"forearms" poems
I'm sure I look fine.
Days like today,
I want to strip the skin
From my forearms
Using only my fingernails.
Days like today,
I want to wring out
My legs like a washcloth,
Squeeze the rolls on my stomach
Until they're empty.
Days like this,
I want to walk away from my body
forever.
I'm sure I look fine.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
My stiff arms hit the metal of the door as I force it open, against
the chilled fist of wind, pounding hard upon the glass
windows and then equally upon my face and forearms. It had to be
below 50 degrees, but I had hoped that the cold could help me
feel again. Feel something. Unfortunately,
this ice only froze my fingers, leaving
my body as numb as my mind.
Later, as I rid my machine of the cloth concealment, protecting
the scars laced into my skin. The water boils as I
examine my life-lines, these battle scars, in the mirror and
can only cringe in thought of the disappointment drowning
the faces of those I care about most: their eyes
drooping down with the weight of eyebrows, creased
diagonally, half shock and the other half burning
discontentment. They purse their lips and stab my eyes
with their daggers, when I chuckle nervously.
I shake my head of these thoughts from my speculation and
step into the steam, hoping the heat could help me
feel again. However, the fire does not scorch my
body, nor incinerate the emptiness, it only slides
down the marble sculpture my body feels to be
(equivalent to the concrete barrier that builds behind my eyes)
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
today is ****** monday
there's one knocking on
my front door
he is scribbled and bleeding
from his forearms,
he carries a pigeon on a leash
and gets high on hotrod drivers' eyes.
i'll give him two pints of hillbilly sugar
and a book of voodoo pictures,
but he insists upon my daughter
and at least 3 lines of coke.
instead i hand him a corn on the cob
and the number of the girl scout troop up the road,
he asks me for one more moose head and although
i'm almost out, the sun is still yellow
so i pour him a double brandy
because
today is ****** monday
there's one
driving naked down
a one way street
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
"Girls shouldn't smoke"
I'm sorry sir, say that again?
Tell that to the 15 year old hispanic girl who sold her virtue under the guidance of the traffic lights to pay off her mother's cancer bills.
Tell that to the wife of a man who
beat
beat
beats her, because some nights she refuses to kneel at his supposed genital altar and confess her sins.
Tell that to the girl who has spent 6 months carving her home address into her forearms, hoping that her Mum would smell the rust and come and rescue her.
Tell that to the girl who was stolenshackleddruggedsold under the consent of her father who used her body as a paycheck to settle his blackjack debt.
To the lonely girl. The ugly girl. The fat girl. The anorexic girl. The bulimic girl. The girl.
"Girls shouldn't smoke."
Tell that to the women who find their prayers in the daily grace that is, nicotine.
Just like men do.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
If she studies you with that particular look, and you know the one I'm indicating.
Kick off your shoes and glide across the floor towards your loved one.
Place your palm firmly on the back of her neck and your other at center mass.
With your lips pressed firmly against hers, open her mouth and clean her teeth, stroke her taste buds, feel her heat and free your minds together as one exploding fire ******* soaring vertically with the sporadic curvature of the bottle rocket.
Don't stop there, you've got her. She wants you to take complete control. Push her with gentle pressure against the nearest wall and allow progression. Fuse her neckline with your bite and move south to utilize her forearms and thighs. All the while you've cupped her **** cheeks like palming a basketball. From there on, use the organic passion that comes from within. She's giving herself to you. She will not hold this against you. On the contrary, this memorable concession of unbiased surrender is a gift, from your other to you. When it comes to a woman's love, these are some of the best times that you will be offered. Keep desire on fire and make your way to completion together. This recollection you guys are developing will hold years of reminiscence.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
Love is a walk around the autumn pond
My heart resides on the paper in my pocket
I almost wrapped it in a box
To leave at your doorstep
Your cologne and cigarettes stain my hair
When you wrap me in the fabric of your forearms
Lets sit on leaf-scattered grass
Hold a picnic in the middle of December
Lets bring French coffee and pancakes
Too
Much is never enough
As I tattooed feathers on my arms
They are your feathers
Dipped in the ink
From the sonnets you wrote to me
On my paper in the front pocket
Of these worn in jeans.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
"Everyone wants to be a little anorexic" she says
"You know, like, in a glamorous way, like fashion friendly anorexic"
I bite my cheek and nod, pretend to agree
All I can think of is waking up to stars dancing on the ceiling
Pale skin with bruises of unknown origins
And battered feet on and off the scale
Almonds in Ziploc baggies
Bite marks on fingers
Hair down the drain
Measuring crunches by the marks they leave on your spine
And battered feet on and off the scale
Enough water to turn organs into boats
Eating an apple with a fork and knife
Desperate hands grasping for ribs
And battered feet on and off the scale
Standing and the world going dark
Coughing around shots of apple cider vinegar
Carrying an emergency rice cake for weak spells
And battered feet on and off the scale
Enough green tea to drown organs
Sugar free gum to mask the smell of decaying organs
Whatever nail polish covers yellow and purple
And battered feet on and off the scale
How many calories are in toothpaste
Thinspo blogs
Pillows squeezed between thighs
And battered feet on and off the scale
Is today the day my heart gives out
Waking every day in a new body
Fingers clasped around wrists
And battered feet on and off the scale
Notebooks filled with numbers
Purple crescents under eyes
Fingers clasped around forearms
And battered feet on and off the scale
Elbows knocking into hipbones
Being scared of your own reflection
Lies to get out of dinner
And battered feet on and off the scale
The stench of *****
Oxygen that tastes of Splenda
Fingers clasped around biceps
And bleeding feet on and off the scale
If this is your idea of glamour
Then you can have it
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
my turtle doves are pondering the broth of my head space.
tingling.
they gibberish the nest and lay eggs of dragons that still believe in dragons.
they wish for thick lightning in the lustrous void. they beak the shell of no made thing.
the Eternal Hum.
the one Always that had Never Begun.
Only Ever, Ever Been.
and That's It's
Name.
my turtle doves are robbing the bog of it's undead wyrms. they swoop in the morning.
down down down
to the gamma ray golf course lawns
of our suburban necrophilia. the one with the empty dreams in their peanut butter stars.
the one
with the eggshell Camary Toyotas and the delinquent epiphanies.
n' more ice cream than Ben n' Gerry's Wet Dream of Selling
More ******* ice cream
than You
can Imagine.
Plus One.
my turtle doves are holding me hostage. in the dizzy breach. of god's contract.
a damp shade of misspent youth. the Old Way.
seasoned by the Eons
and the swollen Love of the First Love.
engorged in the Kingdom of Desire
like a fat mosquito. Sated on Cyclopian forearms.
and the shoulders of Giants
on a small blue world
in your mouth.
just sayin'.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
~ dad said she'd be famous ~
*"...a doctor
or diva
like lena horne,"* he said
he'd been doing odd day jobs
and driving cabs deep into the night
through these mean city streets
since ella's debut
at the apollo
and his smile
grew wider than
jackie o's
reservoir in central park
when this bouncing baby girl
made her grand debut
into his world
the dimples on her
cherub caramel cheeks
were irresistibly pinchable
and those twinkling eyes
knew she'd be spoiled infinitely
like a fruit-fly in a box
of rotten apples
~ reality check ~
....if you look closely
you might still see one dimple;
but the twinkles departed
back in '75
....and the burns
on her fingertips
and blistered lips
....and the bones....
jutting like the bones
of refugees and anorexics
....missing flesh
...and the tracks
on her forearms
and filthy jeans
.....and the eyes....
shifting like the eyes
of senators and thieves
....telling lies
.....and the rotting corpse
in a black garbage bag
in fresh kills
multiple choices removed
from the doctor
and diva of daddy's dreams
hijacked by dream-killers:
*smack
crack
and addiction*
~ P (Pablo)
(8/1/2013)
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
what shade has come over me
to leave such a trail of steel,
the thing i live is a run-away train.
i feel so obliged to follow it,
dragging me, kicking and screaming,
didn't i once engineer this life gone insane.
pulled along behind, face hid in forearms,
ka-knock-knock-knocking my head on every railway tie.
what shade is this life that has split bean's brain?
by the wrist i am chained to this run-away train,
with traits of a hell-hound out of control,
nothing to push to stop from being pulled.
bound to lose faith at the very least,
though risk of life and limb be the final price.
what shade is this film that i have cast myself in,
what shade is this play that won't go away.
© 2005
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
meanwhile, at the capital...
streets lined with
mattresses like
piles of flesh
trees above
that shudder
like a final breath
a branch of cherry blossom
like baby pink fingertips
of limp forearms dangling off
edges of crinkled white mattresses,
a flower
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
*** a couple times with your hand that
has one vein popped up over the knuckle. sheets crinkle
laundry sits in the small humid room.
smells like roadkill and peppermint,
like christmas eve with dinner down the toilet.
you've *** four times in an hour,
rubbing at yourself through your underwear.
don't touch skin. it's off limits today.
getting raw means you can feel
how it stings when you cross your legs.
it's not about pleasure. it's the reminder:
you want to know what you look like,
what you feel like.
next time you're ******* down some boy you ask him
"how does that feel?" he says "good."
quick kiss, his ****** is archaic and copper.
you like how it tastes. now it's your turn:
but of course he won't make you *** unless
you take your hand and rub while he *****
your hand a barrier between his body and yours.
"please be quiet," you say out loud
the boy furrows his eyebrows, "i didn't say anything."
you laugh, "no, my stomach."
pretend to *** for a faster exit.
give him a tiny maternal kiss.
let it linger out the room where it's cold but he's still warm.
you don't want a warmth you have to love because it's too much.
the scab on your neck is now a scar
and you have no make-up for the ones on your forearms, but
really, most of you by now is star dust and tobacco leaves.
the sun is in our eyes. i want to know
what makes a circle go on forever.
i think about ****** a lot.
dreamt two nights ago chris sold me some,
it was in that tiny wax bag with a "king ****** stamp .
when i texted him the next day said "i dreamt
we did some together," he said
"that's funny. i've been doing some definitely
but not really selling."
the Chicago cold does something odd enough to you.
it always seemed like you were alive as a kid. well,
were you?
where is your body? out in the storm.
are you a ghost? no, it would be nice though:
the lack of responsibility of life,
a state of impermanence.
it would be nice.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
How do you get those boots on?
I’ve never seen any straps or laces or snaps or velcro.
When did you know you could fly?
Did you fall out of a tree when you were five and missed the ground?
How does Gravity feel about this?
Does that spandex itch?
Do you wear underwear under the spandex under your underwear?
Do those cuffs rub against your forearms?
How does it feel to a lift a car?
Like a tin can?
Like a paper bag?
Like a bucket of feathers?
What it is like to look eighty stories down and know that you are safe, that you can always save yourself?
Do you have a sixth or seventh sense?
Does it ever wake you in the night?
Do you experience the blistering heat and the chilling cold?
Do you feel it in your bones like I do?
Do you want to destroy your living room when someone has lied to you like I do?
Have you ever destroyed your living room when someone has lied to you?
Does your cape get stuck in the elevator doors?
Do you ever take the elevator?
Do you ever take the remote into the kitchen during a commercial break?
Can you stay on the couch and reach all the way to the counter?
Do you wear a mask?
Does it leave those red marks like my glasses do on my nose?
Do you want **** people who are dangerous and rotten in some places on the inside with one hand?
Does evil reside in you as well?
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Sprawled and etched underneath your delicate skin. Lines of blue and indigo travel up your forearms and push out adrenaline. Dark as ink, poisoning ones very soul. I trace the wicked lines with the very tips of my finger and you break out in shivers. The very lines that fascinate me, I want to make a home out of your veins. I want to be within your every being, I want to be the very thing that makes you feel alive.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
And I waited;
Waited, and waited.
Waited for the telephone to ring,
Waited for the silence to subside.
Trust me, the silence was deadly.
Trust me, it gave me goosebumps,
On these forearms.
Remember, how you used to hold my hand tight?
Remember, how I used to embrace you proudly?
Do you even remember the days,
When you used to luxuriate on my shoulders?
Trust me, I really want those days back.
Notwithstanding the best of memories made,
The telephone remained silent.
Life turned hostile.
But I waited.
Waited, and waited.
Waited for long,
Waited, for at least an explanation.
Waited by the side of the window,
From where the old tree could be seen.
Do you remember that old tree,
Where we used to rest after tiring bicycle rides?
Do you even remember the autumn evenings,
When we used to burn the dry leaves for some warmth?
And now, the tree, has shed all its leaves.
It was dressed as a beautiful bride some days ago,
But now, she has left all her ornaments.
Whatever it is, summer is on its way again,
One more autumn passed by.
But the telephone did not ring.
It was dead silent.
Trust me, I could not sleep all this while,
Not even did I doze for a minute.
Still I waited.
Waited for long.
And now, I'm tired,
Tired of waiting,
Waiting, for at least an explanation.
And hence, I'm sleepy.
And hence, I'm drowsy.
I kept my senses active,
As long as my ****** system could permit,
But, trust me,
Now I'm tired;
Tired of waiting.
Hence, I shall sleep;
Sleep, the deepest of slumbers.
And maybe, the telephone will ring then.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
You taunt me, your
perfection,
your tan skin glows like a god's.
your legs pale with a criss-crossing of
light brown hair,
a furry overcoat.
Your veiny forearms
and blotchy red face, pink with
acne and scars.
Chapped lips and eyebrows
forever quizzing what has been said,
artificial black hair gelled into
stiff shapes.
I could look at you
forever
but you still seem to
puzzle me.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
That is all that I see.
My knees are tucked against my chest
And my arms are wrapped around them.
My chin is positioned between my knees
And my eyes peer out between the spaces.
I shrug my shoulders against my ears
So that I don't have to hear
What's going on downstairs.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
But the words, like a poisonous gas,
Seep through the air vent.
***** **** You don't see
What's she's doing to us."
I tilt my head and bury
My face in my forearms.
I bite my lip and try
Not to cry.
But I can feel the heat building
And my chest tightening
As the tears begin
To crawl from
My eyes.
I listen again,
Unintentionally,
To the shrill voice
Piercing my not-so-silence.
"Take her home,
We can figure this out
On our own."
I try to breathe,
But oxygen escapes me,
As if it too hates me.
My chest shakes,
My heart rattling
In its cage, cold from
A lack of love
And warm embrace.
I bury my face deeper,
Into the crevices of my legs,
Until I hear the footsteps
Crashing up the staircase.
A whimper escapes my lips.
She twists the **** and throws
Open my bedroom door,
Long strides to reach me,
And a fist near my throat.
She reaches for my hair,
And knots it between her fingers,
Before using it to pull me like a rope.
Dragging me across the carpet,
And into the kitchen,
She tosses me
At my father's legs.
"Now tell her exactly
What you told me."
I look up at him
Through frightened eyes
And he reaches down
And pulls me from the ground.
"I'm taking her home."
A trickle of relief
Slides down my throat
Until a wave of pain
Crashes into my leg
From behind.
My face hits the
Linoleum first,
Followed by my hands
Then shoulders, then hips.
"That's not what you said!"
He steps between
Her and me
And lifts me
From the floor,
Holding me close,
And walking quickly
Out the door.
And finally,
I am safe,
For another day.
But as my father
Sits me
In the passenger seat
And drives away,
I silently pray that
No other ten year old
Would ever feel this way.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Two and a half years of
Hiding under my Levi's
And cheap, holey sweaters
Jackets, handed down from mother
And gloves made out of toe socks
Two and a half years of blaming
It on the cat, pointing fingers
At sharp cornered desks and
Dogs and messing around with friends
Hiding my secret, holding it close to me
Today, I took of my jacket
And the world, being cruel as it is
Forced me to crawl right back inside
With eyes prying and people touching
And their judgmental, pity looks
But tomorrow will be different
And I wont let young eyes
Stop me from being afraid
To show my forearms
I promise this
It's time for some change
Because I can't go on faking
My smile for fake people anymore
And hiding my body from the world
Because I am beautiful
Or so they say
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
The barmaid,
the one with the toned forearms
and the cute accent,
looks like you.
Feelings come back momentarily.
I keep my mouth shut,
like I always have.
That's our relationship.
Congrats on your engagement.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
darkness extends its warm arms around
me and its fingernails trace the delicate
purple veins tattooed on my forearms
thin curlicues and tiny vessels of this very
thing-- this thing that reverberates and
reverberates and reverberates within
this tiny black knife makes its first vicious
forceful trace-- the curls becoming
faucets of this bluish purple liquid
a puddle which defiles the pristine floor
-- maybe this is a suitable cleaning
device-- a thin rod with this pointy
shiny silvery tip, collecting tiny mercury
***** from the puddle, as I rearranged
the puddle into the thing bluish purple
liquid curlicues just like that whence
they came
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her middle finger. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
one year, we will scramble the seasons
so a summer yolk bleeds gold
into our white winter pages
leaving our islands on a plane
we will watch the clouds pull a mottled curtain
between ourselves and our mothers
in a campervan, we will etch lines
into the pale stretch marks of America's belly,
litter mountains with conversation
we will build our own climate with our lover's arms
wind a thread through an atlas cross-stitched
with icicles and sandstorms
we will enter the new year with sepia forearms
a thousand rivers gushing through our heads
stomachs rounded, full of sun
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 6:39 AM UTC