"feelers" poems
.
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....
And the abyss calls so inviting,
a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.
Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.
The feelers take a hold of me,
whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
the images created by any reality.
It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.
© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Feelers in tune with the universe
Synchronicity is what I crave
But when no one knows your frequency
You must wait for them to catch the wave
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
Check back soon to resume and consume
every tight-lipped, slack-jawed fool in the room.
See, it's all what you know
as the fires start to grow
and the future burns slow.
Keep your eyes on the ceiling,
and your antenna feelers feelin',
for when your senses stop reeling,
you will finally start believing.
Kick-back to the basics,
not too far from the basement,
and close enough to show
that **** really isn't basic.
It's another mid-west, ******
******** freak show.
Another evening drinking whiskey
with the seedling's peep-show.
So, it's time to relax and relapse
into acidified broken synapse.
The lights keep flickering
and the couples keep bickering:
***** I am not above homicidal snickering.”
I steer clear of these diversions,
and wander past the sermons,
just to chew up all the crooked talk
and spittle out inversions.
I shovel mockery to hypocrisy,
pin-prick the empty *****
whose passions lack predicates,
and in the background, I'll be complexifying my medic-kit:
ketamine, morphine, ecstasy;
marijuana, mushrooms, LSD.
Watch those ******* jitter-bug college *****
procreate while sloppy drunk,
but keep an honest eye
on the flies that will rise above –
then fall back down in existential angst, like:
“Dear God, why must I be free?
Oh, God! Why is every universal eye on me?
I'm just another acid war veteran,
sneakin' through these gutters
with pestilence and bitter sin.
When they reach the promised land
of golden clouds and holding hands,
I'll be underground with the slugs and the spider band.”
Yet here I sit, sick of sippin' poisons with illiterates.
So, let the skies fall and the buildings crash,
as you stand on the wall with a fist full of cash.
I'll be on the front lawn,
picketing for dawn,
while the night around me slowly ambles on.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
The weak inherit the Earth
The meek inherit their lead
Unaware of their life's worth
Until after they're dead
We are hopelessly trampled by a bullet stampede
Inflicted upon us for the wealthy man's greed
They sell us death as a commodity
While we can only mourn solemnly
They are arms dealers
We are harm feelers
They are life stealers
When we can't find healers
For the fatal wounds that end our lives so abruptly
And the man with the gun has no need to trust me
He has placed his faith in Ares
His humanity he failed to carry
He sold it urgently to feel secure
But then his thoughts became impure
For whatever reason he cast a death sentence
He felt injustice and wanted to get vengeance
But to the merchants of wrath
He is just math
Numbers on a graph
They must minimize
With blatant lies
Businessmen will try to create a need for their product
But engendering fear for profit seems like misconduct
Because as the bullets are raining
And the militants are training
Their money is stacking
While terrorists are attacking
Their nature seems callous
When they rely on our malice
They see us as a body count
They see us as simple trout
Swimming upstream to die
So they can eat us
Convincing us we'll fly
With minds of a fetus
The bullet burns as it punctures our civilization
It fuels our bitter spiteful incubation
We sit in the chamber
As they utilize our anger
The rich get richer
We don't see the picture
When gunshots scatter crowds
And the echoes scatter our thoughts
They want the volume to be loud
So we'll forget what we're taught
That our lives are the price of a gun and a bullet
Our paranoid lives become hard to live to the fullest
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
To be born, is to emerge as a soul within a verse
existing through eyes, ears, nose, and feelers.
Persistent as the bindweed thriving in a blind spot
and the rat-fleas riding around in the cellar.
All life contains this soul, it’s in; the drumming and the drift,
the way one shifts to their feet when battling the throes,
and the persistence of plague, which
encodes each cell with a rhythm and a role.
To drown in a river is to **** that portion of the river’s soul,
as there is no way; no lungs, no mouth
to resuscitate waters that can no longer flow.
The soul needs a body to show; the body needs a soul to breathe out
to be re-born, is to re-exist in recurse of a soul already given,
that is, unless, the soul has already been driven out.
S.L. Weisend- 2014
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
Well, my feet, they feel like
Saggy sacks of soggy moss;
As if they went for a hike
And suffered some Great Loss.
And the thorny feelers
Penetrate Barefoot Monkees.
Is loathing made of mirrors?
Is every girl a tease?...
Good G-d my stomach hurts! --
Your Divine Justice, blessed.
My vessel is vibing hertz
As it bears The Distress:
But, if I make my feet
Acknowledge more smiles than frowns;
And my Neuroses cease to bleat
While I analyze nouns...
Is there a New Normal?
Grace from benevolent gods?
Or will Hope choke, fade in Stealth
As Blind eyes miss her nods?
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Clusters of candy wings
Unfurling tendrils for feelers
They flutter in the delicate
Scent of a summer twilight
Come autumn, taken flight
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 5:45 PM UTC
Surely these surly bits
Must be burrs caught up in my
Makeup -
Making up reasons for
Why my spit was accidental.
I done been through a
Rough patch or two -
Crawling with these
Thorns in my knees
Across funky plateaus
That poke their chests out
In their scouts
For sunnier flora.
Though,
I assume their search
Didn't go over so well.
'cause these scabbings won't heal
Like I want them to,
Buried under gobs of
Ointment
That was supposed to take care of it
(And
One more bandage
Just in case).
I'm just moseying on through,
With my feelers out,
Making sure you're someone
I have to know.
In and on my way
Somewhere
In this crazy field,
Waiting for sunflowers
To bless my prayers
While I continue to
Make room for myself to
Slip past
Without being noticed.
I'm smiling so hard
To keep the soft-hearted
At bay -
Trying to avoid being forced
Into pinpoint relations
With clueless drifters
Who refuse to stay on their side.
They only mean well -
I know this,
I do.
But, the simple has yet to escape me.
Send your
Sympathies
To the weak ones,
Roleplaying
Alongside the meek,
For these are the creed
Who,
Without giving heed,
Deliver their lives
To bliss.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
Footsteps crack the timber spines
as you turn your sacred head
begging lights that cease to glow
to absolve you of the dread
you plead the cosmos for salvation
but it was dealt a feeble hand
don't you know the sun is deaf
when it's dark, when I impend
your skin quivers like December
making waltz your August mane
June eyes moisten as you realize
you're my Christmas, my *******
mind's in flight but legs are nailed
to the dirt that gave me birth
shoulders blend in one anoher
at the sense of my unworth
as the dusk forgets to dawn
I claim my morning in your eve
tonguing omens to your core
'twixt the hills that weightless heave
feelers clad of rotting bone
crease your wrap of liquid stars
midnight tears and we are dropped
down the mouth that ever starves
bend the wings you'll never spring
on the winds that summers blew
you're below, my autumn leaf
I am all that's left of you
hunger breaks my crooked jaw
what was buried comes afloat
as the sea you've always been
calms the fires in my throat
tar will steal your holy veins
you will leave my arms forlorn
that's the price a fiend must pay
on the hunt for unicorns
until then I breathe your lungs
as my pupils pulse with felony
you're the dream I'll never have
my damnation, my Persephone.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
Hanging on
with my teeth
in a hurricane
that's grief.
Rushing through
crushing me
breaking you
is there any more that it can do?
Power lines and taxi ranks,high street schools and country banks all in the air
where the hurricane brings nought but pain
and it always seems to ****** rain
when the winds outside decide to ride on the wings of daemons.
Then
the silence booms out ,shouts out to a waiting crowd,quite quietly
as if another decibel would bring the chaos back from hell,
and the people crawl like wounded ants
with feelers outstretched, looking for their habitats and listen to the
growls from dogs and smiles from Cheshire cats and budgies wearing pork pie hats
the world goes quite insane every time a hurricane
comes storming through
I think it's time to move away somewhere,say like
Kansas.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
I’m scared of silverfish
and you know
it’s the only bug
that’s made me jump
on a chair and actually
start to cry.
Pretty embarrassing.
And I don’t know why they scare me
so much
when they can’t hurt me
but they do.
And your perfect lips upturned in a
smile. Laughing,
all the while
I’m standing on this chair
and you’re standing over there,
still laughing
–but trying not to
‘cause you know
I’m scared
so you hold me.
And I like when you do.
The feel of the cloth of your vest on my face
as I lie on your chest,
relaxed and I wait.
This is fun, huh?
Nice
like this.
You ask me what I’m thinking
but I can’t say,
just keep blinking, and
all I muster is, "I don’t know."
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sometimes most days almost always
When I
Scrounging stuck in traffic
Unknown mayflies driving the cars around
Insectoid feelers grasping the wheel
When I
Bones of lava boiling over
Teeth everywhere and pointy
I hypothesize:
A mass extinction event or
A pandemic colony collapse
Wouldn't be
Too bad
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
She's a clumsy feline,
A producer of selective shivers
In sheer long glares she gives
Untimely soul feelers.
Which creeps through my bones
Since the last days of winter,
A clutched wanter of deeds,
In an almost sold properties.
She dusts me with her coat
Golden as the sweet summer sun,
Brewing my sleepy dull senses
Like a good coffee and a bun.
For I have told her factually
That these eyes are mere blinded,
But the instincts are sharpened
From the good old days I've reminded.
Come home again, she invited,
To the capital of hope and romances.
As she metals in and moans in discreet,
Then blast me with a little furry treat.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
these are but sagas for lovers and haters in love
who love to hate but are in hate with love
these poems
of couples who exist to exist
and to redefine Is
these are but stories for the sons of bleary eyed fathers
who tread the same threads across dilated garters
and heroic stoics be proud!
these are but fables of folly
and of transparent whim
of hunters’ beguilement
of huntresses’ ****
of mechanical males who practise old tricks
these are but tales of maidens and heads
of neverending aims nevertheless transfixed
these are but poems
of Envy and Trust
poems that unbe the unfair
for the sake of unlove
and while mechanical feelers probe seas of flesh dealers
and reels of film cast doubts of Enough
these are still
but poems of Trust
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
An ant on the edge of a glass clings with microscopic acrobatics,
A thematic blood-curdling scream breaks my concentration. A dream’s
Manifestation, a masturbatory second-glance, a fiftieth
Chance exhaled out a window, instead of words. I heard
Every one of yours, believe me.
Let me retrieve my dignity, your amnesia only temporary
And your memory selective, my detective skills more useful
For playing CSI in the mornings. The bruises are telling,
The losers uncertain, the wine stains on the curtain
Permanent, the bloodstains invisible, the headache miserable,
The reasons obvious. Be more devious, and less serious.
The lipstick marks I leave on your blanket make it
Impossible to forsake it, but better to forget it, forget the words --
“That jacket would look better on you with some bullet holes.”
Holy **** let me explain:
I don’t want you feeling pain, don’t want you driving home drunk,
I didn’t want you to get into this funk, can’t keep
Protecting you from the truth, I hoped my honesty
Might help you see a little, even help you sleep.
Keep your assessments quiet till noon, adjust your feelers,
Sniff the air, there, there, little ant, it’ll all be over soon.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.
The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.
These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.
There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.
The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.
This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
ashtrays, mugs and
moments: rattle within, outside their place.
our brittle, needy bones
support head,
appetite-shorn body: Bouldering.
Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges
churning-over water, tide.
High-regard neighbor’s children re-
move plastic decorations while that grandpa
hangs-- alive,
stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and
snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us
with body-shag coats to-
doors, somedays-ies and happenstance
below mortuaries, toe-
tags, dangling shoe-string,
draping clothes'-
line our spindly, warrowed hallways
between blankets, sweaty
feelers lie, their
harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/
palms aloft and hopeful.
a glint, a chance, a something.
wicker furniture, lace.
a bed, a "yes." Please,
a you.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
you're the coffee to my cup
the stitch to my seam
you bring the down to my up
the I to my beam
you're the orange to my carrot
the beef to my stew
you're the fox to my ferret
your cages, my zoo
you're the moat to my castle
the saddle to my steed
your jester's my vassal
your virtue, my deed
you're the fly to my web
the venom to my sting
you turn my flow into ebb
my winters into spring
you're the syn to my thesis
the sun to my leaves
your puzzle holds my pieces
your wire binds my sieves
you're the hedges to my maze
the signal to my noise
your game racks up my plays
like a child collecting toys
you're the sheen to my mirror
the pixels to my screen
you make further feel nearer
than my feelers can glean
you're the ink to my pen
the feathers to my wings
you turn how into when
and whethers into rings
you're the valves to my heart
the fluid to my spine
you're laughing at my ****
(was that yours or mine?)
you're the hints to my clue
the hunch to my claim
you turn my false into true
and my wild, you tame
your splinters are my plank
your twist, my *****
you're the toothbrush to my shank
the red to my blue
you're in love with my hatred
you honor my shame
your church bears my cross
your tombstone, my name
you're waging my war
your shells fill my tanks
your rich, my poor
your spit, my thanks
you're more to my less
the vowels to my needs
you put the sure in my guess
the plea in my pleads
you're the soles to my feet
and the depths to my sea
but in case we don't meet
here's from you to me
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
Things
I
should
not
'ave
left
behind
In
the
rush
to
here
Are texting me
Tentative feelers
from shy things
Unseen
Since
Learning of heartbreak
And fear
Raised shut
What price antennae?
My life?
Silly questions
From modeling
On stone cold
Silly humans
Crushed
I am once again
proudly
eyebrows up
expectantly
grinning
About
to
ask
you
somethin'
Can you come out and play?
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
At the door again,
It begins as a quiet scratching
And then a thick, abrasive sliding-down
Like a heaviness upon the frame.
Then a barely perceived close-breathing
That seems to creep like dull lantern-light
Under the door,
And around the frame,
And through the keyhole.
And there is no talisman to protect him.
No bust of pallas above the door
He is no metamorphosing cockroach
Able to **** the gaps
With oily-black chitin feelers.
The darkness brings no tools but fear
Thick and impenetrable as the night
The ancient lizard-brain takes over
And leaves him waiting for the first rays
That will pierce the window like lances
And dissolve the oppressive world
That leans so heavy against his door.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
All through the woodwork lesson
and through a double dose of maths,
he thinks of her, the kiss on the sports
field, the brushing of his lips on hers.
He'd almost cut his finger on a saw,
being preoccupied with thoughts of
her, her eyes through glasses, the
innocence of lilies about her, the way
she looked so surprised, he having
kissed her. Not planned, no he didn’t
plan the kiss, he was just going to talk
with her, get to know her more and
better, when the impulse to kiss, over
came him, as if some rarely seen fish
of the sea had drawn him into depths
he'd not known. He sits on the school
bus, got on before she had, looks out
the window, shy of seeing her, now
wondering what she'd say after that
kiss, her reaction. Trevor says softly
something about the Frump, he doesn't
turn, looks at the kids waiting to get
on the bus, excited, engaged in their
conversations, laughing. He is aware,
that she may be on the bus now, he is
so self obsessed, he can hear his heart
beat, thump through his chest. Trevor
next to him, talking across the aisle,
says something about her, but he isn’t
listening, stares out. He feels as if he's
under a microscope, eyes gawking at
him, words around him. Maybe others
saw the kiss? He didn’t think about that,
never gave it thought. The radio is on,
the music blares, some one is singing
about love and missing her. He relaxes
as the bus move off, senses no one is
aware of the kiss, no talk, or chatter
of it. Even Trevor, who is the vanguard
of gossip, says nothing about that at all.
John is aware she sits across the aisle,
a little bit back. He could possibly see
her, if he glanced over the top of his seat,
but he doesn't, he looks at the passing
scene, trees, hedges, fields, cottages.
He tries to calm his beating heart, the
thump seems almost audible, as if
the whole bus can hear its thump.
He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
the lips kissed, the eyes behind her
spectacles, her mouth, the way her
words were stilled by his kiss, were
drenched in her ****** mouth; he had
touched her, too. His hand had soft
touched her arm, drew her body closer
to him. She smelt of countryside, air,
and hay and fields. Her lips there were
feather soft; he could have slept there,
lay there, brushed the lips, as if a red
butterfly had landed, sought refreshment.
He reruns the kiss, in his head, plays
it over and over. She is there just across
the way; he can almost sense her eyes
on him, like feelers reaching over the
seats to touch him. He opens his eyes,
Trevor has football cards in his inky
hands, he talks of this player and that,
that football team and this, but all John
can think on is the butterfly landing kiss.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
to the lost & tortured souls
the misunderstood
the brilliant
the creative
the brave
the lost
the drunk
the passionate
the bukowski's
the keruacs's
the rumi's
the hopeless
the romantics
the artists
the poets
the music makers
the wanderers
the fighters
the feelers
you are the ones
living life through the expression of art
you are the ones
keeping the fire of human experience alive
so keep you eyes to the sky
and your feet to the earth
your heart on your sleeve
& don't forget what you're worth
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
Sleepers will sleep;
Their minds shut off
To the world of pain
Surrounding them,
Belonging to the
Seers who see
All the hurt;
The injustice;
The suffering.
Feelers will feel
The world and
All its imperfect
Pain wrapped in
A cloak of invisibility
That has been chained
Around them by the
Sleepers who sleep
To pretend these
Seers and feelers
Are only dreams.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
Every one who has ever felt
has a philosophy on Love
I believe no one ever really knows what Love is
Its an odd affection that consumes all
There are so many kinds of Love
mad love, hateful love, sad love, happy love
Whose ever to understand what is really Love is
I don't think most ever will...
Nor do I believe most should
Love is for the feelers
Love is for the writers and the artists and photographers
For people who constantly want to capture what they feel
Everyone deserves Love
But what people call True Love
Is reserved for those who mull over
Every look, the touches, the smells, the lighting
Words, sentences, gasps, and moans
What everyone feels is different
And that is beautiful
But those who feel the most deeply
Are those who choose to feel everything
Those who aren't afraid to feel
They want everyone to feel their Saturday mornings
Filled with white light
Resplendent but chilly
Intimate filled with fluffy pillows and blankets
Making coffee and eggs
They want everyone to know that's how the feel Love
That Love is in their everyday
But what they want to explain even more
Is the One time Love they feel
Whether its still theirs or not.
Because it is worth it
That's the real difference between Love and what everyone calls Love
When its felt so deeply
Everyone needs to know
Even when it isn't there
Because it will not happen again
But it made you love everything else, that much more
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC