"faberge" poems
I was a no name worker bee
Yet I had a million bees all working for me
I was a caryatid, house wife, never had the life of a queen
Stole my honey from the wasps with the wax in their wings
I was a comatose burn victim
I could hear the nurses whisper sanctum sanctorum!
They fed me nutrients and cleaned my ******
They either didn’t care or they didn’t think I could hear them
I was alive when the lightning struck
But I was dead by second, to survive my luck
I wasn’t anything special
I was a mass produced individual
They had no names worth knowing
They had no future where they were going
And I never thought twice about what I did
The quiet megalomania of a caryatid
And then my patience turned to rampage
I took a page from Genghis Khan
I wanted the roaches gone
I hatched suburban escape plans
Because my angst was delayed
A generation late & afraid
Now in the presence of the gods and goddesses
And in the confidence of infinite this is
Another power grab a singularity
Another force to fight reverse polarity
I’m all about the lust and not the wander
I am the lingering presence of a long goner
I’m here to clarify the **** of daughters
The spider stink in the breath of fire
If we could **** for utility instead of a performance to showcase our species’ ability
Then we’d be hunted by viruses
The gods and goddesses with the instinct to extinct humanity
Chaos is healthy, its part of reality, essential to symmetry, like night is to day
When life is weighed on a pendulum
Like sanctum sanctorum
The delicate faberge
There isn’t anything to bother with on top of the monolith
I’m shouting mantras from the mountain peak
There isn’t any time to practice with a modern creation myth
A lullaby in a language I don’t speak
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
kiss me with a mouthful of mango sorbet;
you taste like
home and feel like
winter.
my craven desires, and
innocence in the arch of your
neck: caveats concealed in
kisses; you have
misgivings and we have
lain here for years upon years
desiring little more than to be
swallowed up by our
sins and shadows.
I'll be honest, if your moral
halflife is longer than the
school year, then
what's the point?
your beta decay is
pathetic, you're impotent, the
radiation is too weak to be
of any harm;
set my geiger counter
abuzz, like my phone
begging for attention like
you should beg for mine, and I
Love It,
you know I
do, quand tu manges
Le Gateaux, such an
eager little **** seeking
absolution like I have anything other than
Absolut to offer you.
you drink with the
desperation of a desert-dehydrated
man, with the
fervor of a woman throwing herself,
time and again, at the
Glass Ceiling, further success
visible and attainable:
you always spoke to me like
you had a mouthful of
broken Faberge eggs, and to
close your mouth would be to
Invite Pain.
you were always averse to pain, though you
relished in inflicting it, and I
loved little more than to be
bruised and beaten and bloodied by your
ardent affections.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
Ask me about *****
at the Pitcher & Piano
a woman sits angular
snow swirls in her face
the Tundra, a riot, an Izba*
or a Romanov's Faberge egg
Lean into this moment
the curve of it's being
like a sail into the wind
or the Bering Strait neatly
amongst Icebergs
Canada
Marylin
The Niagara Falls
a Geologist's contentment
a backpack & a tent
ink& a compass
Omai* resplendent
* Izba - a country hut ( russian)
* Omai - Mai, the second pacific Islander to ever visit Britain in the late 1700ds who became popular in London's high society
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
I wake to the sound of helicopters again. Ive been sleeping more than usual; trapped in this in between state, not quite awake, yet not quite asleep. I stumble through my days in a haze of hash and dreams. Today i dream that im a man made of television signals sitting on the moon watching the earth and sun die. Tomorrow i dream my skin is blue and made of tiny pieces of faberge, constantly in a state of flux. Being shifts and moves with every emotion, displaying its anguish through skin like a shriveled leaf in the relentless dry light. Or its pulsating with life in its heart. Grinding and passing with an excitedness only matched by two lovers in the embrace of a blind passion. They are alive- the faberge that is. I do my best not to own my cube parts as they do not belong to me.I struggle to find an I. Awake i am numb. Feeling has lost all duality and there is left only "a" Feeling.
I wake up.
Stumbling, drunk on delta waves, animal kicks in. Life easy. **** first. In process of ******* White dog in bathroom with me. It run to window. It escape.
Lucidity returns........ and i am still in bed. Three figures are standing over me. I'm paralyzed and the only breath on the air is a fear that is unusually thick and warm. The mind is wrought with an animal anxiety yet a conscious mind remains- confused. Afraid; it rejects and i....
I wake up in a thick sweat. My breath is heavy and a dull paranoia remains from a night of heavy dreaming. As if moving through soup i push myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Im shivering and fear is licking my skin, yet i don't remember ever having any reason to be afraid. I bite my lip and the familiarity of pain reminds me that im in THE absolute. The bleakness of reality begins as my brain starts its daily chatter, soft, like birds in the early hours of morning.
Her majesty Sky holds a blanket of pink and oranges over her chin, nuzzling the ***** of the cosmos, begging for one more kiss from that fantastical night.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:32 AM UTC
There was not a lot to worry about so
nothing could be held up without it being sold
Faberge' brushed shoulders with art deco pieces
money paid guaranteed immediate releases
The reps had phones to their ears getting the nod
there was a clown's outfit which was rather odd
because the clown was still inside - did the body come too?
or was it to be stripped naked like me and you?
We have lost everything - it's all in the room
there was a smile from a man leaning on a broom
I want my sofa back, my favourite armchair
the bed we made love in where you lay bare
Even your smile was for sale, admired from afar
golf clubs, personal effects, my teeth in a jar
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Anomic gloom and arrogant fear
Every invisible rumbling is a machine bent on my death.
Nothing conveys me to power
For I'm left to retroactively question each choice I make
As if logic was absent and I wasn't acting by choice
But impelled to be insolent
By the inner rust and complicated working
Of my meat-and-bones practice run
For my Faberge machine body
(even as I admit this
I wrench open a kind of window
Into a mostly forgotten dream
Of a conference with some kind of
Goddess)
I'll soon be surprised
With a sudden initiation into reality
Elfin mischief and hysterical laughter spiraling around me in a climactic fireworks display
"This is really happening. This is what it was all about. This is what it's all been leading towards. This is where there's no turning back" it laughs in my face as the agony of endless ****** nearly knocks me senseless and motionless
There are souls caught up in the works and the kingdom of heaven is in disarray as we sort out our identity crisis of species here on profane planet earth. Gaia holds her breath and hopes we do not leave too big a mark when we explode ourselves.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
Like Faberge, your surface delicate secrets keep. Your turn guards the only edges in a flash of auburn embers.
Frailty stay yourself; this is no time for tears. Uniform quality of essence pervades your spirit, inviting me to drink.
Your house turns not into itself, but outward at the coming waves, Cheshire in challenge.
Remain within those seams and coal your diamond be, but let the tailor trim and see all that we can be.
This feral jinx, having crested and crashed, lets not the berm erode. This knife is simply for cooking now.
Let the strums stroke nylon in tune, lulling this trenchant wit upon the step.
I’ll bake us both in bread and wrap this sullied soul in warm cotton thread.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
His eyes blindfolded by sleep, he densely gropes about grabbing my hand between both
of his.
Enclosing mine own between his Faberge egg of callouses and scars.
He holds my hand as if made of porcelain between his blonde-tufted, chiseled pectorals.
The tufts shift beneath the weight of our hands with each heave of mellifluous breath, silhouetted by pthalo blue lights from the electronic tomes casting their oceanic net about the room.
Chronographs edge further into their rotation, and his tides of breath bear the gentle weight of his hands more heavily about mine.
A dulling crash of sleep furls about my hand - starting at the top and settling somewhere between the tufts.
I begin to wonder if the heartbeat I feel in my hand is his or mine.
As I begin to drift back to sleep with disregard to whether or not I will wake with a functioning hand; a yawn encompasses his form pulling the Faberge egg apart, and shocking a syncopated known trumming through my hand.
A smile washes over both of our faces; in blindfolded sleep for him, and me with an interest in illumination within his maniform Fabrege clasp.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Some *****
Are like Faberge Eggs:
Irreplaceable
And needing
Coddling.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
It is a world of randomness.
Photos play in
their digital displays.
Soft impression of
Of wet and salted sands
leave an imprint
of her sacred dance.
Another photo
catches her
soft features
strained in
fantastic effort.
Like a perfect sketch
her legs
are outstretched midair
in opposite directions.
A gray cement cylinder
with open circles
cradles her soft body.
She is a changeling
that bends with
it’s hard contours.
Switching with
a finger’s flick,
finds two black ropes
that hold the hopes
of the young dancer
hanging down
unbound
as she is.
With the fierceness
Of Artemis
this bare foot goddess
sweeps her feet
across the
white winter grounds.
Her steps are
hot enough
to melt the snow.
Later she
enshrouds herself
in a transparent veil.
The melody does not stop.
She moves
like the figure in a
faberge egg music box,
never allowed
to rest until
she breaks.
Beautiful and powerful,
she blooms like the flowers
her admirers plucked
to place pink petals
at her feet.
She is eloquence.
Arms outstretched
to open the doors
that lead to a
warm summer dreamland
which all her devotees
wish to explore.
Folds of blue fabric
fill her tiny hands,
rippling like water
hit by strange skipping stones.
She ***** the fabric forward
up, down, and back,
trying to soar
with the fury of her dance.
One knee rises.
Unfeathered arms open,
flowing back, up, and away.
This long legged
blonde blue eyed child flys,
a canary in the coal mine
barely concealed
urging us to feel;
Frozen in time
on Instagram
to be seen
and soon sidecrolled away.
A queen like Titania,
fairy winged,
a thing of dreams.
Nature’s surroundings
obfuscate her
transient existence.
Her body bends and sways
with the wonders of
old orchestras and concertos.
Till, eve falls
and December takes the dancer.
The soft swimmer shimmers
in the soon to be frozen water.
Feathers fall from the Swan’s
long lost daughter,
and the well used
dance shoes
refuse to move.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Why Easter eggs on Easter Sunday?
why not eggs made
by Faberge?
I'd like to find a chicken that laid those,
and why eggs at all?
Why not coconuts?
Just questions from
my question bag
feel free to tag me
with your answers.
There's a passenger wearing orange trews,
did he choose them?
and
the girl with spiky hair
is she wearing 'Harmony'?
is she really there?
At times I see but don't recall
that I have seen it all
before.
Serving rabbit stew on Easter Monday
is probably
not the thing to do
nor is picking your nose on the underground,
but that person
sitting opposite doesn't seem in
the slightest bit
concerned.
I suppose it takes all kinds of sports
to make all kinds of different sorts
I wish though they were sorted differently
and I didn't get sitting opposite me a nose picker.
Perhaps Wednesday will lay for me
a Dell computer,
I'll wait and see, cross my fingers, hold
my ***
but won't hold out much hope.
Anyway Wednesday is here,
tomorrow's but a Thursday
another day to lay my neck down
on the block
watch the clock
listen to a crock of....
...shooby dooby's
emanating from someone's ear phones,
that's disconcerting
I'm listening too
because like everyone I'm trapped
and that's what trapped people
find they have to listen to
shooby ****** dooby doo.
Is this getting there
when we're not
getting anywhere?
More to the point
does anyone really care if
he picks his nose and
passes it off
as one of those things.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
~Shatter me, Humpty! Into Faberge~
Paint — the cracks, laden:
Urushi, gold leaf, lame.
~Drape me, King! In novel robes~
Hide thine – from naked eye
Of unsightly misanthropes.
~Devour me, Men! Unbecoming~
Break thy yolk and stir it, runny –
Scramble over my gutting!
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 6:04 AM UTC