"divets" poems
"Turn back the pages of history,
and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs,
but they lived rather than existed,"
said Hunter S. Thompson
at age 17,
before he became The Duke,
and shaved off a leg in Doonsbury cartoons,
before he rapped the sharp corner of his shot glass,
so too many times,
on the inch thick enamel,
of the Woody Creek Tavern bar top,
and waited until closing time
to begin blowing lines,
out of the divets he'd made.
The people clapping,
the moon attacking,
the red bone blood of America pumping past his eyes.
After he died, everyone there had a Hunter story:
Hunter shot his hot girl assistant in the *** by mistake,
but he felt like **** about it.
Hunter had a dozen red cheeked lasses he skied with,
but he never messed with them.
Hunter showed up in a Cadillac convertible packed with
strippers dressed burlesque.
But it was hard to tell just exactly what he was up to with
the strippers, the peacocks,
or anything else.
Alot of the stories had ****** implications,
but what they mostly implied
was he was cool about it.
He didn't write any of those stories.
Despite all evidence to the contrary he liked his privacy,
and what peace he found in rare quiet.
And he made **** sure they'd shoot his ashes
out of a ******* canon when he died.
The canon is still there.
So are the peacocks.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
Press me into the mossed tree
flanked in auric diaspora
lifting billowing dress with one hand
pressing it with mine into the drape of fabric
framed by tree bark divets
breath incumbent
drifting in mellowed heaves
heavy against my frame
pulse cadence
requisite engorging
blood thinned
eyes dilated
spine *****
pinning me
expectancy
pelvic tilt
sacral arch
calf raking thigh
I climb you
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
Honeysuckles blooming
In the harsh summer heat
Luring the butterflies near
All eager to eat
Honey-like nectar
An alluringly tender treat
I wonder if those lips will taste
As irresistibly sweet
Vines creeping and trailing
Covering me from head to toe
lacing into the divets of my skin
Choking me slow
A beading drop of honey
Gliding gently on my tongue
Soft fragrance lingers
All from when we were young
He is entangled in my soul
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 10:27 AM UTC
these old books and all those boys
tripping on squeaking baby toys
your mother's last apartment floor creaking
under seven or eight count teenage weight
spilling boxes of recorders and claves
from the highest shelf and a xylophone
crashing onto solid oak table
spilling the last standing mug of tea
steaming, staining, spitting varnish
resolving to small puddles
in the divets on the table
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
Abiding in tidy quarters
In which space I will confine
But my life is full of hoarders,
Pack things rashly in my mind
Some more obvious, some more subtle
Seems likely I'll never
See through the rubble.
Rational thought can be transferred
Transplaced
Deterred
Through the nostalgia of a *** once stirred
Finding divets of respect
For those who expect me
To level at their self inflicted debt
Is beyond words that come to be
Break the dams down of succession
Find my daily dosed oppression
Is within the people I reside
I can't run, cause they know where I hide.
Move with me; I've moved with you
Contorted into mentalities by body couldn't do
Just to watch you stay untrue
I can't reflex anymore,
I'm deadened to your dramatic lores.
Done waiting for the progress
For reciprocation past due
Cause I'm waiting to wane this fever,
And the antidote's not you.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
every pretty metaphor has been used,
so instead of telling you,
"your eyes are like stars",
or,
"your skin is like glass",
or,
"your teeth are like porcelain",
I'll tell you the truth.
your eyes are brown,
brown like the color of blood,
when it's dried into my cotton sleeves.
with little dark flecks that look like footsteps in desert sand.
your skin is a landscape map.
it's got bumps and pockmarks and divets
and hills and valleys and wrinkled canyons
and forests where you don't shave because you don't care (I like that).
your teeth are tombstones.
a little jagged. not quite diamond white.
you smile too big for your cheeks, and
you had all your wisdom teeth cut out before we met
(you wish you had asked the dentist to keep them, but you were on drugs and forgot).
by now you're probably thinking,
"is this an insult?"
and I want to clarify that, no, it's not.
I think your eyes and your skin and your teeth are so ******* beautiful
I've looked at you and wanted to cry.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
Floating
engulfed in penny light
the coppery-brine amalgamation penetrates my mouth
swallowing
viscous globe of blood-riddled ***
the shards of shell
spines split by the tide
echo my sentiments
current eschews shallow alluvial grave
cognizant cicumvolution
ambient gyre
diffuses carapace shrapnel into my calves
gulls enigmatically screech-stripped
slap briny padded patterns into the shoreline
pausing only upon my primal glottal stop
toes curl about inundated sand
clouting divets shift
dilatory run – slammed inert by invariable wave
cochineal effluvium plumes lilt
crepuscular rays refract further distortions
Neath the water I blindly ***** my body
Ridged projections jut from smoothed flesh
Puckering at my own touch
I sink beneath atmosphere
liquescent folds embrace promptly
I drop beneath chaos
Bare palm dig into viscid terrain
rung after rung demanding presence into the depths
I claw forth onto a sand bar
emerging
shard flanked form
eyes blazing
cuticles numb
pulse flit
patina of blood and grit
Fulgent tread propels
Upon shore
I walk back to my residence
A warrior - mortal
plated in copper and brine
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
voices occur now,
or sprout up, one next to another one,
rowhouses built between
the natural divets and gaps
in our sound.
at first the male one starts chanting,
a softer female one sings next.
she affirms the divine hollow in each of our centers.
she says the first stage of the self healing has already begun.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 5:01 AM UTC
Every wich way a switch blade cuts
The divets of the wounds give me a rush
Just enough too make me blush
Like...god **** can you really tell I like it that much?
Give me a bucket full of blood and a paint brush
I'll paint these walls, while you build a dutch
Never ever, lean on me cause I'm not a crutch
-J.A.M
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
his whole life, in those
big-brown eyes
(burning, why aren't you helping me?)
everything wrong with the world is in
the divets between his ribs
the sharp jab
of his collarbone
against his black-black skin
**** my iphone's broken again).
this kid has got to be twelve
starving years old
(he doesn't look half that).
we first-world ******** looking at that photograph
(feel sorry for a moment).
his whole world pooled in
the furrow over his eyebrows
(not understanding
his misery).
a hand wrapped
all the way around his arm, pulling him
back towards
the hunger,
but he stares
he
watches
that camera lens,
waiting
for
his
call
his
cry
to
be
heard.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
For me on your way,
Tell them I miss them
in every single way
Their glittering like gems
It aches more than words can say
The divets and patches across the stars
Are mirrored in my heart
As I dig my feet into the grass
Empty spaces pierced with Twinkles
Like lightning bugs in jars
Memories fade to dark
Ill sustained by lengthy time apart
May they not forget me
Collectively my spark
I'll pass on my memories
I'll strike a light so bright
it leaves a mark
not visible by so far
But caught up in solar whispers
May it carry from star to star
And tell you of news and how we are
Making a way back
To kiss you close
message from afar
A kiss on the solar wind
Travelling from quasar to quasar
With passion,
Your long lost love.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 4:19 AM UTC
There is no easy way to let go, no shortcut to say goodbye for a really really long time. I guess you had been practicing in the mirror what you'd tell me if you ever got the chance because you took it. It was like we were in the fighting ring but i told you so many times i wasn't strong enough to defeat you. But over and over again you had your way with me. Pulled my hair like we were in the bedroom but i stopped falling for that when you told me the key to your heart was locked inside my very own thighs. Said if i opened them enough for you to slip in you'd grab the key and let me wear it on a string around my neck. The cops found it when i was hanging from the ceiling. Said i climbed too high. That when i jumped my parachute didn't open and that's why i got caught on the ceiling fan. The coroner stated there wasnt enough space between my heart and the ground and thats why it dropped repeatedly as you told me how worthless i am.
Twelve is not the time for sane people to be awake. Its the time for broken hearted people to weep over secret keeping sheets and a mattress filled with enough sharp objects if searched thoroughly could get an arrest warrant involved. It was 11:55 when you got enough ***** to tell me you weren't in love with me.
You told me you ached for my touch because it brought you to life but in reality you were just a ***** boy looking for a way to get off without actually doing any work.
I stopped wearing skin tight clothing afraid if i moved the wrong way another you would come along. I stopped wearing the clothes that hugged my curves like a blanket of snow because i didn't want them to see the bumps from the mistakes i made.
The nights are so empty without you but I've learned how to embrace the emptiness. I've been trying for countless nights to find the instruction manual on how to cope with saying goodbye to someone who isn't even there...not anymore at least.
The first day without a single wake up call from you was only then i got my wakeup call. I cant have you. And i deserve better. You will always be that glue i tried to peel off as a kid and once im done pulling off the majority, only specks of you will be intertwined in the divets in my palm. keeping you close but only as a distant memory
It was one in the morning and i wanted to be so drunk i couldn't even remember the sound i love you made because you mistaken it for my name every time i let you find your key.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
He sat on his weathered couch in a dark and dank living room.
“Can you hear it calling?”
He seemed to speak to the silence.
“It yearns to lunge from my chest….Sometimes it pushes so hard.”
The words bounced off of walls and refracted…into…spider webs…
The heavy air loomed about his thoughts with unbearable weight. The darkness surrounding his cave seemed to expand forever.
“I don’t understand who has blessed me with this curse…is it arrogance or destiny?”
He sat with his large hands caressing the many wrinkles and divets of his wearisome and weathered face.
“You bring this upon yourself, you know.”
The voice echoed and boomed, enshrouding his very being.
It seemed the voice came from the walls…closing in….
“How can you say that?? Why would anyone do this to themselves??”
He shrieked in despair.
The walls themselves scoffed and howled in offense.
“This room. The blackness. The stench. The rotting carcass.”
Again the voice boomed with unrelenting and disconcerting authority.
“Who else is their origin? Things don’t just grow. Something manifests them.”
He pulled at his cheeks with his long and sharp fingernails, exposing the heavy dark circles below his bright and sunken eyes.
“How can I escape?? I never wanted this for myself! I can still hear it calling!”
His words pressed hard against the walls. The pounding energy of the blast continued to reflect and dance around shadows and spiders.
“There is no escape. You are a child of your choices and are chained to their destiny.”
At this he stood. He threw back the tattered and stained quilt he had been quivering beneath.
“Then I will face the darkness! I will stare fury and fire in the eyes and I will not quiver!”
He shot his hands into the sky and blasted a billow of flame at the rotting wood he called a ceiling.
“If this is my home then I shall call it my domain! If this is my destiny then I shall be its master!”
With a great toss of his hands he banished the darkness from him and walked out of the door.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
You fill the spaces of me
that have been eroded away
by time and trials.
Your soothing waves rush
over the divets in the sand
that is my soul and re-smooth
the surface.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
"Turn back the pages of history,
and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs,
but they lived rather than existed,"
said Hunter S. Thompson
at age 17,
before he became The Duke,
and shaved off a leg in Doonsbury cartoons,
before he rapped the sharp corner of his shot glass,
so too many times,
on the inch thick enamel,
of the Woody Creek Tavern bar top,
and waited until closing time
to begin blowing lines,
out of the divets he'd made.
The people clapping,
the moon attacking,
the red bone blood of America pumping past his eyes.
After he died, everyone there had a Hunter story:
Hunter shot his hot girl assistant in the *** by mistake,
but he felt like **** about it.
Hunter had a dozen red cheeked lasses he skied with,
but he never messed with them.
Hunter showed up in a Cadillac convertible packed with
strippers dressed burlesque.
But it was hard to tell just exactly what he was up to with
the strippers, the peacocks,
or anything else.
Alot of the stories had ****** implications,
but what they mostly implied
was he was cool about it.
He didn't write any of those stories.
Despite all evidence to the contrary he liked his privacy,
and what peace he found in rare quiet.
And he made **** sure they'd shoot his ashes
out of a ******* canon when he died.
The canon is still there.
So are the peacocks.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
I notice the difference
moment to
moment
less, and my
purpose seems to change as
quickly as the palms
blow above me -
this strange wind.
Shouldn't I write it?
Or is it decided?
Or is it too sacred,
never good enough,
scattered,
and self-deprecating
like my thoughts.
A comedy hiding
the tragedy I feel;
I feel too much.
Like the times I just
felt tired and tied,
alone, listening to Coldplay,
and crying, yearning
to remember shades of
yesterday with the same
bright sun.
In the past,
I have yearned for
profound knowledge,
to understand
intense sensation,
general contentedness,
direction and beautiful places,
meekness and worn out spaces.
But I'm tired of contemplating,
the grass green, blue air, slight breeze.
I'm just hacking
incongruent chunks
of increasing size,
left with divets,
and a dull knife.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
you kissed the back of my neck
i grazed the divets in your palm--
doughy with cold sweat in a white t-shirt
you asked me to tell you
what i want
using only one word--
you...us.
thick scent of incandescent light
escaped me to intoxicate you again--
it was a bad dream because it wasn't real
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
Pull over the car,
There are daisies on the side of the highway, leaning delicately over glass.
Oil glistens on the cement, catching all of the vibrant colors that light could possibly make.
The glow from the sun is so pure, so warm.
Nature can only nurture innocent beings,
Hence the name Mother.
Her baby birds weep a melancholic song over me, but they can’t chime loud enough to drown out worn-down tires.
My burgundy brown stains mark the divets and cracks in the road, only until the gentle rain beats it away.
There is a new surface with the same trauma.
You see a scorched tree and wonder "how?"; curiosity is no longer stronger than comfort.
Please come out.
Outside of your car, there is a whole other world
A world Mother created that I was too young to explore
A world made that I’ll never have the chance to know.
Now I’m with her.
Explore the world and it’s vast wonders; care for it, nurture it
Because one day you’ll be down here with me and Mother
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC