"exfoliating" poems
Dazzling moonlight all bright
Mocking my blearing fears,
Exfoliating my peaceful daydream
Haunting,
Evocating,
Nagging,
It burns down my walls all in,
Leaving me dreading for the next night
With eyes filled with poignant memories.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 1:08 PM UTC
the sun is exfoliating
my skin for you.
just give me a minute,
my love.
i am shedding the dry
past away.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
“aquashield+ .. what is this?”
—“sunscreen”—
“no wonder you get burnt all the time it expired in two-thousand-eight ya mad cat.”
“a-ah..”
“ah?”
“good that i use a different one i 'spose hmm?”
“pfft—bronzer.”
“oh come on.”
. . .
—“awshit look at all those dried soap carcasses in the back there. little beached whales”
“exfoliating, irish spring...”
—“hey what's with the two-in-one shampoos anyway?”
“...well,”
—“seems to me like they're just tryna make showering faster.”
“yah. what's your issue?”
"well, what's the point of that? enjoy the ****** thing.
I dare you to find any two things better than being under a hot shower
& the heat of the blowdryer in the hair after...gaw-damnn.”
—“preach.”
. . .
“man, and all the dust...”
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
A 70th Birthday Poem
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep my brothers and I from fighting
fighting to cause star-shaped pain,
two-dimensional and primary colored, like on Batman
fighting to cause welts from
rising like tectonic plates heralding the end of Pangaea
fighting to bring forth blood
red blood
red blood
burgundy and green and iridescent blood
she said,
“As long as you’re laughing when you hit them,
it doesn’t count,”
and it became true
as the forced, adrenaline-driven guffaws
tumbled up and over one another
like rocks shattering one another
into pebbles exfoliating one another
into sand
white and soft and meandering
seaside to tomorrow and forever.
Know what I mean?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep from clashing
in a fashionable/unfashionable dissonance,
it’s important to remember:
“Just because two things are red,
doesn’t mean they’re the same,”
or blue or white or black
that when held together like paint swatches
each holds a different value,
and the painter tries to make the best choice
because a purple shirt can be pretty,
but . . .
“Nobody wants to live in a purple house.”
Right?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
housecleaning should be done to a polka,
or not at all
joyfully or begrudgingly
as best suits the cleaner
and the polka,
because . . .
“Doesn’t a little accordian make everything better?”
Well, doesn’t it?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
today is the 31st anniversary
of her 39th birthday
just as it will soon be
the 15th anniversary
of my 29th birthday
**Of course, it is.**
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
one night or midafternoon you fell asleep
and snored lightly in my ear.
i stroked your hair (it was longer then)
and thought of my love-lorn words
hijacked by this impermanent sleeper.
i started to laugh and you got lost in my chest
but you said it'd be "a good way to go."
and i heard the sincerity, cheap as silence,
like the first time you drunkenly called me darling
and it was steel wool exfoliating my atriums.
i would rather write about the frivolity
of a cigarette in a hot tub with strangers
and the absurdity of dripping sinuses
or a manifesto for the exasperatingly mediocre
but my words are full of you.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
**** the sunglasses...
double ****
dinner... making my father lunch...
triple hush hush ****** third....
i might be a drunk...
(burp)
but i have my obligations;
the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...
i tango with a sputnik...
what?!
you know just your random ****
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home
Idaho!
Ghana?
**** i misspelled Missishippi....
no,
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...
the night must be pretty entertaining...
so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
... .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...
the sun isn't...
why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!
hush darling...
Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you all about what gives him
the Shakes...
shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted
hangover...
a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
well...
covert for: a pristine afternoon.
p.s.
quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
tune...
yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no.... MC Hammer!
i'm touching jack-shit...
look at me...
touching... clapping using jazz hands.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
*my my,
what a great "hangover" cure,
a kiwi,
several blackberries,
several strawberries
several raspberries,
several blueberries, infused
with coconut milk.*
there's a name for these butterflies,
these so-called lolitas,
the awakened ones -
siusiu-majtki -
meaning?
piss-pants -
strange how the genitals mature
quicker than the brain -
thankfully my first encounter
with a french girl from
grenoble -
and she was two years older than
me...
we were both ****** to a numb-skull,
and while being ****** (drunk)
she at least acknowledged me
with: put on a ****** -
half dreamy half drunk.
p.s.
i have to admit, when performing oral
***
i imagined two things:
looking at an exfoliating bud of a rose,
while slurping down an oyster.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC
I bathe myself in preparation
Suds of lavender & honey
lathered over my smooth summer skin
I even shave
just for you
Moroccan oil pours over my scalp
exfoliating extra well behind the ears
ah the ears
my favorite spot
Gently dry off
Making sure not to miss any spots
above the knee
where usually a stubble island lingers
make sure the *******
are like starfruit
ready for your suckling
Lather cocoa butter
on elbows and around neckline
sensual, a paradise for you
My argan oil tresses, your palm trees
drown lashes in bat black
curl them upward towards cloudy head
I pinch already flushed cheeks
nice and baby doll pink, just the way you like it
All the while staining lips vamp scarlet
so that you may think their sole purpose
on my face is for
circling around your ****
I tweeze brows into crescent moons
over a Bette Davis eye sky
And I won't dare forget to bleach each pearly tooth
picket fence white
So when I flash my counterfeit grin
a twinkle may appear
and blur the emptiness
lurking between both corners
Now for the ***** bra pairing
of course midnight lace and twin
You, my dear get to unwrap this body of mine
How will you choose what to unravel first?
******* or ****
Decisions. Decisions.
All of it for your
heartbreaking ***** machismo
I arrive,
just as those perfect hands
of your clock
strike the moment you wanted them to
You dine
licking your fingers after each dish
You breathe cigarette breathe
Your pungent odor wreaks over my body
as yours climbs aboard
Hair, greasy hamburger follicles
Skin, porous with choking chemicals
And there is nothing to unwrap
nothing for me to find
Except an empty chest
The gold had been in my pockets the whole time
I must bathe you off.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
*TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.*
W.B.Yeats
In a time such as this, in darkening days
Without screeching witches
Frightened banshees, buggered old men
Searching for solace, eyes streaming with icicle-lust-
Gangrene facebook: torn-up, shredded twitter
The cries of the disconnected,
Wailing!
Wailing!
In a time like this, in darkening days,
The disconnections come in waves!
Searching for reason amongst the unreasoning,
Hunting for sanity within the insane,
Identifying the dead from amongst the living.
Wailing!
Wailing!
Email excreting venom
Internet exfoliating lies-politicians wrapped
In deceit-
A cold time of it, a wretched time of it.
Only within our hearts does hope lie.
Only there
Away from conflict and disorder
Away
From the capricious cacophony of biased debate.
Wailing!
Wailing!
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
The lonely moth sits perched on the shower wall
Raindrops fog up the mirror quite unconcerned
Shampoo drips and stings my watchful eyes
The lonely moth moves between my lashes onto the faucet
Scruffy loofahs exfoliating my dirtyy limbs fall to the side
Water pools outside the hair-clogged drain
The lonely moth flutters– gone in a trick of the mind
Hair cream coats dripping, bouncy locks of curls
A fresh towel becomes soaked and softened
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 1:26 PM UTC
watch'ah watch'ah want? giggles?
you got them... trans-gender males allowing
civil partnerships and all the loss of a taboo prodigy...
the other side of the spectrum you have feminism gorging
on the catwalk motto of 0... yep, with trans-gender males
getting licorice stuffed pillows you deem to call *******
funny thing... those exfoliating breathing apparatus items ****
i forgot the plural, and yes, correct, ascribing
a quality to the **** word, moor adjectives with a sunset)
pairs... now you have feminism on steroids
with girl bodies too taboo for ******
and too into-it with muscular ***** wanks
when fat was **** in painting and
breast-feeding... so one spectrum-end (dual zenith-nadir,
you choose) gets implants...
the other works out with Arnie for a flat
muscular chest that could breast-feed
a tapeworm... but hey! our politics is
a solid ace in poker... we better export this
**** to the middle east and laugh about it...
but i tell you... too prolonged the pyramids'
influence on this region,
had god interfered in the Aztec geography
we'd see no dodo right now
(inclusive of memory and memorable recounts
of the Galapagos shortcrust debriefing
in historical terminology suddenly
inspected suddenly lost
for want of cure so that history isn't
just a deja vu - hubris Gemini hatching
in a tetragrammaton)...
buggers are really keen on proving the sudden
eclipse... that's the global aspect of the plague...
everyone cared for what happened with the sudden
churn of wanting sleep...
and the greatest modern pathos? insomnia...
it's the great utopian counter -
or a lack of interpreting dreams, equating to
"life is meaningless".
lack of freud to be exact, as in:
the only hierarchy in theory is a hierarchic
stance on applicability being vogue -
everything else is hushed or broomed or ushered
into Hades so that utopia is a sinking ship
like Pompeii or Atlantis (Thomas Moore -
or should i write Thomas Morse? cradle for the
blind, a book of Braille for the sight-able
hell-bent to make bureaucracy of obstructions
in a game of noughts and crosses in the playground).
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
i love winter for the sole fact
i can invent living
in alaska or honningsvåg,
and never see the sun for four
months - it helps that in england
the skies are blissfully gray
at sunrise in this ideal season;
i'm adding to the cult of the moon,
a subplot of islam you might
call what i'm doing - no cult
of the sun, copper skin and
the cliché holiday in the bahamas,
no dream of all-you-can-eat buffets
at a holiday resort - tatar steak
for me and a chance conversation
over hákarl (kefir meat) watching
a volcano errupt in the night.
p.p.s. (pedantic post-scriptum):
the diacritic a in hákarl
is a sign of elevating the k, or at
least prolonging / exfoliating it,
stressing the two syllables -
well at least in my optic theory
of interpretation; or interpreted
to ensure the first syllable acts
like a definite article (the) in hebrew,
e.g. ha shem (the name) - not that
it does act like a definite article,
i'm sure in icelandic the definite article
is not spelled like the hebrew articulation,
but it's about the distinction in
the presented syllable compound
with the diacritic mark over a - also
inverted using a different notation
akin to compounded words,
id est ha-karl.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
i too find the lack of colour in the winter bouquet
demeaning, but with so much colour missing,
i find the remains of colour
much approving, that the remains can be exfoliating,
sharpening on the smithy hoof
in arthur's sneeze for new years'
celebration,
and too the sunlight accompanied
with beer for the encore of uninhibited laughter
at the sorrow of hebrew tonguing
h & a
(turned witty that combination did,
or slapstick the donkey with mel brooks’
gags shaming adolf chaplin; for care of a freudian couch),
as not akin to knitting laughter
but simply with index codices make
vectors and arrows of fingers turned into eyes...
with beer the encore until resolved serious
with a track-list of post hippy reflection:
beginning with 21st schizoid man (+ mirrors),
through *i talk to the wind, epitaph
(+ march of no reason) and tomorrow and tomorrow,
moonchild (+ the dream and the illusion);*
and ending with *the court of the crimson king
(+ return of the fire witch, the dance of the puppets).*
i once made a tape, odd thing in the 21st century
to make tapes for other people with a chance
personal reunion, as based on the novel high
fidelity by nick hornby...
but i did and she said... i walked at 5am through
oxford street emptied by an apocalypse, and the song
epitaph resonated like birdsong.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
i think it's called the art of reading... so i'm reading this book, and i'm noting it's a semblance of some meaningul aphoristic tactic... headphones, sunglasses... and the bookmark lodged in between my skull and the sunglasses... but i'm thankful in that i indicated ᚱ on one side of the bookmark... and ᛚ on the other side... just so i known what page i left my reading attention span on... it really has become an ars lectio - the art of reading... me? oh i can stomach heidegger's ponderings... all i need is some whiskey, a packet of cigarettes... an uncomfortable position: akimbo on a windowsill... and comparative literature, usually in the form of the sunday press... the magazines of a leading newspaper... i have no idea why i'm big on sunglasses... blocking out the u.v. rays? fuck's sake! 'ere comes pete and his ice-cream van with that horror-movie equipped jingle... it's sunday, and he drives into a cul de sac... wallace way... that's what it's called... and off he goes... a music box akin to a cheap-ass fabergé egg... spot me a porcelain ballerina twirling? might be that... but it really has become a case of ars lect - reading difficult books becomes bearable when appointing yourself having read them in uncomfortable positions... + some idiosyncratic ******* behaviour... like lodging a bookmark behind your ear, with one side having the rune ᚱ designating: you finished where we finished off on the right page... and then the rune ᛚ deginating: you left off on the left page. well... there's that... and there's also balancing a pen on the peacock of a book that's nothing more than... simply open... oh look! the it's exfoliating! but of course it would... it's giving it the peacock whiff of its tail by being opened by a keen reader... i agree though... god is dead... so much so that i'd say: poetry is dead... but was it kept alive is the art of reading... and it really has become an art form... i can only equate this consideration to picasso's blue period... just before cubism and the revision of geometrical archetypes, i.e.
. . . .
. .
. .
. . we playing ******* dominos
or somethin'? basically that...
ooh... i have something king solomon would appreciate,
i call it the solomon's star....
.
. .
. .
. .
.
now that really is a ****** representation of
two squares ******* each other... david's?
the star of two triangles?
sure... but solomon's star
is that of one square on top of another...
i'm really going to try and draw this
symbol in pixel:
.
. .
. .
. .
.
now all you have to attach is two squares
set against each other...
and forget the star of david,
and embrace the star of solomon.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
A continuity of effortless mannerisms,
a cusp connected to the plague.
Zombies developing in the desolate plains,
roaming through streets,
implementing a quietus to civil beasts.
Fragile eyes fall upon cries,
the beggars fighting through darkness,
waiting for refuge, waiting to be rescued.
A cataclysmic rupture awakes,
provoking the urge to participate,
consumed by chaos, left behind to imitate.
Invoking subtle voices,
calling from a distance, caressing layers,
penetrating deeper through the shell.
A seed of knowledge planted, exfoliating the mind
an epoch of change, a doorway opened, a passage granted,
a new reign.
Sprouting directly through me,
a nuance shatters geriatric existences,
forcing drastic redirection,
conspiring an out burst, breaking the cocoon,
learning to levitate, traveling the universe,
vanishing from the ocean of lies
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Enduring synaptic modification over years of examination through deep meditation
Experiencing exfoliating sedations subconsciously cultivating inspiration.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
1. peeling wallpaper
2. unembossed boarskin
3. sunburnt mahogany
4. sequin firewood
5. bible page bark
6. chocolate tendrils
7. exfoliating exoskeleton
8. bleached crimson
9. acid wash chestnut
10. sycamore's elbow
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
With every scapegoat,
I fed the grass of perjury.
Then I'd be a distortion,
pealing the fragmented
façade from me...
Walking away from the wreckage.
Leaving them trapped
and broken in the remnants
of my echo..
Hi I'm Judy,
I always like names with J..
No goats this time,
just sheep ready
to follow me to the slaughter house..
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
I wash myself with water,
you find too hot to touch
But it soothes my aching muscles and
my tired soul so much
Relaxation is becoming me,
with eucalyptus in the air,
Soothing all my senses while I
lather it through my hair
Jelly bean body scrub in hand,
everything smells sweet
Exfoliating the day from my being, removing myself from defeat
Rubbing circles along my jaw to massage away exhaustion,
high pressured heat to free my shoulders of the burden they carry so often
Body oil to top it off,
strawberry my favorite choice
It's hard to hate yourself when you smell so good,
but it's easier to find my voice
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
It has been resolved!
It is a crusted concept, inept and unabashed
It is the last call on a windy city tram to the south side
It is a favorite sports bar closed for remodel
The pleasant bliss of air and undisclosed favorites
I will finally extricate myself from the grips of Charybdis
I will continue on, my sail billowing with glee
the air is my fuel and neverrun empty
Can you give a piece of El Dorado to my newfound friend,
Can you give them the same happiness you promised me
and don't let them wonder too long
These unforgotten experiences that mean something to you--
It is an orange rind in the water, silently exfoliating the ions
It is a concrete structure undefined
All the stones that are friendly and snuggled intently against
the mold
I will find new homes in the volcanic chains and wonder about you
You will never again remember the same way who I am, just the faded constraints of the way I challenged your brain
Think of new things! See the trees as lungs
and breeeeaaaathing
You'll find that love in another chunk of god, no complaints for the weary
The kind and lovable axeman who cuts u--Pondicherry
I am a static mold and will rapidly extrue
All the magnificence of things that I cannot view
I am a rhythm of the heart, a beaming drum
I analyze the air and drink it like ***
Fermented love of god, give me no return
To give that which no man has earned
thank you,
sweet love
thank you for showing me something new.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
in times of peace, “subculture” art becomes all the more aggressive to substitute actual violence with its cartesian extension: imbued by a masochism never really experienced, hence with an exfoliating sadism experienced by the onlookers who forgot: never really experienced.
a: a vector defined by an open field (index v.)...
the: a vector defined by a narrow corridor (v. palm•).
it’s a completely different story should
pronouns become subject to definite / indefinite articulation,
famous for the dittoing out of the ego in existentialism
(in the latter ex-) not even vaguely apparent in sartre
(-ample proofs!)... ultimate freedom with the price of ultimate irresponsibility i.e.,
no point being witty on the page... you have too much time
to revise a joke & play on words... mind the sarcasm... it’s already
delayed standing in greenwich asking for the japanese 8am in winter.
•paradoxical cross-reference, as much akin to the retinal
image upside down to enable man to not distinguish
the northern hemisphere from the southern hemisphere
and make him sane grounded on a spherical orbital -
i.e. indefinite coupled with an index and definite with a palm,
although out of bracket... these two lines make perfect sense,
unless the bracket content is coupled to ensure
the open field / index (finger) v. narrow corridor / palm
are staged to a prose linear development / chronology, e.g.
the renaissance came before the enlightenment,
then nothing makes sense... and it makes
perfect sense for a banker to criticise newtonian physics /
mathematics as completely useless,
then there's no use in anything that's even vaguely complicated...
only because it's not in vogue.
*you can only prove to me a belief in atheism
once you make language as much incomprehensible unconsciously
as you can make language as much complex consciously;
i will not accept regurgitation of another "atheists" ideas
as your atheism focusing on a broken arm as the misery
of all miseries... ensure me a complication of language
you can explain... stating that you only intended
the complexity to be incomprehensible unconsciously
(aha! siamese adjectives!), rather than incomprehensible consciously;
i mean... i've reached the ultimate anti concept of poetry,
instead of rhymes littering my page i faced the antidote
to rhyming by focusing on kindred words:
direct / indirect unconscious / conscious
comprehensible / incomprehensible... this is the opposite
of writing rhyming poetry... no wonder i get muddled
and don't sound pretty enough to repeat jive
with five
of all possible tail offs.*
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
to the ocean during low tide
so i can race with Mother Nature
gritty, soft, exfoliating sand beneath my calloused feet
i'm going to win this one
mother's sea spray has nothing on me
i'm going to dance out here for a while
my feet know the way back
i feel at home
in the water
-z.z
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC