"pelts" poems
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
.
In solitude...
There's constant talk of the moon
And incessant wishes upon stars
Each word is cast unto paper
Unsure if they'd stretch that far
In solitude...
I embody pelts of droplets from the sky
As thunder mark the seconds that would elapse
Stagnant puddles of liquid dreams
Ever flowing in endless traps
In solitude...
I feel the urge to lose all balance
Aloneness beckons like a long lost friend
Always strange but familiar
To see and be at the bitter end
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
It begins with the ominous clouds that roil and billow over the sky.
Then they darken:
Soft whites...
Seductive greys...
All the way to the purple black that haunts the skies on the cusp of a winter night.
The smell that follows this sinister nebula of vapor hanging over your head is that of life bringing relief.
The smell of dry earth mingling with that of the fresh water above reminds one of summer breezes, freedom and relaxation.
The cool but warm drops of moisture start gently stroking your shoulders and arms.
The strength increases, forcing you to squint as you take in the beautiful composition of nature above.
Soon you're covering your head as the rain pelts down and you race for shelter.
The puddles appearing on the floor disrupted by the matter consistently falling into them.
You peer into the world, completely changed, as you visibility decreases and smile, the metallic twangs to the rain hitting the patio roof fill your ears and soul with its rhythm and music.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
From the humblest of beginnings
Began a tough innings
A family deprived
His dad had died
So to work he went
To help pay the rent
From a teen to a man
In a short time span
He had many a job
Hard earned each “bob”
He was a keeper of bees
He picked beans and peas
With marbles and shanghai
He had a keen eye
So rabbits he’d stalk
Their pelts he sought
A butcher and baker
And fence post maker
A fisherman and fruiterer
And even spud picker
A shearer of great ability
Those shears he clicked with agility
From morn to night
He worked hard alright
Met a girl and made her his wife
Ten children now blessed his life
He provided as best he could
Forever working for their good
A large family and so little money
Life, of course, was not always sunny
Simply he lived, simple his dwelling
The trials he faced so very compelling
A ****** awful thing was done
A terrible tragedy stole his son
With grief immeasurable and untold
He held together; staying controlled
Children struggled to forgive their mother
As she left him and found another
Yet for her he would always stand
Always hoping to win back her hand
Another tragedy claimed a limb
We thought it would be the death of him
His work, his wife, his health now gone
Yet silently, painfully he continued on
We knew his heart was terribly broken
Yet always forgiveness he had spoken
We knew he lived with daily pain
But silent and strong he would remain
His strength and courage was beyond belief
But for him there would be no relief
His children were now all grown
He died, one night … alone
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
As the rain pelts my skin
I try to forget about the things you did
As your foreign hands invaded my body
I regret ever going to that party
My friends said that it would be fun
That I had nothing to lose
But everything changed
When I met you
Your eyes glowed so self-assured
Smile perfectly polished
Your intentions at heart seemed pure
But you were there to demolish
How many girls before me
have fallen into this trap?
Or is it me who will be
Alone on this path
Maybe someday you’ll have a daughter of your own
And get the call saying, “Daddy I can’t come home”
Because she is mortified by a choice she didn’t make
But was never educated to know it was called ****
For months I felt broken and battered
I wallowed in self-pity
Thinking I was tattered
When I finally realized
Opening my own eyes
I won’t let what you did
Ruin my dreams so big
I will stand on my own
And finally return home
Because what happened wasn’t my fault
But you have to live everyday knowing that you committed
****** Assault.
-md
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
Darling, I'm a thunderstorm
and my rain pelts down harsher than the
words you spit
in vehement violence
Darling, I'm a thunderstorm
and my lightening strikes brighter than the
empty promises you made
(brighter, but just as fleeting)
Darling, I'm a thunderstorm
and my rage is vast, immeasurable
filling oceans with its ferocity
Darling, I'm a thunderstorm
and this too will pass, leaving
chaos in its wake.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 6:50 PM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
The movie shows
an innocent man,
misguided, perhaps,
but well intentioned
killing a creature
he thought to be a pest
and full of remorse
for the unhappiness he caused
In fact,
the man who killed Mijbil
never confessed
never repented
did it for gain
as otter pelts
were worth a bob or two.
A tiny ghost
haunts a ditch
by a single track road
in Scotland
And the vanished marshes of Iraq
know which version of events
to believe.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
A tired looking lady
With eyebags
Crumpled, wrinkled clothes
That are too big for her
Disguise whatever
Little curves remain
Her eyes
Dull
Black
She is drenched
Striding inside
Without a care
Like she belongs
In her shabby, shabby clothes
With her hair
A complete mess
She is soaked through and through
The thunder roars again
Muted due to the glass and steel walls
She walks in
A tiny spark
A flash of something
In her dull, dull eyes
People gossip
About perhaps an affair
A failed marriage
A mental breakdown
For one of those reasons
Maybe all of them
Generally, she comes
In the subway
Very particular
About umbrellas too
Today, she carries none
Little Miss Particular
She walks into
The manager's office
A letter neatly typed out
Black and white
Shielded by her brown
Worn coat
Three sizes too big
She has been working
For seven years at the firm
She puts it on the table
Says a polite, 'Thank you,
But I cannot do this anymore.'
And, she is out
Onto the streets
Her eyes
Still dull
A lady with crazy hair
The rain pelts down
As she disappears
Into the fog
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
How could the world be so cruel?
Spreading coffee with black peppers
Mixing tea with pink rock salt
Adding poison to the nicest heart
Giving thorns for a new life
Why are we living like this?
Things must change
Rain pelts heavily on roof
Rainbows can inspire even for a while
Sun helps plants to grow
But we will never understand
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
The foretold episode is ripe
And the childless dawn is now flowering,
The awesome parrots of Africa
Have began swimming in the heavens
And singing the verses of the paraded bees,
For the warrior of South Africa
Has ultimately impregnated the Godsbaa
Without violating her divine virginity,
The black star arouse from Ghana,
Journeyed gorgeously through Zimbabwe
And has decisively descended on South Africa,
Bu this is just the divine seed
Yet to grow into a full black African moon,
For the black star of the black man
Is the religious light yet to radiate on
The colourless naivete of mankind,
Ah, the premise behind this
Exhibition makes a perfect sense,
We did begin it all,
Pilgrimage through it all
And shall end it all,
For the wreckage of
Humanity flies with time
And the megapower status
Of the African is a fact of life,
Today, a new voice has been
Added to the joy of the black women,
Causing the dry bamboo flutes to buzz
With the pantaloons of the ancestors,
Adorn our emerald embryonic pride with
The ambrosial smiles charms of the sunrise,
For he pelts of the peerless mid-night
Has been remodeled with our dark gore.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
And so resounds the echo...
Sewn against your shadow,
handstitched destiny edges,
unraveled in the fire,
pulses rage
in heart-paced whispers,
collision of midnight panther
pelts, bleed into powder silk,
ravage the gentle merge,
your touch upon my awakening
sway me softly in your gaze
taste me with eyes that pierce
my soul from wingtips of butterflies
cast from the fire of your existence.
Unfold the unspoken words
dripping in the creases of this
throbbing...needing...wanting
heartbeat-slip-stitch,
suture seal the ache
of gossamer flesh
pressed against raven,
twin glances,
the bookmark,
fingertips
tracing the eyeprints
of your words upon me.
...so resounds the echo...
As echo wrecks the body
in a fever of words, purged
from the ****** night,
that devours_and devours_your lips,
my hands' gentle cradle, spread
its roots dark these russet
threads the gold, swept
wetly over hands, like nerves,
quickening and so laden
with tremors, these words echo echo
Slip knot tongues intertwine,
tangled tasting breathes, exhaled
in slow moans surging, purging
that drink_and crave_and need
m o r e
beneath hands that unleash
the fervor, lips pressed through
the flames, as gossamer falls
upon panther silk,
an exigent trespass,
beyond the touch
beyond the kiss,
educe the quake and the quiver
within this rapture.
...so resounds the echo echo...
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Gasping, whispering, teasing wind
billowing my clothes, messing my hair.
Calm and still before the world is
deafened by the groaning cries of incoming
thunder rolling across the sky.
We watch the storm blow in
wind scattering angry tear drops to the ground
from rich purple clouds crowding the horizon.
I run one step behind you
dodging hail that pelts the soft earth.
By the time we reach shelter
my hair is slicked down, stuck to my skin.
Safe inside from the ever stronger wind
in dim light we wait for our clothes to dry
I’m wishing you would stay the night.
Rattling windows sing in chorus
with my clattering bones
and your deep, soothing voice.
Wind shakes the stucco house
your steady breath becomes my lullaby.
The morning comes with dew
bright light touching down from the sky.
Still steaming ground smells of petrichor
strewn with branches
the only hint of last night’s wind.
Clear blue skies in morning light
hide the storm that was so angry last night
stillness concealing violent winds.
{177 words}
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
The singing birds may waken you in the morning, only to expose you to another day of uncertain disconnectedness. However, the late afternoon handling of newspapers could result in textured fingers and a black nose, whilst ice-cold rain pelts against your jacket with a forceful concerto of magical precipitation.
As you stand dripping wet, my indulgent adolescent of traumatic naivety, always remember that Popeye will be speeding hastily toward your confectionary impulses.
The dog behaved like a royal prince, as he gracefully licked ice-cream from the cone of his masters’ desire. Further Turkish amazement could be found in the palm of his hand, whilst snowflakes fell, and the tracks of police vehicles gradually faded during blizzards of the night.
Silence truly speaks across pink morning skies, as we gaze out of the window into resounding flights of fancy.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.
2k
A harsh wind howls over the mountains
But I stand tall, alone and unbowed
With my wild hair and pelts
I am the barbarian, fierce and proud
No weapon can fell me, no man can best me
For I vanquish all with my axe and my shield
Flee now before my might and wrath
To my power surrender, to my fury yield
Like the wild north wind I come
Laying low all in sight
So cower in fear, you soft ones
And flee fast into the night
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Shepard Leopard print not calligraphy double "L's" lively as llamas lily roll roots lull underwater dreams felt from the events of hypnotized by the words of the orator, an ores rating is the basis of the all purpose flowering behind the veil, human as satiated, red as sunsets lewd as an anagram of wed rings marry Saturn on this mourning of the death of time, rocks felt sediment may ties tan in the Sun pelts peeled layered in the wind steaming serpentine smokes coils in the sky Clouds the equipment of the buster Organs play louder than church hymns reigns power blood men straighten in their pews at the sound of the root of all evil the mouth of the whale begging for the message more "S's" in saliva drool without one of Oh now bow before the bow arc in the Know a Self flooded urge elevated surfaced by the pit of the concrete, open your abstract the path leopard prints in the mud escape the boar snarling winters Solar is the limit speed time for the Scarab dry enough for the role of matter being dense as ****** In no sense cures us from our aged protractor, human after all is how I robot rock.
I am earth breathing fire hearing wind moving water beneath my meat eating feet. I stare through the ghost riding I am Equine the warship of the Poised den at landings end I devour funnel cakes within the three circles, I merge the warmth and cool blending the reflections with its shadow commanding paddle cyclical backstroke the Frog's moment chosen amp powered transition form and fathom an alternate realm, I dropped a meteor on a puddle world displacing half of all livin; Lanced a Wasp's nest as a Dragoon steals an egg as a test.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
The rain pelts the window,
The Boyfriend who tries to get my attention,
Throwing its rocks at the window,
But I ignore and continue on with my work.
Mrs. Livingston wants a paper written
A 5 page paper
And Things like annoying rain mustn’t distract me.
Though the rain is easy to ignore
There is one thing that I can’t ignore.
Him.
He is there in the back of my mind
Occupying the space where numbers from math class should be,
Where my History homework on Napoleon should be,
Where He shouldn’t be.
Golden eyes flash before me once the room goes white,
A scent seduces my nose though it’s in my mind
Just a memory brought back to life
A ghost intruding when it need not.
Why? Why can’t he leave me alone?
Yet I know it’s not him that’s in the wrong
It’s me
And My gay ways.
Latching onto him
Clasping his words in its hands
Soaking up every syllable
Every word
Everything about him
Like a sponge soaking up the bubbles , suds, water, and germs.
The paper! I must get back to the paper!
He can’t be in my mind when I have much writing to do.
But
I like him.
More than like him.
I remember when at first I dug my heels into the ground
Refusing to fall
Then as time went on
The heels got eroded
The ground beneath me got eroded
My determination was eroded.
And
I
Fell.
An object forced to the ground not because of gravity
But because he had something about him
Something that made my body sing,
With bulking, twisting, and jittering.
Was it his smile?
That one little curve.
That one little curve with such shine
And such sweetness
It could melt ice
And have more sugar than a pack of Hershey Kisses.
Maybe his hair?
The constant loops
Of Wheat
Of sand
Of soft wool.
Taking me on a ride that never seem to end.
Or perhaps his Words and Speech?
The constant dragging out words
The sweet tune of the Hillbilly in his vocals.
Lost in his words that never made sense
Until I thought more of it.
Or maybe his demeanor?
The laid back student who dreams of going cross country in a van.
The one who seems to have everything figured when he can’t figure if he is up or down.
The one who attracts the negative and it turns to problems
The one who surprises me with his out of the blueness.
And takes me on such a high that it shatters by heart when he drops me.
I have to stop.
He is taken from me
That is a thought I mustn’t forget.
Why spend this time
Thinking
Wanting
Loving
Liking
Wishing
Hoping
When he has been taken from me.
I must finish the paper.
I don’t have much time.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
dog
all night long
dog
your old song
dog
all night long
how
your friends
yelp
growl howl
dog
your old song
dog
all night long
dog
mad decibel gall
dog
your old song
dog
one pelts stone
dog
guard flings stick
dog
your old song
dog
your old song
dog
your old song
dog
all night long
run
dog
run
dog
run
early
tomo'
morn
dog
catcher
prowling
run
dog
run
dog
run
run
dog
run
dog
run
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.
They might have sent me to Wonderland
to explain croquet and the proper pouring of tea;
they might have sent me to OZ
to get into Dorothy's pants or train flying monkeys;
they might have sent me to Hogwarts
to get an advanced degree in something useful;
they might have sent me to Narnia
in search of ****** pelts and talking mice;
they might have sent me to Never Land
to counsel Captain Hook on anger management;
but no, instead, imagination failed utterly,
and those patriotic imbeciles sent me to Vietnam.
If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:27 AM UTC
it's true
they did love you once.
feared you too, but
maybe that's the same thing,
gave you
roast pigs and animal pelts
and you didn't even have to ask.
a pretty good arrangement.
now
i'm the only one that sticks around
and even then only
when i'm bored.
i'm taunting and i'm cruel and you, love,
are not a great conversationalist
but
it evens out.
so i get to
take jabs at you
til you're frothing at the mouth,
like seafoam, briny
shaking valleys and hills with
your anger. and i can't help but laugh
at you. you,
with your dusty ruby eyes
(that lie now in a museum
somewhere
because the white men walked into your temples and plucked them right out -)
and your stone paws,
roughly hewn, mossy,
ugly.
we laugh and laugh
about what you lost
between galileo and darwin and euler,
so many years and the
backs of men.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
They promised to level you up
After a six month grind.
Took a ball point pen
kept your eyes on the macguffin.
but there's still rats in the basement
never made enough Rupees
To trade in this wooden sword
no matter how many teeth
or claws you trade in
You're still stuck behind a register
or mopping up XP from the local wildlife's viscera
During your daily quest
turning in the farmers daughter
you noticed a woman promptly positioned in your way.
Some bandits killed her father
and she just stuck around
Until you hit the local tavern
and drank too much whiskey
you ran off to fetch her some pearls
then while digging for CLAMS
You met a pirate man
Who asked you to steal back his map.
while you were finding his buried treasure
you happened to find a letter that
forced you into a coffee shop
and here you sit.
always fell for the macguffin
Now you caught the most obvious one.
Always running around, trading pelts for clues
But they just kept you busy so you never traveled out of town.
if you ever headed out
You'd be slaying more than dragons
there's more than princesses to set free
out here in the big world.
your next quest is self actualization
go Sattle up on that griffin.
and head to the farthest town.
You don't know how to make the gold right now
but if you stay here.
how are you gonna find out?
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
feel and be felt
hearts and its pelts
of truth and meaning
souls corrupt obscene
flicker of reaching
and believing
what it does not want
to hear.
undo but remember
tell all to forget
the joy and beginnings
the emptiness
of new identity
results and regrets
misfortunes and placed bets
ensue and form
equipped with unknown
murderous sights
grip my longing
to push until broken
loved yet unwanted
felt but not kept.
the cancer of curiosity
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 4:40 AM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC