"jut" poems
You said you would **** it this morning.
Do not **** it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court
The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
11.5k
Let me tell you about myself.
I am a mosquito magnet.
I have little scars of itchy memories all over my scrawny legs.
But I think it means my blood is sacred.
I find my laugh unique and one of a kind.
My walk, resembling more of a bowlegged wobble, allows me to stand out against the crowd.
(My walk isn't that bad, by the way, I was merely exaggerating for stylistic purposes.)
What's more, the fact that I am prone to blushing at even the slightest glance my way is kldjaf;ldjfoiad;htija;ji;ajf.
I love it.
My clumsiness only adds meaning to the moments in which I am fleetingly graceful.
Yes, my posture is rough around the edges,
But it signifies that I have been around the world a few times.
At least I don't jut out my pretty decently sized *******
You're welcome.
I find my lack of arguing skills in the moment cute.
My mistakes are adorable, and my obvious flaws are endearing.
The fact I can't **** an ant without showing sympathy is amiable.
If only somebody thought the same way about me.
If only people looked and analyzed others as closely as I do.
They would see.
That way I wouldn't be the only one loving myself. (Or trying to.)
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
I
Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?
II
I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
Springing alone
With a shrill inner sound
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
III
But at night I would wander away, away,
I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play
With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.
Then all the dry-pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
3.9k
The moon a bright, fat cauliflower in the early morning sky
Blistering cold seeping into the skin on the thighs
Burning in your fingers
A profound quietness blankets 7 am
Much like the soft snow blanketing the jagged black ice
Sky and ground synonymous hues of bluish white
Sleepy bark naked trees jut up from the ground
Whispering hushed things
Of frigid beauty frozen into the retina from a snowy night
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
We all serve someone in our capacity of life.
We just must be willing.
We all gather some type of benefits in life.
We jut must be willing to admit it.
I work for God Incorporated.
In other words.
I'm employee of God.
And this his service.
I have been insured in mutiple ways.
Don't have to admit how?
Don't even have to say.
In spreading his product.
Whether it's the word.
Or his love.
I have promoted his goal.
As God's employee.
He accepts request.
And He supplies many needs.
And I personally can testify.
He don't get offended being called a charity.
Altho' He does get heated at things he see.
Still, I rather stay employed in his company.
No strikes is allowed.
Too many rewards connected to his foundation.
He's always hiring.
While also advising and training others in life.
A good employer gets good remarks.
After all.
Why criticize the creator of us all?
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
The journey
to real self-love
is not always easy
There are so many elements
that can trip you up:
jagged rocks
that slightly jut out from
the silken, earthy surface
paths of black ice
that look clear
but slide you from your course
their invisibility
only tangent
after the fall
light flash floods
that turn into monsoons
at a moment's notice
a reflection of clear blue sky
that somehow turns
into a seemingly solid wall
But if we can hold on
and somehow stay connected
to the shining root within
let it hold us in place like an
invisible anchor
the floating umbilical cord
that connects us
to our inner mirror
deep reflection
and resurrection
Then we will know
that every slip
is truly temporary
and only leads us to the
improved firework
of ourselves:
for nothing can stop us
No matter what
we will blossom into
the very electric flowers
we were meant to,
and, at our own
blessed pace,
burst into
the gentle ululation
of
the stars
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
the night was already crazy-wild by the time
we arrived at Jarred's pool.
he had a big house but we never went in
4 teens, teen dream, a dream team;
but I knew deep down just what it was
we snuck out for.
a "transform-optional" rite, this hollow night.
but I still had doubts...
as Jarred offered me an aluminum can of something and I nervously said, "no thank you",
the moon had proudly jut out
he had a big house but we never went in.
I hadn't noticed, without the moonlight, just how
sharp Jarred's teeth and fingernails were.
canines, ivory & sporadic. looking at me
I hadn't noticed how reptilian our 2 friends were
The fangs and dislocating jaws, tendrils & scales.
Man-o-war for a head, giant earthworm for an arm
She looked scarier than he.
Those 2 went at each other in a murderous way
A blood sport of sorts. Confusing to me.
She spread her jaws wide - a parachute with teeth
And bit down hard between his legs.
Blood everywhere. Blood spattered on her face
She looked ****** god-awful by then.
The meat of his dead body then re-animated
And assimilated with hers. Anabiosis + Differentiate
Jarred, a werewolf or something like it, approached me.
He had a big house but we never went in.
we chatted poolside for a while
he'd go harmoniously from monster to human, human to monster.
Boiling cancerous growths under his fur
Grew angry eyes that glared at me.
clawhand on the back of my neck,
he went in for a kiss (or a bite)
with a puckered face and bared teeth.
This is it.
I finally felt a grossness so profound that I,
without thinking, jumped in the pool
to splish-splash, cool, to escape, whatever
I opened my eyes and just floated there for a bit.
hanging in the stillness
trying to forget those alien freaks
staring up at the moon
from the bottom of a pool.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
in this
pocketful
of limbo
the distance rises
in curls of smoke
a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
of forest
Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
sacred texts
into my oxygen
They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
playing inside
my psyche's
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
as I spit out
the
hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
internal
engravings
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
grounding me
like this,
my tongue
tripping
over velvet
stance of warrior
assuaged into silk
Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
I am simply
tied to
the urgency
of the little novas
about to
explode
While I wait
I tend to
the wildfires.
to make sure they
are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
it is time
I let the whole of
me burst
into the
fire -wrapped
tips of
stars
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
Can you run,
Your softened fingers,
Along the outskirts,
Of my brittle bones.
Push them down,
Until they jut out,
And pierce through,
My cracking skin.
Can you hold,
My head under,
The murky depts,
Of darkened water.
Sew my bleeding,
Lips together,
And make sure,
I cannot breathe.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
My friend Ana has many followers.
She feeds us promises and fills our dreams
when we cannot, will not, sate the cries
of our bodies because those are easy to hush
during the din of day, but not in the void,
night when
my friend Ana comes through a glowing
screen in the form of thigh gaps, community forum posts,
and calorie counting apps where our intake dwindles,
anticipating the moment we take in the waist of our skirts
so maybe that boy with the blue-jean eyes notices
our size 0 because on a scale of 1 to 10, we don’t fit.
My friend Ana remains forever in our minds,
teaching us to listen to our inner strength as muscle tone
ebbs, seething when we reach for some bread, but loving
the sweat-drenched skin as we run nowhere on a treadmill that we believe leads to a salvation as perfect as the symmetry of ribs—
of cheekbones that jut out from a thin and beautiful face
which smiles at muted murmurs and falls as I look
in the mirror at bodies shaped so divine, you might see
premature grace because
Ana never dies.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
My pet cat licks my face repeatedly; it feels a bit strange
to jut my jaw forward for a feline to lick and make my face wet.
but as I sit my eyes shut, it feels unreasonably nice, then, it dawns:
she is clicking her LIKES on my real Facebook page
the way she knows best.
Eureka! this is my tender Archimedes moment !
the naked truth, reveals itself before me like Venus
why the crazy craving, without rhyme or reason
for LIKES in Facebook and cyberspace;
now, I understand so well.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
there are times
i am supposed to be happy
like when i am with my friends,
throwing my head back and covering my mouth
as i shake with laughter
at a joke someone jut made.
but then day turns to night
and my carefree grin turns into an unexplainable sadness,
etched on my face like a tattoo.
and i lay in bed,
thinking about all the things i wish i could say,
and all the things i'm afraid to admit.
it's nights like these when i realize,
i am many things.
i am happy and sad,
outgoing and shy,
crazy and quiet.
but mostly,
i am just empty.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Bees were swarming around the eastern
shallow end, a warning that the cherries
are deepened and smattering
the pond's bank with nature's jam,
the small tree a joy to the family, but
nobody around much now to keep them
picked and eaten.
The snapping turtles have had their fill
of the cherries and basked lazily in the
center of the deep end, at least two of them
and as I'm a frequent friend, they stationed
amiably as I walked, picked up and threw
grasshoppers to the fish in the water.
The spiders will appear in proportion soon
to the apples growing on three trees
at the edge of the woods, about 40 feet
south of the pond, with a jut of the creek
in between them.
Every year I get my sweet fill of those apples,
planted 50 years ago or so by my great-grandfather,
don't know what they are, maybe Braeburn,
judging by their mottled colors of red and yellow.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
When I look in the mirror in the morning,
I feel fine.
I brush my hair.
I am fine.
I brush my teeth,
And I am fine.
Then I notice how my teeth aren’t as white as they could be.
But I'm still fine.
Then I put on my clothes and I notice how I spill over the sides.
But I am fine.
Then I notice how my hips jut out
And my jeans are never long enough in the ankles.
Then I spend ten minutes thinking of changing my jeans,
Because this shirt is too tight
But I opt for a hoodie instead.
Then I am lost in the hoodie.
I feel like a blob of fabric.
And then just a blob.
I get in my car and look in the mirror to adjust
And notice how dark under my eyes are.
When I’m pretty sure they weren’t that dark earlier.
As I drive to school, I notice my hands on the steering wheel
And ponder how they can be both fat and scraggly at the same time.
I get to school and notice people staring at me at the red lights
While I begin to cross the road.
I pass windows and with each one,
I notice my thighs grow larger with each step.
I notice how wide I am when I pass other girls
Then I think about my ankles and I swear I can feel them swell.
By the time it is twelve o’clock,
I have convinced myself that I am a
Bulging,
Suffocating,
Beast
Who tramples everyone in the room.
And the Earth is suddenly too small for someone as big as I am.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
its harder to speak than to yell.
and harder to yell than to.....think.
but.
as the slumber passes, and the daisies awake.
i feel as if i could talk to you.
just talk.
it might not be a real conversation.
because i might jut blink. and the time i felt i could talk.
would have dashed away from me.
in the night, the stars form into flowers.
others see constellations, or space stations.
but i am unique. i see picturesque flowers bathing in the night glow.
iris. rose. both in bloom. blossoming from the roots of the starry night.
it is really easy to know.
just harder to
speak.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
There were times
When I loved Tomorrows
Than Todays
But when those Tomorrows have become Todays
And had become Yesterdays,
I no longer crave for Tomorrows
And the lust for Todays are long gone.
I jut live in the traces of Yesterdays.
Is there any other concept than the above said
In Space-Time?
If Yes'
I'm on my way to the TIME-MACHINE!
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Your tears are like wind chimes,
as your heart brakes so softly,
silent you try but this you cant hide.
You've tried to be sweet, and keep the melody up beet,
but sometimes the wind goes and dies.
But no your not fragile,
from this you shall grow.
That although your tears fall like wind chimes,
you are stronger than most know.
Yes you are hurt ,
because you feel burnt,
but dear you are a wind chime ,
you've faced so much worse.
From storms in the sky,
and when the earth quakes from bellow,
you have faced so much worse that you must know.
Dear the wind shall come again
jut be carful to who you give your heart to spend
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
Steps on the barren desert valley ground,
I'd rather be in the alley.
I'd rather be in the alley with you.
Sun burnt rocks jut out at me,
They shake their fingers at me,
"You'll never get out, it's a dead end from here."
I remember sitting out under the sun,
I remember being under the sun on the roof,
And I remember screaming at the skies,
*" Mathematics has taught me nothing,
School was nothing but sociological lies!"*
I had my verbal reasoning skills,
I had a bottle of Adderall pills,
I had my quantum physical knowledge,
I've been down the road of metaphysics,
I even had foreign language skills.
Italian artistry doesn't help you here, no.
The coyote knows best,
The wildebeast and dachshund know better.
Animal supremacy, no.
Conscious human foreclosure of higher arcane intelligence,
If it ever yielded it's presence,
Jesus would've resurrected already.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
I’d stop to indulge in my cursed writer’s rut,
And cease to perch beneath the spiky pine,
Like the winter snow my thoughts doth jut,
Beside a flame, on delicious dreams dine,
No forest bequeath or mountain’s soul call,
Just the spring of my writer’s pen approach,
As doth many a story on these blank pages fall,
The chilly snow, nigh the singing wind encroach,
Perhaps my mind in another universe doth roam,
Witness to more then what the eyes here fathom,
Like a child’s delight in summer’s soft moan,
Stories of Mermaids dwelling in nature’s *****
Star by star and sun by sun, stories here themselves doth tell,
Of beautiful Queens and Kings of valor, my pen doth here compel.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
A Reading from the Book of Puppets
**Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say**
Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity
the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
***Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?***
And when she’s not there
***I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence***
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile
why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to
Why? Because at the end of the day
your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams
You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life
a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul
cdh
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes another hour.
Power.
That's what the clock has over us,
ticking from our first fuss,
to the last time we tie our shoes and get on a bus.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
Another clogged up rut.
The odd feeling in my gut,
the sound of the ticking making me jut.
The door is shut.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
Can't you see?
It was me.
I tried to be set free,
I wanted to flee,
I just wanted to be.
Forgive me?
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Tic.
Tock.
The mouse is in trouble.
Bubble.
The clock had it popped,
your life has been cropped,
your skull was dropped.
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.
2k
Euphoria
It is a word
That means
absolute
and total
happiness
excitement
ecstasy
and joy
It explains
a feeling
of immense pleasure
this feeling
I know
when I touch
my bones
delicate
and hard
beneath my skin
it's not as if
I reach through
and find them
between the sinew
and skin
No, they rise
to meet me
as every day
I eat a little less
and each day
the bones
so pale and white
they show
just a little bit more
My collarbones
start to press
against my skin
as if pressing
through paper
my ribs
straining
against my skin
so delicate
or at least,
they will become so
my hips
will jut out
just a bit more
and my stomach
better than flat
it is concave
although
it only becomes so
when i lay down
but perhaps
if I run
an extra mile
today
then tomorrow,
I will see them
each day
I go to work
counting
religiously counting
calories, bites, chews
cups, pounds, ounces
I carefully measure
each aspect
of who I am
because I am not
who I want to be
yet
but I will be
If I control
what I do
then I can control
Who I am
And if you can see
the sunset
between my thighs
and the mug
between my fingers
on a cold morning
sipping coffee
black and bitter
I will be good enough
for just a moment
a breath
a fleeting second
in my eternity
I will be okay
because I am enough
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 11:24 AM UTC
I want to warm my hands in you,
the soft merrigold folds of your
buttercream skin.
Lay in the crook your shoulder,
hiding my face deep in the smell
of ocean breezes and mist,
spraying up around me,
setting me free.
Trace my spine like the highway,
hitting every bump in the road,
sliding off the side once in awhile
to skirt down the slope if my side;
tuck your knees to your chin,
like you do,
like you are.
How when I think of you,
I think of the cosmos,
and nebulas,
and star filled spaces
All clustering like broken glass.
Because that's what you are,
you are broken glass.
See through in most places,
Tiny splinters here and there,
so you can
Still see through,
see your reflection,
But when the glare hit just right,
you are inpenetrable,
no ones eyes able to look for long.
I wonder what you think of when you
think of me?
Do you think of wind?
Always around you,
touching inch of your skin,
setting you free,
or setting against you,
heavy.
Or do you think of somethin else?
Something worse?
Something,
like invisibility maybe?
Can you really see me?
Cause I don't think you can.
Not with the way you treat me.
Pretending I exist only half the time.
You let me do things for you,
put myself out there..
And then I get excited about something ,
or maybe I need you.
And you jut sit there,
and pretend I don't exist.
And it feels like my lungs have been cut out.
But it's okay,
what's the point of breathing anyways?
When the life is knocked of you,
again,
and again.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
Her nimble fingertips
Cause earthquakes, thunder
And cracks of lightning across a foreboding sky
This midnight mistress of Poseidon
Where then, does this dark nymph call home?
In the ominous waves of a turbulent sea
Between rocks that jut out like claws
That is where she dwells
Where she casts her spells on mortal men
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC