"liner" poems
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
I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls
and I would board my toybox lid
and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon
which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic
for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper
but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
*the sparkles in the hand sanitizer she uses,
is as sparkly and blue as her eyes,
and like her soul was made of the stuff,
she longed to be contained in its bottle,
being told when she could help the wounds from getting anymore worse,*
*she wanted to feel like she could prevent the sickness that filled her mind,
in anyone else's,
she wanted to save everyone from hurting too bad,
but the eyes that sparkled blue,
hid her tears behind black liner,
hoping the redness would surpass,*
*just never getting anything you deserve,
and feeling less than seeing nothing but the blackness of close eyes,
like close hearts of those who shut her out,
she just wants to feel more,
and everyone else to feel the same,*
**why I loved her cleansing eyes,
and every thought in her smart beautiful mind,**
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
"When a person is born it's a blessed time,
Albeit a person is in love it's a splendid era,
When that person perishes it is a bereaved era,
Albeit Love of two people expires it's a cataclysm,
Vestige as we used to sit there on the littoral,
As the dusk of the winds would blow the sand,
The sand pursues into your long black hair,
Visage your dark green eyes and a beauty of a smile,
All times I have enjoyed greatly also suffered greatly,
Times you loved me and alone on the shore,
It is an perpetual power that as my utopia,
Is me ichorous of our love moments together,
Afore us lies the port and a skimming ocean liner,
As we slowly see an alluvion gloom in the darkness,
Legions of souls drudged here in day and night,
Above gusting drifts the rainy constellation of stars,
As we gambol in our fervor of cognizance of love in our
Utopia Ichorous"
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/03/2018 © Posted HP/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Death by ****** death by chance,
Death by secret night romance,
Death by number, paint the liner,
Death in colour or black and white,
Accidental, planned prolonged,
Death by always doing wrong,
Death by self, a timeless art,
Death by one last broken heart.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
This is my gift to you
words
a form so lacking in all
stability, security
that we chew them and spit them out
so they’re done
over
intangible.
You may throw them away from the
back of your throat
to the tip of your tongue
in one wave
one simple wave of movement and then we can all forget
the silly things I’ve said
admitted
denied
and will not be caught out by
sources that say otherwise.
This is my gift to you:
One free ticket to forget me
what a prize
to be hypnotized
People pay a lot for that ****
You see, when I make awkward eye contact
with my morning mirror
and delve into my makeup bag
for assistance in eye liner
my fingers always find that pit
and slip into a ring that’s been tossed to the bottom
rings entwined with rings entwined with poor judgement.
They sit and wait in their scuffed coats,
like waiting for a bus
waiting to remind me
remember that time?
This is my gift to you.
A present that says
‘I am not permanent’
because believe me, I’m not.
But if I have to wake up to
break ups bound in highly unreactive gold
then at least let me free you of these chains too.
It’s just such a shame that they suit you.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
I rolled my ankle last month,
but didn't pay much attention
to the swelling because it didn't feel
like nougat flesh with a pushpin
center. It felt like skin, tendons,
and fishnet bones.
But now, when I make my bed,
I have to waste two or three
soft pillows at the foot of it.
So, I'm left with the burgundy ones
from the couch that I tried to patch
with boot liner and an eighth-grade
comprehension of sewing.
I stuck a rat's thimble on my ring
finger, so I could push the straw-thin
needle through the beefy seam.
No such luck.
Finished the stitching
with a Band-Aid beneath
the thimble. And I left
the cheetah-print liner hanging
off like a piece of skin,
hoping it'd fix itself.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Liner runs thin
as I examine the skin
where I look for a tell-tale mark
Left of a ring that would prove
I'm not alone.
(it's not there)
My back arches and
my body quakes
as deep inside
Infantile sexuality wakes
as my lips let fly
assumed and guessed sighs
of fabricated pleasure
(whatever that is)
They did not teach me these things
I was left to assume
as hearts often do
when they are kept in a room
and ushered away from the pains and joys
of Love
I stare into a mirror
and I stare back
Until all of a sudden
my smile cracks
and I'm left to stare
into the eyes of one
born to lose.
I hug warm pillows
and stroke my own hair
Until I realize he
is not
wasn't
and will never be there
and I'm left to assemble
a Shattered Glass Heart
with nothing but hammers for tools
But then I see myself
beauty and flaws defined
and at this point I know
the only glass heart I need
is mine
even in pieces, it retains it's strength
and waits to be whole again
So dormant I sit
mesmerized by the prisms the pretty pieces make
as I wait
for a true artist to come
and give this
Shattered Glass Heart
new form
with the heat of reassuring and shared existence
and the grace of gentle words and sweet kisses.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
****** noses and abortion.
Bars and a baby boy.
Ciggs and eye liner.
Do
As
I
Do.
Your child is a ******* all because of you.
One mind driven by one thing.
Your talk is **** about cowardly things.
Do
As
I
Do.
Jonesin’ so hard even M.r Jones is praying for you.
Let me tell you one thing, I will never end up like you.
I will do as you didn’t, so from my heart to your black hole, I swear to god I promise,
I’ll
Do
As
I
Do,
all you have to remember is,
**** you.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
When I was younger,
I was a shaman
chanting melodies
that I hoped
would change the world.
Perhaps, they did
for my people;
the schizophrenic
gypsy stoners earth mother
worshiping airy words
burning the creative
liquid juices squirting
over our brains
like a drop of LSD on a sugar cube.
But now,
I can feel the age
in my emotions.
Time drags me
through, smoldering campfire
ashes smoking to the heavens...
where the stars
look like they're rotting away
inside the mouth of space.
Even shadows are afraid
to hide in these dark corners.
These places in space
are so cool
chilly
hip.
Some kind of
sarcastic
one-liner
witticism
of ironic truth
temperature.
And I wish
to go back there.
But I must
return back
to earth to learn
what I cannot escape.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
When the Costa Concordia met with a reef,
it was certain some lives would be lost.
As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees,
Her Captain was first to get off.
Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde
when his ship began veering to shore.
He was unwilling to go down on his ship,-
The blonde? yes, but hold the encore.
It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle,
the Isle with the ship eating reef.
They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife
an excursion that beggars belief.
The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed;
They just couldn’t believe what they saw:
The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously,
beating women and children to shore.
Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post,
hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.”
The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos
is “Nearer to Shore take me!”
He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales
when compared to the scope of his sin
This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea
in his dreams let their screams never end.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
You’re going to be fine.
?
I am, see?
.
You will. I came to tell you stuff. Listening?
.
Jumble sale shoes. I know you’ve got acrylics somewhere. Paint them.
?
The shoes. Flowers and dragons like you draw up your arms. They’re really good by the way. No one in school draws like you.
.
We are. You just have to be good-different. Stop hiding the whole time. Everyone loves your drawing.
.
We still like painting, reading…
?
It’ll happen when you’re 11. The letters un-jumble and it makes sense.
!
Honestly.
.
And at Christmas - tell Mum it’s your idea - Keeping him away from the ***** makes him cross - no point. Give him a drink as early as possible. By lunchtime he’s unconscious and you put him to bed. Looks like he hit his head real hard but he woke up.
?
It’s OK. He doesn’t remember a thing. Works every year.
.
Stuff heals. It gets better. Everything. Life is excellent. People say you’re pretty, won’t believe it but you are. And we live on a good street in a warm house by the sea.
!
Honestly, cross my heart.
.
There’s one last thing. Listening?
.
Learn to laugh silently, no sound what so ever. I know you can’t imagine it - but she gets her revenge and it’s going to be funny. Takes years. You must play along or it won‘t work. So laugh silently.
?
Just one example, then. Do you go to the car-boot sales yet?
.
On a Sunday in June, only 7AM but it’s so hot! She spots a koi carp in the road.
?
Like a giant goldfish. This one was huge. Probably dropped by a heron or something.
.
She moves it onto the verge and keeps walking. It's still there at 1.30. Been baking up on that verge all morning in full sun. Smothered in ants, horrible.
.
She wraps it in a Tesco bag and a bin liner - it stinks. As soon as you get in she starts frying onions, making pastry, white sauce. Dad eats fish pie for supper.
?
She made us a separate one.
.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
threading the thin line of uncertainty,
you had told my closest guy friend **** i think i'm falling for her*.
and later you would pinpoint that one moment, that one moment we realize we adore a person,
as the slightest second you were staring at your lock screen, which was my photo.
it had been a collage of me doing wacky poses in eighth grade,
a photograph i had posted on twitter as some sort of throwback thursday.
unbeknownst to me, you had saved it to your phone,
setting it as your lock screen and showing it to me the next day mainly to spite me.
over the next few weeks, you would save the photos i'd post or send you,
and set it as your wallpapers,
and come up with some witty one-liner to annoy me with.
and you'd tell me months on about that time you went to unlock your phone, stopping to smile at my old photo in all its chubby cheeks and corny poses glory,
only to realize,
****
i have never been more thankful for throwback thursdays.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
I still think of you
when I hear a song that moves me
And wonder what it would follow
on the tape I wish I could make you.
This is the standing stone
on an emotional landscape
that has changed as fast as technology,
seen music shift from soulfood
to occasional backdrop
and solitary teenage bedrooms morph
to joyful family homes (thank God).
I wouldn't go back -
but here's a song, unexpected, blissful
which can't quite touch me as it should
Because I can't press 'record',
watch the reels go round
and imagine you listening
when the tape crosses the country
and fetches up at your front door.
No more padded envelopes
nor blotted biro liner notes;
no more declarations hidden in plain sight
in ninety minutes of love
I knew no other way to send.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Dear tired soul,
I have been on that couch many times before
The empty sheets that sit at your feet
Before falling to the floor
The empty pages of memories you flip through every night
Before gracefully falling asleep as the last tear falls on the pillow cases
Stained with liner and half-met dreams
There are moments you stare out the window
The sky so bright you close your eyes and go back to that all too familiar place of darkness
The same hiding place you've led yourself in for years
Thinking no one could find you and your imperfections there
But praying that someone will
I have lured myself in the same corners you've cozied up to, tired soul
Made a home out of the shattered pieces
Of distant, repeating glimpses of the past left after the free fall
My heart has sunk deeper and deeper
But take peace in knowing that as it sinks, it does get stronger
And that one day it will learn how to resurface itself without you even trying
Dear Tired Soul,
Despite the world's constant feeding of negativity towards their conjured up idea of selfishness,
I want you to know that it's ok
It's ok to put yourself first
It's ok to let go
It's ok to take a break
You can not move forward if you do not take the time to pry yourself out of the chains that have dragged you down
Seek consult from those you want to emulate
These things do not make you selfish
They make you better
Do not force yourself to pretend
Your bones have quivered long enough
Your muscles are tired from holding up to their "perfect" standards
You were never meant to be perfect
You were meant to beautiful
You are beautiful, and will always remain to be
Dear Tired Soul,
You are loved
Beyond the stars and the skies above
Your maker has caught every drop of sin from your body
You need not to worry any longer
Seek rest in Him who gives you the strength to open your eyes each day
Take pride in these little accomplishments
Cover your ears from those who tell you otherwise,
For they do not know the excruciating ordeal you go through each day you get up from bed
The sudden battles that errupt within yourself
Whether it be 10 stories high looking over the city or on the ground when you look over your scarred wrists
Of whether you should give up, or give yourself another chance
Open your heart to what He tells you
And wait for the day when the suffering is over, and the crying shall seize
You are tired, my dear
But you are far from being defeated
I hear your pleads, as I have heard mine sounding the same
You will be alright, tired soul
We will be alright
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
<>
Eye Liner
Her only adornment
as she dances
entrances
throws glances.
<>
Eye contact
Her one flirtation
as she sways
displays
shyly plays.
<>
Eye catching
Her unique attraction
as she calls
enthralls
gently falls.
<><><>
© Pagan Paul (15/07/16)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
you can't help but stare
and stare
and stare
until you hate everything about your face
how many freckles you have
pimples
it can only cover the scars for so long
the insecurities for so long
lips coated in thick red
eyes you coat with liner and eye shadow
face caked with foundation
baked with powder
contoured to the gods
eyebrows on fleek
you slay
sometimes you don't recognize yourself in the mirror
and it makes you happy because you can't imagine living the rest of your life looking you without make-up.
will you ever love you?
you, without the makeup?
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
They said she was a strange girl
The odd one out in any group
Dressed in black, like a vampire
So they threw stones at her
She liked to listen to Heavy Rock
While they listened to the lastest Pop
Spat at her, rubbed things in her hair
Called her bad names and dragged her down
She excelled at school. she did her best
She was always the top of her class
Still they would make her life a misery
Tears would stain her black eye liner
Her parents found her, hanging in her room
With a note telling of the sadness of her life
Those that caused it, they never cared
Over the death of a poor strange girl
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?
No.
And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,
I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,
Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?
No.
And so I apply base,
Concealer,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,
Mascara,
Lipstick….
And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…
But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,
I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,
With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,
Everything,
Everyone,
No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
‘Happy’,
I try to mask her with,
She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,
And is she enough?
I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,
With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,
And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?
Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.
Yes.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
I couldn't tell you
how many poems I've read
about girls in disguises,
girls hiding in their closets,
girls acting like girls,
wishing they were something more...
This is not a poem about wishing,
but a poem of being.
This is not a cry for help,
but a song of assurance.
I am a girl, but I am no feminist.
You won't find me painting
on makeup each morning
for confident clarity.
{red blemishes flourish}
You won't find me tearing
my feet up each night
to look tall and fancy.
{bruises on the heel}
You won't find me wearing
a red push-up bra
for emotional support.
{endless back pain}
You won't find me shaking
while holding a gun
for protection.
{fear is stupidity}
I couldn't tell you
how many girls I've seen
doing these things,
over and over;
girls wishing they were something more...
This is not a poem about hope,
but a form of being.
This is not a scream of pity,
but an equalist view.
I am a girl, but I am no feminist.
I choose to be myself,
despite the boys who call me odd;
despite the girls with envious eyes.
I choose to play video games at 2am
and eat until I feel sick.
I choose to wear band tees to the bar
and go home alone.
I choose to say what I mean
and suffer the consequences.
I choose to wear less clothes,
and sometimes more,
when I want.
I've found someone
who loves me for who I am.
I've found two people, in fact.
There is a boy
who comes over
and I can call him my love;
I can call him my best friend.
There is a boy
who never judges
the boy in me;
the things I do.
There is a boy
who reminds me
a lot of a girl,
who picked flowers with her mom
when she was little.
And sometimes,
I put on makeup for you,
because I love you,
and I want you to know I'm proud.
Sometimes,
I'm proud of myself,
because I got the eye liner just right.
And sometimes,
I like acting fragile
so I can do less work
and watch as you tire in sweat.
Sometimes,
I even shout my worries to the sky.
But moderation is so important
in a time so rigid
with lust.
There is a girl
who is me,
and that boy
and that girl
both know who I am.
I am sick of complaints;
I am sick of the 1950's attitude;
I am sick of excuses;
I want to see action;
and I don't mean a protest.
And maybe you like
being a girl.
Maybe you dress up
purely for yourself,
and no one else.
But that doesn't explain
the things that you say
in public and in retrospect,
as tears fall down your cheek,
and knives glide off your tongue.
I see more of it every day --
girls just like me.
You are only weak if
you believe that you are.
You are only a girl
if you think that you are.
I am a human being,
and so are you.
I am no feminist.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC