"periscope" poems
In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.
Up now. Rise. Up periscope!
Dive. Dive!
Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.
Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
With heavy hearts the lightened feet march up on Whitehall
take a peek,
then down below the trenches go
light up a woodbine,
'dontya know this is the show that we'll be late for', Says Scouse.
'Gor blimey mate' says cockney Joe, 'let's have a look at all them toffs'
and ups the periscope as scouse scoffs bully beef.
Thiefs of body, thiefs of friends,thiefs of time and there is a belief in some older men,
that this is a time when we remember 'them'
No words need be conveyed
no tears for what they gave
just a sober, sombre silence
like when the guns fell silent
one hundred years ago.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.
I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner. The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ****** The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.
A literate piece of poetic license,
The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.
The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
she brings me pancakes and lights me a cigarette
my ***** are cement and icicles form on my toes
she opens the curtain to a dying dove on the balcony
the banks are closed and the stock market has crashed
the periscope lens, so lucidly balanced, has fallen
irreparably into the crypt of a dream
i take a bite of an apple and stare into the mid-morning sun
after bagging the bird, she drapes herself across my chest
she is worshiped like a cradle, or a gravestone in a thunder storm
in her ecstasies, a prism, a poem fits like a glove
as the sunlight warms her ******* she heaves remnants
of last night's whiskey into my adam's apple and it burns me
the words she struck me with still sting in my ears
her fingerprints remain on my back and my bathroom mirror
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Go back to your violent grace
Your elegant waste
Your newspaper paste
Trained tweaker taste
It’s all good
It’s all legal after all
But the future is moving
Too slow at a rapid pace
When the rabid ones
Are not free to die
An every electrical device
Unmoving, ruins your life
Soon the candles won’t burn fire
And the night will tame all desire
Slave to light sockets
Which were paid for from your pocket
You’re walking on a street of waves
An even dead trees somehow misbehave
When on every corner, inside them all
There’s the dearest, faintest, little hum
Yeah, there’s always an end to this
But knowing them they’ll ruin it
Do a down periscope on your soul
Is there anywhere left to go
That’s not gridlocked or sold
Well, now I really know
The worst is yet to come
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
Sick Psalms in my Submarine
Praying to Neptune
At the center of the earth
Submerge and converge
My thoughts from my head
Isolation in a cabin bed
Weeks in solitude
The comfort of radars beep
Check the periscope
Eat Sleep Repeat
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
Running away from her feelings
Don't want no hurt
Don't want inspiration
They only subvert
Her poor fragile heart
She gives her all
Gets smithereens in return
Don't want no broken dreams
Don't want empty hopes
Don't want those sleepless nights
It's a periscope
Couldn't see it before
Now she knows
She's a shell of the old her
No signs of reverting
Built walls around her heart so high,
The heavens are confronting
It's comforting
This deserting
Feeling of the heart
No one's gonna break me
She says asserting
No one's gonna hurt me
Her lips reverberating
Eyes full of misery
Her loneliness shines through
Captivating silver eyes
Moist with morning dew
Or are those tears?
Taking a hue
Of molten silver
Or the dark stormy nights
They've witnessed all along
When they all eschewed
When they all ran away
Well, adieu
They don't deserve her anyway
Don't deserve her beautiful soul
Don't deserve her unconditional love
Or the compassion she holds
Her blinding bright smile
Or the twinkle of her eyes
The softness of her lips
She exists to mesmerize
So, adieu
Because she's a fighter
An igniter
Of the passion he holds
Adieu
He says thankyou
Because she's a queen
And all his to love
Oh if you only knew.
~S.L.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
For Little One
June, 2012
I want to be a giant girl
with my hair caught in the clouds
and a bird resting on my nose
I want to be twice as small
as the fly resting on the wall
I
I want to watch small men
smoke pipes and sing to themselves
I want to grow too magnificent for the room
and push down the walls with my elbows
and use the chimney as a periscope
the sheer enormity
and when I dance
I want to fell the planetary divide
and taste the milky way
and wear saturn’s rings as jewelry
stars tangled in my braids
and i’d let humans walk across my shoulders
so that they could see the moon
and remember how it feels to be
small, childlike, wondering
and then things might be alright.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor ****** the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time ****** like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was ******
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.
2k
You know the way I took it,
At the break of dawn
You know how I slid from your window sill,
Like the gold flakes from my fingernails,
Fandango in the bluing sky
You knew when you awoke,
Rubbing cobwebs from your cracks
When you looked to see it gone,
The gun into your mind
Surely someone clever as you,
Would never let it sit
For a replayed taboo like me,
To steal it as you slept
Your periscope eyes have found me,
Hurdling from the howling woods,
Deep with festers
From your pets
You, you scrawny herbivore
While I eat carnage
Tangy and red
You, it seems, possess some bravery
When you shot those mind bullets
Pushing through my back
But you missed, my dear
You missed
Or was it just your intent
To slash
And torment
Instead?
But you missed, my dear
You missed
--Lily
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.
Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.
Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.
Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.
Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.
Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves when the alternative is television.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
With Google Maps
Of subway tracks
I walked into the world
To kicks and claps
Of Spotify tracks
I walked and bopped and whirled
Off to see my Meetup friends
To the show from Last.fm
It's sad I couldn't be Foursquare mayor
But at I least I got some XM
They wouldn't get me YouTube likes
But I managed to get some Snaps
My Facebook mood was kinda rude
So I posted on YikYak
Waiting, I swiped right on Tinder
Emojis, and flirting ensued
She sent me her Tumblr, I reblogged her gifs
I asked her to Kik me a ****
Waiting, I browsed around Etsy
Posted the cool stuff to /r/pics
Got x-posted to karmaconspiracy
Was all “NAH MY GF MADE THIS"
Back IRL, ran into coworkers
They asked if I’d go down east side
I mulled it over briefly and then
I simply replied
I'll do it for the Instagram
I do it for the Vine
My phones got charge
My credits got charge
Lets go and leave it behind
I'll see it for the Periscope
I'll think it for the Tweet
And as soon as I get my Watch
Maybe I'll have a heartbeat
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
I'm nibbling sunshine fantasies on psychedelic manatees
as I swim through formalities and mudpits of vanity
while temper approaches maximum capacity
I pray for no casualties
I'm dribbling periwinkle moonshine daffodils
as I crawl through sweltering deserts of dis-ease and sunchills
they're a bothersome blister singing softly to a dragon
they're a kaleidescope periscope horoscope for the dead
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
mating behavior
pushes the limits
forgets boundaries
tall
dark
eyes like a canyon
pulling you into them
hands
length
soothing sounds
vibrations
mating rituals
dances with wolves
edge of the feather
periscope vision
~ rachael hays 9O15
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
I've read the news, and it's red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumbprints. They're not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don't
read or write such things. They may
bleed, them, but the blood isn't red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn't that,
at least not until it's too, too late
to stanch. The bully's standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn't come. Not like we
were used to. I'm told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I've been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There's no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It's fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the paper. I don't
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I've read and I'm reading.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
I awoke from this dream in the rubble of my mind. Lost alone in there among the falling Sands of Time. Stricken by the knots that are tied with in my sheets. No more sickness mama please no more grief. All my screws are loose there's too much confusion. Let me fall onto myself into that dreamy illusion. I took the needle from my arm but it's still planted in my head. I've got that feeling I can't take and it's filling me with Dread. I want to slide on down where the muddy water creeps. Where the ****** river flows who's filled with sweet relief. I want to climb into my mind find Oblivion far away from the feelings of the body I live in. Take me to that place that we all want to go. Suspected fugitive lost out on that Lonesome Road. Your constant conversations have me twiddling my thumbs. She was a torturous deceiver with her hand upon my gun. The wind swelled with a gust and I woke from this dream lost all along the lonely streets looking like a fein. I stepped into a paradise searching for my mind. A gonner with a periscope see me from behind. I'm gaining on my final breath aiming for the moon. Sewing up my only close with a needle and a spoon. Drowning in the desperation brewing in my grief. Searching like a street cop lost along his beat. Awaken to the circus that same old God **** show. A sing-along of corpses hitchhiking down the road. The Badlands and sands of time it's the gritty kind of life. Batten down the hatches so to not let in the light. When dependency is slavery there is no kind of thrill. ****** piece of **** just a feeling kinda ill.
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 10:49 PM UTC
your paradise is giving me hell... yet -
we bark at the same moon
and all's well. we strike the brass bells of our Wednesday
and keep havoc on a leash. drinking mint tea... pealing anguish
from a flask... stalking clarity with a cowbell -
spoiling ribbons of the sun
with night streaks of blind lemons
coiling in the blue sky of dread reckoning... a periscope
in the marsh, festooned with limp reeds and wild things...
my eyes clunk in the Mcguffin
and go the way of Eastern men with rope tricks
it clicks on the steam in my kettle
where harm has a hammock.
and a gentle breeze typhoons
in a fools mouth.
as the whirligigs of Autumn
preach Spring
in Amsterdam.
i'm left out.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
Kiss me sweet lips of the orange
For I am lost in a grove. I listen
to the tale of the orange blossom.
I examine mackerels across the horizon
and they leave a trail of hope.
Dry bones lie on the ground
Blossom blanketing my hope.
Everything safe and sound
in my heart, my all round periscope
flashes messages in my mind.
I am lost, my inner navigation system
cannot find.
Because I am lost.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
Anaemic black mist creeps its way between toes,
crawling eyewards, worming stealthily up shins,
pausing only to cup bolted knees and find more
progress toward the stomach's pit where it will rest,
For now.
The soaking - from outside in - is a violation as a pore
stretched aside is all the space this ten tonne mass
needs - a callused finger pulling back a fleshy curtain
to claim squatter's rights - mashing its body into a crawl space,
It curls.
Right here, in the depths, it will feed from its host and
gradually weave a tendril through intestines and bile
like a periscope, seeking and feeling for a route to the stem:
The source of everlasting sustenance;
The end goal.
Once it latches, it will live forever suckling stance.
The insipid parasite, the binding leech; as it takes hold,
consumes with its voidwalker embrace
and paints every memory with your fault;
Perpetual guilt.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
Drug Sub War
The drug sub became the new menace
Replacing the Toyota engined powerboats
And outdated drug running planes that got splashed
Sleek, able to travel underwater
More than the semi-submersible craft
Using a snorkel like **** U-Boats did
A group of foreign designers made them
Contracted by the drug cartels
To make an almost undetectable vehicle
Costing millions fitted with both low and high tech gear
Like GPS, night and day camera periscope and more
Able to dive at will hundreds of feet below
Remaining silent under battery power
But they didn't realize how persistent the US Navy was
Who specialized in hunting subs and now had a new opponent
Not Red China or Neo Soviet enemy subs hunting American carriers
It was Narco Subs from Central and South America
Each one carrying between one and eight tons of drugs
Pure Class A narcotics to **** North American youth
The US Navy used P-3 Orions, P-8 Poseidens and anti-sub choppers
To find the stealthy subs and take the appropriate measures
Calling destroyers and frigates who chased the subs down
Forcing them to surface with small depth charges
When drug sub crews fought back with machine guns
The navy sank them with all available weapons
For this war war, a war of innocent versus guilty
On the ocean no law court was needed...
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 6:39 AM UTC
I think I just needed
some Space to myself
so I snatched up the Telescope
off of the shelf
Fogbound, an Envelope
Packed with Parched Paper
Periwinkle Periscope
Crepuscular Vapor
permanent figures
a vial and dropper
kaleidoscope lens
a beaker and stopper
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Time is filled with false promise
Pain does not erase forever
The sweet momory of a face
Interwoven lives in golden haze
Amongst memories of dead tomorrows
Lined up alongside shimmering woods barefoot with grass
Ghost like ribbons of unproven tomorrows
Floating images spent on quiet ponds
Periscope eyes yielding dippers, into dreamtimes of effortless passion
Vast vaults of time smooth with summertime sleep
This is what I see as I look deep
Long slender fingers pressing down
Keys black and white
Lifetimes spent... Sacred Sound
Notes carved from your heart sent heaven bound
You lived four score and ten
You name unwhispered in other hearts
Nor was there one who greeted you at your door
You called out, cried out long into the nights
This lifetime spent alone and lame
No fame or recognition
But poverty and hunger were your daily bread
A single cover for your bed, not even a pillow for your head
Ink a few sheets of paper, candles some wine
You spent your all, to own a mistress, of wood and bone
The candle you burnt was at both ends
Without regret your heart was given in its purest form
Bliss is what you mastered wth your art you used the pain of us apart
So full and open was your heart that your music did not dim with age
I called for you one whole month and then another
Come to me come to me softly I whispered
Come rest you've done your best
Time to come home my Darkling
It is the end... this script... this test
Lay your head upon her ivory skin
Kiss her fare thee well
I promise you shall meet again. Come rest, the best is yet to be
You rose up from four score and twenty. Your room alive with warmth and golden light
Covered in Blue Stars you took my hand, a very bright light was burning
You grinned, you saw a youth
A boy of twenty in your skin
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
I’ve read the news, and its red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumb prints. They’re not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don’t
read or write such things. They may
bleed them, but the blood isn’t red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn’t that,
at least not until it’s too, too late
to stanch. The bully’s standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn’t come. Not like we
were used to. I’m told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I’ve been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There’s no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It’s fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the print. I don’t
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I’ve read and I’m reading.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Now I see you
You son of a *****
"FIRE ALL TORPEDOES"
“But captain...that is our own ship, sir”
“I said fire all torpedoes”
“Yes Sir, Right away, sir”
“Captain says fire all torpedoes”
“Wait…aren’t we still at the dock?”
“Yes we are…fire all torpedoes”
Red flashing lights
“Fire in the hole!”
Fire in the hole
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
I can't get by on just a dollop of love
So I guess I have to say goodbye and
I ain't asking any trollop for love
For no one needs a helping of that
I float underwater and in my submarine
But, I can not see a thing
For you were my periscope
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC