"inventory" poems
Mario hits it with the sounds
of bodies hitting plexiglass.
My horses hit it without a sound. They want to escape it.
And I am trying to drive this dune buggy
off this cliff, but the clipping is strong here.
In Pac-Man, the tunnels were circular. I don’t know
if people realized that they were trapped in a sphere.
In Asteroids when you get to the edge of the universe,
you begin again.
And that Snake. His body could stretch all over his world
looping, but he could never eat his tail.
If all your electrons were in the right place, and all the wall’s
electrons were in the right place. You could feasibly walk through
the wall.
What would you do while in the wall? Think. Fear.
The superposition could rip your body into ragdoll parts.
When I turned clipping off, I expected the freedom to walk through
the wall and suddenly the floor
fell out from under me.
Every time I respawn I feel like my inventory is heavier,
and my flamethrower burns colder.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
10.9k
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
But I am relieved.
Not being confined in bright velvets
of the West, or shimmering silks of
the East. Each hand-stitched with
animals and flowers, crystals and
furs, with gold and silver to
parade around in Court.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I find far more splendour in a simple
iris-purple kimono-robe, lightweight,
silk-satin and printed with lilies with
a pink silk trim. It strokes my ankles,
and the sleeves, they billow; the sash
firmly fastened around my waist.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
My handmaid, Ilazi, presents a gilded
bowl with the purest form of fruits -
the ones that were rain-washed. I have
a variety to choose from - strawberries,
blueberries, peaches, green, red and
black grapes which I pick and nibble
on. Hmm, a succulent balance of
sweetness and ****
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then my senior handmaid, Anihana,
arrives with a tray in hand, clearly made
from stainless steel with rose-gold accents.
'Sweet Queen,' says she. At the wave of my
hand, the music stops. 'Forgive me for
keeping you waiting. I know how particular
you are with your pearls so I narrowed
them to your favourite three choices.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Thank you,' I say and as I lean up, she
presents three cream-hued scrolls.
'Lists,' says she, 'of all the ship's
inventory. Would you like to
inspect them, my lady?'
'I will after some tea, Ainhana,
thank you.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Anihana nods and moves by my side
as my eyes fall on the tray's contents.
A small silver five-minute sand-timer,
a glass teapot with bamboo handle,
an infuser and steel lid half filled
with hot water; steam dancing
out of the spout. Then, a lovely
glass teacup, one of the most
beautiful I've seen yet.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
Behind my old house
once grew a mango tree;
last year they chopped it down
to build a highway, toll free.
It never inspired much awe or poetry
it was like other mango trees,
under which I played since I was three
and was home to some possessive bees.
When strong winds blew
it never bowed,
its branches somehow grew
that is until now.
The ground on which it stood
is now covered with asphalt,
and it will never be understood
as to who was really at fault.
And as for the bees
well, I never did like them,
but then you see
they were here longer than I am.
My neighbors and cousins
with whom I had lots of fun,
seek all sorts of reasons
why now we have none.
I can only say, for what's worth
when the Almighty does an inventory,
He may label planet Earth
"An old cemetery".
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Pizza--the only I want to poor my feelings onto
Because when I think of its filling capacity--
Its carb-heavy, fat drenched, and sugary-savory goodness--
I honor the people who continue the artisinal craft.
Pizza--it's the food for all hungers.
It fills you with energy when you're high,
Just after a win with a cheery, rowdy gang of five.
It's the traditional topping on the pie.
Pizza--All and everything, when the time calls.
When the emptiness cannot be filled,
Let it be filled with years of associations.
All in good company, Pizza, my best friend.
So I met a new person today--quiet and resourceful,
She was counting her inventory,
Solving a problem set or learning a new trick.
I barged in while she put aside her life for mine.
She said, "What may you have, sir?"
"A medium with pepperoni," I said, "and linguica, please".
That was all that's said as she carried on her fees.
"That'll be $18.05," and a shot of guilt charged me.
Pizza, though poor my feelings how expensive the taste!
When, just then, she collected the money
The pizza was all too simply done and I was on my way.
I was the one left, saying, " Well, enjoy your weekend!"
But as I drove and the pizza aromatized,
Neither she nor I were free from capitalized.
A self-disciplined pizza artist, stripped of her dough,
Like the boy who made chocolate with a molinillo.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
Step 1: Understand that you are powerless when it comes to love
Step 2: Open your heart to love or there is no chance to love or be loved
Step 3: When in love there is no return to sanity
Step 4: Turn matters of love over to the heart, your mind will lose anyway
Step 5: Take inventory of why you feel this love (will help in future step)
Step 6: Admit to yourself the exact nature of this love
Step 7: Realize that love is worth the risk of all heartaches
Step 8: Never put off love, act on it, tomorrow may be to late
Step 9: Conjure up courage and then proceed to step 10
Step 10: Express your love, use the inventory from step 5 as a guide
Step 11: Be prepared for anything, you may or may not get the response you seek
Step 12: Repeat step 1: understand that you are powerless when it comes to love
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
Last week, Cortney moved into a four story apartment
with seven twenty-something year old roomates, all boys.
The men share the first three floors.
while Cortney has the enire top floor to herself.
I spent the night there saturday night.
And around 10:00pm
a twenty-three year old boy
Blonde, baby faced, named Kevin Smith
stumbled drunk into Cortneys penthouse room.
Kevin smith removed his pants, and crawled into bed with us.
Kevin Smith nuzzled into my face, pulled me close, and rested his hand,
firmly on my ***
Kevin Smiths breath smelled of *** coffee, (and a man who regularly brushes his teeth.
Good Job Kevin Smith.)
At first, Cortney and I assumed Kevin Smith was each other.
after further, mostly-unconcious, inventory of our limbs,
we gathered this was neither the case, nor a hallucination.
Cortney flopped dryly for her cellphone and shined it's light at Kevin Smith.
"What the **** Shouted Cortney.
No response from Kevin Smith.
"What the ****
We got out of bed and put clothes on,
laughed at how ridiculous it was
that a drunk stranger just grabbed my ***
while an unconcious Kevin Smith laid in Cortneys bed.
Kevin Smith sat up
"This is really telling. I uh..."
Cortney cut him off
"Get out."
As she turned on the light.
"Can you guys call my phone?" Asked Kevin Smith,
"No." Said Cortney
Get out of my room."
physically pushing Kevin Smith out of her room.
Cortney held up Kevin Smiths drunk zanax filled body on the stairs.
preventing Kevin Smith from otherwise falling down said stairs and dying.
Kevin Smith showed his appreciation by saying,
"High fives all around"
I watched Cortney strattle drunk Kevin Smith awkwardly, yet also motherly
down the stairs.
I leaned over the railing and high fived Kevin Smith.
"I just want you to know," mumbled Kevin Smith
you guys are my friends.
You don't need to.. I got this".
"No, you really don't" said Cortney,
"if you fall down or throw up on me
you owe me $20"
Cortney delivered Kevin Smith to his bed.
Kevin Smith mumbled something, and Cortney returned upstairs.
"What the **** Laughed Cortney.
"What the **** I replied.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
FIRST
Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.
SECOND
Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.
3.4k
Like a character hoarding advises like jewelry
from a story like Fantastic Beasts, what do you think
what are the best life advises you have hoarded so far?
Sharing some of mine before they get stuck
in another schedule in the slaughterhouse inventory:
"Wisest is he that knows he does not know"
"Just live your life"
"Sing in Full Voice, Until Then"
"What are you doing here?"
"What is your plan?"
"Eat first"
Do not worry we have better villains
and heroes now than long time ago, I told my brother.
In turn, he made a song on a ukelele
after his little one cried and hid away the broken
CD collection of her brother. They called it together, the
"Last Supper Constellations".
His child said, "If there was a Creator. I would like to think He or She, like you or mama, would be kind. Would not that be swell?"
My brother shared with us one advise from his favorite collection,
"My friend had a family filled with orphans. Even when they could no longer afford to adopt, they continued to adopt children. I did not understand before, but I also did not forget his story." #
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
the surprisingly sweetest clementine
2016
amidst
the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy
the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good
she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?
smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
providing
for all her needs,
known and unknown
even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine
she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:
I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
now,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,
unknown
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
it begins about mid-evening,
the edges of the rug being pulled
ever so gently.
intoxicated feet
do not notice a room slipping
beneath them.
it hastens nearer to morning;
as the magic carpet ride is
coming to a close
we begin to pat our bodies
& notice the things that fell from us.
sobriety. clothes. drugs. money....
ego walls pain
After inventory is taken,
the day starts without waiting for
your tired eyes.
oh, the saddest meeting of eyes,
with the swiftest passing of friends, drugs, memories, laughter
evening abliss.
I am dropped,
center stage -- reality.
at the same moment the drugs wear off. the last quarter is spent. the first rays of the sun peek through
and the last meeting of eyes
as the last glimpse of a shoe
disappears at the door's edge.
the rug has been pulled
reality
and the curtains have been drawn
slumber.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
how the years go sailing past! they go by in a blink!
one day i pause and grasp the thought, t'is later than i think.
i bury friends and family and start to realize,
i’m mortal after all, my friend ... and everybody dies.
i take an inventory of life's sorrows and it's joys
rememb'ring most the happy times and all my little "toys"
i think of goals accomplished and my failures just as well.
i think of things i can't unsay and doubts i cannot quell.
mortality, that bane of man, seems but another's fate
and miss my own life's pageantry, with naught but empty plate.
how strange my life should end one day. the final scene must play.
i take each breath for granted and don't cherish every day.
so... "happy birthday to myself!
i’m fifty-two anon !
what happened to my days of youth!? i missed them. now they're gone!
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
There is a feeling that is capacious and transporting
I have no sense of loss I miss no-one, not even myself
For some unknown reason I cannot remember who I am
Everything is becoming most peculiar.
A strange carnavalesque atmosphere is gently blowing around me
Time has moved, passed, drifted, gone back,
Gone forward, gone down, gone up.
There is a tepid touch on me, I shake
Feel infinity of tears without inventory or cause
While the sun gives two shadows to one shape
I see the seven minute blackness of 2186
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
watch you, whisper to you
i want to touch your body
every inch of your flesh should be categorized in to a file cabinet
to be ordered by sensation and rhythm
a ***** sweaty affair of taking inventory of the defense of the other team
"what hurts them" "what helps them" "what makes them giggle" "what makes them moan"
i know what it takes to make them moan
its a war out here and every is invited,
to the war of the lost, stepped on, and rejected
against the rainbows, puppies, and ******
i want feel your sculpted dancing legs
i want to lick the death off her skin
carcass her imperfectly perfect body
********** the subject is a delicate process
first, the physical clothes,
then, the emotional barriers
finally, the mental incapability
at the end, you are presented with the most pure human form
a fully **** model of your great white buffalo.
for me.... it the one that got away, she sings in the shower
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
full circle, nearly, although
i'm not sure around what
it is i seem to be revolving,
for i am not moon, nor star,
nor planet nor body of astral
importance; i am a boy, and
even then, the definition could
be more secure than it is, for
i am not a ship, i have no anchor,
nor sails, my starboard side is
used for writing and my port
is lost in the stormy blue of
the stripes on your dress shirt,
those matching the woven bracelet
i still haven't had the heart nor
gall to remove from my wrist,
like a watch, hands however
not spanning minutes or hours
ticking off each grain of sand
to fall,
[like taking inventory of eternity]
but pointing incessantly
back to you again, though you
are not the true north i seek, and
a wristwatch has no real business
dealing with dimensions beyond
its design and understanding.
a compass is perhaps better
suited to my purpose, though
the bearing would be thrown
by the lumps of iron remaining
beneath my skin, like braille,
and i the blind man groping
for a means -- any means --
to decipher the message left
hidden in my very fibers
by the electromagnetism
of your goodbyes.
if ever i needed you it is now --
and still the portal you promised
is closed, and no music sounds
for me as it did for you, for it
is you who has quieted it.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
2.3k
Santa's on the corner, ringing the brass bell
Roast is in the oven and a family starts to yell
Snow is lightly falling, like sugar-dusting for a cake
People wrapping and re-gifting someone's small mistake
Counting hours, filling glasses, mirth is overflowing
Fixing up the house's lights, now it's really snowing!
Adding up expenses and then checking inventory
Reading as the children watch their favorite Christmas story
Snuggled up or stretching out, reclaiming lost couch space
Sliding under mistletoe, caressing lover's face
Living in this moment, drinking it all in
Trying to remember just what a year it's been
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
They act like time
Is the maid that comes to sweep away
The horrors and the pains of our past
When really she is the secretive secretary
Who takes inventory of all the trauma
Sewn into our stories throughout the years
Time doesnt heal brokenness for she is no witch.
She simply covers our gaping wounds
Made from living through nightmares until
The surface of our pain is healed enough
To leave only angry scars as life long reminders
-ARI
Sep 16, 2022
Sep 16, 2022 at 11:39 PM UTC
Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.
2k
Head and Shoulders, knees and toes
That's the way the story goes
Here is something no one knows
To lepers...it's important
It's the inventory song
You may think that this is wrong
Put me back where I belong
But, lepers need to do this
Count your digits 'fore you leave
It's a fact you must believe
They're not out for to deceive
They need to inventory
If they count and all is there
They face the world without a care
They lose their parts, but not their hair
Their day will be successful
Head and Shoulders, Knees and toes
That's the way the old song goes
I've got four fingers and six toes
I guess I'll put some gloves on
The inventory song is neat
It teaches them, they need two feet
Or they can't walk down the street
It really is important
Gripping things is kind of tough
When digits...you've not enough
You know your fingers' with your stuff
You'll go and find it later
So, if you think that this is wrong
And you do not like this song
Put me back where I belong
I think this song's a service
Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes
I've a friend with half a nose
Now you know what no one knows
Inventory is required.
.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
A blue guitar, twelve pieces of silver-
ware, some feldspar, an essay on The Art
of War, two pine bookshelves, fifty-four books
about the past, a stone axe that must have
belonged to the last of the Mohicans, fifty more
books about bones, stones and famous pomes,
a sliver of glass from a mirror that shattered
the last six years like they didn't matter
plus one to go, a shitload of old liquor bottles,
a fossil of an inner earbone from a killer whale,
a spear-point older than 12,000 years+plus,
a tooth from a shark as big as a ****** bus,
dust marks from missing pictures of us.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
the girls want reason.
the boys want prizes.
when do we take inventory?
the blood, or the time, or the hope?
the only winners here are the ones that annulled their pride.
and i'm at the back of the class....... again.
scouting another victim.
or is she scouting me?
when we play to lose,
the "winner" never wins.
there's a masterpiece of checks and balances
but i fail to see
if you won,
or if i lost.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC