"drawls" poems
"The problem is..."
he drawls
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever **** yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and ******* he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our ******* is'nt *******
its ********** Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially gay *** Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during *** and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its ****** on."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
Midnight Bat & Shadow Monkey
play
with smoke magic in moonlit parks
shimmering indigo stars dance
around them.
Island ***** & Mountain Fox
speak
jazz slithers in southern drawls
dripping in thick maple syrup droplets
off their tongues.
Savanna Fire Lion & Volcanic Red Eagle
sing
lighthouse words in squall-like skies
warming velvet hugs embrace
their eyes.
Psychedelic Air Otter & Hip Breezy Dragonfly
banter;
smooth repartee in tricky dream worlds
volley, twist and swirl around
their lips.
Queen Water Dragon & Aqua Gypsy Satyr
dance
Drooling patterns with swaying hips
Dawn smiles & electric fingers tingle
their spines.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
Burning crosses in spotless sheets
Concerned with the matter at hand.
Only in the still of night can they meet
This secret society that has been banned.
Yet there stand in these once silent woods
With their pointed hats and rebel flags.
Their intentions supposedly "good"
They hide the blood-stained rags.
Decisions made with southern drawls
Not very much humanity involved
They stand by the cross reciting Jim Crow laws
In their hatred they are resolved.
They pick our victims by sight alone
Muttering unintelligible chants and marching 'round.
They say its more than just skin tone
I've looked, but it's the only reason I've found.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air --
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by --
No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.
1.8k
Ten minutes ago I cried
wracking, heaving, red-faced,
closed eyes, no-sound sobs behind
my hamper in the corner, craving him
even though he sleeps uncomfortably
4,000 miles away 6 hours
into my future, hostel walls akin to
secrets within--
twenty one pilots blaring
in the space behind my face
and above my throat, unsettling
the anonymity of my lifestyle, indebted,
growing thinner than my frame as
we both fall to the circumstance of youth
chanting the war cry in pub crawls
and hub drawls where his best friend
sits across from the smug smoke in
between cherry lips,
our kissing knees
begging me
to repeat
history--
in an unadulerated, first-time
draft ripped open and stretched
for my next big "portfolio"
that's worth more burning by my own
hand as I run blistering (drunk) through
a hallway which will never be mine like
the bills-rent-direct-deposit rinse repeat
cycle spinning my eyes into glazed over
acceptance of my lot.
But he still sleeps out of reach
while I'm too paralyzed behind this
******* hamper.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
“His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air—
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by—
“No time to dream, and ask—he knows not what.”
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:42 AM UTC
The African
American
Guy sitting on
A bench in the
Laundromat gives
You the eye, the
Kind of I’ve been
Around awhile
Stare, not a bit
Unfriendly, but
Maybe bemused,
Wondering why
A white dame would
Want to look at
Him for and him
Alone in this
His kingdom of
Machines twirling,
Cleaning while they
Toss water and
Foam. Better than
Watching TV,
He drawls, all got
The same channel,
But different
Cycles, diverse
Clothes, all kinds of
Dirt and dullness
And sins to wash
Away. You were
Never good at
Small talk, but you
Try to say a
Few words and smile,
Putting yourself
At ease. Can’t wash
Your soul here though,
He says, showing
A bright gleam of
White teeth, just sit
Still and stare
And contemplate.
You unpack your
Bag of wash and
Sense his eyes fixed
On you, his mind
Ticking over,
As you place in
The clothes large and
Small. An old white
Guy comes in here
Everyday,
He says all of
A sudden, brings
His wash, sits and
Stares, mumbles to
The machine, while
Watching the same
Few items of
Clothing go round
And round. You nod
Your head and take
In his tee shirt,
Shorts and woollen
Hat, his socks and
Shoes and wonder
What your mother
Would have made of
Him had she been
Here. This place’s
A kind of dull
Purgatory,
Where souls wait for
Their time to come
To go to Hell
Or Paradise.
He laughs, moves his
Legs back and forth,
Pushes his hat
Further back on
His head. Maybe
We’re already
In Paradise,
Maybe this is
It. You and I,
Both sitting and
Staring at these
Washing machines,
But really in
Essence, we’re dead.
You turn your back
To watch your wash,
See the whites twirl
Like fond lovers
In the water
And sickly foam.
When you look back
Again he’s gone.
Maybe to Hell
Or Paradise
Or just back home.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
In twenty days I will be back in Georgia
and I will feel the cold air pierce through my lungs as I stroll through the streets of downtown Atlanta
I will hear the sound of thick, southern drawls singing country songs by a diminished campfire, releasing the smell of burning leaves and Tennessee whiskey
I will see my grandmamas gaze as she welcomes me home with a *** of steaming Jambalaya and White Diamonds perfume
And my sweet souls will smile at me with their crooked teeth that look like mine
They will approach me with their fast paced walks that move like mine
They will laugh at me with innocence, light, and love
Their simple love
their pure, loyal love
The kind of love that liberates
The kind of love that frees me
from the solitude I hold
So deeply within myself
And I will return to my little apartment
on the eastside of the city
with a memory of enlightenment
With a memory of gratitude
With a memory of grace
To shower you in
To nurture you with
To guide you to
The clear light of day
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
*and the snort goes on
as the pompous speaker drawls on
and the snort goes on
as the mad man sees what they don't see
that the obese speaker with the mole is at sea
talking about wonderful intentions
but having no idea how to get there
and the snort goes on ...*
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
there's a slow burn in her words
I've come familiar with drawls
I watch your voice turn to coffee
I sip from your jaw
I'm not thirsty, just nervous
speaking in black caffeine tongues
"I'll fiend before it starts
& I'll feel clean after it's done"
cause you can't run from the two lungs
catching breath after breath
& you can't squeeze life back from death
if it is dead
then it is dead
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
My bitter dishes cry
To be cleaned as they sit
In crusted contempt
With reds that bleed their seething
Lack of clarity
My friends
With smiles half baked and
Eyes shuddering
Sip more and in deeper gulps
Their lives are swallowed
By the brew
But I'm not as lost
As I once thought my mind
In aching desperation fleeted
Angelic drawls to wrap
The dusty shoulders
Keep their hunched secrets heavy
Till they break
And if three breaths could save the world, they may in fact expand
Those minds and hearts to unite
Where shallow thoughts of ego driven
Madness clings like smog upon
Our horizon
But they travel
These dreams of fresher air and
To the forests of the northwestern
Drizzle drenched streets they wander
We're not so hopeless as if to rot
In the shoes we bought last year
I'd rather beg to smile
Then wrap myself in the scowls of
Empty presidents that died for sorrows they began
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Do not look sadly
at days gone by
days below days
like a river
running under stars
do not listen to priests, the blues
or that bitter veteran fool
of some past war claiming to miss
a piece of his soul, his only disease
is the rotting of an *******
the poet that forgets
in remembrance of you
is a lunatic's left hand man
a gun in the hands of a fool
on Sundays he is the acolyte
of the moon, night following
other nights, the eyes of the blind
the stranger who lusts after wives
his tool the bitter root of a persimmon tree
and every time he draws his pen
like a knife and drawls his soliloquy
I say forget him, let us drink again
for poets do not cut their fingers
at cheap joints like ******
toasting one another's death
they do not eat the cheese or hoard
the rich black bread of their poetry;
the true poet gives it kindly to the poor.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest
We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema
And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark
Haul trunks of
a honky-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating
Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Tulsa, OK named and claimed it
then prophetically proclaimed it:
Ken and Gloria invested
slick, convincing, uncontested
Pretty-boy preachers wowed the flock
making Christ the laughing stock
their best lives yielding heresies
out-phariseeing Pharisees
as if their western cowboy drawls
could bless impulsive bank withdrawals.
Unique to the US of A
where truth is prophesied away
and churches spring like tares and breed
while tele-preachers intercede
for breakthroughs, blessings, Mammon’s gold
their folly long ago foretold
in frenzied tones, the healing tongue
counts dollars where Paul counted dung.
I’m sure they all believe it’s true…
they know it justifies fleecing you.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
my heart was started to skip beats
my hands trembling
my head was spinning
sweating
nausea
lethargic
every noise i heard started to
sound like nails on a chalk board
i was confused
i reached for a body that was no longer settled into my sheets
as the pupils of my amber colored eyes had dilated
i was seeing double of you
was this a nightmare
i was detaching from you
my drug
with drawls had begun
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
It can only be from within your reach
The hazy gap between her
And the uncanny disclaimer that drawls her in deep, so fast.
The mesmerizing portrait
That catches her attention like the speed of light.
Something to look so false and amusing
To jump out, like a freshly painted picture.
Clinging onto the, questioning binderies.
A polished shine of
A bud in full bloom.
Ready to be picked by a lonesome thick pinch
Just like her to be carried by a breath taking sensation
Into a lonesome vase, as her home.
Even though her voice cannot be heard
It’s what’s being said in a sound that matters the most.
Closing her hands and opening she sees there is nothing but a feeling of relief.
An encounter of embracement that illuminates the clear sighs of happiness.
Like a classic fairy tale that ends in a delighted foretelling beginning and ending.
The pleasing scents of musky sweet delicate healed memory.
Only now will she see her foretelling her own fairy tale.
To be written and painted onto a bare faced skin canvas.
Time approaching closer and closer
The yearning Calculation
Of Sensibilities.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
PART I.
Caesar calls.
In line his empire falls.
Satan crawls.
His words in drawls.
Why will you not cry!
You foolish child-king.
Can't you see they lie?
But the enlightened bell of hope did ring.
They called him the messiah,
The only explanation for his love.
Spreading peace or land of Gaea,
But under false witness of the above.
Told throughout his life that he would make hatred cease.
He knew to follow moral ways and save damnation's piece.
He knew not what he'd do,
But he would devote his life unto,
Herding these wretched to the path they were due.
If only he truly knew.
PART II.
What this man had done,
Born under the Roman's sun,
Is relinquish emotion too strong.
To become one,
Work must be done,
For the human race is wrong.
Although he lied,
Although his wrath grew,
This man was truly good.
His teaching here are sacred, true,
But wars fought for him never stood.
The prince of peace to light the way,
Caused human freedom's final decay.
Now trapped forever,
A misused endeavor.
His birth is all but in vain.
We must pass peace to end his pain.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
A long time ago, when we were young
My brother used to be a funny guy.
He could sometimes break me up a bit
Without really ever seeming to try.
So, one day, when he asked a favor;
I could tell because he wasn’t snarling
He batted his eyes like some movie star
And ended saying “Hunchy, lumpy, darling.”
Now all my brothers had Missouri drawls
And, it turns out, they never lost them.
No matter what I or teachers would say
They drawled no matter what it cost them.
They didn’t really have very much regard
Or use for the propriety of the King’s speech.
It’s almost like good grammar and prose
We just a bit too far out of their reach.
So, I wasn’t surprised I failed to understand
This strange request from my young brother.
After all he talked just like relatives, neighbors,
And most of all, sounded “Jess lack his mother”.
But this one time I had to stop and ask him
Would he please repeat what he asked me,
Because for all I was worth, at that moment
His meaning was blithely slipping past me.
His answer, you see, started me right off
On a hunger for rhyming, slang and puns.
My lifelong romance with games and wordplay
Had accidentally, but quite solidly begun.
Because Hunchy, lumpy, darlin’ it seemed
Was saying his way to me, “Honey Child,
Lambie Pie, Darling.” I got it and I screamed.
I laughed and rolled around on the couch
And took it instantly into my grabby brain.
That one little misheard bit of movie-talk fun
Hit me as hilarious and worth saying again.
I’m sure he picked it up from the TV;
Something from a forties comedy movie.
Thinking it was a bit glib, he purloined it
And he was right, I thought it was groovy.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Boisterous applause
on the black of the pan,
bubbling eager
for bayou born hands.
Dark dusty skin
like the soil of homelands,
spiced with the method
of mother of mother.
White men on crosses,
black faces in photos,
of family from graveyards
or just beyond grasp.
exhausted linoleum,
faded by traffic,
of church shoes,
and paw pads,
by ambles
and drawls.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
I think I could be a good writer
if I stopped and focused
for a period of time
if I could withdraw
from the streetlights
and the biting cold
that burns the veins
I try sometimes
to put out something
that someone may find
worthy of something
not sure what
but I try
and the words
sputter and choke
and all you see
on the page
is spittle
and small drawls
of a *****
waning man
who
not even twenty
can't keep to the course
he wants to walk
instead
dragged willingly off
by the women that
would eat his skin
and internals
laugh
in depravity
with teeth and tongue
much too sharp
I dont notice
another drink
another drink
I don't notice
all I see is legs
almighty
legs and
smiles that could
break satan's heart
another drink
another drink
I don't see anything
but the feeling
cuts through
the nothingness
of intoxication
and curls the neck
into tense relief
such leg
such smile
I am a sitting duck
ready and willing
such teeth
such tongue
they feast on me
like dogs to bone
can't focus
epic poems
escape
my tendered hands
inches from closure
as the teeth
and tongue
and leg and smile
pull me back
another drink
another drink
what was
I talking about
again?
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Im crawling out of my imprisoned fleshy fortune
Ryan adams playing directly to my brain
I constantly ask myself whats the ******* point
I answer myself, the point is the tip of my pen
Stretching out in strange echoes of eternities, so many lives stumbling across the earth with plans, dissipated amongst the heap of existence
The muddy trance that drawls you into yourself for a little meeting
Between the words spoken and the conscience poking through the current of the brain
Distractions and disappointed rhyme
Flooding emotion so ******* lost inside the mill, the dreaming takes hold when there is nothing left
Feeding the creatures that lurk in electricity hollows, caverns
Could have been anything
Could have been you
Im not really sure
Is this me
This is culminating leftovers from bygones
The poles are shifting and so am I
Another wandering with story's to tell
Maybe you have heard it all before so what is left
This is me i suppose
How about you my friends.
Is love the answer
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC