"glues" poems
Obsession is a gun.
It points right to your head, willing to shoot.
It either glues your heart together or shatters it through.
You feel ecstatic, yet you feel blue.
It's an addiction, you were brought to.
Nobody gets it, you feel alone.
Your mind is scratched with a name that repeats itself endlessly,
It hurts to your core, it's also your ecstasy
No you can't grasp it, they're fake, they're souvenirs.
And by souvenirs, I mean they're *******
You like it for a while, then put it on a shelf and in the end, dispose it.
It drains your time, you think it's real,
then in a month, you're done, it's sealed.
It starts confusion, you swear it's love,
you think it's happiness,
well, you are wrong.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Saltwater Poet.
Waves washing over me cleanse my soul.
Salt-soaked sand glues itself
to my skin,
it clears the cobwebs in my cluttered mind.
Anchoring back near the coast
is my ultimate goal.
Reaching others through my words
with the help of my
Nautical Muse.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
I live beyond morality, cloudy
Skies issue complaints, however
I hardly have the time.
I often catch myself
Staring at creatures.
Wondering where they
Wander, and why.
I want to fight dragons today.
I want to find a voice
That suits me. Grey skies
And frozen cranes, bother me.
The stone wet, and
Broken. Lifeless creatures
Can be neither evil nor
Wealthy.
Broken Binaries. Broken
Machines. What glues
Our heads to our
Bodies?
Is there a separation?
Voices
Walk down the hall and
Interrupt my view
Through the window.
Focusing again I see
Opaque. Unable to
Look past the glass.
Only up to it.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
I’m going through a phase where I put glitter on everything
I went to a craft store and I bought like five different colors
And some brushes and glues so I could just paint ******* everything with glitter.
I don’t want to just paint some pencils and notebooks or some shoes and headbands,
I want to paint my **** walls with glitter
I want to paint YOUR **** walls with glitter
I want to sew glitter into your clothes
I want to sew glitter into your skin
Get a bunch of sewing needles dripping with shiny blood
Get red and sunshine under my fingernails
I want to have *** with a boy
(in his car or wherever, I don’t care)
and when we’re done, I’ll throw the ****** away and then toss some glitter in the air and cover his torso with sparkles
Because then no matter how fast he moves on
He’ll have to deal with me for just a little bit longer
And he’ll have to give me just one more thought,
at least when he’s washing the glitter down the drain of his shower.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
Men who look like ferris wheels
every color representing different aspects of their personality
The first three words don't have to be beautiful
they just have to make sense
like connecting dots on paper
men who love with their fists
and hate with their mouths
who once were boys taking things apart
like remote controls their own fathers used to beat Obedience into their small bodies. Left them with a fury tattooed across their hearts
Just to give them the challenge of putting themselves back together
They buy their wive's flowers after
a four day bruise isn't so glaringly purple anymore
not so accusing-
kiss her broken ribs
and tell their children midnight stories
children trained as mood detectors
human robots
*know when to shutup
speak when you are spoken to
Men who speak like cutting boards
Every slice of the knives in their toungues leave
hollow aching missing parts
just to teach their children that not all
things can be put together once taken apart
whose daughter glues together the parts of old telephones
to spite the missing pieces
so every welt he beats into her bones
she sings herself unbroken
until she stands robust and imperfect
there are holes in her armour
but she holds it together
with her fathers fists.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.
burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^
she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.
she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.
a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a e i o u.
you can hear what I heard too.
after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.
I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.
but not so well.
I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.
here is how it comes all together.
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.
oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.
these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:
this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.
I could live without
a e i o u and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.
but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.
So you see this poem is about
a e i o u and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.
In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.
you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
I hate the way it curves up
Each muscle in your face aching to be released
I hate your smile
Only because I know its fake
You don't even realize it anymore
You've become so accustomed to it
Nobody can tell the mask from your real complexion
Not even your reflection
I hate your smile
When you hide the frown
I'd rather you let me try and make it real
I hate the way that bright red lipstick
Glues it into place
The way the mascara seems to stain the edges
From every midnight love attempt from your pillow
Ending only in failure when the sun reaches your window
You can't hide from me
I can see through it all
I hate your smile
Mainly because it resembles mine all to much
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
Clear, simple blue skies.
Unnerving negative space.
A girl decorates.
She stitches and glues.
Flying machines of all kinds.
A girl must create.
Colors shade sunlight.
Wind gifts them the breath to dance.
A girl must hold on.
She pulls a heart string,
Knots this to her creations,
A girl unravels.
To the skies, she goes
Free in flight, she whips and spins.
A girl, so rootless.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
They say
"Time heals
all wounds."
"It glues
the pieces of you
that broke
when you were torn
from your lover's heart
and thrown onto
the ground."
I say
that's a lie.
For after 3 years,
5 months,
12 days,
22 hours,
42 minutes,
and 50 seconds;
you are still
haunting me.
The puzzle
never fits.
The heart
still aches.
The candles
stay unlit.
And at times
I break.
No,
time does not
heal all wounds.
But it gives you
the strength
of a 10-ply tissue,
the memory
of the finest sieve,
and the melancholy
of a young literati.
It gives you
threads of silver and red;
and it's up to you
to weave the mess
into a conceivable,
beautiful,
tragic scar.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Never withdraw,
for that is surrender.
Such impact from question,
such hate from contender.
Uncomfortable mission,
The deed is now done.
The silence is haunting.
The silence does stun.
An answer is spoke,
it glues one it both.
A pulse gives up pulsing
as words are now oath.
Heart is to blossom
from seeds that do lay.
Yet nothing's eternal,
and the heart always pays.
Creating false hope,
dancing with fate.
I allow myself less
than my heart would now take.
I'm teased with elegance
beyond what I've known,
like a cancer with spite,
you've dismantled my throne.
Woeful misjudgements.
Harsh disbelief.
Your mind can not poison
what love can not chief.
But dear do I love,
despite all the rest.
I'm aware of mortality
too much, I confess.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
How could I,
Let myself be oblivious,
Miss all the red flags,
Ignore the warnings the universe was sending me.
I got cut.
A million shreds of pain stuck into me.
The way he looks at me glues to my hair.
His words became needles thread through my skin.
His touch on my body became tattoos of pressure.
Seeing him alive became my biggest fear.
I want to peel off my skin,
Start over again.
Untouched,
Unharmed,
Un-youed.
So I bought a new bra,
And rebooted a brand new me.
But no matter how new I am,
No matter how many bras I buy,
I keep falling back.
You've got me leashed.
Trapping me,
Until I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I
can't
breathe.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
...in noon cafe, we may hold hands together for a while
but love chemical is so strong
glues both hearts forever...
happy to find it's irresistible...
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Call me naive.
Blinded by a honeymoon phase
and sickly sweet jest
Because I want to keep
this blindfold
pulled down over my eyes.
I don't want to know
what time it is—
day or night, stars and light —
but this comfort
wraps my body and glues me to my bed.
He likes me
He likes me, not
the me I always try and hide behind
but the me that's real.
And he's honey sweet
and golden feat,
how I managed to find him
I'll never know.
He tells me once
twice and again, actually,
that they couldn't have made
a better half for him in a lab
if they had tried.
I'd lift my blindfold to see
you and your gorgeous honey blue eyes
shining through the dark like a moon,
and what we bake together
might just be the most delicious cake maybe ever.
If my words were sugar
I could have told him then
and there, his lips on mine
tasted sweet.
Like everything he says to me.
But I'm bad at baking cakes with no sugar
and all the store had was keyboards and pens
so I wrote him this instead;
To my perfect other half,
Each joke you make resounds
laugh for laugh, I sculpt you a present
epitaph commemorating you... for you
with words, to say
I think...
I might love you?
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
Cranes fly as earth cries.
Land of rising sun gathers,
glues fragments shattered.
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
He is a tinkerer.
Through his eyes he sees only cogs and turning gears,
His fingers, they feel only bolts and nuts and screws,
He's doesn't understand her, he doesn't get her tears,
To him her sentiments, they are nothing if not new,
So he tries to fix her. He pieces the broken shells of her heart together,
Together the shells weigh a pound, but individually they float like a feather,
He glues and welds her heart together with his mixtures of metals,
But he doesn't understand that these shells are like rose bud petals,
Delicately they flow, and the slightest touch makes them break,
But in time, they bloom prettier than a sunset on a shimmering lake,
No, he doesn't understand. So he welds and forges the pieces together,
He is a tinkerer.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
He tunes his piano
She ties her pointés.
He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.
He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.
He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.
He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.
His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.
He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.
He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.
He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.
Those sheets of notes cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.
She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.
She is his music
and he's her dance.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none,
Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men?
They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be
Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free;
Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there,
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.
By Nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,
To make us like and love, must I change too?
More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me
Allow her change than change as oft as she,
And so not teach, but force my opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land is captivity,
To run all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters stink soon if in one place they bide,
And in the vast sea are more purified:
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,
Then are they purest. Change is the nursery
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.
1.6k
Vile photos and sounds play on 'palace' walls;
mud in her fingernails form shapes of the night's sticky, grubby events-
a twisted, ****** Rorscharch-esque blot.
Knee-deep in grit and grime, soot on her feet,
she sludges on, puking night after night on assorted side-walks
with soaked, soily calves.
'Just pretty pictures' painted on a wall
show her a true reflection of her mind;
she seeks familiarity, hides/searches in them for herself.
In distorted jumbles, she looks for her kind.
The splayed stuff stutter and splutter
and stop and grind.
Insomnia and intoxication,
a victim of lack of inspiration-
life falls into a slow degradation.
Nothingness swallows all once more.
She thrusts against the shoddy shut doors
while the slimy sticky dross glues her shoes to gory floors.
-she trails off with a wince
at the hat man's scoff.
Foul filth fills the squalid air; and
sullied and smoky, sighing, she (s)tumbles
halfway to sleep.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
The first was in the corner of the smile of a fourteen year old girl when I asked her to be my valentine. Apparently you’re meant to ask before the day. I still think about her. Hers forms the basement in my jar of stolen heart pieces.
The second time, it was holding my hand when reality met nightmares. It carried words like “alright” and “fine” as arm candy. And even though I wasn’t alright or fine, a maybe was enough for me.
The third time was when I asked my grandfather if I would see him again. I half expected a “not” after it. He taught me that making choices is easy, but living with them is hard. Although his lessons were more things not to do, than things to do, he’s still one of the best teachers I know.
The fourth time, I met a girl with surrender in her lips but escape in her eyes, she seemed to laugh a lot. I always knew if I pulled back the curtain of her laughter I’d see broken heart fragments realising tears isn’t the best of glues. She left like the ocean leaves the shore, slowly stealing grains of sand, knowing she’ll either come back to return it, or she’ll always have something to remember me by. A maybe for the former was all I had left to hold on to.
The fifth time, I carried it in my hello when I talked to sis, although distance separated us I could feel her tears drop on the shoulder of my voice. I tried to act like I knew what I was saying, but a maybe seemed to end every advice I gave.
The sixth time, the man in the mirror asked if I had feathers for fingers. How I made words seem so fly. They would lift off pages and tickle ear drums till a smile was the only response the body knew to produce.
The last time, I heard it somewhere in her blush, somewhere in her smile, somewhere in her laugh. And I thought, maybe she’s the one. I can’t promise I’ll always feel like this, but a piece of me will always only show goosebumps for just you.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
as her glass heart beats,
it cracks little by little
as her chest caves in.
she closes her eyes.
her deep, slow breaths
restore her aching body
as her chest straightens.
the cracking suddenly stops.
her soul glues the cracks
and her heart is whole again,
stronger than ever before.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 12:41 AM UTC
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
I had to count twice on my fingers to be sure of that.
It glues together many, many words.
It fixes people to the walls.
It shrivels fruit in the bowl.
It sticks us all in the same soup ****
Let's swim.
You have 19 reasons to die,
written out like manuscripts in manila folders
populating a small cubicle containing your confidence
pasted to the walls, and neatly nested on the next door desk
at least you told someone.
The logic of your feeling breathing life into the spreadsheet,
The simple clicks of order covering up the shame of dead weeks
Day in Day out working toward a little more
Waiting for the future where the ability to break out is yours.
Cage around each arm. Suffering in small doses.
Never overwhelming the epicenter.
I have 19 reasons to die.
Scrawled in sidewalk chalk on 17th street.
Ringing in the ears of all my close relatives and their next of kin.
They say, "Hurry up and usher in the next generation so we can stop worrying about fixing yours."
The crumpled cover letters in my compactor spell pure love, and the reasons it's never noticed.
Simplicity in disarray, a life of static colors. Repugnant sorrow odors.
I am the only town crier left in this town.
Always complete but never fulfilled.
The sad sequel to a Mexican standoff with a self-referential story.
Narcissism and narcotics.
Nihilism and Mnemonics.
Space and the stuff of the stars.
Love and the war of the heart.
S is the 19th letter of PSEUDOPSEUDOHYPOPARATHYROIDISM
No it's not but what a great word.
No it's not but aren't you glad you tried to count?
No it's not but aren't you satisfied with yourself for trying to decipher?
No it isn't and wasn't it worth it to try to speak the sounds?
No it is not and wasn't it the sibilance in your mouth worth every second?
No it is not thank you come again have you had your fill when we're only 19/26?
Reasons to live:
Seemingly unneeded. We're here aren't we? Doing what we could only be meant to do.
R is the real 19th letter.
One more would have been S.
But you'd never know if you didn't count.
So let's count.
Ready?
3...2...1...
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC
Hair whips your face
as you cruise away from life,
from ******** from internet & TV.
Thank God the windows roll down automatically
in your hotbox of a car, because
You don't have time to waste thinking
about rolling down windows -
the weather is hot and sunny,
You need to get on the move.
And besides, your music is too loud
to even manage thinking about
well, anything. Blast off.
Sun-scorched leather burns your thighs,
sweat glues you to the seat.
It's not glorious,
it's swamp ***
But I'll take it.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC