"elevens" poems
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
blip bleep beep boop
santas gonna watch me sleep
slip sleep seep soap
mommy wants to have a feast
avocados, bathrooms, teaspoons, menthol breath
so very special to watch you seek
bread, seven elevens, toilet paper, adjectives
the way you'd never see.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
caught up in the game, he ran my mind tired.
i was crazed and my body wired.
staggered at the thought of being without,
my tired mind filled with doubt,
i couldn't live this one out.
my eyes scrambled from face to face,
heart to heart,
glancing,
gazing.
the innumerable parts to this true tale of two who never knew of this legends end were left isolated,
self-contained in their indigenous state.
warnings fired, screaming through the heavens,
rip-roaring,
adorned to the nines and past the elevens.
the immediate lash or forever's perpetual dream,
spiraling,
striking.
the masses laid down without a word.
silence.
not a soul resisted the fate of what was to become.
my mind was stormed,
clouded with the unmapped essence of nothing's everything.
so i too sat,
in silence and tears.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Have you ever visited a public *********
When you were really bursting for a dung
And sadly found the only cubicle
Was vile and ill-prepared to meet your needs,
Its stench beyond your wildest nightmare dread?
And yet you bravely held your breath and looking
Down into the cracked, caked enamel bowl
Beheld a horrid, putrid panful there,
The likes of which you never dreamed you'd find
And live to tell the ******* tale to mortal man.
About a hundred people's lurking turds
All heaped and piled up to the very brim,
Some soft and runny, squashed down by the weight
Of countless others, some smudged with blood
Lying there like half-cooked hamburgers.
And there was barely ******* space in the pan
For you to add a steaming trio of your own
To the rancid, obscene horrors lurking there
As you crouched, puking, with your ******* round your ankles
Terrified in case they fell onto the piss-swamped floor.
And you noticed with your reeling senses
That there wasn't any ****** paper either,
Nor had there been for many a long day
Judging from the walls' awesome sorry state
All covered in ****** brown elevens. (SEE NOTE BELOW)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
it was the city we talked about in those long nights when we had nothing to say, lying in your bed and memorising the way the dark painted shadows across our cheekbones and jaws. melbourne, you would whisper.
a city far away and cultured and quaint and brimming with old buildings and trams and coffee houses and american things like seven-elevens and starbucks.
it was different being there with you. much more different being there without you.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
We’re standing here, again- again
where we were all those months ago
I stand and I wait for you say something
I need you to tell me you miss me and want me
I don't know what I'm doing, I'm
unclear and I'm hesitating-
going straight and calculating.
turn away, turn around
look back / walk straight
you duck your head and trudge past me,
make me want to strangle you with dental floss
or a rope of some kind would do
I’m not that picky when it comes down to means
wheels rolling past crunch down on
assorted, random chunks of tar and asphalt
I drift away to happier thoughts- unable
as I am to control myself
around you, in particular
*turn away
then turn around
glance back
walk straight*
but you don’t have anything new to tell me
so I just turn up my music
let some obscure bands, with less recognition
than they deserve, sing to me
of far off lands I've never seen
and you've never heard of; and I turn away
turn around
look back, but
walk straight
I don't choke you with dental floss after all
but I'm so consumed in anger,
stuttering and stumbling over syllables,
I cannot get my meter right.
I measure out our short-lived run in eights and elevens.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
torn, shred,
and what was left, partitioned,
awaiting ripping.
ripe in sunlight,
dense from weightless life,
it sits, waiting.
there's nothing
to fulfill anymore, expectations
wait for disbursement.
distressed,
dressed to the nines, tens, elevens,
until the twelfth hour;
waiting, consistently
for another slip of their finger
to slice through skin,
porcelain, crimson,
beauty, pain, life, love, lingering;
waiting takes too long.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
ending with five beats.
Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
seven-four, five-four.
Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
creative fossils.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
He is nice.
What a description.
Nice as sticky rice.
What a depiction.
He's soppy as a bubbling puddle, overflowing.
With leftovers of muddy welly boots.
Very shortly she'll be going.
He's in a muddle.
He's set down his boring roots.
He sobs as he steals the stars from up in the heavens.
So he can give her a present.
That she may not relate to.
He doesn't have a clue.
His only real interest.
Football team elevens.
Boredom is his kingdom.
His crown covers a frown.
Long may he there in peace be dwelling.
Under her nose this fellow's, a little unpleasant smelling.
His sword is made of whale blubber.
Borrowed from a passing mammal.
Like his personality...just a little rubber.
(C) LIVVI
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Everyone knows her as "Marlboro"
but i like to just call her Marlie.
She is always there for me
whenever i am sad or happy.
I had a really bad day today,
so i took her to a quiet park
where i undressed her plastic
blouse and turned her on with
my lighter. She was slim and
fair, but her face turned red.
I kissed her with just my lips
as though it was my very first.
I closed my eyes and took a
deep breath, and inhaled the
fresh menthol perfume she wore.
The kiss tasted both hot and cool,
it was hard to describe that feel.
But i felt both warm and relaxed.
Her breath entered through my
lungs, and relieved me from pain.
I breathed out some of my troubles
away, but i didn't feel enough.
I kissed her again and again
hugging her waist with my fingers.
After 20 rounds of passionate kisses
She was gone all of a sudden. I need
Marlie badly, so i'll try to look for her
at the nearest Seven Elevens.
Copyright, Ronnie Ng, 2011 (www.facebook.com/bolametrics)
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
We’re the heavy eleven.
Think about that number for a couple of seconds.
It’s a pair of ones, side by side.
When people talk about couples,
significant others, they often say something about
two people becoming one.
I’ve always liked the idea of two ones.
Two single and separate entities becoming a
recognizably different thing, yet still able to be
autonomous.
What an enormously human achievement.
And,
the achievement in no way has to be relegated
to romantic partners.
We can all be friends, right?
We can have each other’s backs, yeah?
Support one another?
Thick and thin, and all that kind of thing?
Home team?
Visiting team?
Does it really matter?
I’m one.
Me.
Alone,
You’re one.
Alone.
Independent.
Relevant.
Real.
Like the ones
in the number eleven.
One. one.
Two ones.
Side by Side.
Each holding the other up.
Supportive.
Encouraging.
Together.
The heaviest
of
elevens.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
Look at the clock
See the pattern
Four ones
Two elevens
People often comment
Even you it seems
How much
I make just a few numbers mean
But don't you remember
That chilly morning
When you asked the question
You had wished would
Change
Everything
You wanted me to be yours
And when I said no
I didn't mean it
And when I said no
I wanted it
And when I wished that day
on 11/11/11
at 11:11:11
I wished for a future where
I could change my answer
And so now
When I see the clock
Hit those magic numbers
I hold the present day
On the silver platter
Up high
That I should have put
You on
So long, long ago
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I bought my sweet boy with
a years worth of eleven-elevens
and an apron-full of white petals.
I won him from an army of ghosts
by leading him by the hand
and never looking back.
I earned him for a price
that I, vagabond, must rent
his heart in which to live.
For I have nothing of my own.
Not anymore.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
i was doing fine
fine as in
nothing at all
doing nothing at all
things felt settled down yet unfinished,
kind of started and then left there
like a puzzle a child started to solve but never came back to because he got distracted
new people came into the room
breathed new air into my lungs
which allowed me to expel the old air of old friends and old people
(old as in, i'm able to get tired of you, not old as in wrinkles, though they caused wrinkles too, like smile lines and crows feet, sometimes those hundred elevens between your eyebrows too)
i sit patiently because i feel something coming
i see something rising
i feel as if there's a whisper of the big man
telling his daughter to wait patiently and follow him in the pastures he planted
the city and art will come along as well as the people who breathe new air into me
goosebumps rise along lanky arms as i think about the new dawn
a new life is soon
maybe soon as in three years
maybe soon as in the man's three years which convert to three minutes or seconds
i don't know
but i'm willing to wait
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Fugazi - The Argument (2001),
an album i liked to mention that
they forgot with Kwik Save supermarkets
and the 7 elevens - tangy twangy Boy Dylan
like lyrics about the mid-western
fake on punk, with the refused's *the shape
of punk to come*, sonic youth,
and oddly enough cobra killer's l.a. shaker.
i knew tool were ****** when
their last album hit the supermarket shelves
along with cucumbers and lack
of kosher meat (10,000 days), even though
not punk; remain cool... remain cool?
remain alive you Hilly Billy.
the swedes never did no much suede
as Elvis with the shoes: chopstick tap dancing:
hey! a pair of drumsticks!
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
looking around this empty room right now,
I’ve come to accept that the gig is up;
the party’s over, the lights are off
and everyone’s gone home:
the music here is quiet and tame
the basement echoes in phantom laughter
the window panes are no longer broken
the pyramids of beer cans have crumbled
the late nights have turned into early mornings
the dancing girls have turned into career women
and I had it good for a while, maybe too good;
shooting dice and rolling sevens and elevens
but now everything comes up snake-eyes.
I finally understood that the foundations of people
were more unstable than water and
less faithful than a Rush St. ******
friendships and other relationships
sank faster than a mafia ****** weapon
(maybe that’s why they call them “ships”)
but as the aging hours of time came
crashing through like lightning:
I found love when love was unkind
I found hate when hate was merciless
I found people and stubbed them out like cigarettes
where by and by, it all turns to ash,
just mounds and mounds of ash,
windswept by gentle persuasion
and now they’re buried in their shrink-wrapped lives;
dropping kids off at soccer practice, attending PTA meetings,
hosting chili cook-offs, yelling at football games,
disgusted with Tuesday’s, bowling on Wednesdays,
pretending everyone’s doing fine and living quite well
while I am left here with myself
and this eerie moment
of reflection, now realizing:
it’s all gone.
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:35 PM UTC
Check the flows that double dutch
Even make Frankie's bus double clutch
Overtime im over time **** a limit
Landed on Plymouth rock hard to knock
Me out of the box like womens of Deborah *** we can't be friends
If you only after dividends no pretend
Suckas leechin' as an extend
No ropes to hang on im so long gone
Toxic ozone folks get the prolong
Once they hear the words over the song
Beat on my chest like king kong ding ****
Managers said i was wrong for soundin' his gong
All ya heard was a bell that wrung sprung by my quick blow a pro dynamite pyro
Stick to what ya know rapper's in slo mo
Once I get the shine and glow
Like a disco ball not many wanna brawl
Flint cells spark it well til ya thoughts swell
Got ya head spinnin' like a carousel
So it never fails silenced ya cartel
Once all hell breaks loose you choose?
Flatten ya caboose aint no **** truce
Once I flex the duece duece **** a loose goose
After I'm done I chunk up the duece
Then sit back & sip that Canadian mudded moose
My double o three fifty seven sending ****** like Bronson to heaven
Prefer Mack elevens blood stained veteran
From the pain held within' my war brethrens
Never shed tears to the ears of fears
Drawn by an illusion broke the boostin'
Cuz I ain't use to loosin' cruisin'
Through enemies my way on the highway
Smoke the stickiest joints watch me anoint
From styles that point like a compass
Needle nose see how the magnet flow
Level ya degrees breezin' through the trees
Mother nature is a tease
Cure all diseases
Im raps remedy if you ain't a friend of me
Might as well become one with the cemetery
Minus the obituary fools hurry and worry
Haters say and pray that "the demons take you away"
But they get no say nay I'm all about the grey
Clouds speak loud when the Sunshine's not allowed
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
Slowly lapsing second by second
With thousands of prayers and wishes being granted and my hope wandering for resurrection.
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
When hybrid eyes void of faces to dance with claim to purport themselves to a mere beguiling satiation but inwardly they're dying to enjoying their guilty pleasures
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
4 minutes have passed says the lady with her watch showing the wrong timing maybe her wish could be traded for someone else's perhaps
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
Look at the clock see the patten four ones two elevens delving deep into souls of millions waiting for their wish to be granted and spreading smiles just how silver dust and bubbles do to the five year old in the backyard
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
For the artist holding up the thoughts on the silver platter for her ideas assembling in the mind promptly as if a magical spell had been cast on her after she made her last wish
Quarter past 11 is it?
No you missed it but it's 11:12
Maybe the next time you could save a minute to make magic
And I hope tonight at 11:11 the shooting star lights up your night as well.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
when i was five, i saw a fire bathed in countless shades of red and
the inferno terrified me.
elevens years later, the bathtub turns crimson red and i'm not scared at all, i'm throwing my hands in the air,
screaming, "look, ma. no hands, ma. no ******* turning back now."
skipping along the sidewalk at six years old avoiding the cracks
so as not to crack my mother's back,
ten years later and the only cracks i'm worried about
are snaking their way up necks of liquor bottles
and through my facade and i don't know
how much longer i can keep lying,
i'm not doing any ******* better.
measuring my growth at age seven with ticks of pen on the wall
as my father ruffles my hair and tells me i'm growing up.
nine years later the only measurements i'm paying attention to
are how many liters of blood is too many to come back from
(around 3)
and how many centimeters deep i have to cut, how many ticks i need to make in order to make sure i finally hit six feet.
waking up early Christmas morning at eight years old
but i'm not looking for presents under the tree anymore,
i'm just staring at glinting knives and imagining sticking
my head in the fireplace just like Santa.
waking up eight years later
and telling Santa to go **** himself because the only thing on my list
was to not wake up at all.
coming home with skinned knees and bruised elbows at age nine,
but seven years later
i stopped coming home at all because my mother
kept remarking on the bruises and broken bones i had
from life kicking me down
and not giving me enough time to get up between blows.
attending my grandmother's funeral at age ten, six years later and my mother is drinking in an attempt to forget mine was the previous day.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Over our head
creeps big time,
the only thing that is.
Freshly folded moment,
to alive to die,
Witness to the break
in the softer water's wave.
Now, back, forced to see,
no salve for the blind.
Sometimes, oh to be blind.
One is eleven's rhyme.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
Whispering to the candles,
Sat upon my birthday dishes.
A thousand shiny pennies,
An army of well wishes.
Clock reads two elevens,
So I prayed again,
to the heavens.
I closed my eyes,
I took a breath,
Laid my eager head,
Down on your chest
Is it fate?
or the falling stars?
Thought to myself,
As I traced your scars.
I wished for you,
Before I knew your name.
I had called it happiness,
but you are one in the same.
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 9:38 PM UTC
Isn't every day the same then
the slow-grinding hours at work in the city
waiting for the clock to tick faster
the tedium, ennui and feelings close to misery?
how dreadful to get up in the early hours
(this winter is beyond endurance)
breakfast eaten in a hurry
to catch the 6-elevens
half-asleep in the train
(fearful to miss the stop--drowsy)
doleful and tired faces all around
(isn't everyone unhappy?)
irascible boss
stingy as hell
the office doesn't have enough heating
but none is brave enough to tell
lest he gets the flick
(this is recession-time, jobs are hard to come by)
no salary increase or annual bonus
all that you can do is to suffer in silence and sigh
long hours, no thanks from Mr Glum
(none dares take sick-leave)
Paul took two days and was shown the door
working conditions here are beyond belief.
week-ends---the same humdrum
too many beers and betting at the race
( Nancy threatens divorce---my losing spell)
my life is a dreadful failure---I am a total disgrace
return home at midnight after too much *****
broke, worry sick, can't sleep---how to survive
the next week?--Sammy lends money at 10% a week
I depend on him (he's a good friend) to stay alive.
You my friend told me the other day
' Eh, mate--you have lost weight and look unwell'
you John my dear friend are dead-right
my life is worse than hell!
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
It's a framed picture;
A framed one.
It takes up the wall.
Leaving nothing for anything else.
Sometimes
An image
Says everything it needs to,
Without,
Words.
A brace holds her arm.
It was broke
Just before the last morn.
When she nods,
She says she wants what she wants.
I took her hand too soon - not ready,
Souls to feverish to elope.
Thick clouds form overhead yeah?
Raincoat. Fresh paints. Fresh love.
Another chance.
You know I've had a million chances
To be in The Sun
With you?
We've laughed through a million tidal waves;
A trillion battle cries;
A silly amount of cake or pies.
I've regretted nothing for I've changed identity...
Melded them of sorts....
And If I were to ask my future self
From my past self
The reason for love and how to hold it,
I would say:
"To be. To be thee and the other. To be one in stead of two."
And you'd nod and I'd nod,
And the whispering wailers on thin tree branches
Would sing their old song of indecipherable infinity so,
We'd laugh, giggle, carefree run free,
Take Italian love songs for grants mixing love potions with real potions,
Never understanding place, name, or space.
See the leaf fall.
It rests upon the ground.
We've all got our homes.
What doesn't matter now,
Will matter soon.
We smile.
We laugh.
We enjoy the company
Of the man
Without a hat.
All light comes through and I see the frothing beauty of 2011.
She mentions something I vaguely remember.
She says something like, "When numbers were true,
They all were written with ones...they were all written elevens."
It's true that no one ever really knows what they're talking about
(maybe scientists)
But she mumbled these words
And I knew
I knew
That all is lost for the future but, not
To
Give up.
Because giving up is
Like saying
You're not excited for the next day,
And the one
After that.
And, to be honest,
I can't really relate to that.
Don't ask me
Why.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC