"napes" poems
The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.
Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.
Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.
Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
Did Lovecraft have it right
no heaven but hell
cold and wet and dark
Wandering insane
not right in the brain
hell having left
it's mark
The slip and the slide
unheard and unseen
creeping just beyond ken
Plausible creaks
and blood that will streak
every now
and then
How do we gauge it's existence
comprehension
just out of reach
Letting our own imaginations
wander and stumble the peaks
Our hair standing up
high on the napes of our neck
Superstitions of myth and of legend
no facts, just fictions
too check
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
filling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)
thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointestinal
distress
or
************
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion
thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god
you
could
also
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
but
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
What whispered words
linger on our longing lips,
they go unsaid at the hands
of our fingers tips.
These touches talk like old friends,
o’ how familiar
the conversation feels,
even after all these years.
Undress your formal tongue
and we will speak with the slang
we spoke when we were young,
when our bodies were still foreign,
even to us.
We were explorers consumed
not by god, glory or gold
but by lust.
So if we must speak
let it be with our skin pressed,
hot breath on sweat glistened *******
biting at the napes of our necks
and fingernails breaking flesh.
In the morning we may regret
but we're both here because
we cannot forget.
I promise
this is not a reconciliation,
this is only ***
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
A time will come for wants and needs
for things we thought by summer trees
when things were odd,but odd to us
is strange and changed and disarranged
the thought of right was surely wrong
yet wrong right now can still belong
and time it still falls from the face
where hands they glide by gentle pace
concealed by a sneer that waits
a centaur, it minds the gates
with children's teeth around his waist
and golden locks down by his face
return once more while still awake
the gray, the old, with ernest hate
to strip the bloom from garden napes
and prune the vines in oddly shapes
to laugh, to cry, to sing once more
and soak in waters they once adored
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
I try to get a grip of time
But I keep making love to a man that will never be mine
I caress more than his mouth
And he moans without doubt
Timely shadows of ecstatic instruments hit the wall
Until the clock strikes the end of it all..
Tobacco candies between my burnt lips
As he brush my many napes with his fingertips
Probably thinking about that girl he has deceived
And just before he leaves
I Stifle the tears that i'll never be the queen on his deck
And he leans forward to give me a peck
And nothing more
After all, as he once said; *i'm just his *****
-fir.m
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
a lynch-man
in the Tennessee hills
had run out of hanging thrills
so he decided
to travel
a few hundred miles
crossing the border
into Arkansas
with his new hemp ropes
at the ready
he sized up
the governor's and his spouse's
necks
saying nonchalantly to himself
what the heck
then over the highest branch
he flung the noosing strings
and corralled
the wicked corrupt two
into an inescapable pen
round their napes
he placed
the stricture of the knots
which he'd pulled
very tight
and said farewell
saying to them
hang on
I'll be back later
to see how you're both fairing
on his slow return
Bill and Hillary
were silently gagged
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
she
is cold
we can feel
her winter breath
she chills our napes
with her gelid icy hand
we take to our warming hearths
to shelter from her frostiness
she has no charity nor any compassion
how baleful her season of bitterness
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:35 AM UTC
outstretched,open,eager
smooth home wet
collection palms
grace
timid
napes waxing
for
accurate devotions
broach bearing
pink garden
oracular bemoan
sudden winter spring
erupts cold
reds glory on her neck
the sad glimmer
of shimmerlips
i want
those they(soft oral)
***** spun dangerous captivation
midnight dawns magic
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
Feathers torn from the gaping napes of wind began to dwindle and resist in spite of the gravity crushing tsunami.
Trapped in a facade of impersonating flowing rain every feather dived to their unplanned descent.
All drowning in the nightmarish truth of actually being smothered in tears of a blue eyed-giant as they fell from the sky of that big blue eye’s, dead decapitated face.
A face severed on a head that hid a heavenly chateaus inside a false impersonated globe forever resting among the stars.
Inside housed all kinds of dimensional beings rarely ever seen but all known to possess legendary archaic features.
They mastered all the realms and lastly rule our skies.
They are cold warriors of combat- handled by their deadly grace, poisonous envy, blinding halos, and suffocating wings…
Oh such undeniably divine things!
First plucked from you, then stolen from me!
A conscious belief known only by those who wish to remain unseen
as we become the common theory of all your pretty inanities.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
it emits a curious colour when i am summer
(a curiously on edge colour)
when nights of me are balmy
and thick with viscous laughing
smoke between the necks of ladies
such musically ivory necks of ladies
a colour
(curiously) when
is Summer me? rests upon the
napes of trees in parks
where dirt and goldest
crush of dawn collide
with unmuscled violence
(this colour is me totally
ambiguous
and clear as
the rain dropless eaves of
heaven which are so ****
before the body of her
husband (the sun) who
in those mornings warmly
comes to her and penetrates
her smoothly scratching
the heaped body of the earth)
In summer curious,
colours are me
eyes, nose, knees, and hair
all hued
and erupting
gallons of fresh colour
and wade out into Summer
deep thighs burning cut by
the sharp petals of daffodils
and tulips. i set running hot
colours from each razored
hewing of my skin and fall
upward into gabled satisfied
skies forever
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
Will you meet me
Under the willow tree before dawn,
Take my hand and walk the crooked path
That leads to the bank above the brook?
We'll touch earth's dewy blanket with fingertips
As crisp morning air pinches our ankles and the napes of our necks,
Spread a blanket of our own and sit
Cross-legged with upturned palms and open hearts,
A yearning for spiritual things...
We'll read to one another from holy books –
Awareness, Unity, Love, Peace...
Meditate to the sound of cicadas and frogs,
Gurgling water
And our own breathing.
We'll wait.
For the Great Spirit,
For insight and guidance,
For the warmth of the Sun.
I long to meet you, to greet the day with you
My confidant, my best friend.
What a privilege to be at this place at this time,
Sharing my sacred journey with you,
Listening and learning about yours.
Will you meet me
Under the willow tree before dawn?
Take my hand.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
Underneath the covers
entering darkness
we become lovers
In our hearts
we soon discover
there is more to life
than facts and numbers
Bodies embraced
skin touching skin
deal the cards
for it is time to sin
Moonlight reveals
curves and shapes
lips touching lips
and fingers across napes
Passion opens our minds
and our hearts
but all we imagine
and all we feel
is each other
together
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
down the ups of the very backs of streets
just skirting the very edges of napes
the cities slightly tickled little hairs rushing
up it's thighs, colluding thickly bushy
barely about it's "ooch!" it's "ow!"
it's youth rimmed slouching pocket
hollow fully bursting. empty so crowding
tightly packed cheeks, clumps of giddy
gurgling songs pumped lazy chords
they sickly punch the nooks and crannied
edges flourishing the rainbow bright
chatter of lungs that taste the air so
healthy and so long. "Tonight, as the day
goes 'Wee!' over the ******* wallop
we"ll higgle wiggle in it's corpse
our skulls and merry bones to
frothing jowls overwhelmed with boisterous
young hearts supping it's crudlicious
pillow, supple and rotting gums
the large lit teeth of whom bust
right to heaven while we fling about
their oblong towers our shales
of *** and magic;
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
rows of owls roost in their hair
secretly, I know that the trees are artists
they paint the air with fluttering brushes
scalloped and veiny
fingers so slowly tracing the clouds
who swing close to dust
in sprawls of fog and rain fairies
bless this ground
aspen and pine soak in it
tiny mouths rooted in the dew
mud and puddles
windows into the sky
where the roses' souls catch
napes and necks
in amber
melted petals
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC
when and used to sleep i'd dream
nary none now though i don't with
serious fantastical clouds of junipers
fast through summer like colours
through wind rush to meet the girls
in little bits of nothing next to a lake
and
throttled by a light breeze hair(brunettes
and blonds both)prattle and mingling
with it i when i used to dream cooly
of arms drunk with sun and pressed
with fashionable cotton and sugar(and sweat)
and little shining drops either on their
shoulders and napes and the backs of
their knees and when i used to dream
such things i didn't even because it
wasn't dreaming it was living
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC
by Kim Addonizio
That summer they had cars, soft roofs crumpling
over the back seats. Soft, too, the delicate fuzz
on their upper lips and the napes of their necks,
their uneven breath, their tongues tasting
of toothpaste. We stole the liquor
glowing in our parents’ cabinet, poured it
over the cool cubes of ice with their hollows
at each end, as though a thumb had pressed
into them. The boys rose, dripping, from long
blue pools, the water slick on their backs
and bellies, a sugary glaze; they sat easily on high
lifeguard chairs, eyes hidden by shades,
or came up behind us to grab the fat we hated
around our waists. For us it was the chaos
of makeup on a bureau, the clothes we tried on
and on, the bras they unhooked, pushed
up, and when they moved their hard
hidden ***** against us we were always
princesses, our legs locked. By then we knew
they would come, climb the tower, slay anything
to get to us. We knew we had what they wanted:
the ******* the thighs, the damp hairs pressed flat
under our ******* All they asked was that we let them
take it. They would draw it out of us like
sticky taffy, thinner and thinner until it snapped
and they had it. And we would grow up
with that lack, until we learned how to
name it, how to look in their eyes and see nothing
we had not given them; and we could still
have it, we could reach right down into their
bodies and steal it back.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
Your mouth holds secrets that hide between people's legs, in the crooks of their elbows, in their napes of their necks
You, hide keys under your tongue that I may unlock
You are so used to
Harboring cold
Even though you are cold
Open
Your legs
So I can stay inside
So I can come inside
So I can *** inside
We will stay warm together
We will stay in heat together
In this house
In this body
In this husk
Twitch
Twitch
Switch positions
Move yourself into me
Move yourself around in me
Why are you shivering
You're too cold for all this warm
You're too quiet for all this loud
Hold your lip in place or it will fall off your face
Exploding all over the room won't save you now
Splatter paint only helps when there has been no prior activity
Stand back and watch me flutter all on my own
Stand back and watch as the tremors ripple through my body
Smile, and hold it for me
Right there
Over the ****
*****
Stick your ****
Stick here
Stay here
~~a.s.f.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
weathered weave, simple overlap
ripped of age, tattered end seams
scattered dead dreams
the crow calls before the downbeat.
you had plenty of needles
to stitch my skin together.
you had so much thread
to keep my world cohesive.
i was work between your nimble fingers
i was work to wear away your thimble.
you draped our sleeping napes
inside a duvet of muslin and washed flax grainsack.
there were 9 buttons at the bottom
no two were the same,
wood, shell, exotic nuts,
to keep it all together.
your work kept us warm on winter nights
your work kept us plush on lazy afternoons
you no longer join me inside this sheet of softened slumber
you no longer repair those threads retaining these buttons snug
i worked your thimble bare
i dulled your needles beyond repair
i have become a cloth of patches
with shredded seams, tattered dreams
at night i now shiver under a sheet of my own kind
my lazy afternoons are now dull within my mind
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
u c now? Grass is me. each glowing blade of it are my limbs R grass
grunting up to skyward professing such greeness and full of vital
light,
it is so supple and it by lakes is me
and by napes of rivers it is me on end
it is my hair and it's electric in me
singing some song majestic
yet so quietly
i know it as i would know a lover(if i ever trod on my lover
who was softly cushioning each fall of my wiggling toes
with their strong little body)and it knows me because it
is me, i am the grass and i grow with the wind on me
and it is my friend(for the wind knows best the grass
(save for maybe the dirt(who is my wife(for she takes
my root deep into her and bears my seeds to the air))))
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
which does rain a lot but rather sometimes nicely also sun giddy for legs arms napes slender fat new old is eaten and lovely for a bit is virginal a young girl like pink with a short skirt purple tights flats and a smile from across the room I'd like to get into for about 4 weeks raining sunny and smiling : April
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
And the Lord said, “Get thee bent!”
Here your empty money’s all spent
Among the **** and ashes of last month’s rent,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
I’m a bit of a disco dancer,
Frequent romancer
That half pint, any change? Bit of a chancer.
I would read her star sign
But I know its cancer,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No easy escape,
From that ****** that vapes,
On the bar stool under the gym.
He eyes up the napes,
Of the barmaid’s shapes
Who looks like that girl in his ***** tapes,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No crisp fiver,
Just her salvia,
Dripping from your lips and gubbins.
Behind the red eyes and fag-end nubbins,
You love those filthy, back street rub-ins.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
You just go home,
Another sexless twilight roam,
You smash up some middle class **** called Jerome.
Hair full sweat, you’d **** for a comb,
It is me or the ***** or just a syndrome
Face full of holes like honeycomb,
You just can’t write anymore of this poem,
And think to yourself “well, when in Rome”
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
The Furies
break the rain's fall,
for a drink to spring.
opening wide with
predatory accuracy.
hungering more than
hungering things.
to blush their pallid
cheeks, with a hint of
life.
this go round, of this
elemental ploy--gathered
thus.
as above ground, blades
of grass may be bent,
certain with intent.
the vengeance of direction,
nonplussed by deed done.
a harrying net thrown upon
worms parading as flowers.
the close quarters of winter's
spring breeds both ways.
the napes of flowers bristle.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC