"elaborately" poems
I want to take your attention
and send in a direction
that takes you away
and changes you mindset
for the rest of the day
the thoughts alone
leaving you in disarray
getting you hot
your ***** simmer
the longer the thoughts saute
looking at the clock
as the seconds slowly tick away
imagining my fingers
as they slowly strip away
the folds of your clothes
right down to your lingerie
slowly I impose, as I take the long way
watching you implode, got me thinking you want to play
fingers linger up your thighs as they park valet
triggers trigger your insides, and your body will obey
these thoughts I portray, in a portrait way
got your body speaking languages, how ever they may convey
I read every single word elaborately; until you are my favorite essay
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
You can literally manufacture it in a chemistry lab;
There are formulae and measurements of hormones that add up
To this supposedly tangible entity
A nicely brewed test tube
Of elaborately named chemicals
The very thing that makes you tremble in your skin,
That has caused wars and set ships assail
Confined to a liquid in a glass container
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.
You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Suicidal serial killer bashes the bones hoping to feel nothing
because that would be something
A Swelling self-image pops in the distance
is chewed,
then inflated over and over
this routine never fails to cycle, disappoint, and please
Ethanol injections cuz oral doesn't do ****
give it to me ********
***** I'll munch your muffin just fo nuthin like I'm ****** with y'all
Cuz I surf to fall and smoke to die
In the high where life is inconsequential
to question and I feel less than short
Of supernatural
Who are these new kids?
They dress in tights and pick fights
I can't see your face but I trust the feeling
Damsel's are rescued
blood is spewed
Yet insanity is gushing
The drugs are running out
We might just be super
We might just be heroes
Entropy enters me ripping the glamour and with a stammer I know
This isn't a comic book
Marvel
In awe at these elaborately induced fabrications
and schemes to change the pecking order or chisel
the universe to perfection
The line of schizophrenic and degenerate flees
for the hills
that now have eyes
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
A friend sends her perfumed carriage
And high-bred horses to fetch me.
I decline the invitation of
My old poetry and wine companion.
I remember the happy days in the lost capital.
We took our ease in the woman's quarters.
The Feast of Lanterns was elaborately celebrated -
Folded pendants, emerald hairpins, brocaded girdles,
New sashes - we competed
To see who was most smartly dressed.
Now I am withering away,
Wind-blown hair, frost temples.
I prefer to stay beyond the curtains,
And listen to talk and laughter
I can no longer share.
2.6k
You subtly strum soft passionate symphonies of pathos
and are wordless in casual relapse
to canals of bliss
and carnal bane-
Schisms of cannibalism eat at my soft humanity
with cries of animalism-
that are **** animated in oil.
I consume you on dull nights
because you are there no matter what
And I hate the way you purse your lips
a stenosis of encapsulated disapproval
even pursed in pleasure
Your closed eyes give away more than
any assuming part of fleshy eyelids
slits of white shine as unfaithful mirrors
reflecting my own narcissism.
Afterward in comfortable silence-
two quotation marks still hang naked
trapped in the smell of sweat,
wrapped elaborately around
"I love you"
standing like an alabaster sentinel
but acting more as a crossing guard,
dictating my need
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 9:55 PM UTC
I call it a paradox
because my ego is too
sensitive and marked up
for higher margins
to use a cheap word like
hypocritical
I realized that I’m jealous
your wrist watch cost more
than my car and, frankly,
I feel like I’m losing
not that I want to win
some blue ribbon
first prize in the rat race
—I’m not an animal
besides,
it all seems so trivial
I want to say:
the difference
between style
and
clothing is not appearance
but, rather, selfishness
but it’s not that simple
even if, some places, it is
true enough to
burn like salt
in the end, I’m not doing
anything to help
either
I’m simply not doing anything
less elaborately than you are
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Agony of the fantasy, so lazily, with no probability
the ecstasy so randomly seen with eyes of atrophy
my heart beats so rapidly for the sake of catastrophe
so i gallantly step on the travesty of the compatibility
i casually see my casualty through eyes of calamity
searching so actively for a canopy of rationality
my mind thinks abnormality is better than conformity
actuality meets versatility or circumstantial amity
thinking elaborately not organically, of reality
a tapestry so naturally put together differently
visually vivid quality is a visible consistency
no commonality, critically crushed by normality
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress
I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch
Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship
And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?
Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people
And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******
Where I would never have my fill.
A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone
Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star
That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.
It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me
And bathe me
In equal measure.
I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides
And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways
That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more
And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner
Or gave myself up.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
The back bar is
elaborately decorated:
Etched glass, mirrors, and lights.
A set of shelves full of glasses,
bottles behind that counter.
An elegant bar focused
On wine rather
Than on beer or liquor,
Or so said your rose colored
Cheek bones.
I haven't been
Since the music
Stopped playing.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
i could tell you all the things that i wish you'd noticed
but my only regret was the way you packed yourself from me and refused to listen
i could tell you where to set your once vibrant eyes on,
but you'd only ever kept them shut, closing those windows to undiscovered beauty
you were only ever interested in perfection,
lamenting of the world's unfair ways and incomprehensible occurrences
wanting to be flawless yourself but
unfortunately we were never one of the lucky ones destiny picked to favor
i could tell you how perfection is overrated,
like butterflies with wings pinned under tempered glass
amaranthine and frozen in the time trapped within a transparent case,
beautiful, breathtaking, brilliantー
yet they don't really get to live at all; they are too fragile to brave the world
i wish i could have made you see all the insignificant wonders
everything that touched my heart and would hopefully touch yours,
i wish i could have shown you what you could have lived for
or rather, through my selfishness, i wish i could have made you stay with me
because i could see you standing there with the light slipping
off your tainted skin, like a cascading waterfall
as the tentacles of night shrank back in utter defeat
you started a flamboyant affair with your demon because it'd never leave you;
but you never fell too deep in love because you knew it'd never love you back
still the urge to be faultless and never wrong sifted through your desires
i was wrong to let you pursue an endless dream
and i wish i could tell you how i felt as if i was shattering into pieces
every time you held me so tightly and desperately,
yet it is as if your arms were the only remnants binding my entire essence together
everything faded away as you clawed on to any remaining presence
to any scrap of worthless memory to remind you of yourself
i wish you could have seen yourself through my eyes:
the way your words spilled in fervor, mindless of induced tears and welling disbelief,
how your voice lashed out in a wild arc, madly throwing up shields around you
and i couldn't get closer
though lastly, i wish you could see me now, looping threads with boulders attached
at the ends around my ankles and tossing them off buildings
so when i fall down to reach you, it'll be an elaborately planned accident
- - -
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
It must be raining yesterday
because of a present tense.
And as much sense as that statement lacks,
it must hold some truth
seeing as how my face is wet.
Whether this is weather
or drops of salted sadness,
an ocean that swallows land is as unpredictable
as certain kinds of madness.
A river or a lake or a stream or a creek,
or a shiver or a shake or a scream or a shriek,
they all continue to develop
until the body becomes weak.
Erosion takes its time unless the current
becomes too strong.
Then the body begins to
break away like a brother's brittle bones,
or the composition of a masterpiece
that becomes a forgotten song.
So when I say that I feel the rain,
today or tomorrow or yesterday,
what I mean to say is what I meant to say,
which is that this happens every day.
And if the tears happen to cease
even with closed eyes, I'll know I
have found my mind or peace.
That which was elaborately disguised.
One would mistake it
as an introduction,
but it could only be
an Everyman's
last goodbye.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Nightmares are a hell of a thing to happen to a person. They only exist in the perfect storm of conditions, elaborately timed coincidences that spiral into a world they know can’t possible exist. And yet, at the time, in the eye of this perfect storm, the fear of things that are not real is completely rational. It must be dark, pitch back even; there must be noise like floorboards creaking or perhaps something more obviously ominous, a skipping record player for instance. There must be a thing, an unknown thing with terrible intentions, malevolent and insidious, unknown to compassion or love. These are the things that breed goose bumps that render irrational people into rational cowards, what a thing to happen to a person.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
Actions more than words, my mother said
wait for the arms to enfold you as mine do,
for a sonnet won’t hold you in the bitter cold.
I waited, and in the cold that came
words passed me over as I sat sheltered
warm with my mothers arms around me.
I peeked from her embrace to wonder
sadly how actions matter more than words when
the words come few and far between.
Leaves emerge in spring when the winter leaves
and me too, leaving the arms that held me.
I live on my own, and when your words came with
actions to match them, I wondered why only one
should be so important and not both
because two is nice and better than one, like us.
when my mother asked me if I loved you,
I gave an answer elaborately crafted,
neither yes nor no, and full of platitudes,
a tale of loyalty and bond and trust earned over time.
I finished, and as I caught my wasted breath
she crossed her arms and repeated with gravity:
Actions more than words.
I understood.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
For Rodney, whose light never seizes to shine.
middle fingers up, middle fingers up - put your fists up!
The Black Blazers;
they march and trot over,
the heart of the city.
Like seasoned veterans of war.
Unknowingly striking,
as they would on a gruesome battle field.
Buttoning their starch-pressed white shirts,
at the break of dawn,
like soldiers with bullet proof vests.
With the hope of becoming the hero at work,
even if its just for the day.
Elaborately folding their carvats,
some wonder,
'Do we really need to leave?'
Looking at their love,
in deep slumber with a hint of a smile on their face.
They take one glance at the mirror,
never looking back,
they go off to protect,
they go off to war.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
#You needn’t so elaborately state
You don’t want to complicate.#
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
The crowd parts in front of me
And I wonder, What’s going on?
I hear a child calling out,
“Mommy, look! They’re clowns,
with very, very, very, very long legs!”
The child points a finger
and I look in the pointed direction.
Two people in brightly coloured costumes
make their way through the crowd.
Their long legs created by stilts
and their arms also extended,
both covered in extra-long cloth.
The crowd is enchanted
by their bright appearance,
their long sleeves moving elaborately.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
we ate dinner together once
if you could call it that
we hardly ate anything
I was sick to my stomach
and you were bored
tap. tap. tap.
and I'm sure there
were plenty of places
and plenty of people
you would have
rather been doing
but no
you were there with me
eating some **** dinner
that we got for cheap
in the back corner
of some **** diner
terrible lighting
to say the least
but the company was nice
I remember you had these
skinny fingers
always elaborately painted nails
and you would run them through
my hair at night
and talk to me about
how crazy we all are
and were and
always would be
but that was long before
this last supper
now all those nails
did was tap
tap. tap. tap.
on the glossed
red plastic table
as you grew more
bored and more apathetic
I was pulling at air
took all I had not
to lose my cool
--already lost
my appetite--
the complex
emotions of the
fairer ***
continued and continue
to be a source of
frustration
your eyes found mine
tap. tap. tap.
and they seemed unfamiliar
the deep brown I had once
discovered seemed hardened
cold
but we both already knew
what the eyes couldn't hide
and eventually
I paid the bill
and you were gone
gone. gone. gone.
my imagination ripe
with your destination
some lucky *******
I couldn't muster
the energy to
get up
from that booth
the kind old
waitress came over
eventually
smiling cautiously
but without words as she
refilled my water in silence
we both knew
it was going to be
a long night
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
You crouch by me now,
A fake smile plastered on your face.
You probably don't care.
When you've handed me that cash you'll go back to your mansion without giving me another thought.
My parents hated me- kicked me out,
Did your parents care for you?
Cherish you?
Of course they did.
That becomes obvious now as I notice your lilac, satin dress,
Your makeup-coated face,
Your designer fur coat,
Your elaborately curled hair piled up into some fancy style.
You pass me a few coins with your smooth hands bedecked with jewel-encrusted rings,
But I've seen your wallet- stuffed to the brim with these precious pennies.
More than enough, why not give me a few more?
It wouldn't make a difference.
At home your servants are almost certainly laying out silver cutlery ready for a massive feast,
While I lie here in the cold.
Starving.
They all look at me like that,
A stare filled with repulse and disgust,
Not pity, not empathy, disgust.
And you're no different.
You have everything,
But still your sickly smile appears more like a grimace,
And your eyes don't fill with light or sorrow,
Only regret and resentment.
Why are you even touching me?
Why filthy your pristine hands for my benefit?
You might catch a flu from my overpowering stench,
Or breathe in some of the smoky air around me.
Well I'll tell you something,
I permanently have a cold,
I always cough and shiver,
And it's because of people like you,
Who are selfish and greedy,
And couldn't care less,
That I'm lying here now.
Freezing.
In your mansion, are your servants laying the soft duvet on your bed?
Sweeping the floors of your highly-furnished lounge?
Filling up your massive bath with warm water and foamy bubbles?
Or maybe they're putting the finishing touches to a magnificent cake.
Well I don't even have a house to clean.
I live on a piece of newspaper,
In a tunnel to cover my head,
With my money-hat- my only possession.
You walk away now,
Undoubtedly going to spend the rest of your cash on designer items,
You wipe your hands on the warm coat,
And your false-smile disappears instantly,
You strut away in your leather-heels,
And then you are gone.
Until the next person.
Stop and think about it for a moment,
Life is unfair.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
In tedious fashion, as uniformly descried,
stumble these thoughts with bumbling pride.
And though they would, in sequence, march fluidly,
each solo intent breaks tangentially.
A web will insert with some links between chains
And focus diverts into scattering trains.
Manifest indeed, your yield must unwind
in cacophony, useless to the mind.
Don't think these excuses and don't think me excused,
nor elaborately spoken, nor plainly confused.
I push full comprehension in a manner unwise
because thoughts about thoughts are a thoughtful demise
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
This breathe and these lungs
Have been used to preach subjects I fully can't understand
Like existence, cats, and why yesterday feels like today
So I told a story about you
It reminded me of your nails
And the memories they held
Each time I try to write about you
my arthritis flares up
My lungs cringe
And my mind turns static
They say there are 5 steps of grieving
What about the 6th step?
The times where your body stops working
They never mentioned the part
Where you find her spirit in everything
The clouds began to shine your radiance
The wind smells like you
Tomorrow feels almost like home
We will never get the day you left back
I have been spending each moment
Elaborately searching for you everywhere
And I have found
You never left
My heart still speaks of your beauty
My laughter a sliver
These eyes glistening
To show the elation
You exhaled into my life
So don't let this be a poem about you
I am still unsure what that would look like
But for now, I wanted to say
I love you
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC