"islander" poems
A Muslim boy with a clock
Is seen as a terrorist with a glock
Maybe i'm right, maybe i'm wrong
But if he were White, Asian, Hispanic or even Pacific Islander
Nobody would of suspected anything.
When are we going to stop fearing an entire race for only a portion radical and illogical ways of treating others?
I don't tolerate people who behead others if they don't agree with their religion
I don't agree with the repressive governments that control everyone and stone them for minor misdemeanors
There are good men out there fighting this evil that has plagued their homelands
I'm all for ending terrorism of all kinds
But let's stop terrorism of innocents too
Sure, i'm afraid of what the radicals will do to their own people, my people and the rest of the world
But i'll be dammed if i treated somebody from the Middle East like a monster when i don't even know who they are
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern girl
The Syrians girls wouldn't have an improved education
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern man fending off the Taliban and risking his entire village to keep Marcus Littrell alive
He would of been KIA a long time ago.
What about the ones who fought and died for America?
Nobody ever mentions them
The media wants me to hate them all, but i laugh and shake my head
Warped minds trying to warp others
I only see the ones who want to do us harm, and the ones who want to live peacefully and away from a life of hell
Brothers and sisters, just a different culture and skin color
I'm sorry if America seems racist or hateful, but i'm proud to be the one who throws those two words in the trash
Because i'm not afraid to speak my mind
And i welcome everyone here
America is everyone's home.
If only the Soviet Union never invaded Afghanistan
If only the people were not scared
To be free like America.
Unity for all,
Religious differences and Cultures alike.
I hope one day a Muslim man or Woman can walk down an American street without being labeled as a terrorist.
I hope one day these repressive governments fall into the hands of democracy
And we start the Age of Unity again.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
While continuing
My voyage across the sea
Aboard this gracious ship
Here I am spinning
A web of disgrace
In the name of seafarers
Around the open sea
Looking forward to
An islander's love
As I doze into below deck
While the ship rocks me to sleep
Caressing
As I nest
This lovely sea gull
So gingerly
Gazing in it's eyes
With passion
As I set her free
To the open winds
While I'm dreaming at sea
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:48 AM UTC
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
I had thanksgiving with my St. Lucian family, my
loud, unapologetic,
laughs-too-loud, generation-gap
homemade *** heads in phones,
blasting dancehall music
old ladies dancing
clap-back
talk-back
family.
"Play us a song",
my cousin and I sent to my room to play jazz chords, I
finger along clumsily. He's in college and his dark eyes close, fingers
sliding up and down the frets,
frowning in concentration, cursing quietly at a missed note.
My islander family comes over and prompts impromptu drinking games,
"I'm not looking, I saw nothing",
I lick a bit of vanilla ***** from my mother's shot glass,
alcohol becomes a family affair, it
takes away the danger and the stigma and throws a friendly, lovely
light on a vice.
It's raining, it's cold,
islanders do not belong on a Kansas porch smoking cigarettes in the dark rain.
I light candles on the wall.
They all outlast their welcome, between four and a half hours of transition
from uncomfortable "i don't remember your name", put on the spot,
only-child-becomes-one-of-several to
discussing baby names and family gossip, they
all wrap up their food slaved over at nine am, they
all troop out the door, they
take their coats, they
leave their wide smiles with us until next time.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
I did not know her then
nor do I now
but in between, I did
She swam for Barbados
fluid young islander
of affluent Germanic descent
Adrift, cultures island sought
she surfaces, bobbing
in the Red Dragon’s wake
House on the Bay,
overflowing camper van, brim
full of friends and fun
Over the Bridge
splashing loneliness, diving
into my bath and bed
Floating alone
undercurrents scratch, tides
sandy icing of memories
Locked lapping Bay days
drag
piloting others fun
sea blue horizons
debentures sold, goodbyes told
surf Ahoy
She jumps far flung
fun soaked, to sail
the Bay of Islands
.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
Greetings and salutations m'lady
Thou hast been absent and missed
Most notably thoust smile and
thine choired voice espousing deep longing and
opining of distant and never-presentness
despite opportunity and invitation.
Lulled into sleep by your gently warming coo,
flightless i remain.
Turn, I will again,
'gainst the mournful draw of your beckoning, and slip into
dream, once more.
Cool is the pillow upon which i rest my weary head,
restless is the mind inside.
Tumbled and tossed, like an ocean-dweller upon
crashing waves,
waiting to be heaved breathless
upon your shore.
The fire has been ignited,
flames dance brilliantly around me,
a barefoot saviour, pulling me through
the wet sand,
offering sweet coconut water
and reminding me to breathe.
Twinkle, twinkle million stars embedded in
desolate black woven fabric,
eyes make contact.
Blue-green ocean-farer with autumn-acorn islander.
Universe unravels, and sits aback
allowing truth and impromptu correlations
to take hold.
For this is the work of God!
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
It is strange
yet not
being back here on
the isle of my forefathers
Of I
Everything is different
yet
nothing has changed
Seagulls call and
the air smells of seaweed
There are pink flowers in baskets
and the sky is blue
That endless blue of timeless childhood summers
Here my name is not an aberration
'ueu' is an everyday tripthong
'Le' a rule not an exception
I am not an exception either
After half a century
discovery
I am one of a tribe after all
Ancestors
people I have never known
not even in name lest alone body
Reaching way back in time
Predominantly French
or of this isle
The Germans
photographed every islander
when they occupied this dot of granite
as bombs fell on Europe in a rain of death
The Occupation was a dark period of
hunger and cruelty
but thanks to these photos
I have seen my heritage
etched on faces so familiar
yet never met
I learned just now
my paternal grandfather had gunshot wounds
along his right side and arm and leg
Mementos of the Somme
of Passchedale
and Ypres
I discovered he died of
carcinoma of the lungs
like my mother
my uncle
several aunts
and my Pa
He survived four years of the Great War
water logged trenches
blood-rusty bayonets
horror and starvation
Just one of a few to come home
Military Medal pinned to his chest
5 feet tall yet battle hardy
witnessing things
doing things
no man nor woman should ever do
But Grandpa (how joyous to hear that word on my lips!)
couldn't defeat
the silent enemy
that waged its war within
All this new knowledge
somehow makes me feel older
Not in years
but in history
Tattoos of my heritage
now pattern my bones
My parents are both dead
I have no siblings
no partner
no children
but now I am
no longer alone
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
We met in the SICU at BMC,
A wondrous Islander, its simple to see,
She nurses with ease and comforts the sick,
Skilled in medicine, I laughed at her shtick.
Needs glasses to see and thinks she's a nerd,
Cool is her look, I'd use no other word,
To describe to the world, this sparkling light,
She brightens a room and makes you feel right.
Short of stature, but strong as a tree,
Boosting my patients and helped me to see,
Where essentials for the job could easily be found,
Always a smile on her face, she never frowned.
I got to know her during our 12 hour shift,
She loves to read, so I shared my gift.
I red her a poem and she dug all my rhyme,
The shift was near over, flying was the time.
During my travels, many nurses I've met,
None quite like her, that's a sure bet.
My time at this hospital has come to an end,
Her name is Ali, Godspeed my new friend!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
*[To the outside world]
I am trapped on an island far at sea,
There is no glimpse of life around me.
Alone, cold and desolate,
I was shipwrecked by ‘FATE’.
I have been here for many years,
And the time spent is starting to give me fears.
Fears I may never be able to leave,
Fears I am gradually starting to believe.
Each day I wait in anticipation of a rescue,
Yet each day my hopes are dashed anew.
All I see are the waters before me,
Seagulls flying above in silent mockery.
Flaunting their freedom in ways they please,
I yearn for such a [sweet] release.
**To whoever may read this,
I am stuck in a place of ‘anti-bliss’.**
I am exhausted in both mind and body,
I no longer care what lies ahead of me.
**My skin has been deadened by the scorching sun,
An unfeeling being I have now become.**
Violent winds have undone me,
I no longer see Life’s beauty.
**Only a fragment of hope remains,
That my rescuers will not find my rotting remains.**
To whoever may see,
Have in your in heart some sympathy.
**I am trapped on a island on this deathly ocean,
Where loneliness is a slow killing potion.**
Each day Nature drops a subtle clue,
That my underworld sojourn is long overdue.
This is my last-gasped petition, a last chance plea,
Whoever you are, PLEASE HELP ME!
Time is running out
Signed: Desolate islander…
#BlueRain
2017*
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
As my soul bonded in chains
Shredded are tears
Carved in her name
Departure began sailing at sea
An islander
A daughter of a fisherman
From the South Pacific
Our hearts filled with lust
Days and nights as time grew
We formed a tandem by swimming
Passion ever seen
I was young, but inexperienced
To an untamed worship
While wandering thoughts
Retrace special moments
As waves of her past
Washes upon my chest
Her name doesn't matter
Tasting the sea flavor
For I am true
To lust for others
While fishing for you
As painful it may be
I cannot find love
To an ocean voyage
Where mermaids know my name
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 4:03 PM UTC
I'll put it together
like a club to a heart
or a ***** to a diamond
Like 52
I'm rare on earth,
in the universe
I'm a giant.
Like platinum
Im shinin'
cause I comprehend
science.
So ninja just jump back cause I sleep with
lions.
There is only one like highlander
On my own
lycan islander.
Bleeding through paper
like a *****
err..
She's sounding like a siren.
When she sleep I sit in silence.
Picture that
Her face is priceless.
like kodak
Timmy boy liked this
9 hours ago
I was @
the sto'
96 ounces for 5 bucks?
scientist is out
the do'
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
I have a boat,
Two paddles
And a sail.
This sack of grub
Will keep me sated for days.
Every tool needed,
Available for escape.
Should have started a venture
But I decided to stay.
These uncharted waters
Require an immense amount of faith.
But what if I left it unconsciously a long time ago
When I tried to get away?
I may have all the time
To rebuild no matter what the cost
But the one thing I can never fix
Is a heart that is forever lost.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:27 AM UTC
Humid August Morning
Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
I am caged, I am seized
With my innermost thoughts and convictions
What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.
Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,
However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things
How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.
The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!
I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl
*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls*
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
Ask me about *****
at the Pitcher & Piano
a woman sits angular
snow swirls in her face
the Tundra, a riot, an Izba*
or a Romanov's Faberge egg
Lean into this moment
the curve of it's being
like a sail into the wind
or the Bering Strait neatly
amongst Icebergs
Canada
Marylin
The Niagara Falls
a Geologist's contentment
a backpack & a tent
ink& a compass
Omai* resplendent
* Izba - a country hut ( russian)
* Omai - Mai, the second pacific Islander to ever visit Britain in the late 1700ds who became popular in London's high society
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
I need heat!
I need to feel sweat dripping down the spine of my back, dripping down, down, down my pleasure crack!
I need never ending sunshine with occasional tepid rain storms!
I need a new romance, an affair, a ***** raunchy, whirlwind, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am kinda exploit!
I need color!!
I need the arts!!
I need sophistication, class, but I also need hot islander women with mouths like ******* sailors!!!
I'm in need of reinvention, reincarnation, a ******* remix!!
I need people who aren't afraid to get ******* naked and to move with their fluid ******
I need dancing, rockin-rollin-head-bangin, ***** dancin', bump and grind, pop lock and drop!!!
Now.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
i.
Atop of Mount Sinai
Pious place noone goeth;
Sentinel's keepeth watch
Just in case the Devil showeth.
ii.
I came to an emanation
As the lambent dreweth me near;
She was wearing islander garb
She cometh from afar, not from here.
iii
She explained she was visiting
With the other angelic's inside;
I dropped and I fainted
From tis her beauty I didst cry.
iv.
As tis the squamous underworld master's
Came up from their woeful sleeping;
Mine luminescence bearer held them back
I couldst heareth them yelp, mine body began shaking.
v.
And whilst I was quivering
The rock's began to shaketh;
I kneweth mine queen was unearthly
For tis she saved me, and she fleweth me off, as hell quaketh.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
To the west of Mulranny,
Past Spanish Point.
Where dark, dark Minaun,
Cast's her cold shadow.
There is a fast sound,
Dangerous as a true sin
As many a Navy man Royal found
And many a clever islander too.
And the land runs,
down to her gently.
It glides, as if a sea bird
down to the shallow sound,
From both sides,
right, then left
Giving somewhat -
the impression of a cosy valley.
With warm homesteads close-by,
together at dusk
But they are seperate, in truth
by land, long and strewn
Many many miles
hard walking.
By sea, a ten minute walk
would suffice;
But no-one would
ever talk of such a stroll,
For they would never tell
of anything
Again.
However deft
However brave
For the sound takes
What it owns.
One evening, I drove to the right of her,
And the red Oche sun painted for me
Scenes on the hills,
Great battles history -
Wars of celtic gods, christian saints
And the old Gods before people
And the God's older still
Who have no names anymore.
But bear all on their backs
This land is, in truth, those Gods' land.
It changes with each ray of light
That passes this way through the
broad deep ocean,
green and milk topped
fresh as a breeze
blowing through a green arbour
Or black as terror , with white cresendo
Black rocks shot with reds and quartz's
Sharpened by water
It is not a place for faint of heart
Or unsure of foot
And at Achill beg can be seen
Man's footprint,
long here
Strange barrows,
and dry walls
That deep time
has made anonymous
To the prying eyes
of modern time
But past 8,000 years
have our people
Lived in this place,
guarded, hounded
By the Atlantics' cruel force
And I swear
if I had freedom to choose
a place to live,
without concern
And a place to die,
without worry
It would
Be here.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
The perimeter was limiting,
the interior more inhibiting
and the Islander lived alone,ambitions dissipated,sun dried,dessicated,he waited for the ship to come,
he lived on coconuts and *** and Wrigleys spearmint chewing gum and two tonne of cargo from the hull of the ship that nearly pulled him to his death.
He was blinded by the sun and sand,so carried lightly in one hand a parasol (made in Taiwan)
not one known to complain,he found it hard to explain to his companion,
a turtle he'd named Marion,in honour of his life and his poor departed wife
just how he felt,
but he knelt before the sea creature,which, though he didn't know it then
would feature in a hot cooked stew somewhere in the distant future.
Sad to tell that the Islander spent eighteen years on his Island hell and went quite insane
thought the sand was rain and bathed in it twice weekly
leaking fluids from his skull he swam out to the rotting hull and danced a jig on the ancient deck,
both man and wreck sank deep below where only sharks and shellfish go and the sea ****** both to their sad demise.
No stone marks the resting place,no words remark on who lies there,but the Island stares out to the sea and knows the turtle was eaten for tea
and Islands never forget.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
**~for VB~
<>
“A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*there is special delight for the city dweller,
when the first clean flushing of brightest spring green
disrupts the unending graying city ribs of worn concrete,
the alternating lifelessness of blasé brick, pretending
off-beige, ***** pale blue, a sooty furnace red,
well done, a good pretense that they are, of color.
I am among thousands whose as a child my breath
gave way, taken by gasp, when first made
entrance to the green diamond sparkle oasis of
Yankee Stadium, hid by the urban dreariness of The Bronx,
near sixty years vision sustained with perfect clarity on
retina-implanted, a shock, an earthly con-trast.
today, an old-timer, a first timer, I’m gifted Whitman’s Song of Myself,
from a friend and poet, who lives hardy by a Port,
another islander like myself, surrounded by wet roads and
pathways to the Northern Pacific, amongst timberlands of
forested and natured grass, a differing kind of stadium,
both of us silently saying, thanks Lord, for lending us yours.
even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.*
§§§§§
Wed. May 13, 2020
Manhattan Island,
by the East River
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 5:16 PM UTC
It is winter inside my home.
I lay under a black cloud, starved,
naked, half-cocked to explode,
basking in the white rays of
computer light,
alone.
I am an islander.
I try to reach you.
All I want is you.
You whisper my desperate wrists
away from yourself and escape me.
I am a necromancer; My corpse is
Alive
among the living;
I am a ghost. I am seven dollars spent
on B-vitamins, and a well-pitied man.
I cut deep into my own mind with
words that sink blue, like the stem of
thyme sings through my gums and
stays until the next morning,
I am crying in the bathroom at work,
I am listening to my mother go insane,
I am crying all day,
all day in bed,
running
back and forth, back and forth,
heart beats like;
doki-doki-doki-dokidokd...
I am a comedian laughing till his own demise,
trying to finish the punchline but
I am an islander.
You don't get back to me.
You don't make time for me.
You're not here for me,
I ask you to just tell me why you love me,
and you
tell me annoyed,
it's time for sleep.
It's always time fo
I am an Islander.
I cry so much these days. I cry cry cry,
and I promise I'll get better, I'll be happy,
I promise, just get back to me, okay?
I'm so sick of crying. I promise.
I can smile see?
The sun is out, but
it's ******* winter,
it's always ******* winter,
and I can't
I don't
I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I'm alone.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
5/1/2014
I’ve never met a woman that knew what Forbes was, or had a subscription to it at the age of 18 anyways. First thing she said to me when she sat down was a marvel at the fact that i was 20 and actually right in front of her. We talked about Champagne rose and the middle class the first 5 minutes we knew each other- I told her she was a woman after my own heart and I unbuttoned the top of my collar. She smiled tightly as if there was taffy stuck to her front teeth, or something, and she asked me didn’t I think she looked a bit young? I told her not really but sometimes, but I thought most of the time she looks 13, but i kept that to myself, and that’s when I noticed her eyebrows. They were perfectly squared and colored in perfect mocha. And then my eyes trailed a bit down and found her eyelids- it’s as if she had glued skinny leather black strips above her lashes.
“I love your tan,” I remarked, unbuttoned again. She stifled and told me she was an islander. I smiled and told her I love dark skinned girls. She blinked a green eye and touched the blonde of her hair with a chubby finger and i asked what she planned on after school- she told me human rights law, and how she hoped for a short dinero packed marriage. I asked her if she wanted to go to bed with me and she smiled and said no and stood up. I told her I could respect an opulent woman like that, and her fingers soothed down and up the hem of her genteel Chloe blouson. I said bye and finished her glass of Cristal.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
You arrive at my door
my blessed gift, with sweetest words
that lift me unto the skies
to soar within the sunbeams of your affection
I pray there never comes a day
that my eyes do not meet yours
over morning coffee and tender words
Heads bowed, hearts touching
May we always linger here.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
i.
Into her oriental soul I crept
Quiet and cozy into her warm nest;
She grabbed me by the tie
Unfastened mine vest;
Released all mine unease
Freed me from disease,
Gaveth me a plate
And filled all of me.
ii.
She beckoned mine being
O' Brandon mine king;
She whispered, she glimmered
With a wave of starry mink.
Hypnotized I was, whilst in her presence
I kneweth she was mine, whilst in mine state of evanescence.
iii.
Her islander essence
Dripped through the phone;
Her voice, her speech, her laugh, her tone.
She was the one, mine blood, spirit, and home;
I'll dieth for her today, and again tommorrow if thou doth not knoweth, for her do I groweth: in limelight connection.
She is mine path, mine whole- and other half,
She is God's apostle to me, tis she's mine purified direction.
She is mine Queen, empress, Earl Jane nagley mine bliss, the ultimate ressurection.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley ( Filipino rose)
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
it's cold in the gut, like
that first time you had to throw
a sea robin back, even after
the hook had reached through his
left eye. cold like the flapping
of blackfish in a bush asphyxiating,
as i have all day. if dying as a
fish were so easy, oh how i'd love
to jump from the caves of anchorage
into the pacific; how ironic, an iron
islander on your brittle coast.
sometimes the way you hold your spliff makes
milk come out the bottom and i love to
watch it dance around your bottom lip.
i can't bring myself to scan the past, the
beads falling to my cheek refuse to
move, even in my highest doses.
sleeping without you,
it's free and slow but it's also 6am.
and what do i really want? with freedom?
with comfort? forgiveness wraps her white
chiffon around my breast, heart vibrating, but
the horns on my temples take it away.
those old relics, the constant frontal pyramids,
they rip everything open without my permission
and yet they hold the fire through which i thrive.
if you were here you would say, do not
take the seroquel. i listen even in your void.
sleeping without you,
it's a crater in my back, right now i
don't want you back but —imagine!
i wail right away when i see your
frown in my third eye, where would my
anchor be and how would you find sails?
and your hair, would it darken from
missing my fingertips? and my waist,
would it harden if you did not open its
harbors? and what about our hands?
the magnets in the lines of our palms,
they will probably tie cords to each
other until a loss of frequency.
most importantly, what would the
stars think? would they form the same angles
or would the earth be forced to move backwards?
sleeping without you,
i'm so enraged, but please don't
make me do it. you are not an ocean,
you're a fjord. glacial ice irises, a
buffer for the north sea's calamities, a
singular and diverse habitat. if i could no
longer rest my head on those whisper
waves, i'd stare at my palms all day,
i'd wait until they found your lifeline.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC