"modeled" poems
You are the definition of ****
**** and cool lady
That’s you.
A nameless Goddess that sashayed into my circle
To stay only for a minute and vex my feelings
Then disappear as swiftly as you came.
You must have been blown by the breath of beauty
And modeled your movements after the Goddess of seduction
How else could a mere mortal achieve such poetry in motion?
Such fluidity of grace is only found in the movements of oceans,
And
Goddesses of seduction
How can a mere mortal kick it to a Goddess?
Words seem so trivial,
And my voice so inconsequential
For you I would have to speak with the voice of thunder,
And allow lightning to spell out my passions for you in midnight skies.
Allow natures songbirds to sing my odes to your beauty.
And a valley of Jasmine’s to intoxicate you with their fragrance.
For a Goddess
Such things as mundane chariot rides through man made streets will never suffice.
For you I would capture a Phoenix,
That it may take you to the ends of the world,
And speak to you of things deep within my heart that my mortal tongue knows not the language of.
To kiss you with my mortal lips would result in spontaneous combustion,
And although I could embrace this fate
For such a taste,
Goddess
I want to kiss you for eternity
So I would call on the rising and setting of the sun for the rest of my life to do this honor.
If love is jewel,
Mine is the largest-
Most magnificent-
Ever fashioned by the human heart,
And in my mortality it is my greatest possession.
To you Goddess I offer my heart.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
you speak with fine lips
modeled from flickering stars
with words of the sky
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Artificial means and memes the fingers perusing naturally formed hide and go seek
Chic creatures wrought from nanoparticles based on modeled consciousness neural networks
A handsome hivemind of bee;s building trees from cds ...intersynth polygons attracted
to stack platonic forms emanation waves alpha beta delta gamma omega 1 , 2 ,3
this multiversal layering from micro to macro of matter animated by its intoned
hertz pulsations and the interferrence pattern of the changing relationship due to the amount, frequency, force, temperature , texture , text messages, timing , geometry , subharmonics and overtones, a jewel net . syncronistic synergetic, synaptical sparkles.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
I've drank a thousand beers
I've smoked a million cigarrettes
I've ate at least a hundred Twix bars
I've watched Breakfast at Tiffany's hours on end
I've flirted with every male waiter that brings me
unfulfilling dish after unfulfilling dish
I've bought weekly **** dark outfits
and I've spent my life savings
on beautiful MAC make-up and a new Legacy
and pumps I think you'd like
I've gotten my hair colored every color I can think of
I've tried being an apathetic punk, an upbeat cowgirl,
a wide-eyed polyanna, a harsh madonna, a fuck-you-feline,
an emotionally charged marilyn, and a classy Diane
I've memorized witty jokes, and roasts, and rivetting last lines
I've modeled and sang and became an athlete
I've played hard to get, I've played easy and teasy
And I've twirled my hair and crossed my legs
and learned to walk while swaying my hips
I've ran miles and kilometers and meters and
I've lifted weights and done zumba and yoga and hiked and biked and
****
There's no comfort and no getting to you.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
An ad in the LA Times
Pictured a jewelry store in Beverly Hills
Somewhere off Wilshire
A golden band modeled after an Egyptian original
Mother wanted it and so we went
We sat on tuffets of crushed velvet and
She bought it
replacing her wedding band
Which I never did find.
It was pretty but
what other significance this meant
regarding her husband she did not tell
She was struck walking on an off-ramp
on the 10.
Heading east?
How did she get there?
I asked her in the hospital
On the gurney she shook her head
And said she didn’t know.
That’s Alzheimer’s for you.
The ring is gone.
Father took his off well before she passed
and left it on the top of his dresser.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
I don't know the touch of your hands on mine,
I don't know how you look at 7 in the morning.
I don't know your favourite nursery rhyme,
I don't know the weight of your arm on my neck.
I don't know how you look when you are in love,
or how you manage to laugh on days where smiling is impossible.
I don't know what you're most scared to lose,
or how many times you have.
I don't know the feeling of your lips on mine,
or why God modeled the oceans after your eyes.
I don't know why I can listen to you speak for hours on end
and never get bored,
or how my definition of 'home' is so encapsulated by one person.
I don't know, and that's okay.
You can teach me.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
He was sleepless that night, the buffoon
Who questioned himself if he was a loon,
For he desired so deeply to compose a tune
Inspired by the darling moon;
Similar to those who died so soon,
Immortalized all by fading rune.
Across his desk, did lay the rune
interpreted by this buffoon.
He realizes in it far too soon,
That he was like the other loon
Who fell in love with the lovely moon
And also wrote a rhythmic tune.
He began to hum his heart's humble tune
And began inscribing his personal rune,
praying that he'll be loved by the moon.
He is quite a fool, this valiant buffoon;
For he never did care if he was a loon
And either if he would be gone all too soon.
Seemingly, somehow, so soon was soon.
The buffoon had sung his final tune.
There goes the buffoon who was a loon.
He lands on the pavement, made it his rune.
That was the end of this loving buffoon,
Who jumped off, thinking of flight to the moon.
There hangs the modeled, magnificent moon,
That was never too early nor never too soon,
That was died for by our busted buffoon,
That had been dedicated several tunes,
That had been depicted in plentiful runes,
That turns gentlemen to lunatic loons.
Tonight was the night of demise of the loon.
of the man who died for the love of the moon.
The moon's loon becomes part of the runes
of men who loved Luna yet died too soon,
of men who serenaded Luna with their tune,
of men who we may call "buffoon."
The loon became rune far too soon,
The loon who wanted to be of the moon.
He sleeps at last, the late buffoon.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
Tuesdays remind me of third grade
and so does astrology.
Our tables formed a pentagon, it was me and the beautifuls:
come the good-looking maid called Destinee
with two e’s, not one and not even a y, she had two e’s.
I modeled myself after her cerulean lenses
eye sockets that were pulled back by dinosaur bones
and gave wrinkles to her forehead prematurely, six speckles
like ostrich eggs gathering under a stratum of mud.
She was dark-headed, she wasn’t fair.
She had sorcery in her collar, fairies in her pulse.
Her mother had the name of a Chihuahua or evil witch:
I secretly cursed her for having a daughter so lovely
who I could not peck on Tuesday field-trips to a menagerie
just because she was as feminine as me.
That is how I learned about destiny
and Destinee, so pretty pretty.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Legalize the dark night
in which he grow up in,
the illuminated streets
in which we modeled our deep edges and rough cuts.
Decriminalize the chilling touch of winter
that makes our lips dry and blood red,
the icy spheres
that paints dabs of colours on our bodies.
Sanction the art of the sciences
where the only one paying is the consumer,
the cruelty of the art
where the media slices the eyes of the observers.
Legalize, decriminalize and sanction
all
that has made us many and
once at once.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I’m a thief.
A criminal mastermind vying for all the affections of dead poets and living sociopaths
Watching flesh fall off of my fingertips and flutter to the floor.
Sewing on new skin like armor until a foreign face meets my eyes and smiles back
I’m in a perpetual state of identity crisis. I’m here and I’m there and I’ve be down while looking up and vice versa so many times
And so now my sense of direction has long rotted away and I’m left on my hands and knees sorting through the scattered remnants of me
And through it all, the rise and fall of an infinite wave whose name can be cleverly modeled on the back of a pill bottle, I still look down to the faded ink of a long-lost letter
It reads; “I swear I can be better”
And just when I look up to the moon for a cue on the tide’s change,
an anchor pulls me away and prepares my flooded lungs for another sorrow soaked day
So I guess I’ll stay
See, even now, schizophrenia might be preferable because at least then I could give the voices in my head a name and shed some of this blame on someone else
The only thing I really have left is my name
And even that is melting out through cracks in my closed fist because I held it too tightly against my burning heart
Somewhere inside I always knew it belonged to someone else from the start
But I stole it.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
A master of characterization
After moments of gesticulation
Your characters become universal
Images play without dress rehearsal .
First created, an idealistic knight,
Who teaches the perfect techniques to fight.
Next danced a lad of ladies' desire .
Your words described me, "a lad of fire."
A counterfeit nun pilgrimed with the bunch.
She starved her dogs to have a second lunch,
Yet, you viewed her as whimsical and tame.
The way she faked, sung, and lied was a shame.
Still, I know this false Prioress today,
Characters such as this wont fade away.
The Miller modeled your retched Scot.
I too am Scottish, but retched I'm not!
Though we don't always view the world as one,
I have the faint soul of your pseudo son.
I too would flirt with the strong Wife if Bath,
And roam with the pilgrims down that God path.
Master at comic irony, you are
The church was corrupt, relics in a jar
Or a pardon for an extorted fee.
Friars with gifts for girls could not trick thee.
Twenty four of one twenty were finished,
But the affects will not be diminished.
They say you're number two in history.
For people like me, that's a mystery.
In a quill duel between Shakespeare and you,
You'd leap to number one, Shakespeare to two.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
I wish we named every rainstorm.
Hurricanes get everything, but
It's easy to have everything when
All you do is take.
I used to think that falling
Asleep was the same feeling as
Earthquakes shaking the grounds.
Don't get stuck in the chasm.
Washed up memories, shoe box
Chachkis, left untouched through the
Eye of the storm. Who knew these
Relics would follow you here.
Crying as the pouring rain stops
Is impossible.
All of the tears have been taken.
But rippling water is overrated.
Have you ever seen sand slide through
The Sahara Desert.
I've been there. I've seen it.
I watched as each minuscule grain slid
Down the valley ridges built from years
Of wind storms making piles.
Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face,
Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars.
Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin.
Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you
Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns.
A million dandelion spores dancing ballet.
Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing.
Buried under dunes, only too soon to
Uncover you once again.
You wouldn't believe how something
Solid can so namelessly float across the land.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
My dreams sleep in fortune,
My reality lives in nothing,
Today lies in empty promises,
And Tomorrow's a heavy burden,
Today's grind is heavier than ever.
but slim-fasting away those sunny weathers.
And still......
20/20 eye vision turn impaired, misleading,
My mind breaking through distractions,
Today's world is looking sicker,
and still isn't done sneezing
Love at first sight
have flying fireworks turn spark-less
Saw a virtuous man,
lusting away his heart to the heartless,
The thirst is staying homeless,
so *** is up for charity,
cold women make it so hot,
I might asked her to marry me,
Let the awkwardness subside
watched her eyes bleed deception
how do broken hearts compromise with bad timing,
with her name written all over broken reflection
I even tried to beat the odds,
Eating steaks wont help me walk away from this dice game
I seeing dark scars of mine,
burning into bright pains,
So much sour found,
in this sweet escape with you,
I couldn't swim in a floatie outfit,
but she drowned me into her deep blue
And still...
I choose to play sucker for love,
continuing on my winning spree,
Teeing up the mean,
to something that wasn't meant for me
Them heart-shaped lips,
every part of her frame built-in flawless,
Those paint brushed lashed coloring up portraits,
of us as one,
Our larynx wont hold our tongues
from singing choruses,
and now my spines chills dying out in rigamortis,
It hard to walk your line
along your modeled looking mind,
when those shimmers are anti- gorgeous,
And Still..
You bring hell,
for someone looking like heaven,
and life with you is sin,
than I'm counting up my blessings,
but I keep throwing feeling and that catching you wont do
Deceivers make believers
keep falling for you.
And Still..
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
She is on my wall.
She is perfect.
I had no idea I could create
something so BEAUTIFUL.
Modeled off a real love
BUT an amalgamation of two,
loves that is.
My own Frankenstein
but more exquisite
and fine
A lovely being
put onto paper
with a nice flower
that is a manifest of my love.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
We built a beautiful relationship together
sturdy and effective but also appealing and bright
You watched the relationship
you had modeled ours after
crumble to the ground
and all the flaws revealed
We had both seen this before
but it was different this time
Maybe because our relationship
looked like theirs once had
But what we could have never seen
was all the cracks in their foundation
All the problems
they hid in the basement
relationships don't crumble in a day
they slowly erode away
each crack left unfilled
takes away the stability a little more
the rusted out center
of your parents relationship
left only an outside shell
a gust away from complete destruction
The outside doesn't matter
we aren't doomed for the same fate
just because we used the same bricks
its the upkeep that matters
To have a good relationship you have to fill those cracks
You have to work to make things stable
they don't always come naturally
but the results of working together are incredible
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
I never really traveled much;
that upsets me.
So I'll put my fingers on this modeled globe,
And travel across the world.
In little to no time at all.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
From down a 1000 foot marble hall
I see you stand
In a room of crimson
You are white, a thousand years grand
And there is a story behind you
As there often is
It’s one that I do not buy
That you were in a noble court or a stately yard
All weathered attempts to keep your mystique alive
Me, I see you as a statue like any other
With curves of body and bust like Venus,
I’d crave in any lover
Yes, I have looked upon many stone
And alabaster faces before
Made by defenseless artists who stand alone
We gaze and just ignore,
That you were no doubt modeled
After someone once living
Someone with a real story
And a face more forgiving
And though you are stuck in a cold and stony
Shell for the rest of your days
From your marble casing I won’t break you away
I’m sure, deep down,
You’d rather stay
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
War bots modeled after x-box controls,
from the high to the low, maintaining.
Apocalypse Now, Captain please,
a pale face knotted, one last swig of Jim Bean.
Revolution is live, no cutting these scenes,
everybody plays soldier, till the bullets
start to scream. And Death hums by, shrieking
ancient lullabies, two blinks of an eye, while
Cerberus snarls, “Don’t you know the smell
of warm gunpowder perfume?” If not, son,
You’ll know it all too soon.”
Hold your breath as it floats up your nose. No slipping here -
By nightfall, this valley’s grove will be flooded with other throes.
Excuse the rows of strangely contorted bodies that lie, resting,
and the bloated brown-streaked limbs, homeless, getting more
lost amidst the bellowing desert sand. Enjoy the silence of
the boom, the momentary reprieve from green noise,
******* up the sinking cries, an empty vacuum.
Watch for the ambushers, too – waiting by the roadside;
As familiar grins with tattered teeth flicker fake smiles,
and land mines sparkle under feet, fireworks on the fourth of July.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:35 AM UTC
a soulless ******* they called me
call me
thats the echo that follows me
swallows me
hollows me
and in the end
thats the echo that modeled me
hand raised, fully blazed
for the moment mischief called on me
a soulless ******* she called me
then she never called me
words she used mauled me
in reverse
the words she used to use enthralled me
thats why i gave all of me
but its not all me
all about me
and so
simply
no
wash away these deeds with hand soap
hindsight twenty twenty
how about hindsight through a telescope
but
think hope
think in proses
think there it all goes
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
The only time capsule
I ever buried
is decomposing
in the bottom of my belly
filled with the different ways
I have not been able to
cope with loss
It resurrects names
remembers faces
who are changing
and living in different states
while I am still trying to digest
their absence
It looks for the bundle of fur
that once modeled a now
empty, worn collar
unable to comprehend
only one set of brown eyes
gazing up from the floor
during Sunday morning coffee
It is learning to accept its reflection
could just as easily be
a shadow
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
She was built,
shorter than the other buildings,
but stands just as tall.
She was designed to be
thinner,
as it would just fit.
Her long winding curves,
stretching lusciously
into the great blue sky.
Sabatino,
or what I like to,
call her:
Kelsey.
Her smile a grin
of reflective bright
sunlight.
This was how she was modeled,
crafted with the finest:
Marble,
Steel,
Wood,
and Stone.
As if Michelangelo
or Da Vinci,
came back to chisel this
monument to beauty.
Not because they can,
because they must.
I may walk past this building
everyday,
on my way to work,
coffee,
school.
But one day,
I will christen the lips
of her sounding entrance.
That day I
will be as tall as her.
A titan of concrete,
of steel.
A titan that controls my
imagination,
time,
and heart.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
You have to act professional
You have to cross your legs and smile
The words in your mouth are fake
They're proper
The sounds are plastic
Your poise is modeled
Limbs glazed over
I know you're not real
I know when everyone leaves you *****
You have to lie
They're setting you up
The crowd of eyes
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC