"irretrievable" poems
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.
Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.
She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.
She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.
She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.
Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.
I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.
Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.
Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.
I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.
If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!
And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?
Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel
The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift
Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.
Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,
And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.
The comets
Have such a space to cross,
Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----
Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling
Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given
These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes
Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair
Touching and melting.
Nowhere.
15k
I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!
I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.
non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom
Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
Winter snow, crispy leaves in fall
It's you it's him but none are my business
Love , hate and remorse
Weeks, months and years
Irretrievable moments we own
The syllables in my throat
The words dangling by my lips
Wind of fall, twirling leaves
The thoughts dancing as we stroll down the road
Spring blossom, lingering cold and chunky coat
Remnant snow, rosy glow and kids on the Mall
You are my most ridiculous romance
Love, hate and remorse .
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.
When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?
We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?
When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.
Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.
I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.
Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.
I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.
So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.
I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
I often cry when writing my love poems
*this secret, yet-not-so-secret, for the words become
blurry birthed by the amniotic fluid of encasing tears,
and when I write, wearing my emotions on my sleeves,
for wiping my cheeks, nose leaking, because I write of
sorrow supreme, that has no solution, pain repetition-dulled,
yet, provoking each time for the words bubble up, of-course,
it is love, in its thousands of reincarnations, coming to haunt,
the lost, the unfound, thinking of
my parents,
my children,
my lovers,
come, gone and
those who stay…*
I bemuse myself thinking, each tear a lost poem, removed
by sleeve or tissue, wiped away, lost, irretrievable forever…
but these yellowed memories forever and ever refreshed
by sea spray and wind, my face absorbs their unique nutrients,
and love and pain rebirthed as if it was the happenstance of
today, and the poem water tank just goes on and on being refilled…*
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
Winter's unsteady weather
cold, cold, hot desert
on this walkabout with severe angles of sun
icy mornings drip into the sweat of day
the impasse of giant stones the gods have laid
to stop or climb another way
egos travel irretrievable, sink into what is real
here we scale thorny towers of denial
revealed, peeled in layers - to cry, to smile
meanwhile awakened, shaken
from the sleep of our amnesia.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
The difference between us,
Is that he wants soft pink skin
And I want heartfelt words.
He wants fresh flesh,
I want the oldest tale, the one that ends with
“They all lived…”
But there is no happy, ever.
*He just wants to **** me*
I adopted the mantra.
I made my friend recite it
Until it sank in.
But then it sank too far
And now lies buried, hopefully irretrievable,
Waiting for resurrection.
*He just wants to **** me*
And after, he would easily abandon
No second thoughts,
No shining words
No happy ever.
After, he would leave me
Utterly alone.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.
It escapes,
Irretrievable,
Time.
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 9:59 PM UTC
Take heed, falter not
Your time is currency,
Tied ineffaceably
To the heart rate of
Your Fiscal Policy.
Spent but once,
Priceless
-
A
Beat,
Irretrievable.
“Spend your time wisely"
Advised are we
But time invested
With
Family,
Often
Face-value perceived,
Too steep a price paid
When
Quantified
Monetarily.
Such an idea of a lie,
So psyche ingrained.
Dire submission
of modern humanity
Ever so
Intrinsically sealed
We even
Concede;
“These moments are stolen”
&
our time considered;
“...too precious”
© Qwey.ku
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found ****
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.
She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.
The wind speeds her,
Blowing upon her hands
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.
Yet this is meagre play
In the scurry and water-shine,
As her heels foam--
Not as when the goldener ****
Of a later day
Will go, like the center of sea-green pomp,
In an intenser calm,
Scullion of fate,
Across the ***** torrent, ceaselessly,
Upon her irretrievable way.
1.6k
I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.
This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.
Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.
I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.
The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.
This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.
Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.
I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.
This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.
Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
If I finally lost myself,
and the pieces of my mind and soul
were as scattered as my thoughts,
would you find them for me
and help piece me back together?
If these nightmares finally come true,
and my fears and my worries
begin ripping me apart at my seams,
would you fight them off
and stitch together my heart?
If I believed what I saw in the mirror
and what my mind was whispering in my ear, and began my slow descent into the abyss of self loathing,
Would you tell me how you love me?
Your words of comfort and consolation are the remedy to the sickness of my mind, an antidote to these poisonous thoughts. I wish they were a vaccine but my mind requires the occasional reassurance.
I regret these thoughts and the weight they share in both our hearts, I don't wish to impose this noxious state of mind upon you. But even when my mind is burning,
even when I wake, gasping, in the middle of the night, when Pandora's Box is wrenched from my hands and forced open, and Hope flies out,
I swear. I swear that I'll love you. I'll love you with my rough hands, with these tired eyes. I'll love you with every last shred of my being, even in the deepest pit of self-hate.
Because you're the bottom of that pit. You don't let me fall deeper into my hate. You lift me up and you give me hope. You give me a reason to smile again.
When my life flashes before my eyes, it's a boring movie for a while, but then your image comes into the frame and everything becomes brighter and livelier.
I love you in the most irretrievable and unconditional way. I've signed off my soul and heart off to you, I have your name and your smile branded into my brain.
Everything I have and everything I am, everything I will ever be and that I will ever have, is yours. I surrender myself entirely to you, a flawed being with good intentions.
I would lay upon the very ground you walk on and be your bridge when all of them have burned down. I would carry you on my back when your legs give out from underneath you.
I would swim across oceans and fight currents to pull you closer to me, I would take a blade or a bullet or both, to prevent any harm from coming to you.
I know it may seem overwhelming to you my dear but I won't apologize for the way I've fallen for you. I'm in love with you, and there's no use in denying the truth.
So for as long as you choose to deal with my thoughts and my fears, I promise to love you and listen to you and kiss you with all of my heart and every bit of me I can.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Cold, wet footprints of drowned ghosts
leading you towards nowhere, a heat-blurred unreachable zenith.
Unlit candles, china white on a china plate,
shots of ***** shots of bleach.
Ambling along dusty corridors,
hallways with loose floorboards and memories you're not sure you ever had.
Desert haze, his brooding gaze,
conversational Russian 101 and irretrievable moments
alone in bed together while Sean Connery distracts you from the press of his fingers.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
an old, well known, thought lost, and irretrievable sensation
runs through my soul infecting my body and mind
reaffirming my original slogan, "go big or go home"
fresh 18 year old feeling, but with a touch of maturity
less ambition and exciting-fear
have no idea what i am doing, but this time i know that it is ok not to know
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Like this morning for instance
Hot February and dry cracked
skin of my shadow
which sometimes seems
to look at me
and move w/out me
and I, w/out it.
Sometimes I see the flicker
of a dark soul jeer; a savage dance,
right in front of me,
or in the corner of my eye
when my head is tilted.
The other day at my friend’s
I felt like I was, briefly,
in the sunflower courtyard
of this ol’ dark
underwater museum
full of mirrors
that float adrift.
Angles that perpetually
gyrate and shift…..
I hear the sound of a whale
submerged in a highway
crying with striving despair
at night
and I'm sad
because his lovers reply
sounds so distant
and it sounds as if it comes
from a cavern w/in an ocean
below a sun
I hope he finds her
and dies happy
in the warmth of her flippers....
I miss the panther-warm wine & cream
Was it worth it
Is this worth it
Cold violet city
vacant warm lobbies at night
desolate allies and dogs in such deep slumber
they cant even wake to bark at impending footsteps
The musty brown cars
whose aura of mothballs and pipe smoke
reminds you of a childhood irretrievable
I smiled back at the rocks that snickered
Beside the fence
which stood firm
In caring vigilance
Cold verdure within
Misery mixed with
Getting bored w/ absorbing it
There’s a strange saloon w/ hotel attached
at the center of Melancholy
where flames are lit music is played
bodies are slowly denuded
and silver knives are thrown
I can show you…
(Long ago it seems
I bit and kissed and became
aquatinted w/ the bark of
the root of delirium
Recently even I’ve spoken
to the heart of delirium itself
from within
w/ no reply
but I can remember
all my memories were hallucinations)
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
Your cold print is
Solidified in ink.
Black or blue?
Indelible, your death-
Grip upon me paralyses my pen.
Irretrievable, unreliable us.
Numbness blots out positivity and
My uncertainty dries bright.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
a lot of people ask who I write for
and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend
I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl
that makes you write poetry.
it’s to express the endless love
the irretrievable gratitude
and the unconditional happiness I feel.
but it’s also for the broken ones
who desperately want to believe in hope
who have Pandora’s box
wrenched from their hands.
for the crying ones
who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea
overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.
it’s also for the 9-to-5’s
who drink when they come home
for those who are simply fed up
and want an escape from it all.
I write to help heal.
for the people out there
who just need to know someone understands.
I write because it’s 4am and
I’m listening to Keaton Henson
and these raw feelings
won’t leave my brain
and won’t let me sleep
so really,
I write
to save myself.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
Winter is coming and I'm panicked.
I'm scared of the nostalgia it might bring
when I see the first snowflakes fall
for the first time without you.
You're warm and cozy, probably,
enjoying it all too well.
And I know the only way I'll survive this winter
is to have a heart colder than the air around my cloudy breath,
and the shoulder of you - a stranger -
someone I once knew like the back of my hand.
I'll pretend when I close my eyes
it's not you I'm seeing.
The temperature is dropping, and the leaves are dying
one by one.
I'm hiding away my feelings,
burying them until spring.
But maybe by then, they will have slept beside you too long.
They'll be dead, and kept by you,
Irretrievable - too far gone.
I'm not grieving just for you, anymore.
I'm grieving for myself,
and the cold-hearted ***** I have come to be.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
There is peace to be made with
this irretrievable beauty...
a seeming hands-off policy
of inmost heart.
We're implored to take this seeing
with us...for this life that must
be seen through.
This is how the promise of more
furthers itself...a call to eternal
life--the only way peace may be
made with this irretrievable
beauty.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Take my hand and let me take you back to a time when
Time did not matter, when one second was replaceable with the next-
Easter Sunday, making mud pies in our little Purple dresses,
back to making junk into something fictional
And believing in everything make believe.
We climbed castles, discovered bigfoot, found our prince
All in a matter of seconds- and we never ran out of time.
Time- a matter of perception
Quick sand, sleep, death.
There are many things to slow down this barrier to living,
But nothing to make it go, to make it tangible.
If we were to place time on a scale it would measure into
A timeline of dinosaurs and hieroglyphics, of disasters and
The great discoveries of the ocean's depths- however, I am
Speaking of time as an emotional blip.
To measure time as we do our emotions takes away from
Our perception of that blip- of irretrievable time unaccounted for.
We must make time our foundation to understand it will always be there.
It is what you make of that time, how you allow that
Blip to affect you, that makes moments into concrete memories
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
All it takes is an approach,
And memories begin to sing to me.
Their melodies are darling, lush,
If puzzling in their tempo.
And if ever it moves further,
I am brushed over by joyous calm.
I wish to stretch out everything
And bleed each sweetness dry.
The precious things are mine now;
I've kept them all, breast pocketed.
I thought that if I didn't,
They would wind up in the sea...
... Irretrievable, devoid of lovers' touch.
You'd have cast them,
But I've seen to it
They're not 'disposable as me.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...
It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...
like mania
this corridor precedes time
and space
it is the beginning
of faith and exploration
and revelation....
dead poets live here...
~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC