"dumbstruck" poems
“please be naked”
she stands in her doorway wearing just a gown,
I walk in the house, dumbstruck by beauty,
up in her room undoing the bow, the shield simply slides down
caressing her curves, stroking down to the floor,
intertwined bodies craving the touch of the other,
joined as one in the gentle acts of love and lust,
romanticised ideals of perfection and soft rhythm,
delicate groans as two become one,
the broken poet, for the moment, is gone,
my drug addiction of you, just wanting more,
As my heart bleeds, love begins to pour.
“please be naked”.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.
All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.
Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.
Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.
You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.
I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.
I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).
And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.
I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).
There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.
Hold me to your breastplate.
I don't ever wanna go back to the void.
02/09/2010
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
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Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Redemption
The longer that you are with someone the more memories you collect.
Blowing the mind kills the membrane by making them explode.
Bursting through the wall making my memories.
I have been running all over.
Just bounce.
Time is running out I am about to explode.
Dumbstruck walking through the door making our memories.
Restrictions will be by passed.
Your door to your heart will be broken and blown away.
All I can do is get ready to explode.
All my memories will be gone, but tell me you won't forget me in your memories.
Old friends became my new friends.
Busting through the door trying to run around in circles.
I always thought I was to bold to save you.
All I want to do is chill out, but the flames to hell are burning me.
I want a ride to civilization, but the only ride I get is a ride to death.
I try and catch myself, but it is always too late.
My memories will be gone and so will you.
My memories our memories.
A pool of blood will separate us.
I don't want to be left alone in the dark.
I won't back down from my memories.
I'll be confessing on the sins of my life when you leave me.
I am the background when you have no one.
I won't get in the way.
I won't surrender until you leave me.
I will never leave my memories until I am dead.
When I need to know my fears I look in the mirror.
The qualifications you gave to me to keep you I will keep until I die I said, but you left me dead.
Nothing exist without the power of love and hatred.
I put all my growing pains aside to see my memories again.
My strange growing pains have killed the people I loved and the things I loved.
We all have the growing pains but God brings growth through are pain.
Revenge I heard of you.
I used to hold a grudge against you.
I use to trip over it.
I used to be young asking all them questions.
I am sorry for putting the blame on you.
It was my fault.
Trying to find myself it was so hard.
I can’t explain the pain that I felt, and I can't imagine what kind of fear and pain all this stuff put you through I am sorry.
The new man is supported by the memories of you being there for me.
The memories I hold are mine and your forever.
You are looking at someone who just died and came back to life.
If it wasn't for you I would be dead still.
All my mercy forgive me.
For if you still leave me I will be here confessing on the sins of my life.
For the memories of you are forever with me now.
The identity that I had wasn't me, I don't know who that was.
I am not you, but I really am sorry for dying and almost losing all my memories of you.
Until then I will be confessing on all my sins in life.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
4.5k
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
it will be, you know
1.
small bird
shivering
kind hand
covering
warmth
spreading
destined
for life
2.
her well-trained cats
at the door
ants always spared (!)
on sill
with sugared saucer
poultry in the yard
collecting deep-yolked eggs
making gooseberry jam
and sweet, strong tea
with hot milk
just for me
she taught me inner grace
and the real meaning
of quietness
just birds chattering away
whistling wondrous
in fig trees
laden with heavy fruit
awaiting her deft hands
how I loved her so
accounting exams
interrupted
in sixth grade
sorry
she's gone, dear
dumbstruck silence
they ask
why I'm not crying?
3.
kismet peeps in
to embrace you
and kiss your brow
you try to sidestep
and stub a toe
knock your head
in the end:
full-circle prayer
que sera...sera
S T, 28 June 2013
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
for Mr.Cole's "Magic" assignment
The Magician
Moments of wonder
performed with theatrical pazaz
A prolonged instance of dumbstruck amazement
---
A slight of hand
or a glittery distracting explosion
creating a captivated audience screaming for *More!
More!
More!
Fool us again
Test our I.Qs
See if we're sane*
---
But to perform...
---
I need more money the magician boldly insists
Our hands ****** into our pockets, to our wrists
---
But wait...
Silence...
Then a collective gasp
There on the table under lock and clasp
---
All of our wallets
Plain to see
And the future money of each baby
---
Did we clap?
Oh, how we heartily clapped
And cheered and laughed like we were handicapped
---
Then the show stopped
But we still clapped, stamping our feet
As the Magician strode off stage back to 10 Downing Street
TA DAAA!
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add
I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution
How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay
When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread
I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front
I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 6:54 PM UTC
The date was April 3, 2000.
A cool zephyr blew and
I forgot every morning blue,
Right when I saw the angel,
She was so beautiful,
As if a princess, or a fairy,
I was 9 at that time.
She had come down from the hills,
From the Himachali town of Solan,
And she had just come to our school.
I looked at her, and I was dumbstruck.
Her sideways glance,
It was so fascinating,
As if a fairy came down,
From the mountains, I mean,
I can never forget her,
Neither her name,
Nor her harmonious voice.
She became the class monitor,
And I intentionally made a noise,
To get her often talking to me,
Oh I remember everything clearly,
"Atul–Keep quiet!" she'd shout,
And I'd laugh silently, but laugh anyway,
And her nostrils would flare red.
In 2001, I drowned in the infatuation,
Deeper than the Mariana Trench,
Sitting on my school bench.
In 2002, her father expired,
And she was traumatised,
Seeing her sad, I was shocked too,
And she stopped talking to us,
But she always scored well,
Yes, she did score nicely,
And I was inspired.
In 2003, I changed schools,
But in 2005, I met her again,
She gave me her number,
I often used to call her,
Not once did she,
Because she didn't have my number,
Not that her caller ID didn't show it,
But our EPABX number always varied.
In 2007, I confessed to her on a call,
I told her, "I have always loved you,"
And she scolded me without waiting,
"Atul! I never expected this from you."
She continued, "Never call me again!"
I was crestfallen, disappointed, and sad.
I'd have sung my original song had she accepted.
That song I composed for her,
Had come out of my heart.
It was a lyric of my desperation.
And a tune of my romance.
It was a hope of my loneliness.
And a promise of my love.
But she rejected my proposal.
I never called her again, out of respect.
Anyway, I credit her for making me a poet.
I credit her for making me a singer & artist.
But I still love her so deeply, and
So truly that I look for her everywhere,
In every prospective match,
In every passing batch.
These days she's in Chandigarh.
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 8:33 AM UTC
We screamed to be heard, marched to express our rage. To bleed with our fallen sisters, for I am her, and she is me. We all lived each other’s suffering.
The dust has settled now, quiet returned.
Yet I still can’t breath. I am still not safe.
I cry silently for my country. I no longer connect to her. My love and pride is only filled with disappointment. She has left me sad, and empty and afraid.
My son asked me, “Why do you refer to South Africa as a she?” I look at him dumbstruck, he continues, “Perhaps SHE has always been a HE!”
This realization is hard to swallow.
This... scares me half to death.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
Stumbling upon a wild profile,
Oh I felt so baffled, dumbstruck...
Just the look in her eyes,
Whispered hundreds of sweet stories..
Is she an enchantress??
Entrancing whoever looking at her?!?
Maybe it's her pure soul,
That attracts them all..
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.
And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.
Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.
Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.
It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth
Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.
Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.
Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
to smile like that,
you ******* Cheshire cat,
your lips curled up
as you lounge in the grass,
your legs sprawled out,
your face painted every
shade of smug
because I want to kiss you
(and you know it)
because I want to **** you
(I hope you know that)
for ruining roundhouses
with weak knees
for turning my right hook
into my right hand on your chest
as you pull me in closer
you turned my (occasional) quick wit
into pure aphasia
brought on by your all-consuming gaze
and I'm left awkward and dumbstruck,
wondering who gave you the right
to look at me like that
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Someone, somewhere believes that they love someone in the same way I love you.
Someone, somewhere is watching their first movie together & are waiting in the queue.
Someone, somewhere is celebrating their first moment of holding hands.
Someone, somewhere is politely accepting the other’s whims and commands.
Someone, somewhere is experiencing the rush of many butterflies twiddling in their stomach.
Someone, somewhere is kissed for the first time & is profoundly dumbstruck.
Someone, somewhere is being captivated by their thrilling dreams.
Someone, somewhere is waking up to screams.
Someone, somewhere is sharing their last kiss with the thought of no longer being together.
Someone, somewhere is wrapping their anniversary gift to spend many more years forever.
Someone, somewhere is watching an extraordinary sunset with no one by their side.
Someone, somewhere is cracking up, laughing on the stupid antics of a child.
Someone, somewhere is caught between falling in love with themselves and wishing they were someone else.
Someone, somewhere is packing their bags to see the world with someone else.
Someone, somewhere is dancing to ecstasy to the first text message of their crush.
Someone, somewhere is whispering sweet nothing’s to someone else. Someone, somewhere just blushed.
Someone, somewhere is staring at the peaceful face of the person sleeping by their side.
Someone, somewhere is awake the whole night to just watch this.
Someone, somewhere is pondering on the worth of their eyes, if it wasn't to see this.
Someone, somewhere is bleeding blank sheets, penning words that fail them.
Someone, somewhere just opened their eyes to a new landscape, a new sun.
Someone, somewhere is saying a new hello. Someone, somewhere is bidding an old goodbye.
Someone, somewhere is killing their flesh, their soul is with someone else.
Someone, somewhere is desperately wishing, craving with every petal of a red rose they throw, or tearing their eyelashes and renouncing it in the air, crossing the fingers of their left hand, then their right hand or stargazing on a starless night in a hope that a star will fall and they can pray for their some-one.
Someone, somewhere thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you.
Someone, somewhere is entirely wrong.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
When I look at your picture on our wall
Tears of love fill my eyes up to its brim.
Drags my empty mind to the sobering day.
On which I missed a portion of my heart.
Crowds kept coming & going.
Some wept their heart out.
I could hear curses upon fate,
for leaving us alone.
Spiritual hymns dissolved in air of despair.
The sight of pale face made everyone frozen.
I stared at my mother's corpse,
as if I was seeing her for the first time.
I leaned on to my dad's shoulder
& held my sister in my arm.
I tried to fill the gap consciously,
but chords of insecurity wound around.
Funeral services began
Prayers and comforting songs filled the atmosphere.
At last the time came,
which a child can ever ponder.
It could not be put to an end,
without a last kiss.
My feet stumbled as I crossed her legs.
On which I stood to learn to walk.
I loved the way she used to pat my head,
when I lay on her lap.
I wish to be back in her womb,
because it was the most comfortable place
I ever had been.
I wanted to chuckle after biting her fingers,
when she fed me delicious meals.
I yearned to hear her heartbeat
& feel the warmth of cuddling.
I was dumbstruck when I saw her lips shut.
Her voice whispered in my ear.
I felt a soft caress on my nose,
as she used to pamper by touching her nose on mine .
My heart pounded with desire to see her eyes open
& to have a gaze at me.
I looked around for naughty things,
to make her eyebrows raise.
I touched on her forehead.
My lips trembled with immense love.
I bent down my head.
It was like waves kissing the shore.
I sensed a smile rippling on her face,
as she always did when I kissed her.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
I can't describe
how it feels,
when I see you.
It's Like this world stops,
Time stops.
And I can't see anything,
but you.
Within this moment,
I'm in a different world altogether.
And I - I just go dumbstruck.
All I can do is just see you,
talk nothing - do nothing.
Within this moment,
I have no dreams, except one.
I have no wishes, except one.
And then the realization
Of you belonging to someone else.
Its like being hit by a thunderbolt
out of nowhere,
while enjoying the rainstorm.
There was no pain,
more beautiful.
No memory,
more intense.
It's all so weird,
but so normal.
It's so hurting,
yet so releiving.
And within this moment,
I try to find happiness.
It's Like only a drop,
from the ocean.
Maybe that's all I can get.
But maybe that's enough.
As all I want now
Is to hold this moment forever.
And ever.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Just when I thought my muse had left
a splintered staccato formed words on a page;
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Haste in the morning fuels the morning breath
for two lovely dumbstruck lovers looking young for their age
just when they thought their muse had left.
I’m not sure I remember the rest;
The words stop like drumsticks dropped in rage,
but I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Desperate to try as my cousin suggests
burning through candles, tarot, and sage
just when I’m sure my muse has left.
I vote for stripping this verse and shredding the rest
Getting in with producers and out with the wage;
We still have a taste for the treble clef.
Tequila sunrise and a Mumford sunset;
Is freedom a ***** once you’re out of the cage?
Just when I thought my muse had left,
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
aching, tired, weary.
Pain?
Me?
Why ever me? My pain shrinks.
Never, oh never would that happen.
At least that's what everyone else thinks.
I cover my feelings with a mask of happiness.
Trying to hide,
Trying to shield myself from deadliness
Of my heart.
I sit here thinking, wondering, I feel,
I feel dumbstruck.
Like Alice, curious, wondering,
Wondering what's going on in this wonderland of emotions.
I feel stuck.
I don't even know who I am,
Myself!
But apparently everyone else does.
At least that's what everyone else thinks.
Me.
Me.
Me, myself, and I.
Am I the one or am I three?
No one will ever know.
Well, maybe,
Just maybe,
Everyone else will.
Remember I'm happy!
Happy.
Happy?
Am I really?
At least that's what everyone else thinks.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
In your body I can breathe,
your fragrance,
my exhale,
your voice,
my internal sigh.
The bed is our familiar,
so hard for us to go.
To leave this oasis,
where we fit so mosaic
like cherry blossoms in spring
or rooftops filled with rain.
I hate how vapid I become
as I stargaze at the sun.
Leave me dozy,
laughable at best,
dumbstruck devotion.
You are my only.
Tu es mon amour.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
Its not real in reality
But it lives through mentality
Mind was built from basic human functionality
So Body can live through the death of reality
Survive by the book of strategy
You could get it from divinity
Trapped in a place called society
Everything falls like tragedies
When mind travels through fantasy
Body gets left behind in reality
So there can be solutions for mystery
The wise one said use weapons of positivity
But how will it stop negative infinity
Dumbstruck by the variables of possibility
The geniuses flee from the laboratory
Isn't this whole thing insanity?
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Was driving
To shivaraathri manappuram [1]
With idichakkas [2]
To meet you
One day.
Enroute
To a vow made one life
The two chakka dumpkins
Their smug demeanor
Drove me to chuckles.
Like guys
On a global tour
They
Waved buddies bubye
Babbled on
To the jackfruit trees
On the boulevard
Singing “salaama salaama…”
The jackfruit rap
Boisterously.
I was beside myself
With laughter.
The exertion
Exhausted my cheeks
I stopped near a shop
For a cigarette
Saw there,
Two packets
Of fried chakka chips
Among other snacks.
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Overwhelmed them
They broke into tears
They recalled
Their haughty ride
In a car once
Singing salama
A festering past
That throbbed with
The agony
Of getting torn to shreds
Of getting fried crisp
In boiling oil.
The chakka dumpkins
Were dumbstruck
They stopped singing
And began to cry
Looking upon their sisters
Sister, you have forgotten me!
An utterance from Khasak
Muffled the scene.
Sad at their plight
I held them close
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Forget it honey
Forget it dear
I patted them
Trying to stop their tears.
The chakka fries
And my darlings
Continued weeping
And wailing.
I smoked a cigarette
Went to them
And whispered in their ears
That I am consigning them
To you.
They laughed innocently
Showing their gums
They bid adieu to
The sisters
Promising
They would meet next life
I felt like
Laughing
And crying.
Laughing
And crying
I sang
Salama, salama
Salama….
Translation : Shyma P
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
Jim Morrison is alive and well
I found him in some juke joint cantina
Down in the deserts of southern America
He was sitting in a dimly lit
Booth in the corner of the room
Digging on some blues band blowing blues
And nursing a bottle of whiskey like a pro
Slowly channeling the shaman within his soul
As I approached in dumbstruck awe
He waved me to take a seat on the bench
Adjacent to where he himself sat
We ate from a plate of enchiladas and ten-cent tacos
And spoke of the poetry of Rimbaud and Baudelaire
He dreamed a dream where he and Kerouac
Took a trip from France to San Francisco
And read volumes of poetry books
From famous beat authors
And reminisced about their pasts as famous men
We continued to allow the whiskey
To slither like serpents down our throats
As ancient poems sauntered back up
Like lyrical word *****
I told him of a dream where he and I
Ate off a plate of enchiladas and ten-cent tacos
In some southern American juke joint cantina
Listening to joyously lamented blues
And discussing the great poets of the past
We laughed and had a great time
As the Doors of our perception
Bled poetic verses of imagination
When the night was over
And the dawn began to arrive
We parted ways with many thanks
And a hugging hand-shake
He went his way
Off into the the waiting sun
A Lizard King in celebration
And I went mine
Off into the depths of shadow
Taking a late moonlight drive
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC