"gunmetal" poems
Cobalt. Gunmetal. Pastel. Powder. Forget-me-not.
Out of all the blues,
She has the eye color with no name
The eye color that is slowly driving me insane.
Who gave her the right?
To have something so beautiful
I see blue everywhere;
In paintings, photographs—even the air
There are no crayons that can capture it
Not even color codes on computers can match her eyes
Her eyes are the space between the rippling depths of the ocean and the shards of reflected sky
They are the eyes that squint a bit as she smirks because she thinks she's sly
No matter how much I glance to the left during lunch
The color escapes my mind and simply becomes a concept
In my thoughts frustration likes to roam
If it weren't for the non-existent green, her eyes would look like sea foam
But here is no green—
Only hundred year old glaciers, rivers, and stormy skies
I don't even know what blue is anymore
As angering as they are, her eyes are still something I adore
I'm tempted to just ask her what color they are,
But that would mean that I don't pay attention
To do so would be like mistaking a stranger for your dad
Everyone will become apprehensive and think that I have gone mad
Her placid gaze tends to bore through my shell
I feel vulnerable— like she can see my dilapidated soul
But I know that she means no harm;
She is amiable and full of charm
Who knew blue could mean so much
And still be convoluted?
Blue washes the shore with the push and pull of the tides
Blue has managed to stain my thoughts and dye my insides
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Dylan is dead.
no, not Bob, you Philistine,
Dylan Thomas who implored us
to rage against the night;
so are a passel of poets
and penners, but not I
Emily heard her fly buzz,
well before her eyes shut; she
was a wee bit obsessed
with the reaper
Hemingway's also a goner;
guts enough to shove a shotgun
in his mouth--mostly I wonder if
he tasted blue gunmetal like I did,
and who cleaned his brains
off the wall?
nobody had to clean a red dollop
of mine, for the firing pin was askew
and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame,
and impotence more flaccid than
the one which put the barrel
in my mouth
hell, how hard is it
to **** yourself--I guess harder
than I thought, since I never bought
another rifle
so Dylan is dead
Em and Hem too, but you
are reading these lines without
contemplating your own demise
I suspect
after all, it's early spring
and a time of new things
clawing their way into the light
thinking nothing of the terminal
night -- but it's just a sun dip away:
ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK
but I wouldn't bother the Belle
of Amherst
she would make parting
sweeter than sorrow, and she
never tasted the cold lead, or spoke
with fear or dread of the dumb
and the dead
she never murdered
men in black pajamas
in a forest primeval...
I didn't see their spirits
ascending, in ribbons of light,
only rivers of their red blood
soaking the green ground,
yet today ravenous
for more it seems
why would she rage
against the good night, when
her carriage waited patiently for her,
and immortality, her vessel bound
for a light Dylan and I
will never see
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
With my womanly looks,
I shall ****
These child bearing hips always
fuel a thrill.
My blood stained lips and
gunmetal eyes will surely
make a man's ego
plummet,
go downhill.
I am a lover, but no,
I do not transform for you.
Do not complain about the ink on my face,
for I am my own writer,
so please give me my space.
Learn to love me coated or not
because I live for me, but also your embrace.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Liquid shrapnel soothes the earth
Gunmetal flesh decays
The Apocalypse has come
Thunder resonates in the distance
Dragon eyes transcend the pewter sky
The Apocalypse has come
Sword of Odin
Valhalla awaits you
The Apocalypse has come
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Clear skies are often coldest,
Tempests' temper seems subdued.
Sunlight skims the tiles of rooftops,
Stops.
Savours,
Admires the view.
The sky was never blue.
Obsidian haze and gunmetal days
Light the life we choose.
Blackened,
Slightly bruised.
Broken yet not dismayed.
Too long we have been walking,
Proud in our shroud of the grey.
My brother, my teacher,
My foe and my friend.
Our ghosts shall speak
Once more at the end.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
As they tie the white blindfold
On my eyes They line up the
FIRING Line see if I do not stand brave
**** **** **** cocking of rifles*
Are explosions in my ears
Fearless I hold
Your picture in hand and take the
Bullets Crainial Spatail gasps
Lungs collapsing
My last thoughts hinge on your
White ******* as my tounge finds
The gunmetal taste of skin
Your haunting laugh
Screaming in frequencies
Unheard mere mortals
I reach the throne room of the gods
With a knife hidden in my boot
*Did you think I would forget?
Your scent still hangs on me
Electrical I squeeze out each last
Drop of Malice upon a silent hotel room
Even though the news on mute taunts me
With polite smiles reminiscent of your taut hello
A year I spend standing in the rain
Trying to wash the scent of you from my skin
Your taste on my lips
Leaving corpses
Hollow in your wake
The Forked Tongue she spills
Poison in my wine each time
I turn towards the candle light
Until one night I caught her in my Bed
You have no Idea for what you ask
Until at once you understand
I take your hand
Like the moth I rip the wings from your back
You twitch and ****** on waves of pain as
I bring you ever closer to the flame
Your thorax structure spasms of ecstasy
Won't you light me up?
As the beast gives rise
Parting porcelain thighs divine
I find god's stash of
***** tapes in the closet
When I was searching for
A reason not to empty the
Entire clip into my chest
Each bullet carved
With your name in
Perfect Cursive
I break into your house while you are out with your new boyfriend
And I lie on your bed that we used to lie in
I cradle the pistol in my pocket
I keep reaching down to feel
As if I have forgotten it
Flicking the safety
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
Off
On
****
Chambering the first
Nine millimeter
Hollowpoint
As I hear your front door open
And you flick
The porch light on
Bathing the moonlit yard
In artificial light
The Roses red
I spent my last $12 dollars on
Wilt on the kitchen counter
While in the hall you kiss his neck and
Unzip his name-brand jeans
Leading him to your bedroom door
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******** below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts heroin-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
What is this pulse I feel?
Stark, ever-present, the tumor with which
life is sustained.
The sky today is remarkably dismal
raindrops along the sidewalks
which I cling to:
not out of reliance --
but out of need.
The world is a bleak gunmetal grey
The Promethean fire of our reluctantly naked sun
cannot even bear to expose itself today.
So, it hides.
It hides like we all do.
What is this pulse I feel?
It hides like an introvert at a party
who escapes himself
into the blare and blur of a horrid
solidarity of bottles and children
and the illegal activities with which
they so complacently cling to.
Hides like a man in a pin-striped suit
who is concealed under white teeth and
leather lounge chairs and contemporary
architecture.
Hidden like child at a shopping mall
whose mother is almost attentive
as the child hides in a clothing rack
and screams:
"You'll never find me!
You'll never find me!"
And the mother realizes that her
child is gone
And the mother finds her child.
And the child never realizes
that he will never escape the eyes
of those whom he doesn't want to see.
The child may want a mask but masks never conceal effectively --
and if they do they're uncomfortable
and press against your face and suffocate your skin.
And it's easier just to let everyone see you
than to be an isolated mask amongst the ranks
of autonomy-hungry deoxyribonucleic acid.
What is this pulse I feel?
The child dies in a car accident several years later.
Oh, well.
And so, I am here --
the world is sullen and steel
as the raindrops fall upon the sidewalk.
It's as if the world is a graveyard
no one dares exit their shelters to
let the cold Truth gently fall upon their faces.
What is this pulse I feel?
The water falling from the Sun's shelter
answers my question:
"You are a raindrop, you fall from the sky
and land, cold, onto these concrete streets.
You may distinguish yourself amongst the other molecules
but you are all Hydrogen and Oxygen.
Your identity is nothing.
You are but an off-key baritone singing in a chorus.
The chorus is an ocean;
the aggregation of all human water molecules.
What's one drop to do?"
This pulse I feel?
It is one of billions, and it is indistinguishable.
I cling to the sidewalk as I step further --
hands in my pockets, stepping further.
Step.
I hear the abyss calling.
It takes the form of falling rain.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 3:29 PM UTC
Why is it so, Oh why is it so
That the owners of capital
Inevitably grow
To be possessors of everything
Strategically placed,
Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced?
Owners of newspapers
Head of TV,
Masters of radio
Commercial and free.
Dispensers of policy
Spreaders of gloss,
Keep movers informed
Keep fools at a loss.
Like a puppeteer General
Manipulate strings
Of artillery thunder
And stratosphere wings.
Subliminal ownership
Military wise
Guarantees power
And fortifies ties.
Holding the cards
In Congressional spheres
Ensures positive influence
To leadership ears.
Holding sway
In the ship of state
Commands control
Of those who rate.
Power to publish,
Power to spin,
Manipulative power
To politically win.
Power to generate
Mountains of wealth,
Marauding powers
Of infinite stealth.
Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced,
Owners of capital
Strategically placed.
Controllers of influence
Puller of strings,
Powerful Anchors
...Societal Kings.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
23 March 2009
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
Does a human being have razorblade claws or gunmetal teeth
Does a human being have the grizzly bear hide
or the exotic suction cups?
Then what has kept it alive all these millions of years
What protects it from all predators
Even those it cannot see
Those it cannot physically defeat
What lets it defy Nature herself
None, but the mind
And the proper body to wield it
Will we soon get a peek under the dress?
So why didn’t my mother name me Kevin?
Because sometimes the middle name is really what you want to name your kid
But you think another is more pragmatic
Either because the middle is too wild
Or, in my mother’s case
It was more important to do honor to her recently dead husband
Than to pick the name she had always
Dreamed
Of naming a child
But that’s where I get stuck
Why is my first name his middle name?
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice,
how Summer's sun can clear gunmetal skies,
or how it refracts off the water
of a somber heaven—
Filling the darkness behind your eyes?
I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice,
how when Spring's roses begin to blossom
the wind carries love's scent through the air
or how it effortlessly enraptures—
permeating beauty
from within the pigment of it's petals?
I wonder—
have you ever taken the time to notice,
how the cycle of Autumn's leaves remain parallel
to the frailty of the living
or how the perpetuity of their purpose
is either known of and ignored or understood and accepted?
I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice
how the Winter's deep freeze
blankets and preserves the earth beneath our feet
To walk upon in new years to come,
Or how it brings forth the warmth of family's serenity?
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Rain beats down upon
unlit sidewalks
the black world of
whispers unseen
my fingers grip each other
wringing, unsure of themselves
eyes closed against the darkness
finding it only deeper within
it’s as if I have a shotgun in my mouth
and I like the taste of the gunmetal
a pure metallic sharpness
that leaves all else to rot and decay
in the wilderness of my dismay
where do I turn when everything has left?
all directions look the same
when staying here is no different
from shifting there
the only movement is from
the drums resounding inside
pounding the rhythm of truth
someone once told me
that we are all connected
strings tying hearts
careful knots in all of us
at times we feel cut
severed and alone
nothing touches us
no hands held out to save
but beneath the surface
feeling around in the black
we find these strings
infinite in number and strength
unbroken
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
Five nights a week at midnight, he dyes blue.
Angel, you’re bad news.
Salvation Army button-downs unbuttoned in a second our hands have introduced kinetic bear hugs, although visually frail and weathered.
Shoulder length hair and a cuticle away from pure. obsession.
Of all the heartbeats and hop, skips and jumps; I surrender.
Adding the lye
m.
cm.
mm.
Get closer.
Knock me over in slow motion.
Tumbling rotary dial “1” click. “2” click, click.
Rendering the grease
I’m closing the locker when
He appears at 11:55 P.M.
Beat up, an 8 track cassette surviving a barrage of garage sales.
My dear affection is still a child labor law. Juvenile.
Staring Aderol Syndrome (S.A.S.).
Birds nest palms, the delicate benchmark.
I would give up half of $4.75/hr.
Warm me up and share $9.50/hr.
Collecting Grease
Gunmetal blue, locker “27.”
I read an article of clothing yesterday, not from these parts.
At
Your
Steel-toe
Boots.
Please listen. You know the dialect.
Coffee brewer, lighter sharer, you are the Aurora Borealis eventful.
Five nights a week at midnight, I dye blue.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
I'd never seen her so beautiful,
the color of life now covering her once ivory complexion.
The heart that once beat is now stagnant and black.
This thing in my hand, locked and loaded;
the shiniest gunmetal I've seen in a while.
Her only solitary life now gushing from her head.
Why did I take her life you ask?
It was those eyes...those godforsaken white, sightless eyes!
They never saw anything I am or ever will be.
All I ever wanted was for her to see!!
I've wanted to gouge them out since the day our two
lives became a single, cohesive one.
But it was those eyes that drove me to this.
Never had she seen my face.
Why is this just now occuring to me?
Yes, of course I loved her.
Mad? Why would you say that?
What is a madman? Me? A madman?
Preposterous!! What is a madman?
Certainly not in comparison to me.
I am the spitting image of true sanity...
Or am I?
I see no wrong doing in my actions.
I was simply doing her a favor...
Though, I probably should've been more humane
with the child she was carrying...
My child! My own flesh and blood!! Gone forever!
But it was for the good of both of them I presume...
There was a good chance my son would've been blind.
...My son!! My baby boy!!! How tragic a day this is!
Well, there wasn't any stipulation to 'Till death do us part'.
There wasn't any specification on how it was to happen.
I look to the gunmetal again.
It is to blame for this tragedy...
I hold the faithful steel grey to the side of my head
and look to my deceased spouse and unborn child.
Finally, I give the gun one final squeeze goodbye...
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
When gunmetal streets begin to fade into jazz
My soul walks cool, unafraid into jazz
There are dissonant holes in the sky tonight
The world seems at once to cascade into jazz
The old district buzzing with ambition’s jam
Each dancer's alchemy turns suede into jazz
And the city lights stiff with rigor mortis
Revived into blues, then swayed into jazz
Windows begin flooding unassuming streets
First timid, the passersby wade into jazz
Some to their ankles, unconvinced of the rhyme
Others shun inhibition and parade into jazz
Their excitement displaced by a mellow groove
Miles Davis lilts above, casting shade into jazz
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
the sky was looming with gunmetal wisps,
tickle me pinks squeezing among lavenders.
sunny blues and cotton clouds merged among the
charcoal prophecies. darkness kissing light.
i was soaked within seconds, screaming yet
laughing, feeling my bones shake and rattle along the
drips.
i ran through puddles, the sky nothing but sheets of
recollections. my skin limp and drenched, becoming part of
the soggy grass between my toes.
the rain stopped within minutes, the sky changing to
juicy orange.
as i attempted to dry myself with sopping towels, i stared at the sky,
and was reminded of us making love. beauty, beauty, beauty.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
It's **** obscene, these best-laid plans
of mice, of boys, of knuckleballers--
world-weary one-trick cowards
plotting courses into safety,
taking wrong turns on the way
Now I...? I was never good with signs
green and white--bad with directions.
I'm the walking ghost of a better me
And the guy I used to be and me,
we don't speak.
Estranged.
Roll through each day
horizon's far from home.
Night blacks out gunmetal grey,
grey-brown slush fills city streets
and asphalt colored X's fill
our blue and coffee eyes
Fade out Fall back.
blizzards come
Ride out the margins
static clouds fill white-out skies
Skies we grasp for
skies we shy from.
lofty climb, now plummet earthward
So
these muddy footprints
trace out the path I took.
"What a twist!"
Yeah.
****
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
on gunmetal my heart beats,
the smoke is winter,
waves rippling across my cold body.
they've kept the coffin alone,
parched on a wooden block.
ropes tie down my ribcage,
my eyes are shredded in holocaust.
all i can do is move my lips,
to raise the coffin,
to end the numb,
and numb the ending.
my companion is nearby,
we collide on empty streets.
where fainter clouds whisper
to our souls.
do not hold back,
because i won't.
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 2:23 PM UTC
Those first careful drops on an evening bluster,
Unknown to their perspectives of fate.
The front-lines of battle-worn soldiers muster;
The harbingers of ever-shall-be can't wait.
A gunmetal mist blocks the sun's vain parleys -
Such negotiation a defeat in disguise.
The drums of war crackle in periphery stays:
The battleground ripens - the war compromise.
Do drops such as these know their purpose in falling?
Do they fall, truth obscured, at the whim of the eve?
If they knew they were pages to forces appalling,
Would they drop so steady, or perhaps stop to grieve?
But none of those questions hold much rhyme or lustre
To those first careless drops on an evening bluster.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
It is so surreal how vivid i see, the past playing out in my memories.
swinging away, a smile and a quick simple kiss.
these are the memories that my heart does miss.
Black and pink, the suave and the silk, lips locked in love, leaving behind stains the color of milk.
the pain and the ache, of missing a voice, separation of hearts, by another's cruel choice.
only to later surface a strength that lay hidden within, to persevere through the peril, oh, our beautiful, innocent sin.
my lover, my lady, my best friend, my baby..call it crazy but these are the memories that my heart misses most.
Second chances, are second chances ever a plausible reality.
i can see the providence, but i doubt
oh God can it be.
i dont feel up to par, or deserving, or perhaps its not that but that my heart feels fear at the yearning
i still remember the burning
and the butterflys, i help deep within, i still long for the love.
memories of our innocent beautiful sin.
oh we meet again, my old companions, if i may.. my friend.
namely so, you are my memories.
contemplating second chances, for the future, to have what we had back
oh my sweetest of regrets, how i look back on your embrace
as i sit here missing you, as some soldier off at war
i can still here the gunmetal clash, as you slammed and walked out that door.
such a beautiful bloom our embrace was that warm spring.
now the pitter patter of teardrop showers metronomes as you sing in my dreams
are these my memories of second chances...or my second chance for memories
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Watching the April northerly
Blow the Spring away to sea from Galloway
Towards Ireland
The lee of the **** for shelter
Low sun warming your face
Massive frequent clouds, megalithic
Dull below to towering snow-white heaven
Their wind-driven gunmetal shadows rush out to sea
The bay, at distance, a breastplate of pewter
Beaten across with countless, tiny hammerings
With animal purpose a shape moves slowly,
Breaking the horizon heading for Man
The breeze, coltish, struggling to be gone
Headstrong with promise and challenge
A fine day for such a crossing!
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
The scent of her perfume wafting through the halls
His eyes frantically search for a glimpse of her beauty
Both their hands cold to the touch
Unable to hear for the distance between them
She glides through corridors, a spectre in the shadows
Her green eyes shining like a brilliant gem on dark fabric
The sound of her heels a gavel pounding on a marble floor
Gunmetal gray dress fluttering with butterfly wings
His mind unravels, strings of consciousness out the door
Her ugliness was overwhelming; he couldn't have her
Chasing endlessly after a shimmering butterfly through a labyrinth
Wham! He falls flat on his face.
A ghost in the night, she hovers through the paths of his mind
Gems on black cloth, her emerald eyes dance in front of him
Forever out of reach, forever too swift to catch
Left to rot in the hot glare of her brilliance
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
A streak of sunlight slips through gunmetal clouds,
laced with shrapnel and lined in steel core.
The ray touches you. You burst into brilliant flames.
I won't play your games.
I won't play your games.
You love to tease, it's no surprise.
Bold red lipstick and dark green eyes.
On second thought, I fancy a round.
I go down. You go down.
Face to face, your lips taste like blood.
Your lips are drenched in blood.
They tremble when you look at me,
as if you have something to say.
I pull you closer, run fingers through your hair,
let you save your words for a better day.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
Pretty girl. Smart girl.
Lovely little collection of dirt-smudged
books with dog-eared corners, that girl.
Quilted comforter girl.
Non-drinking, church-going promiscuous girl.
Strange girl. Senseless girl.
Dreaming, preening in the graying bathroom mirrors girl.
Taping pencil tips during testing kind of girl.
Uses skin when there’s no eraser kind of girl.
Smooth fingers rubbed to gunmetal kind of girl.
Smart girl. College girl.
Uncommitted, TV-watching girl.
Reads the books before the movies type of girl.
Smoke-eyed girl. Diamond-kind-of-like
without-the-shining girl.
Nimble fingered girl.
Pretty girl. Promiscuous girl.
Lead-wedged-deep-in-the-head girl.
Nobody knows Jane Doe.
Orphan ***** Jane Doe.
Pavin’ her way Jane Doe, they say.
Doe-eyes tinted red
like crushed grapes in a wine glass.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC