"clued" poems
I got so attached to you this quick
Never did i expect you to leave
But you're just like the others
You promised you'd stay
It ended like any other
I'm all alone again
Why did I think you were different?
Those words of yours had me fooled
I try to forget the bad memories
But you're clued to my head
You're something I'll never forget
I got so attached to you this quick
I didn't want us to end like this
If only you gave me time to think
Had a bit of patience to realize
My every goodbye meant No please don't leave
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
She became societies therapist,
listening to her openly struggling clients
like a mother to a sick child.
letting the weak lay on her couch of advice.
Tick
Keeping their secrets without questions to quander,
leaving her with a sense of trust, for all to see.
Tick
Every now and then she’d close her doors
hoping they’d not return with their
oh so dramatic attempts at life.
Some clued in.
Tick
Then she’d realize just how lonely she was.
Societies therapist would slowly become
society herself.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
Well its taken me all day
But I have clued it all up
You lied to me
I was never the only one
Here I am with a hole
In my heart,
But it's not empty as
Tears fill what I hide inside
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
Pompous:
"Oh God, no, not another shallow rhymer,
fitting each word to its neat little place.
Oh God, no, not another painterly composition
with planal directions going round and around or leading that way and this.
They did that in the past; get to the new.
Make sure the reader or viewer knows that the masterful
knows more than than the masterful lets t/h/r/o/u/g/h/ out.
Disdain extenuating weakenings caused by straining for clarity
or unnecessary exertions in expressions of cohesion.
Words, though plain, arouse astonished wonder by nonchalant impenetrable shufflings.
Be clued-in, be bold, be tough and show it when you sculpt the clay.
When shaped, use your trowel to scratch the surface, evoking even more obscurity.
Toss it off in broad strokes of masterful negligence.
Be above the miniscule.
By these means show in shadowy hints the profundity that winks beyond merely ordinary restrictions.
Break the barriers, fly the constructive. Those old shackles lie about the world.
Show you ain't no conforming sissy.
Display in impatient referenceless strokes
Your forceful awareness of the world as known."
Facetia:
"Oh?
A world which evidences no form and structure in living creatures;
no eons of effortful evolution;
Forests have no ecology, and laws of nature aren't for binding.
Mind never happened, spirit's a farce,
unions only expedient plottings.
Lessons of history describe the disruptive;
it's what you grab and who you club;
others are only take or be taken.
Show 'em who's boss,
stash it away,
it's dog eat dog until there's nothing.
Shake it all up and break it all up.
It's only entropy."
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
I didn't choose this
I never asked for you to love me
I could've gone my whole life fine
Had you never spoken to me
or at least,
thats what I'd like to believe.
I don't want to feel that for you,
I need
Another human being
Who could so easily tear me apart and
leave me high and dry
picking up all the pieces.
again
I don't want to deal with the feelings
I hate the fact that commitment sends my stomach reeling
but I'm so attached to you
I love you more than I've ever clued
I think I'm *******
for once,
I feel like you won't want me
as much as I want you.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Do you remember that Wednesday afternoon three years ago
When we made a fruit tree by stringing together store bought bananas on Christmas lights
And tossed up our sunny masterpiece on sycamore branches
Sick of more dead winter
Sick of unsproutable seedlings
Sick of Patience, the Godliest of virtues?
Tap! Tap! Tap!
I’m sitting a few feet away from the leaky faucet.
Perhaps the faucet is clued in on the old adage that persistence pays off
So it presses on, presses on, presses on…
Marching to the beat of it’s own drum
But this drumming sounds too much like hollow dripping,
Like how I imagine the IV’s medicinal potion entering into your veins to sound.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Your mother’s fidgeting fingers are dancing nervously on a People’s Magazine
She’s thumbing through pages but her face is fixated on the clock
Mentally counting down the minutes until your surgery is done
Mentally noting the ironies of a Waiting Room trying too hard to pass off as a careless bubble of distraction.
After all the room reeks of hospital cleaner laced with some derivative of a citrus scent,
And the television is left talking to itself like some incoherent patient diagnosed with insanity
And it reminds of her of an article she perused so long ago
Which read something along the lines of “if you hang out with crazy long enough, you’ll become crazy yourself”
And for a brief moment, she was comforted
Tap! Tap! Tap!
The doctor politely knocks before entering,
Everyone raises up to surround him,
But I stay physically stay affixed to my seat
And mentally float back to that faraway memory
Where we sprung into action
Combating the cold
With the only acceptable weapons of choice:
Bright lights and Yellow bananas.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
Sue walks in where you work
Whispers and looks not understood
Comes to see you as usual
As you are married to her
A week or so later Sue meets a new person working with you
Funny the woman looks like her
Still odd looks from people when she drops in
One day it hits her
You ****** her look alike
Only difference is she is 20 years younger
Worse than that she is a baby compared to You
Someone at worked clued poor Sue in
Everyone saw You together everyday at a lunch
Breaks, little brushups in the cooler
Married but that doesn't matter
As long as your **** is spewing twice a day
Come home expecting wifely duties
Don't touch her she screams
You offer Your most charming seduction
Fully expecting to not be turned down
Sue confronts the girl
She is but a child
Asks her if she has any morals at all
Of course she is sorry, it wasn't meant to happen
Your ***** is all you give a **** about
Not the child of Sue's ***** fathered by you
She is hurt far more than any
Teased at school
You dare ask why that is occuring
Your little ***** attends her schools church
As does her family
Does that matter to you?
You got your little **** wet
Now all you see is paradise
Not realizing the damage You have left behind
All the lives affected
Because of Your infidelity
You don't get it do you?
Your wife, daughter, her family, your family
There is more damage being done
Just so You can get ******
Enjoy Your life
You will be miserable in the end
Just don't look for any sympathy
When you find out what you lost
It won't be here then so don't bother
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 7:12 PM UTC
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~
this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching
write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth
sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?
a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?
let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded
if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment
even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:
Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.
High near 65.
what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?
this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis
there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body
weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...
these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:
*for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?*
October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,*
this space so gulf and so narrow
*in and between
the unity of
us*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
30 minute shower
20 minutes to do my hair,
Endless time at the mirror
To try and catch your stare.
You see me every morning
And you always say hello
I try to hide that nervousness
So my real feelings do not show.
You ask me simple questions
And i fumble to answer back,
Close my eyes , count to ten
Try to get on track.
My friends all think its crazy
How ive never clued you in
They say if i dont speak up
"How will anything begin? "
Im so much more content
Keeping this inside,
What if it went sour ?
I have too much pride.
So ill stand here every morning
And mutter " light and sweet "
And hope that in another life
You and i could meet .
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
*i never write poetry for a prize...
i write poetry for the next poem,
as in life... good or bad.*
i'm writing about a suicide,
a top chef kind, chef
benoît violer.... committed suicide,
there were awards, there
where the paparazzi,
but when reading the article
i was sitting at the other dinner table,
i read the article taking a ****
and i thought: god it feels good,
taking a **** giving birth to something
so worthwhile disposing off...
god i love taking a ****
ought i hash-tag that?
these nights when my boss gives me
no thought juggle and knot into writing
i take the easiest route: what's great about my life?
the same **** that everyone does but isn't clued in...
the pleasure of excavating a ****
will hardly match up with archaeology...
but still... taking a ****
does all the bollocks' funfair injustice
when it's dangling like a slur
before it plops into the stinking pond...
taking a **** never felt better...
it's the little or the belittling that counts...
never write poetry for a trophy or a prize of some sort...
the essence of poetry will die otherwise...
you'll get what you want, sure...
but poetry will turn around and bitch-slap you
back into your place when you don't write
for the next poem... i.e. 7 children, 28 grand-children...
or a homophilic chinese uno, with a surrogate mother,
5 poems that make up the helium of an ego
ballooned to excess with others laughing.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
The windowsill is badly placed; the sun
cannot indulge the speckled flowers. Catch
a ray, my little wilters, hatch
(in some enobled way, you vital ones)
your ancient plan. A blueprint known to man
and woman, aged notions often used
like: getting, knowing, owning, holding. Mused
by scanty winds atop a skyfull.
Scan
the skies for faintest glimmers, something clued
inside the trees. But know the placid breeze
has never been against you. Don't fall, please,
into forgetting: every atom's glued
to progress. Nature loves a failed scam.
You orchids catch what little light you can.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Muse a fuse fuss over clued less
Issues rused to rescue cued few trues viewed suit mews meow moves reuse romance reseduce
hues unused yet waaaay due new-new iknew this is not aknew but how poet groupies doit smues huh?
Smoooooth ie
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
by Wayne Wysocki
I live in a place called Oblivion,
Its location matters not;
You'll not recall or think at all
Of this forgotten spot.
But this is where you left me
When you and I were done,
And here I dwell, an empty shell,
While are you having fun.
I know your frequent fancies
Should have clued me from the start
How easily your love for me
Would vanish from your heart.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
Sarah Mclachlan - Plenty - the one time you told me
i was Eastern European, of long-forgotten Europe....
and you were Irish, then i knew.... time to breed
a knuckles's hello.... should i really mind reality?
you, godforsaken paddy skin-head?
throw a ******* paddy / potato
at me i'll get clued in at where
Chelsea gets tribalism of Hammer-smith...
oh lucky you, the Irish tentacle...
maybe the next Irish in me ought
ti dance the ******* leprechaun dance
for new years'... cos' that had to be minded
in newspapers...
i'll the be ****** of goth to mind
enter the dragon, starring the ill fated Brandon...
an you be the anonymous *******
pardonable journalist with angst prescription
when mommy ****** the
milkman and daddy said: huh?
or shave my head and become a fake *******
or the atypical Irish-head...
some said Celtic, but some said: Sale-tick-ticking-blah...
the meat-heads bashed their heads together...
wedlock northern:
every Mc-Noodle.
later read Mac. tosh
or Celtic
in the Glasgow curriculum, as said: Mac. arched Ranger...
for the clover leaf brigadiers
aye... spoon the
shovies! banknote worded:
two pence a punch...
some call it a London mo-cheese-sum
(mohican - heir to a higher phrasing: cannot but
will do) - and so the Australian banknote came
sooner than the migration points system:
as ever, plastic first, spooning baked beans
and later the "trouble": as Glasgow estate shimmered
the saying: concrete does two blues,
Hertfordshire horseradish:
alter. marketed green slime: or: guacamole...
god, i wish i was soppy sometimes...
at times when it was least
explanatory to mention Vaughan Williams...
perfectly now...
snotty curiosity ever went as far as
a hanky... or later read: a chappy chopping
wood with echo, blistered with
e-oh e-oh and the faked yawn, done, repeatedly,
for purpose of a masquerade:
or Apache tribalism etiquette
saying: oh... h'allo'h h'allo'h h'allo'h;
pompous blues and said Peter to mind
while some geezer did the beat
for the slang while regurgitating an attack
of the Zeppelins.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
In my more misunderstood days, I once read up on how to speak to the dead
The results were unsurprising; an article on Necromancy
I read on and on, it went quite hard to my head
It went quite hard to my memories
Upon that aloof, summer day of boredom in which I was first clued in
To the biggest secret kept away by grief and adulthood
I read why unspeakable corpse magic is deemed a sin
And why such things are sealed away with intentions good
But ultimately useless
Despite the misinformation’s efforts proven fruitless
We do not reach out; we do not speak to the dead
The dead reach out, they speak to us
They reach out to us
In dreams, in books, in stories
With much fuss,
They rise from the crypts and earth
And they whisper sweet glories
In their reeking, putrid breath exhaled from rotten lips
The truth slips, the future slips
For the dead, they can see the future
For the dead, they have lived the past
Necromancy, romantic for the living longing for the dead; suture
Of misinformation; the ideation that the living cast
A spell upon the dead, raising them for past loves and lives
When in truth, they are merely here to set free our eyes from our lies
The dead do not want us the living to die
For they know how horrendous fate can be
With screeching lungs rotting, they shriek of how the end is nigh
And share wisdom mostly ghastly
Willingly, they impart visions of future from bygone past
As, they - the ungrateful dead - lusting for life to return
With one last breath,
I remind you so you may learn
So, you may pass on from your own misunderstood days:
That which colours our miserable, romantic haze...
We do not talk to the dead
That is why we believe it bad luck to speak ill of our passed-on people
The dead talk to us and they talk to us of the future
That is the truth of Necromancy
That is the truth that you will now see
Beyond misconstrued myth, it is not the raising of the dead for love,
But for knowledge.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
You are not clued into
The extensive wiring
And miscommunication within me.
You are sure as hell
Not brainy enough to
Attempt to figure it out.
So instead with your ignorance
You label me more than
That movie you hated
With all your might...
But believe me when I whisper
To myself as I cry alone at
The break of dawn that
I am nothing more than that movie
And I am everything less
Than you deserve.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
The last poem ever written about love
------------------------------------------------------
You've seen them all
you've seen them before
love poems written
thrown out the door
I used to write the most beautiful stuff
full of imagery
full of lust
one line once written to someone..
he looked at me and frowned
some months later jumped into the ocean,
couldn't swim.. he drowned
the line was stolen from another song
if you know the words feel free to sing along
"you can't always get what you want,
but sometimes .. you get what you need....
and for this I suffer,
I am suffering, indeed.."
Other memorable quotes of
lost loves past
"how did you take my ugly crescent moon
and make its' beauty last?"
Another ironic one.. dogs rolling in their own mess
and something about the touch of others.. and me
pretending it is your caress..
It seems all the poems I have ever written
could be related to you
but i would never compare my love of others
to the love I have for you..
We are all so individual..
so different... so unique..
If I were not with you in love..
those old poems' words
I'd tweak
But my love of a lifetime
deserves better than tweaked
melodies float through my heart
heart pulsates... stomachs weak
The middle, the center,
of this .. he hears me speak
i wonder if he really knows
the havoc that this wreaks
love to some is only a game
and more power to the players
from what i know, what i feel
this love is not for haters
only for the passionate
the serious, the true
i have never had such loyalty
for anyone but you
but hence .. the old saying certainly rings true
about good things coming to an end
i can't help but to only feel blue
these are the saddest days of my life
the tears so freely flow
i feel like i've been through the wringer
i feel i've taken the biggest blow
but not only to me, i will survive
it is my heart that took the punch
from here on out, til death do i part
my love for others..
is out to lunch
you are the last to receive
what i perceived to be love
even if i did it wrong
nobody gave me the nudge
nobody told me or even clued me in
to heaven or hell i go with that.. my good maybe more than my sins
i love you jerry with all I have..
Never.. did I NOT
"if we keep doing what we have always done, we always get what we've got"!
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
the yoke and her mule
parted ways at independence square;
they'd been a pair
inseparable
since the early days
of hunter and prey...
and the mule's been dancing
in circles ever since,
chasing the pi on his tail
for answers to his circular demise...
the wise leech knew
but never clued
the dancing mule
into her pool of infinite possibilities...
she grew on his skin
as he stuck to his spin
like a pin in the 1st dimension,
growing old, weary and thin....
wishing his yoke had never left...
~ P
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
pulling up to the lot, walking up to the doors
every instinct in me is yelling, screaming for me not to go inside
right in the front of the room, is a picture of you
the person we all knew: a jokester, an easy going, happy person
or so we thought
your friends are all crying, you can see the heartbreak on their faces
and i dont really like crying in public, so i try to hold back
but the tears wont keep themselves contained; they demand to be let out
i meet your mom for the first time, and wow does she look just like you
i smile for her, try to suppress the true emotions im feeling for her
cause god knows how she must be feeling right now
i see you inside the casket, and my stomach drops as i remember the first time we talked, the last time we talked, and everything in between
i wonder if i missed a signal or a sign that couldve clued me in to how you were truly feeling inside
and before i know it, it's my turn to say goodbye for the last time
but i cant stay there long; i cant look at you too deeply because truthfully i dont see you. i see an empty shell, a clone, a fake of what is supposed to be you but simply isnt you.
we hug everyone goodbye
we tell each other to be safe and that we'll be in touch soon
and then we leave
and that is all.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
well... when you begin in a "premature"
(so called)
phase,
and can't produce any *****
you know what happens?
in the first half, of your 30th year
you'll; literally grow out of the practice...
ah he he he he.... loci's words, not mine.
but it's true, once you start dictating a drink
that's amber bitter, that's code for english ale
and you have corvus corax to boot...
you're bound to find a second for a thought
concerning valhalla.
but i'm dead serious...
when you start to ********** prior
to puberty, knowing that prior to puberity the act
doesn't produce any ***** well... by the time
you hit 30... you kinda stop the practice...
it's ******* weird though...
go a month without ***********
what are you going to find that's "remotely"
******
how about a magic trick?
pet a cat with a toothpick.
i'm serious about that: pet, a cat, with, a ******* toothpick.
and that's me basically saying: omni-eroticism just
found its place.
a cat and a toothpick?
are we talking about iranian poets?
what?! one and the other at the same time?!
**** me! that's clever!
seriously though, when you start engaging in the practice
at an absurd age, to begin with, i.e. 7 / 8.... and that's not a fraction,
you forget the whole shindig by the time you hit 30...
voyeurism and *********** sort of die off
i can't stomach this ****** oh look! i'm clued in!
i rather have the ******* key, than keep staring through
the ****** keyhole.
which makes drinking, to excess,
so much fun, if you're unrepentant,
via the disrepture with asians having an intolerance
with the juice.
but hell! it's so nice to realise the complete cenobite potency
of, finally having become bored of ************
it's a bit like a gay "coming out of the closet";
fuck's sake! burn the bras! moment.
cats and toothpicks though?
that **** is kinky... pet a cat with a toothpick,
and it'll turn into a leather clad gimp;
i have no idea why they like the prickly sensation,
i guess it must invoke a sense of frost, pinching them,
esp. since they are *maine *****
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
Oh, this is the love I meant,
or at least a happy accident,
there's clouds up in the canopy,
on a veranda set in eternity.
And there's seashells on the shore,
upon the land-dweller's front door,
I sing my song and place it to your ear,
but I'm drowned out from the ocean roar.
I've been a shed hollowed out;
left to stew in damp and doubt,
you hold my stomach, your face is kind,
and all of the knots begin to unwind.
We are train-stop lovers
beside the vending machines,
a ukulele sonnet,
for the clued up has-beens.
Now we're set to light
under the wash of stars,
until we feel great belonging
to all of the so-fars.
So without saving face or attempting subtlety,
or basking under conceited poetry,
under Costa Rican skies, in a writer's retreat,
in this astral plain where new lovers meet;
that for all the glory I may come to see,
there's none more beautiful
or rare than thee.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
I guess that I knew,
From the first time I lay next to you.
The way your body fit mine,
As if by some other beings design.
Just the unreal softness of your skin,
Should have clued me to what would begin.
The enchanting smell of your wondrous hair,
Intoxicating, as we held each other on your living room chair.
Looking back I wonder how we did not know,
Just how much our love would come to grow..
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
were the right numbers to be drawn tonight
this ticket holder would be as happy as a kite in flight
a lot of cash I'd have to spend
and not a cent of it would I have to apprehend
there is a feeling coursing in my old veins
it is telling me that a lottery win shall soon rain
I'll be clued to the television set tonight
watching to see if the numbers are right
should a dream win be on the cards for me
I call in tomorrow and let you all know of my glee
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
I want to talk to God
I want a piece of paper with answers
Instructions
What to do next, what to major in, who to kiss, who to talk to
Am I following the life I was meant for?
Is another me in some distant parallel universe happy and clued on.
Am I who I am meant to be?
God, I'm lost in this horrible hamster wheel of self doubt, running endlessly, trapped, not even sure what to run after.
At 20 I should chose the life I want, but mine is so insignificant in the great sky of stars.
I have no dreams to realise
I'm just a dreamer
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC