"dials" poems
The laughter of leaves
whisper testament
over cool caverns,
ancient moss
the absurdity of clocks
dashed upon rocks
while they dance,
backlit with sunglow,
at the true speed
of life
daring us to defy
the timeless tapestry
in which all are woven
Do stones large and small
not rustle
like leaves
in the eye of the mountain?
and is the leaf not as solid
as stone, to the aphid?
And what lives between
two lover-friends?
It is no brief candle
measured with ticks
on numbered dials
It moves not with the flash
of a single spark
Nor with the slow glow
of dawn
In gentle illumination
it is a soft gentle kiss
drifting on mist,
and it moves
at the speed of love,
with the rhythm of life
Copyright © 2016 K. Rush
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...
Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...
Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...
Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.
At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.
Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.
Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Aimlessly through cornfields flying
quietly and simply listening,
to conversations
to music that's not mine
to laughing and memories being made.
Going no where but not minding.
Numbers fade from importance
and the dials behind the wheel don't matter.
Only the dirt, the road, the growing dark,
no destination,
no worries about going back.
Changing sky, and the people you just met
but are certain you can't forget.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Time is measured
By machines, stars,
Dials, seasons
And all sorts
Of unconscious,
Impersonal equations.
When we measure
Time by the comings and goings
Of people,
Then it becomes personal.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
It's annoying
That I write fullest
As the moon is breaking
At midnight noon
And when the stars
Fleck a paintbrush sky.
Annoying because
I want to be
dreaming
In beaming
sun dials and
Marshmallow clouds
Which swallow me up
Into a rosy pearl.
Annoying because,
Just as I do with the words,
I want to escape the day
Which I can't handle and
ramble
in happy
Nothing.
But this
form of
Escapism
makes me sleepy
and the creeping,
Inescapable day
Ever more... difficult
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
I read a text
Meant for a friend,
One you didn't mean
To send.
Our culmination in technology
Has us now concluded.
A landline would've
Kept me dangling,
But pocket dials don't lie.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
The lizard king came alive in the walls of prophets,
A shrine to help follow the subjects of the topic.
I lost my mind, but found it inside the tombs of those left behind.
I left a part of my soul on La Ciegna Boulevard.
The looking glass had the last laugh,
Some smiled.
The sun dials told the time accurately.
The shadows followed me from one side of the city to the other.
All the way to the coast of the continent.
It was here I found the confidence that was lost in the dominance of you.
We broke on through to the other side,
but it was too soon,
and the other side was the same like butterflies.
Cocooned in symmetrical thoughts of the stars in your eyes.
It’s no surprise we both knew it all at that moment.
Our toes exposed naked in the sand and lost in emotion.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.
Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).
Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.
I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.
I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).
I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
ACT I
DAD: in his late 50's.
TRISTAN: around ten or eleven-years old GLADWIN: in her early 40's.
TRISTAN Dad?
Scene 1
Interior of a cheesy, unkempt motel room. DAD
channel-surfs the cable television, the remote in
his right hand, a cigarette in his left. He's
sitting on the edge of the bed. TRISTAN is on the
bed behind him, crying.
DAD
Yeah bud?
TRISTAN
Is Mom gonna **** herself?
DAD
Well, I hope so.
TRISTAN Dad!
DAD
(Chuckles). What?
TRISTAN
Stop! I'm scared. What if she does?
DAD
Why are you worried? I'm not that lucky.
TRISTAN
(Screaming). C'mon, Dad!
DAD
What? (Chuckles again, longer this time). I'm not.
TRISTAN
Dad, stop. What if she really does?
DAD
Trist, don't be stupid. No one who's really going to
**** themselves tells you like that. They don't sing it
out loud. She's whistling Dixie.
TRISTAN
(Sobbing at this point). Dad, I love Mom.
DAD
(Pause). I know, and I-
(DAD'S cellphone rings. He answers
immediately)
Hold on, Trist. It's your fat mother.
Hello? Yeah. Yeah, you have this kid scared to death.
Would you just tell him you're--What? Alright, Glad.
Well enough's enough. (Pause). Okay. (Reacting loudly).
Oh, quit screaming in my ear! Trist, (extends the phone
to TRISTAN) here.
spotlight comes up on GLADWIN, who is stageleft,
lying in bed and on the phone.
GLADWIN
Trist! Trist? Say goodbye to Mama. I'm going away.
TRISTAN
Wait! Don't do anything bad, please.
GLADWIN
I'm gonna swallow my pills, Trist. I'm gonna take them
all and I won't be around anymore, honey...
TRISTAN
No! Mom, don't!
GLADWIN
...so just say goodbye to Mama and don't ever...
TRISTAN
Mom! Stop. Please, stop, just don't!
GLADWIN
...forget that I love you.
Spotlight goes out on GLADWIN.
TRISTAN
No! (Looks at DAD). Dad, she can't!
(He drops the cellphone)
Oh my God!
(Leaping off the bed and fumbling with
the phone in his hands, he hurries it to
his ear)
Hello? Mom? Mom?
(He closes the phone and quickly reopens
it. He dials GLADWIN'S cellphone)
DAD
Trist, take it easy. She's fine. Stop calling and go to
bed.
TRISTAN
She won't answer! (Breaking down). She won't answer.
(Lets out a piercing cry). Dad!
(DAD lights another cigarette and pulls
TRISTAN onto the bed and under his right
arm)
DAD
(Rubbing TRISTAN'S back gently). Go to sleep, babe.
She'll be there tomorrow morning.
TRISTAN
But--
DAD
Ah, ah! What did I just say? Everything will be okay.
TRISTAN
(Calming, but still anxious). You promise?
DAD
Promise, kiddo.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
"You are my friend.
Please do me a favor.
Give Bobby this phone number.
Don't tell him I told you to.
Maybe he'll call before Dr. Mendrokis and his wife get home.
The children are sleeping in their beds.
I don't really care for being alone.
Tell Bobby to call me on the Doctor's phone."
Jill tries to study but it's quiet tonight.
The telephone rings to her delight.
It must be Bobby.
"Hello"
There is a silence, but she can tell someone is on the line.
"Bobby?"
Nobody answers so she hangs up the phone.
Jill Johnson doesn't like
To be alone.
The clock ticks on.
She hears a racket in the kitchen.
It's the ice-maker in the freezer.
She takes a fudgesicle out of the pack,
As she wonders if Bobby will try to call back.
The phone rings.
Jill says,"Hello, Bobby? What do you know?"
"Have you checked the children?"
Jill hangs up the phone.
At the weather, Jill fixes a drink.
They won't notice a little missing brandy, she thinks.
That call was scary.
His voice was dark.
Maybe it was Bobby
Who was just pretending.
Maybe she doesn't like him much, anyway.
He's kind of a ****
The phone rings again.
"Have you checked the children?"
"This isn't funny, Bobby. Don't call back, anymore."
"Why haven't you checked the children?"
Jill slams down the receiver in a panic.
She dials the police on the rotary as fast as she can.
She's terrified and alone.
The policeman tells her,
If the man calls back,
The call will be traced
If she keeps him on the line.
She sits on the stool by the stairs.
She silently waits.
She's scared.
The phone rings.
"H-Hello..."
"It's me."
"I know."
"Why haven't you checked the children?"
"You, You can see me?"
"Yes."
"I turned the lights down.
I''ll turn them back up if you'd like."
"No."
"You really scared me before,
If that's what you wanted.
Is that what you wanted?"
"No."
"What did you want?"
"Your blood...all over me."
Jill hangs up the the phone,
It rings again.
She answers the phone and screams,
"Leave me alone!"
The policeman then says,
"Your life is in danger.
Soon, police will be there.
Get out of the house...
The call is coming from upstairs!"
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Tangy scent of ginger ale,
Hands stained cotton-pale,
Flames crowd your barren soul,
A childless mother, not completely whole.
Colors burn through your mind,
Words blaring that aren't so kind,
Forever trapped in an endless maze,
Your own father called it a "passing" phase.
Only you know the truth of it all,
You miss the days before the Voice would call,
No matter how long or how good the day,
The Voice always got away.
"Illusions," they called the voices you heard,
But to you they were as vivid as the song of a bird,
Chirping outside your window to greet this fruitful morning,
Soon to be faded by the Voice's scorning.
Dull and gray your nights transform,
Like a passionate magician with no acts to perform,
The last straw pushes your limits too far,
Like a flame engulfing spilled tar.
Bucket of white and paint brush so clean,
You're painting your flaws away before they'll be seen,
A gulp of ginger ale along the way,
White you've been painted and white you will stay.
You find a pair of scissors and snip off your hair,
Leaving your scalp looking erratically bare,
You head to your room for a final glance,
Really, it's because you're hoping to be given one last chance.
"You've been bad," the Voice would state,
In a tone of voice you're starting to hate,
You grab your phone and make some calls,
Then head to the bathroom with the checkered walls.
A few moments later you lay in the bathtub,
Already your fingers feel slightly numb,
You read the instructions and swallow the pill,
Inhale and exhale to get rid of the chill.
Your eyelids grow heavy and your head is sore,
You turn on some music that you adore,
Your chest feels tight and you brace yourself,
Place your phone on the top-right shelf.
Your best friend finds you later that week,
Her fingers start shaking and she's too shocked to speak,
She clutches your phone and as she dials 9-1-1,
She finds your note that writes, "The Voice won."
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
You broke bread and cracked voices.
Accompanied choruses of songs
you never bothered to learn.
Played God with radio dials and
sought salvation in airwaves,
leaving translation to the speakerbox.
Like a proper disciple-turned-prophet,
the static air took artistic liberties
and ****** up the message.
In all honesty, you wanted
so badly
to believe that this time, together,
you could out-live the reckoning.
That this time you were
something divine.
But tonight you're too sober to speak
and too tired to try.
Once again, you apologize.
She'll cradle your cheeks just so,
with such delicate touch
you're almost convinced it's done lovingly.
(You've been trained to speak
between such parentheses.)
You always tell her exactly what she wants to hear
but never what she needs to know.
You both leapt from this bed, aiming for Space,
Hoping for something biblical,
but found, once again, that the sky
is nothing more than a mausoleum of stars.
And what
goes
up
Must
come
down.
From that funeral view
the truth collided into you
quicker than the avenue below.
Now you know what the moon must have felt
when the rockets came promising that
after this, things will never be the same,
then left just as quickly
with their pockets full of rocks.
You know what it's like when they steal part of you
just to put it on display.
It takes this distance
238,900 miles,
from here to the moon,
to leave your Me at ground level
and plummet into the
second person singular.
From depth like this
it's almost as if,
it never really happened to you at all.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
He fancies himself a cowboy
In line at the corner store
Concealed carry snug on his hip
(He secretly hopes someone gives him some lip)
The cashier hands him his change without meeting his gaze
He’s surprised and aroused.
She knows her place.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
He fancies himself a nonconformist.
A free thinker
The sheep will all do what they’re told
And he’ll be ****** before he goes peacefully to slaughter.
It was easy, he figured it out
Demanding proof is just an excuse to hide behind doubt
A warrior,
he wields the flaming sword of truth
His wife asks a question; he breaks her front tooth.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
Somewhere a fat man is checking the math as he’s being served lunch
Picking through numbers, looking for nibbles
He dribbles drool onto his chin,
as he dials his guy in The Caymans
His stomach is rumbling, it’s never enough!
To deepen ones pockets, one first must make cuts.
The determinant cause for the silver mine fire
Will read “Accident: faulty electrical wire; Company denies liability
per signed agreement at hire.”
And the cowboy free thinker won’t laugh at the joke,
he’ll just choke
There will be no survivors
But today, The Cowboy nurses his hate,
while Somewhere a fat man is writing the fate of the cowboy in pen,
pleased to be Great Again.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 4:24 AM UTC
The space ship that I bought today
Is genuine ex-Milky Way
Titanium panels, gleaming white
Slighly warped by galactic flight
Ten zillion miles on the clock
But brand new dials and air lock
It'll see me good for a squillion more
So, lever down, I shut the door
And press some buttons blue then red
A mighty rumble frightens Ted
My copilot pressed into his seat
As jet fuel and ignition meet
I grip Ted's arm, the countdown starts
I'm glad I brought the ship's spare parts
Then all at once the radio cracks
I turn the volume up to max
What halts the progress of my ship?
"That cardboard box is for the tip.
Now come on out it's time for tea."
...Why does dad rule this galaxy?
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 3:49 PM UTC
As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.
Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
All of the pencils in the drawer are broken
Friday Night I'm sick of being alone
Hopping off the curb in search of the killer
Sniffing out the house parties
They like the bass loud and it swells
******* us inside past ten parked cars
They freestyle about
Gun fire and blood on concrete
He said I didn't believe him
Cracked out beyond repair
He shows me the scythe and hammer tattoo on his left breast
I laugh with the proletariat
Cheers and some soul passes me the bottle
Cigarette smoke contained by plaster walls
I'm eight days sober
Don't tread on me
Says a ***** blond next to me on the couch
All strung out she is searching
Searching for a bent spoon and needle in the tall grass
Back yard a bonfire
Walking barefoot on broken
Heineken bottles strewn in the shadows
Popping molly and sweating
She called me a hick
Her dopamine receptors
Rubbed flat by heavy grade sandpaper
I called her nothing
I was too busy watching
The rats scurry against the wall
To their safe warm nest
In the insulation
A hand around my wrist
Milk white incubus
With breath like puked whiskey
I escaped through a hole in the couch
I fell between the cracked leather cushions
And slept with the rats in piles of pink
Fiberglass insulation scratching at the flesh
I slip outside through the cracked window
A woman stands at a console
Turning dials that cause the streetlights to dim
And bleed storefront windows fractals of neon
She asks me what else I would like to know about the world.
Someone tells me to get in and the door shuts
A sound like gunfire I perspire sweat with cough
Syrup scent peaking on the dark road to Okeechobee
I should **** myself or run barefoot again through your head
Where the forest floor is warm and the trees are alive always with birdsong
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
drunk dials at 3:30 AM
all you've wanted
is some fun for the night
but i don't really mind it
you know i'm open minded
and i know you feel the way
that i feel for you
when you're finding it hard to take breaths
and we're close against each other
you say it in a whisper
it doesn't matter if you're sober
all i want is for you to come over
kiss me on my neck
and then on my shoulder
i want the feel of your skin on mine
it's like we've collided into a galaxy
no matter what i say i know you can't be mad at me
let's take a walk through the library
walking in silence
but letting our hearts do the thinking
i gaze into you
and your rancorous heart
transforms into a loving one
with only the capability of loving me
i sit in class and write your name upon my skin
i think about you a lot
and the drunken dial is the only thought i've got
i love you so much but you don't even know it
i've got your number
i want to call you
but i don't want to blow it
tell me i'm your little princess
you could be my prince
we can live forever in a castle
since we met, i've loved you ever since
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
a decapitated dog put on too many sticks to reach out and bite a child who only wanted to play with a soft touch and gapped holed grin.
the lights go out when you can´t know when, say yes to hold lights for when ´when´ happens ¨you can trip and fall¨.
glasses melted with fire to become bigger for a bigger head are still to dark to wear in shadow.
tilted camera you stare with a corked head curious to what goes on behind me, won´t you look my way instead.
dragonfly warrior poorly protecting his flourescent queen from the onslaught of molecules in a world filled with air, with air, with air, air, air.
the volume of speakers are controlled by tiny gods moving their tiny fingers, just a littly bit louder my dear.
can you remember when landline telephones were used, I remember circle dials and zero always took the longest, when did phone get rid of tele?
white flowers and white hanging sheets with yellow sun bolts raining on a clear sky shout with thunder from a noisless wind, I wear earphones tonight.
trees dance better then me, plants taste better then me, pianos sound better then me, me is better then me, we´re equals.
fat cat dreams of being skinny, he wears eye liner on weekdays and thongs on the weekends.
sometimes yoga makes me feel like a woman who feels **** then yoga makes me think what that thought means?
rocks are hot when heated.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
One hundred years of solitude
and Marquez still couldn't shut you up,
your words tear down the walls of Macondo,
heckling the Buendías, poking fun at Aureliano
and his golden fishes. The circular history
spins to a halt, and I fold down
the corner of a page, as if closing the book
could save the city built on paper,
on the Formica tabletop
of an old café with a broken clock
A few chapters back,
you were chastising time,
saying one day you'd
crack your watch open,
rearrange the gears, twirl the dials
and steal back from the ticking hands
that steal so much from you. On page 178,
you committed abominations,
spooning sugar into espresso,
and declared your love for Dali because
the man melted time,
didn't care for anything
not molded to the back of a horse.
Cranberry scone finished,
you ruffle the newspaper,
bemoaning the stockbrokers
who grow fat and complacent
on the crumbs of seconds,
chewing chronological cud, you called it,
but you said nothing could ever pin you down,
much less some cheap Timex
on a nylon strap. Cast out of the fourth dimension,
Marquez scribbles graves for the Buendías,
in death, they've forgotten the original sin
and the Colonel forges fish
from the gold fastenings on his casket
ad infinitum.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Oh shall we play space men today
and build a rocket Ted
we need two suits some gloves and boots
and helmets for our head
A packing crate stood tall and straight
dad's funnel placed on top
three books so thin each one a fin
and Mommies broken mop
A beanbag chair we two can share
and buttons we can push
some sandwiches and light switches
and cans of Orange crush
Some dials and springs and other things
we found in daddies shed
now that looks neat so take a seat
and start the countdown Ted
We watched the stars that once so far
where now within our grip
Count ten to one ignition on
Blast off in rocket ship
The silver moon would greet us soon
as upward we both sped
through clouds of white to black of night
just me and mister Ted
The rocket turned as thrusters burned
as we altered our course
for here you see the gravity
Had very little force
We journeyed forth toward the north
by meteor and star
as comets whizzed and pinged and fizzed
and flew both near and far
We passed the plough and saw a cow
jump clean over the moon
then stations manned prepared to land
beside a giant dune
Beneath our feet a silver sheet
of fallen stars and sand
and as we two took in the view
Ted held me by the hand
The solar breeze blew round our knees
and tickled as it passed
time now to go yes Ted I know
this day has gone so fast
seated inside we watched the tide
So slowly ebb and flow
then 10 to 1 zero and gone
we raced the mornings glow
home safe and sound we kissed the ground
and ran in for our tea
I turned to Ted and softly said
the moon just winked at me
What shall we be next time said he
cowboys or maybe kings
I do not know I whispered low
let's see what morning brings
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Young Americans, all volunteers
Sampling English women and English beer
Over sexed, over paid and over here
In the scrubby bit next to Sally's house there used to stand another cottage. If you scrape away some soil you can find floor bricks. A german fighter tailed some bombers back, shot one down as it made its final landing approach.It crashed short, demolishing the cottage. When Sally first moved in there were bits of metal laying around and dials hanging in the trees. An old boy turned up one day, a surviving crew member. They gave him some bits of his old plane to take home.
On planes with names like
Frivolous Sal, Dauntless Dotty
Million $ Baby, Memphis Belle
Sylvia was a child during the war.They saw a german fighter shot down, the pilot managed to open his chute. He walked up to their house, knocked on the door and gave himself up. Sylvia's dad marched him down to the Police Station.
Braving the freezing hostile skies
Thousands and thousands of you guys
How can we thank you
After you've died?
Next to Diane's house, hidden in the trees are the remains of nissen huts built as accommodation for the airmen. Not much left after 70 years, a few concrete block walls. Now and again she used to see some misty-eyed old guy gazing into the trees.
Long after you're gone
The land remembers
Bears the scars
Of those few years of turmoil
David is a gardener in our village, nice guy, should have retired by now. Don't think his father ever kept in touch.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
Days pass by and people change
Some for better, some for not
You don't know why you're together
You were in love, but now you're not
To see each other daily
Is this the life you bought?
You've gone different directions
You were in love, but now your'e not
Once day you were a couple
Your lives were full of fun and smiles
To stop each others heartbreak
You'd walk a million miles
But, now the light has dimmed
You've gone and switched the dials
To get away from one another
You'd walk a million miles
Once you had love
Much stronger than
Any love you've ever known
Now, you just get on with life
No affection ever shown
Your kisses leave a bitter taste
Your disdain for each has grown
You stay away and live your lives
You're happier alone
It's a love story familiar
With too many folks it seems
You fall in love, get married
And you share all of your dreams
But real life comes, And people change
Some for better, some for worse
Now, you look upon your marriage
As a god forsaken curse
Being happy's not a given
It takes work and lots of time
But, the end result is worth it
Even with all of the cryin'
You know that change is coming
Things aren't always status quo
So, embrace the change together
It's more fun with one you know
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
Let me just remind myself:
There's love forever
on the center shelf.
No trust wh'soever
with no one else.
Just the Sun
and myself.
I feel too much
and I take the hit.
In my wicked place --
I always get bit.
Not from any face.
Nor cast by no smiles.
It's all in the time line.
The levels of your dials.
But let me step back and remind myself.
I care too much
and link right in.
I know I am just
hooked on skin.
So cut the lust
and tame the fire.
Pass the hour
with me, I'm tired.
Let me just remind my self,
of all the love
on my center shelf.
'Cause **** i feel
like I'm running out.
Action surrounds me
like its all about:
**"how much else can i get
and still have you?"**
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
A few years ago at some point in a day
I remember sitting on a bay
A bay that was a tank holding fish
So many fish that I wish I had not eaten from my dish
I’ve had my fair share of meat
And I wish that instead I had something made from wheat
I wish I had just ordered garlic bread
Instead of something that was already dead
Every year cows pigs and millions of others
Are taken to the slaughter away from their mothers
Away from their small cages and all that they’ve known
Away from their friends and what they call home
Every year pigs and cows
Are raised to have their necks broken like bows
Why does everyone just this occur
When harmless animals are sent to the slaughter
Why don’t people just go vegan
And help the animals that are gonna get eaten
We need to change from societies meat filled plate
And argue the toss put up a debate
Why don’t we just tell them what it is
Even if some people wanna take the ****
I am a vegan, that’s what it is
I am a vegan, and I am disgusted
I am disgusted that society thinks its okay to eat meat
Something that from birth only gets beat
So instead I eat food made from wheat shred
Because I don’t want to eat something that is already dead
Animal bodies are casted aside into meat pans and fryers
Advertised by KFCs top of the range liers
It is not finger lickin’ good
It’s something that should not have been murdered before its adulthood
Now some people think it’s okay to pay 15 quid
For something that makes me wanna cry and it’s fried squid
Now they might say “I only have it on occasion”
But that squid had a life, plus its Asian
Why not just let them be where they’re meant to next to China
Instead of eating them in some chain restaurant diner
All of these animals are meant to have different life styles
But all it says on the packet is turn on the oven and twist these dials
We need to change what society tells us to eat
And we need to stop eating meat
Because if we don’t change
Then society will stay deranged
I don’t care if you say “but Tom its free range”
Because if you eat meat you don’t use your brain
At least not to its’ full potential anyway
And I hope you at least think about this all day
Because I want you to change you ways
So don’t take the cows away from their grass
And do something other than sitting on your ****
Stop and Think
Before you pick up the milk to take a drink
Because these cows pigs and millions of others
Are raised to be slaughtered and are taken from their mothers
I’m sure if you had a daughter
You wouldn’t want her to be taken to the slaughter
Because these cows, pigs and millions of others
Just remember all of them had mothers.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
My father’s watch,
I notice stopped.
His movement ceased
to turn the cogs,
that spin the gears,
which move the dials,
that give the promise
of a while.
The watch now mine,
but still it’s stopped.
It sits inside a precious box.
The frozen hands,
my father still,
his whispered breath,
his secrets kept.
Regret, regret.
One day ready
to wear that watch,
I’ll move the gears,
start time again,
in good knowing
the hour I’m stood
will come to be,
eventually.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC