"keyed" poems
except that you have
attached your parfumed,
par~col~odored exhalations
into our shared airs,
with uniqued fumes,
thy airy
essences
to thine own chosen words,
in combines never before
seen or heard,
but worn by you,
draped from chains abound your neck,
dripping from thy tongue,
dropping from thine eyes,
leaking from your pores,
from fingers in rose gold
adorning rings bright shining
so more, so unique,
impossible to misidentify
as anything anybody any anything,
but
yours, yours…yours,
but not belabor this
fact basic,
disguise your name,
hide your fame,
make your locale,
somewhere in the unreachable,
unreal,
multiverse,
none the less,
and allthemore,
cannot escape,
the ultimate reality,
when first you press that
keyed
SEND,
you have parted, done with,
an immeasurable
small but grandeured piece of
your unique self,
if that makes you anxious,
here my eyes crinkle sympathetically,
am please to blurt
this major alert:
u have nothing to fear,
too late, too late,
you are now made,
part and particle,
past participle
futured history in
the particulared,
longest continuum
on this tiny, tiny
planet
oh well,
just thought you'd
like to know,
despite your guises,
your are now
100 per cent,
immutable ^
10/5/25 staying alive
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 8:23 PM UTC
Moments of grace, moments of glory
times I can be myself and not be sorry
but they never stick around never seem to stay
unlike the clouds hanging in the skies on a rainy day
Clarity has become rare since silence became violent
when I said that I love you, but you remained quiet
reeling from the knife you twisted in with force
from my attachments to you I need a divorce
I've never been one to gripe or complain
but lately the way you've been saying my name
has left me completely drained
and there are terrible thing Ive wanted to say
but karma's a ***** i don't want to **** (with)
so I'll sing sad songs like you keyed up my truck
in a bad country love song
gone so very wrong
left here a knight without a kingdom
fighting for nothing just like Don Juan
But growing up means letting go
I hope you find love
some other place, someone else's arms
but never mine
I'll attempt the same and I just know we will be fine
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
You see,
When you grow up in a place such as I have,
And you're a person like me,
You start to have a special kind of hatred for small towns.
In my town,
In the land of the brave,
And the home of the free,
Things are messed up.
Our motto should be-
Land of the cowards,
And the home of the free (if you're like us).
...They wouldn't even know how to spell you're correctly.
In my town,
Bibles are thrown,
Names are called,
Cars are keyed,
And people are beat...
All because they're different.
Its not necessarily the different that you would imagine.
If you're red headed,
Or anything but Christian,
If you're a yank,
Or a gay,
You're hated on.
I can promise you this.
At the red heads,
They accuse them of witch craft,
And being in line with the devil.
Some have even went so far,
As to burn down ones house.
If you're not a Christan,
Run as far away from this town as possible.
Its not the place for you.
On the road I live on,
There are 7 Southern Baptist churches,
JUST on my road.
Southern Baptist are a little crazy,
Run boy,
Run.
If you're a yank....
You'll be excluded,
And yelled at.
Everything bad that goes on in this **** town,
It will all be blamed on you.
If you're gay,
Oh lord forbid that you're gay.
Don't be gay in this town,
Just dont.
You wont survive.
As for me,
I am a red headed girl,
Who comes from out of town,
Who isn't a yank,
But is still treated like one.
I am a Christan,
But not as much as I need to be,
And I am not quite straight.
I dont like this small town of mine,
But its the place I call home.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Too many bottles of this wine we can't pronounce
Too many bowls of that green, no lucky charms
The maids come around too much
Parents ain't around enough
Too many joy rides in daddy's jaguar
Too many white lies and white lines
Super rich kids with nothing but loose ends
Super rich kids with nothing but fake friends
Start my day up on the roof
There's nothing like this type of view
Point the clicker at the tube
I prefer expensive news
New car, new girl
New ice, new glass
New watch, good times babe
It's good times, yeah
She wash my back three times a day
This shower head feels so amazing
We'll both be high, the help don't stare
They just walk by, they must don't care
A million one, a million two
A hundred more will never do
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Oh, real love
Close your eyes for what you can't imagine, we are the xany gnashing
Caddy smashing, bratty *** he mad, he snatched his daddy's Jag
And used the **** for batting practice, adamant and he thrashing
Purchasing ****** grams with half the hand of cash you handed
Panicking, patch me up, Pappy done latch keyed us
Toying with Raggy Anns and mammy done had enough
Brash as **** breaching all these aqueducts; don't believe us
Treat us like we can't erupt, yup
We end our day up on the roof
I say I'll jump, I never do
But when I'm drunk I act a fool
Talking 'bout , do they sew wings on tailored suits
I'm on that ledge, she grabs my arm
She slaps my head
It's good times, yeah
Sleeve rips off, I slip, I fall
The market's down like 60 stories
And some don't end the way they should
My silver spoon has fed me good
A million one, a million cash
Close my eyes and feel the crash
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
[Las Meninas, Oil on Canvas, 1656, Prado, Madrid]
I am the first proud pronoun I
against the fear of my invisibility
each morning rising from
minor nobility like my parents
(no son of a converso – lies –)
into the light of mastery;
now as a Knight of Santiago
- the king himself painted the cross
you see in Las Meninas -
nobilitas is in the faces
royal with ancient lines
(you understand I did not
trade
am Moorish of Seville
and Portugal).
Not from the mind but back
into its expectation.
I see the work reflected
into the lens of sense
to supplement the work into the real
express itself by what
a slavish love of detail cannot supply
it was the power
to give them what they did not see
the scorn in lips
from ****** generations
bought by my brush
among them into monarchic trade
and what they thought as glory,
dwarves and all larger than life.
that painted me so high
those royal portraits by the score
keyed to the colour of fame
silvered and golden
mine.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Clicking their way forward and back,
Flip-flopping into or hearts
If a girl can con money
Out of their fathers’ pockets,
who’s to say
They can’t sway politicians?
Their lips kiss pictures.
Pictures of cannabis leaves, yellow and smiling
They live until they die,
don’t live until they’re married
And if they don’t find what they want,
what else do they need
besides a crowd of fellow millennials
Caring, caring?
Caring about cannabis’ rights
and the right to carry a GBF,
their money, their frame
and, above all, pepper spray
These girls are the new
honest, hard-working man,
Their sweet scent is coming.
Sweet pea and Moonlight Path.
the top-selling fragrances at
Bath and Body Works
Their battle-cry is only
as loud as their looks
Daisy dukes and Katy Perry
whispering, “What the hell is she wearing?
She dons thin, rose-gold underwear
and she’s lazy yet keyed-up
in her own skin
Her lovers are all the same
but she blames all men.
Her wings are Pink,
they protect her from catcalls.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Last night,
I succumbed to the anaesthesia
Of the breaking dawn.
I dreamt of you beside me,
My fingertips caressing your shoulder blades,
Running up and down your spine,
Playing your vertebrae like an ivory-keyed piano.
I could nearly hear the sound of your breath,
Peaceful and steady,
The nightmares dissolved.
When I awoke
In my sleep-deprived stupor,
I smiled at you,
Though you did not rest beside me.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Apple taste
Placed atop
Your head--
Shotgun
*Klu
Klux
Klank*
Bang
00 Buck
Shattering
Thine
Crystalline
*****
Optera
Forever
Encased
Behind Glass
Locked and keyed
Plead
Plead
Please
Let me out
To
Use my wings
I'll allow myself
This
Dream
Only for a
While of
Rubbing
Antennae
(With"you")
Caked
In Pollen
(All the other children used
To laugh at my unobtrusive
Thorax)
I forgot
The taste
Of Breeze
Please
Free me from
This prison
Cell
Inside
Your
Nucleus
Warm and inviting
I think
I could learn
To lov-
To lo-
No, I understand
You don't use the L-word
In this
Kingdom
Phylum
Class
Order
Family Genus
Species
You
Use much more subtle
Habitual
Mating Rituals
Practiced by
Boys
And Girls
Alone
Once
Their government
Handbooks are issued
Ashamed and
Full of doubt
They seek out
The silence
Offered on
Forgotten
Moons
Where they can
Meditate to
The infinite hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm of the universe
You can hear it
Now
If you listen close
Enough
*Almost
A
Whispering
Deep inside (me?)
I
Think
I could...
love you*
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
Who was the first one to say
**** it”?
To put his middle finger up in the air
and scream
**** THE SYSTEM”
at the top of his lungs?
To chop off her hair and wear pants,
while whispering
**** gender roles”
as she washed her newly chopped hair
and didn’t shave her legs.
Who was the first to stand up to the man
and fall on his knees before him
as he was shot down for saying
“go **** yourself”
because that was what
he firmly believed in.
Who were the revolutionaries that
inspired the revolutionaries we know of today?
And who will be the new rebels that blare
**** the police”
as they drive down their drug torn streets,
hoping that today wasn’t going to be their last.
Who were the first people to go
**** it, I’m out” and
jump off the ledge,
tie the noose,
or point a pistol to their head?
Who were the trailblazers?
The ones who keyed the terms
**** it” and **** you”
**** this” or **** that”
Who was the first woman that
made a man look at her and say
****
And how do you manage
to have that effect on me?
Who are you to make me say
**** it” and
drive 3 hours to see you
when I have school the next morning?
Who are you to make me say
**** the system” as I
try to convince you to skip class
to come and see me for a couple days?
Who are you to say
**** gender rolls”
and make guy’s jeans realize
that they never would’ve looked as good
on guys as they do on you.
Who are you to say
“go **** yourself”
when they told you that
you couldn’t be you
even though you know who you are.
Who are you to say
**** the police”
while you race 90 miles per hour
down the interstate
and put your lips to a joint
as you put them to mine?
Who are you to say
**** it, I’m out”
and leave me with my
heart in hand and
a bottle of Bacardi in the other?
Who are you to
stand out and say
**** it” and **** you”
**** this” or **** that”
How can you lie in front of me
and lie in front of me
saying that you don’t give a ****
when I can’t help but whisper ****
under my breath every time I see you
Yet you still don’t understand
that you’re the one ******* up
my heart and ******* up
my thoughts while ******* me
and I won’t say **** this
because I’m too ****** up
to just say **** it.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
This may not be a poem,
more like a beef,
an irritation,
a shock and awe annoyance,
that too, too, too many poems
by keyed up scribblers,
package their custard mustard innards
with the same skill three year olds
wrap a present for their mothers,
fully expecting the same mom response,
"Honey, this is so lovely."
There is no disgrace
in learning by failing.
Fail, fail, fail,
But do it honestly.
Read five books of poems
before you write
one miserable haiku.
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
The evening bright lights
Scattered upon the floor
*Showing us the way
Bringing our minds to and fro
Listen as the words are said*
**Tricking our guitars
In playing sweet harmonies**
*Dedicated fans
American band playing
Performing greatest hit list*
*Swaying to good songs
Dancing on backlit stages
Screaming fans adoring chants*
**Lively sounds of drums
Bass player musically keyed**
*Melodic singer
Entertains us with his vocals
Crowd pleaser particapates*
Good night, Las Vegas
Enjoy the great crescendos
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
Together they lamented a generation with newspaper vision
In a mesh perspective, young and old
I have a bad habit of falling
In love
Everywhere I go, said young
Is that jazz on your record player?
I do believe it is becoming my most passionate affair of all
Each
Skiddly-doo bahp, *** dum walk, deedly-dee
And keyed swung run
Are like wild spirals of fireworks, tie dyed tentacles swirling about
Hugging my weightless all-ear, a train for fractal tracks on-spot created
I hear their hoof beats, and I think zebras
He told old how he intended to learn
To morph his pain to bop
And achieve the wordless cohesion of sardine schools
Through plucked coiled steel, if it cost him all his years
He knew the notes, but now he would conjure color
And shade them through his pineal prism
Until his dancing phalanges could spill coral reefs and sunsets
Old told him how music had saved his life
And in the war he was permitted to leave his truck
To press on black and white, tamed but untrained
The Japan grand was lame, but officers smiled
Some night, he said, when you're smashed and uninhibited
Gather your tools and let your inner self become a melody
When you manage to break your gates in sobriety
You will be an artist
Listen to the wind
Beauty is improvised
He handed young his authored book, which carefully he'd signed
Never lose it friend; your greatest gift is your appetite
They sat in his office while the record spun a standard
Fuzzy magic rang out forever, it seemed
Like signals to space or whale songs through the depths
Most listeners are scared to lose control
Ashes piled as the fire died
But young knew his never would
Him and jazz had fallen in love
That night, he knew he'd lived
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
You came honey in hand
glint in your eye
sticky sweet summer pie
Honeycombed days, we sang
meadow-ed daisy laughter
Bees on blackberries, thorny fingered reaches
blowing sea grass, sandy toed beaches
You were intoxicating
in your honey house hive
piano keyed, golden heart sighs
Musical notes, deeply toned, hallowed we played
on softest wings we flew away.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
restless but doin okay
uneasy, ill at ease, restive, fidgety, edgy, on edge, tense, worked up, nervous, agitated, anxious, on tenterhooks, keyed up;
jumpy ,jittery, twitchy, uptight, antsy
sleepless, wakeful
fitful, broken, disturbed, troubled, unsettled
"a restless night"
offering no physical or emotional rest; involving constant activity or motion.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.
Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.
Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.
The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,
(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).
Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.
His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.
He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.
Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 4:36 PM UTC
She had dried His feet
with her hair. She’d not
forgotten that. Not long
after she’d seen the same
feet nailed and bloodied
to the wooden down beam.
Her tears had helped wash
them, those feet, she later
remembered the tingle she
had felt as her long hair
dried them, something in
touching, emptied her of
self and opened up her
darker self. Had He seen
more than others, understood
what others were blind to,
forgave what others condemned?
That moment, His feet in
her hands, touching her hair,
her hands. His eyes spoke to
her, His words pinpricked her,
each sin (as others saw them)
scabbed over as he went by,
His shadow kind of healed her.
She knew that now, not then
so much, after His demise (or
so seemed) and the placing in
that tomb, she felt letdown,
emptied, like after some dark
passage *** But she’d seen
Him after, the feet healed,
the holes unbloodied, His
voice soothed her inner coil
keyed up tight. But mostly she
recalled the washing of His feet
on that warm moon filled night.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Tetragrams and anagrams
Pseudonyms and sleight-of-hands
Betwixt the lines lie crooked spines
Textured, gestured, shamed and shrined
Functions, Factions, fabled fiction
Starred and Crossed, they're scored and stitched in
Faeries, furies, funded theories
Quantum physics, quarks and queries
Embers bright, a red clad knight
Winged cats with cubic heights
Flux your lux, set down your labels
Time entwines both swine and angels
Mumbled murmurs, lazy learners
Beacons, bosons, carbon burners
Codecs keyed for hertz and bytes
Ancient tones 'n pheremonones
Reflect,
Refract,
Retract...
Ignite.
Our shadow selves toll ghostly bells
Building walls, erecting shelves
Saviours, slaves, enchanted knaves,
'Tis man, himself, 'creates these Hells...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
You know it's bad when you start reading through the personal column and craigslist ads. No first date to the movies, he showed up in a suit to a house party.
Someone keyed a sad face into the side of your car. You should stop breaking hearts. I heard you like games, so let's play hide and seek with our feelings! I think I'd go out all night with a flashlight just to find out if you've missed me. Sometimes I have half a mind to file a missing person report but god knows where you've been and the authorities always come up short.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 2:45 AM UTC
She's all Spring and Summer
Strength
and words of shelter
He's all maps and formlines
waits
in wings for Springtime
Take these tattered ghosts
from their trenches
ink-smeared, tethered tight
to the depth curve
Autumn only waits for the silent
ones sometimes.
"If their voices chase
out the brisk months,
quiet those windy wights
with a new song.
Autumn only waits for the silent
ones," she said.
In 3/4 time
the distances unwind
so swiftly
Afterburn of quiet nights
glows, fading.
He's all sovereign anger,
righteous, stiff
but twisting
She's all cavalier, now--
cat-quick through
projections
Past the legends,
rose our directions
Keyed to Winter's
dumb introversions
Years just spilling over the levee's
prescribed edge.
With their weathered ghosts
in the trenches,
tired-eyed, tethered tight
to the map's edge
Autumn only cares for the silent
ones some days.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
if I could rise up
as a Homer's character
and call for ruler
to ebb the inevitable
if I could call you
before its too late
and move my pawns upon you
casting alchemy
if I were to ever know
to define needs and desires
to be hysterically deviant
before it mattered
if I could have seen
what it would been
walking pavements with you
and having an alfresco meal
if I could have keyed
my grandfather’s watch
to exist again in the moment
and dwell on the thought
if I were to ever understand
the sound of clock and
fading pulse of our hearts
to be nigh analogues
if I could have
seen the world’s ends
and ranged my life
between the extremes
if I could have
borrowed your wings
for a span dolled over time
till the lapse of angst
could this be gnarling fate?
or just our folly?
leaving bated breaths and sighs
for there is no time
for there is no tomorrow
to accord with or may be confute
all the static beliefs and floating IFs
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
She burns Nova
and she is so live
I can't let her go
not without her pilot
He makes grim look like heaven
for her captain is fighter elite
wow that black clad *******
Neon will make her burn nova
He just keyed 300 disciplines
now just watch him fly
he is and he is will
I think he is going to burn the skies
On to the deck
oh sweet glory
we are warship
Neon she burns nova
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
I disgust myself
This weakness I have for it all
For meaning, for connection,
For the Great Him
The need to constantly be keyed
Up and into words bigger than me
My hormones are more than happy to oblige
And the not so subtle subterfuge
Sucker that I am
Aware but still hopeless
But I eat every last morsel
Cut small to fit my childish mouth
A mouth that can do Very Mature Things
A mouth that can honestly lie to herself
***** please.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
To hear all-out would be ear-splitting
So like a tusk piercing through my heart
Like a wind rustling fleetingly
Through the valley I muttered
Hankering the need to be there would soon be over
As the dab hand struggled
For low-keyed lines to what's uncovered
My eyes swelled up
Held back the silvery icicles
Before they fall down the cheeks like rain in the summer
My hurdles, snags, & pitfalls seemed tiny dots
Next to his giant sheepshank slubs
Yet did not bear me spur
I won't ever feel any better
What else would matter
When one's existence becomes faint spurts of tiny embers
When one's crystal anchor too soon turns to blur
Whether or not heard in a corner I said a pray'r
For courage & strength as I live out my toil
For heavens to keep the fire
In this brightly shining star's light.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC