"cranks" poems
His rasping grumbles define hunger, louder than my stomach
complains about the seven hours since breakfast,
Grunts replace the pry of a commanding tongue, eager to devour, or a feathery graze past the
hook in my collarbone, a tender nip at the crescent of flesh that
peeks below my white plastic earring.
Gutturals guide our transition from a stained mattress to a rickety desk where
Frenetic eyes validate the arch of my back.
Wild thrusts push us perpendicular.
Undoubtedly, my howls alert the neighbors.
If not, then the neglected crashes of my plummeting clutter or the unfaltering thud of my head
pounding the half closed window can attest:
We mean business.
The tired floor creaks ‘nd cranks as erratic lunges hasten.
(grasping his shoulders tighter than a lone, wrinkled hand grips the pepper spray in her bag)
I brace that swelling itch, my hips shudder as it consumes, throbs, and then
Electrifies to axons from dendrites.
And he doesn’t miss a beat— more jabs **** my liver.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
Painfully awake at two in the morning
Candy talks about space weapons
And their orbital, falling metal rods:
Terminal velocity, bunkers and deep ***********
The blood swells and my heart cranks
The warmth and wet of solid teeth on flesh
200 different words for ***
For a tribe of ***** Eskimos
With a treaty banning lack of such madness
No metal rods shall fall from the sky
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
The sun its farewell to the skies
As it cranks out this unexplainable color
That Painters can’t make on their color pallets
The Wind creates this unexplainable noise
The wind gives you reasons to keep dreaming towards the sky
It is something that city slickers can't hear in the rowdy subways
At this time the sun bids me farewell
But don't worry, It will return
When it pokes its head out
On the east
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought.
The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.
The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
Religion is to mysticism what popularization is to science.
Spirit borrows from matter the perceptions on which it feeds and restores them to matter in the form of movements which it has stamped with its own freedom.
There is no greater joy than that of feeling oneself a creator. The triumph of life is expressed by creation.
Laughter is the corrective force which prevents us from becoming cranks.
Intelligence is the faculty of making artificial objects, especially tools to make tools.
**** sapiens, the only creature endowed with reason, is also the only creature to pin its existence on things unreasonable.
The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.
It seems that laughter needs an echo.
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.
When we make the cerebral state the beginning of an action, and in no sense the condition of a perception, we place the perceived images of things outside the image of our body, and thus replace perception within the things themselves.
The motive power of democracy is love.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/henri_bergson
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
Late night dancing
When the music starts to play
Its hard not to dance to it.
As I twirl around the room
In to your arms. Dancing
On the soft notes of a violin
Echo within the house. I dance
On my toes towards the door
Out in to the yard under the moonlight.
I dance to the beautiful music. The light
Soft violin floats over and through the
Cracks of the other house mixing in with the
Drum solo of the hard core rock song.
He dances in a different way
He bangs his head back and forth
To and fro letting his hair fall any ware.
He cranks it up to let the whole neighborhood
To hear. It escapes through the chimney traveling
Through the neighborhood till it reaches a
House party.
Teens buzzing every ware rubbing up on each other
All the ***** dancing adults hate. Listing to remixes
Of there favorite songs, the beat and screech of a siren
Fills the night sky, dub step is joining the party in the
Sky.
Up in the clouds with only the moonlight to project the light
The music notes dance tonight.
The soft music twirls and spines around stage like a ballerina
She finds the boy with the head banging and teaches him how to
Spin while she learns how to shake her head.
The loudest of the party shows up and starts ***** dancing with
Everyone around.
The party becomes bigger as more of the neighborhood wakes up
To dance tonight.
Country and tap-dance the music notes find new partners
And dance the night away under the moonlight.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
he wallows in the slop,
seemingly unable to stop
alliteration is his biggest sin
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out
similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new
metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs
far bigger than he
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.
My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.
The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.
In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.
On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.
The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.
On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.
We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.
We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
As every day begins
My heart beats with anticipation
With every call I make
There is a spring in my step
However, all good things come to an end
As the day wears on
The white clouds fade away
And are replaced
By monstrous, jet black clouds
With every call I make
My shoulders droop
My eyes lose their lustre
My hands begin to shake
My voice begins to falter
As the rain of despair begins
My mind loses its focus
I lose all sense of direction
The pile of work on my desk
Grows taller and taller
Until it outgrows Mount Everest
Just when I begin to think
That things can't get any worse
My boss cranks up the pressure
To such a level
That my heart beats faster and faster
I begin to splutter and choke
My mouth begins to foam
My face starts turning blue
With a rapidly shaking hand
I stagger towards my water bottle
Tripping and almost falling on the way
Eventually, with a supreme effort
I manage to prise the bottle cap loose
As I take a gulp of water
I spill a few drops on the floor
Very slowly and steadily
My breathing begins to return to normal
But not before my heart is filled
With a deep desire
To hear the three magic words
"You are fired"
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
-
*Lying alone on a mattress of caverns
Pillow sham dreams only cool on one side
Twin fitted sheets in a queen-less adventure
Beneath a blanket of tears drops I hide
Headboard illusions cast vacancy shadows
Along the place where the bed is still made
Unruffled covers are lost in translation
LED numbers past midnight displayed
Caught in the silence so loud it is deafening
Even the moon cranks its volume too high
Shouted my prayer though there won’t be an answer
Folding away endless questions of why
Soon every star in the sky will be leaving
Shimmers will fade without even a care
Space quickly made for a hopeless sun rising
Another morning I won’t find you there*
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
The child has gone
Such a long time
They searched like everywhere
But something told them
The child has gone
They started looking inwards
Watching expressions
Looking for that clue
So strange, nothing
The child has gone
Days turned to weeks
Nothing
Nationwide alert
Calls came in, including the cranks
The child has gone
The search died down
Talk spread
Children stayed indoors
Fear became the byword
She watched within the large tree
Her secret hiding place
It was fun
The earth collapsed pulling her under
She tried to scream
Too late
The child has gone.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
gone were the steel in his bones and legions in his skull.
gone were the marrow-like rebars reinforcing his skeleton.
he doesn't have an engine for a heart,
and neither were there bolts and cranks and nuts inside it.
he is no cyberpunk hero.
he isn't a creature straight out from your sci-fi movies.
he is a rational character in this enormity called reality
and no.
his skin isn't made up of platinum platings.
try to cut it, and you'll see the crimson blood seeping out.
believe me, i've tried it once.
and never pretend that you don't know what he is.
because at heart,
you know that
he is just a human
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
I’m Up! I’m Up!
…………………
The pink rag, soaked in ice cold water flops onto my capsulated face,
Caught in between the colorful alligator whom follows me in the darkness and a temperature guage, set to a boiling point of some sort.
I’m Awake! I’m Awake!
…………………...
The grown imitation of me is dragging the arctic rug across my crusted sockets of sight,
I arise with immediate surprise,
My head cranks left- right-
A man’s best friend shaking a seizure to feel warm and dry,
I visualize the bottom of my mattress laying quiet and still above my head,
The coffee beans brew the smell of one more morning to begin the dilation of rested lungs,
Get Up! Get Up!
The executioner of rested thought is a parasite to my inability to exercise- Worm-like movements of some algorithm-
Off with his head!
The king of my heart screams as the comforter slides off of my immobile flesh and the residue from my eyes attracts plenty of oxygen,
Drifting off, I again visualize that slumbered alligator, whom is chasing my dreams into the Rubbermaid playground,
The creature sways in my knightly moat as I taunt the teeth of a smirk so envious- Opposable stumps we tag as a thumbs up,
Ten minutes with this shadowed beast is all I need to chomp down on prey that only exists in the wild jungle of the morrow,
Splash! Splash!
………………
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Grab-ass is as far from **** as promiscuity
is from prostitution---
The Weinsteins move to Nigeria
to make Nollywood blockbusters
w/ kpop soundtracks---
big in China & Russia, making movie stars
of Ukrainian beauty queens driving drunk
at midnight in a country where grab-ass is okay
& homosexuality is illegal
& subject to the death penalty---
See beautiful African women
lining up to get their ***** felt
by the Jewish movie mogul
who can make them stars overnight---
Mathematically correct & joined by Chinese
& Indian beauty queens in a veritable renaissance
Of ***** men and women
who become bolder in public
than in private in speaking out against those
who promote the homosexual lifestyle;
**** them all!’ they cry
& the Nollywood industry cranks on---
American boycott the new Nollywood films
Which means nothing but free publicity
Since Asian people line up
around the block & ***** the ***** of women
in front of them & Russians
hail the resurgence of masculinity
when the life of Pushkin is made into a biopic
with a Russian cast in
a Russian-Nigerian co-production;
In Elizabethan theatre
(the height of the Renaissance in England)
Young boys played girls
& backstage got their butts dutifully reamed---
The universal irony that young boys
replaced women yet were *****
& molested as if they were---
European history has always been gay
from the Neanderthals who died out from ******
(the root of the myth of ***** & Gomorrah);
To the Greeks & Romans
to the Catholic Church---to gay marriage
to the rights of transgenders
to be treated like women & men except in reverse
which changes everything for everybody---
In Nigeria gay men are lynched by mobs
Of right-thinking citizens
who pay good dollars to see movies
Where some of the world’s most attractive women
get sodomized by rough,
burly macho male stars as if they were boys---
Nollywood becomes Nollyporn
becomes Nollyrape & sells around the world
bringing in millions & then billions---
while Americans & Europeans, Australians & Kiwis
adamantly promote the gay agenda
that is rejected by the rest of the world---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
Strength is a body , beauty is a mind .
A little girls pleasure is a beating .
As she has no misery when she realizes , love .
It comes in the smallest drops, mouse's cage .
Cinderella , Cinderella !
So I step up, that's that mental .
Cause I cant watch the land slide .
Better before the hour becomes to late
My hands become cold, sweat perspired .
Sun rises, run and play .
My smile brings crystal eyes .
But when the little boy,
He gives his loud opinion, has an attitude .
Girl, she risks anything for him .
Outburst of passionate energy rises from her being,
Her spirit is stirred,
Like a witch brews a bountiful stew
Her heart raises to take the lead
Colors unseen , blunt and beautiful .
She doesn't see why they need be offended
It's how I play, this my game .
A person so full , enough to mix the world .
As she turns to a beautiful young lady ,
Opportune time to try and fly
Too fortunate to be cared for,
What the hell babe?
She continues to turn the table
With her hand, Queen of hearts .
Flush, the ******** .
Her luck is vibrant in her life,
August approaches .
Each day is tweaked, to the perfect direction.
Navigation is her freedom .
What they call a 'Secret',
That's what I call ignorance .
Its all around and I watch it every day .
Like a mermaid laid out on a boulder
And watches waves crash on the shoulder,
and keeps singing those handsome lullabies.
So as this world cranks into action ,
I sit by and watch as it is turning to a direction that is love .
Can you imagine, a single girl knowing so much
Her friends family, never knew all this one child could inspire
It was all so plain to see for them, boom.
I'm useful and nice, our smirks.
Like we don't already know what they mean .
, they should look at their pitiful mirror .
Like a one way street, but somehow they still made some turns?
Looking up to only themselves, everyone else was feeble?
I laugh, just a giggle, followed by a sigh .
To see my happiness send someone to hell .
Burning for fame, their passion is lust .
Bad ******* tip toe .
You didn't see me leave . ♥
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Waking is like that final breath before the plunge
Down deeper into the thick of possibility
Where I find the Nietzchian mastery
That mentality that dominates and conquers
Leaving behind the pitiful
Weaker modes of being
That sharp edge of nihilism that propagates
The negation of substantial purpose
And living becomes a series of tasks that are manageable
Not the overbearing jumbled cluster **** of modern man
How I dream of Walden
That escape to find existential meaning
That reverts me back to an independent self that relies on not man but nature
To derive sustenance
Long for that shack
In the middle of no where where the worry of the day is to feed myself
And to stare at the stars
Instead of work long hours and still have no freedom to see
But it is not probable that I will have an escape
For the planet is dying one tree at a time
And the ignorance of our species is making
My exodus a place worse than the suburb
At least there I don't witness the choking of innocent creatures on pollution
Gasping for air through lungs riddled with fume
And foaming on plastic by product
While I contribute no animosity towards my mother I participate by association
And feed the monster it's favorite treat
That sickly green paper
And a snack of penny meat
While my exceedingly more mechanical mind cranks the cogs tighter
And starts to rhyme
Filling in the line space and paying my dues I become another body
Thus a weapon to the corporate move
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
***** and Blues are my nights anymore,
since ages a figure dared darkened my door.
Now memories of shadows, move only to haunt.
Lightning cracks across the sky, thunder shakes my soul.
The Bass line cranks, Reverbs and Distorts, Echos beyond control
Candle light flickers as my drinks get stiffer;
another bottle that could not console.
The power goes out and I'm left with a doubt, that makes me realize I'm just growing old.
Now the Scotch is gone and its getting near dawn.
I should really be getting to bed;
while the sound of the rain, can drown out all the same;
of the things going on in my head.
An hour of sleep, only to meet, a dream that wakes in a gasp.
But this is a fright that wont win this night, for there's still some left in my flask.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
It looks like them ******** got away with it
and we're being left to pay for it,
not one of them
has served a day for it.
That's a helluva club to be in.
If sin is not sin it seems
the greedy ******** win and
we get a dollar a day.
That's a helluva club to be in.
The cranks have taken your home
and the Devil and banks look
after their own.
It's a helluva turn up when
the crook in the city has
control of the kitty.
In the ghettos, they forced on us
the gloves are off.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
O' with the mink's wheel the pirate cranks out a sweet ballad of desperate tragedy-
O' when will her sun set in my valley of various rays-
O' mountain horse and stinky steed, where is your knight in the abandoned dew-
O' shrewd sheep let me have your wool, for me it is not, I pray for the baby stars of the hungry day-
O' dream let me awaken from your hold-
O' day so fair and wild I see not the climate of your youth, I see not the Shepard's cane-
O' night long and slender let me clean your dark with my forming brew-
O' let there be someway to see the roads that flash amber in her eyes, in her mouth snow forms rocky terrain and I cannot pass-
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 2:16 PM UTC
I’m the thing in the middle of the street at night.
I’m an alcohol prone cigarette drone.
Roll me up some suicide, I puff it with pride.
I’m what’s feared at night.
I even give myself a fright.
The world takes pictures of me.
A spectacle.
I’m the perfection of failure.
I’m the shadows.
The dismal abyss the world needs.
I’m colder than a robot.
Quieter than a rat.
I’m what you can but can’t see.
I’m cheaper than air and just as useful.
Use me up, blow me away.
I seek love and connection.
A warm place to be.
My disposition cuts connection clean.
I’m the H spoon.
Never washed, always abused.
I’m spread like a disease.
Unwanted, and to be killed.
Eradicate me please.
I’m a ***** injected, loose connected, nicotine aspirated, four cylinder waste machine.
No one cranks me with the hand of desire.
Just in lust of deceit and fire.
I’m thrown away when you’re done with me.
I’m the byproduct of society.
The degradation of sobriety.
I’m the Night Rider.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 5:38 PM UTC
Simplicity is not often with me,
For I am constantly spinning myself
Into a labyrinthine web of words.
(It's a problem - the spinner in my head
Cranks out WAY too much thoughtful thread.)
But I know how pointless it is to live this short life
without openly sharing my truths,
So, full of ambition,
I endlessly aspire to keep the door open
To this messy box.
So I wade through the mess
Collecting anchoring chords,
Endeavoring to weave them
Into an elegant and refined tapestry,
Ready to be presented to you.
One that says,
"Ever see the sun as the star it is, hanging in the sky?"
"Imagine giant glaciers bowling over these plains,"
"What's stopping us from staying out all night?"
or
"Let me list all the ways you are a beacon to my spirit",
"Please tell me about everything you love,"
"I look forward to these moments with you every other moment."
But that's always, like, way too much.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 10:46 PM UTC
Everyday style up and give thanks
Even though you're not visiting banks
Just have in mind nothing of all is cranks
Crank enough to find taps on top of tanks
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 2:25 PM UTC
A silent blue engulfs the metallic body that I lay in
I'm slumped against the side of the door, gazing at the minuscule droplets microscopically reflecting my stare
Rumbles and mumbles tumble through the clouds like badly kept secrets fan faring with a flash of purple lightning
My body is filled with nostalgia as my father cranks up the Yankee game on the century old automobile radio
My mother conks out, snoring louder than a booming stereo at a high school football game
These are the rides I like to remember
When no one is yelling
Or crying
Plastering smiles across their faces when hidden discomfort is making their nerves shake violently
Everything is quiet
But the white noise speaks more words than I ever will
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Here lies the body, here dies the verse.
Words whisked off into an unforgiving air.
A eulogy for no one, an insult for a care.
There goes the poor poet in the hers.
Off to be buried in grass green and fair,
Where lies his wife, naked and bare.
No one says a kind farewell, for no one is there.
Here lies the body, here dies the thanks.
The bankers hands rub together at the news.
A life they lead on, a death they’ll abuse.
For the end is a cheque cashed in his banks.
No kin can collect, or have his house to use.
Mould reeks from windows- filth and mildew.
And no one dares to enter except for the cranks.
But in his filth they find old heaps of paper.
And in his words the find old and sweet peace:
A world, A vision, a home to more than lees.
A life to lead, a truth to seek. A world much greater
than the one around them that crawls about to cease
of any kind of kindness. And here hope is deceased.
Take his words, leave your worries. We can all worry later.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
He says he loves her,
As he walks out the door.
He leaves her crying,
Lying upon the bedroom floor.
He don't know what's going on,
His brain keeps tick, tick, ticking like a bomb.
He knows he loves her,
But in his head he wonders,
Could there be more,
To these feelings he has for another?
As he thinks, he drives,
The pedal presses the floor,
Faster and faster, his car starts to roar,
He cranks the radio,
To drown her cries in his head,
Til death do us part,
That's what he said.
So faster and faster, and further he drives,
He's lost all reason to stay alive.
The woman he loves, loves him no more,
At least that's what she said, as he walked out the door.
He can't change the past, and he did do her wrong,
He just wants to go back, to where he belongs.
Back in her arms, where again he'll never be,
Thinking of this, he aims for a tree.
Til Death Do Us Part,
That's what he had said,
That was the last thought,
To go through his head.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 4:41 PM UTC