"flailed" poems
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
On a hot hot day
nothing better than
sweet sticky rice coconut
milk a big ripe mango
That, I felt, was what the fly thought
he touched down onto my mango,
it was so sweet, pouring
saccharine sweat
ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg
endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh
it seemed good to the fly
Across the water,
pressing over the mountains,
opaque threads of rain, like
slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds
moved this way
things never looked good for the fly
He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango
an unlimited supply of yellow stuff
he gained weight by the second
there was no point in stopping
the more juice the mango sweat
the stickier its meat
the more mango the drunk fly ate,
the further he sank into its flesh
he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs
in the air as if more flies coming
would rather help him than eat
juicy golden mango feast
he died there, I think
the monsoon would make sure of it
I tossed the mango, sticky rice
the styrofoam plate
thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
Well after the wingman had left
I sang along to the seductive tune
that subtly fountained
A wanton void in my libido
Blindsided by the deceit of my own desires
I had succumbed
His passion was explicit
Mind blowing
Abandoned and exposed
I have fallen for a one night stand
And flailed upon quick sulking sand
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
My breathing becomes erratic and warm blood rushes to the tips of my ears as I remember you. You showed me the world from a clean, glass window. For a while, it was amazing. The view was impeccable and there wasn't a single flaw. But day after day of staring through that clean, glass window I began to panic. The window wouldn't let me break through, let me be free. You kept me under wraps and hid me from a world of untamable beauty and free spirited inhabitants. The clean, glass window was warped with your tainted perspective on a perfect world. I couldn't breathe around you, I was a fish out of water and you didn't mind. As I flailed around, you chuckled and said "it's okay." But it's not okay and you cause me nothing but heart murmurs and not the butterflies in my stomach type. The type that wretches my gut. You did nothing but hurt me when all I ever did was love you.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
There once was a prince,
as kind as can be.
Whenever he would write,
he’d sit beneath the large willow tree.
On one rainy day,
he walked to the willow
and rested his head
on the moss, like a pillow.
The tree kept him dry
but the breeze made him shiver.
The puddles turned to ponds
and his lip began to quiver.
The water rose as it rained
so he climbed up the tree.
Hoping the pond would dry
and he’d finally be free.
He then heard a voice
that rose from below,
A mermaid called up to him,
telling him to let go.
He still clutched the branch
but he asked of her plan.
She said that she could help him
swim to dry land.
So the prince dove into the pond,
quickly beginning to drown;
he flailed and kicked
as the mermaid swam down.
She grabbed on his arm
and pulled him up to get air.
Then she dove right back down
and swam who-knows-where.
The whole way he was gasping
and clinging to her hand.
When she finally stopped swimming
they were right next to land.
He thanked his sweet savior
asking if they’d meet again.
She looked at him sadly and said,
“I’d love to, but when?”
“My sweet little prince,”
The mermaid did say,
“if you grew a tail,
we’d be together everyday!”
“But my dear angle of the sea,”
the confused prince did reply,
“How would I do that?
I wouldn’t know how to try.”
Then the girl of the water
began to explain
a flower that bloomed
in a wide open plain.
It shines in the day
and glows in the night.
It can make men live in water,
all it takes is one bite.
And so the young prince
went on a journey to the field
where this magical flower
is said to be concealed.
After three days of travel
he is finally there.
But no flower he found
could even compare.
That night, he could not sleep,
instead he wandered the plateau.
When, at that moment,
A flower began to glow.
He pulled it from the ground,
running back to the mermaid
Another three days later,
he found her body half-decayed.
“I waited for you, my prince,”
the note by her bones read,
“I’ll wait for you here, love,
until I am dead.”
While he had traveled,
the water had dried
and under his willow,
his savior had died.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
He was always a quiet man,
never seemed to look up...
as if his eyes were afraid of
what it might mean to
see the sky
His gaze seemed neither
fierce, nor soft.
Neither attentive or lost
He would never look at you,
it was as if he was looking everywhere
except where you happened to be.
I never saw a smile cross his lips
I never heard a laugh escape his lungs
I never heard him curse
I never heard him yell
When he spoke, I could hear the dust
falling off his breath
It wasn't a monotone sound, but I imagine
he sounded like what trees or mountains
would sound like, had they voices.
He existed in the loosest sense of the word
He was an oddity and an enigma
His quietness and unobtrusiveness
could be somewhat offputting
Yet...he was often able to blend into
the background like a rain drop
in a storm.
You can imagine our surprise
when he stumbled into town one
hot afternoon, clothes looking like
he'd fallen into a vat of red paint.
Splattered. Head to toe.
In between his head and his toes,
cradled in his arms, was the
body of a young girl
He had found her in the woods,
he had said, voice devoid of emotion.
She had been lying off the path,
in a pool of crimson.
An investigation turned up nothing
The people, in need of a murderer,
settled on the only man they could.
The man who hadn't shed even one tear
over the death of a young child
The trial was a farce
The kangaroo court adjourned
Death by hanging
The man remained silent throughout
the proceedings. Quietly answering
the frothing prosecutor's questions
with the same demeanor as someone
would use when discussing the weather
He wasn't defensive
He wasn't derisive
He didn't plead, nor pray
when the verdict was announced
On the day of the execution
nearly everyone in town was in attendance
Most of them couldn't tell you why
The noose around his neck, he stared
back at the crowd. Stared through them,
as if they didn't exist.
When the rope snapped taut,
The man flailed as his body
involuntarily spasm'd.
When he finally passed,
his body swinging lazily
under the gallows,
I caught the hint
of a smile
Only for a moment.
I found it odd
That he would only show
a sign of life
as it was ending
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
When his familiars’ pounced
a little too roughly on the davenport,
the mysteries of the cosmos
flailed about as his soft,
satin bag took a tumble…
Citrine and agate tap-danced
under the bed, as quartz
whizzed wildly through the air
like a shooting star. Opal spun about
like a fiery pirouette, and amethyst –
finding it’s way on the windowsill,
bloomed a kaleidoscope of larkspur
in the sun.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
i will siphon you desolate
and leave a desert
inside your veins
and the oasis that was
once your heart
will become a tomb
sand-flailed
eroded
buried
the same you
did to me
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Skipping ropes tied to lamp posts
hopscotch was another for girls
I'd try to work out the rules
but dare not ask, nor yet even
be seen to be showing interest
sometimes I'd be invited
to join in girls play
I could hold the rope
while others skipped
but had not the grace
or the agility to skip
at all well myself
there were role play games
of families with dolls
proudly displayed
tenderly nursed
and I would be offered
the role of 'daddy'
though I had no clue
of how to do that
having no father myself
so I would be told
to arrive home from work
to sit in my chair
to put on my slippers
to smoke my pipe
to hear tales of misbehaviour
by the children
and I would be amused
but would be told firmly
that I must be stern with them
then when that was done
to eat my tea and afterwards
to sit watching the telly
distracted from the game
that continued around me
or to go out to the pub
and I thought that
fathers must be
the most boring of people
The rough and tumble
was not for me
why would some boy think
he could throw me down
straddle me, pummeling
overpower and hold me there
trapped, despite my struggles
I learned early that
scratching, biting,
flailing, kicking
were not permitted
nor were tears
yet I shed them still
and screamed and scratched
and bit and flailed
if I could not avail
myself of natural defences
generally expected of girls
then why should my attacker
receive no more than
mild admonishment, if that
while I'd be advised
to "toughen up"
and the goading
carried on relentlessly
"you run like a girl"
"you throw like a girl"
"you kick the ball like a girl"
"you fight like a girl"
as though doing those things
like a girl were demeaning
Cynthia Pauline Jones 30/10/13
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?
How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and ****
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?
Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and ****
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.
1.8k
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
There once was a man named Rick
Who carried a red blackthorn stick
He flailed it blatantly
that ancient shillelagh
The bataireacht fighter was quick!
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
A small slow creak and a shadow peeks,
Behind an unexpecting corner.
You close your eyes, but to your surprise when you open,
The shadow is gone,
But a presence you can sence around every turn,
The conditions right in the dead of night with a
fierce howling wind,
And soon you realize through sloppy tears the danger is swiftly drawing closer!
Creak.. Creak... Creak!
The lump in your gut, seemed to force you out of your frozen rut.
The edrenelin took over then!
Relying on touch for your eyes were usless from crying too much.
The beat of your heart stretched from your ears to your feet.
Your arms flailed and your feet flew,
But still you felt the hot breath on your neck it was
the end you just knew.
A nervous tremor in your leg threw you forward right onto your back.
Instantly your eyes traveled to the onyx bulbs of death that stared you down,
Cloaked completely in black.
As he reached a boney hand around your throat,
It didn't matter you couldn't breath either way,
Just when you could see the light of savior...
It spoke...
The most sinister slither slid out of his covered lips "I'll see you in hell." A small smile was then visible through his mask.
From sheer fright I gasped my last breath of air, and out of the strangest things to cross my mind all I could think is 'goodnight.'
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 10:08 PM 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
There was chatter reflecting off the water just like the moon. The Milky Way was swimming with us, wrapped in algae and moss. We had no swimsuits, only spontaneity and laughter. We were far away from trivialities where there was no light pollution, you could see so far outward into everything. We were not looking up, we were looking out at what we are part of. Light, so much light. When our thoughts were finally chilled like iced lemonade, we ran through bushes and flailed in the mud to the car. We drove. Once sitting on our bed, a delicious thought bubbled into reality.
We discussed it, unanimously deciding on this nights adventure...we'd enjoy the first rays of the morning while seating comfortable at Sacajawea Peak.
Eager legs kicked and finally slept…too soon later, a buzz of a telephone awoke us, then another. I bounced out of the covers and to the kitchen to prepare a hurried breakfast of peanut butter and fruit roll ups for us, nutrition was priority. Then the clock blinked 3 AM.
Whines squeaked from tired mouths, but excitement prevailed. We packed into our seats and struggled to keep our eyes open, but the drive was bumpy and our sore butts kept us from forgetting the purpose of our trip. We were there to make our lives radical, and you can’t sleep in moments like these. 4 AM screamed at me, we had to hurry. I plowed my way up that mountain as the sun painted the tips of the mountains red. We crossed streams, tripped on rocks, marveled at climate change and the disappearance of the snow we had skied on just a week before. As the incline increased to nearly vertical, we met up with the mountain goats. Their tiny hooves danced on the faces of cliffs and I stood on the trail not more than a meter away. They smiled at us, said good morning, and we went on our way, huffing it up the face. As the sun’s light began to engulf the sky, we watched as the snow capped ridgeline shined pink and gold. A mountain shades us but as we reach the peak, the sun splashes our face, I felt godly. The sun has risen, and so have we. This is why we are alive; this is why we are happy. The valley below us still dozes, and we sit on top a mountain wide-awake. There is no item I could ask for that could ever give me this happiness. I do not climb mountains so that the world can see me, but so I can see the world…and it is so beautiful.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
your soft lips made mine feel soft too
my plain self effloresced under your fingers.
your touch made me quiver
your kiss sent a shiver
down
my spine
signs of fear and confusion
passion was our mistaken conclusion
or maybe that mistake was solely mine.
looking back,
the quickening of my heartbeat was a warning, not an answer
electricity can warm you
but it can burn too
i was prepared for the spark
but not for the consuming flames
i felt the unsavory heat of embarrassment not long after
grappled for an explanation as i flailed into uncertainty
who's to say where i faltered?
only you, but you've gone mute.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
She was always trying
To please
Smile, encourage,
Put them at ease
Daftness ensued
Goofy giggles ricocheted.
Her boundless enthusiasm
Though backfired.
It flailed around
And met walls
People got tired of her trying
Like an over eager licking pup
They found her presence trying.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
saw his mother
while they buried him. her hair
--with sorrow as flint--
smoked and caught fire. the world began to
cave in up and around the swollen fist of regret that punched
through my stomach --the fire spread--
speared my gut with blame.
all the while
a cacophony
of strings and trumpets
cried parting and
a soul flew
on golden banners
towards heaven
those stone white graffitied gates.
--the fire grew too much to handle--
in agony I flailed and screamed.
rolled down tall mountains clawing at bone and dirt
and flesh. gilded chariots breaking free. shepherding the beautiful
from the leperous, riddled atrophy that controls the living.
the dying and the burning. how everything burns
dies. fire smoke guilt regret. oh sweet death.
death in the summertime. death in the
morning, the evening, death of
everything. always.
eyes open
--a crisp, cluttered autumn hillside--
fall back upon his mother
reality stricken and grave.
blink twice. refocus.
a tear falls from her face
followed by
one from
mine.
the fire is out.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.
It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?
You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
Two weeks ago, on a day that I'm making up for this story,
I was in the city.
I don't prefer the city, because you can't see the stars.
They are being snubbed out by streetlights
and to me it makes everything seem uglier, without the stars.
Anyway, I was sitting on a ***** riverbank.
It wasn't actually dirt though, because people in cities
have forgotten
what dirt smells like
and tastes like
and feels like between their toes.
It was the city kind of *****
spent condoms and cartridge rounds
syringe needles and bags of brown
scraps of metal and wrappers of plastic
gooey globs of gum and broken glass bottles.
I won't lie, I had a glass bottle to call my own,
about half full of the Good Stuff
and I was feeling mighty fine about killing it alone.
When I looked skyward and off to the right,
I noticed a city bridge, what with its' running lights
and dangling cables and roaring traffic,
it was standing in stark contrast to the
quiet county bridges of my home.
At this point, and it may have been the *****
but I could've sworn I could see someone
on the bridge
clinging to a tether
swaying in the swift city breeze.
I had only just convinced myself
otherwise, that it would actually turn out to be
a bag of fast-food garbage hastily tossed out
by a careless city-dweller,
that the man let go
and
he
fell.
he flailed his arms and failed
to gain traction
and kicked his legs but
they abandoned him in midair
and
he
fell.
I was close enough, and listened
and I heard him go
splat
against
cold water.
I was jealous of his bravery.
I envied his resolve.
I admired him.
I lusted after his finality.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
I fell in love with fire at the
ripe age of seventeen years old.
I dared to flick on that lighter and
watch the sparks fly, intrigued by
how fiery the air felt.
Fancies turn to habits
Habits turn to addictions
Addictions turn to years
Years cut through naivety and
solidify into adulthood.
I flailed, I flopped,
I even stopped, dropped, and rolled
in filth, in mud, in murky waters
that rippled into a crystal ball of
an unfortunate future, indeed.
No prescription or over-the-counter reception
could soothe the burning you created.
I never realized how flammable my mind,
my heart, or my in-between places were…
As my soul smoldered
my throat choked on the smoke.
I asked for it to stop but all you heard was
“Keep going…”
You prodded, you poked, you stoked
the flames that licked from the freckle
on my foot to the freckle on my ear.
You poured out
the gasoline of selfless love and
smiled at your victory.
You crept into my life
You caught glimpses of the parts
of me hidden in secret places
You conquered my reason
Worst of all I was folded
in the hollow of your hand,
Beating around a bush
with a dead Trojan horse.
I didn’t see it coming, but I should have
known—I trusted you with my crowning jewel…
I let my guard down. Hell, I even
sharpened the knife you used to carve out my spine.
You entered my safe haven
in disguise, leaving
a trail of matches behind and
scorching everything on your way out.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
The darkness we share is not in the details of how we each turned off the lights
Nor the names we call our shadows
Nor the time we spent amongst them
It is that as we slipped into the absolute of despair we each took something with us
Call it hope
Call it memories
Call it armor
Call it weapons
It is that as we slipped into the absolute of despair we each flailed our arms for anything
That we each sought a way to hold on to anything
And while we both found ourselves here in this blackness anyway
The darkness we share is that you hold in your hand steel
And that I in my hand hold a flint stone
Our shared darkness is that we each stumbled around the dark
Until happenstance lit us a spark
And while we each adjust our eyes to light
Our minds come back from the maddening black
Thank you love for your outstretch hand
We know too well how heavy the dark weighs upon us to ever forget the strength of our happenstance
We may now use a spark to guide us
And later the stars
And later still the moon
And maybe then the sun
And if we are ever to count ourselves among the lucky
Perhaps then we will use each other to guide us to the light-of-still-here-tomorrow
Better-than-it-was-yesterday
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
An unexpected ****** perceived love
That her own young heart could not suppress
The gap of beliefs meddled their serene relation
A realization opposed the pragmatic conclusion
Torn the petals of the lovely flower
Later has come
So much had changed
Lives have swapped throughout the age
To an island she escaped
With the man whom she revolted against ages ago
Who shielded her with the raging bullets
Her father unconsciously saved for her
But remnants of the past pricked her once again
Yet the timeless love constantly lingers
Another fire is kindled
But one love is replayed
As their emotions once again flailed
through the secluded piece of land
A land that was situated to engender a sensation
A land that was meant to bring madness
A land that was brought to life by their love
A land of waters
A land of fire
Island of fire.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 7:08 AM UTC
Whiskey works in waves
I saw something hazy, a light
Making it's way down to the shoreline
I followed and took two more shots
Along the lakeside
One was to warm me up
And the other to make me believe
I couldn't drown in anything
Besides a body of water
Yet even with my feet
Firmly planted on the beach
My arms flailed above me
I coughed up seaweed
And my flooded lungs
Began to sing a broken chantey
"Take down the mast, o!
Tear down the rigging!
Tell me! Tell me!
What is a life worth living?"
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:51 AM UTC