"matte" poems
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes upon. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.
That is what it is. It is beauty.
I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
bike's rusted chain
against the walls of my childhood
a new family lives inside
but what they don't see
are the notes of cardamom and burnt orange
rolls of film that my parents and I left behind
capturing sneakers over gravel
along the east river
toward the steel Hell Gate
as dad jogged beside me
his caramel skin
against the sycamores
my first time learning how to ride
they don't feel the bruises and scrapes nor
taste the paella we shared for dinner that evening
they only see what we gave them,
an empty house with matte finish
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
What a face
"Sells"
Abruptly she yells
Matte burning dry
Just try
Too moisten her lips
She's the Red devil
From hell why does her
orange face peel sell?
The right color
a psychic won't tell
Wishing well drenched
He touched my orange juice
"All Frenched"
She loves to slice and
he peels what appeal
orange saffron sauce
One last juicy squirt
divorce
It's time for fresh squeeze
Too frozen concentrate
The happy hour "Orange" feel
no other place like fate
Ten times real
"One" face peel has been
love absorbed
Like lemon meringue
Tainted love
Bitter grind soft butter glove
Do you mind orange flame
(The Spa) sells to be loved
Tra la so kind all Grunge
Going "Wawa" coffee cruel
Other colors haha
Movie set Orange payroll
lounge tease squirt
But destroyed by the evil
spell curse
Summoned on sunburst
But we need the Orange
before the sun comes
Like clones orange, you glad
we have "Green Apple"
phones
One step beyond orange
zones
I don't want to burst your
orange sauce
Grand Marnier starry twist
of orange
Two timing orange yogurt
Taste to tangy it hurt
Hey Yo Orange peel Spa
Still sticks Orange Julius
flirt
O outrageous P pick
What turns us on and gets us sick
Plan your work and work your plan
Never offend her
Let's see the chef make you love her
Creamified dreamlike Whip free
The orange mousse pie
Let me hear it yummy to lie
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
Ice-cold Orange juice
with a teaspoon of
Brown sugar
sipped with my
Red-matte lips
under the
Yellowish-tuscan sun
Thinking of those
Little White lies
tossed with
a Grey stone
sunken deepdown
the Blue lagoon
lost in a
Blackhole
Purple thoughts
Pink-positive thinking
with a Green tea
on the side
Hoping for a slight chance
of Rainbow after
this storm
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
"Tomorrow you will be alright"
I comforted myself a near midnight.
Dragging the towel, moist from the sink
under my lower lids, I did never blink.
Makeup and water or makeup and tears
some may never now, as I
that lonesome, quite autumn night*
Though I lastly found with my poorly sight
that under my lids there were, well how to describe?
- I lowered the towel and looked even twice
Nothing as makeup were pouring down my eyes
but a still, matte
constant.
Sorrow
Now what about tomorrow?
I blinked and I shrank as I lowered my head in the sink.
Oh but never were I capable of washing off ink.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball
where did we go?
blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become
how wrong have we gone?
well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders
way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
Your lonely song
Straddling the wind
Searching for an audience.
The home you grew up in
Had white walls and high ceilings.
Pure and sheltered.
You thought the room was shrinking,
Pinning your wings to your sides.
But baby
You were just growing.
Destined to break down the door.
To let the art of your dangerous spirit
Use the clouds for a canvas.
Blackbird baby
You've been raised by doves.
They've passed on their sparkling reputation
But it doesn't suit your matte feathers.
You're a whole other kind of beautiful.
Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You feel so alone
You don't see how they envy you.
Your mind is a weapon, my dear.
Never doubt it for a moment.
Your body is a treasure, my dear.
Love it like nothing else.
Your time is valuable, my dear.
Don't waste it on what brings you no joy.
These lessons you have yet to learn.
You see only the thunder in the sky.
But there's a world of rainbows to be discovered.
Blackbird baby
You find it so hard to believe
That you are loved.
But you are everything to me.
Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You see pieces of it hit the ground.
The end in sight.
Let me hold you.
Let me hold your whole world
So tightly that all the pieces of the sky
Fit back into place.
Afraid of what could go wrong
You pin your own wings to your sides.
Force of habit.
But without them
How will you fly?
Blackbird baby
Open your wings for me.
Show me your dance of ebony
Like a silouette on the sunset.
Blackbird baby
Hatch from your prison
And soar.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
Fluff and puff,
water plugs,
power plants,
paper over eyesores,
paint it matte,
pink as salmon,
pack the homeless
into the Bird's Nest,
ghettoise Moses,
bleed the Amazon
down to size,
moor the battleships
to Yamuna Bank,
let white elephants
run riot on warm Black ice
over those who won't
play ball in our
electric garden
free your head
from the rails
for what?
roti kapda makaan
or BSP ki maya?
be buried or a sport
let laal battis through
ab bus, stop
blaming it on Rio
don't you know
how India shone
in October 2010,
or that Russians love
their children too?
So what if they don't
believe in modern love?
Potemkin villages are
built brick by brick
by BRICS,
Red, Yellow, Orange
kilned to Black.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
It is eagerly that I prepare
Turning out lights and **********
Setting aside the following days necessities
And brushing my hair
My heart dances when I see
The black sheets and tossled comforter
Against the matte sky peaking through my window
I sit and sink
Into the noisy springs
And flattened pillows
And almost immediately I descend into
Another bed of another life
In my desperate mind
And it is then that I forget
I'm between the sweet haze of otherworldly dreams
And among the vibrant feelings and happy ventures
The dull muted droll of my own life
And in the blue mornings
As I wake to chronic angers and patient responsibility
Inevitably the cloak of heavy unsatisfaction and disappointment
Settle onto my shoulders
And as before I carry on with my day
Counting the seconds
And blissfully dreaming
Of the bed that waits for me at home
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
he paints me
reading a book in my faded nightie
lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair
huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by
he never lets me see them.
i write of him
padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and
blue plaid boxers
thanking the people who buy his paintings
wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt
saving the world
i never let him read them.
we share
a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t
know how to cook
bookshelves that line our every wall
snapshots of the city, framed in matte black
wood and macaroni, in the hall
we don’t invite people over.
our parents
don’t send christmas cards anymore
stopped paying for university tuition
and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we
aren’t allowed to see
(but helen sends pictures in the mail)
they can’t take away our love.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
Silver sparkles
Lost in a sea of purple fabric
Hair singed straight
Face painted
Laces stealing my breath away
Bittersweet, the hug
From an oft-absent father
The sinking feeling, unsatisfied
Without a clue as to why
Dread mounting, anxiety shouting
“You’ll be the prettiest girl at Prom”
Matte black
Broken by a silver bowtie
Hair combed back
Neat and orderly, obscuring
The sea of butterflies I hide
Euphoric, the hug
From the lady I’ll escort
Bright flashes in my eyes
Thumps of congratulations, I am
The lucky man to take the prettiest girl to the ball
“May I have this dance?”
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
She's the girl with the matte lipstick,
Deep, bold red that flows in her veins
She throws them fierce on her fragile lips
Warning every man she's more than a kiss.
She's the girl with the matte lipstick
A deeper red than the roses she was given,
One look at the mirror and she's all set
To rule out the world with her head set high.
And she will be stronger than you and I,
For her soul is clinquant with
glittery gold
Of fading scars and past mistakes
That she will one day conquer all on her own.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
Jack ropes and merriopes
In solicitous rhyme in fer derilious velope
envy implicitous insectuaryan harridannous
Ensole brodequins forbearing to lace
Trace elements of that remaining empoisonous
For failure interred
Is succes disinterred? And if so, form where?
Where derinferred strands failure unerred
By error masked muscovado coloured Breadth
Pneumonic, perhaps caustically mate
Aerial’d on the glib side of acoustical elimination
Veritable under pooh stick discrimination
Matte clouds of drab depression ove in
An area of low pressure
According to yon hypothalamic forecaster. Core has ter
Fail lently viola lapidavitious stretch so she as
fer ter rousse fer ter kamuskova. An epic
Scribbled on der calen.
Sole of brevity then being approximately an inch and a
Bit minus that
Torrent all yendergelpin cleaving
The very schism wit! It cynicism
Be as may be a pea, no spelling bee entrusted
Where? In there? In that jumble of line?
Barely knows his lime from his rhyme, or indeed
Lime from lime.
He’s just trying to fill up that calendrous space
And make some sense of it.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Dreams, that's where I have to go
fulfill my fate and reach my destiny, so.
Focus on things that matte,r
isolate myself from all those mad hatters
To see your beautiful face no longer
I distance myself and let reality conquer
consume every bit of me, uphold and devour.
I sit down in alienation and let the music linger.
Scenario's of your absence is rather different from your presence.
I then just realize, that your presence upholds hope's essence.
Hope, hope there's a conversation
between you and me, just us for the whole duration.
I must drift and set myself apart
it's what's best, it's mine to take part.
If you ask me, how I'm doing?
I would say I'm doing just fine, resisting.
I would lie and say you're not on my mind.
But I go out and I breakdown for I'm blind.
Finally I'm forced to face the truth, no matter what I say I'm not over you...
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
a venerable set of pearls
got placed on her bare skin
as she felt the coldness
rush through her body
she glanced down
to readjust the gold clasp
seeing her matte red lips
in their polished reflection
the cream-colored pearls
felt so heavy on her neck
and made her nervous heart
seem to sink into her chest
they were her grandmother’s
her mom told her long ago
as she imagined seeing her grandma
walk down the aisle so beautifully
she held onto the pearls
with fond memories of love
as she opened her mouth
and said the words
“I do”
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Chaotic systems
Disabled stems
Controlled streams
Dash in seams
Work ain't progress
It's a misused regress
Full of regrets
The greatest dissolution
No vision, just revisions
The mission of bureaucracy
Hypocrisy and autocratic casts
Top cats bumper weighty bonuses
Outclassed in beer bellies
Slashed in pompous waistcoats
*What a waste on the coast?
**I am not afraid to tell you, "I ain't a ******* robot"**
I am not a machine of production and rotations
**I am not afraid to tell you, "Go **** your *****
Give me time to be creative, innovative and autonomous
Chaotic systems
Disabled stems
Controlled streams
Dash in seams
Be an example, model the sample
Let the leader lead the leaders
Let the leader be the servant
An active weaver of the basket
To hold with the strongest straws
In rows and crows, clinging to all
A negotiator of the common people
A facilitator in times of conflict
Let the worker be dedicated
Passionate, triumphant and trial-led
But the case is, all are in it for the money
I am not afraid to tell capitalists, "Give workers their rights"
**I am not a ******* charity mate! Share the faked matte!**
**I am not afraid to tell you, "Stick it up on your ***
Give me time to be creative, innovative and autonomous
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
James Corden’s close relationship with Burberry designer Christopher Bailey was celebrated at the 2016 Tony Awards.
On Sunday night (12Jun16) the toast of Broadway were celebrated at the annual awards show. British star James was the evening’s host, winning the crowd over with his warm sense of humour and down to earth delivery.
As well as a successful acting and presenting career, James can now also add style icon to his burgeoning resume.
“We wanted to keep the wardrobe tight and focused with a definite beginning and an end,” stylist Michael Fisher told vogue.com.
“We started with Burberry for the red carpet. James and Christopher Bailey have a long-standing relationship. I wanted a strong look that complemented the roses. The deep burgundy tux had matte black micro sequins on the lapel: very sophisticated and classic, with a technical update.”
Like any good awards show host, 37-year-old James had numerous outfit changes. Two suits from Tom Ford featured; a black three-piece design which served as a tribute to Broadway and then a teal dot dinner jacket, which James chose to wear at the after party.
A show-stopping Dolce & Gabbana look also featured, with the fashion house supplying a pair of “handmade, dark green croc shoes” to complement the green velvet and crystal jacket James wore to close the show.
Another stand out moment came thanks to a red Gucci suit adorned with a bird and butterfly motif.
“The Gucci suit was my favourite,” Michael smiled. “You can’t ignore the influence (Gucci designer) Alessandro Michele has on fashion right now. It reminded me of (musical) The Boy From Oz and in that way was very appropriate for the Tonys.”Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Let me whisper you a world spread in open-palm
and lay you wide-pictures etched in cobble-stone
till your feet find their way in the wake of alt-time
Let me grow you orchards on margins of probabilities
and capture breezy-smiles to place upon your sleeve
till illumined-steps of afternoon crumble before angels
Let me turn the planets on fingertip high upon wheel-rim
and show you matte mirror-lakes of superb-chances
till the evening-sky feels the shy-tiptoe of moon-kiss
please… let me….?
S T - 4 dec 13
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC