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"flakey" poems
.                                                               @                                                             @     @                                                         @            @                                                     @                    @                                                  @                            @                                             @     @     @     @     @     @                 america, americultus, americate, dubiously ********** ::: our gold-flecked bodies. blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go. washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time. teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust. they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly. jellyfish flashlight shrine. we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery, and feed foxes lizards face first :::                 us lost ghouls on school-nights.                 flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles. ::: that hot eternal light. that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body. then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air. & we, as notes, we notes harp like light to dust. our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes, with those multi-speckled strands infinitesimally drunk :::                 seed from my ****                 pearled halo: smoke above my head. ::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long **** of existence. boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them. like caterpillars on silky thin treadways, with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we                 dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.                 we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim. ::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration. we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles] the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs. they say things. cherry blossom tree tips in the dark. tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce. he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::                 tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
0
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
CoopLee
othello wolf
.                                                               @                                                             @     @                                                         @            @                                                     @                    @                                                  @                            @                                             @     @     @     @     @     @                 america, americultus, americate, dubiously ********** ::: our gold-flecked bodies. blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go. washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time. teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust. they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly. jellyfish flashlight shrine. we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery, and feed foxes lizards face first :::                 us lost ghouls on school-nights.                 flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles. ::: that hot eternal light. that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body. then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air. & we, as notes, we notes harp like light to dust. our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes, with those multi-speckled strands infinitesimally drunk :::                 seed from my ****                 pearled halo: smoke above my head. ::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long **** of existence. boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them. like caterpillars on silky thin treadways, with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we                 dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.                 we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim. ::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration. we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles] the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs. they say things. cherry blossom tree tips in the dark. tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce. he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::                 tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
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46
We’d sit on the back porch On the Fourth of July Spitting watermelon seeds Into the tall grass, Which glimmered in the midday sun. The competition of who could spit the farthest Never really with a winner, It was mostly about the feeling of the sun, Glimmering on our pudgy cheeks, And the opportunity to abandon our napkins, Letting that cool watery juice spill Down our white shirts, leaving pink stains And permanent reminders of summer Of course a tattoo is only as permanent As the body that wears it: I outgrew the shirts around the same time As the world outgrew those little black seeds This year on the Fourth of July We sat inside making small talk Because there weren’t any black seeds In the watermelon we ate: Just dehydrated flesh, the color a little Farther from pink and closer To the off-white color of those flakey little seeds, Which were miraculously allowed to remain
0
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
jimmy-king
Spitting Watermelon Seeds
We’d sit on the back porch On the Fourth of July Spitting watermelon seeds Into the tall grass, Which glimmered in the midday sun. The competition of who could spit the farthest Never really with a winner, It was mostly about the feeling of the sun, Glimmering on our pudgy cheeks, And the opportunity to abandon our napkins, Letting that cool watery juice spill Down our white shirts, leaving pink stains And permanent reminders of summer Of course a tattoo is only as permanent As the body that wears it: I outgrew the shirts around the same time As the world outgrew those little black seeds This year on the Fourth of July We sat inside making small talk Because there weren’t any black seeds In the watermelon we ate: Just dehydrated flesh, the color a little Farther from pink and closer To the off-white color of those flakey little seeds, Which were miraculously allowed to remain
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25
Nothing I do is good enough for you I hate myself Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue All I am is deficit to you My worthlessness Another mouth to feed We are each over-expectant Hoping for the incredible Imagining more than what we’re served Denying reality Each destroyers Of our own dreams The moral compass Keeps teetering towards disaster Not-so-distant past lingers I want to go back to my own people But my own people don’t exist anymore Except in cartoon version Everything is collapsing fast Nothing is gradual When did the present Overstay its welcome? I am desolate dictator Of empty room What do you do with your scabs? Not the little flakey ones I mean the big chunky crusty ones? I throw them in pan and sauté them With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper Serve them to myself and ghost dog
0
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
michael-reid-rubenstein
Citizen Under Suicide Watch
Nothing I do is good enough for you I hate myself Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue All I am is deficit to you My worthlessness Another mouth to feed We are each over-expectant Hoping for the incredible Imagining more than what we’re served Denying reality Each destroyers Of our own dreams The moral compass Keeps teetering towards disaster Not-so-distant past lingers I want to go back to my own people But my own people don’t exist anymore Except in cartoon version Everything is collapsing fast Nothing is gradual When did the present Overstay its welcome? I am desolate dictator Of empty room What do you do with your scabs? Not the little flakey ones I mean the big chunky crusty ones? I throw them in pan and sauté them With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper Serve them to myself and ghost dog
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30
Brown-Eyed Girl- they say she is the weakest link gone and sprung amuck through clouded fields of poppy seeds and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain of chortling pain in the dumpling maker's yeasting wrist. brown-eyed girl seeing powdered blues of glass-stained eyes, he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked, rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right, a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her- tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his dumpling hands - and flakey chest. they say she is that button-down clad- sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad. memories tainted, she said, he said, she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night, my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried and phat-                   brown-eyed girl.
0
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
marieniege
brown eyed girl
Brown-Eyed Girl- they say she is the weakest link gone and sprung amuck through clouded fields of poppy seeds and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain of chortling pain in the dumpling maker's yeasting wrist. brown-eyed girl seeing powdered blues of glass-stained eyes, he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked, rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right, a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her- tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his dumpling hands - and flakey chest. they say she is that button-down clad- sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad. memories tainted, she said, he said, she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night, my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried and phat-                   brown-eyed girl.
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22
Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor. Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms. On thermal  air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness, competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by. Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love. To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock                                           As time slipped way and was some where else. With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace. And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,                                                                                                                      kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs. A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling,  pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,                                                                                             then fades on the breeze. A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew  that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach. So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone. Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow                                down                                        through                                                           the                                                                      years.
0
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
christopher-holmes
Pink Brighton Rock
Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor. Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms. On thermal  air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness, competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by. Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love. To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock                                           As time slipped way and was some where else. With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace. And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,                                                                                                                      kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs. A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling,  pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,                                                                                             then fades on the breeze. A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew  that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach. So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone. Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow                                down                                        through                                                           the                                                                      years.
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20
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC When I was a boy, Father taught me to ice-fish. Here’s a memory; Father drills a hole, the auger bounces, vibrates, roars, shaving ice– soon the blade connects with winter water, –the engine fades off. I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer while Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow thru its side. He lowers the line gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed. Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap above the exposed black water and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel. Father, I have learned to fish for thoughts with an ice–trap. When the flag springs up, I reel slippery ideas up from deep darkness. As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips, knock them in the head, throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow. After the low sun sets, My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts in my dim cabin. Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot talk around the fireplace as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon we feast on flakey poemfillets; we talk about the dark english rain, the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity. After we have eaten and finished the wine, and all my friends have gone home I look down at empty plates and somehow, “the page is printed.”
0
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
jonny-bolduc
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC When I was a boy, Father taught me to ice-fish. Here’s a memory; Father drills a hole, the auger bounces, vibrates, roars, shaving ice– soon the blade connects with winter water, –the engine fades off. I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer while Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow thru its side. He lowers the line gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed. Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap above the exposed black water and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel. Father, I have learned to fish for thoughts with an ice–trap. When the flag springs up, I reel slippery ideas up from deep darkness. As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips, knock them in the head, throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow. After the low sun sets, My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts in my dim cabin. Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot talk around the fireplace as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon we feast on flakey poemfillets; we talk about the dark english rain, the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity. After we have eaten and finished the wine, and all my friends have gone home I look down at empty plates and somehow, “the page is printed.”
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42
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
0
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
paul-rousseau
Hideaway
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
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1
let me tell you a story about a girl and a pie the boy doesn't enter until the next stanza. she made this boy a pie one fall suggesting the possibility of a romance with commitment as short lived as her flakey crust. he took it the opposite way that their love was as deep as her smooth pumpkin filling and married her on the spot.
0
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
be-mccomb
the way to a man's heart is through his stomach
let me tell you a story about a girl and a pie the boy doesn't enter until the next stanza. she made this boy a pie one fall suggesting the possibility of a romance with commitment as short lived as her flakey crust. he took it the opposite way that their love was as deep as her smooth pumpkin filling and married her on the spot.
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12
Waking up to cool sweet tingly morning My thoughts knock at the memories gate way With hearts ping command good times come refreshing Within the cool pink world feelings sway Heart reminds me to stay cool this summer day. Melodious song I long to hear Hearts desire, in its bloom.. must wait and see Yes, there it arrives from someone dear Intuitions are right that I should agree. Digging to know the meaning I replay Song and tune so soothing that’s all I know Hearing gives me pleasure what more to say Joy within remains like a flakey snow. The smile on my face make others happy Heart spake not- loves intent is promising Wish each day remains just the same way Pinkish like a watermelon morning.
0
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
john-thomas-tharayil
Watermelon Morning
Waking up to cool sweet tingly morning My thoughts knock at the memories gate way With hearts ping command good times come refreshing Within the cool pink world feelings sway Heart reminds me to stay cool this summer day. Melodious song I long to hear Hearts desire, in its bloom.. must wait and see Yes, there it arrives from someone dear Intuitions are right that I should agree. Digging to know the meaning I replay Song and tune so soothing that’s all I know Hearing gives me pleasure what more to say Joy within remains like a flakey snow. The smile on my face make others happy Heart spake not- loves intent is promising Wish each day remains just the same way Pinkish like a watermelon morning.
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17
walks over dry asphalt in the blistering summer sun blister on top of blister skin red and flakey Heat rashes are worth it when momma gives me a dollar after the white truck says "Hello"
0
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
quentin-briscoe
"Des(s)ert" in the ghetto
walks over dry asphalt in the blistering summer sun blister on top of blister skin red and flakey Heat rashes are worth it when momma gives me a dollar after the white truck says "Hello"
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9
( Knock, knock. ) Hey, can I come in? Hello, yes of course. Would you like any tea or water? No thanks. Ok. So how was your week? Fine, I suppose. Actually now that I think about 60/40 on the ****** scale. Explain. I don't know, I've been dating this girl for a while now and it doesn't feel like it's going anywhere. Andi? (Cough.) Yeah. Hmm, I thought things were going well with her. Can you explain your feelings a little bit more? I guess I'm feeling like she likes me, just not enough. What do mean not enough? I mean she likes me but it feels like i'm just somebody to occupy her time until finds someone who is what she really wants. And I'm not sure if she's what I want either... I don't know. Hmm, that sounds frustrating. Are you sure your not just misreading her? I mean, everybody has a different dating style. That could be that i'm just reading into it too much but she's kinda flakey and if you ask me, thats a good way to tell how much they like someone. Not always, but I understand how you feel. Maybe you should consider asking her how she feels? I don't think I'm at that point yet. The thing is, sometimes we have a lot fun. I guess i'm just confused. Dating is hard. It takes a lot of courage. I suppose. I just want to find someone that makes me as good as willa used to. I know, but I don't think it does you any good to focus your past relationships. Yeah... I know. Can we talk about something else? End
0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
gilbertyouenes
Conversations with my therapist #2
( Knock, knock. ) Hey, can I come in? Hello, yes of course. Would you like any tea or water? No thanks. Ok. So how was your week? Fine, I suppose. Actually now that I think about 60/40 on the ****** scale. Explain. I don't know, I've been dating this girl for a while now and it doesn't feel like it's going anywhere. Andi? (Cough.) Yeah. Hmm, I thought things were going well with her. Can you explain your feelings a little bit more? I guess I'm feeling like she likes me, just not enough. What do mean not enough? I mean she likes me but it feels like i'm just somebody to occupy her time until finds someone who is what she really wants. And I'm not sure if she's what I want either... I don't know. Hmm, that sounds frustrating. Are you sure your not just misreading her? I mean, everybody has a different dating style. That could be that i'm just reading into it too much but she's kinda flakey and if you ask me, thats a good way to tell how much they like someone. Not always, but I understand how you feel. Maybe you should consider asking her how she feels? I don't think I'm at that point yet. The thing is, sometimes we have a lot fun. I guess i'm just confused. Dating is hard. It takes a lot of courage. I suppose. I just want to find someone that makes me as good as willa used to. I know, but I don't think it does you any good to focus your past relationships. Yeah... I know. Can we talk about something else? End
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23
Why do you think you’re so weird all the time? it’s nothing more than insecurity *not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to you know that flaley spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much* stop getting my ******* in a bunch you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls i like writing: i like and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******** like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble *this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay but only until the vyvanse wears off and your **** jar is empty and your cigarettes have been smoked and all your klonopin has been digested and your bank account is empty and the only thing left to take out your self pity on is this poetry* i like writing words like cigarettes and rhyming them with causal **** like regrets i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place i regret smoking all those cigarettes but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one
0
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
haley-12
i love finding old ramblings
Why do you think you’re so weird all the time? it’s nothing more than insecurity *not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to you know that flaley spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much* stop getting my ******* in a bunch you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls i like writing: i like and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******** like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble *this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay but only until the vyvanse wears off and your **** jar is empty and your cigarettes have been smoked and all your klonopin has been digested and your bank account is empty and the only thing left to take out your self pity on is this poetry* i like writing words like cigarettes and rhyming them with causal **** like regrets i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place i regret smoking all those cigarettes but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one
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27
Do you remember that tree outside of our first grade classroom? That tree was enormous It was the color of a dusty elephant But with flakey skin You could pick it off and crunch In the palm of your hand It must have been dead Long before it was ours Never any bugs Or mold or moss Nothing to stop five-year-olds From laying in its roots It grew into a “Y” before it died Split about seven feet off the ground Perfect for a first imaginary fort A manhunt hiding spot or a goal post For recess super bowls I can remember it With us sitting beneath it At five, at eight, at twelve Sitting Indian-style Picking blades of grass To whistle between our thumbs They mulched that tree years ago It’s chopped and spread under the new playground Keeping kids safe from falls If only we could have explained How much it protected when it still stood…
0
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
jesse-renner
Guardian
Do you remember that tree outside of our first grade classroom? That tree was enormous It was the color of a dusty elephant But with flakey skin You could pick it off and crunch In the palm of your hand It must have been dead Long before it was ours Never any bugs Or mold or moss Nothing to stop five-year-olds From laying in its roots It grew into a “Y” before it died Split about seven feet off the ground Perfect for a first imaginary fort A manhunt hiding spot or a goal post For recess super bowls I can remember it With us sitting beneath it At five, at eight, at twelve Sitting Indian-style Picking blades of grass To whistle between our thumbs They mulched that tree years ago It’s chopped and spread under the new playground Keeping kids safe from falls If only we could have explained How much it protected when it still stood…
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29
You make me hungry ... Let me try again ... We sat and watched Walked and touched Stood and kissed I promise I do more than just sweat Oh I wanted to apologize For breaking your stuff And For being flakey And For the way the universe spun our destinies in an inexplicable, individual intersection rather than a permanent, parallel path. AND I wanted to thank you For all the funny videos And For being my crash course And For your thoughts, your consistent focus, your dependability in a GOD FORSAKEN world at the times I needed clarity and all I could see was the back of the lenses made to help me see farther Tell me, does this sound like a goodbye? Let's just be genuine like we always are I dig you. And I don't want to be the one to bury you. I know a good amount of your scars and I don't want my name on one of them. Not one So before we do this, before we commit to this perishable product and it's ever approaching expiration date. Let's be genuine like we always are Tell me it won't hurt. Tell me you can take it. Tell me... The truth? Is that what I want? I thought I wanted the truth. Now I only want it if it's not what I expect. SO SURPRISE ME is that what I'm trying to say? Honey Baby I'm a sucker for surprises I mean Aren't we all? Don't we all Need a good shock to the system every now and then? And that's all you've ever been to me So you'll tell me what I want to hear and call it the truth, harboring ulterior motives. And I'll buy into it and call it acceptable, thinking, "things have changed" "it's different now" "this can work" You can make a man lie to himself so easily, you know that? Resentment? No Frustration? Not really What is it? You make me hungry ... Let me try again ... No Not again
0
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC
CamronChlarson
Let me try again
You make me hungry ... Let me try again ... We sat and watched Walked and touched Stood and kissed I promise I do more than just sweat Oh I wanted to apologize For breaking your stuff And For being flakey And For the way the universe spun our destinies in an inexplicable, individual intersection rather than a permanent, parallel path. AND I wanted to thank you For all the funny videos And For being my crash course And For your thoughts, your consistent focus, your dependability in a GOD FORSAKEN world at the times I needed clarity and all I could see was the back of the lenses made to help me see farther Tell me, does this sound like a goodbye? Let's just be genuine like we always are I dig you. And I don't want to be the one to bury you. I know a good amount of your scars and I don't want my name on one of them. Not one So before we do this, before we commit to this perishable product and it's ever approaching expiration date. Let's be genuine like we always are Tell me it won't hurt. Tell me you can take it. Tell me... The truth? Is that what I want? I thought I wanted the truth. Now I only want it if it's not what I expect. SO SURPRISE ME is that what I'm trying to say? Honey Baby I'm a sucker for surprises I mean Aren't we all? Don't we all Need a good shock to the system every now and then? And that's all you've ever been to me So you'll tell me what I want to hear and call it the truth, harboring ulterior motives. And I'll buy into it and call it acceptable, thinking, "things have changed" "it's different now" "this can work" You can make a man lie to himself so easily, you know that? Resentment? No Frustration? Not really What is it? You make me hungry ... Let me try again ... No Not again
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58
A student again, how cute it is and really I feel free the thoughts, of life, and planning and how things could be not tied down to a job and obsessing about my boss did this and that and what does it mean for me now and why and today I had a wasted day but that is normal Because life is full of wasted moments, and the most tragic moments are those we don't feel The painful part isn't that we were at the laundromat and put our stuff down to study and highlight in different colors and a woman put her family there on top of our stuff with McDonald's for five even though there were only three, and that there was nothing good at the Goodwill Even the Rainbow colored sweater from Lane Bryant, which was way too big and that the laundry from a month took hours and yes, we really do have that many socks What is wasted are those moments folding the pile of shirts where we are not there we are somewhere lost in mourning over a lost love and thinking, he loved me more than he loves her, I just know. Because all we have at that moment is this pile of a zillion articles of clothing most of which looks like it could be hanging at the Goodwil and a flimsy plastic chair and two times the amount of highlighters we needed because they were half price and we are hungry, but the snack machine is turned off and you can only look at the cookies and hot cheetohs and yearn for them and imagine the flakey tenderness of the vanilla wafer crumble gentley into your mouth, and watch your creepy neighbors walk into the strip mall listening to a song on a phone like it's a boom box and this is your moment to feel and live
0
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
zulu-samperfas
Wasted Day
A student again, how cute it is and really I feel free the thoughts, of life, and planning and how things could be not tied down to a job and obsessing about my boss did this and that and what does it mean for me now and why and today I had a wasted day but that is normal Because life is full of wasted moments, and the most tragic moments are those we don't feel The painful part isn't that we were at the laundromat and put our stuff down to study and highlight in different colors and a woman put her family there on top of our stuff with McDonald's for five even though there were only three, and that there was nothing good at the Goodwill Even the Rainbow colored sweater from Lane Bryant, which was way too big and that the laundry from a month took hours and yes, we really do have that many socks What is wasted are those moments folding the pile of shirts where we are not there we are somewhere lost in mourning over a lost love and thinking, he loved me more than he loves her, I just know. Because all we have at that moment is this pile of a zillion articles of clothing most of which looks like it could be hanging at the Goodwil and a flimsy plastic chair and two times the amount of highlighters we needed because they were half price and we are hungry, but the snack machine is turned off and you can only look at the cookies and hot cheetohs and yearn for them and imagine the flakey tenderness of the vanilla wafer crumble gentley into your mouth, and watch your creepy neighbors walk into the strip mall listening to a song on a phone like it's a boom box and this is your moment to feel and live
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25
like venus and mars, nestled betwixt a bounty of stars we snicker at the galaxies of gods behind flakey, early morning lips; waiting for the apocalypse
0
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 12:50 AM UTC
SamD
her/she's kisses
like venus and mars, nestled betwixt a bounty of stars we snicker at the galaxies of gods behind flakey, early morning lips; waiting for the apocalypse
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4
why can’t I go back? to simpler times four stanza rhymes limes and minds intertwined its become unkind joy declined plagued by lack of bread I said bread loafs hold the fishes flakey cakes baked flat pita meat and cheese **** gluten free diabetes self-imposed undiagnosed just following my nose the bird says “it always knows” back when cereal wasn’t genetically engineered something to be feared not for a child to be reared mirrored in the exterior fake tans dot the land useless hands clandestine hidden gridiron lockdown drowning clowning seeking peace from beastly yeast creased forehead brow disjointed appointed anointed one undone no guns sunshine fabrication
0
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
s-lyman-temple
maybe unfinished..or...
why can’t I go back? to simpler times four stanza rhymes limes and minds intertwined its become unkind joy declined plagued by lack of bread I said bread loafs hold the fishes flakey cakes baked flat pita meat and cheese **** gluten free diabetes self-imposed undiagnosed just following my nose the bird says “it always knows” back when cereal wasn’t genetically engineered something to be feared not for a child to be reared mirrored in the exterior fake tans dot the land useless hands clandestine hidden gridiron lockdown drowning clowning seeking peace from beastly yeast creased forehead brow disjointed appointed anointed one undone no guns sunshine fabrication
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34
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky The One Percent will play. Squirrely Shirley Hurly Burly In the full light of day. Hop them, bop them; You can’t stop them. They’re never going away. Crying, trying, always lying, They count on your ignorance. Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky Wham bam, thank you man. Daffy, laffy, slappy happy. What’s the hap? What’s the plan? Cooked books, buncha crooks. Loosie, goosey, where’s the noosey? Flakey, fakey, jump in the lakey. Take and take, oil of snake, How much of this can good people take? Scream and shout, let it all out Stick it, we’ll show up and picket You’ll try to trick it, we’ll buy you a ticket On a rail, feathered, or off to jail. Subliminal criminals, sentences too minimal We’ll feel best if you and the rest must Sell your houses and cars from behind bars.
0
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
HOPSCOTCH CHANT
Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky The One Percent will play. Squirrely Shirley Hurly Burly In the full light of day. Hop them, bop them; You can’t stop them. They’re never going away. Crying, trying, always lying, They count on your ignorance. Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky Wham bam, thank you man. Daffy, laffy, slappy happy. What’s the hap? What’s the plan? Cooked books, buncha crooks. Loosie, goosey, where’s the noosey? Flakey, fakey, jump in the lakey. Take and take, oil of snake, How much of this can good people take? Scream and shout, let it all out Stick it, we’ll show up and picket You’ll try to trick it, we’ll buy you a ticket On a rail, feathered, or off to jail. Subliminal criminals, sentences too minimal We’ll feel best if you and the rest must Sell your houses and cars from behind bars.
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25
i want to dissolve into my sheets let my body fall apart in flakey pieces like pastry dough to float away in sleep where life can’t hurt me to let my skin peel off and crumble into my bed let the blankets creep up over me like myrtle overtaking a yard i want to dissolve drift back in time to when the weight on my back could be lifted by coming home and taking off the backpack want to dissolve so that the sum total of who i am isn’t even recognizable just a formless soft and hazy quietly breathing mound of nothingness i don’t want to be here i want to be in bed a bed where i don’t have to get up in the morning don’t have to make myself move from just a bed where i can sleep and sleep and sleep let me dissolve
0
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
be-mccomb
dissolve
i want to dissolve into my sheets let my body fall apart in flakey pieces like pastry dough to float away in sleep where life can’t hurt me to let my skin peel off and crumble into my bed let the blankets creep up over me like myrtle overtaking a yard i want to dissolve drift back in time to when the weight on my back could be lifted by coming home and taking off the backpack want to dissolve so that the sum total of who i am isn’t even recognizable just a formless soft and hazy quietly breathing mound of nothingness i don’t want to be here i want to be in bed a bed where i don’t have to get up in the morning don’t have to make myself move from just a bed where i can sleep and sleep and sleep let me dissolve
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52
Comfortable Arrows Lay down my friend, lay upon a muddy pillow, Such relief after a hard day playing in battle and in fear. Take off a limb or two, and slip into something gauze, Swathes of poppy red fields, crisp and clean will embrace you. Perhaps a little claret, sticky, a good nose but not too old, Warm, trickling and soothing, Vintage, with a bouquet of iron, Barbed, with a lingering finish, Perfect with a cigar, Hand rolled leaves of skin, Toasted, flakey, rubbed and lit.... Inhale, inhale through silver holes, Where sparkling bullets still ricochet, Still smoking..... Breath, pause, breathe, pause, pause..... Turn down the exploding lights, It's only a game, Those blazing fires of the cannons are far too bright for our little lot, for us to be brave, To relax, to die. Perhaps a little music will help, A bugle, a boom, a cry, a boom, a whistle, a shout, a bugle, a boom, Like the rythmn of a drum, of a heart, or a love song. Close your eyes, there's nothing more to see, To live for, To feel...... It's all in your imagination. You will not hurt anymore when dying is like being executed by smiling friends with childish bows and comfortable arrows. © RJVHorton2014
0
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
rjvhorton
Comfortable Arrows
Comfortable Arrows Lay down my friend, lay upon a muddy pillow, Such relief after a hard day playing in battle and in fear. Take off a limb or two, and slip into something gauze, Swathes of poppy red fields, crisp and clean will embrace you. Perhaps a little claret, sticky, a good nose but not too old, Warm, trickling and soothing, Vintage, with a bouquet of iron, Barbed, with a lingering finish, Perfect with a cigar, Hand rolled leaves of skin, Toasted, flakey, rubbed and lit.... Inhale, inhale through silver holes, Where sparkling bullets still ricochet, Still smoking..... Breath, pause, breathe, pause, pause..... Turn down the exploding lights, It's only a game, Those blazing fires of the cannons are far too bright for our little lot, for us to be brave, To relax, to die. Perhaps a little music will help, A bugle, a boom, a cry, a boom, a whistle, a shout, a bugle, a boom, Like the rythmn of a drum, of a heart, or a love song. Close your eyes, there's nothing more to see, To live for, To feel...... It's all in your imagination. You will not hurt anymore when dying is like being executed by smiling friends with childish bows and comfortable arrows. © RJVHorton2014
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84
frog skin pickle with my 82% milk fat french croissant "ribbit ribbit, mon croissant flakey?" "Oui, et ma peau est en cuir du marais, Et mes jambes ont le goût de poulet". "le vert de mon visage cache bien dans l'herbe" "Oui, Oui, parce que vous êtes un amphibie" "What are you with such a souple, épluchée dorée?" "Moi? Je suis le travail de mains amoureuses I tear apart to feed your taste for metamorphosis."
0
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
fern
frog skin pickle
frog skin pickle with my 82% milk fat french croissant "ribbit ribbit, mon croissant flakey?" "Oui, et ma peau est en cuir du marais, Et mes jambes ont le goût de poulet". "le vert de mon visage cache bien dans l'herbe" "Oui, Oui, parce que vous êtes un amphibie" "What are you with such a souple, épluchée dorée?" "Moi? Je suis le travail de mains amoureuses I tear apart to feed your taste for metamorphosis."
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10
In my dream it crept then lapped across the stream in which my boyfriend the photo- grapher was expounding on new ideas for grinding lenses.  Large black dragging teats and sloping back, with brown knobs tumors protruding from its chest and shoulder. Then it stopped and fell there across the rivulet. The size of a carry-on bag, fur matted fake and flakey as it peeled in places.  Who ran to it? I did and touched grit and hair and bumps. Thinking: Get it to the vet We can take it home I can nurse it back to health. Jim said: I’m not sure it’s a cat….. This confusion.  Is it a cat? Or something we do not know yet, an oddity exhausted, too far gone, ready to birth new ideas and breeds the like of which we’ve never seen.  I would like to make it my pet or if too far gone wear its little pelt.
0
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
d-lowell-wilder
It was a cat? November 9th, 2016
In my dream it crept then lapped across the stream in which my boyfriend the photo- grapher was expounding on new ideas for grinding lenses.  Large black dragging teats and sloping back, with brown knobs tumors protruding from its chest and shoulder. Then it stopped and fell there across the rivulet. The size of a carry-on bag, fur matted fake and flakey as it peeled in places.  Who ran to it? I did and touched grit and hair and bumps. Thinking: Get it to the vet We can take it home I can nurse it back to health. Jim said: I’m not sure it’s a cat….. This confusion.  Is it a cat? Or something we do not know yet, an oddity exhausted, too far gone, ready to birth new ideas and breeds the like of which we’ve never seen.  I would like to make it my pet or if too far gone wear its little pelt.
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21
. Just go back to sleep and rest.
0
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
laura-bonsell
Fallen
. Just go back to sleep and rest.
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2