"doughy" poems
i never wanted to kiss her lips,
just hold her hand
maybe kiss her cheeks because she suited a gentler kind of treatment
something softer and more delicate, quiet;
quieter than the constant raging storms inside my stomach,
inside my mind
(never my heart)
those plump lips
she bit them raw when nervous, and they swelled
blossomed ruby as she looked at me
like she knew this wouldn't last
her eyes remained doughy and mellow
when i met her gaze.
my smile stung as it stretched the lines left by winter's bite
and split them open once more.
she brushed the blood beads away with her fingertips
with a touch so reverent that, for a moment, i thought
maybe she felt as though she were touching rosary beads instead,
and i held my breath to stop myself from chasing her
touch, and pressing her down into the mattress
unholy, chasing pleasure.
both agnostic, but she was much more pure than i;
chivalries always in mind, i wanted to preserve that.
there's always been something inside me
that presses down the animalistic urges with
a conscience caught on consideration and something akin to courtly love-
i wanted to woo her before i pursued her
but i never got further than pressing my lips to her forehead,
wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
i laced my fingers with hers but avoided tying any knots.
i am not a man to be bound,
too free-spirit, too restless, too claustrophobic;
a few months in and i was choking on the ghost of a future;
she kissed me first and i suffocated on the phantom of her hopes for us:
a future that didn't yet exist,
and i didn't want it to.
i never kissed her; i never let her kiss me again.
we tangled fingers over the duvet
the television a background noise to our unsteady breaths,
shallower
than my love for her
i enjoyed her quiet affection like one might enjoy curling into a blanket when cold and ill.
i wanted her smiles, i wanted to fill her memories with goodness
so that she never need feel hopeless, like all men are the same
so that she had something to smile about when she looked back on us;
once the bitterness of our breakup had left her mouth-
whenever that eventual end would be-
she could savour the taste of our sweet, slow-burn, love affair
and be reminded that not all love is true love, but nor is all love heart breaking
i broke her heart anyway.
nobody ever taught me how cruel kindness could be.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Pizza is my life
I started out as dough with doughy eyes
Mother picks me up
Mother molds me
After no time at all I'm sent down the line
Toppings...
Things other people want but I get
By the end the toppings are as important as the dough
Sometimes I wonder if there was any dough to begin with
Because the foundation is changed so much by the fires of the oven
The chaos makes me steam, bubble, and boil
Once I simmer down I'm recognizable as what I should be but not what I once was
Now that I'm developed it's time to be delivered into the world
And find my own home
But what will I find when I get there?
Will it be love?
Or will I be ate up and shat out?
Or is there a difference?
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
Dream of the Melbourne Cup by Banjo Paterson
Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Don't sell me a life where I am beautiful if I must walk on backs to reach it
Before I am a standard,
a plus size,
curves and hips and doughy thighs
I am flesh fused to bones that hold my head higher than this competition I did not choose to enter.
I will not compete with the girls I ran with at seven,
to win a title we are already entitled to.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
October 1968
Strange day away from a war,
in a bubble
with the liar who was my friend
who wore a shirt with
a combat aviation badge
a dead man had earned,
first stolen glory
I ever saw.
We are awol, but nobody knows,
then a doughy white guy with a camera,
asks the liar why we are
in Saigon,
at the zoo, in the middle of a war.
A Stars and Stripes reporter,
gathering
the opinion of warriors ( right, in Saigon) re
Jackie Kennedy marrying the Greek
He took our picture, asked our names,
we were awol,
but what the hell, how many losers
ever see their picture
in the Stars and Stripes?
Lesson
send a boy to fight a war,
never tell him who wins, if he lives.
As an old man,
like that tiger, in a cage,
not San Diego Zoo Eco-accurate Habitat,
a cage, concrete floor, old-time
cowboy movie jail barred
cage,
waiting,
like that tiger in the Saigon zoo, 1968.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
I pressed my left heel down to get it into the strap of my sparkled sandal--bought from the cheap version of the rich girl store; I got them more than half off.
I'm a fraud.
Sliding my foot into the shoe,
the way I've done so many times before,
I lose my balance.
And there goes the first one.
I knew the nails were coming off;
I'm not all that wealthy.
I have to wait until the last minute to cough up fifteen bucks to get these things re-done.
I thought it just popped the nail straight off,
but it throbs and is begging for me to pay it some attention.
I peer down at where the once perfectly manicured nail (baby blue tips and all) had sat upon my index finger.
It has left a ****** mess--jagged and imperfect.
I can see my real nail drawn up next to my cuticle like a smile.
Placed on top is a half moon of hardened acrylic until it breaks off near the soft doughy point of my freshly exposed fingertip.
Edgy.
Almost.
The blood lines the rim and trickles it's way down
curving its way around the smile;
highlighting the crescent of my own fingernail.
It throbs.
****
I say wanting someone to hear me.
****
a little louder.
I just want to complain lately.
I want a little attention for the suffering I put my own self through.
As I wait it throbs more.
I wipe the blood away just to watch it refill.
I walk down the stairs,
and they take care of me.
They give me my oohs and ahhs and owes,
put some ointment on a paper towel because we don't have bandaids,
wrap it with tape,
and I'm off to sew my dress back together for dinner.
My sister's dress;
my sister's dress that she got from a nearby neighbor
who stuffed it in a trash bag and left it there for us to take.
Maybe I will get a discount.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
the doughy round of your nose
nuzzle-burrowing as it does
my bewhiskered neck
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
the cottony caress of your yawn broken breath
blowing as it does, midsummer breezy
my threadbare open chest
It is not easy, you know
having to sleep
alone
the butterfly blare of your blinking
beating as it does
my back rubbed
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:17 PM UTC
Reposted for a friend.
My Prayer
Oh, dear Lord,
Please give to me
The graciousness
Of an apple tree.
It shares its fruit
With all in need,
Regardless of their
Race or creed,
And spreads a
Dappled shade of gray
For weary travelers
On their way.
The courage of a badger,
O doughy soul!
You'd see a BEAR
Running from his hole!
He has a faith
I do not know...
*Without a Bible
To tell him so.*
The conscience of
A growing pearl,
The greatest gift
In all the world.
It gets yet larger
With each day...
*Although it has
No mouth to pray*.
The gentle acceptance
Of deep grass,
Which bends to allow
Your winds to pass,
Then stands again
With stately grace
To look once more
In Your sun's face.
The freedom of
A flock of birds,
For they have surely
Heard Your words.
The cheerfulness
Of a laughing brook,
Which will pass a
Boulder without a look!
The industry of
A little bee...
The good of his fellows
Is all he sees.
The patience of
Eroding wind,
It'll carve out beauty
In the end.
The humility of
A daisy flower,
It knows it's beauty
Will last but hours.
The love within
A mother bear.
To the end
She'll always care.
The resounding strength
Of a mountain range.
To these the centuries
Are not strange.
The wisdom of
An ocean deep,
Which will, forever,
Its secrets keep.
All these things,
I do believe,
My spirit will,
In time, receive.
It is Your will
I must accept,
As I do the kingdom
YOU HAVE KEPT.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.
For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of cups and ounces.
Retorts of pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.
Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.
As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.
At my round
small wooden table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.
They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.
As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.
As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.
While i in a black forest script
write of spells
of life and death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
I wish to understand these fragments of myself as beautiful.
This patch of back hair could be a
silky kitty on a window sill.
This doughy belly might as well be a
delicious pizza in the making
These hairy legs seem like
open fields of hay to roam freely.
Culture says, "You're ugly but if you do this ..... you will be desired."
The rebellious say, "You're beautiful in every single way."
But I say, "Everyone is beautiful and ugly in their own."
what's ugly is our inability to see each intricate part of
ourselves
each other
as a miracle.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
i've a plundering urge
to whom it is absurd,
the black teeth
the blood scribes
the woe, the whither,
the word
i felt seen from afar
telescoped warmth cups my right shoulder
and i expand from shrivel in your forgiving light
are you my soilmate ?
for you i prepare scents beading from my most sweaty regions
a moist sporing emits in nifty allium spritzes
i stammer to a standing position
and exercise my full height
sporting,
i swing and tap an annihilated aluminum bat
sounding out my specific code of fidelations
resonation through the ground
and suddenly you are near
receiving the humming
up the souls of your doughy bare feet
you shiver
i prance wildly and perfect kilter in my hips
i offer to preen you
i present you with a pyramid of spittle balloons
i **** myself a little
i sink my teeth into your side (it's not 'your jam'
but we recover the mood)
i give chase to you for you to be chased
and it's a wild kind of keen fun
and you are a madcap display of laughter and wide smiles
and within i feel a gordian nest
of some lust manoeuvre
(maybe we can copulate face-to-face ?)
pondering scars wounds that were much deserved
the white meat the bright stars delivered
who is rude to the rule of what is ours ?
i knew you
magnesium burn and unwholesomely dauntless
bold your portfolio always within an easy reach
your passionate simmering might you branded my eye
and now we're similar mites in a feather
simian partners surveying territory needs
and then you’re gone again
vanished
and we are distant minds that strike the hour together
like before
between our signals I am met with cross chatter
my hemispheres bicker
and retorting memories barrage
refunding the past
and taking you away from me
i am a mating dunce once more
i shrivel
May 31, 2023
May 31, 2023 at 9:00 PM UTC
attendance
fumbling my entrance array
passionately late i pull off my tie
and crashing here without apology
all-ready a crowd sweated room
low ceiling candy glass munching underfoot
the senses are rushed upon fuming
lit up and strobing with the chaotic humour
and tumorous smells
furious ingestion
swellings and releases
pelling and girling with the dances
hectic music making hero's of uz all
a steaming sot lady lands before me laughing
she climbs me till her bare feet find ground
naked from the waist up
her dress has fallen into a trampled magpie tail
doughy features unfocused
my heart is gurning with ruckus
installed with an addicts engine
it caves and puffs for attention
these are my people
these are my people
now that they're reached their peak
of ******* inebriation
and raving chorus
i am drawn imediate into the density
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
on a scale of one to one-hundred,
no, one to one-thousand,
your lips tasted like cinnamon
Brought heavy feelings below my waist
til I thought I just might explode
Call orange the new numerals
and red the better alphabet
say A B C then 1 2 3
sickly sticky and sweet
Doughy flesh that melts in summer heat
How many moments does it take
to burn pasta on the stove ?
Enough for me to get up and watch you go
Run
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, psycho-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
Handful of doughy breast,
perfect caramel skin,
a mind messed,
memorizing a mesmerizing pin.
Sticking
Pricking
Licking
My heart sweet and tender.
What good is rejection from each
gender?
Only as good as a moldy peach.
Screech
Breach
Bleach
all I seem good enough for.
Around when it's convenient
never more.
Been there. Seen it.
Screen it
Clean it
Please, just mean it.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
Like me in the morning
Holdin’ on to the phone
while the message’s recording
Just so I don’t feel so alone
It’s you silent and fuming
about a fight I lost last week
Late night questioning, assuming
nothing I want to say I can speak
I want more of you
but I tell you I need to be apart.
I hold you to another view
but never let you see the art.
So I’m drunk on a Sunday night
in a shroud of darkness, color hidden
Trying not to start another fight
Sometimes I wish we didn’t
But I wake up in bed
to that freckle on your lip
and rise like a doughy bread
only to fall back into love’s trip
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
The young gnaw at doughy mornings as a zombie of night; no longer.
Pulling the dusty blinds' cord that isn't a string to the moon today.
Come back.
Organic eyes blast open from a free fall that is(was) dream.
No fireworks get to happen, and the rusting coffee isn't quite morning brown.
Alarm clocks remain the loneliest chunks of Earth.
I was seven when my dad taught me how to tie my shoes.
I was twenty when I called to remind him I tied them for the day.
Go.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
I beat eggs like a mixer,
because I have no idea how to use one.
So my hands be all doughy
cuz I just told you how that's done.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
I shouldn't be swallowing the sweet sizzling pop beverage,
Why am I biting into a sweet glazed donut goodness?
I must not smack and crunch on the chips that ruffle in the bag,
Just couldn’t resist the creamy, sugary, ice cream that was left in the bowl.
I shouldn’t be dipping my food into the hot cheesiness,
I need to stop whipping the cream on everything I eat.
Why do I chew voraciously with meaty greasy devil burgers?
I can’t stop digging my fork into the rich flaky cake.
The days go by and I keep pulling out potato salt thin fries out the container,
Every day I grab a strip or two of thin, crunchy, meaty flavored bacon illness.
I need to reject the bad double cookies that fill my mouth,
Stop reaching for those greasy hard-shell tortilla tacos.
Need to resist the temptation of powder crisp doughy funnel cakes,
Stop licking my lips every time I savor a chewy sweet caramel chocolate bar.
Why can’t I stop grabbing handfuls of tiny fruity demon skittles?
I must back away from the calories, the gluten, the salt, the fat.
I need to stop eating junk.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
I tried music
Squeezing my head dry of emotion
I tried drawing
Scratching out an imperfect form through the window
I tried to read, but
There were no pages I could turn.
So, I sat back,
And crossed my legs,
Leant my head back on
My hoodie-pillow
The sleepy sunlight fell and
Tumbled through the dust pane
A smile on its face.
All faces forward
And all mouths shut
The meditative silence
Propped up by the hum
And for a moment
If only for two
We might all sit back and
Live in two times of space between
The fretful embark and the doughy step-off
The bus.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC