"enclosures" poems
Box fresh protectors.
How can 2 items take such a pounding day in day out?
My feet are safe in their leather enclosures.
Bound up like 2 Egyptian mummies.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Sing songs of parsley vivacious ***** jazz.
Dance that moon hoodoo rattlesnake tango.
Play ancient games like enter the mysterious iridescent doorway.
Smoke your poetry books.
Remember to forget your cell phone in the shower drain.
Cauterize your family pictures onto magazines and newspapers.
Sail across the ghost waters of unforgiven memories.
Throw yourself into your heartstrings.
String yourself onto your nirvana sphere.
Lick the soul.
Burn square enclosures.
Paint with your mind's mouth instead of the hands.
Live and ******
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
A landscape devoid of transparent eyeballs.
When did we all become photographers?
Freeze fleeting things,
filter clouds, endless beauty a simple effect.
Funny how enclosures feel obsolete—
the graves, the houses, three-sided mornings—
when I am a share, a like,
self-simulacrum selfie.
I stand on a fascinating algorithm,
Below that it’s reposts all the way down.
Share, share a like,
share a googol of happy lives
better than yours.
Are we saying yes
to starting off yet again,
absent this time?
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
does a lion lie do lies settle here,
beneath these sheets in these nested enclosures,
i've found myself strewn upon? or corridors, from i to places
never invented?
or just clusters of stars,
too distant seven things
from wherever i found myself, burnt oceans into sand;
or what breathing was, two glimmering points.
or emptiness?
there you were, a sign of rehearsal,
pulling life down, on trails hung or omen, or,
in perfect lines from just kind of nothing
each &every; spark in the sky at
all.
*nine. sharp.
am i
always just
this unmotivated?*
do i truly perceive
the embedding nothingness does this get
from life, or just in dream still? any easier?
i'd rather find
myself at
the bottom of the ocean,
some
days,
i guess. sorry.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
The ****** Lost
The ****** of Soul – does it work
Like Nakedness of Flesh in flashing World?
This shameless question worthy is of Talk
For Answers are so ravaging and bold.
Disclose Enclosures, Cloths unwrap,
Partaking Tastes so openly dare:
The ****** of Flesh – a mighty step
To Nakedness of Soul, a potent Pair!..
All Visual is hidden – take a look
And blindness of the sight by Darkness washes:
********** flow running like a brook,
It starts when Star falls down like a brooch.
The covers follow it like Mysteries, –
Their Names are ridiculed, Oblivion-like:
Be longer, Milky Way of naked Bliss –
Be burst of Lightning, you, releasing Strike!..
In Mirrors Naked ****** reflects,
In Revelations Nakedness get ****
And let the envy Ignorance neglect,
And let the jealous Ugliness be rude, –
The Flesh of Soul seduces Soul of Flesh
To let them live in Triumph of the Worth:
It gives the World initiating Flash
The shame of which for so long is lost!..
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
Blood, now boils quick, it's intense, he is in fire,
on her every touch, there is a special anesthetic
a poisonous binge, causes tidal waves go berserk
in his stream of blood,tangible effects of arousal results,
body now is a vast field, goosebumps sprout like spotted
magic mushrooms after a night long rain and thunderclaps,
the salacious intent of the scent of woman,wafts,
singing pheromones perfectly rhyme with *** center
of the brain, "Ï am addicted to tarantula's love"
his whisper sounds ominous, tarantula casts her net
Serpentine vines tangle on wild trees,in natural history
museum premises,trees fall down and rise, create leaf beds
dark enclosures where lovers escape the detection of radars,
explore,the unbridled ascent of carnal wishes,as if a permit
is ingrained in the scent of exotic orchids wafting in the wind,
allowing the wild run of instincts, a dam burst, here cobras prowl,
tarantulas, at a quick look are exposed ******* with dark *******
on eight legs the desire stands,waiting for the next ***** lover,
She was watching an insatiable pair of tarantulas in elaborate
mating rituals,they move inside, cracks and burrows,concealed
by the cover of darkness,they come out,to eat the night flowers,
exhaling ****** hunger; their dark, devious fingers, touching, caressing
finding each other's intimate parts has a dark frenzy...
he saw the blue glimmer of a concealed weapon,smeared on by amour,
as they tumble in bed,she flashes her most venomous smile,
like the quick move of the sharp end of a bodkin,
Tarantula's love affair,when it all are over, her lover's end comes near.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.
Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.
Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.
They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
I awoke to prized tastes swimming tributaries across my lips;
tiny trickles of sighs stretching skin tight chasing last nights kiss,
last nights embracing dreams falling off eye lids stripped of
cognition and it’s the ignition of ten thousand eyes watching
blankets rise and fall next to my resting naked form.
Fingers’ nails attach to linens stitch, searching language
whispered in early morning nights passing out and around
made up words and tortures to galling laughs and insipid
shakes of bodies rocking together, mid-nights haste to
be first to drop off the edge without slipping.
I want to wake the blanket,
Oh! How I want to wake it! Shake
it and break it’s dreaming mind to
slumbered reality.
I listen to the ivy growing through the windows closing me into
homes close to wooded enclosures, chirping gnaws in my
eye’s veins twitching beats chest deep. I sigh over blankets
tossing form and watch with smiles that have forgotten to
remember the smiles reason.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
I'll go under the knife
Operate on myself
Split my head open with the toothpicks I used to poke at leftover failures that weren't there
I'll take my own brains out of my head with my hands
Ask the doctor for a scalpel
And maybe a friend
Humans weren't always like this, you know
Maybe there was a time when the things we were most afraid of were outside of our heads, maybe there were enclosures besides our own ribcage we never wanted to be trapped in
I feel a mini version of myself
Pounding against the glass of my forehead
Begging to be let out
The key is around here somewhere, maybe
But I can't be too sure because at some point being stuck in my own head was all I ever wanted.
Let me out.
I breathe here and there
The rest of the time I feel lifeless
There is nothing in my body worth salvaging
I could call a suicide hotline and ask them why I would ever want to live
And they wouldn't know what to say
The world would be more or less the same without me
Why do I plunge daggers into my own legs and then sit on the rocks by the trail to mourn my fate
Unsuccessful
Worthless
Wasted
I could have been so much more
More what, you ask
And the truth is I don't know
Maybe I am a paper cup in a cupboard of crystal glasses and beautiful things
Maybe I'm the ashes after the rare and beautiful light of the fire has faded
How am I supposed to know what I am?
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
But the beholder is broken because the beholder is me.
Maybe one day I will gather my postcard thoughts and have a thesis on why people hate, and why my face twists into ugly grimaces when I think about the bad in the world
I wish the good had as powerful an effect as the bad, and maybe it does but the good might not occur as often.
I don't really have a way to end this,
Even though I want to.
And the lines above could refer to my life, this poem, these tragedies.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
At first it is only a tinge on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the stars that hang. Then it unfurls , illuminating an inch of the sky at a time. An honest yellow , fervid pinks and reddish hues all blend into the gradually brightening sky, where the lid of indigo is being removed in favour of cornflower and aquamarine. below is an abyss - the wisps of cloud capture the color and let it seep… The cloud kingdom is slowly being consumed and still more join the Frey. Deep oranges mingle with the pinks, new clouds appear and in turn , like a xylophone being played by a child, sporadic , are lit up. Soon it is all around and the only signs of nights enclosures are the few bold stars who dare to watch, the rise of the sun.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
much of j. r. r. tolkien is unoriginal, the dwarfs are basically jews, thrór is simply king solomon, amassing great riches, the dwarfs are exiled; it's a clever plagiarism of historical events.
for the ones that say: too see patterns in holes
in phonetic units, too see
lions in zoological enclosures of curiosity,
to craft orbits of curling lips
and numbed tongues within trebling
kabbalah is the forgotten anatomy
of only the mouth, the gate into the mind,
find the mouth a curiosity, you will enter
solomon's mines of wealth, where each
thought an idea, the constantly pressurising
scalpel furthering you on: it was islam
with the gift of the holy graffiti of scribbles
on walls: their verboclasm that pursued us
to abuse a fondness of erecting statues no more...
to copyright and trademark an arrangement
akin to coca-cola with hope of lettering
a statue into motions of nonchalant waves
and lashes...
to abandon representation of chiselled cheeks
and foreheads to carve into marble
and other stones the phonetics while
leaving the many ignorant and dyslexic
is too a blasphemy on the original demand
of the commandments: this engraving of
the tongue's recognition of sounds is equally
abhorrent.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
It was the sort of day
that equates to the last day
December **** it
why is it sixty and humid enough to swim circles through the air?
yet the grey mist suffocates the horizon
and the light mist tastes like a city
the cat standing on driveways of crumbling mansions
running with fur puffed up from wild dogs snarling at choke chain collars
The trees are all hiding their heads in the sand
and each building passed decays in decadence
everybody hungry enough to do something they might regret
men and women taking shelter in zoo enclosures
to avoid the jungle cats which stalk the streets beneath blood red hunters' moons
It was the kind of day to make me want to see the next
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
I was walking down a hallway, when a head rush overtook me. blindly ambling forward, the walls, floor, and ceiling lurched in on me.
I was struck by the absurd notion that human beings must be enclosed within these confined spaces. it parallels the idea of the lines, spaces, and boxes that society draws upon and around us that we must remain in.
man is not free.
yet this contradicts the statement made by Jean Paul Sartre, explaining that “man is condemned to be free.” how can this be? we attempt to free our minds, and yet we remain in the enclosures we physically and mentally draw around ourselves.
the walls seemed like they were closing in, and it reminded me terribly of a time that I knew I was losing my mind.
the concept of space and the universe was slipping away from me; before becoming vastly distorted, lacking all meaning. it was like slipping away into the infinite black abyss once more.
all of these thoughts and feelings rushed over me at once: some verbal, most instinctual. unspoken. primitive, as if this knowledge lived within us, residing in our bones since the dawn of mankind.
the entire experience lasted approximately four seconds. it made me nostalgic yet nauseous to remember that I once to lived my entire life in this state.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
i found that showing off your
taste in music
is actually more intimidating
than walking around in Eden
stark naked - given
the auspiciousness in the "glamour"
industry and elsewhere, odd, isn't it?
we are more ashamed by
our musical taste, shunned by it -
the Balkan Slavs are the Spaniards
of what most people call "cheap taste",
you now, oiled and greasy
six packs and - well the Balkan Slavs
bred with the Ottoman Turks,
what do you expect?
we are more intimidated by our taste
in music being exposed than our naked
bodies -
believe me, i'll cry at the beauty,
i'll cry at the beauty but i will not despair -
i rather allow tears in, because i know
laughter too will come, i rather cry at beauty
than inhibit it with a masculine heart
expected of me to be stern and in the belgian
trenches - stupid youth idolising the warring
of old farts who have a disclosure for
swollen prostates and can't take the banta (
huh?! goli? i hate slang incorporation,
it's absolute nonsense) -
so instead they shove young men into warring
enclosures and then lay wreaths of poppies
with a 1 minute silence... i told you,
absolute ******** - i rather cry at beauty when
it appears like a picturesque sunrise -
that Armenian will have a beef stake weighing
at half a kilogram to box with translating my works -
i don't mind standing naked like this,
another example https://goo.gl/pJpddh.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
off along the wall, head
in clouds: dissemblance, smoothed,
covered, glistening. repetitions
in static, falling rain. repetitions
outside, under the porch. light
like waves in consistent motion
and removal. too many
names. too much love. swollen
up, like knotted deck timber
in this downpour. still and left
to walk home. alone, again.
happens all the time,
by choice; fine delusion. by
flames licking at the cusp. out
under the irreplaceable canopy
we're left, slowly rotating. soft
magnetic fields. candles encased
in ice. clear night. words tip in
enclosures of crisp unfolding
breath. significance. diffusion.
harmonicity. my analytic heart.
decomposition. won't sleep. won't
let out. your tender clasp. vines
wash up and around finger
tips, around ventricles. shuttin' down,
relentless deceleration. relenting
pace. pinched aorta. all under
some fictitious caress. some
later eventuality. some song
never uttered. not yet.
not just yet.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Want, want to stay in your paradise always
yearn for your presence when you're out of touch
flames trickled at first and then ate us in a blaze
barely remember how it was to feel your embrace.
Lost into oblivion, a dispersion of family members
all my doing, my fault, my fault, my death.
Wounded and weeping, helpless by my own choosing
flames easily stretched us apart an put us fully in the dark.
Desire to bring them back, yet constantly brinking on goodbye,
can't do it again to me or to them.
So far so good, my loneliness reasons.
What was ventured was also lost, so don't try again.
Heart yearning for the sweetness of others,
can't reach them under private enclosures.
Liquify my excitability, lose my desire for company.
Stillness is all I have, it wraps around my destiny.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
Curtain covered views
In neon lighted enclosures;
I hide in the openings of walls
And catch glimpses of passing shoes
Taking kilometres like a flower
Takes water from the sky
Tasting the light hearted lies
Spat into the air by too many
Heated lips wasting movement,
Not kissing the coolness outside.
The open doors avoided-
Let me walk in the shadows
Where rodents feel safe…
I wonder if their houses are as cosy
As the light that never reaches
Protected places of the underworld.
Sitting saddened by the demons imagined
Forgetting to listen to the echoes below
The low music of the ages
Resting on mounds of life’s
Discarded dreams left to us gremlins.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
Think of the lonely hearts at the zoo
Kept captive for reasons they haven’t a clue
Souls kept unpaired on the ground
Not a mate for them could be found!
Should have thought of it when trapped from the forest
Or acquired them from another zoo
Showcased them those unwilling guests
Forgetting they need mates too!
Mightiest animal decides these creatures’ fate
Dictates how they should live and be grown
The right time to love and have a mate
Or spend life in their enclosures alone!
In the name of care you make their lives messy
Consign them to the doom of loneliness
You ruin their home invade their privacy
No wonder the zoo doesn’t have a happy face!
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
Sharin's troupe requested horses,
Were given destriers to ride back into serenity's dominion,
Sitting atop animals raised to believe in nothing yet die for everything,
Costly saddles lifted from slain foes, torn from stilled blue.
Brought images of black and red into tearful focus,
They are just orphans, abandoned by an uncaring world,
Why would Toblin want to despoil such temporary innocence?
They all came to a shared conclusion,
Suspected greedy gold enclosures, sought to capture her,
As she slept below the soil that was her's to give,
Restored and given back to destructive children, who'd broken all their toys.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
autumn leaves
and nothingness
seasonal escapade
ache more for less
hills that whisper
junipers without whim
love without living
wounds without skin
mental imposter
corrupted serenity
flimsy enclosures
where art humanity
mountains that shake
hellebores without bloom
live without loving
oxygen unconsumed.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
*
LOVE is beyond 'NOW'
The future or past or present
But / Yet
We are in LOVE
Irrespective of the worldly
Notion of time
Our LOVE is neither
A path or destination
A journey or solitude
Yet there are
Lurking unknown shadows
And dark enclosures
To cage our LOVE
LOVE is the only light
That illuminates our dark LIFE
Thus we have to live LOVE
And not waste this -
Realization & experience of LOVE
Let those who are
Living life without LOVE
See our LOVE and know that
Our LOVE is beyond
The Notion of Time
Soul-connect of our LOVE has liberated
The whole cosmic creation of life
With LOVE,
Many centuries of imprisoned desires
Are set FREE - wings in flight
LOVERS will NEVER understand
The notion of time - 'NOW'
Present or past or future
*
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
The morning light is
judgement day.
Like life's lingering memorial to inadequacy,
it is a death determined on slow demise.
Exacerbated exhaustion,
£s pounding your brain and taxing souls.
Bedroom shade, blissful sheets and bold coffee are
barless enclosures,
like spindles
patient for a maiden's finger.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 7:29 AM UTC
I guess the madman
have calculated urges
disturbing angles
and unknown destination
exponential compromises
are words unsaid.
leaving leads to a labyrinth
full of unwanted things there
are the sounds you hear
of your own heart beating
that then seems to echo out
and fall to pieces
imposing places of
contemplation seeking direction
and comforting
they're all of the skills
They are barred
with in Wheeling, Broken,
and imperfect scars
scars that speak
in voices without tongues
They fluently create the lies
currency of and for
causing discomfort as designed
glinches come at random
places that there is concern
that the illusions tell now, cherished
and innocent versions all dressed up
False faces of who we are
feeding risky randomness
auditions held for the part of grown up obsession over
the past happy to give
flawless proof of lives In motion
not punching like creatures
Vultures circling over poisoned enclosures
those explorers so eagerly lost
create what happens
and I recognize the patterns
and the direction entices them
the misunderstood
They, the lacking
the admiration leaching from the dependent
alien reasons for force
human consumption
we want so we approach
imagining admiration
as the fake see clearly
This comes along empty and fruitless weeping on road
they twist and turn to our destination listen for proof
Find strangeness from the terrified smiling as reflex is often fun to witness
Life is a marketing bonanza
Fretted upon by the aged
and confusing the greater purpose
It is unflattering
The images are set on dancing
in dream- like exuberance
But for our Commercial grade lifestyles worn out just as the next latest arrived motion that spurs ordinary
traditions are lessees and should lead
follow behind today showing.
direction and dramatic pauses
decisions create ruined morals
floating on an endless breeze
they are carried past the gate
seemingly entitled
as if born there and welcome
Off is the practiced flaws
missing is the counter balance
confrontation unspoken is kin to action anger is without conscience
mistakes have been made.
deception is practiced, perfect.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC