"markings" poems
Surrender your body to me.
Bare body pressed against the brick wall
Hands tied overhead
Hair pulled back
Your body so warm and hot
Feel my ice cold kisses on your shoulders
My wet tongue running up your neck
Feel the red imprints of my hands on your ***
Moan for me ever so slightly
Beg me for more
Beg for me to never stop
Shutter at the feeling of my hands on your ********
Bite those full lips at the pleasure of my teeth markings on your body
Surrender yourself to me
Let me toss you on fresh sheets
Spreading your legs apart
Gently placing my hands on your slit
Rubbing slowly against soaked laced *******
Tongue tied in your body
Feed me your taste
Fill me with the flavor of your *****
Grip my head with your legs
Watch me explore your insides
Stare at me with such intense eyes
Stare as I climb up tracing every curve with my velvet tongue
Wrap your glistening legs around my waist
Take me raw till you can no longer go
Grip the sheets, head tilted back
Claw at my body
I'll guide you along the line between pain and pleasure
Surrender yourself to me
Let's explore our pleasures together.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:11 AM UTC
Time and risk caught up to you;
Gagged you into silence.
Chasing down the dragon was
Your favorite form of violence.
I saw its markings on your skin;
The gauntness of your eyes
Your searching fingers scratching down
To truth, as you breathed lies
China white won this round, love
You thought you'd always dance
The dragon chose another one
And turned its gaze askance.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
I am a small poem on a
page with room for another.
Share with me this white field,
wide as an acre of snow,
clear but for these tiny
markings like the steps of birds.
Come now.
This is the trough of the wave,
the seconds after lightning.
Thin slice of silence
as music ends,
the freeze before melting.
Lie down beside me.
Make angels.
Make devils.
Make who you are.”
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
The light pollution
from the lives of little people
in the big city
reflects off the lowriding clouds,
the same way my knees reflect
in the little puddles
from the big rains.
It hurts my eyes to look up
without sunglasses,
hurts my lips to think of tasting
the subway oil that
drip
drip
drips
I speculate at the transformers,
part automatic, part people
in their pre-ripped jeans,
learning to get their Ns
to drive themselves away,
yarn trailing from their sweaters
like parade float streamers.
Citizens run so fast
to catch the early train home,
freefalling down the stairs
breathing in the exhales
of the other racer’s exhaust.
Marking their triumphs
with participation ribbons.
The pacific pants at toes,
a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves.
Impatient for attention,
waves wagging back and forth,
up the imitation river,
past the downtown.
Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots.
The geese are on hiatus
until they can take back the city.
Making the drains overflow,
creating their own habitat,
they’ll strut their haughty markings,
distinguished from orcas,
away from any saline nonsense.
Were we to retrain the population
to turn blind eyes,
we’d be much more efficient,
stop wasting time contending
to society’s obsession
with documenting itself.
But then, what would we do all day?
Creating light pollution
must give immediate gratification.
Once all the lights are turned off,
the influence won’t continue,
creating a lack of permanence,
making our need to be remembered
seem trivial indeed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Be gentle with us.
please.
or not
it's your call
but keep in mind that we as poets
we feel too strong
which is not to say that that is wrong
we don't ease into love, we quickly fall
we love like we're dying
we live like we're small
but in our minds.
in our minds we are flying
we feel everything at once
you wouldn't think it by looking
looking at our normal fronts
a disguise, a charade
but prey don't believe a masquerade
a poet can be but anyone
existing silently
a poet can be but everyone
existing violently
we all make up stories
we're all acting to a degree
so things aren't so different
no not so different you and me
we notice the quirks
we notice the nothings
if you meet a poet then you should believe
you should know that we
we love what we see
and appreciate all forms of beauty
for to us imperfect is lovely
perfect doesn't exist
we have those markings on our wrist
of all the awful places we've been to we kissed
we've kissed the devil when we went
to hell and back again
so now that you have been informed
that a poets heart is easily scorned
knowing we feel deeply
knowing we feel more
more than we really should I've warned
we don't just love a person when we fall
we love their whole world
we love it all
and when we're hurt it is hard to trust
and thus
please.
Be gentle with us.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
A baby sea turtle in my hands:
the outer islanders call him Wol,
he will be a nomad, if anyone will.
What will the world look like to him?
Will he dream of killer whales,
those Swiss Cake Rolls of the sea?
Of winning the three hearts
of an octopus?
See what the turtle sees,
and rejoice.
The sea turtle, like the human, cries saltwater
and the tears cover two-thirds of the earth.
He risks pirate ship, cigarette boat, Chinese net.
He mistakes bait for food. (Who doesn’t?)
But he can swim away from; swim towards:
India, Mombasa, New Zealand, Ulithi.
The world's a turtle’s home,
why is anyone a nomad if not for this?
See what the turtle sees
and rejoice, carrying only
the markings on your shell.
A jungle.
A shack.
Half a moon.
Islands sprinkled like tiny green beads
across the Water of the Sky.
A first tattoo—seven little turtles--
and it hurts in a good way
like the world does.
Dear Creator
keep me from evil
keep my life
keep my going out and my coming in
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
i've always wanted to get a tattoo.
"wow, just like every rebellious teen out there, huh?", you say.
that is not true.
what i want are three simple, minimalistic markings.
one tattoo, i would like on my hip.
very small, barely noticeable.
three dots.
one blue, one purple, one pink.
one tattoo, i would like on my chest, far to the side.
once again, small, unnoticeable.
a small yellow and black heart.
to honor those i've lost.
and the last tattoo,
i would like four little symbols to keep me grounded.
tiny, on my left wrist.
the first symbol is a collection of wavy lines,
the second a small cloud,
the third is a incomplete box,
and the last is a heart.
breathe, relax, think, be.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
The stitching creases on a blank canvas
A mindblowing beautiful pale coloring
Never showing justice to the beauty
As the canvas has already been covered
In permanent marking
That once made all stitching come undone
The depth the paintbrush had made
Was a cry for help
The markings of the painter showed anger
Not at anyone
But at himself
With no other solution
Your beautiful canvas has been destroyed
Yet rebuilt
With a story to tell with every marking.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
when she says she is empty,
she is not asking to be filled.
stretch her thin and you will see
gold
peeking through her worn body.
stretch her thin and you feel her
fire
burning what you hold.
do not hold her.
when she says she is numb,
she is not asking to feel something.
do not wait out her novocaine
mood
drooling down her chin.
do not wait out her novocaine
high
she is elated.
do not bring her down.
she is a bookmark holding someone else's place:
do not move her.
someone left her,
waiting,
she does not know the other side:
that does not mean you show her.
someday she will be fire.
she will dry all that she has soaked with her
ravine heart.
you will follow her black markings to something
gold
she will be followed.
do not be surprised when she does not moan,
she will not moan,
she does not feel.
she is still ice.
when she says she is ice
do not try to melt her.
she will be fire.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:46 PM UTC
Show me all the scars you have,
and the stories behind them
I want to see the scars on your fingers.
And hear about all the demons you had to fight off with your bare hands.
did you win?
I want to see the scars on your back.
From all the people who have ever hurt you.
And how I vow to not add to that collecetion.
I want to see the scars on your heart.
well i can't see them, but i can assure you i feel them.
those are the scars that hurt the most and im sure some of those wounds are still open.
And i want to see the scars on your face.
those distinct markings that give you your features.
those marking that say you were not afraid to get up close and get hurt
for a reason you saw fit.
Will you show me all your scars?
I wont try to fix them, i promise.
because i know some of them you hold dear.
you can give me any scar you want though. i want a reminder of you.
i wont flinch, it won't even hurt.
Im used to it, so cut as deep as you want.
Darling, show me all your scars.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Letters of the day.
Perhaps Apollo snapped his string
And shot into the beings below:
Synecdoche.
Illuminate your ink markings,
said He,
My eyes long to see images leap from your words.
Write creatures, Write.
Interpretation was weaved together,
And the god was satisfied.
For these words began to walk,
Then dance all around him.
As the edges of his mouth curled upwards,
As the parts synchronized,
As the genus became the species,
As the species became the genus,
A new definition was formed.
The world celebrated the melodic movements
Of mere symbols.
Today’s world must continue the dance
Carry it through screen and paper,
So Apollo remains amused
As all watch the words sway with the wind.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:58 PM UTC
I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.
With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.
That was easy.
Horribly easy.
But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.
And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...
Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?
And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.
And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
On the first day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: a bowl full of doggy food.
On the second day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: two sloppy kisses and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the third day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: eight freshies hidden, seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: nine ****** markings, eight freshies hidden, seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: ten tails a-waggin', nine ****** markings, eight freshies hidden, seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: eleven rawhides hidden, ten tails a-waggin', nine ****** markings, eight freshies hidden, seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my Kirby gave to me: twelve stuffed buddies, eleven rawhides hidden, ten tails a-waggin', nine ****** markings, eight freshies hidden, seven scents to smell, six yummy greenies, five carrots, four doggy beds, three doggy biscuits, two sloppy kisses, and a bowl full of doggy food.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 3:03 AM UTC
Murmurings of words
so long unspoken,
now sent out across
the curved expanse
of our spherical home.
Murmurings of all our
voices and languages,
coalesced into one.
Winging out into open
space, like the nimble
murmurations of birds,
never quite touching,
yet deftly creating
virtual shapes,
markings recognizable
only from a distance.
*Do birds' own souls
unfurl and unfold in
these undulations?*
Starlings find aerial
corridors, travelling
together swiftly, so
to stay warm. Do we?
These murmurings,
our word-murmurations,
fly out into the space between us,
swiftly curving back, and then back again,
before dipping low, then nesting deeply,
so very deeply, into sweetest sleep.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.
Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:
The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.
3.8k
His eyes are as cold as the winter breezes
I try my best to cave through but everything freezes
"Let me in!", I beg
But he's too drunk within his emotions in a bottle of keg
His walls are up again
With emotions scarred into his skin with the markings of a pen
Tears well up in his eyes
He tells me goodnight
"No! No!", I scream
But the darkness consumed him as it seemed
I too, got ****** into his darkness
Now I knew, he was my fatal nightmare chasing me in my dreams.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Look behind, a shadow follows, morning till night,
at sun down, it transforms and waits, no curtains needed,
look around at night, see that mysterious bushfire,
some happened beyond time, heaven is your imagination speaking,
I stand on a flow that never stops and put all my hopes in love,
there is nothing that doesn't change, I stand where
many others before me stood, I forget that, but events repeat,
I stand naked on a rock with prehistoric markings,
my shrink will associate it with my desire to go back,
my loved ones whisper in to my ear, "Hallucinations all,
will be alright after a deep sleep, you're tired, mind a dark forest"
why overburden oneself with memories beyond time?
Reasons are fading darkness, when looking beyond the mind,
all you now pass through is a dream, seen in sleep, one sleep to the next,
How many galaxies are to be hopped in this intergalactic travel?
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Outraged am I,
At the markings on my face,
Tiny red pimples all around,
What a disgrace!
I'm too self-conscious right now,
It manages to take over my skin,
It hurts and itches to the limit,
When will a new day begin?
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
1909, on top of the dragon.
Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight.
That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants
And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach.
I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend.
He smells like bad disco and old people.
This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening,
I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom,
It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses.
My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl.
Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to
Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired
A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine.
Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth?
I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I
Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence.
My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is
All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl.
I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting
That never goes away.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
Could someone point the way
to salvation please or even
just a full night's sleep,
without being bone-tired?
Kind people, could you
please tell me
a way to feel again?
If not, could you just
tell me how to trust again?
You see, as of now,
I'm in this ugly space where nothing is
non-existent and something is just a warning
that I am going to be doing something
irredeemably dumb.
Did you hear, kind madam, that yesterday
a girl, barely four months old,
was killed because she was lesser?
Did you know that her older brother
burnt her hand intentionally, and her
father only laughed? Her mother
killed herself, you know.
Rumours say, her mother-in-law hated her
and after the girl was born, she only hated
the woman more. The father, as rumours go,
made her sleep on the floor in the kitchen,
after she birthed a female. The mother hated
the girl so much, but she knew the greatest
punishment would be to make the little girl
live out her life with her father and brother.
The mother couldn't tolerate looking after the
little girl any more, they whisper, let alone,
look at her every day to see a sign of her failure
The police verified the woman died due to rat poison.
Whether she drank freely or due to someone else's
Persuasion and other such insignificant details have
been carefully lost and burnt. The little girl, with no
One to look after her, died. Markings that suspiciously
looked like hands were found around her neck.
They covered it with a dear little scarf and ignored it.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
"Pain turns hope into scars that burn" ~~ Rose
Painfully aware
Of things I see
And I do not dare
Touch what I believe
One single caress
And hope diminishes
What you're left with
Is empty promises
And unfulfilled wishes
The remnants of faith
Are simply ugly markings
Left upon your body
Causing a fire of darkness
And smoke rising
Made of sadness
That disappears
Into the atmosphere
Until you're left with...
Absolutely nothing
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
we kip through all the ****** on the news
i left the device on a radio channal
awoke to it burning up static and turned it off
silence as falcon overviews us
ultraviolet sight
looking for neon spots and trails of *****
markings that may betray the entrance of our dwelling
i put the kettle on
our voices are clayed
by our
confessing inner multitude
but they're recorded all the same
i pour a cup of tea
our pattern of submission
is signal tweaked
maintainance by murmers
****** thorough
through our glacial surrender
i take a sip
silence as
aided by the clear weather
a drone nips out its choice targets
we were not selected
neither us or any neighbour
but far away ;
a story heard on the device
Apr 7, 2022
Apr 7, 2022 at 6:24 PM UTC
My compass has no arrow, no markings north or south
I've a map without a key, with markings I can't read.
Maybe a friend would do, someone to share my doubt
A soul-mate of some sort, with a knack for topography
I dream of her, beaming radiant smile
Eyes so bright, face full of life
But it's naught more than a faint fleeting flash
Of fantasies in my head that taunt and tease
Hopes and dreams of when there was a chance
Are now gone as an evanescent dalliance
These foolish flimsy thoughts seep like sewage
Polluting what was youthful optimism
From vivid imagination to dull ruin
So I brood my path
The conflation of desire and reality
But now I realize,
This map makes a bit more sense to me.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I hear your shuffling footsteps right outside my door
I know what you seek with troubled heart and weary feet
Your trip has been long, draining your body sore
Come in, I've been expecting you... Finally we meet
You settle yourself, right there, opposite of me
Let me look at you... Let me observe just a little
I can see through you, read you like a book, almost instantly
You've come with resolve so frail, fragile and brittle
I know why you're here and the questions that plague
I know why you've travelled long, over land so far
I am aware of your dark secrets and truths so vague
You don't have to say... I feel the invisible scars
I shut my eyes as I summon the
powers of my ball
Let me recite my mantra to invite those who would come
I whisper things you may hear or not at all
Ahh... One has arrived, soon... Soon will arrive some
Looking into my orb with concentrated gaze
Breathe easy, Cracked One... Be not afraid of its sinister glow
You can see the energy surging in a torrential blaze
Rest easy, Lost One... Very soon it will all show
In one hand, I have my tarot cards on display
Don't be frightened when I begin to convulse uncontrollably
Of all the cards that fall, one would stubbornly stay
That one will have much to tell, together we'll see
I'm trembling now, remember... Be not wary
The card is now chosen, face down I lay it still
Take it but you may not understand the markings you see
I'll take it in my hand to make sense of it by feel
I have your card, now I must resume my chanting
You hear me speak in a language only known to a few
It may sound raucous, the words I'm mouthing
Be not startled, Broken One... We are almost through
It's time to close the ritual by touching skin with skin
Against your cheeks, you feel my warm touch
Look into my eyes and embrace the connection within
Now I know all, your eyes have revealed much
I have something for you... Now you must go
You look at me with confused eyes but still you must
Take this bundle... It contains all you need to know
Keep it safe, this parting gift to you I entrust
Leave now, don't take my next few words lightly
You must take heed these sacred words from lore
I say, *"Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"*
I see you leave, disheartened by questions unanswered
Clutching the bundle, you slowly disappear in despair
I wish you well, dear Seeker... For all you've endured
Be safe and get home, you will find your answers there...
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC