"clamp" poems
Glitter and gold is the man in the chair
with rings on his fingers
and the hardened harsh stare
blinded by ugliness
wrists chained down by no use
a man with much money
he spends on abuse
the term known as trafficking
familiar I’m sure
he’s never been one for
doing what’s pure
so he lays down his money
flings out his cash
says he’ll pay the full price
for the girl with the mask
just to touch her to feel her
pet her cold body with his
run clammy hands up her scarred legs
clamp her in his ashen fist
little boys too he will willingly harm
because trafficking to him is a sport
no need for alarm
Just cows in the system
of making ends meat.
The poor solemn dancer
the poor saddened soul
the poor battered spirit
angry that they’ve been sold
with ***** feet and scabby legs
they work to feed the king
the end from him they can only beg
And freedom will never ring.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.
It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
HAPPY DIWALI TO ALL
This Diwali, if your spirit is damp,
Look out for a small clamp;
And light a tiny oil lamp.
The lamp of faith, please do light.
It will certainly turn things happy n bright.
And that, will definitely be a wonderful sight.
This Diwali, get rid off the darkness within.
Open your heart n light a lamp there-in ;
Spreading its glow to kith and kin.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.
I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.
There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.
There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.
6.3k
In the presence of the enemy
He split his force in two.
His red coated invaders
displayed contempt for the Zulu.
How else to explain their failure
to fortify the camp?
Twenty Thousand warriors
Put them in a deadly clamp.
It was a fearsome slaughter
redcoats falling by the score.
Thirteen hundred swept away-
No prisoners of war.
assegai thrusting spears struck home
The Sun would shine no more.
The Thin Red Line was broken,
each man fighting his own war.
With ammunition running out
They fought with blade and ****
Until knobkierrie clubs struck home
And stabbing spears found gut.
The officers with horses,
without honor, fled the fray.
Escaping only with their lives
No storied heroes they.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.
And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.
And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.
I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.
And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.
And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.
And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.
And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.
And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
O Golden Hair, My Friend
Kitty kitty
So fluffy
So witty
So unbearably pretty.
Stay away from
The city,
My kitty kitty
It'd be such a pity.
Hussanara
This is my mango.
There are many like it,
But this one is
Mine.
Without me,
My mango is useless.
Without my Mango,
I am useless...
My Sweet Wonderful Mary
Dark dim witty kitty
Trailed into New York City
With bad intents inevitably
Bad.
Through Earth and lake committing
All its great natural giving
Forced utter pain incoming,
Dad.
Lord (Religious readers please take no offense again the writer was not quite there)
God is a champ.
The bearded light upstairs.
He's cold and he's damp
Like fresh lumpy pears.
Won't one, if you dare,
Stick your hand in the air
To clamp
Like bears?
He's a scare of
Puny people
With long ginger hair.
Whose souls the cannot
Go in there,
The holiest of despair.
They all run through his stare
Of bulging eyes he got!
Anyone want to translate that one? I sure couldn't.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.
And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.
And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.
I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.
And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.
And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.
And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.
And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall.
And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
If I think too hard
I can still feel their hands on my body
Four of them rubbing and squeezing and grabbing my skin
Desperate for my oblivious being.
If I think too hard
I can still feel the scratch of his stubble
As his skin rubs mine
And the other caresses me
Taking away my control.
If I think too hard
The world still spins
I can hear the moaning
And the distant sounds of nature
Outside of our tent, but so far away from my reality.
If I think too hard
I can hear their comments of praise
To each other
As I lay there blind drunk
And they do with me what they please
If I think too hard
I try desperately to shield the memory,
The three of us entangled
And together,
A trio of drunken disgrace.
If I think too hard
I cringe and cry
And my legs clamp shut
Disgusted at my stolen consciousness
And forever violated by my memory.
If I think too hard
I hate myself for what happened
I hate him for being drunk
And I hate the other for being selfish,
Breaking my heart and my trust
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
One step forward, three steps back.
The queue shuffles,
visible breath in the winter blue.
The vendor vends,
fingerless gloves clamp the steaming mug.
Grunts and groans alike,
the warmth fills the withered corpses pale.
A gaze is cast,
into the misty nothing that inhabits the park.
A twitter is heard amongst the frosty masts.
Eyes meet with a rufescent-chested bird.
These same eyes are then met with salt,
a sorrow, a pang of jealousy.
A sheer longing for that same freedom.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. Dorothy's Kansas never looked so comforting, her black and white world never so safe--never so flat, so barren.
Didn't she learn her lessons? She caused such trouble! She gave Auntie Emm such a fright! That bump on the head must have caused her brain damage. After the "big storm" was only a memory, and the terrible twister only a town tale, Dorothy did it again.
She ventured out on her own.
Yet Mrs. Gulch was still a witch. And Dorothy's "nasty, little dog" still got into the garden. The sheriff was ready to track her down and clamp down on her for good! Running home frantically for help, Dorothy realized that Auntie Emm was still too busy ******** at her shiftless farmhands, henpecking tired, old Uncle Henry,
and he was just too cranky to care. The farmhands were supposed to be her friends, but they just started crabbing at her again.
They soon gave her what for. "Dot, didn't you learn a thing in life?" "Didn't we rescue you once from a pigpen?" "That heart of yours leads you in the wrong direction! " "Where are your brains, anyway?"
Heartbroken, naive Dorothy realized something that was quite profound. Her heart was always in the right place--she just needed the courage, the courage to know she was smart enough to make it on her own. So Dorothy packed her bags, especially remembering her red ruby slippers. She would never forget her loyal friend and sidekick, her beloved pooch, Toto. If she was going, he was going with her.
So there she stood, suitcases in hand, in her bleak, little, colorless world. Terrified, she stood upon the precipice. Fear or faith? And all of a sudden she was noticed again! Just what was she doing? Who did she think she was fooling? Was she crazy!?
"You'll never make it!", they all warned. "You don't know the first thing about how to live in a Technicolor world!"
"Sorry, I do love you", Dorothy answered back. "But I disagree and I will forward you my new address". So off she went finding the path down the yellow brick road.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 3:54 AM UTC
Royal Blue;
A royal blue dream of you
Featuring: The Imperial Dream Machine
Providing more wishes and dreams then you ever did see
White plastic noise, broken toys
The choking sounds of time & rust
The changing tune of disease Mistrust
Imperial Dream Machine
Royal blue, these dreams of you
The space between these empty sheets;
Grey bars & white waste
No Dream Escape
The Imperial Dream Machine
Imperial Chills
The Imperial Chill Inside
Why ask Why?
No dream escape
Royal Pain
A blue, frozen, silent chase
Frozen steps, slow-motion-still
Leaves fall, faces turn
All roads lead to nowhere.
And Faces still.
No Dream Escape
It is an imperial dream quake
Dreams break
Golden seam rips apart
In the space between
A stillness newly awakens
A Forlorn Sorrow Cry
Why ask why?
Torture devices clamp in place
No Dream Escape
The Imperial Dream Machine
Provides more wishes and dreams
Than you ever did see.
No dreams escape.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
Mommy why, i was just barely opening my heart to you
Mommy you see me through the screen beating my life to you
120 beats per second ,faster than your heart mommy.
Mommy, I feel your smile broaden
Mommy I will love you conditionally
**Moommyy what is this clamp mommy ,
please don't it hurts it hurts please mommy**
Seven Weeks , Three Days Pregnant
I lost you my precious , Words will never define the darkness I feel in my heart . The darkness of how unloving my heart became, How heartless humanity was around me like infectious leech. Letting you go was the consequences of the bite. Please forgive me, I made the biggest mistake in my life. The one mistake, where you won't grow up to learn from. What was left of my heart became stone cold , I let go my true shot of happiness, but I couldn't bring you into a world of brokenness and despair. You deserve better, but better than you will ever receive from me. One day I hope you understand. I promise you , my love lies deep in my veins. I love you ,Heaven needed you back and I regret not standing like warrior and fighting for you. I never will wash dirt on my back,I can never stop apologizing for the vicious attacks you endured by me . Every sunrise and sunset I will forever mourn the death of my own humanity against you.
One last breath,Mommy, I love you Forever
I'll float down the river ,patiently waiting for ocean to wash me into abyss , humming to the lullaby,I would have sang to you my precious gift.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC
You caught lightning in your mouth
and kissed the world a thunderstorm
All Four Winds bleeding out,
moment by moment
and stilling the night;
instill it with silence.
Infuse it with waiting
bait our breaths--
_--The ocean's saline, and
I'm surprised to say,
it seems to like us.
Lips can clamp or loosen,
catch and hold or unleash.
Choose one?
it's catch-and-release._
I gulped wondering into my mouth
and I spit out an omen.
Dolmen smile fading now;
twin teeth releasing
floodwaters
from this tomb door of a frown.
Quell the squalling night;
implanting our silence.
Infused with surrender.
Hold no breath.
Anyway...
We don't check on each other...
_...or look at our neighbors._
Yesterday's just that, friend.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
I see it in your eyes.
Your fear.
A fear of the unknown.
A fear of taking risks.
A lack of success.
A lack of effort.
A lack of motivation.
A lack of going for your dreams.
A frustration.
The dry threats.
"I'm gonna come down there and kick your *** you say.
Like dry heaves.
It's wretching.
The nectar of youth slithering away.
Your trying to grasp, clamp so tight.
You are lost.
Taking your frustrations out on others.
"You are such a **** up," you snap.
You've given up on yourself.
You're drowning.
I love you. But I can't help you.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
the little pink paper clamp
you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip
which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and
2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing
away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your
personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing
is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away
from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power
and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power.
if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will
lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is
go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it
might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs
it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings.
at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting
at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors
will come back so he can keep paper in a folder.
this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors
were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small
on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching
and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had
to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away
and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the
other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper
down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company
to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to
the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time
trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as
the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor
but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one
and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these
anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor
you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just
as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked
the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only
problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and
our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
I don't know why I like the floor so much,
Maybe it's because you taught me that
This is where I belonged,
And where I was the most productive,
As though pleasuring you from my knees
Was any indicator of my worth.
But I have discovered many things
From this vantage point.
I have noticed a crack in the floorboard
Beneath which I hid every love letter
You ever tucked into my mailbox,
I have discovered a locked box
Hidden beneath my bed
And I don't know what's inside it
But it shakes and rattles and screams
Every night around two am,
So I'm afraid to open it,
I have found a marble under my dresser,
One of those clear ones
With something colorful inside,
But it looks more like blood and tissue
Than anything, in my opinion,
I have also came upon a spot
In which the floor does not creak,
And it always seems to be cold,
A perfect place to rest my cheek.
But the last thing I uncovered
Was a skeleton in my closet,
Folded and tucked into the corner,
As though it didn't want to be found,
So I found the strength,
To lift myself to my knees
(It was always a powerful position)
And I pulled the skeleton out,
And despite its efforts to clamp its bony fingers
To my wrist and never let me go
I threw it in the dumpster,
And rediscovered home.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Loss
That's what they call it,
Or mourning,
But I've lost before and
I've mourned
Before
Yet never ever
Known pain like this
Pragmatic,
That's me to a tee,
Yet pragmatism ain't cutting it
This time
Because I fear and I feel
Your departing
Before the decision
Or announcement made
And it hurts!
Oh sweet Lord it hurts,
In ways I cannot clamp down,
Or externalise or
Stop the feeling of,
A crippling *******
Of sobbing deep inside
Where none can see
And you're reading our poems
Which might be hope
Or might be farewell
I just don't know,
And not knowing is bad enough
At any time but this?
This matters so much more,
This is killing me
Objectively I know we should part,
Objectively I know you'll struggle
Because you love and desire me
On so many levels,
And to not have me would ****
Yet is it enough my sweet?
Is it enough
To save you n me?
And if not?
If not enough?
If I lose you to another,
If I never get to hold you,
Make love with you
Fill you with my love and
All I am?
How do I then live?
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
It happened every moon that
Filled the sky, the transformation
Couldn't be stopped.
I howled in defiance
I howled to cure the moon
I spoke unto the heavens
"Freedom from you"
I walked the places I could not
Have before, birthday suit
Wasn't the suit to show my
Face arrested for sure.
"Washing lines"
"Like a free store"
Socks,
Knickers,
Trousers,
Then last of all a shirt to finish me off,
Knickers you think?? this doesn't happen
All the time, but I find them nice to the touch.
I could feel you clawing upon the flesh
"Needing release"
But this is the moon of plenty now play
Nice, soon it will be your turn.
I sink pints as if water, then I find
Myself licking at the pint of ale,
Looking around,
Quizative,
Stares,
Beard
Upon my face, weren't you shaven when
You entered this place??
Hoooooowwww.
Do I know, I didn't look in the mirror
Before I left home.
"You drunk fella"
Nooooowwww
Right out the door I was politely
Thrown to the curb.
Well at least I tasted it this time,
"Golden nectar"
The animal is approaching
"My moment has pasted"
As I arch in agony,
Some one kicks me,
"Laughs at my pain"
"Would you like to meet my friend"
"He'll take a bite out of you friend"
Kicked upon the face as clothes shred off.
"The wolf is released"
Gone is man, primal form freedom
From that white hell that plagues
Every full moon,
I clamp down upon
Meat,
Marrow,
Bone
Shatters in my fanged grasp,
As my claws rip upon his throat.
I swipe once more as his head detaches
And leaves a frozen look of terror,
Rolling upon the floor.
I am free, I am the beast as I
Pounce upon road and path,
I reach the outskirts of my home
"I look at the manmade filth"
Howling into the night I am wolf,
Cured to be man for when the moon shines
I am that which is cursed I become man.
.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
My lips clash against a bottle mouth and
my mouth strangles a cigarette and
my teeth clamp down on a paint soaked brush and
my tongue taps my teeth in taunts against
your lover, The Cause and
I wonder if ever you will
tilt your angel face down from your pedestal
and command me tell you why,
my body is your mannequin to pose
though I'm not malleable enough for you,
my skin is yours to wear for a cloak
though it's too large and rough, oh Apollo,
my heart is yours to fill with bullet holes
and that at least might be to your liking,
and I'll bare my teeth in wolfish joy
as the guns blaze and
molten metal makes a home in my chest
and all I will feel is your hand in mine
your hand
your hand
your hand
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Your tongue paints grandeur.
Words pour from your lips—I wish
I could clamp them shut.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.
2.1k
Clamp the red march onward!
Cut the winding trench!
Mask a visage for protection
from the visceral drench.
Light the forge in battle!
Keep the battlefield alive.
Hear the laborious drumbeat
of a heart trying to survive.
Stainless steel and knowledge
in the forge are fired
Gone are human needs -
Death is never tired.
On each second rests a lifespan.
Each minute gambles years.
A surgeon only has two hands
and no mortal fears.
The battle surges forward
as blood is forced right back
from the heart it came from;
a heart still under attack.
Even as the battle ended,
with blood, tears and sweat,
the war raged ever onward,
Death remains a threat.
Every day a battle.
Every life a war.
Against Death and the ethereal
survival is the score.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC