"garbled" poems
i am up too late w/o reason
a date in mind, i'll find the season...
to jump and sit back, relax.
as the waves of the day relapse,
the winds behind the drive,
to see a smile in innocence,
to repeat later in a over done line
of repetition, recognition, rephrase,
words recycled, garbled, rambled,
all in miscommunication
crying to help, choking down a shot of hope
but this is a end of a rope
severely torn and frayed
at the beginning or at the end
i cannot remember if a day or night
there is always more than enough light.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Strep throat. Out of nowhere really. I went to a meeting on Friday, interviewed at PaperSource on Saturday afternoon, and then just slightly later an awful toothache. I never suspected anything so out of the ordinary to occur. Saturday night, two to four a.m.ish, i thought it was caffeine pills, or not drinking enough water, or even, worst of the worst, an attack of hypochondria. I kept lighting up Marlboros though, tasty red branded things that make writer's mouths happy. Two days in and I'm pretty sure my ***** are a fever below my body, droopy like snoopy. Super soft droopy ***** that's a sure sign of a fever or a great BJ they taught us in 6th grade science, and I wasn't getting my favorite ice cream social.
I hadn't talked to the gf in a couple days, and missing her company I made the phone call only discover that my voice had turned into a baby turtle shouting English from the bottom of a stuffed baked potato. Garbled. Discussing. Useless. I promptly hung up, and began texting. But it was too late she heard me and called back, and I had to give it all I had to put together a few words.
An hour later I was dropped off at the ER, the benefits of Medicaid at 30 is never being able to just go to the doctor's office. Within 2 hours they told me it was strep. Four nurses, two residents, one first day resident, and a 2nd year resident, and the ER doctor for a swab and a spray, and the take home Z-pack.
Then she said she'd come over even though I was sick. That's real love. "If I get sick from you, it's still worth it." 3 days on antibiotics, no more sore throat, I feel great- I think tomorrow I'll be having an ice cream social for someone who I love dearly. Maybe we'll even skip the ice cream.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
Among the swaying elm trees,
are whispers from on high;
The words are slightly garbled,
but their sweetness flows in sighs.
Each lilac touches wayward hearts,
with deepest blue and velvet glow;
The daffodils sprout yellow wings,
reaching out to join the show.
And hummingbirds sip honeyed wine,
from the feeder hanging nearby;
We watch as the finches gather,
shining golden in the clearest sky.
The lawn seems warm and supple,
as breezes blow in forest green;
Inviting us all to lie and view,
this heavenly springtime scene.
But then the sun retreats behind,
a massive wealth of clouds;
Refreshing rain falls in our midst,
cool and soft as seaside's sounds.
Enchantment is with us every day,
its essence stirs yet calms our souls;
As Gods displays His natural wonders,
life-long gifts that will never grow old.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
The slow creeping numbness crawls up my legs.
This is the little death.
The fading tells me I’ve lost something.
I am lost.
I drift down in the darkness every time.
I am lost.
My whispers go unheard.
I am lost.
I know my lips are moving because I can hear the words
Garbled and lost in the darkness.
I am lost.
The echoes of the words lose themselves in my fading mind.
There is nothing left.
Darkness reigns again and the numbness finished its journey.
I am lost.
cc2010
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
#Why I walk the street in a cobbler’s shoe?
What’s new, you may ask, that we all do!
But nay, this one, I had to borrow from him
Still one furlong my shoes ran out of steam!
The cobbler was visibly aghast
Doubtful looks on me he cast
Then he said in a garbled groan
I sell shoes not give on loan!
I cursed myself and the shoes I wore
Brought months back from a big shoe store
Price was high for the branded trust
A mere few months and the pair went bust!
So here I’m at the cobbler’s door
Walk I must a furlong more
Begging for an old worn shoe
My humble feet with that can do!
The guy though felt ill at ease
Seeing the misery bowed to my wish
Brought out for me a dirt stained one
Going barefoot could not be fun!
I tell you friends a story that’s true
The cobbler loaned me a pair of shoe
I could only give him good wish
Before I hurried on my way to office!
*If you ever beg love of her
This small story you must remember
She hasn’t a way but make you her own
Can either sale love or give it on loan!*#
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
The Lady is a month to me, A title and half her name;
Her mask sustains the mystery, the beauty beneath the chains.
The pompous men explain, about Christ in all his passion,
But they know not the pain, of a life spent folding napkins;
To serve and serve in silence, with no whisper of complaint,
The quiet of a painting and the patience of a saint.
Hold her petals gently, lad, but the stem you must grasp firm,
My Rose, a perfect pupil, never shy to grow and learn.
I'm sorry if I crossed you, it was only with respect,
As every rogue treats treasure, we must mark it with an X.
I could only give you words, and sadly I have known,
In truth what you deserved, was a kingdom of your own.
The maid will get her palace, and her carpets crimson red,
Fine wine in her chalice and gold ropes around her bed.
But first, we'll to the ballroom, along paths with gems inlayed,
The bedding will come later; there's other games yet to be played.
We'll dance there, Miss December, On the garnet tiled floor,
And every stance of mine will render, Love incarnate; underscored.
I know I wasn't perfect. No, your Highness, not the best,
And though I haven't earned it, for your kindness I was blessed.
So now lend your Bard his drummer and he'll sing for you a tune,
Compare your eyes to summer, if your name was Lady June.
Yet, I think the winter fitting, and I do not mean the cold.
For I'm on concrete city benches sitting, dreaming of your soul.
I sit beside a western shore and look at western seas,
The water has no more joy for me, the Lady's in the East.
The poem turns to rambling, but I'm half-drunk and it's late.
I only hope she's understanding, what my garbled words would state.
You know your Master's only letters, not a thing to see or feel;
And though I can't do better, at least for me, the words were real.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:05 AM UTC
I watched a miracle appear
Almost
Ten years ago
and Deja Vu
now its all You.
From a friend,
for a Friend,
and Not a foe...
Behold,
a story of victory unfolds!
uncanny though you may think
that the stink of hell and BS
be over powered and now somewhat plastered
on a wall for the evil eye to dance the
opposite YAW
im sorry did i pull a moment of Leaves?
a published nightmare, once re-visited
with re-occurring themes yet all linked
on a funny little string of life.
now onto these unstable legs,
garbled communication,
just learning
to rely on himself,
transportation
wanting out the cage
and asleep without worry for his age.
but hes adorable
and his actions chuck full of thought
but this all has the same meaning
of moving forward
feeling
a breeze of excitement
an air of delight
when suddenly summer
becomes winter
these logs i ... chuck ...
to a fire to warm the inquires with--
**** these splinters.
to look around the circle of those
i now start in thought
to hold in a varied definition of "close"
i'll keep by the shadow and watch
and if its a connect four
bingo, plinko, and even/or tic-tac-toe
its that feeling of victory
we all love to know.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Gripping dripping smearing love.
Over your eyes!!!
Over your ovaries, where babies, your clutch.
There's no time to nest,
Resist!
Resist
,
be the diode, resistor to heart plunge.
Plug up the sewer.
(more like a catacomb)
My heart's in the ****** cake.
The smell, Cytotoxic invades chemical response conformation.
We; bitten, by fangs of silicon,
the world takes us away from ivy
grown homes,
torn then seamed up jack o' lanterns always smiling orange.
Have you ever grown up from being 11?
It's the saddest thing you've seen.
You see a fledgling,
altricial,
awkward,
gawk/cock,
turn from a boy
to a lady.
Plump. Or . Musculate.
Slowly they regenerate their lady parts.
Regardless of gender.
Have you seen them bleed?
Some bleed white tears that burn the urethra.
Some, never grow up.
Transmogrified they call it.
Never to be beautiful again.
Angst entangles, ensues, makes doubt
pubescence is for flowers and hairs.
Namesake.
5th Grade.
Curious formation, curious nature
It's as if we are stalagmites of the future,
We decorate walls or cave ceilings to perform our correct action.
Too bad our self image is always garbled, confused by our refraction.
NEVER GRADUATE COLLEGE.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
There was a young boy sitting on a porch swing
Thinking about the nest of wasps nestled under the gutter
He had been attacked by the nest after venturing too close
And his legs and his arms were swollen like a mosquito pregnant with blood
He was thinking of war and he was thinking of his father
Who had gone to war and left without a trace of him
His grandmother was calling out his name but he did not hear
As he was lost in thought
His grandmother had lost her legs to diabetes
And now was rotting in this house, in her final years
She would call out to him for help and he often wouldn’t hear
And she would berate him with promises of nothing for him
She would sit and listen to an old clock radio
That only picked up religious broadcasts
And she would listen to the gospel being barked distorted
Through the tiny speakers that garbled the words
He began to watch the wasps from a safe distance
To pass the time or for distraction
After her disease took his grandmother
He did not eat for three days
Not that he was traumatized
But he didn’t know how to cook
And nobody had noticed
That she had died
While watching the wasps towards the end of the summer
In a dry day
He began to wander and wonder about her
And he turned on her radio
All he heard was static
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
'The time has come,' the Preacher said,
'to speak of many things
Of talking snakes and ****** births
and golden angel wings
And why Perdition’s fire is hot
and whether Christ is King...'
'Hold on a sec' the poet said,
'Before we sort this mess
I think I need an hour or so
to chill and convalesce'
'Take your time' the preacher said,
'Tomorrow will be fine'
The poet thanked him kindly
and then poured a glass of wine
And then he poured another
and another and six more
But soon the flask was empty
and he stretched out on the floor
He looked up at the preacher
and in garbled words he said:
'I think I'd rather talk
about reality instead'
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
My vision was blurred
And your voice was only a distant echo.
I tried to reply, but my words were slurred
So all you heard was a garbled mess.
You said that I was "too difficult"
As my throat clenched, holding back *****
You turned, claiming it wasn't my fault,
But as I stumbled after you, I knew it was.
My mind was slow, fuzzy, as I tried to recall
All the times you carried me home.
All the times I was too far gone to walk steadily.
And I realized suddenly that I'd been a burden.
That you resented me for those times I needed you.
But I also remembered how hurtful you were,
How you tormented me, controlled me.
I cried myself to sleep all alone that night.
I woke up with a headache, still sick about losing you.
But I gathered myself and thought for a long while.
I may have been a burden, but you were an instigator.
You never gave me the love I deserved for loving you.
I can let you go now, for
I believe the end of us was your fault, your mistake;
I was only under the influence of heartbreak.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
Mental disability what an epigram, it bounds on burried complexity
Titter inside hysterical effectuation
Feeling electrical currents misfiring in my cerebellum
Screaming unremebered prayers in my night terrors at the devils fornication
Remaining in my presence, anticipating my sleep
***** to reverse the dementia
Waking day dreams, lost in unreality
Descry vociferation calling my name
Wanting to claw my etes out against nebulous shadows creeping behind
Wanting a medium to banih apparitions from my space
Paranoid of all establishment
While securing eye contact with others, they could decipher all my thoughts
With binoculars neighbors surveil
Me camouflaged with drawn shades and pale skin
To go outside summoned all my demons
Wanting to battle, rage war to fulfill some morbid desire
Annihilating hordes in my dreams by any means
***** to reverse the madness
OCD for a little control
A million times repeated thoughts flashing in my eyes
Confusion! What day is it? Am I doing something wrong?
Not glancing in mirrors hiding from myself Garbled guttural utterances in my left ear
Hot breath on my neck
Bawling at flexibility and spontaneity
Not in my scheme for the coming confusing hours
Wanting to pull my skull off exposing the insanity
Just wanted it to STOP!!
***** to reverse the derangement
Limbs not answering brain waves crisscrossed as they dwell
On a daily basis surviving hell
On a nightly basis in true hell
Needing to shriek and explode
Afraid to sleep, walking in exhausted dreams
Broken pains in my bones
No peace day or night
My medication saved my life
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
We decided to take a walk.
If the moon and stars still existed,
they were hidden behind clouds.
Then a fog hit us like a wave, a cloud
that had run out of gas and crashed on us,
to further shrink the perceptible world.
Ordinary, walking people became vague
phantoms that could loom, in film noir
black and white out of the fog,
suddenly sharpen and colorize,
only to disappear again in moments.
Sounds, out of sync, or garbled, came sharply
from odd angles, turning that fifth sense unreliable.
Noises, at first muted, were abruptly amplified as
if the hand of that ghostly vapor ran a soundboard.
A man, moving in stalker-like silence, clops,
like a clydesdale on cobblestone as he passes close.
I half expected a distant fog horn to announce
the passing of a ghost ship where all be welcome.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 5:23 AM UTC
I watch in retort
as you blunder
over causeways
of stammering lies,
hurtling weathered blows
from your
mournfully
tarnished
mouth.
The sound alone
asphyxiates me
and I would rather it hurry
than disable my
regal silence
with the screeching noise
of your
thunderously
garbled
deception.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
Transit garbled messages
From beings unprepared
Train-wreck waves of sound
Divine noise and ***** static
The foul breath of humanity
Tattered pieces of mentality
**** flavored carbonation
Steeped through alienation
Morbid tears of laughter
Plastered on demonic brick
Thrown through windows to the soul
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 7:46 AM UTC
I sat down today and began to type,
But nothing I said seemed to come out right.
The meter was all wrong,
The rhyme scheme was a mess,
The words were too simple,
The stanzas too plain,
So I decided to erase it
And start all over again.
A few backspaces later,
I started anew,
And with each keystroke,
My frustration grew.
My thoughts were garbled
And looked clumsy in print;
My words were childish
And seemed cliche.
So I tried one last time
To write something that made sense,
But instead of eloquent rhymes and articulate thoughts
I got ill-expressed musings and awkward phrasings.
Instead of a work of beauty and awe,
I had created a trite piece of junk.
And yet, I found attraction in its ungainly expression
And was fascinated by its candor.
Nothing was hidden in dreamy language,
Or couched in metaphors and vague allusions.
I was filled with a strange satisfaction
At having created such an unorthodox piece,
That evoked in me the simultaneous feelings
Of looking on a lovely, unappealing work.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC
Someone once told me that I was "for keeps". I've never been a fan of any type of label, but I've wondered how he had shelved me in two words.
I've sought out its meaning. Maybe it was the same as how he was always proud of his vintage toy collection. I was there for his quartlery dose of nostalgia. The novelty of us was something that made him grin.
It could be how another liked to treasure letters from lovers past. Only to flood himself in regret. The names and faces garbled in the salt water.
I learned it was not the same as how my neighbour cut the thorns of the rosebushes, and left the buds for him to adore. He always kept the scissors by his bedside.
The only things I have managed to keep are my pinky promises, my drafts from two years ago, and my used bandaids. It's embarassing to recount how unmade, unfinished, and uncertain I've been.
But if I were to love you, I will not tell you you are worth keeping. Holding you would be selfish to the universe. I cannot possess your thoughts and your soul, your charm will pour itself from my grandmother's china. Pictures will not be taken. Maybe just one, to show my friends the uncanny resemblance you share with my favorite poet. I will unknowingly breathe you in, only to heave heavy sighs into your mouth.
We will thrive among white lies and speak about tomorrows with fistfuls of hourglass sand in our pockets. We will borrow light and pay in forms of miles we need to walk.
I have never wanted to be called a keeper, nor have I ever wanted to keep. The world can only afford to lend beautiful pieces of itself.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
Click them off like
rosary beads
with accossiated prayers.
Smudge the dreams
into the eiderdown,
And divide them down
in ironed out
layers.
Line them up and
gobble them with listless
tea.
I am your prediction!
(said in shushes,
quite benediction)
I want to drop like stingless bees.
I am Addiction to Tranquility.
How jealous I am!
Watching him fall on his ****
as I begin the solitary farce
of trying to close my
eyes.
I watch his chest slowly sink and rise.
How beautiful -
to be cut down,
like grass.
Flophouse drapes of
cigarette smoke
hang from the ceiling in
billows.
A headache clings and
holds me close as
daylight stumbles
like a ghost,
and settles her questions
on my pillows.
The tragic thing about each morning
Is that I greet each sleepy dawn
with the dry and
pinkened threat of tears.
Sleepers – do you know the
might of what you do
each ******* night?
The oblivion in half your years?
The fiction of your wild frontiers?
The obliteration and presentation
of all your garbled
Freudian fears?
Do you know the glamour in what you do?
Do you know what I’d give to be like you?
To live and somehow not be here?
To close my eyes?
To disappear?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
I.
The door stands outlined in white:
in this dark night, a presence
weighs in from the corridor.
The fan holds a garbled reflection
of stray light on its illusory blade-disk.
I'm talking about parthenogenesis.
How can renewal be born, when
creativity loses her companion,
freedom?
This monotone life lugs on.
II.
The tree shrugs the question off
by her parting arms half-illumined
by the streetlamp.
The late bird of five calls flew away
to a far-off tree, couldn't be
bothered more.
I hear a voice
soft in the setting chill of the distant autumn:
choked eyes beaming in love.
I seek palingenesis.
Check all emails and ensure zero
unread. But
answer none, follow up
nothing.
Umpteenth time through the day.
III.
Autotomy all over again.
Habits
die like tails, to be grown
all over again.
This is an etiological myth.
An apocryphal story that
renews itself on the palimpsest of life.
I must cut my nails.
This tea has brewed too dark.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
and it was as if
the entire universe
shrank to the size
of a microscopic dot
and found its niche
perched atop
my chest
there it lingers
spinning
at once
an unstoppable force
and an immovable object
a paradox of
time and space
void
a black hole the
size of a quark
swallowing everyone and
everything with an
appetite unlike anything
anyone in the galaxy
had ever seen
so complete was its
crushing gravity that
nothing escaped its grasp
neither fire
nor ash
not life
not death
its emptiness was total
it gobbled up the light
and garbled what mangled
remnants of hope remained
contracting on the event
horizon's scope before
digesting the detritus
in a series of
torturous depravities that
would make even
Marquis de Sade
tremble with a mix
of shock and awe
in his padded cell as
he begged a nonexistent
god for forgiveness
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
Skeletal fingers naked of leaves
stretching empty promises
into white skies
I take breaths
between the lines of your garbled
I love yous
whispered into the hollow of
my neck and
all I feel
are broken twigs
against an innocent back
Blurred city lights
palms pressing against fogged
window panes
wishing you were here
the hills and
hollows and
hidden valleys
of my body
calling out into an empty
lonely
night
Water scalding scarlet
running burned fingers over
******* and
belly and
thighs
coaxing old singing love from
white railroad tracks etched through
crystal critical
veins
skid marks from the
love you
left me
with
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
Why won't these words release me?
They abstract me in my mind.
I will find internal peace
if an exit I can find.
I'm sad.
I should know why.
But, to put to words, I'm not sure that I...
Well, you see,
the way I handle problems,
the way I come to grips,
I put my thoughts to paper
as if I pull them from my lips.
I read them, finding meaning;
finding rhythm to my rhyme.
But, this sadness that I feel,
it just won't fit in metered time.
When I try to let it flow
I get a log jam in my mind.
All I get is garbled senses
with truth impossible to find.
Yes, all I do is scrawl confusion.
Yet, maybe that will say it best.
For,
how can I divulge the answers
when I never passed the test.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
I..am a collector of words;
Words that weave together
To form the clauses
that blossom into stories; people’s stories.
Words that keep secrets, spin lies,
Howl profound confessions from the rooftops of minds
Rushing out and over the ledges of lips to fall
On ears that do not listen—floating
Story after story, finally reaching the ground—forgotten.
On the sidewalk lay the slain and mangled things;
Victims of gravity—of silence that refused to break—
Of ears that refused to listen.
i… am the undertaker of the alphabet city.
I pick up the fallen, garbled, and lifeless;
Carting them away to the depths of my mind
Cataloguing, keeping, revering the reverberating vibrations.
my ears hear what is yearning to be heard
they acknowledge the wants of language.
I practice the Resuscitation of monologues
and the Defibrillation of forgotten phrases
an EMT of etymology,
I coagulate the bloodied and heartfelt confessions of lovers
suturing the spaces between breathless sentences.
prophetic Disambiguations clutch at gray matter and claw through flesh
tearing the tethered syllables from which meanings are formed.
I twist plot like a lemon twists martinis
Weaving tales that intertwine like the digits in math
or my hands when you held them in your own.
clasped shut.
tongue-tied is just another term for french kiss
and it is hard for you to find the right words to say
because I, a collector, have caught every last one from your lips.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Sail
Over your thoughts of me
Follow the trail
Swim until you’re free
Carved Marble
Shaped by the water’s stress
You choked, garbled
When I took off my dress
With salty fingertips
You stood at the shore
Your eyes traced my hips
Cool water licked your feet, you swore
I laughed & laughed
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
A hypothermic
jungle, limbs removed.
Garbled mating
songs and silences.
Arial view:
Technicolor.
Black and gray.
Black.
Silences.
Silence.
Was that a flower?
No, a candy wrapper.
No, a rotting fingernail.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC