"inspecting" poems
I want you to make me feel naked everywhere
saying things that make necks hot, face hot
don't have to be so ****** don't have to touch
Want to? Do so, though, don't be so mechanical
swim on, flow on, spill on, no pushing
the things said should tear open, pop seams
wonder what's inside, beating
running, ebbing, draining, no inspecting, no prodding
a thorough investigation with eyes, words
make the most difference, words dig the farthest
fill the fastest, reach to ends that previously had
no end
the end
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
Keep me in your arms
Cherish me, like you always do
Twirl my curls and stroke my hair
Kiss me on the fore head sweetly
I always want to be here
My cheek on your chest
Hearing the sound of your love
Thumping a beautiful tune to my ear
The beats gently reminds me
Just how much you truly care
Serenity surrounds me and I drift away
Escaping the world and falling into us
I see you in this little dream
Meeting my eyes, inspecting my soul
You're lost in me as I am lost in you
The air filled with a careful chill
I'm untouched for I am of fire
A flame kindled by your fiery heart
Of which burns of love, deep for me
Clad in armor, you kneel at my side
Oh dear and humble knight
I'm honored to be your lady
Like the wardrobe meets Narnia
We're dreams that cross paths
To a whole new world unlike any other
A place of splendor and awe
Radiating with gentle magic
That is what we are, my dear protector
Stay by my side a humble knight
And I will be your faithful lady
~Lady Narnia
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
122
A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon—
A depth—an Azure—a perfume—
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see—
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me—
The wizard fingers never rest—
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed—
Still rears the East her amber Flag—
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red—
So looking on—the night—the morn
Conclude the wonder gay—
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!
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I find myself skipping to another page,
Moving from myself and focusing
On the people around me,
Inspecting all of the holes
In what I am supposed to call my family.
An alcoholic nan who only respected me
If she had a whole bottle of whiskey beforehand,
Aunties and Uncles who refuse to talk to me,
Another Uncle who despises me because of who I am,
A dad who left me here and went to France so I barely see him,
A brother who would rather belittle and humiliate me than love me,
And so many relatives who don't even know I exist.
But my hatred can outshine them all,
I love my dad, but I wish he was here,
The others can light another match
And continue to burn their bridges.
I know who I love and who love me in return,
Who will never abandon despite the monster I've become,
The real definition of family.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Bracelets.
Intricate weaving,
Heavy breathing,
Sharp pains,
Quick thoughts,
She tightens the knots.
She’ll strangle them into a masterpiece.
As beautiful, and innocent as her face.
So vibrant,
Too young,
Now withering with heavy thoughts.
Her head is now throbbing,
Dragging her sorrow.
Like an empty box of lead.
“Feel something.”
She says,
Only moving her lips.
Because bracelets,
They cover up the slits.
They suffocate the thoughts.
Bracelets cover the pain.
The blade calls to her,
It knows her by name.
It’s got a hold of her,
Forcing her shaking wrists to tame.
No one will notice.
They would never even look.
Not inspecting something they’d never expect.
It’ll go on,
Till those tiny slits,
Make way to dripping wounds,
She’ll hide them,
Until a point where she is doomed.
She feels no fire.
No cannot conjure up a soul.
The bracelets hid it all.
Her childhood they stole.
She lays water to skin,
Fighting for her breath.
The once clear and pure water,
Turns an ugly red.
She looks up to the ceiling,
Blank and cold.
It’s nothing she’ll be feeling.
Cause “nothing” got so old.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
When a rain-storm surprised the city
Passers-by looked down with pity
At a large group of nutters
Inspecting the gutters
An unfortunate planning committee.
They decided today was good timing
Below-streets they soon were climbing
Where the gutters connect
To the sewers they checked
And all got a very good sliming.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
I was buried in the corner of a packed elevator today
when I lost my breath at the realization
that I was the only woman aboard.
Inspecting the men near me
imagined capable malice.
Calculating their weight
versus mine,
and the imposed ratio
of those who would help
to those who would walk away
if my vulnerability turned to danger
here in this elevator.
In that moment I knew
I’m not okay.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
How can I
Falcon fly
While I die
In a web of lies
Where they brutalize
Us like flies
We must communicate
By connecting
To avoid rumors of hate
That are infecting
The non-inspecting
No problem detecting
Yet happiness expecting
Tyrant electing
Issue deflecting
Fascism respecting
Public that's perplexing
So the Internet should remain harmlessly neutral
Instead of adding to our economic Kama Sutra
Finding new ways to ***** each other
Like restricting access to information
So we won't hear the screams of our brothers
To the rich and powerful's elation
Dealing with this pseudo-fame
Feels like a burdensome shame
In order to listen to people
I have to hear them talk
But I fall into a deep hole
When their ignorance is written in chalk
Easily erased
But also easily traced
Yet not so easily faced
Until we're easily replaced
By the voices of our oppressors
Promising to alleviate the pressure
If we'll take a position that's lesser
And never ask them to be a confesser
Each electorate
Must be kept separate
And must be made desperate
So take away their voices
That should limit their choices
The rich want to be molding the clay
So they say to touch it you'll have to pay
I can't sit here and stand it
This particular predicament
That's beyond my bandwidth
Eating this **** sandwich
Given by a grand witch
So I add the name capitalist
To my ******* list
Which they seem to agree with
They rationalize you have to be an ******* to survive
They explain in business that's the only way to thrive
Yet get upset when I call them the biggest ******** alive
The Internet can do infinite good
Yet it is minimized and misunderstood
The faithless fathom
It as a nameless chasm
Made inside our rage filled cabins
But they refuse to see the connections
The healthy introspection
And historical corrections
They'd rather use deflection
Mentioning mundane memes
Or divisive digital teams
They see the shell
But not the turtle
They put us in hell
With a data girdle
Everybody has the same capability to add to the Internet
So they should have equal capacity to use the Internet
Sometimes our economic systems make us act counterintuitively
To what is fundamentally needed by our species
Something humanity has never had before
A comprehensive brain that can connect and inform us all
We've seen money corrupt the minds of humans
Let's not let it corrupt the mind of humanity
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
A hush. A fanfare. It begins
As loved ones huddle close
To the marble hearth.
My grandmother’s eye streams
Bitter cold, she says. So is my granda’s
Gravestone – glinting charcoal, that rises
Through a sea of green. An archipelago
Of poinsettias. Words resonate
Off each little island, every city state
With its own legislature. Have you doused
That water on it yet? Have those roses
Seen the end of their days? Quiet, now
First glorious mystery: the resurrection
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. We power on
Standing firm. Forgiveness. Compassion.
Trust; the chant becomes louder
Closer, closer, we cry. I can see Pilate now
Washing his hands. Closer, closer – even louder
They need to make it through. It all depends on us
To light the way. Where are we? Third? Fourth?
Or even further? The beads shimmer as the frenzy
Grows, a pitch higher. Grant it, Lord
Through your mercy, and yours alone:
Bells toll and toll again, seeking the way
It’s time. Anytime now. With just a little push –
Silence. It is finished. A collective sigh
Done for another year. Did all we could
To save those souls; they’ll make it this time around
I’m sure of it. The crowd swells, swiveling the map
Of the yard, inspecting the atlas to no end.
We don’t stay long. Granny’s cold. She’s satisfied
She’s stood for pretty long.
My mate says we sleep till the time; I hope he’s right
I’d rather they rest than run, stay out of sight.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
protection
protecting themselves from a dark
projection
projecting themselves in a different
reflection
reflecting their own wish for
perfection
perfecting themselves for some final
inspection
inspecting the collection and making a
disconnection
disconnecting themselves with ever
correction
correcting the world with their own
rejection
rejecting reality becomes the
infection
infecting the world with their own
objection
objecting to every alternative
selection
selecting the story of the
resurrection
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
Standing in the vast range of nothing.
With the assurance of thinking you're secure with her
while you spin that thought on the tips of your fingers.
She slowly creeps into your life.
Embracing her crooked smile.
The virus is dormant until you look a little closer
inspecting her deceitful optical organs
the skylight to her soul
The mutation starts to grow.
She slices you open and tempers with the brain
peeling a layer back at a time.
Injecting tainted love into your system.
The true Hannibal Lector.
Her cunning looks and soft voice making you think Its okay.
Holding your hand she leads you to the mirror
what a fool you are.
Her laugh starts to bleed through her teeth.
Now the picture is painted of her wounded soul.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Rock collecting
Bug inspecting
Dance and music
Voice inflecting
In our wide space
Carve out your place
Let your heart sing
Do your own thing
Mountain running
Backyard sunning
Choose what you love
Make it stunning
In our wide space
Carve out your place
Let your heart sing
Do your own thing
Hatchet throwing
Garden growing
Keep on thriving
Never slowing
In our wide space
Carve out your place
Let your heart sing
Do your own thing
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
I could disassemble myself,
Placing my digits in a line of increasing size on a
Metal table,
Measuring by the millimeter and
Inspecting each incision.
I could stand in the path of the
West wind,
Watching my skin come apart
Atom by atom and
Be scattered on the breeze like the
Ashes of so many men.
They could stretch out their hands and
Shake out their hair and
March between mountains,
Conquering every enemy that
Blocks our many paths.
They could become dust motes,
Finding a vivid green eye to irritate or
An antique fur coat to settle in and
Multiply into an army of myself,
Surveying the surface of the world.
I would watch them stamp and tumble and
Fall into the cracks in the ground,
Scraped into the countryside by our
Pens seeking a certain truth.
They would become cramped in those cracks,
Fighting for sunlight and air that's
Stained with the smell of cheap sugar icing and
Sweat from the brow of a child
Playing tag.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
1598
Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights—
With plain inspecting face—
“Did you” or “Did you not,” to ask—
’Tis “Conscience”—Childhood’s Nurse—
With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair
Upon my wincing Head—
“All” Rogues “shall have their part in” what—
The Phosphorous of God—
1.5k
Nah you were a corpse with a noose around your neck with just a blip of a heart beat on an EKG made of trees laying to rest.
She's a scared little girl and the only way she knows how to survive is off the blood and life of other people.
So I tease and tease the needle injecting, inspecting the vein liquid.
Laying up in that bed for hours with your kidneys being your friends and your head ripping your chest from your intercostals tossing your throat out your teeth through the grate lain cross your open gape
A chamber we both never wanted you lain.
Gas chambering hospital of mucus and babies puking their dead guts out.
Septic ulcer, septic shock, sepsemia.
All the bacteria love you like your their mother inlaws.
And finally you set us free from mine
That caniving, ruthless wretch watched you in the bed.
Floated above ours watching us both.
Escaped we did and finally we won't go back.
Anorexic we starve ourselves now of sharing carbon and gravitating space pits.
The blankets still make dips where we lay but they aren't the same blanket, the threads aren't long enough to cross and make up the same fabric between 100 miles so that an immediate affect between the atoms can be felt between us.
My babies still kicking though.
That's safe.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
a whisper—
it creeps through my extremities,
& it persists:
even when my fatherforgivemeforIhavesinned is clutched nearby,
like a slowburningcinder
that chisels at the arches of my feet,
& simmers in my lockedup[treasure]chest,
it tells me:
*“iwonderwhenyouwilljustgivein,mylove,
giveintotheembersandburstintoflames.”*
[& these wrists, they ache,
with a promise they once held for me—
justopenthechestandyouwillbesetfree]
—
& I hate to be the bearerofbadnews but,
you are a part of it, as well,
my l.ong o.verdue v.icissitudinous e.scape,
& in your lapse of silence,
you whisper, too.
*“iwonderwhenyouwilljustgivein,myfriend,
giveintotheembersofyourheartache
andsquelchouttheselickingflames.”*
—
& as the forest is left to its smolders
& as the smoke begins to clear,
I lie awake in
the lulling hours of the morning,
inspecting the charring on my heartstrings
& the scorched remnants of my exhausted energies,
waiting for healing to awaken
among the first few raindropsofremembers & sprigsofspring,
[itrustyou,itrustyou,itrustyou]
only to be engulfed in the rhythm of your illumination again,
for my leaves are dry
& the winds are strong,
& the hypnosis of your glow is too seductive to disregard.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
Lucid in a lush landscape, baked by burning Savanna sun
The undeveloped endlessness all encompassing
My feet sink into the tender tissue
Of Green Mother and Infinite Father’s lovechild
The watering hole is overpopulated with thirsty families
Suspiciously inspecting the albino primate
I make undeterred deliberate steps skirting hydration
Drawn to his penetrating and omniscient orbs
A genuflect to show respect, my head bowed and gaze on ground
The mighty titan mimicked me and extended peaceful welcome
Gradually I rose and full-figured, approached
Warily, minding his twin osteoscimitars
Hello friend, he said
I heard you coming from several years away
I have been waiting for you
In a thousand forms and figures as the shadowy shapes you doubted
But Wisdom, how?
Baffled now, as I follow worn creases of age
That line his cracked and withered face and date his hardened hide
Come see yourself as I see you, he said
For we are as old as your mind is young
And he led me to the liquid, still and reflective
My own visage now ancient
You often sought me out, and I never hid
But I always came too late
I am with you in every action
Every success and every mistake
I was your hand when you learned to hold on
And your ears when you learned to listen
I was your adrenaline when you lost control
And your uncut blood tunnels when you learned to live
I was your arms when you hugged a forgiving embrace
And the nausea you felt when you lied
I did not mourn you when you died and scattered
For you returned to me as many; come, we have much to teach and learn
We will raise the bulls of a generation
Without another word, I mounted sacred pachyderm
And we became a vortex for wandering energy universal and fluid
The venerable sage and I rode as equals through the night
The savanna sky resting its tired eye at last
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Im digging through the log
looking for where it started
at least the clean stuff that i didnt delete
im about 200 taps in
"load earlier messages"
is going to haunt me
my dreams
i hope they have a sound track
sugar ray, perhaps
i need to lay my eyes on
the first thing you said to me
with that fancy new number of yours
seriously
ive been doing this for an hour
ive only gotten back to march
MID-MARCH mind you
but if i had to be honest
the suspense IS NOT killing me
with every tap
of that god forsaken roll-over
i get a different glimpse
of how we used to be
and how we are irrefutably now
there are times where you
dont even show up in my dreams
all i find
a black tank top
comfy black ******
a copy of atlas shrugged
and a signed cannibal corpse ticket
and NO
i dont put them in
my dream ***** pack
OR smell them
OR pass them out to strangers
i leave them there
i leave them there because
i know that your coming back for them
you left them under the street light
to let me know that you
are just popping in for a pint
just around the corner
though my first instinct
jealousy of course
might take shape
before i had the chance to
rub my eyes
sober up
and actually have a constructive thought
i have to admit
a creature as perfectly sculpted as yourself
walking clad in nothing more
than an original colored landing strip
into ANY public house
would get a better pour
than the next ten thousand
so i fold your clothes
stack them neatly
where you can find them
find a respectable framing shop in the area
that would still be open this late
frame that ticket
dead center
on black matte of course
and pick up your book
until my eyes are too heavy to wait
and my mouth too dry
to turn the pages
and i lay down
head atop a tank
toes inspecting the texture
of the sidewalk
until i awake
again
alone
and as ardent as ever
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Objectively i step out,
dissecting, inspecting, introspecting,
analysing what is to become of me.
You interpret my words and call it psychology
My main problem is communication,
Inherited from my mother ,
Though i earned a masters in the latter,
My perverseness came from my father
But who could ever blame the parents ?
Since reality is merely a fragment
associated to humans, and i accept that.
Subjectively i dig in , search , meditate and contemplate
i conclude the path is still long ahead however my herritage assures me that i am already there
If Jazz could be committed to ink and paper
assorted with therapy
the results would be similar to my humble poetry
Words Of Harfouchism
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.
Every night or free afternoon, I crawl into bed.
My massive, hopelessly needing bed.
And I lie on my crooked spine and stare at it.
I think it changes everyday based on how lucid my dreaming is
I suppose I could say that about anything these days though, couldn’t I?
That everything changes based on my perceptions of life.
Or just based on how tuned into reality I am.
It’s a funny thought.
My ceiling is eggshell white.
I remember picking out what white I wanted with my mum in the hardware store.
“Ivory or snow?”
I don’t care, mum.
“Well it makes a difference you know.”
No it doesn’t, mum.
“You say that now but, we will come home with snow you’ll realize you wanted a yellower tinge and we should have gotten ivory.”
Fine, get ivory then.
“I think we have egg shell in the basement. Let’s save us the trouble and use that.”
So we did.
And now whenever I crawl into a state of disillusion and forget what the world is supposed to feel like under your fingernails or through your hair when you’re sitting in the sun, this is what I see.
An eggshell ceiling.
Which, in retrospect, sounds graciously poetic.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to concentrate so hard that you become lighter than air and float up into my ceiling.
I fear that the eggshell colour influences how durable it is.
As if it literally might be eggshells and I could burst through it and keep going, further and further until no one can find me.
Maybe if we had bought ivory that day in the hardware store it would be tougher and hold me in.
But, honestly, I don’t know which is scarier.
To be trapped, safely bound, into my room by the ceiling above me
Or drift aimlessly until I hit a satellite dish or even just an airplane or tangled in a kite and fall back into the great atmosphere.
I wonder where I’d land.
I wonder where I’d end up if I just started to drift.
Would anyone notice?
Of course they would, how foolish of me.
A giant gaping hole in my fragile ceiling.
Even if no one went in my room I’m sure they’d notice when the rain that fell through the hole started to flood my room and leak out from under the door.
I wonder what the world sounds like from so high.
I wonder if it’s noisy up there.
I wonder what colour your ceiling is when I lay there now.
I hope that it’s eggshell.
Or cotton ball, or wedding veil.
Something you could tear through and drift through until you found me.
******* hell, I want you to find me.*
I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.
I haven’t found anything interesting out about anything since I started
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 8:31 PM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
::
_There is place in my mind
Where my thoughts can wander freely,
Once they stop inspecting themselves
So very very __CLOSELY__;
A place where they can dance
Naked around the living room,
Unencumbered by attention
To detail, to the opposite of detail,
To the opposite of the opposite of detail._
:
_The tricky part is that to find this place
I must get lost looking for it;
Only ever realising that I was there
Once I am no longer where
...Intention meets in-attention..._
::
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 3:10 PM UTC