"cuticles" poems
I hate the word "perfect".
Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.
They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.
Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.
Perfection
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.
Perfection
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.
Perfection
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"
Perfection
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.
Perfection
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.
Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.
I hate the word "perfect".
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
I’ll conceal your shifting hands,
Palms pressed,
Calluses to torn cuticles,
All thumbs and knuckles and nails,
And I don’t know her, violet-scented creeping infestation
and
How you’ve worn me down, there’s a hole in my sleeve-
And I’ve let you chew on me, sweat on me, I’ve
I’ve kept you warm
And
You used me,
You used me to conceal
illicit activities,
hands in pockets, shrugging eyes off,
never been cigarettes in there, nope,
And you let her peel me off of you, the one with violet hands
that weren’t so gentle, but violent,
voracious,
tearing in at you,
as I watched from the floor
she scratched the skin that I kept safe and warm,
and
and
Why did you leave me crumpled on the floor and then
And then let her take me home, draped over her bony shoulders
to billow like a parachute,
before she squeezed me half to death that night in her sleep?
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
A decade of trains that lost track
have just turned up in my esophagus,
they are all bile as I am all hands.
This is why I was never frightened by ghosts
and sea specters:
they have been inside of me
the whole time.
Sometimes, hot coal would hit my cuticles,
I could see the steam.
I could feel something like wheels
spinning a web on my nail-beds;
something sat in me like I were a flowerpot.
All that remained were the sticks
of my skin, blood bubbling from below.
But they have been there
the whole time.
I have been a ship in a bottle,
I have been a conductor without knowing.
Fever outlined my spine with its fingers
and I felt I was being kicked by
a fetus.
I was a hallway for phantoms
that believed they still have their limbs
and if not, quills
or a fish with gills and a fin
or locomotive. Mechanical movement still.
How could I not realize
they were inside of me the whole time,
soaking up the nutrition from my throat
shifting the razor while I shave?
Thousands of train-ghosts
crawled from me by an engine of *****
Not one knows where they are.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
I had long forgotten,
This nervous bumping,
Within my stomach of,
Butterfly wings brushing against,
Hearts, lungs, stomachs.
But he has brought it back,
With the fury of a hurricane,
Sudden, only slightly expected,
But never truly prepared.
Each message is now carefully typed,
Carefully prepared, time decided upon,
Each phone call spent nervously,
Picking at my cuticles until the bleed,
My heart is beating out of my chest,
Every time my phone buzzes.
I forgot for so long,
This giddy revelation,
Of fresh emotions and nervous,
Banter across states.
But, God, oh God,
Am I glad he's brought it back.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
A couple becomes comfy...comatose
Their coffins carved carefully
At the cost of the cuticles
That cut the cloth concealing the cause of calumny.
Cut with claws
Claus? Santa has no clue
But the paws with the claws came from Cope,
The coyote cub who clubbed with truth.
Calm,
Palms clasped on Aphrodite's coffee cup
Caffrodite, cups
Cups that carry potential - kinetic, energy,
Crash!
...Chaos conceived carelessly
A ****** tear
This is the C-Section
Confused?
No concern...know care
Because you are capable
Superman,
Cape-able
But soon the caffeine kicks in,
And the common carotid is cooked
Killer
Compare now, casualties to cows...
Not so different
Still, the crowd plays casual
Aloof
So dream of a connection concentrate in a container
And swig
Constrict the fists and relax
To be carried off into the cosmos
Consumed by clouds of gas...
Below are the circus clowns
Coughing, conceiving, creating.
Is it a crime? To be cut off from contemplation?
Akin to Galileo, craniums will roll
While eyes stay still completely
A quiet kiss to the clavicle of our collective cast
Soothes the commotion to
This clamoring performance
A hush to this cacophony
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
Welcome to 5:15am
And I'm so calm
And so prepared
Having changed into pajamas
Out of pajamas
And into a sweater
That I wear too often
Made for men;
Or made for me.
And despite the summer
Despite the desert
Outside is a cold black
Misleading
Considering the thermometer
Reading a cozy 80
Because here, the night coddles you
Like a blanket
And wraps you in something
Anything it can find
And during this hot rainy season
Something sticks to your clothes
To the cuticles of your hair
And you smell like whatever the day
Brought to you.
Welcome to 5:21am
And you haven't been outside yet
But you've changed into pajamas
That don't terribly embarrass you.
And when you finally go outside,,
You'll be getting out of a car
And walking into a hospital
Maybe legs shaking
(I don't know,
You haven't been there yet.)
And you try to calmly wait
While people you don't know
Stick you with things
One of which will knock you out
And you wake up with
Cuts in your body
From taking out the sickness
That's real this time
And tangible
And actually comes from your gut
And actually makes you
Look yourself in the eye
And *****
It's 5:26am
And the pain is starting again
And the ambivalence of today
Hangs on my hair
And my clothes
Until they put me under
And I really have no option.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
The best way to reduce cuticles to bone
And forget what dances behind eyelids
Loosed teardrops and wavering dependability
Useless porch light, shameful gas tank
With shadows which count seconds
Stretching over regrowth
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
oh my darling angel you are the reason i’m still a person with skin
you are the reason i wake up in the morning and smile sometimes
with teeth sometimes without but smile nonetheless//you are the reason i eat
with such gusto because i know you would laugh at the way i wolf down pasta//you are
the reason for the hole in my chest in your absence i collapse like a dying star//you are the reason
i’m trying so hard to be better and//you are the reason i called my therapist’s office and said hi
yes could i please have a listening ear//you are the reason all my cuticles are picked ragged like
so many spiky sea animals warning you not to touch//you are the reason for my writing
the note you left me to write calling me “stinky” still sits on my shelf untouched//you are the reason i’m
insecure about my taste in alcohol//you are the reason i’m not insecure about my laugh anymore//you are the reason that my hair is soft and//you are the reason
i’m shaving my legs again//you are the reason i care about *** at all and//you are the reason it
scares me so ******* much
you are the reason for much of my life as it stands now proud and tall and shaking
like a fawn still wet from her mother’s womb
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 10:36 PM UTC
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)
i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error
and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles
the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons
i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace
avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The sound of fingers
The string of hearts
Pressed wood hallowed out
Digging, digging
Digging, digging
Breathe in breathe out.
It takes courage
Just to exist.
I've tied my heart to a steel string
And lost them around the cuticles
of your fingers.
Of all the cruel things in life
I am glad that you're not one of them.
I've tuned my lips
& Twisted my hips toward you.
You never once laughed
When I mentioned
I am still learning how to dance
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 4:55 AM UTC
There is a creature rarer than
you dare to dream.
If once it flourished
within your lungs,
savor the eternity,
it left on your tongue.
I have been evaded by
that space between the stars.
It's existence has eluded me,
it's true.
But it thrives in side your mouth
in your cuticles, it blooms
traced 'cross your eyelid
wandering from me to you.
Now I grasp the phantom creature,
I feel it's warmth between my thumbs,
taste the word within me,
because this is us and this is love.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
i cant stop sneezing
it took me fifteen minutes to write that
its my birthday but i dont deserve it
i realize myself in sharp bursts
slices between when its all mechanical
closing one eye to type and record it
look at my filthy fingers
scrub cuticles and continue
what abhorrent keys
clean those
(sneeze)
behind me rhythmic tickling
(sneeze)
pirouette
(sneeze)
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
When we finally got there,
you said that you had never been.
You are wrong.
Because on one July 22,
we all sat in the harsh light,
excited about the coming week.
You had great colorful plans.
You made me laugh.
I wrote about you.
I didn't know anything then,
but I know now that was the first time you made me smile.
But now as we filter in,
alone and in the dark,
we sat on opposite sides of the couch.
I hardly made eye contact.
I wish I tried to read you.
All I know is that you sat motionlessly,
hands in your lap,
for once kept to yourself as I slowly peeled back my cuticles.
I just remember staring at your sweater,
I thought it was funny how much it looked like mine.
Two months ago I just wanted your arm around me.
Today I wish I didn't squeeze so hard.
I realized that for the first time,
I'm no longer craving your fingers dancing across my spine.
I'm no longer craving you.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
#NoMakeUp
Chic lookin' like death,
with her dyed platinum blond hair,
her fake silicone **** and all that make up,
over dressed like Halloween **** girl I'm scared,
the less you wear,
the less impressed I am,
you get dressed up just to get messed up,
smoke a cigarette then get your teeth whitened,
you get done up glam,
just to get run up in,
when,
in the world was it ever okay,
to,
disrespect yourself that way?
Getting fckt by strangers,
without getting money or commitments,
that means you're like a **********
a ********** that's not even good at business,
you're a despicable disgrace,
to the entire female race,
you wear all that cover-up,
because you've got Krocodil face,
that's Krocodil with a 'K',
better get it straight,
the kind from Russia,
that will eat your face,
eat your whole face off,
face it,
the facts are basic,
real women look way better without any fake make-up.
The only reason you need it,
is because you don't see this,
plus you fill your stomach,
with fast food *****
you're going down in flames,
what was your name Halley Comet?
Saving money on food,
so you can buy cosmetics,
maybe if you changed your diet,
you wouldn't need cosmetics,
there's nothing romantic,
about cosmetics,
cosmetics cause cancer,
don't you get it?
More vegetables,
less processed cheese,
and your face won't look,
like it's got a disease,
please,
remember these words,
real women look better without any make-up,
without all those name brands we're all naked,
believe whatever you want to,
but these words will still be true...
So stop dying,
your hair to death,
and trying,
to get the guys to stare at your breast,
you are,
so much more beautiful naturally,
and if you,
go natural well actually,
you might find,
a man who loves your mind,
a man that truly loves you,
for who you are inside.
and I promise this,
in all honestness,
no man will ever fall in love,
with a woman because of the size of her breast,
or the color of her hair,
or the brand of her dress,
no real man will ever really care,
whether your outfit is Versace or Guess,
because good men care about the real you,
not fake fashion brand names,
you are not a cow nor are you cattle,
so why would you want a label branding?
And I promise this,
in all honestness,
that this is,
honest honestness.
Real men fall in love with real women,
because of who they really are,
not who they pretend to be,
real men fall in love with real women,
because they love her soul's avatar,
and her divine femininity…
So let your hair grow,
back out to it's natural color,
if you honestly want,
to find a natural lover,
and save your self,
for those special lovers,
that are truly deserving,
of all of your natural wonders,
leave the fake hair,
for the fakers,
leave the toners,
for the loners,
leave the make up and fake dyes,
for the hookers and transvestites,
you,
are beautiful,
without,
the manicured cuticles,
you are beautiful,
just the way you naturally are,
there's no need to alter yourself,
with some silicone and scars.
Just be beautiful Beautiful,
there is no need to pretend,
and leave the makeup and fake body parts,
for the trannies and mannequins... ∆
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
I am the key to the lock in your house
You burned a hole in my heart
Where the arteries flow.
And the veins are
blocked
like gutter drains,
No one can pass -
through the Red Sea,
A no go area.
A hairline fracture into a million capillaries,
Split arteries to take each feeling individual to the tips of my skin.
Still covered beautiful
but a nails cuticles,
Impaled on a cross resembling a torso.
Hollow bones that play like xylophones
In the tombs of hidden organs that echo
&
resonate through the decay of a necrophiliacs playground.
Dislocated limbs swing round a rib cage,
Splinters shatter the skin revealing the droplets of blood that pour like rain and tears combined.
Twist past as they gloop through a cutlets spine.
Always on my mind,
always on my mind.
Cobwebs of memories,
Embedded in a decayed gut,
Dug up like skeletons in cemeteries to find the remedy or medicine to plug the bullet shaped holes you made in my heart.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
I only smoke
when you're around
or when I'm around you,
I don't know which is which
just that a consumption is going on
within me.
You reach down into your pocket book
and pull out a few killing sticks
hopefully,
I'll die of consumption.
That little creature
inside me,
the pink satyr,
jumps
in between my ribs,
whenever you go rummaging
in that golden shimmer of stripper's purse,
and **** out the Marlboros
with a wet-lipped,
wide-arcing
smile.
The creature,
the real me,
plays with his
satyr ****
all day
and bites his nails
and soft cuticles
until the blood runs
and pools in
little
red
pearls.
I am love-starved,
and the satyr is afraid
when he jumps
because that means you're around.
When I'm around you,
or you're around me
something smells,
possibly the iron
of the ******
left-over finger flakes.
The satyr picks up
the soggy,
spit out nails
and shingles
my heart with them.
The satyr shingles my heart
with the fear that you will leave
and that I will have no one
to consume
or be consumed by.
You are my ******
nails and cuticles.
What a ******* emo
you
make me.
I am uncomfortable,
even,
with the notion
that you have an effect
on me.
That's why I dismiss it,
with that whole
"What a ******* emo" title.
And that whole
"What a ******* emo."
last line.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
His h a n d s were so beautiful
Rough, like a first-time bikecrash
Manly, bruised, ragged cuticles
Curiously wandering trough
this undressed f o r e s t
Exploring every part with soft touch
Tryna reach for the appletree
Craving for that fresh taste
When he's giving me h e a d
on the unmade bed
Slowly s i n k i n g
further and further into his love
It h e a t s me up
My bones become gelatin
His breath becomes my o x y g e n
Our heartbeat becomes a melody
His maddening eyes watching me ***
Goosebumps appear all over my skin
This feeling is so confusing and ineffable
Yet so e u p h o r i c and intense
it can't be explained
We're two lights burning on one candle
Together, we melt
into this burning desire
for e a c h o t h e r.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
The moon asleep in the well under
The surface of the blackwater, four
Stars of steel and a badly done
Impersonation of my-
Self,
Erase and compensate
Repeated his voice from the bottom
Of the glass, you
Were shining
You said it again
In Neverland there’s no more room
For the Lost Boys
And she - the moon in the well - had
Lost her lips, removed
Her cuticles
One after the other, she had
Consumed a few names
From the wings of the doves, there
Was no more vision, no more dreams, it was
A realm of shadows, no
Lament was rising
To the ceiling, blood was coming
Back modulating itself in clots, no
Punches
Only water
A lot of water inside
The well, where the moon asleep used to
Lie
Staring at the sky
The bars
The coins
You were shining, locked outside
Collecting
The smell of iron, the colour of dice
A heart broken in a thousand valuable gems, a small
Horse, fragments of coal, your *******
The moon in the well was drowning, was crying, it
Couldn’t be done,
Here is what.
It couldn’t be done.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.
The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.
What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?
Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.
‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.
‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.
Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.
‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.
‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?
‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.
Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.
Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.
I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches drenched
in honey brown ale.
His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
I let you too
far in and like
a brisk wind you
threw my doors
open and whistled
through the kitchen
nestledbetweenthe
crackswithyourdirty
self and skittered beneath
the dishwasher, in the corners
under doors, but I'm sweeping
you out because I want none of
you beneath my fingernails
none of you locked in the
cuticles of my hair, I will
whitewash the walls of
my heart if I have
to.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Ode, my grandparents
I wish you all were here
Without your strong guidance
My mind has failed to come clear
It was such a better place
When you all were here with me
I pray you all have glanced down
To see the man I've grown to be
I give you all the praise
You've laid down the foundation
For this plentiful family we have
Scattered across this vast nation
The sacrifice you've made for me
Allows joyful tears to flow
Til this day our family is still close
Entwined in love we endure to grow
With each sweet conjured thought
I think of every great story
My loving parents told me of you
I reminisce of your past glory
You have done everything for me
Just as God has groomed
Without lessons to my parents
My future would've been doomed
Your beautiful faces
Oh! How we resemble
I take in traits from you all
So much so, in glee, I tremble
You mean so much to me
I promise to make you all proud
Despite all of my minor failures
My love for you screams aloud!
I am grateful for your work
From each of you I take heed
A shot at my heart, no broken skin
I bleed for you, and for my seed
Thank you all so very much
From my cuticles to my hair
I love you all dearly
I'll see you when I get there...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC