"clavicle" poems
when the moon has finally succumbed to the flirtatious will of night
and even stars grow weary of guarding peaceful slumbers
the sneaky temptress twilight makes her move and slithers through my window
as she glides into my bed, I can tell she is up to her old tricks
my eyes forget to close and my mind forgets to sleep
the darkened outlines of my room crumble as each breath escapes my lips
and now I remember where I've hidden you, blue eyed boy
how strange a sensation to remember your body
a rekindled sullen mood
your arms are a heavy warmth against my waist
and your legs are clumsy giants that wrestle with mine all night
yes, this is how it feels when your cheek nuzzles the nape of my neck
and even here, your breathing rumbles like a storm rolling out to sea
Your heavy exhales compose a sensual melody as each crescendo crashes against my clavicle
I'm at the mercy of your lingering shadow
I'm the casualty of the pressure in this room
I want to stop breathing because I feel that I could make love to you
in the blackened air my hands trace out your handsome face
and place two gems for your brilliant eyes
and caress the sharp angles of your cheek
your lips were delicate so I use only my right hand
I'd give myself to you so honestly this time
but here, loneliness slowly swells your lungs
a tar that coats the lining of your throat
you are a cruel asphyxiation brought on by the mystic twilight herself
but her ruse won't last forever
I'll drift off into the sweet solace of sleep
and ponder on how you love me more
when my bed is empty, blue eyed boy
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
I want to stand behind you and
press myself up against you.
I want to gently nip at your ear.
I want to wrap my arms around you,
and trace my fingers over the arch of your eyebrows
and down your cheek.
I want to outline your lips with my finger tips
and to bring them down your neck, slowly.
I want to trace your clavicle and run my hands over your torso,
producing all kinds of friction.
I want my hands to find your hips
and work my fingers under the waistband of your jeans.
I want to keep you close to me,
keep myself pressed up against you.
I want to kiss, lick, and bite
at your neck and shoulder.
I want to make you moan.
I want to have a moment like that,
and I want to make it last.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
There was once two,
that cared about each other.
They were happily together so long,
it was unimagined that anything could go wrong.
When he saw her,
with her beautiful blond hair,
that coiled around his fingers anytime he felt it.
Her sweet chocolate eyes that stared
and pierced through what pumped his blood
to keep him there.
Her sweet voice attracted him like a honey bee to a flower,
soft, like the ocean waves.
A sound you could fall asleep to,
but wouldn't because you'd never get bored.
The taste of her lips unique,
He loved to kiss her cheek.
When they hugged and he bowed his head over her shoulder,
he felt his cheek pressed against her clavicle,
wondering if she felt the discomfort of bone against bone.
He could smell her perfume, especially on dates.
But nothing could smell better to him than her natural scent;
Freshly showered every morning,
coffee on the table waiting,
setting the expectation that today will be a great day.
He leaves to work,
believing when he returns she'd be there.
At the same time,
nothing makes him more sad,
than knowing she is allowed to leave forever.
yet, more beautiful than a dove in a cage,
is the one that is always free.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
the tectonic plates
in me
are shifting
as our continents
approach collide
my ocean is
getting closer
to the mountains
on your landscape
tallest grasses blowing
in wild demon dance,
shaking their
heads as heated
storm approaches
oven-baked air crackling
with its own
electric currents
Nothing can stop it
it's a magnetic force
one to be
reckoned with
surrendered to
as dust foams
like ocean froth
around our heads
clinging to us in tiny
starlit fragments
and soon will come
the slick dive into
wordless waters,
just skin on skin
slippery mouth muscles
like entwined snakes
flick-flicking, shiny
in eye-lit cherry moons
Take my hand.
Just pull me in.
Enfold me,
without talking
watch as my aura
rushes into you,
first a delicate whisk
of cool light
to slake the thirst
of coal-licked caverns
then sparks
and bubbling oxidation
turning into liquid brushfire
Hold your palm
to my chest,
as if to keep
my heart steady,
my glowing flare of halo
pressed into your
clavicle, taking in
the embryonic beats
soothing my torrid ache,
infusing minerals
in vitamin-laced libation
It is time to simply bask
in the new
crispness of radical
shake off
the silt and salt
and rise up
into the spheres
of memory
of soulspeak
of collapsed time zones
budded breath
spiraling up
in curls,
diaphanous
dark mist
ascending
into
light
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
I wish that I
could fall in love
with a female,
for she would make
a far better muse than
the gruff sailors and musicians
and drunks and men
in general that I am
inclined to crave.
to write about
a painted pout or
skin that brushes against
your own like nylon,
sunlight shining through
the window onto a Cupid's bow
and dancing down to
a delicate clavicle, or
black eyelashes that bat
and blink remorse
into your cavernous heart,
to muse over such aesthetic
delights, would be
ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful
women, androgynous women,
delicate, feline women,
stringing words
together in my head
over long legs and
hair that flutters like silk,
and they think I'm crazy
or in love with them.
well, maybe I am crazy,
but I crawl into bed each night
with my snarling, gleaming,
mahogany gentleman,
and I love him madly,
my rugged muse.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Your fingers soared over the keys.
You breathed love into the warm, bell-like tones.
You shook your head if you missed a note,
your eyes danced,
and around your grin
your mouth said
"I still have time,"
you said.
"I still have time before the concert."
A family trip, driving home,
back from the dunes of Michigan.
A father, mother, brother, you,
a sister left at home.
You sat in the back.
You were laughing, your family.
It was the last time they've laughed so hard.
A bend in the road,
a turn into town,
your car,
slowing down.
A different car, behind you,
did not slow down.
It slammed straight into you.
The metal crunched behind you,
the car spun, and your head bounced.
A helicopter came,
to take you away.
It was too quiet at the hospital.
But you couldn't tell.
You were in a coma.
"Brain trauma,"
the doctors said.
"And a broken leg and clavicle."
They didn't mention the broken
hearts.
They tried to pump life into your chest,
air into your lungs,
much like you
pumped life into the body of your clarinet.
But the machines failed where you did not.
The human in you had gone;
only a body was left.
You're playing for the angels now,
I know you are.
There's a smile on your lips,
in your eyes,
your brown, dancing eyes,
as your fingers effortlessly
fly over the keys,
you play
for the only audience
that could ever
hold you.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar.
I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me.
I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van.
He screamed and I laughed.
Brutal company.
It was going to hurt, of that I was certain.
His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives.
I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could.
Speed bumps bring my daughter joy.
She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows.
A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress.
But, I don't digress because it HURT.
I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud.
Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period.
My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man.
After all, a good man would never commit such acts.
I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat.
Meow. Meow, meow. Meow.
It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound.
The pound sings the song of death, my song.
My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves.
But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share.
I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny.
It never does, and I starve.
My granola is friendless.
Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum.
Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Ecstasy mire in its own sorrow,
As if a ghost makes love to its shade.
The wooden door merely holds the knock;
Instead it punches out within the walls,
Dispersed as if a blow of clay.
There the sound hauls up a craft:
Foul of the wooden scent.
Just as it intertwines with cloisters,
The curves are lined into a silhouette.
The mountainous fogs are sharpened,
The apex is buttoned and round.
The matter it is that shapes the core:
The mere marriage of soul and dust.
How a flesh can tease its craft,
As it gnaws on a clavicle(?)
The ghost sips on a river,
As if making love to its shade.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
It was always natural for him
To smell like cigarettes
Even though I was pretty sure
That he had never touched one directly
In all his years of living and lusting.
But who am I to judge,
The local Laura Palmer
Who thinks with ambition
That she has the world by the entrails?
Sweat dripping, anger sipping
Wine out of her clavicle cavity,
She and I are a beast,
A torrential force to be reckoned with
Though I cower.
So bravely, so tenderly,
I cower so as not to ruin
The pleading ferocity
Of cigarette boy,
His hand pressed
Firmly against the curve of my hip.
Cigarette boy pulled me from my cowering the other night,
Took his own hand off my hip
And whispered to me
That I was as big as I wanted to be
And I could over power the earth
With my love and care.
These are the things I love him to say
Between the drags I take off him.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******** storylines, oh,
i
am more than
the gristle and bone
the fibers interwoven through my arms
my lily-white striped clavicle
this corpse is my throne
i am not simply a ******
i am a ****** with a history
i am mauve valleys' majesty,
i am more than just my regrets
and my atrophies
and if it's not commendable, well, at least it's a story.
i,
simply because of my condition,
have lived through more than you could imagine
i have burned down in the depths with fire-skinned demons-
with messes deeper than your credit-card sins-
and i
have managed to get through it
these are my battle scars
i've fought ******* wars
and yet you shun me as if i'm not a hero
as if i'm not honorable for just making it
but i know you simply don't possess the tenacity
or the strength of wit
to deal with my ****
there's no reason to reproach
the type of behavior which keeps me alive
when i've done greater things than you ever will
stop staring
like i'm some sort of reject
like i'm something to pity
like i'm something worth nothing
like i can't recover
this is just a bad habit
and though you may find it disgusting i know i
can find worse dirt staining your mind
even if i leave this life
without a square inch of me unscarred
i have never backstabbed
i have not given in
while your inky secrets stay unspoken,
mine are imprinted upon my skin
and darling, that's all there is
if i am hateful, i will show you so
i have nothing to hide
my mouth isn't lipsticked shut
so what
if i cut
i'm still a good person
and though my battle is visible
there is nothing more around the corner
i am here to stay
so are my scars
and that's all there is to say
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Onetime I let a boy inside my ribcage
I warned him upon entry that the path to the space between my lungs was a oneway ticket
that I had never smoked a cigarette,
but the walls inside me were tar-filled
and sick
that sometimes my heart failed to beat with my brain and instead fell into
perfect
uneven
synchrony with the faucet
where I threw-up cherry red the other night.
Onetime I let a boy with a knife inside my ribcage
and I had seen the knife
and I didn't care
he climbed inside me so gently
like he belonged there and was just taking his place
like a missing *****
he made me his home
reassembled my insides
vital pieces of me now resting on his body,
depending on his body
one hand on my heart
the other on my throat.
Onetime I let a boy with a knife and a bottle of bourbon live inside my ribcage
he cleaned the tar off the walls
but didn't cure the sickness
I think he liked the smell of it.
One night he carved his name everywhere
spine
clavicle
esophagus
and I pretended to sleep
cut
nick
slash
he tried to claim me
he tried to clean me
but lost souls can't be claimed
and I'll never be clean enough
my heart follows faucets
not boys
and that scared the boy
so one night he poured the bourbon down the throat he held
and I didn't stop him
and I almost drowned
gulp, gulp, gulp
slash, slash, slash
cursive illegible sorry's
over every spot he had once cut his name into
and he kissed the wounds
and I woke up heavy.
Organs are worthless without their host but
Onetime I watched a boy tear his way out of my ribcage.
Knife and empty bottle in his place,
nothing's been working right in there since.
I haven't let anyone in there since.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
pearls lining my breast
my clavicle tight
and the veins, pulsating underneath warm skin
teeth like razors descend
but the bite becomes more
as one by one the gemstones break free
teasing at each taught ******
slowly and with the hunger of the sea
they graze my naval before finally settling
against a silken shoreline of ecstasy
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
A couple becomes comfy...comatose
Their coffins carved carefully
At the cost of the cuticles
That cut the cloth concealing the cause of calumny.
Cut with claws
Claus? Santa has no clue
But the paws with the claws came from Cope,
The coyote cub who clubbed with truth.
Calm,
Palms clasped on Aphrodite's coffee cup
Caffrodite, cups
Cups that carry potential - kinetic, energy,
Crash!
...Chaos conceived carelessly
A ****** tear
This is the C-Section
Confused?
No concern...know care
Because you are capable
Superman,
Cape-able
But soon the caffeine kicks in,
And the common carotid is cooked
Killer
Compare now, casualties to cows...
Not so different
Still, the crowd plays casual
Aloof
So dream of a connection concentrate in a container
And swig
Constrict the fists and relax
To be carried off into the cosmos
Consumed by clouds of gas...
Below are the circus clowns
Coughing, conceiving, creating.
Is it a crime? To be cut off from contemplation?
Akin to Galileo, craniums will roll
While eyes stay still completely
A quiet kiss to the clavicle of our collective cast
Soothes the commotion to
This clamoring performance
A hush to this cacophony
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
you leave.
i wake up and you're gone.
you leave like how your kisses fade away on my clavicle.
you leave like the roses that slowly waste from june to
september.
you leave like you can't wait to.
you leave like there's nothing better in the world.
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 8:14 AM UTC
Her clavicle found me weak
Surrendered aside my confidence
Melting into each curve
Found under the sheets
We fell hard into tomorrow
Missing pieces of ourselves
Writing history in the dark
Telling stories about god
And freedom
Two things being discovered
In the gold rush of sleep in our eyes
Fixated upon allocated perfection
Her body spoke to mine
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Stumble in. closely holding at the waist & neck
Lips on neck, under chin, down neck, visible masculine clavicle
Warm, moist. hot
Forcefully Swing door
Fiercely Kick off shoes
Try to control inhaling so deeply
Rustling of clothes and hands. Buttons. Fingers so delicate. &rough;
Hands everywhere.
Touch. Feel.
Neck. Hips. Tongue. Back. Neck. open mouth. neck
Head back. Fingers stroke, down spine
Finger tips
Fingers trace
Up. and down. And down. and in
So smooth, yet so deep
Animals of passion
Thoughts. with emotion
Love?
Or another character
**** in body, naked in spirit
Not alone now are you?
..are you?
Mirrored emotions..
Not for him
And you
Naked
Skin touching, yet miles away
Empty eyes; Empty heart
Alone inside oneself
Watching the movie of another’s life
Always beautiful. Often perfect
Grab what’s yours left on the floor
Satisfied?
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
Morning is a burnt thing
that wrings the dark from my dress,
a lilting blue on the lawn,
in that twilight, so heavy
with lures and the tiniest snails
leave ochre splinters in my palms,
a scar, where you wrote in my book,
the blood part of ruined pages, bone white
and virulent, you raise the urge to render
my wrists more fragile,
more fragile than this,
a restlessness as black as a raven
drifts through bits of paper, stray wings
come to worship the hour, vanishing
between nine and ten, Winter
is a tenderness as transparent as silk,
as fragile as poppies,
its ruthless baptism upon my body
filling with snow, my skin shimmers
like dusk, like wings
all night you held me,
steadied my heart in the heavy wind,
even when the wildflowers had sown
themselves into the shape of a grave,
the garden overgrown, my body
from a bone, and my soul
out of nothing, opening,
opening for yours,
I am sure, god has failed me,
and longing is just the heart
changing colors, all its chambers, churning
the slowly spoiling hour, all night
I ribbon and tendril,
as you make a cage of your fingers to keep out the light,
shut the latches of this cell,
shut your eyes, my lover,
for I am frayed, my belly blood dark
and grey, where it is all wearing at the ends,
a little gin poured upon the open sore
of this ache, as I am caged in glass,
shackled at my wrists, like pink clusters of wisteria (oh, pink)
upon the secret places of our skin,
fingertips press against me like a bell,
beneath the swell of *******
I keep the debris,
my poems to you are small,
quartered and hidden beneath the floorboards
of this room, the bed, the glass,
the pink (oh pink) wisteria in bloom,
morning, is a burnt thing,
spoiled like a jail of brick and mortar,
where I live on licorice,
and on the palest underside of the wrists,
the half beat,
I dont think, I have ever loved so gently,
in silence, unexpected,
midnight spooled in a clavicle,
for my skeleton is a fossil
you will find every night
in your flesh,
and my faith lies
in that single thing left
to us, a smoldering filigree of sorrow,
shaped like a moth,
and morning is our burning....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
If I'm not the problem, there is no solution. Destiny disrupted by rusted liquor lust. Liquidated terror is the soup du jour. Stale coffee exacerbates the problem. Relapse hangs overhead like a grotesque mobile of alcoholic death. There's glitter in their eyes and a bottle of pills in their pocket. Smoking as self care. I want her to carve her love into my clavicle; I'm dangling by a thin gold chain.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
**** the ******** they said.
Okay, but let me at least take you to dinner first.
_________________________________________________________
Now wait just one second.
This skin you're in - it's mine, is it not?
I am fairly certain that these sighs belong to me, that this warmth is a byproduct of my night terrors.
Now just who told you that you could wear my skin?
Hey! Hello! You There, With The Eyes!
I am not something to be pulled off a floor and draped haphazardly across such a treacherous clavicle!
(Well, I mean, as a general rule. There was that one time.)
As I Was Saying!
It look me a lot of time to get stretched this thin, okay? What makes you think you can just crawl headfirst into my own exquisite casing? I know you're under there, you sneak. My own personal ringworm. Let's ring around those rosy cheeks of yours, exhausted by my less natural coloring. Clap your hands, why don't ya? Distract yourself with a melody and I'll come up for air to finish off that last verse.
MY hair sticks up more on the left side. MY forearms are prone to alien speed-bumps. MY very own flesh (and blood!) smells faintly of orange peels. Got it?
Listen closely, you.
Not only are you not welcome here -
You may not be excused.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
I want you to lay me down like a blanket and
bury your face in my legs like snuggling
the creases for your Winter warmth
falling in love with my creases
make me believe it in the way
that you move your tongue
the way that you kiss, like you've missed me for centuries,
and it's my taste that you want over ocean and stone
my body's tension to your touch and release as I open up
I tell my tale writhing in bed, ending at midway with your face
on my clavicle, smelling of me as you softly breathe in and out
At time of the turning tides, hidden through curtains,
slicing the moonlight over you, ******* and dimples baring brazenly, I'll take the love that you gave me and breathe it back into you,
mouthing nothings and humming, playing my song for you.
Tracing your wanting folds with my lips, will you hold my head?
In the bed that I share with you.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
I unraveled her kimono
As if it were a gift,
When hours earlier,
She’d bandaged my arm.
I traced her clavicle
With the only finger left,
And seconds later, would
Intimately grasp the music.
So I whimper within want,
And blame it on the pain,
Come an instant,
She’d pegged me a “liar.”
Then we’d love, we’d wed,
A naked knowing only moonlight,
And should the hours understand
“Later,” we’d know only dark.
So the sunrise ensued,
I folded her kimono, silk and
As if it were a letter, one
Parting gratitude and prior wander.
But the crimson and
‘Ever’d arrive later, and later’d
Arrived atop a melancholy’s mount,
Eternal and seasoned “regret,”
She’d passed, we’d passed,
And the night’s passed to know
Only “broken,” broken, the bow,
And how all and always unravels.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
With whispered complements
Sootheing scratched hearts
We held each other tight
I curled into her clavicle
I've slipped into a real life romance
As beautiful and tortured as the novels describe
It's fantastic.
I love it.
Well,, there was some kissing.
If I'm honest, quite a bit.
But obviously there's more to it than that.
See, she's amazingly awesome
Poetic nonsense can't capture it
It's one of those things
All full and complex
All beautiful and rich.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
Her eyes stared deep into his own
And the starry galaxies within each
Spun crescendo, a little faster,
About the axis of their hearts.
Twas then, when her shirt collar
Slipped to reveal her soft shoulder skin,
And the subtle line of the clavicle within,
That his eyes wandered,
And she blushed. He was fully enticed
By her then, and needed to feel her soul.
And so gave the first kiss, of their first time,
Planting euphoria on her collarbone.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC