"likening" poems
Whenever I'm around my family,
I get this low kind of feeling.
My family is full
with the kind of people
that become vps,
investment bankers,
nurses,
lawyers.
me:
little ********
that smokes ****
calls himself
"a writer",
and doesn't like to have
long conversations
about his future.
I am not one of them,
I am not a black sheep, or a black pharmacist,
or a black lawyer.
I am something
that wants to become
something,
when I am unsure
of what that something
is.
A continual
rebirth of somethings
likening myself
to God
with so much
internal creation.
This is malignant
to my family's ideals
of self-assuredness
and placement,
brutal placement
in America.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
it almost feels like the literary critique
establishment never heard
of the digitalised version of literary
print... a bit like the dynamic
of ***********
they read **** on toilet paper
and never the small print.. no metaphor,
no pun, poet is dead with god,
you remember, let's keep it like it's 1977
with punk angst, o.k.?
well 1 1 1 of the fingers on toilet paper...
**** smear....
eager music critics, but hardly any
pornographic critics, make a living they say...
cheap pop! ah, cheap pop! chop chop!
butchers' eyes first, priests' last -
liver bitter a minded care for it
as if minding a child! curse the minding!
curse the liver! a swarm of egos,
selfish likened to a marketplace
selfless likened to a monastery -
there the likening to clarify staring into a mirror;
there where we ate everything, including thought,
the materialisation of its immaterial twin: soul;
we too ate with the lineage concerned
via the Eucharist.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
I can’t really tell you
About love,
You.
I’m interested in *******
Till I’m raw, and holding
You like the universe you
Are.
Sometimes I go around
With hoes,
Smoking blunts till we fume
And sing and laugh
And start getting handsy.
Sometimes they have their kids in the other room,
And they yelp and laugh; when I look into these hoes
Eyes, all I see is aggression. I’m not seeing myself.
I’m not saying these things
The way I want them to be sung.
Most of my money
Runs out the door. Like a bandit,
Trouble likes to peep me when I’m at my worst.
The cops have never been so *****
As when they see me, and they ******
Holsters.
I go alone a lot. To a lot of places.
Hoes, Money, Depression, Debt,
Bad Credit, All kinds of Addiction,
**** Alcohol, **** Codeine, Nicotine,
My brain is a Chemical Frenzy,
Most days I’m hovering like a mote.
I graduated,
Look at my degree: **** Me.
I have come home to a confining place,
A spit-swallowing place, full of half-breathed people
And tight-lipped sorrows.
I can only
go
when it’s convenient
And necessary.
I can only
be
when it’s part of a digression,
Never progression.
Food tastes like paper,
I’ve taken a likening.
Lights are fastened to the sky,
The glue wears, washes my eyes in milk,
The jewels drop,
The world ends.
Then it all snaps back into place, eerily,
So clean I never saw it.
Ask me if I can tell you about love,
When I can remember your body
And
It’s casual thump,
Clothed or not,
Drunk or sober,
Speaking or silent.
Ask me if I can drive home and peel back the sky with my left hand, while steering Earth into oblivion,
As I lean across wind-swept galaxies of dust, ash, and settled nicotine
To kiss Florida Orange lips, sip the nectar of insanity, and
Swerve on universe eyes.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Heavy hearted hands
lifting my body up
Almost filled up
And soon ill be snatched up
Self made
Enraged
In a cage of shame
Chained
To my Godless contemplation of the oneness
Smothering the somethings, I worked so hard for
But i adore the test
Ignore the rest
Blessings from the depth
Of my love for all of you
I dare to dream of things my eyes are too small to see
In futility to the world
I breath deeply
Unfurled
Upon the twisted shapes
Refracting light
Shifting states
Heightening my holographic hemispheres
Likening the charge of the heliosphere
To the happiness barging into the universe
In verse-less surges of sanctity
Solidifying the sanity
With purges of popularity
From the light-less Polarity
Spinning the tops
Of sincerity
Declaring its love for me
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:38 AM UTC
1.
And so, I clamber up the heavy slope
and sit alone upon a wide, flat rock.
I still the voices clamouring hard within
and try to listen to the air settle and breathe . . .
The eagle swoops low, whirring loud beside the rocky outcrop
likening its talons to sustain the hold of life . . . (this line to be amended ...sounds odd)
Leaves quiver silent on massive trees
obedient to nature, yet roots bold outgrown . . .
Shade reaches and stretches genial arms
while feel of dark and moist, fertile ground pervades . . .
Air thick with teeming life the eye can't see
thrums with invisible threads, linking slow tendrils . . .
Quiet sky looms dignified and peers squinted
while sun rays slant into pores, kiss my cheek.
Beetles scamper light along the soft, red sand
and not unlike them, I seek still the answer within . . .
2.
Fierce fire takes up dry tinder, consumes into heated coils
destroying with relish, yet offer cleansing balm . . .
3.
Sudden rains refresh, glance off surprised face, upturned
sweet deluge leaves all sodden to delighted heart . . .
4.
I turn not away
I look up
to receive . . . gladly.
I give such thanks
fall on knees to see . . .
No red sky (as in my nightmares)
No lost sun
No smoky horizon
No grey trees
No dead leaves.
Only yellow sunshine
Only blue sky
Only green leaves
Only clear horizon
as far as the eye can see.
S T, 8 May 2013
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
The viper will entice you with her weaving
figure and gleaming eyes, but when she wraps
herself around your body you will see
the fangs and scales likening her to death
itself. Her jaws will retract and she will
sap the colour from your being, discarding
you once she has stolen it all. Once you
become colourless, she will move onto
the next one, never hesitating or
wavering for a moment and turning
everyone into the blue stone that will
become of us all eventually.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
Misconception. Misconstrued. Misdirected. Misinformed.
I may be mistaken, but I won’t miss you.
I. Don’t. Understand.
I’m not playing your little game of cat and mouse.
Go find a rat to infect with your false charm and winsome character.
My IQ may not be 130 but I know a thing or two.
And I’m not likening the likes of you.
You are in hiding; don’t deny it … I know you are.
I can see it behind your eyes.
There are doors and bolts and locks galore.
You often change them when you don’t want to feel anymore.
Maybe it hurts you to feel. Anything?
I’m not sure, not sure of anything now that I know that every lie you make could be as easy as the breathes you take.
Your lips may say happy but your eyes reveal who you really are: dead, weak and false.
You know far too much to tell, yet your lips stay sealed, as if magically sustained of repeating information, well about you anyway.
You never want to talk about yourself.
Egotistic ?
You ?
NEVER.
Yet you speak non of it.
I can feel it radiating of your skin
Your pride.
It’s quite maddening.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 7:09 PM UTC
and what of depth in dwarf heart
may man keep his balance
for emeralds of knowledge sought,
and knowledge neither emerald
nor sought, be that the eternal quill
of the sharpened elven ear guided
to hear its master's race:
for the darkened elf known as the yrc,
sauron the mighty dark elf,
who's eternal guise was not felt for the wave
upon wave of migrating elves into
the western lands... thus the story a story
of dwarfs who against the canvas of man
where men likened unto gods revealed
the partake of dwarf concern for knowledge
akin to precious gem stones lost kept with
a breeze's briefness emotionally superior,
second's lasting partake in minute, in hour,
but what of day of year?
none be congregated in such assumption,
in such an asylum of kept suntan...
this tale of dwarfs and darkened elves who
would never reach the immortal western shores,
on the canvas of men's story likening themselves
to the gods, here we dug up the ground
by the tree which confused our loot of prohibition
transgressed with neither knowledge of good
or evil; given the bias of numbering a singleton's loot
for a welcome praise unheard.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
*etymology extract: as was said, they'd read my poetry
on the front, among the billions, a few might tread,
from everyday Monday through to Sabbath,
thus said, archaeologically bound: Egypt, Josephus,
the nativity play, xylophone, and too much
indoctrination acquired to walk like a peacock,
and indeed more strut likening to a crow;
for indeed the waterfall of skulls, the dead sea
which reaches depths higher than peaks of architectural
adventure in man levelling mountains,
exploring sea depths and excavating depths
of the prized orbits: such restlessness never once
but countless times before; so soon forgotten
among the revision of partitioning, that nearer
Israel's resurrection on a foreign continent
than a neighbour's resurrected breath on the continent
concerned... leave unto Persia that book,
and unto Africa the judgement over Egypt...
but so your toying in global affairs is gluttonous in
sugars of hoped for sweeteners in applicability,
paying remnants of the economic enrichment i too remember,
20 to a room... 20 to a room... with baked beans soup
and white bread to send breadcrumbs home...
oh but my scottish compatriots haven't felt the full
**** of immigration, they haven't!*
why not talk of Kazimierz Prószyński
like you do concerning Auguste and Louis Lumière?
oh, i get it, ******* in the hood...
Europe is really foreign accepting the existence
of the once famed commonwealth,
as the present time, with the resurgence of
Israel, which can't be split equally, fathered
and equally brothered among the constituents
from the Baltic to the Black Sea...
from the median to the red...
best keep the sea lions bopping along with dear tourism
in the over-salted sea,
should the dead sea attract more sacrifice than the
touristy hill outside Jerusalem.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
~•~•I FELL IN LOVE~°•
Likening My Mind to my Lover
*I fell in Love with a Stranger
A Stranger beyond the Sky
He calls me every night and day
He sees me every other time
He kisses me at midnight peak
And when all fall asleep
It's Just me and him
Me and Him
In a* CANVAS where no one else could be
A MOONLIGHT CANVAS
*I fell in love
With a Stranger
And he calls me every night and day
He sees me every other time
He kisses me when Rain visits the Earth
And when all the stars have gone hidden
When Morning falls slowly
And Sunrise
The Stranger becomes my mind
That stranger is my Mind
I fell in Love with him
As I write Poetry*
Evna-Luna©
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
I watch humans fumbling to make a connection between the universe and our bodies, as if without their metaphors and poems likening birthmarks to galaxies, we would be two separate entities, a collection of particles that inhabit entirely detached spaces from one another. Truly, the connection is evident in far more than freckles that resemble specks of dust and planetary material; our skin is not just branded by our environment, but bloated by it.
We are made of mostly water. We are oceans, our insides are swampy, and when we bleed, the sight is reminiscent of sunsets. There is a universe beneath our flesh, internally, like how we exist within the flesh of our universe.
I feel this connection most when I consider him. My body deflates into a cloudlike existence –soft, floating, pacified. His touch warms me, it calms me, it grounds me but in the sense that I am still free to kiss the stars, and my lips become soothing to them.
One of our final nights together, about midnight on Valentine’s Day, he took me to the beach and faced me in front of the ocean, stood me below a dome of astrology in the skies. Lucid blue from the constellations and water stretched for what seemed like days, all-encompassing me. But my eyes could not leave him, especially his mouth slipping into smiles, because somehow he appeared even more beautiful than the immensity of our earth enveloping me. He cradled me there, he lifted my dress, and still I felt warm against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean in winter.
He is a dream, and he is an angel, and I believe he steals ornaments from the sky to gift to my heart so that I can feel as beautiful and as grand as all the universe combined.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
Woke up to the twilight morn
With an aching head and an aching heart
Hands touch the sheet of my bed
To shield myself away from both the cold and the loss warmth
The alarm clock started to ring, to my funny luck
Given with the choice to leave it on or turn it off
It was always the same thing that ****** me
Left with the choices that I never want to hear, do, or see
But clearly I am always the loser at this game called love
As every turn every choice is wrong when push comes to shove
It always leads back to why I did this and why not do that
Forever making decisions that will never be enough
And so go back to the culprit that started this montage
Still ringing still ticking haunting me every second
Likening itself to my every love that went gone
To stop is to accept that I have succumbed to my fate
To let it ring is to endure for an eternity.
All I can think of now,
"Why did I buy that stupid clock."
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
Don't have a clue.
Don't have a clue?
They live in dive bars
and take shots of
Karkov, eyes glued
to the radio
hanging in the corner
laughing with the cracked
peanut shells on the floor
They will slaughter you
with analogies likening
Moby **** to the bruised banana
they ate prior to
their last reading
They sleep in dumpster fires
and digest the
nature of rotten cheese
Under some circumstances
they play fetch with bones
thrown by big government
just to see how many
splinters get stuck in
the roof of their mouth
Proceed to shout
"don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government"
They hate politics and
would rather
cry into a red wheelbarrow
glazed with gasoline
on top of Lady Liberty's torch
and let their tears
set the world ablaze.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
According to science
a star is just a massive inferno that blazes so intensely
we literally cannot get any closer to one than where we are
*My tongue has never caught fire from starlight
but I’d bet against the heavens
that even if I opened wide the next time comets fell like snow
a mouthful of meteorites would not burn as hot as your lips on mine*
But some see them as suicidal flames
trying desperately to leave a scar on the galaxies
frantic enough to bleed themselves dry in the process
*My greatest fear was always spontaneous combustion
but I have found courage in your touch
and even the sense of urgency as you deepen our kiss
can no longer scare me away*
Still others see them as puncture holes in the darkness
letting in light to keep the lonely moon warm in the night sky
*And it seems no matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes shut
no matter how carefully I draw the curtains and blow out the candles
I can never escape the image of your impossibly beautiful smile that night
when I came up for air and saw the universe reflected in your eyes*
And Dom Pérignon was famous for likening them to the sparkle of champagne
bubbles that danced and burst like magic in his glass
*So kiss me again
Quick before our nonexistent plans go awry
Because there is no way I can go back anymore
now that I have learned what it’s like to fly*
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
The intentions of the colour speak ill.
As the designer weeps in tears
The white is a filthy colour of all
As the double green symbolises hunger.
The great groundnut pyramids stand as statutes.
Termites scavenge the remnants.
Who can stop the difficulties of the nation?
A patriot, coward, cattle rustler or an alien!
The blood of the unsung heroes
Colour the flag of the nation
Bemoaning signs of failed leadership.
Who led the actions of 10102020?
The Camouflage, Alausa, Aso Rock or the Unseen forces!
Men suffer from avarice
Crowd symbolises poverty
Likening to the extortions of palliatives
Under the framework of bureaucracy.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 12:50 PM UTC
in the madness that follows broken swallows
flightless birds whose wings are broken, a token
of this worlds cruelty, some likening to a novelty
a pass time of society gaining popularity not notoriety
flightless birds whose dreams no longer pure, one deems
a twisted distortion upon the frail who seek to prevail
an existence within decaying trees, a stench to rob the free
flightless birds whose song fades, for today is made
in the notion that a path is set, for those who lost a nest
and can no longer return home, death a persistent norm
out of depth they are, for flightless they became
out of one world and into another, all the same
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
I have a Jolting
Rocks Me Back & Forth
My Mind propels the forward Motion
Then My Mind Repels this momentum
likening to the back-end Motion,
Thus starts the mental commotion,
See-Sawing in my Playground of Strife
AM I AN ATOM?
What a Blessing and a Curse to be held together by Opposition?
What a seemingly trite Contradiction!
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Sullen and crestfallen the autumn leaves silently fell,
Mourning the loss of the pure heart set adrift within,
The bitter northern winds serving as a reticent death knell,
Grieving over the loss of the pure lass astray in deerskin.
Drawn to the forests of Myrkviðr for reasons unknown,
She wandered within the woods until all spirits were silent,
Ancient limbs reaching out to caress her delicate cheekbones,
Likening her to newborn blossoms both ****** and vibrant.
Decades have flown by like wind since that day,
Memories as faded and tattered as her deerskin,
A beautiful soul lost to time through innocent naivete,
Life continuing as it always had in the woods within.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
swirling steam, meets the morning breeze
bubbling water encompasses the bag with ease
aroma of cinnamon fills me with savory grace
resting precious china on doily of lace
tepid tea, wintry soul appease
warm caress in a cup guarantees
moments of harmony battles bleak disease
warm trickle down, likening embrace
swirling steam, meets the morning breeze
dreaming of life overseas
imagine now, the possibilities
believing in an impactful trace
young and learning, necessary space
muddled thoughts over early tea
swirling steam, meets the morning breeze
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
*but you heard the maxim,
that the bigger dogs bark
less than the younger,
if not smaller dogs ought to.*
i too barked into the night,
and my last onomatopoeia
gave the bark prior
to the last one
of mongrel descent the earnest,
i among dogs. i too the dozen.
oh nymph clairvoyant
make much of the wilting willow
i dread to take tread in;
curses absolve me likening
skeleton to muscle,
but how i barked to meet the moon
in a dog's dimension
to keep oxford's approve with hyphen
the obelisk compound of hyphen use
to please compounding made
that psyche (of known soul)
be the rattle of soul (of know thought)
that made synthesis an acorn....
and lost the last veer a geometry worth keeping....
kept the arab his dwarf sought...
we would have searched the nought of former sight,
sought in dream as a former guarantee
that harked!
bark! bark! howl ow woo! snorkel of gagging a canine chasm!
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
I find myself likening myself to smoke
Vapor, steam, mist, and fog
I am barely there before I'm gone
And from the worlds I dissipate
Gone from rooms I just now laid
Floating with currents unseen
I am in your thoughts while you dream
But in the background sheen
I am gone from your mind like firefly lights
I am the nothing existing at night
Betwixt the air and something more
As you walk on, ever adored
I am wisps at your eyes,
As tears fall through,
I exist, but in faint hue
Cloaking intangibly,
praying you won't move
Too fast
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
i remember when we sat at a local town park late at night,
we held fireflies in our hands and decided to play god. i remember you compared these little glowing bugs to humans and said
“these things, they play such a
small, insignificant role in our life.
with everything we’ve created why should we
care about them?”
you felt no shame when you crushed one between your fingertips and mocked me for setting mine free.
neither of us are religious but i couldn’t help likening this conversation to god, to faith, to worship; why should someone who has created so much, who holds so much importance, care about something as small as us?
i suppose it is the same reason why we didn’t last.
i don’t know why i remembered all this today.
i do not miss you.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
capitalists have retreated
into explaining their
selfish ways by plagiarising
autistic eye-contact...
while i have my cats,
and they do likewise, and they
don't brag about a tennis
court, swimming pool or
otherwise likening such abundance
for eager bullseye worthy imitation
to a magpie's taste of jealous thievery
of silver spoons among the populace.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
I like to liken
What we could be in time to
Earth, wind, water and luck
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC