"coppered" poems
The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.
A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.
Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.
“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.
“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.
We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”
To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.
With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.
She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.
“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.
No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.
Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.
Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.
Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.
Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.
To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.
A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.
Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
*She shrinks running on the beach
winds reach her hairs dancing free
smaller she grows far out of reach
around her prance the waves wildly.
Her limps all gone, gone is her ache
she’s now again a pristine child
with sandy footprints skin sunbaked
she catches me in her love beguiled.
In the saline wind her coppered face
stoops for treasure of wave washed pearl
in enslaving thrall of love’s wellness
years wind her back a little girl.
Soon she will be back with worn out shells
boast of her finds from the seashore
never knowing in those moments’ windy sails
she unlocked in me a long locked door.*
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
freckle lined and hued with pink
angled gently in a curved facade
red, curled and pillowed
over her face and around
her ear.
coppered brown flick her
eye and eye and eye
trickle down, find
the bridge and there
***** of inhalation.
the arch of hair
lead over her forehead
blank in between
pointing downward to end
at the tip of her lip.
a lip turned coral
by the line of blood
traveled continually
hill to hill to hill.
her ear linked to the
gentle flaked cover
of her body.
word after word
floating from her throat
murmured into heartache
of an adrift lover.
marking her cheek up
and down
placed darkly
and with magic.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
You told yourself 25 was a good age to die
Ghosting on the tail end of youth,
The Grey would never touch you.
But 25 is here, and the razor is coppered from neglect
And the pills in the cabinet have long lost their voice from bitter age.
25 is here, and you're reminded of the deal you made with Death at 18
When the weight of life nearly killed you
And your idea of hope was the promise of an early grave.
25 is here, and you don't want to die
But the burden of years that have not yet arrived
Press down on your shoulders like the heavy hands of unwanted men.
And yet.
You don't want to die.
So you rely on your emergency exits
collecting dust under tarnished jewelry and gold-strangled hair ties.
Like old friends you meet up with once a decade, you pacify their need for acknowledgement,
Weaving nevers into not yets with empty promises and shallow reassurances,
Brushing off their needling whispers as they bounce off another day gone by.
Because you're 25.
And you're not done yet.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
Deliverance and dead seas
A dusty ocean breeze
Land fills filling lungs
Unaware galvanized charms
A set of rusty rugs
A dirtied coppered fray
Left to steal the day
Untangling what stayed behind
To follow close in line
Dehydrated angler fish faces
Upon a Many forgotten places
With even older chests
Once a hopeless mess
Reaching air once more
From a dry and cracked up floor
Bones to be revealed
A judgement now appealed
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
For whose License must your Coppered Mouth sing
Which the Lamb and the Owl compose for you
This - define such Friend - thumb your nickered strings,
Then delve Innocence perform those Tidbits true
Perhaps my Finger - or Eye then about
Point to where your Righteous Heart should belong
As you praise your Job; Past Excellence stout
Play your Hidden Muse in search for a Song
Which Customers, their likely Music spell
Helled or Heavened Clefs you both pacify
That this Foundry should acclaim Managers well
As their War-Torn Throats win your satisfy.
Still it was just a Day; As such Day did pass
Back to your Reward; And Reward it was.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
Watercolour,
Two tears of rain-
Coppered silk dissolves,
Hanging over time.
If Fuji remains
Tell me when
She is a bubbling crater
Steaming lake, fisher,
Cormorant
And all
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 1:29 AM UTC
The day is hallowed
A fresco croft of Sunday shire
made Gabriel in stallion- manes,
Decanted into bottled ships
of scalloped Wedgewood
promises.
Trees
slope away in careful rows,
Well- fed matrons
fountain pruned
wear puff-ball cheeks
of flouncing gourd
that curtsey in bewildered
corns of desiccated flora
,
flawed by scorn of August forays
left as unkempt graves
.
Much more than these
stand poplars, ordered
keepers on their plated watch in
ruffled smocks of coppered
lime to tame the knee- worn
names of climate ,buckled
down the yarrowed lanes.
This day retains
its hallowed mien
as I pass through
these borrowed years
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:45 PM UTC
Night binds me blue in blackened silk
elemental sleep stolen by deadest dark
needing rest, comfort, kindness's milk
sifted tears & sobs do leave their mark
still
cold
black
quiet
feels so solitary stark
no escape hatch though I crave release
as wants pull me unto vapoured arms
no succour here I will feel no peace
only bitter pills and swallowed harms
crested light brings harsher days
tattered remnants of coppered dreams
reminds me its the psyche that pays
as fragile silk tears joy at its seams
harsh
bright
bitter
light
of winters mourn
dawns bring the bitten blinded sighs
a glassed in cage for wing clipped birds
oblivion obscura in the masses eyes
ears deadened to my silence unheard
oceans full of childs supple soft bones
his hunters blade glistens the breaks
the wind whispers tortured moans
the sliced knife tip just takes and takes
endless
deep
black
water
the sea swallows me down
Its serene to the point of painful, pretty
this forest where sprites could be at play
no lighter folly for this game is too gritty
secret lair to lead his new lambs to slay
as these vignettes proxy via my dreams
projector unspools reels sickly unsweet
his breath putrefies unpeals my screams
his scent petrifies my heart shale & sleet
hurt
broken
hollow
husk
brittle
a once fierce heart lays flayed.
J.C. littlebird 07/06/2019.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
*I dwell inside the coppered forest confusion
Among straight evergreens pining for blue windows ,
in the illusion of being the only man on earth , in the
union of sycamore and birch ..
May contrails be arrows shot from appeased gods ,
may cirrus clouds take the shape of horses in battle from
the very stables of Olympus
The chatter of the raven and melancholy dove , mercurial
raptors announcing their presence from high above
Accept a brother shunned , a native son bridled in despair
Wearing battles upon both arms , seething in emotive turmoil
Bearing tokens of love for every fish , mammal and serpent
The warmth of July in Chinook winter winds , the crisp air
of Autumn for the dog days of August , a crown of azaleas
with Cherokee roses in the Appalachian snowfall amidst the Indian forest
May flocks of pelicans continually grace her windswept , turquoise shores
May the voices of bobwhite quail address her plains forevermore* ...
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
*Home of afternoon coppered timberland
Dancing wire grass and shimmering tin
Egrets in the house of deep blue sunsets
Dove songs riding winter winds* ...
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
But the sound.
Left stood red on the curb.
He sits.
Reading his epitaphs and choice.
Leeching to his lead.
Pocketed mind inside his fine teeth.
Friends free loading on the 2 cent couch.
Bass played Stuntman Randy.
So the Grooves get the gist.
Guthrie preaching Cosmourn poems.
They feel the nail black.
Lagooned in haled land.
Black eyed and far away from gentle.
Coppered Pirates Poets loving.
Battered.
Laughs the words forming.
Cause back on the streets they are once again.
Garrett Johnson.
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC