"croak" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
Fifty Thousand dee-grees hot
Burn your *** right on the spot
-
Great big flash of light and heat
Fry your *** from head to feet
-
Mushroom clouds rise to the sky
No time to kiss your *** good by
-
‘Tomic bombs are coming soon
Blow your *** right to the moon
-
If by chance the blast you miss
Fall-out's gunna end your bliss
-
In the dark your *** glow
Retirement you can forgo
-
Two weeks it takes for you to croak
You'll puke and **** and wretch and choak
-
Are you ready ready for your death?
Go and snort more crystal ****
-
So Hail! Hail! WW3
Very shortly it will be
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
why is it so hard to see you?
i crumble and i croak
hopeful words dance at the back of my throat
now i’m hopeless
now i’m in a mess
of you or her or him or me
it’s like moving to a new country
and getting the hang of their weird plastic currency
and why the **** is talking to you so hard?
i tumble and i frizzle
a glass smashed into shards
aggravation takes me over because
anxiety takes me over because
suppression takes me over because
i want ******* control over ******* everything
i want to ******* know what i’m ******* doing
what i’m ******* thinking
i tremble and i palpitate
the thirst never sedates
like a lion ******* blood or a needle weaving thread
so much to go around
too much to go around
i’m not sure how to go about
underwater is where i wish i was
underwater, everything is muted
everything is calmer and resentments are diluted
i long to feel less polluted
i long to feel less consumed by
that and this and all the ******* frolicking ****
it pulls and tears and rips in shears
still standing there
i am still standing there
why the **** am i still standing there
here
like a fish suffocating in air
like a statue stands with a smile it can’t wipe off
i sweat under smiles
i want to wipe it off
i want to turn it off
why won’t i just ******* take it off?
why is it so hard to know who you are?
seeing a glimpse of a break down is making me stick around for you
do you still want me to stick around for you?
i crush and i tamper
with anything i can get my hands all over
it really doesn’t matter
what or who or how hard i hit
cause nothing is good enough for this ******* *****
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
It's that Stubborn Fever which keeps the Mood
And forced your Jewels to croak a relapse
Since a Year's Half-Pie you hoarded the Good
And denied some Peers your Fortune, perhaps
Are these the Charges we must Debate
And defend the Truth of such Falsity
It is a Blessing. That the Watchman was late
To keep him from salting your Dignity
Never again. Will this Harper reject
And cut the Strings which Truth comes to rely
To re-wire each String and play Respect
Then tie on turtle-shells before it dies.
Long-Distance Friend. The Black-Knobbed Swan's voice mute
Flies away bleeding; And left out my Flute.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
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Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
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Music
Look up: "Superman" by Five For Fighting.
Kermit sings music by a Muppet Band called Frog's For Fighting...! "It's Not Easy To Be Green, I Can't Stand When High"
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive...
I'm just out to find the better part of green,
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a bear,
I'm more than some-frog in piggy's underwear,
And it's not easy-to be-e-green...
Wish that I was high, ****** and half asleep,
Find a way to lie-about my *** on Sesame Street,
It may sound absurd, but don't be naive,
Even Muppets have the right to ****
I may be disturbed, but won't you concede,
Even Muppets croak upon Skunk-green,
And it's not easy-to be-e-green...
Once again-I'm small-I'm small and GREEN, well it's
Alright! We can all get "stoked" tonight, and I'm not
Blazing...or anything.
I can't stand when high...I'm not that naive,
****** I trip at night, on brownies buzzed on ****
I'm only a frog on Jim Hensen's knee,
Wearing pink lingerie on this one way street,
I'm only a frog on Jim Hensen's knee-looking for
Older guys who flirt with me
WHO FLIRT WITH ME...
who flirt with me...yea, who
Flirt with me...who FLIRT WITH ME...
I'm only a frog that's diggin' the green,
I'm only a frog on kronic seven leaves,
I'm only a frog that's puffin' on green, and it's not easy...
WOOOHOOOHOOOO...it's not easy to be-e
Greeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnn...
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
there was a little panda he was black and white
very very funny and very very bright
he lived in a country very far away
in a great big jungle where he used to stay.
oneday while out walking through the jungle road
he looked upon a leaf and there was sat a toad
the little toad was crying feeling oh so blue
then the panda asked what is wrong with you.
i have lost my way he said i have lost my track
panda said dont worry i will take you back
then he heard a croak not to far away
coming from a place where the toad should stay.
panda led the toad to where the toad should be
to a little pond just behind a tree
panda said goodbye as he walked away.
toad stayed in his pond and never more did stray
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Deep within a leafy dell
There lived a hairy fairy
Who very often cast a spell
That was frightening and scary.
The only friend the fairy had
Was an old green warty toad,
He never thought the fairy bad,
Just lonely and old.
So he’d sit with her and croak
And watch her practice magic.
She very rarely often spoke,
This to him was tragic.
The fairy dress; the fairy wore
Had seen better days.
It was ***** tattered, creased and tore
The hem hung loose in frays.
Her head seemed always in a cloud,
He never saw her smile,
Her wand no longer taut and proud
But still she was not vile.
Somewhere inside he saw her love;
He longed to be her mate,
So he prayed to God above
And asked her for a date.
She thought he saw her as a joke.
He was playing with her heart.
Up she went, in a puff of smoke,
That gave the toad a start.
Never having seen this done before
He had a mixed-up feeling.
His warts and looks she must abhor
And she found him unappealing.
For days he waited there for her
Because he was alarmed;
A toad and fairy love was rare
He thought she might be charmed.
If she would only hear him out,
That he may just explain.
Then she, he felt, could have no doubt
His love just would not wane.
But if his looks she hated so,
Then this he’d have to take.
He’d just hop-off; away he’d go,
Take bravely his mistake.
He realised, ‘how sad it is,
I never asked her name.’
With one loud bang and mighty ****
Back to his side she came.
“It occurred to me, you might be kind,
My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried,
“And I can read your mind.”
“Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied.
Then she kissed him on his cheek
A shock that made him wince.
Before he had a chance to speak
He was a fairy Prince.
She was beautiful and young,
Like his clothes, hers were new.
A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong
Especially for these two.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:13 AM UTC
Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce
So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!
I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.
But the pheasant! For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****
Startled by every day he survives.
How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?
When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
M.S. Capulet it's time to be honest with my self
time to wash my chest out
come clean about all I've really felt
This isn't perfect, isn't close,
but neither was the romance that Speare wrote
feel like a fairytale frog with words stuck in my throat
been trying to speak what i feel but so far only just croak
Let me be your romeo...
Dove, you remind me what it's like to fall in love
at midnight like a Montague
you make me want to
throw pebbles at your window
come over late on nights like this when i don't know
because you would't say and you fell asleep
(you thought this might just be a summer thing, some sort of fling)
But I'd do almost anything
to keep you Juliet
no regret, no joke
I don't think there ever were words big enough for this hope. . .
And the two lovers they were starcrossed
just like my fingers when we started "us"
that night we stargazed but i guess I'm just
afraid we'll shatter into stardust
he climbed but
she would have jumped if he asked
that's us
we're trying to get over our past. . .
I'm not gonna pretend i don't think about the past
that i don't sometimes wish it, but that's just it
we've got this chance and i'm not gonna miss it
we've got this time and i'm not gonna twist it around
I've got an ugly purple scar across my heart, will you kiss it now?
It's been far too long trying to get this off my chest
but let's write our own tragedy,
hell, romance is a mess, miss. . .
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Baby Panda
You called me
A pussy-bitch
When you woke
And I smiled
In response
Baby Panda
When eating
Fruity pebbles
With almond milk
You croaked like
A frog, croak
Over 20 times
And got up
To spit in the sink
Excessive saliva
In between
Each bite
I asked you why
You croak
wha?
I smiled
And say
Never mind
Baby Panda
You ran to me
Sobbing as if
The world was ending
My socks!!!
No more clean
**** I forgot
To dry them
You pace
Uncomfortable
As you're forced
To go barefoot
*Feet ****
For longer
Than an hour
Baby Panda
I return to
You're stash
Of a room
And picking up
Your pajamas
I smell an
Accident
Of both sorts
Soiling your
Clothes
sorry
Red faced you enter
I smile and
Remind you
To let me know
Next time
And not to
Throw it on the
Wooden floor
Baby Panda
Socks on smooth
Shoes tied with
Quadrupled knots
You head to your
Room, radio blasting
Some radio talk
Station about comedy
Until 8:21 rolls around
And you run
Like a bullet
To the bus outside
Our house
I smile as you yell
BUS IS HERE
No matter what room
I'm in
Baby Panda
I worry for you
The second you walk
Out the door
Because you have such
Big, terrifying emotions
Yet a small filter
On your words, thoughts
Of your own body
Despite the fact
That you're turning
Into a real teen
Before the summers end
Baby Panda
I wish I could help
In ways I cannot
I can't read your mind
Though you think
I should
Know how by now
I can't make socks magically
Not hurt, or have people
Not get ******
When you randomly shout
Profanities
When your last conversation
Was regarding food
And I can't
Stop the madness that
Overtakes your body
Every time you get ill
Physically, mentally
But Baby Panda
I love you now
And always will
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody. When the lightning flashed, I saw that what I had thought to be a city was in fact a deserted plain and, in the same sinister light that revealed me to myself, there seemed to be no sky above it. I was robbed of any possibility of having existed before the world. If I was ever reincarnated, I must have done so without myself, without a self to reincarnate.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.
I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite, infinitous space, in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am a centre that exists only because every circle has one. I, I myself, am the well in which the walls have fallen away to leave only viscous slime. I am the centre of everything surrounded by the great nothing.
And it is as if hell itself were laughing within me but, instead of the human touch of diabolical laughter, there's the mad croak of the dead universe, the circling cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds drifting blackly in the wind, misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created it, without God himself who spins in the dark of darks, impossible, unique, everything.
If only I could think! If only I could feel!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.
Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.
Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more:--not so, alas!
A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke:
"Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,-
Oh for my old familiar byeway!"
The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.
Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)
"A Froggy would a-wooing go:"
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.
O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.
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In this mist I can't quite see my edges properly
I'm coping on the level of
both rational and almost raving
and I want to shine
which isn't much, just a firefly light
but I'm in the midst of susurration
and they're not gentle, and there's no calming breeze to carry me
because my wings have been closed for a long time
and I can only beg
but to whom?
It doesn't feel sincere
when I'm not even sure
But I promise that I mean it
because these tears aren't for my own benefit
they are to show you that I've still a little fight left
enough to wrap myself in
Because now, I'm only fighting for myself
Although I was always told to upraise the ones reaching
and I'm not content, I am trying
and I need
a transformation
but I can't croak out "Save me".
Even as I dangle over this puddle, and I work up courage
courage to find your ears
in hopes that you'll hear me,
I also know I'm losing strength
becoming heavier
I am certain that I'm now too heavy for you, I will pull you with me
so I will wait longer
searching the mist
for someone with superhuman strength
and I will grow more tired
until that hand comes
and discovers
that my weight it otherworldly, now
and they will have to choose
if I am worth the struggle.
The devil will hope to cheat
but God's Will decides.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
One night as dark as my hair
Shines the moonlight clear
One night I got a nightmare
And woke up full of fear
One dream every time I remember
Gave me river of tear
This dream I wrote in a paper
Recalls the girl I dear
I was awaken in a pond
Standing in a lily pad
I was as green as lively grass
Gets fluffy as I breathe so hard
Definitely I am a frog
A frog disliked by everyone
I am a frog treated like mud
Because nobody wants a frog
And as a frog I also have
No care of what is all around
Unmindful of so many harsh
All I know is insect sound
But then once upon a time
Two birds I saw flew apart
And she calmly swum inside
Then the frog and swan collide
But as a frog I still care none
Even the presence of a swan
Standing still in lily pad
Still think I am just a mud
Suddenly I don't know why
I notice tears in her eyes
I am a frog that doesn't care
But swear I can't resist to stare
My body moves on its own
I hop from lily pads to stones
I play dumb and acts with craze
To see a curve in her face
Then the swan smiles so light
And look far on the other side
I notice how she watches his flight
And then another tear subside
I miss a smile from a bird
That bears a broken-heart
Her circumstance was so absurd
Like a very solemn art
In her back I took a ride
We act like groom and bride
We play even under the sun
Comfortably have so much fun
As frog I only croak
But I still sing a song
I croak I croak I croak
That makes her laugh along
But then the sky roared
As well as rain poured
I stop to sing
She spread her wings
Without a word she flee
The swan left me
A tear in my eye roll
Imitating the rainfall
I looked at the bird afar
That bears a broken-heart
I was like gazing at a star
With a shape of a heart
I’m just a frog in a pond
A tiny frog who knows no fun
But for some reason I sob
The reason might be love
Then I opened my eyes
I felt cold like ice
A tear roll in my cheek
I felt so numb to rise
Before I wrote this on a paper
I hunt for the finest pen
Like how the frog wander
To seek the swan again
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Spoof song: sung to the tune of Five For Fighting's "Superman"
Kermit
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive,
I'm just out to find the better part of green,
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a bear,
I'm more than some frog in piggies underwear
And it's not easy to be green...
Wish that I was high,
****** and half asleep,
Find a way to lie about my jones on Sesame Street
It may sound absurd-but don't be naive,
Even Muppets can smoke too much green,
I may be disturbed but wont you concede,
Even Muppets croak upon skunk ****
And it's not easy to be green...
**Once again I'm small-I'm small and green, well it's
All right, we can all get stoked tonight, and I'm not
Blazing...or anything...**
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive,
Drugs just get you fried,
*On hash and buzzed on ****
I'm only a frog on Jim Henson's knee
Wearing pink lingerie on this one way street,
Only a frog on Jim Henson's knee
Looking for older guys who flirt with me,
Yea flirt with me...who flirt with me, yea who flirt with me...
WHO FLIRT WITH ME...
I'm only a frog that's diggin' the green,
I'm only a frog on Kronik 7 Leaves
I'm only a frog who's puffin' on green
AND IT'S NOT EASY... wooohooohoooo...
It's not easy...to be-he...greeeeeen...
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
the robber sneaks into
my space of illuminating
sadness
trying to piece together
the things that make me
tick
soon enough he thinks
he has it figured out
placing screws in the abyss,
knowing that if I tock he did
something
wrong
i want to tell him that
nothing will work
no matter how hard
he tries
my hands are broken and nothing
will ever
make them tick again
as much as they can try
as much as i'm already turning my
cogs to start again
the robber takes my broken hands
but just for a bit
"let me borrow them" he says
when he brings them back they are
rusty and used
i want to tell him that it hurts to tick,
how just because i was condoning
the robbing; i wasn't accepting it.
but i don't say a word
i just croak a broken tock
and let him rob me
all over again
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Here's something to impress you
it's my heart wide open, curious, fearless
approach me, remove the flowers from my hair
take them home and wait for them to die
then tell me about the thoughts that possessed you
in the moments you tried to cry, but couldn't.
There's always something eating away at you, isn't there?
Keep scribbling, croak louder! Wake the town, bring me down.
Take me take me take me down! Build the wall of silence just a little thicker
I want to be sure I'm not nervous, I want to release all solidity and flow
through you as liquid, as sunlight, as starlight as wishes as glances you cast me
that I wasn't supposed to notice, (but did).
I love you is a funny way of starting a sentence,
a sentence is just something we use to get through the day.
****** up communication building blocks burying me deeper
than I can climb and they're crumbling like your emotions when you've
got hallucinations spreading in your spine, breaking you down, back broke,
stomach chalk throat choke nose coke short **** inhale me like you do your smoke.
I taste the same I taste the same.
Yes yes yes yes yes I forgive you, I forgive myself
self-love self-help self-yelp
telepathy wavves like fog in a graveyard
retracing your steps because everything's changing
and you're burning wood
cast your fires on me, I'll be your shallow shadow
and I'll guide myself as far as you'll let me,
don't drag me down
just take me there.
Quickly, before before before.
I start to miss you and I think
I'm just recycling my gatsby complex into something more tangible
than tangerines in the middle of winter
or a wind storm,
trying to eat when there's a lack of corn,
and you can't digest it anyways.
you don't
belong in this
wagon
this wagon
doesn't even exist.
I'm memorizing you in ways like cutting with knives
and thinking about listening but then getting distracted.
Re-birthing in the direction of “i thought you might”
dying downwards and backwards and all the ways you've seen me
because that's what I do when you see me. I die.
It feels better than being alive so **** me killmekillmekillme.
There! Right THERE! That's the separation.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
The tide rushes in
And fills my lungs with water,
Slapping the air right out of my chest.
For a brief moment the storm breaks
Giving me just enough time
To breathe deep and push the air
Barely hard enough
To bring me back ashore.
I am enough to control the waves.
A storms breaks out,
Flooding all around and
I am without a life vest,
Enclosing around me from every angle
I barely see an exit.
Soon enough it creeps to my chin
And I am forced to hold my breath.
I am not enough to control the storms.
I shout it as though
The vibrocity of my words
Dictate it's strength.
Ringing through every orifice in my body,
Straining my lungs till I taste the blood
And only a croak is left inside.
I am enough to command the sky.
I shout atop a mountain
As if it were an empty field.
Filling the wind with my fruitless whim,
Charming the skies to not leave me.
All done in vain and with no restraint
I barely pierce the space I stand.
I am not enough to bellow the wind.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
3k
I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher
And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.
I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace
Increases at your sight.
I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.
I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.
I love mundane high croak
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am
opening my eyes
for the first time.
Opening to see you;
China cutlery,
butter,
my steamy light,
and rain.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never
let out a whisper.
Processions came by, marchers, asking questions you
answered with grey eyes never blinking, shut lips
never talking.
Not one croak of anything you know has come from your
cat crouch of ages.
I am one of those who know all you know and I keep my
questions: I know the answers you hold.
2.6k
(for children)
(1)
I heard a big word once. 'Armamentarium'.
It's a word with old parents. It means things
like medicine and how doctors feel your chest
for beats that don't quite fit. It means red
and the things inside your body that need
hands to help you. My hands help by wandering.
I tap my hands on tables, I comb my hair,
I pick up flowers, I hold up faces
of people I love when I feel blue. But my favourite
is red, because it is inside me, beating.
I learned a big word once. It was my name. I said it and it sang.
(2)
If you peel me you will find songs
as thick as grapefruit. I am red inside.
I take some time. I am always late.
I am best in the mornings but at night awake.
I'm from a place that is not as green as here.
Our grasses are yellow and say so with the wind.
My mirror is both my best friend and enemy,
sometimes a lover, often a bully, either way
hands are caught. I like to read. I read
so much that I think of my skin as grapefruit.
I don't even like to eat it. I just like the red.
(3)
Planes have mouths. They swallow people.
They fly them away. They spit me out.
Sometimes I do not know whose stomach I am in.
Inside the planes I dream of reds as dense as
roses. When the planes land I give them to
me as myself. Let me explain this better:
my accent is a grand liar because my
country is blue. It never rains there
but when it does you will find my mother's throat.
I croak with such dryness that the sounds turn to words.
(4)
When I see me I see soil. I grow roses
in my skin. People who don't look like
me first brought those kinds of flowers
to my country with ships. Kind of. We do not have
oceans. They must have walked so far for me
to speak with things they then planted. People think of me
as oceans reflecting the sky. I say I want the sunset
petalled perfectly into soil. My skin. When you see me
you must adore me because of your planting. I am not
your garden. I bloom.
(5)
When you hear words do not forget that someone
taught them to you. Maybe your mother
who read books about cats in hats to you
at airports. Maybe your father
and his stories of his childhood with feet
twisting through thin sand as roses dancing.
Where I am from we do not have soil
for those kinds of flowers. My father still grew
and my mother still grew me. Peel my skin
and you will find that sort of red beneath. If you ask me
where it came from I won't say. I will sing.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC