"mimes" poems
stop apologizing
stop apologizing for being yourself
stop apologizing for being sad sometimes
stop apologizing for the way you look
or act
or talk
or kiss
so look at me
up
blue to blue
and tell me you're not sorry.
not sorry for who you are
unapologetic in your beauty where hair falls on shoulders
next to a freckled face that resembles my vision of true art
you
you are what happens when the moon rises above the horizon
pushing and pulling the tides
like heart strings
mine stings at your absence.
the moon is not sorry.
it simply is
as you should be.
fractured during times but pieced together in the sky when together with the sun
it mimes to us
without words moving the planet ever so slightly
lightly kiss me under it
and stop
breathe.
stop apologizing.
be who you are.
bold, beautiful, smart, **** cheeky, funny, loving, warm
these words and more, in my own mental dictionary have your face plastered permanently next to them
and so i understand these words not by definition
but by example.
but by you.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."
A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.
A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."
A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
4.3k
in this small seculuded spot
where our actions speak louder then our thoughts
but our mouths spoke the words of mimes on the 9-5
broke the silence by asking the time while waiting on the divine moment
...where your hand was right next to mine
a movement so suttle seemed like moving mountains
or sneaking threw land mines
so i reached across the dark blue seat
to form a forgien handshake the place our palms would first meet
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
the roof over his father’s head.
the rain.
the guardian angel
and the imaginary
friend
loving
over the loss
of toy.
his brothers on the roof
playing possum
with a possum.
her.
her and her mother
separated
by a grocery
aisle.
by litany.
his father sleep *******
on a secretly
fed
dog.
crop circles. eyeglasses. his monsters
led away
by a group of mimes
the genital
mimes.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
On Peyote Highway
The lanes go this way and that
Purple haze sunset to the left
The radio changes itself
On Peyote Highway
The flowers all try to hitch rides
With thumbs held high in the sky
While cactus ride by on their bikes
On Peyote Highway
Rainbow clouds speak in foreign tongue
The Koala Bear next to you ***** his thumb
The clown on the hood chews Juicy Fruit gum
On Peyote Highway
Skeletons rattle their bones in the back
Constantly asking are we there yet
As mimes mouth hello from the ditch
On Peyote Highway
You travel in both space and time
Take the pedal off the metal of your mind
Set the scenery to always rewind
On Peyote Highway
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
she is fine as hell,
doesn't even own a car,
still she's ready to go and I'm ready to roll,
so let's go drive our hearts into tomorrow,
her skin glows more than 24k gold,
use me please babe I can be borrowed,
just please leave the ego,
check your ego at the door,
of perception no deception,
only reflections reflecting us more,
cardinals and directions,
robins and gremlins,
goblins and demons,
land mimes and sea men,
see man she can get any man,
because her skin is pure adrenaline,
she’s the disease she’s the medicine,
she's dark like African and light like Edison,
high in the Hollywood Hills,
swimmin’ in infinity pools,
intent on intent,
and also indecisive in a sense,
in any event at every event,
she shines more than any lame in a designer dress,
because she looks better no matter whatever the attire,
no makeup and sweatpants she's still the best dressed...
The H Trilogy
I just published a new book.
If you could take a moment to check it out,
and even write a review it'd be most appreciated.
All profits go to a charity that prevents ****** assault against children.
So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry,
but you're also supporting a good cause.
Thank you SO much
∆
Here are the links for my new book:
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE
www.createspace.com/6393238
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Paratroopers free fall,
'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl
reaching down perplexed ****** frames.
Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day.
A right brained boy with a head full of clout
miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north
to the south.
Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences
through blown speakers and an overheated circuit -
Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless
without a reason there isn't a purpose.
Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time
overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes
Open those whale blubber caked eyes
to the other side.
It's not what this has done to you
but what this has done to us.
The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus.
Never was he lost, but given more than one chance.
He, no, she, no we
were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack.
Will we cross this road again?
And pick up from where we began?
Or never turn back?
Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance
But was it worth it?
Upholding the "right and proper" stance?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
There are things we keep in boxes like hearts and wounds and words
There are things we keep in boxes like feelings and failures and dreams
There are things we keep in boxes like what he should be and who she is
And I have told things to these boxes like I love you and I miss you and goodbye
See I hold things in these boxes filled with shame and trust and joy
And I have left things in these boxes like all those things about that boy
And even though they lay in boxes most of them I can't forget
But there are worlds of me in these boxes soaked in tears and some regret
But I have packed these things in boxes and I have stacked these things in boxes
Because if I can pack these things in boxes I can keep them safe and secret
Because if I can stack these things in boxes they will keep me safe and secret
Yes, there are things like me in boxes
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
Forbidden fruits hidden in the roof
of my mind
Its time to set fire to the mimes
Larcenous pursuit of greater acclaim
than is taped and pasted to your brain.
Dripping copper pipes cold in the November light
bright shadows gently crush the fabric of unreality.
Love is a howitzer
it can **** alot of people
quickly and often.
Love is a pool of amniotic fluid,
it sustains and cushions, and soothes with warm comfort.
Cardboard cutouts of cutthroat gangsters with gout,
flout societies mores, with Cuban cigar smoke synthesis.
Brandy
snifterfull
Awaiting the dinnerbell.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:04 AM UTC
we use or misuse each other
we don't ask as often as needed
the eye of the needle
the sky is closer
storms are wiser
waters sleep in the seeds of wind
everything so holy entangled
sweet deceit in lustry illusions
glamour for amour
cover up for unforseen
the unbearable unknown
everything so wise
like the eagerness of colts
So it goes, said Vonnegut
casually I am your anything
a strange causality a presence
this cocoon of desire
of course, urgent lover
next day another mirror
friend in the afternoon
a simple woman in the morning
slippery oblivion by midnight
unearthed hieroglyph
all night wide
foe and moan &
foam of laughter
SOS in a bottle
but not of wine
holy **** from time to time
not a dime piece, but she is
a penny for your thoughts it is
you can make and you can take
the cinema on/of my skin
let's speak with our ribs
for the sake of mimes
I could be your slave, but wait
when bus sirens fade away
incandescence is my name,
the patience of graves
of grapes
Feb 11, 2023
Feb 11, 2023 at 9:46 AM UTC
I ride on her coat tails,he sails at odd angles and angels come calling,
stalling for time,pretending, I mime I can't talk and walk to the bowsprit to spit in the ocean.
In that slow motion of epiphany I see what will and can never be and it all becomes clear to me,I spit again in the sea,cross my fingers for luck,tell the angels to f.....
No,
I don't swear out loud,I want the good Lord's protection,in signs,more mimes,they get what I'm meaning.
The moonbeams gleam off deck boards as the pendulum swings,things are taking shape and the ship sings through the waters,but later in the doldrums where the dolphins knit sweaters and the daughters of sirens play canasta with mermaids while braiding dreams with the seaweed,
I need to take a fix on the noon day sun, a hand on my gun lest the latitude betray me,I lay in a course for the Island of Tahiti where the girls sway and greet me,the old dog from the sea.
It's easy to be a madman on the sea when the salt is your spice and I've never thought twice about the angels sent packing,just went on stacking up bookmarks to feed the circling sharks,stark and unfriendly would the sea ever lend me a bed to lay down in?would this ship that I sail in ever founder,I flounder and flail but I sail into the moonlight,on a bright night you'll see me until the sunsets will free me to the tidal eternity of the sea deep within me.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
they forgot... i said: i feel sedated... i don’t feel drunk, i feel sedated... but there’s you with a horse’s head telling me otherwise... high on ketamine.
as expected,
the local highstreet is changing,
a new shop opened, a café,
serving all day breakfast,
and it donned the union jack proudly on a pole,
made me think about marching to war for a bit,
but then i walked past the local estate agent,
and, guess what,
it actually allowed the travelling circus’ posters to hang
on its windows next to unaffordable housing...
(usually these posters are reserved for dilapidated buildings,
you know how people, when it comes to gypsies with make-up
acrobats and elephants)
well... unaffordable... unless you’re a sheikh or
a rich scamming nigerian;
now that’s lucky for a giggle... a union jack above
the café door and circus posters in the estate agents... ha;
it’s like i’m watching the third partition of poland,
although here it’s not the habsburgs prussians and the romanovs
but the jazz singer blackface clowns, the regular clowns... and the mimes.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
mark of cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.
up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.
and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order
ALL THE WORLD'S A ****** MYSTERY
Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including the investigating officers
Playwrights and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit
ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY OR STAND-UP ACT
Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarizes the punch-lines
ALL THE WORLD'S A PASSION PLAY
Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar
ALL THE WORLD'S A SOAP OPERA OR CRIME DRAMA
Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic
ALL THE WORLD'S AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENTARY
Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !
ALL THE WORLD'S A REALITY SHOW
Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are constantly being
put-up and torn down all around them
ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY/DRAMA
Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play
ALL THE WORLD'S A GAME SHOW
Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute
And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute
With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute
Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
The eyes are there again
egging for inspection.
Look me in the face
and lose your muse discretion.
The weight it bears
ill prepared
to flow without repression.
To know there is a place
where the lion sleeps
moans and mimes
the holes, they blind.
Not a thing in mind.........
Get out of my mind.
Out of my mind
something I force....
farce.....
Faust...
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 10:24 PM UTC
It was easy to cast a smile anytime,
Hiding beneath those wordless mimes.
It's hard to see what those smiles meant,
Because it's harder to express a soul's lament.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 10:26 PM UTC
leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman’s purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.
his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal ‘my white father’ wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.
he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs he had set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication he did not
the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
And the trinity knocks with three pops from a filed glock
punched holes stack on forehead knots and a casket drops with dead bolt locks
but who inherits the robots
the cerebral talks
the spine shocks
letting me know of the plots and props of the surrounding city blocks and of the corrupted cops zooming in from distant rooftops
who never even heard the rasping hiss from the six murderous trigger flicks
put me in line behind the mimes to see the ****** therapists lyricist
who stares as time just slips between my fingertips and out our wrists
watches like shackles
circling cackles closing in to tackle these unholy tabernacles
the only battle is to herd the cattle to one spot and make the windows rattle
jig saw enemies wont tattle
like ashes on the mantle
like corpses beneath man holes
like smiling killers without handles
exposing my lyrical scandals
implored to explore the dragons lore they adore
even if my blood pours beneath the bathroom door
Abhorred
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
spelling backwards through time,
stroke by blurry stroke
a maiden's coal-black hair regales
the flattery from her lips... and so the doom
-- and boon of a crimson warrior's arm --
was drawn from speech a flame,
and kindled mind to burn away for lust,
one speaker fed and doubly fraught
by goddess's
invention brought
to give away his name and trust,
for doppelgangers' games
and beauty
to consent~
that trollish abysm our aching selfhood
deems unworthy, war can celebrate:
iconic genius symbol may encourage,
it may remembrance windows of our history~
but only breath, and inner sight so keen
on solid strength of living fact
can triumph in the plain!
some semblance of an older wisdom
strains to orate still, and lust itself afar,
but brawn and tested fibrous body build
must turn the page of time;
and this, to know the truth withstood
that vision
of a perfect youth
forever,
one start and line without an end,
a floating dance of pulling under waves
that never waves as being surely does
like no ancient-honest country-prophet ever saw--
thus, remnants of the wisdom from a fallen mind;
and so he fell to her and had not her for long...
she had a wider window, immortal panes,
this temptress
suppleness of limb to shock
and shake the bones of foolish learning,
that thinks itself imbued with everlasting fame.
it was a mossy light
of eyelash shine
and sheen
to woo
the wisdom out,
electric sense to lure the hapless sap
into a brutish trap: to learn alone the
atheletes pathos, relearn the heart-race
from a chest of seemless vigour,
from lungs of endless winds
and legs of trunkish growth the
channels and the prism of an empty skull
instead of learned ships and foolish mimes of finer times--
he does the bidding of her will.
.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Twisting thoughts into tunnels
Bending memories into mimes
It’s been quite a while
Since the last time I rhymed.
It was in this ancient diary
I found from days of old
Where I dreamt about my dreams
Weaving secrets into gold
Here I wrote of the dying sun
And the afterlife of moons
I tried to rhyme starry-eyed stars
With dusty afternoons
Meter keys are rusty now
Free verse scoffs at these lines
Because it’s been quite a while
Since I tried to rhyme a rhyme.
Remember boundless possibility?
The certainty that life would be
A blade of grass, an open field
A panoramic view of destiny
This wanderlust, like sunray dust
Shines through every cursive line
Between college essays and status updates
I lost that old, elusive rhyme.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC