"eights" poems
There is some girls in this world that you call a six, they go home and cry. Some girls you call a six and they get angry and yell at you or slap you.
I realized that there was something wrong with me the first time someone called me a six, told me I wasn't good enough. I spent eight years after that trying to find him the ten that he was looking for; meanwhile sitting in the background trying to improve myself to be more like all of the eights and the nines. I bought him things and I showed him the most beautiful parts of me, I cooked for him and listened when he needed an ear. I let him use my body and I let him feed from the beautiful thoughts in my mind, the dark thoughts in my mind as well. I let him crawl under my skin. I did whatever he asked me to do and I gave whatever he asked me to give until I felt like I had nothing left.
I knew that there was something wrong with me when you called me a six and instead of crying, I felt the urge and needed for you to hold me and to use my body. I wanted you to know what a six feels like instead of how she looks. Some people fail to realize that I was a ten once. I was a ten being made to feel like a six, being told constantly that I was a six and I needed to be at ten. Imagine how many times someone told me that I was a six because they realized that I was vulnerable, imagine how many times I had to clear my mind of that thought but couldn't. Imagine all of the substances that I poured into myself trying to drown those negative thoughts that had been planted. Imagine how many conversations I had and how many people I let slip in under my loosely sewn skin. Imagine all of the men that I felt the need to be held by, imagine how they "held" me. Imagine how I felt after, imagine what I became. One day down the road I woke up and looked into the mirror and saw someone that I didn't recognize. Here I am, a six, trying to find what I lost.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
The scattered words disturb the silence.
I prefer written pages with my left hand,
But it is trembling too much to write slowly
I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges.
Shattered glass falls in slow motion,
Screams in the apartment,
Just the neighbor next door.
Another struggle,
Another soundless fracture
From the outside,
It’s not visible
What really hurts.
I have my refuge.
My piano and fingertips
Strike the rhythm,
Racing to speak in time.
What I want to repeat to myself
It isn’t lush or gentle,
Only barren,
like thoughts hung on a dry twig.
I trace figure eights,
Locked in a simple shape.
I stare and cannot fathom
The logic of a cold two plus two.
A thought-form circles
Around the blue planet.
Something pointing,
With its mercury finger.
It speaks in an unknown dialect
It shows the place to live
And huge fluorescent deserts.
The clouds’ minds —
A piece of earth
Soaked in different
Kinds of screams.
This is my blind chance.
I was born here.
In my mother’s paradise garden
Spinning in dawn’s glow.
Sometimes I just write
To ease personal and common guilt.
I hear tattooed numbers,
Granting citizenship of the lower caste.
And here,
The fresh scent of good life in the morning.
Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent.
My mother knows how to speak to them,
I know how to speak with trees.
Everything pulses,
On this small piece of earth,
Giving shelter to creatures
And stones no one throws.
I am here in a place I can happily bear,
Without cold speculation.
I can still dive into metaphors,
This is my greatest luxury,
The gift after so many disturbing lives.
It would be better to create a world
With only diverse breathing gardens.
I don’t need too much for living,
A naked soul is enough for me.
So, I am sitting in this landscape
And I peacefully hope
That my daughter will remember me tenderly
As I remember him, my father
And all who passed away.
The simplest thing is
The presence of every human being
It's like a celluloid film strip
Left behind the broken ribs
In the left ventricle of the heart
That never lies, never cheats me.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
Trace figure eights along my body
and stop apologizing.
Lets find out
if the damage
can be undone.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
when you are twenty something and haven't
grown out of what your family called “baby
fat” don't worry, because you are still loved
by your body. everyday it wakes you up and
nourishes you, and when it fails to do that, it's
only a malfunction, a button hit wrong. when
you get shamed into wearing a one piece by
your friends in eighth grade, don't panic, because
that swimsuit is killer and everyone you are
with is working it. when your friends talk about
skinny shaming since they have never experienced
fat shaming, listen. when you see fat shaming,
talk about it. when your mother starts shopping
in the plus size area for you, don't feel ashamed.
your body is meant for what it is meant to do.
when you have a panic attack in the dressing
room of the local american eagle for not fitting
into size sixes, calm yourself down, no one will
ever see that size. black it out with a sharpie, cut
it out with scissors, let the tag fly. when you
get ****** into pro-ana sites, shut off your phone.
when you are on your knees with two fingers in
your mouth, close the toilet. when you use ice
cubes as a snack, eat something else. don't
let your brain become a calculator before it’s
too late. when you come into school the next
day, your friends complaining about a not flat
stomach, tell them that the sack needed to hold
parts of your body is not flat for a reason. when
they complain about size four jeans, show them
how you wear eights like a badge of honor, like
your lipstick or your hair. show your stretch marks
as tattoos, show your cellulite as gold, your hips
as the gates to your mansion, and your thighs are
thunder thighs, let them boom down and let them
be free.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
time changes
and I realize the world needs my LOVE.
so I want to write more love poems
and infect heartstreams,
bursting valve seams, repairing flows.
carrying capacities need expanding,
deep breath felt.
simplicities stacking, and all else is.
decension, the reflection of ascension,
is being dug.
the perspective has always been from above.
time to root down, bury down, dig deep
in the ground and bring the LOVE down.
in the darker side, where light struggles sometimes,
here, this minor level, that many feel is
real,
this place needs the panting of love
to be rained down.
souls duped to believe
evil is abound.
cycles are always dark and light
and layers are thin.
pay closer attention to the place
where to the two meet again,
that point, moment, peace.
listen to its speech, the flow of a new
sprout on a tree,
the fungus sprawl through its wood.
stretching its love from underground,
above, to feed and seed and heed
the lessons here.
biodiversity, nourishment, interdependence,
just being loving. nurturing,
to your self, the total inclusiveness...
our carry capacity for LOVE is infinity.
eights will flow infinitely, so we just let it be,
walk easily, stop and discover those on our path.
discover the magic of home.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
writing orrery unto unlined pages
lest my hand stills and my mind with it
turns away from all insignificance
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 1:31 PM UTC
Texas Rangers' pointed stars he wore
as rowels on the shank of his spurs with pride.
The holes in the center punched with squint not
scowls and his .45 Colt Peacemaker true and tried.
Nothing personal against the Rangers,
they just didn't understand.
They chased him for the killing of strangers
whose whiskey tempers forced his hand.
He wore their stars upon his spurs not as a prize
for his skill in killing two of Texas' best,
but for their courage and their pride.
Now he spends his last years in Mexico
with his back to the wall and Peacemaker
on his side.
Playing poker, stealing tequila drunken
outlaws gold.
Eights and Aces they always stand.
An outlaw by default
never again to cross the Rio Grande.
r
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
For your Aces ♢♧ and Eights of ♢ ♧ Wealth and Brutality or as we boys from the Edge call it the Dead Mans Hand, and that be your hand son not that of any of me or mine, but, don't look so distressed, did we happen to mention we are impressed, though this will have to go down in your permanent record.
I say , it's all good, and it's all fun, so get in the pit and try and Love someone, for son we are a Full House Ace of Black Hearts ♥ Ace of Spades ♠ , with the King♔♡ 's Queen♕♡ 's and Jack♘ ♡ 's of hearts and it's our House you in, so, hum, does this mean the Good of our Fathers House Wins?, I say, always and forever, dare to care and spare the fear, and need not shed another tear, stand straight and no more hesitate in the last first and none last truest of loves verse.
Motörhead - Ace of Spades
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KysKdijAhJI
Motörhead - Ace of Spades (slow Acoustic version)
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tc-PVTj9UCk
AC DC - Who Made Who lyrics
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuFq3ynnBo8
AC DC Ride On
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugwlIQ8K4Vs
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
cigarettes $ pysilocibin
my silhouette is like a lion
feeling high like lifted horizons
soak me in like negative ions
trust your gut, trust your instinct
life is in sync,
but change happens every instant
haters have their opinions
my styles they still mimic
im a discordian magician, ill have your mind tricked
have you question is your reality fact or fiction?
master chef still rules the kitchen
im a bad boy ladies love the villain
cross me once no forgiveness
nova fills all voids thats empty
max pizzazz raps has plenty
im living carefree like heart of a young star,,,
in elementary
but i cant be schooled, bejeweled, or lose my cool
most cannot comprehend the magnitude of nova flames
my path cannot be retraced, you'll be sent on figure eights aka familiar ways, blinded by intense ultraviolet rays aka a violent blaze
i was married to the game
cuhz i accidentally caught the bouquet on my life's wedding day
now i ride the electric wave aka majestic whales
the super nova tares the scales
now i must rebuild my crystal castle with one pail bucket
once i reach the summit
i can enjoy the fruits of my labor
at the all you can eat buffet,
and live in my abundance, never ever hungry...
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Always
Be
Careful
Don't
Ever
Fall from
Great
Heights
It
Just might
**** you
Literally
Make
No mistakes
Only smile
Please, it's
Quite hard in
Reality but
So easy
To say
Usually people
Very quickly
Withdraw
X marks the spot
You'll see, they'll soon just sleep
Zzzzz
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
The Christmas tree resplendent, decked in magnificence
where peeping out from underneath, bought with benevolence
were gifts, keeping occupied, excited little fingers
the best so far, a wind up car, the worst, two woolly jumpers.
The aroma from the kitchen, kept wafting through the door
with greedy tum' a-rumbling, ( there's more presents to explore )
the table set in splendour, upon that festive day
the brilliance of the cutlery, displayed in bright array.
Crispy roast potatoes, Christmas ******* by each plate
brussel sprouts and chestnuts, ( our dinner guests were late )
roast pork and juicy crack-a-ling, fresh stewing apple sauce
sage and onion stuffing ***** were all for our main course.
Unwrapped and sat a-steaming, and crowned with holly leaves
Christmas pud' and brandy sauce, stared at with disbelief,
tangerines and nuts to shell, dried fruit and pre-stoned dates
and then... as a special treat, dark chocolate 'After Eights'.
Much later still, before bedtime, clothes filled with corpulence
my little belt let out a notch, to ease circumference
and then to bed, much over fed, with dreams of clockwork toys
of Boxing day, of games to play, of Christmas filled with joy.**
... ... ...
'trademark'
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 3:36 AM UTC
BABY vamps, is it harder work than it used to be?
Are the new soda parlors worse than the old time saloons?
Baby vamps, do you have jobs in the day time or is this all you do? do you come out only at night?
In the winter at the skating rinks, in the summer at the roller coaster parks,
Wherever figure eights are carved, by skates in winter, by roller coasters in summer,
Wherever the whirligigs are going and chicken spanish and hot dog are sold,
There you come, giggling baby vamp, there you come with your blue baby eyes, saying:
Take me along.
1.6k
I am building a brace for the front porch
of my brother who is on the other side
of that door listening with headphones
to a recording of Chinese poetry
(in Mandarin, which he understands)
while he is dying, slowly,
brain cell by brilliant brain cell
in that rocking chair
whose joints are creaking,
coming undone.
He no longer remembers his phone number
or how to count change at the grocery store.
He is in denial of any problem
as he grows younger, ever younger
shedding years like snakeskins
while the crack in the porch grows wider, ever wider
so out here in the rain
I set four-by-fours upright as posts,
then I **** four-by-eights as beams
lifting on my shoulder
held by my hands
pushing with my legs
transferred through my spine
anchored by my feet
as the useless joists of the deck
drop termite **** onto my eyebrows
like taunts of children:
nya nya you can’t fix this.
But I can brace it for a while.
Long enough, at least
for my brother to forget ten languages.
I will repair that rocking chair.
I will buy diapers, rubber sheets,
install grab bars in the shower.
I won’t let his porch collapse
out here in the rain.
I will cradle these boards
like a baby in my arms.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
So, it’s three in the morning
and a man in a gorilla suit
is running across my lawn.
Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping.
The light in McKevitt’s window flickers
on then off—he doesn’t see this ****
stumbling and slopping about the dark yard,
pulling at the plush love handles
of his unwieldy suit—its zipper
just visible in blue moonlight.
He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw.
I pace at the window hoping he will leave.
I pace some more and fumble
at the nightstand for a cigarette.
I beat my chest to scare this thing away
and though I feel foolish, I grunt.
I grunt and expect him to listen to reason—
he doesn’t and collapses near the shed.
Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head.
He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue
thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all
and sopped in booze. I get under the cold sheet.
I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning.
I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone.
This has been going on for weeks
I beat my chest and show my teeth.
I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling.
I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun.
I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works—
I can’t shake this monkey from my back.
So excuse me for calling at this odd hour
to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder.
or maybe a bonobo?
(you know, the one that made life with me so hard.)
In any case, he’s my problem now
and tonight he’s knocking at the door
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
She who stands there, he who leads,
Are One to which my praises plead.
I ask of you such great forgiveness,
Your face shines bright, your image livid.
Grey spots upon the Holy Moon,
Form your bust, to it I croon,
I ask again; whisper, pray and plead,
Show me a sign from sacred steed!
I toot my Gudi, crash the Gong,
And cry for Cheon-A-Ma-Chong;
I play my series in metered eights,
in line with movements of the greats.
I plot their paths in sky you see?
Your eight movements,
Eight hooves in cleats!
You breathe out the fire of the Sun,
Head held high at night as one,
The Zodiac your wings as such,
And planets, the hooves, a final touch.
Fires issue from your mouth,
Burn up the sea-water in the south…
Heavenly I hear your roaring,
and the fullness of your glory,
Your starry eyes the flux of sea;
as you swim the depths and round the tree.
Whose skull we hooked once I reminisce,
Terrible creature from the Abyss;
Oh Horse my love, construct of mind,
and she who gallops for all time,
...measures for the heaven’s seat,
Sets placement of all deities,
To you I fall upon my knees,
Hippolytian by decree,
Take me!
-take me to your Cosmic Sea!
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
you will thrive in your own cocoon—
legless arthropod wriggling out
of its leaved shell, crunching
on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel.
you crawl up the leaves like they’re
the steps of a winding staircase,
circling and circling to one day
step out of your cocoon.
you are your own skin—
a wing ripped in figure
eights of formative tearing.
at the bottom of a
wind-leaned green tower,
you are torn down as if starting all
over again, away from the pace of
a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.
you are not quite a monarch butterfly,
not yet the zebra-patterned black and white,
but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve—
thriving as a flower, swaying and alive.
you must visit the filial leaves and trace
their veins gently.
soon you will thrive in your own cocoon;
as those plant’d seeds will
soon leave legless arthropods wriggling—
for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither
without your leaves crinkling beneath it?
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 8:59 PM UTC
I have a most insistent cat
who skulks unseen into my den,
hides until the moment that
I start to write. Precisely then
she figure-eights around my feet,
nudging nose beneath my thigh.
Next jumps upon the desk, competes
for my complete attention by
a feline strut across the keys
with tail furled proudly in the air.
She then descends upon my knees;
her work done, nests without a care.
Just showing me her catty side,
or budding poet? You decide.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
The birch leaf whispers
Telling the wind
The secret of
How it feels
To push your roots
Through layers of soft and rock hard soil
Seeking earth’s core.
The hummingbird whispers
Telling the flowers
The secret of
How it feels
To hover, pulsing wings
Stroking swiftly in figure eights
Seeking infinity
The lotus whispers
Telling the deep dense mud
The secret of
How it feels
To push ever upward
Reaching through murky water
Seeking the sun
The cattail whispers
Telling the red wing blackbird
The secret of
How it feels
To taunt the reeds
With ******* seed heads
Seeking fertile ground
We whisper
Telling each other
The secret of
How it feels
To please each other
Starting with a kiss
Seeking connection
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 11:34 AM UTC
The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
Scooby-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
1.5k
It is fragile
It is us
Teetering on broken glass
Figure skater pointed blade
As we draw our figure eights
Figure eight is what it seems
It is inverted infinity
Infinity is a new life
But from birth we live to die
Figure skater lies in wait
Till the day last grace is said
Figure skater life in traipse
Figure skater draws last eight
Though the funambulists unite
Figure skater falls from grace
Charting vulnerable territory
Thinking glass will never break
Then the grand tribune arrives
Figure eight is half a piece
And I never fully understood the gravity of life
Until I watched somebody leave
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
I've learned you're good at poker, but you're no player,
this, the second time I've seen you; sizing you up, I like you.
Competent, aware, smart, unassuming. You're fit, tanned; obvious you take care of yourself.
Don't spend too long in these smoky sunless rooms fishing for money,
sitting for hours with pale coughing gamblers and their deceptively friendly banter.
There is only one other woman, her arm inked with a script tattoo Bad Jamie
One guy asks just how bad are you?
She replies, I'm so bad I drink milk straight from the carton, and the table chuckles.
But all joking aside, you're the chip leader and I'm only interested in you.
I raised from the Big Blind, I'm serious with pocket Aces, and everyone else folded.
You on the little blind stayed in; you could have anything, with a practically free ante.
I don't know why you've stayed even this long;
something tells me you want to see what I have.
The flop comes and the table tries to contain a collective gasp, three 8 s roll out.
All the potential of infinity between us,
and I'm holding Wild Bill Hickock's dead man's hand, black with bad luck.
Wow, how to manage this.
I've had no success of anyone staying with me before.
If I slow play it, hiding my cards close to my chest and check it down to the river,
he would fold at any hint of what I have,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***
If I come on strong, and he thinks he didn't catch anything or he's not even drawn to the river;
he would fold,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***
I study you, ascertaining me
with a look on your face like you just may have found something good.
So I do something totally unexpected, just say the truth outright
I've got a house full of dealbreakers.
You're looking at me as if no one else is in the room, and with a smile in your eyes you say
Lets not call them Deal Breakers, lets call them Deal Makers.
...... and I'm All In,
You call, but then ask *chop the *** be equals?* revealing
once-in-my-life quad eights, all that infinity in your hands, and the Queen of Hearts.
You say, hey, lets go... and as we're walking out into unspoiled sunshine,
you reach into your pocket, show me a few sparkling diamonds in your palm and ask,
you want these?
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Right to the empty parking lot,
Start the lazy figure eights.
Swallows skim the pavement,
showing off their effortless grace.
Pick one and chase it, lean into the turn.
foot peg scrapes the ground but I don't care.
A little more throttle. Hang on to the curve.
The swallow, banking, hovers in the air.
Locked together by the physics of motion,
The universe spins around our shared axis.
Let the bike straighten out.
The swallow banks the other way.
Laughing we break our connection,
grateful for the experience of flying together.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
Skipping rocks on quicksand
covering my empire of dominos
that only fell for girls
with a general knowledge of obscure trivia:
an empire where Latin is a phoenix
rising from Ash Wednesday
for a fourth-quarter comeback
reunion Tour de France,
where the truth costs less than
**** jokes in bulk at Costco.
All this while I wait for christ
who cringes through crazy eights
with cards collected by Captain Crunch
from birthdays past.
I'd stop skipping rocks and appointments
if being swallowed
scared me like shoehorns
being anyone's weapon of choice
or the doctor's orders
including an extra fork for sharing dessert
but mainly the obsolete
laser for fixing Everything
hidden somewhere in a lab
coat worn by a wicked *****
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC