"needling" poems
Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves
Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,
Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.
Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week.
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.
What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.
16.9k
I'm immobile
As my dentist blathers
On events and people
That don't matter.
I'd rather he just
Get IT done,
Leave rants and jokes
And silly puns
For one not in
His dental dungeon.
Today was his crowning glory,
When he'd finished needling me,
Before he filled my cavity,
He suggested
I see a cardiologist
To fill the hole
Found in my chest.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
The Sansui turntable still works well.
Like memories, round and round,
Needling me. And the more I play them,
The more they itch.
I know the dark side of the moon,
And the way the sun shines.
The dances, whirlwind moves,
That have settled now.
Inside the sleeve are notes and our words.
I will not let the dust jackets do their job.
I set Abbey Road gently on the pad,
Place the needle softly, and hear the familiar scratch.
Standing back, like watching a parade,
I listen.
Here comes the sun on a cloudy day.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
If you're the needle,
Keep your eye
On the point.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
We're very much alike.
Poetry is our inspiration,
we were born writers.
People call us BBQ sauce snobs
wine connoisseurs
and brothers.
But he likes to dance
at night--
in the headlights
when the air pierces the skin.
His deep dark pockets
are an oblivion of cigarettes
and full minis of Jack.
Remind's me of Harpo.
He walks like a snake slithers--
body swaying
and a gleaming mischievous twinkle
in his eye.
We both enjoy crisp, autumn days,
but he prefers them cloudy--
dark.
He says it brings out the color
in the reds and orange leaves jumping off the trees to twist in the breeze.
Listening to stand-up is our solace,
though he says Hicks is god.
I say Carlin
His shadow reminds me of a demon--
the long lost son of Medusa.
He's not afraid to say what he thinks,
cause he knows he's right.
Sometimes I believe him--
he speaks with such nonchalant confidence.
There's always a needle on his words
swiftly flitting and flickering
like a flame he's flicking off his tongue.
And if his words hurt breaking the skin?
"Don't be such a ***** he'll snarl
before turning the charm back on
with a giggle and ironic wink.
He likes to collect
the faults in others
cause his thinks his **** don't stink.
He keeps reminding me of mine.
He enjoys needling
people.
We've known each other
for a long while.
Seems like longer....
but that's cause my roommate is me.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
Poetry is the string
looping through and
weaving out
the needling pain
It knits a beautiful
patchwork, coated with
colorful patterns
our fingers trace
threads of our lives
create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC
My tears are--
Narcoleptic diagonals
Collapsing forward-
Motion into neurons-
Bound-by-arteries
Instead of gravity.
They find construct,
By fluorine cyclamen
And wildebeest chantries.
But to understand
Is-bygone-remorse
Made of much more
Than clovers stitches.
Needling skin into bone.
Thoughts from flesh.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
Addiction's innocent cousin ***** needling into my veins
infected me seasons ago
the ache I once felt still strong as mast's girth
From wind to wind sea to sea we internally roamed
in my mind the map was a treasure trove for exploration
i never was bound to lake shore
wind whipping tide tussling rousing mornings and dusky
nights
My mistresses my pleasure gliding goddess
drift lazily and let me sing praise with shouts "Boom"
but coy or not I coil spry
aged not with time
but lessons learned
The youngest have yet to grow
knowledge of the mystery fables tell
of beautiful passings
Land's unreachable without proper direction
rudderless a hair's breadth magnified out of reach
cool autumn leaves fall on my skiff
She tugs at my heart and at your golden hemp locks
they have all my love stolen from your deck your bow
your stern your timber your core
but let us sail evermore
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
O-One has been kept waiting for a long spell
N-Not knowing if one can get out of this hell
E-Endless days one has spent in an unlit well
H-Hope seems not to be journeying one's way
U-Under clouds of darkness one shall e'er stay
N-Never shall one see a bright sunny day ray
D-Deemed to be unfit to walk that old hallway
R-Realizing this fact sure makes one feel gray
E-Excluded from the folks at the homely bay
D-Dare one say one is mired in a boggy clay
A-All is lost one can't redeem one's former place
N-Negotiations with other are now a void space
D-Dear me one is in a position of sheer disgrace
E-Ever so badly one did behave all that time ago
I-In hindsight good manners needed to be the go
G-Grave is one's standing and so very full of woe
H-Heck the word one called when one had to go
T-Tidings of ejection delivered by the boss honcho
Y-Yonder one was told on the spot to quickly go
D-Down in the dumps one has been for so long
A-Away at a lone outpost well out of the throng
Y-Yearning to once again hear their joyful song
S-So one is on an island for those who do wrong
O-Only three chances did one get at that game
F-Four weren't going to be allotted to this dame
F-Folly to think that one could avoid any shame
L-Leniency not given one has to wear the claim
I-In the finally wash up one's lesson is to be tame
N-Needling the boss honcho scrubbed one's name
E-Erased one shall be for being a bad egg dame
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
Dear abuser,
Because of you I shake at night
I see so many deadly frights
My arms quiver with needles bleeding
I can't beleive I didn't think you affected me
Every night I come home
I shower and cry about my life
Every person I talk to I distrust
I know suffering is a must
There is no silence
I only hear my weeping
And your yelling echoing through
I have new triggers I don't understand
Was this always your plan?
I yell and scream at things I love
I can't beleive in any God above
My heart panics if anyone's upset
My breath is stolen like I'm in a corset
I can't stand to be alone
But I can't stand to be too close
I'm afraid of anyone's touch
Every problem is just too much
I can't have a good day
Anything good changes and rots
Into the memory and fear
I hate myself if that wasn't clear
No matter how much I build myself up
How strong I may become
I feel so weak and alone
I feel like I'll never find my home
I stay up and ponder if I ever could
Tell everyone about the hell you gave me
Maybe that would help me
Or maybe they'd just laugh at me
I rip my flesh open
I bruise and hurt my own heart
I give so much of myself to everyone else
Because of the guilt I feel
Cause it was all my fault
I black out and forget things
My stomach twist and turns and stings
I have no energy to enjoy anything
Nothing in life is a blessing
I've emptied my body of any emotion
Because whenever I have any
It's endless crying and falling apart
Noone can break this ******* shattered heart
I'm afriad someone's behind my back
I'm afriad they're ready to attack
I'm afraid all I ever do is lack
I'm afraid of every ******* thing even a tack
I can feel you
I can hear you
Needling through my skin
Piercing my head with sin
Burning my body
Every night I relive it
All the pain I'm feeling I can't quite explain
Because at this point I consider it normal
Everything is quite plain
I'm tired of the pain I sustain
I'll never have kids because of you
I don't deserve love becuase of you
I can't see anything but pain
I can't enjoy anyone's touch
I know it'll never be love
Just let them all **** me
And I'll call it enough
Except I'm not enough
I'm disgusting and damaged
My skin is peeled and broken
Scarred and red
Too many tears I've shed
I'm labeled a freak and crazy
Life is kinda hazy
Am I real?
Can I ever heal?
I don't think so
I just want you to please go
All three of you
I see all of you In everyone I meet
The yeller the ********* and the molester
You're in the eyes of every person
I can't find comfort
Because you'll always find me first
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 3:52 AM UTC
I trained my gaze to turn a blind eye
To the incessant strobing wheedling away
Weeping willow tears, burrowing footsteps
Needling the swell of pure panic
When you said to me "The anxiety's
Bad at the mo", I became heavy with
The suffocation of 'What to do'....for you
My race to the winning post to
Grab the prize. the cure of all cures
The potion that'll dilute the multiplying
Butterflies grabbing onto your
Worry beads, slung around your neck
Should you forget their existence
A never ceasing adornment lines
Your palms with moistured intensity
Slips your grip on life, where once was peace
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
before the world ends
begin.
that you may not love
is the haunting.
where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.
and nothing is foreseen
like the past.
II
in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.
unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.
and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
She wanted to travel
Unravel the world
Like famous explorers
Who's wandering was all the will to ask
If there was anything beyond the horizon
That they could see.
Now shes everywhere -
Frozen stare, pigtails and grey red uniform,
Tie needling south with the straightness of a compass
And shes lost.
Where is she?
Everywhere anyone turns
Trapped in the undergrowth
Where cans and cat **** go to pasture
Her wrinkled smile
Is caked onto the branches
Paper machet - ed and as brittle
As an old map.
She breaks apart like bread crumbs
That will never lead her home.
Have you seen her?
Not tumble weeding her news
Across the m2
Or pinned to a lamppost
Weeping her ink into the missing
like a watercolour.
Have you spied her?
Not tied with weak ribbon
to brown stalks who's little
Notes speak of hope
And other things, like Angel's and innocence,
The innocence shes frozen in.
Can you find her?
Not hopefully
Flying her flag of the forgotten
On the tv
Budget crew
Remaking her last seen
With shaking cameras
And discount queens of the smaller screen
Hoping for Hollywood.
Is there a tangible
Left to her name
Thrown as it has been across
State lines, and small places
That only the locals know.
She has Columbus - ed the globe
And she only left home
Walked down her drive
And disappeared.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 5:39 AM UTC
~for Victoria~
*this by rights
an easy poem to inscribe
nonetheless the rhythm escapes me,
though the wordy contra-shades of
render and tender,
some incontrovertible, all well understood,
their complexity loved and
jointed-in-a-soul,
betrothing and forevermore
rendering, separating
two subtle words that shape
e v e r y t h i n g
about the this poet,
tender boy rendered man,
by many lifetimes that fit into no
storage shed(ing)
yet this new effort requires
effort,
the verbs ripped wrenched,
the nouns hide underneath profound,
notions needed for a potent potion release;
none, ****
do not come easy
so put aside for the
spilling
moment
though the urgency of the
needling
in-chest,
thumping,
begging
for release furiously,
fulfilling
the poets
doublin purpose:
created to create seeds
only this
a simplistic surrenders
from self, to self
emergent
tender me
the teary essence soup of human weakness
from which
to render
strength
from that brew,
give me beauty,
the keen and the ken
the crook and the hook
to desire the next days creation
render, tender me unto,
its new chance for
beauty*
6/2/18 11:30am
down by the riverside Peconic
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
The Rhino's last stand?
my eye's still baulk .
For 15 litres used, Fina offered collectable cards
and this free coaster.
I can only think of forecourt charges now
and blinding energy shortages,
needling the near skint.
Surely we had failed the insurmountable test.
Eco Care conditional on my father not being disparagingly cross promitionally conscious?
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
I don't write because I can,
or even sometimes because I want to.
I write because words surround me
in the air; glistening, screaming and needling
into my being--
infecting my crimson and azure paths
with their ( { ( { electric cacophony} ) } ), ( )
vibrating sacred whispers of musical patterns /<+>\
dripping directly into my spirit aglow with creation,
imbuing a certain serenity of past, now and future cuneiform tattoos
unto my mind--
high as a shooting star gliding in midnight moonbeams...
It's like when a fish stops moving it will die.
Every day it is a glorious struggle to keep up with myself,
these words,
so as not to drown in the insanity.
These words once inhaled by ancestors, whales and grass
hurl through space, time and the infinite creation
slamming into me;
a mercurial, rose watery doorway portal conduit transmitter
typing bebop lightning striking your match stick soul,
buzzing and manifesting rainbow jazz steps connecting us!
Dishonor would chew me from the inside out
should I not comply.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Noises, constant struggle,
Ever ending silence,
Pressure robust, indelicate,
Colors touching my dried tongue
My shoes are now heavy,
Sun became an enemy,
This needling sand,
Burden which directs me
I do not stop upon the tombstones,
But I have read every inscription,
Many times,
Reading until the end
I deceive my sight,
With a mirage of a mirror,
With surface all sweaty,
Undusted, begging filth to disappear
Faithfully, I search for a familiar face,
And doubts are all your freckles,
Chewing on my arms,
Never was there a plan
Step by step,
I am being gradually consumed,
A perfected torture,
Every time and always,
A lesser piece left
Now do I crawl,
Or am I painting circles,
This sullen land,
Once your joy,
Now my lair.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
The rain falls heavily
From depressed clouds
Of dark and mournful greys,
The torrent of water,
The sky's composure slipped away.
Needling drops ***** my skin
And crowns my saddened soul,
Sodden and embraced by cold.
My mind wanders far
Above these burdened clouds,
And their tears run down my face
Concealing my own
And washing silent pain away.
Now I and the rain
Have come together
In mournful harmony.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
The low hum
accentuates the pain,
needling vibrancy,
vivid-hues,
grafting stories
& inked impressions,
etched onto
your sweet-skin.
Such memories
& hurtful reminders
are told in cracked
kaleidoscope-colors,
bright dermis-murals
of your broken dreams
screaming for release,
remembering the beauty
of your heart,
now made warm
with skin-art.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
I dare you drive your car.
I'll walk between the crosswalk lines and bare the weight of all the lights and corners of the street.
The road is ground, ash and dust and still the dead can beat, there heavy hearts on souls of steel and never see what barrels down, but look to left and right.
So can you see the signs stamped
go? and stop, and find they mop you up.
From the road, they pack you up and weigh the load, with measure of your weight, with violence free.
So I doubt you ever will, allow your blood to spill.
But never will you know the cold.
Fruition at it's pace.
That in each turn see a door
without a mark,
to warn you halt.
Behind the the truth is stark.
It might be, that you have heart
and fear not cowards dread.
If of trial or not of trial, no courage and be dead.
So inturn be ground to black
the burnt and paved and lost.
Those with station ever grave,
and cross your heart intact.
For all is only constant,
Yet all the roads repeat.
With, of this the nothing.
Though we have the shapes.
Squares for stores,
Circles round,
That of destined loss.
Hope suspended,
reprimand, light house roundabouts.
That heavy air unbreathable,
And acts on ground conceivable,
Until the light you bend.
But yet we strive to different shines.
Those of different lamps.
Cramps of youth
Yearning now to smile at us, back .
For it was us in tiny rooms
destined to the sky.
The guile lost, with hope to find your foolishness intact.
If not of them and only you
Trails for them you make.
A road of trials, tribulations , so don't retract one act.
For such is shame.
The needling.
To never chance, the why.
That the hope might
Be there still
For daily do we lie.
That it is to the woods,
And oceans reasonings.
This our dusk with glimmer, gleam.
Our making's of a dream.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
You told yourself 25 was a good age to die
Ghosting on the tail end of youth,
The Grey would never touch you.
But 25 is here, and the razor is coppered from neglect
And the pills in the cabinet have long lost their voice from bitter age.
25 is here, and you're reminded of the deal you made with Death at 18
When the weight of life nearly killed you
And your idea of hope was the promise of an early grave.
25 is here, and you don't want to die
But the burden of years that have not yet arrived
Press down on your shoulders like the heavy hands of unwanted men.
And yet.
You don't want to die.
So you rely on your emergency exits
collecting dust under tarnished jewelry and gold-strangled hair ties.
Like old friends you meet up with once a decade, you pacify their need for acknowledgement,
Weaving nevers into not yets with empty promises and shallow reassurances,
Brushing off their needling whispers as they bounce off another day gone by.
Because you're 25.
And you're not done yet.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
There’s a drum set in my room. Just beside my bed.
I have 4 pairs of sticks; one has a broken head.
The cat is roaming around, finding a place to sleep.
He plays around with my blanket. Needling it with his feet.
A bottle of beer, half empty, half full.
Another half drank bottle of wine, a commodity of a fool.
A ***** ashtray in the table and a cigarette between my fingers.
Just right between my pinky and the ring, where it putridly lingers.
No one’s playing the drums, yet the silence is deafening
The broken stick head is still on the ground, where it fell from breaking.
The cat now quietly resting, just licked his nose after yawning.
His name is Sae, the syllable I say in a high pitch when I call him.
The beer is now quarter full, around hundred fifty milliliters
It’s 750 if full, but empty when touched by drinkers
The ashtray, dozen of butts, ***** of ashes
The loneliness, the silence, an evidence, a witness.
It’s just another night of my life, my joy, my agony
They said young life was fun, not for me.
I have no job, I have no partner, I have no money.
And just to make it worse, my father was taken away from me.
Now, I’m alone, though I still have family.
One from my father, another from my mother and a brother younger than me.
I’m not complaining about anything, I love my life and I live it too.
A philosophy of mine, ‘if you love love, love has got to love you.’
Even if love loves me, fate has other plan planned for me.
An invisible web of thread hidden from me.
Though it would be easier if I knew where I should go.
And not think of excuses and impromptu responses once the troubles grow.
I see the Sae staring at me, his eyes mildly close, but looking at me.
He wants to sleep but still waiting for me.
If only it was that easy, that one can sleep and forget everything.
A beer and a cigarette and every problem would be nothing.
A potion, a smoke couldn’t change anything, nothing at all.
But helps you forget the times fate made you crawl.
It would only give music for a silent night but noise for the trouble.
Lets you sleep, but wake up in the morning with the trouble doubled.
Fate, oh fate. If beer, smoke, music and Sae could only convince you.
That I’m young and senseless, would you make it easier for a fool.
If only the silence bear music, the beer give solutions,
the smoke give predictions, and Sae tell me that in fate, there’s no absolutions.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
The Love children gather in saffron meadows
needling their aura for
a portal beyond innocence.
Prophecies anew
points towards the stone canyons
where form undefined, almost contorted
settles on the former Moon children,
whose antecedences coexistence with their seven moons,
orbited the limitless vacuum.
A perchance to dream
to dare.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC