"fluster" poems
I am disgusted.
Disgusted of the world,
the pain, and evil
That surrounds us.
The pain we don't deserve.
All is lost, as we sit here.
In pain.
In agony.
In despair.
I am disgusted to many,
of what they've become.
The destroyers,
the saints of the world.
Getting away with deeds,
that they have no souls no more.
Anger fluster inside me,
as my body trembles from
the blood boiling inside I.
Why must I live and see
the evil deeds.
Of the wicked and
evil.
I am disgusted and angered.
Adultery, lies, and suffering.
Oh I dislike.
I am disgusted by all
wicked behavior and
actions.
Just disgusted.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
5.5k
here’s the clunking throb of my heart
and you walk in from work
your hair a fluster of black strands
heels flicked off and keys
tossed into the bowl with a clatter
you flump onto the sofa
say nothing
but listen to the clunking throb
of my heart
and I know we’re both thinking
something has to change
but the answer is hidden
like a note under a stone
we breathe
and the traffic continues outside
we sigh
and the phone shrieks by the door
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
If I could see what you see,
We'd be caught in a flash,
of a thousand sunsets.
If I could see what you see,
When I touch so soft,
like it were not at all.
My skies might just implode into a fiery fluster.
Looking through your eyes.
A brightness in you where the sun does burn.
My eternal sunrise.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Upon a midnight’s visage airy,
T’was a lake frozen by fairy,
…and weighing on mind’s tonnage bearing?
There for ice’ opaqueness winter’s seized,
…and arms encased in rime; trees.
“Oh my,”
At dark of sky thought the eye of something troubling upon my mind?
And the frosty cloudy glass,
Take to it upon my axe,
…and the sting of shards will pass.
And will I eat at last.
Thusly, thrusting through the skull, wettened, weakened for the cold.
…and burden carry I with me,
So encased in rime is he,
Doth make of fishing’s night a chore,
Something that I do abhor!
…and stare I did into that sea,
…my frory breathe in imagery,
Dismay it did fluster me, when my eye captured by Sea,
...and in whirling thoughts could reflection see?
…and something else came back with me.
Pool with drops, light curves, dark rings; in vapid mind now find nothing...
T’was a misty sheen seen after showers?
A damp muggy place of reflecting hours,
Typhoid strange did make snowing;
The Asteraceae of my wilted flowers,
…and that Wren philosophically sings,
…and at lake a lone be -ing,
Appearing peering my soliloquy, I am therefore I into thee.
…and fixed calm stared back at me,
“What pray tell I Enquiry?”
Did something else look back at me?
...and glaring gaze thus did see, something I had hid from me,
…and gawking in my mind did ogle; a malevolence of thought once frugal...
A gaping, oscillating, pierced Abyss, forced farther back into consciousness...
Deeper in and further still,
Climb atop Old Arthur’s hill,
…and the winged Raven’s nearer, reflected on me in my mirror?
…and time did pass turning frozen dying, icy tears of sadness from my crying,
…so did silent Hume release, all the pain that’s troubling me; whilst frozen frame thus held in peace?
I fell forward and felt submerged,
Both characters, both now have merged.
And that creature which accompanied me?
Found a solace back in wine dark sea.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Dashing hither, dashing thither,
Dashing in the winter weather,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a hat upon his head
Not some lace cap fit for ladies,
Nor a bonnet stitched for babies,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a top hat there instead!
Never had a hat so fine,
So tall and silken, so refined,
Regaled upon the daily grind
Of prince or pauper in the Strand
Ladies stalled to see it's lustre,
Swooned and swayed before it's bluster,
Fell and fainted in a fluster,
Startled by a hat so grand!
Children screamed in dreadful fright
And yelping dogs began to bite
As crowds began to brawl and fight
And riots claimed the London street
In the chaos thus ensuing,
Folks began to run, pursuing
John the dashing haberdasher
Chasing him from Strand to Fleet!
John was taken to the prison,
Chided by the crowds derision,
There to wait the Mayor's decision
On his wanton heinous crime
Charged with breaching lawful peace,
He paid a fine for his release
And ordered to desist and cease,
He left his top hat well behind
Thus is told the tale of John
Who dared to bravely dash and don
A silken top hat high upon
His noble head in London town
Heed his tale and take this warning,
When you wake one winter morning
With desire to be less boring,
Careful how you dress that crown!
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
The fungi has started to grow again,
coming from inside, rotting within.
My eyes scan the room from left to right,
there's nothing interesting,
anywhere found in sight.
I remove myself to explore and play,
into the forest I go, around midday.
As I wander and wonder,
my thoughts twist around me, causing a fluster.
All of this just because of,
some guy.
It's not your normal fungi,
it's the kind that if you touch it,
it will rot you from your delicate finger tips
to the very light that is your soul.
The kind of fungi to ruin your night.
So as I lie here, accepting my fate,
that evil demon comes creeping,
to smile in my face.
I'm all too weak to continue on,
finally letting go of myself, collapsing like a fawn.
My skeletal remains,
shimmer in the sun-
reflecting light like the barrel of a gun.
It's hard not to notice that toadstool right there,
growing from what would be my hair.
The fungi still loves to decay,
what was once me
One,
Very
Cold
October
Day.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
For what reason do I bare these arms
if their flick does not fluster
and their embrace does not ease
For what reason do I glance with these eyes
if their concern does not comfort
and their ghost does not give
For what reason do I speak from these lips
if their sweetness does not soften
and their cool does not calm
If my touch leaves no fingerprints
when I press skin to the world
then what is the purpose of my effort?
Or perhaps I do leave marks
a stinging slap
a gouging gaze
a ravenous rip
Then my resolve is of hellish terms
and I am consumed by demons
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
Hello you say as
you saunter through my door to
flop onto the couch and
fluster me with a lazy grin.
got any food?
I am elbow deep in a bag of nachos
why?I ask suspiciously
and you smile wider.
Because I'm hungry, you say
and
kind of fried.
Of course you are
and you
laugh and grab the bag
your fingers brush mine amongst the
crinkly chips and
the artificial cheese dusting.
Who, you ask later between
crunches, is hotter. Gerard Butler or
Johnny Depp?
I nibble a chip in
consideration distracted
by your arm sneaking
around my waist.
It is obviously
Gerard I say because of
reasons I forget when you
start to kiss me.
The nachos suddenly lose
importance because
you taste like
smoke, cheese
and a friday afternoon.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
it will just end up
being a tale of a drunk looking into a metre
as if it was a kaleidoscope mile
in an l.s.d. fuelled centimetre seance,
conjuring the dead, esp. sergei with his kijé,
and thinking about turning the zoo inside out,
with the birds as fish in the great aerorium
of the missing stars to cook up a fluster with broken beaks
nudging achilles to kneel using his heels.
i mean i’d cage those parrots to seal their colour
into stamps and dutiful ink of borrowed bureaucracy,
but i’d stink of oysters doing so and very little else.
so why did they decide upon petting fish in an aquarium
and said that birds were simply caged chickens easing out
an omelette? if i was keeping goldfish in aquariums
i’d be keeping budgies in aeroriums.
don’t tell me, the glass eases the process for disney's
talking blue fish? no wonder, a caged animal
is reminiscent of a caged man, but put man behind glass
and there's little chance of a narcissist conjured;
hence the necessity of slicing iron of the ribcage innuendo
within the framework of a niqab to peer through
on that whitewashed backdrop some call a canvased sigh of beginning.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Ist's hard to fall out of love with him when you're constantly reminded I've just why you fell in love in the first place. You swore you would never say you fell in love again but you did and truthfully maybe you never really fell deeply in love after him. Maybe you never fell out of love with him either. And honestly you're in love with an image of him...so whenever you see his image on social media the butterflies in your stomach fluster. The beating of your heart races as every angry you thought you have a towards him disappear, every single one. Because maybe he was your first puppy love maybe he he was your first love maybe he is your true love and maybe isn't/wasn't and even though it kills you to be away and not know something inside you will forever be reminded of your love for him even if he'll never be yours.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
only because northern ireland was originally liverpool.
yeah... i’m an anglo-slav,
he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy
with clover petals for wings -
watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink!
well, nothing really educational in essex,
just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions,
esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears
of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule:
your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue
(but your mother kept it for the earth
and her hope for you to till it),
you’re ******** with a body and no soul:
the irish fairy countered interrupting me -
i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you!
that’s a trinity that i see.
and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state
(hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy,
i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry,
still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby
and the diminishing psychologies of the players
of the losing team - watch them applaud loss
rather than sing victory prior without listening to
a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture
into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem).
i kept my masculinity watchings the sports
just so i could write poetry and not womanise -
now the escorts and arias i hear you claim?
no... finding nemo, frozen, brave,
no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of
horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Caffeinated air drowns out care for
surrounding discussion
where time is a diamond ring
on this restless city
Wind whips my hair like a weapon
around a weary mind,
blind for a moment before a banister
catches keys and returns hearts in a fluster
Robotic beings waver between ferry floors
ignoring neighboring humans who appear too
busy to say
excuse me
The statue's a bore constructed from
the calloused hands of aged excitement
therefore
no window-seat desires
except that of
a whimsical child's
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
There is no hope.
We walked in circles round the worm, its amorphous purpose lost on us. A sleek, black, rotting corpse, buried within skyscrapers and city streets. We could see no end to it. Everyone had done their best to avoid mention, even as traffic backed, markets stalled and entire city blocks went down.
The pier was bustling at noon. Sweet, burning, haze of smells. Business men wandered out for lunch, laughing to themselves as they secretly wondered how they’d pass the black mass. Children scurried round it, morbidly curious. Their parents would wring their hands, shooting sights at everything but the worm. A throng of oblivious teens skated into it and were knocked flat on their backs. A business man stepped over the moaning mass, eating a hot dog.
Three days passed and nothing had been done. The smell worsened.
The media continued their daily fluster. Weather. Sports. Local news. Farmer John had gotten pink eye again. They held awkward smiles in their teeth, and deadpan concern in their crows feet. His meat would be safe once cooked.
The government were curiously absent.
Conspiracists were already calling it Non-entity 012. The world worm. The dead god in the room.
If we close our eyes, will it disappear?
-- Anonymous Male. New York, USA.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
We know which sacrifices what we believe in brings
So we will sit together amongst the trees to celebrate, the destruction and the fluster of
All this released creativity. So we know that only with standing together
We can own the future that comes to us, something we fought tooth and nail
To stand for, to gather for and burn our empires.
On the pyres of our ruined privilege we cry. Our holy times,
They have come and gone. In the emptiness we find our souls again and
Reclaim the soil that was born from all our forbearers together. And we know that
We own whatever will comes fleeting toward us.
In our clenched fists we hold hope and crush
The remains of past empires and privileges.
© 24 November 2013
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Disoriented poem
True nonsense
But by definition
Does it have purpose
Tell me for certain
Is it a worthless fraud
Composed of senses’ shells
Concealing life without the law
Law of a motive,
One’s reason and justification
Now fragmented with a poem
But is the poem illustration
Symbolic, emblematic,
Is their truth in its act
Of destruction, any thinking?
Shall it raze the moral ground?
Or far more quickly
Blight us all?
All in this state, this
fluster,
This plight,
All in this way
That we’re departing
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
I am a rock at the edge of the ocean.
I am standing.
I am a rock at the edge of the ocean, and I have survived bitter winters, surrounded by frozen waters and melting summers engulfed in the airs sweat. Yet every year without fail I still transcend into spring. I am engraved by each and every form that grazes my surface, and I am still standing.
In the sunlight I absorb rays of temporary hope and in the black of the night I reflect the moons delicate face, with her eyes fixated on the rough exterior that surrounds my soul. I blush with a grey stone coat, overwhelmed by her attention. I fluster, but I am still wedged deep beneath the sand. I am still standing.
I am shelter for all of those helpless creatures underneath who long for safety. I am a gateway for the droplets of rain searching for home, I let them trickle down my spine until they find the mystic blue they have always dreamed of. I am standing for them. I am standing for you.
I am a rock at the edge of the ocean.
I have been touched by its still waters and washed over by its forceful waves, and just when I believe that I am drowning, mother nature guides me above. My granite heart is pounding and I am gasping for life to enter my lungs as I rise from its salty essence.
Realisation occurs, I am still standing.
I have been ignored and admired by passers by, I have experienced love and loneliness. Sometimes my thoughts near convince me that I am crumbling and decaying into the grains below my feet, professing that I belong in the quicksand. But thunderstorms don’t last, and after the thick of it I will remember that I am still standing.
I am not just a rock at the edge of the ocean. I am me and I am you. I am not just standing, I am everything I’ve ever imagined.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
He say it is his right
To take what he wants
Respect by a bullet
Money by the bank full
And property from the poor
Drunk on false history
Abusing society
God complex in shadows
This swaggering drunk
Takes what he wants
With a little pill in the drink
He puts the world to sleep
***** in hand to demand
What he thinks
He is owed as a man
Robbing and murdering
****** and lying
The courts let him off
The cops call him boss
While I fluster in rage
Watching that *****
Get his way
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
The bumblejunk doorhinge,
The greets labeled orange,
The smart-flats and bungalow'd keens.
I want you for waiting.
My trip-stick is failing.
We settle for high in-betweens.
I know not this purpose,
My heart fakes for circus.
My napsack is packed full of liens.
I fluster the roundings,
And muse over drownings. I
Limp on my confusiest things.
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
a friend
(to walk beside and ramble with
whose thumbs need warming while
deciding upon the right path
comfortable to the point of a sweater
in faintly recalled initial fluster
just in case you don't notice the cliff)
everyone needs such
a friend
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Red Maples do burnish woodland alleyways ..
White sugar snow vies for immortality ,
Deep blue dreams , the visible breath of
my youth , ice giving way beneath water soaked leather boots..
To bear witness of natural forestry , the rattle of peckerwoods , fluster of
pink Azaleas , Pines riding windswept fury as acorns crackle , River Birches standing noble o'er Hill Country brooks , RedTips receiving
their nervous sunny advances ..
Cattle trails lead homeward , sunlight on a Winter day that lays on
brown grass , quietly drifting away ...
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
A delicate breeze wets my cheeks
Painting a desire across my breast
A ****** canvas for us to dance
Buried shapes in a reflection of one chance
Your alluring eyes meld into me
Your roseate lips ablaze my desire
Tracing and spilling as you inflame my needs
Provoking my urge
I draw you near as we empty the air
You peel away my imperfections smoothly and enticingly
I roam your virility spreading and streaking
As you dip inside my heated mouth
Glazing and rising as you distend
I suckle and tease your liquid love
You clutch my hair , I rake and roll your whole length
As you tremble you pull me near
Your masterful fingers ,discover my pink sheath
Pinching and releasing my heated abyss
You entice me as you roam
Imprisoned into my bones
Flowing as my lady unfurls
We peel away the fluster
As I enter into your shadow
You infuse into me
Rippling and releasing
Tracing the peaks of me
We build and merge together
We raised and we surged
Into a flood tide of forgotten dreams
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Power
i brandish it so beautifully
just as a name was bestowed upon by birth
this power was given to me by
my powerful grasp over this simple language
twisting definitions
into the churning souls
of my innermost thoughts
to unleash a potpourri of imagery
meant to dazzle and fluster ones mind
like water from a faucet
new uses for common words
run from my mind...
to my pen... to my paper
at a rate considered impossible
for even a supercomputer
can't comprehend things
at the rate
by which i create tem
my careening mind frame
caught in an updraft of simplistic thought
adapted and integrated
the simplicity of your worlds...
to create the complexity of mine!!
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 3:57 PM UTC