"gaiman" poems
Trolling Amazon I found my inner Kurtz
Harrison foreswore my bear totem: darkness
Lady gal pal taught me soul-mating hurts
Martha Muffins vinyl v. Kirby’s Agatha Harkness
Saved my twins made them productive
Mutating FF X to Avengers indie 80s on me take
Man-starring all the boogie children say code this grandpa
Gaiman Miller Moore Morrison invade Waid
Wrightson Kaluta Jones Smith put bronze to paint
McKean Sienkiewicz Mack Maleev mimic The Studio
Now let’s gallery our portals strung from kid dimensions
Makers engaging history NOW NEW 52 intervals starstruck
Spread indie throughout known multiverse in craft crooks
While nursing nannies coddle light corners scuttling roaches
Bell & Schrödinger's cat transport trainspotting to a fine art
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
**** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
In the beginning
there is a class
of creatures we call Gods
that much later
we realize are just mono-
instances of god.
From the tower
I babble tongues,
coded messages and ciphers
that you implement
in your daily rituals
and obsessive behaviors.
In R, it's something like,
christ <- god(moral compass)
In Ruby it could be
buddha = God.new
And perhaps a nihilist or we
would find happiness in
10000.times do
pushRock = buhdda.take(me)
end
It's all pidgin for me,
unstructured glimpses at a world
that's moving and changing
faster than my non-existent
grandson can comprehend.
It's all a network
of +1 and like'd
firing mix media,
reinforcing a nascent
thought stream,
back-propagating our legends
and fairy tales, Grimm
reminders of epic Odyssey |
5 Armies in film |
Warring States |
loping dog with a severed hand
in Akira black & white mouth
repossessing Spaghetti Westerns
back into our feudal *****
Fire, firing
into the Monsoon rain.
Always in the Hemingway
rain of symbols and Matrix
green code.
And in my cupped hand,
I catch glimmering fireflies,
instances of Gaiman's
American gods, Tricksters,
Coyotes, and my faithful
Dog smiling at me.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
His lines run long and deep,
A landscape shaped from the constant tales,
He has let them seep into deep,
From near and far, setting wind to their sails
The collector he has become to bear,
A tale or two, from weary travellers,
They seek to drop their baggage of fear,
He collects them all, a book he holds dear
A book bonded to him, by long heavy chains,
Just like Gaiman and his Destiny in Sandman,
He walks around with mental notes of pains,
Dreams crashed and loves lost, all collected by the Sandman
He doesn't judge, as he has been in their positions,
Both sinner and victim, by choice and by force,
Never moments to be proud of but memories of decisions,
Inner turmoil that toss and turn, a reckoning force
If left unchecked, he would reckon,
he would have lost sanity and turned to be the Joker,
"Some men just want to watch the world burn",
But that can't be a solution,
So he collects and he places a mark,
On each chapter and timeline, changing roles,
It made him be more wary, places in the dark,
Plots and characters, written after they perform their roles
But he's not the only one,
There are many more around time and locations,
They go about with a collection of tales,
Sworn to secrecy and bound to take it six feet under,
The book of Destiny tied to their feet,
Each step taken with an acute sense of awareness,
They walk among us, never showing their true-selves,
Only long thin lines running deep,
Until another one comes up.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
I can stop myself from texting him
That's a start
But if I don't want to think about him
Well...
That's a whole lot harder
But I can't listen to love songs
Or sad love songs
Or sad songs
Or angry songs
Or Ed Sheeran because he loves his music
Or the song Riptide by Vance Joy because he loves that song too
This music reminds me too much of him
I can't use the word lovely
Because that was my favorite word he used to call me
And he knew it, so he used it all the time
I can't even wear dresses and skirts anymore because he always liked girls wearing dresses and skirts
I can't read John Green because he actually liked his writing style
And I can't read ANY quotes from Neil Gaiman because he loved his writing
He of course, had to be a writer and a poet so it's hard to read love poetry without his name creeping into mind
I hate how I can't even finish the novel I was writing because I included some events based off of some of my favorite moments between us
I can't look at pictures of England because he really wanted to live in England one day
I can't look his exgirlfriend who he still cares for who goes to my school in the eye because just like he always did I will always compare myself to her and I can never measure up to even close to what she is
I can't text the words "haha" because he used that instead of lol all the time
I can't even talk about him to someone without feeling pathetic
He just wrecked everything
He ruined my favorite outfits, music, music artists, writing, books, countries, and even my novels that I had ideas I was just so excited for.
I just can't get him out of my mind
And the truth is
I don't like him anymore
I really don't
but I do miss him
and I admit that
I don't want to
but honestly, I do
So it is just easier... to forget
Although with all the things that lead me back to him
It's proving not to be easier
and I kind of don't want to forget
because he was the closest I ever came
To really liking a guy
Who liked me back
and just like the tense he used when he said goodbye to me
I say liked
not like.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth
for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow
so perfectly well
and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind
his flowers for all the world
to smell the evil within their roots
and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger
and his heaven and hell
and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse
and for Bukowski and Hunter
for turning ugly truths into something beautiful
we could all enjoy hating
and for Shakespeare and Gaiman
and the dreams they weave
into the fabrics of our soul
and for the devil and temptation
and for god and shame
and for the laughter of children
and the tears of the grieving
who will never hear their children laugh again
and for those that paint
something beautiful out of all the pain
that they feel and see in the world
and the melancholy who sit high up
in dead tree branches to hang the moon
and the stars in the dark of the night
so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone
in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams
and for each painful breath
that reminds me where love once lived
in my chest and each joyful sigh
that reminds that I'm still alive
and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt
and the glimpse of brief moments of hope
I still might find a seed shaped
like a heart beating to plant in my hand
and sew over my chest
and I can meet death
with love still living inside the cold ground
where my body will rest
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC
I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being
Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets
And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.
You have an idea. You
Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
The problem is I do like him.
I certainly hate him
But I also like him.
I like the way he capitalizes the beginnings of his sentences over text, I like the cute little crinkles that appear in his forehead when he smiles
The coy way he responds to flirtation with something like "Oh really now?"
I like how he calls things "sweet", the way he says "aww" I even f!cking like his annoying as hell overuse of the phrase "haha" when he texts which ****** me off,
I like how he is the only teenaged boy I know who says something is "quite" fun and how he uses the word "lovely" to describe things because no one uses that word anymore and more people should.
I like how he has an immense love for Spiderman,
How he has all these aspirations of travelling all over in the future
I like how he wants to live in England one day, I like that he is into cooking and drinks coffee and hot chocolate and how his favorite book is "Looking for Alaska" and how he's read everyone of John Green's books and how he wants to be a writer one day.
I just remember the dumbest little things that I still like about him
For instance how he likes Neil Gaiman and loud screamy music even though I hate that stuff, how he is the only one in his fractured family who doesn't speak French but his older sister and mother do. He has a dog named Charlie and when he was a kid he always spelled "subtle" wrong. I just don't know *** is wrong with me I should have known better. I should hate him for half this stuff and all the rest of the reasons I have to loathe him but it's hard to forget those little details about him. I just hate feeling like a broken lock. A lock of dark secrets and completely irrepairable. Though it's not the fact that Im irrepairable that bothers me as much as feeling so... replaceable. Idk. Maybe I need to go out with someone to get him out of my head.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
You move me.
You move me like sunlight on the dew drops of wild flowers.
You move me like the loud rumbling of thunder.
Like an intense game of laser tag; sweating and running and chasing.
You move me like Louis Armstrong's fingers on his trumpet.
You move me like my mother smiling down at me from the kitchen table when I was six.
Like Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
Like the smooth surface of my first hand-made bowl.
You move me.
You move me like the wind in my face when the car windows are rolled down.
You move me like my first paint set.
You move me like holding my first nephew, staring up at me with his small, blue eyes.
You move me like The Ground Is Lava.
You move me like the pen on this paper,
racing to scribble down my next thought.
You move me like snapping hair ties, like broken records, like drippy nail polish.
You move me like the rain drops on my window during a violent storm.
You move me like a long, unwinding road.
You move me like holding my crying sister.
You move me like T.S. Eliot, John Green, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Neil Gaiman.
You move me like a fast swivel chair.
You move me like my first knocked-out tooth.
You move me.
You move me like my first kiss in the second grade, smiling and giggling and nodding at, "Do you want to do it again?"
You move me like your bruised fingertips.
You move me like nervous glances that are shot away when you look back at me.
Like our first hug, when I didn't want to let go.
Like my blistered feet when I snuck out and ran to see you.
Like the playful nudges when we walk rythmically side by side.
You move me like your slant rhyme.
You move me like my shaky leg.
You move me like the late nights spent looking at photos from my past.
You move me like new shoes on linoleum floors.
You move me like the purple bags under my eyes.
You move me like the first time you introduced yourself to me.
You move me like my first communion as a child; disrespecting the purpose to the practice and just wanting to down a shot of grape juice.
Like the printer that won't stop shooting out pages.
Like your tangled imagery and verse.
Like my first hat.
You move me like rushing water.
You move me like falling out bed.
You move me like when our hands accidentally brush against each other in the hallway.
You move me like refusing to give up and trying again.
You move me like the way I dream of moving you.
You move me.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
If I told you that
You'll be okay in a month's time,
Would you believe me?
Because you will.
You're stronger than you think you are.
(Not a dismissive I'm fine, either,
But 'okay' in the genuine sense.)
Lost in your grief and pain and anger,
You've forgotten just how resilient you really are.
Every time you hit rock bottom,
You discover a hidden strength in you
That you never knew.
When your worst fears come to pass,
You discover that there's life after the storm,
That the boulder seems more like a pine cone in hindsight.
The pain comes and goes like the tide,
But each onslaught will be easier to withstand,
Until it's nothing more than a faint murmur.
You will get back on your feet again
And dare to love and hope again
To dream new dreams.
You think this hell will last forever.
It won't.
None of this makes sense now
But it will soon enough.
And that person who did this to you
Won't even cross your mind.
When you do remember,
The pain fades more and more each time.
So love yourself.
Remember who you are,
What you're made of.
God won't help you -
He already gave you that power.
Do whatever it takes.
Go out
Or stay in.
Hit the gym
Meet people
Read or cook
Write and write and write
Make poems and stories
Make good art,
Like Gaiman said.
Whatever it takes.
Your recovery comes first.
You can do it.
I know you can.
Things will get better,
I promise you.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
You will remember me reciting poetry between our acts of making love. You will remember the traces of my fingerprints trembling on your temple, my mouth cloistered across your name. You will hear, again and again, my rapid breathing round your neck and my battered voice consuming the space between you and me.
The long walks, my verses, the place I used to occupy, your hair strands perishing on my palm and my disappearing warmth, they will forever remind you of the endless times and everything we are breathing somewhere underneath your propped pillow and creased blanket.
Between your fingers will wrap the ways you have read me like Braille and the countless ways I have responded fluently. They will live in your head, feed in your memory, tear your flesh asunder. They will annihilate you.
They will break your heart.
Say goodbye to Keats, Gaiman, Bukowski, Eliot, Woolf, Plath and to the thousand years I could have made you immortal and love you like sickness and its cure together. Say goodbye to the smell of the verses I have exhaled on your skin, in a locked room, to our glittering kisses and shards of hearts strewn and dying on your bed sheet. I will take the next station Southbound, with Hemingway, and will dissolve with the clouds and swallow the stars alive.
Say goodbye to me and go on with your ************* ***** and endure the fact that she will never ever write a poem for you because she can’t and you have lost me forever.
*Remember that your muffled hair,
In this broken world,
Is one of the most beautiful things I have ever beheld
But be wary of my books.
There were constellations between the pages
Which tomorrow,
I will tear apart, one by one
And stitch in the shape of legendary airplanes that one day,
As we stand face to face
I will crush on your chest
And they will explode
And dismember you.*
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
I left you five hours ago and I miss you so much that it physically hurts me.
I understand that I am being excessive, but it is a feeling I cannot ignore.
And I have not felt this way in a long time.
I miss getting breakfast with you and eating an enormous omelette without feeling guilt. Sitting across from you in a coffee shop, admiring the way your eyes seem to glow in the dim light. Your head on my lap as I read Gaiman (you told me I have a lovely voice). I miss doing absolutely nothing with you for the entire day and feeling more fulfilled than if I had been busy and productive.
I have not felt this way in a long time.
You've reminded me that holding someone close should cause a continuous, comforting burn in your heart. That drinking with one person you love can be a lot more fun than going to parties (even when you drink too much and I have to take care of you the next day). That alone is not always better. You've reminded me that writing your feelings down soothes the pain.
I left you five hours ago and I will feel a gaping empty space until I see you again.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 1:42 AM UTC
It's been a year of heroes.
I've met so many of them
Since January.
Ed Kowalczyk, Eric Church...
And Neil Gaiman today.
They were
All the same comforting
Base of blood and bones as
The rest of us.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
And so I will make love
and as we devour our skin
as you bury your mouth on my neck
and as my whisper engulfes your cheek
I will scatter verses of Shakespeare
destroy John Keats
curse William Blake
lament over Sylvia Plath
disarray Bukowski
set Hemingway afire
annihilate Gaiman
and when the morning comes
I will disappear
and all that's left
will be the creases on your sheet
and the stars on your blanket
and it will remind you that last night
we danced on the shards
and wreckage of poetry.
It will break your ******* little heart.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I turn to them and tell them
That I really do not know
Well I'll wake up in the morning
Feeling like I've had no rest
And the fear that lies within me
Will rise and constrict my chest
But I'll stand up and be counted
I'll work hard, I'll try my best
And if you're lucky then I might even get dressed.
It's my day at home today
Some people say I work too much
But if they want me to socialise
Why don't they keep in touch?
Still I'll sit at home and surf the web
And text them from my room
And I'll look at pictures on the net
Of people on the moon
Sing **** the ashcloud with Miss Palmer
She'll be Mrs Gaiman soon
And if you're lucky then I might just pen a tune.
It's my day at home today
And people ask me why I'm here
I say that's because I have no plans
I play my life by ear
But it's doing me OK so far
I'm living with it well
Even if sometimes it can feel like
A flaming pit of hell
Still I'm learning and I'm trying
Poking out beneath my shell
And if you're lucky and you're good then I won't tell.
It's my day at home today
Sometimes people ask me why
I shut myself in yet seem so strong
And never, ever cry
And I tell them that I'm happy
And that's why I don't look sad
And I try my best to help them out
When they are feeling bad
But they don't know what I cannot say
That I've been driven mad
And if they're lucky then they will not understand.
It's my day at home today
And some people ask me why
I prefer to sit behind a screen
And watch the world go by
I say the phantom of the opera
Composed in a secret place
For he never wished the light of day
To fall upon his face
Even if I'm sat behind a pane
I'm running my own race
And if you're lucky I might let you keep the pace.
It's my day at home today
And people ask what I will do
But I'll turn to them and tell them
That it all depends on you.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
My social life is
basically filled with
cats.
A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.
A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.
A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.
A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.
I will answer you truthfully.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
I know. For a while now, I've known. I must be a writer. It's not a wish, a dream, an aspiration. It's a need. A feeling that if I don't find a way of putting my thoughts unto paper, they'll claw their way out, and leave me a carcass of miasma. Leaving me to rot.
I may not write beautifully. Make grave mistakes. I have no idea if there are any rules, hell I might've broken all of them by now.
But I don't care. I don't strive to be great. I won't be any Gaiman, Atwood or Tolkien (Yes those are the first names that popped into my mind). Not taught in public schools, probably never published.
But all that doesn't matter to me. Writing is not a choice. It's a necessity.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
on the side
off the mall
I found in night
the alter of a drunk
a stuff green frog
wet cigar ****
impaled his red throat
and not enough empty liquor
a straightened up cup
four fifths with rain
colored with ****
long left us with his abyss
he'll never get anywhere
with worship like this
but still there is a space
like a secret
maybe, does
Neil Gaiman know about this
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow so perfectly well and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind his flowers for all the world to smell the evil within their roots and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger and his heaven and hell and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse and for Bukowski and Hunter for turning ugly truths into something beautiful we could all enjoy hating and for Shakespeare and Gaiman and the dreams they weave into the fabrics of our soul and for the devil and temptation and for god and shame and for the laughter of children and the tears of the grieving who will never hear their children laugh again and for those that paint something beautiful out of all the pain that they feel and see in the world and the melancholy who sit high up in dead tree branches to hang the moon and the stars in the dark of the night so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams and for each painful breath that reminds me where love once lived in my chest and each joyful sigh that reminds that I'm still alive and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt and the glimpse of brief moments of hope I still might find a seed shaped like a heart beating to plant in my hand and sew over my chest and I can meet death with love still living inside the cold ground where my body will rest
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
eye of newt
dash of doctor
who?
pratchett hatched it
gaiman gamed it
netflix flinched
part python humor
jon hamming it
derek? can it be?
good, evil, in between
a constellation of stars
many tongues deep cheeky
dark discworld
don’t you panic
don’t discard your towel
witches
demons
angels
bell
book
candle
those silly brits with
ineffable end-times fun:
good omens!
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC