"clipping" poems
Mario hits it with the sounds
of bodies hitting plexiglass.
My horses hit it without a sound. They want to escape it.
And I am trying to drive this dune buggy
off this cliff, but the clipping is strong here.
In Pac-Man, the tunnels were circular. I don’t know
if people realized that they were trapped in a sphere.
In Asteroids when you get to the edge of the universe,
you begin again.
And that Snake. His body could stretch all over his world
looping, but he could never eat his tail.
If all your electrons were in the right place, and all the wall’s
electrons were in the right place. You could feasibly walk through
the wall.
What would you do while in the wall? Think. Fear.
The superposition could rip your body into ragdoll parts.
When I turned clipping off, I expected the freedom to walk through
the wall and suddenly the floor
fell out from under me.
Every time I respawn I feel like my inventory is heavier,
and my flamethrower burns colder.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.
Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
of want and woe
of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
grinding myself hard onto your unzipped pants
i imagine clipping into your body and
shattering your programming
our lips meander into each other breaking
california law,
and simultaneously
finding anatomical peace
your **** thrusts through slacks an angry fist
and I wonder how eager my mouth looks on you
******* the decade between us
bridging the age gap with a rope of *****
lip to ***** in awe that I am
capable of making you ***
silly and heavy with excited hands
i fumble with my pants,
tucking my knees into my chest to slide them off my feet
my stomach disobeys me, spilling out
holding onto something desirable of mine so tight
you crush my fleeting abstinence
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
I touched a flower in my pocket..
Picked it up, and promptly dropped it.
It's bulbous, squishy, and it's sopping.
I was afraid of what it was.
I took a closer look at its mutant colors;
Squinted at it for a second 'nother.
It felt like death, it felt like butter;
'Twas merely the head of a rose.
I sighed out the panic that had rushed inside me.
While sadness-stricken, serendipity survived thee.
The mere smell of that rose, nostalgic and lively
Wrapped around me and extracted my pain
Such a simple notion made such a difference.
I shall thank the friend by whom it was given;
He'll never understand the powerful significance.
That flower saved my night.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
buffalo head cloud
rawhide drums
saline rollers at tantalus cross
ominous light
forms a short mile away
head lice
and peckers
tap the metal track
shovel train pings
the night quiet
moonlight
shines in
geometric form
arches and skiddles
and skirting reflections
(a vast connection of
grand design)
7 horns
at the passing
(oh that cold metal joy!)
stirring the blades
and ground cover
you better not turn old friend
just nod,
and cut what you need
it’s a bitter run
on the winter line
(with the finest
of wheels
and runners)
hold tight
on the pulley
the canyon wires
are clipping
there’s a gateway
to the copper town
*with a key held
by coveted few*
you can spot the
riders in their
box cars
watching closely
at the chunnel’s
dark turn
we’d walk
the lines often
(and put an ear to the ground)
the mine town still
and barren
hidden treasures
and pocket *******
settled deep
in a tranquil, stolid place
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
the ghosts around your moist lips
clipping the sweet drench of our limp wish....
the spectral harlots of our far lit lamps
and the damp parlors of our damaged camps
pitched.
the pit of our peaches, fussing the cuff
of our sap. the honey bonds -
of our wayward damp
runes...
that
we caste to undo
any telling
of our demise, to save our precious
myth.
to keep our ruse
amused...
my darling... goodnight... though nothing is good
and we have only the night.... goodnight.
i will
trouble you no more
but labor to keep your sweet grief
mine.
to contend
with your unending medallions
of perfect regret, to pass your palm
with silver drek, the likes of which
your liking, may learn to kiss
with two lips
at dead
stop.
if this is the end
tremble and be
trembling.
our disassembling
locks
our open door
and nothing more than vanishing
remains, where our appearance
mocks the
same.
goodnight... though nothing is good, and the light is a darkness,
a trump of knives and a far thing,
up too close
to save a prayer for the plight of fools
and just too far
to pry our hands from live
grenades...
to live for.
but to die
yes.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Women are born with heavy feathered wings
Hands that hide starlit craters
Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other
Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique
That perpetuates newly hatched faces
A world without the incessant need for reassurance
Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border
Small ordinances that keep themselves airless
No longer striving for the greater force of flight
Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood
Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago
Ancient in idea and aesthetic
I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long
The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall
Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago
A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God
There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me
To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree?
He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest
One for each pectoralis
I looked away in tragedy
I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old
My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively
I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat
My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards
The harp strings have been torn
I am now mute
Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain
I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands
And sank into the forest floor
In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form
My eternal resting place
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
those that survive
accept their powerlessness
those that thrive
say my brother before me
to prosper
the proof must persuade
clipping the cord
venturing beyond the lovely chaos
drifting to never return
a vagrant now
wandering in search of potential
when the opportunity rises
pacific prodding, pointing, guiding,
as was done for you
there must be some mystery
key in hand
the ultimate test
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
I was reborn last night
As she sent me a quick melody clipping of her voice...
I heard god in her words
A beauty so moist!!!
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
pestilence and
rapture,
two key elements
of
western civilization.
what is the difference
between a moth
and a
butterfly?
coffee stained teeth
catch soft whispers in the dark.
as we sit, surrounded by people,
frankness and penitence,
the priests, cops, postmen,
stockholders, school teachers,
slaughterhouse workers,
dishwashers,
garbage truck drivers,
prostitutes, strippers,
and hobos,
all working towards
what they believe to be the common good.
while we sit
in our chairs, wearing nothing,
clipping our toenails
each fractured fragment a whole.
we aren't alone anymore.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:33 AM UTC
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither through the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
2k
I cleaned out an old drawer
of odds and ends.
paperclips and the door to a battery case on some remote
an orange candle stub, from Halloween I think
batteries and four flashlights, though only one worked
and parts of things I'm sure made sense to keep at the time
I have no idea what they are now
I cleaned out an old drawer
of things forgotten
my daughter's picture in a setting unknown
a letter of gratitude from a friend, for what?
a postcard from Barcelona
graduation announcements for a friend's child
I don't think I sent a gift
I cleaned out an old drawer
of memories and my past
a ticket stub from an evening with Isabel
a newspaper clipping of my son in scouts
old mother's day cards from the kids
New York City subway map from October 2001
Memories of adventure and affection
I cleaned out an old drawer
and sorted, discarded and remembered
batteries went together in a small box
old fortune cookie notes in the trash
memories dusted off and replaced
out of the drawer and back into my heart
My life has cabinet drawers
stuffed with junk and trash mixed with treasures and tools
I think I'll clean my cabinet more often
To organize things that I've needed
like my mom and dads enduring affection
kind and playful friends'
Throw away useless things
like anger, resentment, and regret
to make room for treasures
And to be reminded of what has been
a real childhood of play and discovery
magical children and the wonder of them
my beloved's steadfast love and respect
I cleaned out an old drawer
and found some peace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Toes
A Thank Offering
Praise be to the Maker of toes.
Crunchy, munchy baby toes mommies nibble.
Wiggley, wonderful baby toes,
Splendiferous, greeting the world with sunbeams toes!
Thanks to Him for kiddie toes.
Tumbling, treading, running boy toes.
Greeting the day toes, grabbing the bases toes.
Wiggle in the tub toes.
All hail for girlie toes.
Ready to be a ballerina toes.
Jumping, giggling, big girl toes.
Tip-toeing in the night, jump-in-your-bed toes.
Give praise for almost-grown toes.
Boy-toe-touching-girl-toe toes,
All tingling, thrilling toes.
I know everything! toes.
Do not withhold thanks for grown-up toes
Hurry. Carry. Do. Stop. Go. toes.
Weary, Pushing, Grasping toes.
Reaching for another under the covers toes.
Glory to the Maker for older toes.
Adept at all concepts and gadgets toes.
Slower and wiser gnarly toes.
Surrounded by little feet toes.
Pure worship for ancient toes.
Lined, yellow, and ***** toes
Awaiting a clipping by those
Who kneel in worship of timeworn toes.
All praise, thanks, and worship
To the Maker of toes;
The One to whom all glory goes,
Who fills us with the joy of toes.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
mid-air toward the icy Catskill eddies
frozen once and once again--
bridge-jump skyward watchers--
plunge of marrow tears.
you are there. simulacrum ping
-pong pop on carpet rise
another consciousness i've known
the winking soul recognitive
of grin, of inner whispered act
we finish lineless, applause of ancients drone
on trio sum in low man's song,
on kitchen counter edges,
finger tests and tested trusts,
nail clips clipping on dehiscing ****
the party. the porch. the project truth of beauty's virtue shown--
the drunken blood a lover
swirled on wet on wet undone.
your attic pillow-talk sobriety
of Green Hole fun
to echo four years, six and seventeen
the age unknown, we shared umbrella sanctity of family home:
raindrops trump the timeless wallstreet horns,
a zero sky ungains the settled hue of mind,
each thought the same, copula to void
in mythic forms we metaphor the plenum won
building dwelling-thinking sung,
the cardiac in tones--
lucid union slowing in the swirling sun--
the eddies stop again, sewn in Catskill frost..
the love we felt alive, in mid-air jump,
in Berto's cheer
we match the water's silent thrum
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Whipping chip, clipping the drip,
The droplet of alabaster flat-knock,
Rocking the winded chalice off the fat dock,
Plock, Magock.
Skibdoof, pibby. Dr. Pibb. Dr. Face,
Take'ed off my face glands,
Jovial hoagie,
Mold'ed Imhotep,
Brendan Frasier is my hero.
The Mummy 3, see it in theatres.
C-3
3-Peat
Must See
TV
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
At a time where it seems so very hard, for me just to feel alive.
all I wanted then, was to drive
As ridiculous as it seems
it was the stuff of my dreams
all I needed was my car and vacant 4am roads.
Going through the gears, as if they were my final years
piston tatted-ring finger; hand firmly wrapped around the wheel
braking late into the corner
locking up the alloy steel wheels on my automobile
the tires squeal
waltzing them back into rotation as I find the threshold
clutch in
twist of the leg at the hip, I blip the throttle with my heel
down into second
one swift movement
un-burnt fuel erupts in the pipes.
blitzing through the off ramp
keeping it tight, clipping the manhole cover in the apex
pedal flat coming out, bounce the tach' as its not worth the upshift
pitch the car into the long sweeping overpass bend
the back end kicks out on decel'
counter steer and slam the accelerator back into the bare metal floor
front wheels clawing in the direction that I please
keys slapping my knees
straighten out and I ease her back home.
reverse down into the narrow; dimly lit garage
as I climb out, I can feel the heat radiating from the machine I built
hot oil ticking as it finds its way back to the pan
I stand and watch my car slowly disappear behind the garage door
it is but another night survived
for both of us.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
Your desolate heart is the only moor to which I am barren.....
It was a Saturday in November, yea I still remember. I confessed my profound feelings to what now appears to be a hollow frame of shattered dreams. And the distance between us seems to only lengthen. Well maybe I'm okay with it, maybe I really just don't give a **** I've had enough of you deficating upon my desperate hopes. Tired of you spitting on me, tired of you ******** on me. Quite frankly, I no longer care to be here; in this feeding pit where you starve me love and fill me with false hope and pain. I can't stay here..it's draining everything that I am and try to be, can't you see..you're ******* killing me, constantly shoving me aside, guess what. The truth is, I stopped loving you for while.. now and I just feel so alive now. I feel free. No longer enchained by meaningless hi's and goodbyes, most importantly, no more compromise. I've stopped selling myself promising futures, I realised that I'd be broke if I kept buying into my beautiful sins. Sacrificing everything for the sake of you in my life, clipping my own wings and bearing a heart that knows of nothing but strife. You disgust me, the taste of your name on my tongue makes my blood boil and my face wry. You no longer have to accept me because this is goodbye for sure.I don't want you, I don't need you, I don't love you...anymore.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
(I live in Cali, Colombia)
1. My sketchy run-in with the cute gluehead.
2. You say you’re armed, my girlfriend says you can’t have my camera.
3. I guess I’m bilingual, but man do I feel stupid right now.
4. No, coworker, I don’t feel like sharing with you why I’m going hiena in the break room. (culprit)
5. What a pain that I don't remember your name.
6. I ate my brains for breakfast with onion, tomato, and toast.
7. If my daydreams were broad cast right now your boyfriend would probably hurt me.
8. You, my friend, are my friend.
9. Just dropped a drumstick 3 songs into our very first gig.
10. No sir I don’t want to buy that gun...oh...what’s that? You’d like the contents of my pockets?
11. My pleasant walk to wherever.
12. Clandestine house-party tonail clipping session.
13. My beard is doing a fantastic ashtray impersonation.
14. Beérjá vu.
15. “Um...did I really just say that?"
16. Gringo moment #247.
17. Well well welcome to ***** Wonka’s South American silicone factory.
18. Are my neighbors being cold because they know I puked in their front garden?
19. Everyone is staring at me...must be time for a haircut.
20. ”Is this who I’m supposed to be?"
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
There is something about the way a feather hits the ground that sounds surprisingly similar to glass breaking and there are so many things I need to tell you but the words all dance in my head behind a mental block and they swirl with songs about broken boughs and fallen cradles and realizing this hits me harder than the day you realize that Ring Around The Rosie is about the Black Plague (I'm sorry for ever telling you that you were the childhood innocence I always wanted) but I suppose nothing can ever be as pure as a pair of turtle doves and I always imagined myself as a pigeon cooing at your feet while you sprinkle your affection like bread crumbs — always plentiful but always in your control — and I am always cooing, cooing for you, cooing even if you wrung my neck like your hands when you are nervous and you are always clipping my wings with those persuasions to keep me around and incapable of flying away or even imagining a home anywhere unless it is perched on either of your broad shoulders and I accept that; I have never been a songbird with anything lovely to croon about and while smoothing out my feathers I know why the caged birds sings and it's because all the birds that cry get their necks broken.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
She is so beautiful, her bold brunette hair.
She is stronger than a bear.
She is as funny as a person tripping.
She will be a famous person on a magazine clipping.
One day i will marry her and have some babies.
We will have a family dog with no rabies.
Her brown eyes remind me of a chocolaty ice cream cone.
I cant stand being away from her, all alone.
For some odd reason she is self conscious.
But in reality she is a goddess.
Her name is ******
And I love her<3
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
Beautiful crescent moon,
I should be standing here beneath you
Subdued and romantic under your arc of light
Instead I am wondering why it is
You remind me of my husbands toe nail clipping
Left on the bathroom floor.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
a father and son argue outside a small town barbershop in windless ten degree weather. inside the shop, which is closed, the barber’s wife is clipping away at a wig. nearby, and quite by accident, an invisible man uncovers a fainting spell before which some will disrobe. namely, women declaring that the eye is always naked. who are these women?, ask my teeth, which are snow.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Don't hurt me anymore,
Stop clipping my wings;
Can't you see?
I'm bleeding here in agony...
The torture, the pain,
Why won't you stop?
Just leave me be...
Why can't you see the human in me?
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC