"covetously" poems
I'm that pretty kitty
Sitting on your windowsill
Leaving dander on the glass
Looking more than my fill
My fur is brown and black
My claws are sharp as knives
My teeth are quite sinister
And I've still all nine lives
You've never paid me much attention
And I ceased attempts to receive it long ago
You go about your day ignoring me
And I stare covetously through the window
I know you can see me
Every blue moon, you'll wave
We actually get along in a way
But not enough to sate all I crave
I wonder if you'll ever notice
My stare is unadulterated jealousy
But you never seem to notice
I also envy that naivety
But I'm just the pretty kitty
Perched up on this windowsill
All I want is to be seen from inside
But no one ever will
I've only eyes for the inside though
I've got my friends on this side of the glass
And they look at me, bemused and disgusted
Because, in all ways and forms, I'm obsessed
But I'm different and I'm on the wrong side
And I'm just the pretty kitty on the windowsill
But I'm not comfortable with my own kind
And with yours, I'm just good for visual appeal
So I'll sit here on this windowsill
Gazing enviously
Because neither side fits me
But it fits them perfectly
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
I am on a voyage to somewhere far
On a meagre boat, on an ocean vast
The water is calm but deep and murky
The day is pleasant but passes slowly
From here and there, and near and far
The mortals on board are a motley lot
Most are calm and pass time patiently
But few count every second covetously
--x--
Like birds of a feather, they came together
To cajole the captain to go even faster
“By wind and current our speed is good”
To the deaf and dumb the capt'n preached
“We know better” they arrogantly said
And rallied all others to back their deed
Most kept quiet, but a few did concur
“Captain go faster, or we'll take over!”
The ruckus got louder and over heated
I closed my eyes and my ears I covered
“I'm above all this!, it doesn't concern me”
And escaped to a world of make-believe
But not long after, I was getting quite wet
I was sinking, I saw, along with the rest
*“If only I hadn't been such a **** coward,
If only I had made a stand, If only I had....*
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.
Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.
All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.
“I don’t want to be in bed.”
This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.
Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.
“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.
“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”
Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.
“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”
And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.
Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.
“Have you ever seen someone making a *** out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”
She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
#
Your ******* when love-based
within their beautiful forming,
and then glorious unfolding
are Love and Light's extracorporeal
pulsings;
***focusing l o v e t on e d
sonic shockwaves directly at the machine's
extremely intricate innerworkings..***
Having, through years of horror-based
survival tactics; in desperation.. slowly learned;
now ingrained-- softening up the very
innerwall-linings of your very spirit
in such a way as to unknowingly
provide footing
for the machine's deep embedment,
and then, permeation of all things
previously, you..
having now enwrapped itself into
your very sinews
holding your precious spirit captive
from the the soar
These passionate, late night forays
outside the wire with you
are not exploitative, but instead
are love-driven deeply focused,
fully intentioned pingings of Light's
Relational sound waves
aimed directly at the beautiful you
held so tightly, so covetously by the machine
as your wonderfully nectar-filled body
responds late at night, aligning
to the me, you have come to know..
heightening your beautiful response
to the point of screaming, passionate release--
your own, fully love based..
extracorporeal..
unwelcoming, of the machine.
#
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 9:14 AM UTC