"clank" poems
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With that hand I know so well
It is more than just five fingers
It’s the reason I rebel
Yes, sir, I want you to clank me
In bonds of silver and gold
Chained, I’m a precious gift to you
Unwrapping me never gets old
Yes, sir, I want you to yank me
Down on the floor to my knees
My gaze lowers at your command
I’m eager to do as you please
Yes, sir, I want you to flank me
Punish me from every side
I know I’ve been a naughty girl
Needing discipline you’ll provide
Yes, sir, I want you to crank me
Up to writhing ecstasy
Don’t stop ‘til I ******* beg you
Your tough love is what sets me free
Yes, sir, I want you to thank me
For being your precious pet
Even though I disobey you
It’s clear you love to see me sweat
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With the implement of your choice
Make it hurt to make me happy
In your dominance I rejoice
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a black and glistening wave.
I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.
I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.
I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.
I hear the carve of oars.
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as oar lock’s turn.
You slip the shore.
I hear the carve of oars
Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Normal people kissing:
Sensual
Butterflies in your stomach
You're the only two people in the world
People with glasses kissing:
Clink
Clank
Ok let's take them off
Wait, where'd you go?
You feel cold
Oh, that's a lamp.
Sep 3, 2021
Sep 3, 2021 at 12:59 PM UTC
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
7.9k
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
NUMB, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
If I close my eyes and think of you
I can smell your scent
From a mere two days ago
The flutter in my heart follows
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the joints
That I identified aged 10
I try not to *****
If I close my eyes and think of my best friend
I can smell her perfume and washing powder
It makes me smile
And want a hug
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale beer
A middle of the night smell
It meant 'don't leave your room'
If I close my eyes and think of my mum
I smell safety and comfort
Strength and gravity
The balance keeps me strong
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale sweat
The cruel words of abuse
The hatred inside myself
If I close my eyes and think of my sister
I smell vanilla and style
Fashion and creativity
Sullen kindness
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the cold of the room
With its broken window in the arctic temperatures
The fire unlit because the marijuana needed somewhere to grow
If I close my eyes and think of school
I smell the comforting sawdust
The corridors familiar
The classrooms like home
If I close my eyes and think of my father
Not having friends round to tea- because.
16 not 6- you can't buy my trust
16 not 46- don't want prayer flags for my birthday
If I close my eyes and think of home
I smell the damp washing hanging up
Every squeaky floorboard
Every drip, clank, comforting noise
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I smell the power he loved to have
How I haven't seen him in three years
The fear that still remains
If I close my eyes and think of myself
I smell nothing
Hear and see nothing
At that is what scares me the most.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."
When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"
4k
clanking clank slurp, ka-boom
the slop runs down a throat
merrily merrily terribly chilled
the gunk rolls down a throat.
the
forks spoons knives
plates salts salads
and wines
ding and echo like
soft butterfly tea parties
all gone rabid.
throughout the walls of pictures of food
and the butterfly echos echo
and dinging cups splash
and forks click and clock
(and and,..and!)
hold my breath.
clanking cubes of ice
bing against one another
Gluttonous Pig slobs them down with
a spoonful of spicy French soup
Pigman talks to Pigwoman; spittle flying out of
his piggy chops.
he stares at my forehead
they see my odd selection
she's laughing insanely at a joke
I'm holding my eyes inside my head
while
all on my plate sit the legs
of baby spiders
all on my dish are darting
sow eyeballs
pitcher plant garnish
and frozen grey custard for dessert; (echos still in the restaurant)
I gag outloud
the Fat Pigman scoffs at this
my heart pops inside its cage
and the waiter rolls his eyes at the mess.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.
I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.
Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
And give my smiles for sighs.
I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
2.9k
On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
Fast by the four cross ways.
A careless shepherd once would keep
The flocks by moonlight there,
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
The dead man stood on air.
They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
The whistles blow forlorn,
And trains all night groan on the rail
To men that die at morn.
There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
Or wakes, as may betide,
A better lad, if things went right,
Than most that sleep outside.
And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.
And sharp the link of life will snap,
And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
As treads upon the land.
So here I'll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine;
And wish my friend as sound a sleep
As lads' I did not know,
That shepherded the moonlit sheep
A hundred years ago.
2.6k
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger’s bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion’s flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O’er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver’s whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!
2.5k
The clouds race golden
As be chariots
The sun is born
Like the deviants
As gusts of wind
****** the thoughts
Underdressed
The chest it coughs
While Major Clank
On wheels and stub
Bellows out and
Rubs the nub
Then by runes
the best made plans
Test the dikes
And angst of dams
The age of truth
The youth desired
Across the space
without the wires
The universe comes
In a box
Neatly packed
Shelved , detoxed
And all because
Annointed by rain
The blue sky morning
Clouds it's pain
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
There is an old story that my father
Told me and my brother when we were children.
It is of the windbag
Who now haunts the ancient diamond mines.
It goes like this:
"Boys, have I ever told you of the old windbag?
How about the diamond mines that poisoned it?
Well, this windbag was a miner
Who wore his diving suit and large pickaxe with pride.
Indeed his suit was pride,
But the golden diamond mines were lust
Lust that the old miner paid no mind.
For every strike with his large pickaxe
Was every moment his mind left sanity.
He wanted more wanted more wanted more
Always always always dreaming of glittering diamonds
That shrank his soul to stone.
He left this world no longer a miner
But a windbag lingering the mines possessed by diamonds
With its diving suit and large pickaxe.
One dark morning the windbag was mining,
It was mining mining mining,
Yet it could not hear the diamond mines shatter, crumble.
Its coworkers heard, but it only heard diamonds.
The windbag stayed in the old diamond mines,
Trapped in its diving suit
Trapped in its large pickaxe
Trapped in its diamond mines.
It continues to clink and clank
As it lurks amongst the silent diamonds,
Making only physical contact."
This story my father told me and my brother,
Haunts me more than the clink and clank
I hear while walking by
The ancient diamond mines
That swallowed the windbag.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:35 PM UTC
I was looking when I got lost
ignoring the bill when I saw the cost
Saw my future in the turbulent waters
Of the porcelain pool into which I was tossed
Bemoaning yet accepting the fate I was enduring
Upon hearing the sound of the handles clank
I relinquished all control
as I began to roll
Gave no fight of self preservation. as I sank
The echoing swoosh left its sound in my ears
Then solid darkness closed in tight
So much more vivid than night in absence of light
The water was thick and seemed to be swallowing me down
Any oxygen of life seemed a fast fading memory
As all the while I could feel a gathering momentum
Like a ride through some putrafied tunnel of .... well...now all ephemeral in it's sudden ephemerality
As I was
Blasted loose from that officious muck
Propelled far far beyond the cascading flow
as a lust for life returned in a flash
I flicked one fin and then the other before allowing sweet gravity
To carry me down affording me that glorious splash.
Wow! It thought ' this is an enormous and wondrous bowl '
Oh oh oh!
That poor little goldfish that had suddenly become the hapless to happy victim
Of a frustrated and angry parent who had lost all control!!!
GOOD LUCK little one...you will need all you get!
Question/ riddle of sorts.
Anyone know the reason for my naming the. poem this ... bit of
i _ _ _ _ _ twist?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere
Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.
Dressings and lint on the long, lean table--
Whom are they for?
The patients yawn,
Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.
It's grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank.
The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.
My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .
O, a gruesome world!
2.1k
It got to the point where we just ******
No snake oil arguments,
No cookie batter eating binges, no street corner improv,
No cold, crazy, middle of the day, psychopath silence,
No clink, clank sulking,
No cuckoldry tears over the kitchen sink.
It was as if we secretly decided,
To pound each other to death,
Or die trying.
Why is this so enjoyable.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
clink clink clank cling ding
ding-ding clack
ding ding clink clink clack
masquerade
pianissimo charade
heart strings pulled taught
by a known gentleman
transformed into an unknown savior
flying faces
other worldly in expression but not intent
all are drawn blankly lustful
craving distinction from
a sea of flamboyant feathers
stretched personas
masquerade
freedom is her trade
the light in your eyes
the corners of your lips
for a mask
and a fanciful freedom
alive in compartmentalized limits
clink clink clank cling ding
ding-ding clack
ding ding clink clink clack
ding ding
the song masked musicians play
isn't a song at all
but a simple masquerade
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose
she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print
each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs
her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long
the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps
they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees
the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through
replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick
the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Brisk footsteps clank on the cold floor,
Likewise it was a cold evening
the hollow air echoed the silence that
fell after each footstep.
This was the walk of a dead man,
And the chilly twilight wind only whispered lies
as the man trekked onward.
He had been gone. Disappeared.
His magic trick had prevailed.
For three years he fooled the people of the world,
For three years he fooled his one and only true friend.
As he walked, his footsteps echoed words
of the game. A game he had not wanted to play.
Unwillingly, he had fallen.
An expression of pain crept its way onto the man's face
as he walked, pace lessened under the weight of the words.
The words, swelling up in his mind.
Twisting, hissing, taunting and haunting him.
Annoying, psychopath, show off, misanthrope, arrogant,
ignorant, ***** abnormal, inhuman,
machine, fake, fraud.
Fraud.
The irony laughed at his side as he mouthed
the word again: F r a u d
Noun. deceit, trickery, sharp practice, or breach of confidence,
perpetrated for profit or to gain some unfair or dishonest advantage.
Indeed he had been tricked, what a wonderful trap.
A trap only he could have over looked.
It was all so well planned out, his final problem.
Final words. Wrapping a lie in a blanket of truth,
it was the only thing that could[had] stopped him-
The most human, human being-
Reality struck him
as his feet came to a halt, the man's gaze drifted upward,
shifting into a familiar glance.
The wind no longer wished to whisper lies,
and the silence that followed him would break
with the final echoes of his footsteps:
Home.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
The roller coasters never used to the scare me
it was always the lines which I feared
waiting and waiting and waiting
allowing my mind the space to run wild
with images of crushed, collapsed, metal
the loops and the speed never scared me
the rickety clank of the old tracks
or the hydraulic rumblings of the new
these things never scared me
it was my own mind which scared me
the certainty with which I knew
that I was never going to wait in another line
ever again
that after this,
all would be like before I was born
the hazy dark silence
of an unconscious mind
But the roller coasters?
I always used to enjoy the roller coasters
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Martini glasses chime with floating olives,
Cocktail dressed, and music playing,
Clamoring voices and velvet hands.
Will I measure my life in coffee spoons? -
Or plastic sticks where olives used to be.
Salty sweet like the sweat of angels,
You hand me my drink,
Electricity passes through your fingertips.
I am shocked.
You sweep me into your arms,
We glide over the floor,
The rock songs play but we waltz.
“Take your time, Love”
I tell you but you never listen.
Will you ever learn,
Or will I?
We do this dance around
All the questions we will ignore,
Just for one more moment.
One more dance.
Just one.
The martini glasses clank.
Cheers to the moment,
It hangs in the air,
Wafting, dispersing, infecting our clothes,
it lingers.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Rich soil fills my mouth
And covers my eyelids in soot
As I hear the clank of a shovel against hard stone,
and feel the weight of dirt on my once pink-lips
Now faded to a dusty brown
As I'm buried
5 ft deep
Underground.
Muffled footsteps leave my mortal presence,
The shovel left behind, next to my stump of a body.
No breaths to be taken,
No blinks to be had,
I think to myself, in this silent solace, surrounded by black:
Suffocation is slumber.
Not something to be admired,
But rather recognized.
I am one with the Earth
And the Earth is one with me.
If the police do find my body,
Or a stray dog digs up my death,
All I can say is that the burial was quick,
And that my
Deep breaths
Turned Shallow
Within
Minutes.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
Blithe dreams arise to greet us,
And life feels clean and new,
For the old love comes to meet us
In the dawning and the dew.
O'erblown with sunny shadows,
O'ersped with winds at play,
The woodlands and the meadows
Are keeping holiday.
Wild foals are scampering, neighing,
Brave merles their hautboys blow:
Come! let us go a-maying
As in the Long-Ago.
Here we but peak and dwindle:
The clank of chain and crane,
The whir of crank and spindle
Bewilder heart and brain;
The ends of our endeavour
Are merely wealth and fame,
Yet in the still Forever
We're one and all the same;
Delaying, still delaying,
We watch the fading west:
Come! let us go a-maying,
Nor fear to take the best.
Yet beautiful and spacious
The wise, old world appears.
Yet frank and fair and gracious
Outlaugh the jocund years.
Our arguments disputing,
The universal Pan
Still wanders fluting--fluting--
Fluting to maid and man.
Our weary well-a-waying
His music cannot still:
Come! let us go a-maying,
And pipe with him our fill.
When wanton winds are flowing
Among the gladdening glass;
Where hawthorn brakes are blowing,
And meadow perfumes pass;
Where morning's grace is greenest,
And fullest noon's of pride;
Where sunset spreads serenest,
And sacred night's most wide;
Where nests are swaying, swaying,
And spring's fresh voices call,
Come! let us go a-maying,
And bless the God of all!
1.7k