"florescent" poems
Soft melodies of the deep sea echo
Moonlight dances on my pretty scales
And icy bubbles whirl under my chest
Through my slippery hair
And down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foam
Laughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation rises
Waiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.
Shimmering bodies swarm in spirals
Grinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surface
We're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasures
Purple light pierces the dark like shards of crystals
Casting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces
Pressure rises as each wave surges
Whirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gills
But the sidelines are shallow
And stragglers float motionless
Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neck
Unbuttoned linen soaked and dripping
Her hollow eyes glow green
Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lights
She’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for fins
Searching for the parts that are edible
Tender, Scale-less, Slippery
Nothing wrong with being the catch of the day
Right?
Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drown
Schools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisions
A handsome boy has been smiling all the while
He’s caught in a fisherman’s net
Craving salty lips and the spell to make him a man
But fisherman don't care for little mermaids
With hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal
Sweaty fins splash and cheer
The fishbowl shatters
Sea glass spills out onto sand
We squirm and flop onto land
Gasping without air to breathe
As our mouths and ***** thoughts dry in the sun
Leaving behind fresh meat without mouths to feed.
Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales
Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroom
Gasping and moaning into tile
With the face of a handsome stranger
Because this meat shouldn't go to waste
And I'm drunken with desperation
For overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooks
But I'm just another fish in the sea
Tumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Pimple popping
Lathered deodorant
Awkward tampons
Hair in unwanted places
Drunken nights
Failed hangover cures
Flunked classes
Broken hearts
First kisses and first times
Rebounds
Hookups
Hickeys
Rushes of frustration
These are all
unglamorous occasions
Of a not so florescent
Adolescence
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Beautiful lotus...
I wish they could see,
All the potential you have and the things that you could be.
Everything you imagined in your wildest dreams...
Beautiful lotus, how I wish they could see.
They love your Florescent petals so they pick you apart… unaware of the internal damage this causes to your heart.
I guess its called "Tough Love" but they are stripping your art.
Beatuiful Lotus, taking blows so harsh..
You should be a beautiful diamond considering all the pressure you've been through,
Such a precious gem with dark, ugly roots…
Faced with adversity and Plagued by deception… Still finding your way to see it through. A world so cold and ugly has created something so beautiful.
Bloom Lotus bloom, Even in the heart of June. Shine lotus shine, even in the light of the Moon... Never let anything in this world make you leave it too soon. You have so many things that you need to see.
Beautiful lotus...
My sweet sweet lotus,
Just set yourself free.
And reach for the Heights they told you you would never see.
-Ari B.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
.
A hard-on
doesn't count
as personal gro
wth.If you want
to hear the pitte
r - patter of littl
e feet, I'll put s
hoes on my cat.
This isn't an off
ice , it's hell wit
h florescent lig
hting.How do I
set a lazer prin
ter to stun? I m
ajored in Libera
l arts. Will that
be for here or t
o go? Too many
freaks, not eno
ugh circuses. I
have a comput
er, a ******** a
nd pizza delive
ry .Why should
I leave the hou
se? Stress is wh en you wake up scr
eaming and you re alize you haven't fal
*** asleep yet. I like dogs too . Let's exch
ange recipes. And yo u r c r y b a b y
whiny- assed o pinion is? Al
low me to intro duce my selves.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
What if I told you that as you sit beside me
I was even more madly in love with you
Than I was last night
Under florescent light
You look like a lovely gal
You look like a lively pal
If you were with me tonight
I would never turn the light
You and I were meant to be
My Daisy
Why can't you see
We talk all day and all of the night
I will never lose sight
Of my goal
I sit and drink my black coffee
Feel the emptiness
Inside of me
Every single feature
Of this beautiful creature
Shows through out every hour
Now let's go take a shower
Warm water hitting me while I
Kiss you
Guess you got me
Got a clue
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
my body, the hand grenade
ugly crawls inside, makes a nest.
an animal chained in a cage,
my insect in a jar.
i spit out my ugly. it wasn't supposed to be this way.
life is a simple arrangement
of numbers and measures.
the bathroom mirror under florescent lights
is my sacred altar.
never mind that nothing else is sacred.
my broken body, the hungry child
i give her food, i take it away. i make her cry.
i bleed for her.
she swallows my ache and comes back for more.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
There is a forbidden pleasure in the poet's art
it's like having an illicit ****** liaison, is it not?
now it can be told, that's the way one felt
enticing while evasive, was her two way dance.
In the secret society meeting last full moon night
for the first time I came face to face
with the enigmatic girl, rumored to be the mistress
of the poet I admire, for his skills of allusion and veiled speech
she was so young and somnambulistic in appearance
her lips were so thin, the only remarkable thing
still in memory those pale lips remain,
how helpless we are in a world, curtained off
to keep our secrets in rooms of green darkness!
The poet was absent, but he was very much present by that,
as her shame intrudes when she starts conversations.I found him there.
The words whispered from her lips were not heard, however one tried
none listened to it, I bet, a poet's mistress is as curious
as an object of art, stolen from its rightful place, I suppose
When the boat returned to the island to take us back
we were the only passengers left, at last, how strange!
In turgid waters a fallen full moon like a snake swam
I was looking at its wriggle, creating a tragic geometry
that reminded me her thin lips, she sat next to me, motionless
her soft breathing, was rhythmic poetry I kept imagining,
till we parted exchanging a faint smile. her's was florescent.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
My dreams
do not come attached to
the ideals of my people
or the sacrifices of another country.
Instead I am poor
and mine are clinging to life
the very idea of existence.
Mundane flashes--
not adventurous endeavors
nor flights around the world
this is what richly folks do.
Simply a mingler
someone whose life
flourishes around the bends
of florescent street lights
and panhandling
nearby a farmers market
just after sunrise.
This remnant is few
as these are neighbors
local countrymen
who stoically face
the world's deviation
and deprivation
from coexisting
by the bonds of
agriculture and personality
even as a beggar
it is but a joyous memento
to a world that
no longer thrives.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
Take me back to the good old days
Where the music had meaning
And the people were happy
Take me back to the days of electropop
And florescent lights
Take me back to the days I should have spent my youth
The days my soul would have found the truth
Take me back to good old days
With 90's fashion and grunge style
Take me back to the good old days
For that is where my heart belongs
Cried the girl born in the wrong time
As she cradled relics that were long gone
From sunset till dawn
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
In the dark, windy eve shines stark an orange light
Crisp and warm, caressing the wood curves gently; no fight,
The harsh burn breathes life to the embers, now shining bright,
A veil of smoke falls gently, hazy is the night.
Now traveling up the stock, whose polish: iridescent,
Up to the paling, rugged cheeks whose glow: florescent.
In the blue moonlight, his eyes shine pleasant,
Enjoying the taste, thought, life, love; vibrant.
Sitting in a weathered chair, creaking wood, rocking back to and fro,
He sat still, thoughtful, as pristine as wax, as delicate as snow.
Taking drags in the dark, the orange relax, a seedling starting to sow,
The stem broke the soil, words forming in his mouth, questions starting to sough.
He looked up from his stupor, sharp minded, clear and concise,
A solution to his problem, no matter its cause, had broken the ice.
Now he stood tall, elated, anxious, worried his words would suffice,
Then he sat back down, rewarded, confident his ideas would entice.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
I’m rocking back and forth against the hull of my loneliness,
Stuck in knowing it’s goodbye
But not being able to say I love you
or I’m sorry.
I’m crying with joy and longing as I lie in the love and conversation around me,
Wishing it were mine.
I’ve been high so long my heart rate stopped going down with the sun.
Going over it all all over again all the time.
I feel like a child again, terrified by the the dark, the wind, the eyes of men.
I’m breaking down in the line at the gas station.
Looking out the glass wall at a Lovecraftian highway,
Flickering florescent lights like the ones from The Exorcist.
On my way to a cavernous husk of a family dinner,
Most of them gone now.
Just me, my mother, and my widowed, bereaved, great aunt.
There’s a stupid old cardboard cutout of a mascot next to me grinning too widely, holding up its product.
I scream and tear it’s head off it’s body
In my mind.
I have work on Monday.
This is life.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 12:14 PM UTC
Florescent lights
An unbreakable chill
Patterned tile
Shaking bones
An over-sized blue gown
And a small white bracelet
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
she screams "SILENCE DOES NOT EXIST" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
her brain pounds against her skull and she can hear the sound of drilling through bone she can smell the sweet stench of human bone meal she can taste the oozing sawdust textured drips of her own blood and she can see the back of her eyelids, tinged with red from the florescent lights of the hospital room as her fingers twist in the thin coarse blankets she tugs at so desperately writhing in the cot they've graciously provided her with if only to remove her stillbeating organs with the promise of a cure
she screams "SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
My eyes were hooked on to the West
Feasting on the riot of colors the sun had cast
I stood dazed at an experience blest
That any poet would treasure with zest
By chance I glanced at the river below
It moved like an overloaded carriage slow
With floating weeds and ***** *******
Reminding one of an ugly heap of trash
I saw partially submerged bottles bobbing on the surface
Gradually filling with ***** water perforce
And slowly sinking down to rest in peace
With their sunken brethren at the river base
Spill of oil glistened iridescent
On the face of the river florescent
Its water was far from clean
But had turned murky green
On the still surface was a layer of ****
Like rancid butter annoying anyone’s calm
Reeking smell of rotten fish and mulch
Entered my nostrils with an obnoxious stench
I closed my eyes and turned my head
And looked away from the river bed
I thought of man’s callous audacity
In assaulting Nature’s pristine vitality
I heard the river’s rising lament
And me it did acutely torment
Any sensitive soul would be left grieving
Seeing the river in such agony heaving
In the far horizon, the sky had grown into flames
I wondered if Nature was mad at man’s tall claims
Suddenly I saw with the eyes of a seer
That Dooms day is drawing near!
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
Set fire to the Antique Shop,
We’re one step ahead of the cops.
Mannequins of Elvis begin to melt.
Free from past matters; free from guilt.
Promoting the prosperity
As we hoard hostility
Androids ambushing Arkansas,
They seek to find ménage trois.
Achieving self-awareness
They want fill the void’s emptiness
Chugging R & R by the fifths.
By our thumbnails we dangle off cliffs.
Thread by thread, the veil unfolds.
Standing all alone, I’m left in the cold.
Show me how much you care.
Push me in my wheelchair.
Listening to what drives you crazy
Eventually helps you stop being lazy.
Lilly is spinning me dizzy
She belongs to the world of yesterday
The haze is now fading away.
If only I could stay
for just one day
But Behold
I feel you should be told
I have come from the end
When the Earth is condemned.
As I tell the tall tale,
How we came to live in hell,
once we found the holy grail.
“We overcame our fear
The classified was made clear.
We launched all the nukes,
By order of the Skywalker named Luke.
The framers were lousy architects;
They left the balance completely hectic.
The CEO’s got away with fraud.
Thinking their work was the will of God.”
I met you in the gloomiest bar.
We speed across the town in my car.
Questioning why we remained silent.
The flickering florescent light compliment
The tone of shallow yellow paint,
I can finally hibernate.
After I left the oblivious,
Do I finally notice,
It’s hesitation that leads
me astray from redemption.
TJW 2013
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
5:00 am - Happy New Year!
I look like I should be a musician not a poet.
"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
- Charles Bukowski
----
5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.
Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.
Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.
Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
**** ME ITS WOODRIDGE.
Where even the McDonalds sign is ******
XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the *****
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ***
grinding against my thighs
as I ****** her harder and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
prim
pink
suburban mouth.
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot ***** spurted against the back of her throat.
The head of my **** throbbing as she gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.
----
5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.
Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
of society.
House lights
Street lights
(and the omnipresent)
fluorescent light.
Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight mouth
incarnadine lipstick.
Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.
"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone to **** off." - The Wolfman.
----
5:52 am - One more stop.
The clouds are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.
----
6:00 am - Arrival.
Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
incandescently.
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.
Taxi driver was a foul mouthed Indian.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Click. Click. Click.
Up down, up down, up down.
On, off. On, off. On, off.
Florescent flicker. Light to dark.
Do I really want to see that face in the mirror?
Not tonight.
Click. Down. Off.
Black.
Slumped down on the floor.
There's an icy breeze through the window.
But my face is hot. Burning.
The hair on my arms is up. Attentive.
Seems they're the only ones.
Keep a hushed voice.
It feels like a whisper could wake the world.
It's shaken mine before. A second time wouldn't be surprising.
Black ink on my face. Track marks, so to speak.
Every breath is a catalyst for the next wave.
If I breathe to calm myself, it acts defiantly, and I cry harder.
There's an earthquake in my body. Shaking, trembling.
It rattles my heart.
If it's quiet, it's like it never happened.
Pull the blanket over me. A towel, actually, but it'll do.
It's like I've taken ten years away, stepped back into size four shoes.
I'm hiding under my covers.
In the black.
In the silence.
One, two, three...
Watch out for Mr. Boogeyman.
See, how it works is, if I can't see him, he can't see me.
If you never see me cry, I'm never sad.
If you never see me hurt, I'm never in pain.
Click. Up. On.
Light.
Open your eyes and look in the mirror.
Hello
Mr. Boogeyman.
Click.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
there in the wilderness
all things go to live
and all things go to die.
she stole my shirt and hatchet
and took to the woods.
hacked out the heart.
traded one wilderness for another. city into
trees.
she needed to breathe
and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot.
she she she, like a marvelous
new love.
the grass and green stuff woven.
canteen replete with wheat nectar
or half-batch whiskey.
needs nutrient,
the seed so new.
needs space,
the daughter as she grew.
what tempest breaks the trees and old heads
of mother timber?
perhaps deep-winter,
to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek.
she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul,
drank water from a clay-thrown bowl
and granola to heat her bones.
new fish.
the river is cold on glacier blood.
new day,
driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching
gulches bloomed in chaparral.
up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder,
giants sleeping.
she she she, live a marvelous new love.
the wonder is seen.
the wilderness lived and remembered
by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems
when ready.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
The urge to feel guilty taunts your being
Contradiction fabricated to be easy
Calm an effortless nothing but emptiness
Young doesn't come free
Excuse me, don't spill my drink
Confidence is a thin sliced arrogance
Let the bold quake
The pass is always a day late
Step into the florescent light
Here the rumbling crowded sky
A chant only stripped royalty earned
******* fantastic isn't learned
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
I want summer like I want you, constantly. I’m tired of cold that snatches my breath and hope. I want the trees to regain their decency and cover their bare limbs. Wearing the greenest fullest blouses. I want the grass to grow. Thunder to roll and rain to fall. I want fat drops to bounce of the pavement, to wash my face and hair.
I want the sun to bath my skin in beauty, making it glow with warmth. I want dresses and shorts and skirts. I want brown legs and flip-flops. I want turquoise pools and florescent swimsuits.
I’m sick of cold fingers and toes. I’m tired of heaters and blankets. I want to roll down the windows. I want sweat on my back and only sheets on my bed. I’d love warm nights, drinking sweet tea, and making love beneath the stars. I wish for glowing street lights and lake nights. I want to sit in the windows of cars at sonic.
I want barbeque sunflower seeds and the fourth of July.
I want field parties with only beer and red bull, and only bonfires to see by. I want fireflies and chigger bites. Lemonade out of mason jars.
I miss cotton, and sandals. I miss volleyball, ***** feet, and ponytails. But what I miss most about summer is freedom. Those summer night driving under an endless sky of stars.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Woke up to a nightmare
Where gravity disappeared
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
Bright florescent light
Hiding away midnight
It's just not the same
It doesn't feel right
All this pretending
Is bringing me nothing
All this anger
Is making me more empty
Scrambling around in mid-air
Just to find no one's there
Spending everyday
Breaking under pressure
Over digging countless holes
For some kind of treasure
Just to have someone
Fill them back up
Send me out again
And tell me I'm worthless
All this pretending
Is bringing me nothing
All this anger
Is making me more empty
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
And I don’t know where I’ll go
If this light bulb should break
Falling down into a deep darkness
That I’ve tried so hard to escape
The same darkness I have made
There are plenty of fish in the sea
But none like you
As the bottom feeders sank so low
We swam way up high
But we fell into a whirlpool
And I didn't take it right
Don't want any drugs
Don't want any alcohol
Just want you to know
I'm still here after all
Scrambling around mid-air
Just to find no one's there
https://spencercarlson.bandcamp.com/track/mid-air
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.
When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?
We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?
When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.
Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.
I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.
Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.
I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.
So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.
I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC