"moles" poems
they’re pouring out of the
woodwork
those pretentious machiavellians
in ailing albino frames
eccentric masked figures
milling about the glow light
like night moths
in a london fog
lunatic gazers
with seeping moles
pinned by frogmen and twine
spider climbers
in hell fire
splitting seams
on the fading
and hideous ink
guards of the perch
stand on hades hand
while monsters and demons
with severed limbs
taunt the condemned
and wanting
souls of the ******
cauldron fire
in blood red sky
silent screams
hack and wheeze
gas lines broken
words unspoken
teetering backwards
in the dark shadows
of a phantom abyss
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 2:08 PM UTC
of one thing
i am sure
and that is
that i am
unsure of
myself
and it’s funny
how i can’t
sleep but my
chest closes its
eyes and hums
with a heartbeat
that is unsure of
itself, too.
i try to morph
into a body
i don’t feel
belongs to me
just so i can
fit somewhere
fit in somewhere
and i tell so
many stories
about the
universe, it
forever feels
like i am trying
to remain lost.
i am unsure
of myself;
connecting the
moles on my
skin as if they
will spell out
something bigger
so i can feel
like i matter,
at least for
a little while.
i sleep beside
myself, stare at
a reflection
so unfamiliar
i couldn’t even
identify it in
a crowd of
strangers, but
i am trying.
and one day
i’m sure i’ll
be sure
of myself but
until then,
i’ll morph into
someone i can
be proud of
and hope that
the universe
sends me back
to myself.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
Well, she looks like a witch,
Her pointed nose does twitch.
As she frowns upon the grocery list,
Then scrunches in a timely twist.
Bidding her straw broom,
Which she doth groom.
Hovers away into the gloom,
Over a pond she doth loom.
To frogs, rats, snakes and slime,
Quoth she, "All in good time!!"
Soon they'll be no room,
For the impending doom.
Her cauldron happily hissing,
As she adds to the seething,
Her black cat begins meowing,
After the rats, he begins running.
Slowly cooling the putrid portion,
She applies the lovely lotion.
The moles, warts and silver hair,
Disappear into thin air.
Her velvet apparel now lace,
Not a blemish does one trace.
Fondling her silky Siamese,
She heads home with ease.
To the little candy castle,
Awaiting Hansel and Gretel.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
beautiful towers
crescent moon
under the bridge we hid from few
outlookers who saw us hand in hand
oh sue, nevermind next to you, I'll always stand
you said, "emily look out"
they can't catch us when we're on the periphery of your town
flower braids and hazy smiles
playing hide and seek up till a peculiar height
sue you do a lot of things
you say things so lovely
the only name ever
dancing on your tongue should be "emily"
harnessing a lot of love
my tongue's still tied, your face is unsure
tracing a pattern and making it travel through your moles
sue please dont give in
my heart's still beating
they can't know about us
and if they do
come with me
to the land of cottagecore
and if you say no then these all will be my questions,
"why would you touch me in a way your touch will linger?"
"why would you leave your best friends for a wine and some mingle?"
"why would you risk your life when i know your feelings dont fickle?"
"why would you gift me that pendant made of gold and covered in nickel?"
"why would you choose your abundant hours to teach me how to whistle?"
oh Sue, i know
you will never say no
just know, if you ever say yes
its you forever and ever and ever more.
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 7:42 PM UTC
i like the countryside and all there is to see
so many different things you can view for free
there are lots of thing waiting to be found
lots of flowers and plants growing from the ground
there are animals the badger and the hare
hedgehogs and the squirrel all of them are there
there are many berries some that you can eat
mushrooms and the garlic a tasty little treat
there are mice and moles and the little shrew
many other creature waiting there for you
lots and lots of things that nature has to give
mother natures way that helps the world to live
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
there was a little mole he dug underground
looking for adventure the little mole was bound
he packed a little case for his holiday
things that he might need while along the way
mole he started digging for three months and a day
till the ground got hard he had hit some clay
then one final push the little mole was through
in this place so lovely a place he never knew
it was full of beauty and the sun was shining bright
the little mole was happy it filled him with delight
then he took a stroll in this adventure land
all along the beach playing in the sand
he was having fun on his holiday
in the land he found so very far away.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
"Honestly? I'd just cover that up", he says
Orion's not moving. Stars don't move.
They may die, they may dim, they may traverse galaxies
Change position in the night sky with the seasons
Give me one. good. reason.
To cover up my compass home,
The one good thing, the one beautiful thing,
On this scarred and wretched body?
"We'll put Orion somewhere else, start over"
You're not my mother, ripping out a new piercing
Locking the door on a daughter and her father
Drinking and dating and thinking "start over"
My skin is just my skin, the moles and ink
And decisions are mine to live in
How dare you claim yourself an artist,
yet break down your clientele, your canvas
So Orion's not the problem, sir
It's a debauched attitude toward station
When I follow the stars tonight, I will tell them
Needles have no consideration
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Perfect Imperfection
My eyes are brown and big,
But darker than a twig,
My nose is flexible,
But it goes red in the cold,
My skin is sweet and gold,
But I've got spots and moles,
My lips are soft,
Like a rose~
but scarred at the left side,
I used to want to hide,
because I felt so ugly,
on the outside,
but I knew inside I was a perfect imperfection,
My anger is just !toxic,!,
Like a snake with venom,
and I tried to bleach my acne,
With CUCUMBER and LEMON,
I put on too much make-up,
Because I saw IMPERFECTION,
I thought I wasn't worth it,
Anything GOOD would throw me DOWN,
I was so NEGATIVE,
like a crying CLOWN,
But things are getting better now,
because I see how,
I've got perfect imperfections,
and everyone can see me smile,
But I am only human,
So I'll cry every once in a while,
even when I feel truly happy,
And wilder than the wild.
By Larna Kira Kourtis
Aged 14
~Peace~
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Someone I once loved
Ran his finger across my chest and traced
The outline of my moles and said
"They look like an anchor! When you connect the dots, they are the shape
Of an anchor! You are an anchor. It all makes sense now.
You are going to be okay."
At the time it was like some big epiphany for him,
Like he was telling me something about myself
That I never knew when really, I always knew
It was just
Something I didn't want
To admit. It is something
I have been running away from for a long time now, thinking
I could be an anchor for someone else
Because then THEY could be my problem, my project,
My ocean
So then that way I could leave myself, fallen by the wayside
To wither away, slowly, subtly,
Secretly disappearing.
I am attracted to people who are made of glass,
People who shatter easily, who shatter willingly,
Who are reckless and brilliant, beautiful and dangerous
People who I unconsciously think
I can save.
I can only save myself.
I can only be my own anchor.
I am nowhere near strong enough
To be with someone again
I am so terribly fragile, I break my own heart
So easily. Too willingly.
All I want is to keep realizing things like this,
To admit my mistakes and learn from them, not
Repeat them.
To hold on to the people who keep me on the ground,
The people who actually love me, who don't put me on
Some pedestal where I am liable
To float away.
Because if I'm not careful and let myself
Float away again,
I
may
never
come
back.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:18 AM UTC
Everyday there are moles
Lifeless rodents
Strewn about like some cat massacre
Sheba! Sheba is who brings theses gifts
Hunting at night
Leaving presents to be admired
What does she think about while in this pursuit of mole families?
Does she think?
Once, I saw a mouse being killed…
Today there were two
Yesterday one
Last week there were five on the patio
I wonder if there are warnings out in the mole community?
“Serial mole killings” they might say
Do they fear the dark now?
Dead moles, dead mice
Just death
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
F*ck the postcards and dried mangoes, baby.
The prayers in The Philippines,
The prayers from and by Filipinos,
will be the best souvenir one can ever get.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping our islands, vintas and mangroves afloat
and why more new islands have been popping up like moles.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping the storms, typhoons and hurricanes all but a joke.
Another one? Bring it on and on and once more.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been putting earthquakes and tsunamis to shame.
My grandmothers have been through worse,
what's a little bit of motion and shake?
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country a curse and a miracle;
why we have mountains that we have today,
why and how they're shaped that way.
Despite the chaos of politics, corruption and news of crimes...
Why we have oceans that are bright blue
and how they could make a weary traveler or a desolate native feel brand new.
Despite the familiar dangers and age-old stereotypes...
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been holding Filipinos together,
be it with each other or to fight through another day for much longer.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country ever magical and mystical,
even if some days it's harder to feel that way.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are the reason why I'm here, why I exist,
why I'm alive and kicking,
full of dreams and spite and hope, writing,
the reason why I'm full of life, full of love
and will keep on living and loving.
I will live and die saying my prayers
in The Philippines,
as a Filipino,
for The Philippines
and for other Filipinos.
Dec 7, 2023
Dec 7, 2023 at 2:03 AM UTC
"I love the way her hair falls on her shoulders
I love the way she cuddles when it's colder
I love the way she smiles at me
I love the way her eyes are ******
I love the way she laughs out loudly
I love her, even when she's cranky
I love the way she's so moody
I love the way she effortlessly looks lovely
I love the way she holds her phone
I love the way she makes it feel like home
I love the way she stands when she's shy
I love the way she goes to me to cry
I love the way she talks
I love the way she likes to kick rocks
I love the way she gets all excited
I love the way we are, reunited
I love the way she makes weird faces
I love the way her moles are in all places
I love the way she's emotional at times
I love the way she's so good at rhymes
I love the way she thinks about every tweet
I love the way she's nervous about people she meets
I love the way she fantasizes about food
I love the way she does so much good
I love how you've showed me life (in the most amazing way ever)
I love how you say "I love you forever"
I love how you notice when I'm faking being fine
I love how I love you and you're mine"
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
I see the mole.
It lies just south of his petite clavicles,
parenthesizing his fragile neck.
I'd like to find the others.
Moles dotting his figure,
beacons on his frame.
Showing me where to touch.
I'll map them all out,
every last speck.
Just call me the cartographer.
I'll connect the dots, drawing lines,
building routes with my fingertips.
Your body will be mapped like the Silk Road.
But no ideas will be exchanged, nor words spoken.
No empires will be connected across this globe.
Only moles.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
The moles on your hunched back
form themselves into constellations
each dot connecting to its neighbor.
I've become endlessly starry eyed
gazing at the wonders of your galaxy.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
A River
In Madurai,
city of temples and poets,
who sang of cities and temples,
every summer
a river dries to a trickle
in the sand,
baring the sand ribs,
straw and women’s hair
clogging the watergates
at the rusty bars
under the bridges with patches
of repair all over them
the wet stones glistening like sleepy
crocodiles, the dry ones
shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun
The poets only sang of the floods.
He was there for a day
when they had the floods.
People everywhere talked
of the inches rising,
of the precise number of cobbled steps
run over by the water, rising
on the bathing places,
and the way it carried off three village houses,
one pregnant woman
and a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda as usual.
The new poets still quoted
the old poets, but no one spoke
in verse
of the pregnant woman
drowned, with perhaps twins in her,
kicking at blank walls
even before birth.
He said:
the river has water enough
to be poetic
about only once a year
and then
it carries away
in the first half-hour
three village houses,
a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda
and one pregnant woman
expecting identical twins
with no moles on their bodies,
with different coloured diapers
to tell them apart.
~A.K.Ramanujan
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
the glass spice jar of rosemary sits in the corner,
bait to prying fingers and
warm dough rising.
a set of hands banish her from her home,
open her up to greedy senses
and hearty-moans.
and then suddenly,
her graceful throat tips,
grinds of rosemary fall into buttered flour,
and she settles around moles of dried cranberries,
specks of shimmering sea salt,
and passionate, cherry pink fingertips.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
there was a little mole he dug underground
looking for adventure the little mole was bound
he packed a little case for his holiday
things that he might need while along the way.
mole he started digging for three months and a day
till the ground got hard he had hit some clay
then one final push the little mole was through
in this place so lovely a place he never knew.
it was full of beauty and the sun was shining bright
the little mole was happy it filled him with delight
then he took a stroll in this adventure land
all along the beach playing in the sand.
he was having fun on his holiday
in the land he found so very far away.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.
humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.
for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.
dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.
it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.
(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
A tango of two souls
and they’re dancing in the stars.
She spins around and down black holes
while my left foot backs onto Mars.
A tango of two hearts
they waltz back and forth within the flame,
each forgot their parts
but they carry on the same.
Two to tango, two for tea,
it’s a sad truth but I’m feeling that three is company.
Two to tango, two eyes to see,
I’m surrounded fully but I’m completely lonely.
A tango of two souls
and they’re dancing in the dark,
hiding all their freckles and moles
unaware they’re simply just a mark.
A tango of two hearts
they waltz back and forth within the flame,
subsequently all ends with all that starts,
and we’re just shuffling the blame.
Two to tango, two for tea,
it’s a sad truth but I’m realizing I’m not who I used to be.
Two to tango, two eyes to see,
the horizon is in the distance but the sun is lacking.
Hearts hold no dancing shoes
but mind hears only song,
against both I must refuse
both choices equally right and wrong.
I would see all distance erased
and forms pressed tight together,
but the beat is too fast paced;
I swear next opportunity I will do better.
Two to tango, two for tea,
it’s a sad truth but I’m accepting I fail to view clearly.
Two for tango, two eyes to see,
that I was never cut out for this type of dancing.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
I like to wonder, crazy things
When i am bored
Moles climbing trees
and more absurd things
Like cookies coming out of boards
I also think
When u broke my heart…
I don't think i'm bored anymore
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
There's now proof, that a Russian flesh-eating cannibal is in the good old US of A
He would offer you toxic ingredients, including gasoline and lighter fluid, I'd say
But, because its tell-tale scaly sores, are similar to another well known leacher
They initially played down concerns, saying, "they're not seeing signs of the creature"
My boyfriend had maggots coming out of his leg, after a recent foreign scare
I know people don't want to hear stuff like that, but it is really happening out there
Snap goes the toothless crocodile, one, two, three
Wangsta da Gangsta, had a great haul
Ring a ding a ling, 'cause they deliver the first for free
Jim and Joan went into da hood, to fetch nothin' much at all
They fall to the charlatans, that promise you a crystal ball
A little at first and then some more, that's for sure
It will make you snap, give you curls and dance you a little twirl
Star gazing thru the sun ray and day tripping into a wayward night
That's why if you use crocodile juice, it will do more than shake ya loose
Destroying our souls, creating huge holes and build mountains out of moles
Snap goes the toothless crocodile, one, two, three
Wangsta da Gangsta, had a great haul
Ring a ding a ling, 'cause they deliver the first for free
Jim and Joan went into da hood, to fetch nothin' much at all
Mr Jeffrey Vint has become less popular among his abusers
I say, "they're all losers", but I guess, beggars can't be choosers
Some mother's even gave birth with two thumbs, but those babies are now total ****
Others think the monster could be at large, maybe roaming your neighbourhood
Put a stop to this croc's chomp, before it destroys everything in the swamp
Get your doctor to prescribe a stronger drug, to conquer that evil imposter
Snap goes the toothless crocodile, one, two, three
Wangsta da Gangsta, had a great haul
Ring a ding a ling, 'cause they deliver the first for free
Jim and Joan went into da hood, to fetch nothin' much at all.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
I breathed anger and I spit rage,
and with the coming of the new age,
I burnt the heart of my sage,
I grew with every turn of a page,
I shot fire from my spirit as a mage,
I went past the final astral stage,
I broke the confines of my cage,
let loose the golden goose eggs,
who knew I'd be so strange.
As a child I was so wild never had a happy smile it was a form of style that came from a vile inside I was in denial living life out a vial I was going to survive the trial acid trip for more than a mile this lasted longer than a while,
and now here I am,
a grown man,
trying to understand,
why I don't have a plan,
I guess I'm banned,
from the grand,
scheme of things,
fiends with dreams,
of capturing souls,
trading them for goals,
sum lumps of coals,
spiritual moles,
digging underground holes,
hiding away,
hiding from day,
I don't care what they say,
I'll live my way.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
there was a little mole he dug underground
looking for adventure the little mole was bound
he packed a little case for his holiday
things that he might need while along the way.
mole he started digging for three months and a day
till the ground got hard he had hit some clay
then one final push the little mole was through
in this place so lovely a place he never knew.
it was full of beauty and the sun was shining bright
the little mole was happy it filled him with delight
then he took a stroll in this adventure land
all along the beach playing in the sand.
he was having fun on his holiday
in the land he found so very far away.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
Break your arm again,
mould it a new cast,
sleep, rest, dig up your past.
And this all comes from down near my heart, to the left,
where you’ve pitched camp in the forever sun of the forever nest.
Birds don’t perch there like they used to,
instead they flew south in
belly pains and stomach cramps,
another reason to sleep under lamps.
See the bowl, throw up in the bowl,
rub your nose with child like hands,
that swept hills from above moles-
back when playing in sand was accepted and fun.
When we wake from such anguished
pasts
memories waver and do not last,
nor do they retain any hopeful longing,
as they disappear out into the morning.
You are gone and you are forgotten,
but the rings in the candles tell me we share the common.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC