"needled" poems
*"Claim me,"
she whispers in a plea
"claim my soul as I wilt"
Crimson lips parted,
head thrown back
in ecstatic ache
jugular bared
she needs to feel
that sharp -edged love,
skin and barriers broken
as she melts into
the underworld
of a new grace
a magenta cry into
the inky sky
sacred silence penetrated
as only gasps are heard
milky ******* decorated
with red liquid ribbon,
his nourishment,
her demise
******* pierced with
beads of her sunset life flow
as he ***** and bites...
and howling
into heaven's delicious gate,
she writhes
Her soul dissolving
into his night
and as his spirit
absorbs her vermilion soul
their power rises,
black as coal
…………….
your lips
stick black
sanguine smile
tremulous murmurs
oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender
sacrificial lamb
cats sparrow entranced
thighs on fire
sobbing from a thousand needled kisses
******* tearing blood
each wound a weeping mouth licking
milky white alter of cold stone
saturated alizarin rust
legs wide
feet and ******* trussed
in chains and drenched rags
for cruelties arrow
o crimson queen,
pomegranate half eaten
mouth smudge black
agape
snake tongue dancing
through cherry lips twisted
darkened eyes of fire and blood
a wash in devils incense
beloved veiled
in evils cradle
bind not the demons kiss
then face down my love upon the crypt of mist
black heavens gate
pupa
vampires bate
a blood moon shaking
a scourge you are now
goddess of pleasures wretched
in the Tuileries of the abyss
consort
your every piercing fang
duck tail ****
a boiling cauldron
desire
spills out
dark cupid witch
legs tied to throat
devil ***** twitch
******* in a mote
ive got the itch
feet scorched in rope
hot ******* *****
hells dark pope
vampiress *****
dark girl feeding
the sun is no more
loves the bleeding*
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Maybe it was Best for this Reindeer-Line
To Fix what should have been Fixed since ages
Or tie this Noose which lost all its Define
Then nod dearly at those Long-Horned Rages
But how, Prince, could you bear this Entropy
Even when Tories tell you to Conserve?
Such Lust, needled to their Empathy
May have Forgotten what you long Deserve
Twice that Life-Spoken Meme; And now the Third
Gushes well-rained Merriments from this Cloud
Pray, that soon admit this Settlement, heard
And invest their Songs and Prayers out Loud.
Come, take this Hymn, and sing-along with me
How greatly Petitioned; Yet not to Be.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
you will go your way
despite my protests
no use lamenting
what was never promised
the sun rides low the horizon
soon it will not clear the treetops
storms gather in the northern sea
needled wind to scattered seed
hoary frost on yellowed grass
dark leaves in mirrored puddles
a suspended death
crystalline and indeterminate
there is no fire hot enough
to stave off the first chill
of a careless winter
the numb hibernating sleep
soft gray melting days
the desperate wish
to regain summer
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I fear.
I fission.
I flow.
like a sponge,
I become aqueous
when wiping blood or saliva.
like a finger, I lose myself in rings of prints.
I am the ography
of space loosely tied to the
end of a carrot. detach me from
ice and I float to the other side of the island.
I wave at ships passing night or day, captains
drunk or sober, buoys clean or covered in mucky ****
save me.
I am losing my
mind on these stairs
crawling the ceiling, these
riches made of paper, these children
using liters of glue to stick themselves to
each other.
everyone is stuck.
everyone is covered in barnacles.
everyone is design on my pine tree’s needled hooves.
a horse gallops four at a time. they name it “power” for the dreams it has of stormy women.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC
Indian pipes rise ghostly
from ancient compost
of needled tears shed
white bells corpse-silent
shunning Light’s vital touch
sleeping instead in symbiotic beds
of gracious hosts, who in turn
kiss the feet of living Giants
lushly burning gilded rays
to fuel their green economy
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
Years now pass our friendship by
and still I am weakened when
I see you stitch and sew a surface,
the poise of the needled hand
entering so finely, passing through
and out, and all . . .
. . . and in such silence that only
a shallow quickness of breath
and fabric’s shift and turn about
disturbs.
Oh the rapt expression on your face;
intent-full, a mask of stillness;
as though your body draws into itself
and centres all toward the quiet movement
of your small hands.
Now I pause to wonder.
Should I force a halt, intervene,
and lay that needled hand aside?
I could then perhaps traverse
the lines of your body’s pattern
and, kissing you the while, my hands
lay claim to your form and fabric.
Searching its seams, *********
its folds its curves its corners,
I would ply myself into the very thread
of your sewing self.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew
he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.
Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,
was for rest the man hard pressed?
Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?
as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone
one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
2.2k
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
truck-bedded teens smoke leaves above the tree branch cathedral;
treefort,
& fumes from her lips. her lips/
crush me oh my.
climb down to the street.
snap into a slim jim.
smash into a television.
skateboard kids:
blackboy bent into dust and old motel.
whiteboy with fireworks spitting modern mallrat jazz.
girls of stuffed tiger and bottles shattered,
by blood
by beer
by now. she dreams
of the coast henceforth
& grips glass to imagine it like good futures.
/bong-hit.
/swallow the pizza.
into the arcade ******
like denim jackets and the mohawked-heads of foul foolish boys.
like little sister vanished into the music.
she presents her flesh before needled ink in the neon-rung afterlife.
she tongues flame.
she thumbs for fame and a highway to california.
she speaks in tongues to win enough tickets for the big panda bear.
her boyfriends punch faces in parking lots.
their generations gather at the apricot tree.
they pull at the seams of eachother’s tricky slips,
& watch hyenas tear through the trash
in the lawn across the street.
old factory:
old shrine of sky & night & bottles & bottlerockets
& her hair & us.
take the bus, or
walk the paths of backyards, home.
sneak thru the window,
cracked lip and shower.
to appear,
in a sunday dress.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
A porcupine doesn't have many friends
Due to the needles that stand up at the ends
No one really cares when a porcupine cries
No one is there to weep when one of us dies
No one ever approaches a hurt, sad porcupine
Can't even attract a drunk with a case of wine
No one wants to get close enough to start to care
No one, for a small porcupine, is ever there
Tears fall down their cute, small needled faces
No one ever pays any attention to their small cases
From place to place, we porcupines wander so slow
There isn't a warm welcome at any place we go
Seems like porcupines just can't please anyone
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Last night
I heard the tap and hum
of haddock mating in the deep.
They dive,
it seems, to distant depths
as if the atmospheric weight
could tense
their roe to spasm forth
and in the sport of lowly spawn
they beat
the rattle of a drum
as baritone cicadas might.
In lust,
with rhythms from the flesh,
they thread the needled cloth of night
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
in a studded wood, you river
sapless stream of spruce bark
-no ailment
-no midwife for the sediment
in a black mirror, the seer
needled to the tree-
two ravens
I know what my future holds
watch as the horse balks
white rind eyes
hopeless as stars
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
I keep having these emotional outbreaks
and when I feel like this, I need to tell you
But my words get jumbled up and I cant keep my emotions under control
Whenever I go to
I think it has to do with my worst fear
The thing that eats away at me everyday
Claws at my tendons causing my muscles to die
Stagnates my blood causing my arteries to clog and brittle my bones
It's crimson needled fingers are powered by one hand underneath my gums and rips my teeth out one by one while the other hand slides my fingernails out of my skin
Stalking Seeking Slithering through my skin it crawls inside
and stalks my spinal cord all the way to my skull, plucking spinal cords along the way
Seeking for my brain and
Slithering into every neuron and cell
It rots every single one
And decays the rest of me
I am numb cause I'm afraid no one cares.
No-one has cared at all
I knew from the first christmas
that I was a mistake
In middle school
it was made clear again
when everyone bullied me
Then again in High School
where teenage apathy reigned
But now, I really don't know if anyone cares
and your answer means so much to me
"Do you care?"
Cause if I can't have you as a lover
I want to love you as a friend
Cause I can see you doing great in the end
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
Ice Forest
Topiary chorus
Nature sings
Tree tops swing
Mystical chanting forest
Young branch rest
On wave of terra firma crest
Frozen crystals
On the rim
Of the icy limbs
Tree roots band
Hiding from breezy land
Criss cross as they talk
Underneath sleeping stalks
Spellbind
In seasons time
Smells divine
Of needled pine
First snow fall
Through wind and fright
Bend its limb at night
Glassy water trail
Reflect airborne quail
Doe track grooves
Her muddy cold hooves
Escaping slaughter
Protecting the precious
Ice forest daughter
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
British soldiers,
Trained her for war,
Slunk through these vines,
Machete-hacked jungle trails,
Stumbled through tangled heat,
Discovered torturous needles
Of the dusty ******* Tree,
Cursed the stinging pain,
Attempted cures for naught.
Belizean allies revealed
The bastard's secret:
Within the sap
Beneath the needled coat:
Analgesic antidote.
So it is the "Give and Take" poisons
Then takes the curse away...
Solutions sometimes lie
Just beyond our pain.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
In an instant
The vulnerable confidence within escaped...
Thud - As I cracked my head against the concrete.
For the first time
in a long time, I thought
It was all over. I reached to the back
Expecting the fragile shell split;
The shell that holds my brain
But nothing.
Suddenly my left side went numb, tingled
And returned to leave only what I can describe
As pins n' needled heated to 100 degrees
Prior to their attack.
They ran from shoulder to my 3 middle fingers.
5 minutes now I sit cross legged on the concrete.
With fire in my fingers I press to push myself up,
I'm dizzy. I sit again for a while.
Nerve damage. Should heal? I hope...
******* BMX
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
Sun's going down...
Around my miniature height,
Gloom is gathering itself
To usher in the night.
Beside the darkening feet
Of towering trees,
Shade-cooled and looking up,
I see sunlight climb
The upward reaches
Of tall pines.
Leaving shadows far below,
Green needled branches
****** new growth:
Yellow-candled greening flames,
To see the sun,
Greeting and adieu-ing
Steady moving days.
Light and life,
Ageless quests:
Upward reaching light
Downward breaching water,
Insatiable thrusting,
Splitting stone,
Spewing oxygen.
Monstrous undertakings
Glorious oversights.
Fitting past times for giants,
Mountain dwellers,
Living at a pace too slow
For careless passers-by to see.
Silent pines
Contemplate endless days,
Moving or un-moving,
Resolute certainty,
Imperceptible sojourners
Dominating vertical empires;
Joyous, silent soldiers march
Up and down these mountain sides,
While I, mere mortal, pass
Ant-like,
Scurrying in wonder,
Aware the urgency
Of ephemeral routine,
Mortal emergency...
Beneath Tall Pines.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
"Whatever happens
It just happens
For a reason"...so they say.
Who are they?
They are words alike those runes
Always belonged to an odyssey
Old, dusted and ruins
As time quickly flies by...
Uncertain truths and misguided lies needled its core,
While each vowel screams for more vanity...forever more...
These paper scrolls will be shortly forgotten in time,
No matter if the reason is fair -
These dogmatic words shout with dispair:
Whatever happens,
It just happens
For a reason...
A candy jar shines in the dance of a silver light
It sprinkled fearless, outside the window...for my own delight.
Oh, Night! You're a mystic fairy, the solace of my pain...
Why should I let you go, when daylight is in vain?
Should I let you pass by
Forever as a remembrance, like a childish lullaby?
You are meant to "just happen"...
Crushing my struggle and my being's denial,
Time has got me savage punishments in its dial,
Despite its flawless eternity.
Where did I go wrong?
I was born with tragic hopes in my blood,
Craving and sining for a drop of the eternal astral flood
Praying for my existance, nightly...
While dreams suddenly crush into the ashtray,
I am still here...wearing sable made of my thoughts, day by day...
I was born
And it just happened
For a reason...
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 12:42 PM UTC
unbearable ink
shallow needled skin
always commands
my groping eye's ardour
purpleredblueblack procession
passive pleasuring tea drinker
gilded she:
if not my hand so promised
to another's i would
make thee a screaming puddle
coiling ardent fever
scratch fervently at all my humors
so sipping sensual lady
sat in a
coffee house
metal nodes glisten
serene siren calling
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
She sits there,
Fingers entwined,
Face showing her tangled mind.
"I don't know what to write,"
She states, and follows,
"I don't have anything interesting
To say."
I ask her what she loves...
Sometimes it's horses,
Sometimes law,
Sometimes children,
Sometimes God,
Sometimes....
Always
Something that she loves.
And when she talks,
Her eyes grow bright,
Revealing memories,
To be nudged and wheedled,
Poked a bit and needled,
To find that sliver and
Extract the thought
On which to write.
Then off she goes to compose,
To start a journey up the path
We both hope leads to a diploma,
A job, a career, an opportunity.
When she is gone, I sit and muse....
I am a father and grandfather now,
Still adjusting training wheels and
Giving that first push,
Still patching skinned up knees,
Pulling slivers...
Sending children on their way.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
I cut my wrist,
Slit them,
I'll then make a fist,
Torture the tendons,
****** kiss,
Say goodbye to blood,
It's the warmth I'll miss.
But it's not a scratch,
That this cut need a million stitches,
Or that I'd flinch,
Away from the needles that aim for my eyes,
And it's no surprise,
That I,
Am not a fan of how you lie,
To me,
And I see,
With my needled eyes so holy,
Yet so empty.
Empty of your face and your fingers and hands,
That once held my face,
My face so close only the earth could understand,
Only the sky could know and cry,
For forgetting such a thing as this,
You and I,
Our ****** kiss that opened my heart as wide as this,
Both arms open wide,
And between then I hold the proof that you lied,
In between my arms held wide,
Is all the effort I could muster and I tried,
To believe what you told me,
But my mind wouldn't concede,
That it's really me you need,
I just don't see.
Maybe the needle in my eye has me blind to truth,
And I lay awake at night till day comes right,
Grinding my every tooth,
Until I have nothing but gums to bite at your shadow,
That single shadow I'd follow till I couldn't walk,
And when I couldn't walk I'd crawl,
Then when I ceased to call I hope you die beside me,
So that I could stave on your decay,
I'd live to watch you rot and say,
The way you fall apart,
It's beauty like I've never known,
I'll die happy when I die,
And I die today.
Jan 9, 2010
Jan 9, 2010 at 12:47 AM UTC