"curdle" poems
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
(This poem doesn't belong to me. The rightful owner is the author Darren Shan who wrote the Demonata and the Cirque du Freak book series. This poem is from his first book of the Demonata book series: Lord Loss.)
Lord loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees
In the center of the web lowly lord loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like texture sin
****** curdle sheets for skin
In the center of the web vile lord loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the center of the web Lush Lord Loss is all that is left.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
I love you for no reason
So it's not going to change with change of season.
I love you for no reason
I know it's hard to trust a guy like me
But i want to become a guy you want me to be
Pick out the good from me and leave the rest
Alter me into what suits you best
I will be proud to fulfill your every condition
I love you for no reason
It's you my princess that's all i need
What's in your mind i wish i could read
So that i can do everything before you say
I want to make you smile everyday
You are my desire my zing my ambition
I love you for no reason
You hair are like brown strands of silk
You are fairer than milk
Chubby chicks and baby soft skin
Pointed nose suits best with nose pin
Those plumy lips i can die to kiss
It kills me when you smile with a bliss
Your waist curves are like of a snake
Mole on your face is cherry over cake
Mind and body both you have got
I swear you are god's perfect shot
Beauty with mind is a perfect fusion
I love you for no reason
I will love you forever same as now
With you i am ready to take the vow
I wanted to be with you anyhow
After that my life would be wow
But i know you don't have the same vision
I love you for no reason
You for me is my sweetest dream
Your beauty is something i can not redeem
Best you have a golden heart
Your words hit my head like a dart
I can listen to your chit chat for my whole life
I pray to god to make you my wife
I will pamper you praise you serve you please you
I will hug you poke you curdle you tease you
It's going to b real or it's just an illusion
I love you for no reason
I know we are east and west
I m not good even and you are the best
We can't be together it will not work
How can an angel love a devil rebellious ****
One day may be you will say yes
Might be this poem works full to impress
If it's a no not a big deal
Hug me enough for my wounds to heal
I don't want to force your decision
I love you for no reason
I love you for no reason
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
This is a tricky game
Infatuation floods the chest
Instantly; but it isn’t water
Far too vast for that
It’s warm, syrupy and thick
Wreaking havoc and
Producing symptoms
Glazed eyes
Flushed cheeks
Formed through
Indulgent nights
Grinning
Giggling softly
Instead of sleeping
It all feels so good
Within your chest
You would never want to
Rid yourself of it
But infatuation is disorderly
Overwhelming and easily spread
A molasses mess of fantasy
Of everything you think you feel
Once those feelings
Curdle inside your chest
Into a hardened truth
You will not be able
To breathe
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
The bad seed :: takes root :: roots extend :: in the head :: A constant branching :: budding bursting :: away :: and away :: and away :: roots branch and extend :: The Holy Schism :: Mother's breast :: bisected :: salt and milk :: curdle :: then settle :: into the nine creamy layers of Hell :: roots extend :: bury into Her pith :: bisected :: a honeysuckle rut :: Mother screams :: a poisonous :: foam :: spraying Her wither around :: killing :: the sacred cow :: :: :: there :: there She is :: the pretty blight :: the slit :: in the stem pursed tight :: down lower :: over two hills :: to a black and blue lagoon :: Mother in bloom :: Her putrid flower :: slaps open sloppy :: wide :: open :: for osmosis :: for curdled spore spew :: sucking flaccid :: with lips and teeth
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
A perfectly linear shape painted in gold
Is what you see
Through Instagram pictures Facebook posts Snapchat videos
The tacit life
I lead in the virtual stairway
I am living the life!
So you say
You painted my life in the most shimmering color
Turn on every light in the room to make it brighter
Gazing with admiration
Sometimes
Most of the time
With jealousy
Seduced by the lure of the blue light dependency
Turning this perfect lie into some meditation
And make it my definition
An image I’ve built to cover the within
A perfect fragmented me I post on social media
A habit I borrow for social gatherings
A behavior forced into me
For the sake of society!
An illusion so fragile made out of eggshell
A shell covering the true essence of ME
Uncovering myself for the world to see
The egg wall and make believes shattering
To life unpredictable burdens
That perfect golden shell cannot bare life’s hurdles
Holding something beautiful that doesn’t curdle
I am more of what you see
More of what I let you believe
More of society’s standards
More of you
More of me
I contained beauty and imperfections
I contained colors and bricks
Strengths and weaknesses
Enough to **** in all life’s miseries
And to also reflect confidence and vulnerabilities
I am not just one color
I am every shades
Every undertones
Every hues that follow the changes
I am the intense
The neon
The eclectic
The iridescent
From the lightest to the darkest
The contrasting
The complementing
The chromatic
I am in nature in art in paintings
Everywhere
I am every northern lights dancing to my own ballet
Don’t just paint me with your own palettes
Crack me open
And see what’s inside
For there you will see
My true colors
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
. sea and sand, .
salt and surf, foam and
froth, greet and gather, tumble
and turn, rock and roll, spray and
spin, cross and current, roar
and rise, crash and curdle, mix
and mash, blend and bash, drip
and drop, pour and plunder, leap and
layer, mound and mist, shine and sheen, scoop
and scale, spread and span, fall and falter, leap and
layer, splash and spire, bubble and brine, writhe and write
s e a w o r t h y
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 2:08 AM UTC
I don’t want to cut myself open on a stage,
Make my blood curdle on command.
Applaud me, will you?
This idea of sisterhood, this union
At the end of the play
One lives, one dies, and one has the glory
of letting the curtain fall down
Down on the story
Performed to move people.
I’m not a performer,
Not a thespian, actress or Janus,
I have the one face and that’s all I’ve got,
Like it or not.
My clothes are not a costume,
There’s no cue for me
That tells when to go on.
I speak now, with lines rehearsed
To keep playing the fool
The one no-one listens to.
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Please applaud.
I am not an act, waiting for an audience.
I do not respond to applause,
There’s no curtain call,
No stage light in my place
That tells me where to fall.
I can’t keep playing
Can’t keep pretending
I’m the one who decides to walk out
On all of this, now.
It’s the final call, that one last bow
And thus ends the show,
See you next week, with all your friends in tow.
A standing ovation,
A brief revelation
I don’t want this, quick,
Act like it’s all part of it,
Stumbling’s funny, err on the side of performance,
Don’t reveal the truth, don’t bleed on the stage floor,
It’s all fake. All pretend, I’m no actor,
but I perform every minute of the day.
I’m not sure my heart’s real.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 4:50 AM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
I could not imagine
not knowing who you are until I realized
I never did
anyway,
it felt so much like being a lonely child
in a small house. I swear
I can touch the walls of your heart
but there is no foundation, blood anywhere.
Who did I break my skin for
if not
a man who has eyes like new stars. Who
walked into me
then made the fireplace curdle.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
things are going to be grey
breathing tar inside
created nights without a sunrise
innocence breeds hopelessness in this world
don't cry your pains in order to foster their intensity
dark things spoken will play around the mind
like children they scream and curdle throughout the night
chilling sensations wrap around while they mutate
greedy lungs withhold oxygen
their offspring drain the logic from reality
last breaths taken care for the innocent evils that live within
we don't lie for ourselves
when we begin to give life to those living inside our head
it's nothing but negative metamorphisis
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 9:50 PM UTC
Ruffles your hair in the soft of the summer patch, sunbeams cling to you like honey then later cling to my ever growing hopes of happy happy love. silly silly silly winky-dink he bruises you with stains of purple-pink which later fade to yellow like 'le soleil' friction burns will come from 'le soleil' and linger and cling to your chest like an arrow through the heart. heart-throb. you belittle me one too many times doodle-bug.
Rosie roses are nice to fancy and fathom but thorns only puncture pale skin and drain you of your ruby juice until you are nothing but a dusty, hollow skin shell. pale naïve and empty to be filled with dreams, desires and demands as well. hate is not easily boiled in your kitchen kettle water but I think that's a good thing munchkin.
Hold back your disdain bite your tongue crack your teeth and do not repeat what your brain whispered it has been lying to you since the day you were born you silly silly silly... this is a ripping seam in your moonbeam and your emotions begin curdle and to leak out like fish but then you remember crying is okay but **** such salt water back in and say naught. distraught.
At witching hour it will come at you a cold sweat in the night where your fingers tingle and your meat twinkles faces before you with holes for irises. they have been sent to inject mishap and upside down rainbow viruses. when was the last bedtime you had cloudless soul with organic thoughts? oh fleshly girl tip-toe lightly as blood trickles down your ego and melts it away to stardust to form another cheeky doodle-bug munchkin grin
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
I am the creamy glass of milk
you've stolen from the easterners gods you're hastily slurping down
"for my own good".
Willing myself to turn sour in your mouth.
Begging you to spit me out, because I'd rather be anywhere other than splashing around your rotten yellowed teeth.
Mindful of the approaching date you've slapped on my side,
robbing me of my cured potential, so rich and golden.
As I'm sliding down your throat I cheers to hoping I curdle your stomach, like you've curdled mine.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
The Stag trots across a bleached horizon
Howling into the wind with echoes that curdle blood
Its form is liquid nightmare, drenching snow in ebony flood
Wispy vapor flares around antlers of pure, lucid black
Moonbeams shimmer off plumage fraught with drear
Violet feathers assure that bizarreness the Ravenstag does not lack
Dark fangs ravage human flesh, infecting tissue with fear
The Wendigo glides past fallen pine and split oak
Its viscous hooves leave tracks of unearthly essence
Through white deserts flecked with red and bodies left to soak
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
Questions curdle
Each disdainful day
A glowering cloud
The threat of rain
Pounding footsteps
Troughs of anguish
Wavering moments
Images of altercations
The pleasure of detesting
Chocolate cake
Flavoured with money
Resentful ripples
Washed up on rocks
Drowning sounds
Solemn and deep
Slowly sinking
Disconcerted water birds
Shimmering reflections
Echoes in the darkness
Displaced by contradictions
Clanging, banging
Bouncing *****
Dissolving memories
Misplaced optimism.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are ***** matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.
My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.
My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.
My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.
I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Notes passed in class:
Circle yes no or maybe.
Pages torn from diaries and journals:
Tonight I think I might love...
Haikus carved into the metal floor of the hole where your books are hidden during a quiz:
"School's a chore learning
2B a bore 4eva
while even ugly ducks soar"
Texts sent flickerfast explain why we're still fighting.
ME: And then you said...
YOU: I don't wanna read this ****
ME: OMFG this **** is what you said!
Emails from spambots clot inboxes with poems that are better than those from most flapping quills and tapping claws,
because they have no reason:
"Earstwhile Hardly asked an clocks raging spleeded
Pills pull grimy stovepots into a curdle stoop.
Click Here. Click Here. Click Here."
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
She sits in the dark
clinging to wall spaces
where light switches used to matter.
The power's out.
He is her only light in a city turned black.
She fears the darkness.
It makes her skin curdle
like the warm milk sitting in the fridge.
The heat recedes slowly from the apartment.
He lights candles and brings her something to eat.
Her pulse steadys at the sound of his breathing,
but quickens as the winds thrash outside,
knocking trees, houses, people.
Inside isn't safe.
More often than not, danger draws her in,
but not now, not tonight, not with nature as a foe.
Her family has gone, evacuated with the rest of them.
So, she's alone, and
she sits in the dark,
with him.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
I wonder what it has for me today, scratching beneath a loose surface,
reaching deep this time,
past the wrist, up to the elbow
for something beyond the dirt and the buried, sleeping
worms I regret waking -- I hate the way they move,
wriggling into the warm holes of my psyche.
This tombstone has witnessed my desecration before,
always silent, but I know judgment awaits.
I should keep it shut, think about putting up a door
with a lock and lose the key instead of
making a workout of moving this slippery stone.
But too late for me or my sanity -- one small push tonight,
and resurrected, they appear --
the slow beach days, the frantic Christmas mornings,
an evergreen in the foyer, dripping with pretense.
Days for miles along Manhattan Island, bright blinding lights,
nights spent whispering past the silent stroke of midnight
as adults stir on the opposite side of thin walls, begging us to sleep;
all of the memories driving me to the dull butter knife of self-hatred
twisting my guts into a Celtic knot.
Breathing hard, I arise, and the work is complete, my shame
left to spill and curdle like milk on a hot sidewalk,
seeping into the disturbed earth.
Blinking away the pain, I take my final breath slowly,
focusing on the rainbow of light glinting off of
my handful of fake pearls, the last bit of treasure I can glean
from this resting place.
My knees can hold me no more.
Consider this a mercy killing.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
we're alive too
too alive to die
and we're in love all the time and my sister says life is a movie
and every movie has a love story
and life is about love
which is why I
will starve my ribs to Adam
will return to dust
will Eve your lips, the darkest hue of moon I've ever met
insomniac hips guide constellations to lucid dreaming
constant smoking and distraction
we gather in sheds and houses
in shreds the ways we forgive and forget
and weigh decisions, the weight of responsibility nagging at my shoulders
ripples of anxiety
curdle in my throat
it is Thursday
i let an infant pull my hair
i rub your sick back
I miss my blood/ my brother
detained
by four walls of injustice
know
one
knows
the
truth
but I
believe you
and now your family
in various states of uncertainty
holds the threads of stories that you weave
stolen money and crimes against humanity
repossessed cars
bottles of liquor
sisters in law
above the law
held up by the law
interrupted
interpreted
and moment we spent was precious,
we laughed and were normal again
the satellites in yr eyes
who knows what they've seen
what they choose to believe
their is such madness in our blood
it runs
thick and rampant
galloping in our genes
and we
live for a living
you alive even when you dying all the time
swollen tears/dynamite boot you/hungover father/ surprise maker of cigarettes and smashed porcelain
born again/seventh day sinner/ come clean out the water/ baptized coffee
working class hands hung the rhythm of the drum in my chest
the tornado of my soul
too big
energy contained not mine anyway
for you i would unlearn so many consonants
i would forget to speak in sentences
for you make moonly gestures
move me to guessing in 14 degrees with ward of the state AWOL passenger seat
spill yr worries sister
we are not alone tonight
you are so much of my blood when i forget what we are made of
we come from the same stardust
however toxic
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
There was a Mortician I used to know
With a chin of whiskers and sallow teeth
He didn’t comb his graying tresses
“Moonlight commence your drip” muttered he
But his hair grew stringier and his ligature looser
A man ever dingy with mourning
Shrouded with death was his visage
A man of fifty, shriveled like a rose
If you spend lifetimes watching milk curdle
And leaves stiffen
Traces of mortality will wrinkle you the same
Acrid appealed to the Undertaker’s senses
Drank black coffee to match his hue
Used to cloud lucid skies, he’d wipe out the blue
None spoke to him but the drawing room mirror
Listen he didn’t to its clamor of tongues
For a reflection’s to blame for receding flesh
Thirty years conducting funerals
Built a morose man
Quietly he wept
Though a furrowed rose cannot
Thus his quietus was born
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
You make the twist and curdle of muscle look sweet
Hoods of flesh clench
Lines extending towards congratulating champagne toasts
Liquid turned taught
Floating like a pair of scissors
Most subtle razor to ever caress
The tissue paper lips of the floor
You wrap your heady-spice palms
Flourishing and dripping
Every pulse a dropped memory
They whisper of inspiration and dust
Licks of silver swim through you
Eyes misty rocks where dreams go to impale their masters
Commanding the lovely, forming it to fit
Frost spangles the trees that create pillars of tendon
The ease of sandpaper on granite
You make silken
Simple.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
Dreams are dark purple
So lacking-light they're nearly black
They are vibrantly ultraviolet
So thick one breathes them in
You can taste them in your lungs
Heady, intoxicating
A whirlpool of purple ideas in a turquoise sea
Schools of merfolk glisten silver,
flick through your sleep
waltz in your mind
Dreams are luscious fruit
Pomegranate seeds bursting in a spray
Of bright red, like fireworks
Just sweet enough not to pucker your lips
Just sour enough not to curdle your tongue
Dreams are soft fabric
Warm like cotton
Smooth like silk
Sensual like velvet
Blankets to cuddle and wrap up
til just a nose is left peeking out
eskimo kisses with snowy air
But always,
above all,
Dreams are seductive
one must crawl out
clawing at the waves
Escaping up to lighter shades
Hitting air with a gasp.
A shock every morning.
Heart pounding pulse jumping
Every morning I must ask my self
Between the dark luscious soft seductive sea
And the cold rushing gasping heart attacking air
Which is the dream?
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
i don't think i'm getting better
but i'm drinking oat milk again.
it's the stuff my parents buy,
rich and creamy, and it doesn't
have the aftertaste of thick curdle.
and, i mean, i'm still listening to mitski,
but it's strawberry blond, not nobody,
which is equally sad when you read into it –
except i'm trying not to read into things any more.
i got a degree in reading into things
from the same university wherein i walked
the unfamiliar city streets at three in the morning,
looking for a suitable canal to drown myself in.
it was all dropping rocks to test the depth,
hands stuffed in my bright yellow raincoat pockets,
van gogh quotes and 11am seminars
and "i don't really want to die thirsty, maybe i should just
go home, you know?"
but i did that. three years of it, and i went home
to a not-quite home. that's what my parents say.
"what time are you home?" and "aren't you glad to be home?"
except for me, home isn't a four bedroom in warrington.
it's not even a seven bedroom (or, as we had it, six-bedroom-and-one-unusued-gym-room) in lancaster. it's...
well, that's the thing, isn't it?
what is home?
it's certainly not a dairy substitute.
although, i suppose, i'd rather drown in swirls of oat
than swirls of lactose. my parents say i've always been quirky like that.
me. quirky little girl from warrington.
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 7:05 PM UTC