"collectible" poems
My sassy gay friend
Is not an accessory
When you go rooting through the closet and find him
Lacing straight ties into chains
Do not think that he will complete your outfit
Just because a rainbow holds the hues that you were looking for
Haven’t you seen that bruises also bloom in shades of purple and blue
Fading into green and yellow
With red far too often escaping veins that are supposed to hold it in
Haven’t you seen what marks us
And brings our identity to the surface of our skin
When closet doors are slammed too often against our hands
My sassy gay friend
Is not a decoration
You do not get to wear him at your hip
To flaunt your acceptance
And claim symbiosis
As if he needs you to navigate the streets of heteronormativity
Cutting short his words when communication is the best thing we have
And when speaking fails us we resort to spending an afternoon
Sending smoke signals into the sky
Waiting for security in the focus that it takes just to
Breathe
My sassy gay friend
Is not a collectible
You do not get to gather us up into a complete set
To line us neatly in an array
Of rarities and charities
And alternative identities
Until you feel sufficiently well rounded
In your attempted diversity
My sassy gay friend
Is not an icon
A token character
Or comic relief
My sassy gay friend
Is not meant to be romanticized
Idolized
Or fetishized
He is human
I am human
You are human
And if we see each other as sparkles and rhinestones
We're all going to lose all the value
That can't be found on price tags
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.
blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.
[her bloated tongue]
a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
for funsies.
for keepsies.
a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.
the woods aren’t haunted.
you are haunted.
you are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.
[treefort aflame]
the seasons furrow/
/ the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.
[dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]
pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
[toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.
[restless armless girls in orange sunsets]
girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.
boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?
the glow of an eerie crystal
(continued…)
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
It’s 1:02 p.m.
on a Wednesday
I am waiting to take a test
1:03 p.m.
and I am willing
to test my willingness
to stay here
in a town that moves
on the back
of a razorblade.
They never say
what we are waiting for
here
in the quiet
resistance
like the eye of the storm
on the softest sheets.
I have become an antique,
a collectible,
a hollow instrument
used for my city’s defense.
I have begun
to move backwards,
erasing time
in a land where
clocks don’t tick
and lights don’t blink.
Love
here
always moves like the weather –
moving
churning
spilling
breathing
forcing
uncompromising
is the love of Mother Nature.
If I had met you
before the government won
or after my mind
became a gun
I would love you
I would love you
I would love you
better.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Someone is writing a poem in the dark
Just to escape from the light of things
Nothing can escape from a black hole,
Creating fewer images in one’s mind,
I wonder if they can see a streak of light
Fighting its way through darkness
I can see them falling deeper and deeper
Falling, falling, but not enough to fill the void
A gun, a razor blade, a handful of narcotic, now it’s
the video cameras, an unusual collectible to assist with the pain
Keys, bolts and iron bars, hopelessly romantic
and deeply subversive: Madness takes center stage.
P>S
So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's always madness. Madness is the emergency exit.”
― Alan Moore, Batman: The Killing Joke
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Can you feel the grain of antique furniture as it rests in a collectible era of ancient insight? The first meal of the day no longer appeals to me amidst the carnivorous projections of feminine vocals, because the casual walkways of a house and its cereal expectancy have equality with Italian sausages and dishes of tabular wonder.
Dust the cobwebs from the curiosity of flaking window frames. Will you open the door to the nether region of symbolic ecodesigns?
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Some poems are like classic cars
They're old, bestsellers and great
Very famous and heavyweight,
Their legendary tales told at the bars.
Some poems are like Lamborghini
Fast, loud and stir up different emotions
They are magical and perform like Houdini
Taking us beyond our wildest imaginations.
Some poems are like a Ferrari
Fast, loud, costly and mindblowing
Some went through fine tuning
Ready for the adventurous desert safari.
Some poems are a Mercedes SLK
Fast,affordable,famous,people's favorite
Upon sight, people just stand around and talk
Every time we see them we celebrate.
Some poems are simple and great
Some are so good and impossible to rate.
Some will keep you woke
Brilliant and so off the hook!
Some poems are so romantic
Appealing to one's fantasy
Some are just so demonic
Embellished with total heresy.
Some poems are like a Rollsroyce
They intrigue us
Classic, historic, famous
They embody royalty, very luxurious.
Some poems are like a Bugatti Veyron
very costly, fast, collectible
Loved by kings and Barons
Making our speed appetites insatiable.
Some poems are Mustangs
Muscles, deep, street savvy
Gruesome like hunger pangs
They are powerful and heavy.
Some poems are like Teslas
Clean, smart, rich people's favorite
Costing the average people accessive dollars
They are smoothly written and moderate.
Some poems are like a Koenigsegg
Fast, rare, collectible and very costly
They instantly sweep you off your one leg
leaving you like '' seriously! ''
Some poems will make you go WOW!
And some will make you bow
Making you feel inferior to the poet
Especially the ones written by a laureate.
Some poems are mundane
containing things to drive you insane
Some poems are just cool
but contains useful cools
Some poems have powerful impacts
they contain deep knowledge and facts
Some poems are very good
Some will nourish you like food.
Some poem will bore you
Some poems will entertain you
Some poems will enrich you
And reach you wherever you are.
Some poems will set your mind on fire
And leave lasting impacts like screeching tires
Some poems are just incredible
Revealing things that are relatable.
Some poems are wonderful
And some are prayerful
Some are a little bit radical
And some are somehow political.
Some poems are just ordinary
Yet they're devotion to start early
And motivation to use during the day
Something to take you all the way.
Some poets are so creative
their poems are just amazing.
Some are outright provocative
Yet their works are just fascinating.
©️ #IvanBrookspoetry✍️
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
Engine died
The car is in the shop
It's been a week, still not fixed -
cannot afford a payment, so have to wait
Meantime, driving my brother's twenty-two year old antique -
a collectible - Nissan Sentra
Over forty miles an hour it starts to shake
and grumble under the strain,
so we go according to how it feels on
a given day
It's like driving a stick shift -
deep concentration, manual thrusts.
Hope no rain; sunroof leaks -
have to wear my rain gear
So quiet, yet so LOUD -
no radio ...
The sounds of the moving machine
keeps me wide awake, alert.
I can hear it squeak and groan.
Feel every pebble and crack on the pavement
No complaints - it's reliable, durable
Takes me where I need to go
Built of real steel -
very old - reliable
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Always looking for a mess.
Two doubles, four causes of trouble.
One never knew how to step out of her bubble.
Collectible memories gazed upon by the heavens.
We missed each other's presence, minds, and laughter.
But with our broken teeth and messed up heads,
we split up and ******* up.
Slowly still trudging through the rain,
some climbed over the mountains,
but I'm still on the polar side.
A racket of only true desire and passion,
but I stayed and never let myself go.
So, I cry here alone,
still sober, but soulless.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
She was rotting from the inside. A piece here and there. A smile on her face, downing the bubbling medicine in her champagne glass A decaying mannequin. Holding up her freshly manicured hand calling over for another dose to get through the mundane conversation surrounding her being and malfunctioning mind. Gifting fake smiles and dead twinkles of the eye. A prisoner of the silver spoon. An apple dying to fall far from the tree. The mental patient living in a mansion. And as she excused herself from the table she realized this was her only reality. She would never be free. Her destiny was to be only a pawn, a collectible in the bourgeoisie.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
My throat is in old Tupperware bowl used as an ashtray full of burn marks never been cleaned just emptied.
My body is a punch bag beaten up by beer, take-aways and lazy living.
My mind is a collection of old collectible records all scratched and collecting dust in an old forgotten attic.
My hands are shaky spider legs spinning webs of deceit.
My eyes are tired from looking through this mask of strength wanting freedom from the darkness longing to accept the weakness that is.
My feet point forward but they walk backwards.
My desire is on fire, its always been on fire.
My spirit believes in possibilities so ill stick around to see what happens.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 7:44 AM UTC
I took our pictures down last night.
It still hurt.
After four months of not talking to you,
I decided it was time.
I had been meaning to do it,
but I had to find the time,
the heart
to actually take them down.
I tried not to look at them too much
when I would get ready in the morning
or before I would leave the house
as I passed by.
Last night,
I decided it was time.
I took the frames down from their shelves
and laid them on my bed.
I took my hand and wiped off the dust.
While doing so, my eyes scanned over our faces.
We were smiling.
We were happy.
It was us
and that was all that mattered.
We didn't need boys,
we didn't need anything.
We were best friends
and that was all that mattered.
We used to go shopping.
The antique area was the greatest.
We would walk the brick sidewalks and roads to the CD store,
the collectible store,
and even the vintage clothing store.
We passed the tattoo parlor,
and I joked about going in and making my appointment.
I almost did too.
But I didn't,
convinced it was too far away.
Only to actually get it a couple of months later.
Rides in the Jeep with the top down on the way to the private pool,
with Starbucks in the cup holder.
We talked about boys we liked,
daily events,
and had those days where we just texted song lyrics to each other.
It killed me that I couldn't tell you about my day
and I couldn't hear about yours when you called
everything off.
Now, I know it's partially my fault.
But I tried to patch it all up.
You were the one who called it all off,
without telling me.
I was left in the dust, trying.
I knew it was coming,
but I didn't want to believe it.
It was hard for me.
I couldn't talk to you everyday.
I couldn't tell you about my day nor hear about yours.
I had lost that privilege.
Four months.
It had taken me that long to take our pictures down.
Maybe I was holding onto invisible hope.
I had avoided them as much as possible in those four months though.
My hand hovered over the frame once more,
reminiscing and wishing
for those times again.
Knowing they'd never come again,
not between us,
I flipped the frames over.
I replaced the pictures and my heart ached.
Ached for the good times we had.
But it was something I had to do.
I never knew pictures could make it hurt so bad.
My day went from already ****** to even worse.
I took our pictures down last night,
and it still hurt.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
there is a childrens song
in my taxidermied heart.
it plays every time
someone opens the door
to purchase me.
they count their money
and consider their options
as they browse the room
and i convince them
the product is defective
or unsafe for small children
or obsolete or spilling fluids
and containing harsh chemicals
and they thank me while looking confused as they leave,
opening the door,
while my heart plays
a dying carousel tune
for one of the last times.
waiting
for my usefulness
to wear out
as i become
a relic
sought after by
the possessive
the obsessive
the deranged
the lonely.
a collectible
with no value
serving my purpose
to a collector
who understands
value.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
shrewdly depicted to hide the gracious
a wormhole warped as collectible chances
a star beaming its glowing white light
to the people whose feet have gone without sight
live and sink to repeat the prodigy
we tearful acids have plowed the ****
lashes dewed of jewels, from once
a medium embraced to fabric of joy
stumble and tumble
hobble on a knee
keep the chins held aloof
so the water won't recede
basket cases seething to sheathe
the one thing they know
that each one of them
are born to speak for all
and as this poem shrinks
words gone fewer
a cycle this is
of birth
death,
start over
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
My Masterpiece
If I had the hands
of a Master Sculptor
I would mold the lines
of your face to my mind,
where for all time
I could visit and admire
what I behold
when I looked at you.
Should these painters fingers
find the deft
Of ability to paint in naked hues
a destiny
in twilight afterglows long denied,
I’d paint two,
one for me and you.
If I were a maestro of music
I would play
One Solitary note
that awoke a worthy world
to a breakable breathless heart,
shattered
but still collectible.
If I were an adequate poet
I would share in pictograph
of parnassian light
your certain savoir-faire
so all could read
you as I do,
so untamed and exquisitely rare,
claimed by many
but never
will you ever...
be truly owned.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
there will be a boy. a boy who values your presence. values your worth. it will come to you as a surprise at first. it will make your brain constantly turn, and wonder why he has not yet reached for what is yours. why his smile is genuine…why his faith is unbreakable…why he is even there. you will begin to wonder if he is playing you. if he really loves your hair. if he really can love you if you lack here and there. but do not question. you are so used to lust that you have come to believe that love is overdue. that he will walk out on you just like your father used to. you fear that you will become a collectible, a limited edition, with no money-back guarantees. and that he will leave you just like he found you. heart re-stitched upon your sleeve.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
Because there is a swell of pain inside me, and it is beginning to compromise the structural integrity of my emotional skeleton. Because hope feels like something that was discontinued due to safety concerns. Because I can't make love to the billboards but am compelled to try anyway. Because when I wake up I resent that I have to go on living. Because when I try to tell people how I feel, they say, "That reminds me of a very funny television commercial I just saw." Because everything i touch-the ottoman, the remote, the shoes, the coffee table, the collectible flatware, the books, the friendships, the interior of my car, the clothing, the records, my wife, the CDs (and the ****** plastic cases they come in), the old letters from friends I met at summer camp thirty years ago the pocketknife that belonged to my grandfather, the flowers I cut and put in water, the finger paintings the slow kid that lives next door gave to me, the house plants, the sunsets, the secrets I am afraid to share, the angry letters to my congressperson, the children I will never have, my marriage, my job, everything and every other thing-fades or crumbles into broken parts that I can never reassemble.
Why are you so sad? By James Porter, page 139.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Been dreaming of my first holy moments making love to you.
Your body is an intricate Japanese line drawing-
I look in awe and touch with reverence.
My head is thick with wonder.
You are a precious collectible,
wrapped in white linen,
waiting to be opened and adored.
Your taste is expensive oil,
I want to drink from your fountain forever.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:58 AM UTC
Dear Charlie,
Don’t worry about me, I am doing all alright
Today I ate a Rhubarb custard pie
Like mom used to cook when we would’ve cried
Or when we finished eating dinner late in the night
Then, we played "Beat Your Neighbor Out Of Doors"
And we wagered collectible cigarette packs
I have won a Lucky strike just like yours
So I exchange it for a bugles and dots snack
Later, we listened to the radio
Everyone knew: “It's a Long Way to Tipperary"
I looked at some memorable photos
Even the one with grandpa who stayed temporarily
Finishing the day, I read the book you gave me
Looking at the sky, reminiscing our memories
At the end of the day, I cherish you greatly
So, little brother, don’t worry about me
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
Alpine stigma, the horror of incessant pine borers. Life's enigma seeping deeper to the core, to some a chore, to others a leisurely tour. But we want more and more although sometimes less and less is best. To our behest, it would seem that our collective ego, a thing that is supreme, will reap all the earth has to sow, yet still wants more and still it grows. Is this not nature itself? Are we not but one collectible doll upon the cosmic shelf? The greatest threat to imbalance is nature, a course correcting force, meticulous in checking universal nomenclature.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
She who called herself Beauty told me, You can't tread water inside my gene pool
I replied it probably sounded better in your head, but out loud it seems cruel.
But I'm not in pools my mind is a Concorde jet ready to touch the skies
She laughed and said, I don't know what that plane is and I'm not surprised.
I said the Concorde was limited edition, and its speed was basically fighter jet.
The class of plane that is better wasn't made higher yet.
It is one of a kind, and so am I, because I'm a collectible
And what you call treading water someone who calls herself joined will call out Come walk on my waters Mr. Incredible.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
you bathe yourself with pain and despair
you make dark past as a collectible item
you keep yourself drowning in the line of misery;
refusing to breathe tranquility
trying to find commotion
in the midst of peaceful conversation
wanting to be saved; but refuse to say
hiding my feelings from your line of sight
even if the result is me being blind
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
_I find your words to be empty._
Much like collectible ornate journals
lined up on a shelf.
Stunning to behold.
Carrying the weight of so much
promise and potential,
but of no substance.
I find myself choking
on the dust between
the pages of words
_you never mean._
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 11:41 PM UTC
I looked in the mirror and what did I see, yet a little old woman peering back at me. With packs and sage and wrinkles and wispy white hair and I asked my appearance, how could you arrive?
You used to be straight and incredible and now you're stooped and feeble - when I made a decent attempt to shield you from turning into a collectible.
My appearance's eyes twinkled and she gravely answered, 'You're taking a gander at the blessing wrap and not the gem inside'- - a living pearl and valuable of un-envisioned worth, one of a kind and genuine the genuine you, the main you on earth.
The years that ruin your blessing wrap with different things more savage ought to filter and fortify and clean up that gem.
So concentrate your consideration within, not the out- - on being kinder, smarter, more substance and more dedicated.
At that point, when your blessing wrap is stripped away, your gem will be without set - to transmit God's wonderfulness, all through endlessness.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 7:27 AM UTC