"cowlick" poems
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
Light the funeral pyre.
The fleeting fire of desire
will never keep you higher
than a space devoid of ********
or the clever whiff of wit.
(whether or not I deserve it)
I looked you in the eyes; I shook.
The embarrassing strength it took.
The longing I have for you
is asymmetrically split in two.
A love for the rendezvous,
but a run from the morning dew.
That's you.
But realistically,
I'll be me.
And to be free,
I'm finally happy.
And she's out there-
a heart of care,
soft, translucent hair,
some lacy underwear,
a smile to defeat despair.
Every time I doubt,
I see you there.
And then you're everywhere.
You're my sturdy, wooden chair,
and the cowlick in my hair.
And to be fair,
I've got some pretty sweet underwear.
But **** when you’re there,
you're there.
And for me,
you're everywhere.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
(for my brother, Martin)
I have sown the moon in the sky for you
so every night its there for you to see
I have stopped every clock from ticking time away
I have turned the tides back from the shore
I have stopped your world in blue belled Spring
and locked my in the falling leaves of Autumn
So now you can rewind the moments of the world
You can go back, to that one moment of choice
and never find the hose, nor set the engine deadly running
nor send those texts of fond farewells, to friends who looked away
nor write to me with love a comfort letter
for the dreadful loss.
No!
Just you:
the tufted, still blonde cowlick sticking up
the crinkled nose and cheeky smile
those sea blue eyes to drown in
strong brown arms, muscles flexed and toned
wrapped tight around me warm
and alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
My hair curls
in odd ways
with a cowlick
in the back
it's floofy on one side
straw colored
and throw the fact
that I have a weird widows peak
onto the stack
I just wish my ****** mop
would be cool
and laid back
because the rest of me
ain't so
bad
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Last night I had a little too much to drink.
How much is too much?
Hmmm, lemme think...
I.
Got.
Bangs.
I got bangs! Did you hear me?
I got ******* bangs!
But this wasn't a pro job...
I gave myself bangs.
Are the bangs a good haircut?
Do the bangs frame my face?
All solid questions;
It depends on your taste:
Should bangs be all jagged?
Should they move on their own?
Is it cool if they’re aflutter,
Like I’m always windblown?
Should bangs be greasy, and stringy, and frizzy?
And this here bangs cowlick, does it make me look pretty?
I was going for Taylor Swift, circa 2010.
What I got was a late ‘80s George Harrison.
These bangs are a problem,
I’m starting to think.
Maybe I can fix them,
After another strong drink.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
I'm sitting in the doctor's office, bored.
In comes the doctor with a stern face and clipboard.
I sense his graveness and I gulp.
I hope it's nothing, I really hope.
"I'm sorry I should be the one to deliver,
But your diagnosis is - horrible hair forever.
You will be forever adorned with a cowlick.
The sight of the grease will make you sick.
The tangles cannot be undone.
It cannot be cured with a bun.
Even with no humidity, it will be dry.
There is no hair products that you can buy.
Now off you go, I've got you a prescription
For a shower cap, a necessary addition.
Keep your convertible top on.
I give you three years 'til your hair is gone.
I wouldn't wish this on anyone ever -
This horrible hair forever."
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
(for my brother, Martin)
I have sown the moon in the sky for you
so every night its there for you to see
I have stopped every clock from ticking time away
I have turned the tides back from the shore
I have stopped your world in blue belled Spring
and locked my in the falling leaves of Autumn
So now you can rewind the moments of the world
You can go back, to that one moment of choice
and never find the hose, nor set the engine deadly running
nor send those texts of fond farewells, to friends who looked away
nor write to me with love a comfort letter
for the dreadful loss.
No!
Just you:
the tufted, still blonde cowlick sticking up
the crinkled nose and cheeky smile
those sea blue eyes to drown in
strong brown arms, muscles flexed and toned
wrapped tight around me warm
and alive.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
As I sit here beside you,
I realize that one of my dreams has come true.
Looking over, I see you sleep.
Breathing, breathing. Oh so deep.
One arm resting over your head,
Your gorgeous closed lips remind me of what you said.
Those beautiful eyelashes rest against flushed cheeks,
In finding you, I found more than peace.
You love me so much—you show it in many ways,
At your look, you should see how fast my heartbeat plays.
Patient, you put up with all my mistakes,
You give, and give, but never take.
I always fall under the intense gaze of your eyes,
And every kiss takes me by surprise.
Your chest rises and falls ever so gently.
I lean over to whisper “I love you”, softly.
Hands so gently, warm and kind,
I love it when they are entangled in mine.
Unconsciously you smile, that crooked, half-smile,
To see that I’d drive for hours. Trust me—it’s worthwhile.
I love the cowlick you worry about
I cannot resist that adorable pout.
You love me more than I can know,
I know this, because you said so.
Sitting on the couch, you thought I was asleep.
Almost—not quite; My eyes closed, I dared to peek.
I heard you confess to me that night,
Exactly how you loved me, and how it felt so right.
You know the extent of my true love,
And of yours now I am so certain of.
So I snuggle up to you and lay my head on your chest
And quiet my heart—I feel so blessed.
It pounds so fast, from my new found excitement,
Just being near you is pure enjoyment.
I can’t help but think “I’m the luckiest girl alive”.
I sigh, a happy sigh, and I close my eyes.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
Through a split lip
red foam,
froghopper froth
fizzing, haemoglobin, half-life
sitting thickly-thick,
on a paving stone.
Looking like Clinton’s cards
think human hearts
are shaped like.
But mine’s an artichoke
a watery phloem thistle core
folded in fronds and furs,
bristles of cowlick baleen,
sailing, ship-lapped bark,
darkness and birdcages.
Mine’s a rigour-mortis pill bug
potato fly, oddball, ***** slug
an ammonite, a butterfly tongue,
a bending toe curled in ecstasy.
Exponential shell chambers and septums
ending alongside everything.
And the guts of my heart
incessantly churn mechanically,
maniacally and obliviously rhythmically
Keeping me malleable
soft,
moving,
un-enveloped by beetle wings.
Just like the platelets
of my hardening spit-heart
are, blackening blood,
amber caught bugs,
clay in mud,
elliptical,
eclipsing.
Nothing
like we think it is.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
I wish I could mend it for you
and I wish you’d look in the mirror and see
past the tear-stained cheeks and the flushed skin,
and the neat little slices through skin on your wrists,
and the dilation of your pupils, marking you as artificially uninhibited,
and the scrapes up your arms and the bruises on your shins.
I wish you’d see the life beneath these things;
the blood being forced through arteries and veins and capillaries,
and rhythmic thumping that presses your life source
through the tunnels inside you
over and over and over,
just like the tide meeting the shore
and the day cycling into night
and the thumping of feet on a city street.
I wish you’d look and you’d love what you see
whether it’s the curve of your thighs or
the cowlick in your hair or
the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or
the freckles sprinkled across your nose or
the way your fingernails grow or
even your belly button.
I wish you’d feel like you were alive
and that whatever it was that you were going through
would eventually slip away into the history books.
This too shall pass, they say,
and they’re right.
I wish you could see that
this moment will pass
and your happiness will come
and it will flit away
and come back differently
but that’s okay.
I wish you could see that we’re in flux
(our lives are in flux
our emotions are in flux
our ideas are in flux
our inspiration is in flux
and you are alive and kicking and in flux)
and you are big and brave and better than you can imagine
and please don’t leave here
because a world without you isn’t much of a world at all
and you’re worth so much more than
the sadness and hatred and anger and frustration and anxiety
that makes the tears leak from your eyes and
disturbs the peace that you deserve so much.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Converted like a Spring leaf
as the promise of Autumn hushes
like a mushroom cloud over the
terrain of apartment-stride-sidewalks
and sunburnt shoulders
It's feeling like a note you folded
away only to re-open to re-read
The cursive dribble from ghost skulls
about ghost memories you keep in
an ornate jar
Shredded, bruises
Plum colored eyes
plump like trophies after staying
at the gritty hotels
"Open Vacancy" signs perched off
chain links
But the scars are healed now
I'm parked at some wishing well
hoping to mean more to someone
that's headed for Maine tomorrow
I'll miss the wooden ledge under my
hand and the cool air through the
window
Laying on that grey bed
Sheets disheveled as my cowlick
mane
A garden of variety of secret tulips
on hidden balconies
Stretched into a purgatory
unto endless baggage and street
name's
I don't think I have the memory
to remember
Wicker chair over a sort of courtyard
Antiques in white light like
sacrements from a dawn
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Sitting up at night I adore your cowlick
persisting in a life like a caged
animal is what I call you when I hear about that
girl you’re the love of my life you
say the worst things to me at the best
times like these I remember why I
love how you never bother to call when you’re
late at night I feel your heart
beat me down when I can no longer stand.
Stuck between a rock and a hard
place my hand next to your
elbow my way through the chaos
tangling up my fingers through your
hair stands up on my arms when you
lie on top of me thawing my blood
pulsing through my veins in a blind
rage so passionate I can’t uncoil myself from your comforting
embrace of demons that begin to suffocate my soul.
-bes-
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
I see you
lengthy and thin.
On your neck,
a discolored patch of skin.
A light little speck,
above your eye
and terrible cowlick
yet I wish you were mine.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
the quick natural boys run fast in the the shadows
powerful to the truths of their age
young with wet cowlick face i ran too
holding a dogeared book
of her gentle phrase
felt like the world could have been mine
gentle breeze stirring the faded leaves
and all thouse bright summer faces
who's names have now gone
so strong she took to wing
flew so high saw the sun unadorned
so beautiful this elegant one
her quick smile had no cracks
her clean eyes were full of loving joys
so like the majesty of night
softly entrance
with such gentle caress
so strong took to wing
soared above the green world
swimming in the summer skies and clouds
bathing sweetly in the heavens
with stars for jewels
with moons for toys
so beautiful elegant one
tight the young hand
on the broken book
where her singsong voice was captured so beautifully
could see the worlds mystery's
with such young clarity
she had a way about her
that explained to my young head
all the fresh young boy things i would need
to be with such a strong beauty
with such an elegant promise fulfilled
so i ran like wind
ran like compassion and lightening
fast as the summer sun
strong as winter whispers
for her
my sweet her
in my heart
while her singsong voice captured me in every way
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
i used to be real tough.
i killed the spiders. i’d scream ****** ****** while doing it but i’d **** them with my bare hands wrapped around a can of raid.
my pillows took the punches of my powerless days. i showed my mirror the pride of my powerful ones.
and my days were measured in buying the dress because it was ten dollars. and not buying the dress because it was ten dollars.
and then you showed up.
and you told me that my smile was a million dollars.
and then i melted all over the god **** floor.
shit. what is happening to me? i’m breaking out in a cold sweat.
somebody give me a bill to pay. give me a meal to cook with only three usable ingredients. give me a life insurance policy to read and a car title to transfer.
me? a million dollars? wow....you really thi—SHUT UP
you need to shut up. with your biceps and your goofy cowlick.
because i have a meeting to go to. i have deadlines to meet.
and even though you called me a princess and no one has ever called me that before because i’m too big and tall and clumsy and loud and weird looking
hearing you say that made me want to be held, made me want to make you a nice dinner, made me want to wear a pretty dress and tell you about my most powerful and powerless days as you wrap your arms around me
me!!!
who used to be real tough
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
Have you ever taken a moment to look at the cowlick on your head in the morning and say to yourself, **** it"
hover amongst your home gracefully and comfortably through you cozy warm home,
Scratch something on your body, stop at your bathroom and ***
Afterwards stare at your reflection in the mirror happily, laughing at how comfortable you can be.
At this point you begin to brush your teeth.
You notice that you appear foolish as you progress.
Drink some mouth wash, rinse, spit, shine.
At one point you whisper the world is mine.
You dress, smell fresh, devour some breakfast and speed on out the door.
For you and only you,
there is something great in store .
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Train A takes 30 minutes
To get to the station,
Passenger J takes 20minutes
To get to the station
Train A has 10 minutes before departure
How many cowtails can Passenger J eat
While fixing a cowlick
Before Train A leaves?
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC