"kneed" poems
Delilah baby I can feel the weight of you in my arms.
I can feel my k to z love for you and see how that laugh of yours makes people cry
and how that smile pierces my heart because it looks just like his did.
I can feel the sun kissing each one of our toes as we sit overlooking the grand canyon in the kaleidoscope sunset.
your spider fingers are wrapped in my hair like a plea to never be left alone
your spindle legs are all knobby kneed and pale entwined with mine.
baby he left me not you.
I was a hurricane and he loved you too much to look
afraid that one glance and he'd be head over heels reeling out of control
like you were the drug and he was the addict.
they say everything happens for a reason and you are my reason.
Delilah baby you are the here and the now of forever.
the stop sign on the corner is an obstacle for street racers but its a godsend because its just enough of a pause for me to kiss you between the eyes.
and I can't ever finish anything so this story isn't complete
and at the top of the pass where the air is clear enough if we sing loud enough maybe he will hear us and remember who he left behind.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
9.2k
'Neath canopy of paradise
Super troupers' shafts of light
Illuminate his terpsichore;
***** he struts, the impresario
Gyrating on spindle shanks;
Needle thin and knock-kneed
He dances a samba
On stage of verdure;
Midst Elvis blue-black thrusts,
Steel rimmed amber orbs
Seek admiring and desirous glances
From the dour drab hen,
Mousy in her beige twin set
And mottled tweed skirt;
With nonchalant disinterest she exits
The arena; audition over.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 11:40 AM UTC
Magdalene watched Mary
bend down to put on the LP.
The Beatles. They’d saved
up and bought it together.
She took in Mary’s stockinged
thigh showing through the slit
in the side of the school skirt.
Mary placed the LP carefully
onto the turntable, with her finger
put the needle arm down onto
the vinyl. The music started up,
Mary stood up and sat next to
Magdalene on the single bed.
Magdalene sensed her there,
her thigh next to hers, her
warmth, their knees almost
touching. What did your Ma
say when you said you bought
the Beatles? Magdalene asked.
She said nowt, Mary replied,
but Da said it was a load of
***** and where did I get
the money from to buy it?
John Lennon's voice sang
over the twanging guitars.
Magdalene said, did you
tell him we bought it together?
Mary nodded. Her hands
pushed between her thighs,
her young face lit up by
the room's light. Don't you
think Paul's a dish? Mary asked.
Magdalene shrugged her
shoulders, studied Mary’s
knee where a spot of flesh
showed through a hole in
the black school stockings.
She wanted to move closer,
kiss the cheek, place her
lips on the skin. She breathed
in the borrowed scent that
Mary wore. Said she'd liberated
it from her Ma's room. Mary
talked of the boy they'd met
in the woods above the school.
Tried it on so he did, she said,
over the guitars and Lennon's
loud voice. Magdalene wished
she could put her hands where
the boy had tried. I put him
straight, Mary said, kneed him
where his fatherhood might flow.
Mary moved up and down on
the bed in response to the music.
The bedsprings complained.
Magdalene sensed the movement,
took in Mary’s behind going up
and down on the bed cover.
Glory be. She wanted to kiss.
Needed the hand to touch Mary’s,
the skin to join up with hers.
Downstairs a voice bellowed
to keep the ****** noise down.
Mary sighed and bent down
to turn the **** the thigh
revealed in the skirt's slit,
the spot of flesh through
the hole in the bended knee.
Magdalene captured the image.
Hid it in her memory bank for
later, for bedtime, for the cosy
pretend hold, maybe more if in
her dream she was lucky and bold.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Blindly crawling, ****** kneed, trembling.
Feeling in the darkness, the murk and muck on the floor covers knees.
Breath uneven and scared, terrified again.
There are no doors, no windows, no others.
The cell has no features, only walls with no color.
An expression of the mind, an image of nightmare. Empty.
The lack of content is what scares.
Air so thick, one would choke, but I can't open my mouth.
Nothingness pervades. Wades through the thoughts to another corner.
With but thy blood and fingernails, messages are cut, carved and scraped into the grey concrete of these walls, words begging to not be forgotten.
Messages mandating weak memory to scribe.
This is my mind. This is where each day I reside.
In terror of the world, I am not inside.
in horror of the things I think, or thought?
I know not nor remember what I do, I am scared.
Naked, afraid and trying to remember the lessons I learned so long ago.
Goose-bump covered and huddled in the corner.
Hands wrapped around my knees, crying, shaking.
Dead inside, hollowed out. Nobody home.
Betrayed again...
By myself.
Beside myself.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
3.6k
I'm really sick.
Like ***** is going to come out of my mouth--
an eruption of **** from my ears is due.
I've laid too long dormant
and one by one the hot spots of my petty jealousy,
indignation, and
mistrust are at boiling points:
The Ring of Fire, they call it.
Yellowstone
I'm the ********* Yellowstone caldera.
The great rim,
****** up and blister scarred,
knock-kneed from falling out of bed in nightmares,
weird from the predisposition to volcanic shittiness
(not in a romantic way)
but none the less active,
or reactive.
This vexation is as old as grinding plates.
This repulsion is as old as the poisoning of Aristotle
My head is the Spartan scythe
because I'm a new sign in an old world.
I use old signs to poison this newly dug well between us
But not well can I keep this message
banner
******* billboard to myself.
So let me just wrap the code from ear to ear,
in plain text where you can see
the cypher: **** your red dress.
You see,
those blisters are the gravity between White Dwarves
pulling at skin, and earth, and ending thrown halfway across the universe.
I knew I'd seen you before,
there at the edge of the Oort Cloud
where we tell people we just met:
I stopped eating
I was hurt once
I was ugly too
and no one was really listening.
You and the rest of our red dresses meant too little.
But still then why do you whine over the hungry, and hurt, and ugly
and spit in my face for being there at the Edge,
and for loving the thrill in listlessness,
the passion in mundanity?
And that ******** about the shallowness of victims?
You didn’t learn a thing
traveling and trusting and falling out of beds.
Your drunken honesty is your sober lack of layers.
This isn’t a far reach of space,
your torn dress and cork heels won't work here.
Don’t bring that littleness here,
you're the only one not really listening now.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
The pleasant lingering smell of rose hips,
feels almost healing,
as we tread through the garden -
together barefoot and vulnerable.
I won’t shy away from the prickly green grass,
then in the same way,
let me tickle you with my stubble as we laugh -
together joyful and crude.
One has to be careful not to lose themselves completely
to rub your intricate fingerprint away into another's skin in patterns,
because although the body feels heavy when weak kneed -
the weight of another’s soul is too much to bear alongside your own.
I won’t hold your head underwater in the fresh lake
then in the same way,
let me breathe when we lay by its side -
together entangled and safe.
The passing time made you my involuntary complex,
feels nearly daunting
as I adore this so shamelessly -
us together - balanced and in love.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 3:15 PM UTC
I want to be a creator, a maker,
to put my heart on paper,
drop words on ground, to bloom for goodness saker,
into swirls and loops, that say if I'm a give or a taker.
put my prints into earth, rebirth,
let soil separate stubbornness from worth.
stars folded into matter, like batter,
like I am and he is, more than what shatters,
and what I roll out, kneed out,
will breath out my souls doubts
that I am a creator, a maker
that swirls around equators,
who is and will be, more than I can wager.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Mysterious Night
Come look on vistas ever sweeping the hills a maiden walks in white she seems to create
Greater light follow her into the night where fire flies is her crown and lights up her curvaceous gown
And the gentle dawn she breaks by her sleepy eyes that causes the heart to be the only sound that is
Heard as it thumps with approval add a touch of dew to her hair if you dare a swaying week kneed man
Isn’t the most attractive sight but what can be when you’re caught in the awe of such loveliness like the
Current of the Seine just turn on the Paris lights stroll the west end the glow from the shop windows
Adds to the flow mix it with jasmine and here the slow expressive violin drift along the empty street
Its heaven coursing stop the carriage driver it is the perfect night for a carriage ride in the park
Somewhere as you listen to the clip clop of the horse’s hooves you are transported to the sea coast
Of ole Monterey out at the point of the peninsula the mighty waves crash over the rocks in the
Moonlight the night does speak with wondrous overtures love is the thrill that covers all the land
Mermaids sing from the hidden mysterious places that they alone know and then all the picturesque
Vivid images end alas it was just a lovely dream if so why do I still smell the Jasmine and a perfume that
is only sold in Paris
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:
“You see that man?”—I might have looked, and said,
“O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.”
“You see that man?”—”Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do.”
“You see that man?”—”Nay, leave me!” then I plead,
“I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!”
“Good. That man goes to Rome—to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.”
2.1k
Beware Hooray
the Cavemen are comin
jumpin up and don knock-kneed
sweepin the hill with their new harvested beard
Howdy chicky chicken leg
What’s goozin under your sweaty shirt
lookin like ma granpa
with ur baby cream breath
or is it maybe somethin else luscious
spring of intermittent discharge
making rainbows duplicate
yep gimme two too
when u come to me
oh when u come to me
cause I am a matured
lovin n **** is my blanched bird nest
neatly crowned above my head
I shall unbind it for
adorable is your lady color short pants
I bet holographic daisies growin
along the tri-d charm
of your ******
if any yeah if any
Beware Oh the cavemen
Run flat out nou
cause I shall feed you
to my auntie’s aging dreams
with the buncha hair on ur face
u look lika somethin
resembling
a man before her famine
Beware Oh the cavemen
Auntie is comin
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
1. If you aren't moving your hands while telling a story, it's a boring ******* story. Add in something to make it exciting, like a chance encounter with a tiger. So what if no one believes that tigers walk down 5th avenue, at least your story doesn't **** any more. You know whose story ***** now? That ******* who doesn't believe a tiger can make it in the big city.
2. Make bad mistakes every once in awhile. How will you know that you don't want to be part of a Colombian Drug Cartel unless you try it out for a few weeks? Who knows, maybe you'll find out it's your true calling. Maybe you'll stage a coup, take over the whole thing and get the hot girl in the red dress. But no, you're sitting at your computer reading this. My point is, drugs are bad ok?
3. Don't be that guy who thinks he's better than everyone else because he always "does the right thing". You know why he's never made a mistake? Because he doesn't have a real life. His life is as real as a Ken Doll's unmentionables. Yeah it's all smooth and shiny, but he can't have any fun with it. What's the point of having a life that can't be potentially ruined by terrible decisions?
4. Take chances. and I don't mean by putting "Piccolo Pete's Face Burning Tabasco" on your hotdog. I mean walk up to the next girl you see and give her a passionate kiss the likes of which she hasn't had since 3 days ago when she drunkenly made out with some random dude at a bar. Yeah, you may feel like you've just been kneed in the groin and/or maced multiple times in the eye...but you know what? You just made out with a beautiful woman, and you've got a good lawyer.
5. Don't take advice from people you don't know. Especially some random person on the internet, those people are just shady.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
I'm a nighttime lover, a day time wanderer
I'd bathe in the light of the moon
and turn my back to the suns rays.
In the filthy haze of the morning, last
nights sins are tattled on by the light
of day and if I had my way i'd sleep
through the dawn til dusk and i'd laugh
at the idea of ever needing the sun. I'd
kiss my mates lips and we'd lie side by side
til he slipped away and i'd retire for the day
and nobody would ever cast a judging glance
because my indiscretions wouldn't be laid
out before the world they'd still be in the
dark, with me. I'd be free to do whatever
I wanted with whomever I pleased. I'd be
free to talk to the man on the moon and tell
him i'd wish he'd been my first, to tell him I
wish i'd never told a lie, and I wished I had
said goodbye after the first punch, the first
time. I wish i had a clear mind and not bogged
down all the time. I'd call him a stranger and
tell him all about my life and he'd hold me and
say it will all be alright. And maybe then i'd
hope less for it all to end...I'm a nighttime lover
a day time wanderer stuck in the shadows of
weak kneed plunder and sometimes i'd be happy
to be alive though most of the times, i'd wish
i'd just died.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But what’s the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look
For newer pictures in this book;
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air
With horrid crying of night birds....
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air?
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,
But find no glimpse of your “New Age
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,
Die stillborn, because old men squeal
For something new: “Write something new:
We’ve read this poem—that one too,
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl
Just what I fancy as I strike it,
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl
Across my verse in the classic way.
And, sir, be careful what you say;
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.
1.8k
ANu de girl
dat made me twirl
ANd made
my moustache curl
She winked at me
I got knock-kneed
and had to
smoke some ****
It worked indeed
she puffed with me
then we both
watched this tale unfurl
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Along the brittle sandy shoreline fish carcasses, pungent like morning breath and stale milk attract unlikely furry hunters before noon. These unleashed dogs trot slowly. The burden of the sun cracks feverishly upon their sticky, rotted coats. Their tongues roll out helplessly dragging their intimidation down with them like foolish clowns on Sunday morning. On the upper crest of the beach an old woman sits dutifully in her black latched beach chair. Her eyes, beady and gray reflect out into the vast lake. She does not blink. Her cottage, crafted purely of cedar wood comforts like the smell of an old book. On rare occasions athletic fresh water fish pierce through the water’s surface. Flying fish echo their rippled splashes throughout this vacant canvas. But still they are rarely seen or heard. There are hardly any tourists that visit cedar bay. No oiled teenage girls or playful sand kneed toddlers. Once in a while a charcoaled pit circled with empty beer cans lingers in the morning light; its smoggy remains clings tightly to summer clothes that will soon reek of burnt leaves and gasoline. When the time is right, some noble person will try to rehabilitate this stoic landfill, to lift
away stark-lit layers
ill suited for human plea-
sures. It shall rest in piece.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 2:31 PM UTC
It's like I can see it in my head
As you're texting the words to me
I can see how stressed you are
Your head in your hands
Pounding with frustration
Constant wheels turning
I can only imagine how exhausting it is
And I squirm and struggle to sit here
Because I can't do anything about it
Oh how I wish I could take you away
Teach you how to relax
Slow down time
Count each breath
Feel it
Fill your lungs
Feel me
Seize your stress
Let me work those knots
Lay you down and straddle your body
Kneed your skin and play with your hair
Ease your mind off those headaches
I can make the pain disappear
Dissolve away
I'll mold your mind into a warm balance
Nothing but my hands on your mind
Forgotten the outside world
Feel me
Awaken forgotten nerves
Feel it
Relax your muscles
Please
I beg
Let me take you away
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
Carry me love as the morning sun fades
For I am a pilgrim who is worlds away
And this planet of your seems only to be getting colder
Rockets fly above beyond the human eye
Amongst Earth's stars there are cars in the sky
Wrap me in a blanket, put your head on my shoulder
Tell me of the fools, who love instantly
Count them all out, don't forget to add me
I am weak-kneed at the sight of you, oh the wonder
For I have seen stars sing their sweet lullabies
Been throughout the heavens, the highest of high
Yet none can compare to world that is you
Give me some notice when your eyes are closing
Dream and create things while you are dozing
This alien to your land will be ever gazing
Feeling each heartbeat as well lay on the grass
Watching the waving comet fly past
Reflecting in your eyes, which are simply blazing
Amazing.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC