"headrest" poems
A leather chair
It's comfy
And the headrest actually fits!
The woman
A nurse of some sort
Explains **** near everything
"This does blaahhh
And that does bluhhhhh
And this other thing does
Blegghhhhh"
Thanks.
Let's just get it over with
Then in comes the dentist
Well
He's an oral surgeon
He tells me his name
And hooks up an IV
And in goes the anesthesia
BLACKNESS
A comfy chair
I must be coming to
But in the office?
Then I hear the cat
Ohhhhhh
I'm home
Ok
Cool.
What do you mean?
All I can eat is ice cream?
And mashed potatoes?
Ughh... I wish I was back asleep.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
the road home wound and swirled like a coil
the music on the radio tuned out like white-noise
and the sun had set to a point where everything lit up in red
a crimson so deep
it stained the trees, the grass
the tall towering buildings, the calm suburban neighbourhoods
the cracked pavements, the dark alleyways
the glass shop windows, the exposed brick of an abandoned structure
the glossy sides of the cars that drove infront of us, the concrete we drove on
the faux leather seats, the metal of the adjustable headrest
the tips of my hair, the tips of my fingernails
my skin, and all of the things that sat with me in silence
i close my eyes
and i feel.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 1:25 AM UTC
fangs dripping
poison—dripping with
death.
yellow eyes slither stalking,
so hypnotic in their convincing;
in pursuit, our every step
pressured into flight’s direction.
a nightmare’s seed
planted beneath pillow,
following into dream.
the serpent’s coil riding
headrest’s rooting ***********
even slumber thought safety
infected.
a viper of self-consciousness, the
familiar of societal impositions
fuelling reflection’s hostility;
its venom—an injection of insecurity.
fangs dripping poison—
fangs dripping with
dishonesty.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Tonight my gums ache
Because of the sin of 2:41 am
And the cigarettes I stole from you
After we drank the red wine
Your father exclaimed was royal
And originally drank by Paraguay princes.
I returned home dizzy with fatigue
And empty of joy and sorrow
Apathetic because I am not engaged
So I thumb my phone book to find
Anyone who will talk or kiss
Me numb, tonight.
I can't sleep after because the box fan is purring
And the October air is not
Devoid of Magnolia scent and hope
So I lay in my bed with crumbs
Sticking to my stretch marked hips
Taunting me even beneath the barracks of my sheets.
I saw no sky-moon when you left
So I smoked another Camel Crush
On the back porch watching you leave
Once our lips sanded the sin permanent
Into our raw faces and pulsing fingers
Smacking "joyful joyful-be filled! Filled!"
I barricade pillows against the concrete headrest
That my inherited mattress sleeps on
So the cold has to try harder, tonight
Even though your lips felt dry
and your sighs left ghosts exhaling
In my mind and neck and *****
This is how I justify sleep tonight:
An attempt to evade sins damnation
And my nature that, by Tuesday,
Will be able to paint over
The deep white lies you tongue
Painted across my prickled body.
Come, rest and restore my soul
To its belief that words are sharp
Though the imprints of your nails
And the burgundy couch fabric
Left on my body and on my soul
Are eulogized by the alarm clock set for 702am.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
you curl your fingers around the nape of the
passenger seat and the cold
metal stings but you can feel the
ghost of the prey brush your body
like the streetlights on the backseat last night
before you clutched the headrest and
you reach in the dark but
your hands miss the leather
the warm body heat of the car
thrumming up beneath you slams
your head into the dashboard where
the light turns from a bruised yellow to a crippled red
you are awake again
the steering wheel is cooler than you remember
smoother, sleeker, stealthy the wheel
will turn the predator around in a circle because
it seems to mimic itself where
in mimicry it is found
oh tyger tyger simmering out
you drive.
the gear shift does not obey when you
push it up rough and messy but it
locks in gear while you
wrap your fingers around the curve
and grind to a halt in the road
you cannot make this cliff.
the light in the dash blinks.
the trunk is opening and the vehicle is still moving
you roll down your window to ask the night a question in the glazed white of moonlight that is
so much like forgetting
_will this road take me back to Del Sol and the Girl Who Lost Her Lover on Route 66?_
she doesn't respond but
that is okay because the vehicle is still moving
and the leather is slick between your thighs
and you are going down
tonight you will descend.
the night will draw you home.
goodnight lover.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Nobody is in love.
Shoulder to shoulder, flesh spilling over
Flesh: our warm bodies heave
And contort together, leaving no room
For sentiment that goes deeper than
Your off white down comforter.
Nobody is in love.
The harsh sunlight seeps in
Through down turned blinds,
And thin, translucent eyelids,
Both half open, but oblivious to the
Indifferent world. Life is too much with us-
Never leaving us alone to really feel:
The cold, smooth wooden floor pushing up
Against the delicate archs of our sinewy feet,
As they drop down to meet the brisk morning air,
That seems to coat everything revealed and left vulnerable
By the crumpled up sheets limply collapsed over the headrest,
Or the soft, steady breathing
Of someone left unstirred by the dizzying
Relay of thoughts that dance across my
Foolish mind. No one is in love, here.
The last fragment of hope
Was forgotten underneath mismatched blankets
That bear the faint scent of lavender fabric softener sheets
And something that lingers nameless beneath your presence.
The indented pillow, where you lay your head
Holds fast your hollow shape,
As if to remind us that reality is only as real
As those who are brave enough to feel it.
Time treads on and on,
Leaving us scrambling over coffee tables
And yesterdays newspaper strewn across the bedroom floor,
Blindly groping the abysmal space to find something
That isn't really there. Instead it's nestled between
The tiny slivers of our hearts,
Scattered across neon billboards and thee star hotels,
Pleading with us to acknowledge it's elusive presence
Before the world runs out of excuses,
And we're met with a big boom,
That probably will never even be felt.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
it's no good,
no good,
no good.
No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.
then kills.
It's no good.
No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.
No good.
Definitely not a monday morning thought:
A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
shit-smelling ****
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.
It's no good for that time.
It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.
Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.
When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.
You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.
Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.
you and her.
It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.
It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.
It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.
It's good for clarity,
it maintains.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
I hit the headrest of my friend’s car
more than the pillow on my bed
as the traffic light turns
from yellow to red.
I remember what you said about
The eagle and the **** that are
Coming down at me.
You said forget about the words in your head.
You said you were proud of me
That was enough to get me on my feet
You said you were proud of me
that was enough to make me happy.
“You can’t get what I don’t have,”
And everything in between.
It gets better but it doesn’t get easier
You have to make sense of what it means
They say it’s darkest before the dawn
But the daylight haunts you before it’s gone
I know I’ve got you to get me through
The night that feels so long.
There’s not enough time in a day
to tell you how much I’m really grateful for you.
How you kept me alive
and how you taught me to turn the tides.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Bar dreams came dripping in
Beer bottles a headrest
Towers of bottles tops for weary eyes
Moonlight will capture my tries
Morning light will fill my demise
Wake me up when my mind stops raining
Flooding the gate of pain
Hurtful shadows taking my sane
Peaceful remedies go down the drain
Love always forgeting my name
Goodbye says the sun
The sky fell asleep all over agian
So did the smile from her eyes
All I see is frostbitten grass
Talk to the light while dusk tries to pass
Make your way to the end of all wars
Dont look down
Dont you fall to the floor
Someone has to remember my name
The stars remember nothing
When clouds drift ahead
While misty liqueur came making me drunk
I awake and I'm lost in my mind
I have taken the last of my time
I end up escaping the murderous fiends
I'm always hating these midnight bar dreams
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
Her Garden
Her world is an explosion of colour.
Flowers paint her pumpkin walls,
Fuschias dance in her back garden
and exotic roses watch over the plants that play to her music that breezes from her soul.
She is their sun
and their shade-
their very earth
and their rain.
Her children are loved
and her beauty adorned
with the essence of God.
Her Home
So warm.
Large wooden windows give light to the rooms.
To be there is to be in history:
faded photos, art, collectibles, aged mirrors,
take me on journeys to old souls and to myself.
The walls that hold them are boldly coloured and yet so comfortable. Every corner is a suprise placed with care.
The butch duck on the grandfather clock has laid an egg and curiously glares at the fireplace in the opposite corner.
I will always remember her fireplace.
Her bed is dressed with a red and gold silk oriental throw and large pillows resting on the headrest.
In the corner a tree laden with colourful handbags and hats for all occasions.
She has a mirror on an antique dresser for company
decorated with rings and makeup and jewelry
and many many interesting things.
The basket holds scarves and gloves and shoes,
and her sheets hold the moment i was born anew.
Her Art
She is her art.
Full of suprise,
eclectic,
eccentric,
bright.
Her home,
her garden,
her songs,
her interests,
her way.
She smiles poetry and wears classical movies.
She dances flowers and daggers
and speaks mystery and passion.
So soft and perplexed-
a roller coaster of colourful tastes
and memorable aromas.
To meet her is a pilgrimage,
to lose her is to lose an eye.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:40 AM UTC
stay up with me please
stay silent like me
let’s be quiet like death
let’s live as one in peace
i want to hear you breathe
just let me hear you
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
stay, i’m so restless
my headrest, your chest
resurrects me beneath stars
just let me listen, please
you help me just by breathing
just let me hear you
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
i feel your heart, it pounds
my ears pound with its throbs
the pounding in my head
beats down my heart’s rhythm
but there's peace in your breath
just you can hear me
inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale
stay up with me please
your beatings mend my pieces
i’ll meet death halved and peace-less
if for one moment you leave me
with lungs that gasp for air
and no exhales to breathe in
- end
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
the incessant running of a faucet,
a clock ticking rhythmically
with the sudden clink of metal on tile.
drip, drip, drip
a flow that's too late to stop
splashes filling the tub
gallons and gallons rushing to supply it.
drip, drip, drip,
crimson on clear creating spools of red colour,
this is it. this is all i'll ever be known for.
i've never seen the end so near.
drip, drip, swallow
it's all gonna be okay
i'll close my eyes and lean back
everything is a headrest if you make it one
drip, swallow relax,
i see dark, fuzzy spots yet feel a burning pain,
i feel so colourful yet soon i'll be gray
so here i'll lay until it's over and i'm found
cut scene, fade to black,
roll credits.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
Miryam slept
most of the way
through Paris
that evening
her head
on your shoulder
her eyes closed
like pink shells
her mouth
slightly ajar
an innocent
sleeping child
kind of look
on the coach
as it travelled
through the bright lights
and sights of Paris
Beethoven's
5th Piano Concerto
pouring
from the coach's
loudspeakers
you gazed
at her tight
red haired head
sense of her
laying there
a soft sound
of breathing
a barely felt sense
of her pulse
and feeling
that the most
important thing
at that moment
that pulse
that sound
of breathing
that the whole world
would cease
if she did
neither again
you lay back
your head
on the headrest
taking in the sights
the lights
people passing
street scenes
bars and cafés open
couples walking
arm in arm
a kissing couple
here and there
the second movement
of the Beethoven concerto
easing through
the coach
and looking down
at her hands folded
in her lap
as if they too slept
fingers holding
thumbs touching
her knees visible
where her skirt
rode up as she sat
and as you lay there
taking in
her being there
that eternal moment
sinking in
the Proustian connection
of her sleeping so
and the Beethoven episode
the piano easing out
and her head there
on your shoulder
rested childlike
and all or most
of desires kept at bay
seeing her lay so
like untouched
untrodden snow.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Exhausted.
His head slunk into the headrest
in the window seat. A stark contrast
to the eager little engine he could see
clinging to the plane wing; rumbling
with childish excitement.
The trolley rolled back and forth through the isle
a few times. He could wait no longer.
In his backpack a letter sat, with words
from the one he loved.
Hunching back down in his seat he slowly
and nervously unfolded it.
His inhales heavy at his gut,
where after scanning a few lines with his tired eyes,
his heart rocked against his rib cage.
He hadn't finished. He couldn't.
Folding it back up he hunched further forwards
with his head in his hands.
All the burdens of Atlas paled to the strain he felt,
everything dark and everything a lead weight right now,
he wanted to read the letter to it's end.
Was he strong enough to keep it together?
He wasn't sure.
...He had too!
Opening the letter he continued.
Those last lines.
Tears ran to the exit, the **** walls had fallen.
Like a toddler with a stubbed toe he succumbed to a
hopeless chorus of wailing and sobs.
He was a King in his new life, a ruler of all he surveyed,
something he could never be at home.
Why did things have to fall apart?
How!?
Those last words ringing like a bell
as he lay there like a defeated adversary.
"I love you forever and always"
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
Inhale.
Exhale.
Smoke escapes through my teeth and circles my head as my mind prepares for the trip that awaits.
A pair of dark sunglasses act as a safety blanket, setting my nerves at ease.
And an involuntary smile invades my face.
I tilt my head back on the headrest as if it were its rightful place.
Still I know that this feeling is nothing but fabricated happiness.
These ashes and this roach serve as evidence.
But I don't care.
The troubles of the world are set to pause.
The music is set to play.
Each note ripples through my ears, drowning out the sounds of the city.
This is my escape.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
Baby Mamas with their prams
Eating up wonderland
Dropping bits of food everywhere
Under their chairs
Laughing like schoolgirls
Flustered red
Bits of food
For non-believers
And the un-anointed
Are scarce
Clogging toilets with diapers
Dispensing waste
At an alarming rate
How much for a wonderland?
In the sky
Red marker
Rise and rise
White tissue
Go from white to brown
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling down
(all together now)
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling Down
How much for a trip to wonderland
With a cushioned seat
Padded headrest
And comfy feet?
Eat
A wonderland in the sky
The market is on the rise
The ground is black
And the clouds are white
Every minute
Clouds gather spin and rise
The Earth looks small
Falling behind
How much for wonderland
Up in the sky?
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
I prefer to drive home after drinking too much at 2 AM.
It's safer.
I'm convinced that all the cops are out after bars' happy hours.
I only know about that from my favorite bar, which is 9 to 11.
After 11, I think they prowl until one.
Come two, they are exhausted and bored.
But not like us.
The streets are like a blank canvas and we have all the paint,
And we are eager to make a mess of its purity.
I steer the wheel with my knee as I stretch my arms wide,
While one ends up hugging the headrest of your seat,
You look at me and say, "Pay attention to the road."
You mustn't know.
You mustn't know what it feels like to look at you
When you look at me
The way you do.
You mustn't.
You can't even begin to imagine all the things I see,
But I direct my gaze through my drunken haze to the expressway,
With the lights passing by us like previews before a movie,
And we try to comment on all of them,
Which ones we choose to see and not see,
But we're too excited about the feature presentation,
Because it's the first night that it feels like summer,
And I remember why I can't keep my mind off of you through all the seasons;
You have always been my summer scent,
The carefree afternoon, the elongated dusk, the crickets before bed,
The one that could keep me from feeling the cold that runs through my bones
And somehow make me whole and warm.
And I stop the car
And take you all in
And wait
For your eyes
To meet mine
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Where one could only place a thought on rest,
but for a moment, reflections that are addressed
on eyelids needing the collection of bedtime unrest.
My blankets are woven in comas of oppression
as when my eyes are entombed and depressed.
No one realizes that when they pass this dispossessed
huddle, lives life never given a moment as were oppressed.
For below this perceived cluster of a homeless man dressed,
is the dignity of man once upon a time blessed.
But I fell or stumbled, now my body slumbers on a headrest.
All that others see is a robin who lost his dignified vest.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
Fingers
Wrap around my waist
One hand curled in over my back
Your headrest isn't solid board and creaky springs
I'd laugh but it would fall flat as
Against the curve of knees over knees and face to shoulder blades
I cushion you. Curled into me more than around me and
We look silly because I'm so much smaller than you
She opens her mouth and sap pours out.
They speak about their desires. Someone who won't leave after two weeks. Someone who won't break away.
I'd laugh but it would fall flat as
I'm the one who leaves after a day.
Isn't that the worst? No. I can think of so much worse. Then they speak about me. "You better hold onto her" and "she's good people" or "don't they look adorable?" then "he stole my cuddle buddy"
Then they kiss.
I try not to move, much.
I'm the reason they stayed.
But the man behind me is better behaved. And he doesn't want me for more than my warmth. And he's never slept the night here, not unless I put him there. So I stay. And I listen to the two on the floor. And feel the crick in my neck start to get sore.
Legs
Wrap around my thighs
One foot atop mine
Your breath isn't evened by force
When I turn to you I want to cry
but it's a thought away from falling asleep
So I fall asleep with you.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Remember the headrest—muted
and pasted to your arms.
How it felt to smother in voicelessness.
Remember hair stains, decade-weary leather.
Remember the revolutions around ourselves.
Remember as inky sky purples from sunlight;
Confront the oppressive curls of memory.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
*Hair, head, neck, shoulders
Emerging out the window from the
Back seat of a car whizzing
Down a Mountain she fell in love with
Before knowing what love was
One arm overstretched and out as if she was
hugging the eroded Giants that towered over aged valleys
Just then a gust blows so strongly that
She sways a little, almost as if
The mountain winds were hugging her back
(She likes to think they were)
Hair billowing and whipping around;
A tumultuous halo
An unknown flutter in the Hollow
Of the centre of her chest expands
While she feels like she has shrunk
Or maybe has just realised How big the world is;
The feeling grows; Delighted, ecstatic and erratic
She shouts in her exploding happiness
Shouts the flutter from her belly
up her throat and out to the world
She makes love to the giant moss wearing rocks
Later, she sticks her head back in
(Like a touch-me-not flower shrinks back inside)
And leans back on the headrest, panting happily, eyes sparkling
And just looks in wonder as the mountains
keep on unfolding themselves to her
the car keeps going on and on and on.*
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Irreverent words flow as I spill this ink across the page
Suns rise and set, while this planet weeps black blood
The midnight stars shine solemnly in their eternal watch
God sighs as the universe sets, he can finally put down his burden
He aches and pains from toiling so long
Joints creak and his stomach rumbles
Maybe it's time for a nap
He lays his head down to slumber
The light, tinted pink from the evenings glow, filters through his window
A breeze gently stirs the wispy hair on his threadbare scalp
A bit of drool collects on the headrest of his recliner
His troubles all but forgotten to the tides of dreams
"Heaven is closed," Peter said to the gathered dead, "Here is your eviction notice."
One by one they marched down the marbled gold staircase as the angels descended above them
Jesus was the last to go, after tucking a blanket around his father's shoulders
With a final breath the universe dies, contented, in its sleep
No more witnesses, no more observers
Peace at last
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
Sweet morning dreaming of lake dip paddling.
The sun, barely up, warmed our skin.
You dipped your paddle in the black swirling lake
and we laughed when it dripped on my chin.
Quietly gliding we passed windbent trees
That should have been dead long ago.
They seemed to grow out of age polished stone
And you dip paddled along gently slow.
The life vest, my headrest, smelled of sweet fishy lake;
I lay on the cold metal floor.
Taking much comfort in the amplified lapping
As you paddled us on to the shore.
Then we swam to cool off while the sun climbed above
We floated the hours away.
Drifting together hands clasped and eyes closed
I look back and thank God for that day
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 12:24 PM UTC
Mine Spanish amour'
The one I talk of daily,
Well anyways
Me and her mine Spanish amare
Hast the moon as ourn bolster headrest
And the planet as ourn footstool's
As for the stars
And the asteroids
Well I can telleth thou this...............
They dance for us,
And what a show we get to enjoy!!!
And the best part
Between the moon and stars
Is when I see her smile
Than I knoweth its all for something!!!
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC