-bonbon...
call me a **** you **** swine!
call it! call it!!!
i dare you,
i want you to call it!
i, ******* dare you to call it!
call it!
speak your little jihad!
speak your little spell!
say it!
are you aware that i was the one
who liked the idea of collecting swords?
oh yeah...
i own a hussar blade...
over 50 centimetres...
curved and all...
if i inserted the blade
via your *** it would come out of your
mouth as a tongue;
say it... i want to hear it...
why are my hands and the fingers
extending off of them, becoming
so itchy?
i have a heart for a guillotine,
but no more, for a bed-fellow
in the form of a woman;
how desirable does death become,
the least you account
for fearing it... how welcoming
the jest of recounting:
novembers & septembers.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
Fingers...
Fetish...
Female...
Excitement begins where his cigarette ends...
Music at the tips...
Caressing ebony and ivory
Hands,harmony,heat...
Fingers that caress,grip,stroke..
Plucking on a string...
Music born out of ba(ss)ic emotions..
Fingers that set skin on fire...
Burning flesh into something..
Easily Molded..pliable..molten..
Fingers,centimetres from the screen...
But thousands of miles away...
Stretching like clock hands...
His ahead of hers...time moves..
Fingers everywhere...
Pinning her down...
Then,two on her lips...
That stop her from saying No...
As if she would ever want to...
Fingers...
Fetish...
Female...She..
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC