"clumped" poems
Sometimes I feel
like a useless mass of space matter
Clumped together by ideas long ago tainted
I just do not understand
How the universe could be so against me
when I am the universe
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
I don't know what he was to others—
fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
most of the time.
As always, when he died this year
he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
I listened to his death rattle
of rustling yellow leaves
and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
and wave at me.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
All the Latinas are sitting together.
All of the Asians are sitting together.
All of the Middle Easterns are sitting together.
The whites are everywhere in the room.
I am sitting next to the Latinas, Behind the Middle Easterns and in front of a black dude.
A Puerto Rican is wearing a hat saying "Reckless".
I am wearing a hat saying, "Cape Cod".
I am in the middle of the room.
5 blondes are clumped together...
...no hats
We are all learning about ****** inheritance of different physical traits.
*** caused all of this.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
My voice is nestled within a river
of transitions, positioned
in endless sets of pre- and post-
parentheses. Pre-revolutionary,
post-Missing Link. Post-postmodern,
pre-postmodern revival.
I sit in a somersaulting purgatory
sandwiched between evocation
and paralysis.
My hatred is exhausted, shoulders
hunched over a guillotine,
cursing with its tongue sprawled
dead and dry at an imaginary hunter,
a mass of bones clumped
under the rug I keep pulling
from my own two feet.
Will you hack through this cocoon?
Have you got the muscle
and the patience?
Nevermind that bedtime story.
There must be some wounds
of yours, those placed beyond
the verbal tanline, that need
immediate bandaging.
Can I get you anything?
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
even teddy said i got the sickest tricks brah.
like my abilities source from some kinda legendary liquid
/ praise the lord /
monster energy should sponsor me.
a kickflip over the king’s *** hole
& a halfcab for the looky-loos.
i feel so tall when i climb that heap of asphalt trimmings
& see clear from the water tower to the bluffs.
gimme a good day, any day at the bluffs,
bottlerockets & girly birds.
her body brings a swarm of worms.
decomp,
said the f.b.i. men one by one with tweezers.
not quite the homecoming queen, still
wrapped in plastic.
look up.
see that great mess of wires, nest of powerlines and owl bones?
it crackles and croons its electro-spectral purr
all night and day.
new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull.
wet cigarettes and turpentine-soaked socks for a good huff
in the dry of the roofline as it dumps.
there’s that little boy in a ghost mask again, tap-dancing
in puddles below the streetlamp,
& oversized shoes.
his grandmoms always be watchin’ from the window.
[whispers] she’s teaching him magic.
lucky unit 19: where our young dead damsel once dolled
herself up, you see
men and headlights would roll thru thrice nightly,
maybe more.
& i remember her punch red lips &
big whicker hat; while she weeded and watered her garden of begonias.
the sheriff’s deputy, hart? hicks? hogan? well he loved her a bunch.
stole her clothes in the middle of the night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra and blouse.
i bought ******* from that guy once or twice.
harold? howard?
guess who showed his face today?
josiah, from unit 08.
since the incident with molly’s beagle, he’s been rarely seen.
took a bee line straight for the mailbox.
a package. a prize. a decoder ring/secret map sweepstakes
to be seen and deciphered.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
3rd Grade, Awards Assembly
Children are filed into the cafeteria in almost orderly lines
Giggling about silly jokes that make no sense to adults
But for awards, they are silent, and expecting.
Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, finally
The little girl with her shiny black shoes waits for her award telling her that she qualifies as smart
And she receives perfect attendance
8th Grade, School Computer Room
Awkward preteens set in blue plastic chairs
Friends clumped together around a single screen
"Secretly" googling ***** like it's a crime, though everyone knows
But in the very back
The girl with her black bag full of books checking her grades online
Has her nose to the monitor and worry in her heart
Because just perfect attendance makes her a disappointment.
Junior Year, Home Bathroom
Soapy water soaks the floor and into a dollar store rug
The bath is half empty and tinted a rusty shade of red
And sitting on the floor with her knees to her chin, carving A+ into the scarred skin of her arm
Is the girl, almost a woman, with her eyes messily ringed in black, who doesn't dare cut too deep.
Killing herself would mean losing her perfect attendance.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Round it is,
her hair,
pink,
baby pink.
Round like the three clumped vegetables in your mother's basket by the stove,
Supposedly,
white,
but on her head turned pink.
These garlic hang down at the side of her face.
These are not garlic but hair shaped like garlic,
defining the shape of her face,
highlighting her high cheekbones
highlighting her innocent glazed prideful eyes
._. ._. ._.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
The Commercial says:
Collect the whole set!
Buy Tommy Toddler™! –Now says 6 gibberish phrases!
Buy Hannah Housewife™! –Laundry basket and stove included!
Buy Stanley Stepdad™! –Comes with realistic child abusing action!
Buy Cole, the College Student™! –Life-like *** and beer ***** scent!
It says: Buy the whole family.
Batteries not rechargeable, but included. Residing inside.
No assembly required unless buying Ralph the Retired™ – in which case,
Go to the hospital and inquire, am I covered ?
Have I expired ?
At the store I’d, see them all sorted, and sordid, clumped in little bins. Together.
Sort of. See,
Lawyers, and scientists, and authors were all in higher priced bins.
I felt shorted.
A cheap skate like me couldn’t afford it, wait-
there are the janitors, soldiers, and waitresses, each only a quarter.
Somewhere in Taiwan, thin children wont to wanting,
Are making Model Americans.
Patching together assembly-line-lives, no breaks inbetween,
Workers named High School, College, and Career sew mini seams.
So many seem, to delight in dreaming the American Dream,
To leave earthly bodies and become pristine; little dolls.
Toys colored C.R.E.A.M.
“…and the home of the brave!” ?
maybe, home of the depraved.
Home of the pre-made, pre-packaged, and
Enslaved.
Displayed, in plastic tombs engraved. With phrases like:
Save! 50% off!
or perhaps it’s 50 stars off.
50 stars that are missin.
Cuz Old Glory sure looks like a **** question mark ( ?)
End transmission.
Restart television with Remote Control.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
For Idil Ibrahim
In memory of Tim Hetherington - 1970 - 2011
I cannot stay and speak my truth while the front line has no voice.
The carpet doesn't share substance with the blood-clumped
dust of Liberia; Red wine doesn't stain nations and it hasn't
changed the world.
I cannot stay and walk these steps while the fragile youth stand.
Our Sunday morning route doesn't cover landscapes of wounds
and bodies; Central Park has never felt a thousand welted
feet march for death.
I cannot stay and see your face while molten plastic scars her world.
Your delicate eyes have never seen the darkness of a child's grief;
Our democracy cannot fathom the searing, slow drip after a family
massacred.
I cannot stay and feel worthy of your love while injustice goes unseen.
My lens has immortalised what we held dear, but is yet to capture
the human condition; I spoke to you like I spoke to them;
Through decades of mortar fire I spoke to them.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
Clouds engulf the L.A. basin
Layered mold in the
tubberware
lunchbox
I left home.
Except the spores
are tufts of a woman's white hair
Clumped together in the shower drain
blocking the grates.
You cannot shoot up enough
silicon to fill
the wrinkles of a body
hollowed
You'd have to start pulling marrow
from the bone.
These craters of the basin--
****** dry to burn.
hollowed curves a body barren,
tapped out, laid fallow.
Shrouded...
White noise
White film
White foam.
She, with her fingers
in every swimming pool
She, lounging behind the smokescreen
She, big curvaceous mound
smoldering rock of an old woman
She, who can **** it in and hold it in
the atmosphere
She, lasso-ing lady with wild tendril hair
She can't always keep from billowing out
hot air.
Soon enough she'll catch a sore throat.
Soon enough she'll taste the concrete waterways.
Soon enough, she, ittle too long.
The tale of Hydra is a tale of women deflated.
This lick of fire did not blanket the city but set it ablaze.
She swallowed the heat ****** back the fire
bled and wept Armageddon-red sunsets.
White Noise
White Film
White Foam
She, a flat, airless
mortar without bricks
tooth-picked clean.
only marrow left of bone.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
Black leather elf boots
Leggings
Cheetah print mini-skirt
Suede short coat
Too long in the sleeves
Someone's sweater with
A hole under the arm
One thumbprint sized bruise on my neck
Make-up frozen, clumped in the night air
Within my cone of oasis
From the halogen above
My breath mingles with the
Bile colored light
Smelling like Newports and tooth decay
I hug my self for warmth and
Shuffle foot to foot
Comforted only by the
Bulge in my boots
Representing the last few hours work
I clutch my purse tight
My toolbox
Not hammers or wrenches but
Tools of my trade
Baby wipes, sanitizer, tampons, and condoms
I hear a car slowing
Harsh redness of brake lights
Bloodies the vacant buildings
I lean toward the
Lowered window wondering
Will I continue to
Be the predator or
Fall tonight as prey
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
We all have our favourite flavours, be it what you will
Add some stock or a can of soup, anything but chilled
Pick a pack from the shelf,
Carrots,
Celery,
Turnips,
A clove of garlic,
All good for your health
A side scoop of fresh mash, potatoes mixed with butter
Bought from the farmer down the road, Mr Smith with the tedious stutter
Straight to bakery for some bread, to soak up that lovely mix
All the ingredients clumped together, every box it does tick
Served with a feeling of a homemade dish, pretty simple when you know how
Delicious and tender and a joy to eat, especially that winter has come now
It warms you up, puts a glow to your cheeks, feels good and livens the soul
Now dunk that bread and sip that wine,
Delicious with Casserole
JJB
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Right in the middle of the busiest area of the Poconos, the group of condos sit in a large circle. The sky is dark, for it has been hidden from all possible sunlight by the many awnings and porches that join the different housing units. On one side of the condos the neon lights from the bar next door shine through the children’s windows, but the more occupied side the parking lot is lined with fast food restaurants- clumped together and riotous with large families that frequent them, juggling their small children and many diaper bags; and noisy cars speeding past with loud engines, pungent, murky exhaust spewing out of the back and police sirens constantly blaring down the street. In the parking lot encircled by the condos the tenant kids run around full of light yet somehow full of darkness at the same time. The older kids come out of the small houses to sit on the sidewalk in the evening, and the cracked sidewalks are covered with the faded chalk drawings left there by the youngsters earlier in the day, and with the sheets of crumbled up paper containing poetry no one would ever read, and with the old needles and discarded blunts of their parents who had left them there over the course of the day.
There is one unit in particular, a unit with a broken door from the many men who had tried to force their way in, a unit with holes in every wall that were put there by flying fists and thrown objects that had missed their true target- the oldest daughter. In front of the many holes in the their smiles are fake and their hugs are forced.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
hair curled
mascara clumped beyond belief
deep brown eyes practically closing
turquoise polo
horse in the corner
fake crystalline necklace
dark blue knee skirt
***** white tights
too big flats
the cusp of eleven years old
going to her first concert
philip philips
austin mahone
owl city
kissmas bash
dancing
singing
crowded souls
bladder filling up
desperately searching
for relief
wandering aimlessly
alone
relief at last
walking back
pep in her step
alone
hands grip her sides
big hands
looking up
burly bear
stranger
"shush,
little one,"
bear whispers,
"it's alright."
so she does
confusion
spreads through her
eleven years old
exposed
shattered
never the same
big bear
got away
completely okay
while
goldilocks
breaking down
forever
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC
Clumped claws
of supressed dirt
reach from
sunken ships
filled to the
brim with swollen
tongues and
bulging
with the bubbling breath
of voices drowned
in death
clinging to my
every step;
soiled bubble gum,
like mosquito bites on
my scalp..
They itch
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
i remember the way love used to taste
it crept up my sternum, crawled up the back of my throat, strangled my tongue, and leaped out of my mouth with a trembling, shaking "i don't know how to feel like this anywhere else so please let me stay"
although there was an eviction notice stuck in between the door and the frame but i didn't open the door, to leave, to see it
and i used to look at people who could find something good and run from it and wonder how they could possibly do that when i ran to every doorstep, pleading for someone to let me in and planting my feet firmly into their ground as soon as they did
there are pieces of myself in every corner of these rooms, every crack in these walls, clumped in bathroom sink drains and i understand now
the more love you give that is unrequited, the less you have to give out again
and i'm only a few drunken, empty i-love-you's away from running dry
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
I’ve been walking
So long
So far
Weary eyes
Sweat cakes
Blood soaked rashes
My best friend’s taunt.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been trusting
So long
So far
Wronged tales
Spiked hormones
Nauseating future
My mom’s warn.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been resting
So Long
So Far
Gliding on tides
Erratic refrains
Clumped bones
My doctor’s threat.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been blind
So Long
So Far
Stuttering steps
Coal filled iris
Yearns mourns of woes
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 4:00 PM UTC
Swollen eyes
Clumped lashes
Damp cheeks
A runny nose
A fallen soldier
A heartbroken mother
A distraught lover
A devastated friend
All of it fiction.
So why am I crying?
Because I know.
I remember
What it feels like
To have your world fall apart,
Your love taken away
And I cry
Because it's never been the same.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
ace of spades aint good enough
throw out jokers
conteract homicidal daggers.
blood diamonds adorn queen
necks perched in high nests.
tar slicked jacks
blow clovers clumped
in sickly drips of black.
kings present hearts of gold
wrapped in tin foil
pricked with poison potent.
Suits one to four
draw a card
place your bet
21
it's over.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
all that is known
clumped into masses
the reality perceived behind
angular strenuous bones
take the flesh, a living flesh
warm under a summer heat
and flushed with that of stipend excitement
the flesh, all perceived before
and if you strike flesh
you will eventually strike bone
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
at the sight of you
moons are dull grey spotlights
flat, dimensionless, and known.
which could make us akin
if i let the end begin.
but i drag it out and twist it tight
all strapped in place
i dig a tunnel in my soft spot.
stretch the truth until it breaks its back.
bones of sugar
clumped together like lonely hydrogen
in a coronal marsh.
i thought i could tame it.
i see
silver and black wind
builders and watchmen.
your world famous carousel hugs
turn to languorous shrugs
but they both make me dizzy.
a gaze eclipsed for the moment
you're less a mind, more a slogan.
when his eye meets yours
it leaves behind
sunspots.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
We crossed paths again today
But how I saw him seemed to change
I noticed the fine details
And wrote them on this page
He's wearing filthy rags
Of pure gold
His hair matted and clumped
Is beaded with pearls
His ***** unkept beard
Hides rubies in every curl
His face, covered in dirt
Is kind and aesthetic
His callused and scarred hands
Have never formed a fist
His body is thin but strong
His voice is kind and gentle
People part when he passes
They move far away
They ridicule and hiss and scorn
Disgusted faces that they all make
They talk in hushed whispers
As they point and stare
I can barely stand to see this
But he doesn't seem to care
Today I walked beside him
Just to feel his pain
But what I felt was peacefulness
That feeling was so strange
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
After all the keys of *******
conversations of heartbreak,
swigs of liquor mundane,
and kisses from Maryjane
I swear I can drive home.
Numb, thinking of Love--
Snapchat your toys when we hang.
Won't reply to my love when you see my name.
Everytime you come back to visit
by the Murrieta cold mist,
you hold my hand and kiss my lips
like you're sick of it.
You told me you still got it for me.
But Girl, why do you dance when I cry?
Been around the beds at the UC
so give me meaning to why I still try.
I'm begging Honeychild,
****** of my eyes.
Dangerous with your lies--
****** to the real stuff,
Couldn't understand my love.
I'm begging Honeychild,
Show my you still got it for me.
I'm out in South County
driving under Orion's belt.
Call you when my drunk heart is for sell again.
"Please, please drive home" you told me,
Suicidal tendencies control me.
No more drugs,
no more driving like the street has me sprung.
But of the bumps that clumped my vision,
and drugs that sunk my conscious,
you were the worse
saying Novacane was yours.
A sad song, why can't you see I'm the one
feeling numb
on the ice cold lawn,
while you're filming ****
with no red light on.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
i can see in your little ringlets clumped around your ears and pushed off your neck
how you tried so hard to stop him
and i can see your ***** and chewed-off fingernails
how difficult it was for you to leave
on a cold morning from his warm arms,
from those four walls, and the full kitchen, and the blankets and the coffee and the books.
you're brushing your teeth in the sink next to me
and you're not looking at the mirror
or anything.
your purse fell off the counter and a few things fell out
hairspray; a ballpoint pen; a tube of mascara; a bottle of water.
i don't know why these things were the only ones i remembered.
why didn't i look closer at your face?
because when i handed you your pen you didn't say anything,
just held open the bag and stretched your lips into an almost-smile.
i remember your bangs covering over half your face,
and i remember the cut just below the left half of your lips.
i remember the way your permanently-damp skin clung to your bones,
like dew on a flower,
and the sides of your shoes were falling apart.
i wish i could tell you how much of an impact you had on me in those 30 seconds,
but even more- i wish you found home and that you're happy.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I Woke up with the words of this poem whispering on my lips, It was a cold January morning within the pomegranate trees.
The storm had passed two days now.
There was a forecast of Screaming with chance of tears.
The Clouds had been Clumped together.
They had appeared compressed and so close that Less light reflected upon them.
what revealed to be a visible mass had in actuality divided and turned black, stricken with lightning.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC