"cyclops" poems
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted
her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent
her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find
obedient!
yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs
she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement
always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
5.5k
I know of just too many Cyclopes,
Let me describe one of them better,
The one who preys on values of men.
So miniature he is - mere few inches,
So often in our pockets he is found,
So crooked he is with a single eye.
When among beautiful babes & gals,
He is active getting used in clicking,
Also used up is he sometimes by fishy men for fishier purposes.
This Cyclops was filming one such similar affair with a lady unaware,
Stripped naked was her body exposed to that bare,
Trick or truth, clothed or naked, she thought not about this cyborg Cyclops filming her **** ever in her wildest of fears.
The young lady is then blackmailed by the Cyclops's master,
"Be quiet about it and serve us in our industry,"
Threatened with publishing publicly of the moments - she gives in to this blackmail.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the journey is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon - you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
may there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbours seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
4.6k
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.
They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
4.2k
1997, 13 AUGUST, THURSDAY
You were laid in your mother’s arms,
All soft black hair and little eyes,
You took your first cry.
2014, 13 AUGUST, WEDNESDAY
Today’s your birthday,
The austere sun is burning,
Like an orange Cyclops-eye.
It’s as if Mother Nature knew
That today’s a special day.
Let the rapture abound and
Your day shall be decked with
Gold and
You shall find bliss in your
Dreams.
Orange is your colour,
Isn’t it?
Was your first shirt orange?
Fire is orange,
And you have fire inside you.
You are the fiery one who’s
Man enough to just be
Silly,
Instead of
Tough.
Your goofy stories
Never fail to tickle our funny bones.
Your adorable doodles
Capture the hearts of all.
But most importantly,
Your endearing laugh
Will stay forever etched in the mind.
Even though I’ve only known you for
114 days,
I regard you as
One of my greatest friends.
Just remember that when you’re feeling down,
Or ‘cb what is there nice in me sia’,
Look a little longer
Stare a little harder into yourself
And you’ll see,
There are some nice things
That you never noticed about yourself.
So in the noblest way,
I wish happy birthday to the one,
Who makes me laugh,
Because he can.
Hope all your wishes come true,
And your birthday cake is as sweet as you.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Shade shifter, turn-me-red.
Master the colors and trick
the disguiser--
morphing electric skin.
Make novelty probing
into the dark
unknown.
Shake suiters with perfect
control, of all the senses.
In a savage land, or a rare
spectacle of courage
no under sea mountain
is too strong.
Or ocean to shallow
to fill the hole,
A schism dares to thunder.
In a serene wave
watched by a moon's
cyclops gaze.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC
no bison on the menu
at the Buffalo; this diner
never served it
Big Mike, long gone
named it for the high shelf
on the prairie behind it
where Lakota learned
to stampede beasts over the edge, massacring
hordes without bow or sweat
the gully below,
their forgotten bone yard,
left little trace of them
save half a skull
Mike exhumed and hung on the wall
in the time of polio
before the wide whizzing interstates
when truckers still landed on his dusty lot
their rolling behemoths content in pasture
in a new millennium, the cafe highway is but
an accidental detour; the shack guarded by thistles,
long departed the Detroit steel
the truckers now in the ground, their bones
free from pillage, but the Cyclops on the wall remains,
eyeing the vacant prairie they all once roamed
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
vampiric ***** house
a fearful symmetry
of cleavers for something to love
***** addicted
pearly satin's copulate
a continent of curves
ovoid rectums and raw mouths
in a ritual of sadistic etiquette
drenching phallus tongued spit
like gales of flames
at a masochists invitation
for foot blooded kisses
and heated lopped breast
eager haunches thunder
in a malignant lust
********* utopias **** cyclops
spreading winkling's dribbling
night operas
in a red cathedral of flicker hives
squealing euphoria's hemic arcade
with greased ******* that break backs
fluting throats ***** chromatic fizz
and shrilling wombs flutter like bat wings pandemonium
in the museum of the moon
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
When they came to my island, the
hero and his crew (more like
an invasive species
of uninvited animals)
The rot from their unwashed feet spilled everywhere--
infestations of foul--
They plucked grapes from my vines slowly, with pride,
as if they kept them themselves,
They came into my cave and stole sheep’s milk and cheese--
The blessed feta: vanished!!
And you wonder why I snacked on two--I had nothing else!
They disregarded emptied wine bottles in clusters in the sand,
Kept me awake in the evening with boisterous, hoglike squeals.
And when I let out a scream myself,
A cry to my native land, to my father,
I spotted my herds scurrying from the cave,
with little hands floating atop their fur,
Then came the electrifying pain
I see a staff, feel the hit, become
disabled.
They took everything and left me blinded
And he is still the hero?
He told me he was Nobody.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
You have abandoned purity for perfection.
Even the blind have moments of clarity
but you ***** around like the Cyclops
feeling nowhere for noman while
affecting a quiet, moronic expression.
You can't knit without needles,
but you have mislaid the point and
so things unravel into random skeins.
Your typewriter rattles only in reverse.
Bards stub their toes and wail.
You hear them, but pay no attention.
You are listening for the atomic thunderclap.
Nothing less than finale of final will do.
When it explodes at last you will know
the inarticulate, unspeakable name of god.
Perhaps Fred. Perhaps Norma or Justine.
Perhaps merely a very loud Boom...
That will be more than enough for one life.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
We walk among the land
with a mask of two.
One eye me.
One eye you.
Can there be an infinity,
if all to see is one?
Our infinity is opening,
there is only one.
Only one choice
one mistake,
one idea,
one life.
See our sprinkles of light
shine gold,
within the dark.
We know that there is no limit in our sparks.
We all fall in the glaze within the eye of
one.
Half of us believe in two eyes,
the rest accepts our being as it is.
Of all the colours surrounding us,
blue,yellow,red,green,purple, and orange.
We can only pick one.
It is impossible to choose two.
The lights that we walk within will forever be engrave
as our faith,
as our soul.
One eye me,
one eye you.
This is who we are.
This is our
World.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Thank god I'm not a Cyclops
Because I could only see your beauty with one eye
If I could grow more eyes
I would
Because getting hit with a baseball is not fun
But seeing in eight different directions is
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
rain illuminates
the pathway
by virtue of street lights
iridescent
in the vapour
past the drug dealers house
to the dark shadows
of conifers
whose outline hides
the shape of potential
muggers lying in wait
I watch through the arrow slit
of the bathroom transom window
of my fortress home
cleaning my teeth
while my ring doorbell's
paranoid cyclops eye
keeps vigil
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
The sunflower is drunk. Fork stuck
In the soil, like roots. It holds the
Skinny ******* in place. How tall
Would you be, if your spine did not
Droop over itself? Did your mother not
Tell you to hold your shoulders up straight?
Still you have scared me since infancy.
Your lanky demeanour, God’s scarecrow.
Upright in the field or against my Grandfather’s
Brick wall. Creeping up in the days.
You grow.
Oh, Cyclops! Your eye it scours
Me. Fixes me with a Martian stare,
Orwellian and deprived, though
Decorated with a halo. Your flower
A startling diagram of creation.
The big bang, black pupil, dark heat
And brown to flames, fans and galaxies.
My heartbeat is a speck somewhere,
I know it.
Sunflower, the awkward arbiter. The
Unknowable in your eye, always watching
But never watched. Your centre burnt like
Charcoal, inescapable void. Don’t take me.
Please, don’t swallow me.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
a bedtime story
In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.
Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.
Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.
Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.
Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.
When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
I arrived
at Janice's grandmother's flat
for the doll's tea party
as I said I would
and Janice took me
into her bedroom
as her gran was in
the sitting room
with two of her elderly friends
talking over cups of tea
Janice showed me
into her room
where there was
a single bed
and a small table
arranged beside it
with two small chairs
in which sat Teddy
a yellowish bear
Golly a red smiling lipped
black doll
and Miss Woolworth
a blonde doll
with curly blonde hair
and blue staring eyes
and a pouty mouth
and a rag doll
with one eye
the other one
empty space
after she had introduced me
to the tea party guests
she showed me
the small stainless tea ***
and six small teacups
and a stainless milk jug
and bowl with a few sugar lumps
do you take sugar?
she asked
I said two and she put
two sugar lumps in a tea cup
and one in hers
and poured the tea
into my cup
and added milk from the jug
she made her own tea
and sat on the bed beside me
then she poured
pretend tea in the cups
of the guests
on the small table
was a plate of small ice cakes
Gran made them for us
Gran's friends have the rest
Janice said
and on another
small plate were four
fingers of KitKat
I sipped the tea
it was weak but warm
in the other room
voices laughed
what's the doll
with one eye called?
I asked
Cyclops
she replied
funny name for a girl doll
I said
don't you remember
Mr Finn saying about
a one-eyed person
the other week?
Janice said
he said it was
a one-eyed savage giant
I replied
o did he?
she said
frowning her forehead
o I see
she said
never mind
I said
it's as good a name
as any
she wasn't convinced
and frowned harder
maybe I ought to call her Grace
Janice said
Grace?
I said
yes I had an aunt
who had one eye called Grace
Janice informed
what was the other eye called?
I said
she laughed out loudly
and then put a hand
over her mouth
and whispered
best not make
too much noise
or Gran will wonder
what we're doing
I sipped more tea
and took one of the iced cakes
we ate the cakes in silence
I gazed at the Golly
smiling at me
then Teddy who sat
with a small
silly smile sewn on
after cakes Janice gave me
a KitKat finger
and we sat
and ate those too
Miss Woolworth hasn't been well
Janice said
o what's wrong with her?
I asked
her left leg
has come loose
and dangles
when you lift her up
Janice said
o dear
I said
giving Janice a stare
she seemed serious
so I didn't smile
there was more laughter
from the women
in the other room
Janice looked at me
and said
glad you could come
and so is Teddy
he likes company
I said
I enjoyed it
and after sipping
the last of the tea
she showed me
her new red beret
and placed it
on her blonde hair
and smiled
then kissed
my cheek
best go
I said
glad other boys
never saw the kiss
or they'd think
I'd gone weak.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
To see this old man shaking here
In rage at boys whose apple-throwing jeers
Reduce him to impotent rage and tears
Is to know Odysseus, home from Troy,
Battle spent, no Cyclops left to blind,
And no more Stygian puzzles to unwind.
The threats he hurls are hollow stones
Coming now from a man whose bones
Once cracked beneath a decking plank
As Scylla searched with serpent heads
For men to crush and swallow, dead,
But Nob'dy now remains to save the day.
The hapless tree whose apples green are peltering his home
Is now an oar, pole-planted tall a thousand miles ashore
As penance for the years of taunting gods of wave and foam,
And boys be savages unaware of what an apple's for.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
the worm burps crasanthyums
like hypnic ****
matter becomes metaphor
thats how the beast works with in us
we are a book of masks
and i'm up to my neck in
mirrors of the marvelous
midnight music beguiles like a blizzard of whispers
flaming candles heat like ovens
burning finger by finger
i melt flabbergasted in dark linoleum clouds
blood gluttonous
tender bites
lips like red rain and trussed thighs
she grins
a face of needles and mice
i think she wants me
this old man, soggy eyed mop
linen wrapped
before aortic aneurysms
i'm a living tarot card
the falling tower and the lovers
break downs and break throughs
my groin a slobbering clot
dreaming ******* drenched
straight jacketed on her knees
***** willow shadows
drooling exacerbations
a caffeinated candy
licked thickly
twitching blinks; rem ejaculations
her face; a tattooed ****
**** mouth smiles
brown one eyed gnome
**** the stinking cyclops
*** talk lubricates
a raspberry crumble
looking for god
omniscient
even in *****
the white swans utterance
incoherence's
dressed in a ****** negligee
her belly a thousand ******* mouths
and i press into her thunder
shattering dawns gravity
a pinhole of empty cups
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
DREAMING OF BEING REAL
I waited with
the bubbles
to cross the street.
One big bubble
winked at me.
It had a rainbow
just off-key of its center
like a Cyclops
eye.
'Bye! ' it blinked
and went out of existence.
I felt sad.
I had really liked that bubble.
My daughter
waiting for red to go green
continued blowing
families of bubbles.
some of the bubbles
crossed the road
before the lights
changed
and got hit by a 69
bus.
Others busted
on a lady's hat
but the lady didn't
notice it.
One hitched a ride
on an exclamation mark
pretending to be
a dog's tail.
Two little baby bubbles
travelled over on my shoulder.
Some newly blown bubbles
dashed across the road
leading delightedly
the way.
Others disappeared up
into a blue so blue
(you wouldn't believe it)
as if summer
was trying to be
a perfect picture postcard
of itself.
'Hold my hand now, love! '
the father in my voice
tinged the words
with love and care.
'Ok! '
my daughter said
trusting the words
the bubbles in the bottle
fell asleep
and dreamed of being
real.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:42 PM UTC
Tears on your grave for you will never see her birthday cake.
You are the embodiment of the mistakes I've made, and will make.
I'm pretty messed up, but you've never seen a mirror.
When all's said and done I'll still be surviving over here.
Better off alone, I was better off alone.
So I'll let you drown. Go back to the ocean you escaped from.
I hooked you like a fish, but you were made of scales, filth, and disease.
So I let you back with pure ease.
I'll see a hungry day without you, I'll never feed into your manipulations.
I was the new toy you changed your mind on and put back on the shelf,
and that is why, I'm better off by myself.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning.
Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips.
Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess.
Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying.
But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts.
But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it.
I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye."
I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces.
I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad...
All in retrospect, friend.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC