"concaves" poems
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
-
The concaves in the glass bowl and the style which it imposes to the
Food within it to warp and appear not from this world.
The spoons and how they surrender the same effect, curving my face
Into a funhouse punch line; I can’t help but smirk,
Which somehow distorts my features even more.
You were convinced it was necessary to serve me your best today,
Pulling out the stops and balancing uneasily on the aging stool that waits in the corner
Just to get out the “fine” kitchenware.
Soon it became routine:
I was over every day, not to eat, no; selfishness is a puzzle.
No, I’d sit at the table and bide my slender hourglasses, shifting a mind between
Taking you to the moon,
Or to the ceiling fan because my goodness it’s getting warm in here.
Planet under smoke, we end the day with a drop of manufactured whiskey
Dangling from the inside of your Swedish wine bottle set from India.
(Bends the droplets into squares)
Our sun is setting and the pictures on the walls fall asleep.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 5:23 AM UTC
I want to trace
your edges
feel your concaves
where skin hugs the
boarders of your physicality
Collapsing into this warm embrace
I Am here, and nothing else matters
This moment cannot be refabricated
So I cherish
as this texture
engulfes my very being
Sliding through me,
wave after wave
Soft tremors radiating my core
quivering as my valleys
press tightly against your crest
Penetrating deep beneath the surface
my sea has no bottom.
Building creative tension
Gripping the remaining foundation
Ceaseless crescendo
All boundaries crumble;
Where do you end,
Where do I begin?
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.
I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.
Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.
This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between
The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age
And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.
too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
My alacrity scares me,
like the electrical figurations in your head
that create valleys and mediocre love.
Sometimes, we love just to prove that we can do so,
because our lungs breathe effortlessly
while possibilities are fleeting
and slipping through our grip like
the missed first kiss and futile attempts
for you to notice me.
The concaves of your skin,
wrapped tightly around colliding bone and ligament,
the barrier against me learning you –
the twists and lifelines leading me to something
greater than your chest rising and falling
in the haze of the night.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
What is beauty?
Is it the way you look?
How you dress
The way you hold yourself in front of others?
Or is it something you're just born with?
You could be told a thousand times over how beautiful you are
But it only takes one time to ruin your self image
Only once do you need to hear about beauty
She tells you she loves you
She tells you you're perfect
And she tells you you're beautiful
But now things are different
You notice how your body looks for the first time
Bones protruding from every spot
A stomach that concaves back inside your body
Hip bones that could be used as knives
Once you thought your curves were perfect
A place that perfectly fits her hands
Arms long enough to hold her face
And legs that could wrap around her and still have room for more
Mirrors seem to show a different you
Full you has disappeared and dissolved
Like smoke in the night
Reflections shows nothing but a sketch with dead eyes
What is beauty?
Something that I don't have
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Your body language waving me on; the way you are addressing me, is driving me crazy; hugging your curves, its turning me on. The ride; must be superb. Your profiler unheard, your concaves, suggest that your are blessed; anything less is absurd. Got my attention; standing attention; and savory every word. I hope my word-of-mouth; is the best thing you ever heard. Cause my words slipping off of the tip of your tongue; might be the slickest thing, they've ever rode. All eyes on you; such a lovely road. Best part about it; you broke the mold.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
It'll be alright by the lightening
it helps us walk like itself;
walking up through the ceiling window
of my flat
we link myth and flesh
amongst the cherub jokes and sinuous cloud,
hands shaking pulse in the concaves,
death dance and phoenix breeze,
the prayer and the wet
rolling down the slates
harmony in our butts, rolling the storm back, and watching it all
happen.
The night spills its last beer like weighted sweat.
The opera accepts our tickets and slices us down with gallous applause
Where do our limbs stop being the night?
They do not, so it seems, and spread the thunder out
from our one hand
to another;
the nails, and skull, of one, open
fist, retaken-
and driven up
from the worlds core, remedy in scent
the talent of our blood,
damming the poison, allowed to evolve
inside cell
and be another - celestial light, that not only drives the heard,
but is at home in the energy of waking
life.
The lightening passing down through gelatenous night clouds,
caring that there is only sense in the warmth of our mind, our synapse grace,
the float of our hands moving away from the globe,
un lapin mouvements de warren
farmer gathering his flock as the night moves
chain smoker watching you cook
another reason to storm the bellowing halls, one more toast to the sodden market,
brings the landscape to a halt, and strokes out its weariness as apes walk
the amazonian peaks, as the sunrise settles down
and into us; summits
made of nothing,
but the story of your day, all that makes a man
know
and remember
that yours
are always waiting
and are willed by things
that I will never know
completely, but walk like lightening;
creating,
when the storm comes.
Letting me know
it's all **** false,
if not
you.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
Call your truths.
The creator called in sick today,
leaving lessons and sessions limping from the skinny
behavior pumping through the day.
Pull up your britches.
The bumbling from the windowpane
fed the starving wind its own tiredness.
I guess it is homesickness in your head.
What happened here in December
could cross bellowing seas and could crumble
in the concaves of your bones,
but what happens if you do not get out of bed?
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 11:47 AM UTC
To live so much inside
this unmanageable threat
follows me always
so much to hide, but
so much to share, so much to give,
but none will ever see.
Even when it may come out-
it is just to be ignored.
This burden sits forever in me,
with silent perseverance,
but why is it needed?
I am the secrets.
I am the hidden darkness,
I am loss.
Within my own.
There is so much held within.
It concaves over in lucrative paste
upon the equilibrium of time.
They pile up,
time grows on,
As do I, for now.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
You can never skip an opportunity to call yourself that
Because you’re your ma’s son:
Didn’t get caught up in the tool shed
Got spiked through with the hooked art of repeating yourself instead
Should I feel insulted then
That these cracked, digited fringes
These rejects of your diminutive anatomy
Are how you love me?
You love me with the unvoiced, unexplained idiocy
Of fingers that make Mexican waves
To one particular song
And lure mine to come dancing too
You love me with the whorls where you keep your DNA
Counting the concaves in my skeleton:
Explore them, soothe them
Wonder if you made them
And I think you fear that
If you ceased to trace me as I grew –
A carpenter sifting through the age rings in my spine –
I’d only feel the dislocating vagueness
Of an absence too menial to be mourned.
“Cack-handed”
But I remember different:
I remember your hands like leather,
All heated and scratchy from your pockets,
Unhooking the problems from my mouth.
And how the weather’d teethed on them,
Gnawed away chunks down around the cuticles
Until they were dry and scarred like February –
February getting lost in its own bleak cavernousness
They stir the rag in the shoe polish,
And the burnt spoon in the bean tin.
I used to try to pinch them
But my nails were too soft
And your palms too crusted
But when they tell me “thick-skinned”
I shake my head and think
“No, beautifully cack-handed”
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
You were not a breath of fresh air
you were the choking
of sadness infused
smoking
in every room
tabacco stained fingers
left marks on every table top
and top to bottom the house was so
dust filled
that you had killed
all ******* signs of life
the room was rife
with scents of her and no sense
of morality
you just turned to see
but choked every good growing gracious thing out of me
you don’t hear any noise anymore
lost my voice
somewhere on the floor with her
underwear and
everywhere there’s
another girl’s hair
strands and hair bands
and when I close my eyes it’s her hands
touching your shoulder blades
and the concaves
of your collar bones and
clean clothes
and it’s so clear that when I’m here
she gloats because her hands
have become your hands
and now they’re wrapped around my throat
And so when she chokes
You choke
And I-
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
When they look at my body,
they giggle between their teeth that are crooked but they call them curved. They perceive how curveless I look
and tell me to perform yoga
so that my curves can be defined,
so that I can shape my convexes and concaves.
I smile as bright as I can because probably those are my only visible curves.
I tell them how every time I sit to write
my pen curves on the pages
that are thumbed on the corners
so they seem curved too.
I begin by writing the first letter of the English language
and make slopes and valleys of this alphabet.
I form serpentines and swirling cyclones of my words,
I curve my 'S' to form into an infinity
so that I can hold on to him for as long.
I stretch my 'K' until the end of the earth
and make it look like a single leg shoulder stand.
And as I take all my alphabets,
I turn them from staff position to the plough position.
I make my words turn into Paschimotasna,
and my noun tries to perform Kundali.
My pronouns sit in vajrasana.
My similies stress themselves and flex,
while my metaphors curl into themselves and hide as Marichyasana.
When I am done,
my poems form themselves into Pindasana.
However,
I remain coverless,
as straight and sharp as the pen I use.
I remain 'Arjuna's' bow
so he directs me into my own self,
my own heritage
and I end up killing my Bhishma,
my self-respect.
Hence while my words perform yogasana,
I stand still in tadasana.
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
in my own who littler leans youth
everyday and who lunges with
splendor
golden deep
brown lovely
brass like skin and a fairies
waist obstinately arcuate
concaves into
convex a
lot like rain hips
fall wetly on my open hands
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Licking the foam off the inside of my coffee mug
I am sitting at the table working
and you can’t fathom what’s wrong with me
it feels like something other than blood is inside me
it makes me itchy all the time
and my heart concaves inside my plump chest
I am gasping at the air around me
and you ask me why I sigh so.
I feel alone wherever I go
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
July 30, 2011 at 6:25pm
There ya go
slowly starting to fade
in the concaves
the beam wanes
electro-magnetic waves radiate
straight through the skin
and to the veins
bleeding my own scarlet rays
Disguised as.....
an Indian eye
on my forehead
vines down
into a lava
sizzling bone tissue
Frying every fiber.........atom.......... and molecule
that piece me together
even still you scintillate
in an array of glistening grains
stirring in my bloodstream
static tension
aching flesh
I Rotated
the beam
and became
a reflector
scorching your innards
in
excruciating
ways
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
I've tried making friends with Death
on many a dark and crimson night
I would lay in my folly
and watch as Death made his plight.
Stealing children
and mothers
and the souls of the old
watching their chamber rooms
turn murky, chilly and cold
But alas, Death does not need friends
he has told me many a time
but perhaps if Death had a hand to hold
he would not take the hands of the strong,
maybe, he'd take mine.
Death, why do you leave me here?
Why can I not join you tonight?
When you leave, you give no reason
you brush me off, and disappear
into the silvery concaves of the light.
Death, I have touched your scythe
and I want it to graze my neck
I see no future for myself here
only mist and clouds appear in your oubliette.
Death, you are beautiful
your Alabaster flesh crawls in my mind
why does no one else love you, Death?
you are perfect in my eyes.
When you stop choosing the ones who hate you
and make friends with the ones who love you, Death
then maybe
all the souls here around you
can learn to find peace when you lead them to rest.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
Blunt my sense of mischief
With your Christ figure mentalities
And I will caress the concaves of your body
With my Satanic, forked tongue.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
regret
i know the word all too well
after all i've done to you.
i know it within the concaves and crevices of my heart
with every stream of pulsing blood,
the regret goes round and round my body
consuming me.
it reaches every nerve,
exploding like fireworks and an all raging flame,
whenever you're near.
just to remind me of the pain i have caused
i wish i could gather the courage
not even to explain
but to say sorry
for being the horrible, selfish and cowardly person i am
because i know explanations would just sound like excuses.
–– s.m.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Open the door
Let in a new old friend
let's explore the concaves and octaves
that comes with thought and with actions
with words and with fractions
of emotions so eloquent
we get lost and forget
to remember we no longer know each other
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 1:42 PM UTC
Love, you sly,
slithering snake.
How you persuade all to fall
on your blade.
Cut the artery; replace the heart
with a shade.
That's love;
shadows shifting until it concaves.
Suffocating its victims, leaving no prints for its
crime.
Its idea becomes lucid, prose preaching its
message on ice.
The body is left shattered, thinking it was once
wise.
It smirks at your faith in it.
The crossroads between the pines.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
slegde home the edge of reason
I am living in the live elements vivified
calling on psalms a bang a ****
play a song by the resuscitations of Ong
Overwhelmed by the awe of past life sores so
stupified
I will die one day but days will still be days
I speak truth and I'm crucified but the truth is still the truth
I will martyr my wisdom to call back ancestors from the Orbs of the Seven Sisters homes
Harbor my dreams to sail onto the pilgrimage of distant seas
Darkness is consistent in a world that doesn't calm and listen
Confused and conflicted the world is blinded by lies so masses pick pistols
Serving not ego, reputation or title
but living in the truth in forbidden scriptures of the Law-of-One Bible
Sages page the mystery concaves of Andro-Adam slaves
but human we be at the false matter image we see
but for truths ethereal we seek for in Light as souls we gleam
Transcending the send-in of the soldier that is, more than publicly king
So gods of old purge with indignation as the clarity you've seen
In quiet and peace of mind seas you swim
So much you'd dream and life begins
birthing a generation of free - thinkers and artistic beings
Colour in darker shades where you'd save the ink on paper to post the message
So many travels you're willing to envisage
pictures or stars, sculptures or music bars
taking our souls that far.
I slip a stream
curl the dark into a bright dream
So many scenes of souls out of the love and mercy sea.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
The woman feels the man's presence beside her
like a vacuum.
A darker shape in the darkness of the room;
beads of sweat dry on his chest.
There is an ache in the deepest part of her
but she bears down on it, lets it throb against the sheets.
He turns over and over.
The woman watches the man's long back get dressed.
Convexes and concaves.
He looks at her with alien shyness,
a stranger in her routine, too big for the house.
She swallows the ache and coffee; two cups
with painted birds. He drinks and rises from the table.
She goes to strip the bed.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
As my emotions overflow
Like a ruptured pipe
Tears draw their path
Down the concaves of my face
Like that of a writer with a broken pen
Trying to tell of their pain
When the tears reach the lines
Of laughter gone by
Together rivers of confusion
Lead the way downward
Coming to rest upon my chest
As if to say
“This is where I was born “
Written by E. M. Rushton
January 2019
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 6:48 PM UTC
When you open your mouth
I am pierced
by cupids bow
all through my core
I become a field
Of blooming poppies
When you open your mouth
My ears ring gentle
To every verse you sing to me
No orchestra can ever hope
to top your melodies
But when you open your mouth
You tell tale of another
that isn't me
and my chest concaves
My heart quiet
I was trapped in an illusion
How disgusting of me
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC