"peepholes" poems
my birdcage was a stuffed bear and my bird was a moth. oddly the bird protected my sister from knowing she was molested and oddly its cage promised my brother he would again be gay. oddly only because it was planned. I was more spelled than born and consented often to being sounded out. I carried with me a grey blanket that I held like a curtain when asked. my eyes were peepholes I had to avoid.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
Through the
Peepholes of
Your eyes,
I can see
Your soul,
And I can't
Wait to love
it.
//Soul
-Sayali Parkar
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 6:03 AM UTC
My dreams have a Hollywood camera feel
I see myself standing giving a good yell, hell
No matter what I be doin', I know that camera never be sleepin'
On me, it has to stay creepin'
My mind state is always dreamin', imagine
A man whose lives in dreamland
Yea that’s me, believe it if you can.
Fantastical.
Adventures. Mr. Fox is dead, he left his head,
Or wait, the tail.
I use it as my vial,
Hidden are my coerced thoughts.
The camera pans right, watch me fight.
The camera pans left, watch the death,
Of reality, for it’s all a fallacy.
We are all lost
Following a Shepard, confused
Lost and mistaken.
This camera, promotes what has been taken,
Our souls.
Escaping through the peepholes of our consciousness, leaving behind only traces of our former glory, where personification was unthinkable and Natures laws included humans. Rain was not push button controlled, and you couldn’t tell snow to blow. Where water was free and not bottled for clarity.
yea,
this camera controls me.
stealing my memories, gee.
who would have thought.
a digital dream--catcher.
except this time it catches,
my happiness,
desires, and dreams, real
motivation is killed.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
For Steve Yocum
~~~
an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays
we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants
bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories
he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity
me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff
perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go
*together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
ALL CAPITAL LETTERS ARE BETTER THAN LOWER CASE BY ANY MEASURE
Meanwhile:
Gaure... No, that's not right.
Guaranteed lecture representative melee. Corporate court circ-u-i-tous clever levels hand collapse, clasp, clapped, then - framed vainly.
Containers balanced with lost lids stored no/everywhere. Nothing matches like my socks save for the peepholes that allow my big toes the advantage of unmasked acknowledgement.
Pleasure packed and wrapped drugs bundled for international transport and - who wouldn't pray to get away from the homestead where lack of order piles clothing to be walked over?
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
*some come to serve all
the missing continents reveal their bodies
they arouse Great Spirit
like volcanoes announcing their roll call
i awake the storm of love
without my compass
i can't tell if we are off course
but who really knows anyway
if your desert walks and soul visions
are gesticulations as ubiquitous as dust
our minds and bodies align with memories
while cowards of sound
hide themselves behind the echos
of cavernous hollows
heaven brought you to me
for beautiful kisses
so that salt and sulphur
would anchor our alchemical quicksilver
your studs and your mares
know nothing more
then to keep a few crumbs
wedged behind the cupboards
in case somebody lost themselves
along the road to the temple
accountants may tell you
that they allow the light to shine
through their tiny peepholes
yet in treacherous times
like lightning they swallow the sky whole
so your emotions can rent empty rooms
in their vacant hallways
feelings help guide you upon your journey into tomorrow
until you are able to penetrate
with bottomless compassion
and then part ways just before the hour fades
in rhythm with our future
and the Goddess (god-lioness)
says that the eye (of time) is within you
in such a short while
rebel eyes real eyes the relative lies in their relatives' eyes
like fireflies they dance upon the pavement
have you lifted the hem of your sky lately
and listened to the falling leaves
surrounding us in love*
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
Because the light and shade
of fedora’s peepholes
shines hot
like a golden mosque;
How being caught up by something
so up close
stirs fullness
and feels of attention
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 7:01 PM UTC
The clock strikes midnight,
the hour hand a hammer
the minutes a skinny nail digging into tomorrow,
but my heart is drunk half a day in the past,
clinking fragile glasses with ghosts.
How can this be the same planet
when we share its land and its air
but not its days?
There are two worlds that exist,
one the night before, one the day after,
and the gulf in between is sealed.
You live in one, and I in the other.
They are not at war
but like cousins who once fancied the same girl,
they meet only on occasion.
We bring the New Year in together by being half a world apart
as if to prove that despite empty spaces where you were,
you remain.
How do you share a new decade
with the soul you’ve shared for half
when the miles will not speak to each other?
They eat my words and misreport my intentions,
and my heart will not coax them into cooperation.
Frost earned his wisdom from walls,
but bricks are far more forgiving than the miles
and teach softer lessons.
The Atlantic is a moat and
my daydreams may be dogged swimmers,
but they are dashed like dying starfish on the East Coast with the tide.
Half the world is a wall and I whisper to you through peepholes,
cursed to peer through one eye and by half the world’s light,
reaching into the past desperately with a hooked finger.
It is as futile to describe the rift with this shadow of sign language,
as these words are.
The Earth turns one full circle into next year,
and I find that I have also been turned around,
but it is only me that has turned, and nothing has changed
about us spinning, spinning.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
We spat watermelon seeds across the sidewalk
And I know that secretly we both wished that beautiful things could grow from cement
We would've weaved the vine into my hair, because green is your favorite texture
And you've never been able to run your fingers through my eyes the way you can this mane
Love
Sometimes
I took a pocket knife and cut the skin from tomatoes
Because seeing something raw and untouched like that made me wish I could peel your thoughts away just as easily
But none of my can openers worked the way they promised they would
So it's up to you to open your cans of worms, I suppose
Dump them in the dirt of my mind
I promise beautiful things grow here
Somewhere
It's just that you haven't planted any kisses in a while
And I'm waiting for the rain before I invite you to do something rash and wonderful like that
Can you believe I snapped the handle off my ***** today
The ground was just so difficult
I couldn't make room for the new thoughts I'd like to grow
Or even succeed in throwing out the dreams hanging from dead cherry blossoms in the yard
Well, the second is not really because of my ***** I have spares
But must I be distracted by your beautiful eyes glancing through the peepholes in my fence as I work
You have so many beautiful things to tend to in your own yard, love
Make a book of poetry about them
And send it to me when you get lonely for feedback or compliments
Can I tell you a secret nobody knows
I hate the part where I must follow the trail of realities to the back door where my dog is chained to meet me
Once again, abandoning my attempts to grow beautiful things from this paper
For you
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
walking
she folds
with an objective
smile
sticking
hoping they would stop
her hips
are peepholes
climbing without reason
smokeless skies
a clear day
sheltered in our terrain
torn asunder
with
an abstract rejection
of chemistry
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
A moth's carrying your face on mosaic metal wings, half of mine inside
drummer boy, she's in a long, black dress
drummer boy, don't drink the brack water
I didn't look up this time, so I guess I never saw it
The hot air balloon transporting a house with a bird in a cage inside
Tall plant growing through the sky, into space
The sun as its face of flower, petals falling and an insect mouth
There's horns on every building where people store their god and the stars discontent with simmering fires, coming closer to the forests
and goddess flies over towers and ugly stock remains undoused.
You cannot swim through the sea of letters in my head
I sent you only two, anyway and I don't know what now
Hearts grow skew and the plant twists, one root to your door
Right into the foyer where your wheels stand, now capped with cold
This river in me is colored by the cracks in your last sentence.
And as you're well aware, some deer skitter toward water's edge
to counter a thirst of madness, peaking to a frightening fall
I'd do well to break this branch, bugs in the mouth again and
some peepholes don't ever speak but see.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
All I manage to catch are glimpses. Peepholes through time and space.
Small ravels of memories I had before this time, before this space. I try to catch them, but they’re always out of grasp.
Like the light that filters through the rustling leaves of the tree. Appearing and disappearing without a moments notice.
I go towards these memories, hoping to achieve them, but I’m always pulled back down to the memories I possess now, that stretch over the ones before, and I forget. I forget who I am, and I remember who I am not.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
and if you ever come across me
remember this crooked song
"wild strawberries in the woods
not the only fear at the neighborhood
bad apples, cookie monsters, and crows
cashew farts, peepholes, and human toes
we shall fear not, as of today, as of now
we stop, stand, run, jump, and bow
whatever we need to want to can
whatever we need to want to can"
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC
Insect rivalries disrupt microscopic tragedies
Their tiny objections echo through the infinite
Muted chaos mingles with cosmic clutter
All is lost when stars prove sinister
like so many peepholes for a pervert god
Madness makes moves...
I see eyes reassemble for nonsense
Their only crime was observing
So many sad faces and I'm sick like a benadryl boomtown
Scenes full of primitive make believe
Haphazard halos and plastic queens
They disperse for stranger tilts
fluorescent hums and cancellation
Torn between vanity and breathing
Raised on R ratings and nicotine
Box forts in the junk pile
Yellow sky and rat king stances
Footsteps shrouded by loud speaker urgency
Where do they go?
Time runs low on another freak show
left in shambles by habitual slow motion
Pluck the remnants of distinction
pure intentions may rearrange promiscuity
We are only human
We are only a collection of frantic omissions
These distractions come potent
These observations become motives
Excuse this mind that remains remote
pondering sickness and considering ghosts
One last party for obscurity
One last dive into the spill
I never wanted your minds or graces
I only wanted this banshee to stay still
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 5:34 AM UTC
Here are some mishaps from mainlining madness
The stars now seem sinister..
they hang from twine on a crowded skyline
like so many peepholes for a pervert god
I could never live up to these fantasies now mass produced
I DON'T HAVE THE ANSWERS
I'm not sure what constitutes base line normalcy
When considering a suited institutions interpretation of reality...
Lines perpetually blur into an infinite numb
Did free will give us the devices for denying our own mechanics?
How do you reconcile a mind retired from wondering?
Are these crowded spaces nothing more than sad faces displacing silence?
and how much enamel was lost...
in pursuit of despondency?
Ponder a fond portrayal
like we don't all cling to crumbling foundations
You may find me accidentally existing inside a stranger I never intended
You may find me blissfully malfunctioning..
break down illuminated by fluorescent hums
Some concrete charades for gray days full of time
Now and then...
I can pretend my plight for silence transcends the rational
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
cross the hall the people laugh as if it all is well
i watch them stall thru peepholes glass to decipher what is real
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 4:42 AM UTC