"lisps" poems
HaHA, I've done it! I've created a device
That can tap into my subconscious
and translate it for all to hear.
I will win the Nobel Prize!
I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams!
People will LIKE me!
So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8.
Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make
sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes. The next
words you hear will surely be written in History books one day,
much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the
first telephone call!
Neural connection is active. Transmitting
**TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE
PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS. PLEASE
PERFORM ******** AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST
MONKS WITH LISPS. COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME
A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY *******
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS
ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ******
HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF**
Oh dear. This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch?
**JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD
BE A FATHER. JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN
AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA. EDIBLE *******
GIVE YOU INDIGESTION. DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER
WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE
SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)**
Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention
is experiencing technical difficulties. If you would please be patient---
**SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE. NONE OF THE SMURFS
HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE. I WONDER
WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK? **
STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH
DoNT LikE iT? tucK iT bAcK!!
Connection Lost
I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready
for the pubic--er..public. I have run into some...translation
errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things.
Please don't tell my mother.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
**Lacking of life now
I lol on my fine divan**
*Laziness often
lacks the power of rapture
as in sofa or bedsprings*
**Labour of love her
for large obese lobster me**
*Mermaids capture me
a symphony of sea-sick
rasping tongues lick our lumps*
**Little old lady
typing the language of love**
*A real cyber date
computer romance limits
operational life's love*
**Laughing over lines
of disco **** pure *******
*Lewd obscene language
grasping lemon or lime highs
to count Hollywood star shootings*
**A full length of life
the longing off, lay proceeds**
*Lady of the Lake
lunging our lisps sound depths
we are - breathing harmony*
**The land of Lincoln
legion of Lucifer's Lord**
*landscaping of lawns,
losing our liberty's law,
leaving on lights, blinding*
**Lots of Laughs or 'lol'
populist abbreviation**
*language often less,
leftovers of literate
gone to libraries of late*
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 12:38 PM UTC
I find your strength within your weakness,
and your spontaneousness stutters in the melody of your lisps.
I find the power in your unspoken favorite flavor,
and the taste leaks from a puncture of your unconscious gesture.
I find your pain in the discourse of your taciturn glance,
and your fear preserved with the muscles of your midnight beard.
I find a lot in the nothingness in your insolvent pocket,
I find joy, glamour and an ignited cello.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
If god were real
When he’d appear
It would be out of nowhere
In mysterious ways
God would be dressed as a clown
His front top teeth are missing
And he slurs like a drunk
Sometimes you can’t understand him
He does this on purpose
God was never cryptic
He just had trouble enunciating
DON’T BE MEAN TO PEOPLE
JESUS CHRIST
You have trouble looking at his face
It is hard to take the message of a clown seriously
So you look down at the globes of the tip of his shoes
Red shiny bulbs
Inside the reflection
You are ant sized
You feel small in that moment
God says something but you are busy looking down
You see other ant sized people walking behind you
Towards work
To get food
To go to school
God makes you a halo
Out of balloons
It is white because he ran out of yellow
Before he puts it on your head
Turned sideways
It looks like dangling handcuffs
He makes you a sword and belt too
You have just been turned into an angel
A human angel armed with the necessary tools to fight on his behalf
You don’t feel strong in that moment
You still feel like an ant
God gives you a holy water balloon
Just in case things get hairy
You decide you might be able to surprise baptize someone with it
Then god walks a way
But you totally feel better because he just gave you a halo and a sword
You cry that night
Because you have never felt so small and helpless in your entire life
You never felt so silly
Wielding you faith as firm as a balloon sword
Wearing your blow up halo as a badge
So you throw them away
Not your faith
Just the balloons
DON’T HURT ANYBODY
God says
His tongue pressed to his gums to prevent lisps
Then he begins to pump up another balloon
He honks his horn
And you are so confused
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
236
If He dissolve—then—there is nothing—more—
Eclipse—at Midnight—
It was dark—before—
Sunset—at Easter—
Blindness—on the Dawn—
Faint Star of Bethlehem—
Gone down!
Would but some God—inform Him—
Or it be too late!
Say—that the pulse just lisps—
The Chariots wait—
Say—that a little life—for His—
Is leaking—red—
His little Spaniel—tell Him!
Will He heed?
2k
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
it's hot in a restaurant with the strangers you've since been stranded with
(look! You Finally Did It!)
and everybody knows your name but the symbolism of individualized letters with glottal stops and teeth-sucking pauses and dyslexic lingering lisps is lost on them, they have their own letters to think about, don't you know?
(hundreds of pillows fly out my ears in increasing sizes, so i must be dreaming - Right?)
Yahtzee! Soccer! Give it the old college try!
(abstract oils crash and burn in a watchtower atop of your New Life)
It's Something to do with your Mouth, It's Something to do with your Hands, but we couldn't tell you why $2.50 wasted matters more than four months and the casual flinging of my (god forbid)
i n n o c e n c e
(you're happy and i'm unconscious, so in theory we're on the same wavelength - Right?)
can you assure me that everyone has two decades of nauseating mediocrity
or no - is it just me?
we Need coffee! we Need love! dread has to be evenly distributed - don't leave your years of it at my door!
(i don't want anybody's advice unless it's on how to fashion a fully-functioning noose)
tiny lips and long socks - i can't stop being in love with the whole two-eye/two-ear/nose/mouth ordeal but i'm utterly left-handed in my lust and i swear to god both hands are empty - but that's something else entirely
(back to where we started from, in bleeding headlights swimming on deserted streets)
'just wanted to throw an XO your way' say the eyes of every crossword connection i bend over backwards to trying to cater it to my thoughts of you
(For Sale: a storage unit of journals filled with sketches of you - it's pink and mushy and curled inside my head, if you're into that)
and it's only when we're in a bed together at 3:26 AM that belongs to neither you or me that i can consciously eliminate emptied emotions and neatly file them onto typeface notes hidden in bouquets decorating the dismal-ities of my freshly-planted tombstone
(fuse our bodies together and let's make this sarcophagus a necrophilia-polis)
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
A thousand god-eating plates in a summer wind
Listen, china-white, to the audible inaudible that flanks
The paint-chip, earth-red bridges. Susurrations weave
Through grass with spider fingers; following curves in seashells
As a voluble electric screen who Speaks as dew and taste.
Water is depth beyond what can be acquainted with memory
Or fancy. Watches turn delicate, May-lace and wedding night
Music: Vertical, Veiled, Very. Dust in the stream lisps
Headily to shore, rests by a forgotten child’s shoe,
Bronzes it like mother’s finger and burns like daybreak.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 2:46 PM UTC
Voices from the past spoken by ghosts are
booked with stories, stories till gone untold.
Tombstone whisperers with breathless lisps
Caress your mind with misty mystery
Beginning stories "once upon a time"
and ending them with the two words "The End."
We find ourselves wishing to hear stories
told by the living before they die but,
Only after they die do we listen
because everything they wanted to say
can now only be said with one word, dead.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
His arms failed to reach around her wide lopsided smile.
Her mind played silly word games with her lisps
His feet tapped in no choreographed motion; ambiguity
Her tongue tastes wine with no knowledge
His fingers circled in absentminded anticipation
Her warmed hands circled in rubbing
His first dinner date
Her blind date
His date
Her
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
O' sandy shells, o' sandy shells; I know
Why pearly armor 'neath the sand conceal.
The whisper tells, the hearted tells of woe
From windy lisps, begotten ears then seal.
The hush foretells, that love foretells, of pain;
A grief that hollowed clams, collect and feel.
To ease the spells, that love-lost spells refrain,
That lovers old; with broken shells, can heal.
O' empty wells, o' loveless wells; rejoice!
As by the sea; the tiny shells will steal
The burning cells, the lovelorn cells and voice
And nestle where; nostalgic sands congeal.
Yes lover's bells, O' magic bells; let shine!
Turn not to shells, like many shells of mine.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 12:03 AM UTC
Some yellow has gone,
bleeding in the valley.
Night lisps forward,
soft as ether,
as blossoms of bay laurel.
The moon stains the east,
& errant glimmers
founder in the cloud ditches.
The trees gather ice,
pages of silence,
smeared with identity.
Let this winter end
with an escape -
let this blood gallop
from black lots filled
with daggers of self.
Move me to
the necklace of river -
away from this inheritance
that stirs the dark.
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 6:35 PM UTC
all things consist as sounds consist
of the elements
[Here follows the history of the four]
evident then,
what we have said before
all men seek causes named
we cannot name any described before
not at all.
the Subject lisps
it is young and bone by virtue
the essence and substance of
flesh and tissues
the elements and
the names - fire and earth and water and air.
He has not said clearly.
Our views have been expressed before;
but let us return the difficulties
perhaps we may get some help towards
our difficulties.
The Subject of our inquiry:
we are seeking the universe.
the fire, forthcoming
as flame would follow
moth to candle
vapor to lust
lust to yearn
yearning to dust.
A fire’s flame, inquiries made
the perfect deep shade
of rust.
crumbling to ferrous, ferric
streaks in the Earth
the earth.
O humble, o depths
of rich and mysterious mud
o magnum mysterium
overturned with resounding
thud
and iron streaks richer than blood.
but crumble it shall
in many waters, rivers
the orbital, the oculus
the eye of all clarity
and all washed away
it is time
it is time
the Subject: washed away
into vapor
into air
into wind
the howling, the holy
the Subject lisps
and it is holy wind
holy flame
holy earth
holy water
wholly: the Universe
and nothing more
and nothing less
than its elements
than sound
Here follows the mystery of the four:
they are holy, inherently
and wholly, inherently pure.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Have you ever loved someone so much?
Where every moment you spend without their arms wrapped around your waist is so incredibly painful, you think it’s slowly killing you?
Where you long every second for that certain trio of words to be sent your way, on the lisps of the wind?
“I love you.”
And
“I miss you”
Were trios that I did not catch that afternoon. I’m sure you sent them, but not to me.
Instead, what did I get?
“You will never be half the person that she is.”
I read that, and instantly I wanted to cry. I felt defeated, crushed, broken down. Ashamed, upset, and alone.
You said you weren’t thinking, that it was an accident, that you didn’t mean it.
But if you sent it, you thought it.
And that’s enough for me.
You tried to take it back, and believe me I wish you had succeeded.
But you didn’t, and you left me for wanting.
Because when that was over, when you said the only ten words I never would have expected to come out of your mouth, I was done.
Done what?
I was done fighting. Fighting off bad luck, insecurities, you name it.
All this time I was there for you. And this was not the only time you’ve come back to slap me in the face.
You never bothered to really see if I was okay. Never cared to look into my eyes and discover that I’m worse off than you are.
That day you watched me fall asleep… you said that I was peaceful.
I can assure you those are the only moments of peacefulness I get out of my day.
That day you said you needed me, I was there.
But the day I needed you, you had vanished into somebody else’s arms.
Not a care in the world, not a look back to see me far off in the distance, too numb from the pain to wave goodbye.
It’s me or someone else, you say. You say I don’t care about the other, which is wrong.
You say it’s stupid of you to assume things about me, which is funny because it’s something people constantly do.
I’m used to it, it happens often.
But I never thought the assumptions would come from you.
I miss you, I need you, and I love you.
So talk to me, please.
Because you’re a part of me that I need.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
the sea mist,
slurs
in drunken lisps.
off the white wave lips
and the wind
takes
the salt an' chinese whispers
away
to the mountain ridge
to meet the clouds
the sea roars it
denial
of all the gossip
sent
and pounds the sand
in frustration...
thus
begins this
discordant day...
forecast
to end with stormy tantrums.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
I've never really loved the look of "perfect" on a person.
But I've loved crooked teeth
and chapped lips
and the rips in his sweater
and calloused palms
and acne scars along his jawbone
and eyes that are slightly slanted upward
and pant legs that are too short
and watches worn with the time set two minutes early
and hair that always looks the same
and loud voices in libraries
and quiet whispers at crowded parties
and twisted ****** expressions
and dilated pupils
and the way too much of his gum shows when he smiles
and beauty marks in secret places
and the same white t-shirt worn over and over again
and eye colours that are indistinguishable
and cold, blank stares at 3 am
and hopeful stares at the break of dawn
and messy writing that's hard to read
and untied shoe laces
and lisps
and stutters
and jeans worn too low
and fists that make holes in walls
and breath that reeks of coffee
and lips that taste of tobacco
and eyelids that are heavy after a long day
and fading bruises
and bushy eyebrows
and clumsy feet
and hunched postures
and hands that are always too cold
and bandages stuck onto odd places
and cologne that's a little too strong...
because I think that showing what is imperfect is what makes a person worth loving.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
eros: to sting the flesh, o ****** shrieks
sweetness steals from: this buoyant word
sinking in the gnash of moon on loam: awaken me quicker than cherry trees
at dawn: don me against lisps of leaves:
rushing the dogs underneath tightwires:
and sing me something heavy the litheness of verdure: make me cling to wind-hours a tournefortia: place me a placeness in untruths reveal: ****** the languor of pillars: sensual the cruise of caryatids: enigmatic the dark of heron:
crisp the wind of your arrival.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
I am no good at talking to things that are not myself.
The crystalline brown of my eyes sings certain songs.
And my coffee breath makes such certain impressions on the mirror.
And my coffee skin makes such certain impressions on the mirror.
In the former case, that mirror is me.
In the latter case, that mirror is you.
I have no idea of how I see myself, or how I should see myself.
But I know how you do. I know your lisps, your staggers, your stares.
And the way you vibrate sometimes to see someone such as me.
"The **** is wrong with you", I say to no one in particular being myself.
But I would scream it to the world at large if they would listen.
And yet the sounds would carry to no where but to some gaze of me.
That glint of me in your eyes.
That glint of you in mine.
And we are not talking at all.
We are only kissing ourselves by looking.
We do not know how it tastes.
(What happens when you give a monkey a mirror?)
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
this is when
we keep on keeping on
our fingers laced and kinked
to some incited cold
gives us no unction – i leave
you with irreparable harm
trudges across flame, guesses
the assailant of aches.
when these crosses straighten
within the whelm of your mouth
i will curl them again in sweet,
successive manners of graceless joust
and then when you come before i,
or is it i before you — whichever,
this music is never a notice of
ease — only rescue without warning
or attendance, seeping underneath
pallid floor work, lips puckered
pursed to attenuated form of bow
and mine eyes arrow through
your triple deeds arraying
and i can never ignore how immense
the moon is in the river of the same vein
riverrun, away, wayward—
lisps of white and red
and soon obliterated when both our
avenues close and we walk
home, hands separately yearning.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
I know that the summer holds some type of magic
That it somehow becomes a physical reincarnation of nostalgia
Where time stands still when we are given a chance to have the perfect night
Where past loves can meet again, on brick or carpet
For one more night of infatuation and hand holding
Where hate drowns in amaretto or burns out in the sun
And we return to one cohesive group, singing old songs that hold more meaning than any of us realize
We jump to the beat of that one perfect year, entwined in our scents and lisps and favorite beers
I know that when fall returns, we won't be drinking Miller Lite with our best friends on the back porch
You won't be close to saying something real
I will return to bad habits in dark basements
We will all have to go on in real time speed
Leaving the Band of Bad Kids
Breaks my heart every year
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
Soft lips, the absence,
cold hands touching a boiling ***
all of it overwhelming.
Lisps, nothing but blurred
s's and slurred whispers
of reassurance and love.
So much blind love, so much
lying, so much forgetting,
so much resting in the
space between the absence.
I loved you once, then I
forgot, and loved you again,
and forgot, and loved you
again in memory, I have forgotten.
The absences are wavering;
they teeter like a fresh vase on the edge
near an unruly cat,
nothing tethering the events
of the slurred words from
soft LIsPS, but the
love almost did.
So I think.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 8:37 PM UTC
Every one listens to ME,
Friends, ma'am's, even you sir,
Pent lips spit trusts
Trust me.
My tongue isn't forked
It's lickety-split
Read My lisps
My
Trusts
Rusts
Us
Ts
Neither friend nor enemy
I'm the inner me
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC