"crinkling" poems
let’s live suddenly without thinking
under honest trees,
a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills
an edged nothing begins to prune
let’s live like the light that kills
and let’s as silence,
because Whirl’s after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red,something tall
106.8k
Every day is the same; they wake up in the same bed, at the same ungodly hour, to the same monotonous ringing from the alarm clock.
They grumble their ‘good morning’s; whether they believe it is or not, rolling out of opposite sides of the duvet.
They dance around each other in the bathroom, the heat of the shower creating a fog through which neither of them can see; causing him to stub his toe on the toilet or the counter, and steaming up the mirror so she can’t apply her make-up.
They continue their ritual into the kitchen; flicking on the kettle, popping in the bread, pouring the orange juice; stirring the tea, catching the toast and spreading the butter and jam. Crunching and slurping together at the table, mumbling about what their days have in store; tapping texts on their phones, crinkling newspaper in their hands.
They peck each other a kiss goodbye and mutter a ‘see you later’ before going their separate ways.
But then Monday comes...
Mondays are different.
He knows she doesn’t like Monday mornings. It’s the very beginning of a new, long, tiring week. She never looks forward to Mondays.
So he changes that.
He sets the alarm on his watch a little earlier than other days; shutting it off before it can wake her.
He slips silently out of bed and tiptoes quietly into the bathroom to shower; leaving her smiley faces and love messages on the steamy mirrors.
He creates her favourite tea and makes her toast with raspberry jam; just the way she likes it. Picking a flower from the garden; whichever one looks the happiest and brightest, he places it all on a tray and pads back up to the bedroom to wake her.
She no longer sets her alarm on Mondays. She knows he’ll not let her oversleep.
He places the flower in her hair and drops delicate kisses; full of his love and affection for her, to the corner of her mouth, until she stirs gently.
She smiles on Monday mornings.
They eat breakfast in bed, covering the sheets in crumbs and giggling contentedly as the cat licks them up.
She hums in the bathroom while he clears away crockery, and always re-emerges with the flower tucked behind her ear.
It remains there ‘til night fall.
They never once look at their phones or the paper, far too focused on each other to pay anything else mind.
Their kiss as they part reminds them of their love for each other and of the good things in life; like strolls along the shore, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, smiling sunflowers that open to a beautiful summer’s day, and of course, Monday mornings.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Shaky breathing
Jelly legs
As I watch you from across the room
Laughter echoing
Your face lighting up like the sun
Oh the way you smile
Makes me go crazy
Eyes crinkling
Dimples showing
Tugging a string in my chest
You stop talking and turn your head
Our eyes meet
I hold my breath
Heart beat quickens
Hands start to get sweaty
You smile
Corners of my mouth start to twitch
I smile back
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
blushing hues
preserving precious nutrition
the sun is moving closer
releasing fingers that once reached high
tumbling to the ground
drying out, and crinkling
the sun is turning its face
allowing the next phase to begin
insignificant
like tiny ants crowding the cracks
minuscule
like the creeper ******* nutrients
*one "being" on earth
one earth, in the middle of "space"*
ancient methuselah,
your mycelium branching-
entwining, and communicating
giving strength to brethren
as hibernation takes hold
birthing fungi anew
***orange, browns, yellows and reds
i give my breath away***
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces
and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat
walking up and down the isles
I see trail mix
and sunchips
and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies
that i adore
chocolates
especially
dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown
it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream
It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas
It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning
spice smells
of pad tai noodles
sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)
how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky
*cherries
all those cherries.*
we ate nutella
on bread,
washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of
and tofu
tofu tofu
always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)
chocolate, melting slowly
"you missed some."
-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle
peanut m&m;'s
turn my tongue colors.
Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)
ruby red
made you wince
I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile
remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent
every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips
the sweat on your lips.
we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially
we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores
i smile with every memory
i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle
i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge
sherbet
i chuckle to myself
memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,
sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues
love
in our hearts
you remember.
the taste of that summer
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
I am pretty sure I'm in love with you. I love the way your freckles fall perfectly in place like the ones the draw on American girl dolls. I love the way you smile, crinkling up your small little noes and squinting your eyes like the books you always read have damaged not only your adjustment to light, but the way you see earth so that now everything seems unfitting. Unfitting for a king like you. I love the way your hair looks like you just woke up. I love the way you smell. I love the way you walk like a character from the Incredibles, hopping around. I love the way you look when you read one of your novels. I love your eyes. Your eyes I could stare at forever. Reminding me of our first conversation, time I complemented your eyes . Your eyes. As if some one took the bluest lake out of your newest book and shrunk them. I love the way you talk. I love the way your voice sounds when you read aloud. It reminds me of being a kid, curled up in my pink cat pajamas, listening to my father read Good Night Moon. I love the way you dress. I love the way you laugh. I love you. But to you I'm just a friend. The person you get the homework from as you rush to study exactly 5.5 seconds before a test. I'm just the girl you smile at. But I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I love the way you acknowledge me as just a friendly face. I love the way the way I love you is just a secret.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Clearly, darling, you do not understand why
I love you.
All of you.
Stare at these two cups of coffee or look into my eyes.
Shuffle your feet, tangle your fingertips in your hair.
I don't care,
just listen and
let my words
meld into that beautiful mind.
Okay?
For a person to be here, it took years.
The little wisps of hair that always gets into your eyes.
The laugh-line underneath your cheek.
It all took an immeasurable number of tick-tocks.
In those infinite string of days was hours.
In those hours, there were minutes.
And yes, in those minutes are seconds.
Now, don't roll your eyes just yet.
Dotting in between the mellow epochs are experiences, dreams, unspoken wishes behind closed eyelids, tears, laughter crinkling your lips.
The creasing of the edges of your heart.
The sound of your very breaths in a lonely room.
If you think in such numbing detail, eventually I found myself happily and hopelessly tangled in those strings of little infinities.
And then, I fell in love with you.
It's simple really.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
The wobbly love bits
woke up when the morning is
still fogged by cold purple-hued
freshness
She covers her face
but reveals those baby eyes
to follow you with
mirthful wonder
and she flails her wobbly fingers
and wobbly arms
with playful waves
and her mother
takes away her blankie
And she is dressed in
blue, and that sort of
beauty all crammed inside
that little brand new human being
can be quite
overwhelming
Her few feather hairs
and happiness-crinkling eyes
and mouth in a laughing sort of circle
and her invisible neck
and super puff-loved
cheeks
And love-hearts
fill the air
and spread joy
though your bones
and nerves
like warm sunshine
that melts
yesterday's despair
and dissipates
all the tiny
agonies
within
her radius.
-To Alice
Jan 7, 2016
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Sharp breath
Carving out the carcass
Shaving away sanity
Cringing.
Shallow plunge
Into sinister sea of shards
Crinkling cracking
Cringing.
Cowering for invisibility
Hiding behind folds of
Crunched eyelids
Cringing.
Hollowed by fire
Raw red remnants
Crumbling, ashes ashes
Cringing.
Projected perfection
Diabolical demons dream
In absence
Cringing.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
your coughs sound like crinkling pack wrappers
my hovering hope whistling straight through your
lingering smoke
i'm sifting though your hair
cracking the rope around my wrists
you watch and just
exhale your crackling smoke
and i'm clinging to your upper lip
like crumbling coke
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
"unconditional love dinner-dance"
so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance
laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...
*what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?
these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next
love
am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction
dinner
she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us
dance
she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself
she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note
I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of
unconditional love dinner dance*
I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
he's the colour of sunshine
the glitter he hates,
sparkling in his crinkling eyes
his laugh
is the colour of daisies in november,
teasing the troubled naiad into a state
of pure affection
his kiss
I imagine
is the colour of bliss,
like honey dripping from the lips of queens by the nile
his love,
however
is the colour of water
clear
non-existant.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
A silly summer assignment,
that could be done in a day.
Constantly pushed away,
and left to linger.
Crossing my mind here and there,
but never fully acknowledged.
Deep within ,
I realize I must finish it.
I sit down and begin to read,
but my mind seems to stray.
Within arms reach,
lies my ever so lovely laptop.
Temptation overwhelms me,
and I place the book down.
Pages crinkling,
I don't bother to look.
Hours pass,
and the computer is still open.
Going within and out of sites,
cat videos and social networks.
A thought ponders,
that book, that story.
Closing the laptop,
I pick the hard copy up.
Struggling to finish a page,
I cowardly give up.
And suddenly I realize,
I probably should not have majored in English.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response
It is quite mysterious the origin of such pleasure
Common is the multi-culturally adopted belief
That large fractions of massive populations
Label themselves as insomniacs
If anything this newfound viral sensation
May very well exist to cure insomnia
ASMR comes in a variety of different sounds
That help to release melatonin and aid the body in sleeping
Such sounds include inaudible whispering, gum chewing, table scratching, match lighting,
Ear to ear whispering, tapping, brushing, and crinkling.
These sounds are beautiful, inventive, ground breaking and a relevant discovery
Within the continuous cycle that is known to us as evolution
A vast majority of us have talking brains
Some of our brains talk more than others
Resulting in sleep deprivation on numerous occasions
We have been given a unique, sensational gift
That aids those in times of misfortune and grief
That aids those in emotional tribulation
Though it is through this global phenomenon
and it is through these talented individuals
that we are able to possibly if not entirely
conquer said debilitating times
A way to persuade peace amidst a callous world
That is what ASMR means to me
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Just a cool orange drink,
Sparkling, the clink of ice
A long straw bobbing with bubbles
and you have found paradise.
Sitting on a sandy beach,
Blue sky, no cloud, just nice.
Listening to the children play
and you have found paradise.
In walks a man, wife at doorstep
Drunk, he knows he is in paradise.
She yells, he thinks, she cries, he laughs.
smack she smiles, he cries.
He is out cold, she is warm in bed.
He snuggles the doormat, blimey he thinks.
The wife ought to have a shave
and she absolutely stinks!
The cat joins him on the doormat
Licking his bruised face, mmm nice.
A pair of slippers also joins them
But he is till in his drunken paradise.
A bucket of cold water joins them too
A stark wake up call hit his face.
"Ouch! where am I? who are you?"
"Get me out of this cruel place!"
"You are home fool. Get to bed"
His face yells, crinkling at the brow.
Secretly she is enjoying all of this,
what have I done to upset her now?
Once again he finds paradise
in the form of crisp white sheets and dreams.
Alcohol is playing with all his mishaps
And his paradise is not now what is seems.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Take me back to Chelsea please
Where the flossed and glossed smile at me
And everyone’s kind to an open mind
That’s materialistic in design.
Where locals embrace me all open armed
Whenever I’m crinkling cash in my palms.
So eject me fast from this boorish ******
And take me back to Chelsea please.
Take me back to Chelsea please
Outside the city’s financial squeeze
Where mummy and daddy pay the cheques
For my escargots and Ready Brek.
I’ll wield through the system with the family name
And use all the power of my local fame.
Oh, to live life without la joie de fees
Come take me back to Chelsea please.
Take me back to Chelsea please
To put my social norms at ease.
I miss my measly excuse of friends
Who constantly ***** to make amends
For their failed entrepreneurial careers
Their dialect a hodgepodge of gobbles and sneers.
I long for their monotonous wheeze
So take me back to Chelsea please.
Chelsea, Chelsea you’re all I adore
From the A308 to the A304.
You’re the sole nirvana I can’t bear to depart,
Your femmes fatales know the paths to my heart.
But you will always have the its lock and key
So Chelsea: come and take me back please.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
I saw the corner of your eyes, crinkling
"What happened again?" I said
Your small eyes
made the straight line upon your face
You tried to smile
I knew you could not, but you tried
Your smile
was one of my favourite things in life
The smile
that could end up the war
The smile
that could cure cancer down
You've lost the sparkling look
that's written in your eyes
How it makes you look so much better
when you smile
How it makes you look so much happier
with the shape of your lips
when you smile
"What happened again?" I said
You said it was nothing
but I knew it was something
I whispered to my very own mind,
"Don't worry, you'll always got my back"
You turned back to me,
making the shape from your lips
that I always want to see
"I'm okay, and you should be okay too"
I whispered my own mind
through the low tone from my voice
"Darling, I'm okay if you're okay"
But you could not listen
the low tone was way too low, you could not
But you knew it all
already
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
snow was brittle, i found
fresh white paper
crinkling under
snow was fragile, i learned
like shredded glass
but softer
like all my edges
as they really are
not how
i see them
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Though her eyes are jeweled crystals,
She is the annotation of a valid *****
Asinine men still don't envision,
She is the offspring of Satan.
Women see her true form,
Underneath that pallid, limp skin.
With lipstick as red as strawberries,
The masquerade is precisely blood from the virtue.
Animals snarl at her without awe,
Yet she's the carnivore.
Her black crinkling hair covers her coyness,
Only to ****** the prey in the hotel room at dusk.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
One of those expensive shops
its name in large red alphabet
that wink into the night
its glass doors with handprints
'OPEN', they say
but the face behind the counter
wishes against.
See, I ran into big money
and I will spend it all on chocolate,
enough chocolate for a month.
Grabbing a clinking metal basket
I sprint to the section
of my recent interest
tossing fifty bars of this, twenty blocks of that
some milk white, most coffee black
wrapped in shiny colours and labels
nutted, chipped, tempered, moulded.
I bought a truckload
with a great sense of pride
and contentment with which
loudly, I sighed.
I went home, bathed, dressed
and set the mood right
imbibing first the sweet crinkling of the foil,
I took a generous bite
tongue and nerves at work
but quite early I open my eyes
to the heap of shiny acquisitions
to my first big expense that
stood dimly magnificent
but this time rather
quiety, I sighed.
"I don't like chocolate"
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
you rise and fall like a symphony
(My silk screen diaphanous breeze)
I swim through your History,
(the coral reef of vivid crazy textured nonsense love)
saturated by the light refracted
into your marine metropolis
I coalesce into your voice
(melted butter creamed currant pastry)
and unfurl evenly.
(your solvent arms
propel my luck to fill every container
of your buoyant sounds)
you dance on my sidewalks like
Charlie Brown’s gang
(bobbing caricatured spreading smiley joke random)
you take my crinkling brow
and soften its creases
like newly pugged clay
Be my crutch,
my original thought,
my epiphany,
(reshaping nuance unforeseen renew reold aspiration),
my false laugh
(when I get hurt and love you too much to show it)
my recorded comfort
weaving precious merriment around my every gesture
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC