"globs" poems
Fat globs
Hit the window
Trickle down the pipe
Watery and cold
Accompanied by wind
And the night
Perishable by the hot midnoon sunshine
Raindrops;
Forgiven for their fat, wet drips
Of cloud tears
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Metaphorical suicide.
My feelings are as deep as the valleys running across my wrist: Non existent.
Countless heart breaks from a single girl proved to be a likely deterrent.
Old habits die easy with you, causing my fists to turn a dark red hue.
Empty bottles and cigarettes litter the floor, a noose hanging above being the only door so that I will finally soar.
Or dare I ask, and partake in this task which will surely leave me stripped of my sanity.
Watch me load a revolver with a single casing engraved "True Love" . Look me in the eyes as I place the barrel of the gun made from the broken memories we shared together unto my chest, and watch as I pull the trigger, causing my metaphorical platter splatter into globs of grey matter.
I lay in my bed sleepless, non existent lateral lines running up and down my wrists, non existent, yet I still feel the throbbing and the slow spill of everything I ever felt ,drip down into my sides, surrounding me in a puddle of...
Real tears caused by the fears of letting go, or is what surrounds me are all the mistakes I've made, mutated from being left alone with no where else to go, so they make their way to the surface waiting for me to profess all that I've wronged? No. All that would have been too merciful.
Instead you took all of my feelings, my love, my heart, and melted it down into the shape of a metal bat, ironically engraved "tough luck" and proceeded to beat me in.
Not to bad, or painful. But to the point where I feel it, then the pain quickly recedes, like i am stuck in the sand of a island you marooned me on, The acid waves wash over me for a split second, causing pain into my heart, then it's gone. Causing me to forever constantly.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
"I have gotten from there to here"
Its a simple tautology, chant it
either/or an uncertain accomplishment.
From there to there to there until there became here.
This too is fairly obvious,
but still, it seems so strange,
how many times must you be reminded
that you are too ill-equipped
to string the sequence.
And what about those weak suspicions
that reappear from time to time,
the ones you are
quick to disregard
out of the fear that you may be a lunatic.
What if they were correct, what
if a moment were nothing more
than a brown package
of stimulus.
They came to you, one after the other
and you what could you do but follow
them, like crumbs in a trail that lead
you further away from home
and into this carnival.
Where people who sing lullabies out loud
carry pistols and globs of color
are merging in all
directions.
Wedged in between "there to here"
and "here to there", the laws of tenses
never made this much of a difference.
Babies know this all too well.
That's why they're the last
ones
we turn to for wisdom.
But should they ever decide
to permanently stop crying.
You'll know what they mean by their silence.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
I don’t have any pressure to go sledding
Because I’m still afraid of falling on the ice
And you loved the snow
I don’t have to risk my life on icy back roads every day
On the pretense of returning your things
Just so I don’t have to wait 24 hours to see you
I don’t have an extra pair of your shoes under my bed
From when you accidentally left them there
You were always leaving your things around
I don’t have a second home to spend the day at
With open fields full of snow banks for fort-building
The house is gone and so are you
I don’t have a reason to build a snow-fort this year
No one cares to sleep in it, it’s too cold
You were that kind of crazy
I don’t have someone to bake cardamom cookies with
We both had sticky dough on our hands
And we washed them in the same sink at the same time
I don’t have a friend at the Christmas parties
Who can back up my wild stories about the week
And argue with me about the rules for card games
I don’t have a cuddle-buddy for watching movies
We never really got the chance to do that
We were always running off to get some alone time
I don’t have to hide when I’m changing out of my wet snowy clothes
Because you’re never going to walk in from the cold
And start changing your clothes too
I don’t have a fire in my hearth
But I’m sure there’s one in yours
I used to enjoy watching you make them with your dad
I don’t have any wet, ***** sandy puddles to clean up
Because you’ll never walk across my kitchen
And forget to take off your boots
I don’t have to walk around barefoot
Even if it means getting my socks wet
Because you’re not there to remind me with your calloused toes
I don’t have twice as many presents under the tree
Not because we ever exchanged gifts, we were too poor
But every present you received and loved made me happy too
I don’t have snow down my neck from the snowballs you threw
I don’t have wet globs of melting ice in my hair because you tackled me
I don’t have anyone to make tea for, because I don’t even like tea
I don’t have your countless little siblings to share my snacks with
I don’t have to make cooking mistakes because I can’t bring you baked oatmeal
I don’t have a built in heater to share the backseat with
I don’t have a hoodie I can pass back and forth between us
I don’t have a companion to go on long walks with
I don’t have a curious mind to share kissing ideas with
I don’t have a hand to hold when I’m about to fall down on the ice
I don’t have you
*This is the time of year that makes me miss you
I start to notice the empty spaces in my life
And there are little things everywhere to remind me of you.*
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
I think sometimes
about the thing lost
inside that bar bathroom stall
And about the blood
that had flowed effortlessly
in brilliant, shiny-red globs.
I said goodbye then—
to the accident I never wanted
or even knew existed.
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 1:00 AM UTC
I gave her a book of poems
for her birthday.
And an eraser.
Not that the graphite words
were exceptionally poignant
but I felt that a gift
with a little something
scribbled on it
would be a bit more personal
than one that’s unblemished.
Even though the letters were destined
to be as fleeting
as those on sand,
even though the waves were the gentle
graceful strokes of her fingers,
even though it was a sanitisation
that could have easily been avoided
had she chosen me
over him,
I wrote them.
Because I knew that like scars
the tiny indentations would stay
and her beautiful fingertips
would feel them
if she ever chose
to run them over the page
while thinking of me.
If she’s ever thinking of me.
So I wrote with a pencil
and didn’t flinch
when my affection was reduced to
little grey globs of synthetic rubber.
“For my dearest , Love Anjuman”
was all that I’d written, anyway.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
How easy it is to paint people
With one color,
With one broad brush.
Over time the various
Colors on your palette
Swirl together to form globs
Of gray.
And now your monochrome
Judgement renders your world
A bleak, barren desert of ashes.
No longer do you see the world and its
People in its colorful splendor.
Some become acclimated to this dulled
Perception that has taken hold.
A perception that dominates the
Senses and gradually turns the brain
Into gray mush.
Undead they become, starving creatures
With the urge to devour.
To hurt.
No empathy. No compassion. No feeling.
Others, thankfully, know better.
Palettes must be cleansed regularly,
Layers of dried, crusted paint scraped off
With patience.
Then fresh paint is restored.
Fresh perspectives, encounters, and knowledge
Passed down by models to the artist.
Yes, we are artists.
We paint the world as we deem fit,
Plastering on others one’s own
Values, morals, and ideals.
But the true masters of this craft go beyond,
Discerning the vast spectrum of colors
That compose a human soul.
But that takes time.
Years of experience and keen observation.
But possible.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
A Storm Trooper Remembers
Lord Vader was always getting bees stuck in his helmet. Eventually he learned to live with them in his way,
it was even rumored he kept a flower garden in the Death Star's attic, perpetuating his own affliction. One time
pollen completely clogged his breathing apparatus and when he pulled off his helmet we saw that he was
wearing lipstick and eye shadow. He claimed it was for a play he had been writing and that he had to stay in
character and then he killed a bunch of us and claimed that was in the play too. Another time we caught him
smacking his head against the wall cursing Yoda, bees flying everywhere, we shot at the bees for hours but
inevitably didn't hit any, why did we even have guns? One time the dark lord was speaking fondly of his
annihilation of Alderaan when huge globs of honey began to bubble from his mouth piece. It was really hard to
take him seriously after that but I mean you had to, bees or no bees he could still choke the life out of you from
across the room.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
Veins, veins,
length and breadth,
intertwined
beats to freedom
or desolation;
a terminus
lost on a circular.
An ebbing destination,
unchartered targets,
Follow the signs.
We are a one way street,
follow the signs
on software maps.
Stumped
by sequential lights
and us, caught
in a dragnet
within steely fish,
gasping for air,
choking on smoke,
bilious coughs,
hacking sputum,
gobbing phlegm globs
in interval gaps
within gridlocks;
nose to **** to
nose to ****
The rage, the stares
the shouts, the finger,
the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s,
the honks, the blares,
the bumper to bumper
expletive shares.
The rolling down,
the alighting,
the threats,
the fighting.
The falling down,
the separation,
reseating,
the rolling,
the thunder,
the trudge,
the stops, the starts.
Follow the signs,
follow the signs.
Robotic conveyors
for humans,
mechanical
fossil fueled
chariots,
grumbling, grunting,
wheee-ing and
screeching,
and screaming
and spewing
and chuffing
and guffing
black plumes,
air tarred,
veins, veins
clogged and bogged,
viscous, molasses,
liquid black blob.
Road fogged,
numbers logged.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
slow crawl.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
follow the signs,
sprawl.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
I stopped as I went
past RDU International.
I killed the engine
next to a sky plastered
to a lake.
With a thousand wilting
banana trees
in the back,
and a needle jumping
in the red,
I came to a stop.
Planes scoured the sky with their screeching,
soured the lake
with their contrails,
the geese watching from the middle of the lake
in flotillas
idling in the heat
because it was too hot to move.
If I didn't get these bananas back to the nursery,
they'd die.
Taking out a gallon jug,
I walked to the shoreline
and reached in between reeds,
and cattails and contrails
and cirrus in globs of clay
to lift the water to the radiator.
As I poured the water
into the radiator,
I knew that humanity
is neither the geese, the truck,
or the airplane,
humanity is the needle.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
He might be going to another school
**** him, **** the school with an actual application,
He's smarter than me, for sure.
But can't we be together forever?
If I'm going to a good university on a scholarship,
Instead of a ****** cheap college, I'm going to need good grades
Where the **** am I going to get those?
My parents can't afford school funds
They spend ten grand on renovations
But now they don't have anything for our educations
Wow, thanks Mom.
I rubbed globs of Vix into the bridge of my nose this morning
It burns a bit, makes my eyes water
But it feels good
Am I suicidal because of that?
I don't think so, I don't ever want to die
I don't like pain, either, which rules out a lot of suicide methods
Unless you think Vix is super painful. I don't.
But I'm fat, stupid and ******
And if I got a %50 on a math test
The girls in my class talk about it behind my back
And laugh, even wondering
"How did she even get into eighth grade?"
My best friend told me about that, which I'm grateful for,
But I forgot to ask if she'd stood up for me.
I bet she didn't, she probably laughed with them
Because she's got a nice, cozy spot in the Populars.
Who wants to risk that?
I want to find my portable CD player
It's been missing for months,
but I'll just borrow my sisters and go for a walk.
I'll need to put on a shirt first.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
Two weeks ago, on a day that I'm making up for this story,
I was in the city.
I don't prefer the city, because you can't see the stars.
They are being snubbed out by streetlights
and to me it makes everything seem uglier, without the stars.
Anyway, I was sitting on a ***** riverbank.
It wasn't actually dirt though, because people in cities
have forgotten
what dirt smells like
and tastes like
and feels like between their toes.
It was the city kind of *****
spent condoms and cartridge rounds
syringe needles and bags of brown
scraps of metal and wrappers of plastic
gooey globs of gum and broken glass bottles.
I won't lie, I had a glass bottle to call my own,
about half full of the Good Stuff
and I was feeling mighty fine about killing it alone.
When I looked skyward and off to the right,
I noticed a city bridge, what with its' running lights
and dangling cables and roaring traffic,
it was standing in stark contrast to the
quiet county bridges of my home.
At this point, and it may have been the *****
but I could've sworn I could see someone
on the bridge
clinging to a tether
swaying in the swift city breeze.
I had only just convinced myself
otherwise, that it would actually turn out to be
a bag of fast-food garbage hastily tossed out
by a careless city-dweller,
that the man let go
and
he
fell.
he flailed his arms and failed
to gain traction
and kicked his legs but
they abandoned him in midair
and
he
fell.
I was close enough, and listened
and I heard him go
splat
against
cold water.
I was jealous of his bravery.
I envied his resolve.
I admired him.
I lusted after his finality.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
We're all blank canvases,
Just waiting to be filled in.
We all want to be splashed with colors;
We all want to become a master piece.
Globs of color streak the page.
Blue paint drips down,
Showing the pouring rain we all have felt.
The brush moves around the canvas,
Almost without reason.
But making what used to be blank,
just a bit less empty.
Each color adds more personality,
providing depth to the once lifeless idea.
Red color surrounds the positive shades of yellow,
revealing multiple moments of fear and anger.
Every emotion becomes enhanced,
once emotions become sprawled across the page.
The paint of people,
words,
ideas,
can change any blank canvas,
into something beautiful.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
Wet and cold
driving dirt roads
rain pouring down
onto the ground
Water standing in the tracks
and running down every crack
begin to slip and to skid
turn into it in a bid
To regain some traction
it works but only for a fraction
of a second, so I turn the ****
the mud begins to spray in globs
Now in 4 wheel drive I proceed
should be enough to do the deed
of getting me on down the road
so the truck still I goad
Forward into the muck
hopefully and with some luck
we make it to the end
then my frayed nerves may mend
But then the bad news sinks in
we have to turn around and do it again
the cow tracks look like tiny lakes
now out of the truck each step I take
My foot sinks an inch or three
so I step to the side under a tree
try to walk on grass and roots
getting taller as mud sticks to my boots
Almost there I see the door
of the mud I want no more
into the deer stand I climb and sit
a reprieve from the mud for a bit
Three hours later constant rain
back out into the cold mud pain
tripping and sliding back to the truck
for the trip back in the mud and muck
The muds not deep it’s just real slick
depending on the route I pick
halfway back, spin sideways
not into cactus or a tree I praise
Slipping and sliding is great fun
but right now I long for the sun
you see the truck I drive is not my own
father in law’s out on loan
So get it stuck or bang it around
I will never live it down.
back to the gate no incident
onto the road no fender dents
This is day one of the hunt you see
so three days left of this for me
100% forecast of more rain
and those **** dirt tracks don’t drain
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
Pulse echoing in the hollow canal of my ear,
A sweet, persuasive sound that initiates the craving,
I want to taste you in the sickest of ways,
Like itchy centipede legs discovering the back of your throat,
A discomfort only a thousand sips could quell,
I’d like to think I could resist,
I know better; I’m only realtime flesh,
Slowly rub your cheek against my chin,
I’ll dip my nose into your neck and use my tongue to caress each striation,
Until I can taste the carotid reaching toward the holy switchboard,
My jaws will not be denied, closing vehemently,
Penetrating the silky dermis, ragged vents meant to pourpourpour
Vital lifeblood and sustenance out into useful globs of passive alertness,
You are a beautiful, tormented creature in which I can bear to look at no longer.
I cannot see you as you are meant to be, I am deluded and biased..
Sent to realize truth, only to find no definitive,
I will relish bringing about your end as much as my own.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
As if with His breath
He blew across the
face of the earth and
sent clouds scurrying
towards the West
As if with His mighty
hand in the upper
Heavens He cleared the
sky as the clouds moved
ever faster towards the East
As the Sun rose the
birds sang praises for
the beauty of this fall
morning growing cloud
less in a pinking sky
The ferns dance gracefully
in the shadows to a
rhythm in the breeze
A set of yellow wings perform
the nectar dance in the warming
sun as the shadows creep across
the grass the fern dance in the
shadows and yearn the warmth
from an ever shrinking fall Sun
New shoots rising from needles
and leaves as they roots move
silently under the decaying life
an orange flutter by did his
nectar dance as a blue dragon
sips nectar from a fading blue and
purple bloom's swaying the breeze
Graceful forms emerge held in pose
as there leaves do a free fall and
the branches move less with each
breeze a bird sings of love and the
beauty of his life, in the changing colors
And the food our Lord provided him
and his mate an enticing ballad of
love and admiration as the sounds
of children laughing in the distance
carries in the breeze and the warmth
of the Sunrises to a sweat
Tis the time when Ginger blooms
and it's white petals dance in the wind
as erotica flows into the minds men
amidst the yearn to snuggle as the
nights grow long and cool and the
pleasures of the night seep into
their hearts and souls
Orange globs with painted faces
dots the door steps with candied
thoughts dwell where fear once slept
as the greens fade in the setting sun
and the circle of life creeps into night
an ****** scents pass in days and
onto necks those fragrant spots
as the fern flickers in the breeze.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 6:47 AM UTC
You can't hold her
When you grip tight
She will
Slip
Like sand
Falling through the tiny cracks
In between each finger
You can try
But every time
Your hand will end up
Empty
White knuckles
Snatching up
The air
Nothing else
For she
Alone
Holds herself together
Pieces of string
Globs of glue
Strips of duct tape
Hastily slapped on
Her two hands
Alone
Pull and
Cover and
Push away
There is no room
For
You
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
I negotiate the lie of beauty
Navigating its deceit, its untamed geography
Feel the curves of careless form
Caress un-travelled paths
Match its pretence and smile
Then breathe the darkness of its light
His touch perfect places itself
At the centre of all my dreams
Piercing syrup coloured skin
With little globs of sap
Glistening on a hairless map
Leaving exploration yet to be discovered
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
green and glowing
the globins
in our glands
grimy and gross
the ghosts
in a glowstick
gold globs
of glitter
littering
the grass
great and grand
and
gone
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Shriveled up,
the body was
as it lay in shambles
behind the bus
No longer a person
no certain gender
globs of brain and hair
stuck to the fender
Screams were heard
across the street
as the driver stumbled out
and collapsed to his knees
Tears trailed down
his stubbly cheeks
as he crawled his way
down the street
He stared in disbelief
at the heap
of skin, blood, bones and ****
at his feet
He started to *****
and started to pray
he ran his son over
on father's day.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
This coat is still fresh.
It hasn't dried completely yet
and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers
yet to be believed
or understood.
I would have liked to see you when you were first made
standing cold
and untainted,
but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long.
You've been painted over so many times
so many coats.
Some of them are delicate
an airbrush of experience
barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm.
Others are thick,
heavy,
dark and muddled,
confused,
they stain down deep
thrown on all at once
a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded.
I can tell about those
the ones that didn't dry smooth
and formed misshapen globs of character,
and regret,
that bump and scrape, against the outside world
against its professional counter parts.
That's what makes you whole
that's what I admire.
When I look close
and run my fingers over your painting of personality
the bits that are constantly bending
and moving
the way they peel
and crack
and let me see
all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret.
I don't want to wash this abused collage away.
I want to spread and muddle it all together,
and use your hues
your pallet of pity and perfection
to help paint over those secret parts of me
that I don't want to be found either.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC