"nervy" poems
Everything was fine.
The friendship was steady
Our organs were just in line
Mistake from my brain was ready.
A night, a saudade night.
I was vulnerable so was my thought
At last thinking a sleep would just feel right.
Well, I got closer to the trap my brain brought.
An hour later, I found myself in in a room.
A familiar one, my chaps were there too.
I looked up I felt doomed.
Talked to my brain, yeah this is cool.
Well, we were all together,
happy and bloomed.
A friendly limerence, that's all we had for each other.
The chimera felt me like a perfume.
Suddenly, I decided to leave.
Wanted to freshen up my attire.
But was staring at myself with pure grieve.
Heard a sudden din, was a person I admire.
He stood there, just stared.
Tried interrogating him. once and twice.
But the movements were none, just eyes with care.
Now it was not just him, I too stood there just as ice.
Then his fingers caught my upper arm,
pulled me close to him.
His lips with thirst touch mine with charm.
Mine joined them too and weak were my limbs.
Merrily opened my eyes.
A weird curve ran across my face.
He stepped back, satisfyingly sighs.
Looked at me, smiled, gone were his trace.
Sudden shriek woke me up.
Perverse was what I felt.
But my brain had already ******* everything up.
Amity was surrounded by this wierd belt.
I reached, where my organs retreated.
Walked, each step filled with guilt.
The door of awkwardness met me and greeted.
stretched out my hand to open it with brain filled with jilt.
Sudden jolt, I felt.
A face, made me nervy
It was him, eyes with care and a smile with stealth.
Greeted him usually, but feelings were lively.
But I sure can't deny,
That I never wished it to be true.
Talk about it? I can't even try.
But want that feel of caress, just like a leaf groped by dew
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
After a lot to negotiate
toing and froing
you exchanged your teeny heart
for my bag of 18-something stones
I carried it home in a hurry
much lighter than I expected
for what looked like a big cherry
it was shaking when I checked it
I worried at its odd little quivering
a bit timid and nervy
like a leaf blown from its tree
but happy to have a new owner in me
I nestled it carefully
in my mother's best white sheets
but was scared to see
it start to bleed quite a bit
not that it might die
but about what my mother would say
about the red in the laundry
and what she might tell her mother
if she got it back needing a doctor
I decided to pat it
with a towel to keep it dry
no even better
shower it each day
keep it a bit moist
sprinkle it with Eau de Toilette
every morning blow it a kiss
like having a sweet pet
to greet after I shave
I wanted to rub my hands with glee
but it needed treating with kid gloves
and exercised in carefree handling
but first I had to squeeze it
not hard in case it burst
just in the middle bit
around its plumped up waist
it felt soft and squidgy
and beat quite quickly
not like my stones
I wrapped it up in a cooler
using styrofoam
aluminium foil
and a brown paper bag...
Styrofoam is a good insulator
and will keep the love from oozing out
the aluminium foil is a heat reflector
and the paper bag I am not sure about
but grocery stores offer them
to put your ice cream in
so it doesn't melt as fast
I had a meal of cheese on toast
then returned to check my box
your heart was not there to be seen
isolated in polystyrene
O dear I wished I'd cut a window
giving it room to see it grow
but then I spied you in the garden
painting stones to a wondrous glow
so lovely I traded back my carton
and your heart lit up inside for me
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
through shattered glass a broken mind
in one lone voice terse and cleansed
speaks unspoken thoughts of rusty will
nestled in spirit's brawny grasp
winged notions lay in wait
on woodless edges of fate's forest
relenting for relent's sake
heart-shaped clouds bleed sorrowed sheets
blanketing a clown of shame
huddled atop nervy stilts
embedded in the muck of mourn
furious fields forge fires of rage
a sweltering stench stands tall
in lockstep a ghosts parade
foggy silhouettes stop and gaze
watching, waiting, wanting
to rob future's grave of treasures past
scratched and bruised and battered lands
tattered bands of dreamscape caravans
timeless sands, spineless hands, heartless clans
among these, fate is planned
a distant city stands to fall
infidels shall cringe and crawl
brotherhood of hate begun
redemption of man undone
©Jason Cole
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
*all prayers are answered,
even if
they appear not to be
all prayers are answered,
even if
the answer is not to our liking
all prayers are answered,
even if,
tho not to our liking,
the answer is correct and
understood
(or not)
all prayers are answered,
even if,
even if our questions rarely get
a satisfactory response
in the answer
should it come,
will nervy never be
a fulfilling completeness,
a real understanding
for all prayers and all questions,
never give the,
cannot give
credibility to the posing,
of*
why me?
why them?
*which is why we pray,
and why we question
every day for the rest of our lives,
till it is someone else's turn,
to bear the burden of the
both the question
and the answer*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/729876/timothys-prayer/
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
afterparty mingle in a single bedroom vault wincing ceiling slopes so low condemning matter dance to fumbles and more penetrating life forces gum-balls into stressed room couple and squirm over into the crawl space hazardous music and metallic humour is pushing risks and insult no being is out of place pouting the smoke and store brand alcohol routing and deafening and defeating too much the gagster comes thundering down the corridor like he was wrought for applause he addresses those outside the room and it's wagging dogs and a face of cartoony ballooning pep it's hard to handle the wash of wording an assault of enthusiasm jester baits laughter with an old polaroid camera slamming open the door all tension his way he presses the button and projects them all against the walls 'Flash ****** ! ' he squells throws aside the camera 'People Pile!' he thumps into the crowd bed begging a play fight baroque girl hugging her knees crammed under the small sink to the side of the door reaches out a nervy hand and takes the discarded camera watches the ********** photo paper fade in slow retch her own pose lone excluded soul separate and saved she leaves with souvenir
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 6:22 PM UTC
I fear we have fallen
Into an English spell
Which subtly says to us
You are not capable
Wrapped in a golden
Envelope and slipped
Into our subconscious
With a diminishing smile
Should we trust the hand
Which patronizingly offers
Financial security while the
Other hand saps our strength
As they puff up their own ego feathers
As England waddles around the globe
Like a fat bird still hungover
From the British Empire
As they still play their empire game
With the fat turkey across the water
Is the only place we can
Choose to paint our face with
Our own colours is to remain
The sideline of a rugby pitch
As England paints its colours
And philosophy over our world
The spellbound English
May see themselves as
A well meaning parent
But they stifle our freedom
As we are made to feel like children
As they cast a net over us
Let us not be bewitched
By their bribery
Or consumed by their words
As they bind us to a wheelchair
We never needed
Let us raise our own ceiling
From its deflated value
We have been cast
Are we all fooled by
A blanket of economic mysticism
Are we not blessed with enough ability
Or should we keep sending our
Home work to London
So they may score our maths
Has England gnawed away at our
Self confidence for so long
That we ourselves on our knees
Unable to convince ourselves
Of our own capability
For we are not England
With its lost identity
As it spreads itself losing
All boundaries and self
Our first steps maybe nervy
As we seek our center
To find our balance
The choice is yours
But while our eyes are
Distracted and bedazzled
By the London elite
Our Scotland remains partially
Unseen and unheard
So let us turn our eyes back
And see our SCOTLAND
And hear him ROAR!!!!
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Dream forever drawing in
and holding hostage
on that plain between coroner's sleep
and fretful awakeness
a nervy brain-current
twitching REM
violent combat
forcing awake
to escape that relentless
scratching
Swollen eye
like a bee-sting kiss
Awaken to
birds' song
whose messages
translate
into
something else surpasses sleep...
Morning song enters
fears subside
life's dream
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
You're pretty and you know it
using those glassy eyes to tame -
my heart's suckered 'n you know it,
post-sex love purely (surely?) to blame
my mind melts as I grow weak at the knees
your gaze flitting from sultry to predatory -
blood gushes, adrenalin flushes
sweat dripping upon my skin lust-crazy, expectedly
oh I'll burn these nervy butterflies
with this blistering searing fury,
argh, stop this Pretence girl
'cause it's just starting to bore me -
*Mind Control to Inner Soul;
"what's your status?"
Inner Soul to Mind Control;
"help! The guts are dead and the heart is fractured!!!"*
my body slowly dying, polluted sick
with the caustic affection you instil
*"WARNING; cytoplasmic deterioration imminent -
extreme psycho-bitch overkill!"*
for now I know I must give up the chase
the Neurones have received a final transmission (oh please no, it can't be);
*"This is .. Inner Soul to Mind Control..
we're all so tired.. so tired .. so .. sleepy - - -"*
CLICK
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
A cornflower
lavish these
hearts of
gold in
fields will
enchant harvest
with sunshine
in a
row and
foothills dash
plains with
nervy glares
where whitewater
raft in
these rapids
that hallow
river bridge.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 7:31 AM UTC
Often I find myself waking up to the same dream,
Me and you relaxing by the sea,
Feeling the gentleness of the breeze,
Listening to the echoes of waves and buzz of the bees.
Hand in hand we take a stroll,
Bungee jump from the highest fall,
For a minute my heart takes a pause,
The excitement overwhelms me, but still I want more…
Go shopping in the mall,
Rush back home before rain starts to pour…
Giggles around the fireplace,
Drawn by a steady but nervy gaze,
Deep inside, our hearts converse,
Slowly we entwine in a warm embrace
Lips entwined, bodies tremble at each other’s touch…
You touch my heart, look into my eyes,
Whisper into my ear, “only here do I reside…”
Then like a ghost you disappear,
Along with my happiness, leaving me in despair…
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
*I'd see you in the last rays of dawn
tightly clutching curtains that ain't your own
in the wildflowers of seeds carelessly thrown
and untended to yet successfully in bloom,tenderly grown
I'd feel you in the hearts of the brave
in the uncertainty of the beautiful future I crave
and I guess you are the red pigment on soils in my waiting grave
for I'd even catch your stench in perfumed armpits after a shave
I'd see you hide within crevices on broken pieces
in the sighs held betwixt lovers kisses
the beautiful scores and near misses
the painful boils, greeting teeth and the winces
I'd see you everywhere, in the whole and them shattered beyond repair
in dreams and nightmare,in the rattling despair
flying in the jovial wind and floating on melancholic air
glued to the nervy moments sensing a stalker's stare
I'd catch a glimpse of you in the falling leaves
detect you in the ear that eves and heart that grieves
interred in all from toe bones to the heaving ribs
above a vengeful heartbeat and one which forgives
I'd be with you when the sun loses her place in twilight
you were in the picturesque patterns of starlight
in the ambiant flooding moonlight at midnight
in the game of my life, you were the highlight
you were something on the brain, a lull for my pain
the cleansing for every stain, the beauty of a sand grain
the inspirational cry midst deafening thunderbolts in storming rain
a hesitation, a refrain that uncabled me off the bandwagoned train
I'd feel you flow in my blood and let you on without question
my ascertion remains you were a cherished obsession
for I felt you in each cardiovascular expansion and contraction
a concoction of high addiction, a necessity for every occasion*
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
In recent effents. An undurled experience release a revelation that have reptured my previously durable ambitions.
A free thinkng fantasy. Was to have a voice that could move souls in the way some have noutured mine.
Alas on an ordinary unrepressed weekday I find myself ****** in a climactic judgement day for my previously displayed visions.
I found myself arounded by poetential assistants to finally lighting the spark that may lead to these fantasies to gainly a lively tone.
Musitions and I came together in a spontaneous gathering of the subjected topics being discussed and performed in a casual tone.
While the turn strummed their beat up six strings i merely nodded my head and let the music claim my conciousness. A farmiliar and personally well admired tune began playing. One of the gentlemen asked if I know the lyrical content of the contempory composition. After I informed him that I did the road of the dreamroad was about to split and i would make the pivitol turn through audition now. I was struck with overwhelming bashfulness and nervy contraction. It was time.
I took all the courage I had left. And rattled the shell of the cowardous creative chartacter who lives within me, and I sang. I sang as clearly and well as I possibly could. I gave a performance of my ambitious alter ego that even I had not seen.
After the song came to a close, andd my heaet returned to place from my throat. I recieved a nonchealaunt response to this desperately hopeful side. "You didn't like, sing in a choir or anything did you?" I answered him.... "no"..... The other judge drew back the curtains and the question was answered, and it was preceeded with a chuckle, and it wss all finished with a "we can tell."
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:28 AM UTC
we partied in a Chevrolet station wagon
the night we graduated went fast around the devil curves that
uphill gravel laiden course
to the top like we were the best
to the hill west of Rochester
where those acid drop rainfalls fell
into our open eyes
made rainbows kaleidoscopes
out of evergreens and
telephone poles
flashes shone in brief aware
and dreams they spoke out echoing
no one sane was here
found our way safely back
across the street from my house and parked behind the garage where
Hope came up in a tight dress
drunk and quite acting
nervy knowing she had
made all both our heads turn
or all ten of em
and only having one
Chevrolet
the backseat turned down
into almost a bed
we gave the pulsing energy
the flashes a go
a right groovy we
said at the time
one at the time impulse
the stars
the moon
the rocking
Chevrolet
all night
half the next day
I don't think it was
just my
imagination
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
*then you walk into the same forest,
and patiently sit,
until three owls congregate in
a trinity of call to a unison of a bell-ring
chime for the ear,
before the one-headed Cerberus appears
of the north of Gaelic folklore
chasing a rabbit into deeper shadow;
then you alone will challenge death's
sabbath each and every sabbath after
for years to come.*
but indeed we move with shadow
as body in the fathom of night,
in darkening of an opened eye
peering, to an illumination of
a closed eye darting...
but indeed we move as grey
between slacked dissection of white
into spectrum of rose, daffodil or sky...
we move as the grey
as the white equivalent in the dark:
the moonlit aluminium of faked ageing...
ascribe then a poem to an epic
of literature... care to dwarf origins? consent then,
and conscription to vox supra omni,
if not *vox *** ultra*;
the last time i heard of a psychiatrist
i spoke of drinking in Bower Wood...
at night... and spoke of reading Kierkegaard,
as speaking of a rebirth of Cnut...
there it ended, the modern inquisition
of desirable fact... in the lit safety of
unused scissors or syringes...
there was talk of drinking and the dark wood,
which drove away all hopes of exercising medication:
for the dark woods were the required medicament,
and the spawn of all congregating shadows
into a single headed Cerberus chasing a hare
from the many congregating, to parallel my nervy
silence of sight and such subsequent record.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
for me, the greatest escapade of a Thespian to will truth
rather than power, is to depict power as a nonchalance,
a shrug of the shoulders, it's not so much a willingness
for either, but a Thespian to depict a will to power,
it's to depict the truth behind it, a nonchalance...
best exhibited by roddy mcdowall
in the film cleopatra (1963) playing
octavian / augustus...
puppets on your mark, get tightened:
dangle dangle dangle;
crucifixions in syria are like throwing
raw chicken to cats in england;
go on... flinch or nervy eye a lid to twitch
that one into your reality as non-existent
because elsewhere or taboo so the tiara lady might mind,
as: ooh **** blush pluck a few roses while i wrinkle
a fake smile that's otherwise best represented true
around the eyes.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Hermits' hid in velvet shoes.
Nervy creature.
Out of sight and far from mind.
Nibbling buttercups and daisies.
Making chains around his neck.
He would if he could.
He lives on the hill in a crooked house.
A little bit rickety.
Just like his knees.
Ankles not much better.
His teeth are extended.
Walks up the path in a grubby old sweater.
Patches of mange.
A sweater made of holes.
A path made of crumbled stones and broken rocks.
They flick in his shoes and get stuck in his socks.
Well they hurt his feet.
This rabbit's foot's not lucky.
Doesn't like people much.
Homeward bound.
Heads to the hutch.
Has pet rabbits,
A family of.
He adores them.
Soft and fluffy.
He opens the hutch.
Piled up leaves of dandelion.
Hops in and snuggles up with his wife.
His boy came down the garden.
Put in the food and water.
Picked up my one of my kittens,
He's stroking my daughter.
He's the only human, kind.
He doesn't like people generally.
No time for them at all.
(c)Livvi
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
Thieves are the night
But they are not thieves
That is just a dusty title
They take only in your sleep
And they take only what you don't have the strength to discard
In dreams you must shed clean
And rest in your new vulnerable sack
Or you shall insomniate in your kept leavings
You'll go quick mad with trains of ideas
And fast blood
Many perish when they power the buffets
And tightening elements
Instead of serenely observing from within the sway
The thieves are amiable in our sleepy wound
But stray awake
They become fidgeting dead weight in blotted corners
Or perched leaden upon your chest
Playing with different ****** experiments
A knowing one over a fearful child
They are soon to knit together
Your heart condition
Your madness
Or your nervy puppet disposition
And your **** path
To a less restless
And more organic bed
It is here that I must rest my words
And match the horizon upon a mattress
I breeze my mind
And project a welcoming state
To the thieves and the night.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
there is you and me
you is sunny
me is nervy
and time stands still
an easy touch
from distant
when i stare
at you
a weird flex
you are so near
i can feel your warm
so foolish of me to
be near you
and still feel
this shake and panic
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
Roth was a great lover of music
Old-timely big band show times that evoked memories in living rooms across white America
Provoking melancholia for what was assumed lost.
He was a master of writing technicalities
Knew the stitchings in a pair of men's brown leather driving gloves
Like they were poetic metre
Knew the nervy velocity attended to the beating of a heart through a stethoscope .
He wrote more novels that can be read in most lifetimes
As he had five different versions of himself to think through.
He wrote half a novel in the voice of an actual ex- lover
He was not particularly good at writing women.
He was unsurprisingly/surprisingly good at writing about the realities of race.
He often cared little for reality
but could tautly pierce at the authenticity to be found
in "social realism."
He wrote standing up
Cried that novel was dead when really he was dying
He was both acutely aware and ignorant of this
He will be buried outside of Newark, presumably.
His career trajectory is unique in American letters in that it crystallized the vogue for American letters, ****** up the body, peaked and troughs with death, surveyed the end of American Innocence over four decades and closed at a summer camp.
His themes, in that order : Heartache, *** Motherlove, Therapy, Body Horror, Satire, Egomania, , father hunger, Death, the state of the nation, regret, race, life inside the academy,fascist media darlings, liberal terrorists destroying their family narratives,Death again, old *** absolute suicide in words, adolescence.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
There’s a weather warning out
The wind is going to clout
They say it’s the west
But it came unto the east
It has a name, the beast !
Well the rain came down
Luckily we didn’t drown
Heavy though it was
Then the wind attacked our garden
Turning over furniture
Moving Buddha quite a way
And that was only yesterday
I hate to know what next
What will it do today?
The wind makes me quite nervy
Everything topsy turvey
Indoors I think I’ll stay !
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 2:01 AM UTC
Watching the marching ants,
While I wondering their monotonous strife,
A weary one left the line, away he walked to a lonesome land.
Hands on head with faltering gait,
Dearth of joy, he wandered a bit.
There he lied low to the ground,
Kissing mother earth like a depressed ant.
Is he an osculator, mourning on his vacant love?
Or he an emulous one, cudgeled by a better brain?
A miffed rummager of copious grain,
Or he repenting on a horrible crime?
I pondered on his dreadful distress
Longing for the profound stillness.
Watching the painful life, astir my humanity,
Finer ways I posit, to end his endless tomorrows,
From a creative mind, unknown to the quizzical ant,
First I gifted a bubble of water, for him to drown in style.
But he moved in insolent silence,
May be knows the art of swimming!
Then I helped him to the edge of the land,
For a profane jump to the bottomless deep.
A coward fearing height he retreat,
Back to the land panting nervy.
Later I offered bane of death, but he sniffed and moved away.
Then a knot for him to hang, eyeing it he jumped through it.
While my drained splendid mind, puzzled by his mocking insolence
Sneering at my humanity, picking a hill on his shoulder
He walked back to the line of labour, leaving me - the foolish human.
Life is dancing in the background, on the stage of silent death.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 3:31 AM UTC
Her pupils reflect the light which bolts upon her screen
To change direction and find the beauty on her face.
Her hair is the color of milk chocolate and shares the sweetness
With the cotton candy consistency it contains.
Her nose is a newly planted trunk blooming flowers of beauty
And with each bud comes a new light.
Her lips are two rocks exerting energy against each other
As if hesitant to speak.
As if she'd ever speak to me.
And as if I'd ever agree.
Because beauty and nervy were never meant to meet
Much more is that they were never meant to be.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
The roads in religion are swervy
The nutters are really quite nervy
They say god plays a part
In all life from the start
To me seems a little bit pervy
rc
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC