"itched" poems
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.
the concussed ****** of booming youth.
omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.
son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.
his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.
blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.
son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.
he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The rain felt beautiful.
The grass stuck to my body itched
But I secretly miss that feeling
On any sunny day
I feel meaning in the way the field slants
Its always done that
The white paint has faded away
I love it when it stains my fingertips
Every shot leaves a tail of water
And the rippling sound of the ball sliding down the net
The way that the rain falls on me
Feels beautiful
Literally washing away my worries
As I never feel truly tired
As if every drop was distracting me
From my physical state
This makes me feel strong
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Somewhere in the tremor of this monsoon rain
Your heart itched in remembrance
And denial took its hands away from your eyes
and so, you cried,
you cried a mountain of tears
Enough to fill the gardening pots
When you watered your roses
With salted despondency
And the flowers began to wilt
You realized to set these dreams free
But even then, they were too far within
Like the arteries in your chest
Keeping you alive
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 8:01 AM UTC
From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.
From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.
The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.
The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.
And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.
I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.
One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave **** the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave **** to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.
4.2k
A long time when I was ago when others knew what I knew not but now I know when the sun was just a burning place that stars itched in the night and the sketches made with lemonade which somehow came out right, where the sandwiches were filled with sand and the ***** did not have sticks and the tide marched up in two and threes and the deckchairs tricked our hands. that was the time when I was ago and the time I did not know.
Age rolled in on the twelve thirty-four, the puffed out billy knocking on my door, I wish I'd worn myself real slow
a long time when I was ago.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
I scrutinized the miserable wretch harnessed to the table
Polished my knuckle with his murk, malice, and fable
Placing a centipede on his stomach as it shuffled to his eye
Languidly impending horror as he begged me to die
I put pressure on his abdominal with the ball of my hand
Took a breath to my diluted lungs as the boy’s jawline ran
Tantalizing screams of dread, poor boy fastened on steel bed
I protruded my hand deep and to his intestines, it fed
My malignant clasp ripped and mangled as it went
Like the centipede too, itched and mangled as it went
And as his entrails to, like sizeable centipedes they went
In a ****** stream of fluids crawling and sprawling as they went
I bound up with glee as my poor wretch lay be, and I swung him head-toe to a pit
Where billions of legs crawl, but human ones not at all, a realm where arthropods permit
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
If not to tempt the temperaments of lesser men, I shall bludgeon the object of our obsessions again, just to watch the reddened britches go un-itched, as my grinning is met with dissatisfaction, impacting the over expressed whining of gentle wimps, flailing, and stomping as disgruntled chimps, flinging feces from the cages again.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
you,
you are poison ivy.
growing in my heart, sprouting first as a little bud at the base and then wrapping your tendrils and vines around tighter and tighter until I can barely breathe.
you are poison ivy
itching at the disassembled strands of my affections and i want to tear my chest open, pluck off the petals of my heart, hands coated in pollen and
tell you
there are no more petals
left to give.
you are poison ivy
you still spread your arms around me, reaching for more that i can give, lathering my pollen into every crevice of your poison skin.
you are a silver bulb and I am the moth that attaches to it, shadowing your every move,
the way your fork always grazes your plate before
you
set it down.
The way you run your fingers over the delicate arch of your ear or how you draw the sides of your books close together when you read,
as if trying to pull the
literature close to your body, letting it seep into your naked eyelids.
I wish i was that literature.
There was a whole new garden of emotions, of loss and sorrow sprouting delicately at my fingertips and
you
were not aware and
now all i want is to uproot my garden and start again.
you are poison ivy
and i can't stand you, that itching that feels like screaming and ripping and scarring
You were an itch that i scratched over and over until i bled
and once the bleeding had stopped and the cuts had scabbed over
I itched it again
and
again
and
again.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
Truth is you
weren't blameless
I saw your eyes
flash red that night
the fire in your palms
wouldn't burn out.
Together we were
a suicide pact,
there was something
about the drug in
each others eyes
that made us want
to overdose.
We itched like
razor blades
on each others skin,
our tongues a noose,
heartbeats fast,
furious.
My hands bled love
my knuckles
bruised like skies
I puked up every word
until I could finally
say goodbye.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole
to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost
rites of the first sea of the first salt
running from a faucet. I have heard they sat
for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels
sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale
harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last
for impossible loves, or new skin, or still
another child. And since this was the style,
I don't suppose they knew what they had lost.
Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost
ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal
past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit
of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed
bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault
it in its proof, to wash away some slight
need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt
itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet.
I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal
a better proof at tables where I always lost.
Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal
toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost
ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust
would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
1.9k
there would be blank canvasses
empty words
silently echoing the pages of poems not written
of narrative never revealed
from muses overwhelming
spirits overflowing
onto sugar coated melodies
woven into lyrics that
pester and harass and permeate the sacred space of minds
there would be blank canvasses
empty words
of delicate curves or hips, wide like sandy beaches
immortalized by brush strokes or camera shutters
empty panels of superhero legends forgotten
there would be blank canvasses, empty words
of no church praises hollered over holy rollin piano riffs
but most definitely, most importantly,
there would be blank canvasses, empty words
and
hands that never itched
to craft golden scrolls onto the haggard loose leaves
residing in sharpie stained notebooks
and great wisdoms never told which ****** great minds
moves great minds
with melodious lyricism
which haunts souls
taunts souls
with the burning questions of shoes and ships and ceiling wax
there would be pens never emptied dry
cultivating piles of paper ***** with half *** rhymes, rhythms, and washed up metaphors
muses would never possess individuals
sleeplessly seeking to fill up forests worth of leaves
after suffering from the doldrums of writers block
blank canvasses, empty words
in a world without art
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
If you hear growls in the middle of the night
Don't be alarmed
Go back to bed, she's alright
It's just her imagination
It's all pretend
Bones aching
Muscles twitching
Her temperature is rising
She screams
But no sound comes out of her mouth
Clamping on to her pillow
For dear life
She's going through living hell
But no one knew it
Because no one was there
She let out soft moans
Whimpering on her bed
Drenched in sweat
Gritting her teeth
Trying to pull through
Her body itched
For what she couldn't have
She bit the inside of her cheek
Til she tasted blood
Then bit down harder
Hours of restless twisting and turning
Unsettled stomach
When will this end?
When will this end?
When will
This
End
Will this end?
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
I've always itched
For perfect mahogany
Chimera doubles.
Cavorting into her,
Psychologies
Fullest emptiness.
Drastic is the
...Vow...
One which
Most perceive.
I let it
Palpate
My sheathing...
And my entrails
Lay open...
As she played cello.
With intestines of mine,
Her smile planted
In mist.
Painted on sawmill
Hinges...
It began.
To sieve serrating
..Arms...
Back to my tissues
Within.
My bones; refused
Seeping aqueducts.
Only to quail from sin.
We wetted; our contour
Tongues on....
O-negative streams.
So animalistic,
I dwindled upon
Her lancet...
And we let our
Collage begin.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Warm summer nights in Mid-July
We'd talk and talk until my skin
Was covered in mosquito bites
I didn't mind, I let it sting
Those bites they kept me company
In the days you weren't around
I itched and scratched so angrily
They could stay forever on my account.
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:59 AM UTC
Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.
...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.
Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
-
#1
holy **** i am really drunk
accidentally slammed three beers
pretending that the neck of the bottle
was your lips
#2
part of me wanted to text you
staring up into the sky
praying that the stars would swallow me
and my fingers itched to type out
so many things that i would regret
in the morning
#3
and i imagined telling you
confessions of how i felt
and i imagined that little cursor
blinking back at me like so much
apathy and words swallowed
over and again
#4
and i have kissed
my fair share of people
with lips male and female
with faces smooth and some scruff
or a full beard that i envied
but girls have the softest lips
always have
#5
i wondered what it would be like
to kiss you then
holding your body to mine
hoping you would forgive the splits
in my lip that anxiety helped me put there
#6
a good describing word for how
i felt then with three beers and good food
making its home in my belly
would be “blissed”
i was blissed out on ***** and food
and my pining for you
#7
i am sober now
woke up earlier than i would have liked
but then again i fell asleep at 10:30pm
#8
and this thing i feel
it’s like a combination of regret
and disappointment in myself
for not just telling you how i feel
and for needing liquid courage
to get myself to that plateau
of spilling my guts or backing away
#9
and i have forgotten
what my favorite drink tastes like again
in favor of the words to describe
how kissing you for the first time
would surely feel
#10
and i have never felt fireworks
when kissing someone before
even the girl i thought i was gonna marry
and i’m not so young now
and a little bit more cynical
but i wanna feel those fireworks with you
and i still haven’t texted you
and i don’t know if i will
and i don’t know if i should
and i am sorry for being like this
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Prudence tumbled out of bed, straight into a dream.
The grass, so tall it was brushing her ears.
Verdant dancing through the scene.
Imagine it.
Her hay fever troubled her, 'twas mighty obscene.
A king sized snake went slithering by.
She saw him.
Frightened stiff.
Was petrified.
She closed her eyes.
Dive bombed by a bumblebee.
Panic set in before her peepers.
Just on a pollen hunt.
Jeepers' creepers.
Sat down between the massive blades.
Heads in hands.
Really scared.
Panic burned.
Snatched her breath.
Tears of panic gushed down her cheeks.
Heard a noise.
A mighty roar.
Her daughter beating on the door.
"Mummy mummy,
you alright?"
Heard you crying overnight.
Door clicked open,
Still her nose dripped.
And her eyes, still itched like hell.
(C) Livvi
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
It’s been a year
The clock strikes midnight
And its been a year
But this isn’t Cinderella
Or another stupid fairytale
Because it’s been a year
Since anyone has loved you
Or at least pretended they did
There have been people
Who have itched to touch you
Feel your skin under their hands
Sure,
But in the end
You’re left without being desired
For anything more than your body
Maybe it’s easier to make-believe the passion
For romance
But all of the endings are the same
Crying yourself to sleep is your
Happily ever after
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
i woke up this morning ****** off from the night
before about something petty
my ***** itched from sweating all night
forgot to turn the heater off
passed out drunk, didn’t really forget
work called me in early
so i missed my morning **** off and ****
coffee was cold; who am i kidding the coffee was old
******* in korea with more threats, government bans
something else, electric is due and i’m tired as ****
work sent me home early
said i stunk from last night, who are they kidding
i’m still drunk
bomb went off in boston, who ******* knows who
did it, bunch of ******* wack jobs living in this country,
gun lovers, gun haters, baby lovers, baby haters, *** lovers,
*** haters, very few lovers of love but even they fight at
night when the shower runs out of hot water
all i know is my ***** are blue and stink with pain
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Upon the announcement of my arrival
my ancestors weaved brillant threads to make a quilt for my bed
with steadfast hands, they weaved themselves a plan
who i was to become, what kind of man
upon the days of my arrival
my ancestors fantastically wrapped me up in the quilt of blue and red
this quilt housed me for many seasons
itched me, pinched me, left me cold at night
bit me, tripped me, straggling my rights
the brillant quilt made to protect became my golden cage instead
their plan created my strife
their plan corseted my life
after years spent suffocating in the threads
i decided to break away from the plan
emerging like a little chick out of an egg
i chose to live my life today
still the foundation laid was unscathed
every trigger sent my heart into disarray
independence fortified, return to the egg
the quilt might be itchy, it might be tight
but it is easier than learning how to fly
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 1:55 PM UTC
The sun rose with your name dripping from her lips this morning
every inch of myself itched with the burning imprint of your fingertips.
and with every moment your teeth scraped my hips.
My cries were a symphony that clashed with symbols of my satisfaction.
Our mumbled blessings cursed with the morning light.
Our memories washed by the whiskey of the previous night.
in this haze I can’t think
Of the difference between wrong and right.
4:00 am has never shone so bright.
and you and I aren’t bound for life.
I doubt we’re even bound for tonight.
But she and I and I and you
have stuck through tougher things,
with bound hands and stick like glue.
but if you lose yourself.
I will find you, underneath a blood moon.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
when i did not know who i was
i thought religion might tell me
i sat in a patronizing seat every other day
and did not ask the questions that itched
because questions are for those unfirm in their faith
when the teacher said,
'gay marriage is disgusting and
you should give money to Proposition 8,
cause they don't deserve rights'
i stood up,
cooly told everyone that
his words were that of a *******
walked out the door
smugly aware of the many
open jaws
and never looked back.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 11:23 PM UTC
I dare not scratch the surface Plato itched,
For fear I'd break my fingers on the stone.
My faculties in circles whirl around,
Which metaphor Aristotle would bemoan.
My femininity is undenied
And thus my musings, when they first began,
Would be utterly rejected, undeniably rebuked,
By one featherless bipedal man.
The History that gulped Atlantis down
Into its sunken depths, has made a grave
For all free thinkers, locked by secret PINs.
Philosophy, no more, these souls can save.
I carry naught but spades in both my hands,
Seeking to unearth artful thought's tomb.
Labor-sweat pours down, yet I am left to merely mourn
The heartbeat ne'er since heard from Athen's womb.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 3:18 AM UTC