"miming" poems
I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.
She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.
We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Writing
Synonymous with a drug
Miming the story in my head
Does not take the edge
Off.
No,
I must physically take a swig
Sling the pen on the paper
See the words in their truest form
Word-vomit on the page
Drunk with laughter, tears and rage
High on prose
People
And places
I must create
Or I'll die
Just one more sentence
Maybe two
And then I'll find my way
In this bed I'll stay
This will be the last time
I write at 3am
...
I promise...
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 3:49 AM UTC
Carnival girl; exuberant and enchanting,
Scattering feathers and glitter as you sway
Through the swarm of dancing, dilating faces,
Patchwork robes, electric threads and strawberry laces.
Carnival girl; a hurricane of exhilarations,
Swirling and spreading relentless wonder
To all - none deny your splendour,
Your mystical ability to be dangerous and raw, yet tender.
Carnival girl; are you just a test for my desires?
Tugging at puppet-strings, miming my dreams,
A figure for me to fester my fantasies...
Or perhaps jus to challenge the acceptance of my realities.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC
They say miming of one's work is the best flattery
Those scientists better check their hypotenuses
Poem getting grizzly
***** better have my honey
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Creativity
&
Madness
I've walked the razor's edge.
Playing it straight
In public places
No one knew
The thoughts and voices
Running around my head.
Fortune dictated
I never made it
To the walking dead.
Secret sharers
Come to me
At the beginning
And at the end
Of their plunge
Into that madness
Falling off the ledge.
No sleep came to them
Electronic insomnia
Ran them.
Cars became creatures
Screaming at them
As real as the table
Between us.
Imagination run wild
A chariot
The horses sweating
And running full speed
The reins either
Flapping untamed
Or
Imagination chained
Directed into these lines.
Creativity
&
Madness
At the razor's edge.
Disorganization
Voices screaming
When the wind is silent.
Miming up against the walls
No one can see them at all.
And in space as they said
"No one can hear you scream"
And space surrounds me.
Creativity
&
Madness
Pros & cons
Cost benefit ratios
*** makes it worse
The roots ungrounded
Crystal gears it up
Alcohol numbs the
Mind with depression's
Blanket of dread.
While ****** leaves
You strung out and lead.
The drugs they give you
Leaves you walking dead
But calm and able
To
Play it straight in public places
Far from the
Razor's edge
Of creativity & madness.
What's a poor boy to do?
Wind up sleeping in the park?
Cold wet encampment bound
Lost in the landscape
Of madness
Sights
Shadows,
A mind full
Of old echoes
Blinding.
How do we walk
This line?
A few fall over
A few are left behind.
Some never know what they could find
And some find that it all resides
At the intersection
At the razor's edge...
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.
Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.
Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.
Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.
You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
The sky is ripe with stinking wet scorch marks,
And bleeds in petrified phosphorescent snapshots,
Trapped by droplets that
Pour from scratched gorges,
Clawed into the ether by electricity's unkempt fingernails:
An unholy flow, funneled to quench
A celestial ****** of tap-dancing crows;
Their flickering ***** miming pastiche skeleton shapes,
Beckoning black hole embers
Through trap-doors to some ghastly Cathedral of Mirrors:
A padlocked whinstone veil of white lightning,
Encasing maze reflected upon monolithic maze -
Paths billowing torrents of burning shadow -
Thrusting day, night and apocalypse between
Those rusting bars of strobe.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
My dear, it rained last night
And I remember
The alleviated rise into
Lush sobs and lavish emotions
The way your dilatation relieves
Every worry and anxiety
But sometimes when we speak
A violent lie radiates
And last night you were naught
But an alienated virile sot
A view unholy I omit
I remember the tin roses on the tiles
Devastated, shattered.
Sometimes you hum
Your hands delicately miming secret memos
And I can see it in your eyes
Irises shining like teal devils
And the music carries you
White with adrenaline, pupils likes violists
Headwaiters lie, strumming tin violins
Their alienated visions wilted with passion
I see the way she cleverly conceals
Lies as vows to you
A veil called "us" she puts on "me"
And I call for mutiny
But youth is vim, vim is now, and now is lies
Every hug from you is just a violet whim
In noisy rooms
My vision is misty
My aura dies little,
Oh if only you could realize your reign
You’re the master, the ringleader
But you’re lazy; you work without zeal, you’re idle and lazy
Eyes glazed, agile hands getting greedier
Have you ever seen
A dearer lion?
He roared, the lonesome rider
Alone, an alien.
Well sometimes you lie
And I dare to become
An oral denier
My radar detects one lie,
Then two...
You become red
Redder than a ****** lion's ear
Adieu, you say, with a gently undefined lilt
My tears speak more reality than your words
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)
the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.
The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.
Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.
The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.
Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.
She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.
He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.
He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.
The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.
The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
He only lost her when
the music stopped
inner light faded from her face
her narrow arms, restless eels
winding through her shirt
snapping at the rising buzz
of voices, increasingly unbearable.
The teacher swooped in, miming
arms held close, contained; too late
for the pianist, armed with her name
and a captive audience, he accented
her frailty with two sharp syllables
and she was gone from there
to some mysterious world
away from the crowd frozen
in the silent beat after
the reprimand.
It was only a moment
before the music resumed
opening notes vibrated up
through her toes, lovely arms
unraveled and rose overhead
her radiant smile
unfurled like forgiveness.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
You can have it all, if you don't need nothing
Keep the good vibes rolling, if it helps with one's loving
It's like a whole EDM festival, coming from your mouth
Not like those turntable dudes, down in the deep south
I thought DJs had had their freestyle spinning last days
Like Catholic church priests and their unholy ******* ways
Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside, never never, friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal
They say, ‘I'm the new messiah’.Thanks, but, I don't even try
Thanks to so few, excluding the ones, who waved me on by
I'm sort of creating, a brand new hype and buzz
Full of pure clarity, with a dash of man-made fuzz
When the beat stops, from its fast-talking pace
We all like to flop and drop that ******* bass
Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside never never, friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal
A shout out, to all my southern conquistadors and homeward bound homie’s
Ignore all the Los Angeles doomsayers and Hollywood snapchat phoney's
Elevator doors always be jammin' and then coming to a closure
We all like a moment, of shy mouth miming, with very little exposure
From a worldwide hit or an Aussie Whispering Jack golden classic
From the sound of a crackling frisbee, made from nothing,
but pure black plastic
Licking soda-pops over a long hot summer holiday
Kissing a girl named, Katy Perry, the very next day
Licking it all up, before she shows her b-SiDE
Then screams to three, to come on back inside
Like snatching the America's Cup, with Ben Lexcen’s winning keel
While somewhere amongst the hills of Hollywood’s La La Land
Whole plates of food, just going to waste, inside, never never, friggin Disneyland
While a starving homie, maybe, just ate his very last meal.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 8:36 PM UTC
screaming and crying, not on the outside but soon
I found it dad
I found your baggie of ****
the SF muni rolls past Mariposa St
I did not want to believe it
when I saw the make shift bongs
not **** bongs
how many of the ******* things do you need
I know it’s big in the gay scene to smoke **** before ***
but I thought you could find other ways to enjoy yourself
did your new boyfriend wean you on to it
I’ll ******* **** him
lock me up, I have always wondered if I would like solitary
you brought the make shift glass pieces to thanksgiving
you don’t even live with us anymore
but you brought it anyway
the SF muni scoots past Wawona St
guess you needed your fix
guess your kids, the genetic bits of yourself, were not entertaining enough
I could always think
naw, I bet he is smoking hash out of those
but then I found the baggie today
in a long rectangular bag I found the shards
I cried in horror
there was room for more than 10 grams of **** in there
so now I’m on the bus headed home
I run from the bus stop all the way home
all out sprint, hoping to run myself docile
It does not work
I get to the house and find a hammer
I decide to unload my anger on an old wooden door laying on the side of the house
I get a few good swings in before the hammer head breaks off, flying across the back yard
I’m not calm yet
I get to our garage door
and I snap
I see red, I scream my throat raw and I kick our garage door
I do not expect it to cave’
but it does
I feel the weight giving out against the sole of my boot
for the first time today, I am winning at something
I kick
I see my father
I kick some more
I see my father’s addiction personified beneath my boot
It’s face miming the expression, ‘Sorry, not sorry’
I give it one final kick and inspect my handiwork
I’ll have to come back out with a different hammer to fix the door before my mom comes back home from work
****
I thought I was a calmer person than this
I go upstairs and pass out
I want you to see my grandkids, dad
you won’t be able to while on that ****
I walk by or open my garage every day
every day I think about how such a beautiful man could come to a place where **** is the answer
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
*confident on timeworn routes
until unknown brings gasping fear*
what is this ?
*my playground now to be reduced
to rutted paths of paltry use ?*
enough !
power mine I have denied
creative pulses flattened
miming patterns drawn by others
spark of mine allowed to smother
shocked I recognize within
dryly spreading stubbornness
***the false vitality
of habit***
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
Her ceramic mask hid everything I already knew
It's a reflex keeping her soul alive
Smile girl
Smile girl
Laugh when your head hangs heavy
When you never thought you'd breathe deeper than this
It's amazing I've been saying
All the things you're capable of
She might not be as pretty
Might be early aged
Might dance decietful
Making people look more graceful than they actual are
But she can't be any more human
She can't be any more human
than me
or you
She wears a mask
statue hard
and beautiful
Her neck is strong from the weight
People want it to shatter
People who don't wear theirs as well
You've gotta be low to keep people low
You've gotte be willing to be *****
To make others *****
She is better than that
I know this
because I've seen her naked
Flayed her smile
like breaking a clock
She ticks a metronome of humble heartbeat
Is a wonder woman
that makes women wonder
How it is
that she can smile
when being kicked in the mouth
by her own feet sometimes
How she swallows sadness in beautiful breath
palms miming
exaggerating the air in her chest
She knows she can breath deeper than this
I see her for who she is
and who she was
I accept her broken beauty
Relax
we're human
and I don't want to keep you low
Stand up here with me
Where the both of us can see
how our angel wing footseps can keep us light on our toes
I look at her
after the overflow
and I know she wants me to leave her alone
No one wants to be seen
after stepping of scene to change costume
I see you
She steps heavily back into her boot straps
Slides on her angel wing shoes
I tell her I think she is beautiful
She puts on her mask
and says
Thank you
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
Willie has an awkward gait
Looks like a man
Who can keep steady under the table
Wipes sweat off his face
With a spare shirt hanging from his back pocket
He walks heavy on one side because of calcium deposits in his knee
He’s a veteran he says
Still has his New York accent
He’s a man who looks like he’s seen some ****
You think you were living in a slum
Only two people stayed at the place I lived at
In New York
People prove they resilience
I help him lift a dresser
Gimme a sec man
Not that I don’t have strength
I’m jus getting old
We take our time
Paced steps
I give him a beer
I thank him for his help
When I heard the story and saw your brother and dad
My heart broke
Then I saw you
And it gave me hope
I am just glad things got a bit better
I say
He shows me his hands
He holds them like he is miming half opening a book
It is “Boat” in sign language
You’re always in good hands
I laugh
He wants me to believe him
It’s time to move the couch
I say
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Plato, Socrates, Aristotle.
Forms, idealism, transcendence.
I don't know what to make of it.
I just keep getting lost in my mind,
thinking of other things,
ignoring Anaxagoras.
Fellow students search for insight,
attempting to find inner depths,
pretending to be profound.
I wander out of my head-maze momentarily,
long enough to write a few things down,
a couple scribbles in my notebook,
until my brain draws me back in,
and I'm ignoring Anaximander.
Thinking of anything but Plato's Phaedo
while miming rapture, staring blankly
into the depths of the instructor's ginger beard,
ignoring the words that come out of his mouth.
Ignoring Anaximenes.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 4:45 AM UTC
Today
I am... I am but
a shadow,
of who I was. A broken, grey thing.
a voiceless
thing, miming lyric and ****** rhyme,
A broken watch that's keeping time
and the watch has hands, but it's
faceless
and in the broken wiry strands, I'm
hidden,
waiting to stop time, and rewind
back to the moment when you shared my misery.
But you broke free,
and now you mock me.
Your laughing life mocks me, leaves me
raging,
and vainly hunting
How dare you be a beautiful something,
and leave me behind to be this ugly
nothing.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Unforgettable
you are
as every moment
spent together,
intense moments
summer storm,
sweet,
eyes that talk
miming hugs,
fleeting,
stop, Time,
and let Love
last a life,
sensual
tight tight
steeped in pleasure
moans, quivers,
the heart leaps.
Unforgettable
you are
nor could I
forget you
and may the day not come
nor the night
without you
desert otherwise,
far away from you,
hands that cling
to the void of nothing,
just for a while with you
nettle tears
that burn the skin
in the impotent memories,
never again with you
chanting the Unforgettable
among lines of verses
that seek
in the crevices of memory
useless reliefs.
31.3'14
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
They call me Subject B.
Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,
legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,
inside a playground
that ignores my miming,
shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.
Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.
Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.
I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
Sometimes -
she is so very
'(fucking) tea and scones'
But
...
by the way she sips
from her china cup
with pinkie extended,
each time
miming
the perfect embouchure
I know that she tends it -
the fire
she could send a man over the edge
but not the
- devil inside me
~~~~~ twisted energy ~~~~
ancient eyes scoping the curve in her form -
her carotid smile
pulses - synced - with my carotid length
she is my dawn -
I
may just prove to be her
twilight
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
My lover's words become the buzzing of humming bird wings
A painted mouth miming a stream of saccharine nothings
Supple limbs at the whim of marrionette strings
Her fingers trail ice on my chest
Weaving knots of unrest
That strumpet
That puppet caress
Nestled in this undressed
Stained box-set mattress
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
for a legendary 70s-80s Sydney nightclub
wearing those clothes
like we did
being there
back then
paying too much
for that shirt
those shoes
pointy & suede
buckled not laces
16 in nightclubs
being tall
an original sister
1959 sequins
sunglasses matching
there was no light
being afraid
of the men
metamorphosis
women used
those urinals
confusion reigned
in a young man
we danced
the music spoke
bartenders poured
all sorts of
concoctions
another track
began
& a floorshow
eyes wide open
miming & movements
others queued
we were hustled
inside
out come the
freaks & early on
we got it all
on studded sofas
on the dancefloor
the fresco was
roamin
we moved feet
to the rhythms
slaves
not knowing how
formative those days
were
never getting anything
but drinks
until later
legal with dollars
juiced up
better lights
victims resting
in seats people
occupied
when a visiting act
blew simpler minds
wallets
we thought that
record was good
then they played
B52s, Blondie, Numan
the floor caved in
from ska
pogo. bouncers
cleared the scene
original grace
as an ape
stomps
up a staircase
disappears into
lookalikes
then a spotlight
highlighted
the real thing
that was us
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
Conditioned into silence, out of fear of violence we shut our mouths to avoid the pain, the pain that won't and can't go away.
We are divided, our beliefs undecided, our true thoughts in hiding, we are like puppets miming.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC