"concoctions" poems
I am the entourage
Of a fantastic mirage
I am the agent
Of my mind's figment
I am a believer
Of mythical creatures
I am a builder
Of splendid architecture
I am a drunkard
Tripping on futures so absurd
I plan construction
Of my own destruction
I am the feeder
To dreams of grandeur
I am a magician
Of wild, potent concoctions
I am a tycoon
Of emotional typhoons
I am an adept
Skilled in exploiting concepts
I am a parasite
Brandishing fangs that bite
I play host
To a monstrous, hideous ghost
I am an addict
Of thoughts derelict
I am the dreamer
Incapable of anything lesser
I am a diver
Sinking deeper and deeper
I am an insatiable thief
Claiming trophies without grief
I am an emotional hermit
Hoarding my all in a bottomless pit
I am a weaver
Fabricating tales that meander
I am a Neanderthal
Adopting behaviours and habits that appall
I am an ape
Mending wounds that gape
I am but me
I'm blind, fighting to see
I am rhymesmith
I lie through my teeth
Getting hard to breathe
Heart to words, I seethe...
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Not another flipping cooking show,
On the telly, it's all go,
Weird concoctions in their heads,
What's up with good old meat and veg?
Judges frowning, watching on,
The clock is ticking, must get done,
Sweat is dripping in their pies,
So some top Chef can criticise?
I'd love that job, the eating bit,
They never eat up all of it,
Sometimes they are just simply rude,
So if they criticised my food,
I wouldn't put up with that ****
The buggers would be wearing it :)
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
24 hour sign posted outside of the over night pharmacy in a town
where it seems to be night the majority of the time
he sits in his room and counts the cars that hiss by his window
anxiety starts at his feet,
and numbs them as it makes its way up to his neck
and strangles him in the high of another attack
his mind is a galaxy of concoctions
his pain meds, cough syrup, happy pills
swirl around with the blood on the white marble sink
until it creates an unsaturated rainbow of a man's grievances
the 24 hour pharmacy is open
to satisfy your 2 a.m. needs of a fix
when you suddenly decide you can't continue
the 3 a.m. decision to end it all
the 3:30 a.m. promise that maybe if you just get some sleep,
it will go away in the morning
the 4 a.m. insomnia that leads to bloodshot eyes at 5
and the overdose pharmacy will still be there
as you struggle to breathe;
drowning in the ocean you've created
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.
Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.
Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)
Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.
Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.
The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.
What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.
Can I get another drink?
One for the road.
Don’t cut me off quite yet.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
He dreams, he dreams
Of creating
Every night,
Yet he wakes up
In the desert
Every morning.
He dreams of putting
Soft impressions,
Wild emotions,
Beautiful concoctions
Into paper;
Yet he wakes up
Hands tied,
Pitch-black,
Every morning.
He dreams of his heart
Sifting through his chest
Into blank pieces of paper
That get flooded in deep red;
And a heartfelt tune
Comes gushing out his soul,
Making his own guts grow giddy
While he paints trees on the road;
Yet he wakes up
Lips heavy,
Sight blurry,
Heart wary,
Every morning.
He dreams of walking down
The river bank,
Shapes and colours flying past,
While a haunted boat
Projects its mast;
Blue and yellow sensations
Make him tread through his vibrations
While he scribbles something down,
Eyes and ears fixed on the ground;
Yet he wakes up
Full of doubt,
Full of circular
Pointless thoughts,
Full of resistance
And nobody's assistance
Every
*******
Morning.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
Our brains are jellied by the surreal.
Wires disconnected, rearranged,
our circuit boards frazzled.
The reflections of human faces and bodies
scrambled signals.
Eyes not looking past the crooked fingers
or freckles.
All you see is the dirt, the rust,
you can hear only the creaking joints,
and the groans of your muscles.
But your audience, your lovers and families,
they don't know about those awful sounds
they only see the flowers, hear the music,
a melody of glowing bare shoulders
and a chest filled with life,
a hundred systems,
working in unison to hold up your head.
I never liked the way my hips stuck out,
my ribs, flesh pulled taught against the bones.
Or my pale skin,
I glow in the sunshine.
Baking soda, salt,
awful tasting elements alone,
but they both get mixed into the batter,
overpowered by golden eggs,
sinful sugars,
and the cake itself,
baking soda and all,
well,
it's ******* delicious.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
This silence is killing me.
Was it too much?
Am I that annoying?
Should I give them space?
The mind is a powerful thing
Because it can make or break someone's day
With all the crazy concoctions
And scenarios it cooks up
And the pain it inflicts
Even when there is nothing there.
It's all about interpretation.
The mind can help you pass a test
Or make you fail.
The mind can make a dream come true
Or ruin it with the nightmare of
Reality.
The mind is where I see you and me.
The mind is where I am free.
From pain.
From torture.
From life.
My mind is where I go
When I can look in the mirror
No more.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
The mirror is a farce, a myth, a crook
Look.
Really!
Our reflection is always exposed to our imaginative
creations,
concoctions,
and corrosions.
There is power in a refraction.
See whatever you want coz wer all blind anyway.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
Just the other day I remembered
when we headed to Hastings on a road tour
I jumped the fence like a tomboy
An older lady wasn't very impressed
Her exclamations spelt "Not a lady enough!"
On thorny paths we looked for love
The moments when my heart raced like a truck
Slowly but surely, plainly but with a drop of passion
Like a saint I was naive and unsaved
In mortality we promised a life of love and death
A suave, you said it felt so right, I in heaven
Bonded in ways above ****** forms, we entwined
In divine spirit and soul, sunk in expressive concoctions
I bought you flowers as a dork, as my masculinity faded
A disbelief that any man will burn my slow coal
Never shall we fit the normality of socialisation
Our way is our wave and precious than gold or silver
The black sheep of the institutional functionalism
Let's leave the dotted circles and wander alone
Deep in the aisles of the forests and jungles we came from
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
sometimes i pull up my shirt
look down at my bare tummy
and sigh.
why can't you be better, tummy?
why can't you be smaller
nicer
softer
better?
like a child
i am chiding
tut-tutting
at its misbehavior
tummy, i do so much for you
i skip meals
and don't drink water
and wrap you in all kinds of weird dyi concoctions
and lotions
i take pills
and cry before seeing the boy that i like
all for you,
tummy.
why can't you be
like the other ones
why must you be
the way you are?
i will fix you.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
*Sacramental Elixir & Illuminated Blues,
Experimental Flauntings Of Her Midsummer Hues,
Radioactive Eyes & Her Fairytale Lies,
Seductive Abuses Across The New Divide,
Vivid Intersections In Her Phenomenal Rage,
Shatterproof Reflections Splattered Upstage,
Midnight Passions Of Her Perplexed Lust,
Starlight Rains Glittering Hybrid Dusts,
Transitional Paradigms & Engineered Moans,
Theatrical Concoctions In Her Symphonic Tones,
Flirtatious Illuminations Under The Darkest Light,
Stained Animations Igniting Kryptonite,
Palisades Of Her Collated Reflections,
Cascades Emitting Her Sedated Projections,
Contraband Infatuation Resonating Magnetic Love,
Raving Constellations Provocating Atomic Dove,
Divine Catharsis Of Her Cupid Amour Eternity,
Valentine Bliss Mystifying Her Restrained Insanity,
Charismatic Futility & ****** Binge,
Cinematic Tranquility Emanating From Her Bulletproof Sins,
Neon Subways & Fragile Foreplays,
Sensual Arrays Of Her Red-Light Decays.
- 03:53AM -*
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present
most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises
he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones
he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation
splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Write me a meal plan in bright red pain
And tell me this is the answer to all my problems again
Force down a tube through my nose and into my stomach
And watch as I flummox out of control
Fill this gaping hole inside of me
With drugs and sedation
Numb out pain and realisation
Force feed me promises and a smile
Only to regress back in a while.
Fill these cracks
With temporary fixtures
Concoctions of pills and other mixtures.
Treat me with CBT and psychotherapy
Tell me one day ill be free
And maybe if you say it enough times
Ill start to believe it
As much as you say you do.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
The Spoon
I’m a spoon.
I turn concoctions
I poor innocence into a caldron of imbibe, ********** and violence.
I’m rusted from acidic negligence.
I burn the hand that Weals me.
When I make her bleed, truth crunches between my mandibles.
It’s cruel and scrumptious. I drool over its potential.
But the sheets don’t touch father sun before I leave.
She cries alone.
I cry alone.
I scoop the unknowing up. I throw them into a world of trouble and confusion.
My tongue passes my name, vowels never remembered.
My lips **** hope and maintain an emotional facade.
I like to push it in.
It hurts and I feel nothing.
But I move on.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
Infinite, iridescent ribbons
Spinning out around us.
With every word you let slip,
I dare say I see every hue,
Drifting closer to me,
and you.
They speed up with every second of anticipation,
Wrapping tightly around our skins sensation.
But somehow, these mingling ties,
they cannot bind me.
instead they move us.
A deep blue undertow, your eyes,
washing over my entirety.
Bright hot Scarlett's sweetly pulling us in,
Closing the only gap left between us,
now chest to chest.
white light, tracers at your mouths content.
silver as winters first gasping breath,
shivers as you reach for me again.
Our strings of thought do not break as they should.
Concoctions of enthrall,
tangling, mending, strengthening,
as you move to my hearts rapid beat.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
1
**I like your light makeup,
mangled logic that never
served its intended purpose,
the svelte figure that creates
an awareness indelible on proportion,
and the intelligence you have
to keep it just as petite
all through the years
the out law male chauvinist, that lurks in me is pleased,
lopsided analysis of contemporary affairs
you make, allows me
to intervene, put you back to the track.
I dig the coiffure that makes the birds think,
its their nest, newly built.
Your purple prose I learned to like,
as it gets more and more evocative.
Syrupy songs you write, and sing
used to get one bored easily
no more, your emotions now are
more rooted and move me very much.
you know better than any one, how much I love bitter concoctions you cook.
2
But then
I realize that the cadence you create is unique,
you look life at its *** and frown,
your poems though rare, show plenty of evidence
of quirky charm, which I like.
Your weepy stories and convoluted plots too
I learned to like, all these are just habits, right?
They bear a stamp of your originality I can vouch,
love your starry eyes when each is filled with admiration,
for me in those special moments,
when I pull you out of quagmires
time after time.
3
I can't take eyes off your face,
exuding such innocence,
that vouches your genuineness,
each time that assures me that
you cannot ever be bad,
unless you want to portray
yourself that way cleverly.
Though not my cup of tea,
I love the gizmo culture you love,
your craze for computer games,
(though bit bizarre at this age!)
I enjoy it and get fascinated when you go too far.
You love to make love in the dark,
I later learned to appreciate its tactile advantages,
and encouraged you unleash the panther in you, on me
though I love to do it with lights on
so that we can see the rainbow
the moment it spreads on ,
till it dissipates and we dive deep in to sleep.
4
You touched my depth in a way different,
made it possible to love the woman you are-
the way you are, I love it
because, you are unique,with all imperfections
together we are complete.**
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
imagine velvet walls, pianist and violins, moonlight dancing with the chandelier
above; a grand affair.
everyone suited, of course. just alike, shaking hands,
“sir,”
“as you were.”
injection-forced smiles while shadows eclipse their heads, dimming the hanging
diamond lights as they speak in tongues.
laughter echos from cathedral ceilings, spirals down into deaf cellars and
oh, there will be cocktails that night and concoctions that night,
easy, put me to sleep and then wake me back up!
you’ll thank the waitress, politely, generously offering ten per cent gratuity, five
per cent pity ‘cause she isn’t all that pretty…
mirrors noticeably around every corner, catching glances each passing time.
adjust:
bow-tie (check)
cuff links (check)
slight quaff, unwrinkle, tuck-in your shirt. now,
back to businesss!
and dance akin to swaying scare-crow, in some flawless type of wind where steps
match up mechanically, symmetrically; photographer, and pose.
now your face is on the news
and it’s nothing new to you,
the sun could be your spotlight...
so it’s really too bad that the sun can't reach;
that those clouds suspended above you,
well you’re not sure how to rid them or even, really, how to want the warmth.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:10 AM UTC
How dreadfully awful of you
To play with a woman's emotions
Mixing in happiness and feelings of love
Then drowning her in heartbreak and sadness
Keep your concoctions far from me from now on
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Two cracking cackling clinging broom witches creaked into the closed cavern.
Combinding concoctions to create a cocktail of concretional chaos in their bodies. Coming time to close those crusty eye sockets, deathening sleep creaps on them.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
Obsessed with a cure
Constantly distorting what occurs in nature
Refining it. Mixing it with chemical burn concoctions.
Covering every inch of green as far as you can see
Growth hormones.
Pesticides. Insecticides. Don't-care-if-the-bees-die-icides.
Anything that can be sprayed on a crop for higher yields
All they care about is production and profit
Hundreds of new factories every year
Pumping out quick acting gel tabs
Filling the cabinets with placebos
Close enough to the edge of science to not be considered god
A two billion dollar a year industry
To stay young
Be healthy
Not have to get off our fat, lazy, publicly ill-educated *****
To lose weight
Nothing worth having ever came easy
Your inability to learn from your mistakes takes over
Watching the inevitable if not medicated decline of society
DNA withering away to dust, until only shells are left
Gaudy and virile played out right before us like a badly made ****
Doesn't matter who is getting ******
You are still watching
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
I.
do you suppose of the three
rosaline got the best deal?
not ending in tragedy, but in obscurity
because i've realized how poisonous
girls are
they sit and settle like concoctions
waiting to be stirred up
II.
i will absorb her under my skin
until she turns my face red
and finger nails blue
until she chokes the air
from me and all I can taste
is her
i will shed my skins through sunrise
and pledge my beating bleeding heart
to juliet at sunset
III.
i can multi-task
i can die
i can live
i can love
i can
[do it all]
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
~for she who will know~
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
*we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End*
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC