"gauntly" poems
A wild child, a free spirit
Her laughter is contagious
Once you hear it
The happiest girl you'll ever meet
But watch out, she only wears socks, so don't step on her feet!!!
She lives life on the edge
To live it up is her pledge
She's so vivacious
& some may think she lives much too dangerous
People's opinions don't affect her days
She continues to live her carefree ways
Although she seems to be vanishing from our sight
Something just isn't right
Her frame is gauntly & frail
Less then 100lbs now on her scale
Don't you dare ask her if she's sick
Or mention her arms being thin like a stick
She'll deny anything & say she's fine
Even though in the bathroom, a few minutes ago, she did a line
She still seems the same
Rumor is, drugs are to blame
But what is strange
Nothing is different except her weight change
So the truth really is unclear
But they'll always think the worst fear
No matter what is fake or true
People will always have an opinion about you
So continue doing whatever it is you like
All those haters can go take a hike
Looks can be deceiving
& the wrong message people can be receiving
Just keep your head held high so you wont fall flat
Because it is what it is & that is that!!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?
that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend
thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall
morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"
cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more
begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle
worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain
because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open
yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender
brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?
just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!
you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey
the nagging realization
that when asking
no one answers
when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest
who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered
by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his middle finger
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
My gauntly frame, standing so feeble in the reflection of the mirror infront of me.
My destituted soul.
So terrified,
So anxious,
Of what lies ahead.
This conservative idea of ancient jubilation,
Eating so ferociously at my soul.
This solemn feeling in the Base of my throat,
Tempting me in the silence.
So unyielding.
My gauntly frame so ravenous for attention.
So parched from love.
So eager to find an adored one.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
As I lay my head down to sleep
I ask you Lord, please keep
Me from the Devil’s grasp
Free my soul from its fleshy clasp
So it can set flight
As I retire for the night
So I can sleep soundly in my bed
Without a dream in my head
Because to tell you the truth Lord
My actions were of the most untoward
I don’t want these thoughts to haunt me
And wake in the night looking rather gauntly
Please Lord, forgive me for my sins
Let me start anew as the new day begins
I am truly in dismay
For the unholy crimes committed today
I ask for your sympathy
And I plea for your empathy
I apologize for tomorrows sins that I may commit
I’m no where near a saint yes I admit
But I tried hard today
To live as close as I could to heavenly way
And tomorrow will be better
I’ll try harder to loosen the Devil’s fetter
Just let your mercy rain down like thunder
To help me sleep but avoid eternal slumber
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
A:
I have been waiting 10 years
for father to stop hiding
underneath the wooden table
that rests hunched and gauntly
in the living room.
B:
It took father three days after I was born
for him to finally hold me; now he tells me
that his hands were splintering too much,
but I’ve seen enough of his palms, covered
in plant & ash & soil, to know better.
.
C:
July of 2000 we sat tucked away
like old wolves’ fur
into a blue station wagon. I refused
to talk to anybody but my father.
I sat the way he did, shoulders crooked
like the gardens of elderly women. I talked
the way he did, too, drawn out and low,
like swirling concrete.
D:
Now I stay alone in his apartment
and sit out on the fire escape
and annoy the neighbors with my smoke
and watch the cars go by and wail
the way the city does at night.
I think less about my father
and more about being alone; I think less
about being alone and more about
how I can take away this skin, this body.
My body looks just like my father’s
and I hate him for it.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Or to clarify: I'm a carved out Honeydew melon, empty since my mother's passing.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXXXVII)
Pink tinges gloaming as we walk in pale
Last minutes to the car, as if fr'intents
Dusk feign would swallow aught we'd known from thence,
And lo, how naked trees lined up to scale
Wait gauntly in the fading light, boughs frail
Sans vestige of that leafy cover's dense
Mass, orange piles at the curb and sidewalk hence
While red wars green for rights to erm, detail.
Subdued, I've lost the heart to play as twere,
My niece sad I'll not voice the captain who
I thence respond to in our sailing tour
Of distant realms; and yellow flutters through
This grey eye of last minutes, half astir,
Game Over haunting all we had or knew.
09Oct18
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
She is more than just when she is here or when she is away
she is night in a world where it could never be day;
The force of the world, the force of the blowback when the earth would sway
Warning the burn to stay away,
Small fires on fire
burning lives on a pyre
the raven above, the condemned below
She shouldn't have whispered
she ought to know-
the ink on the page is blurry, though
a journey in its depths
A world knee-deep in thick India ink
now sunk up to its breast
And before the drowning came the will to swim
and before the fall, the flight
An eternity trapped in flesh captured in the rim
torture and prison between love and plight
And, oh, what a treacherous night,
for when the wind blows,
it blows without reach,
nor wane nor warn
to the furthest beach
Where the moons kiss the stars
closed care on opened scars
The wheels are turning in no direction
unaware that they are part of cars
So to the human; the universe
a play millions of times rehearsed
and while they speak of beings more well-versed
we bury our young in cloths and parties, cold, terse-
Terse is the judge when its judgement is
by the sun or the sky or the problem kids
What not to see is all what more to say
no use to wipe the ink away
and so the book is thrown
Jostled down the stairs and out and into the hands of people with and without care
The way the wind so shakes the shack
a brick on the bay, a structure of that
which begins and ends
with laughter and then with death to old friends
The story that lived, the story that died; the one which failed to record who had survived
The end was there on a ghastly ship
the crew amongst which floated gauntly
and though they were brave,
their souls were concave,
And the depths below them read as their new heights
New heights for souls injured in injurious fights
the plight of such was love and light,
and she was not the day, for she was the night
-n.a.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
The quiet whispers taunt me.
In the night beneath the umbral waves
The humble haze still haunts me.
Through daunting ways these gauntly wraiths
Yet flaunt the ways they wont me
To nightly pangs of hunger,
Reins, and tormenting unending.
Belike the blaze of spectral flames
Will burn my soul as kindling
Til naught remains but rotted frames;
To this my will is dwindling.
The ghastly echoes call me.
From my slumber come the rumbling of
A hunger that befalls me.
Amidst the stomach grumbling come the
Numbing screams, appalling
Dreams, they seem to plead with me,
Indeed, beseech me, drawling
In tongues unknown to me. Their bleat
Is strangely so familiar.
But one would tone above the rest
That said: "Behold! A killer!"
Aloud phantasms sing
Their eerie verses full of curses.
Terse, yet maddening.
Severe at first, yes, but the worst,
Perverse, the last conceived
Verse that's heard as they rehearse
Coerce a lasting bleed
From eyes and ears and nose. Behold
Those bursts of plasm brings
The fiends that thirst as they traverse
Headfirst through fathomed greed.
My bonds begin to break.
As all these raunchy melodies
Beset me, here I shake.
Conniptions, fits, and predilection
Of sadistic traits.
No longer can they be restrained,
The bloodlust must be slaked.
Among the graves of wanton slaves
Where staunch stench radiates
I wake to see nightmarish scenes
So garishly ornate.
Hailed by an astral choir.
Their incantations of damnation
Hasten my desire
To sever, **** obliterate,
And purge through blood and fire
The filth, the waste, that permeates
This place that earns my ire.
A desecrated wretch, her fated
Death be made entire.
Raze her face with razor blades,
Exsaguinate the liar.
The blood moon's macabre glow
Bids me to forbidden deeds
And beckons me below.
A severed head and crimson red
Flora form a show
With shredded flesh. Lecherousness
This foetid mess invokes.
I taste the blood...Oh, what a rush!
By lust I feel possessed!
The litanies have conjured me
To binge on blood and death.
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
Driving there the trees start to look like my old baby teeth
and my skin starts to feel like the bruises of a mother I have not
spoken to in three years. There people sit in their striped foldout
beach chairs in the parking lots of gas stations and watch the cars
go by and the women wear dresses covered in flowers that swell
like skeletons down to their ankles and the dogs when they bark
sound like stretched out skies.
Summers until I was 17 spent there in the lake,
the lake where for the first time I held my breath for ten whole seconds
and where Tommy from across the street drowned himself and where
for two weeks I couldn’t swim without crying from the panic
that bloated and ballooned out in the cryptic wells of my chest. Until I
was 17 there within the walls of the house painted white as a
canker sore and in my bedroom lying on the wooden floors
my belly the first time you came was too bare and too large
and after that I did not speak to you for a week and when
I finally opened my mouth I couldn’t stop crying, my face
swollen as fish roe, and I never loved you more, and then
I never loved you more than I did on my porch for the last time,
you standing there looking gauntly and saintly as a bruise and me
with hunched shoulders, I couldn’t stop shaking, I never stopped
shaking, here I am in this car and it is air-conditioned and I am
still shaking.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
there is nothing. And the wide night seems to toil outward into dark space of cut with just a strand of light it peers gauntly through rain up climbing with difficult precise silence seems to wander into the nooks and crooks its deep blanket of void stirs from which not a whisker or a claw of the fast cat sleep into nighting with deep purring of smooth body.
(how many more totally unimportant ultimately priceless nights will pass like from me out of lips and fingers into nothing without random seeming jounce of colorless minutes?
i can't know wouldn't want to even if tomorrow was the last sublime gasping of complete mundanity.
washing a dish is like that.
flush with hot hands in water drinks around fingers and lather coils in blossoms of vibrant tininess.
i cannot say i love Anyone or Anything perhaps i can love the rust of an old dying city the gable of a church girl and the collapsed rushing of immanent life.
or maybe i'll press into days and nights my body to be of some excellent stuff most economic.
nots now the time to think of such a thing two hours to wake from going work in a boring old amazing flash of perhaps the last moment you will live.
a poem doesn't mean a **** thing and
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC