"clamps" poems
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
With porcelain features, I drowned in her sight
Dominant I control her, she submits to my needs
I punish and tease her with preferences of sinful greed
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
She lashes and thrashes but I control this fight
Blindfolded and gagged, aroused from my touch
Candle drips between her hips; she loves this so much
Strapped to the bed with a fistful of her mane
She enjoys pain and pleasure; I love this **** game
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
My fledgling fun toy I command her tonight
She moans with pleasures and screams when she’s bad
Electricity attached, her fears makes me glad
Vaginal to **** play, or no *** at all
A new ******* kit arrives; I’m bouncing off the wall
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
Under the bed restrains, ****** clamps, and leather cuffs in my sight
She’s cuffed, restrained, clamped and all ready
She needs me it feeds me and keeps me rock steady
She gives me her all in suspended animation
Together we are driven by a powerful lustful twisted sensation
For Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
You’re my favorite present, my fix, and my all through the night
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
It clamps my heart hard in it's hand
Trying to stifle
The pulsing beat
Stop my breath
My words
My truth
But I can't
I have to speak
I can't stop the river
That flows
It is truth
And truth be told
No matter what the cost
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
All alone laying in wait, for your dreams to come true, the dreams of your Daddy, to come and take you to a new place.
As I enter your room, the darkness is erased, my power you feel as reach for your hand, bring you to your feet look at my face.
Quickly, I wrap my ropes around you, encasing my body in an elaborate web, criss crossing the rope no more mobility.
Arms tight behind you elbows together, I lay you gently down as I stand above you, admiring my work and my ability.
Laying on your back fully pinned down your legs spread wide exposing my very special kitty in all of its naked glory
I begin to finger you as I kiss and **** on my **** two fingers in you making you nice and wet, I look up with no worry.
My lips **** up your wetness, I come to you and share your taste, you lick my lips before I take you and kiss you deep.
Your lolli is hard, ready to pounce, but I will have to wait, your pleasure is my only concern, even though it starts to seep.
**** galore spread all in you, I press down gently on your ***** bone, as I enter a third finger which is nice and tight.
You gasp as you adjust to the size, dilation begins you are opening up. Wider for daddy as he makes you feel right.
Kissing you softly stroking my kitty, look in your eyes, blue on blue, lost and in your gaze, ready to give you some more.
Slide gently the last finger in, slowly my kitty begins to expand, I wait a bit longer as I give you all of my four.
Twist my hand, slightly to the side, as I tuck my thumb under my fingers and begin to slowly press up in to my hole.
I stop for a moment as you whimper for the discomfort, I ease your mind, your pleasure is my only true goal.
Relaxed you now become as I get my hand fully in you, My first is buried as I massage your spot, you try to buck.
Bucking against my hand you are bound too tight, my hands is in you, beyond my wrist, now baby girl I will ****
I **** you hard in and out, you start to scream in pleasure and delight, as I re position myself to give you a salty treat.
My **** placed deep in your throat, ****** starts filling you full, don’t lose a drop, or suffer you will, no more defeat.
My kitty tightens down on my hand, I feel it pulsate, it clamps my hand, my hand aches, i pound harder, deeper inside.
You scream out wanting more, I push harder as you bite down on the pillow, you are for sure daddy’s pride.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
With wretchedness you
pluk at my heart strings
fray the bow and bend the cords
With haste you
close the clamps upon my side
With brash and anger you
slam the lid
shove me into darkness
With absence
not more then a thought shed
you leave me to rot
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
7:05, it's late September
and mid-continent can't decide
on a season
if it's Summer, Winter
or some patchwork in between
but I've
Decided
Falling on confusion's
not the same as hitting Springy grass
because I've seen
How hard December
clamps its jaws
on those Midwest city streets
--With famished eyes
and with breath howling
tries to find ways into me
So, clothed in shivers, one might stumble
Between bars, snowflakes, and friends
And cloudy skies and clouded glasses
tell you, "you'll never be young again!"
11:30, Minneapolis--
you're sure your ride is late.
Trudge through snow, and mud and asphalt
while skies thicken purple-grey.
And things are much the same in Bismarck
And much the
same in Winnipeg.
Thrusting frigid hands in pockets
restore some blood to aching legs.
"And it's another Midwest winter."
What more is there to say?
Respond to yourself and keep walking
Still miles away from home
Still a decade until morning
Another New Year's spent alone
--and growing old--
Now you remember last September--
It was still 80 degrees!
Now you're caught in Midwest winters--
Release a breath and watch thoughts freeze.
So just wait until next Summer
Your floor heater warms your toes
And it's wait until the next drink
to thraw your throat out: so it goes.
So it goes...
And goes and goes.
But you'll never be young again.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:07 PM UTC
In this small coastal Village,,setting out to explore the Many caves. My heart raced with 'TALES OF TREASURE" ! SO--Off I went. After a 2 hour Jeep ride, Flashing Lights from the Sky, Dropping containers , as if floating to the Ground, each was about 5' by 5' with an ENBLAZENED MARKING on the surface. As I came to the first the Pulsating-Flashing from the MARKING ,,SIMPLY FORMED THE LETTER "D". WOW, I THOUGHT " A CASE OF "D's"....T he warning on the latch,in SMALL CAPS: "OPEN AND SHARE"! **I DID AND I AM ! ! ! Millions of pieces of Parchment, folded with a Gold-Leaf "D" on each ! ! Here's "WHAT I SHARE"----(# 1)= DASHER-MAN= "The person who,no doubt with great training, HAS the Particular ability to "PUT-DOWN" just about Everything that YOU deem to be Fair and Upright. (# 2)= DOUSE-SPREADER = A device used to and for the express purpose of putting out those Little Fires that seem to Crop Up JUST at the wrong time ! ! (# 3)= DUBIOUS-CLAMPS = When those thoughts you are having don't seem QUITE RIGHT,, THESE Tools will keep them in check ! ! ( # 4)= DRAB-SHINERS= Highly trained folks, with the Special ability to Really bring some BRIGHTNESS to Your day, When it has been Particular DULL ! ! ( # 5 ) = DRIBBLE-CLOTH= When a Person keeps on HARPING on the same subject and sees no other solution, use this SPECIAL CLOTH to Wipe the Surface clean,,,THEN "try-again" ! ! ______N O W___ INSTRUCTIONS SAY ;;;'" MEMORIZE THESE" ***AND THEN WE"LL GET TO SEE SOME MORE OF "DEEEZ"
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 3:48 AM UTC
pap
pap
pap
I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza
my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint
my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?
I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?
What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go
at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.
pap
pap
pap
Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.
Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa
Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.
It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.
A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.
Hypochondria being accurate
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.
Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.
pap
pap
pap
Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,
this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.
I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.
I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.
Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before
it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.
pap
pap
pap
Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
Your body
clamps to mine
like a magnet
or an electric eel.
Feel the jolting
current bounce
and flow and
jerking take
hold of you.
Particles dance
us tighter
together
like fleshly
puppets.
See how we
clutch and
writhe and
grind, hum
like overloaded
lines.
No escape
once you
touch the
live wire.
And anyway:
nowhere else
you want
but here;
nothing else
you want
to be,
but a jello mold
of...
Quantum,
Quivering,
Lust.
- mce
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
I'm just a man.
I think things can be fixed.
My first aid kit contains
Super glue and duct tape.
Any box is a tool box to me;
I'll always look for the right
***** to reattach your self-
Esteem; the right clamps to hold
Your good days together. When
You cry, I want to open you up
Gently, lay out all your parts and
Find the leaking gasket.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
To the one who hosts competitions…
Which ******* gave you the right?
I wouldn’t listen to your rules even if you paid me.
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.
Maybe I’ll **** your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.
She didn’t take your name when she came(just so you know)
Who said you could take such liberties?
I’m gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I’ll scrape your eye with it
Just one, because I want you to see…
You wanna host competitions, do ya? Meet my little match
Ever wondered how a lit match feels in your nostril?
If I sparked it and let the gunpowder catch flame in your nose, how wonderful would that feel?
Listen here Mr. you asked for this by hosting it… there’s no backing out now…
I still have a few things to run you over with.
**** umbrella? no splash guard? ugh… too messy…
Ah my favorite! the serpent’s tongue.
For that I’ll first have to break your jaw, then hold your tongue out
Then I’ll stretch your tongue out with clamps and slice it right down the middle
Such a fitting exercise. For you.
You have become what you really are.
I’ll leave your manny parts intact… I know how we are when It comes to those.
I will tell you though, you won’t be able to use em ever again… sorry about the irony.
Lets get down to business, shall we?
I hate you. You know why.
I’m gonna inject you with a pain enhancing serum.
Then I will administer XXXX XXX
It’s an ancient technique of entertaining someone.
Dating all the way back to almost 900 AD
It was banned, sadly, in the last century.
Anyway, you’re lucky I have knowledge of this
It won’t spoil our fun… lets start with the obvious places
Eye lids, lips, ears, finger tips, toes, arm pits, the ******* the wrists….etc….
You shouldn’t bother keeping count, that’s my job
But I highly doubt you’ll even live past number 233.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Raw flesh drenched in alcohol
Burning numbing till paralyzed, keeps me still
Power you have over my being, keeps me fearing
Your presence destroys me, shatters me
Feeling naked, inadequate when my eyes see
My reflection's negation in you
Cannot hide anything when you expose all of me
Wounded animal beaten without avail
Knowing, proprietor of my pain
You don't understand my whimper, wail?
My blood being diluted by the sweat of your laborious efforts
Precociously tactful, inhumanly strangling my will
Ever-becoming antithesis to facades, fears, farces in me
Facing scalpels and clamps to my insecurities, my tactics, my pride
Leaving me open not caring if I'll die from exposure
Caring only that you're exposing the real me
I-nvoluntarily l-acerated, o-n the v-erge of e-nding u-ndone
Somberly Always Unsettling Leaving me bare
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
Give me the sea and I'll drink it
all of it
Give me the sky and I'll blot it out
cut it out
leave the gaping earth barren of its liquid dressing
and leave the sky naked of its blue face
there is no compare
that is
not to say you are not enough for me
not at all
it is to say you are more than I could have desired
more
than I could have dreamed
and I do not tire of you
not in my darkest moments
when I'm stretched thin
and there is no longer
a devil-may-care draped about my addled mind
when my patience snaps
when my jaw clamps
my eyes droop
my brain thumps against my skull
not even then
with the last vestiges of civility held in grasp
not even then can I think to lash out at you
not even when you poke
or ****
plod about my sensibilities
maim my sensitivities
not even then
not even when you roll your eyes
give me that long 'hmmmm - really...'
I don't give in to the nagging,
nigh satisfying itch to shake with rage
and curse everything that stems from the womb
I am cool as a cucumber
placid as a windless lake
I roll my shoulders
flutter my eyelashes
look you up and down
say,
'My... my... tired aren't you?'
Your shoulders slump
Your efforts to topple me abate
You nod your head
curl up on my lap
isn't it
funny
how comforted we become
when we are offered solace
in exchange for an argument
that neither of us
would win?
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 4:06 AM UTC
She never wanted to be a Mom,
and now her life is nothing but wrong;
What will she tell everyone she knows,
maybe she'll wait until she shows?
~
The Fetus who slumbers in her Womb,
one day will be running out of room;
She must Abort this one in her,
for shame she simply can't endure.
~
She makes an appointment at the clinic,
know one must know, no one must see;
She arrives the next day, still so unaware,
that her Fetus is growing, lots of hair.
~
They lay her on a Hospital bed,
where soon the Fetus will be dead;
The Doctor inserts a clear, long tube,
where it wreaks havoc, within the Womb.
~
The baby moves away from it,
it feels like she has just been bit;
Upon her face, there is a scowl,
it's much too late to turn back now.
~
The hose clamps on to her very, small hand,
the Fetus can't cope, nor understand;
It pulls the hand right off the arm,
yet Mother thinks she did no harm.
~
Next it grabs onto her hip,
and her tiny leg begins to rip;
Emersed in pain, she pulls away,
she'll not live to see another day.
~
At last it latches onto her head,
the heartbeat stops, this child is dead;
She smiles, her reputation intact,
a conscience is one thing she lacks.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
YES, the Dead speak to us.
This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness.
Back of the clamps on a fireproof door they hold the papers of the Dead in a house here
And when two living men fall out, when one says the Dead spoke a Yes, and the other says the Dead spoke a No, they go then together to this house.
They loosen the clamps and haul at the hasps and try their keys and curse at the locks and the combination numbers.
For the teeth of the rats are barred and the tongues of the moths are outlawed and the sun and the air of wind is not wanted.
They open a box where a sheet of paper shivers, in a dusty corner shivers with the dry inkdrops of the Dead, the signed names.
Here the ink testifies, here we find the say-so, here we learn the layout, now we know where the cities and farms belong.
Dead white men and dead red men tested each other with shot and knives: they twisted each others' necks: land was yours if you took and kept it.
How are the heads the rain seeps in, the rain-washed knuckles in sod and gumbo?
Where the sheets of paper shiver,
Back of the hasps and handles,
Back of the fireproof clamps,
They read what the fingers scribbled, who the land belongs to now-it is herein provided, it is hereby stipulated-the land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thorn-apple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops-
So it is scrawled here,
"I direct and devise
So and so and such and such,"
And this is the last word.
There is nothing more to it.
In a shanty out in the Wilderness, ghosts of to-morrow sit, waiting to come and go, to do their job.
They will go into the house of the Dead and take the shivering sheets of paper and make a bonfire and dance a deadman's dance over the hissing crisp.
In a slang their own the dancers out of the Wilderness will write a paper for the living to read and sign:
The dead need peace, the dead need sleep, let the dead have peace and sleep, let the papers of the Dead who fix the lives of the Living, let them be a hissing crisp and ashes, let the young men and the young women forever understand we are through and no longer take the say-so of the Dead;
Let the dead have honor from us with our thoughts of them and our thoughts of land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thornapple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops.
2k
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
The boy with the heart winning smile,
He’s always asked to stay a while,
Girls love his laugh and guys like his smirk,
But what they don’t know?
Is it’s so much work..
He smiles so he won’t talk
He smiles so they won’t analyze his walk,
A walk that is limping and numb,
From the forenight’s rigors he had done.
To himself so he could actually feel something,
Cause I mean pain and love it’s the same..Right?
But so he smiles,
he smiles so he keeps the persona of a magnificent confident boy,
When all he truly feels like is someone’s little toy,
Because you tell them that he mangled your emotions,
When really you were the one who gave him the false love potion.
Treating him like he was never going to disappear,
Like he was your little knight carrying your burdening spear,
But then when he finally drops your ploy,
And stops being yours obedient little toy,
All of a sudden he’s the monster,
The one who tore YOUR heart asunder.
And that’s what he grows to believe,
Seeing how he’s stills naive,
So he puts himself back in his armor,
Clamps the latches tight and closes the visor,
Because he doesn’t want that to happen again,
He’s already face pain greater then some men,
And the only thing he’s ever held dear,
Was the hope that one day,
someone would hear.
Hear the pains through his winning smile,
Notice his walk is a little misguiled,
The hope that someone would tear off his armor,
Lift his visor,
And say,
N’ayez pas peur mon amour
But.. Who would go through that trial?
For the boy asked to stay.. Just a while,
Who will fix the boy,
With the hear splitting smile?
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
I couldn't make up my mind on who she was. Really,
A premonition? Foreboding an inevitable storm
Or the storm's aftermath;
All dull and vivid juxtaposed in parallel reflection
Yet even though debris seemed to follow the destruction around her,
The centre of all the chaos was calm, grey
I called her Grey
She liked it
She thought it resembled a fading, translucent characteristic within her that most people seemed to miss without confirming a second look
"It’s like you lifted my eye-lids with clamps-long and hard enough to gaze and wonder just who I was"
That the easy facade on her outside was just a complex elaborate hoax and her intricacies were much simpler inside
But even with all my sensors of human emotion detection and learning to wade and blend through
derelict sage-nuances
I still couldn't figure her out
For I wasn't sure what she was:
A premonition or an aftermath of new color.
She was always Grey
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked upon by drink.
Unwind the vise that clamps around the head
and loose the ***** that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers ****** you.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
The mighty grizzly bear
Waiting by the waterfall
Watching the crashing waves
Listening to their mystic moves
The first salmon leaps,
Just to make sure it doesn’t run into a famished bear
It’s mind panics, as it realizes what is happening
The bear’s mouth widens
And clamps down its jaws
Satisfied with his dinner, but wanting much more.
The wolf cries out from above
Depending on the moonlight to show her the path
She’s drifting away, too tired.
But remembers she needs to feed her cubs
She lurks in between black spruce trees
Her sons, closely following behind.
The creatures of the night watch where they run
Making sure they don’t catch the attention of death.
Though she doesn’t realize, the scampering rabbit
Just two feet in front of her
The rabbit is lucky enough to have a snow white coat
To blend into god’s blanket, laid across the land.
Mother wolf isn’t so blessed, for tonight is one more night
Her cubs will have to go unfed.
The eagle
Mastering the art of flying
Swimming in the skies
Looking for a tree, too perfect to live
Skimming the land
Just the perfect tree is all he needs
To sleep on tonight
For the sun is coming down
And moon is rising up
The stars become visible
The eagle is getting worried
But finally, he finds a tree
Swings down and places its claws onto a branch
So peaceful, listening to the wolf’s howl
Like the theme song to his life.
Unlike the “woof” that the same animal makes
It pierces his ears, the eagle loathes it.
Finally asleep, eyes closed.
Dreaming is his favorite thing
A television for his mind.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
They wrote about you.
Named you Goddess and
Lifted you high above the
Imagined boundaries of your
Spirit and ***
No longer seeming as little as
You always felt. Well...
The rains came; you became
Umbrella.
Cinderella's indecisive cousin.
Wet now, and not in the
Good, hot way.
Workmen's sweat fresh from
Frustrated chests upon your ever
Forgiving back.
Heathens in the temple.
Berserkers in the
Cathedral.
Male pens, shovels and clamps
Made for grabbing and digging,
Holding up towards God's Skies
And proclaiming, not "Her,"
But: "Mine!"
I've seen it as it is.
Oh, I know. I've been a lifter.
Shoving goddesses into brick sized
Holes, praising the solid
Wall.
You deserve better. Take it from
Iron:
There is not enough
Gold in your
Life.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
My breathing picks up
when you swing your hand and in a second,
makes contact with my bare skin.
Your tongue makes its way
into my depth- with synchronized kissing.
Clouding my thoughts.
Snakes wrapped themselves around my body.
Tiny flicks around my ear.
My hearing is barricaded with
heavy breathing
and muffled cries.
Strong iron clamps around my neck,
constricting my breathing
and thrusts ever so violent.
My nails,
they dig into the sheets.
Knuckles turn white.
My cheeks are tinged,
with lipstick shade red.
Fast-paced,
synchronized dancing in compromising positions.
Sweat covered sheets,
strong aroma of love.
Hazy eyes,
deep breaths.
Chest heaving slowly,
as arms fall to the sides.
White sheets seeping,
when bodies are intertwined.
You whisper words of affection,
deceit.
And you lay there -
full from your so called love.
When all that really made you full,
was the knowledge -
the power
over my willfull submission.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
Sitting at a tiny plastic table, between microscopes
and glass bottles of corrosives,
his son lets a mouse he named Ralph crawl up his arms.
Sliding on a lab coat, the father faces his back
toward his son and pulls out subject 402.
It’s his weekend. A quick shot to the heart
is all it takes. He puts it back in the cage.
Watches it expire. Takes it out, again.
A slice of time exposes internal
organs, projecting them to the world.
Look at the heart, swollen red,
those tiny lungs unable to exchange oxygen.
His son spills crackers across the table, sharing with Ralph.
Tissue samples are cut, placed in fragile vials,
labeled and set aside.
Disposes the hollowed corpse.
The boy is hungry, clutching his stomach dramatically.
Eat your crackers.
The boy squeezes the mouse. The mouse
clamps his teeth on him until he is flung from the hand.
Ralph slinks into the background
while the boy cries fat tears, his wound extended.
He is like a man dying of a thousand terrible things.
The man grabs subject 403.
Twisting his uninjured arm around his father’s left leg,
he stains the lab coat with mucus.
Go sit down.
He sniffles, pushes over a stool and climbs to its apex.
Go sit at the table.
He leans into his father’s light.
The broken body with its skin pulled back, pieces of metal
protruding.
It’s Ralph! It’s Ralph!
No it’s not. Go sit down.
It’s Ralph!
He throws himself into the table. Swings his arms.
The vials smash. The microscope crashes.
A scalpel makes contact with the wall.
Subject 403 is catapulted.
To the boy, the body seems to come alive in the air.
But it is motionless on the ground,
Trapped by broken glass.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC