"looped" poems
*Long lines looped the carousel
the first time you gazed my eye,
mounted on that chestnut mare,
grasped tight to the reigns up high.
I see his face around the bend,
a corn dog in his hand.
Locking eyes as I rise. I blush,
above the crowd he stands.
Light flickers, mouths water
delicate contoured lips laugh. I smile.
The music hesitates along with my breath.
I think I'll be staying awhile.
Bewildered and a little dizzy,
I dismount with a giggle.
I lick my dry lips, dreamily,
hoping he is single.
With the wind, a light mist blows.
I can see her slowly get wet,
stumbling she falls my way.
I'm excited, this day isn't over yet
Drip, drip, drip upon my face,
anxiously, I turn to hurry.
In my haste, he catches my waist
swallowing... I fall covertly.
Lips moisten, I pull her near
a kiss, slipped, tongues twirl,
wanton whispers whisked away,
drenched deep passion's unfurl.
A stranger's kiss upon my lips
beneath the dreary skies.
Soaking wet, I'm still on fire
He caught me by surprise.
A stranger's kiss upon my lips
beneath the queching skies.
Heaven sent, a burning desire;
she, such a welcomed surprise.*
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
The lantern bunting
Is looped between the street
Lamps against the sea
It is gorgeous
When you walk among them
And see
The dusk
When horizons
of ultramarine and seaweed
collide with cantaloupe and dusty red and honey .
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
Sleep, darling
I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is
like a golden
flower
I wouldn't
take all Croesus'
kingdom with love
thrown in, for her
---
Don't ask me what to wear
I have no embroidered
headband from Sardis to
give you, Cleis, such as
I wore
and my mother
always said that in her
day a purple ribbon
looped in the hair was thought
to be high style indeed
but we were dark:
a girl
whose hair is yellower than
torchlight should wear no
headdress but fresh flowers
6.9k
I will follow you
Down the alleyways of your mind
Lying under your sun
Meling into dreams
Left behind by a shadow
We are loves words
Floating in time
The adventurers of space
Touches emblems, enshrined
Never let it be said
We didn't care
For every fraction of day
Held together
This man and this woman
Looped by a golden bow.
Love Mary
For her Roger ***
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
It was early fall,
the leaves were vibrant
when I crawled to the bar,
catch myself a weekend buzz.
Fred’s drinks were pure trouble,
more jet fuel than mixer.
I mean you could torch your breath
after just one sip.
Rock blared there like a live concert,
loud enough to make you a deaf mute
after just one drink.
The dark walls swirled,
moved in & out, carnival-like,
I purred-down
Jack-elixirs.
I first saw her shining
from across the Mahogany bar.
She was hidden in the shadows,
a real good looker.
Her amber hair was crazy,
blowing everywhere
like the bride of the stitched-man,
electrode-neck.
She might have been a ******
or a nose-candy queen,
but after what the bartender gave me,
it really didn’t matter,
life was played hard on the edge
in them days.
I was enthalled with her,
captivated by her lady-vibes,
she was the perfect last call.
We sang rock and roll songs
in my 455 rocket, crawled
the back roads,
looped
all the way
to my country-place.
We were on auto-pilot,
dropped our guards,
fell into each other’s embrace.
She smelled like salty-patchouli,
had a killer innocent-face,
kissed me with fire,
such strong desire,
a beautiful-wantonness.
Her eyes were so red & green,
indeed she was
the consummate,
the prettiest,
late-night dream girl.
She was bathed in bright ink,
the sun, the moon, the stars,
vividly scrawled on her back
along with a frowning-tiger.
Above her privacy, I spied
a smiling-gnome
with outstretched arms
screaming, “I Wuv You.”
I obliged him,
there was no fighting
her ***** to the wall demeanor.
We shook the planet,
frolicked way past the wee hours,
deep into the noon hour.
When the earth-shattering stopped,
I was hung over on her & the jp4.
We crashed still trashed,
I still don’t know
how I ever got her home.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Every evening in the moment where
the late night turns to early morning,
my mind becomes stuck
on the same loop of thoughts.
Over and over again they play,
just like a scratched record
that won't stop repeating itself.
The difference though,
is a record player can be stopped much easier
before the skipping drives one crazy.
These looped thoughts that haunt me
from 2am to 6am without fail,
might just drive me to the brink
of insanity.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
I come face-to-face with my Shadow
hungry
devouring
depraved.
The lupine
before a full hunter moon
bristles.
Hot saliva
falls
from hurtful pointed rows
in pearls.
This
in Goodge Street Station's
Underground
where a poster
promotes
The Hunger
a page-turner
The Clown in Soho:
3 Chocolate Martinis
4 lagers
1 gram of *******
300 press-ups
7 mile run and
1 sachet of Kamagra
… the night begins …
I howl with delight
- that’s me -
cracks open
a smile
yellow eddies swirl
in thrawl
to that shadow beast o’ mine.
This monstrous
I
can never satiated be --
a beast to straight jacket under the influence of the waning and waxing moon
and on the night of the carmine moon
release
My phone rings
(Excuse me, while I take this).
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ashley?’
‘Depends on who’s asking,’
I respond
licking my lips.
‘You Ashley Chapman?’
I like this kind o’ game.
‘Like I said,
who’s asking?’
Frustrated he repeats, ‘Confirm your name.’
I yawn and tell him as savagely as I can:
'No!'
Wolves
know 'no'
to the pack.
But as in Beauty and the Beast
(the Cocteau 1946 version, of course)
beneath that thick molting hair pelt
beasts have culture
and feelings, too
(a lion's heart?)
and mostly
(occasionally not)
given
space
food
The Den
a willing mate (or two)
we’re okay
affectionate dogs.
For when all is well with my shadow
-- no problem
in peace
in chains
'til the looped moon!
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Mammy never owned a dryer,
She would always use the fire
To dry clean clothes for her eight kids,
Who played in pants as if on stilts,
Wore Goodwill shirts like cardboard fibre.
We'd no money for laundromats,
Immigrants don't waste like that;
We made the move from Ireland,
Turned our backs, washed our hands;
Chose Sarnia to make our home.
Yes, Mammy washed our clothes with stones;
She'd string lines from wall to wall,
And draped our patchwork overalls.
In autumn, winter and early spring,
Our house was strung with clothes line string;
Socks dropped on chairs near heating vents,
Every room had ***** like tents.
One day Daddy stretched a line
From our back porch
To the farthest pine.
Looped the wire on a tubeless rim,
Secured the ends with linchpins.
Mammy was so pleased with him.
We four saw what he'd done,
He'd made a ride for his sons.
We were gliding like clothes drying,
Riding down the yard.
Flapping, laughing, having fun,
Like human clothes under the sun;
We , however, were burdensome,
The line gave up, and we fell hard.
On blustery days when sheets are snapping,
I recall the clothes line cracking,
Our fall from grace had nothing lacking.
Oh, I remember he chastised,
But I also remember
Daddy's eyes,
And how they smiled
When he told his friends
He hung his sons
Out to dry.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
To love and love again,
with the eyes watching,
staring
Childhood secrets and imaginary pleasures
criticized for naivety by those
who have displaced the memories of a
long forgotten past
Who's insecurities double by the cynical
jealousy built up after
innocence has been torn to shreds
Seductive and approachable
this tree,
this swing
We all believe,
as children,
in that tire swings indestructibility
But
as it ages
and the rope withers from the weight
and frays like a spiders gossamer web
we witness the growth of a sad time
One slow piece at a time unravel
from lie after lie
Love lost several times
Everything holding the rope together
realizing that the end end is near
The tire snaps off and lays
in rest
among the dead and dying foliage
Abandoned,
years pass
and that old tire becomes caked
in dust and mud and
forgotten times
But
that rope still hangs there
swaying with the shifting moments of life
Waiting
waiting to be useful once again
There is only one use left for a lone rope
hanging from an old
and lonely
tree
A rope that offered hope and freedom
can do that one last time
A gift that can once again
release us from the pain
and the suffering
this world throws at us
That old tire swing rope
looped
circled
knotted
is now pure freedom
Standing on that old ***** tire
reaching
for that newly formed circle
Fit it
tighten it
release
and jump
Freedom
once again
because of that old tire swing noose
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
what you see:
me, quiet and deadly still in a way that
i never am
staring into empty space or
at a blank wall. maybe i'm
counting cracks or cataloging creases.
you see me zone out—
such an airhead, that George is
i wonder what he's imagining
what i see:
ivory skin and hair as orange as
sunset, and she is as beautiful...
on the outside;
but on the inside, she is a
black hole.
she ****** me in
and i thought she was the light
at the end of the tunnel.
i must have been a traveller
stranded and thirsty in the desert
crawling towards mirages.
now i am helpless.
i am watching her line her legs with ink
as she tells me to make sure that she
doesn't line her legs
with blood.
meanwhile, i scratch deep
at an itch that isn't there
and call it catharsis.
i am seeing white tiles and
a translucent shower curtain and
a sink and soaps and everything is
normal—except the girl
sitting in a bathtub
naked without water
and bare skin has never made me feel more
ill.
what you hear:
ambient sounds.
my breathing, perhaps.
what i hear:
she hums like a Disney villain
brewing potions
and calling it tea. she looks
like a princess
but her words are witch's curses
and i'm hexed
under her spell,
hanging by a thread
to every word she's ever said
and somehow not noticing
the noose she looped around my neck.
darling, choke me
'til I can only breathe as well as your drowning lungs
as you gasp into your oxygen mask
what you see:
i'm having a panic attack.
what you hear:
i'm hyperventilating.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still ?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it come into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.
2.1k
Essence and colors of twilight
ceased my heart,
yet, still I have looped
on your thinking, my darling
Snowflakes have covered the trees
underneath cold wind blows from north
my spirit become low,
what a teach of the nature!
Darkest horizon what it has meant,
that threats my nights and days-
stars have blended, apart from hopes
clouds are whirling on drifted edge,
Dreams have broken,
run with autumnal cloud
I can rather want to you,
my darling
As alluring attention that dies,
with illusion and hallucination
The last, ever and forever,
my confession
I will die with a claim
of romantic torment,
‘O' darling and you will face,
the rude reality at the end -
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
The way you write about her is the same way I write about you
You spill your thoughts about her beauty
I spill my tea all over the pages that have your name written all over it just so it can be blank again
You planted a seed into my skull the night our lips intertwined with one another
That seed soon grew into a beautiful flower
But you forgot to water it
The flower is dying because she knows you are in love with the other girl
It's fading away, the same way I faded away the next day
But you see, the roots of that flower soon grew down into my veins, down into my tummy, looped in between my ribs
Now whenever I see you, I can feel them sprouting down into my legs & I can feel the tingling sensation on my fingertips
It felt as if I was lying next to you tracing over your scars & tattoos in the dark because I know exactly where they are marked on your body and how your skin gets goosebumps whenever I trace your neck
I can feel the flower blossom all over again, again & again
But I want it to stop growing
I want it to die the same way I died in your memory
The same way you never thought of me
The same way you never loved me
Soon this compelling flower that once bloomed will no longer glow
Although it will still have a beautiful meaning even if its all dried up like someone came & ****** all of its love away
The same way you did to me
I will rip the dead flower out of my skull, out of my memory
I'll do it exactly the way you vanished me out of your thoughts
Then I'll rip off every petal reciting he loves me he loves me not
I kissed the last dry petal away & recited my last words
He loves me not
He never did
He never will
But its ****** up how I still find it beautiful
Because even if you never watered that flower, it still blossomed into a beautiful tragedy.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
I WHISPERED, "I am too young,"
And then, "I am old enough";
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
2k
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Henry had thought, not so long ago,
As birds, looped, swooped and soared,
Flocks of starlings, offering a show.
Jen and Olly, were Henry’s best friends,
Three ghostly bunnies with nothing to do,
Then Olly twitched his wispy whiskers,
Until large mushrooms suddenly grew.
Mushrooms so nice, they sat upon them,
And despite what they had been taught,
It seemed, within this, imagination world,
Creation occurred, with a single thought.
Jen giggled, wiggled, her delicate nose,
And three pink kites appeared overhead,
Swooping and soaring, just like starlings,
But held from a silken, gossamer, thread.
Henry’s turn, so smiling at his friends,
He performed a funny ‘bunny-like’ hop,
Creating a bracing, fresh, gusting breeze,
Making their ears go, all-a-flippity-flop.
On mushroom seats, ghostly bunnies sat,
Their minds twirling with kites, so high,
Henry recalled thinking, not so long ago,
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Here I am again,
watching the scenery loop
on the carousel's third lap.
I'd rather not have paid the fair
but to have observed the hellish chaos
from outside this whirlwind of horses.
The eye of the storm doesn't exist here
when the stationary cavalry doesn't stop,
but I chose to enlist in your war.
My last tour ended with a bang,
body intact, but inside was torn,
and I said I'd "never fight the good fight again."
But here I am
caught in the searing winds,
scars refreshed, sobering and familiar.
How did I let this happen?
The Siren's song was so alluring,
with promises strewn on shores' crags.
Oh Helen, you made me face a thousand ships,
but when my eyes returned
you were merely a new mare on the merry-go-round.
I knew what to expect
when I chose to turn on the fleets,
but my childish dreams convinced me you were different.
Advisors had warned,
and instinct agreed,
but my trust has become my enemy.
So here I am again,
surrounded, not yet able to retreat,
but the battle is almost over.
This time I swear I'll never fight again.
You don't recognize peace until it returns,
and isolationism is the key to keeping it.
I promise I won't,
but first I must wait
for the looped music to cease.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
While satellites come close and leave,
whole moons and the swirling dust
of reflective obeyers,
it arrives from distance.
Running a course through weight
from a pencil-thin horizon brow,
it might have streaked across darkness.
With the dead shines behind,
washed clean in a trail of wild flame and
then fallen, bolide broken into cascade.
Or rising to collide,
only skim the surface.
Ruffle the sheets of land,
wrinkle fertile leas and parched sands.
No, to strike full and shudder
the core and extinguish
light and life.
With unswerving smite.
From underestimated range
and unmeasured haste,
a peacock tail drags far behind.
Each one diamond dolefully eyed.
Is this eccentric orbit
the only the path seen?
Fastened to your celestial belt
and looped in an endless trajectory.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
Laughter at the pirate ship wreck
Incarcerated alibi.
Self-doubt and enemy envy.
Post neurosis mental chariot waiting patient set to test and task the palatial steel ballast.
Starting to startle itself awake according to twilight reporting recognized first and focused lazily to be remembered later for the first half percent.
Decent decline descending darkness ascending atoms attending arson. Gallant grey nose for cold weather bubbling wound **** streak pillow.
Plain sight eyes glazing reminiscent veteran folded over beer bottle drunk at home the unknown soldier.
Spirit spear piercing glowing nexus weightless flying high shadows vacant samurai clutch in an adjacent basement.
Bleeding bone fractured paper homes manufactured homeless jeering platelet picked and cast like a rune on your first born baby blanket.
Hallow, heated, grave displayed, and looped backwards.
Happy fishing!
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
If my heart could fly,
I’d break it’s wings,
Flee any hurt,
specifically the ones caused by me.
I’d use it so much, it’d begin to destruct,
familiar irony of my existence, and in place for its absence,
I’ll leave behind a fragile piece of mine essence
If my heart could fly, I’d never let myself belong to another
not again…
not again will I trust,
I will never trust that you wanted me here,
our love unconditional, a mere fantasy, over-looped and overplayed,
my welcome,over-stayed.
your world was never supposed to be a hotel staff, that hosted my stay
you made it very clear, my ticket of reckon is uninspired
letting me know it’s time,
time that i left your humble empire.
I never expected your love for me would spoil,
a car neglected, i never changed the oil, fixed the flat on the tire,
so on this love i’ll fly and retire.
never again will I trust. I’ll flap my wings and leave the next, so quick like i taught myself
that’s right steady and fast, never looking back, foot on gas.
anything in my grips seems to fly anyway, it never lasts.
I’d break it’s wings before it left me, and keep it in my arsenal,
for days my propellers lose fuel,
If my heart could fly , I’d give a better reputation to the foolish mule.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
tizzy looped his past: he had looped it and then looped it howevah, whoop to diz
gangstapoetry boosted its duties newly
we simply gs, whose duties include
slowmoflow like snoop, or p, ain't no thang
i create slang in the hate center, last trip i flew thru loops, break dancers and readers
want answers, so we give straight answers
lyrics of fame bangers, one rhyme for eight
don't take chances, tizz stylobate, sunrise
poems born from crime, give it some time
gotta come right, sell it all at one price
my blood cries in rough nights, plagued by
enough of tough stuff, but me ain't a fluff
i bluff and take what's rightfully mine
tizz is frightfully nice, he neva comes twice
coco loco, monica matadora tending
first song jeezy's "poppin" pimpin pimpz
red-blodded hamza comin ova to test me
subtly intimidating, i just call him "habibi"
ice breaker, you feel me, we good, truly
check out jammed jay, pushin designer
hamza on the toilet, yayo, his girl, bunny
snugglin wit jammed jay for real by now
close to my dj area, rubbin *** gainst ****
tina staring camly into her secret intention
i expect something vaguely, forget it, tho
as hamza al-mighty gets back, explodes
he beats up jay, promptly breakin' his nose
jay looks at the blood; pulls out a cudgel
bashin hamza's skull, flesh splinters
hamza strikes back wit em bludgeons
wondaland's red light, serving proudly 24/7
hamza's pack, yousif, said, wassim and mo
ready to battle the enemy of the enemy
lego goon, antwone, bobby butchah, juan
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 1:10 AM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
The Tie is a bib for men.
For different sorts of messes.
No longer exclusively dribble and bile.
Yes, we may use them for mornings
after our red solo sippy cups
time machine us neanderthal.
But men also have other messes to bib tie.
Like:
friendly faces at work.
not friendly faces at work.
faces on ex's at work.
Ex's faces on not friendly faces and other various places at work.
Men bib tie their feelings.
Or at least that's the media stressed norm.
Men can also not bib tie their feelings
Or bib tie the wrong feelings.
bib tie love when it's wrong to feel it.
Bib tie love when it hurts to feel it.
Bib tie their opinions
when speaking to people who disagree
Bib tie the need to look, only...
Touch, just...
Grab, just
Have, just
Use, just....
Put it in the bib tie.
Stuff it right in there.
That's where all your messes go now.
At a funeral, men do not use their bib Tie as Hankie
They let their tears fall.
Bib ties are not tissues.
You do not simply wipe up your mess with a bib tie.
Put the pain inside it
At the end of the day
You take it off.
Put the used up bib tie in patchwork briefcase under bed.
Passed down by fathers.
Full of generations of used up bib ties.
Like ***** dream catchers.
Knotted hands and looped desire.
fastened snuggly into their folds.
If only more men wore Ties.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC