"contoured" poems
*Long lines looped the carousel
the first time you gazed my eye,
mounted on that chestnut mare,
grasped tight to the reigns up high.
I see his face around the bend,
a corn dog in his hand.
Locking eyes as I rise. I blush,
above the crowd he stands.
Light flickers, mouths water
delicate contoured lips laugh. I smile.
The music hesitates along with my breath.
I think I'll be staying awhile.
Bewildered and a little dizzy,
I dismount with a giggle.
I lick my dry lips, dreamily,
hoping he is single.
With the wind, a light mist blows.
I can see her slowly get wet,
stumbling she falls my way.
I'm excited, this day isn't over yet
Drip, drip, drip upon my face,
anxiously, I turn to hurry.
In my haste, he catches my waist
swallowing... I fall covertly.
Lips moisten, I pull her near
a kiss, slipped, tongues twirl,
wanton whispers whisked away,
drenched deep passion's unfurl.
A stranger's kiss upon my lips
beneath the dreary skies.
Soaking wet, I'm still on fire
He caught me by surprise.
A stranger's kiss upon my lips
beneath the queching skies.
Heaven sent, a burning desire;
she, such a welcomed surprise.*
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
What the **** am I doing with my life
There is no gain
Would you like a large fry with that pain
Thanks, come again
She seems miserable and glowing
Contoured on smile
Forcing her to be happy
Counter tops seem befitting tonight
God, I lost my light
Life seems to strip you naked
Bare and thin, it's always in
Lust will **** you dry
Leaving you asking why
She sweats smudged transgressions
He pushes deeper in
His ****** tension draws her sin
She never was meant to win
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****
is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies
monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain
and a ****
impaling her
the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's
my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m
a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
c u n t z o o
i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac
gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e
*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me
cuckoo spit
k o cuck k o k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac
wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
The plump moon lights up my room.
My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream
the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
I can hear it slicing through my brain,
like a sharp, stray tune of imperfect melody.
It tampers with desolate whimpers
A cry for attention
My contoured skin is peeled away
by those words
"Never will I be,
Pretty."
If I could just cut it off
like excess skin
like layers of flabby fats
If there's a liposuction
for dark thoughts
If I can tuck it
away from my tummy
I'd do it in a heartbeat.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
The little life now grew
and all things thought to him
Of things old and things new
the norms and laws laid on him
And long before they know
the little man on his teens
In school and wherever he'd go
his friend and him like wearing same skins
The boy now has feelings inside
of which his parents lack guide
The feeling towards another lad
of butterflies in the stomach he had
Of his pink lips he keeps staring
of the way his eyes can captivate
Of his gentle giggles when laughing
and his smiles all problem alleviate
Of his contoured body figure
chiseled like a statue in park
Temptations he can't endure
it makes his heart spark
Then nobody surely knew
that the boy whom they gave birth to
Had grown and began anew
of his life and his secret TABOO
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
his essence
cascades across
the grain of my frame;
as his eyes dilate,
imbibing in the beauty
of motion teasing the lull
of moonbeams as it
dabbles
against the infinity
of our minds
beholding
our reflected image
in mirrored composure,
as our delicacy of want
pushes
towards an edge
of lustiness
entwined within
warbled notes
of rock wrens
singing love songs
as they dip
their wings
on early
summer
morn's
my eyes close
as softness of
lips touch upon
mine own; sending
thoughts to lucid
stillness of serendipity
bathing our contoured
frames in dulcetness
aligned within pouted
hunger tasting one
another in unity
kaleidoscopic prisms
alight in our eyes
as the lull of the moon
pulls the ebb and flow
of the ocean's current
as our bodies move
in rhythm with its
motion of each
cresting wave
crashing against
the shores of
our soul's fluidity
burbling in ecstasy
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
for Barry and Tina
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look to my father’s hands and see
all twelve-thousand morning mists
he has seen.
A gristmill heart, grained hands
and workshop walking feet are
all hidden from view.
He writes in capitals, written
with precision, and crosses the T’s
as he goes along,
So not to prolong the sentence writing chore,
making more time, conjuring up the minutes
to potter around and mend unbroken objects.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look at my mother’s hands
and see remedies read about in those magazines,
all to look younger in the staff canteen.
A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers
and contoured, sculpted chiselled
corridor feet are all hidden from view.
She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide
hiding letters and numbers in the swell
of punctuation and dotted I’s,
The T’s cross themselves and she moves on,
another phone call to attend too or
a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight
so not to rot, those years will pass
as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur
roads, where the next 50 miles
bring just as many smiles as the last 50.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
It is the most intimate a situation he had ever found himself in.
On a public transport, after someone had left their roost,
He had replaced himself in their seat.
An odd sensation went through him as he sat down,
The feeling that he was trespassing in someone else's skin,
Learning things about them they hadn't meant to leave behind.
He felt their warmth, the way the seat contoured to them
And he knew not their name.
There were feelings left in the seat
Sadness, depression and pain saturated the resting place,
Yet something lifted his heart out of his chest,
Rising from his perch and flying to the sky.
Hope had also been found through the prior resident,
Remaining in the seat like a lost wallet.
He drew on this remarkable gift amid the monotony of the rocking subway;
The gratification he felt toward this unknowing Maecenas was not to be extinguished,
At least for that one blissful moment found on
Public transportation.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
For her art was all the colors,
Present in the makeup pallete,
Erasing her pain like cleansers,
And making her life go all set,
So ready to be brushed up with some makeup,
To meet with her all time pain healer,
By letting her face go through a little scrub,
She covered all the dark secrets like a concealer,
She had a past darker than her smokey eyes,
With eyeshadow blended so perfectly,
She looked so pretty and wise,
Killing people with her charm and spectacularity,
By using her lipstick dipped in blood red,
And like a sharp weapon she carried her contoured face, With her lashes so widespread,
She turned into a strong woman who got over all her depressing days.
-Faeza Kazim
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
They told me to take things back to the 90's
Take things back to the heart
Told me I should have done this from the start.
But the views from my six are contoured.
Covered in foundations of fuckboys, fuckgirls and blessers.
So tell me how do I express my heart when this generation believes the only functioning ***** should be brain,
Because heart will **** you
And the others are going to die from harmful ingestions.
They told me to take it back to the 90's.
Take things back to the heart.
So here I go.
The basis of my poetry has always been pain.
My heart and soul always confining in a dark pit of abyss.
My body constricted in a corner
Huddled up, popping everything it could.
Now the basis of this story isn't about you saving me,
But how you gave me your hand, shoulder, smile and wisdom to the path of saving.
Of how you opened your chest, tore out your ribcage and gave me your broken heart as you took mine.
Of how you taught me pain is inevitable but suffering is optional
Of how you showed me true love.
And how grateful I am.
In twenty four hours the heart beats 115200 times.
At least fifty percent of the time my heart skips a beat.
This means from 57600 beats and above are skipped.
A week consists of seven days
In hours that's approximately 168.
As like the first at least fifty percent is lost in thought of you
Which means 84hrs and above I think about you.
An average of all 12 months is approximately 140 days.
Okay skip the math, let's get straight to the conclusion.
Math is a fine art of illusion.
Filled with various abstract to distract you.
But the rule is you will always find your x.
The x that completes your equation.
So what I am saying is that you complete my equation of life
You're my X.
Literature teaches us to express our feelings in terms of literal devices.
From anecdotes, personification to lititoes.
It tells us to sing with our hearts,
Speak with our souls and allow our voices to do it all.
Like Christina Rossetti,
"My heart is like a singing bird"
"For my love has come to me"
Look truth is you give me butterflies.
You make my heart swell up in happiness.
You make me feel alive.
You make me stutter out of nervousness.
You make me want to impress you.
To always put a smile on that beautiful face.
You make me want to hear your laugh every single second.
You make me happy
Which makes me want to make you happy.
Because pain is a feeling we all get to experience
But happiness is rare and I want you to feel it.
What I am trying to say is
I'm taking it back to the 90's
To the early 2000's
To tell you, you're one in a million
That I'm stuck on you
And that I am madly in love with you.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
you can't help but stare
and stare
and stare
until you hate everything about your face
how many freckles you have
pimples
it can only cover the scars for so long
the insecurities for so long
lips coated in thick red
eyes you coat with liner and eye shadow
face caked with foundation
baked with powder
contoured to the gods
eyebrows on fleek
you slay
sometimes you don't recognize yourself in the mirror
and it makes you happy because you can't imagine living the rest of your life looking you without make-up.
will you ever love you?
you, without the makeup?
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
#4 | 31 Poems for August
Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sunshine finds me again.
It may seem like I cannot see but sometimes the darkness becomes my light.
It’s amazing to see a love this beautiful shine so bright.
I found love in the midst of pain.
I found sunshine in the midst of rain.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
Sometimes these words are just not enough to describe all that I feel for you.
Your hips are perfectly contoured for my hands to hold on to.
When you’re not here, these hands don’t know what else to do.
We found love in the midst of pain.
We found sunshine in the midst of rain.
The pages of my heart are saturated with words describing how remarkable you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you are my favourite star.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
A connection this strong was destined.
I gave you love, you gave me reflections.
Now a song by Justin Timberlake keeps playing on the radio.
I may be introverted but my love for you will always show.
Maybe that’s something our friends need to know.
Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sleep finds me again.
“I don’t know a perfect person. I only know flawed people who are still worth loving.” – John Green
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Coarse granite slabs split the earth
glinting at the fractured sunlight.
Sly winds whip and lash the grass and gorse;
disconsolate skies weep upon the land.
Rain rushes in to bloat the meagre streams,
and gulleys slash the sinewed clay.
Pulse and sluice. Erosion fashions
new forms of contoured legends.
Ragged crows snag the horizon
blasted and cursed. Little else
between the walls of weathered stones:
hand-laboured one on one.
The moor muscles its independence,
frowning at the low land,
bragging to the skies
its ancient splendour.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 6:56 AM UTC
I felt an unusual twinge in my neck
as I turned toward you.
Heavy breathing signaled morning sleep
as my arm reached across your palpitating belly.
These casual cuddles, typical of the start of our day
emit a warmth unlike sunrays or furnace heat.
No use to wake you or tease apart your legs
for seldom do we play.
That may come after morning news is devoured,
bananas peeled and different morning hungers eased.
Now i rise to consume small pellets of brown, pink,
grey and white chemicals compounded to keep me alive.
There is a stillness downstairs with greetings from a well-worn chair
contoured to support my soul.
Blades whirl overhead churning a breeze
my face accepts upon my forehead.
Now is my time of meditation, my attempt to
listen to whatever god pervades this universe.
There will be no answers, no jolts of insight or revelations,
only small particles of peace to cover my disquiet.
You will lumber down steps with effort accentuated by creaks
and moans that are more pronounced each day.
Our lips will touch confirming both obligation and willingness
to walk beside each other.
I wonder if you think there could be more?
Could each gaze toward one another be longer?
Could I unbutton myself enough to see or would you scold me
for such an unrepressed display?
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Silhouetted against a blank
Wall, lips curving
Dangerously;
Be still, my tender
Heart, your rapid palpitations will no
Longer be rewarded. In
Dreams your
Existence thrives within my own,
Five fingers wrapped
Around
Five fingers.
Slowly we were twisting, devoid of
Grace.
Once you were in full bloom.
A thousand repressed seeds,
Little
Whisps of hope sauntered effortlessly
From your lips,
released;
I was the warm summer wind, tugging each
Delightful murmur free,
Languishing in
The wealth, the weight of those promises, the scent
Of a new beginning..
How soon it became Autumn,
Your leaves tinged
With brown
Crumpling up, one
By one.
Those sweet seeds
Quickly made a home within the belly
Of a love ravenous
Fool, dissolving as
Steadfast as acid corrodes
bone.
Away, away....
You drifted purposely,
Without purpose.
Languidly, you attempted to brush away
The words, the very sentiments
That have stuck
To my ribs,
Like oatmeal.
What lives within the
Contoured ridges of your soul must be one hell
Of a mess.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
If I lay on that big, white bed for along time,
will you help me find my Father?
If I put tubes in my arm
and didn't eat for a week,
would you show me where he is?
Will the robot standing next to my head feed me
coordinates through rhythmic beeps and blips and red flashing lights?
I will do that.
I will shrink in my bed
and let my hair shed off like snake skin
and let my skin wrinkle like I had been in the bath tub for too long
and leave the windows wide open so my children can watch.
My lungs will burn out
and you'll put a mask on my face
and add one more tube to the collection
in the crook of my elbow,
adding more weight
as I lose mass
just like my Father.
And after countless times of being told,
"You have his smile,"
I will truly know what they meant
when my lips become sandpaper
and my tongue becomes parchment
and my teeth hollow out in gradients of pale moon yellow.
The iron from my blood
will add zest to every wheezing hack
and trickle down my throat like the morning dew
watering the growing weeds in my lungs.
I will do nothing but blink my crusting, glazed eyes
when my family cries at my bedside.
I will not flinch as their shouted cries echo the hallway
or look up as they throw their hands to the sky,
begging to a name I had long turned away from.
Would I find my Father if the flesh of my cheeks sunk into its bones
and my face was contoured by the ugly shadows in its
every crevice?
Even then, I would not find my Father.
I would not find my Father
until the white coats stand over my bed,
prodding me with pens and magnifying glasses and stinging needles,
and finally tell my family there is no chance.
I would nto be my Father until I refuse to cry
or scream
or become angered
or say goodbye.
I will be relieved that after countless months of being dead,
they finally declare my pulse gone.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Caked,
Contoured,
Painted,
Photoshopped--
Perfection is
What Nature alone can never realize.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Polished black
granite floor,
like a man's
muscular ***
craves for you--
for the heat
your lotus feet
transmit on it.
Generous,
you gift
a linear array
of foot prints
diagonally
across it.
Following
close behind
I step aside
not to walk up on
your foot prints,
fearing diffusion
of the epigraphic
arrangement .
Inward curve of your feet
and shape of the toes
make vapor contoured imprints:
cryptic love messages
for my pining heart--
seeing the easy dance
of your feet ,
captured on the floor,
I imagine.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise
Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle
Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats
Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.
Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new
I coloured my world
with my eyes
my fingers, my hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
The naked trees
wore contoured
sunshine, as the
wind wondered
perfectly at them.
Then there came
a sense of seasons,
of surviving seasons--
watching them...calling
them by name.
This is a privilege,
to survive a cycle, and
call it by name.
To call them seasons
seems softer than cycles...
more long drawn.
Though, the fidelity of
their force is far beyond
our being seasoned.
We should not forget
that we're being watched
by a greater cycle, a
greater season.
Perspective is the luxury
afforded levels of consciousness...
forget-me-nots of wisdom.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
Sunrise nearing its death,
the end of today
complementing the beauty of a pen stroke,
harsh scratching alleviating indelible ideas
showing selves in hues painting our last moments
allowing me to trace timelines
in the contoured caresses
of this silent instrument played
to blend melody with beginnings,
each progression scaling further along
the passing hours left settling
to minutes from now,
purpose elaborated in contrasting
blues and oranges and purples
composing the elegance of utility,
colors not enough to excise the excesses
of depicting days in dimensions,
of simplifying it to degrees of time.
Laying alongside this current
to shape clouds
and animate constellations,
my faux-corpse stares again into
the memory held in galaxies
only glimpsed at twilight.
Sharp cuts of consonants
and vowels' smoothed corners
try to rid me of
stream of conscious thinking loosed,
the inner struggle hoping for reprieve
from that constant combative nature
of inward disagreement
and dialectic digression
deflecting the question of
what if we'd only spoke
instead of being lost
to foreign type-faces designed by
some soul never to see
the dying day my way.
If only we'd spoke,
I would have had the chance
to stumble on a goodbye.
Rather we are left
to flourishes of unfamiliar weapons
sitting askew on these pages,
the balance shifted due to
us degrading to another's personality,
and writing out those lines
we couldn't come to say.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.
I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.
*They're alive,
and full of vitality*
he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.
I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.
I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.
My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.
But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.
Sewing buttercups
into a storm.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise
Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle
Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats
Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.
Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new
I coloured my world
with my eyes
my words
my fingers, hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC