"lisp" poems
Whenevel I clied hungly,
Chhe would give me milk.
Whenevel I do not dlink it,
Chhe will tly that I dlink it.
Whenevel I am chho angly,
Chhe will tly that I dlunk it.
Whenevel chhe loshesh hope,
Chhe will look at my papa.
My daddy will only shmile,
Lift shweetly in hiz armsh.
They would then shuksheed,
Togethel they enteltain me.
They dichhtract & feed me,
Milk I lyk not chho vely hot.
Twichhe they tly & I leject,
They sing me some lhymsh.
Mom then poulsh two dlops,
On back of hel hand chhe tlies.
'Tsch! It's hot,' chhe ekchclaims,
I let out a shmall shlieky laugh.
Daddy lent hel a helping hand,
He blung a khup of cold watel.
Finally they togethel feed me,
Calefully & lovingly they do it.
Whenevel I lemembel my lisp,
I am chho happy & smile bloadly.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Distress shows on my face
like atheism in a priest
yet is welcome in my head
like a baby in its crib.
I'm always where I don't belong
always finding myself singing songs with cicadas
I'm always losing my head
And finding myself stuck, still a slave to time
it's time I find so pressing
not some boy's dejection or rejection of my kind words
(in that sense, I can make 101 comparisons
of myself to a rubber ball, always bouncing back)
no, it's time I'm so scared of
it's time that's constantly breaking my heart
when I fall in love at least 32 times in a day
I fall in love with contentment,
with the sunrays that filter through the leaves
of early autumn trees
with the slight lisp
situated between my favorite singer's lips
I fall in love with the milliseconds when
life seems sublime
when I snake my way out of glass,
when the wind dances on the
ski-slope of my nose,
the moon lifting me up
putting pretty words in my head.
Time will always be sure to come and
rob me of these lovers of mine
and so
naturally,
in their passing I am left hollow,
confused,
longing and heartsick for something that no longer exists
but is still very real
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
I have a bit of a lisp.
It's not too noticeable,
but sometimes it catches my tongue
and the next thing I know
i'm linking my words together
as if I fluently speak one of the 'love' languages.
Let me tell you,
there is nothing attractive about your S's and th's
blending together as if you were a snake.
When it happens I just want to lower myself to the floor
and slither away on my belly
and go and hide.
But I will take the embarrassment
of getting tongue tied
as long as I never have to tell anyone,
a final good bye.
Because good bye's are forever.
To be continued...
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
I can still hear your lisp
the way it covered every "r" you sounded
bare skin under mist, your eyes
matched your hair
the first, all blue raspberry stained lips
the second, pure spring sky
Never before, had I loved the rain,
as much as when we ran through it
we let the downpour soak our clothes
and congruent, thunder couldn't scare us
we felt naked, or I did,
but I didn't mind it
to be naked with you
was all that I wanted
Never before, had I looked at a girl,
and wanted to hold her, the way I held you
suddenly, the laws I believed in felt
paperclip thin, and completely untrue
it didn't take much strength
to twist every one of them
into a shapeless and easily
ignorable pile of waste
You knew the flags of every country
as if your allegiance was to the entire world
I wanted it to be to me
only
and I think I knew that it was,
but that doesn't mean
I didn't want you to say it
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
50
I haven’t told my garden yet—
Lest that should conquer me.
I haven’t quite the strength now
To break it to the Bee—
I will not name it in the street
For shops would stare at me—
That one so shy—so ignorant
Should have the face to die.
The hillsides must not know it—
Where I have rambled so—
Nor tell the loving forests
The day that I shall go—
Nor lisp it at the table—
Nor heedless by the way
Hint that within the Riddle
One will walk today—
10.9k
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
"So what's it like slick,"
she asks,
"living your life in an asylum?"
And I sthay,
"I dunno Missusth."
But sthill I wonder
if the sthraightjackets fit tightly there,
why I might like little white pillsth,
electric-shock treatmentsth,
& sthcrewdriver-lobotomiesth.
So hey you Missusth,
I know
thisth ain't working out here any more
& yet I,
I continue to sthare at the ceiling,
watch the fan sthpinning,
listening to melancholy voicesth
whisthpering from
sthingle blades of grassth.
They ask me thingsth
about my crazinessth too,
as if I sthupposed to know
anything
here
on the insthide
looking out
with the door closthed.
That means sthut lady,
with an aposthrophe-s,
'sth.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
6.1k
Like some goofy lisp.
Like left over from Surrey to Essex.
Lycan, Omish, with some Roudy Rawdy Piper.
Like a WWE event, no ropes in the ring and a whole
bunch of cheerios.
It sounded like chweer wee ohs.
I got England to laugh out loud.
We were all laying on the floor hoping
fuhat bassthard would gooh on a diet.
Like Van Gogh and his buddy whats his...
knuck knuck. Painting pictures of Marshall
Islanders for a vote or veto. Paul Goin and Vincent
Van Gogh sharing a lisp.
Sthounds like..... Ah gawd!
Shut up you sobbing limp noodle.
Try writing something we all can laugh at.
Humor me Socrates with Albert Einstein.
E equals MC squared.
One part energy, a mass constantly squared.
Cheerio old chaps.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
We can remember it for you wholesale
once we clear the stage of initial erase
Sure I might lisp on a drunk night,
exasperated and claiming in collapse,
I'd rather pack rat the memories in one place
and consign my pain away to tall tales.
I'm drowned, running down wi-fi 6th street.
Printing my soles to follow my heels
as inescapably I lose track of me.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
I have a lisp
It is lovers lips caught in the spasm of a kiss
I have a lisp
that restricts what I'm capable of saying
praying that I don't pass it onto my kids
but there's restrictions on scripture as well.
I have a lisp
It is a gentle twist in words I can't complete
I'll meet many who notices the obviousness of it.
I can't synthesise similar sounds subtly
to induce a feeling of happiness or sadness,
I've been driven half to madness by the flaw.
This is why my voice is within my writing,
it is the lightning without the thunder,
unheard to ears but the same power exists.
I can't give a speech openly, or sing to soothe my soul,
all because I have a lisp.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
27
Morns like these—we parted—
Noons like these—she rose—
Fluttering first—then firmer
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it—
It was not for me—
She—was mute from transport—
I—from agony—
Till—the evening nearing
One the curtains drew—
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
4k
A brother with a cute little lisp,
Or a place for like minded folks,
Relishing the beauty in place,
Tending to needs in time's cusp,
Allowing the easy flow of juices.
On the brink of civility & love,
Fading the differences between.
Fulfilling the ****** needs,
Loaning the best moments,
Easier is *** contraction,
Self-awareness needed,
Help yourself with the hand.
To the trickier ways of a district,
Redlight district is meant to be strict,
Aloof from normal, painful city,
Desired by many but visited by few,
Envious red shades flowing in & out.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
Every day is the same.
Wake up late. Procrastinate.
Rush to get ready, board a bus.
Go to school. And wait.
I’ve never understood
Why people are so heartless.
People swearing and shouting and arguing at each other.
I just walk down the halls, trying to block out all the sound.
People ask me questions a lot.
“Why don’t you talk? Can you even speak?”
Yes I can, but it’s not like I don’t want to talk.
I can’t, because there’s no point in it.
You don’t know what it’s like to hate your own voice.
To feel like you won’t be understood
‘Cause your voice is too soft and deep and quiet
And you have a stupid lisp that impedes with everything.
You don’t know what it’s like to have people talk about you.
“He only talks to one person,” they say.
It makes me feel like ****
But nobody cares how I feel.
Every day is the same.
I try my best to hide my feelings.
But sometimes things slip out
When I don’t want them to.
I cried once in class.
Put my head down on the desk.
After I was called a name by someone.
After no one would let me sit down on the bus.
I’m exhausted all the time.
I don’t want to do anything.
I just want to sleep all day.
It’s not like I’ll do anything else with my time.
I want to connect with people.
Even if I don’t understand them.
But it’s so difficult
When you face roadblocks every day.
Every day is the same.
My mind races with thoughts
“You’re going to ***** up. You’re an idiot. A loser.”
“A worthless waste of space in this world.”
“Don’t answer that question, he won’t hear you.”
They tell me to speak up, but I can’t.
It’s like something’s constricting me.
It’s the anxiety, and all those stupid thoughts.
I’m not happy anymore. I forgot the last time I was.
Can’t do anything anymore. The spark I had is gone.
It faded away with all my passions and desires.
I don’t see the point in doing anything.
Sometimes I think about the end.
I know nobody would care if I’m gone.
But then again, I can’t do that to her.
Not when all I want is to spend time with my girl.
I wish she was here. I wish we could talk.
One day isn’t enough for everything I want to say.
It’s irritating, frustrating, this distance is killing me.
But I know it’s not her fault, and I’m not mad.
If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be.
If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be the person she is now.
It’s amazing, how she’s able to survive with those parents of hers.
While I’m just a speck in a vast void of nothingness.
I hate them. I hate them so much.
They call her names, they insult who she is.
She’s just trying to be who she wants to be.
Why would you try and strip that from her?
She’s precious to me, can’t you see?
I tried so hard to get you to understand.
But you ignored it all, you never believed me.
So I’m done trying. There’s no point.
She’s the only one that makes me happy.
When I’m around her, everything just fades away.
My fears, my sorrow, my stupid thoughts.
I wish I could be by her side forever.
I miss her so much.
It’s like my heart is breaking when we’re apart.
I know, somehow, we’ll get through this.
And it will all be worth it.
Someday, I’ll be by your side.
Someday, your lips will touch mine.
I know one day, we’ll finally be together.
And we’ll never be apart from that point on.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
The first thing that you forget, when you stop talking to someone is the sound of their voice.
So I suggest with every voicemail you receive, save it.
Whether it be from your grandma or your aunt or your boyfriend
You'll miss them sooner or later if they leave you.
When It's a healthy time for you, and you miss them a lot,
You'll still have their voice.
The way they spoke, every lisp every stutter
You'll hear it in that old voicemail.
I once loved a boy.
Some know most of the story, some only know half
But only he and I know every end and out of that year and a half.
I still have his voicemails,
but they aren't only the happy ones.
Matter of fact, he only left me a voicemail when he was angry or when he had news he couldn't keep to himself long enough.
I deleted the happy ones after we broke up.
But I didn't do it because I was angry,
I did it because I wasn't worthy.
And yet, they're still in my trash bin waiting, ready to be recovered.
Because some days, I wonder if he's happy.
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he got his GED.
And it was because of me.
Because some days I wonder if he misses me
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he loves me and always will
See, I have a problem: I'm a hoarder
I horde voices.
I horde the sound of laughs and cries,
I horde the angry and the happy times.
I take them all and keep them close.
And I try and keep phones for as long as I can.
Because when the phone goes,
So do the voices that I hold dear.
So darling if you wonder if I still have every old voicemail you've ever sent me the answer is clear.
If I miss you, I press my phone to my ear.
But now it's been so long that your voice scares me.
The old voicemails sit and take up my data since I'm too afraid to delete them.
That means your gone forever
And while I may have broken your heart I hope you forgive me
And I hope this voicemail makes you smile.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
It started hot and passionate and blinding.
Then it ran,
ran from me
faster than the alpine highway or
an Afro over your cute lisp.
And a bus leaves for 13 colonies and 14 days and
pictures are all I have.
Colorful but in
50 shades of grey.
Then never a breath from you
on the home front.
And disappointment marks my eyes.
Running all over town with eyes
like video cameras and
minds like a metal detector.
We wish we could be a fly on the wall or a plant in the earth or a new hair on your chin.
All moments,
every moment,
we know.
My fiend.
Detect this on your police detector.
Little blue Honda that looks tan in the sun.
White Camry.
Up the street then back down.
Serpentine through the neighborhoods
hoping to see a familiar body,
but not be seen ourselves.
Every day
till July 15.
Then waving goodbye to an empty house I once knew.
Where I stayed too long and talked too much about nothing.
Too many memories to remember and flash before my heart.
Then I blink and they're gone and we've passed it.
And finally I've mimicked Taylor Swift
and wrote a song about Paris.
And boys in Montreal.
Late hours. Early hours.
All hours.
Spent engulfed in our own music from our minds.
Military men. Marines that cheat and break hearts.
not enough sleep.
Lots of tire on asphalt.
Up and down and up and down and back again.
Not enough French
and a brand new white iPhone.
And the sun sets on another day
and still the one thing I want
doesn't go my way.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Away, ye muses, all away!
Away with songs of finch and fay.
Away the jaundiced sight
That magnifies the firefly’s light
To bonfire bright;
That sets ablaze at once
My musing’s dimly burning lamps;
That ornaments with rhymes
The penury-stricken looks betimes;
That over-clothes the logic – lord
With fancy –swollen words.
Away, the partial love
That ‘boldens Nature to sit above
Her Maker!
This day I fasten eyelid doors,
With absence wax my ears,
With languorous peace congeal
My tongue, my touch, my tears *
That I within may pore
Upon the things behind, ahead,
In the darkness round me spread.
I lock Dame Nature out
With all her fickle rout.
Somewhere here,
In the darkness drear,
I myself with cheer
My course will steer
In the path
E’er sought by all:
Its magnet call
I hear.
Not hear, not here,
Apollo would his burning chariot steer;
Nor Diana dare to peep
Into the sacred silence deep.
Not here, not here,
Not far or near
Can mounts or rebel waves
E’er make me full of fear;
Nor evermore
Their dreadful grandeur to adore.
Not here, not here
The soft capricious wiles of flowers;
Nor swarming storm clouds’ sweeping terror,
Dishevelling the trees
And light-haired skies;
Nor doomsday’s thunderous roar,
Dismantling earth and stars-
The cosmic beauties all to mar –
Not Nature’s murderous mutiny,
Nor man’s exploding destiny
Can touch me here.
Not here, not here:
Through mind’s strong iron bars,
Not gods or goblins, men or nature,
Without my pass dare enter.
I look behind, ahead –
On naught but darkness tread.
In wrath I strike, and set the dark ablaze
With the immortal spark of thought,
By friction-process brought
Of concentration
And distraction.
The darkness burns
With a million tongues;
And now I spy
All past, all distant things, as nigh.
I smile serene
As I expose to gaze.
In wisdom’s brilliant blaze,
All charms of the Hidden Home Unseen:
The Home of Nature’s birth,
The planets’ moulding hearth,
The factory whence all forms or fairies start,
The bards, colossal minds, and hearts,
The gods and all,
And all, and all!
Away, away
With all the lightsome lays!
Oh, now will I portray
In humble way,
And try to lisp, if only in half truths,
Of wordless charms of Thee Unseen,
To whom Dame Nature owes her nature
and her sheen.
3.1k
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own!
gorgeous lisp...
Fionna
from Fraserburgh...
worked in
a nightclub to
pay for a mandolin,
and play her maggie may...
outside her window...
her sweetness imbue of
honey and the letter G
stumbling into a "stutter"....
and?
one detail...
she loved
queen's innuendo...
the ooh ooh bit
and the otherwise
Spanish rodrigo
in-between composer...
i left Edinburgh...
because my heart was
not into it...
my eyes were...
but in my heart...
i was not standing on
an island, but an iceberg...
too many English
private school educatde kids...
too much interconnected
meritocracy bargains...
said via grandfather earned
ditto position through
the connectivity of his, father's
father...
no...
i won't have that
******** hanging before
me like a carrot, while
i play the donkey...
sorry... no...
shouldn't have lied
about your mother being your sister,
and your grandmother being
your mother...
then?!
Leningrad would
have made sense!
thankfully?
it still doesn't!
and doubly thankful for it
that i am, in saying:
it, never, will!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
Why do you thrift speaking? she asks him very often.
He is choked with words,
Over cooked and sticking each other.
But still he keeps quiet.
She likes to be heard.
He too to listen.
There is less effort in
Listening than to lisp.
The truth is that
formless word is God!
When it comes out of her mouth it had transformed into a form. But when the words
Butterfly out of her mouth it takes wings
And sings
soothing his sense.
He tries to see in her speech
And in each of her word
The formless presence of
God.
This keeps him still quiet,
A silent reverent listener.
Hence she asks him often why
Do you thrift speech?!!
He smiles and keeps listening...
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Always there, Justin Tyme. He's a good friend of mine.
This morning I went into the kitchen and yelled "you're toast!" and then I ate it.
A lovely response to a question: "Does a bear **** in the woods?"
I reply, "What about polar bears???"
When people say, "Jesus is holy." Do you think he cringes?
My girlfriend told me that I had scruples. I suddenly became scared and made a doctor’s appointment for an STD check.
What did Ernie say when Bert asked to get ice cream? “Sure Bert.”
I find it interesting when people say,
"It's the quiet ones you have to "worry'' about.
I believe it's the ones who blend in you have to worry about.
"Awkward Silence" ??
What is so awkward about silence???
I believe people are awkward, not silence.
...................................................
I need some bliss so, I'm going to be ignorant.
Along with his three Peeps, Hershey Kisses the Tootsie Roll Midgets.
To display their different mediums of art, the sky is the Gods exhibit and we are the critics.
For the Nondreamers:
You may look down on me as If I appear to have my head in the clouds.
Note to self: When you look up at the sky, I'm looking down on you.
Some say I'm cheesy...may be that I'm just Krafty.
I saw a sign on the freeway that said 'Exercise daily and walk with Jesus.' So I did. Jesus and I walked together laughing and smiling all the way to the lake front, but he kept walking...Then it dawned on me, I forgot my aqua shoes.
"I tend to add a hint of lemon while preparing my sought after traditional Christmas goose." Here's a hint, don't ruin the hint.
Ask a person with a lisp to say thimble and symbol...it sounds the same.
We are all artists who never put ourselves out for display.
Empty thoughts filled with absence.
What's on my mind is nothing, but what's inside is pure bliss.
I'm existing in the nonexistent.
God needs glasses and hearing aids.
Last night she nailed me harder than Jesus! (too soon)??
"I would be more than happy to give you an external hard drive."
"Ah, give or take.'' I'm confused...what do I do??
Good Friday??? Good God! That's terrible. Put me on a cross and I'll tell you how "good" my day is...maybe we should consider revising the name of this holiday?
I'm a conductor who's lost his train of thought.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Always stand against my hurt
Ghost lips on the thigh bite
Always tie my spindle veins wafer thin
Thoughts zoom sync auto pictographs
Words can't lisp sweetly
robotussin giggle about it
Upon my ghost
Always stand against my hurt
Ghost eyes
Ghost spit
Ghost thighs
Always stand against my hurt
Attrition life sustenance
Nutrition
Always stand against my heart
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
on the last night
of the june breeze
that i spent tucked
between your hips
and my home
i heard
almost as faint
as a wing flutter
your tongue unfurled
the sounds of your streets
against my ear.
pavement hard but
sweet as a plum liquor
spelled out avenues that
have become rose pastures.
hoods that have
grown thick in themselves
with petals stained
of red rich violence
cross brown bones
but those bullets
bear no color.
taxi swift
yet city street thick
buzzing the sounds
of a place with half
the people
yet twice the traffic.
the kind of
tuesday twelve fifteen traffic
that i never understood
but you made action
where you lost sense.
dropped clips into the alleys
where the cops
wouldn't go
and pierced a limb
or two on the way.
cheeks filled with
with sticky bliss
bashed the demure
of downtown
cause the magnificent mile
ain't got ish
to the brick backbones
of them cook county temples
tourist tend to
trip past.
on my last night
here with you
i want to do
nothing more than wash
the windy city out of me
before state lines
baptize my view
of your anatomy.
pipe my gums
with this Crest
and brush your
taste out of me.
see big cities
have stained my tongue before.
new york is still in there
and i ain't even been there
in years.
i've caught tears
streamlining down
the crest of my cheek
at the taste
of chips of bay ridge
in my teeth.
so why don't
you just get lost?
the lingering lisp of your
shoreline sure does
last a tad
past welcomed.
matter of fact,
a tad past passed
two ticks before
your beach sands
sank my hips.
your lips have learned
too well
the outline of
my spine poured
against your banks boy.
so no thanks boy.
i don't want your tee shirt.
i don't need your silhouette
sketched in my memory
let alone my key chain.
and you keep saying
i'll be back
but i'll believe that
when i'm 30,000 ft up
straddling your boarder
by boeing.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?
Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?
When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?
Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?
Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.
Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?
When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?
Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.
Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.
Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?
Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?
Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?
Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****
Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."
In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.
So get up, and go do.
Go do it.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC