"patchworks" poems
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Khabele is an enemy from the spiritual world
Debacularly rocking peace of people in my village
My Hamlet, or my country, my continent or in my piety,
He starkly hates anything human, especially the family,
His tool box against human family is a composition
Or dark Patchworks of opportunism, ethnicity, poverty,
Fluidly disordered gender, abortion, **** diseases, war,
Crude religion, divorce, self-pride, shallow thought,
Infertility, love for money, laziness, corruption,
Politicization, public indiscipline, self-idolatry,
Shameless thievery, looting and gambling,
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
portraiture.
sweet tooth.
rotting away my teeth.
bitter aftertaste.
indulgence. indulge me.
inhale decadence.
exhale toxins.
cleanse deep.
she knows. she knows. he does too.
but he always did.
new to the game.
red lipstick razor blade.
cut you open. let you spill your guts to me.
incorrect patchworks.
inaccurate intricacies.
spillage on highway 505
where we left our beating, ****** hearts.
lit up with gasoline wine.
fast ignition on a mission.
for your neck.
failed wreck.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Does she know the silver chain wrapping
Around her ankle is terminal and deep
As a trans-Atlantic cable connecting the island
And here.
That a single full-breasted pull
On a summer cigarette was
Life altering.
Her body was beach-burned, her hands
Sifted grains of sand
Funnelling beneath her thread-bare towel.
Our silver natal thread contracted
As the blue smoke rose,
Magnifying the August moon.
Three hundred moons have dimmed.
We walked in step from the Village
Through the park with the slack chain
Dragging, scraping on cement.
I have often polished that chain,
Used muriatic acid to untarnish.
We didn't know our brains would
Become onions behind our eyes;
We didn't know towels would become
Patchworks stitched over bones.
I didn't know a chain of being could snap.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Why must I write?
When there's so much better,
Prose, poetry, free styling words,
So much more elaborate,
So beautifully knit together,
While I create patchworks of rhymes, and reason,
This silence would ****
This inability to express to people,
Because paper patiently listens,
Because this desire-less life feels a little lived when pen meets paper,
But I don't write in ink,
Charcoal let's me rethink,
Who knows what's going to happen next,
And if you did, what would you really do differently?
Can you escape yourself?
Wherever you go, there you are
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
under this skin
is where you can find
patchworks ripped off
from me by all the people
i come across with.
each one of them
brought a part of me
to some places i long
but haven’t been to.
as though strings
were attached to them
connected to me
___and now i am all chained
by these, stretching
from where i am
to some unknown places.___
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 8:41 PM UTC
it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light
like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality
and we
in the masses
stare so longingly at those divine heavens
some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone
and pushed
back,
tossed
back
into the masses
and like comets, they
rain down
the fall of the inadequate
crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary
and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron
we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call
the opera of roaring voices:
the crucifixion of the prodigy
as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable
slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-
silences
hence closes
the fall of the inadequate
the crucifixion of the prodigy
and
the decay of the mundane and ordinary
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 8:19 PM UTC
.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
loves me but it hurts
******* **** ****** sits on my couch//on my feet—
toes gently tucked under his jeaned thigh.s.—
tells me he loves me.
love is not a mistake but mistakes are made up of love.
tiny hearted patchworks attempting **********
makes a home out of my arms.
tears falling down me him my his face.s.
stretches me open like bubble gum /little princess/brat/toy.
fantasies in our heads. little secrets. sweet taste from his lips.
opens up my mouth. stretches it wide. pushes his fingers through. as if the inside of my gums held the secrets he has been trying to reach in my head. pushes them far back. almost gag. mine mine be mine be mine mine mine be mine. i hear it. he keeps quiet but i hear it. silent pleas.
wild. sweet daddy darling. wild. i am wild. i belong to no one.
**** me/take me/own me for a little while. fulfill those needs. sate yourself and me.
i am no product to be placed on a shelf.
whispers it in my ear in between faces staring.
hearing it makes it more real. analysis. how many fingers was that? how did your tongue do that? can you do it again? can i try?
why.?. do you love me. why.?.
this will be better for you i will not call text contact you
no
why are you crying
no i don’t want this stay
you don’t love me just the idea
no
of me
no stay please i need you you make me happier than i have been in so long
this is ********
i know
this is ********
i know
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
the leaves dip
and sway,
caught in the
breezes of
a rainy
day,
little shadows
light like stars
the sudden rain
falls and the
leaves shiver
on their stems
patchworks
of silky greens
infinity of edge
on a high, high ledge,
echoes of a storm
in the violet light
shadowy branch
droplets tumbling
as if a rain drop
touched the
golds of the
winding wind.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the gnarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
I can fly.
I do it every night.
First, I close my eyes.
Then I spread my arms, hold my breath
and I try not to think about the thousand butterflies
that start to flutter in my belly.
And slowly
I levitate.
My feet leave the ground.
And
I break free.
I slowly open my eyes
and see
everything.
The patchworks in al shades of green,
the streets that run through the roaring fields like veins,
it's like a painting only I can ever see.
And as I soar above this little town,
I realise that
for the first time
I'm free.
And there's nothing
you can do
to take me down.
I flit to infinity.
So catch me if you can.
l.t.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
What have we done today?
Have you loved,
have you grow tall,
have you follow that trail of stars,
take everything,
give something.
I'm afraid that we've done the same,
it all looks the same,
at times I only stare at other people
while they stare back.
We are patchworks,
we are the lovers that could not be
and it's alright.
It's alright to be that, the sea.
It's alright to be
the rubble, the dust.
The dark moon under the eyes
because we walked alone back home,
because again we weren't able to read
between the lines of our silence
and love still remains unknown.
It's alright. It's also beautiful,
to be the turned-off firefly.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
There is this innocence we have as children.
This fundamental right
to believe in a world where anything is possible.
That our daddy's can scare away any boogeyman,
Hiding under our beds or in our closets.
That the world is full of possibilities,
and there is endless time
covered in romantic notions.
But as adults we are no longer fundamentally innocent.
We are patchworks.
Taped in some spots that come lose all the time.
And sewn together in other spots,
That don't come undone all so often.
But we are broken and glued back together,
more often then even we are willing to admit to ourselves.
We harbor resentment and bias,
creating our own worlds in which the boogeyman
is everyone.
and not a soul can save us from him.
The part of us that was so eager,
The part of us that believed in a world of endless possibility
Withers and rots.
Leaving just the acidic taste of lack luster life.
Endless, monotonous daily tasks.
Craving the days when the world didn't feel like
The inside of stove with the pilot burning but out.
We are no longer the innocent.
We are the patchwork creation of a life,
That hasn't always been forgiving.
We are what our children think can save them from anything.
We are the boogeyman killer
The demon vanquisher.
Patchwork and all we may not be innocent,
But we are strong.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC