"ordinarily" poems
taxi driver
you may smell unsettling
and your belly might be closer to the wheel than your knees
but for the next ten minutes I am going to tell you stories
that I ordinarily wouldn't tell some of my closest friends
when I pay, bidding you farewell, I will tip you
and tomorrow I will remember that
your smell and obesity
didn't keep you from appreciating
a decent conversation with a stranger
and that only I was paying attention
to the smell and your obesity
which makes you better than me
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Starless, chilly an autumn night
It all started right
A dance it would be
A stranger I was
Amongst a two roosts of Latter Day Saints
Popular, I was not
Neither shy nor sociable,
I stood in wait for a suitor
Then a lad glided in
A bit taller than I, blonde hair, green eyes
And an adorable hat on his head
Chitter-chatter,
Smiles, laughter,
Then the Games began
This suitor, Gage he was called
Had speed, but not dexterity
And was soon defeated
Charming, cheering, continuing
The dancing came
Clumsy, was I ever so
While he radiated mastery
Every misstep spin on my part
Made him smile
He whispered in my ear,
In hot breaths,
Compliments of golden rarity
A suitor of suitors I see
A spectacular dance, then another...and quite a few more
Each spin drawing me closer,
As we learned the ways of our bodies purely
The intense stares making my cheeks glow rouge
Beguiled in the moment,
I followed Gage out in an innocent move
Outside, taking a walk around the sacristy
We sat upon an abandoned stair
We spoke, we laughed, and...
His sparking eyes locked with mine
And I knew such a day would come!
An elegant milestone!
Lips in incoherent shapes as we did the most ancient of things
Simple and sweet
Breathless, I was
Yet I wanted more
We kissed once again, longer this route
Your lips are sweet, he said in my ear, as I shook in delight
Paper and pen, number in hand
My phone in his hands, exchanging modern things
A quick hug
And a long night of thought for me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since then, contact has been strangled to a near death
As though it was alive beforehand
My hope has faded
But still, I choose to see it as a lesson for the wise
Not a regret for the stupid
It was magical,
It was ordinarily extraordinary,
And blessed I feel for the experience.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
For we vile and unquenchable creatures
scavenge the twisted fate of imagination;
take pleasure not only in the creation
but in the movement, harmony,
and persuasion a verse evokes.
Enthralled and misted by
Ambiguity,
Intangibility,
and a verdict -
a sole desire to reach
what the mind wails,
a conclusion.
Beware,
for elegantly,
a writer scribes
or utters nonsense
for a mere, distant
consultation
yielded by the
faithful art.
Ordinarily,
we create while
lacking meaning,
gratuitous spirits,
echoing
a whimpering quail,
yet, we are bewildered
by profound imagery
and indescribable joy.
Doubt arises
in regards of
each word's validity,
bringing upon
interrogation,
scouting the way
for infinitive
journeys
yet to be written.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
#Her wails rent the air
*O God how unfair you are
to have snatched him from me
the only man that truly cared
never treated me badly.
Without him is a life to grieve
empty meaningless
take me too O God relieve
this pain of no redress!*
Shouldn't we bring a costly cot
of mahogany or such wood
asked the men what was her thought
about carrying her man so good.
Shouldn't the pyre be of sandalwood
the fuel a pure ghee
your husband ma'am was a man too good
to be burned ordinarily.
She paused a while frowning dark
a shadow passed her face
a hint of wince made its mark
a pall of uneasiness.
*He's gone to never return
the onus is now on me
to run the days with meager earn
and not spend wastefully.
ordinary wood would burn as good
kerosene would do well
prudence demands not one should
be lavish in funeral.*#
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
dear immoral,
salt
seed of
s
la
ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
gives callously
equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
each persnickety biochemistry
is the
longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
No content,
j
us
t web,
you
r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
agile
computation
today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
trembling
je
we
ler
confidant loves increasingly
languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor ***********
perpetual on my
quick
bible;
my psychotherapy roves
into a
bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
psychoanalysis's
preferably quick
psych
otherapy-
how
ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
he
unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
overshadows
his youth
so
that it is contemporary
grin
quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
into appreciated ca
mar
aderies
psychotherapies rove in
my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
grip
of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
on my quick bible;
my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
journey;
my
paralysis ambles
onto a
crazy hotel.
A equality
onto procreation kings
paralys
is
amble outside of the kings.
Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
"Love is the only poetry there is. All other poetry is just a reflection of it. The poetry may be in sound, the poetry may be in stone, the poetry may be in the architecture, but basically these are all reflections of love caught in different mediums. But the soul of poetry is love, and those who live love are the real poets. They may never write poems, they may never compose any music - they may never do anything that people ordinarily think of as art - but those who live love, love utterly, totally, are the real poets. Religion is true if it creates the poet in you. If it kills the poet and creates the so-called saint, it is not religion. It is pathology, a kind of neurosis garbed in religious terms. Real religion always releases poetry in you, and love and art and creativity; it makes you more sensitive. You throb more, your heart has a new beat to it. Your life is no longer a boring, stale phenomenon. It is constantly a surprise, and each moment opens new mysteries. Life is an inexhaustible treasure, but only the heart of the poet can know it. I don't believe in philosophy, I don't believe in theology, but I believe in poetry."
— Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
I miss the heavy static grunge of your music muffled by my walls,
I miss your glasses,
I miss when you showed emotion,
I miss when you would drive me to school and give me cigarettes,
I miss when you would show me new indie bands and unlock a whole new world for me,
I miss our explosive and ordinarily magical science experiments,
But you dived into the blood contract of the world,
Now you are void,
Now,
You are not you,
You are a puppet to a mouth,
I have never stopped at my every intention,
To rips it's tongue out,
No matter how much yours scorns me,
Brother
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
No love.
You didn't believe in expressing your feelings plainly,
till you were crying vulgarities into someone's chest.
A strange cliche became something to accept, ordinarily.
"How the trip never stops", MC Ride is screaming,
"On and on, it's beyond insane."
Drowning out your thoughts was something
you only heard in music, or something your ex said
back in high school,
until you fell asleep with headphones and sunglasses on
blaring Death Grips.
"Choose this life, you're on your own."
"I never asked to be a hero"
Hanging your Moon Knight collection on your walls;
Cried to words written on a page for the first time.
You need to be loved by everyone,
and want to be loved by no one.
Understood the pressure and wrote every day,
wrote to be not the best, but just to return from your
fall from grace, to former glory.
"I never asked to be a hero, but I beg you;
Make me a hero again."
"Sono Teido?" = "Is that all you got?"
Studying frame data, unable to sleep.
Thought you had a calling, but you gave up.
Realized a hobby is only as good as it keeps you
busy from all the ******** you could be thinking of.
Good ******** to keep out the bad.
Chun-Li leaves her opponent with wise advice;
"Tameraibe Make yo" = "Hesitate and you will lose."
All you have to do is shine and be bright,
you'll be the type they want to take home.
However, angels didn't want me when I was young,
and they still observe for seconds at a time.
You press your palms into your eyes;
They pick you up for only a moment.
Didn't believe you could be heart broken.
Then they dropped you.
Came back from the dead without prayers.
Found your armor didn't make you a knight,
it made you a villain of the highest order.
Spoke in curses and sang a hex,
to banish your love to hell forever.
"I was a God, Valera", Doctor Doom spoke,
"I found it beneath me."
Found it after the fact. Three too many voices in your head;
Prodigal Son, Nihilist Prophet, Feminist Instigator.
Few believe so hard in something they've tried to erase.
Tried to **** to smother, to maim, and finally, to nurture.
To give up, to recover, to come back, and decide you still believe.
You couldn't make anything happen with no love.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
These secrets I keep,
Are hidden behind an invisible thread
That I've woven around me
This thread,
Tightly securing
All that I hold deep
The world may creep up on me,
Cast out shadows
That ordinarily...would cause a girl to scream
But, I'm not afraid of the dark
I'm not afraid of much of anything
Other than, letting him see the real me
My ***** gritty insides
The scars that never healed
The decomposing lies
The dust that flickers past my eyes
The ghosts that haunt my mind
It's dark, it's morbid
Maybe too frightening for anyone to see
For once,
I want to rip the thread to shreds
Let the darkness seep out of me,
Like blood in the morgue
I want to bury my fear,
In a deep grave
Lock it up in a tomb,
Bar the doors so I can't look back
I want to show him who I am
Through unfiltered means
Without fear,
Of what could be.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
You took interest to me
like a beautiful flower,
waiting for you.
Twinkling at my petals
and the essence of my soul,
you hold me close.
Breathing in
my scent
of adoration.
Why shouldn't
I blossom,
for the only person
that's taken the time
to pick me up
and put me in
such an intricate vase?
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Nowadays, when I see the ocean foam
slick the beach like a colossal latte,
when the autumn forests change
their primary colors playing leaf-frog,
when the jonquils fight up through
springtime snow-melt in defiant coalescence,
I remember that last day I saw you,
your *** swaying in those white shorts,
a mesmerizing metronomic heat in pants.
Ordinarily, I would not speak such things aloud,
but then, regret tends to amplify
walking empty streets at night
with only icy stares from stars to reprove me.
Eventually, I'll slumber beneath my satin comforter,
and dreams will dance like the aurora
at the foot of my half-empty bed.
It's then I'll see those legs again,
emerging from the white cotton shorts,
yet, no cosmic connection will bring
this vision to the woman haunting it.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
I stand still in this room, to look across at you, and grin.
You don't have to understand what this means...
You make me re-evaluate my values.
I'm not sure what this feeling is without the butterflies...
And the heart-stops... and the blushing cheeks.
I don't know this girl who lets you scrunch her face.
And laughs... and plays... and doesn't plan every single second...
I don't think you understand the significance,
Of my words, of my relaxed disposition...
I don't look at clocks when I am around you.
I don't need your affections every minute...
Co-dependency has become enjoyment of company.
Sleeping alone isn't empty, next to you is simply a perk.
Sleeping with you, not a demand, but a pleasure.
Who is this girl, grinning at you across the room...
Letting you tickle her sides... telling you truths
TRUTHS... I don't think you understand the significance of that word...
Of MY words. There are no walls in my words. (only in my chest)
And "I Love You's" aren't spilling from my lips.
And I don't think we understand the significance of that.
I fall hard, blindly, way too quickly.
But I'm not falling right now. I'm standing here, eyes WIDE open.
I see all of you, and I wait... and patience is not a characteristic of mine.
And I don't think you understand the significance of this...
I feel something is happening here...
A realization; one I had read somewhere in a Jonathan Safran Foer novel.
About falling in love so ordinarily, that you begin to think it isn't love at all...
But something much more ordinary.
And.. this is different... but what it is evades me.
I can't diagnose this as "the real thing," because I only know what the "real" thing is not...
Being away from you isn't painful, it just isn't preferred.
I like that I don't have to hold my breath when we're apart.
But, I feel my facade fall away when I walk through your door.
As if there is no need for pretenses in a room with you...
I'm not that girl, and I don't want you to think I am...
I want to use big words, and giggle at their superfluity.
Let you laugh at my pretentiousness- a misnomer- as I'm not faking anything at all.
I like that I look at you... and I don't know exactly what you're thinking.
And I don't think you understand the significance of that...
Control, let go... and I'm not terrified...
And I don't feel like a half, not quite a whole...
But, I'm learning how to be, and who to be...
And I simply have the pleasure of having you along for the journey.
I'm afraid I don't understand the significance of...
these words, of the realization that you will read them...
that you will try to qualify each adjective... and understand each verb...
And dissect me...
and I will try to explain, a kindness I so rarely attempt...
and I might not make any sense, and I might not know how you feel...
And... I might just be fine with not knowing.
I might just stand, and grin, and not tell you why.
But, not for not knowing,
But... for not needing to understand.
Yet.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
A woman I once worked with
Was ordinarily quite intelligent
But when it came to pronunciation
She could become belligerent.
Her way was the right way
And she brooked no question.
Braving her ire, I decided there
Was one I had to mention.
She said the word comf-tubble
And I said that was incorrect.
She got so very irate with me
That I feared for my own neck.
She called it socially acceptable,
Her ghastly mispronunciation.
I said it was a sign of the times
The slippery slope of our nation.
If people were to go on and cease
An honored way of speaking
Then, we are all of us adrift
In a doomed skiff that is leaking.
She said some more to me
But I quit paying much attention.
There were too many “I means”
And “you knows” to mention.
There were ‘haftas’ and ‘ominas’
And the sad utterance, ‘wannabees”.
This poor soul would not pass
The first hour of a spelling bee.
I wondered if this poor soul
Had seen on a computer screen.
The words just as she was saying
On some website she had seen?
I accept that nobody in the USA
Or even in Merry Old Blighty
Says words like Wednesday
Comfortable or February rightly.
It’s like there is an international
Formal and binding declaration
That nobody need say these words
Correctly in English speaking nations.
We can lapse into hickbonics,
We jess *** tah stumble along
And say set instead of sit, and
Others we so often say wrong.
We kin say double pneumonia
And quay’s eye and nukeyoulurr,
Irregardless and even *** cans,
And nobuddy questions wut fur.
We c’n say thangs like reel utter,
SimmYooLurr, BennaFishErAiry.
Innerest, furrmillyurr, Mason Airy,
Flustration and shudder LieBerry.
But as sure as there is air to breathe
And that every day will follow night
Most people pronouncing words
A certain way doesn’t make it right.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
i don't really know.
it's just that,
you plant a garden in my heart
and grow tulips.
you write a children's book in my mind
and read it to me until i fall asleep.
you are the windows rolled down
and new music.
you are fresh linen
and clean hair.
i must describe you so ordinarily
so the earth won't feel so bad about itself.
but it should feel honored
to hold something as special as you.
a.h.d.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC
Go ahead.
Be my guest, try to imagine all the pressure I go through each day.
Teenage angst is not something that ordinarily ices over me but now, I just can't help it.
The hot tears burn my cheeks because the one time I try, I really, really try to tell you, you don't even slightly understand.
So I feel alone.
Cause if you don't want to hear it, no one will.
And you say I'm dramatic.
Because all the tears that are coming out now are from my self centered nature, right?
Not from my long week, or my insecurities, not form all the heat that burns me from putting on this mask again and again every single time I walk through the door.
No, I'm sorry, my bad, I didn't mean to waste your time.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 9:52 PM UTC
Ordinarily able-bodied,
stop me in my tracks
I don't mind
a few days rest
weekend plans
you wreck
Detours don't phase me - obliterate stigma, my response
I'll walk or crawl or submit to the sidelines
I'll ride or sit or be a tour guide
Attendance, no question
my life's purpose
in one day gathered
I go, no hesitation
re-visioning the day
lesson learned, past mistake
Detours don't phase me - obliterate stigma, my response
different, I imagined the scene
life's greatest mystery:
reality versus dreamed
unseen struggle, just as real
ridding shame and damnation
love is the answer here
Detours don't phase me - obliterate stigma, my response
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
Tonight,
in the words of Neruda,
I can write the saddest lines.
Tonight I write the saddest lines,
all for you.
And it will be painful
and tear-stained,
but honest.
I will pour my heart into this page,
for you,
and you will take my innermost thoughts tonight.
But you must know,
darling boy,
that this will be the last words I spill for you,
the last drunken night I allow you into my creative soul.
This will be the end of this,
of us,
of you and me.
Never again will I write for you love stories, or sad words.
I used to think that if given the chance,
or given the time,
I could write a thousand lines on the way
your breath felt against my bare back.
I could write infinite lines on the way
your fingertips electrified my lips,
and still have more to say.
I could write forever on the way I loved you,
Loved you entirely and hopelessly,
how I ached for you.
And I used to see you everywhere,
in the faces I passed
and the lopsided smiles of strangers.
I used to drive past you in every beat up pick up truck
on the streets of Columbus,
behind every backwards hat.
But my darling,
it's been awhile since I've seen you,
and I can't remember what your fingertips felt like anymore.
I used to close my eyes and be able to trace your features,
for they had been etched into the walls of my mind.
And I used to feel this emptiness in my chest,
because I had placed my heart in your hands,
whether you had wanted it or not.
But lately,
I haven't felt very empty,
and I couldn't tell you what your dimples
looked like.
I used to know every speckle and fleck
that lived in your irises.
But now,
I couldn't even tell you the color of your eyes.
At first,
I tried so hard to keep missing you,
thought I was supposed to miss you,
thought I wasn't supposed to let you go.
I used to think that I would love you forever,
that you would live in my heart,
occupy my soul.
I used to be okay with that.
I used to miss you every second that I was breathing.
But now,
well now sweet boy,
I go days without you here,
and some mornings I wake up unable to remember the last time
I actually missed you.
So I try,
try to miss you.
But it's far too hard to miss you by myself
and I'm so tired of missing us enough for the both of us.
So this is the end,
the end of all of this,
the end of everything.
Thank you for allowing me to love you,
for never asking me to be more than I was,
for never being more than you were,
for being ordinarily
Spectacular.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
I rode my bike, fat, bloated 4-inch
Tires un-skating across
Frosted ground.
A degree below
(You know what)
Not ice, or icy,
Exactly, but...
As if some mythical
Dude named...John?
Jorje? (Hore-hay)
Ok, Jack, then - breathed
Almost-frozen breadth
Over much of Downtown
Indianapolis.
The sun was diffuse, low
Easterly, barely a lighted
Presence, as I pedaled through
The little pathway that perimeters the
Zoo, the muffled cries of
The furry and wrinkly-
Skinned high above
And safely ensconced
Past huge limestone walls.
Shutter-flash
Dapples of light struck my
Eyes as I passed leaves who
Stubbornly refused to relinquish
Their stemmed hold onto
Mother and Father tree.
Past the little zooey pathway,
The big bridge leading to the
Downtown canal, ordinarily
Crowded, but only I crowded
This time and place and space.
Where the sun wanted to shine,
But was stubbornly blocked by
Such insubstantial things as
Bridge abutments and pillars;
Shadows outlined the muted
Rays of a bleak post-Christmas
Sun, contrasting
Outlining them in a
Frosty embrace.
All around that little ******
Of ground, the light of day
Melted and softened Jack's
Iron-like grip. But not
That little piece of ground.
Nope.
I stopped the bike and looked
At the squarish rectangle of
Frost that stubbornly refused to
Give up its hold from the
Relentless, though much less
Powerful sun.
The clockwork
Universe ticks and tocks,
And moves and shakes, and
This morning, snug in my many
Layers, I got to ride my bike
On top of a battle
I'd never witnessed before
Today.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”
Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season
come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you
these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…
but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!
the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share
mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling
and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity
is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and gained…
these hands,
more powerful than any other *****
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…
keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 11:43 AM UTC
Fame is a kind of addiction.
It can be a lethal condition
If taken with no restriction
Real life succumbs to fiction.
Elvis took too much stuff.
Janis fell for too much guff.
Jimi didn’t quit soon enough.
Morrison had to act tough.
It was all about being a star
Instead of being what you are.
Life is not a big expensive car
It’s what you have done so far.
Becoming a famous insufferable,
And ordinarily unapproachable,
Can make behavior intolerable
Rendering you reprehensible.
They turned away with a shrug
Went back to a favorite drug
Left a dead body for others to lug;
Their fame swept under a rug.
The pretty face won’t protect you
No matter how often they inject you.
In time your fans will neglect you
But the coroner won’t reject you.
The star insures that his crew,
Let him do what he wants to do.
Refuse him and you’re through
The star has no use for what’s true.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
In order to
keep myself awake
and mindful
I am doing the things
that I would ordinarily
do with my right hand
with my left hand
so old habits
are changing
and so does
the mind.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
some last night clutched the sorry sorely sack of clean rigid muscles
that tomorrow contemplates in wearing under ***** flaccid skin
that everybody wears more commonly on the brushing wane
of their frailing dying bodies that they wear on the short
folds of hours that everyday wears between sleeping
and starting cupping sunlight's wriggling adept
worm that in the corpse of night in through
its sallow ginger skin the hard creeping
the cool creeping; the slender cylinder
of its fornicating colors slips right
through it the basic plain extra
ordinarily placid death of
of strong brutish approp
riate night, "i wonder
why the wind with
legs as hard as
silk opens
never
right at
the seam
it's got at the
back of its small
its tiny, its fast white
hair lip, but who would
care how ugly its face got
because the way its hands got
all sharp and soft on my meandyou
" that's probably like how it was the
window's summer's open closing falling
clots of creamless clouds that nuzzled under
heaven onto armor, spears, and lovely amber
sunsets all over the back of my car when you
candy(like the lithe arguable sugar men did with
ruby apples and made them even sweeter with the
hot supple red shells they rubbed all over the pert negligee
of autumn's hard little luscious)ied the nape of my neck with
the lunging elegance of your saintly slightly painted painting my
nape lips those rushing throngs of sturdy cords that made me. Barely
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
The old man sits in the dark,
fire by his radio, listening to
John Legend sing about his all,
which I guess is a lot since
he goes on about it for
four or five ******* minutes.
I sit here and think about all the reasons
I hate 13 Reasons Why. I sit here and
smell my candle, to my future.
I think about Miley Cyrus ************
and wonder if she feels pleasure
like you or me.
I don't know what kind of creature
is out there. I don't know
how to feel about the world.
My bedroom door may be paranoid
for me, and I have anxiety over
knocking that may never come.
Or maybe it will come and I'll
be ordinarily unprepared for it.
Unprepared for it, as I normally am.
Visions of Japanese women
dance on the ceiling, like silver
statues in garments of gore.
Or maybe they're not Japanese
and that I am a racist or under-
-educated -- which is most likely
the same damn thing.
They dance on my ceiling
and I stare, no longer wondering
if I'm rude, if they're real, if
the house I live in is current-
-ly losing value. These type
of things just happen, swear.
My candle is burning bright,
reaching towards the hugging
blinds; smelling like sea salt
and an ocean I will never touch.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
*She meekly chased after
nonexistent moonbeams
in rose fashioned pipe
dreamt illusions,
as visual stimuli to
rock her existence
of inklings' stark impressions
inciting some exertion
in her bland universe,
she was ever so ordinarily dull
even her reflection in the
deepest sapphire seas,
appeared as drab dishwater
she lived in a world of her
own fabricated deception
still, she wondered why every
impaled consequence was an
arranged shade of washed-out gray*
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC