"dangling" poems
To all the goodbyes
I say goodnight
To everyone that dies
I hope it's bright
To everyone;
With a razor
Hand of pills
Tied rope
Dangling keys
Extreme height below
Finger over a light trigger
Electricity at hand
Open propane tank
Empty plate, with full glass
Stop, think about who you're leaving behind
I know my words aren't going to stop you, but just read
Did you bother to write and leave a note?
Is it worth it then?
Saying you're sorry, knowing you'll leave someone behind?
Stop. Think about why you're doing it
Do you have nobody?
Think about your opportunities that'll fly past
The chance of ever meeting someone?
Did you lose someone?
Think about if you'll actually see them again?
Being bullied?
Fight back, with whatever you have
Life shoved you down?
No, I'm not asking you to get up!
I'm telling you to get your *** into a nap
Think about all the possibilities that might not be
Think of all the opportunities and people in the future
Think of your legacy
Think of anything except the pain
Now balance the pain and everything else
Want to jump? Skyfall
Want to shoot? Paintball and games
Want to hang? Bungee
Want to overdose? Take 10% of it and party
Suffocate in propane gas, or blow up? Cook a nice meal, invite a friend or family. Surround yourself. No friends and family? Find a friend, build a family.
Want to speed wrong side of the road? Speed on the right side of the road and get carried with the wind, do it over again
Want to cut yourself? Cut off the pain and wrong influences
Electrocute yourself? Rather save electricity and watch a good movie with friends or family. Have none? Watch a movie alone, play a game online. Make friends, build a family
Want to starve yourself so you can get drunker and finally forget it all, when your liver gives in? Eat a lot more, blow off some steam at the gym and build a body that girls/guys would like, attract them and make new friends. Drink with friends.
I've tried many things, some of them didn't work out, or I couldn't stay awake longer. Create new dreams if the old ones died. Work hard for them. Achieve something
"At least leave a ******* legacy behind" is what my bestfriend, Steph used to say
"You can get out of this alive, but maybe a little ****** up, but anything damaged can be repaired" My bestfriend Josh used to say
"Life can carry you away without what you thought you needed" my bestfriend Divene used to say
Even more quotes from people I've lost in my life, so I ask you just think about it all
Still going through with it? Remember it's a one way ticket
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
tell me...
will tomorrow bring,
all the things
i'm longing...
stowed upon its elusive wings,
tirelessly beating
and fighting
to show what's dangling
and hanging...
ready for the picking...
awaiting...
such time so it could begin its need for unloading,
delivering
and dropping,
its gleaming
treasures
on those who are deserving,
in no way lacking
so they could be at the receiving
end of this pressurising,
inking
of dwindling
words...
careless thoughts conceived only to
fuel
my deranged ramblings...
incessant mutterings of a shattering
mind...
bending backwards, almost breaking,
risking...
the chance of ever fully
mending...
hoping and praying
for a sentence that's pending
dawn's approval...
allowing
the rising
of the sun...
paving
ways for thriving
wishes,
unbarring
gates for soaring
dreams, unlocking
latches,
relieving...
the heightening
anxieties of grieving
hearts.
constantly whispering
utterances, promising
good will, happiness
and titillating
sanity.
we're thinking...
the earth is spinning,
the moon is setting,
so the sun must be rising
but...
tell me,
tomorrow...
is it coming?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,
Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,
The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******
of a dangling participle.
Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.
Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.
Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.
Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
A pair of lily white wings
dangling in the dappled moonlight esprit;
hang entangled as silken spider web
draped in the sweet Magnolia tree
From beneath there was no way of knowing
why a pair of abandoned wings lodge mislaid
One could not help but wonder how high
one might fly with cherub wings
But these callused feet tread far below the treetops
too high up from roots to climb
No telltale tiptoe prints cavort to be the talebearer
No feathered traces scattered all around
A hearken say, tickle-footed as a ladybug,
hold forth in a breeze brushed ear
Not completely undoubtable heed spoken;
a language bestow from another ether
softly breathe a whisper'd sigh:
"Behold the wings of a fallen angel;
uplifted by love's amazing grace
Lost alone in a moonstruck blindness
an angel flying too close
to the ground
~
Jesse
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
On this carousel
You and I
Ringing bells
Time passes by
Scorching bulbs
Ornate bobbing horsies
Enchanting music
Tell of magical stories
I am here
On this side
You are there
Same ****** ride
Opposite ends
Placed we two
We can't see
But each other we knew
Friendly peeks
Directed to you
All I could afford
Keep you in view
Still rotating
Ride goes on
Chasing each other
No closer we've drawn
Enjoy the ride
Soak in the sights
Hold at bay
Reality that bites
Thought about
Getting off
Don't know how to
Come to a solve
Can't hold still
It's eating me alive
Can't just stay
Have to strive
Hand still holding on
One foot dangling
Second thoughts play
But bent on releasing
Take the first step
Don't overthink
Take the leap
Step off the brink
Close my eyes
Time is now
Just let go
Fate I must allow
Ready now
Time came to a freeze
*one...two...
three...release*
Now off the carousel
Cloying uncertainty
Never been here
Unknown territory
In the music
Found familiarity
Unsure if here
Is where I want to be
What do I do?
Wait a little more?
Hop back on?
Or await what's in store?
Glad I waited
Glad patience I found
There you are...
Coming back round
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
Tingling thoughts of ******
dangling through the branches of trees
As if dread from an uncertain past;
further floats among the living effigies.
A whisper from long ago still echoes,
where people dare not put foot.
A place, where time slows
A place where men once stood.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
03:00
When I think about never speaking to him again, I picture a girl walking in a crowd that’s all moving in the same direction, and then suddenly she drops everything she’s holding and turns around and starts running as fast as she can, smiling and pushing past everyone till finally she reaches an open space and her face looks like sunshine as her hair blows behind her in the wind and she’s free she’s free, oh God, she’s free.
03:15
But then I think about walking into a doctor’s office ten years from now and sitting on a cold metal table, staring at my legs dangling off the edge, waiting. And then I look up as the door opens slowly, not expecting to see his tattooed arms hidden in a lab coat, but there he is and, oh God, his eyes haven’t changed, and I can’t breathe, and he just stands there, looking at me like an unfinished sentence. Then I’d have to let him put a stethoscope to my chest and listen to my heart and I wonder what it’d sound like, if it would sound like messy half beats of missing him. If he’d be able to tell. If he’d care.
03:30
Or maybe the next time I see him, if I ever see him again, we’ll both be whole versions of ourselves, content and in good places, our lives all sorted out and how we always hoped they’d be. And maybe we’d be able to talk about the weather and our kids and the lives we created apart. And maybe I’d be able to look at him with only feelings of pleasant acquaintance and relative indifference, not seeing the boy I fell for when I should’ve been focused on catching myself.
03:45
And I know I should find comfort in thinking about how one day I may look at him and feel nothing,
04:00
but it’s four in the morning and I don’t want to let go.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
A broken little heart entangles his tears,
that come from a person that he'll never see.
Wet rain boots and ***** feet make him forget
about the darkest nights. His bed and blankets
are like souvenirs from home; a house he'll never
remember. Lies and "I'm sorry"s are trapped in his
hair, dangling behind his ears, whispering such
morbid pain among his lullabies. With every cry he's
screamed for you, can you even hear him? He's afraid
to sleep alone, as the TV erases nightmares oozing from
his eyes, do you care at all? Lost toys and old photographs
make him plead; Oh, but why? He'll never understand the
love he couldn't have, the love you wouldn't give-
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
I see you
I see me
Not being chosen
I see you having more fun
I see you walk by in your seducing scarlet jumpsuit casuallly dismissing me
I see your lips with a dark shade of maroon moving and not a single moment of silence
I see your hazel brown eyes not even glancing towards me
I see the red-brown of your hair but they face me
I see your long silver earings dangling and shaking as you laugh
I see the golden bracelets in your hand slide back as you tie your hair
I see you
I see me
All alone
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC
I
She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper
On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping
Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself
On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.
II
She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes
Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,
Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.
Diamond doubts and ruby
Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;
Audience adored,
Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.
About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box
Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear
Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.
III
Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted
Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting
Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,
She
Enters
Herself.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
At the beginning the oldest man sat on the corner
of the garden wall by the road under a vast
walnut tree known to have been there always
he came back in the afternoon to the cave of shade
in his broad black hat black jacket the striped gray
wool trousers once worn only to church in winter
with a cane on either side resting against the stones
he said when your legs have gone all you can do
is to sit this way and be useless I believe God
he said that is what I am doing I am thinking
and things come to me now when nobody else knows them
he was visited by the dazzling of accidents the boy
who caught his hand in the trip hammer and it came out
like cigarette paper the man with both crushed legs
dangling and the woman murdered and his father the blacksmith
forging the iron fence to put around the place
out on the bare slope where she had fallen I could never
be the smith my father was as he always told me
I was good enough you know but I never had
the taste needed for scythe blades sickles kitchen knives
we preferred to use carriage springs to make them from
in the forge outside the barn there and his were sought after
oh when he had sold all he took to the fair the others
could begin I still have the die for stamping the name
of the village in the blade at the end so you could be sure
10.1k
Today at the train station
A stranger came up to me
And asked for directions.
I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones
Or take him behind the stairwell and
Gut him
And let his family watch as stomach and liver
Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply
Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks
As the half five train approaches.
It would give people a reason to
Remove their sunglasses,
And possibly even their iPods,
Headphones dangling uncomfortably
As they fumble to save a pointless
(As well as futile) situation.
Maybe they would film it with their phones.
Maybe I'd be famous.
Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,
Tell him the correct train to travel on,
And slowly smile as he waddles off
And doesn't believe me.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
I am too close for him to dream about me.
I'm not flying over him, not fleeing him
under the roots of trees. I am too close.
Not with my voice sings the fish in the net.
Not from my finger rolls the ring.
I am too close. A large house is on fire
without my calling for help. Too close
for a bell dangling from my hair to chime.
Too close for me to enter as a guest
before whom the walls part.
Never again will I die so readily,
so far beyond the flesh, so inadvertently
as once in his dream. I am too close,
too close—I hear the hiss
and see the glittering husk of that word,
as I lie immobilized in his embrace. He sleeps,
more available at this moment
to the ticket lady of a one-lion traveling circus
seen but once in his life
than to me lying beside him.
Now a valley grows for her in him, ochre-leaved,
closed off by a snowy mountain
in the azure air. I am too close
to fall out of the sky for him. My scream
might only awaken him. Poor me,
limited to my own form,
but I was a birch tree, I was a lizard,
I emerged from satins and sundials
my skins shimmering in different colors. I possessed
the grace to disappear from astonished eyes,
and that is the rich man's riches. I am too close,
too close for him to dream about me.
I slip my arm out from under his sleeping head.
It's numb, full of imaginary pins and needles.
And on the head of each, ready to be counted,
dance the fallen angels.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
I speak in praise of the ******** yes,
and as a male, I decline to be clandestine about this.
The reason I so admire the ******** is that it's the female's key
to being multiply ******** and frankly, I'm in awe of this.
You see, the male ***** can't compare
because, of course, it has a dual purpose.
It wasn't put there just for bliss,
which is the only purpose of the ********
Males must just resign
themselves to their dangling ganglia, the ****
which is so easy to malign compared to the delicate paradigm
of the **** and its remarkable economy of design.
Now I realize that females may be suspicious
of my focus on their ********
but actually, I think it’s ingenious.
My own discovery of this was serendipitous and propitious.
You see? Really, I’m envious of the ********
because it's indefatigable and delectable,
(I think she likes a little nibble),
and anyway, there’s not much point in trying to distinguish
between *********** and the ********
So there's my poem to the little ****
with admiration and respect.
I speak in praise of the ********
Truly. A gift for all of us.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Its all just words
No faces
No looks, no clothes, no smell
A simple connection
It could have been anybody
But it wasn’t
It started off as a hobby
Something to keep boredom at bay
By now you’re junior olympics... At least
It can be as flawless as beach glass
Or jagged
and farspread like the trees still dieing
I never know what to expect
Excitement
Misunderstanding
Seriousness
Interest
Laughter
Understanding
Awkwardness
Distracted
An idea
... Clearly I could continue
It’s like my little escape hole
A therapist that Actually understands and wants to
We just click
Alined by the sun
Some would say
But I dunno if that’s true
All I know is what I feel
Should I not feel what I feel?
Do I feel what I feel?
Is what I feel real?
Or is it fake
Is it a lie?
Or should I make it one
I don’t know what’s best
How can I
I’m new at this remember
All I know are the words of the known
Who are unknown to me in one world
And an empty chair in the next
I sit down and wait patiently
Until it’s finally my turn, here is where I’ll sit
There is no shame finding comfort in the little things the chair offers
Its smooth silky surface
The wine stain down the middle
the dots that resemble a smile in the corner
You don’t forget what you know so well
You open up your palm
A baby snake inside
He doesn't take it
He doesn't **** it on the spot
He doesn't grimace with disgust
He doesn't burst out in laughter
He picks it up
and cradles it in his hands
And sets it free
Back into the world where it belongs
And then he gives you a dalia
You take it and tuck it behind his ear as something to be admired
He blushes
He needs you too
Maybe
But its real
Almost too real
So you push it away
It’s impossible
It might not even be close to what you think it might be
Forget
And stay silent
Hey
We start again
A haha here
A smiley face too
Climbing up the uncertain mountain that has never been climbed before
The chance of falling high
But you like the chase
And for now
It’s enough
You don’t really care if you summit anyway
A possible “when”
always dangling
Inside the clouds
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
inspired by
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120189/love-cannot-be-controlled-or-confined/
<>
Love is Meant……
and there, I stop…
<>
nnnnyup; continuing on,
this phrase
a self~sufficiency, is it not?
no conditional clause, dangling particle,
no conjunction peg upon to hang your wintered hat,
no adjacent adjective for summer's ending sadness,
no preposition to lead us to sunny places, where we search more
for nouns and pronouns, or to project/protect, in adjectives to clothe our irrationality in logic-e,
logic to define, logic to confine,
illogically
love permits one to say to another human, you mine, hu-mine,
[an aside: "you mine,' (really?)]
a preposterous prepositional insanity notion, that needs no explication,
love is meant, love is meant, love is mean, dream & yet, meant!
stadium sized. concert hall big, mini pup tent,
love is clean+dirty s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
don't you see the self~sufficiency in that?
yet you still seek definition, reasoning, seasoning,
love is meant to-be bent irregular straightaway,
love is meant, to be/not, cold 'n bot, silly hot,
lover is inert, hurt, ert,(1)
love is every point of,
of a sword's length
hilt & blade,
yet ironic,
the tip alone
is a self sufficient *****
to be full~on damaging enough to ****
to fully comprehend,
that love is meant
needs no further modifying defying
pointless phrasal modification of explanation…
s u n d a y
(if the week did not commence with a sunday,
hu-mans would have needed to create one,
to understand,
love is meant)
4:39am
Sun Aug 10
Twenty Twenty Fidelio (5)
in a new york city frame of mine
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:06 AM UTC
Honest,
that meaningless word left dangling before children,
a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,
finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,
birthed in Transylvania,
over the woods, and through the dale, no lie
There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,
Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,
We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if
wait
he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and
how such as we came
to be here,
Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies
and you, believe 'em?
I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but
that would take forever and
that's not how
Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,
You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,
can't tell lies.
Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.
Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.
It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)
Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.
You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,
my momma moved to town.
What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,
movin' t'town, in 1943?
Well, he says,
We had electricity.
USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men
was gone to war.
Cities, it was different,
if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.
In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,
we had electricity.
He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,
to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,
since he was five.
C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,
BLM or some gover'ment
whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.
'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,
and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.
Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,
Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.
Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.
Do the math, I think, and go -
Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,
we had electricity. That's all.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
I was asked today "what
are you really into?"
while I was walking to film
class.
He had changed direction
with a flair of drama
and was walking along,
interrogating me.
I had to think.
I wondered how
I would answer his
question, were it posed
by someone I was interested in.
"I like the smell of hormones
colliding, omnipotent in their
decision to do so and in doing
it."
Could I say that?
"I like to feel like a hormone,"
or
"I like being a hormone."
Were these answers?
"I like patting my contracted
******* against the *****
majora of my partner."
"I like sewing," I might say.
That is, the idea
that if I push
and she opens
both testicles
and ******** may pop inside.
Like a **** needle pulling
a ***** thread
through a tight weave.
I laugh, imagining what the little man
would say, but
he doesn't know why.
"Stitch her up, Doctor!"
I'm
laughing.
He just says "you know, I'm into
chemistry, biology. Just tell me what
you're into."
I've been silent.
Is he still walking with me?
All I think to say is
"music" pointing to the earbuds
dangling over my chest, song
interrupted
by his pedantry.
He says "you've always liked music"
as if we've had this conversation before.
As if we know each other.
And it seems like he will follow me
to class.
And sit by me.
And talk about chemistry
and biology
while we discuss Singin' in the Rain.
Hormones, sewing and music.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
there’s a network of vigilance
around the guarded causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
and smoking rails
leave nothing
but black hooded fate
gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole
bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent steel bars
with pockets pinched
and tumblers dangling
the stone walls soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good painted warrior
loosen a finely tuned grip
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
Lazy hat
Hanging haphazardly
Lazy cigarette
Dangling carelessly
Between middle and index fingers
good morning.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
I saw her
I saw her smile
Focus out through the sparkle
Reflecting from her danglers
And the ones in the atmosphere.
Turquoise sequinned with beige
Crackers, all around her
Our first new year
Where she took me by
My hand, entangling fingers
Lacing, when she thought she'd
Lost me,skipping between
White walls and brown floors
Finding a way out
Through the maze.
Low hung ceiling lamps.
Dragging me back through my memory doors
Remains the same
White walls and brown floors
While I wait outside.
Inside you're having your chemo.
Crackers
Inside my heart
Slithering through my mouth
I see her in between
Those flinging and swinging
Prayer flags, I recollect
Hanging them in the backyard
Of our home, you
Bargained them out
A flea market, before
That year's Diwali
You had inside of you
A life that would bless us
In three months.
A tangerine Georgette Saree
And rhyming with it,
Rani colored bangles
Sneaking up on the roof.
Crackers
White walls, wooden floors
You lie quiet, unmoved.
A skyrocket ups in a distance
As I light you up in flames.
Crackers
You'd always come back
Focusing, defocusing
My memories' pitaara
Sparkling, dangling
Skipping and lacing
Through all those crackers
Lighting me up
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
faintly sinister smiles
twitch their way across her acrobat face
and as her rolling and tumbling expressions
make their way through all manner of devious delight
your hearts hungry eye fixes on her
come hither and lets make whoopee nasty girl dress
her favors are optional
and she will tease but never share
the ever present dangling carrot
like a perfume
fills the air with delights but its just air
shes a happiness monger
so its best if you don't displease
its always a bitter mote neath the plastic vibe
might as well be a rocky mountain monument
little miss twisted in a little patchwork dress
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC