"fibres" poems
The flame in my flesh burns tor like
Above conventions of average humanity,
Propelled to hatred of their opposite
By the pristine charm in the streaks of culture,
Their Florence comes from the glory of orthodoxities
In the time long fibres of religious pockets,
Islam, Christian, Hinduism and all that steadily
And firmly in piety aver perfection of Godliness,
Forgetting the flame of same *** with oral spice
In the God made flesh of the dear lesbian daughter,
Spell binding the equivalent in blossoms of the gay,
Provoking hatred from the threatened heterosexists,
But the oral *** of a lesbian is an apex of human pleasure
Surpassing all on earth and in heaven, as no human barricade
Of whatsoever caliber will cull lesbian’s feelings
From the glorious power in the genitals on kiss of lips,
As the tongue of the chic wag from side to other
Touching fountains of ****** glory in cement of sameness
Throwing threats of law and black order to dustbins
And trash yards of anachronisms as the power of LGBT
Engulfs the young world into in its protégé,
Shamelessly tethered on the sensual tentacles
Of maximum gusto in the ***** of oral *** with a dear ‘less’
In tune with all rhythms of the times
Remaining strange to the conservatives,
Ever seeking pleasure from where pain hails
Living gloomy life on a brink of melancholia,
Worry not lesbian daughter you are powerful,
In one away or so, rise up and walk tall
You have power in your oral ***
Oral *** Oral *** Oral *** of a lesbian!
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Massage does it good
To the fibres of fatigue
Back ~ ease to normal
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.
But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is German
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?
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Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Cerro Aconcagua sat on his Feet
Watching his children browse his Bones below
Either for Sport or for Samples replete
As they enjoyed the Splendour of his Brow
And how you hugged the Wind which sprayed your Frost
Then took your Role as a Giant-of-Salt
This the Rockies felt the best you can boast
Though in that Line conscience comes to halt
For what they discovered, an Inca wrapped
Possibly a Victim of Sacrifice
Flesh still worn; Of Fibres long-live sapped
For the Sky-God's Hunger he did suffice.
The only Wonder as far as I see
How Sturdy are you yet Motherly be.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
The coffee cup is stained red
From strawberry chuppa chups and your lipstick, honey.
The salty liquid from its fibres
Evaporates under your fierce breath. Despite this, your voice is thin, ragged
And worn. How has life been treating you?
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.
Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.
I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much ****** snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.
And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.
-
A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.
The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.
And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.
-
A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.
So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.
And now it’s all there.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
I’m lost amidst the closets of curiosities,
Trapped within the fibres of a page.
Desperately humming lackluster songs of
Redemption.
Straining my eyes to see into the dark,
Scanning subconscious horizons in search
Of the rocky cove where the sun will be.
Reborn.
My fingers are bleeding from trying to grasp.
The peonies and gardenias in my skull,
Losing my grip on the garden in my mind.
Shrieking.
Obscure obscenities as the angels stand and
Stare. Nonconformity has eternally failed me.
Garden nymphs move their wooden mouths.
Whispering.
Songs of sorrow and the skies.
Constructing.
Oddly-shaped windows of eternal insignificance.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 4:34 PM UTC
crushed
by the immense weight of
expectation; I’ve come too far
to turn back now.
or to stay stagnated, where I am.
this halfway house of
purgatory, grasping at mere
fibres of the future I so very wish to weave,
but my attempts are futile
I am unable to get a grip.
rope burn bites at my hands,
slip, bleed, slip.
The options are so endless,
yet so limited by none other
than myself.
I preach,
believe in yourself. love yourself.
go for your dreams and don’t let them slip away.
but these are simply words I say.
I preach one thing and
I practise another.
hypocrisy, doubt’s dutiful brother
fan others flames yet ignore mine being smothered.
by my own hands, none other.
at least I have you,
the single being on this earth
that believes in me.
I don’t know why
I don’t know how it came to be.
that you are the one soul that truly pushes me towards my dreams.
you don’t let me give up
you don’t allow me to claim victim, be smothered by this monster surrounding me,
not mother or father
but me, it’s me.
the monster is me
don’t you see?
I’m the one who doesn’t believe.
I’m the one whose stopping me
I’m the one whose keeping me down and doubting myself and writing myself off before I even put pen to paper and make myself worse off.
You are like
a fallen angel
lifting me on
your broken wings
not to save me,
but to let me go
and catch me again
like a bird
teaching her
baby to fly.
you,
are trying to help me realize
that I have wings too,
if I’d just open my eyes.
that you can still fly
and be scared of heights.
3 am passes
another day approaches
pointless moments surrounded by
expressionless
wilting roses.
I’ll fight the urge to
give up, even if it feels like
I’m not winning
because
the clock will pass 4 am
and the world will keep spinning
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
Fetch me out of my case
Handle with care my prized lacquered face
Rest gently my wooden veneered base
Cradle my neck and prepare to lace
Wipe off my fret with a towel
Gift to me your first string
Fasten one end with a dowel
More to do before I sing
Other end, goes into my head
Through one pinhole, allow some slack
Remaining strings, the same you will thread
Strung side by side, along their tracks
Now tighten, wind them taut
Work away the looseness
Stash aside all other thoughts
My voice almost heard albeit tuneless
Here I lay; quiet and strung
You'd have to give me my voice
Then I'd speak but only in your tongue
Then I'd sing only if it's your choice
Prop me up, caress my earthy spine
I'd mouth your words according to pitch
United through movement, manipulate my lines
Your script; my mouth, seamlessly we'd stitch
Your fingers, they twitch and flick
Willing the most lifelike of gestures
Rising and falling of my strings you'd pick
Whimsical dance between slaves and masters
My body over which I have no control
Helplessness overcome my entire being
In my fibres, grains and knots, bore no soul
Without you I lay limp; close to nothing
You need me to project your speech
I need you to make me feel alive
Off of each other, we'd feed and leech
As both hosts and parasites, together we'd thrive
I am one of yours but not the favourite pet
I am just an extension of your unfortunate self
I am wood, dead and lifeless; a strung up marionette
Not a guitar but your fancy puppet sitting on the shelf
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
It was startling - this pessimistic world,
I opened the window, a storm raged,
attic whipped windy cobwebs,
scurrying spiders slid under debris,
and cracks appeared in her flesh,
where red oozed, yelling its escape,
collar bone protruding, thin layers fading,
wine trickled from blue corners,
knuckles scraped. I heard their drag,
whilst fibres caught up in nails,
burrowing beneath red lacquer,
snagging....scraping their terminus
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Now,
We are mellow.
Having spent the evening exploring the threads of friendship.
That had come adrift of warp, weft and weave.
Time and distance had
silks, snag-tagged-torn,
on the bustling-busy,
hectic-hustling of work
and family.
Teasing-taunt,
needle-gnawing,
small, gap-rip-rents
in the snug comforter
that is... the wonder of us.
Us, so many secrets woven. So many, nights of tissues and sobbing tears.
Darning in daring exploits. Cutting away knotted,
fear-angry-scream-fighting feuds.
Cutting work, for days of delight and nights of desperate yearning.
We used anything at hand, rough wools, pieces of string and twines.
To weave a blanket,
to hide us from life's storms.
We were,
so young, so strong, recklessly-brash,
stupidly-joyous
and braveheart-fools.
And now, time and age,
has softened our work. Felted and fuse-melded,
the fibres into a beautiful entity.
That we store-save in the heart's cupboard,
of special and precious things.
It is an heirloom of sorts.
We bring it out,with occasional, humble-grace,
to be dandled and stroked with reverence.
Caressed and cossetted are our memories held within the abstract weave.
We are the dwindling
of a youthful exuberance
flung-thrown-heaved
to the wild winds.
So now, we are grateful to be curator-custodians of the retrospective nature
as we augment-append
and reiterate-repair.
A new thread here,
now,
embellish-embroider,embed
and tatt-stitch.
My son and your twin girls, squeezed, splashing
into your tiny bathtub
big-grin-giggling in the gurgling water.
Our future, here and now,
is the brightest of silks,
Our past, mellow and yielding in,
the luminent opulence,
angelically-asleep in,
the other room.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
They walked in together with flushed faces and cold ears, after walking for what seemed like minutes in the coniferous forest surrounding the cedar cabin. Those minutes were actually hours, but when they were out here time did a funny thing and sometimes stopped all together. He hung their coats in the closet as she stripped herself of boots and socks, with bare cold feet she walked across the patterned carpet feeling its fibres between her toes. She perched herself on the couch in her favourite reading spot. He then too assumed his position on the couch allowing a space inside his outreached arm to be filled by her appreciative body. As she blankly gazed at the green life out the window, he gazed at her. Memorizing the freckles on the bridge of her nose and the way she puckered her lips without noticing. Absorbing all of her for a keepsake in case she decided to disappear as fast as she had come. This girl, he thought, is the most beautiful combination of genes and timing I have encountered in my life. But he didn’t mean physically, he meant her laugh and her stubbornness and how she believed she was spontaneous but every moment of her life was planned. It scared him how much and how detailed he saw his future, and how she was undoubtedly in it as far as he was concerned. Sometimes he wished he didn’t feel so much for her, for them. He had been hurt before and he grew accustomed to the calluses around his heart.
She breathed it all in, slowly but thoroughly. She breathed in the warmth of the burning furnace, the smell of wood that was still alive. She breathed in his sent of musk, soap, and mint. She breathed in his delicious smell of love, his pheromones. This place was exactly what they needed, some time in a surreal place to remember each other and how well they used to fit. How well they do fit. The stress and distractions of everyday life were tugging at the strings that kept them woven together. All they needed was time to be silent together, time to think together about different things. She knew that their hands and souls would fit together again like they always had, if they just gave it a chance. And now, here they were in their own made happiness. Sitting here as one piece of human, making love in the most innocent of ways.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
i sense a bitter person
twisted by life's fate
rather call it passion
instead of woeful hate
life is like a soda bottle
shaken with compression
bathsheba has released some gas
thro poetical expression
moralistic fibres
unafraid to speak
troubled past endured
made her strong not weak
also sense connection
you, myself, and jack
we have found a way in life
to get **** off our back
might be totally wrong, but it's my impression. please let me know
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 11:34 PM UTC
You’re so close to the stars. i wonder if you can hear the secrets i told the constellations that one night i got lost on the roof trying to find my way without you. maybe you’ll get lost in the darkness up there and feel the way i feel when i get lonely sometimes. you’re going to cities I’ve never seen and you’ll be walking on roads my feet haven’t touched and in a way I’m jealous of the new air you get to breathe. the little intricate fibres that make up my lungs are burning with this constant northern oxygen I’ve been force feeding them. i wonder what its like to breath you in at 30, 000 ft above sea level going 600 miles per hour. i wonder if my lungs would burn out of blissful breathlessness for you. I wonder what jet lag looks when it's painted across your face. i hate being on planes, but I’m so curious about how tightly you’d let me hold your hand up there. until i met you i didn’t understand why people thought it would be so special to travel around the world with another person, because i’d always thought it would be better to be lost alone. but i get high off the thought of walking european streets with you.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
The cactus ate the moon;
a cosmic starflower;
a cyanide razorblade.
You ate your way through the mouse droppings
in the cereal bowl
and look at me through lens-less everythings.
The sun took the moon
to his midnight hideaway
and she was absent that night.
Beneath the artificial breeze
blowing noisily, raucous;
birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do.
I never gave you hope;
I never gave you nothing;
I never gave you what you deserved.
Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust
wonderlust
you're keeping yourself company tonight.
Ha! playing with yourself again, I see.
Picking your nose and rubbing your toes
in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches.
Friendly, never ceasing.
Repeating repeating repeating lines
repeating repeating repeating signs
repeating repeating relocating lies
Nice to just let go
no reality
no gravity.
But I'm not defying, no
nor scrying, oh
but lying, go.
She gave me her hand
and expected me to restitch the fibres
as if I were ever so good a tailor.
Surgeon.
Nevermind.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
Said the aloe to the agave
Neighbour
here in a foreign soil
the old world meets the new
Said the agave to the aloe
they forget
once we were related
can hardly tell the difference still
the human eye is quite deceptive
and what to say about the human heart . . .
Said the aloe to the agave
my blood turns to heal the ill
my fibres pulp to an ageless skin . . .
Said the agave to the aloe
my blood turns to a song and dance
my fibres pulp to a rope and cloth . . .
but what do the humans offer us
Said the aloe to the agave
not much
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder,
Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate,
I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful,
Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great.
Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss impassioned,
Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap,
And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging,
As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep.
Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging,
Twined with the fibres of life, blent with body and soul,
But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness
Had it not missed the waystrange missing and sad!to its goal.
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It’s is a rope, with the strongest of fibres
that holds me together and can unthread and tear me apart,
it replaces my bones and makes me limp.
It makes me fold into myself as I walk -
are people staring at me?
Coiling so very tightly
twisting and turning and tying,
tying me up, forcing me to my knees.
Cuts deep into my foundation -
they’ve spread too far.
Rapid breath intakes, sweaty palms
my heartbeat is deafening, faster faster,
punching through my chest as I walk down the street.
I just need to get to the end
yet I always fail and f a i l more.
Trying not to let my weak body collapse me.
trying not the let the sheets smother me.
trying not the let the rocks squash me.
trying not to let the fingers strangle me.
trying not to let the words define me.
It’s like a ***** that holds my world together
there not point trying to look, you cant find it,
yet when I’m in public it comes loose.
I prepare to run as
the sky crumbles around me.
The ***** is so small you cannot tell it lay inside me
it’s so delicate so don’t look at me closely,
or you can see it in the twiddling in my fingers.
The dilated pupils and panicked expression.
Choose. Fight or flight?
I bite my lip so hard it starts to bleed
trying to keep it inside and hidden as to keep it a secret,
it’s like a wave trying to break towards the shore.
Like somehow, it’s never going to stop
so I keep sinking and sinking and nobody can tell.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold
raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light
has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I
peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe
dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full
a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense
numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws
for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb
through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell
grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite
tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck
others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity
the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls
moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes
through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
*
Mind can be a Spider ...
Swinging between the things
Spinning a web of threads
Elastic thin intricate
To hunt food for self
Or end up eating itself...
~One can be a think tank
Stuck, but no outcome
Or
Mind can be a Silkworm as well..
Confined in darkness
Spinning a cocoon of fibres
Strong lustrous fine
To be weaved into
Useful valuable fabric...
~One can be a writer
weaving words twined with thoughts
into beautiful write
*
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
Tonight
got away from the mess
city toothache throb
ensemble of car horns
shoppers throwing money
like empty sweet wrappers
park is better
calming me a cup of cocoa
stepped into Narnia
without the wardrobe
snow squeals with each step
little deaths
little graves where others have stood
a ring of prints from a hundred shoes
breathe in white silence
find frost’s left a hypothermic dance
between wires of a tree
white fibres together as arms
sweep clean the bench
blanket of sherbet
sit and think
how simple it is to be forgotten
alone a caterpillar of tinsel
in a tattered brown box
not allowed to shine past
December thirty-first
or not shine at all
rather a rope of dud fairy-lights
I wonder I wonder
lamppost emits a frigid glow
night unfurls above my head
I left my gloves
at home again
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.
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Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.
O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.
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