"intimacies" poems
what my forays into online dating offered me that wasn’t s*x; european coffee beans, a film camera from the 70s, a workshop on ceramics, chicken parmagiana, bottles of blueberry lemonade, thai food that isn’t spicy, help with calculus homework, notes on gen chem, all the Star Wars movies, a book about magic: the gathering, a ride to an nba game, museum visits, nature walks, impulsive road trips, stories about their exes, silly anecdotes, photos of their pets, quality memes, awkward hugs that felt good.
such small intimacies, never blossoming into something bigger yet still imbued with meaning..
filled with what-ifs, if-onlys, and almosts.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
Our private bungalow
Leading to the private beach
On the Saronic Gulf
Turquoise water
The smell of pine trees
Chilled Champagne
No one else just us
Totally alone for five days
Mesmerised by the Sunio Sunset
The vibrancy of the Plaka
Danced to the early hours
Under the Island stars
Ate Moussaka and Baklava
We talked and talked
No phones
No net
Nothing, no one just us
We held hands
Like young lovers
We shared intimacies
Never done before
I believed your words
Your intimacy
Your need for me
Your desire
Your love
And then
In the darkness
Of our room
A Stranger
And the struggle began
I gave you my love
You took that trust
You tore me apart
Filled my head with all your lies
Abused my passion
To suit what you wanted
My life rearranged
You manipulated how I saw myself
How I saw others
You played with my feelings
You abused my anxieties
Made it hard to be with anyone else
You took my faith in life
A Stranger in the room
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Table for one sir, a book my companion for a one-sided conversation
Restaurant conversations buzz around me with intimacies and angst
Pre-movie girlfriends split the bill for a bowl of gelato delightful chat
Spooning in the Italian atmosphere for the price of a McDonalds.
The repro man on my right boasts of dietary prowess to his fat date
On the rack for his gluttony assuaged by the second rack of lamb
Talking at each other I can feel the anguish of ugly gay loneliness
Italian waiters providing comfort in the form of tiramisu temptations.
Life the entertainment on Saturday night alone with ten pages read
A drink talking boy will sleep alone without his now cold girlfriend
Broadcasting life's loves and lies, everyone hears and nobody listens
The opera of living more tragic than Tosca and as brutal as Butterfly.
Rain soaked spirits sink on a trudge home to a lonely king-sized bed
Goodnight loved one Skyped intimacies a warming blanket of comfort
Sleep sweet dreams before the limousine blacked streets of tomorrow
Nearer to honey sweet kisses and close in my love’s warm bed “hello”.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
If a man says half himself in the light, adroit
Way a tune shakes into equilibrium,
Or approximates to a note that never comes:
Says half himself in the way two pe!
ncil-lines
Flow to each other and softly separate,
In the resolute way plane lifts and leaps from plane:
Who knows what intimacies our eyes may shout,
What evident secrets daily foreheads flaunt,
What panes of glass conceal our beating hearts?
3.3k
Black hole, please, absorb this!
This horrible image,
This regrettable instance In which
I had lost myself to
Blindness.
Lover, Force me to look at you
And nit into the past that is
A marble statue with claws and teeth
That protrude like swords.
Tell me I can let go
Of the rotted flower petals
Covered in mold and betrayal,
They said they would stay
Beautiful!
Tell me I can rinse the slime
Of false hope from my body
And my intimacies so that
I may be pure for you.
Quicksand, drop this putrid locket
Into your depths and clog the clasp
So that no one will ever see the inside.
Obey Me!
Take my sacrifice, my past and
Everything
Corroded! Tell me
That I am able to forget
And be forgotten!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
today i learnt that 3am is witching hour
i think back to the 3ams we spent together
our thoughts growing louder
as the world grew silent
witches would have had nothing on me
with you, my fears remained shrunken
a rock, a stone, a gem
my rock, my stone, my gem
remember how i picked at your mind
remember how you learnt my idiosyncrasies
remembering intimacies and depth
remembering limits and being apart
‘patience is a virtue’
i never understood that till i saw it reflected in you
but then again, patience. . .
the very thing that made me tear us apart
we used to fit ourselves into each other’s schedules, like puzzle pieces
now remote acquaintances at the very least
strangers and driftwood
torn apart, all on my part
consider this a shout to an endless void
a scream into an abyss
a plea to your heart
all that you will never witness
but if i ever cross your mind even for a millisecond
do accept my last selfish request
promise they’ll be good thoughts
or maybe, at the very most, promise you’ll call
after all 3am was always ours
two of us fending against the dark
an incessant, hopeful memory (yet one of my favourites)
3am will always be ours
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
Sudden intimacies
Old missed opportunities
And a
Woman who should've known
Exactly when I'm not my own.
She strikes like a viper,
Shoots to **** like a ******
And she
Quickly has disappeared
Confirming what I had most feared.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
All we have left are diversions,
To pass the time.
A pantomime reality,
Without function.
Without meaning.
Those jokes we shared,
Cutting the world down to size.
They aren't funny anymore.
That forgotten t-shirt —
The stray intimacies of lovers —
The lacerations in my skin —
The blood that I spill —
The ambulance ride —
The last face I'll ever see —
You.
My favourite girl,
My favourite hell.
Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.
QUIT TORTURING YOURSELF.
QUIT TORTURING YOURSELF.
QUIT
TORTURING YOURSELF.
Quit torturing yourself.
Quit ******* trturing yrself.
Quit trtrng urslf.
Quit.
Quit.
...
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Fight Club kisses
Burn my lips
Purple blue fingers
Bruise my hips
Stolen intimacies
Stain my mind
Flashback images
Make me blind
The smell of ***
Hangs in the air
The taste of skin
And lime in hair
Forbidden ground
Now explored
All the rules
Just ignored
Curious hands
Have now discovered
Real motivations
Honestly uncovered
Satisfaction
of aims achieved
And the loss
Of misconceptions, relieved
Big fat secret
Marks my soul
Silent celebration
Of my match winning goal
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 6:26 AM UTC
Inspired by Judy Blume, inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)
~
God,
it's me--
jade.
I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).
I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?
I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.
Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.
God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.
Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?
Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?
(I know you have).
Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?
God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?
(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).
So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).
Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.
You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?
(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).
god,
I do not think
I believe in you.
At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.
I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.
I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.
I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.
(With her,
I shall share a name).
I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.
god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
A breath that that bled through days
Seeping between our bodies,
Hushing my skin to fire
And laced with smoke.
When did air stand so solid
Between intimacies of another?
Lightly greased with desire,
A soap bubble barrier.
Oily futures chase each other
Across violet hues.
It is only so briefly whole, untouched.
Your breath caught
And me with it.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Bite my tongue and I'll bite yours.
You want to fight with your mind.
But I will not let you make it happen.
I know you still think about her.
But we're together to heal from the agony they've caused us.
I hid the mirror so we could not see the reflection of our bad decisions.
Are not you tired of love roller coasters?
Today I want you to let the wind control your mind.
You remind me of an old love story.
Do not ask you to ignore
Will not.
Do you want to go outside hunt teenagers dreams?
You spent all night staring at the stars seeking the cure of rejection
Turn off the radio.
The time to think about broken hearts is over.
Today I just want to have intimacies with the moon.
I do not want to talk about broken hearts today.
Otherwise I'll leave.
I still hear him in my mind
I want to be naked under the moonlight.
I want to control your mind.
I want to listen to indie music.
I want to see the girls' white teeth
I want to be the poetry not understood.
I want to dance until I can not anymore
I do not want to think about wounds.
I want to feel free.
I'm going to celebrate that we're still alive.
But today I will not talk about broken hearts.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC
put your hand inside my dark
she relates to me and i relate to him and he relates to her
boom
- connections -
she said **** 14 and a half times--
i didn't let her get through the last--
honey, i'm not modest
but you sure know how to get me flustered.
could you help me understand?
red kiss lips linger
hands down stars shine
raw grab blush sweaty
could you deconstruct me
into your preconceived categories
do i fit
am i small enough
will you make me?
~~
i give him a hard time
i give him a hard on
i am not easy to take
you do not get to swallow me quick like a pill
i am a razor blade pointed oddity
grab you by your neck and make you listen
throw passive aggressive intimacies in your face
need 2 hours of cuddling after being tied up for 2 minutes
i don't trust but i've been trusting
- paper thin skin -
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Have your eyes always had the scattered look
of a woman scanning the room for exits,
with
no time to consider the precious intimacies
of skin
or the softness of faces in repose,
the vulnerable sacraments of open hands...
And have you, too, misread the calming waters
perhaps misjudged their depths?
Have you ever, daydream laden or heavily burdened
startled at finding your self, now,
this moment
gaze cast intently
beyond the bounds
of too frail a body
perhaps through your car window
for the broad pause a stoplight can fill,
perhaps in the rain
contemplating bright reflections
aberrant red
and introspective green
through the timpani
of falling water,
feeling the unfortunate gravity
of some unquantified source
at an undisclosed distance,
reaching without knowing
to release
the restraining belt
while, beneath the various
and distracting chatter,
you strain to hear the systole
at the heart
of the music you know could be found
if only you were free to follow?
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
*Through Prismatic Stairways & Monochromatic Sways,
Under Cinematic Rays,
She Twinkles In Ecstatic Daze,
In Her Promiscuous Silence,
With Spatial Violence,
She Enlivens My Sins In Her Aphrodisiac Vehemence,
Her Fake Plastic Smiles,
Under The Vienna Skies,
In Blank Reflections Under Disguise,
With Her Wings Of Destiny, She Sensationalizes,
With Her Spectral Prayers & Kryptonite Searchlights,
She Rains Her Ethereal Affairs, Painting Satellite Twilights,
Her Effervescent Fantasies,
Orchestrating Crescent Intimacies,
Verses Perpetuating Into Iridescent Complexities,
A Stellar Starlight Dazzling In Stardust,
Like An Astral Butterfly She Flounces In Lusts,
On Her Audiotronic Escapades,
Serenading Under The Symphonic Shades,
She Transmutes Into An Iconic Mermaid.
- 02:32AM*
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
I haven't yet realised the ease
With which the poet allows intimacies
To slip away into the welcoming
Embrace of the reader.
I am no wild Byron, sowing my seed
On all grounds, stony and fertile alike
(Though perhaps that is just as well
For posterity).
I have no cause, no plan, no scheme,
Nothing to fight for or even espouse:
A true postmodern product of a time
Lacking imagination.
A constant running commentary
On myself - a work which does the jobs
Of critics and academics alike -
They must surely be grateful.
So I sit and write myself a letter:
"Solipsism and self-absorbtion
Are a circular labyrinth
With no exit.
"Look outside.
- Sincerely, C. Treacy."
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
writing a poem is hard when your soul contradicts the rest of you.
i say i love this woman and mean it,
and fear grips me, puts its finger on my lips,
and shushes me. tells me that neither of us
is ready, that i don’t know my own thoughts,
hopes, dreams, wants, needs, and their reflection
in the mirror of her stark blue eyes and soul.
that it’s all an imagining beyond my own soul
and comprehension, that i’m projecting
a long lost sense of helplessness and courage
onto her without consent because i seek
acceptances and intimacies beyond my worth.
and still, knuckle-deep in this hard, scathing noise is a truth i refuse to ignore.
i am hers in my entirety and only want to know
that she is mine— my soul contradicts
the rest of me but i faithfully **** it
and aim for the future i’ve hoped lives
in both of us.
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 4:26 PM UTC
You no longer miss the person
but phantom sensations
of gentle physical intimacies
haunt you and make you ache
in ways you didn't before.
Such simple, common things
like watching a movie
or going out to eat
or returning to your room
can feel so stupidly lonesome.
The longing for physical
interaction
anything at all clings
and you feel so
cold?
Yes, cold.
So randomly and so strongly
but you cannot shrug it off.
So you play that song
a little louder this time
and burrow deeper
into your blankets.
Dig out a pair of
mismatched socks
but the chill permeates
from within you.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
you made me believe in love a g a i n,
despite all of the danger lethally submerged in the bottom waiting to resurface,
despite my movements of cautionary measure in this dance for two,
despite the clear tell-tale warnings
you made me believe in love;
only to prove all the impending signs of doom
and my doubts right
only to have made a fool of myself
and develop a surreal hatred over it
only to serve as a reminder-
that i'm not cut out
for silly little intimacies,
called love
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 11:22 AM UTC
This is the highland spring
Let us in the mountains sing
As a deep Scottish blues
Glides and glues
Dispelling scattered fears
seeking to keep us weak
There is no need to seek
Let all Scottish clans
All join their hands
Claiming all their lands
Thrown away by old elite
Such history
If we could only delete
As we honor the gallant
Men with freedom
Boiling and brimming
In their limitless hearts
Greater , than any life
As they spill over their freedom
As Scotland here baths
In their unforgettable souls
As they still resonate
In the trickles of
Scottish streams
So let us all hear
As silent mountains nestle
In deep blue skies
As they merrily enchant
Let all nations slip away
From tricky triangle
And clumsy squares
Where dishonest intention
Live on elevated corners
As we carry them on our back
While in their deeds they feed
The beast of paranoia
Slitting love affairs like wood
I wish this was understood
As their sharp corners
break straight lines
Where intimacies once lived
And smash large circles
Like breaking glasses
But let us live in precious circles
Where all nations float freely
Like lilies in a pond
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
We have always been bigger...
than stars.
The sky a stage
spoken intimacies
of velvet hearts
and ***** hands.
I wander the comet of
truth with moon-filled
eyes. Waiting, bow-shaped.
I couldn't help but notice
those constellations were
made for sin.
Stealing glances of
tightened skin too explosive
to retract.
Tiny pools of passing rain
drag an ellipsis around my tongue.
And from this side of Babel
light glares inside
sprouting roots.
Silver Cerulean Decembers
bundle themselves
winter by winter.
Cloaked by the tree,
a heaven of insistence and glass.
Words falling weightless-
sun bleached leaves
into palms of hands.
Glimmering abyss of
infinite ice, fractured bloodless
upon starless earth.
Saliva brushed shock
Alkaline flesh-
on napkins that
hold, what they
have forgotten.
Avoidable words
that keep us fed...
back to my chamber heart.
Every single time.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
all i ever do is ache. there are places where the color in my cheek blotches and it is in those spots that resides a quiet desperate yearning for the touch of your lips--
tears leave just as many wayward streaks as dripping paint on canvas, only i'm not art.
how can I miss the hands that I never even got to hold?
i'm pretty sure palm readers know more intimacies than any soul on earth. i have yet to discern a single line of yours. or our lines. where do we begin? lines are infinite but existence is but a piece. does that make our love a line fragment? or are we more substantial than that?
how do i miss old places that i've never been to? i can't remember if color value was the same as valuing us. One can only make shapes when there is light and shadow but i'm not sure how to shade us from impending erasure on this page. how can i reminisce about the touch of your skin when all I got was a brief glance off your arm? i swear it made a mark on me but i never once could find it. my bruises still linger though. darling, is it possible to love without letting go?
these are the things that consume me.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
nothing much happened today
no great calamity, no suprising visitor
the cornflakes dried to a cement like
consistency in the chipped blue bowl
the tuxedo rex vomited on the newly bought
home beautiful magazine..
my heart beat at a lazy 74 beats per minute
when i checked after my nana nap
my bad ankle creaked and twinged
reminding me to get the towels in
before it rained
I made a wonderful chicken cashew curry
for dinner, but fogot to buy naan bread
and yogurt to accompany it..
I kissed the god boy goodnight,
then read two chapters of Harry Potter aloud
as the tuxedo rex, watched me, from the windowsill
marked some essays of dubious quality,
was given a shoulder massage,
by my agong surfer dude,
that led to much greater intimacies
no, nothing much happened today
yet it was fufilling, upon looking back
it had rhythm and purpose
turned the cogs of my world
it was the miles between the milestones
that often go unrecorded
and as I sit in the almost dark of the moon
I do believe it was one of the best days of my life
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC