"crate" poems
I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.
I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for ***** and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not. Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed -- well, the sheets have turned to gold --
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.
As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn't yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren't yielding to pitch
I'd tell the whole story --
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story --
and shovel back our love where it belonged.
Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.
19.6k
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
The next to empty train
Roars through the mist of dawn
As it passes the lakes and elves
The dark and mystic pines
-forests that once told of horrors
To keep the ones like me
From crossing the line-
This box, this crate
A testament of the modern man
To whom which it serves
It is somewhat of a time traveller
When it breezes the land
That years have made its own
And yet there are scenes from my window
That I know are proofs
Of exceptions to the rule that reads,
“time will take its toll”
All the brooks and oaks
And even more so
Every bolder and stone
Convinces my heart and soul
That I need not be marred and scorned
Broken and torn
By the thistles and thorns
And all the bourdons that the lions
Of this glass world
Convict me to *****
Since there is a side
To the manic and indecisive puzzle that is I
A side of realism and cynicism
Thus I am well aware of my mortality
And the scarcity of the time that is mine
My existence is an indirect unwritten vow
To never bend my back and bow
To never fall in line
And receive my share of coals
To fuel this machine down the rusty tracks
In a race against nature or God
A race to prove one or the other
Or even both wrong
A race we’ve already lost
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
I've mentioned the new puppy before
so it won't come as a surprise
that I'm reading a book about how dogs think.
I want to know how the flea collar feels
around his thickening neck, next to the skull
and crossbones collar, and why he tucks
his tail under when he sleeps,
and if when he is, for a few hours, in the crate,
which seems cozy enough, he devises
a plan to pay me back for this captivity.
I want to understand his relentless
drive to be where I am, to trod down the hall
and back again with his heavy paws
("That is going to be a big dog," everyone says)
even into the bathroom, which I typically
prefer to be private.
He won't go out in the rain unless
I'm standing out there too, both of us soaked
to the bone. He won't sleep without one eye
on me if I move from the space beside him.
Why would this animal
devote himself to me so utterly, I who
really can't be trusted not to throw shoes
or swat a nose when his love bites bite
too hard. I who throw a fit about the ***
just inside the door, I who deny him access
to the cat. I who write poems
about his private life and study him like a ******
while he goes on sleeping.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
i know a god stronger than religion
who speaks sign language with his lips.
i'll be a wayward dove;
watch me soar and get hit.
please sin with me tomorrow,
steal the revolver from the crate.
i'll just wait.
eye sockets burn red;
a color mistaken for hate.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
(sorry, but not sorry)
There once was a potato plant,
(Because potatoes grow on plants...)
This plant harvested baby potatoes.
This was no ordinary potato plant, however,
It was SPECIAL!
Anywho, the plant grew several baby potatoes,
Who were harvested and shipped on a crate to a grocery store
in a cold, dark shipping truck.
The potatoes, they weren't scared! Yah know why? Simple.
Because Potatoes don't have FEELINGS!
....but if they did....they'd be scared. Take my word for it.
The potatoes arrived at the store and were bagged, ready for purchase. They sat together in a pile for hours,
thinking about (but not thinking about) what would happen in the future, why they were in this bag, UNTIL, UNTIL a homeless man (he looked homeless) reached into the bag, pulled out a single spud, and RAN! Out the store, down the street,
HE WAS OUTTA THERE! BYE-BYE SUCKERS!
Well, on his way to.... wherever he was going, he fell and dropped it. That's what stealing does to yah.
It rolled into an abandoned alley, far away from the man's sight. He couldn't stop and look for it, because he was being chased, so he ran away sourly, the potato being left cold and alone, without it's family to be piled up motionlessly beside it.
This potato was different. Unlike it's family, it could feel,
it could think and understand, even without knowing language at all, it's like the potato just knew everything and anything, without a purpose. And, another thing.
This potato, it was hungry. Very hungry.
Only hours later (again)
A parentless child walked the streets, searching for something to eat. They hadn't eaten in days. Of course, the child found the battered potato on the ground,picked it up and smiled.
It was the end of the potatoes life cycle, it seemed.
Or...was it? Seconds until the end, seconds until facing the terrifying wrath of the human's sharp, untaimed teeth, seconds until it got to see if there was a potato heaven or not, JUST SECONDS, something changed.
The spud; it grew. No, it didn't grow in size, but it did grow a mouth, and arms. And it could scream. Oh God, yes, it could wail like no tomorrow, so, quickly adapting to it's new form; it yelled ****** ****** The child threw it at a wall, screaming and running away.
..... Silence from the potato.
Sadly, it could withstand the grasp of a sweaty, homeless dude,
it could bare the growing silence from it's siblings,
it could even dodge the teeth of a starving ape!
But the potato was no match for a wall.
Mashed potatoes for dinner it is.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
Standing outside the coliseum
He wipes his tattered brow
As he waits in chains
And what remains
Of a worn and used nightgown
The oak doors creak as they slowly bow
He walks the axis road
The dogs at his heels, he knows, he feels
Pains that have been bestowed
A table is set upon which blades rest
The choice of which he makes
He reaches forward, picks up the sword
No room here for mistakes
The helmet is hot, he feels his breath
As he walks upon the field
He is a trapped snake inside a crate
He raises up his shield
His adversary stood there watching
With a shaking fretful eye
They prepared to fight until deaths bite
Took and run them dry
With one fell swing of the sword
He brings his foe down
The steel glistens in the sunlight
Enhanced with the smell of blood
The crowd cheers and roars
What do they know of it?
The life he has taken
It cannot be replaced
He is trapped inside
He cries for freedom inside
Slowly he dies inside
Inside himself.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
There's no one mean as mean Maxine,
She smells like old cigars,
her brain is smaller than a bean,
I wish she'd move to mars.
Some day I'll list the things I hate,
And that is where I'll list her,
I'd like pack her in a crate
Too bad Maxine's my sister.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.
They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
4.2k
Candle Magick
A Poem by Corset
My Latina Coworker
sat across from my desk;
heartbroken that her lover
wanted to try again with his wife;
pulled out a brown paper sack
and asked me if I believed
in hummingbird candle magick,
and then proceeded to tell me
how to cast a love spell.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I told her I believed
in the power
of mind to shape her
universe.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Two days later she's snap
chatting her married lover
again, has been unblocked
and has now switched
to candles of **********
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My dog has diarrhea
and is blowing holes
through the walls of her
crate,
I must have lit the
wrong kind or color
of candles.
© 2015 Corset
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Charlie the gnome needed a home
and so he looked around,
the garden shed too big he said
and too high off the ground.
The bar b que would never do
the ash would make me sneeze,
so on I go look high look low
in and around the trees.
The bird box white would be too tight
with chicks that chirp and cheep,
and constant song the whole day long
I'd never get to sleep.
The kennels large but then there's Sarge
and all his smelly toys,
plus after dark he likes to bark
and make a lot of noise.
The house I found is out of bound
too many folk in there,
so I'll stay out and look about
as I don't like to share.
A wooden crate there by the gate
would make a perfect home,
it's not too small or wide nor tall
it's just right for this gnome.
I need a door and windows four
some carpet and a bed,
a rocking chair would look good there
or maybe there instead.
Yes this is fine and it's all mine
with roses all around,
the place it seems straight from my dreams
is what I think I've found.
Charlie the gnome no more will roam
his house is warm and bright,
with flower beds of blues and reds
and picket fence of white.
A wooden crate down by the gate
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
A kilo of fish brinjal pumpkin
Cauliflower raisin and bean
Washing soap and eggs one crate
Need to buy bring from market!
Mustard oil some milk and rice
Cashew nut and a horde of spice
Gourd and potato spinach cabbage
The list is long fills a page!
Feel confused from where to start
How to pile and stack on a cart
Shoeshine cream to adhesive glue
All calculations and maths to do!
Ticked what’s got unticked what’s not
Cash dwindles with much unbought
Trudge back home in sweated daze
She checks items and fumes in rage!
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
I am perching
I am searching
Sitting still
My mind filled
With the vigilance
Of a militant
Looking to invade
By throwing grenades
And committing atrocities
At a high velocity
Yet I'm made to lay and wait
My love feels like hate
Stuck in this crate
It's getting late
My feral fate
Makes me shake
Like the love intake
That makes me break
When you're raising the stakes
I see your fin in the water
Moving in for the slaughter
Acting like a shark
You go dark
Like a silent submarine
You float near the bottom
Your gun is submachine
That's how you caught them
Now it's my turn
For a bullet burn
Treat me like a ***** distractor
You're a fractured compactor
Leaving me partially intact
But most of me I lack
After your attack
I should thank you for taking out the trash
But I could've done without the clash
Because now I'm just a pile of ash
Stuck in a bird cage
At an increased age
If I become a phoenix and rise
It'll be an imprisoned surprise
I thought I had prepared
Yet now I need repairs
When it's my love I share
And it's casually broken
To be used as a token
You must be joking
There's no way I could've ever prepared
For the fact that no one ever cared
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
Green husks burned
Summer sky molds the fruit to hold its passion;
Probed curiosity of a world above
our atmosphere.
What happens that we, the all-powerful humans, couldn't fathom?
Peeled open, a bright yellow star,
Alone in the fruit filled universe
In a forgotten crate at the end of an aisle
Whilst apples and grapes go on parade
the passion, guava, and star are a scandal.
Bruised sides see the glare of the electric light
(Once the bright orange glow of the sun
kissed these green skins)
The sweet flesh of a bitten star
is covered by black holes
once as bright as stars
The apples and grapes fade
in their repetition
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
The wings of a hurricane
the cry of a beast
concerns of a teenager
present at a feast
salt in fresh wounds
twigs in my cape
soaring through states
this is my escape
you might infest
your precious being
with all the sickness
you’ve been seeing
You might forget
the origin of your shape
you shake off reality
that is your escape
But the threads in my waistcoat
the apples in my crate
can not be forgotten
in this mental state
I spill the ideas
that society has taped
inside my thoughts
this is my escape
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
It was a hot summer night
Nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play
He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"
He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word
It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man
The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost
You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned when he was just three
Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
Some fast and some slow
One day the pair
Were at the end of the pier
When a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear
His grandson...swept out
Lost at sea, never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned
James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach
He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave them all names
He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors
There was make believe dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding make believe princesses
Who no one could see
There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done
Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But, nobody knew
What he was building them for
The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day
But, each morning he'd come
Build one more for the tide
With invisible armies
To flow away for a ride
People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands
The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just medi-cin
The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James
I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend
I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me
I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew
It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows they're for him made by me
He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play
Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Sweet words are nothing.
Words so empty, and fruitless.
No "sweetheart" will fix it.
How can your words still hurt me?
After all, you deserted me.
Time and, time again.
Do you feel like a man?
With my clothes tossed in trash bags.
When you're tossing me out, like the garbage you never throw out.
Do you feel like the man?
When you scream my worthless life lies in your hands.
Wrecking every defense I have put up.
How dare you wonder why I'm so messed up?
Jumping at every shout.
The shivers when I greet authority.
The name calling never gets old.
The words ring in my head like a catchy song.
The shouts echo in my brain.
You wanted to break me.
Wounding me so emotionally.
Scarring me like a ghost haunting me.
Don't try and play daddy.
Now that I have disappointed you.
You're too late.
Remember when you told me?
How you hoped I ended up in a wooden crate.
That's the night you really left me.
Do you feel like the man now?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)
The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)
Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)
I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)
The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)
If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)
I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)
We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
You see me sitting there, oblivious to what is surrounding me.
And I appear normal and good to you so you decide I'm the one you want.
You're excited that you found me and how perfect I seem.
Once we get home you start to explore me, only to be shocked.
One the inside I am not the quality you saw on the outside.
Silly human, only the strong and good ones make it through what we experience.
Imagine being ripped away from your home, going to unknown places alone, heard words of different tones.
Being put into a crate with no way to escape.
I'm sorry I'm not who you expected me to be, I'm not one of the strong or good ones you see.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon
His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see
Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot
His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there
A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud
In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings
Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass
He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go
The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales
the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there
He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face
the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band
The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball
The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun
He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air
The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid
His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band
In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
That ghost of love past
has come to me
most unexpectedly, and
I, who thought the world
predictable, have found
that I know less of future
pleasures than past pains.
So beautiful a ghost that
fears have left my heart
like demons from Pandora's
crate.
Demons,
do not dare return to me
for you will find no place
in this now joyous soul.
Demons,
do not dare return,
for beauty has now filled
the unimagined spaces of my
mind and drawn me blind.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
Woke up this morning with a screaming headache
It’s 6am and I have to be at work by 8am
Feeling like I didn’t get enough sleep but have I ever?
Say a short prayer, that should make it all okay
I clean up as fast as I can,
but not without hurting my gums while brushing
Maybe once I had something to eat, it would all be better
Opened the fridge and the crate of egg falls off, Hol’up
I wanted scrambled eggs but not in this manner for sure
Aaahhh, I need some tea even though coffee would be ideal
But I did run out yesterday. Sigh.
Water’s boiling and I’m trying to get some of it into a cup
But the kettle cover falls off and the hot water spills on my hands
Burning me; today surely isn’t my day is it?
Tea’s ready, but I’m running late now, so I’m taking it to work
Got into the car, humming a feel good tune and sipping tea
Returning the cup to the holder now and again
Then I hit an unfortunate gallop, and the tea spills all over the car
It’s exactly 7.30am and my whole day looks like the mess in the car
I get to the office, couldn’t clean up the car, traffic enroute, made sure
I was more than 5 minutes late; I sign the register before the lateness line
Is ruled; something relatively good yeah? Yeah?
I’m walking to my office door, and somehow the key to my office breaks as I’m
Trying to open the door, no kidding.
They say they will fix it later and I pitch in one of the other empty offices
I’m on my desk, slow day so not much to do
Loud crashing sound, I’m awake and hurting on the office floor
Cos apparently I dosed off and fell off my chair
It’s not until break time and even more, the absurd amusing gazes I’m getting
That I realize I’m wearing different legs from two different shoes colored differently
And of cos my pants got torn at the back from the fall earlier.
Imagine how I looked and to think the day was only half spent.
Where could I have possibly gone wrong today?!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
i.
I shalt consign mineself
In a balikbayan box;
A snug hole to tryeth to **** air
Mine lung's tightly in lock.
ii.
On a plane, on a ship, in a bus
I shalt squeezeth mine carrion in;
Thinking of mine betrothed amare
How I must risketh mine life, for me to get there.
iii.
As I wilt meeteth her at the Sari-sari store's
Though I wilt be broke, no money, only amour;
Though tis love's not about money, or materialistic junk
As I thinkest all this, I thinkest soon ill break from mine trunk.
iv.
As the plane halt's, mine crate roll's around
Mine queen hath found me, in shock, her tear's cometh down;
Because I fleweth mineself in this darkly space
It was all for a purpose, to seeith the one I loveth, and her face.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
I don't blame people for hating me
I hate myself sometimes
I just hope they give me a chance
I give myself chances
Until I start giving glances
And move through playful prances
Others witness my glancing dances
And knock me out my ****** trances
I wonder what I am
My eyes look at my hands
The wise watch the sands
Of time that slowly count down
Until we're not tyranny bound
In this empire of circular hate
Trapped on this circular crate
It gets smaller as we push inward
When the solution is the inverse
These ideologies keep us from expansion
Like those that knock me out my trances
But please give humanity more chances
A murderer stands before his judge
The judge says:
Death...
Why do you weep?
It's just one word
My sympathy isn't reached
For I am the herd
The murderer responds:
Sorry I must weep
These tears I can't keep
When that word sums up my future and my past
It evokes memories and desires engraved in brass
As a society we're constantly filling ourselves
As a species we're constantly killing ourselves
When knowledge is a sphere
That needs to be maximized
We need to look in the mirror
And continue asking why
But we must start in the middle
To fill up the sphere
Until we can solve this riddle
And I can keep tears
And we can be peers
Who live on this sphere
With nothing to fear
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC