"fancying" poems
Draining life to fill it with
watered-down pain, can he feel now? If my teeth make
an appearance, you'll be given your fix of my 'happiness,'
injected through your cranium. I wish I could navigate my
naive wishes, as I'm sinking in my pillows, and the light on
the ceiling is winking at me as I'm patched up, written in 'unhappy'
My uncanny doubts are fancying a feathery gift of sleep,
unlike this fascination with
falling feet to my death of dreams-
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
and mature and immortal
as if the earth had willed upon them
that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys
disappear for all eternity.
I picked up the blue bottle
tried to feel resurrection
in a recycling sort of way
felt instead only the hollow emptiness
of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately
I fantasized resurrection more than usual
at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.
At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,
in self-inflicted baptism
for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments,
pulled out of the water
gasping the holy Spring air
for dear life
and thereafter walked each step
in the garden of resurrection.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Even as a child
I despised succumbing to the stereotype
That all girls like the color pink.
The first of my favorite colors was red
Bright red,
Like the first drop of blood dribbling from a small wound.
Then I remember fancying the color yellow,
But not a bright yellow
More of a laid-back, sandbox yellow.
Soon after I grew fond of the color blue.
Not a dark blue though,
Light blue, sky color.
The color of his eyes.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
I saw her standing in line fancying a magazine-
penniless as she was and buying food.
She had to use "the stamps", the mark of the poor.
She was as pretty a thing as I'd ever seen.
Her half-done hair and hand-me-down dress
were as beautiful as any model's straightway from Bloomingdale's.
Our eyes met, but I turned away...
My eyes unworthy to behold the gaze of the impoverished princess.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties
yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence
preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning
hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni
seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?
defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees
needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
I live in a shoe
And before you ask me any questions
Or if this a metaphor
Or try to sell me a spot in the latest **** development
Let me assure you, I most definitely live in a shoe
It is the left shoe to be exact
Worn down and some spots extra layers of duct tape
To keep out the winter cold
And when it gets icy, I have to be careful
For if I jostle it just right, the shoe can slide a couple feet
You may ask me why, when, what and how
And this is what I will say
I used to work at a school, a crossing guard in the morning
Lunch lady in the afternoon, and chaperone seeing the children off in the afternoon
And with budget cuts, my job was the first to hit the floor
And so was my pension
My retirement was limited and with no health care
It was impossible to see a doctor for my growing aches and pain
And I was left with nothing, until I came across this shoe
Abandoned and tattered, I took to fancying it up
Scrubbing it out, making it into a home
It took me a winter or two to get the insulation right
And the city has all but forgotten this area
So for now, I am safe
Before the corporate giants clamor over the countryside
Pulling up homes like weeds so they can plant their boxed in communities
I am okay in my little spot
Not long the runaways found me
In school the children always ran to me for safety, and now
Their children have found me, these lost children
We are a little family of misfits, foraging off the land
Keeping each other safe
In a world that doesn’t even care if we are alive
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 2:28 AM UTC
Tinkerbell,
You should claim your love,
Your dust uplifts the imaginative,
Fancying the image your Pixie holds.
A tiny ring held your winged image,
I received the token from a dwarf,
Whom greedily devoured its bearer.
I washed clean its sweet carnage,
With your bare left hand in mind,
But when I placed the jest upon it,
The wedded finger held its ground,
An invisible band lay midst its place.
The pink blood on your cheeks spoke,
An enchantment had been yet laid,
The incantations of mine too late,
Replied the rosy blood on my cheeks.
We smiled in the twilight hence,
Reflecting the muted gore,
Shying from its shove.
You should claim your love,
Tinkerbell.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
The poet speaks on anything
thinking their words are fresh as spring,
logical as philosophy,
and tuned to nature’s harmony
Socrates reasoned that the voice
of poets was not one of choice,
but rather was much inspired
by gods touching minds with fire
The audience finds more meaning
in the mad poet's own ramblings
than the epileptic speaker
himself will ever dare ponder
They speak first on others behalf
as if they are the better half;
fancying themselves conqueror,
fisherman, a seer, and doctor
By what means are they qualified
to serve as humanity's guides?
How do the epics of Homer
make you more than imitator?
Cicero, Plato, Lucretius
Davinci, and Heraclitius:
Rare to find artist and scholar
in the wise true philosopher
Be wary of the charms of rhyme
and seduction of meter’s time
As these are well known to allure
common fools to charleton's words
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
i run the bath once more
and rewind your home, too
cuddled and tucked into each other's core
eleanor
all the sweet lies about sweet love
that were said from you
eleanor
roars howling outside my apartment
wet faces reflect on its windows
you were the patch around these bombardments
whetted daggers under her pillows
eleanor
casanovas in the city
fancying themselves swing stage licenses
hung me out to dry, technically
consider the pegs and dive into silences
eleanor
may god act as he see fit
i did mine, at least...
eleanor
if you've never been in love
eleanor
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
“Poppysmic”
She uttered the word,
With a smile on the corner of her lips.
They were sitting on a stone bench
In the green shade of a huge chestnut tree,
Leaning against each other.
His fingers were playing with her brown hair,
While his rapid heart was fancying a kiss.
“What? ” He replied,
Lifting an eyebrow out of curiosity
For that unknown word.
She began, “This is the sound of…”
But his heart was not patient enough
To hear more, and instantly
His supple lips touched those soft lips of hers.
Pa – *** – smik
The sound occurred.
She winked and he giggled in joy
As the mystery of poppysmic was unlocked.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Born into this carnival of rust
Fancying for your touch
Fancying for your love
All I see around is dancing to the rhythms of lust
Blown away by the winds of infernal heat
Colors bleed in the rain of angst
Desiring for your touch
Desiring for your love
Emptiness fills the vacuum created by life
When life was swept away by the waves of gust.
In the chaos, eying the gates of carnival of rust.
Drenched in the muddy slush of pain
Thirsting for your touch
Thirsting for your love
Caught up in the maze of a cruel game
At the end of which stands the gate.
Walls of vast abysmal expanse of mind, closing in
Encumbered by the dust of fears
vision blinded by the smog of illusions
ears assaulted by jarring sounds of confusion
Craving for your touch
Craving for your love
Don’t turn away.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
I've drowned before, in a literal sense of the word.
I, fancying myself adept, bored of shallow waters
dived in to the depths.
However, proving my pride quite wrong, the water
submersed me with its innate and temperate nature
to a world void of breath or zephyr.
I flailed my arms, and kicked my feet; but to the
sapphire liquid my efforts came quiet inept.
Understanding my current disposition, I left myself be
enveloped.
My lungs wailed and burned, the irony hardly lost,
and as I sank towards the muted pit of abysmal blue
I construed of Love's similar tactics.
Because now that I am drowning in the loveliness of
your undiluted singularity;
the resonance of sound, when around you, is dulled by
the euphony of your voice,
my lungs have a lack of oxygen and the tilt of the colors
of the spectrum are vibrant and mesmerizing.
I've drowned before, in a metacognitive sense of the word.
I, more experienced, don't fancy myself a great swimmer,
because in the torrents of your sea, I am but a mariner
lost in the sublime beauty of exquisite waters.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Mist clouds forming on my skin
I dye my mind in thin formations
soft sentient siblings aviate my fingers
frost lit prisms projecting visions that I relate to
chromatic distillation fancying the minds eye
dark transient beings no longer apply
dispersing and spilling into stretches of time
Aether, Aether, help me climb.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
Oh drat! Oh heck!
The paper just got wrapped
around my printers neck!
"I'm guilty M'lord."
I have to say.
For I kept it plugged in
when I boxed it away.
But counsel speaks!
There are, it seems,
rare mitigating circumstances!
I listen wrapt and all confused.
Not fancying my chances.
He proceeds to eulogise my life.
And makes such a meal of my piteous tale,
that I intevene and plead with the judge
to please stop the trial and throw me in jail!
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:31 PM UTC
You do this to me
I was away from all the games of love
Trying to gather my pieces and find me my-self
You came and destroyed my entire wit and will
Proving to me that my resolute was next to nill
And I am left longing for you and fancying you every minute
From the moment you met my eyes, with love infinite
You are a gentle soul with the voice, sweetest
You teach me with the thought, kindest
Full of talent and creativity!
Yet you need my attention? what a pity!
I am a plain jane, to your talents, unmatched
Human nature somehow is indeed complicated
Why o why
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 4:58 PM UTC
Fancying the finer Atlantis
A doyen of may prey mantis,
A fervor of astroflight afterlife
A stone to the throw
Insidious pipe!!!
Ayahuasca peyote foray
To exude her plop top blush
A rhythm to all Einstein theory
A broom flyer of must!!!
Predilection
Tis
I do seek
Where the barn door feeds thy hungered
Where the cold is warm cut beamed
Ado of amanita muscaria seeing's
Wherein two worlds make one meaning
As the seam's rip in leather gleaming
By the kratom like capsules to uproar ourn compassion!!!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
It's . . .
the scrape-your-knees,
messy,
yet simple misconstrued concept
of why is the sky blue sort of fancying.
It's silly, it's sweet as cherry pie and honey, this liking to him.
The type that lights up this warm hue in your eyes.
Which is by the way, the sort of effervescent feeling that curve your lips upwards so softly,
it slips past your lulling conscience and dazed & starry-eyed gaze.
Yes, its kissing stupidity; tickling with giggles.
Yes, your cheeks are hued crimson, to the tops of your ears.
But then, he simply says 'Huh, do I look like that too?'
and
winks
like
it's a little unspoken
'yes'
between
your lips.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
remain campaigners
are Neo-Nazis to me,
they want Germany to
rule - *******
Aryans and the stag do;
try buying a house
in Hackney you *****
425 thousand to mind!
i'll buy the slave trade's worth of
Minnesota with Kenya
and Kent to boot with that. *****
n'ah mate! n'ah!
i'll pile on the Cockney you pill the
urban gay-parade worshippers
fancying the remain campaign -
once it mattered, now it doesn't, really -
maybe i'll wake up
with SS-men in fish-stockings
or rainbow tights - whoever,
the gas, the chambers, the broken skeletons.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
I say to you,
Life flitters from the clasps of snoozy men
Who wish to feel comfort alone
And clings to they who feel in their bones
The slow decay to an inevitable end.
I tell you,
Those who invite the sweet drips of the heart
As well as its sour,
Live for days in the senseless man’s hour.
For though these heartfuls hold a burden
While fancying pleasure, free of strife,
They ask their hearts to pump them alive
Knowing full well the pangs of sorrow
May course in their veins by noon tomorrow.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
*Not so many moons ago,
You and I in a star-ship
Flitting amongst stars, gallivanting
Whilst remeniscing of moments
Indelible moments trapped in time
Only flying-by, eloping to Elysium
Fancying fair lands
Lands pervaded with flowers
Flowers blooming in perpetuity
Lands with rushing rivers
Rivers serpentining with nector
Lands with novelty sea shores
Shores veiled with diamonds
Lands enveloped by lustrous stars
Stars painting words of desire
Lands with halcyon seas
Seas as smooth as a millpond
Lands where the only air
There is to inhale is love
Lands where love is woven by
A tapestry of truth not lies
Lands where love isn't bought by
Sapphires, Rubies nor Emeralds
Lands where all avenues
Are paved with green and gold
Lands where mountains
Are golden-capped
Distant was the journey
Though at length,
For what seemed a life time,
Our eyes feasted on
And from a distance,
There we gazed about her
In all her splendor
Ravishingly alluring yet resplendent
With all chatoyance
One could ever imagine of
Like any one else would,
At a speed of an eagle
Descending about her prey,
Fervently we gravitated
Only to touch down
Than when the luster about her
Had our vessel*
combusted to ash!
© Kikodinho Alexandros
4th Jun 2016
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
fury which charred my soul red
abated with ashes all along
indiscretion now seemingly not mine
rail now no more evidently wrong
no more the music tasting melody
neither any remorse nor sad song
fancying am I here and now
apparently this is where I belong
Sep 10, 2024
Sep 10, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
Camping out in Craig's garden,
four of us, thirteen or so,
and the daftness has given way
to important, dark-time talk.
Craig alone has a girlfriend, Paula -
he is a pioneer, entitled to ask,
"Fa dae you fancy, then?"
Inevitable question, social minefield
Answer, "No-one!" and you're a ****
Give the wrong name,
and risk an eternity of slagging.
Tell the truth, and she might find out.
I go first: I have spotted a safe option.
"Ehm, I fancy Paula," I say,
and it's sort of true - she is a girl,
after all.
Chris goes next:
"Aye, I fancy Paula too."
"Me too," says Jimmy,
and we're all agreed.
We all fancy Paula.
We all fancy Craig's girlfriend,
and that's absolutely fine -
Craig seems satisfied.
And since none of us
has ever acted on such feelings:
since emotion does not yet imply intent
since there is no history of conniving,
of manipulating, of pursuit -
we are all safe and happy,
fancying our pal's lass.
Imagine that now. Down the pub.
Getting on. Marriages shoogly.
"Aye, I fancy your wife.
In fact, we all do."
Somehow I suspect
it would no longer be
the bonding experience
of that long-gone, pitch-dark night.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
yet another quiet reverie
precursor for a life forgotten
snatched away like the dreams I never had
of lush green valleys around the mansions,
fancying a meal of venison
in a clandestine shade of night
sparkling wine was a flavour of few,
lying awake at night
with a lover by my side
raucous laughter coming from all around
kind behaviour of the family makes you astound,
as a whole rather than a half
all together cherishing your art
lives were made and ruined in the night,
take it from an artist for losing everything in sight
a kleptomaniac of not just thoughts but words to boot,
fishing for inspiration while straightening my suit
scrambling for meaning even in the delusions,
living in denial rather than waking up from illusions.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 5:12 PM UTC