"crossbones" poems
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.
I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.
I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.
Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.
I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.
Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.
I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 11:33 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
One day I'll catch you
front and center
on the outskirts
of your city
riding along
a conveyer belt
you'll be dressed
quite insensibly
idling back and forth
along the past
happy in your
pathway hang-ups
and far too distracted
to notice we've become
skull and crossbones
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Your mother
stood over
the washtub
the steam rising upward
she poked the boiling wash
with what she called
her copper stick
pushing it down
and around now and then
wiping sweat
from her brow
and you stood watching
seeing her push
the washing down
with the stick
as if she were a good pirate
plunging with a sword
the bad pirates
from some skull
and crossbones ship
and when she lifted the stick
water fell back down
like grey watery blood
what’s for dinner today?
you asked
it’ll have to be cold meat
and beans and mash
as it’s washday
and I still
have much to do
she said
and yes it was Monday
and Tuesday was stew
and so you left her
with the washing
and imaginary pirates
and the steam
and heat
and went out to play
in the Square with Jim
then along under
the railway bridge
to meet Helen
with Battered Betty her doll
and take a walk
to the Neptune’s
fish & chip shop
for 6d worth of chips
and held Helen’s hand
on the way back
to the Square
then to that place
under the railway bridge
and kissed and left her there.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I fiend to be clean
My envy shines of the brightest green
To purge this virus, this disease
This curse that clings to me
To be normal is what fills my dreams
Able to love someone who loves me
Without shame or misery
The opposite my history
Lies and pain my biography
Why do I insist living this day to day
Nightmare of *** drugs, and alcohol
When I know **** well it's gonna fail in every way
Purity is not what I see, it's not me
That word should not be in my vocabulary
Failure is at my core, disappointment is what's in store
A scull and crossbones my sign
Compelled to cross the lines
With poison in my blood, heart starts to race
Eyes dilated as I face my fate
It floods my vision in this head on collision
Once again placing me in position for victory
Maybe this will be the fatal wound that finally kills the fiend.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I'm tired of waiting,
Just ******* die.
Too harsh?
Perhaps a delicate massage
Before I snap your neck,
Like wringing out a mouse
The cat dragged in,
Its poor beggar body
Broken in the cat's sin.
Perhaps a drink,
Spiked with hatred
Distilled in glass warning
Skulls and crossbones
Tucked behind the tray of biscuits
And endless chocolate ice cream cones.
Is it so hard to do?
Just stop breathing, shut it off,
Stop the heart.
Perhaps you can hold your breath,
Like the countless times I held mine
When I was forced to breathe in yours
While I swabbed your chin,
Dabbing up a dinner
That should have gone straight in.
Just die and get it over with.
I don't mean it. Not really.
No I don't want you in a home;
They can't care for you like me.
Who will give you all the hugs
That you would give for free?
Its not that they won't care for you,
Or wipe your chin from drool,
Or even change your dress at night
After you had laid a stool.
It's just that they don't love you
And it's my curse to repay
All the love you gave to me
From birth through night and day.
Don't be mad at me,
I don't want you to go,
But I'm so tired of waiting;
No, I know that you don't know.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Warning:
All of hells angels reside behind this very denotation.
Caution of disturbing material.
Her body an empty cavern,
Her face; sunken bambi eyes,
Her bones, dark, deep volcanoes filled,
To the brim, ashes, dust,
Splintered souls, falling prey,
To lost caves, bearing dead bodies,
Where smiles fade, drooping through,
Skulls & crossbones, signifying,
A poisonous addiction to,
Hells aftermath.
© Sia Jane
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy
Stainless inks get messy
Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps
Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms
Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps
Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts
Words dig up chaos with no mercy
Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound
a.s.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
***KIDZ! DON'T TRY
THIS AT HOME! NOTHING
IS WORTH LOSING YOUR
LIFE OVER!***
Three reasons to live.
Three good ones to die.
Shall I throw 'em in a hat
And draw the first I try?
Shall I act on impulse
Once the drawing's done?
If I choose the
Skull 'n crossbones
Will I fire the loaded gun?
If I pick the black stone
There's no two ways
To view it.
I've got to carry on with it!
Then I'll have to DO IT!
So here I go. I've got the lots.
As I have amassed 'em.
It's up to God to
Make the choice.
I will let Him cast 'em.
Uh, oh. Drew out
The white stone.
The gig is up. I give.
This game's no fun.
I've been undone.
I guess I'll have to live.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
6:45 a.m.
The **** crows
the clouds carry a skull and crossbones
across the fretful sky.
See how he looks at her,
a bird caged in a song
longs,
before the open window.
How his heart breaks
for the sky
and it's wide set eyes,
is it the conch
that whispers
to the coast
of aching night?
Flight.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Drawing attention to oneself is the best illustration to show that you aren't present.
That you may not be transfigured into a rabid popsicle stick.
One day, I may not there for you
to catch all of your raindrops from this clouded season you call truth.
My bones aren't as strong as they used to be,
I'm far from what I once used to be,
and the world carries me around like I'm on its backpack,
unzipping it only to when it's told to do, because in these times,
It's easy to get your backpack stolen if you don't have a key to lock it with.
This world is cruel.
The American dream comes with a reality check made in China.
We hold flowers and bricks on our dying hands,
because as humble and enlightened beings that we are,
Death will not knock on my doorstep
with his scythe hooked across the inside of my gums
without me bashing its skull and stabbing him with his crossbones
Theodore Dreiser never had to walk through the skins of black children
whose lungs had been eaten by politically justified stray bullets,
so unless Sister Carrie is codename for pleasurable manners,
then this little song-and-dance **** list we call USA has gone AWOL.
The doors have risen from the ashes of media grave sites,
and have opened its pathway to those influenced by it.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
She wore her red shoes to Romeos funeral
and misssed the stale smell of his cheap cologne
and that his lips had always tasted of whiskey
she picked up a card and some flowers and a strange ballon
for $29 and some spare change from the drug store
on Kentucky Ave. where someone had stolen
her favorite alligator purse
somewhere in the distance a train pulling box cars
whistled to the magpies with their wings spread up above
just hanging there like kites
and she wore a pretty blue gun strapped to her thigh
right over where he had left his teeth marks on the forth of July
the one he had given her on the Valentine's day
he had spent in jail for attempting to rob the jewelry store
for the necklace she had wanted for Christmas
the December before
the same Christmas all he could give her
was his favorite skull and crossbones ring
tied around the broken piano string
he had once tried to wear as a tie
they had meet the night he stole her record player
and she had happened to be on the wrong side of the road
as he made his way from the scene of the crime
completely unaware she would steal his heart
before he would see another sunrise
but that was all before he took a bullet to the chest
after avenging his brother that was left to die
without his knife
they had found his body in the theater
with his shoes full of blood and a smile on his face
and she knew as his body was lowered
into the cold cold ground her new favorite color was going
to be blue come next Valentine's day
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
round his mouthful of bullet's and bones
he spoke of the woman and a box of gold
and as he opened the deck and began tossing cards
his version of what happened had him with
one foot in the grave and giving both barrels
she called him a hero
but he was just a fugitive of the hangman's necktie
the old sailor died quiet in the night
slipped away laughing in the company of
all the olde saints he loved so much
they will take him on home
so the truth of the tell rest with this man
with this soft eye hardened heart
with a mouthful of bullet's and bones
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Deserted island, just me and the waves.
Driftwood washing ashore, lies are no more.
Palm trees encircled all around the shore,
Skull and crossbones adorn my lonesome home.
Nothing to do with my adequate time,
But to build sand kingdoms and,
Watch them crumble with shifting tides.
Oh, what a blight to be me!
Passing ships glide over starlight's gaze,
Nothing but laughter from their crowded decks.
The only friend I have is a coconut;
To eat or to talk? A tough decision...
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
god was created to remember everything. so says the rock to the tooth starting small.
-
there is a gallery of unfinished work and a space for the baby to crawl through.
-
her feet stick out of the mirror she’s been using to give birth.
-
lost: frostbite. lost: space suit.
will work
for feeding
tube.
-
holy asthma
holy
crossbones
-
old hat
this human
head.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
Why do we
keep drinking
out of the bottle
with the skull and crossbones
when we've
seen enough
to know
it’ll **** us
sooner or later.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
Underneath pale spring skies
to everyone's surprise
'The Wanderers' returned telling tales of omnipotence
and the relevance of a divinity
I heard nothing
I was deafened by the noise from the laughter of the girls and boys so filled with glee
that 'The Wanderers' had seen fit to see
to find their way and come home to be
with them and you and me.
I don't know where they went or how they spent those,
lonely days when I would gaze with fear set solid in my heart
and wonder how it is that being apart
is so painful.
Fearful now
I keep my eye on those that take it in their mind to fly away.
But what is day without the night
and night without the dawn?
Storms may come and go but this is what I know
'The Wanderers'
will always be the hope and the guardians set by the gate
of those who wait
for liberty.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
dawn breaking the black sky
I opened my heavy weepers
expecting her under blue satin sheets
all smiles or laying still, sleeping
my keeper keeping
the orange ball peeks out the barren hill tops
and in the walls of my sweaty, red skull I drove deeper
there, I searched the darkness for my keeper
in lue of her emerald greens
I see reaping the reaper
the yellow tentacles of the morning star now slash
so, I threw my stare wide onto the bedroom
sweeping for her, the female that keeps
for many a times, she'd play hide and seek
but no game, I felt death wound me inside
mercury rising reaches its peak with the summer star
from gentle kisses 'til noon to zoomed the reaper
the reaping it was in the huge cavity of my room
where the crossbones and skull spelled out d.o.o.m.
no longer my keeper, but the finest of reapers
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 9:26 AM UTC
There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate
By Phil Roberts
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
hoist
the
black flag of
skull and crossbones high
this
is
your
captain speaking
captain Billy Bly
said i
all hands on deck
i
only
want strong men
with
strong backs
from
forward aft
from
stern to stern
right turn right
then
make
a hard rudder left
aye...aye me mates
aya...aye
said i
now
we
set sail 90 degrees longitude northeast
said i
oh
what
a
Yankee Doodle Dandy
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Suspend the moon from golden anchors
Hide your notes on doing time
Halos tarnish in secret places
Ain't no such thing as a victimless crime
Concrete held me like a lover
Tucked me into a metal bed
And I could fill the oceans in my heart
With all the hatred that I've bled
I gave the rage too much control
Forgot all about the cold hard facts
Like "boy once you squeeze the trigger..."
"You can't get the bullets back"
Some say "hell you should have killed em"
I guess that depends on who you ask
One thing I'm certain of these days
The answer ain't hiding in a whiskey flask
Spent a lot of time thinking things over
Ran to the edge of suicide and back
I ran the gamut of emotions
I went from blue to carbon black
But I found out just who I'd been hating
I saw my reflection and he was looking back
So I came home a bit too much to look at
teardrop tattoo underneath my eye
Skull and crossbones on my neck
With the words "Hell raiser till I die"
But this single story don't define me
This doesn't tell you who I am
A Minister who's got a background
Don't think for a minute that I'm "less than"
Let's see if I've anything to offer
They say it never hurts to try
Anyone who's ever known me
Knows I can't just lay down and die
I wonder how long it's gonna take
Will time go slow or will it go fast
How far must I go into the future
Before I outrun my past
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC