"escorts" poems
Lady of Silence
from the winsome cage of
thy body
rose
through the sensible
night
a
quick bird
(tenderly upon
the dark’s prodigious face
thy
voice
scattering perfume-gifted
wings
suddenly escorts
with feet
sun-sheer
the smarting beauty of dawn)
20k
My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
forlorn nights in cold, dark homes
dying embers of a life once known
pools of thought cloud the mind
time is meaningless;
we all will die
there's no light
save for the stars,
glowing escorts to the beyond
always gazing
always bright
waiting to be wished upon every night
countless people across the world
watch the stars and wait to behold
a greater truth;
a pure beauty,
a solemn confirmation
that someone,
somewhere,
is looking up at the same stars,
taking in the same wonders
posing the same questions
feeling the same loneliness
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:03 AM UTC
Sunshine arises a delightful smile on my face
For the time of twilight compassionate and sweet
The darkness of the night escorts an exotic trance
Where music titillates and tingles the tolerant minds
We trip the light fantastic ceasing in the catnap room
Reach for dreams as hypnotic states are entered
To the other side of the tunnel
Sequences continue like trees do through seasons
At dawn I will laugh from the salty raindrops
That declared war to my skin
Clouds shooting never ending water molecules
Ocean flavoured waterfalls drip down my lips
When the sun is sublime
The world makes me laugh
For people are odd and reality is unsurprising
The clock ticks life away as it puts life in time
When birds abandon sweet lullabies
Sunflowers wind their heads away from the sun
And tranquil colours paint the abstract sky
My heart is in peace and butterflies tickle my tummy
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you laugh
the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you laugh
cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you laugh
"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd laugh
bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you laugh
and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you laugh
there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you cry
the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you cry
cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you cry
"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd cry
bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you cry
and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you cry
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
Walking the strip
As though I were a pinball
In a giant arcade game.
Showgirls posing,
Gamblers jostling
With over-sized flasks
Hanging around their necks.
The streets are festooned
With picture cards,
As numerous as confetti,
Advertising all the pleasures
And prices of escorts.
Vegas, Baby?
Keep it there,
Not here.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Changing buses at Flamingo and Decatur,
a Sister ogles my comped leather jacket,
while braceros mill about across the street,
awaiting any drive-by job offer.
This is the Vegas never seen from the Strip;
a town of cheap gifts and off-the-books labor,
where paychecks disappear in Dollar Loan Centers,
every cranny packing a local's casino.
A hundred taxis queue outside the Palms,
like pilot fish seeking ectoparasites upon a shark.
Inside the thousand dollar escorts hustle
overextended gamblers busting hard 16's at the tables.
I told the Sister I'd won the jacket. Impressing
her that anyone would ever be a winner,
watched her intentionally cross the street
to invite a bracero out to breakfast.
The 103 bus downtown ran late.
Leaving my losing parlay tickets on the bus,
I walk through the parking lot of despair,
the casino's glass doors awaiting me.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Suddenly, the silence prevails
and approaches me with a verdant orb
in it's hands
The cold wind is passing by
gesturing my reverie
Sometimes harshly
like frozen needles piercing
your naked body
Sometimes softly
like sun beams clasping
your naked soul
Around me blooms
of every hue and for every mood
Each one narrates it's own tale
My shadow revolves around
a cold emerald
I am that colour now
It escorts me to the carriage
of the winter I was longing for
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
TEAM INSTINCT!"
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:
"THERE IS NO SHELTER FROM THE STORM!"
My knowledge of him consists of three things.
1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.
2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive
3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.
"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."
On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."
Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.
When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
"Dude.
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."
I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."
"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"
He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.
"There is"
"no shelter"
"From"
"the storm"
"In my heart."
We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
1770
Experiment escorts us last—
His pungent company
Will not allow an Axiom
An Opportunity
2k
If you think about it...
the "GRIM" Reaper is not such a bad guy.
He greets you in death,
holds your hand gently
and walks you
to your deserved afterlife,
the one you earned for yourself.
For if you have ever walked alone at night
even within the safety of your own home
you know the terror of darkness
and silence, crushing silence.
The Reaper leads your soul through a dark void
a million times as harsh as an abandoned stairwell
or any earthly darkness.
He does not choose which side you go to
Heaven or Hell.
He simply reads your chart
sees the location that you have earned
and escorts you safely there.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
only because northern ireland was originally liverpool.
yeah... i’m an anglo-slav,
he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy
with clover petals for wings -
watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink!
well, nothing really educational in essex,
just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions,
esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears
of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule:
your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue
(but your mother kept it for the earth
and her hope for you to till it),
you’re ******** with a body and no soul:
the irish fairy countered interrupting me -
i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you!
that’s a trinity that i see.
and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state
(hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy,
i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry,
still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby
and the diminishing psychologies of the players
of the losing team - watch them applaud loss
rather than sing victory prior without listening to
a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture
into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem).
i kept my masculinity watchings the sports
just so i could write poetry and not womanise -
now the escorts and arias i hear you claim?
no... finding nemo, frozen, brave,
no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of
horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Inhale and hold it in.
You don't want to be called a *****
Even by your closest friend.
Exhale and let everything around you disolve.
There are no worries at this point.
There is nothing to think about.
Only the thoughts of what you have just done.
They start to sink in
And your thoughts come at you like never before.
The walls around you have only disolved, as the walls of your thoughts build up 10x as strong.
Tring to break through them only acts as a self distruct.
So you hit the button,
Once
Twice
More times than you thought was possible.
Especially after saying you wouldn't hit it after the first.
Running away is hopeless, as you end up where you left
Like many others.
You are not like them.
The ones who are lost in thier own loop.
Learn from thier mistakes.
Gulp, gulp, gulp...
Onto something new we see.
A different country, a different coulture.
Swallow and discover the opposite.
There are no worries.
There are no thoughts.
There is nothing at all.
The only thing that sinks is the liquid inside your empty stomach.
The walls are blured
And your perception on reality is fuzzed.
Like a kid in a bouncy castle,
you don't want to leave.
The echoing sound of your parents escorts you out though.
You follow them home
And before you lay into slumber
They remind you of school in the morning.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
In a Ford escort you can get on the motorway and let your self free
In a Ford escort you can paint it black or red or even blue like the sea
In a Ford escort travelling to Wales is a whole different country
In a Ford escort my dad drives it like it's a Capri
In a Ford escort it's easy to get parts for you and for me
In a Ford escort you can fit a big stereo and wake up the street
In a Ford escort you can go to Blackpool and drive on the beach
In a Ford escort you can smoke a cigarette because we have a smelly that looks like a tree
In a Ford escort when you've had enough of the mark 2 you can save up and get the mark 3.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
Snap crackle pop
I am turning into cereal
Sparks light up
My inner joints
My hips are tiny fireworks
My fingers are singed from within
My neck is an cymbal crunch
Knees sound like the summer does
Like the cricket song at night
Even when I blink
A wicked noise escorts
My body is a symphony
I sound like I've lived a profound life
Yet I've barely lived at all
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
up n down
like the proverbial ****** drawers
servin hors doeuvres
to rich *****
bein rinsed by cheap escorts
hands raw
work eight days a week
to be paid for four
make much more
on her back were she as debauched
with the petite bourgeoisie
tucking in to her
as the main course
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
We all want to fit people into boxes -
big boxes, small boxes, green boxes,
sometimes wooden boxes
or even cake boxes.
And then quickly scribble short
mental descriptions on the memo pad of the brain
to save 3 months of getting to know them.
So when I saw her, sleepy lost eyes,
the escorts to a head of black hair,
contrasting with light brown skin,
it stirred primal curiosity.
She spilled over when I put her in a plastic box.
Then she was too springy to fit in the Pringles can.
So I tried to fit her in a wooden box,
one with wrought iron hinges.
But she came out of the bottom.
I have since come to accept
that she doesn't fit in any box
or receptacle for that matter.
That is what tempts you to take a little peek,
to look into the depths of her composition:
smell her fear, taste her happiness,
rub your hands through her shyness
to see how they make her eyes look down.
All I know is, when she spends hours
talking to you,
and brings you thoughtful gifts
that create restore points of happiness
somewhere in your brain,
that is her saying "I like you".
I might never discover the taste of her lips,
nor the warmth of her athletic body.
But whenever she smiles, pure and innocent,
I think of a box, wrapped with shiny blue paper,
whose contents are unknown
waiting to be opened.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Sitting on the wire she glooms and alone
‘Down forth’ all beckon,
‘Bits of bread are there
Pick up lest the other demands share’.
The lame bird ***** in the air
Rolling down from her breast a feather,
Pecking a bit with a sense
The escorts saving by defence.
A hunter hits like the lightning from the blue
None finds out yet its clue,
Concreted blood splitting and dog's spittle
Absence of delay makes her utmost brittle,
The barking dogs in the narrow city
Whose have with her no affinity,
All green leaves falling upon ground
That is for love beyond of bound,
Odium! Odium! to the merciless beings
The supreme creatures for whom so long she sings.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 3:57 AM UTC
The dump truck stops at his curb.
A pack of wolves file into the house, men in orange vests,
Greedy eyes taking in everything they see.
My father politely escorts them to the place he has hidden our past;
He flings wide the door.
The chains spill, twisted and tangled, onto the floor.
The men leer as he begins his arduous task.
Sweat flows into a river at his feet;
Another obstacle for him to blame.
The chains eat his calloused hands like children gobbling cake.
The river becomes tinted the rusty red of an old Ford truck.
Rivers of blood and water, guilt and denial that he has made for himself.
“Rivers of necessary evils,” he tells them as he fills the truck to bursting.
Evils that allow him to poke and push and torture.
Evils that allow him peace and pleasant dreams.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
From the north military trail,
A purchase escorts with purpose.
Compassion leaks from wires.
A newlywed smile. A pair in ecstasy,
acknowledging a departure with time soon enough.
Eighty year salutations.
Twenty year questions.
There is.
Core drilling in Paris.
Exodus.
Wearing glasses
underwater.
My time is now
finished.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
My dreams were filled with frightful things;
Warblers riding ravens' wings.
Obsidian bodies flocked in rows,
Walking slowly over trees.
Stiff dead children sailed dark seas.
Warblers riding on their backs.
The ravens marched in close formation,
An army of dark purpose,
Taking warblers to the shore
To ride their grim escorts.
What frightful things must abide
In this gentle heart of mine
To summon images like these.
I dare not try explore.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
We were at a club in Paris called L’Arc. It’s an outdoor club (spring break plus covid safety) that’s underneath the Arc de Triomphe. It’s 10PM and we’re coming from a night tour of the Louvre. The night sky was clear and it was 65°f. I was with my posse of (3) roommates and two guardiennes (provided by my Grandmère) who travel with us at all times.
The man chatting me up was as hot as middle-school but honestly, it was hard to fake an interest in whatever he was saying. Was my ½ interest going to ruin us - this thing we’d shared for 5 minutes? No, he seemed to say, our connection was stronger than that.
Finally, I focused on his WORDS. It was hard because the music was so loud. Hey, this is off-topic but who’s your favorite French band? You don’t HAVE one, do you? No, because they ALL positively felate.
It turns out that he was a tiger - inviting me home for a respectfully quiet banging session - because he lived with his mother. I reacted like any college freshman would at first by thinking I was about to be sick.
Don’t flag me as antisex (If we’re flagging), I like a joystick now and then. They’re cute and like dogs, they’re always glad to see you. But the idea was disgustingly retro - my parent dodging days are over. Besides, our (roommate) agreement for this trip ostensibly forbids random hookups and did I mention our two escorts in tow?
I kept my cool. After all, we had another tray of shooters coming - staying put was clearly the right decision. He took my semi-blank reaction for the rejection it was and disappeared back into the crowd. C'est la vie
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 12:33 PM UTC
Your touch is really all that's appealing.
Only the sensations are what I yearn for,
not you.
Nothing romantic or loving,
more into just kissing
or touching.
We’ve learned to love that instead.
Cut out the fallacies and fabrications.
With sweet sensations that last for moments
and keep the satisfaction for periods of time.
Over the dramatics of courting for now
and diving into convenient friendships.
Never thinking of the changing winds that accompany this...alternative
and as the critters of consequence attempt to creep upon,
feel no fear since,
it was worth it...
Fear only escorts regret,
which this mindset has room for neither.
The elusive Mr.Right seems to be in constant hiding,
so for a time,
no matter how brief,
deem the other wonderful and fit.
Find comfort in the company
of right now.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
blue is the color that I choose
when I choose to sing the blues
in blue bow tie and navy shoes
royal, sapphire, midnight, who's
24 shades will I unveil
aqua, turquoise, powder, pale
Ocean blue escorts winter's hail
Carolina skies, electric eyes
of baby blue
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC