"hoisted" poems
It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up and fever
To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside:
A metal detonating
Native, evidently, to
These stilled suburbs nobody
Startled at it, though the sound
Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming
Till the thudding shource, exposed,
Counfounded in wept guesswork:
Framed in windows of Main Street's
Silver factory, immense
Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,
Stalled, let fall their vertical
Tonnage of metal and wood;
Stunned in marrow. Men in white
Undershirts circled, tending
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.
8k
Since Love is a word that is clearly defined,
I was sure it would be much less than easy to find.
But please decipher it’s meaning be my Rosetta Stone
How to manifest in person to keep me from alone
The one I’ve wanted and needed to fill my vacuous soul,
One whose substance would fill my red but black hole
My collective attention would never escape her.
How can a concept so complex be drawn out on paper?
We’d be perfect and free we’d be perfect as “we”
But love is too broad for such specificity.
I’ve hoisted my thoughts until they were too high to still see
Wondering how love could even be in the dictionary.
Alas I’ll search ‘till transformed, my hairs all turn grey.
The only place I’ll ever find love is in the section after “K”.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!
Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!
Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.
My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.
5.3k
~commissioned accidentally by a melody,
a passing glance, a purring perchance,
an idle innocent comment,
to be born as the first poem of this day,
@7:00am
Tue Sep 18 2025,
writ in haste, before
departing over many islands to
another place called "home"~
---~<>~---
*sometimes,
not so secret,
anon, ^
sometimes,
so much more,
than that but a glancing of favoring,
a handshake secreted, is actually felt,
actually secreted,
and rare though via~able,
it passes through a longing traveled voyage,
over wire, under sea's cabling, through space,
hoisted from & by satellite over continental divides
just a hop, skip and jumpstart
over this tiny planet,
and though, but, an amorphous 👍 thumb,
a colored 💙 or collared,
or a pointing 🫵
body part
the like,
bears more than just a passing resemblance
to another*
f o u r l e t t er w o r d
its often lost & found
dear cuz ^^
full of meanings hidden,
or even
anon,
"I'll be there shortly"^
magic!
nml
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 7:33 AM UTC
Once a girl lived in a tower.
She had the longest golden locks you had ever seen.
Her mother would visit and be hoisted upwards upon those locks to see her daughter.
The girl was named after a plant… Rapunzel.
How could she know this though when she had always lived in her home of the tower.
Her mother had kept her there since she could remember.
Rapunzel would ask when should could see the world.
Her mother would turn down these pleas saying the world was too dangerous for Rapunzel.
As she grew older Rapunzel realized that she resided in not a home but a prison.
Why was mother allowed to see the world and she was not?
Why could she not decide for herself the dangers of the world?
Freedom always framed within her window but too far below to reach.
On her 18th birthday Rapunzel fled the tower using the locks that had grown so very long.
Her mother soon after discovered her daughter to be missing. Full of spite she pursued her daughter.
Rapunzel’s hair kept her from going too far and soon her mother was upon her.
Rapunzel tried to flee, but her mother seeing her daughter free from the world she had made for her stepped upon the long locks.
She pulled her daughter back to her slowly, back to the safety of her arms, her world. Rapunzel struggled on the ground trying to escape. She took a rock and severed the locks from her head. She fell forward into the edge of the woods and onto thorns.
She was blinded. Her mother rushed to her side not concerned for the eyes that weeped red but for the destroyed beauty that was her daughter’s locks.
Rapunzel may have lost her sight in that moment but her mother had lost hers long before that. Unable to see how she had hurt her daughter. That the greatest pain her daughter had experienced was given by her. Her daughter was blind and could not see the world, but her mother had never seen her for what she was.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of a different world.
Like the rim of the atmosphere, or the inside of a womb
where everything is slippery, even the past, and all
I can remember is the air in my lungs.
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of when you held me above the water as a child
that time we walked too far past the ******* and could no longer touch.
You hoisted me up on the hips that birthed me and
beatering your legs you struggled, your hairline trimming the surface
so I could breathe. And when we finally swam back onto the ridge you panted to the rhythm of the waves. Looked down at me and smiled,
“That was fun, wasn’t it?”
Fingers interlocked on the way home down the beach, where
bare feet walk on wet handlebars in the morning and footprints are flooded at night by the moon. The ability to erase but mostly
I like being underwater because I am made of water. And so are you.
And the ocean surrounds me with the salt of your last breath
felt stroking my cheek with weak, small hands waving goodbye.
You were so small and
the water is so big, yet when I’m under,
all I feel is you.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
794
A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree—
Another—on the Roof—
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—
And made the Gables laugh—
A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—
What Necklace could be—
The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—
The Birds jocoser sung—
The Sunshine threw his Hat away—
The Bushes—spangles flung—
The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—
And bathed them in the Glee—
Then Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the Fete away—
3.9k
I hope you know that I'll always hold you;
always catch you when you fall.
You're so strong, with your proud chin hoisted upwards.
No one would ever see the slouch in your shoulders,
unless you wanted them to.
The tiredness of your eyes;
deep purple smudges on your eyelids.
Your smile may settle in a delightful curve
but it doesn't set in your eyes like the sun.
I will catch you, I promise;
If you should choose to fall, do not be wary.
You won't hit the hard ground, the cold earth.
But you will hit my arms.
And you can just rest there.
Rest there, my dear.
And don't worry about anything.
You don't have to speak;
I will listen to the way your voice sounds,
sincere or not;
I will catch you, darling.
If you should ever fall.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Jupiter Mars P Moon
VENEZIA, "May" 19"th", 1910.
Jupiter's foursquare blaze of gold and blue
Rides on the moon, a lilac conch of pearl,
As if the dread god, charioted anew
Came conquering, his amazing disk awhirl
To war down all the stars. I see him through
The hair of this mine own Italian girl,
Adela
That bends her face on mine in the gondola!
There is scarce a breath of wind on the lagoon.
Life is absorbed in its beatitude,
A meditative mage beneath the moon
Ah! should we come, a delicate interlude,
To Campo Santo that, this night of June,
Heals for awhile the immitigable feud?
Adela!
Your breath ruffles my soul in the gondola!
Through maze on maze of silent waterways,
Guarded by lightless sentinel palaces,
We glide; the soft plash of the oar, that sways
Our life, like love does, laps --- no softer seas
Swoon in the ***** of Pacific bays!
We are in tune with the infinite ecstasies,
Adela!
Sway with me, sway with me in the gondola!
They hold us in, these tangled sepulchres
That guard such ghostly life. They tower above
Our passage like the cliffs of death. There stirs
No angel from the pinnacles thereof.
All broods, all breeds. But immanent as Hers
That reigns is this most silent crown of love
Adela
That broods on me, and is I, in the gondola.
They twist, they twine, these white and black canals,
Now stark with lamplight, now a reach of Styx.
Even as out love - raging wild animals
Suddenly hoisted on the crucifix
To radiate seraphic coronals,
Flowers, flowers - O let our light and darkness mix,
Adela,
Goddess and beast with me in the gondola!
Come! though your hair be a cascade of fire,
Your lips twin snakes, your tongue the lightning flash,
Your teeth God's grip on life, your face His lyre,
Your eyes His stars - come, let our Venus lash
Our bodies with the whips of Her desire.
Your bed's the world, your body the world-ash,
Adela!
Shall I give the word to the man of the gondola?
3.4k
the destroyers are out to destroy
they are the heat of the night
napalm-burned bodies trembling in the jungle
they are bullets nestled silently into the back of one's head
babies dangling from their mother's limp arms as
she builds herself a new body
made out of the countryside & the trees & dynamite
and she will bring the explosion at dawn
i could fit the memory of last night in a wine bottle
i fell asleep in the dumpster and you kissed me with your wine stained lips
in the morning i hoisted the sunrise into a wheelbarrow and headed west.
now i don't know who or what i am
all i need is a soapbox to stand on
or a cliff to climb
a little solitude
i need to be regurgitated as smoke
hanging over three lanes of asphalt
i need a valley with soft green carpet
and a pretty girl's adolescent thighs
i need my face shoved in her *****
i need the enormous bliss of a long afternoon
i need to find the intersection of
our intimate streets.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
i struggle with the tomb.
i come from the moon to alight upon an earthen vase
to pause upon the lip and swoon.
i am no ghost. but through walls, i come.
lugging a throne of tears and thimbles
of blood... my fire, more dark than the hunter's motive.
my life more spark than the sun's design.
complete me, and i will endure the wane hours
and shun all harm... like the one stroke of lightning
in a cup, swollen with angry bees
affixed to a white sheet of ice... I'll descend into You,
like a lodestone on a chain,
to be hoisted up from the fathoms of Loss
to drown in our madness, just because -
like a noise
in a sound.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:17 AM UTC
*Ladies & Gentlemen, behold!
Listen to the story I have to share.
A fantasy from future.*
Someday in Future
Setting: The underground metro train
Characters: She & me
Me: Now our stop is at the end, darling.
She: I'd just relax until we reach then, dear.
Me: How're you going to do that, standing?
She: I've my personal pillar to hold on to for relaxing, you know - I don't fear...
Me: ...and that is me?
She: Yes & no!
I look clueless and she lets out a laughter barely audible to others in the metro train.
She: You yourself are not the pillar but you've the pillar!
I blush big time and turn tomato-red, her delicately-soft hands come pull my cheeks and by now I am able to duly respond as the man.
Me: Oh I see! So madam is in a good mood to flirt. Good-good, even I was starting to get bored hearing only to the harsh sound of the metro train on the track, let us recollect the previous night.
She: Sure, you bear the onus of starting the account and I'll recount the ending as we reach home.
Me: Alright then, here we go.
Low voices
Me: Darling I started it all,
I came from the showers,
I carried a seductive grin,
As I moved forwards,
You started to fall,
Not caring where you fell towards.
And you fell in my arms,
I held you softly as my baby,
As you're precious to me like one.
I then lifted you in my arms,
You had a soft glowing smile on your lips.
Then I laid you on the bed,
You appeared like Aphrodite.
The white gown was off in a jiffy,
You looked at my towel's knot,
And you undid it the next.
She: As the pillar was unveiled,
I hoisted myself on it,
And we came together.
Me: Now the station seems closer, let us conclude our recounting Friday night. (Looking at my watch)
She: Yes, we have a night every other night. (Winks)
Me: I love you, honey! (I smile)
She: Not more than me! (Her smile is more brilliant)
By now the train approaches our stop and we are smiling as we dismount the train.
On our minds for a sleepless Saturday night we are hatching a beautiful plan.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
We were building a boat.
A sea-worthy vessel made for two.
A cosy little nest,
a shell of the promise for me and you.
We made it sturdy...
From keel to hull.
We sang to each other
to oust the lull.
We spoke of the adventures,
together we'd avidly chase.
We braced for the storms,
we'd most likely face.
As the last drop of sweat...
Fell freely to our feet,
the boat was done.
What were once planks, was then complete.
I climbed aboard
and hoisted up the sail.
You lingered for a bit...
Seemingly cautious that the boat might fail.
The craft quickly drifted out to sea...
When the wind, the sail did willingly welcome.
I cried out to you so you could hop on...
So with me you could come.
But you simply stood there...
With a gaze incredibly deadpan.
As the currents pulled me further,
I only then realised...
That I was never your plan.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
my DNA is a self-made daisy chain
strung together with the best of intentions
and a few yards of dental floss
it's always getting tangled up in moon beams
and boot strings
tugging me in one thousand directions at once
like the sea pulling at the limitless shorelines hem
i am magic
my flesh reflects the hue of the desert dust the winds bathe me in
speckled with freckles that occasionally line up with the stars
what a fool i'd be to paint myself into obscurity
with make-up brushes and lipstick hues
no
i choose me
excessively sensitive to the energy of all other living beings
always feeling everything
all the pain and happiness
love and fear and angst
at once
lumped in with the leaves of my tea
destined to forever reside within
me
the high-priestess of the immeasurable things
the guardian of treasures unseen
constantly filling my sundress with ***** pebbles
broken feathers
and all the stardust i can find
i've spent the last one thousand life times
being everywhere at the EXACT same time
you should know
you were there
and oh
such love i've found
hiding in the shallows
in the mud
and under the edges of your finger nails
even in the darkness of the vast
and ever-stretching sky
there is so much light
so very many precious gems
hoisted into timeless settings along the milkyway's head-dress
i promise
where i am right now
is the best place to be
and if you don't believe me
crane your neck towards the stars
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
I saw an old man crying at
the precipice of his sanity,
ten stories above the sea,
and the world at his feet, a helo-deck:
a principality that had the worn out lay of home.
So trivialized.
So fantasized.
So immobilized.
Transmitting pirate-radio-waves eternally.
Seized the tower.
Hoisted the flag.
Crowned the queen.
"I've no blood right, only a passport," he said. "But do have the right mindset: I can't leave, we're so dangerous. Don't be a stranger now, we'll never be this dangerous again..."
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 5:45 PM UTC
A visible shroud, all over me it says JOY.
In the crypt of a vampire, immense, hoisted bat entrails.
It's a kite, he is making, the wind wants to feel it.
The wind likes to move about, implore.
Prevailing winds, guide the rope's direction.
I strove for freedom more than before, forgot limits,
Now the kite can fly beyond the night, it will be jealous,
High above, in the sky, untouched by evil pride.
I am not soft hearted, prone to emphatic shivers,
But in a thousand pieces I hear every sound.
I love this earth and am reminded by the sights below,
All the birds of various descriptions, fly too,
those feather fingered sisters, they are often in pain,
Like farmers milling the sky underwing.
A cloud is a wall, then a room of purest white,
On fly the birds and on flies the kite,
On many lands falls our shade, life is below,
Now is the time to be soft hearted, swirl in torrents.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Then was my neophyte,
Child in white blood bent on its knees
Under the bell of rocks,
Ducked in the twelve, disciple seas
The winder of the water-clocks
Calls a green day and night.
My sea hermaphrodite,
Snail of man in His ship of fires
That burn the bitten decks,
Knew all His horrible desires
The climber of the water ***
Calls the green rock of light.
Who in these labyrinths,
This tidethread and the lane of scales,
Twine in a moon-blown shell,
Escapes to the flat cities' sails
Furled on the fishes' house and hell,
Nor falls to His green myths?
Stretch the salt photographs,
The landscape grief, love in His oils
Mirror from man to whale
That the green child see like a grail
Through veil and fin and fire and coil
Time on the canvas paths.
He films my vanity.
Shot in the wind, by tilted arcs,
Over the water come
Children from homes and children's parks
Who speak on a finger and thumb,
And the masked, headless boy.
His reels and mystery
The winder of the clockwise scene
Wound like a ball of lakes
Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen
Love's image till my heartbone breaks
By a dramatic sea.
Who kills my history?
The year-hedged row is lame with flint,
Blunt scythe and water blade.
'Who could snap off the shapeless print
From your to-morrow-treading shade
With oracle for eye?'
Time kills me terribly.
'Time shall not ****** you,' He said,
'Nor the green nought be hurt;
Who could hack out your unsucked heart,
O green and unborn and undead?'
I saw time ****** me.
2.5k
Asthmatic heart attack fits
in a powdered-sugar
hurricane blitz
swept the fertile landscape’s
curves & twists
before the mud of disgust
was caked hard as rust
on the buildings hoisted
out of soil’s distrust.
Tear them down echoed
the canyon walls
whose layers of prayers
crept the ivy higher
reaching toward the sun
where the liar can envy
what’s honestly done.
In a stream it was spoken
to rush upon ears with
the good grace to listen
like whales of our years
unburied, and twice re-lived;
under seas of reproach
for having nothin’ to give.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
I stood across a fiery red
and ended up purple.
Greased thighs, dripping down and
rested on knee caps
too brittle.
“So this is how you fall apart.”
I say,
“this is how you fall apart.”
When it isn’t as glorious as others make it seem
and the only sound you make is an
inner monologue, where you berate yourself.
“This is you, you **** of a train wreck example.”
And then you stand and you cower
at the mere sight of a figure ahead.
You tug down the remains of your shirt
and you wipe your busted lip dry,
like it will hide the cut and bite.
You wince once sweat kisses your brow
and you hiss like someone hoisted you against a brick wall.
You never stand. You never stand
and you are excused for cursing.
All the ******** the dammits, the batshit *** **** flow out
like breath – naturally, an incestuous inhale and exhale of
“someone give me that thingamajiggy for the pain!”
But it never comes.
And you are never cured.
And it never goes away,
when a quicksand of that stinky pile of unwritten brain farts start farting,
one by ******* one.
Blessed are the stoic ones, for they glorify aching.
****** are the loud ones, for the stoic ones are deaf.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
I once knew a girl her
Name was Liez she did not
Have hair fingernails cartilage
She had the nicest smile.
When Liez smiled it was as rare as
Feeling the last raindrop of a storm
Remembering the last time your father
Hoisted you up to sit on his shoulders the
Last time you could sit with your legs Indian-style
With your feet on top.
When Liez died no one made a sound but they
All cried and I did too.
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 4:46 AM UTC
No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
*Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.
Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.
Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of seaman’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.
Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.
Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.*
M.
Easter Sunday 2014
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
606
The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung—
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun—
Far Psalteries of Summer—
Enamoring the Ear
They never yet did satisfy—
Remotest—when most fair
The Sun shone whole at intervals—
Then Half—then utter hid—
As if Himself were optional
And had Estates of Cloud
Sufficient to enfold Him
Eternally from view—
Except it were a whim of His
To let the Orchards grow—
A Bird sat careless on the fence—
One gossipped in the Lane
On silver matters charmed a Snake
Just winding round a Stone—
Bright Flowers slit a Calyx
And soared upon a Stem
Like Hindered Flags—Sweet hoisted—
With Spices—in the Hem—
’Twas more—I cannot mention—
How mean—to those that see—
Vandyke’s Delineation
Of Nature’s—Summer Day!
2.2k
My name is Boomer and I'm a Beagle
Sometimes I'm clumsy, sometimes I'm regal...
I like to run, sniff, eat, and play.
I have lots of energy to do this all day..
We have great sniffers because we are hounds.
We also can make a few different sounds...
Pointed to the sky is our tail.
Hoisted straight up just like a sail..
The white on the end, is called a flag.
When not standing up, its going to wag...
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC