"cottonmouth" poems
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Oh, come on you black-eyed
***** Night. Spite me
with sleep. Strike me, like
a cottonmouth. Sing me
your dark song, like a footfall
in my hallway, like a night watch-
man dropping his lantern,
a last turn of the fan, a whisper
of a mystery, a kiss with wisteria
and moonshine on your breath.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
For since I do not have you,
I must remember best I can,
The days like this past Monday,
When a spliff was in my hand.
I found myself searching
For that feeling in my mouth,
The one that make saliva smack,
And had me heading south.
Down to the Circle-K of course,
Since water could not cure--
And gum could not be found,
Up the isle, I saw, obscured.
Gatorade!--Amongst the chips and chocolate,
I wandered through that maze,
Oh cottonmouth, you waited so patiently,
In that silly haze.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Snakes won't cross a braided rope,
so I take the leads up from around my bed.
I remember her face-
bright and
smiling beside mine
white as if she had just shed a skin
and the dunes grow now over the urchin barrens,
a desert in the sea.
I can peer beneath the 3rd lid
my heart claws at my throat,
allergy tight from the judging shade of
green.
The 3rd lid opens over the Taklamakan,
Tibetan horns sound so old -
ancient vagus nerve endings in my throat but my heart claws them away.
Snakes won't cross a braided rope but
her eyes are green and we lay a
cottonmouth skin across her womb.
All I see are diamonds on the ring fingers.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:34 PM UTC
Stuck in my ways things can never change,
I should have more but the days turn strange,
I'm hittin a low spending hard earned dough to roll with satisfaction,
To hand it off making stupid transactions,
It's a standoff against myself
I have great potential that is in a developmental stage
it could lead to wealth
It's hard for me to believe in self
I have many guides but no one to truly follow
I'm losing my head Sleepyhollow
Of course I'll make the choice to have cottonmouth which makes life so hard to swallow
I need my drink of water to wash away everything I did
I'm glad I'm not a father I'm not ready for any kids
**** I haven't found my left rib I know hurt more than anything
I guess pain is the coolest
Time ***** as a Band-Aid
I need a doctor cause I'm wounded
I rather have stitches
than hang around ignorant *******
I need to find a lamp with a genie to grant all of my wishes
**** I took it back to Aladdin but you know what that's not gonna happen
Look my eyes call them red either I'm high or either from the tears I shed
It could be both but there is one I do the most
Not really trying to brag not really trying to boast
Things seem easy cause my reality is on coast
I'm trying to learn the ropes before it all gets tangled
I hate this climb to the top only cuz of the angle
There is a long journey ahead I'll pack light and try to save bread
Cuz a ***** got to eat or a ***** will end up dead.
-V.v.V. Ds
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
On thirsty days
I curse the sun,
kick up dirt and
beat my drums
and call the rain
(it always comes.)
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
Play off “Where I’m From” written by George Ella Lyon
I am from novels
From thrillers and believers
I am from the roots which keep me grounded
(Deep, Strong
Holding me up right)
I am from the graveyard
A haunting gaze
Whose eyes have seen violence
And tears turned to stone
I am from flashing lights and late nights
From whiskey and cottonmouth
I’m from the runaways
And the poets
From shut up and get out
I’m from please forgive me
With baby, it’ll be okay
And honey he’s better now
I’m from a conventional home
With grilled chicken and extra veggies
From the innocence I have lost
To a monster
The blue eyes I keep shut tight
Under my pillow was a knife
Spilling broken dreams
A sift of faces
To drift beneath my nightmares
I am from these moments—
Snapped before I budded—
Blooming towards the roads ahead
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
wisps of hair float across your face
as you uproot a strand of prairie grass
and clasp your hands 'round it, bring it to your lips, and blow
In a wild meadow
I stand with you
in cutoff levis patches on the knees
cottonmouth and butterflies in my yellowbelly
Long after the cotton gin.
Still remains,
a thicket 'round your soul
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
tell me
what the planet looks like
floating up there on the clouds
are the oceans bluer with a cottonmouth &
can you count the countries as you cut them out?
is the forest greener from the ground or
are the branches blinding looking down?
i guess you're reassured somehow
that i'm just a face amongst the crowd or
just an ant atop the mound
transporting ten tons of regret in
an attempt to make my queen content
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
As I sit in my chair, practicing the traditions of bowing, blessing my heir
The thrown is now empty
My body melts in the chair
Drinking and reminiscing
About the dynasty he created
Feeling frustrated and worried about the memories fading
The structure he built for this tower
Is crackling down, we mourn this hour
He was our power
Now it's just all an overcast
Our eyes are so blind
we see more clear through a tall glass of Jack
At this time we try hard to find
Small signs
That his spirit still rules the south
And we're caught up in our own decisions
I call it a frontal cottonmouth
None of this could have been envisioned
Because if I predicted the next steps
He'd still be apart of our rhythm
Dreams can fool even the slightest of good intentions
Goodbye abuelito, until next time
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
hot screams
pictures flashing remember remember don't forget to have proof proofread a persona a shifting ego rising and falling with the waves a rhythm older than stone and sadness older than hard cider arms folded begging not to be touched begging for an old familiar couch that swallows thoughts whole swollen with years of desires and drool and cottonmouth
hot hot screams
rip through ears holding a pain of identical magnitude a hideous sameness twitching dancing across nervous systems as people disappear and rain sprinkles the front porch in road blocks and tired conversation tired awareness
never drink again never dream again never eat or sleep or scream again
resign while politics eats away at abandoned barns upstate and rapists walk free under the guise of fraternal bonding shoot first ask questions later or just don't ask any ever as if the answers have been found provided by
the flashes seen with eyes closed the flashes seen in eyes clothes the flashes blinding and true blinding and real blinding binding
and the chains are made of severed hands the captor a trillion eyes piled up and growing putting debt and babel and the fuming gods to shame fuming gods of shame and image reflection and refraction twisting twilight twice around twenty somethings like twine twenty somethings need more somethings anythings everythings need want need want kneed want wasn't enough tough pill to swallow wallow wallow just follow the leader beaming glorious light like liquid soap
hot hot hot screams screams hot hot screams hot screams
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
Cottonmouth kingdom.
Bloodshot million-gallon-gaze.
Brewery breath.
Battlescars.
Headache like horses over the hills.
Bukowski without the
Brilliance.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
A spotlight shining
down gives significance to my face
and draws attention to the beings among the dark surrounding space.
The microphone
a massive fit within my cotton mouth: my voice amplifies a welcome to the crowd with booming sound.
Too late now,
No turning back I preach my lines with charm
as every beady eye investigates my nervous calm.
Need for alarm; my sweaty palms collapse a desperate grip upon
the silent seated people unresponsive to my drum.
Rising from their seats,
they aim for their retreat-
FINE! turn your back on poetry
don't listen to my speech!
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
Natural selection
Now just an impression
A first one
With the mass of one ton
Lowered down onto the tip of my tongue
Flowered through the tip of my handshake
Lick me like a cottonmouth snake
Sweet like lemon cake
Your charm is venom
And I yearn for its death.
The last time you saw me
Was the last time I was alive
Your charm is venom
Now unzip that denim.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
Pan whispered something in my ear
a secret mumbling i couldn’t understand
maybe a message of love or hate. couldn’t imagine anything else
sometimes it’s hard for us to talk out loud
things we want to say but keep inside
a desire to share but not offend
mumbling whispers might just be
the best compromise we have
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
I'm tired
rundown
this poem isn't worth the paper it was printed on
I don't care if you like it
I don't
ill read it tommorow when I wake up
Sober again
**** that was so stupid
I cant believe I wrote that
it was so stupid how some lines were written out really really long and others are just one
word
Im tired of having cottonmouth
And walking around with bullets under my skin
Scratch my tattooed skin with your ***** black fingernails
I will only wake up
go to work
come home
And get drunk again
Then we can all get drunk and high together on the weekend
I have a serious problem
With shooting into crowds of innocent people
Or keeping my mouth shut when I know better
I would rather lie here and listen to the rain fall on the roof
than think at all
Im burning out already
picking through layers of ********
reading book after book
Written by people who have wondered the same thing I do
Who the **** am I? What am I doing here?
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
we share saliva like secrets between friends,
taste each other like the appetizers before the main course,
**** frantically like rabbits, and the lights still stay off when
we make love.
it’s not until
her name
spills
from your tongue as we make love &
i have cottonmouth.
you don’t apologize either.
i write love songs for you in the sand, but high tide
always dissolves my words by sunrise. the hazy sunlight
floats through the early morning window, and the ghosts
invite themselves into my home and inside my head. i
have to ask, is it love if I take you, or is it love if I set you
free? my words become meaningless if my mouth can’t
keep up with your insatiable animal instinct. is this
the only way i can separate you from calling me a
friend, by separating my legs?
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
I have cottonmouth and I'm choking
I miss your hands so I bring them close
I sit you down next to me again in my head
But your hands are full of cotton
You stuff my mouth with cotton
I'm gagging on the cotton
And you're still pretending to be compassionate
Ignoring all my gagging and choking
As you fill my mouth with cotton with a smile
Your new love sitting right on the other side
She is smiling too
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
The choir concludes the service
We are eyes closed, air drawn to hands raised.
They sing because they happy
back in church
With bodies
always with bodies
Someone is screaming, tongue defying hymn
And yes, how far away we are
I miss him too.
His voice always singing familiar
haunts trumpet blaring
Sunday mornings.
Dark eyes and skin, wide smile, no teeth.
Fearless at 5 singing gospels with no concept of holding tight to strength in the lyrics. My ancestors and their ancestors. Am I listening?
I lose myself in years. I am not
Singing anymore. These chords have twisted themselves into the back of songs, I am
Writing, not singing or speaking.
Cottonmouth. I am sitting staunch against pews, leaning into worn piano keys. Foundation stains, and eyes watching, chestnut brown like mine. G in the key that breaks into silence. I hear a hymn being hummed, bacon cooked and waiting.
Memory tells me it is time to open my mouth
I sing 'cause I’m free.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
An ego is a comet burning up inside my atmosphere,
So if I ever buy a ******* chandelier, take me back a year -
To coffeehouses in the autumn with the falling leaves,
To cottonmouth up in the morning when I yawn from sleep,
To background jazz and tonals from the saxophone,
Cut the vocals but leave the rest of the act alone,
To trees in full bloom that I've barely even ever seen,
Eternally convinced they're only semi-evergreen,
To all the melodies spilling out so cleanly as,
I look around at a sea of woolen beanie hats,
The only kid who's not colour matched with the foliage,
The only kid who's so unattached that he notices,
To that kid on the benches, sitting, scribbling sketches,
To the rhythm of set lists on a ritalin head trip,
To that girl in the booth, who brought a pile of cards,
No concern, wouldn't move, getting snide remarks,
To that smell as the coffee's wafting across the room,
Not being bothered and nodding off from the solitude.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 8:36 PM UTC
Vapid viper
Reckless rattler
Killer copperback
I see the fangs
The cottonmouth
The lashing out
My skin
The poison coursing directly for my heart
Killing me slow
Killing me complete
The world we know
Is full of snakes
Snakes and me
My blood
I find you
Your hands
These toxins
My skin
And you with anti-venom
I see your hands
As this poison saturates
And hope you could be the one to save me
I shine a sun in your direction
I give my all that you would give me something
I hope for you when I'm hopeless
I watch you walk away.....
I die as your foot hits the ground
I die still loving you
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
*Striated red brick home with a
red tip hedgerow
Songs from the hardwoods
Twinkling grass from burgeoning
dawn , a crown of stippled gray and white
pillows billowing in the morning sun
Bluebirds atop the black farm bell
Stained glass tree trunks and branches against blue
windows , misty clouds in shady dales
Noonday news of Muscogee tales , of thick , brown
rivers , painted turtles , shellcracker , wooden bridges ,
scenic rails , cottonmouth and cottontail , whitetails
and cottondales*...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
Tolstoy purported,
"the purpose of life
is to serve humanity."
but an empty cup
cannot fill another
and i've long since
been drained
to the last drop
dry as drought.
cottonmouth, hoarse,
blue-in-the-face
from screaming
my lungs out.
a mime beating
bulletproof glass
until my knuckles bleed
and streak.
three words
bloom like heliotrope
petals on my tongue:
"i love you,"
a refrain on endless repeat—
a broken record
covered in motes of dust,
skipping on the turntable
stuck in the same rut.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
he had the stage and a storied life
he was the thing
was the next coming a large head, too
Pride had this sister
she was fine as all ****
a butterbean ****
a face that would make
a cynic positively smile
dimpled and everything
but their mom
she was like
the Yeti Tall Foreboding
hairy
much like my eventual
Mother-in-law
and we all hung out
at keggers
in the back four and a half
acres
on Friday nights
and holidays
Pride had, this night,
a belly too full
a rip roaring thought
of swimming across the
Clinton River
it might have been a bet
a challenge from Little Roger
the troublemaker
that made Pride jump in
Or his big head that made
him sink right to the bottom
no problem he was only knee
deep and we rescued him
took three of us drunk fools
but we got him to the bank
and his sister all cute
in cutoff shorts so tight
said should'a let his *** drown
all i could see was her camel toe her words seemed
to come from some realm
of make believe
anyways we all floated down that river
the next day on innertubes
except Little Roger
he had walked away
disappointed Pride was rescued
into a blackberry patch in the dark
and gotten bit
by a cottonmouth
I always have since wondered why
Mrs. Hairy McBoom took it so hard.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC