"fingerless" poems
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
shudders
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
What’s the difference between unwanted and unneeded?
You’re unnecessary, verging on disappointment, disgrace
Breaking faith and bond, hoarding intent and hopes false
Unnecessary child
Give me pure existence
And watch me lose my mind
Without meaning
I’m fingerless and blind
Give me pure existence
And watch me lose my heart
Without love
I’m a stringless puppet
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
One step forward, three steps back.
The queue shuffles,
visible breath in the winter blue.
The vendor vends,
fingerless gloves clamp the steaming mug.
Grunts and groans alike,
the warmth fills the withered corpses pale.
A gaze is cast,
into the misty nothing that inhabits the park.
A twitter is heard amongst the frosty masts.
Eyes meet with a rufescent-chested bird.
These same eyes are then met with salt,
a sorrow, a pang of jealousy.
A sheer longing for that same freedom.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
The car showroom warehouse unit has turned into a gym overnight.
Low lit lights
highlight the out-of-work-early
joggers and the two step, bought-a-new-ipod-for-this-run, sweaty runners.
Framed central in the glass,
they bounce on mountain passes
over Swiss clear rivers and
around back through
obscure European cities,
all whilst on the spot listening
to Radio 4 podcasts from the week before.
Low cut tops offer no support for the weary
and the lifting gloves of the man
at the back are fingerless and ripped,
unlike his overweight torso, though
his BMW makes him believe that
this warehouse unit on the outskirts of
Huddersfield is the Venice beach of the North.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
#
Piercing blue eyes
As though you can see the truth
A wide boyish smile
Barely at the prime of youth
Brown freckles that cover your face
I could trace the constellation
A void of stars coating the night sky
Creating whats deemed a wonderful sensation
On your 18th birthday
A year away from now
We shall cook ravioli together
You said you would teach me how
You wear fingerless gloves
Each and everyday
They double up as mittens
"I love them"
I would always say
Warm and cozy
Far to large for my hands
But they fit yours perfectly
Then again they are made for a man's
I'll still call you Smol boy
Even though you tower over me
I'm sure your use to it by now
After all I'm pretty crazy
Pure black coffee
With no sugar at all
A little bit of milk though
8-10 teaspoons if I recall
***Too bitter for my liking
I'll have enough sugar for the both of us***
You're an insomniac
Barely 2-3 hours a night
Its quite concerning
But you say your alright
I know your a lil over the edge
you're a fair bit mental
But your a dear friend of mine now
I'm sure you're actually quite gentle
I'll support you still
Even though I've barely skimmed the surface
There is still much more to uncover
And sure I'm a little nervous
Even maybe a little scared
But you're my Lil ravioli boy
So there is no reason to fear
Try not to be coy
I'll be there for all your sketchy antics
And all the mental breakdowns
And I hope you will be there for me
When my heart occasionally hits the ground
Though whatever happened through this
All the highs and the lows
I'll stand by you through it
No matter how steep the road
Lil Ravioli Boy
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
Guns are everywhere in sight
Muzzles, fire and fright.
Blood running through sewers
like flooded rivers in mid-May,
when it should be running through veins.
Slain bodies once filled with life
are now filled with undeserved death.
Pain seeps through the eyes
of brutalized victims as they weep.
A mother pleads to God
with hopes He will breath life
back into her daughter's lungs
as a child stands over the rotting
bodies of bystanders,
and waves at the flies
Unrest fills the air
while fire's are burning under water
Tragedy burns the face down to a tear,
Could Hell get any hotter?
Mirages mirror terror,
Silence in broken mirrors.
It may seem that voices don't exist
in places like this,
And that a difference lies off
in the distance;
out of reach, unattainable.
But they do.
A blind man's eyes become
his hands and his ears
when he needs to see,
While the mute lack a voice,
they still find a way to say,
"Hope is never all lost."
They need to know they are not alone.
Battles are being fought all over this world.
War, famine, sexism, racism.
A fight between mother and father.
Grief for the loss a lover.
We can all relate,
in one way or another.
Ignore ignorance, become informed.
Silence does not defeat violence,
nor is strength needed to beat it.
Courage and a heart
are needed to defeat it,
along with the will to believe
it can be defeated.
Throwing punches with fingerless fists
and broken spirits can seem useless,
but more has been done
with less.
Remember, a voice with something to say
is harder to forget
than a voice
that is
silent.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
wake with a wedding ring
sparkling next to you; fingerless
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
Nanoseconds streak naked like
rebellious starlight in spacetime
responding to no sentient's censure
striking hot the wired constellations
strung about my fingerless grip
they slip
retreating
eternal
into
The Void.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
It's 11:11 make a wish
Look out the spotty window
See all the frowns
And boring towns
See how powerful the words we use are
They can cut deep
Deeper than the most violent assault
Buildings and obelisks of befuddlement
Pressed for time
Lemon scented tiles
Scrubbed
No mold
Personal preference
Common courtesy
And common sense
Scarce but invaluable
A face only a mother could love
And a father can lie to
Coulda
Woulda
Shoulda
Didn't
Searching for carrion
Give way
To the wayside
ECNALUBMA
In the rear view
The worms eat us
The early birds catch the worms
The cat nabs the worm
After being resurrected by satisfaction
And the night owl writes the tell-all
Put the ear to glass
Put the glass to the door
And listen closely
To sound of knuckles cracking
And the chattering of coffee shop patrons
Indian givers going back on their word
Fingerless gloves
Prim and proper
Promptly pummeling
Tunneling to tomorrow
Well done
Slim to none
Fat chance
The local native's tongue
Sold fresh and farm raised
On any given day
You can find demi-gods
Playing a a pick up game
Matchbook
Matchbox
Mismatch socks
Pick up sticks and stretchmarks
Just stay the night
So we can wish this all away together
It's 11:12 open your eyes
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
There's never enough tea, she said,
a single, cold finger tracing the lip
of an empty mug.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Ray LaMontagne - Hold You In My Arms
"I could hold you in my arms, I could hold you forever."
In this hidden corner of my world
Anything
could happen
woven Guatemalan Frisbee
with a lonely older man
talking about dank and his ex-wife
sweet vanilla coffee with a shot of something fruity
smoking in the wind
bot support Ashe
I use a trackpad
fingerless mittens and fuzzy knit earmuffs
they double as headphones
metal and country and sappy romantic pop ballads
gauges piercings tattoos flannels beanies band tees and scene girlfriends
gossip about the bar next door
bashing the outer world
this is utter peace
catching the eye of an attractive stranger
in the mirrors behind the bar
My stomach feels tender from too much coffee
my head buzzes with nicotine
caffeine
My purging week of healthy choices ended
with hash browns, french toast
too much ketchup and 6 packets of sugar in my coffee
Denny's
skeleton string lights and chalkboard walls
abstract photography and everyone plugged in
this is my escape
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
Raspberries and ginger ale
Never can I tell
If they end well
Last prairie unsettled
Not claimed yet
From greed
Mechanical rattle comes from kitchen
A power tool dancing
Upbeat digital alarm
Click, juernk, juniper
All noises unsaleable
Fingerless to put on
Fearless finicky me
I'm angsty and funny
And stupid and satiated
Satiated with alertness
Created by newspaper
Hated by voices
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Henry was walking
with his wife
along the sidewalk
in the city
looking for some cafe
she knew
and wanted to go
when he saw this young dame
in a wheelchair
with long hair
and fine features
pushing the wheels
with her hands
and she had these
leather fingerless gloves
and he thought
who puts her in
and out of the chair?
who holds her close
to them and smells
the shampoo
in her hair
feels her small *******
against them as they hold?
who gets her in
and out of the tub
or in and out of bed
who washes her back
or wipes her ***
She had wheeled herself by
but not before
he’d taken in all
that he could
the jeans she wore
the white tee-shirt
the black shoes
the pretty lips
the way she gripped
and pushed the wheels
his wife was yakking
about some dress
she’d seen
in some store
and wanted to go
and look and maybe buy
but the passing dame
had caught his eye
and he wondered how
she got to be in the chair
accident or from birth
disease or some beat up
that went wrong?
He couldn’t ask that’d
be too rude and besides
she was well on
her way now
and his wife was striding
on with determined gaze
but he couldn’t get
the dame out of his head
her sitting there
with her long flowing hair
and those eyes
and the constant questions
of who did what for her
and how did she
do this and that
and who lifted her up
and out? was it some
strong guy some
dedicated hunk?
Or maybe her mother
and father did the job
of getting her in shape
and bathed
he thought
and did she *****
like other dames
have some fond lover
who played the game?
All the questions
and no answers
made him wonder more
even later in the cafe
sipping the his latte
while his wife yakked away
and even later that night
in bed besides his wife
who snored
he pictured the dame
beside him
a paraplegic model
or an art piece
that he adored.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
Brown eyes, liquid dark,
step inside
no struggle, just quiet,
look around
what have you entered.
Inside the silence echoes,
but you can see the shards all over the ground
mirror, shattered,
blood pooling around your feet
look at your hands.
Fingerless stubs
stop picking up the pieces?
Choices
Life choices
Liquid brown eyes,
they hide laughter
is it real,
or cold, fake,
something to be afraid of?
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
i feel as though i've not done something
but surely i would not forget
something of such an importance
that could cover my body in sweat
the fingerless grip, the threadless noose
clasping tightly as though to remind me
of something
it seems ive forgotten to do
-
what i have not forgotten
is to worry of things
that my earlier sanity tended to
at the end of the day
lying limp in my bed,
what it seems i forgot, was my head.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
There are roses in the road
tear soaked tissues
torn up pictures
with letters on fire.
They are the breakup play-list
for hang overs
and scratches on the hood
from relationship status updates.
The secret poems
in songs of heartache
and paintings thrown in the trash.
A fingerless engagement ring
unworn wedding dress
and a honeymoon for one.
The divorcees still wondering
and the mothers and fathers
who didn't quite make it
There is never knowing
and always wishing
but never seeing it.
Not to mentioned the ex
you can't forget
and the unfortunate person
who can't afford to leave.
all the widowed wives
who are forgotten after death.
and solders with no one
to return home to.
But all the while
a broken chord
amid the misfortune
and sorrow of the world
could not escape the
thresholds of inevitable ends
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
Dark shadows circled my nest
on the ridgeline that
spooky winter night.
All I could see
was the moonglow
sifting through my misty breath,
glinting off my suppressor.
Icy winds whipped
up through the valley
to kiss my bearded face
& freeze my teardrops.
I thanked God for my pakol
and woolen fingerless gloves.
The fibers kept me warm
under the blanket of stars.
Not a cloud,
nor a single wisp
could I see against the pitch.
I had the itch to pop off a round
on a falling pebble.
But to do so,
might have meant certain death.
The area was crawling with bad guys,
insurgents looking for heads.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
I want to smoke a cigarette.
I want--
to lean against a doorway, my converse shoelaces brushing against the brick.
to stare up at an overcast sky and know that gray doesn't always need a slow, mournful soundtrack. to feel the paper between my fingers and on my lips and take a deep,
deep
drag.
I want
to empty my lungs of everything they have and watch it all curl, wispy and insubstantial--
watch it disappear into the bustle of moving cars as the coffee shop door tinkles while people in pretty scarves and
pea coats and
black-rimmed glasses
with fingerless gloves
and nose piercings
and black tights covering skinny legs
hold hands and exchange knowing smiles and
enter behind me,
and cold, February ocean wind lifts the tips of my hair.
I want to taste it--those few minutes of isolated reflection. It'd be like meditation beneath an awning on a city street.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
You were never meant for this
Grocery cart, bags of bones, pillow case
Dunking your head in the paper bags of letdown
Side street, gray walk, go’s and stops
Ticks and tocks
You were never meant for this
Fingerless gloves, holes in jeans, newspaper blankets
With words of people far more successful
Building money with their hands
Like a distorted counterfeit where it’s the priority
Above all that is breathing
You stare at their smudged pictures,
Their smiles full of cash, the green leaking between their teeth
Their suits all straight with hands out shaking
They stand around
The numbers increase
The excitement booms
That was supposed to be you
Who you once were
On Wall Street, drinking the coffee of accomplishment
Out of silver mugs with silver spoons
But you lost it all didn’t you?
The greed overtook you like a drug
Messing with your brain and judgment
Now look at you,
Vagabond, penny cup, ghost air
You were never meant for this,
You were supposed to be like those men in the paper
Those men on the streets
With their Bluetooth and briefcases
Stepping on cracks
You were never meant for this,
But you crashed
Got caught up in the money, the games, the race
Now look at you
Grocery cart, bag of bones, pillow case
Just jumping in defeat between the space
You were never meant for this.
Now look at you.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
It's hobo time,
finding my fingerless gloves,
picking up his one black sock instead,
wondering what's going to happen.
I wish you didn't want her dead-
I know you care much more than you tell me.
Stupid, stereotypical hobo heart-have no place to go.
A car passes by.
Time to think about my past,
reminisce on the good and the bad,
the sickening tragedy.
I don't want to look behind me,
I can already envision her there,
you looking at her constantly,
wanting to be beside her.
While I'm out here with my hobo heart,
& I can't ask the question.
My fingers are cold.
Will my eyes deceive me if I take a glance,
Will I see the spark I saw between you two in the past?
Tell me, sock, why let the spark happen?
But sock doesn't listen: you can't control human nature, might as well find a different occupation.
Truth be told, I don't want to look.
I don't trust you.
I know when your heart is lying.
(You still want her, this is how it happens.)
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
Snort repticalc and mashed up altoid
Have fun with some friends in God’s portwine stained forehead wrinkle
Imaginary time and poison thumb I like
Natalie rips some Earth nuts from soil
Ripping out the toxins and crackin it open with your her teeth
Clapping laughing and crackin nuts and cookin crumbs in pressure cooker
Bad dreams in your frozen water bed
Damp in the ceiling drip and trickle onto papas
bald spots, plastic mickey mouse cup collecting
ceiling leakage
peanuts and marmite froze over lickin frost
***** wrist grunk trash youre rubbing frolicly on the placid table
I cant believe the glass aint clean
Looking not out a window
But a piece of glass reflecting the city behind me
And my band fall out of place
When the old man sneezes
I get pushed aside because the marching band needs me to move and
Im only so talented
dead Chihuahua smell coming from the basement
a parallel universe where there’s one extra atom
with lana del rey on repeat
and jesus was a comic book character too
knuckles breathing fight stance
contraposto counter position backwards and
upside down rubber band army march
a thin breathing kettle with 0 durability
and a plastic bent tight so it’s white, pink, spotted
palamino dress and champagne skin
the damp gets to me
again again again
fingerless gloves for fingerless tom
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
My country is in chaos.
Seats of power are exchanged,
Unelected come-down
And steep fog of uncertainty.
The poor are painting their signs,
Others lock their doors.
Tear gas spills in streets
Far from suburbia,
On the shoulder of Europe.
I struggle to sleep.
Not for tragedy
But missed calls
And lack of shelter.
For you and your
Darkened corner,
Bleak winters-
The last time
I saw you in the sun.
Petroleum fills
The lung of the sea.
Swarms gather in luscious greed,
Footfalls over concrete:
The peace sign
White poppies
And paper cranes,
Stubborn **** in the rock,
The busker with fingerless gloves;
The nightclub spilling over
Into violence.
I strain my eyes,
Not in tears
But in chemicals
And lack of vitality.
For you and your
Elusive path through life,
Over-complicated strides.
Simple, temporary medicine
That is the comfort
And not the cure.
The stars blot out,
One by one.
Each neon skylight
Fractures the night
In pink clouds.
Flowers die over the railings
Where they could not
Save his life.
I contain my breath,
Not in calm
But poisoned blood
And lack of air.
I can barely breathe
Without you here.
My country is in chaos.
Earth spins in a slow disease.
Still all I can think of is you-
Whether you are thinking of me.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
I want to know your mother's maiden name and
The feel of my palms on your skin
And the taste of you
And know what your breaths against the back of my neck are.
I want your hand in my hand and to know the length that you prefer your fingernails at
I want
I want
I want.
I want to know what your eyelids feel like against your eyeballs and
How the blood in your heart works, feel it through your skin
I want to know every person you have ever touched
And their faces,
And the way your skin feels on their skin,
That friend of a friend that you shook hands with ten years ago in a Tuesday morning in September an it was cold out, so you were wearing fingerless gloves, and they'd forgotten their gloves on a bus three days ago and so their hands were bare and your fingertips just brushed their wrist -
I want that.
I want you in the morning, at the kitchen table, sleep-missed an bleary-eyed
And I want to know what you eat for breakfast and if you love bacon
Or if you're not that bothered
And I want to know
Who you were with last New Years
And the New Years before that
And every present you've ever received for Christmas
And every person you've kissed.
I want you to know my thoughts
And I want to know yours
And I want you.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
We buzzed the periphery on plastic,
moved in and out of the shadows
spending nickels on the corner jesters,
who stroked their banjos with fingerless gloves.
Their cracked fingertips were stained yellow,
mouths displayed racks of missing teeth,
snake eyes winked under reptilian lids
while blessings spewed forth.
I looked at the leader
who sang like Lennon
and wondered,
man what are you doing here
reincarnated.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC