"detectives" poems
someone's in the next room over
having *** while we
are weeping
what a way to mark the occasion
the day my fingers found a wound
you let someone else doctor
it's upsetting see
the bible in drawer next to us
the way our hands still
fit together
like the torn halves
of a love letter
the way you got
all dressed up like the rain
and how we couldn't tell
the difference in the shower
it was the longest hour and a half
spent crying
the hot water wouldn't give up
so why should we
right?
even though it was scalding
neither of us touched the ****
we knew this was supposed to hurt
your hair
a black mess against my shoulder
my fingers
oil in the vinegar of your hands
our bodies
the great divide
all the sobbing
a river runs through it
without the courage
to carry or **** us
so we step out
and drip dry
down to a mute breakfast
composed of quiet
and last nights liquor
as we came back in
there were people in our room
at first i thought them detectives
dissecting things
to see who had died here
i had forgotten this
was a hotel
and they were only
cleaning up after us
i wanted to stop them
plead
that the sheets were still perfect
that if they clean the bathroom
no one will know
what happened here
someone has to remember
*"please
i know
these cigarette burns
by name
i will bury the faucet
let me take the tub
i don't care how
if i have to
i will drag it home by hand*"
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.
Sitting stagnant, songs of stellar
Sing sublime lines
Through minds that remain in cellar,
Never seeing the pines.
Many stagnant years have passed,
Detectives overdue,
The body brought them all aghast,
The stench, the dust, and view.
An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says it’s the tone in your voice
sound of waves crashing against shore
he asks what tone are you referring to what are you hearing
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i’m an artist too you don’t have to tell me
sound of waves crashing against shore
he explains i was simply affirming my vocation in order to elucidate why i perceive another way
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says you don’t need to pose or differentiate for me you are so ******* self-absorbed
sound of waves crashing against shore
he answers self-conscious possibly not self-absorbed i think it is intelligent to question everything to suspect all we see think we know maybe a greater mystery than any of us realize exists beyond all our beliefs
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i think it’s time for us to stop talking
sound of waves crashing against shore
he says why can’t you make it easy why must everything be a fight
sound of waves crashing against shore
her ****** becomes a deep dark narrowing tunnel he is trapped in thinning air smells like ocean
sound of waves crashing against shore
her voice detached distant disaffected says fine
sound of waves crashing against shore
he questions fine? find? line? sign? can you hear me? anyone hear me?
sound of waves crashing against shore
she purposely ignores his panting gasping shrieking
sound of waves crashing against shore
later she tells the surgeon who performs the extraction then the police detectives who conduct the investigation she had no idea he was lost in there
sound of waves crashing against shore
unanimous jury finds her guilty she screams out at courtroom he was a self-absorbed dreamer this is all wrong
sound of waves crashing against shore
the judge declares mistrial dismisses case based on prosecution’s inability to refute so-called artist’s willingness to enter of his own volition
sound of waves crashing against shore
late at night she feels his voice whisper circulating through her body haunting her
sound of waves crashing against shore
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Where goes the time when it flies?
Simplified by expression, and stained by clarity.
Smudge by lucidity
smeared by simplicity
tainted by intelligibility.
Tempus fugit as in time flies.
Sharply distressing with painful feelings
to the point of mental instability
morning or night
we become possessed with its mystic dealings.
Where goes the time when it runs?
Not a solitary explanation is found.
It happens and it won’t stop
until life terminates as well
without cause.
Derived of rationalisation
lacking understanding
short of justification
bursting with vindication
persistently and with conviction.
Where goes the time when it sails?
From the second that we’re born.
Where were we existing?
We cannot be so sure
Cannot recollect the past
Not for the first five of our years
Memory so blur, so shadowy
Hazy with distortions
obscure and confusing
Unit our mind starts slowly to recollect.
Where goes the time when it escapes?
The chronology of life so mysterious.
Nothing can solve its ambiguity
for time is a complex case
with an infinity of secrets.
What’s the obsession when we have so many setbacks
drawbacks and obstacles
obstructions and conundrums
to take care of before time perishes away
and leaves us stranded in oblivion.
Oh time, you magnificent of all mysteries,
the high and mighty of ambiguities.
Show us mercy and explain
we are not detectives of secrecies
your spell with us reflects on the whodunits.
Oh time of things past and yet to come
give us a clue as to what is to derive!
“Remember”
it softly replies “Make most of your lives”
“Once I fly away no one can have a replay”.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
How can we attain the perspective of the introspective
When detectives aren't respected
By crowds drawn by clowns
Made vicious by the wishes
Of Hades with rabies
In order for humanity to progress
We must all consider our place in society
Emotional disclosure accelerates our human race
Until externalizations halt our momentum
We begin to drift
Discourse drifts toward absurdity
Absurdity drifts toward reality
Reality drifts toward Hell
And accepting reality
Means accepting the bullet's laughter
while it drifts through the innocent
Then we must accept where our souls have drifted
So our minds drift into fantasy
We wrap our abandon ties around our neck
And go to work
We live in a society
Where not giving a **** about what others think
Is actually encouraged
Yes, exchanging ideas can hurt
That's whiplash as we stop drifting and jolt in each other's direction
But communication
Takes detours to dead ends
As honesty and compassion
Elude us
In a self-perpetuating cycle
When education's only purpose
Is learning how to ****** each other
Before we know too much
Our species drifts toward extinction
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
People power people, and pick their equals.
Ideas, decisions, and what becomes real.
Whether we stand in a line, elections.
Decide who continues on, selection.
The rich become rich only from people’s contributions.
Using their products, services, or through admiration.
Social media, likes, comments, a way to get attention.
Striving to break from conformity, this world’s automation.
Scream, shout, acting strange in public.
Shoot, attack, people turn on each other, frantic.
People become desperate, run out of options.
Detectives try to figure out motives, using caution.
Joker said it best, why so serious?
Wasting time on the small things, getting furious.
When you can turn it around, hear how they feel.
Truly care and help them heal.
Be a friendlier face, selfless.
To those hiding in their shells, helpless.
Maybe everything seems right for a while.
But this world is in chaos, and in need of smiles.
Why so serious?
Smile
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
You tried to pull a gun on me.
I just pulled mine faster
But what you don't know is
Three days later
I put my gun to my head.
I couldn't live with the fact
That I almost pulled the trigger on you
That I was ready to stop your threat.
What you don't know is one month later
I still had nightmares
That I overdosed on pills
Hoping to never wake up.
Six months later
I still see your face
I still think of the what ifs
One year later
I still wake up screaming
Fighting your invisible threat.
One year and six months later
You voice still haunts me.
You were eager to **** be because I wore a badge and gun.
My coworkers ***** me.
Two against me.
What you two didnt see
The detectives interrogated me.
Told me I asked for it
I should have fought back
One day later the detective picks me up
I tried over dosing minutes before they came
They noticed the cuts but didn't notice
That I was falling fast
I couldn't keep my eyes open.
My speech was slurring
I walked like i was drunk
I made it through the **** kit
I got home and slept for three days straight
One month later i quit my job.
My body couldn't handle the stress
I kept dissociating.
Six months later
I still couldn't have ***
I started learning jujitsu
I had bought a gun
One year later
I was more confident
But i still feared ***
I feared men
I still had nightmares
Two years later
I'm still managing to struggle
I still hear your voices
Still see your faces
Still feel you in my dreams
Two years and six months later
I'm more confident.
I still have difficulty with men.
But now I am well on my way to be a police officer
An EMT
I can't let you win!
Ever!
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
To watch or not to watch.
That is the question;whether it is nobler in my mind to suffer the feels and emotions of addicting shows and yet be so in love with them.
To watch, to cry.
One more episode and only sleep will help me to end.
The heartache and the thousand cinematic shocks the writers are obsessed with.
‘tis a consuming world with everything I wish.
To watch, to cry. To cry-- perhaps too much. Ay, but it's worth it.
For, when watching these shows and knowing what feels may come, when we have shuffled off this depressing factor, we must not forget the humor that makes happiness last oh so long.
To watch characters travel the depths of space and time.
The detectives prove wrong the proud men and even the relationships and love ‘tween the main protagonists.
The insolence of the hiatus that even patient fangirls cannot take. When we go on great adventures with a hobbit and a ring. Who could bear the long wait? To punt a sweat is a weary life. To discover world's unknown from books or shows. We travellers never want to return.
Our fangirl hearts burn and even still
We would rather bear the tears we have Than live in a world where there are none. Thus Fangirls are not cowards, not at all
Thus we are heroes so very proud
So we proudly say take flight on the enterprise with Captain Jean Luc
We bare our lights sabers alight
And lose ourselves in the action
Go we now happy as could be-- off to fangirl forever
To be normal? Ha! Never.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
I've been paying attention more to the airwaves of ether we weave
And also the air around town or wherever else
I feel somewhat inclined to sit in a half crossed and dead legged pose
Clicking the keys of letters in hackneyed prose
You notice a noise and you look up to see
You hear the voice that you wanted to be
Calling for you from the opposite wall of the room
That smiles and laughs despite those people who
Scout out the cues like Jr. Detectives
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
American Detectives
Never remove their hats
When investigating murders
In other people's flats.
P.S. Chinese Tecs
Are far more dreaded!
And they always appear
Bare-headed!
3.2k
A walk around the block in my parents’ neighborhood at dawn
wearing mom’s sweater and pop's sneakers with a clown hole cut out for
toe infection
I was stopped by a cop in a cruiser
this was during the Vietnam War long hair ago
he was angry at everyone I was offended by everything
he said which way are you going I said which way are you going
so he socked me in the mouth and handcuffed me
I was arraigned on disorderly conduct and resisting arrest
my good parents came down and stood beside me before the judge
I wrote to the police department internal affairs
not for retribution but to start a paper trail
in case this cop someday bopped one of my brothers
a few months later I’m back at work in NYC
two detectives come into the city to question me
one good cop one bad cop we park in the park me in the back seat
they wanna know was I mouthy to the cop who punched me in the mouth
long story short
they leave me on a bench to eat my lunch and the charges are dropped
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
DRESSMAKERS to the stars J’Aton have turned designer detectives after one of their most valuable couture gowns was stolen from a bride’s home last week.
The one-of-a-kind gown, which was stolen from Leanne Bartucca’s Greenvale residence along with other valuables, is estimated to be worth more than $40,000.
It weighs more than 18kg, and features intricate 100-year-old vintage French lace that has been carved and sculpted onto leather and layered tulle.
J’Aton designers Anthony Pittorino and Jacob Luppino, who also made the wedding gowns of Rebecca Judd, Nadia Bartel, Jodi Gordon and Yvette Prieto, wife of Michael Jordan, are appealing to the public in the hope that if it goes for sale online, someone will recognise the distinctive dress.
“We are so devastated for our dear friend Leanne; that dress has a special place in our hearts and is so sentimental to us all,” the pair said.
“It’s a dress that we created especially for Leanne, it has her and her husband’s initials embroidered into the train and we just hope that if anyone recognises the distinguishable design for sale on websites or social media, that they report it to the police.”
Ms Bartucca, who wore the dress in March, 2014, says she has been devastated by its theft.
“It’s such a sentimental thing; my family and the J’Aton boys have been checking the internet daily in the hopes that we will see it for sale,” she said.
“I had dreams of using the fabric from it for my children’s christening gowns, and even framing a section of the fabric for our home.
“[The thieves] definitely knew what they were doing. As a former fashion buyer, I was surprised how much they knew — what they left behind was just as telling as what they took.
“They could tell the difference between real and fake jewellery, they left certain shoe brands behind and obviously went straight for the J’Aton dress, which was covered in tissue paper and in a white box at the top of the wardrobe.”
Police said they were investigating whether the burglary was in relation to another in the same area.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
[ final, before flight ]
learnt through dusty feet
and stomachs growlin’ their
dyin’ growls. days and weeks
with leakin’ roof, and
nature’s bountiful army
marchin’ on and through.
candle-lit synthetic canvas
absorbin’ fired raditation,
*** upon baked ground
starin’ at drunken fire pit –
conversed two hours, and
with dawn one side meld’d
in the dancin’ orange and reds.
walk’d macadame, in full June
the tar bubbled to the surface
and patch’d holed soles –
surfaced skin, turn’d black.
graveyard of gypsum;
burnt out child’s playground;
horse protectin’ territory, or life;
pawnin’ everything not bolt’d down –
death of materialism,
birth of a **** off mentality.
bought Black-and-Milds so to
reroll a few cigarettes,
save wood tip for later use.
save everything for later use,
stash everything for later use.
stab’d in stupidity and
made to mend the wound with
worries of:
will i use this hand again?
[ C ]
cryin’ for Annie, cryin’ out,
knowin’ she will return without
my concern. knowin’ she’s
probably rummagin’
through some neighbor’s house.
cryin’ out. cryin’ out.
lyin’ down on pallet’d floor,
gettin’ usher’d out so
she could ****
[ A ]
mouse detectives on VHS,
an awkward glance at left –
all the signs, none of the glory.
misdirectin’ for no reason,
reappearin’ without reason,
disappearin’ for every reason.
[ T ]
road impart’d day’s heat
through all the night, and
moon lit unknown paths.
cryin’ out, peddlin’ faster,
carryin’ weight in
hope at final penance.
no penance.
[ O ]
an artist’s rush,
turn’d paper to masterpiece
with seemin’ lack of effort.
stole heart, keel’d in, cast off to
placebo girl in roomate’s bed.
- - - abrupt ending
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
I'm a little late, so I'll put in my drawer in my night stand a letter I found. Is it a letter? No, it is an invitation to your funeral plans.
As if that is not a smack in my face...WHAM!
You thought I wasn't ever a loyal man because I went away, unplanned. But let me take a stand, for you missed the part where I gave you my hand. I was on a flight one blizzard night. When I get off, my rental car was towed because the company said I owed more for how many miles I put on it. See, the car and I were on a trip to gather your family for you, but you didn't believe me. I stayed in a hotel with them, missing you. Their phone connections were off, too and all I had was the TV in that hotel room. To pass the time of course was my only intention, but when I saw our precious 2 story house on the breaking news, I saw that a fire had taken you. I was utterly confused. I pinched myself because I thought I was dreaming. Until, one day, I saw your will claimed we had nothing to do with each other in terms of our engagement. What a scam! I cried and denied the will until I no longer could feel. It's been months and the detectives are still interviewing me. See, your life was important; way more than me. I went to visit and kiss what was left of the fence. I pleaded with hopelessness, "We want you back!"
Suicide letter found.
It reads:
"Winter grows dead leaves, and the trees are morbidly idle. Our nights grew earlier, and our fights were a given. So I bet you'll view it on the news that house number 652 blew away this winter day. What was my defeat? We were a mismatch, that you knew. You were a backstab, I took it through and through. You were half snatched when I was into you. I never wanted you to be this fool that drools over the fun little boys do. I put you on this pedestal, blind to know the rest of you. I was frozen into your atmosphere of departure, thawed to my agony. Why did you ever leave?"
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
you remind me of the evening thunderstorms: cold, terrifying, yet so beautiful. when i said that your smile radiates joy, i wasn't exaggerating. when i whispered that the touch of your hand warms my heart, i meant it from my deepest palace of mind. the thought of you alone is enough to make my body tremble for i cannot cope with so much feelings. i'm craving for you yet my heartbeat always goes faster every time i think of being close to someone other than myself. i am eager for the sense of your skin against mine but i still can't get rid of these metals that locked my heart out for you. i want to say that i'm madly in love but i don't know if i can be madder than i already am. being with you is like cutting my own body parts into pieces; it hurts so bad but it's much better than being alive and numb. i wish i could take it easy like the detectives when they solve problems but my problem is you and you are nothing but a bunch of puzzle pieces that confuse me all the time. i really wish things weren't so complicated inside this forest in my head.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
New Year’s Celebration
Among mad men in drowning corridors,
built on rusty foundations,
tethered to rotting, sugar-coated
grins, and nestled in the trashcan
of our neighbor’s backyard –
a candle we cannot see burns
out over the mountains, the
ones draped in vacation photographs,
the same set your kitten is named after,
a geological setting, a historical
lesson, a discipline of chances
strewn into another’s handshake
sweat left on the public
bathroom door handle, a smudge
of lipstick left on the countertop,
next to powder – a scene
unimagined for nonexistent detectives.
In a drunken state, we decide to play
Gunshots or Fireworks?
And we laugh when we are wrong.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
My used to be second family sat behind us.
The walls of the courtroom beat me more than my heart could.
It was not my choice,
The order of protection was forced.
I was forced to tell the detectives what my parents wanted to hear.
All of this happened because I made a mistake.
I chose a blondie over a brown eyed beauty.
Now for a whole year my best friend is gone.
His family hates me.
Nothing will be the same.
Adams street will always be dull,
And when I walk down that street more moths are born in my stomach than the hope I told you too keep.
Now I hope.
I hope court didn't sever everything we had.
Straight up.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 1:54 PM UTC
In Abraham Lincoln's city,
Where they remember his lawyer's shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham Lincoln's city ... I saw knucks
In the window of Mister Fischman's second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, "How much?"
"Thirty cents apiece," answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
"I sell a carload a month of these."
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff.
I started for the door.
"Maybe you want a lighter pair,"
Came Mister Fischman's voice.
I opened the door ... and the voice again:
"You are a funny customer."
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham Lincoln's home town.
1.6k
Detectives
They solve mysteries
One day I want to be a detective
So that I can solve the mystery
Of what could be
Between you and me
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
I looked for love,
In high language novels read by men who always wear big glasses, and bigger intellectual endeavors.
In independent films with moody pianists for protagonists, or extravagant detectives, or mad prophets.
In the disappointments of post-12 AM conversations with strangers smoking outside an underground theater.
I looked for love,
In old photographs with brown spots, and wrinkled covers of vinyl records.
In candles with mysteriously inviting names, like “white musk” and “black forest".
In dictionaries that show how nostalgia and exoticism are alike: a longing for the imaginary.
I looked for love,
In between the lines, and tucked into metaphors.
In the closet where I used to hide as a child
In everywhere except for the coffee shop in plain sight where a 23 year old goes to have coffee, and write about how love is nowhere to be found.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
The Dog
I found him, outside the basketball court
Sunday morning.
His golden coat seemed soft like
A Patagonia in dead winter, like
a blanket over your legs when the summer breeze hits.
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
He came up to me with curious eyes; like
A child in a candy store, like
Detectives, always curious, like
staring at the phone waiting for your mother to reply
Curious.
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His gold tail hiding between his legs, ears perked like
when the caffeine finally kicks in, like
recognizing your best friend in the hallway, like
the addition of red roses to a bouquet, like
her ******* when the water is cold
I found him outside the basketball court
Sunday morning,
His fur was matted, his body emaciated like
The body of an anorexic, like
A child rotting from leukemia,
No longer soft, like a Patagonia.
So I covered him with a blanket,
His eyes fearful, not curious but wet
Like his nose hitting my arm, like
Carrying him in my arms, soft
Even in chilly November;
light as a feather.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
If love's a crime,
Then we'd be criminals.
To some eyes, we'd be monsters;
And to many, we'd be devils.
But I wouldn't mind my first name being feared and hated,
Because having your last name is what matters to me.
If love's a crime,
Then we'd be criminals.
We'd be playing with fire and get burned;
We'd be playing tag with the detectives
And hide-and-seek with the cops.
But I wouldn't mind running and hiding with you for the rest of my life.
If love's a crime,
Then we'd be criminals.
We'd be locked behind bars
And treated like animals.
But as long as my hand is hand-cuffed to your hand
And we're together in the same prison cell,
I wouldn't mind wearing a handcuff
And staying in prison for eternity.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
The brightest of moons is shining over us
as we take one hundred steps
towards the home of
the philosopher
the musician
the painter
the fishes
the spider
The coldest of winds is blowing at us
as we are smoking on the balcony
while pondering over
the French man
the plastic bag
the pink book
the city lights
the voyeurs
The greatest of poems are being read by us
as we are drinking wine and juice
while carefully listening to
the repetitive Mexicans
the 5 dollar ******
the thin white duke
the cocktail songs
the local hero
The smell of an old man hits us
as we tumble around in bed
awkwardly discussing
the big soft hands
the great lips
the poetry
the desire
the lust
The sound of the alarm interrupts us
as we are finally face to face
forcing us to stop
the spooning
the laughing
the touching
the kissing
the night
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
Tonight, I'll be at it again.
I'll search the streets like
A detective searching for a
Lost child. Ironic, isn't it,
that detectives are looking for me?
But I'm undetectable, because
I look just like everyone else.
Except I'm not like everyone else;
I'm a monster, Satan in the flesh.
I'm a skilled hunter, just like
A lion. I'll sneak up on you,
And you won't know I'm there
Until I'm tearing into your skin.
The media is saying I get off on
This, well, maybe I do.
Every scream and cry for help
Is stored carefully in my brain.
The term "serial killer" is so
Unfitting. Although I do prefer
Pretty blondes with blue eyes, I'd
**** just about anyone.
Their eyes are my favorite;
That's what gets me every time.
The way they fill with horror
Just before the life drains from them,
It's exhilarating; it's ****
I cannot deny that it
Gets me off, it's the biggest
Thrill I've ever felt.
And the media lies to the
People, saying I'll be caught
And you'll be safe. I am
Unstoppable, I'll never be found.
I'm your worst nightmare;
Lucifer is my middle name.
This is all a game to me,
And it will never end.
Tonight, I'll be at it again.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC