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Hollow Steve Jul 2015
Catapault me into chaos,
I wish to get a little closer.
Your tainted eyes speak to me.
I wish to get to know you,
just a little bit better.

If I can handle it,
I'll stick around and play.
Too much pain is a killjoy.
If it burns too much,
I'll blow out the fire someday.

I'm seduced into your submission.
My identity remains in shambles,
I'll see you on the otherside,
as I walk through this transition.

A possible phase,
or a permanent reside?
I am lost in mindless self indulgence.
If I dance in the rain,
I'll no longer have to hide.

An eternal blue flame,
made of youth and spirit.
Love could only feed the madness.
To remain the same,
is something my mind could never inhabit.

So dance, and dance,
and sing the tunes of duality.
I experiment with composure.
And once I find balance,
my dream will be that much closer
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
After Lust watched her client leave her hotel room she picked up her communicator off the dresser and called Greed her **** who was also her husband.

"Hello Greed where are you?" asked Lust as she sat on the bed.

"I just arrived at the Blue Flame Hotel.  I'll be at your room soon" answered Greed.

"Ok Greed I'll see you when you get here" said Lust.

Lust got dressed and waited on Greed.  Within ten minutes there was a knock on Lust's hotel room door.  Lust opened the door and let Greed in.

"Where's my money?" asked Greed as soon as he entered the room.

"Greed you act like you don't trust me.  You promised to lay riches at my feet and put power in my hands" said Lust.

"Trust you? I do trust you but not a hundred percent" said Greed.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum
ceara Aug 2013
The clouds threw down
three veils of rain, married the sea
made witnesses out of you and me
and later I, in the silent room
said nothing,
and sat and stared
at the bowl at the top of the dresser
thinking of her hands,  in flour, 
the regular comfort of her bread.
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
Safe in the wet nest's rocking
I listen, with a passion. to a conversation about passions
Rising muffled from the party's tossing to and fro, below, below,

While a world away, upstairs on a huge expanse of white cotton,
With one gesture becoming an origami whale
Breaching silently the smoked-glass horizons of dresser-mirrors

She and I, remembering some tricks for odd half hours spent alone
Travel tides not knowing what needs destroy our hearts.
The Party's ceiling, our bed's floor, hardly creaking with our pressing.

But just as the Ocean's creases can become too fine    
So cruising her body my hands have no future    
Await the tragedy of the ******* to fly true and strike home -    

So, at the moment of our coming, killing the whale    
Only I know the enormous guessing it takes
Striking the blow personally in a spiral stupor.
Does the whaler harpooner dream of his girl or does the young man with his girl imagine harpooning the whale? Ah well, who knows ...
But then that Bronze you would Commercialise
Out of those Hands which reimbursed your Win
Need not be Displayed; For Humble concise
The Best Blown Victory embraces your Skin
Like that Gold-Dresser his Scriptures resume
Though unexpected Prime Tarriff despite
Saw this Next Call for Excitement subsume
For the Corvocado Christ he'll incite
And as for you, to Teeny-Bopps you relate
And Promote your Sport as a Pop-Ear's Rage
With Some at-risk, masturbed and hate
The Artist's Garden stolen for corsage.
There are certain Themes which need no Reform
That if we do, such Gremlins we Transform.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
The gentle drawl of Guy Clark's voice
called me from my sleep,
saying that when his father died
he'd found no tear to weep.

It wasn't that his dad was mean,
nor that he didn't try,
but Guy couldn't find a worthy tear--
he wasn't yet ready to cry.

The blade was broken off the knife
a half inch from the tip.
He could almost feel its  jagged edge,
recalling that camping trip

His dad had let him take the knife
to a Boy Scout Jamboree
it was there he broke the blade tip off
throwing at a tree

That knife had served at daddy's side
when he went off to war,
saving his life in combat.
Of that he'd say  no more.

His father never said a word--
put the broken knife away.
It rested in a dresser drawer
until his dying day.

It was only when Guy's hand had found
and closed around the handle
that he knew, amid the sudden tears
Dad had loved him more than Randall.
Inspired by Guy Clark's song, "The Randall knife," on You tube.
Lucky Queue Sep 2017
i wake up.

the room around me is earth; red, radiating, crumbly.
i sift the bedcovers through my fingers next to my cheek.
an arm, heavy over my waist, shifts with the warmth behind me.
carrots sprout from between knuckles; purple, white, gold.

i wake up.

the piles of leather tomes as if dust was blown away just a moment ago.
warm skin behind me just a little more solid; the smell of carrots and earth a little less sharp.

i wake up.

the walls have receded and sun is pouring over my legs.
only a couple feathery green tops remain and the arm is held tighter to my body.
dusty rectangular outlines on the dresser and floor.

i wake up... and open my eyes
Chris Thomas May 2017
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, levees will break and stories will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers

Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning melt away
"Warmer every day," he thinks.

He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, would
Wants evolve into needs, all while anchors decay
And it unsettles a once-settled man

To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to ride in peace and pieces

He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he mutters
It seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait

He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished

"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when a father stops teaching
And a place where the sins stop searching

A last breath is deeply inhaled
But will never again find its escape
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
This piece is about hopelessness.
guy scutellaro Jun 2018
Above Maloney's bar where the loud rock music shakes the rats in the wall till 3 a.m. the vibrations travel through the concrete floor, up the bed posts, and into the mattress. it was like being front row center at woodstock. paul keater had seen jimi hendrix play purple haze to close woodstock.

slowly his eyes open. who the hell is he fooling. even without the loud rock music he would not be able to sleep, anyway. the wagon wheel bar sign outside his window blinks soft red neon into his room.

keater sits up, sighs, resigns himself to another sleepless night, and swings his legs off of the bed. he searches his mind for some distraction to pass away the night hours. he thinks about his x- wife. he remembers going to the phycologist to try and save his marriage.

"dump the *****," martlin said." paul keater laughs softly to himself. "I paid him eighty bucks and all he had to say was dump the *****." laughing to himself he reaches and switches on the lamp.

paul thinks about *******, surveys the foot high pile of magazines in the corner but instead spots his stack of baseball cards he had collected since when he was a boy. he walks over to the dresser. first, he puts on his giant baseball cap and then snatching the baseball cards, he plops down in the chair by the dresser.

the card on top is willie mays. he takes it in his hand. the card is not worn like some of the others. it looks brand new. although the cards are more than thirty years old he holds the deck up to his nose imagining he can smell the bubble gum that came with every pack of cards.

and he can. and he can hear the roar of the crowd. his team the giants is down three to two. the bases are loaded when willie mays comes to bat. the pitcher goes into the wind up. mays swings. it's a grand slam!

it was paul's tenth birthday.  his dad had taken him to his first baseball game and his father bought him the willie mays card from a dealer. eagerly, he searches through the deck for the willie mays card. he finds it.

oblivious to the loud rock music filtering through his room, paul holds the card to his nose.

fondly, he remembers.

excerpt from a novel. doesn't quite work as a short story.
de Negre Nov 2018
and i can't think of a more beautiful
moment, than when we connected; as
all moments that we shared before that
second, were lost in the dust.

the dust that rose from the road, as the
car drove off. it sailed high and dissolved
in the weight-less autumn air. the afternoon
sun filling the spaces in between the low clouds.

the dust which lay on his dresser, idle,
except when the gusts came through the vents, and
the cat pushed its head between the door and
the wall. or maybe, whenever that car returns.
moments totems sow them own it{S} (ode to friendship)
guy scutellaro Oct 2018
(picks up after "you 'll produce love and dreams. jack has moved into a room above the bar.)

Jack goes into the room. A place he thought he never end up. He studies it. The light from the unshaded lamp on the nightstand casts a huge shadow of him onto the adjacent wall. There is not much to the small room, a sink with a mirror above it next to the dresser, a bed pushed against the wall, and wooden chair in front of a narrow window.

It is raining.

Jack feels apprehensive. The panic turns to anger. His anger into rage. He rushes towards the white wall, meets his shadow, and explodes with a left hook. He throws the right uppercut , the over hand right, the left hook again. He punches the wall and his knuckles bleed. He punches the wall and when his arms are useless, he begins kicking the wall.

At last exhausted, Jack collapses into the chair in front of the window. Fist size holes in the bloodstained plaster revel the bones of the building. The room has been punched and kicked without mercy. The austere room has one.

Desperately, Jack takes the yellow note pad with the pencil in the binder from the night stand, and although he tries, no words will come.

Exasperated, and with the stub of the pencil he writes, "Insomnia , the absence of all dreams." and then he smiles.

He reaches for the lamp on the night stand, finds the switch, and  turns off the light.

The  Wagon Wheel sign outside the window seems to throb to the cadence of the rock music coming from the bar downstairs. Taking the Quaalude from his shirt pocket, he swallows it and sits back in chair watching the shadows of rain bleed down the door. His thoughts come slower. The darkness around him intensifies . Jack slides toward the darkness.

                                           * **

The rain turns to snow.

With each lunging step he takes the pain throbs in his arm and shoulder socket. His raw throat aches from the great drafts of cold air he ***** through his gaping mouth and although his legs ache, he does not pause to look back. Jack must keep punching holes with his ace axe probing the snow for crevasses.

The pole of the ice axe slips effortlessly into the snow. "**** it, another one.

(continues from "**** it, another one .)
my heart smells of new york city air
when as a girl
id search for peace, meaning and understanding
as id sit on the swing my father built just for me
because i asked for one
and he built it so strong, just like his love
and i'd think and dream to myself as id sway
Below me only concrete
his magical smile unveiling from his own darkness
when he'd see me happy even for only a moment in time
behind a video camera
wishing for me any wish of mine
and holding me up high in the sky

my heart smells of homemade marinara sauce teasing my hunger as it would simmer on the stove
sneaking a bowl or two with dunked Italian Bread before dinner but Grandma always knew
my heart smells of supper at 5:00 sharp
the door always open for a soul needing to fill their stomachs with a hot meal,
advice or community
bringing carefully packed food to the veteran on the first floor everyday like clockwork and learning genourosity
my heart smells of cigarettes smoked by my family members and their friends
the smokey haze engulfing my brown hair and brown eyes
my heart smells like strawberry candies that were kept in the glass jar on the antique wooden dresser
and the plastic that covered our couch

my heart smells of an old bottle of perfume that i had spilled once
and the fumes from the garage with all the old cars
lentil soup and spaghetti bolognese and coffee
lots and lots of coffee
my heart smells of so many christmas gifts and joy
of the life that my mother thought she would have
the strength and beauty in her eyes as she accepted her cup half empty
the lessons that had taken a lifetime of heartache for my grandmother to learn
my great grandmother kissing my cheeks and holding me close
my drawings and my imagination
my dear uncle playing records of rock and roll and country music
and him cheering me on to sing along

my heart smells of rain when it all came pouring down
a pretty ******* the outside
others unaware of the pain underneath her
a sister that did not love me
and deep wounds that became scars ill always have
my heart smells of a road blooming with roses
even if some of those roses have died quickly
Marz Ataio Sep 2018
Inside my house atop a dresser is my goldfish
Destined to live his life in a small bowl
That bowl is his whole world
I suppose that bowl is all he knows
I wonder if he wonders what’s outside of that bowl
Or maybe he does not care

Inside my house off in the corner is my bird
Locked away eating seed all day
She has wings but they’re of no use to her
Because that bird cage is all she will know
I wonder if she wonders what the sky is like
Or maybe she does not care

Outside my house lives a feral cat
She is referred to as everyone’s cat
She bears kittens every few months
She has the freedom to go where she pleases
I wonder if she wonders what domestication is like
Or maybe she does not care

Outside my house is a coyote
He howls all through the night
He eats my trash till his stomach might burst
He has no regard for property lines
I wonder if he wonders what a home is like
Or maybe he does not care

Inside my house, outside my house
I have legs to take me anywhere
I have freedom to go where I please
I could walk the earth a thousand times
But I will stay inside my room
Because I do not care
Allison Nov 2018
Coffee, *****, sitting:
Drugs abet this ringing in my ears.
All around the universe hums:
Be here, be here, be here.

We seem to think that the past
has a picture of us on its dresser,
and future’s a woman in a red dress;
her womb, our plans: impress her.

Here’s the secret that the birds chirp:
This is the only day.
You made the sky and all the love under it;
you sigh, and the clouds blow away.

Be here with me now, I beg.
Open the door with your whole body.
See me without the past,
and we’ll make love for the first time, always.
Each drawer that I fill,
stores something past

The future spread out
on the bed

As each one closes,
its memories sleep safe

Dreams quilted,
and looking ahead

Layered inside,
and kept neatly stacked

In silence,
their stories unfold

Each drawer front embossed,
with a message they share

“Open Only If Naked Or Cold”

The dresser sits quiet,
its handles untouched

As new history begins
with each write

And construction resumes,
a new dresser is built

To store words that have yet
to take flight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)
af Oct 2018
Victims of self discovery
Burdened by unwanted embraces
Searching for a release
Creeping into pools watched and gazed
Adjusting their lives as they unknowingly perform
Twisting structures and sparking atoms
Fling and hitting the walls
Trying to run for it
Attempted escapism and keyless doors
Clouded entryways with a dim glow
Beckoning to be explored
Unknowingly opening Pandora’s Box again
Magnets in the air to collect the scrap metal
Scratches and deep cuts on the interior
Nowhere to dispose of it
Folding and storing again in the grand drawer
Dresser pressed against the door to keep it shut
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