"fixedly" poems
Last night I dreamt I cohabitated with
Two beasts, both loved.
The one, a young lioness
The other a spry lamb
I had raised the both from infancy
But the lioness, who was then entering her adulthood began to size up the lamb.
And it occurred to me that in order to
save
the lamb from the lioness
That I must **** and eat it myself
It is the inescapable nature of a lion to
Hunt and ****
livestock
So while there was no scruple or problem for me to have these two animals,
They could not abide one another.
So I did it.
I slaughtered the lamb and cut it's flank and got at its tender meat
And I cooked it and served it with Marsala sauce and that night the lioness and I dined on the flesh of our old friend.
And I became aware eventually,
Between my ravenous gnawings at the meat
That the lioness was not eating.
She was
Staring fixedly
Directly at me.
She did not blink.
And I stopped feasting on the lamb.
And as I did I saw her eyes dilate
And she pounced across the table
And she gored me with her great claws
And split my gut and spilled my innards
And she ate me bit by bit still screaming
Still covered in Marsala sauce.
Before it was over I had but a breath in me and I cried,
"But why?!"
And I realized that it is the inescapable nature of the lion
To hunt and to ****
Not just livestock, not just lambs.
She had hunted and killed us both.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Face me...fixedly eye to eye, four hands intertwined in infinite reciprocation, articulating...
Osculate my mind with your intellectual parlance, ardently and with hedonistic electricity arousing my neurons, titillating my synapses, sending lustful charge down my nerves.
I crave to feel your utterances surge through me, course throughout every bifurcation, and transude from every last pore of my flesh.
Grasp my heart with your loquacity, embracing so passionately, that our beats become one resonating cadence whilst exchanging harmonious rhythm.
Caress my flesh with cognital poetry woven from emotions existent only to us.
Trace my veins with every word born from pain, contentment, angst and tranquility... pressing their vehemence into my bloodstream, surrendering my pulses to ******
I yearn to listen to you make me moan, as I arch my back, tilt my head and release in silent screaming ecstasy... sating you with visual affirmation of our sapiosexual affair.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
within Zieglerville, pennsylvania
genuine snow white hair
upon her noggin doth adorn,
perhaps she will divulge to me (in private)
after i croon (to said lass),
the melody of Jimmy Crack Corn
hmm...or, maybe this mission
perchance twill be doomed from the start,
and hence finding me forlorn
thenceforth, a backup contingency measure,
would warrant me to don my thinking cap,
and for extra ordinary reinforcement unfold
each Taj Mahal shaped ear flap
plus (for reinforced ironic steeliness),
aye also resort to buttress
any aural "stormy Dani yelling)
via walled in interlap,
which accouterment functions
as a double agent i.e. (or,
to be rather crude),
an audiological jockstrap
to vet or figuratively kneecap
any unwanted infiltrating leaping lap
ping "FAKE" distracting news
inducing madcap
mass media circus
driving this generic teetotaler
to pour himself a nightcap
essentially providing wig gull room
with very little margin of ear err, or overlap
against bigwigs to trumpet pap
pill low ma rendered free and clear
asper insidious (mama mia) paparazzi
charting imp pea ching fear
bringing out bare arms
most likely something internuclear
simply to discover visa vis authenticity
if cute employee
(sporting hair
white as the ****** snow),
which doth simmer and glare
blindingly, thus necessitating sunglasses
(I choose the Ray-Ban brand)
as recommended by cited
all time favorite pharmacist
who unwittingly (or simply because
my myopic eyes didst stare)
fixedly - drawn to such a darling (doll ling)
explaining any reason to go THERE
to CVS - that tis where.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
I was in my chemistry class (lecture #2) and the professor was asking a series of questions. At first, hands were flying up, the answers were easy. But as questions got more complex, and the odds of being right fell off, confidence and raised-hands faltered.
I sit the front row because I film the lectures on my iPad, and there I was, doing my usual bit - taking detailed, color coded notes. If the lecturer mentioned something, I noted it, with my #5 mechanical pencil, but that something could become a heading or a bullet-point in a larger tableau. Those, I would color code with one of several gel pens - tracing carefully over the pencil. Later, in review, I might hi-lite these points with neon, phosphorescent highlighters. (I have a strict color coding system).
I tell you all that because it describes how focused I get on my note taking in classes. I don’t usually interact much due to my filming.
Suddenly, I noticed an unusual hush. I looked up and realized, to my trauma, that the professor had addressed me. He was looking fixedly at me, bent over with his hands on his knees (he’s on a platform).
“Pardon?” I said, meekly.
“Don’t just mouth the answer,” he repeated (apparently), exasperatedly, “say it out loud!”
I thought back to his last question and I offered, “Magnesium nitride,” but he tilted his head like he was waiting for more, “gave off ammonia as it mixed with the water?” I finish the answer like a question.
“Exactly!” he said, standing back up after giving his knees a little slap with his palms. “Thanks for JOINING us,” he says, and after checking his seating chart on his lectern, he added, “MS. Vionet.”
I took a shocked umbrage at this (scolding?), my whole body turning a defensive, atomic pink. What did I do - I thought - why was he being so sassy with me?
I doubt he REALLY wants answers just called out.
It might be a long year.
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 12:45 PM UTC
I know a doll made of brass and electrical wiring
She seems so cold and fixedly haunting
She's got such eyes, eyes that keep calling
Reaching out, reaching out and peering
As though they were clawing their way out of her frame
I know a doll, she's made of brass
The rest of her feels like an electrical touch
Shocking at first, tingly when lost
And she's got such a radiant gaze
It almost makes you feel secure
Best be easy now, easy now, or she'll break off your hands
She's got such features that make her so harsh
And she's got such a fighting gaze
I know a doll
She's made up of brass
But if you asked me, ever so discretely
I'd nod to her way and say
See that girl, see that girl? She's made up of glass. She's so transparent that I can see through her
And she's so bashful that she doesn't let anyone else know what I know
So I go around saying
Hey, see that girl there, she's made up of brass, and if you held her, just quietly held her, you'd never notice if she ever held back
But that is our secret, my little secret
Knowing just how she yearns to hold back her emotions
How she cannot control them
So she just stays there, in your hands, in your grasp till you go on by
And when she's been dropped
You see her get up, oh-so-smoothly
Seemelesly on her own two feet
But I see inside, see inside
That she's still collapsed
But we'll keep on saying that she's made up of brass
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
My mind stills uneasily
As a tremor of fear turns rational thoughts
Into creeping doubts.
Sore melancholy blossoms from my spine,
and warm emptiness trickles down my sternum
from the aching wound in my chest.
My breathing slows in the growing stillness
lest the slightest noise might awaken the monster
lurking in the darkness of my heart.
The constriction in my throat only encourages
My desire for silence.
And I try to lie as still as possible
To keep the hurting from me.
Until the ache becomes unbearable
and I find myself being carried from the room
By restless feet - like tiny horses fleeing a storm.
My mind is nearly blank with the cloudiness,
And I follow fixedly as my poor body
Attempts to pacify my soul
and sooth my mind
With the gentle rock of its pacing steps.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
They what?
said Gran
they said we weren’t
to run around the rain shelter
you replied
did they now?
Well if you want to run
around the rain shelter
my dears you run around
and up Gran got
and trotted around
to the couple
on the other side
of the circular
rain shelter
and words were said
and niceties exchanged
and the couple
got up and left
but Granddad had sat
where he was
staring out at
the grey mist
over the sea
the exchanging
of niceties was not for him
he preferred the colour
of the seaside town flowers
in a nearby bed
or the smell of the salty sea
and when you
and your sister
and Gran returned
to where he was sitting
he said
Sorted it then
and Gran said
Of course
and Granddad said
Good and looked at
the white hair
of his wife
and the grey/blue eyes
that stared fixedly at him
and her plump short stature
and added
I knew you’d see them off
you’ve got more bite
than the bleeding dog at home
and Gran laughed
and you
and your sister
went off to run around
the rain shelter
the grey mist
distorting the sea
and deserted beach
but not the sound
of gulls or sea
rushing on the shore
or of Gran standing
in front of the couple
hands on hips
a string of words
and angry sounds
coming from her lips.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck
For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance,
think and talk through the side of her neck.
It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early,
For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts
And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!”
We would lean in and listen intently
But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous!
Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses,
She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray!
We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment.
For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak.
But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head;
For she was practically logical,
Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes.
Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground.
And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition.
Those times, there'd be surprise and awe.
Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge.
So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head;
And that is when we would cheer for her.
But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
As I look at you,
Pour your emotions into me,
I gnaw on my thumbnail.
Your eyes,
Scan over everything in the room,
Besides me.
Confessing your fears, desires, confusions,
I stare fixedly at your face.
Suddenly,
I wince in pain.
Blood runs down my finger,
Into my palm.
I did not mean,
To rip my nail off,
With my teeth.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 1:53 AM UTC
I am a flower blooming,
From a crack in the sidewalk.
You do not discover the beauty,
Until you suddenly glance,
Into that crack.
Your eye doesn’t fall upon it,
Too easily.
Why would anyone purposefully glance,
Into that small, dark imperfection,
In the sidewalk anyway?
They are much too busy,
Worrying about where they are planning to place each foot,
Next.
Left,
Right,
Left,
Right.
Besides, they would rather gaze ahead,
To the perfectly placed,
Well grown, nurtured flowers.
They glow in the sunlight,
And catch your eye when you pass;
The rays causing their gorgeous colors to dance, and radiate.
The breeze blows a cool wind to pull them closer together.
You see: happiness.
As I sit in the crack,
Waiting, wishing, wondering,
Sometimes I blossom,
Sometimes I wilt.
Once in awhile,
One or two people
May be kind, or perceptive, or understanding,
Enough to give me a chance: an opportunity.
They stare fixedly,
And instead of anger,
They see potential.
Rather than hurt,
They see love.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
I'm not frustrated with anyone
I'm frustrated with frustrating as a whole
Why do I give a **** about all of the ways they lie
I'm so ******* sick of ignorance
Towards each other
Towards themselves
Towards the universe
We all want the same thing . . .
A pair of eyes
( piercing. Soaked up with all the light from every moon, and every star, and every bulb from every cieling )
To look....no.... Gaze /stare/ glance fixedly upon
Or own (pair of eyes)
And without saying a word.
Understand.
All. Of. The. ******* Pain.
To run finger over needles stabbing each ear and
Slowly
Remove their stinging remarks
All while holding a gaze
All, while, holding, a, Gaze
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Deep seated pain that pulls at the strings of the heart
Harrows the mind with grotesque music
Which mimics the voices of a thousand groaning ghosts
Reducing the afflicted one to a silent madness
Lost in thoughts riddled with the images of a life of twisted torture
And eyes staring fixedly into nothing, as it seems, as tears flow freely
To mourn a life that will not pass
Now craving death, could it be the answer?
Back and forth within herself the questions resonate
How will this end? Will an end of this be ever known to me?
And instead of answers she only hears the echoing gong
Of an unsoundly noise so utterly disheartening that
The emptiness of it gnaws into her spirit
Snubbing out whatever light is left to show for any memory of happiness
So that even the fleeting curl of a smile is but a hopeless longing for her face
A paling canvass etched with the likeness of misery
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Stares down, the grey
moon, fixedly,
in naked aggression…
Fire and brimstone.
I move one step, towards you. In semidarkness
I have lost the address
of peace.
The transgender, stumps
the ghost. There was no noun,
no pronoun, only an abstract
feel. Do you see the
wooly trail beating the dust?
When did you hit the dirt road
not to come back…
What was undone? After
the death of the cuckoo, there was
no wedlock in words.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC