"incoherently" poems
I’m rendered powerless. Just about breathless. I watch as each layer of clothing gravitates toward the floor. Strip off the clothes that enveloped his beauty. My knees begin to fail me. Through his stare it feels as though he’s already probing every crevice of my being. Eye-fingers ravish me. He’s bare. My eyes haven’t left him. He smirks, refusing to leave me a spectator. Clammy hands penetrate the chill of the tile lined room. He strips me. I'm sure he senses me shaking.. goosebumps begin to rise. We step into shower. The tap is high, the temperature hot. The passion as well. He’s capturing me. Rapturing my frame, Grasping me. Gasping for me. He pulls me into him.. into the air. My legs incoherently wrap around him. The hot vapors aren't from the water, but our lust we heed. It’s wet. "Think ya can make it to the bedroom?" My throat closes. Barley touching, the pleasure, pressure, of his words render me unable to respond clearly. I nearly whimper out an answer. The smirk returns. This act meant for cleansing morphs into such a ***** one. I’m miserable within myself, the sheer amount of desire burns. Pushing me to the wall his body presses against me. He pushes into me. His hips. His lips. I feel him sliding in and out, violating, his tongue twisting around my own. His body as well. We’re intertwined...
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
You should know
You're just a temporary fix
She's a ****
An obscured partial eclipse
She runs and hides
Behind a mask of addictive scripts
She's the game
You just feel good against her melanin
You should know
She's incoherently captivating
She's a naked lady
Amaryllis Belladonna
Poisonous and pink
She'll hit a switch you can't describe
Concurrently splitting your spine
Yet enhancing the fruits of your mind
She's a ****
And you're just a temporary fix
Where she lives
Love does not exist
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
"Sloths!",
she squawked,
almost incoherently,
I'd just took a sip of my tea.
"To most, they remain a mystery".
The remark remained a mystery to me.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
*The night’s ramblings
Whispered incoherently
Hearts synced forever
Can comprehend them
It’s a winding labyrinth
Hand in hand
So as not to lose each other
By the moonlit path
Incoherent whispers
But meaningful conversations
Laying supine under starry sky
It’s a dream together
Preparing to fly to destinations
Night’s ramblings
Have given a new meaning
To the adventure of life*
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
We have a possessed person at work.
She talks incoherently
& spins around in her chair
like a crazy girl.
Forever using the Lord's name in vain,
once I saw her floating to the restroom,
and it wasn't on a broom.
Flies seem to hang around her desk,
her breath sometimes smells like *****
and she has an aversion to crosses.
When you put all those facts together,
there's no way you can deny
the devil's inside her.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
They say falling in love is not easy, but all it takes is a shot glass glance, and no sooner than later you’ll look at her profile in the dim light, and you’re in love.
Everything then becomes crimsoned, not because you are in a pub,
but rather because it is the shade of passion,
love.
And no sooner than now, you are dreaming of throwing your hands beneath her dress,
and thinking of mouthing, “I love you” from your eyes, to hers.
But no, she does not walk up to you, and you feel that the stereotypical misconception of a woman never making the first move, is true.
This is a man’s work, you tell yourself, dubiously forgetting what too lies between your legs, is nothing that of a man.
You’re intoxicant now, perhaps from the four Pabsts you've downed because you’re cheap and cool,
and you are incoherently waltzing
on over to her, and of course she smiles,
either because you look like an idiot,
or because she is charmed.
You cup your hands on her face.
The skin is soft, she says nothing,
but feels warm.
This is not love. You’re just drunk.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
It’s been said that infatuation makes for a fast spiral down to
sightlessness. But do you say the blind cannot see? I bear no
mind to mere optics for I need not the sense to possess the
sight. I have your radiance with me, branded to the backs of my
lids for I cannot help but have you always until the next time
I look upon you. With a clutch of my hand you have me at
your will. You present this present with your presence and I
shall honor this with my eyes, never to shield whilst I have
you before me. Consumed I become as you lay me down
beneath the leaves. Take all you will from me for I shall
remain exposed to your desires.
My gaze wandered up and found the leaves on fire. There
was no smoke; there was no fear for we had been the fire
all along. The flames of yours and mine together had
consumed the air of our yesterdays, leaving nothing to look
back on and ceasing the urge to look forward; we were here,
existent, ready to ignite once more. This surge required
naught save for the breaths of yours and mine to chance;
your breath compelling this sealed backdraft longing for
indulgence, growing wild with every touch, every scent,
every taste of your delicate tongue as it wrapped in mine.
The embers knew nothing of destruction but rather renewal
of that which I had longed for.
I once believed it foolish to feel the same with another
synchronously. A belief I now find fault in for just as the
two flames who dance incoherently; once they touch they
become unified in their brilliant engagement, creating a
distinct cohesion that most will undoubtedly remain unaware
to. It is that moment, that paradise we search for. A sensation
that last a moment but for those without sight, a single
moment becomes the ultimate reality of eternity; a single slice
in our whole of existence which we stay hungry for. So look
no further for I am close at hand. We have already set this
world ablaze and altered the realm of our tomorrows. It is now,
in this very moment where we shall get a taste of eternity and
there will never be anyone more adequate to share this paradise
with other than that who makes me sightless.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Gently brushing your almond skin with my lips
along that perfect curve between your shoulder and neck.
Soft bites to couple the kisses.
You murmur incoherently.
Slight confusion and alarm at being taken from one realm
and ****** into this waking world.
My hand gently caresses your thigh and I can feel your hand
slowly moving to meet mine.
Our fingers entwine
and you grasp it tightly.
A rock in this storm of conciousness.
Then you slowly turn over,
Our lips meet.
Your eyelashes fluttering against mine
and I can feel your smile.
Perfection.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 8:37 AM UTC
the enfeebling mistake
veiled as a no-no
the little miss brazen **** bears the brunt
of what now must be a joke
incoherently fishing about for the juice
indecent glycemic index
meter says 30
profile says 10
or 15
milligrams of the judy blue pastille
no gobs to say about she
but when her jeans genuflect
no tiff
no tease
be a lamb or another even-toed ungulate
and give the poor girl what she needs
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
I don't know what I am doing here.
At least I feel safe, for the moment.
This seat is warm from my heat.
They are talking but I do not know them.
I am lost in my own exhausted world.
I never knew how well the word malaise fit me.
This private access to your face stays upon my lap.
It is feeding from the outlet in the wall.
I am only exacerbating my addiction.
I am addicted to your face.
Your beautiful, careless face.
It makes me sick, but I can't resist.
What am I doing here?
I'm uncomfortable within my own skin.
I'm itching for a way out from the inside.
Spiders are stepping gracefully upon my veins.
I'm swimming in nausea.
My eyes are shifting to and fro.
My head is the worst of it all.
These thoughts of you are eating me alive.
Because I'm not supposed to be
thinking of you.
I should be thinking
of him;
but when had we decided we
were in love?
He assumed, I'm sure.
I don't remember ever discussing it.
And you.
Look at you assuming things
just like he has.
But I don't care to tell you
you're wrong
because
you're right.
You remind me of that boy;
the one who smelled
sweet
in the summer time.
Immature and
out of sync --
I pretended to love
all that he was.
I hate to say it to myself,
but you remind me of him
sometimes.
The way you laugh and the way
you act
throws me into terrible
recollections
of days best forgotten.
And yet,
Here I am searching for
your blue eyes and
your left handed scribble
and
that mess of brown hair--
characteristics of every man
I've really loved--
and that scruff you call a beard,
black shirts and forced smiles.
I'm aching for your voice
mumbling incoherently into my hair;
aching for your arms,
warm and strong
and soporific; aching for
your lips
warm and sweet
pressed against mine,
as they were that one night
upon the dance floor:
quick and only once
but enough to make me cry.
I'm only making things
worse for myself.
I'm barely getting along in this house--
I've run out of things to do
and things to say
and things to think
to myself,
yet I sit still here
imitating your presence before
me, telling myself
it's only so long
until Saturday.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 5:58 PM UTC
Snatching at the words,
Mumbling incoherently,
Such things, such imagery,
Haunting me, taunting me,
Fighting on the cusp of sleep,
Denying me semblance of reason,
For these words I want, no, need,
Their beauty, strings of literary pearls,
Flow sinuously through my mind,
Then begin to dissipate, please no,
Cunningly vanishing at equal speed,
With which I try to recall them,
Smoke thinning, drifting on the wind,
Mocking me as I rouse, knowing,
Deep inside, how good the words felt,
What they would mean, such wonder,
Now gone, but perhaps, perhaps,
They were never as good as I thought,
Maybe such things never are, maybe,
Maybe the real beauty is hidden pleasure,
A delight in the process itself, hmm,
The imagining, I - no, we, for I mean, us poets -
Love that creative part; want to hold it forever,
That heady feeling, that Promethean power,
How we cherish this treasure, and share it,
Sharing is the best, hmm, and the keeping,
Yes, never neglect the keeping, coveting,
The unmatched sense of achievement,
Something known only to poets,
Alas, those forgotten words,
Edging the cusp of sleep, perhaps,
Well, they do not travel so well, still,
We console ourselves with knowing,
Knowing they were there, truly existing,
Trying to escape on a whimsical notion,
When in reality, if we are patient,
They do come home, words to roost,
Appearing, here, there, everywhere,
In various forms, so all is not lost, still,
On the edge of dreams, we fail to avoid,
Snatching at the words.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
Swash arises with immeasurable strength
Cascading against a buckling hull
Lost screams echo incoherently in a dark abyss
White embers engulf the universe
As the world cracks in two
Waves distort life and death with gentle balance
Bestowing reincarnation against the odious blue kraken
Rolling innocently upon the great pale sea
Striding to quench a perishing thirst
Embarking on my final journey.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Anger,
Your anger breeds violence.
Violence creates more violence.
Way to complete the circle.
A rotary of madness,
Once you get inside it's green lights the whole way.
Ring around the rotary,
But you can't have what is not yours to grab.
Trapped falling in the sky,
Parachute made of exceptions.
All the rain drops want to flood the city,
Now how often does that happen?
Keep following me,
Me and and the piece I took from you.
Your puzzle forever unfinished,
Because you'll never find me again.
Can't merge with a crowded road,
Nor the thoughts in my mind.
Distracted words incoherently spew out,
I just hope you get the rhyme.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
Is it really what I need?
Or is it what I want?
Do I need to control my habits?
I have been for so long, but I know what happens once I give in to them...
Indecisive, I can’t make up my mind.
I keep switching between different thoughts holding me back, trying to own me.
I pop all alone, for fun.
But it’s love what I seek.
To have someone whom like me, understands me.
Someone dark, intense, emotional, and passionate.
I crave it deep inside but I brushed it off completely letting go of the topic of lovin.
I incoherently, fell in love with the topic of sin.
I need it bad.
I’m feeling ****** and sensual.
I’m feeling seductive and flirtatious.
I want someone close whom I can share that with on a deep level.
I’ve only felt pain, bring the drugs, to numb me again.
Vain, cold veins shivering inside of me.
So detached, love is nothing to me.
Water flowing inside my lungs, fire in my heart, and a devil on my tongue.
I crave depth and intensity with someone.
Love me hard, even if it’s just for one night only.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 9:55 AM UTC
Time, thoughts
incoherently
show
hazy veil
crowding
sail
direction none.
Where all begins
where it goes
where comes from
where it grows...
life a mixture
bubbles
slowly blowing
heart inside
knows no Knight
belief succumbs...
Passing lights
sparkles of night
weakly rise
in darkness
shine.
Days mark pace
speedily race
desire bears
fruit of care.
Maybe tomorrow
maybe now
maybe a path
will meet the bow.
Choice runs
marathon ...
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 7:28 AM UTC
Searching for words I fumbled and stumbled
Incoherently I mumbled
Eager to share the repartee
Trying too hard, too desperately
Now I know what I should have said
It really would have knocked 'em dead
They would have thought what a clever chap
If I'd come out with that
But it's too late unfortunately
The only one listening now
Is me
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
The food had no flavor to it.
There must've been a spice somewhere
But all it did was sting her tongue.
There's noise, talking and television
And dog snores that she can't tune out
Even if it all blends together
Incoherently.
There's static in her brain,
On her palate,
In her ears.
And all the while she's screaming
While sitting silent in her chair.
Screaming in third person.
Screaming pretty words
Like a diary entry,
Saying, "O me, O my!
Look at these woes!"
Scorning those who build crosses to bear
When she's in the assembly line.
Hypocritical martyrdom.
Closet elitist.
Walking contradiction in every way.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
this girl asks me, "gotta minute to spare?"
chapped lips and misty-eyed
while i stare enviously at her thighs,
wishing i could taste that milky white,
sits down, touches my hand
and tells me,
"the moon is dying",
something i already knew
but i cry anyway
babbling incoherently into her hands,
brush a finger over her shoulder,
dotting freckles in constellations,
the speckled stars of her irises
combust into molecules
scatter, running freely away
oh girl, we could tread these muddy waters,
traverse the land on our bare feet
and wipe the filth off our skirts
but come sundown,
we'll still sleep alone.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
collected in lyrical a doggy bag.
I will not fall on a sword of those that ignore my verse
that fall on the page, do you know why I write in diverse
motions? Do you know my demons the voices that verse
inwards on the white of my skull? my reflections reverse.
The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
collected in lyrical a doggy bag.
But excrement can be rhymed in free verse, I'm doing this
for me but I don't linger to impress! I word for my emotions
are a hurricane and I'm the eye calm but I swim in the abyss.
The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
collected in lyrical a doggy bag.
I'm vocalized to those that don't sniff the arses of poor vocals
linger on excellence not the excrement of poorly woven yokels.
Lyrics of verse are meant to move not stagnate silently,
they are meant to be lyrics that move the emotion violently.
"Weave the best version of you, not the diluted verse,
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I talk to you the best when you're nowhere around. Like there are things I can't address with an audible sound or an eloquent progression of adjectives and nouns when I feel the weight of eyes running across my face.
It's just the space in which I reside, communication commits suicide and I'll slide out something sly or a bad joke and try my best to let it go, because I know you don't hold it against me.
It's not that you make me nervous, I just render myself wordless. My vocal chords are worthless when the sensations are so heavy. Concepts seem obscure and on the tip of my tongue, but too scared to take the plunge. They turn back and run and my silence seems dumb, distant or despondent.
Sometimes I have too much to say, so I'll stutter to articulate a notion that would take me all day to actually feel like what I wanted to convey was done justice, or worse, I'll reflectively reiterate and ramble redundancies, rearranging rhetorical rumblings, remorsefully reaching to recite a redeeming rendering, like an OCD patient switching her light on and off endlessly because it didn't "feel" the way it should have in her mind the first time, the tenth time, the hundredth...
Though when I'm alone, it's a completely different scenario. Someday I hope you hear me speaking through the speakers of your stereo, and my words will flow and show concise precision of a vision with intention and you'll know, I sat there for hours to bring you that message.
I'm either speechless or I bleed an abstract sequence, the in-between is when I sing to apparitions or rewrite things I've written just to interpret my own cognition. There are no translators or subtitles for my kind, whose vanquished language is transmuted into music, tunes, or incoherently scribbled lines. Though I guess I should confess, sometimes I feel like you decode me nonetheless. I'm blessed to have a friend that knows the truth about my essence, beyond flesh, beyond silence, beyond expression. It's not like my thoughts are oh-so-profound or some ground-shaking revelation too complex to pronounce. But it's something about myself that I've found. I speak to people best when they're nowhere around.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
A reading at Kenneth Rexroth's bookstore,
Union Street in San Francisco, 1971.
He was incoherently drunk, slurred his poems,
insulted the host, insulted the audience,
hit on the awestricken hippie girls,
delivered every kind of obnoxious possible.
Fortunately, I had read his poems
and arrived prepared to witness his act.
I'd thought his poems were overrated,
I found his persona to be spot on.
At the reception, I drank a beer beside him.
He glanced up, called me a *****
and said he ought to kick my ***
Three weeks back for Vietnam,
I laughed directly into his face.
He turned onto another potential victim.
Instead of some street smart poet,
I saw him as just the flip side
of the New York pretentiousness
he professed to despise.
But everybody loved the clown.
Entire younger generations still do.
Still, I'm sticking to my first impressions.
Only toddlers beg to be worshiped.
Sometimes it feels good to be the odd man out.
~mce
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach
"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."
~~
and thus, the circling noose grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point -
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, yeah, sure, sure,
you knew that,
tho daring to verbalize same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind with body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of life's linkages and motifs parallel
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts,
called words,
into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
truthful, youthful and crucial
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
My friend, My friend, Insomniac,
You're ******* crazy.
You asked me to stay up late again,
like every other visit.
We smoked and smoked, We kept sleep at bay,
Held it off with caffeine,
but tempted it with liquor,
and you awoke me in single digits, low ones,
and wanted me to hear that song.
As much as I care for you, I realized something that night...
I'm no insomniac! Just a pedestrian, a faker!
Honestly believing that the sleep deprivation and
Not the drugs, not the alcohol, or the company,
Were actually killing me in the morning hours,
and, mumbling incoherently, I could not appreciate
The thing you wanted me to hear or see.
It might have been both.
So, yeah.
Sorry about that.
You're the best in my book and always will be.
Thanks for some great nights.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC