"handless" poems
A nectar lingers in the midnight,
Empty is the forum for all thought akin
Confused, reflected, or bade to come in
Or to come out.
With loose time the moonlight was bought
Playing with the chatter I hear desiring me:
To write a love poem with all its proper irony.
A thing of gold, I fantasy it
Though blurred and warm as lighted wick
Midst the darkness tall, timbers thick
The lenses, its vital antecedents
Are cracked or compelled by the acts of man.
Yet, so good the tools, these fragments of
Ears, eyes, and nose,
They produce all the power behind poetry
And find all I need, like a handless compass
Forcing me to follow the moss
That warns two strangers must first meet their paths
Before they may cross.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the tit-less toys
The dick-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…
Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…
I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit
Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
She sings, unites beautiful melody with a naturally melodious language
The end result being how I don't have a clue what she's saying
chanting the mantra given to her
by the bearded sage in the terry cloth bathrobe
who told her "your mind is a vast field where elephants gather to play"
before conferring the mantra
She lets the Sanskrit words roll over her tongue
a vernacular of formidable power
effecting even those who don't speak a word
such was I, Sanskrit illiterate, but the repetition
opened the lotus flower of my heart
the baby blue visage of Sri Krishna materialized
from the words she was singing
I took away his flute and blew a line from an old Jethro Tull song
she thought it enchanting
but Krishna was not happy to see his vaunted woodwind in the hands of a mere mortal
he stepped up to me, polite as can be
he says "if you don't give me my instrument I will be forced to cut off your hands, and then what do you think will happen to this poem?"
I stood my ground, possession being two thirds of the law
I blew the flute solo from Genesis' "The Musical Box" (having known it by heart)
the blue boy asked several times for me to
give him that almighty flute
each time I told him "No! You'll have it soon enough"
apparently not soon enough
(For he felt a pair of garden shears slice firmly through his right hand
the same set of shears severed his left
he dropped his stylus and papyrus to the ground
toppled over, landing smashly with a great crash
within a matter of time he bled out from the stumps where his hands had once been attached
Krishna picked up his flute and said
"what a pity"
and vanished into thin air
it all ended quickly as it had begun
and the sweet lady never stopped chanting her mantra
in fact her back had been turned before Krishna even showed up
it was a great shock to find her gentleman friend's lifeless and handless body on the ground
She shed a tear
I was no less miserable and sad
wished above all else
that I had been a real poet
so I could have finished the man's life work)
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Content with tangible feelings or small talks
Bothered by a handless palm or quiet walks
Love is destructive through silence
Were all just desperate for someones guidance
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
I live alone, and am locked inside the confines of my own mind, where i reside in uncompromising thought.
Sometimes, i try, to tap into the solar weather, or something better than what I know, in bestow of what is lost.
I can feel a storm, and shout to warn in the lore of a great beast, but marble mouthed I mourn the forlorn obliquity of my distorted screams.
I can only be what i wish to be, in the instability of free will, capturing my kills, instilled, beyond my thorn and ivy shields, in the fields of yield-less building of my feelings, kneeling to the appealing satire of your sanity.
I randomly, embrace the humanity i disgraced, in my show of force to this spineless space of failure or inexperience, a mockery of my silliness of childish textbook deliverance to my serious concerns, as my success is earned in the blood of burned books, unlearned through the worming risks, of listless bliss with the dying kiss of incompetence.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
"Sanskrit has 96 words for love; ancient Persian has 80, Greek three, and English only one. This is indicative of the poverty of awareness or emphasis that we give to that tremendously important realm of feeling. Eskimos have 30 words for snow, because it is a life-and-death matter to them to have exact information about the element they live with so intimately. If we had a vocabulary of 30 words for love ... we would immediately be richer and more intelligent in this human element so close to our heart. An Eskimo probably would die of clumsiness if he had only one word for snow; we are close to dying of loneliness because we have only one word for love. Of all the Western languages, English may be the most lacking when it comes to feeling." - Robert Johnson, "The Fisher
King and the Handless Maiden"
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 3:42 PM UTC
chaste stare strewn string
ever ascend down spiraling
electric kisses to aching abdomen
awaits corrupt dancing handless
fingers articulate blossoms
odoring fleshy fragments
sore friends marry thy
hearts in accurate bleached
bony cages;tremor softly
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
entirely the use of his body. cigarette like a lover only there to sober his hands five minutes. anything fell becomes the last link of a buried tow chain. emphysema, the on again off again j-hook of his right heel run off with devil horn. how lifts, watch him, the blank assigned weight of your firstborn without housing a single thought. it is always, this, shoe that drops. a lifetime of work, say it, **** your mouth away. your mother has tried to **** him; she a lack river. handless and is not the one pulls him out or keeps him from being.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
This room is only substantial when
the light hits the clock face
and casts a second sun onto the ceiling,
its single eye unblinking,
tireless as time. It watches me as
I watch its handless face
from the floor of this weary, weary room,
for this is where I lie.
I am waiting for the light.
I am waiting for the third sun
to annihilate the window and the mirror
and the clock face. I am waiting for
my body to be cauterized, my hair to be burnt
and to vacate like a shadow
in the dark. I am waiting,
for this is where I want to lie.
This room is no longer substantial.
The curtains are drawn, a thin sheet
to forestall the burn of light
I am waiting for. I sit at the desk,
as I wait, professing onto pages,
for this is where I lie.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
hands fell from what
they could never hold,
settled in seawater.
were written away
by changing currents.
indelible marks left
traceless, bony digits
passed through clarity.
an instant ten-count
wash of blood, Jesus
Christ where'd they go?
they raised themselves
in answer, and worked
across a face that awakened.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
Colour of a blue eyed newborn's
Iris sneaking itself through
Marshmellow clouds lined
With pink mother-of-pearl
And my admiration.
I want to touch everything.
I work with my hands.
I can build whatever you need,
And am the best tickler
South of the Arctic.
I want to put my fingers through
Anything beautiful I see.
Always looking;
Wanting to touch.
That which begs to be touched
My mind caressing tree limbs
Breathing in celestial counterparts
To weave through this new configuration
Third eye open
Stumbled upon fathomless depths
Unknown
Wide brimmed, wide eyed
Don't sleep, don't sleep
So much yet to soak up
To taste
That which begs to be tasted.
Skin, warm with wanting,
Wet with relief and
Passing contentment.
Lips that uttered
Curses now kiss soft
Fingertips tracing
More love than
Love has ever had.
All is new
To the reborn.
Here are my hands.
They see through me,
Look into you, and rest
Upon the centre of your
Innermost centermost.
An umbilical between
Godess and
Man.
I smile mouthfulls
Of everything.
Hopeful, hope filled
The silver edge to this cloud
Dropping rainbow 3pm's to halo
Around my grinning skull
I am simple in my sobriety
Chrystal cut clear in winter yearning
Seeing the forest finally for the trees
These wonders reaching down out of the darkness
Shedding light on this pale, pale mourning
Nerve tips trace along your dips and curves
Memorizing
Mesmerized
And that baby-eye blue
Is now a full grown heaven
Full of sweet nothings
And nobodys,
Holding only such ideas as
Void and timelessness
In its handless hands.
I watch it with you; arm
Around your doll waist,
Shoulder against your
Head.
It's a new day.
A new, beautiful day.
A new, beautiful, hopeful
Day for us both.
Pots of gold on either end
Of this unimaginary
Rainbow.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.
and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Lethal Lethal! my words are medieval...What's a church to sinners if there all evil?
Others watch as the camel dives through the eye of a needle
I spit that professor-x direct to your cerebral....am evil Knievel...I jump off my white horse into a pile of beetles my crooked style is...
Lethal...Weapon 5..tell Riggs to put the weapons high..
I call cannabis to the floor to handle this
Fingers bent back, will leave you handless
I cut the lights and blind your brain from your mental manuscript
with no Bic in hand..my words write themselves quicker than quick sand..You must be a toilet because I am The **** man
And sadly I have diarrhea...but strangely I **** hard bars...the size of pizzeria's made of bricks
Now how can you deliver a punch line with a swollen fist?
I quickly rip your lumbar-5 call it open Disc....hope your recording this...
Now watch me, Sammy Sosa, this
**** in the form of words...I'm not sure if this is appropriate...
Keep your eyes open kiddddss!!
That's how the Chinese cookie crumbles, guess that's unfortunate.
I can see the future, it's an anorexic clock your time is running thin.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
summer enormously frail fringed and golden
summer arguing with timidity
with youth and tangled
laughter gargling
low streets strung
lights mellifluously
straddle amberly the
nape of silently
and beginning
suddenly light
over asphalt
springs leaping
the mountains over
and
SpLaSh!irides
of
3 petals and 3 drooping sepals
glow gently
caressed
at
handless *********
white
,
.
,
.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
On my gleaming way home
Amidst the fading waves of visions
I got stranded in so many rooms
Of corridors I stepped on purpose
For once I was welcomed by
A handless artist
Who gave me a treat of flowers and desire
Faded by his fire
His windows were pages old
And he lived with a light he incinerated
And after I asked for a way
I was addressed to another door
A windowless room dwelt by
A verseless poet, who walks upon a string
Adorned as a necklace to turn his fate
He told me directions completed
With a tea-time set of apocalyptic nursery rhymes
Where he adored, lived, and longed to cradle
Before I went off he sent me to a philosopher next door
Who came just an age ago
She, as he said, feeds on human thoughts and sophisticated flesh
Crave unfathomable waves of loves she can control
Her ceilings as I saw was soaring up
To unlimited depth of nonexistent heaven
And humorous hell
Her demon was whole yet none
And her providence resides in her
She dwells for a short course in the clock
To find a way home as I am
Then sent me off to
A boy from the burnt-down marching band
Who talked of God, ancient lords, and prayers old
But never thought nor heed the tales
But his melodic fingers were of life and death
The serenade and the sonnets, to the worldly joy of torment and sachars
He was the friend of a wax statue overgrown by candles
Who would burn down a thousand more to lit the hearts
Of the lost and the blind
He contradicted the black-ash boy’s tales
Yet preach some of it to ease his flames
Truth be told or truth be sought
His candles and the dim little flickers
Did much to illuminate my half-consumed soul
And thus he took me to the exit door
And guided me home through the fragile night
But as I stepped further, none would heed my farewell so
In this life of considerable tears
I shall bid no farewell and I shall write my tales
Of truth be told of truth be sought
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
if you put me in a cage
would I be a rat or a petition?
would you sign it or
watch until the screams you
can’t listen to
my cries for help
me save me and
give me the key
to life is fighting
through the
bars and pubs
are nothing but a vice
grip tied tight to the
bricks that can’t wipe
the cement from it’s eyes
tell the stories that eat
at chipped away skin
covered in spiders
digging to the core
of the earth is wrapped in
expectations and relation
ships sailing with no sail
manless and handless
mannequins reaching out for
help confined by my vein
minds and empty hearts
are suppose to carry love,
at least that’s the perception
that I cant pull to conception
built on deception with exception of
reception’s inception,
a look inside my mind
your own ******* business.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Fainting desperately into nothing
I found my something
Aboard a train cross-country
But I was surely running
Away from myself and that horrible reality I realized
Triangles and circles
Spelling out my future before my eyes
Like a puzzle I did not have to decide-
The pieces fell into place
In their own pace
Handless mindless motions
Mona Lisa smiled at me
All astrology gazed down for me
Finding me on my righteous path to glory
And the moon willed itself
As my godmother
It’s true ancestor, gleaming
Heart outstandingly beating
I, it’s horrible hot-minded child-
Only a teen, yet it knew me all at once
And accepted me
For who I really was.
My past rewrote itself
My present formed:
No tears, no mistakes
The world helped me find my rightful place
Amongst all the other familiar faces
I could see myself in a crowd of millions, billions
Differentiable at long last
Even better, if only I could find that one person to hold tight
And taint with my loving grasp.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
Darling,
You will find the pages of my diary so perfectly kept, filled with your name
my dear,
You will be rummaging around to find a reason why
honey,
you might find the letters hidden under my mattress full of confessions
it’s over.
They will all stay preserved in a way that only happens when the life that was brought to those things is taken away.
Like an airless balloon
or handless glove.
I cannot fathom to imagine what you will look like.
I feel as though through time finding someone who does what I did and more won’t be hard.
As for me, after tonight I will never.
You will be preserved as my one and only.
Forever and always.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
This brainstorm
Is menacing
Coming from a handless maiden
Made of steel
Her scattering feels unreal
We cleared her orchard bare
After writing her name on petals from there
She went where she was called
But there's a line drawn in the earth
You can only see it if you're one of us
We didn't care about her hard injuries
Her inborn curse of death and disease
Her twisted soul and her cruel destiny
The natural disasters aligned with her feet
The wrong turns taken by strands in her genes
The soporifics that put her to sleep
The poison that we put in her dreams
All cause she was different from you and me
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
When I was young
and summer was fresh
I used to watch
the worms
bathe in the driveway
during a heavy rain.
They danced about
the pavement,
their pink flesh
speckled with dirt,
soaking up the droplets
so freely driven
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
from the heavens.
And I would think
how nice to be a worm.
Days spent digging,
handless groping
through brown tunnels,
unseeing eyes peeled,
searching for a spouse
to do the dirt dance with
before introducing them
to the big, mean world
above.
And I’m still thinking
how nice to be a worm.
Focused only on
living,
crawling,
feeling,
never finding the time
to notice
the enthusiasm
of a thunderstorm
when children
press their noses
to windows
and wonder
what worms
are really all about.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
the shadow puppets line up
behind my eyes
the badger smoothly strolls
on two legs
the opossum moves
claws first
the raven hops
corner to corner
a place of childish whimsy
of jagged, jointed movement
a stage of handless puppeteers
not so much a dream but
a backlit brain
setting up the stage
quickly
a dry run
curtains up
break a leg
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
I cannot dare look down at the marks;
That I have casted upon myself.
I am a canvas with paint splatters of abuse,
I mistreated the use of my brushes.
I am starting to become careless with the color red,
The red paint is everywhere now showing my dread.
I have committed a crime against thee canvas,
Now I am becoming anxious with taking my chances.
It would be best if I was handless,
Then I wouldn’t be listening to this sadness and destroying my precious canvas.
I am a bandit,
Taking and letting things slip away.
Slowly I am losing this art battle,
But I am starting to not become a sore loser.
Worry is no longer getting the best of me,
I shall not be afraid of the blackness of defeat.
Wish me the best.
Applause me for my wonderful art work,
Because I gave you exactly what you wanted,
Can’t you see? I followed your exact instructions.
I have a lifeless canvas, that is white as a sheet,
Though I colored all over it.
This plainness came with some practice.
Oh I am so sorry, my canvas just landed on the hard floor,
I seemed I couldn’t appreciated it enough,
So now I must bid you a due now.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
On some autumn's eve
my curiosity led me to you.
A statue hidden among the sanded shore,
unbeknownst to only me.
Yet, when I finally found your marble arms,
your existence plagued every waking thought.
The sea from which we were all born
held you in its handless grips.
The tide turning you within every hour,
taking your very sediment into its unknown.
Your form is but a hallow shell
of the majesty I had thought I discovered.
Alas, this realization came too late
and I became trapped in the current.
For all go from which they came.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Through winter's pale
and heart's formation
held the glass-eye prism,
which split the light
like morning dew,
handless icicles,
blood withdrew.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC