"frizz" poems
i used to cradle her bleach-cracked hands in mine
and decode the stardust resting within her fingerprints
up until the day that i lost touch with the art of reading braille
and she stopped slinging tall-tales for me to fetch
and rest the plot-twist at her feet
often in the post-script
i'd find my train of thought highjacked by the sunlight illuminating the rainbow of earth-tones ablaze
in her frizz-ridden curls
as if she'd been washing her hair with the damaged case of beer
she'd gotten for half-price at liqour depot
she never did quit drinking
but neither did i
at least we tried
though sometimes
in the middle of the night when nothing was alright
and we'd barely survived another fight
her face would catch my glance
cast aglow by a flood of lava-lamp light
the sea of freckles resting at the crest of her cheeks
rose lips perma-pursed in half tilt
her resting heart-rate so high that i could almost see it
pirouetting within her chest
it was then that i'd love her best
amidst the ruins of who we were
just moments before
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!*
first it was avocado on toast...
who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
nothing near guacamole,
but fair enough...
but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
i couldn't stop...
you can find it in the weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******** me...
cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
i was in a restaurant once,
and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
a bit like: bread... but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
and now... cauliflower on pizza...
it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
how about beetroot?
thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
the toast? marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say: cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
avocado on toast...
caulifower on a pizza?!
now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
summer, spring, winter, fall,
it always carried a whiff of cleanliness, like lysol,
bleach and daffodils had made a not so secret love
child.
there were never any marks. no signs of mistakes,
accidents, humanity.
the floors glistened like the sun beaming off a black
convertible.
the windows, you couldn’t even tell they were
windows. not without the panes.
transparent like the shores of the Mediterranean.
I never touched anything.
I held my breath among glass, ornaments, picture frames.
afraid one intake would show up like a smudge that could
never be wiped off, no matter how much one tried.
she fits the house. like those china dolls, polished to perfection.
blonde hair rolled in unison curls. no frizz. never any
fly aways.
face just like those windows, eyes raging in a storm too far away.
his room was the only one i could sink in.
legos scattered
(i always stepped on the yellow ones)
clothes fuming with dirt and almost manhood.
his posters crooked, carrying characters dressed in
armor, or tuxedos, animated, weapons in hand.
his bed, never made, incasing the last impression of his body
(he always slept on his side)
a spot of drool still visible, blankets holding his scent.
soap, laundry detergent and oranges.
game controllers trashed, bite marks, dents, too many battles.
i finally breathed when i walked in.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Do you know what beauty is?
Some say it's these eyes.
The same eyes that have been rubbed with fists
that don't know their purpose,
fists that only know these tears are foreign,
and it is their job to eradicate them.
These eyes are two-sided mirrors,
only showing what the outer person believes to see,
not what's really there.
These eyes have known smiles, but not sleep;
joy, but not peace.
Are these eyes still beautiful?
Some say it's this smile.
The same smile that has been too many frowns,
curves of confusion and wishful thinking.
These teeth, straight and strong
only because of man's work, not nature's.
Teeth that were once blamed for unattractiveness,
and kept hidden by tight-lipped
excuses of a smile.
Lips that are anxiously bit rather than kissed,
red with embarrassment and the feeling
of never measuring up.
Together, these lips and teeth create a smile,
but alone they are just forcefully arranged teeth,
and lips that worry.
Is this smile still beautiful?
Some say it's these curls.
The curls that are, but don't want to be,
and only are because hormones got a hold of them.
These curls are soft, but disguised of that
by flyaway frizz that wants freedom
but will never get it.
These curls are angry at their boundaries,
and they take that anger out on me.
The truth is, I could never set them as free
as they wish to be.
Are these curls still beautiful?
Some say it's this size.
The petite waist and slender arms,
the curvy legs and prominent chest,
this childish height.
Smallness makes the big feel bigger,
stronger, more capable.
But it also makes the small feel smaller.
This is the same waist that hungers perpetually,
the same arms that shiver when no one else does,
the curves that hesitate instead of bragging,
and the height that's mocked, condescended,
and shamefully despised.
Is this size still beautiful?
The heart of the matter is that beauty
is simply misunderstood.
Beauty is the surface of unfathomable depths.
It is not beauty at all, but merely
an acceptance, or a recovery, or a new birth.
Something that was,
but wasn't until it was discovered.
And if this is the case, why aren't we searching for it?
Why are we waiting for beauty to appear
when we could be finding it?
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Who else has curly hair?
I believe we can all agree it is sometimes a nightmare.
Reducing frizz is rare.
It can be messed up with the air.
Sulfates are a real scare.
Silicones are a compare.
At the end of the day, I don't really care.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
things that rhyme with you --
*** coma, three meters of ribbon that are your veins
the emerald sea
any other gemstone-like thing, girls
boys, angels with wings,
pasta noodles with big gaping holes, curls, frizz
buckets of saltwater,
honey, fingertips, promises in two different languages
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
I am a series of problems, you see.
I am that annoying song stuck in your head, the reason you can't get to sleep. I am the creepy girl in some horror movie that you swear you keep seeing around town, and the notification you got a little too late. I'm the embarrassing email you just sent, the one simple word you misspelled on an otherwise perfect paper, I am the stain you didn't know you had on the shirt you got two weeks ago. I am your work that nobody else seems to appreciate, and I am the voice in your head telling you that you are not good enough. I'm the grammar problem spell checks don't pick up on, I am the big piece of cake you promised yourself you wouldn't eat, but ate anyway. I am the ****** you won't pick in public and the moment your favorite cousin opens the birthday present you got her just to be very disappointed at what's inside. I am the thunder your dog is afraid of, the bikini you're too insecure to wear, the frizz of frizzy hair, I am the pair of jeans you had when you were younger that you wish your mom never gave away. I am your lost pair of favorite socks, a cavity, a weight gain.
I am your disaster, aren't I?
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
It was hot... Almost to hot.
Hot in a sticky wet way that made me want to run away.
I was from this high and dry desert town; we complain about dry heat but the humidity is by far the worst change I've ever experienced.
I walked down those airport stairs contemplating where I could get some water or coffee; I mean it was 6 in the morning!
I remember thinking how angry I was going to be if you weren't waiting for me.... I know you hate mornings.
And if there is one thing I'll never forget for the rest of my life is the way you stood at the bottom of the stairs in that airport terminal and the way you made me catch my breath.... I almost forgot that humidity that made my skin pour and my hair frizz.... I almost forgot I needed that coffee or that I had just been on a plane for 6 hours....
But I sure didn't forget how I was so enamored by every single piece of you.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
you
you have a mind of your own
you do what you want
up down this way and sideways
i cant control you
to be tamed would be to ****
submissiveness would mean you dull
how is it that i got you
you politically incorrect mess
a problem to be fixed
yet here i am still dealing with you
i could not give you up
i love your spontaniousness
you bring a surprise everyday
never will i hurt you
never will i let you go
my my my
what i do for you
my.
frizzy.
out of control.
curly.
hair.
;)
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Skin intimately kissed by the golden sun to a permanent brown tan,
Not olive but brown like the chocolate that melts softly on your tongue
Brown like the sugar that sweetens your tea just right
With ***** hair that refuses to stay down
It radiates and bounces up with a frizz and a twist with a spin like a dance
Yes I dance because I'm proud to be a black girl
Created imperfectly perfect by the artwork of God
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
She stared blankly at the computer screen
With its flickering screen of judgement.
What are you looking at?
Silence. A screensaver.
Enough of that sass.
It was finally complete.
Her hair wearing its disheveled frizz like a badge of honor
From all-night typing
And two pots of coffee
Where her comb-fingers turned the smoothness of her hair
Into a stress-reliever
As she muttered madly to herself
(But quietly, so as not to wake the roommates
Who slumbered in their honey chambers
Away from the heart of her hive of activity).
She had buzzed all night
On a caffeine-high
That made her hands tremble
Her muscles ache
And her eyes hate her.
And now
With too much to do
And a limited time to do it in
She had to keep buzzing.
Coffee *** number three was carefully stored
In a travel mug
That she clutched to her clavicle
Just to keep the warmth that much closer to her hyped-up heart.
She made her stops at offices and libraries
Retrieving promised letters
And printing the labors of her night intensive
Before she could finally deposit it
Behind the glass windows
Of the scholarship office.
This is too much work for less-than-ideal odds.
But she had no time to dwell
On the gamble she had made
And paid in hours of wakefulness
And the inked-up peelings from tree corpses.
She rushed from class to class
Where she tried to speak in coherent sentences,
To dance with sharp choreography,
And to contribute to society
But her body hated her
Because she had betrayed it
And deprived it of the only thing that it truly loved in this world:
Sleep.
It would have its vengeance.
It would have its vengeance when she was old, creaky, and could no longer move.
But for now, her body made do with small rebellions
To demonstrate its displeasure.
Sentences were not sentences
And every turn, leap, and twist
Made her think longingly of sleep.
And her body laughed.
But at long last,
The sun set
The girl slept
And then the sun rose.
And this continued to happen
Many times.
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
Until she had forgotten
And her body had forgiven
The sleepless night.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
I sit where I could get a fresh breathand somehow escape the smells of collard greens, fried chicken, man-n-cheese, and Momma’s 7-up pound cake.Sunday dinners were never going to be the same and Daddy’s to blame.Pot-bellied Pastor McKenzie sneezed in the same rag that he was wiping his sweaty face with. Auntie Lena brushing pasthim to avoid his sermon on ‘cleansing your soul’ putting the carnation bouquets on the dining table.Momma leaning on her callused elbows, which ain’t ableto take too much more stress. Brandy and Brittney flipped through channels fighting over the best pillow on the couch.My uncle Jo rambling on about this sweating he does in the south.Nobody even noticed the things that were coming out of Daddy’s mouth. “Sorry baby. Daddy’s so sorry,” on repeat like my Alicia Keys CDthat Kayla scratched last year in the same car Daddy wrecked. I played it in the living room, hoping to bring her back.Her frizz free hair was all that I was jealous of. Her clothes were cuter than mine and one size too big. Her humor rubbed off on me and is the reason I’m a kidder. Time to eat, but I can’t breathe.Kayla could never again help with dinner.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
too small her upper lip
kink of hair too much frizz
not quite hourglass shape
pudge of tummy give or take
thighs too big to make you breath
more cellulite she doesnt need
too much hair, hair everywhere
uneven portions she only stares
the mirror you might want to break
she understands that its okay
these things you could obsess
she merely looks at them with bliss
its okay to not be perfect
its okay
she is not here for you
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
If I were to be compared to the expectations of the world
I would simply be a toy.
Not any normal, high demanded Barbie
But an old forgotten Raggedy Anne.
Sure, it’s true that someone out there must still love such a doll.
But where are they when the poor doll loses its value?
Its beauty?
It’s collector’s touch?
They let it go, forget it, put it either back on the shelf or leave it on the floor
Collecting dust and withering away slowly
All just waiting for the next kid to pick it up and show it love for a little while
All until that child grows bored. Then the process repeats.
Except with each one, not being made of plastic, my seams begin to give.
My fabrics falling apart, my yarn beginning to frizz
Quite an unapealing look.
One that will eventually be thrown out.
And not long after is she forgotten…..
And that’s how a girl’s heart works when she ends up with the wrong guys.
The little boys playing and fantasizing over toys.
But, there are men out there too, just I’m too blind to spot them...
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
And the homely girls
The plain-faced girls
The four point fives out of ten
With crooked noses or
Baggy eyelids or
Halos of glorious frizz-
And, even better,
All of the above
Every feature she hates
Is the one I cherish
When the ugly girl
Nitpicks her eyes, mouth,
Ears, nose, teeth, hands,
Hair, skin, **** ***** legs-
I just love her even more
There’s an unspoken kinship
Between the girls with
The acne, the bad teeth,
The timid smiles and slouched backs
Because we dare to exist
Despite all we’ve been told
Us audacious angels
Of alternative attraction
The most powerful force of the planet:
The ugly girl.
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 10:03 PM UTC
i'm all dressed up
with nowhere to go
so i'll stay in bed
and put on my own show
i'll close my eyes
and turn on my mind
and picture you
in a tux so fine
the night will be dark
the stars lit
not a worry in sight
not one little bit
you'll offer your arm
i'll take it with grace
ohmyGod, the look on your face!
you can't take your eyes off me
i'm a lovely sight
dress so fitting
curls so tight
we'll dance upon
the hardwood floor
the moon it'll shine
but not as bright as those eyes of yours
we'll dance to the music
what a sweet lullaby
nothing could ruin this moment
go ahead, try!
my arm is on
your shoulders so broad
your hands around my waist
i like it quite a lot
no, like isn't the correct word
i love it, i do
i love how i feel
when i'm with you
the night will never end
and my hair will not frizz
your smile shan't waver
we'll never get tired of this
alas, however, somebody turns on the light
my mind must close
my eyes must open
i feel as if i can still smell you on my clothes
but i have been awakened
from my precious thoughts
back to reality
like gun fired shots
i'm still in my best dress
my makeup and my heels
however there's something different
something different I feel
it's as if I've already
lived this night to the fullest
it's as if i really got to show off the fact
that i was well dressed
and this has made me realize
realize the truth
I'd give up every night partying in real life
to spend even a moment in my dreams with you
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
Among the graces of orchard kings,
we sit like moonlight on a field of grain.
In violet beams of
sky-burst
bright
in the evening,
the warriors dance to beats of lives saved and lives lost,
to beats of
foot on
foot on,
pounding the ground rock soil.
Again they dance,
waving hands through swarms of fire,
light,
fire;
flying home to forest swamps in the no-light.
Child's laughter bursts as smoke from a pine cone,
frizz-pop,
and they alight,
from guilty blamelessnesses
to a painfully relieving smolder of the
seh-
the sel-
ego-self.
Still they dance with eyes closed,
their raised elbows bent, rotating their bodies like planets
as we revolve around this great giant beast of,
monster of,
deliverance and,
compassion and,
movement and,
all things in this universe that could ever be so bright and fruitful.
You are my morning,
you are my evening,
you are my night-time dreaming
reflection in the mirage on the horizon.
Sleep now,
as your heroes dance silently around your sibling star,
beat,
beat
the foot on,
foot on;
pounding the ground where you sleep.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
On a whim,
we packed up what little was
left of this strung-out relationship and
rattled out of town in your raucous,
senile rustbucket.
I thought for sure the engine’s cacophony
meant we'd be stuck on the side
of the road in no time, but you
just smiled serenely into the mirror,
pressed the pedal to the floor.
This is why I love you, you know,
because you're calm even
when I'm freaking out beyond
belief and my hair starts to frizz.
Baby, this rope may be
frayed and burn us as it slides along the
palms of our hands, but we hold on
nonetheless, to all that we are,
never slowing, never stopping, rolling
on and on.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
Sometimes i wish i could go back to the end of 2015 and the very beginning of 2016. I don’t remember having very many deep emotions or overwhelming feelings i just remember floating on top of everything. The only big emotion i really remember having was when i got my first real feelings for a girl.
I used to stay up reading wattpad stories and the only song i would listen to was lost boy. I dreamed of being in love one day, and i would wake up everyday thinking of a new way i can finally talk to her. It all seemed so simple. I was so innocent, so pure. My hair was down to my waist, straight as could be, tamed and frizz free. I didn’t know anything, i was blind, i was excited to be alive, i had no idea one day my hair would be at my shoulders and my life would take a turn. Now i take pain killers because i don’t want to be in pain anymore and i always check the weather before i visit the cutter.
I hope it’s not all over, i hope some of my innocence is still there, i hope it’s not all gone forever,
i hope my hair grows back to where it once were.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
I like the rain.
It reminds me of many things.
It reminds me of little days to teen days.
I can sit in the musk warmth for hours while the trickles of water fall upon my nose.
Close my eyes.
Breath in deep, and exhales all the memories.
I can be barefoot.
I can be nothing but a t-shirt and shorts.
I want to feel this rain, not just be in it.
Have me sit on the roof and look out onto the world.
It's beautiful when it's quiet.
Rain warms me.
Cuddles me.
I don't get sick, I get happier.
Let my hair frizz up with wetness.
Let the chill bumps ride on my skin, I like it.
Smell of rain reminds me of a aquarium.
Amazon rainforest.
Just feels good to be alone in the rain thinking of everything in that one brain.
I can sleep in the rain.
Like the rain.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
God, it must be a magic trick, how you can make lights from pollution seem like the city beyond golden gates, the windows down, scarlet curls of frizz illuminated.
I was jealous of the shotgun, and you asked me if I had a good view, and the only answer I could think of was that I didn't, at least, not of you.
Four seasons later and I'm back in the backseat of your car, it's summer again, only this time everything is different.
You still somehow manage to summon the small hidden youth I've got left in this old soul, even though the roads are blocked and sirens are on patrol.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
**Limp hair,
Sopping, strung out
Pallid skin
You look hollow
As if
Lying on a hospital floor
Was too soon for a coffin
Hands smooth down frizz
Your mouth, ajar
Bits of chalk, grinning
Only you could
You itch at the humans
Coming in
And out
In and out
Who couldn’t oir tus palabras
Thinking, too young and stupid
An immigrant
So you sat
Waiting
For the gringos tontos
To fix you.**
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC