"heffalump" poems
I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.
Maybe you consider yourself a god.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried
Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.
An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.
No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
To taste the red burst of rippened tomatoes
that catch a summer's glee whose
shouts run down airconditioned malls of daffodils
to reach butterscotch ends
To catch naive dewdrops on their final wave
-- gleeful regardless of their fleeting demise
on leaffy budettes as they hitchhike on blushing shins
that touch for just a second
To receive the cricket's call
and hang on their every word like
how the stars do on the night sky velvet
hung taut to stop the dreamer's upward freefall
To reverbrate down hymns
and ***** pipes whose rust subdued
by caramel oaken spirits and
cigars rolled with rebellion
To watch the twinkle of eyes
that unroll before me cinemated
like the rhythmic popping of corn seeds
and the anticipation of childlike hands
To surf the last yawn and sigh
whose ebb and flow crash on
pristine beds -- that soothes and prickles the ears
where the mind remains calm and restless
To sit with 4am and drink
tea or coffee (whichever it desires)
and have hours of conversation before
its teary depature
To the pilgrims' call of the first train
The satisfaction of staying vigil
simmers in the insomniac's stovetop
that seems to be low on gas
The need of slumber seems trivial at most
for dreaming has never known the diffrence
between being awake or asleep
or could this just be my mind that flurries
like jackrabbit thumps and heffalump nightmares
and honey dripping down my boyish chin
and mother napkins and lush lullabies
that whisper "go to sleep"
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
It's weird
They say distance
makes the heart grow fonder
Due to experience,
I won't disagree
I hope you don't either
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC