"peddles" poems
Between your legs
spread wide
like the peddles of a flower
I devour
your very essence
to the fullest of my extent.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."
Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
She peddles on the street
Gold and silver laces
At minimal costs.
Brilliant stones, rubies
Pile up her portable stall;
Neither for rent nor for sale
But in exchange of the love
More priceless
Than gemstones.
Retail consumption
Seems all mixed up.
I can't recall
If those clusters
Are real,
Not just ornaments
On sidewalk trenches.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
Every summer evening
I spend at home I know it
is 9 o'clock by the familiar
song from the
beat up ice cream truck
that creeps through Canton.
The truck is plain and grey-
no pictures of smiling faces
or advertisements for snow cones,
just those high pitched notes repeating
over and over and over.
It never stops.
No children sprint, ecstatic from
sweaty row homes.
No cones are coveted
by sticky fingers.
Who is this man who
drives up and down our streets
luring us in with a familiar jingle
I can't quite place as I pace
around my living room?
Perhaps he peddles magic potions
or prescription drugs to
expectant inner city addicts,
stopping only for those with
that telling shaky stammer.
Or maybe he transports
illegal immigrants
huddled behind his tinted windows
to obscure locations.
The only thing that is certain
is that it is 9 o'clock every time
I hear those notes.
Does he laugh at us as
we glance out our windows,
considering a late night treat but
always disappointed as he drives away?
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
Hath thou seen Queen Mab to-day?
in that bitter carriage, with her dreams
Forwarding to the cursèd fray
with unhallowed thoughts, or so ’twould seem
And creeping under willow’s bough
’pon rotting leaves and sick’ning scents
Of fretting unborn babes and now
she peddles with a marred intent
With foreign faeries in the leaves
who show broken wares and scattered souls
They hide amongst the dripping reeds
while dying rays reflect on shoals
And here, on the last hour of light
mab cursed the world into the night.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown
The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb
Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven by toads tooting, **** **** poo
Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played
Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails
Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk
Nodding and humming to sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
on sun drenched Gigglewick sands
Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
Raty
Mole
Badger
and Toad
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
Cascading waterfalls
Over cold stone walls
Take a look beyond, to what is so unknown
On the surface it's strong, made of stone
But as delicate as a wilting flower, with it's peddles about to drop
Won't take much, for this bleeding heart to stop
Standing in the salty waves and mist
Of all the tears my eyes, have dismissed
Watching the pages of my life turn
As my story goes up in flames and burns
I've crossed that bridge of sorrow to many times to count
Praying my feet next time, would take a different route
But it seems, I must pay that toll
For on and on, the agony continues to roll
I can hear the demons laughing, as they're tallying up the score
Full in the knowledge, my years will soon be no more
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
I stand on a mountain ,
I stood on a hill ,
but even the Napolionics dark clouds of war had nothing on this .
the sheep that were grazing have fled in it’s gaze ,
and even though my cloak wrapped around me from the chill of the night .
I saw from the north did asail the wind darkness like no other ,
as I felt my bones rattle and shake under my skin .
How i wanted to take hold of my mistress summer and bask in her
warmth for just one more night .
She left without a word nor did her lips empress upon mine ,
nor the soft comforts of late evenings did she impress upon my cheek .
Now I await in trepidation and much distress her sister,
this dark woman of whome pestilence awaits ,
and where storm clouds gather .
This cold wind she sends an advent for what is to come .
Hail snow and rain nothing is like these in her sight .
Don’t look into her eyes ,
the man who peddles time cast under her spell and now he stands alone as time stands still .
Look a white dove how it ***** it’s wings against her blackened skies ,.
for in its beak lies a fig ,
and on it’s wings Gods eternal promise,.
herolds the dawn .
How I yearn for a warm bed and a clock to while away this hour .
A dream catcher ,
A shape shifter ,
a net above my head ( to catch these things )
and above all ,
bed .
Pray these things don’t steal the light ,
for my eyes to open and see the mornings sun ...
just once more .
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
I find its amazing how something so small could create something twice as beautiful as the sunset on a summer day.
Something so meaningful as the declaration of independence, something so powerful, that the moment you see them, you secretly shed a tear & thank God for creating life itself.
The day I received those two beautiful red roses, I thought about Nikki Giovanni "still I rise"
As I stand there eye to eye with the roses, I felt growth, progression & happiness manifesting.
That was the day you whisper in my ear" I love you"
I was so lost in the moment.
Days went by & I realized i
I forgot to put the roses in water.
And just like we needed love, so did the red roses.
I tried to repair it's images to the plant I once seen as beautiful.
Day my day we haven't talk & the roses lost life.
Just like you disappeared, so did the petals .
The only thing that reminds was a steam with root.
I see you to be my red rose
The roots symbolized growth
The steam was the foundation
& what was missing was the petals that brought everything to life.
So on that day our love died, part was still alive, not in such good condition. .but it was still with me.
I drained the water, trashed the stream & collected the roses peddles that was no longer red.
They were darker then a funeral attire.
Just part of me felt if I buried you deep down that maybe the thought of you will dye and reincarnated into something else beautiful & find your way back to me in a new disguise.
Then I realized this was a lesson, reincarnated into a blessing.
R.I.P to the red rose and long live your memories , I'll never forget you or the feelings you once give to me.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
The lost causes never remember
moonlight matters
it's tapping at your window
Sounds of baby peddles and November
The looming causes fail to comprehend
loneliness lingers
It's ebbing at your elbows
The best of beer bottles and dead ends
The loose causes refuse to acknowledge
Ignorance ignites
It's gnawing as it follows
Daily articles and unrefined polish
The least causes lose sight in the daybreak
blossoms bittering
It will fade as hearts hollow
Graveyard backyards and bone aches
The lone causes acquiesce to uncertainty
pages punctured
It is freeing as it swallows
Sunsets red and abrupt against afternoon purity
The loaned causes shatter against the bribery
Coins cascading
It is a vision as she wallows
Lipstick Luscious and cultivating calvary
The last causes shall never translate
Sculptures scalloped
it is swallowing in shallows
Hoarded hearts and breakup dates
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I remember when I use to have sunflowers instead of hair and butterflies were always landing on my head as if I was their own mobile home.
I never went to the barber but our landscaper would take his shears out whenever he came over and prune me, and I would sell the sunflowers at the end of our driveway out of a cardboard box stand. One buck a bunch.
Instead of shampoo I used fertilizer mixed in with the water I would sprinkle on my head each night from the tin watering can I kept under the sink.
In the summer I would lay in the sun to photosynthesize,
And I would leave home with a crown jungle of green stem and yellow peddle,
My personalized jungle.
In the winter I went bald,
Except maybe some brown droopy stems with wilting flowers that would shed their peddles whenever I got flustered, or laughed too hard, or cried.
When I was 14 I got tired of boys pulling out my hair to ask a girl to prom.
So one night I plucked out each blossom, one by one,
Until my arms were full and my head was bare.
I sat down and picked out each peddle, one by one,
“He loves me” “He loves me not.”
The sunflowers never grew back after that,
Whatever part of me made them grow was gone,
I no longer have the seeds.
And now I sometimes sit in gardens,
And wonder if the bees recognize me.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
One day I will blossom.
I will open my peddles into the rose I truly am.
My buds have withstood all of the elements that life has thrown upon them.
But now it is time for me to fully bloom.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
I fear there is nothing left of my wit, and in place of my heart a rose doth sit.
A red rose now blue with sorrow.
It's peddles fall from time to time, like angel's tears, gracing us with a glimmer of that once red rose.
If there are no peddles in the morn will I be a man without sorrow, or a man without love?
Is a rose without peddles still a rose, or simply a thorn?
What will thaw my frosted rose and bloom red love once again?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
So this is for the King—the one who died for my sin, and also
for putting fresh breath inside of me. As an adolescent teen, I
was trying to put together all the useless things that I believe.
I was just being a human being; with not a lot of things to give,
still I do have this thing, called his Holy spirit within. This is for
the King.
I was so tired of lunch dates—deep fakes. So I had to pray for the things that aren’t as straight. With love, and grace shall I give of myself;
I am in His control. I give of my soul, and with it my all. The Lord who still cares for the lesser, giver of all things in endless blessings. I am restless, relying on a man of this world. It’s always so cold, as the longest winter within my bones. But he told me of my self worth. Goodness deemed upon me, that renders me free. I'll sing praises to him. This is for the King.
I was born, baring the many of life’s struggles. Wasn't good to
mix in with others. Or to get along with a few cousins. What have
they made of me now? An older boy, not feeling too proud. Wow!
As fit, I’m not built to take on the entire weight of the world, I've often been told. But I'm rejoicing in those sufferings, knowing my heart gains great endurance. That my praises to Him be amongst the purest. I’ve surely endured my life’s greatest struggles, into this character. So to me, this struggles don't really matter. By they own; it has given me hope, so hopeful to be what the Creator has made me to be. This is for the King.
The devil tries to make my God seem small. But he doesn't know
anything of my God that he is to me—he's my all. What are peddles to a rock, rocks to a mountain, and mountains to a King, Greater is he that has Christ who lives in him. So shall your faith in Him; move all the mountains that you see. This is for the King.
This is for the King, it's all for the King. The King of kings
who resides in me. I am part of His royalty. He taught loyalty,
as I know all enemies are against me—but the the Lord is always
there for me.
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 3:07 AM UTC
The winding ravine
Untouched and pristine
Empties over the earth’s edge
Leaving behind golden sedge
At the stony shores
Stood a lonely boar
Bouquet of wilted rose's
Peddles falling to his toes
Dam up the ravine
Quench the fading green
***** onyx monuments
From ashes of the black pits
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
You're like a rose with peddles that've blushed
beautiful, but you bring harm to some when touched.
You're picking a donut when my dreams of cream,
are interrupted by jelly brusting from your seems.
I'm not saying your bad; your different, kind and fair
but like a artifact you must be handled with care.
when I speak of care I mean in how I approach.
You can handle yourself, you are tougher than a coach.
like a star you are beautiful bright and yet distant
but through your years you've become charm resistant.
I see it in your eyes they're deep and dark like a well
so I know in life you've gone through hell.
You don't know trust but you kidding is what you gotta be
if you think a few bets will win you the lottery.
I am not belittling anything you have ever saw
but for all you know this could be the lucky draw.
You and I have a chance and we got a lotto potential.
we will prance forever over potholes; essential-
ly i want you to know i've also had my love bubble busted.
maybe not to you're extent but please just trust this:
we'll ignite real love cause we are the perfect match
you're the only chick with whom i want to hatch
love, that's shocking because we've that have that spark
of realness in our relationship that is so stark-
ly prodigious and worth more that what is in clams
so please be mine in this world full of shams
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
This is my friend Pearly ... He hangs out here next to where i sleep. but he doesn't get much sun, so today ... I took him out .. He was quite delighted .. i told him of it ... but he said "only for a bit and nodded ... then he said I'm Pearly the bear I like my sleep " ... ...
The next day Pearly wasnt in his cozy spot. i didnt think much of it till i saw a deep well with a hook. i walk'd up touched the rope .. pricky fuzzies.. Pearly what have you got going on here ? i pulled him up.. " its ***** down there". .. ...... he said "Hunting .. ... . Here you are" ................ then he handed me a bow .. and said "catch me a thick buck i can dig my teeth in" (His thick arm raised up) ........................... a long pause happened then he said ....... but take its life swiftly. I can't bare the feeling of pain.... then moments later he stopped me ... actually bring me a bed of flower peddles i must return to my lifes work ..
The following morning i came in whistling with a basket of luscious velvet smelling flowers ... finding Pearly sprawled out breathing amost natural way .. quite pleasant listening to breathing man connected to his creature self .. .........Pearly hello pearly good morn ....... .. greetings ....... then he said " I'll have nothing ..... .... then i said no bakey eggies? .. he didnt move . how about a short trip look around? .... . .. no reaction............... how bout a warm bath? .. .... nothing. ..... just him there staring at nothing ........... i could sit there and watch him stare at nothing for hours .. ... i sighed oh well i catch you later .. ..
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
Bill O'Reilly got the boot!
Fox News has said good-by--
A place where reputable commentators
Are already in short supply.
He faces too many allegations
Of ****** harassment. But, oh dear!
What a mess he's made of things
Now in his Fox News career!
Being a brute and a hypocrite
For Bill O'Reilly was NOT hard to handle.
Funny, but he was an outspoken critic
During the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal.
Peddler of white nationalistic
Ideas, O'Reilly does have his fans.
He'll find a job with someone who
Peddles theories as bizarre as that man's.
His sudden departure from the station
Doesn't really affect us directly.
But why doesn't a person like him
Behave more circumspectly?
I guess when your mentor is Roger Ailes,
You have the power to do as you wish--
To regard EACH female employee
Or guest as merely a **** dish.
- by Bob B (4-21-17)
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
kisses tomorrow!
oh, hale magical kisses!
so soft, like clouds that dance with the sky.
so smooth, like apple peddles that fall like rain.
so warm, like a cup of bed time tea.
i miss them,
i miss him,
but the distance between a snail and a butterfly is only 4 pebbles.
they just have to find a way to cross.
and in the unicorn's dreams,
on the night of the sun,
show the life of their love.
so strong, like Thor.
so gentle, like butterfly kisses.
so young, like saplings.
picture it!
a cherry tree in spring,
rain of blossoms,
blue brook babbling,
green grass growing,
and two lovers just in love.
this is the dream of my unicorn.
she lives in the meadow, have you seen her?
she's the one with the purple mane.
you know, the meadow of little girls' dreams!
the one where all of us are princesses!
some waiting for her prince,
some setting out to find him,
and some who just fade with time.
but if you cross the rainbow
like every blue bird
you can tell the world
that they are simply wrong.
wrong about war, ***** like ash.
wrong about money, soiled like slime.
wrong about thought, poisoned like wine.
come girls, find your unicorn!
read her dreams!
find your loves!
ride off into the sunset,
and save the world!
I will be waiting here,
under my cherry tree,
just my love and me.
Oct 16, 2010
Oct 16, 2010 at 4:45 PM UTC
My boy's beard is red
and it feels so familiar
and it took until I was
smashed, cocked, ****** HAMMERED
to notice. Why do I always follow the pattern
of his face like a map; why does it feel like I
have finally found my old blanket, resting in
its plastic bag, in pieces; in pieces.
I asked him if he liked pumpkins. He said
yes because he knew that's what I wanted. He
said he baked the seeds. And I remembered loving them.
I was never good at soccer and I refuse to play
in the games at school. They think I'm a fool. But I
know why. Because instead of soccer I did cartwheels.
And I picked the dandelions. And I wove my fingers
through the net like artwork and I was Picasso. I was
Picasso. And his voice echoed through my head like
a football stadium. I was never good at football. I hid behind the
trees and plucked the peddles from the daffodils
one by one like mermaids do. And my father, he never cared
for daffodils. And he never cared for pumpkins. And the echo
from the stadium was faint to him. Faint to him. But to me,
it was a symphony. A cluster of voices from within.
And
I never doubted it.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 9:59 PM UTC
Sometime or other,
Sooner or later,
Whether we choose to forget,
Or choose to remember;
When nights come too soon,
And days are no brighter;
He'll be there,
The Diamond Pedlar.
With unselfish care,
He peddles his ware.
His price is cheap,
For a good night's sleep.
For those who listen,
This is his yell:-
"If you have something to buy,
I'll have something to sell!"
Listen, and listen well,
For it comes all the way
From heaven, via hell.
So give back what you bought,
Rainbows are for chasing,
They are never caught.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 4:03 AM UTC
your lame body stretched out
skinny elephant in a pink dress
trapping my legs under your head
i couldnt drive
i could not swim
i could not
be anything
her heart will circumsize
the **** of every man
who doesnt fit her preference
a rose deep inside no peddles
her nose upturns the hopes
her hips a barren dance club
cosmetic intellect unintelligent
strips the pleasure from the moans
this other one is different in the right ways
but her age disgusts me like i disgust the righteous
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Let me grab you by your hand and slowly walk you into my lovers den.
Red and white rose peddles lead the way to where it all begins.
Scented candles smelling so good makes your senses spin.. with ****** visions of me sexing you.
I grab you close, you hold me tight.. our lips connect our tongues egnite.. You rub your fingers down my spine.. my eyes roll back.. You kiss my neck, and pull my hair back. I Grip your back and rub my lips across your pecks.. You slide my strap off and I help with the next... You begin to undress, but I said take it slow we have all night... I lay you down and rub oil all on you... you looking up wanting to **** on my supple breast. Your brown eyes glow as we start to connect.. you ask to go down, I'm not one to reject. Your tongue feels so good as it and my **** connects... What a big surprise.. I'm ******* Now I'm soak and wet... You ask to dive deep but I'm still not ready yet.. So you take it slow and kiss my soft lips.. My body inner parts start to explode.....I'm ready, so I snatched off your draws.. you slowly go in and grind with a motion so strong, my body begins to shake... you had to grab my az to take control.....I'm grabbing you... you loving me... I'm moaning Ooooo... you saying Rose I love you... I bite your ear and lick it too... you're so turned on.... You turn me around and began to eat again, my juices so sweet you smack with each slurp too good to even wipe your mouth. You hit it from behind and turn my head to look deep into my eyes.. I'm even throwing it back just the way my baby likes... I get on top and ride you like the best I am... you begin to moan.. yea I like the sound of that **** before you *** I lean over and say.... Let me love you down just like this.
ALWAYS
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
On the train, the "Caretaker of ******* Masses"
Taking classes on fascist *****
hiding my eyes behind rose-colored glasses
I am in transit:
On the rails between Wayne and the Western Passes
the shellgrasses on the plains
on either side of the train surpasses
the wane of the forest in the distance.
A florist in the aisle peddles her wares
The poorest seated triple-file give her longing glares
"Will you buy some roses today?"
She holds no roses, only hay
Fingers on the arm of the chair
wafting in the smell of her hair-
You there?
Come, my dear, if you dare
quietly, how will you fare
if you hear the words I have for your ears?
She passes, another transaction
supersedes this attraction:
No reaction? No pause.
Even in asking my question withdraws
to the rear compartment.
This line is miles through benign black pines
and white cliffs, stained by time
Every hour she hovers near, marked by the whine
of passersby lamenting their confines-
Every hour fails to entwine us,
so I sit alone with wine and swine.
The conductor tells me we've arrived
but I consider it survived
I've died and revived by the short hand
in anything but repose.
Disembarking, she brushes my sleeve,
then through the crowd on the platform leaves.
Never to receive my rose.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC