"exfoliated" poems
I can feel the shoreline fill my lungs.
Summer is on the tip of our tongues.
We'll dance towards the ocean without even knowing,
The gleam of the sun keeping our smiles still showing.
I can feel the grass caress me now.
It tells me of the rest it will allow.
The breeze sweeps me up and tells me tales
Of past respite its given us and our sails.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
MEMORIES OF SAND
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside. Outside.
Past. Present.
Old. New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism. I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot. Sandy. Expectant.
The memory of sand.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
Envision
an appreciation
of your impurities
exfoliated into an aura
rather than a facade
unbalanced on
secrets.
Unlike a lace gown
sewn to his eye's perfection and fragile to intrigued fingertips.
Separately framed from other self-portraits
displayed for onlookers to applaud the absent authenticity, and
for the egocentric to endorse their entitlement.
Beautiful
(noun).
Uniquely embellished soul
(adjective).
Not merely innocent
Not purely ******
Not fearful of the exotic
(verb).
Facing the sun and forgetting
All analysis of the world around us,
Splashing each other with our reflections
In the puddles rippling the rainbow.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Heavens were furious this time
In a glimpse it happened
His bridges were burnt down
Void inclination towards life
Desolated on vandalized street he stood
With a malady of his spirit
Immense misery in his heart
The facade of spurn was prejudiced
Confined within the darkness
Lost in the echo of agitation
With a deep gasp and step forward
He feels the quiver in his bones
Divergent roads ahead
To take revenge or to let go
The emptiness inside would never culminate
The Satan inside prevails
Sanity is exfoliated
World seems to consolidate
Paradox of emotions Outburst !
~D. Akshay Kumar
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
.*the joke reign being: ****** doing the jazz hands worth of clapping... like smith 'n' butch doing a: manicure with jellyfish attempting to usurp paralysis... like a ****** faking jazz hands... mind you: canned laughter always left an eerie impression on me... and i didn't even have to laugh... but a ****** over-exemplifying "her" hands? well... they're not exactly petite, geisha curiosities, worth the fragility of spring to be made comparison of!*
when a ****** over-exfoliates
the use of her hands....
i once mentioned:
the most ****** aspect
of a woman
are her hands...
so when a ****** over-exfoliated
"her" use of the hands...
never a "missing" ****
in war,
whether man, woman,
or... animal....
size...
the hands:
do not lie...
whatever lie there ever
was to be ingested...
like: words were food...
to distinguish them:
a vowel is pure fat,
and a consonant was:
slow burn sugar,
i.e. a carbohydrate...
but i can be made acute,
aware,
how a ****** is
the antithesis
of both heterosexual
& homosexual love...
it is neither...
it's an added curiosity...
a niqab-take
on ***
i sometimes
wonder...
jerking off...
am i looking
at the cleft of
a buttocks of a woman,
or the cleck of a woman's
*******
they... seem so well
pair... and undifferentiable...
i can't seem to tell
the difference!
back in the day
when marylin mason
was
all gag and hardly
any gay...
but you can tell
a ****** from a woman...
however many hormone
blockers...
bones do not lie...
hands...
the size of hands...
like some joke goes:
and if i removed one
tier of my ribs from my body,
i too, wouldn't
have to leave the house
for a *******
my same misery
story... concerning the selling
& buying of vinyl...
hands though...
i'm trying to bind myself
to either braille or
sign...
in deciphering
the ***********
like it's a ****** scenario
to not read this as:
just shy of Ypres.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:56 PM UTC
*
I've scoured off my skin needing to scrub it out
I've exfoliated to the bone wanting to rub it out
I've been used and abused hoping to love it out
I've put on twenty pounds trying to grub it out
__BUT__
(Who doesn't love a big but?)
There's no infomercial-Oxy-booster to clean this stain
(Your absence a dark blotch in my sight)
There's no late-night ShamWow-savior to absorb this pain
(This displaced grief and fright)
There's no thought deep enough to wash you from my brain
(Nor the contrail of confusion behind your flight)
There's no shower cold enough, it weathers even this caustic rain
(Love's inexhaustible light)
*
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
my feet had barely greeted california
when my face matched the new summer,
cheeks blooming uneven,
eyes green as moss
and every face i glared upon
avoided looking too long.
walking through my least favorite airport
chin high, silent and ugly and wet,
i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past.
something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance
and clarity and confidence than i have ever known
"this is not where i belong!"
i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches
old skin disappearing in tiny fish
or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops
taunting flora and fauna and fate
i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed
exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days
and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive
a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.
i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent,
of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls,
or the same six songs played in every club in cairns
and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.
i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose.
i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.
mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the
pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation
to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst
like floodwaters in dorrigo
the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive
that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks
and bubbled and flushed and insisted
so fiercely so strongly so urgently
that to relent was not even a choice but a right
and then half a year later
i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal
feeling my heart retreat, defeated
dreading the long months ahead
promising nothing but drudgery and boredom
letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass
black ink lamenting, too
and not a single person approached
or spoke to me
until i asked to wash away the moment
with a diminutive bottle of ***
a mile from the surface.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Throbbing heads thrash together,
sorting trash from treasure, and losing time.
I throw together an outfit and leave
my house to try to sort through the pieces
from my rattled mind.
Lines of sunlight break through
the trees and melt
molecules with memories, fusing together
the time I had lost.
I lay in bed, exfoliated and slain,
pondering the cost of each meltdown;
of new brains.
Thumping against the ticking clock,
sleep covers me like a childhood blanket,
and my life, much like a button on the back of a toy
which gets pricked by a paperclip,
resets itself.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
Is there anything moving in the redemptive descent? Discover the exfoliated tears on the retinal lines of broken eyes with compassionate regret! As the smaller beetles glide apart, a hesitant giant-foot tramples on them by chance! The given, idyllic anthill can hardly receive regular travelers and contemplatives back into its bustling community! In the gaping lap of depths - only they can know - undivided Dreams graze!
The blood-boiling instinct-greed of visceral possession is only the exception! - From the micro-world below, where can murderous virtue be measured by certain methods? - The chattering company of loosely swinging golden boys and chirping kittens has never seduced; there, many people blamed emotional ammunition for luring exploited defenseless people and believing! Are the reports left to themselves simply because Someone always betrays them with words?
Deliberate yawns in deep dark gaps, however, cannot dissolve; the redemptive gaze of self-forgotten serenities can no longer be forced on the other! Greed became an indestructible umbilical cord: as many gains as possible in the jingling pockets of compromisers; but even the only comedians of Judas who are now giving themselves up are all sneezing or lurking! Secret doors open to everyone, only the secrets can be kept by the Spirit alone!
Is it too much to envy overstretched reciprocity? You’re forced to wear the shower spikes of mutual compromises on purpose if you want something more out of life!
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 3:18 AM UTC
well, a bit sidewinder a bit of anything,
fast pace on daddylong legs on the guitar,
pitch perfect translation
instruments on the legs...
played the harmonica with my heel
and played the panflute with my toes...
foxes running, shadows running,
english suburbia... the perfected example.
hypochondria costs the n.h.s. more
than alcoholism...
don't mind me, i can defrost cheese
and make a **** good curry with original ingredients.
that "self harm" on my right hand
is actually from fighting with my cat...
so i told myself... listen to the whole album
while skiing with a six pack and get the gem out,
the link's there, it's called: jackie mittoo's drum song.
there was something else i might have
neared to in the necessity of mention...
but then... there isn't...
there's cold whiskey... the cold orb surrounding
the moon in custard cloud blotches...
and me thinks... had the sun
been closer to the earth requiring the distance
of the moon to the earth as translated...
it'd be as big as the orb of light exfoliated by the moon...
otherwise the designated synchronicity
before sunset... or sunrise.
well the loon transgressed the laws of noon
by dancing to the sight of solitary streets,
and said against nietzsche the ******* without the cheese
that there are to maxims worth forgetting
if not worth implementing other than:
modesty extinguishes vanity -
apathy breeds no known pathology -
surely enough i'm not looking for god
like nietzsche's madman looking for god
with a candlelight in broad daylight in the marketplace...
no... i'm looking for diogenes... who's looking
for an honest man!
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Cedar armored walls.
Defined by addition.
These 4 walls are only limitations.
Multiplied by distance .
To equal a
Freedom cut down.
Chipped at with a dull ax.
Bring the house down.
Glory and drink in hand.
This carpet captures secrets.
The spills of wine and tears.
Stains on character.
This chair stands strong.
Faultered? Not today.
Antique like your bones.
Fragile pressure of air.
Pressing on your pores.
You light this room.
Presence of fireflies.
Light my will to the door.
Step into the world.
Through this lanterned heart.
Use your butterfly eyelashes.
Flick the snowflake.
Guide your melting steps.
Snow disapates into forever.
Your an angel through purity.
Lungs flushed of ability.
Stutter stepped stupid.
Beauty of freedom.
Nature flexing possession.
Captivated.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC