"crumbing" poems
Between ten and eleven-thirty p.m. this Cornish
village, for the most part gets itself quietly ready
to find comfort in bed.
No exception tonight, beneath cold arc of moon
time takes command as cats are put out, doors
latched and no dog barks.
Mist is rising under fading depths of navy-blue
sky as neighbours pull blinds and hiding behind
upstairs curtains undress.
Clothes are being thrown about, noses get blown,
teeth cleaned, backs scratched and toilets flushed
before baring days' secrets.
Outbursts of *** meet with collapse as confession
of headache becomes forgotten in gasps of gossip
that start giggling sessions.
Suppers crumbing clean sheets vye with a shared
cigarette between couples who, tho' sleep-heavy,
drowsily mumble goodnight.
Peace tumbles around snuffles and snores before
stirring ceases as this small backwater stumbles
toward a new morning.
Men, women and offspring down toys with tools
as dreams take over while strength refuels weary
bones for more readiness.
For a few hours their world of normality flies to
another dimension then with sunrise legs stretch
and yawning faces distort.
Because betwixt six and seven thirty a.m. this little
community will rise and give inner-thanks before
morning battles start again.
Nobody knows what tears are shed behind blinds
that nightly challenge good folks' efforts in trying
to make the most of their life.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Stumbling in my fears
Crumbing through your glares
Rising to the sky
Standing oh so high
Walking from your cries
Running because you lie
Falling with a sound
Landing on the ground
What you didnt know is that i landed on my feet.
Now look who lays in defeat.
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 6:18 PM UTC
Hadn't it all been forgotten
Between the brooding the bruising and the torn skin tissue
What did it even feel like to ride a bike up a hill to deliver soup to the boy with chills
your boy
That boy who you thought nobody else could be
Insist to lay in the arms of others in a state of apathy
is it really coming back, I will get hurt and trapped
All of these notions rushing in a quick return to help, heal but worst of all heal
Knowing what love is, when to say it, if to say it is all a different thing
It's a forgotten flavor long lost in an ocean numbed by nicotine and liquor
A warm cinnamon bun hot from the oven, tender and brittle perhaps maybe crumbing
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
you're like barely lightning
stumbling angelically of that frosty womb
dangerously you are flakes of minute cold
crumbing deftly cheeks pale as
sleep. who is a club of kind
fantasy or sometimes a plush terror
reckoned in pleasing symmetry.
i know only your valleys and your pastures
the breathless yawning landscape
my lips are hithering or withering
about to imbue with every effort
of my love your perfect vessel my ardor
in lumping crunches of delicate
kisses, , , , , , , .
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 11:03 AM UTC
It was the first time in a long time.
I had resigned myself to being locked in my fortress, alone, but safe.
Then you came.
You were a friend at first, and then you were more, and I opened my shackled doors.
Things were good. They were hard sometimes, but they were good.
You wandered my castle for a time, acquainting yourself with the parts of me you could reach. Sometimes you hurt me when you were hurting, but I didn't blame you. Because I loved you.
After more time had passed, I allowed you into my throne room.
Told you what had been lurking in my depths, the fears I felt and how the mortar of my structure was crumbling. I let you into my very core. I thought you could help.
You seemed to grow slowly hostile after I told you. My halls weren't filled with the usual warmth. Then I brought you to the throne room when my stone began crumbling and my throne began splintering, you agonized on how the splintered wood affected you, instead of giving me the support beams I needed to stay together. The wood of my legs split, and I was hurting, and I needed you most. I still bore your weight when you hurt, but my breaking, jagged wood was... Too much for you. Though before I began crumbling, you had told me you would endure anything, for you loved me.
But then you left.
My throne was broken, the stone of my castle shuddering without support; I was falling. I supported you in your loneliness, cradled you by my hearth when life was too much. But when I began crumbling, you decided my halls were not for you any longer. You would not help maintain that which sheltered you through brutal storms, that which always promised you a safe place to stay. You left.
And it hurt at first.
But then I was angry. My fire flared, knowing you told others that my crumbing bricks weren't really breaking, that I was an insult to those that truly needed help, even when you knew that the bombardments of my crisis shattered my walls, broke my throne. You would have people look at my cracked stone and jagged wood and think it a ploy for pity, even as I struggled to keep myself standing in the vicious storm that raged on.
I allow close friends to wander my halls after you left, and they help rebuild. Place mortar between the cracks of my walls, clean the cobwebs away from my corners.
I will not allow them to enter my throne room. Not yet. It will take time. I will rebuild my broken throne, my hands will bleed from the splinters, but I will prove you wrong.
I will be the King I was meant to be, I will show you how wrong you were about me.
I want you to know what treasure you left behind. What you took for granted.
My walls are fortified, my dear friends maintain it for me, and I hold them by the warmth of my hearth. I will support them as I did you, for they are grateful and help keep me standing.
Not like you.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
*i need daylight to catch the rubbing of tree leaves
on the page among licking my thumb,
bread-crumbing cigarette ash and smearing it on the page.*
keeping a **** between
your **** cheeks
while you walk from
a beautiful sunset while
sketching 'the reader'
on the front pages of the cantos
with saliva and cigarette ash
and some greenery
can sometimes feel like a
lost hand-baggage on your
weekend trip to Milan,
or a 50 quid note in your wallet;
or a sloppy french kiss:
i say, two tongues make up
shoelaces, or ribbons on a present boxed?
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
The cold stone towers
Cast shadows across
The barren desolate lands
Throwing darkness for miles
In the quieting times
Of the sun’s farewells.
The hard steel gates
Stand in stark contrast
To the openness of the sky.
Shut tight as a clam shell
Barring even the insect
And the wind from entering.
The tall brick partitions
That loom over the world,
Halting all time in their
Intimidating presence,
Keep the caged birds in
And the foreign spies out.
But a small breeze blows
Across the empty plains
Starting up a rumbling
As the walls began crumbing
And the fortress walls
Collapsed in wards
Showing that they were
Made of nothing more
Than dreams for posts
And sugar for mortar
The protection falls
Tumbling to the ground
Baring my **** body
To the growing crowd
To see all my scars
And my deformities
The winds from the plains
Give me apprehensive chills
As I wait to hear compliment
Expecting only cruelest jeers.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 8:02 PM UTC
Even if one thousand
Pages were fluttered out
By ****** and crippled hand
It would turn toward
The eyes and ears
Of man to busy
To lazy
To eager
To star struck
To mind numb
To look for the book
From which it came
Great hands ears eyes noses
Prose imaginations now in woe
A fine finger presses upon the blank ink
Warrior in black and white robes
Who cares if the times have changed?
The reason why we are all here
Sitting and staring up and up
Is now being leaked like lost blank ink
Into the mainstream smooth as metallic plastic
A note worth mentioning
Like Mozart's final breath
A touch of death never hurt anyone
It only made them realize
The elevator only has
So many floors
So many buttons
So many places on can hide
And as the dawn wavers
The dung beetles carry out their wears
Watching the sun hit the pastel buildings
Crumbing in front of their weary eyes
A telling note
For the quill
The pencil
The pen
The ****** finger nail and
The spit
Now
We sit in plush red velvet sits
With yellow puffs of butter
Watching **** bounce
Men scream
And children wandering as if blind
Wondering what it was like
To dream
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
Like an old house that stands alone and forgotten,
I to feel like abandonment is all I will know.
Like the waves that crash upon the sand at all hours,
I to feel a little broken and beaten down.
You see I always believed that on cloudy days,
The sun can seep through but not anymore
Like a child running scared from the monsters,
All my darkest fears are coming true.
Like an outcast at the freak show,
I’m mocked and forced to act like it’s okay.
Like the mountains that have been worn to crumbing stone work,
I too feel like I have been worn down.
Like the dead man made path upon the forest floor,
I too have been walked over till I feel nothing at al.
I’m sure you never mean the things you do
Or at least you claim to know how much it hurts.
Yet you never make attempts to amend it,
You just expect me to allow this bad treatment all the same
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
I've had dreams
that I wasn't this way
that my world wasn't crumbing around me.
That I was okay.
That I didn't have so much fear of pain.
That I could fly far away to not face
everything.
I don't know what to say anymore.
Pathetic I know.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
My name around the house is Mr. mushroom
Cause I’m always cooking mushrooms
Salt and pepper mushrooms
Squealing in a pan
You’re vegan and you don’t like mushrooms?
I don’t understand
Looking like a lizard, chewing on stringy hallucinogens
Or classy and tall floating in your soup
Or rich like truffles
Or frilly like flowers that kiss each other
Growing in bark, growing on trees
Growing in fields with no strawberries.
I met a mushroom picker one time, real nice guy
Was his trade, did it all day.
Squealing in a pan
My sister said when it comes to cooking mushrooms, I’m the man.
Don’t get all imaginative on me, and start breading and crumbing
Just doesn’t do.
Just the nice robust standard cups, at your local super market, or sometimes those portabellos
Get them sweating like scalps in the heat!
Torture them with black pepper, fingernails on blackboards!
Then sunburn them in sea salt, crisping around the eyes like a vagabond child
Don’t let ‘em escape!
Mushrooms clouds, over the reef, think about them in your sleep.
Serve with rice or toast with a coffee or tea,
It’s Mushrooms for me.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Memories are feelings.
We share them
but then we hide them
We live with them
But then something trigger them
And emotion flows through us
and we start crumbing like and old castle.
Never forget your old you, because one day
it will make you cry.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Oh what a tangled web I weave
when bread crumbing is how I feed
her appetite for me.
It's quite the powerful role.
Sometimes I push, sometimes I pull.
Toying with her affection and attention
it's just a game you see.
It doesn't take much effort for me
to toss a crumb her way playing with
her triggers and traumas carelessly.
I manipulate her sweet heart
and harness her energy
but then I leave her hanging
by a thread swaying delicately.
I like to play with a few hearts at a time.
That way my options for ego strokes
dance around in my mind.
I don’t know I'm avoiding my own inner pain.
I wear
different masks to keep myself untamed.
Oh, what a tangled web you've weaved.
You took my kindness for granted
and ignored my heart on my sleeve.
You thought you could play with me for your own gain.
But instead you will stew in your own self-inflicted pain.
I don't take kindly to feeling played.
You see this kinda thing fuels feminine rage.
It was never that I was too much.
It's that you're too limited in
energy, emotional regulation and such.
You thought I was a basic one
who you could easily get under your thumb.
But you were arrogantly wrong Young Gun.
Kneel before this High Priestess.
And know your place.
For you must now live the karmic lessons
that you shaped and continue to create.
That rut you say you're in and can't escape
just got deeper and messier in your space.
Maybe one day you'll face your fears buried deep in your soul
And you'll kick yourself for letting me go.
But I bid you farewell as I know my worth.
I am not a coward who runs from truth in fear.
I conquer it all with one silent tear
as it rolls down my cheek
I feel my affections for you disappear.
I straighten my crown and take a seat on my throne.
I now know for certain I will walk this path alone.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC