"peelings" poems
Warm laundry gives me the
fuzzies, makes my hands grasp
majestic purple soaps
to cleanse away the ***** wails
compacted under fingernails
A selection of smell good things
lotions accompanied by fuzzy things
to rub away and radiate the aura
of calm, balance, and tranquility
Lavender is condusive to many
different uses, inhaling the graces
of herbal essence, soothing said coolings
inducing mood peelings of layers of grime
a skin liberative—figuratively speaking
Flowers of passion brew thoughts into actions
silent buds permeating scents
so invigoratingly innocent
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
*The air your lips used to warm
as you'd breathe into mine,
has become too cold
from the space
you left between us.
Now,
I warm my own air
with flames
set from the peelings
of a burning heart
you threw away
in a rusted can.
I don't remember winter ever being so cold.*
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
Start and stop
Up the street,
Turn 180,
Repeat the beat.
The gurus on
Confessional wheels,
Absolve our sins,
Emptying bins.
I swear
They swear
A solemn oath
Never to
Disclose the truth
Found in our garbage
By the brethern,
Garbage stinking
To high heaven.
Bottles, syringes,
Boxes, bones,
Peelings, plastics,
Old cell phones,
Discarded trash
From our homes.
Wrappings bleeding
Seeping ****
*By our garbage
Ye shall know us.*
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Tell me, Gentlemen:
while you soared higher than your fears and dreams could ever reach, into the blue crystal infinity,
did you hear the voices of angels echoing off the wings of geese migrating south for the winter?
how did it feel,
fighting for a nation that measured your worth in disheveled water fountains, mop buckets, dust rags, and potato peelings,
defending stars and stripes stained with the same molten white abhorrence smeared on ******** bombers?
did it hit you like a G force?
when you climbed into that cockpit, audaciously red, the blood rushing to your head, was it bitter hand fulls of cherries sweet?
when you returned home through back doors and alleyways to face an Uncle Sam with burning crosses in his eyes,
when you stood curbside at your own homecoming parade feeling confetti and streamers tickle the bridges of your noses,
tell me how it felt, Gentlemen.
will my brothers and sisters who fight only for tennis shoe wealth, understand the worth of those medals on your scarlet blazers?
if I listen hard enough to those jets breaking the sound barrier will I hear your story?
tell me, Gentlemen,
what was it like to fly?
infinite respects,
Curlie Fries Mcgee
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
2.6k
* * *
Fishing out words
From the abyss of hum -
Like Odin with the Runes...
Thoughts are sharp swords -
Unfriendly are their croons:
One instant - scattering like crumbs,
Another - warbling in tune
With mixed emotions
And elusive feelings...
Oh, how disheartening sometimes! -
Unveiling their peelings...
(c)kRu, 07.02.-09.02.06
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:41 AM UTC
I am a walking talking PSA for the incorrect way to live
Number of dollars in my bank account matches how many ***** I give
Counting change
Pay for gas so I can go to work
I get stuck behind the transit again
I'm gonna go berserk!
A little ****
Start my day
..Or more like a lot
The location of my pipe I've somehow forgot
Mismatched socks
Greasy hair
Bloodstains on jeans
For breakfast had coffee and a bag of jellybeans
Bearing ***** nails and even dirtier mind
A hole in my pantseams right in the behind
Positive thinking not doing me any good
Failed everything I have tried believing I could
Negative thinking has not worked either
Applied both
Found success in neither
The marks humans left on skin and my feelings
Turned my pride into a pile of peelings
Where am I going?
Haven't a clue
Trying to climb out of the hell I fell into
Going crazy searching for an escape route
That does not exist because there's no way out
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 7:59 AM UTC
She stared blankly at the computer screen
With its flickering screen of judgement.
What are you looking at?
Silence. A screensaver.
Enough of that sass.
It was finally complete.
Her hair wearing its disheveled frizz like a badge of honor
From all-night typing
And two pots of coffee
Where her comb-fingers turned the smoothness of her hair
Into a stress-reliever
As she muttered madly to herself
(But quietly, so as not to wake the roommates
Who slumbered in their honey chambers
Away from the heart of her hive of activity).
She had buzzed all night
On a caffeine-high
That made her hands tremble
Her muscles ache
And her eyes hate her.
And now
With too much to do
And a limited time to do it in
She had to keep buzzing.
Coffee *** number three was carefully stored
In a travel mug
That she clutched to her clavicle
Just to keep the warmth that much closer to her hyped-up heart.
She made her stops at offices and libraries
Retrieving promised letters
And printing the labors of her night intensive
Before she could finally deposit it
Behind the glass windows
Of the scholarship office.
This is too much work for less-than-ideal odds.
But she had no time to dwell
On the gamble she had made
And paid in hours of wakefulness
And the inked-up peelings from tree corpses.
She rushed from class to class
Where she tried to speak in coherent sentences,
To dance with sharp choreography,
And to contribute to society
But her body hated her
Because she had betrayed it
And deprived it of the only thing that it truly loved in this world:
Sleep.
It would have its vengeance.
It would have its vengeance when she was old, creaky, and could no longer move.
But for now, her body made do with small rebellions
To demonstrate its displeasure.
Sentences were not sentences
And every turn, leap, and twist
Made her think longingly of sleep.
And her body laughed.
But at long last,
The sun set
The girl slept
And then the sun rose.
And this continued to happen
Many times.
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
Until she had forgotten
And her body had forgiven
The sleepless night.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
I extolled them as they went about their
Menial tasks in suits of silk;
Sunday bests amidst the concrete, the earth,
The broken shards of
Bamboo splintered skin, hiding interiors
And further, the broken mirrors of
The broken memories of the
Broken histories upon the
Broken backs become names wrought ancient.
Though further from fractured, a family calls,
Beholden to the absolute intent, but one wish –
Eternity amongst the bountiful brethren left behind
Atop tea-brimmed Mountains and a
One malevolent, revered benevolent,
Mao.
One more saga prerequisite this newer dynasty red –
Witness the
Wives huddled plowshares,
The daughter scribbled arithmetic
And sons assumed thrones to legacy.
I scrutinize soiled – smoke amid pear peelings,
The dirtied – unscathed and archaic,
So very fatigued – just one more nail,
For his eternity, with scratch and
Sliver of blood, a sanctity upon chin
Beyond cradled hammer,
Hand hugging thumb,
Thumb beyond nail, iron or the
Heart impaled homesick;
But I and hand asserting tie, freshly pressed,
Almost gleaming with an embezzled prestige –
Born unto Arcadia, a puzzle near complete
Continued to run, with only second’s pause to admire,
So very far from the fields of, “father,” or first blink,
While Sunday’s best weep, work and wither.
This man with joint autographed, “end,” and
Soon to be mound, history wrought dust,
A chipped Henan ceramic
And hours in attempt to breach;
Behold the back of Chen.
The title of this piece was inspired by observing constructions workers wearing suits we'd typically wear for an interview. That being said, my venture in China is near an end - years in the making. What's next? Ecuador? Japan? Morocco? Montana? Either way, I could never thank China enough for all that'd become naked before I and my pilgrimage christened, "world."
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
. her **** sprinkled spine.
her blackened fingertips from a day cleaning and smoking in
the pre-spring heat.
her knife atop the stump.
memory is the root of mankind’s trouble.
lullabies
her mother used to sang,
as the fish gasped and to the bone.
wilderness, a strange enchanted girl.
her bioluminescent tent.
her blackened beans and tortilla-leaves and peelings of cheese.
her knife to whittle a twig.
her moments grow like gardens left alone to ghost-over.
to sample the city wilderness
& then slip further away into a rearview idea.
new republic.
paradise. she’s up that trail there.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
Is it Strange
Is it strange that when I look at you all I see is the black and blue
All the hatred that once filled you seems to melt away when you look at her
Recall the times
Kicks and punches the smirks as bitter as limes
I see you,
I see you now laughing as if nothing has ever happened
Is is strange that people don't know the real him
The child that would expose me in a second if he had the chance
The one who wouldn't dare say his feelings
The one who would throw his peelings in delight and content
If it meant he had to move from his placing he would refuse
Amuse the others around you with all of my flaws
Do you know I'm here
Is it strange that you have so many friends when you won't even bother to make the mends of the others who have left
Leave them falling behind in their own blood and tears
Cause I beg of you,
Look in the mirrors
I have fallen in love so many times
That love ,
That love quickly faded as you shove me down those cold stairs
That love that never really had its chance
That love that was always pushed down by thousands of emotions and nonexistent sadness that you are filled with
Is it strange I am sent home to cry yet you go with your happiness set high
All the words ever said
All truth has fled
I lie in my bed
I wonder
I wonder if you remember me
Ah, she...
Braces and that big smile
Full with denial of this terrible world
She just twirled and kept on walking
Quite the dreamer
Is it strange that now all the dreams have been ****** away
Her luck is now fading
Is it strange she used to to cut
Shut out by everyone in her mind
She now dresses darkly
She thinks all eyes are looking towards her
Disapproval
Is it strange,
Is it strange we have both changed
A quick glance in the hall
Extended leg to fall
Now, if hit by a playground ball she could simply break
Is it strange she is now a snowflake
So delicate
To land on a mitt
Quickly melt away in shyness
Falling slowly to her death
Is it strange that the girl now sits
She sits alone typing away
Is it strange that I see that boy
Only every day
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
drain full of peelings
broken plunger & unwashed dishes
drops sprinkle from the sky
yesterday hail
leached peas and golfballs cracked
hitting windows
perhaps reflection
back to the hills
to find freshness somehow
crusts too old to chew the grains
birds quiet in the autumnal wash
preparing for another outing of art
therapy.
ginger, shallot, chilli & chicken
rice later
something for the blood which
pumps & beats & never stops
till words release and a
semblance of peace arrives
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I sat down once,
Got up two thousand times
Sent little parts of me
like peelings into perfect skies.
I want to turn this sorry heart
Into thumb tacks. Push pins with which I’ll affix
Each sky in a book: vast, picturesque
And bring it to you, an emotional chart.
And we’ll review it with failing eyes
With ancient fingers and mouths in Oh’s
This catalog of a lifetime’s art
Remembering again what each perfect sky knows.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
My inspiration has run dry,
my love for art is about to die.
the dimming light,
is slowly fading out of sight.
I have a block in my thought,
so these words can not be brought.
I cant express my own feelings,
i have to rip them off like onion peelings.
my enthusiasm for paint,
is getting to faint.
Rhyming is getting harder,
its something i can not do.
to put these words together,
in a mannerly fashion.
its something i can not do.
im more broken now then before.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 12:10 AM UTC
Mamma found him in his cage while I was away
At Jordan Ray’s
Talons up, feathers flat
.
Dearest neglect of Joey the bird
Lived in a pink cage,
Grew bright green feathers with a light blue spot on his shoulder.
Sister bought him at a mall cart,
Saved him, it seemed,
But now it’s clear that his fate was condemned
A live heart beat quick in hollow bones
.
From Jordan’s I rushed,
Hurried to confirm the news of my mother’s text:
“Joey died. You need to come home and clean your room”
Warm hearts beat cold in the blaze of August morning
Mamma, I found, she put him in the trash
Like a piece of pie with one bite taken
I found him lain upon heaps of pear peelings
Doomed in line to decompose
Among the **** and waste of the world
I picked him up
Placed him into a small shoe box
“Come on, Joey bird, lay in here”
It’s warm and dry and safe
Joey lay there, patient and dead
I took him in the yard
Out of the room he’d been in
Since sister brought him home
I found him a tree to chirp in, great oak
I placed his box on the grass and dug
Dug
Dug until I went beneath some roots
…
Kept digging
Unearthing pebbles and insect homes
Disheveling years of dirt and order
.
The heat of the day was boiling on my swelling soul
How could mother throw him in the trash?
Was he not alive; a thing? As much a miracle as you or me?
And my sister, his keeper, was not there to witness
Finally joey fit right
Fit just where he needed to be
The base of a great oak tree
Whose roots would **** him in
Like the lump in my heart did
With every scoop of soil
Like the love missed in life that joey died without
.
That was the first day I hated my mother
That was the first time I missed my sister
That was the only life I’ve ever mourned
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 6:10 PM UTC
remember days before food waste,
scraps for dog, cat maybe
some pig.
sitting until my plate was clear,
hash. tag rationing.
peelings were taken down
the garden by the rhubarb buckets
or
aunt olive made wine from that
with tea dregs.
he came every other day, pig man as
it was acceptable in those days.
when
there was no food waste . mum
darned socks
sbm.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
this language your forcing me to speak
is clouding my judgement at peak
i have trouble translating my feelings
i feel like you never listen, like theyre just peelings
i cannot speak my feeling in my own language
let alone this huge emotional baggage
no one ever told me i wouldnt be able to talk
that my mouth is just something on a stalk
my feeling are a bag of trash
not metaphorically but litarly are mashed
no ice cream can sooth this enough
i told him speaking another language is tough
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Look at my hand, so lightly bleeding,
The tender holes from your teeth and lies are seething.
Cast out another heart shaped curse,
and throw a wicked grin while swinging your purse.
You seem to enjoy it, the thought of having your life on a silver platter,
but the longer you take advantage of it the truth only gets sadder.
You look in my eyes, and take another glance in the mirror,
you think to yourself "Could this get any weirder?"
My darling, the time has only begun,
to find out more you have to cut back on the "fun".
Now take a good look at yourself, you are shaking and crawling on the floor,
and here I sit, watching in pain by the door.
You look at me, and of course I can't resist to help you out,
but whenever I get close your so called "love" starts to shout.
"Get away, you know nothing you slimy piece of **** IT starts to say,
"I love her more, so you can go die!" It proceeds and starts to push me away.
You look in agony, you finally realize exactly what you need,
but this thing begins to shove and not succeed.
You look at me, hoping for some destined rescue from me,
but all I do is stand there in disgust at your decision that you never made to be.
You say such accursed things that get trapped in my mind,
but the reason is that I'm always on the hunt, always trying to find.
I probe and take apart what I don't understand that accumalates such powerful feelings,
but all I can hear and see is the leftovers or your emotions peelings.
My voices, they say so many things that would never cross my mind,
you made me this way, even though there is no paper that I had signed.
My promises, all of them are kept within the safest box,
and when I make them, they are kept inside these locks.
My eyes, they seem so dim from the last time you looked inside them,
you do understand that you are the reason why they are so dim?
I look in a mirror so peacefully, yet something screams at me in the back of my mind,
something so horrifying that it starts to drive me blind.
I start to destroy everything around me in a rage, causing such dismay,
and yet you seem to not be able to stay away.
You now understand you are my bane, and that it will be my death,
and I don't know if I should regret that I had not left...
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 10:23 PM UTC
It is in the times when you actually think of something to write that nothing comes
And you're stuck listening to the rain falling outside and on the roof
Trying to decipher what it wants to say, you hold out your palms
Inviting the cold smooth droplets of water into your senses.
Or perhaps you create a story about the smell of orange peelings caught in your fingers
Or maybe compose a song about your neighbor's dog,
But still everything is the same as the previous day
Except for the chili beef noodles and a cup of hot coffee you had this morning
Nothing changed, except the urge and want to write something.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Maybe i don't talk much
Maybe m off a kind or such
Maybe i don't hold that touch,&
Maybe m duffer as much
But,
The words i speak carry feelings and who likes to talk about their feelings?, the kind i bear have healings who's into crystals ,who's into peelings, confident i am but that if u wander around all i bound is to a zero,
Duffer i am i know but with you, all i grasp that someday u gonna call me ur hero
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
The shards of green glass scatter
About the dusty floor
Ancient messages escape
From the bottle that is no more
Whispers of tales as old as time
Start making their way across
The old man's map, their origins marked
In forests cloaked in moss.
Murmurs fill every crack in the wall
With stories from drunken lips
Of pirates, Kings, mermaids, & ghosts
And giant whales swallowing ships.
Through wallpaper peelings & under floorboards
The messages twist and turn
And as the sun rises, they head for the door
To the bottle they'll never return.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
It's as if my mind awakens
Only when I try to sleep
Everything stirs and is shaken
And into my eyes seep:
The constellations, the films, the merging and surging feelings
The words, the songs, the sensations and conversation peelings
They build and build: piles of molten wax
When all I want is my body and mind to just relax.
Like static, the thoughts do nothing but build and charge
Like in a growing balloon, the exerted forces get so **** large
Pressure in balloons is what we learn in school
Pressure in my mind is what I learn in my sleep pool.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 6:42 AM UTC
I hear,
These noises at night
Voices that write
Choices that aren't right
I'm near,
The edge, looking down
The ledge, mustn't frown
The edge, looking at the ground
I fear,
What's left for me to give
We met for us to live
What's left beyond cliff
Before you
I saw so clear
I endure you
For the longest year
Tell me anything I want to hear
Sell me everything I want my dear
Keep the counter open
And yet so much deeper have we sunken
Started as a floating heap
Floating to the face that is so steep
Wrote things as I start to leap
Crack my heart on the rocks below
Smashed apart on the rocks that have grown
Made a start on the rocks that I know
Broke my heart on the rocks that I show
Myself to
My feelings to
My health to
My left over peelings to.
Sharing times together alone
Parting to find another whose grown
Tearing what's mine for her to overthrow
Only need a caring mind to get her on your own
I act kind
I don't mind
Let you unwind
You're unkind
I need time
I lead you to my mind
I feed you on what we find
I need you to be mine
I hear these voices at night
They're for you
They make things a little brighter
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC