"misadventures" poems
I am tired of my rants
like a millions hammers
pounding away in my brain
constant chatter drowns sanity
expectations love and affection
comfort insecurities and misadventures
regrets lost and found
a million lives not lived
what could be and what is
hauntings and remembrances
shadows looming large on today
today that is not perfect
perfection that is just in mind
mind on verge of lunacy
constant screams drowned
in the agonizing void
void that is my life
I am tired, very tired
tears they have a mind of their own
roll down when you least expect
open your soul to strangers
strangers that glare
stay in dark away from glare
tucked in blanket of oblivion
lost and lonely yet sane
lost and lonely yet sane
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless,
Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated ***
Flex:
Point!
Sit down,
Smoke a joint,
Go to sleep,
Work,
Eat,
Wash
(sometimes, not too often)
Feign attraction
and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside
Darkness outside
Whilst wintery winds whistle,
the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed.
We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow
Or else go,
Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind
Colour-blind
Lost
Trying to find
Be found
My heart beats yet I hear no sound
As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past
Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma
Two mothers
Three brothers
One sister
And a whole load of Misters!
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.
she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.
she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.
one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.
they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 11:00 PM UTC
he saw you there,
standing with your head held up high
he saw you there,
holding on to your pride.
voices scratching inside of your mind telling
you weren't scared—or at least
that's what you thought.
glimmer of hope enlighten this sorrow path
path full of broken memories,
screaming in your mind
your feet are bleeding
in cause of shattered dreams
but your feet
keep on stepping,
slowly but surely.
"No one can see this path," your mind whispers as you tip-toed.
little did you know,
he saw you.
he saw your pain,
the way you drag yourself when you walk
he noticed the dim of fright in your eyes as you talk.
slowly,
slowly,
he reached out to your
waves of black and white.
"I know what you've been through," he said
"let me help you."
words blown right across your cheek,
felt like as in haven
for the first time.
you felt
safe.
but no, you can't.
that little demon in your head tells
you're a detonator—you can never lay down on someone
they might explode with you.
you just shook your head and say,
"Don't. I don't want you to bleed like I did."
the same time as this detonator
explodes into spectrum of misadventures,
already choking on its pride.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
**** and chips
buried in the bass-line
All shaken heads tossed
listening to the misadventures of a shit-talker
Her lips taught and dry
sporting a second skin of ripped denim
Thick eyelashes caked in spiderwebs
Hustling on doc martens
crunching teeth beneath toes
Ankles taught with leather
A pretty ***** touched
like flowers dipped in chalk
stuck in choke it down memories
Quietly screaming
look for me
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Don't touch me by the tender points
It hurts more than a soul can bear
Be gentle lest the pain doth spread
It moves me on to silent tears
Don't judge me as I let it pass
Let me lie down in bed & writhe
And wish for a reprieve of sorts
Or drug that cures me of this plight
How 'd you know how much it hurts
I have faked on a smile and laugh'd
Sanity hangs loose on edges now
If only I could alter the story's draft
Yet, clarity missing from how it ends
Unforeseen misadventures lie in wait
I have learnt to be at ease; with ache
And strife, this life & dragging weight
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 2:40 PM UTC
I'm a dark and twisted guy
Who wants to shred El Burnside
With a bullet shot by *******
Like Erik Clapton best said it.
I'm on the Dark Side of the Moon
Smoking Pink Floyd listening to Cudders
Smoke anything to hyphen my mood
I'm a conartist who laughs at everyone's misadventures
But cries when something bad happens to my ancestors.
I listen to psychedelic music to put me on the Devil's Swing....so I can let my soul and spirit sleep.
A dose of ecstasy in any given music festival.
Sasquatch! Lollapalooza, a river dressed as an animal.
But I'm acting like a citizen of planet Jupiter.
Because of the way I've been living.......
I can't get any stupider.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I'd like it if your orange were more blue.
If your red more green
and your eyes more less than moons
that break waves against me.
I glue glaciers to sun
to cool your Spring's mischief
and never am i happy to remove
from my stillness
between Us.
I am unjoyed
in the twine of our lost joy.
Made unkind in the rasp
of our sour glee.
I glue glaciers to the sun
to cool the misadventures
of our dire hope.
I noose the rope and sing
as you go beautiful
away
from me.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
Looking through a complex eye
poisoned by countless vials of nitroglycerin
the world sings a familiar tune of
an ineradicable human urge for lethal conflict.
A world view
of culturally intolerant tyrants and a place
where Robin Hood does not exist, instead
his former self sits wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity.
Society now aids the pauper,
who is but a superficial vagabond sitting intrigued by
hopeless people from distant lands.
As the innocent of Beirut lie murdered
the reaper tastes regret,
while bank accounts paint self portraits
instilled by ephemeral yet righteous morality.
Dangerously speeding through the lanes of life
to make it home just before it rains;
the world all encompassing
is never the concern.
Halos hover above diet pills dressed in simple linens
for everything is an easy fix;
lies, hatred, ignorance, and blatant evil,
all can be fixed by ignoring the even lies (the even lines that lie above).
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
You told me I was your
terra firma
because you could always
count on me to be there
when even you
didn't want to be there
I relished the fact that you
would consider me your
anything
let alone something
that sounded so strong and
beautiful
Your extraplanetary misadventures
in love and lust and
all things fleeting
left your wobbly legs aching for
solid ground
But you should know
I'm here to hold you up
not for you to
walk all over
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
odorless bathing salts
undissolved
in calm
water
with ashy skin
two cheeks
filled
with silver milk
swollen
with odorless
feeble
attempts
to at least
be
forgettable
nausea ,
counting
the beads on a chain
attached to a rubber plug
wearing concrete shoes
face-down
in placid
murk
Passes the Time,
even at a fraction of the speed limit
ulcerous enamel
leeching rust
into a pointless bog
of manganese
and zinc
candle
burning
bees wax
on the
sink
where
she left her
brush
she left hair
instructions
on how to recover
from losing your
head
a box
of wooden matches
can't seem to
get on
with a crumpled ***
of spent tissue...
a waste basket
that needs therapy
with yellow lungs,
eating a can
of pork & beans
thinking wrinkled hands
are like
house cats
lounging
over the lip
of a submarine
with clawed feet
brass proud
clashing
with empty
beers cans on the floor
sleeping off
the misadventures
of a reckless
binge.
my wallet
splayed prone, under
a slow leak.
admiring the linoleum
seen
better days
in a magazine
a
picture
of a well appointed
villa
it was furnished
with opulent
symbols
they were
empty
on page twelve.
i thought
they
had
a
point
.
i knew
i would cancel
my subscription
even if it
thrilled
me.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence
Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation
That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities
Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance
In its poignant lament of darkness
That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage
Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows
That cram into brief utterances more meaning
Than language can hold and force a confrontation
Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech
That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression
In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light
Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday
And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion
In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register
Views its own meaning unstable and problematic
In defense of its own legitimacy
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.
And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her **muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.
We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.
You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.
So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.
It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
clean in the filth where the spectre yelps and bleeds
my wrists; bound to betray my hand -
i gather gods, too weak to be
unloved completely -
without vanishing
into blue
what?
spotless in the hell of my blot
in the chambers of my open wound...
i glue glaciers to the sun's heel
and mark time
with shadows -
i cast into other moons
for lack of a reason
to do otherwise.
in a world
so otherworldly
to love me less
than snails
in clarified
butter
is to play god.
but
you have to be
God's Fool
or the Devil's
yes-man
saying no.
you remark and i flinch in the breeze fantastic.
i blast past it, and return; not unscathed
but ungathered
in the Harvest of our
Misadventures.
I'm an indentured surgeon
cleaving the cancer
from the polyp
of our necessary
illusion.
in this Ocean
I'm not waving...
only drowning
in the wishful.
i barricade tsunamis
to tide-pool
the fathoms of our
fumes.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called
“why I always carry tissues” -
a labor of love to
mine own toddlers misadventures,
requiring love covered in tissues so soft,
yet an ironclad coating
of natural substantive parenting
useful for tearing eyes, running noses,
and the cuts of living outdoors joyously
children grow older and oft that means,
they seek not your counsel,
and if offered, politely ignored,
for so it goes tween fathers and sons
then one summer days you receive an
observation, a datapoint that irradiates,
a quiet confirmation that not everything
you’ve said and done has gone astray
a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father,
around the luncheon table of three generations,
that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father,
diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require
a protective custody that will protect the child’s
feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun,
or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk
I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming,
as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket,
producing not one but two bandaids, for life
requires backups for there are other babes about,
who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts
of ever greater consequence for each year they age
his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly
observe how certain children are lucky that
their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid,
for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell
now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid,
or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof,
somehow a message got through the clutter,
marked “well received,” that loving well requires
an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets
are repositories of good notions, handed down generations
June 24, 2021
Shell Beach
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 5:07 AM UTC
I remember walking miles with
our blackies (big garbage bags)
They were full of cans, a nickel a piece.
We were poor aluminum cowboys.
Kind of like Don Quixote and Sancho.
Chivalry wasn't our thing, but we
didn't shy away from it either.
We certainly had our share of
adventures, and misadventures too.
We headed East into the
glorious tangerine and lavender sky of
our La Mancha/Iowa City.
We should be chasing windmills, and
***** and cigarette butts;
except late one Summer day,
providence ended it all.
We sat behind our castle
(which closely resembled a grocery store.)
Your face went pallid and you fell on me.
I did C.P.R until the ambulance arrived.
You didn't make it.
I hope there are
adventures in Heaven,
my aluminum cowboy.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 7:23 AM UTC
Like the pages of a book
We took to read an authors mind
Our lines define us
In a way
They say what sometimes we've forgotten
Or neglected
Or reflected upon many times
Our lines tell us the story
Ourselves in all our glory
As we bolted down that hill on a skateboard
And did somersaults on the concrete
Or slid down steps on plastic sheeting
Left bleeding where the board cut into wrist
When it stopped at the bottom
And we didn't
Our childhood misadventures notwithstanding
We are still standing looking back in time
Through our lines
Our cuts and incisions
Our many decisions that left us souvenirs we can never throw away
But never would anyway
Because what else tells stories like scars do?
Of what we've been through
What we've seen to
And come out the other side
Just to hide our reminders
As if we don't find them satisfying
A blemish on our perfect skin
As if there's such a thing
As if you'd want such a thing
Like you'd bin a book of poetry because of its lines
Or throw out a painting because it was no longer a perfect white canvas
Perfection lies in the imperfection
There is beauty in the brokenness
The flaws in the flawlessness
The differences and nuance
That are lined upon our skin
Akin to lines upon the paper
Taper off towards the end
And then the storytelling starts
For what is art if not a story
And what are lines if not art?
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 5:40 PM UTC
~
*she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.
I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.
a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.
before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.
now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.
no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.
but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.*
~
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC
I'd feel so at home in Wyoming;
Married to my television
Cigarettes for breakfast
I'm at peace with my shaking
Clipping branches of my tree
To feed my precious pets
I never played the game
Rolling dice around my teeth
But I keep my eyes on the window
Let the creeping wind in my belly
Be all that makes sense
Thrown like a doll in the corner
Unblinking for the longest time
Measured by the shift and click
Twisted legs coiled like cables
Sealing Matthew into his box
America's fables never spoken
Her reputation and misadventures undeserved
Fit like latex on an amateur surgeon
My cardboard house unfolded
Everything in a tanned leather briefcase
I just forgot the combination
827 - 125 and the button slides
Why can't I leave my things in a crate
And ship myself off to a Grecian island?
I could be sung to sleep
Just as in my room
But now, my dear Johnny, Oldboy,
It's gloaming on Elysium
My chest is still beaten upon
I file the cold edges round
Empty another carton and call it a day
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
A thousand chances I gave to you
Each one you carelessly broke
I called you my soulmate
Now that word just makes me choke
Why do I always fool myself
And believe your honeyed lies?
Falling for the next facade
Before the last tear even dries
Our love is a labor of loyalty
But I carry it's heavy weight
Despite how much it wears me out
Or slows down my wobbly gait
Which requires an impressive grip
So I don't drop you from my hands
When most would have given up by now
My tired frame continues to stand
Throughout misadventures
As seasons pass us by
I hold our relationship up
Even when you hardly try
Your absence is tearing me to shreds
Strangling me with misery
And the cuts all over my insides
Bleed out though no one can see
Since you abandoned ship
Feel older than ever before
Loneliness is aging me
From my surface to my core
Seeking refuge from the storm
Safe haven I can't seem to find
Cannot escape the sight of your face
You're everywhere I turn in my mind
But you have no comfort to offer
Except in dreams and memories
So I fill my reality with questions
Stuck in consecutive reveries
The coldest summer I've experienced yet
Though the sunshine is bright overhead
I am frozen straight through the bone
Even with somebody new in my bed
The beat in my chest sounds quieter now
My pulse slow and miniscule
Death would be easier than this I am sure
But I am not a coward
Only a fool
Running circles with my eyes tightly shut
Wasting away as time passes me by
Living life on autopilot
In a stupor
More like a zombie since you said goodbye
Jul 16, 2021
Jul 16, 2021 at 7:56 AM UTC
Trapped in mediocrity
Wondering whether my tongue will eventually taste the sweetness of immortality
Sometimes I hear the secrets hidden in the silence
Their words pass on tides of ambiguity,
Spoken to be understood by souls of superior beings.
I often sit by the bon fire,
And recite the tales of a human stricken by loneliness
The burning flames are nothing but a symbol of the liberation of the state of euphoria,
Which once brought warmth to the shivers of my flesh.
I fell in love with the idea of sleep
My innocuous thoughts dabble across oceans,
Trying to find the lighthouse which will entice happiness
Allowing me to eradicate darkness,
The darkness which has been embedded within the density of my bones.
The misadventures of a man attempting to break the cycle of mediocrity,
The mystery of his fate is captured within the sands of time.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Let's not trouble You with Me.
Let us squat on the lawn of disremembered things
and picnic the day away, cavorting in the sumptuous.
Deployed like balloons from another world-
More made of Grace than the grit
of our actual lives.
And be on
our way.
Weak in the knees, with solid steel prayers
I'll anchor my full disclosure to the Moon and a gnat.
I'll comb the halls of our misadventures
to find you blithering in the gorgeous
of your wonderful Self.
My love is like an unspoken jewel
that murmurs after your esteem.
You are the ring that binds the soil of my retrospection,
And the very thing that amplifies
the joy of my shipwreck
at Thee.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
So, now, my father you stand alone,
Inside your world, your silent zone,
With weary eyes you consume the room,
Your body has mastered the eventual gloom.
Through mindless years you toiled the Earth,
Each day with repetition, your pain gave birth,
You looked to the seasons to show you how,
What will you do, since impending death is now?
Neglected dreams lay wasting away,
The times you wished the words to say,
With lack of love you hurt those who cared,
The misadventures no longer there.
The loves of life who passed slippery on by,
With nights of regret, your soul still cried,
When on the brink of madness, you thought to say,
There's retribution with much hope left to pay.
So, stoically you now sit in the revolving chair,
Such weather-worn eyes, you remain and stare,
While waiting like a lifeless, worn, lost, angry man,
You endure the moment, the one last stand.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
It seemed as if,
you fell into my blade.
Searing pain, screaming
my name.
Hand gripping chest, and finger
points to me.
I'm to blame?
I'm to blame.
Bitter.
Sweet.
Your eyes running,
while you stay stationary.
I lick your tears,
because...
I've waited;
menacing stares are dry,
there isn't need,
for moisture.
Solidity gone, against,
soluble grain.
I've waited for your tears;
I've missed them.
But in the end,
when your misadventures,
become takes of legend,
I will take pleasure.
A tale is a tale,
but a corpse is a tally.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC