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Jordan Gee Jul 2022
spanish

I’m sitting in the 8am sun by the end the driveway,
trying to get a handle on the day.
folding chair
house basket
coffee.
such is my custom
and my delight.
driveways are a luxury this part of town.
my back is to the brick
sidewalk to my right
sunshine upon my face and forehead
eyes closed.
a rundown hispanic fellow
about my age
appears
from nowhere
out of my blind,
asking for a lighter.
my eyes open and all is light.
he recognized my lighter sheath
heavy *** metal with the bottle opener at the bottom
told me that he had had the same one;
picked it up from some no name bodega
out of where he originated in
spanish harlem.
he began telling me his life story, you see.
he never heard the word
‘****’ until he moved to
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
told me he was the black sheep
of the little family he had left,
and that he hadn’t seen them in years.
he stood before me on the sidewalk
in the morning sunlight.
I asked him for a cigarette.
he was raised tangled in
a cultural straight jacket;
one tailored to his demographic.
an urban person of color.
his Divine Masculine
red lined and impoverished.
hand me down outfit
tj max rap music video.
I told him I identified as a stray dog,
sitting by the end of the driveway
8am sun.
he told me he was just doing the best he could.
best he can
with what he got.
our hearts were bleeding there together
pooling up on the driveway
8am sunshine
sky, blueish white.
I told him where I worked,
gave him the address
told him
come get some free samples of CBD.

everyday I forget that
it isn’t my job
to
save anyone.
he’s walking away with a limp up west orange.
i close my eyes.
I hope he doesn’t need any CBD.

©️  Jordan Gee
Boundaries
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
In your vision you are the only thing with bloodshot eyes.
You always wear a robe
that speaks seven languages... and a bank of fog is at your feet
nipping at your naked heel.
In your vision you remember how your arms feel in sunshine.
It is intense.

Your can-opener is hissing an etude
that alludes to wise men...
who bathe in miracles
and roam the world,
untarnished in Poverty.
Your can-opener whispers in hush tones
about barbarians at the gate. And they say
' they've come for the Linen ! '

You are not deceived.

In your vision you are the only thing that can backward engineer
a Universe.

On your way back to the homeland of your algebra
you hesitate. “ you may have left your keys in your Other Robe...”
The Robe that hallucinates constantly~ Carrying on about
' The dire consequences of leaving terrycloth alone with the keys '
and, afflicted with Prophesy Tourettes
the piteous tide of doom ' sayeth the robe '
you must suffer.

In your vision, you are the only one
looking for the keys.
R Mar 2018
The extra,
Understudy,
Alternate.

I’m the topics not covered in health class,
The friend you only talk to once you’ve run out of options.
The opener for Duran Duran,
The new moon not seen,
The sexuality deemed “fake”,
That feeling you know but can’t name,
The secret you’re forced to keep hidden,
The rock in a sea of people terrified of change.

But Change is what you do,
And leave me,
Your sickbed shirts,
In a crate.
Me,
Your wooden pipe,
In the trash can.

You terrorist.
You Ziggy Stardust,
Landing on this rocky planet
Only long enough to make a mark,
And then changing,
Leaving me counting on the 3 hands I used to carry your baggage,
The number of things I did wrong.

If you were human,
I’d be a dog.
You’re the ocean.
I’m rock.
I’m the extra,
Understudy,
Alternate,
Unspeakable,
Acquaintance,
Lone wolf,
Phased rock,
Fake,
Forgotten,
Desperate,
Unchangeable,
Other.

“But that’s okay.
You’ll change.
It’s just a phase”
Ziggy Stardust - "making love with his ego" - Ziggy Stardust from the album Ziggy Stardust and the spiders from mars
Duran Duran/lone wolf - Hungry like a wolf
Haley Smith Jul 2015
There is a young girl to the right of me.
She is around seven.
There is an older lady to the left.
She is around 60.
I am in between.
I have already been the younger but I will soon become the older.
But right now I am young and I am me. It was just a real eye opener I guess.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.

They pipe in.

The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.

My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.
howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
Broke A Musician Mar 2014
You get signed you think you got it made.
You sign a contract ripping you off,
life *****.
Destiny lost and dreams shattered.
Is nothing real?
Rewarding people addicted to apps
with gift cards to use to buy apps
and my songs?
Big eye opener and know why
I get paid a small percent.
How much did you pay that youtube
promoter to give me 6 million views?
You said that's how it works and how
major celebrities get tens of millions
of views.
Music WAS my destiny until
I see how fake it is.
Rusty Jul 2015
Always trust it, don't ignore what your instinct, intuition, gut, whatever you wanna call it. Don't ignore it, and you should probably invest more with it. Its a big eye opener
Once there was a Cup
And inside the cup there was a Dragon
And the dragon shrank to the size of a pencil sharpener
And inside the pencil sharpener there was a needle
And the needle grew to the size of a chopstick
And I used it to clean my ears
And Ive been hearing better ever since.

With my newly clean ears
I realised that
I'd heard the poem all wrong.
What it really said was...

Once there was a Hat
And inside the hat there was a wagon
And the wagon shrank to the size of a bottle opener
And inside the bottle opener there was a beetle
And the beetle put on some lipstick
And I used the lipstick to help me speak more clearly.
And I've been speaking more clearly ever since.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
'They used us!' Ivan railed.
Eli barely glanced at him.
'You got paid, didn't you?'
Is it always about money?
Yeh, whether we like it or
not. so like it. Asia, Australia,
Guam, Saudi Arabia, including
Saudi Arabia, United Kingdom,
Europe, Russia, Scotland,
Avram, United States, Canada,
Saudi Arabia, Australia,
Saudi Arabia, United Kingdom,
Australia, United States.
'They arrested your President,' said
the poet at last. Now, Eli looked
right at him. He's not my president.
Women lamb city of dead mother              'I'll have a drink, he added.
red light musical eyes girl good nights       '**** right you will," Eli said.
Australian death death green African
American youth in Asia's first trio
beautiful image of water,
Italy, Canada and a harlot;
John's black skin and English
hair; Europe, Europe of Europe
and had a good time in the life
of children's white children's stars
instead of blood
South of light star color; Jorge Greece's
son of son of son of the exact date on Po
cold day yellow feet long dress hot dog al
head of gold a homework from the beauty
of a single example of a woman,
a Yorkish woman facing the French food
Who school steals the minerals Rock
poet-police; July finds the heart of the glory
of heaven and earth has trouble with
all the bad money identified with the Roman;
Acid Life of the Latin Sea to the Thomas
Blue semi-naked Christian future minutes
in the morning on the ship, the old life in Kenya,
a woman holding a shadow with northern
yard donkey, flowers, art and painting a real iconic image
of the so limit
of gold goes Saint Jesus of his own story
google google logo top robber dog die daily
sales slogan hell new radio and radio-head
son of a female hand SAD daughter real t
cheating song of the American Frontier. Igor uu
called s hot dancer's fingers a Hebrew dream
dream robot dreams of balloons on Christmas
in the Natural Park of the lyrics of the sky the
color of a mirror Of course many Stella
William Center New Asia Chinese
German Football fun way to master
boys second street Italian real
voice voice rocks WiLD Spain to play the speakers recently
wrote the author's song; soon the Mountains
waiting for European
computer security Science Christian Science
knowledge is difficult to walk the last of vitamin cooling,
food to reduce England to hear crazy brain reason
for better use God, the gate of China-El ruled the earth
Unknown sweet pain, Bob and the announcement
of the tobacco family, poor poets' star Satan
cares for the dream field's ***** museum;
Einstein's Blind Cat, snow and dark
hearings in front of the table, the mother of modern
warm feelings, memory;
operating system already walking a public prophet's
healthy prophesy of a fish ****** at dawn
asking about angel physics and games
full of society's rules; St. France Rosa
Maria catches the new stain glass and
asked to eat a photo of the army; Photo
taken on a gay beach semi-sand list Barbie "Barbie"
hybrid kiss kiss Gypsy house wall Ireland car special
and clear the bed; bed, cat to keep Georgia's
silver waves Voice k indifferent group of deaf;
No ten hours of sleep, writing, walking and
plastic angel; the angel Paul Changing the footage
of EMY magic bed empty of the soul of Revolution,
sniffing and struggling for a hidden gem General
Solomon game drinking invisible invisible
rain cat cat cat mother cat reading external
alcohol, and Alcohol mounted
the light ,something appreciating
write; write Bettie perfect teeth
and perfect skin buried in earth motion
in the form of fat in a run and peaking
***** woman holding a purpose to **** Tito,
however, they begin to bear Birt Lifishoch'si
Desert Photo Photo Floor to **** a cool,
dark part of the Wet Gun,
make sure the Witch Bent
Indirectly Any Con Africa
or Pinda Hole Desperation
Ugly in All Languages ​​
no Bar to Ivan, a bar and a simple
point dot wedges
for an opener, the girl said
in the ghost meat import room
for him to take her body,
box, boy, Mexican meat,
house, night, drawing, fall's fake short hair,
ladies hair, city fire'[s flame of killers,
food, minutes, sixty, , Russia, Spain,
Canada, Europe, Russia, Spain and Rome,
Italy. Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia,
United States, United Kingdom (7), Canada,
Russia, Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia,
South America, we have the United States,
Russia, Italy, Canada, Russia, Italy
and Saudi Arabia, United States, Canada,
United Kingdom, United Kingdom,
United Kingdom, Scandinavia, New York,
Australia, Da Nang; Saudi Arabia Saudi
Arabia Saudi Arabia Saudi
Arabia Arabia Saudi Arabia
Nicole May 2017
She climbed out of the window to her bedroom and into the cool night sky. Dressed in black ripped jeans and a dark colored hoodie, so she dissolves into the darkness.
A case of Corona in her hand, she jumps the few feet to the ground. Her knees bend to soften the harsh landing. She stands back up to her full height, though it isn’t that tall.
Her hood, covers her face so that she is a mystery.
The night time accepts her with open arms, understanding that she needs to be unknown for the time being to be her true self.
She stalks away from her ‘home’. Her sharp, rushed movements standing out against the white walls. Then she breaks off into a run, wanting to get away as fast as she can, not being able to stand being close any longer. She runs to her night time escape, laying down in the middle of the field underneath the leafless tree.
She looks up at the stars, wondering who each one was.
What kind of souls turn into stars when their time on earth is up?
She lets the hope that she is one of those souls slip into her mind just this time. But for only a moment, before pushing it away.
Her experience with hope has shown her that it only brings pain and heartbreak.
She reaches over to the 6-pack and takes a bottle out, sitting up. It settles into her hand like it has been destined to since it’s creation, comfortable between her fingers. She takes the bottle opener out of her left pocket and brings it to the lips of the bottle. The top pops off in one fluid motion, the practice she’s had making it as easy as breathing. She brings the rim to her chapped angry red lips, then tilts it up quickly, taking a short sweet sip of the poison ambrosia.
It tickles as it slides smoothly down her throat. She lets a small content sigh slip out and be taken away in the breeze. At home, that is how she feels sitting underneath that tree.
The stars are her shelter and the field is her bed, soft and welcoming, the tree, an old friend. Here she lets the tears run freely down her face. The salt water mixing with the bitter taste of alcohol.
She’s screaming, wailing.
Asking the universe why she hates herself so much, why they don’t want her. Why can’t he love her the way she loves him? Why can’t she already be dead? Maybe then he would realize just how much she meant to him, how much he meant to her.
As she lets this fire slip from her throat, she doesn’t notice the boy dressed in blue on the other side of the field. She doesn’t realize she isn’t alone until he is sitting next to her with one hand grasping hers.
She startles when his skin comes in contact with hers. Then she looks at him, his blue eyes, blue face, blue heart, blue soul, unsure if he can be let into her secret home. He sees her hesitate, so he brings her hand to his lips and whispers his secrets into her skin.
The tenseness in her shoulders is released and she squeezes his hand tightly. They are both on a mission to escape the lives they live.
Both have minds burdened with memories and bodies littered with scars. Running from the demons in their homes.
She reaches over to the cardboard keeper of sins and plucks another bottle from its grasp. She takes the opener and rips the top from the bottle’s lips, handing it to the Blue Boy.
He takes it with the hand not wrapped in hers and brings it to his lips quickly. Tilting it back, he downs the whole bottle. He sets the empty bottle back into the cardboard as its poison takes effect.
Then he’s stumbling to his feet and dragging her with him, towards the forest standing menacingly behind them.
She runs after him, feet not quite touching the ground and laughter hanging in their air. Engulfed in darkness under the canopy, they giggle and whisper secrets of death.
Without the stars to see by, they fall into a rabbit hole. Spiraling down to their private Wonderland, where there is no home for them and the Mad Hatter is their friend.
They can run through clouds and save each other from the demons under their beds.
Their bruises scream, convicting the guilty and their memories wail in relief from them.
But Alice couldn’t stay in her Wonderland, so neither can they. Waking from their dream, back underneath the tree, weeping at the loss of the make believe and forced to go back to reality, where their demons have them in a choke hold and the guilty hide behind atrocious lies.
girl diffused Oct 2017
Sleek dark hair
Highlights of auburn, color of fall
Stern lips
A look of austerity in the dark russet eye
Skin lighter than my own
The smaller wrist
Large eyes
Faint deepening crow's feet
Nursing knowledge
Small, short, slight, petite, and strong
Maternal vanguard
Matriarchal
Beautiful and earthly
Scorpionic elusiveness
Her unused canvas
Frequent Homegoods purchased
Shifts decor in the livingroom like a Feng Shui practitioner
Laughs at the absurdity of modern horror movies
Smells like bath wash and too much perfume
Smells of my childhood
Smells of my innocence
Paperbacks of Hugo and Austen in boxes in the basement
Paperbacks of The Symposium and a biography of Marx in the basement
Secretly likes to cook
Culinary explorer
Gastronomically open
Culinary door opener
Very little circle of friends
Outspoken
Austerity on the small mouth
Austerity in the small mouth
Conviction in her voice
Soft graphite in her voice
Has a lisp sometimes
The slight overbite(?)
Immigrant parent
Unnaturalized citizen
Reminds me of fall
Reminds me of everything
Reminds me of very little at once
Life-teacher, one of many
Protective
Over-protective
Pushy
The way her hand moves on her tablet
The way her voice sounded during a lecture when I was a child
The way she used to hug
Closet full of shoes and clothes she rummages through when she's going out
Meticulous cleaner
The way her voice sounded when she tried to make sense of me
The way her voice sounds
...
List poetry. An experiment in profiling a close loved one.
davi bauer Aug 2013
The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.

A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.

Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.

The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.

The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.

The  guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.
Irial PR Foy May 2016
You have edges too sharp to touch without gloves
And I never had the need for gloves before,
I’d held throwing knives between my teeth and called them my friends,
held machetes at arms length, called them family
used Scimitars as my teachers
But I’d never shared my bed with my blade before you,
I know you never really meant to cut me,
But I can’t explain away these scars to my lovers anymore.
You are made of nights of video games and music,
of showing up at my house at 10 at night and romancing my mother into thinking you are perfect.
She hates my partner who has never laid their edges on me, but thinks you are the perfect roman sword, that you will take down armies, you’ll give me dynasties on our wedding day
She asks when you’ll come around again, I tell her eventually you’ll be back
That you’ll raise an army,
I never tell who your army will be fighting.


It took three years to draft the plans
To forge a blade that rivaled your beauty.
You are a titanium oxynitride coated body I found by my bedside one night,
left behind by a boy trying to outrun dresses, to melt himself from a military issue P-38 Can Opener to his own pocket Knife,
You taught me that boys are pocket knives.
They have edges dulled over the years by parents,
rust spots that make them different and beautiful, but less deadly
Most are safe until you find yourself in a back alleyway with that creepy boy from your favorite bar holding himself to your throat,
But your mother built you different,
Only ever meant for small tasks,
she forged you as something to be used sparingly,
she thought it would protect you.
But you’ve got a broken spring,
it looks like a four-year-old's slinky and I thought I could fix it.
I thought I could make you better,
but you’ve got a locking mechanism too faulty to promise my safety.

Everyone told me it was my fault,
that a person should never sleep with a weapon, it’s begging to get cut.
I thought they were right.
Told myself if I was my own blade i couldn’t get cut because no one else would want to share a bed with me.
I built myself with a better locking mechanism than you,
A custom one I designed in my lonely workshop, told myself I’d never cut someone I loved.
But I’m thinking of her.
Her blonde hair and blue eyes, a color that haunts my dreams.
Scar covered and war torn
The strongest heart I’ve ever held
I didn’t mean to cut her,
But me and her, we are matching blades,
I tried to teach her to love her steel and it worked
She still calls me on weekends
tells of her new weapon,
a beautiful new blade made out of understanding and wonder,
Tells me she wishes we’d worked out,
that we were not matching blades, but a set.
But I’ve learned better,
You can not make sets out of blades made of people
You can only pair with yourself.

I’ve learned that pocket knives grow into blades longer than my forearms,
Pocket knives can grow up into swords meant to protect, not just harm
And now I hang swords on my wall,
keep them on my contact list,
Know they will pick me up at midnight in the middle of nowhere when I’m scared of another Pocket knife.
I will share my bed with them, and try not to cut them with my own twisted metal skeleton.
dianne galande Jan 2017
It started well
like the past few years
But this one?
An eye-opener

School was great,
Problems came.
It wasn't bad
rather, a challenge

it was to be learned
then it will
hoping for progress, wait
not hope but strive

crushes came
infatuations maybe
heartbreaks
they were lessons too

source of knowledge,
teacher of all things;
experience

Great experiences
the good and bad
will come and go
life goes on :)

Entering year 2017
Happy new year!
#SelfComposition
How had he found himself in this dungeon
a knight thrown in here.
Sent by his king on his first secret mission
true he was dressed as a peasant.
Harshly he'd been treated a new experience
but not regretting being sent.

This awful place never inside one before
an eye opener for him.
Here he couldn't stay had to escape
report back to the king.
Noticed a sharp piece of wood at hand
shouting out a demand.

The jailer angrily came to the cell door
he banged on the grill.
In a temper the snarling man entered
within seconds he was dead!
Silently falling on to the dank stone
the knight left alone!

Few humans scurried about in passageways
of the castles lower depths.
Coming upon a sentry post a guard stood
soon his life had expired!
Putting on the uniform he was going home
with a sword he would roam.

Very lax security the knight slowly walked
into the alien countryside.
Luckily not challenged he saw a lone soldier
getting off his horse.
Never feeling the blow now homeward bound
with the information found!

Indeed the Barron was a traitor to his king
the knight an army would bring!

The Foureyed Poet.
A knight found himself in a dungeon but he had to escape. Sent by his king on this secret mission had to get home! The Foureyed Poet.
Oskar Erikson Oct 2023
take me taste me
you are the body
reset me satiate me
you are the body.

touch only
fragments of the full picture
nobody says
the taste would betray me
nobody says
the heart
is the first ***** to commit mutiny.

stabbed, wrecked
punctured, indented
wilt the words so
so my mouth
isn’t responsible anymore.
it cannot be held accountable
for the vowels, unroot my language
supplant love in favour of it

like an opener
                            I remember your laugh
like a close.
SC May 2015
The perfect man for me
may look very plain to you...
However I see him as
tall, handsome, and so very intelligent.
He understands my weirdness-
how I find humor in things that really aren't so funny.
We will talk ... just talk - for hours.
He shares my intellectual curiosity -
such as wanting a working understanding of string theory.
He is strong and forceful -
not to be confused with being a bully.
He picks his battles, and understands when I pick mine.
When I over-react
he understands that is coming from a place of insecurity.
He respects that my experiences have reinforced that insecurity.
He handles it -
usually by saying "What the **** is the matter with you?"
That, for me - not necessarily any other woman,
is a conversation opener.
I know he really wants to know what is going on within me.
I know he cares enough to listen
to really hear
my pain.
He will dance,
maybe not so well but willing to give it his all.
He can laugh at the fact that he doesn't
dance so very well -  
that makes me so proud to be
the one whose feet he is stepping on.
He will love the beach, long walks, marathon NetFlicks
and my dogs, all three.
He will not be threatened by the love I have
for my sons.
He will respect that when it comes to my children-
I am a lioness.
I will protect them at all costs
while being 100% loyal to him.
He will listen to my opinion.
He will be strong enough to challenge my opinions-
He will tell me when I am wrong
and appreciate when I do the same for him.
Every night he will hold me until I fall asleep
the rhythmic breathing while he sleeps
fills me with a sense of belonging,
He will make me feel safe enough to love
and feel secure enough
to be loved.
Importantly - I will cherish
every moment with him-
and appreciate that
I am lucky enough to be
the one he loves.
Paul M Chafer Aug 2015
Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
     Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
     Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.  
     I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.  
     The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain.  If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
     Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.
A true story, told in prose style with a pantoum seal.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

I lived my life as if
I had been written
into a Barbara Pym novel

so prim and proper lady I
my soul smoother'd in camphor
yet my life...wot the mot hath got

and here I be
curled upon the Persian rug
in the foetal position

being born
into my dying
as it were

me an elaborate motif
beside an exquisite phoenix
oh the warp and woof of me

so this is death
rather nice
as these things go

not too much( ouch )pain
more easeful and slow and
when ya gotta go...ya...gotta go

rather like that Manx man
was it Brown...or...something
"...if thou couldst empty..." oh what is it?

"...all thy self of self
to be a shell dishabited..."
bit like ha ha that...innit( agghh )

wonder what an anthropologist
from...say...Borneo
would make of me

I'd guess I'd be
so quaintly ever so English
so cue-cumber sandwich

settling down with a Pimms and a Pym
being one of those Excellent Women
**** this dying....haven't even read the book

only got as far as
p.15...how mean
the great unread

the words sticking in my brain
something being "...a welcoming
sort of place...

with a bright entrance..."
as if Mr. Death were saying
"Why...that's what I am!"

"Yeah, yeah...sure sure'"
I answer all Film Noir
another of life's little pleasures

the stuffed bird
stares at me sternly
deigns to speak

"Now that you are going to be
as dead as me...may I
have a word?"

it coughs unaccustomed
as it is
to public speech

"It's not so bad
being dead
it's being stuffed that hurts!"

the cat joins in
with its customary "I'm starving...
ya couldn't open this tin?"

now the cat howls
oh to have opposable thumbs
or a can opener at least

the stuffed bird and the cat and I
singing along to Beverly Kenny
smiling from the record sleeve

"Oh this used to be
my favourite as a girl
'I Never Has Seen Snow."

"Oh the girl I used to be
she ain't me no more!"
I could always carry a tune

the stuffed bird can't
sing for nuts but
the cat's got a good tenor voice

me...I'm letting go
the world is walking out on me
the world don't want to know me no more

I've even forget
can you Adam and Eve it
how to spell... fo'c's'le

my garden looks in
the window at me
well here's a howdy do

I never was '...a lovesome thing..."
even when young
"God wot!"

hee hee hee T.E. Brown
appears to invade the mind
when one is dying

and what would that Borneo
anthropologist make of that
or my love of Jazz

grabbing the music
by the tail as it shape-shifts
improvises world upon world and beyond

oh to be dying
in a smokey jazz club
thoughts climbing a spiral staircase of smoke

"All that is...is not!"
now I wonder where
I got ha ha that

would the man from Borneo know
that is Phil Woods on
the Quincey Jones arrangement

"Oh I love sax me!
never could say the same
for ***

well - enough of that
better get on with
my death

and what better way to go
than with Beverly singing low
always thought I looked a bit like her

she smiles that record sleeve smile
the one I tried to sculpt
upon my own features

"I saw a new horizon
and a road to take me
where I wanted to be...needed to be.... took"

"God! I'm only starving!" yowls the cat
"Ya couldn't feed me before ya go...no
**** those...**** those cans!"

"Oh ****...oh ****!" she purrs
the record's...the record's...the record's
stuck
INDWELLING

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
And say — "This is not dead," —
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That, when He comes, He says — "This is enow
Unto itself — 'Twere better let it be:
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."

T.E. BROWN

I Never Has Seen Snow Lyrics
I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW

done lost my ugly spell
I am cheerful now
Got the warm all overs a-smoothin' my worried brow
Oh, the girl I used to be
She ain't me no more
I closed the door on the girl I was before
Feeling fine and full of bliss
What I really wants to say is this

I never has seen snow
All the same I know
Snow ain't so beautiful
Cain't be so beautiful
Like my love is
Like my love is

Nothing do compare
Nothing anywhere with my love
A hundred things I see
A twilight sky that's free
But none so beautiful
Not one so beautiful
Like my love is
Like my love is
Once you see his face
None can take the place of my love

A stone rolled off my heart
When I laid my eyes on
That near to me boy with that far away look
And right from the start
I saw a new horizon
And a road to take me where I wanted to be took
Needed to be took
And though
I never has seen snow
All the same I know
Nothing will ever be
Nothing can ever be
Beautiful as my love is
Like my love is to me

Harold Arlen/Truman Capote

from THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS musical

MY GARDEN

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot—
The veriest school
Of peace ; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not—
Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
‘Tis very sure God walks in mine.

T. E. BROWN

She used to sing along to the Quincey Jones arrangement with Phil Wood featuring....yea he of that famous alto sax solo on Billy Joel's JUST THE WAY YOU ARE.

Beverly Kenny is now more remembered for her I Hate Rock 'n' Roll but was a young  up and coming singer who died too early by her own hand.

My lady in the poem did indeed look very much like her and one was often disconcerted by a record sleeve looking back at one with my lady's young face. I never cared for her much except for her version of I Never Has Seen Snow. Curiously the Japanese to this day adore her. I was more of a Julie London man don't ya know.

The rather excellent Barbara Pym was another stand by or go to...EXCELLENT WOMEN was her second book and on p.15 there indeed occurs the line...

"A vicarage ought to be a welcoming sort of place with a bright entrance."

She was Philip Larkin's favourite novelist.

My lady was the very model of a modern curmudgeon and not everyone could stand her but I got on well with her seeing as I knew both Brown and Pym and could sing along to I NEVER HAS SEEN SNOW.

fo'c's'le was necessary to complete a crossword and she was getting very cross at not being able all of a sudden to spell it.

The forecastle (abbreviated fo'c'sle or fo'c's'le)is the upper deck of a sailing ship forward of the foremast, or the forward part of a ship with the sailors' living quarters. Related to the latter meaning is the phrase "before the mast" which denotes anything related to ordinary sailors, as opposed to a ship's officers
Glass missions shut down
Window panes panged by enlarged stones
Thrown away Creep away

The last feeling I will ever have
The last movement I will ever take
The last time I close my eyes


The last breath will be my dying respire

The last time I hold you in my arms
The last movement in the wrong direction
The last feeling that will ever be taken

The last course of action is to be broken
The last amendment to testify
The last strike I take will be my end
The last bout will place me on a cold ****** slab
The last words I utter under my gasp of air


The last time I look onward over the land of mishap

The last words I write for all to recite
The last bout with anyone will be taken at nightfall
The last strike I set forth with, I will go away quietly
The last amendment read at my funeral
The last course I set out upon

The last eye opener will be a tear jerker
The last recourse of time will be split into many pieces
The last steps I take will be down an avenue of misguided youth
The last judgment will be passed, declaring my insanity
The last pardon from anyone given to my every whim


The last given right will strike me in a peculiar way

The last pardon from any courtship round table
The last judgment will over rule my pride and prejudice
The last steps I take will be my first steps rerouted
The last recourse spread upon the land that holds me dear
The last eye opener will be shutting the light onto this empty life

The last time I throw stones at glass palaces to see if it will shatter
The last shattering moment was my first mistake unlearnt from
The last time I go off the deep end without a life jacket


Never tread the waters alone
Understand you are never alone
Trust those who fill your heart
Believe in you came into this alone, no reason to go out on your own
©Aiden L K Riverstone2010
joycewrites Mar 2017
I grew up in a Muslim country
Where the culture is different;
Dress codes, cuisines, sceneries, and peaceful people,
Different from your local news' bombing news content.

I met different people at my old school, all of which are my friends;
Of different ethnicities, culture, and religion.
Despite our major differences, we treated each other as one;
We built a bond that is not made for oblivion.

I am lucky to grow up experiencing having a Muslim and a Christian for a friend,
I get invited to holidays like Christmas and Ramadan.
I get to see and feel the best of both worlds,
And respect for each religion is the key to living as one.

I wrote this to serve as an eye-opener
That the terrorists that you see on the news are not my Muslim brothers;
For when terror is claimed in Islam's name,
They disrespect the Islamic belief and teachings when they make that claim.

We need to live in a world where people thinks critically—
A world with no woman with a hijab is stared at disrespectfully;
A world where nobody uses Islam as a sign of terror;
A world with no discriminations, just peace and tranquility.

I hope we also learn cultural sensitivity,
For religion differences aren't something to joke about and be tagged with petty comedy.
Respect is what we need to have a peaceful community,
And if we really want to live in a world free from disquieting thoughts and emotions,
Let this all start with you and me.
(c) Mary Joyce A. Tibajia | 2017
L B Aug 2016
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?

Ratchet up the memories  
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”

as if my voice could be too loud?!

Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****!”
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future

A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"


So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow

Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—


Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”

since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
  
“How can it be?   Oh my….”

"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
                                                           ­                                                                 ­But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side

Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line

Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony

I can barely wrap my words around our voices!

“You can always keep the memories”

Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place

Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Because I have lived away from my hometown and away from my family, I had very little to say about the decisions my family made for Mom and Dad.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2017
Hurricane Preparedness Checklist

Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go

Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and changes of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife

But

No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight
Jordan Gee Nov 2021
Heaven is an Eye fixed atop a triangle
embossed along panes of stained glass
in a burst of color and
embedded on a transom above
an arrangement of young Amish girls -
one of them flipping me the bird.
white bonnets shining inside the dark street
and red reflections of the night.

God is in a mirror
reflected across one thousand other mirrors
held by a single hand and adjusted thereby
so that the light would be refracted through
a bent corridor in time
bending and extending through
far away dimensions that
i don't even know about.

Beauty lies in the 6 skinny trees
i water on the fifth day
drinking coffee when i see
one thousand rose petals drying
like the shores of the salton sea
and the six trees like a
hexagram of six dragons
like Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

one time I saw this image in my mind
when i closed my eyes
a vision of fire shaped like a phoenix
burned across the red horizon of my mind.
beyond the black behind the lids of my eyes
there is a red horizon over inner city deserts,
bird beaks buried in the sand.

I must honor the body’s lived experience
yet not give it any credence over Spirit.
its like i was being taken over and consumed
by a Greater Being.
it pressed all my memories up against hard glass.
different angles through extra spectrums -
it was raining hard prisms
It was like laser beams everywhere.
like heaven over heaven in the sky.

I was ripping off layers like a nest
of ten rattlesnakes tangled up in braided rope.
now there are magnets that float around inside my head.
there are times i don’t know if I’m doing the thinking - or the listening -
or whose doing the talking but
there are magnets floating in my cerebral spinal fluid
and they are electric and they are on fire.
and if i only had binoculars then I could see the singularity,
the gift of eternal life at the eschaton.

Heaven is the wind that lifts me up by the insides.
i  relax so deeply into the present sometimes
i forget to breathe -
were it not for the magnets inside my spine
pulling me toward the singularity and
the eschaton and the Bright Lights.

there are such amazing playlists on spotify
artists and genres i’ve never even heard of.
thank God someone figured out what
these emotions sound like.
benedictions in southern pennsylvania
on the JBL charge 4
and i think i’m starting to accept
that life in the earth plane is
a baptism by electric fire.

Glory be to God in the highest for
sending me His messenger
winging words made of silver helix
strands of vibrating concept complexes
so the mercury can bring the sulfur to the salt.

I throw my head back and laugh like a junkyard dog.
i’ve been searching for the philosopher’s stone for years!
i just called the chase by other names
and searched for it where i thought it was to be found,
where they told me it would be:
court street and MLK blvd, Newark, NJ,
trap house, Grant St, Hazelton, PA,
the American Club, red light district, Agana, Guam.
somewhere in the Pacific or a fist full of wax bags
from my partner ****’ down pembroke outside bethlehem, PA
and a ten pack of clean B and Ds, small gauge,
waiting for me on his kitchen table.
Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

I checked my phone over three hundred times today.
mostly this is a wretched habit of unconscious hand but
quite often the Everywhere Spirit gives me personalized
messages of rapid ascension via all the “woke” social media handles.
there is a fire inside my heart and it burns me from the inside.
sometimes it opens so wide you can fit the whole world in there
and not lose any elbow room.
and the magnets carry me to the tallest pedestal in the
sky where everyone can hear and
i tell them everything is going to be ok.
i’ve seen the bad path and i’ve walked it
and God placed magnets in my blood and
i made it back alive and all the church bells are ringing.

the Holy Ghosts of our ancestors rejoice for the
cutting of the silver chords so they can
all fly away home to heaven.
and through the grave yards that lost their church bells with the churches
i walk with bells in my hands and i ring them so
that all the ghosts can go home.

we had a heart opener one night.
we all sat around the floor and opened our hearts for each other.
they opened so wide that it rained electric fire to
where everyone could see it and that makes
for a good memory.
but nothing is as it seems,
nor is it otherwise
and my heart can suddenly slam closed like
the cellar door of leatherface’s texas prairie
subterranean basement lair.
and i’ve been there before
but the fire in my heart shines upon the faces
of the all devil’s dark armada
and they don’t scare me anymore,
such is the brilliance of the flame,
and such is the pull of the magnets god placed inside my blood.

its been more than ten winters since court street, newark.
but to this day i think sometimes about
that frozen cat lying by the curb.
stiff from all the jersey winter night prowlin
freezing up it’s blood.
my heart was closed that day,
hiding all my fire.
but if I saw that cat today, why…
i would open my heart so wide that
winter would be no more and
all the frozen hearts of our fathers and our mothers
would burst wide with such love that
the Earth would tremble and all the
neutron stars would shoot across the
red horizons of our mind
and the light of heaven would be
reflected in the mirrors of our eyes.
and this light would be so bright that
all the archangels and the devas would
be out of a job.

God is in the pinprick of light
fastened to the back of the
long tunnels of my eyes.
God is in the space after the release
of my preoccupation with the opinions others hold of me
God is in the street light shining on an
amish girl flipping me the bird.

By Jordan Gee
those who to Earth from Heaven came.
Richard Alan Oct 2014
They are nine and seven, men and women, brothers and sisters all, most of them married, two or three wishing they were, and all burdened by the test their instructor has laid upon them without notice.  
Anxiety, in such cases, is a quick companion, ready at an instant to stand at your shoulder, and to whisper every conceivable fear into your heart as a certainty from which there is scarcely a chance of escape.  If anxiety is a house cat, then a pop quiz is a can opener.
  
A cough from one of the women…   a pen rolls on a table.  A page is turned.  The class drags on…

A cool summer night;
the blades of the fan echo
a passing airplane.
In the summer of 2009 I was training to become a teacher.  I sat in on this class for it's duration and taught some of it.  Mostly, however, I observed.  This *haibun* is a snapshot of one such evening.
SG Holter Feb 2015
I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.
Kiernan Norman Dec 2024
Start with something casual:
“I miss you” is a good opener,
but don’t forget the twist—
throw in a parenthetical like
“(but not enough to beg)”
just to keep him guessing.

Follow up with a double text,
something vaguely existential.
Maybe:
“Do you ever think about
the weight of your own cowardice?”
And when he doesn’t respond,
add:
“Haha jk, how’s your sciatica?”

Text three should be a song lyric—
not one he knows,
but something obscure and devastating,
like:
“And the skeletons in both our closets
plotted hard to **** this up.”
Don’t explain it.
Let him Google it at 2 a.m.
and spiral in silence.

For text four,
go for the jugular:
“Do you think you’ll ever stop
mistaking fear for wisdom?”
Pause.
Then send:
“Nvm, that was mean.
What’s your comfort show again?
Mine’s Parks and Rec.”

By text five, he’ll start to crack.
He might reply with something cautious,
like:
“Are you okay?”
This is your chance.
Answer with:
“Define okay.”
Then immediately change the subject—
“Wait, what’s your zodiac rising?”

Text six is where you plant the seed of doubt:
“Sometimes I think we’d have worked out
if I didn’t know you so well.”
Wait exactly four minutes,
then follow up with:
“Or maybe if you knew yourself better.”

For text seven, go full cryptic:
“You remind me of that one painting—
you know, the one they had to repaint
because it was falling apart.”
Let him sit with that one.

By text eight,
he’ll either call or give up.
If he calls, ignore it.
If he doesn’t,
send:
“Anyway, good talk.
Hope life’s treating you
as kindly as you deserve.
Interpret that how you will.”

Text nine is optional,
but it’s my favorite:
“Do you even notice the silence
when it’s not yours?”

Text ten is the finale.
Simple, clean, devastating:
“I hope you finally stop running,
and when you do,
I hope it’s too late
for anyone to catch you.”
Ramonez Ramirez Feb 2011
There’s a dry voice that chokes;
a sandy tongue that grates dust-vowels over chipped-blue lips,
explosive puffs that cause the heart to race,
from somewhere behind the cherry wood bookcase.

Let the flames do the talking – keep that fire stoked.
Hold your breath and pray he won’t come stalking,
for his teeth are geared with gold-sneer,
and they rip through bone to the beat of tortured soul-fear.

Never make eye-cont—

In his left hand a discarded, crumpled page – the letters broken and twisted,
his name rearranged to spell out the victim’s, yours;
the author who thought it ‘wise’ to exclude him from the last ‘bestseller’ –
King’s had a run-in, and so, maybe, has Heller.

act! Your feet are frozen to t—

An utterance of disapproval as he drags himself across the floor planks,
a crust of dust where his nostrils should be flaring,
a gob of phlegm on the chin as he turns
and slaps himself on a limp leg that drags behind like a heavy shadow.

he spotted you! Grab—

The harsh noise of nails scraping over the floor’s drawing closer,
as is the groaning of painful sighs with each heave –
splinters in open sores on a right hand that’s swollen green,
yet strong enough to clutch tight

*the letter opener!
Radwan Jun 2010
The road marched on,
beside a beach it ran.
Hailing the sea and heeding its groan.
Walking along, I came into view.
Welcoming the sea with a smirk.
The rising sun gently pushed down the red's blue.
Blessing the world with a yellow tint it lit up the view.
Much closer than the sun, another glimmer grew.
Down on the beach and off the road was where my feet then flew.
Getting closer, slowly I advanced through the sand.
Still it glimmered, though its glimmer was but a con.
A bottle lay ahead of me, flirting playfully with the sea, as he caressed her gently with his waves.
She beckoned to my curious hands.
"Come forth and grab me like I was yours."
A cork and a paper were in the bottle.
You've already been used, filled and plugged; you come with a catch. I am to receive a message!
Hastily I scratched the cork off as my fingers took it out.
Now for the message, unrolling, my eyes caught sight of the first lines..

[I write to you from the shores of pessimism:
These shores are dark and dreary.
The waves here are slow and drowsy
The water is turbid and murky
Enthusiasm is a scarcity
and optimism was long ago banished from the land.
Pessimism and depression reign supreme and none can avoid their grip.
These shores have been the end of many a happy soul's journey.
This is where they all came to know the meaning of surrender.
And the satisfaction of despair.
All flames were put out and all their torches were thrown into the waters.
You won't be needing them anymore, they were told.
The reason for that is quite obvious, torches bring light and light mediates hope.
In a place where all hope must be extinguished and remain so.
No, your torches won't be needed here.
Here is where you wallow, in darkness and despair.
Where you sit is where you sink
Slowly the sands will drag you under.
After entering, the caretakers tie one's right ankle to a rock.
The pitiful lump of obsidian shall be your home. The caretakers stand you beside your rock and explain the rules to you.
"The rope is not forged of metal, thread or leather.
Its length is not fixed but it never breaks. If ever you tug on it, back on your rock is where it'll take you. Affixed to your rock it remains. On these shores only a pair of absolutes are recognized.. Darkness and negativity.
All else are subject to fate's scrutiny.
You came to us of your own will. and by coming here you shall realize your destiny.
If one exists for a soul such as yours.
If you wish not to sink in the sand, then stay on your rock or go for a swim.
Here you will remain, on these shores, this place shall be your prison and your safety net.
Departure is not an option until your destiny is realized, but we can't guarantee such an occurrence."
Having finished with the mandatory formalities, they take their leave of you and return to their posts.

On my first day, I noted that curiosity has very little power over the minds of the shore's inhabitants.
That no inhabitant may use another's rock without permission.
That the rope expands limitlessly and that moving lightly helps prevent sinking in the accursed sands.
Allowing me to roam far and wide, yet ensuring that I will always be roaming, belonging only in these shores, on my rock, amongst my shadowy brethren.
These shores have no real boundaries... An inhabitant may choose to stay and ponder or wander off and roam the land.
There are no secrets here.
All knowledge is readily provided by the caretakers, who say that very few ever choose to stay and ever fewer choose to combine the two.
Though time and time again they are dragged back to the rocks after having tugged on their ropes, they always choose to resume their roaming.
Expectations have no place here.
Ambition was long ago thrown off the pier.
Crucified and drowned in Poseidon's terrible dear.
The caretakers offered to read me tales from the shores' diary. They found my patience and lack of affect fitting.
On these shores I remained, listening to their tales for a time, sitting on my obsidian chair for a time, gliding on the sands and at times surrendering to their grip.
To all my fellow inhabitants I spoke in whispers and respect I paid in full to all the rules of the shores.
Then it was time to wander the land.
As I departed, knowing that I would return, I felt like crawling back into the pits of my soul but I also felt the shores' hold over my humanity fading, fading down to the feel of the rope's fabric around my ankle. A constant reminder that only I can see.
A constant reminder of where I belong, of the dreariness of my home and the darkness that always lies in wait for my return.

After leaving the shores, I wandered around the northern lowlands for sometime. Of course in such a state of mind time has no meaning for the wanderer. As time's passing loses its significance when all events are perceived as irrelevant and utterly meaningless. Thus I wandered the land, moving from village to town and from forest to desert. My journey was interrupted time and time again by the rope's influence, for sometimes I would grow weary of my surroundings and choose to retreat to my rock, there the darkness and despair provide safety. Observing then became the only promising investment of my attention, and throughout my roaming I would observe my surroundings, be they humans, critters, rocks or even machines. I resolved that empirical knowledge and logical analysis were the only relevant fields of reasoning.
In retrospect, I believe these were the only perspectives my dulled affect and cold impartial existence allowed at the time, but they were fields nonetheless, new areas that interested me, progress from the aimlessness. For now, I could say "I am here to observe. I do not belong, but that doesn't matter."
The times I spent back at the shores were getting progressively intense, though the emptiness soothed my longing, it seemed the more I saw, the deeper I would sink in the shores' sands before my rope would pull me back.
It seemed the more I observed and learned, the darker my rock became. It seems knowledge has its weight on these shores.
This isn't the time for simplification. The only way out of this rut is analysis, complexities and deduction. The way of the mind, for the sake of truth and meaning. If objectivity ever meant anything to you, you would not simplify, you would indulge in your eccentricities and gorge on analytical absurdity. Feed your hunger for details and complications.
Now the shores are far behind and I've gotten the hang of this accursed rope. I won't be dragged back there anytime soon. I may now keep record of whatever I wish.
This is but a mere transcript of my quest, my voyage, my journey, my pursuit of transcendence and my search for enlightenment, for enlightenment is my holy grail. My residence at the shores of pessimism mustn't last too long, for my light can lie dormant for only so long.
The stronger my thirst grows out here, the darker my lump of obsidian gets and the heavier my feet become on the shores sands. What's really curious though is how calm the sea has been since I started my journeys.

Silence now, enough has been said, recounting the details eventually becomes a bore rather than a bonus.
It is now time for the message to be sealed and sent off on its questionable journey, to a surely unexpecting reader. I wonder if it even holds any real meaning. Let this not be warning, but a minor eye opener. May it open someone's eyes to depression's grip on us.]

And it was there that the message ended. I raised my eyes from that piece of paper and looked to the sea, a storm was brewing on the horizon.

----------------

What the F. is this anyway?
Is it a test ?
a game ?
an empty picture frame ?
Curious since birth. Now drowning in knowledge of birth...
What's next ?
Why do I always have to wait and see ?
Whatever happened to flying free ?
Why can't I just flee ?
Forged of the earth and baked in the fire of God's oven.
Infused with God's divine breath.
If I've learned anything from my time on this pitiful lump of water and rock, it is that there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, there is no justice. Humanity's behavior will always be chaotic and unintelligible.
If there is a God, then that God has chosen to be a spectator. For this day and age, God has chosen to let the world sort itself out for a change. There shall be no more miracles, only human deeds and natural disasters.

Back again to where it all started.
What do I do now ? Focus!
Find myself ? Know myself ? Control myself ?
What good would that do ?
Who do you think I am ?
Do you think what I want is really relevant ?
Do you think you would like what I want ?
Born beautiful ? Good hearted ?
Not all are born beautiful and not all are good hearted.
Not everybody has an adequately functioning mind.
What's an adequately functioning mind anyway ?
If I've learned anything from medicine, it is that the study of human life holds the key to all our relevant questions. It is that details always matter. It is that in the real world, the only thing that truly matters is to be right.

We are born beautiful, untainted and simple. Though helpless and in desperate need of our supporters, it is actually these very providers who shape us. They complicate us and teach us their ways, they contaminate our minds with their view of reality, whether knowingly or ignorantly, they lead us astray from the simple truth, just like they were led astray.
And that's not to say that parents are evil or anything of that sort.
If that's what my words meant to you, then you're an idiot who shouldn't be reading this in the first place, so get the **** out!

We tend to think of being lost as a bad thing, reasons have become a necessity for our kind and rational explanations have become our psyche's sole sustenance.
We as a species have proved our relentlessness, our strong-headedness, our ignorance and our stupidity.
Humanity is *******. Collectively, we would be regarded as the galaxy's idiot child. The down's syndrome stricken kid our galaxy had after several failed attempts when she got over 45.
So what the **** is this ?
The lay of the land ?
What's the reason for this verbal bombardment ?
Are these knowledge bombs ? Are they supposed to be words of wisdom ? Can any of the above be put to any use ?
Hah! I believe not, and I apologize if that's what I've led you to believe.
I don't think I'm special, no more than you are. I don't believe I know much.
And I sure as hell am not here to tell you how to live your life or to provide you with a lot of answers that you may or may not have been seeking.

I have but one small request however. I request an apology, I want an apology from our parents. I believe we all do, they brought us into this world against our will. Then lied to us about how terrible the world and the people in it are. Named us good people and gave us hope. Then planted ambition in our scalps and fertilized it with warmth and faith in our promise, while they played the game and knew the real deal.
If there is a grand scheme, then we are not part of it. If there is a plan, then we're simply going along for the ride, our deeds only affect us and we can never change the ride's course.
We were never part of the plan.
If enlightenment is what you seek, then the only hope for the success of such a quest is for us to know and accept our weakness, our irrelevance.
I like working my noodle
My hands love to doodle
and every question I google
As much as the next poodle.
Mitchell Jul 2014
Bottle opener
Cracked vermouth
Naked lady
The kids grip their
Hearts
Like newly stolen candy

I'm a leaflet notebook
Fire parade
Fortune teller dressed in secrets
Kimono headdress
Ketamine lines

Upside down caligrpahy
Apple wine
Summer time
Open faced hamburgers
With the moon
On the infinite rise

Trickling melancholy
Purple moon
Hustlers under mailboxes
While grandma's line-up
To do the
Foxtrot

Sinister balloon
Of heavy-metal persuasion
Big titted foul players
Of foreign speaking
Soothsayers

Can it be that we
Are all out of players?
The ***** are in
The goals are scored
There's not a hand
Manning the board

Usurp the direction
Upend the powers that be
Peek through the keyhole
Discover the lies
Behind the masks of men
Who wear brightly colored ties

Music moves through
The meek feet of the weak
What're we all looking for
But the big vote
To take us all the way through.
Better butter down Sutter
Baby sitters been broken
The kids have gone missing

Instead of doves
We've got pigeons
Cody Edwards Mar 2010
Letter opener:
He fills his lungs and his arms
With the universe.

A-1 specimen,
He won't put his hand on his heart,
Not after all this.

Two men embrace in
A darkened room. Turns out
It's only his skull.
© Cody Edwards 2010

— The End —