"contortionist" poems
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
doves drowning
in the storms wicked air
watch with empathy as they struggle in the
thrashing tides of the rainswept sky
watch as the fall from grace
in the warm tears of rain
bernie was waiting on
doomsdays last train
he kept his lunch in a sack
along with the face he gonna wear
when he comes up fore the good lord
but what worried him was if the other fella
had his ticket
he would toss his coin on
the hand he was dealt
a good man misunderstood
a simple man living a complex life
contortionist of the fable
she wrote her own storied life
on the back of a matchbook cover
after all its the flame of her heart
that set ablaze many a mans inner pervert
she is waiting on that last train too
with a devilish certainty of her destination
but she aint too worried
she knows hell is just like miami in july
doves nestled in the hands of time
make a soft sound that stirs the heart
sounds like a love affair
sounds like free flight on a summer breeze
feels like home
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
I could call you Molly
With the way you came into my presence
as an orchestra that played the melancholy lullaby of a cello and the sweet pings of a piano
with the velocity of sound waves filling up my head
But as the grains of sand fell and the seasons brushed along our skin
you became a drowned out child’s rhyme
A whisper in the eve
Truth is all perspective
As is friend and foe
But to say,
at best,
your words could be perceived as anything less than the hot air of an air balloon would be a stretch a contortionist would struggle to achieve.
(C) Tiffanie Doro
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
***Ensnared in
the crystallization
of web's
intimidating deception,
superficial spider
met its
duplicitous match,
whence the improvised
contortionist morphed
forth from its chrysalis,
spun midst grandeur
in triumphant
survival of flight's
sheer inception***
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
skin kissed
with a golden mist
lips twist like a contortionist
fingertips dipped
in something delicious
chocolate?
cinnamon?
come on then
don't tease
please i want you inside of me
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
a lady contortionist, par excellence,
was in collision course, with an expert in calisthenics,
as expected, their competition soon ended,
the tie breaker, bedroom mechanics, lasted days.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
A contortionist achieves ******
Her ******** saluting her lips
From within an envelope of pleasure
Causing local beatitude
Though one may query such enthusiasm
Her ******** cooing mollifying concert
Waltzing against the hips of autumn temptation
That she was vibrant
Or that she was barren
Or that in artistry
This plausible microsecond
The happening of dawn quite imminent
And a canary perched upon a fence
Lavish us with falsettos
Each and every organism throughout the universe
Itself just below its conception
And love equalizes the balance
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
white
red
black
graceful contortionist
hidden
faces
samurai?
demon?
princess?
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
If I was dangerous
would you then remember me
remember my cologne
recall its taste?
If I build self-esteem in harsh terrain
and force feed you my pungency
could I be in your primary thoughts
sit in first place?
If I was a contortionist
and took your emotions with me
would I matter tonight
change your life?
If I could be everything you dream of
and make you fear its urgency
can I take you home
temporary wife?
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
it was a quarter past 11 when the silhouette of the
steam locomotive changed in its inertia, and i
was left standing in dense smoke attempting to connect
neurons to nerve impulses. my train was leaving and i
was not aboard.
the sprinting algorithm of my prior steps had come
to allude me and I am left pondering as to where
these moments had gone. As overextension of one's
arm defies the boiler pumping steam, it's thermal
radiation forcing me to become The Contortionist.
with chills stepping up my spine, taking residue in each
vertebra before ascending, crashing and descending, as
contact with hand and train is made, and relaxation comes
with it. i sense the gentle acceleration, as this safety net of relaxation
fades. my weakening muscles struggle to become satanists of physics
and momentum gained
is lost in equilibrium
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Across the blank pages
The poet’s heart sleeps
Stretching the soul languidly
As feelings stretch to words
Etched are the elegant lines
The soul becomes a contortionist
With amazing grace and flexibility
The lines grace the blank pages
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
It should have felt like utter ecstasy that final feeling of relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching Moksha.
Just as a desert always kisses the mirage of water but never tastes it.
The solace of peace that I craved.
My finger still lingers over the send button.
Call it trigger happy, but this is sadness with a nose.
Running after people trying to prove something.
Trying to confirm that I was something worth missing.
Someone worth loving.
Bending backwards like a contortionist.
Doing whatever appeases to be loved even if it was me being sacrificed.
The gods were no crueler than I was to myself.
I was a lamb in a lion’s den.
Crawling under the feet of those who never served me.
A wanderer lost in the desolate space between her mind and heart.
Logic doesn’t speak love into the life that is absent.
I see a hand reaching back the feeling of utter relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching moksha.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
Classic bier pose: eyes closed, arms folded over chest, everything aligned perfectly.
Peaceful, opposite of the turmoil in everyone around you.
You never did think about others at all.
In the flames I can see your body still.
Peaceful pose: gone.
Now: contortionist.
Eight-year-old Chinese gymnast,
perfect 10 I’d say, but perhaps I’m biased.
Over there the judge says 7.99;
stingy, just call it 8 even (or put the taxes in the **** score).
I think it was the stress of the audit.
That’s why your wife left,
the audit. And the hookers, you ***** *******
I’d **** on your pyre,
but all the alcohol would catch it on fire
and send it racing up to light ME,
instead of one of your nasty cigarettes.
Tax evasion, lying
(eight, count ‘em, eight dependents:
birds #s 1, 2, 3 (bird feeder pays for itself this way, don’t it?),
chipmunk, dog, the mouse in the cellar,
bird number 4 (only in the summer, not domesticated),
even the random fox), you name it.
How did you run that for so long?
Hero’s funeral, the great pyre, a pile of ashes.
Something a chimney sweep would leave,
and about as important. Did they ever find
cause of death—the wife?
Good, I helped her.
She needed a shoulder to cry on after you died,
and you sure as hell weren’t there (typical).
A pile of ashes,
ashes to ashes, etc., n’est-ce pas?
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
grotesque old Tomon-go
in that corner he holds in the market
he looks angry, fierce and his open mouth
inside as red as the feet of a fighting ****
Ah, his words fly like arrows helter-skelter
some miss, some strike – he does not know
what missiles he sends, what he throws
and in turn anything he receives he throws back
with quadrupled energy
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
all relatives say in hushed tones -
but he’s really nice, a softie with a hard exterior*
at the market his face is convoluted
there are a hundred writhing beings that make
up his countenance
(each a contortionist)
the energy of the practised old grumpy men
live in his hands
and he unleashes words that make everyone recall
the last tsunami
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
all the women and men in the market say
in whispers -
but he’s really nice, a softie with a hard exterior*
Ah, poor Tomon-go, his words and manner isolate him
he hurts others and is hurt in turn
Poor Tomon-go, poor all who come in contact with him
though they might whisper to one another:
*He looks fierce, he looks mean
but he’s really nice, a softie
with a sharp tongue and grotesque exterior*
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
there's a secret place i found to keep my fear
to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable --
it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear
the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline
lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break
open my seed-pod heart
the one i thought no one could pry apart
but with rosebud ******* -- lips --
the figure of biblical magdala takes me
away from a lone satsuma tree raising its
shriveled offering from the crippled earth
on sunday strolls through duckpond parks
kicking cobbled streets of augusta block
or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs
on a hot hometown riverbank
you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke
& rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing
where heat-lightning waltzed
sneaky-pete over the prairie
& what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr
flowing through stone temple
just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer
brought hell's fire across the southern field
so i've abandoned the hermetic existence
& buried my old dead shell with a
harp song hail glory to the contortionist god
vaulting off the balance beam in the
back of my mind beneath the
rain soaked topsoil of dawn
among the mound palaces
of ants & mourning mud hornets
while the gray shadows of the magpie
dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of
the trespassed lupine forest
& the sun still comes up on time big
gold fluttering like a delusional cicada
over the empty pink street
i'm still fidgeting because
clouds with tails like jellyfish sting
with rooted memories of azaleas but
you kiss away my all my latent
restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh
light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil
in your front dress pocket & you only
give it back to me in brief drips --
pinches -- wet tongue kisses --
we talk with our eyes as only animals
can our butts in the damp sand
beside the breathless sea where streaked
clouds seem free to finger the horizon
but are cut by the city skyline --
a switchblade
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
Jumping, bouncing and swinging from tree to tree
In a sparse forest just outside a village on the outskirts of Antananarivo
They adapt to the changes flung at them and strive to survive
On the ground a troop leaps sideways side by side in a straight line
What a comical spectacle
However solemn their purpose, they must find a home
The little one abaft of the line
Takes one last glimpse at the home he leaves behind
Oh it’s up in flames now and bulldozers knock down his trees
Beyond, just yonder
Over a hill further down south, the prospect is in sight
A new forest with new opportunities
It’s denser; it hasn't caught the eye of encroaching villagers
They forge on towards it in that spectacular procession
High up in the trees they mark their territory
Males call out to females and they howl in response
The young ones frolic in the underbrush
They mate, they eat, they thrive
Another forced migration
There they go again in that sideways march
More deforestation for infrastructure
There must be leeway for civilization one way or the other
One must wonder now
What future lies in store for these that have no place in government?
Their trails fade away from the Malagasy ecosystem
Their lives hang in a balance at the brink of extinction
Will our grandchildren ever get to appreciate
The extraordinary feats of agility they display
The gymnastics they perform from day to day
On the trees and on the ground in the jungle everyday
Ostentations of dramatic optical presentations
In their furry coats of monochromatic patterns
Perhaps they will disappear and my son’s sons may only get to
Read about them in the has been list of the annals of history
At this rate since erecting urban jungles
Of tar roads and skyscrapers is the order of the day
They might even be able to catch an obscure image of the lemur
In the form of a costumed trapezist mimicking one
Or a twisting contortionist in The Cirque Du Soleil
Nellie Nkosi
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******** complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Discombobulated...
"Bob! You late Again!?"
Its not
A statement
You can make
To make her change
The date again
Happy Belated
Birthday celebrations
Embracing
Her forgiveness
As the cure
For your forgets
Forged
Your signature style
Across the lines
Of her smile
As you kiss
With the intent
To signal her bliss
And ignorance
What's in store
For her
Is distortion
This portion of life
Fused with confusion
Contortionist
Twisting
The body
Of lies
With the a prose
That matches
Her pose
Unjustified margins
Never
Crossing the red line
But riding it
Writing with a wit
That could
Split her brain
In half
You call it
The gift a gab
Emotions versus Logic
The verse is
Littered with poetry
Personified
As a woman
Mixed feelings
Remixed
And mastered
To produce
A new product
For you to accept
Instead
You neglect
Her
Collected thoughts
!Implode!
She gathers
The pieces
To gain recollection
Of what happened
To her
To you
To love
She battles
Herself
To win the war
With you
Tie the knot
For christ sake!
Or undue
"To hell
With you!"
She yells
Her voice fails
To really reach you
It takes
Two
To tangle
Not to tango
To tango
Is to dance
And you'd
Miss your step
Every chance
You get
She feels
Obligated
To feel
For her first love
Inoculated
By the drug
That leaves her
Discombobulated...
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
I try to untangle my confusion like the tangled webs of lesbian ***
Arms and legs stretched and bent like some circus contortionist
But to ride out my computer brain, not nearly as logical,
Is like an impossible puzzle
To try and solve two Rubik’s Cubes, one in each hand
Is more probable than to solve the mysteries within you
A fever of 151 will just expose vague feelings hardly held too deep
I speak in code, not too difficult to know,
But maybe it is because the look on your face shows
You either don’t care or have grown tired of my games
But this ain’t a game anymore; I don’t think it ever was
I just want someone to not roll their eyes in discontent
In disappointment, a lack of interest
But I can’t blame you because I am the victim of my own game
My shame, I can’t help but giggle and make a mockery
Of these secrets that I try half-heartedly
To drown in a sea of alcoholic, drug addled debauchery
My pupils shrink not nearly as close to the size of my heart
I don’t know how else to scream “Help!”
My music, my poetry, my word choice, my lack of hygiene
Am I just some worthless case that you can’t bring
Yourself to see, the truth of it all
Cuz it hurts too much, to realize what your son has become
So maybe in your mind repeating my last words
Will fix everything inside that burns
But I run, don’t try too hard to hide, the pain beneath my eyes
I don’t know how else to scream I need a real person to confide
I lost her and I lost it all
Why is it so difficult for you to make a connection?
To your own son, your own brother
Until it’s too late, until my feet are dangling
Held high, held tight
By anything I could find, but I couldn’t wrap it tight enough
Fell on my knees, nearly broke my neck and vertebrae
I probably did, but did you have anything to say?
After a week it was all the same again
So I drink my poison, poke my arm again
Wear long sleeves all year long, just to get some kind of emotion
But I suppose it’s expensive to keep me alive
It’s sure as hell not cheap to try and end this reckless piece of ****
Like my body is immune, to heavy metals and dulled ***** needles
A noose, an overdose, a drunken crash, a clash of drugs, splashes in my nose left unplugged
What will it take?
How much more can I endure?
Only a bullet to the brain seems the only thing fool proof.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
a flashing neon cocktail of colour
shines a peculiar light
like a fossil washed in my jeans
it allows me to speak to Panzas donkey
in a place where black winged angels wait
providing a backdrop to unconscious geography
that can never be reclaimed
movements are that of a stage contortionist
slow and deliberate
they recollect colliding tangents
that preclude all manner of inquiry
there is an articulated confrontation
that corresponds to a drawn curtain
an ash grey partition
painted with a particularised creation
projecting in a self generated universe
an estrangement to the world of aligning
past and present
A windmill tilts and magnifies
the sense of isolation generated
by my conversation with Panzas donkey
in a realisation of the unquantifiable location
of the non-geometric dimensions of Quixotic thought
yet allows for an initiation of sensory experience
as a world that exists independently of
physical space is explored
and I realise the expansion of consciousness
is the emitted light of relative thought
that flashes in colour before me
it is my dreams, they are violet
like the sky
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Ominously spindling thread
Tempestuous, voluptuous
Contemptuous and gluttonous
Stitch me a heavy heart
Now rip it to shreds
Rewarding impetuousness
How I long for your torture
Tortuous contortionist
The pleasure is without measure
Your posh silk,
Treasure of my endeavor
Enveloping like the web of a spider
My heartstrings twine;
then are severed
What a twist
Never have I ever
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC