"cloyingly" poems
He was never my classmate,
Neither was he my schoolmate,
As we have met on OkCupid,
Which is where we got suited.
He soon became my tablemate,
Then got promoted to bedmate,
Ranging from late-night nosh
To some naughty oh-my-gosh.
He was my almost-roommate,
Now, a hopeful housemate,
Since he would visit me daily
And keep me company gaily.
He was frequently my seatmate,
As well as invaluable playmate,
For we traveled places together
And cloyingly wrestled each other.
He has always been my helpmate,
And is presently my best teammate,
As he has cheered me up from afar,
As we chat as if there is no au revoir.
He will one day become my inmate,
Plus my hard-working workmate,
Since we will both have mini-me’s
Forcing us to slog away on our knees.
He is undoubtedly my soulmate,
One who is to become my lifemate,
For he is a romantic yet **** geek,
A keeper with charms all too unique.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
When you tell a lie,
does it taste like cancer in your mouth?
Perhaps you felt the taste of sour milk assault your senses.
Or perhaps it tasted like cloyingly sweet honey that soothe your throat as the words went up in flames.
Perhaps your words hold truth in them
but the world is twisted
and the promises you made were broken
even before it reached my ears.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
symptoms of anhedonia.
a triumvirate, perceived
Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
noir
from **** knows where.
their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
reach into my prozac pillboxes
&crunch my anxiety (meds)
into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
their yellowing teeth.
I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks
For He Sits At midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch , ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For *they will not
leave me
untilthe
cloyingly sweet
perfume of Death
is scrubbed clean fromthe
pulse
point
of
my
wrists*
There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.
Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.
here is the untruth:
i am here,
Penelope at her loom,
waiting for a lost lover whom I know
will take ten years to come back to
my awaiting arms.
here is the untruth:
in three years time,
I’ll still be dead.
here is the truth:
nothing exists six feet under except:
hell
chalk dust
powdered calcium.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Fiery
Furies,
Lapping
At the base
Of the door.
Whisper
Cloyingly sweet,
"Let me in..."
OH!!
If only
To rapture.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.
i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.
it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.
before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.
it was... rockin, knockin,
*** on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.
it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.
it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.
it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.
it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.
it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.
it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.
it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.
it was ....so long ago,
it was... yesterday night,
when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
She listens
And though she is right beside me
She is a million miles away in thought
And yet she listens
She still somehow hears what I say
Even though
She is a million miles away in thought
Her emotions are paper thin
And her charade is opaque
She is easily broken
From her mindless stupor
And yet she listens
To the troubled words of a troubled mind
And yet she listens
To the sorrowful twang of teenage vanities
And yet she listens
To the colors and the smells of burning candles
She listens to the feel of skin on paper
She listens to the cloyingly sweet emotions
Drifting off where no one else can hear them
And yet she listens
To taped-back-together-but-so-far-apart souls
Desperate not to be blown away
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
Touching the moment, this delicate moment
Touching the face with its’ sad falling tear,
Softly aware that strange feelings surround us
Cloyingly close with their aura of fear.
Fear of a mantle of misunderstanding
Fear of uncertainty choked in forlorn,
Cloaked in thick prejudice clad by constriction
All drowned in a sea of wet ignorance borne.
Where stand the rational reaching for reason?
How seek the humble in searching for more?
****** not the javelin of angers’ contrition
In weighing this moment, I humbly implore.
For thus sits the fabric of deep understanding
Thus lies the tantric of feelings unspoke,
Thus the true substance of one to another
Uttered in wisdom through words best unwrote.
M.
30 September 2015
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Have you sipped a good old fashioned?
A perfectly crafted cocktail
One that costs 12 or 15 dollars
And is made by a man with a mustache?
It's sweet at first, almost cloyingly so
Sugary and malty and fruity.
Underneath the sweet is something sharp
The alcohol, the citrus, the bite.
Not sour, just bright and crisp.
It's a pleasing drink, dancing across the palate.
But if you pay close attention,
If you really focus,
There are the bitter notes, the astringent moments
The ones that pucker and hurt.
A good old fashioned hides the harshness,
Like the memories of a love that walked away.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
Leeching light, vampire-like, her eyes burn,
Stolen attention lingers, cloyingly sweet,
Pearly laughs cling, bedeviling,
Shaking hips, like a disapproving finger,
Rising tides hold secrets close, unveiling,
A smirking smile, sweet as the taste of death,
Oh, angel lips, fallen to hell's debauchery,
Legs like an ignored muse, passion banked,
Hair's flick-kiss, black-heart dark,
Spicy scent, alcohol-like, inebriating,
Breathing deep the essence of the bonfire rose,
Ghost dance footprints fade and fulfill,
Everest's peak, an unscalable life-long goal,
Her free, stained-glass heart, my hopeless hope.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Like honey, cloyingly, sickeningly sweet
You cling, coagulated, dripping
Sticking and
I find you between my fingers
caught in the corners of my lips
Taste of clover stinging and
No matter how hard I
Try to scrub, clean, lick you away,
You remain ever present and
I find that I am helpless
Stuck solitary and motionless within
A candied cocoon
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
#*Lingering coastal fog
climbed up the seaside cliff head
The windward crest-edge
sprawling out
the rolling waves
misty breathe,
shapeless as an ocean
sigh betides;
cloyingly crawling
through the lush
hillside meadow verdure
The clinging mist dissipates
like teardrops soon forgotten:
the Dawning of the day
caressing the evanescent dew;
an ebbing tide
remembered for a while...
Dawn awakening
newly sun kissed Daffodils
animated with felicity and mirth;
lilting ballerinas
gracefully swaying,
contagious with the leavening
serendipity of the westerly
sea breeze ~
Velvet bisque painted
daybreak constellations,
embossed by sunrise
splendor ~
each root bound bouquet,
kismet choreographed ballerinas
in Spring's Rustic Ballet
Jesse*#
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
I am tempted to let you enter this room which is my being and soul, but you see - the last person in here trampled over the grass, uprooted the flowers and tore down the lights. He brought storms with him in place of the windy spring air and poisoned everything he touched with his fingerprints; permanent stains on a fragile heart. This is why everything smells cloyingly of rain, grass and roses here, overbearingly so.
He has stayed for years, coming and going as he pleases, so often so that the hinges of the door of the entrance are rusty and breaking apart. The gates used to be white and intricately laced with wildflowers that screamed freedom and naivety, but now they are wilted fragments on the remnants of charred wood from the lightning and thunder.
When he returns and lingers for a long long while, I take pity on him; placing a candle on the table and fixing a lamp above his head. I give him water and food and nourishment, emotions taking over any rational thought. I give him comfort and attention and answer any whim, demand or request. I give him all and everything I am simply because he is who he is, and I am who I am. During these moments he is sometimes pacified, and destroys less of me than does in times of anger and desolation.
But if he becomes too tame, too kind, too gentle - without warning, he will disappear. He will disappear into the dark but come back in radiant light. He will leave with an apology in his eyes and a smile on his lips, but return with fire in his soul and anger on his tongue. The storms he creates are violent and threaten to collapse the walls of this room, but never do.
During his disappearance, other people like yourself try to enter this place, but he takes the key with him and locks the broken door. I have an extra key to escape, but it is dangerous in here - glass shards, broken smiles and plaster masks that litter the wall and floor - so I never let anyone in. Only he knows how to tip toe around the chaos and ruin to find his way back, and allowing visitors in here would hurt them, so I stay alone till he returns. It is safer this way.
-
You will ask why she does not run if he is destructive and as deadly as she says. You will wonder why this girl refuses to escape from the storms she is terrified of and return to the spring. You will relentlessly beg her to stop watering the roses whose thorns ***** her so, but it will all be futile.
Because regardless of what you ask, she will answer out of the same conscience that makes her care for him endlessly; love, love, love.
(A.H.Z)
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
came you pinkly curving over curving rush
by flaming lipped in sleeping flowers
the aching stem; the caving hush
from easy darkness there sloping towers,
the falls deeply leaning on pelvis *******
moonlight coiling rolls and peaks
a column steaming at each terminal's cleft
whose each glowing timber cloyingly reeks
of my wreak, and the uncarefullest youth
who the stupid *** of creaking motion
is frailty distilled in instant truth
and mocks, by beauty, the immortal ocean
toward ecstatic dying we slowly leap
from the sickled moon where darkness creeps
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
violent You are like a biggest sound
cloyingly honeyed on my mound of massed
and singing chords
(you are a rose most thorned and beautiful
i clutch idiosyncratically
strangled scarlet petals bursting
a foal i;ve nursed with tremoring pits of bold
gangling and accurate stench
violent you're a tedium
a lush and decaying growth
so lightly cancering my cell
and I breath your daily blood and i whimper first glowering fist
my hand to take that penitent shape
and i"ll whisper it
to their chins:
they who art most a mortal folly
as to wade in my
quaking presence
andi
'
;ll
sleeep them quickly rushing rushing
oBliviOn)
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC
And it is only within the peaceful times
That I realize he's my heart in hand.
Only when an unnoticed smile stretches my lips
Am I fully aware that I adore this man.
The softest of feelings accompany the lightest gazes;
The feeling of it is indescribably, cloyingly sweet.
It is a gentle breeze of passively adoring affection
It is simple silence's most lovely of treats.
A pure emotion that spirals playfully in my chest
And spreads flora and sunshine in me without rest.
Something beautifully untouched; mine in every form.
Something strikingly idyllic, impossibly beatific, and lovingly warm.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
i promise to make pain look beautiful,
i will make you wish for thorns instead of roses
just so you can feel my ebony words,
just so you can choke on the bitter truth
for a while.
i promise to paint love as the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen,
i will make you give everything
to have a world of your very own.
i promise to hold a permanent spot in your mind,
trail through your thoughts like music notes,
feelings so overwhelming you can’t breathe.
i promise to have you scribbling lines on any surface you can get your hands on,
post-its and notebook pages and tree bark
and your ex-lover’s lips.
i will make you taste my words, cloyingly
sweet with an acrid aftertaste once you realize
”oh, he’s not actually hers.”
i promise
to make you feel something.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
This Picture Perfect Family
Is family of contradiction.
Hands hold the frame of the Portrait;
Bitterness seethes with friction.
Repulsive as summer cockroach,
Its artwork I wish to reproach.
Faces full of fake smiles-
Cloyingly sick, I want to puke!
The portrait presents many lies.
This Picture Perfect Family,
The truth is it has been defiled!
Father fights Mother; home havoc!
Harmony crushed by clamor.
Though I may be a naive child,
This family has a vicious void.
Resentment rattles with full force;
The essence of love long destroyed;
Hatred only settled with divorce!
This Picture Perfect Family
Can only appear in my dreams.
The tone of painting I abhor;
Behind our smiles, gloominess gleams,
It does not show there is a war.
My mind screams in frustration
Like the eunuch’s first castration.
I wish this wretched pain to bury-
Emotions blurred by apathy!
This Picture Perfect Family
Will not exist any longer!
I wonder now what is at stake-
Foundation of love macerates.
Hands tremor in anguish anger;
The Family Portrait drops and breaks.
Glass frame shatters; heart lacerates.
Oh, let this Portrait rot in hell…
Picture Perfect Family farewell!
(c) Jo Swan
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
the scent that lingers
after my lips blow the flame of a candle is my favorite
I’ve always held on to the end of the moment a little too long.
savored the last bite ‘til it was cloyingly sweet
I have never learned
how to let go,
even after the smoke clears.
Jul 9, 2024
Jul 9, 2024 at 6:03 PM UTC
elle n'est pas one hell
of an elle in does
brightly chafe with
dower stocking removal
hastily into thigh as thigh
does improbably hairless
Glide into petite grande
pink pretty pinched heaping
of dryless ****** helping
of **** help needing
A quick drizzle of angles that
unsuddenly with immortal pairing
bare the rude stem of Spring–
which cannot unbarley but to shreak
the tiniest whisper of "please into my
house enter the deepest blooming
of red red red steam "
being i just could only
that at
the naked perfume
of her
seeping incessantly laughter
but to boom as wide and cloyingly
drunk with open health
as God had said
making the world
by one word: she
said not one word
(making my world)
but two,
**** me"
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
She listens
And though she is right beside me
She is a million miles away in thought
And yet she listens
She still somehow hears what I say
Even though
She is a million miles away in thought
Her emotions are paper thin
And her charade is opaque
She is easily broken
From her mindless stupor
And yet she listens
To the troubled words of a troubled mind
And yet she listens
To the sorrowful twang of teenage vanities
And yet she listens
To the colors and the smells of burning candles
She listens to the feel of skin on paper
She listens to the cloyingly sweet emotions
Drifting off where no one else can hear them
And yet she listens
To taped-back-together-but-so-far-apart souls
Desperate not to be blown away
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
formally arranged
cloyingly sweet
flowers of summer
greenhouses
candles lit
furniture gleaming
to honour the guest
resplendent
in Sunday best
lying cold and still
in satin lined luxury
head
on a comfortable pillow
tie and lips
properly knotted
eyes closed
with glasses perched
on the bridge of his
powdered nose
the veneer of eternal good health
courtesy of
pots and brushes of
paints and powders
waiting for friends to arrive
speaking in hushed voices
careful of disturbing
his slumber
he was a good man
if there's anything i can do...
they filter in
they filter out
tears love and platitudes
in equal measure
quiet music
devoid of life
and meaning
insipid tunes
of eternal rest
it's a blessing really
did he suffer
the blues of Brahams
chimes sound to signal
each new arrival
hugs and air kisses
solemn handshakes
sympathetic smiles
until there are none
she is left alone with him
looking down
a tear
falls on his face
a quick touch up required
before he rests in perfect quiet
but for the ticking of his watch
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
sometimes I wonder if it's you who is lost or if it is I
tied to each other by spider silk
as delicate as a whisper
as strong as a promise (or whiskey)
our laughter booms forth
as loud as the trucks rambling off the freeway
as pure as the water we consume
our limbs entwined in sheets peppered with dog hair
endless stories fall from your lips
a boy not yet a man
a man with the heart of a boy
of far off lands, of another world
your eyes sparkle secretively
devilishly, mirthfully, wondrously
you lips curl cloyingly
slyly, impishly, lovingly
conjuring ways to trouble and adore me
if only tonight could last forever
there will be no other like it
tendrils of marlboro blends cling to the air
permeating the drawers, the walls, the sheets
and underneath it all
a heady fragrance burns and smolders
i fish for my lessons of you
in sleepless nights, in strength
measured in casts of iron
of release, acceptance, presence
the snow has melted with the rush of rain
permafrost given way to daffodils
how time slips away when i'm with you
let it be.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC