"inserting" poems
“Ask me about my patches”
Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.
I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.
The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.
I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.
That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.
That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.
The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.
Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.
Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with ********
Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?
I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.
I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.
But, I do know some about the history of man.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
724
It’s easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—
Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—
It’s easy to efface it—
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—
The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—
5.8k
Look at me and glance into my eyes. Feel the power from the windows of my soul. Glare into the beaming light of my mind. Relax BUT WAIT I want full control. The conversation begins my attraction the stimulation of total interaction. Lay it on me nice and slow let the words soothe you with the warmest touch and let your mind flow. So now I begin to think because HELL its only my thoughts right or is it the emotion deep within my thoughts that DRIVE YOU CRAZY. Welcome to my mind a mind of intellect, a mind of deep passion, a mind of growth, but more a mind of mental action. I wanna lick you from your head to your toes. I wanna show your body what I’ve been craving for. I wanna lick those ***** lips like I never ate your ***** in my face before. I wanna glide my tongue across that **** until you begin to *** all in my mouth while I’m ******* on that your pleasure point. I want to gently caress your back with the slightest touch of my tongue. Kissing you from your neck to your private places while your back begins to arch with the pressure of my manhood inserting your throbbing treasure chest. I wanna change of the pattern of your breathing. Gently stroking while our bodies and minds connect in the most desirable physical form. Making love like the sun meeting the horizon. Ever flowing like the rivers and streams as I hit that spot that makes you yearn for more. CREAM! More power with a deeper attitude. Fire and desire, love making until the night is day baby I want to give you something that’s gone change ya entire life. Pleasure and pain I can just hear it now but wait, can’t forget about that gentle kiss that makes it even better. Words unspoken but through physical form let it be felt. I love you with passion ever so smoothly and intimately. Like that mental touch that glides down your spine to the gentle kiss from your lips to mine. Baby I wanna make love to you til the sun come up but now SNAP! ......... Dam it’s only just my thoughts.
Now what did you say?
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...
they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.
the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.
a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I love the brilliant frenzied
stillness
Earth rotating, an opaque of
beaded matters
The buckling transfixiated
openings of bleeding
ground.
Blue green brown blood
teeming with movement
disconnecting features
rapt in water
and other lives
repeating, inserting
maelstroms of
thought.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Do you know what it’s like,
to be the hunted?
The pursued;
the object, the target,
the one stalked like wounded prey
as the lights turn off.
You never called off your
hunting parade.
You took advantage of your skill.
You moved on me;
a soundless shadow creeping
along the walls,
clutching fear and regret in your hands
as weapons to
take
me
down.
Brutal, savage beast you are;
only I can see those jagged teeth,
razor spikes contouring your spine,
as you grab me from behind.
The darkness colours you,
brings out more than daylight ever could.
It suits you, you and the coal and soot
you shed
in my bed.
Warm, sticky blood you open like a tap.
You rip and tear and
reap your rewards
after such a masterful ****
You left me wounded, dripping blood
like a grimy trail behind me.
Leaving me more vulnerable to
fresh attack
than ever before.
But there was something worse still;
more terrifying than any shot from your gun.
You left more than a scar, more than
a raw wound.
You left something behind that can’t be healed.
It becomes part of my being,
inserting itself into my body,
protruding it’s toxic spikes into
any future I have;
any future that might involve a lover,
any chance at companionship.
You battered me to a ****** pulp;
a ragged mess no one could ever
risk touching,
without the blood covering themselves too.
It would seep into the sheets between us lovers;
it would attack me quietly, viciously;
It would bring out the worst in me,
and every time I would be forced to save him.
Save him from myself.
Look at what you did to me,
foul, disgusting ghost you now are.
You’re the nightmare I hide.
You’re the burn on my skin I keep in the dark.
You’re the voice I try and drown in rapid
loves, fleeting desires.
You’re my brand. You’re the one who
decides my fate from now on.
You pillaged without consent.
You never even knew what you delivered
or what
you
stole.
The hunted.
That is what I am now.
The weak creature, struggling to
heal.
And I can never tell lovers what this
sad, lonely,
aching story means.
What I can offer gets buried in fear.
I can never voice the pain that
rips in waves,
icy and sickly
in my bloodstream.
I can’t voice the remorse,
or the loneliness I shall always greet,
before they flee,
the sound of receding footsteps they beat.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
Fifteen inches LCD
Electronic mouse
And bunch of scratches of sheets.
There were roof lines
Valleys and ridges
Encircling the overlapping layers
Some are frozen, some are hidden.
Estimation and calculation
Uttering numbers
With various actions.
3D walls
Inserting commands
Subtracting openings
Including doors and windows.
The formula was easy
To multiply and subdivide
Real aesthetical features
Future renovation
For firm edification.
(6/30/14 @xirlleelang)
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
originally it reads as:
**** i am drunk: do sudoku drunk!
what a ******
x x x x x x x x x
x 7 6 x 5 9 3 x x
x x 8 x 7 x x 1 x
x x 2 x 1 x x 5 x
x x x 3 x 7 1 2 x
1 6 9 x 2 x x x x
x x x 4 x 1 7 8 x
9 4 x 7 x x x 6 x
x 5 x 6 x x x x x
now i really want to learn something,
but i don't seem to want to...
the end result?
3 1 5 8 4 6 9 7 2
2 7 6 1 5 9 3 4 8
4 9 8 2 7 3 5 1 6
7 3 2 9 1 8 6 5 4
5 8 4 3 6 7 1 2 9
1 6 9 5 2 4 8 3 7
6 2 3 4 9 1 7 8 5
9 4 1 7 8 5 2 6 3
8 5 7 6 3 2 4 9 1...
bu there's a narrative to mind...
the ) game,
half an hour's worth of game after inserting
the first six -
(a
b) matrixes -
the theta-phi debate crosswords and blind-spots -
but the narrative goes like this:
a. 7 1
1 5 )
x 7 1 2
"zooming in with a nibbled into 6",
b. 5 | 5
7
1
x
x 2 x
x
x
x
c. 2nd 5
6 x x 4 x 1 7 8 x (5)
d. 1st 5
5 x x 4 x 1 7 8 x
9 4 x 7 x x x 6 x
x 5 x 6 x x x x x
e. x x x x x 2 x x x
x 7 6 | x x x | 9 4 x
x x 8 1 6 9 x 5 x
f. x x x
x 5 9
x 7 x
x 1 x x 5 x
3 x 7
5 2 x
4 x 1
7 x 5 7 8 5
6 x x
(more than or haczyk, or háček
a hook: in saying: oi! geezer!
traffic that 'un!
but still more than or less
than in Copernican lingua?
dunno... well: that's two smokin' barrels' worth
of info for the inauguration -
'cos' pretty face over 'ere was half a wit's know-churn
off a ***** 'now what i mean?'
they necessarily say it in sprechen glutton Danzig
so you look smart, and not like some artful dodgy
podger:
n'es pas? twinkle tweezer ****
oi right and that ****** off came with the touch
of a knuckle: 'cos' i wasn't preaching trigonometry:
nor was i ******* kidding.
down the east end they call us Vlad-sodden
impaler imperialistic -
after the little debacle we 'av a laugh and drink
a bottle of *****
then we do the rickety chance of engaging in
baptismal fire with the Jamaicans -
or so you know. *well, wouldn't you believe it,
look how far being called vermin gets ya!*
all the way to Buckingham Palace me says!
and some dared to say: ransack Sicily.
blah ha ha... your's a tongue on the leash!
g. x - 4? / 3?
5
7
1
x - 4?
2
x
x
x
h. 6 2 x 4 x 1 7 8 5
6 2 x 4 9 1 7 8 5
6 2 3 4 9 1 7 8 5
(breakthrough point!)
i. 7
x
1
5
2
x
j. x 7 6 1 5 9 3 x x
k. 7 l. 7 m. 7
x x 4
1 1 1
5 5 5
2 2 2
x 3 3
8 8 8
6 6 6
9 9 9
n. 6 2 3 4 9 1 7 8 5
9 4 x 7 8 5 x 6 x
x 5 x 6 x x x 1 x
o. 6 2 3
9 4 x
8 5 x
p. 6 2 3 4
9 4 1 | 7
8 5 7 6
the 1st square: 6 2 3
9 4 1
8 5 7.
2nd square:
x x
3 x
x x
x x
1 x
x x
7 5
9 4 1
2 6 3
7 8 5;
q. square no. 2 anti linear:
4 9 1 4 9 1
7 8 5 : / v. 7 8 5
6 x x 6
ergo
4 9 1
7 8 5
6 3 2
3rd square:
7 8 5 7 8 5
2 6 3 | 2 6 3
x 9 x x 9 1....
subsequently: 8 5 7 6 3 2 4 9 1
hence: 1 6 9 5 2 x x 3 7
": 1 6 9 5 2 4 8 3 7
": 2 7 6 1 5 9 3 4 8
(interlude):
4 x 8 x 7 x x x(?)
r. x s. 7 3 2
2 x x x
4 1 6 9: 3
7 2
x 4
1 7
6 5
9 1
8 6
9
8
t. 1 then: 1
7 7
x 9
3 3
x 8
6 6
2 2
4 4
5 5
then 7 3 2
5 8 4
1 6 9 then 5 8 4 3 6 7 1 2 9
then 4 2
5 9
7 8
1 3
6
u. 7 3 2 x 1 x x 5 4
then
6 5 4 9 1 8
1 2 9 | 3 6 7
8 3 7 5 2 4
then
6
9
3
8 8 4 6
7 1 5 9
4 2 7 3
1
5
2
v. then 3 1 x 8 4 6 x 7 2
then 3 1 5 8 4 6 9 7 2 0
then the crescendo:
9 7 2
3 4 8
5 1 6 !
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
As air and leaf litter are substrate for the bird.
And what makes a human. Separation from the substrate.
Believing the substrate and the subject are separately defined.
Whatever gives the poem form - three lines - is the substrate.
Things will be said. The signer and the seer must supply the words
Which are the substrate of the mind. A beautiful week ahead.
No hundred year storms, normal summer warming.
Your bones are white as lightning and strong as sticks and stones.
At Pat's 80th b'day party most of us are old and jolly.
250,000 port-o-potties. There's a way to wash one out
And a way not to. Arctic ice melt. Slushies. One can count
Past one or nine by inserting zero to keep the rows.
Implied is an order beyond the small order we impose.
Goes to greatness human and divine. The two white wines
Death brings to the garden are the love between good friends -
Abstract. Suppose there is no afterlife, to understand the end
Imagine the beginning - no brain, no mind, no name, no I. Zero
Had already been inflated and the rose was in the garden.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"
The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion
while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality
while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite
The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise
The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
The subject of this email is as usual... subjective! Not sure there is actually a subject involved? I mean if I just ramble on about any old thing that crosses my mind, how would that be described as a subject. I submit that the "subject" line of all emails should be moved to the end of an email! That way we would have a better grasp of what the subject of the email truly is.
Better yet it should automatically prompt you to go to the subject line when you click "send" to fill in at that time. Maybe the email program should even give samples of possible subject lines based on google's interpretation of what you have typed in the body of the email. Better yet that program should just run automatically and impose a subject line based on the information in the message body after it is run through several psychiatric data bases and analyzed and a consensus has been reached...
Hmmm... Now I'm thinking that there should be a mind to keyboard interface so we can do away with all this time-consuming typing! And while we're at it why not add a chip in our brains that thinks for us and sends the data it receives directly to the keyboard interface... I mean think of all the time we would save not having to think any more!
Why stop there? We can also add emotion chips so that when we are letting our thinking chip talk for us we can also have the emotions that our emotion chip thinks we should be feeling automatically inserted into the email with the capability of it being felt by the emotion chip in the person whose thinking and keyboard interface chips are perusing the email written by our thinking and keyboard interface chips.
Ooooh now I'm really thinking... why not install mini SD drives in our brains so we can change the way we feel by simply inserting a new SD card? That way if we happen to read one of the emails thought out by our thinking chip, written by our keyboard interface chip, analyzed and consented to by the psychiatric data bases and given a subject and we decide that we want to change the way it is perceived by the thinking chip of the recipient we can simply insert a different emotion SD card into our SD drive and have those new emotions embedded directly into the email!
*** This is genius! Imagine the time we could save! I could just go on and on with this! The applications are limitless. Why hasn't someone thought of this before? Oh wait, what am I thinking... this is old news. This is called brainwashing and the government and every major company in the world has been doing it since the dawn of capitalism!
I'm going to stop now because I am no longer sure if the words I write are my own, or if they are just a bunch of noise created by the humm of all the post hypnotic suggestive clutter in my brain from years and years of commercial TV and slick politician abuse.
That's all I have time for this morning. I apologize in retrospect for the emotional agony I have put your brain through while reading this inane banter...
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
In a desolate desert where peaches are scarce
An oasis appears and a goddess prepares
To ****** her next partner with apples and pairs
And proposing a union she takes me upstairs
Into the skyline and over the weather
To a room in the clouds we inhabit together
The book of life opens, she reads me my rites
Informing my dreams for a thousand more nights
Our foreplay, like Gospel, begins with a word
Whispering wisdom and secrets unheard
While waves of effulgence wash over my ears
And unspeakable lightness conveys me to tears
The courtship completed she lifts up her veil
Undresses her figure and shows me her tail
Her gown on the floor in a soft silky heap
And we drift to the bedroom where cherubin sleep
Melting like butter, collapsing before her
Her miracle strength has me backed in a corner
And so I surrender, no use to resist
Beaten by Ishtar, I wait to be kissed
She spreads herself open, unnaturally wide
Receiving my body and spirit inside
Inserting my tome like a book on her shelf
We form an anthology, bound in one self
No match for a goddess and giver of life
And yet we conjoin as a husband and wife
The muse and the poet are spun in one strand
Just see how my pen is now firm in her hand
With one leg in heaven and one in my bed
I recline and receive her celestial head
Arousing my mind and exchanging our dreams
Through visions that swim in ethereal streams
Perusing her volumes and rarely seen stacks
A scholar who studies the shadows and cracks
I reach out to ****** her wavydark hair
Her substance reflecting like dust in the air
I dip in her inkwell again and again
In search of the words that will flow from my pen
Receiving and giving, a cycle unending
Eternal rewards from the muse I’m befriending
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 4:16 AM UTC
Shut up
in abysmal oblivion
to the millio(nth) degree
Shoot up
the drug writhes,
pulsating through my veins
Usurping my brain
as my visual modality turns inward
awakening my inner eye
Mentally breaks the binding constraints
finding my center,
I enter the void
Then I shoot off in space and time
inserting my Mind someplace
light years away from reality
Inert I remain
And what was once pain and indifference
Has become
Upshot
in transcending zen
To the point of omniscience
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
“Black is beauty” this she last heard in high school
Eight years have now gone by
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight
Black would have been beauty if her last boyfriend after high school
Had not rubbed in her face
You are not my taste
He said so,
After inserting his aggressive filament in her stigma
What more did he want to taste?
She thought, after him ploughing through her womanhood like a tractor
You are too black to be black
I prefer a light skinned kind of a woman, he went on
This was the dialogue
That put an end to their couple-hood
Now it is more than monologue
Between her and the her in the mirror
Seeing her she had become
Her that she was lured to
First, it was the rusting of the shimmering black on her skin.
Replaced by a colour similar to that of a dress worn by a ripe banana
Yellowish beneath a fading blackish and a pinkish rising
Yes, she was liked, appreciated and adored
Men serpentined at the threshold of her door
Yes this time around
She was the one that sang the song
She did not rub it on their faces,
She rubbed it on their *****
You are not my taste
I prefer a light skinned kind of man
You are too black to be black…
It is eight years now
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
“extra condoms” (explicit!)
a title deposited in the poem-to-do file/notebook,
with no body yet to follow through on or upon
which she tumbles to, an irresistible unrepentant
crooked finger hook line and she is sinker stinker caught,
worming in her feigned anger
current curiosity comes
fast and furious further,
demeanor—demanding
ex-explain-nations,
how could this
ever be a
poem?
stare ferocious, I am the prettiest pretense
of a pride incarnation hu-mane incarnate
call me in another language
Vasco da Gama
a sea route to India will uncover
on your worldly tattooed body,
drawing maps as we go along
devour her neck with stingless bites,
explorer voyager a rambunctious tongue undenied,
every space in and between needs
surging surgical tastings, erupting into her indentations,
inserting her appendages into my places where they
have a business going-knowing
just in case that’s the one!
secret passageway canal holy crossing crossover
later she whacks me because the question goes unanswered
and no sheath employed when my tongued fingers are ten times
more demanding and supple and supply the exploratory course closing with spices and woven silks in Indian colors vibrations
*why then,
extra?
god she is so lovely locomotive annoying!
to peak you peeking
to see your astounding astonishment,
you are our provisions for a sea voyage
and put the risk in, the trigger in,
when wherever you see the world-word,*
extra
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
The river is dammed to
Slow natural flow
Inserting our control
On what was once free
You and me
Are now rivers
Full of power
And might
But are controlled
By concrete and steel
Force to move through
Narrow gaps
And to give ourselves up
To turn generators
Told our sacrifice
Is for the better
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
They tell me that
inserting a stent in an artery
these days is no different
than lancing a boil in my ***
when I was a kid.
It should reassure me,
but the use of a phrase
such as invasive surgery
fills me with such dread,
as does the hated “C” word
that rattles round involuntarily
in my head.
And even worse
is when they call it
Percutaneous Coronary Intervention
or PCI for short
but not for long
before the dreaded doubts
once more invade my mind
in sinuous counterpoint
to that more disquieting
portent of invasion.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
When I think of you
I see nothing but putrid filth
Your heart is blacker than the darkest night
And your soul-substitute is filled with pus
Filthy foulness oozing from wounds
Suppurating with germs and graveyard worms
Christ Jesu I beg on my bony knees
In the deserted cemetary of my heart
That He will make you burn in Hell
Slowly inserting blazing steel knives in your eyes
While evil demons rip your guts out
And eat your colon before your living eyes .
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
these words lie
heaviest on my
tongue, they weigh
every other word down, color
everything I say to
you, threaten to leap
off, inserting themselves where
unwanted, unbidden, unasked and
ungiven, and I won't
free them because
I
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC