"metacarpus" poems
On a night of fate,
a celestial being manifested,
a set of golden optics,
Shared a moment with a set of blue.
Shaking metacarpus,
soft against an elated visage.
two minds, two bodies.
two souls, two mates.
Breaths of desperation,
words wrapped around a vascular piece,
Forcing them to stay,
not to say. No; never to say.
the stars are crossed,
a with held fate,
Forbidden to love,
a censored verse, a poet corraled.
Began a word of truth,
Hold it dear to our souls,
and letting go will never be,
on a night of fate.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.
You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.
But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.
This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!
Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...
Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 4:37 PM UTC
Signposts at the crossroads point in all directions
like skeletal fingers
like ghosts moving across a tundra of white
like thin skin that you see through
like rice paper held against the sun
like your hand that shows veins that run like tributaries
into the delta on your metacarpus
flecked with freckles
where small hairs stand on end.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
The sounds of the city
she was so young
only sixteen
walking in solitude til hell freezes over
Always, always a cigarette hanging out out of her mouth
sweet smoke just a poke
Promenading me and my shadow
Offbeat gazes
brusque antiphon
vague tracks of paces left from penitence foot prints
She wants to stupefy
she wants to feel without a hitch Numb
Emerging out of the pavements of south philadelphia a metacarpus grasps onto her oxford
Dragging her to the subways of the city
Underfoot, underground
Who’s the conductor?
Who’s driving the train of anarchy
At a screaming halt, the train stopped
the metacarpus flings her off
fall
she scrapes her knee to see she’s remaining at the same locus
Unaltered
Where’d she go, she dont’ know
Arise!
She continued to linger through the streets
Julliet wanted romeo but romeo wanted another
Lifes a toy
she desired just a boy, maybe then life would be a joy
tooth for a tooth
bleed for me
a desire to conspire, a must for a bit of lust
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
These frail mane still smells of coffin nail.
Hands..Struggling with metacarpus to trade the manus ..
stretch. scratch. Twirl.
Orbs: wide and wrathful:
Fluctuating the pupils
left and right
| Mad mad |
Concerntating on these screams..
screams into le noir lughole .
THERE!
I grasp your fluttering wings.
Oh you flutterer !
fluttering on C.
Fluttering hushed ..
Fluttering hasten..
fluttering to strive for nooks and blood.
Oh you flutterer!
erroneous target thee choosed.
Smash. Squeeze.
Alas!
now ease into mine ichor palms.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
-
on the Sea of Tranquility sits
evidence of alien visitors
to this world ;
underneath one of the footings lie
the crushed remains of an indigenous
being who was delivering a message
inside a six-fingered metacarpus
entanglement is a wrinkled sheet
of aluminum with the following
etched in broken Earthling—
_"we never sent invitations
and we never asked you
for anything–
Please,
go home..."_
s jones
2021
.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 7:59 PM UTC