"perspiring" poems
You’re lost
I can’t find you anywhere
I listen for the sound of your foot steps
Your breath
Silence
Silence
Its getting late
I'm perspiring
I'm hoping you’ll be strong
Strong like how I am
Or maybe how I want to be
But you’re not
You know you’re not
You probably wouldn’t stand a chance
I run
Hiding in the bushes as the bright lights shine
I’m a crminal, I’m a criminal, I’m a criminal
I hear a rustle
Flinch
I hear a squeel
Frozen muscles
Is it you?
.
.
.
Im sprinting now
Home, home were you’ll be I know it
It has to be
I’m not worried everything’s fine
I don’t care who sees me now
I'll **** them up
I'm on a mission
I've gotta save her
I've gotta prove I'm fretting over nothing
Which is worse than fretting over something
Stomp stomp creek
Warm air
Familiar smell
No sound
I walk to the bathroom
It's nothing
To her
Slap
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
deep in a stargazing trance
i stumble through the night
in the darkest hour
a star-crossed lover's stupor
bewitched by constellation filled eyes
tangled in star studded netting
and silently screaming
- i am not a frightful nightmare
- nor a heavenly dream
- merely flesh, bones, lungs, heart...
the closing of night
still woven in intricate webbing
the rising sun's warmth
'tis but the scorch of fate's kiss
i shall smoulder and disappear
with perspiring flesh
shivering bones
panting lungs
pounding heart...
jolted awake
'twas but a dream?
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 4:18 AM UTC
Once there was a carnival.
It was exuberant and joyful,
With elephants and lions befriending the penguins and sea otters,
And little fairy-like acrobats leaping and zooming across tightropes,
As if they were walking on solid ground.
There was a faint smell of funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn,
And the sound of people chatting animatedly about,
"Wasn't that act precious" or "oh, darling, look at that penguin! Isn't he cute?"
And then I got a little older.
And the carnival was still joyful, but something had changed.
The carnival had this joyful facade but it was hiding a darker exterior.
The elephants and lions were growing old, and the ringmaster,
Displeased with their best efforts,
Had started to hurt them.
The fairy-like acrobats had gotten injured over the years,
And wobbled a little bit here and there, with hints of hesitation
Perspiring on their foreheads.
The funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn smell lingered still,
But it was almost as if people had grown tired of the taste,
And in the heat of the summer day,
The food had started to grow stale.
And then I got old.
The carnival had closed now.
Overgrown with weeds,
Stalls and tents covered in graffiti and muck,
It was now a gathering spot for children to make believe,
That they were the fairy acrobats who had once been so agile and captivating,
Or the animals that had struck terror and awe into toddler's hearts.
The carnival was gone,
but the children would run home to their grandmas and grandpas,
and they would tell them the story of how the lion was this close to biting off their nose,
and how one time the acrobat honestly did a front flip from a horse on to a bear onto a lion, and they were honest to God telling the absolute truth no matter what their spouse would say in the room next door.
The carnival was gone, but the stories would go on in a bittersweet never ending circle of intrigue and mystery and magic.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-thrust and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.
A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.
A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy **** I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Blasting sparkling blizzards
White skies suffocating;
A ****** of crows hiding.
Chattering from treebark
Petrified little rodents (final)
Serenity in personified wind
Given shape through fog and flake
A symphony of schools of tiny pearly fish
Slamdancing in steam from generators
Perspiring the only heat (miles)
Needles on branches leaking natural
****** made by contrast of mother-of-pearl
Glistening from coral made in woodland;
Empires of organic respiration
Evolved into perfect lungs.
Let the Big Fish gather!
Stalagtites from shed-ceiling
Melting slowly. Cones sprouting
From ground of perfectly smooth rest
Nesting in honeycombs of golden hashish
Leaves falling from stems busted
Water filling up airlocks long since rusted
And the rooftops of cars and homes are dusted
A shroud of grey cloud, nothing comes in
No one goes out. Fortress, sanctuary,
Harmony, charm. Schools stop worrying.
No sharks, no wolves.
Only lonely, shivering coyotes.
And nestled cubs in bedspreads
Let your tongue out, divulge, reel in...
Partake...
Ingest.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
*Only accept what you cannot give.
Only expect what you can't receive.
Love is kind and marvelous. Believe.
You made me believe, love.
You made me. We need not
Answer why-s.
The past sorted out the stars tonight.
The same auspicious stars will arrange
The moments for tomorrow.
The same boat of time will be
Old enough for fireflies and
Crescent moons, somewhere,
On a majestic river in Bohol.
This spoon, this fork, this red
Straw on clear, perspiring glass of
Red tea, this ill-fated receipt,
The wooden tables and chairs
With uneven leg-lengths,
Those couples over there,
The lamps, the crew, the ambiance,
The long line at counter number 3,
The clock, that classic clock,
Especially, knows that--
That I love you. I love you,
Because you showed me how.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
after Gwendolyn Brooks
Last night we got fried
While you stayed inside.
Can’t say we tried.
What’s your excuse?
Tonight we drive cars
Drunk to bars.
You’re stuck in the tars
Of that **** Spanish.
We’re good to go
You repeat “No.”
What a great show
bare-breasted ENCORE!
Have fun retiring
We’ll be expiring
Our children perspiring
At the thought of us leaving them nothing.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 3:59 AM UTC
"I'm not hungry" she said.
"Let's both get undressed
and go straight to bed".
Her eyes peer down,
I've read that look.
She's hungry only
that we ****
Both twisted, posed,
improbable feats.
Entangled, stuck in
satin sheets.
Back arched from touch,
sensual caress.
Opening of *****
a fingers press.
A wanting tongue,
it reads her look.
A throbbing gland,
throes north and stuck.
Perspiring writhe,
one, two, we slide.
Enchanted throws,
"oh God" she cried.
Seismic shudders,
twisted face.
One final cry,
a tired embrace.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 7:38 PM UTC
Him who makes me hazy.
Him who's laugh makes me starstruck.
Him who's soft accented voice lets off "One year, Nineteen days."
Voices exchange.
Brain numb, and hands perspiring I step back.
"W-what?" I stutter.
"The day you broke up with me."
Blood rushes to my cheeks fast like a ******
Him who smiles that broken smile, the striking smile.
Him who looks like a newcomer.
Him who I haven't held in an eternity.
In One year and Nineteen days.
Five months, January 1st to April 28th.
One year and Nineteen days.
Him who had no trepidation.
Him who broke my heart as well as his.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Weathered flesh tightens tenderly in ever-expanding fibers
like an anatomical snuffbox.
The perspiring philtrum of a flew
is carved quickly but more desperate than a slice of kerf.
Uncoiled youth cissing uneven pigmentation
has been slaughtered like fall duff.
Yet she rejoices, snood and all,
To the tap, tap, tap
Of little dingbats.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC
My Father, who means well, makes me lunch
A man who’s sandwiches could never be
trusted, who used the mossy breadends cause
thats how they did it on the farm but
I am the cry baby who rejects the
deadened bread, dark wilted lettuce spines
lettuce rinds, inedible, unclean
Perspiring, lovingly wrapped in cellophane
And now I’m old enough I must
so carefully control what’s
between my full, whole, mid-loaf slices,
Fret about gluten.
Jesus help me I’m so afraid of
invisible moulds and the taste of iron
in those glossy cylinders of upended campbells
tomato: quivering naked, vermillion in the pan,
like chilled organs they appeared hepatic
I’m sure the milk he adds is soured he
cannot be trusted, my father, but
forgive him he knows not what he does, I
know they didn't have much on the farm I
am spoiled like the milk, too sensitive, I
wilt, because I have become too hard to feed,
we didn't know what to do with this kind of love.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
I should navigate
perspiring inspiration along the lonely streets
which are bottled desolation
but I stay here,
where once the candelabra shot sparks up to the chandelier
and that in turn shed tears of light which danced along the the gloomy walls
in palaces where ***** were held.
Spellbound I am shunned
outgunned by the desperate and dissolute
who eye up my shiny suit.
I've got to get away
pass my day among those who have passed away
sat beside the tombstones of yesterday
but I stay here trapped by my fears
and the years slip through my hands.
From the graves come two choices
in loud voices I'm told to take hold
and hang on
then the voices are gone
there's just the fluttering breeze as it whispers through the leaves
and the trees are silent.
I brood acquiescence
nod my head and arise
wipe the dirt from my face and my eyes behold
all that was told
and it's empty
blank space.
I've got to get out of this place
but the candles burn low and then, where is there to go?
and again I am trapped by the years that are wrapped
and draped over my shoulder.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Ringing ruthless, shrill
In my ears I place a pill
Momentarily numb my brains
To **** the thoughts and blur the pains
Drunk with sheer hopelessness, I am blind
In a daze that’s somehow kind
I don’t wish to deal with hope, it’s what causes global warming
It’s always growing without warning
And hurting people who could once cope
Inside I’m slowly burning
Where’s all that heat supposed to go?
Perspiring all that hurt
That wears the ozone layer
Like rock wears ***
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
Pursuing yet another parabolic
Crawl across the clear, blue, summer sky
The sun started its journey at the horizon.
Radiating— Forcing its warm, orange, light
Through venetian blinds; the glowing celestial body
Painted her naked, flawless, skin
With stripes of contrasting light as she slept.
He watched her quietly as the shadows
Manifesting between each strip of light, inched
Across her skin in unison with the suns trajectory.
Ever so slightly opening her sleep-crusted eyes
She looked up at him, yawed gently, smiled and
Rolled over to position her body against his.
Her narrow, freckled face, rested easily
In the crevice between his arm and chest.
Letting out one more yawn, her emerald, green,
Eyes fell back behind their lashed curtains of flesh;
Dozing off into the next satisfying slumber.
The ceiling fan above clicked and waved erratically
But offered no relief from the hot, humid air.
Perspiring slightly, her skin remnant of morning dew.
In those last few minutes of direct, morning, light
Right before the sun left the scope of their window
He couldn't help but think that this was it.
This was love, and he was trapped.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
.
Drizzle coated the billboard
sitting on that desolate stretch of highway
waiting for someone to read
or at least hide behind, parked car, back seat
steamed windows, sighs just above a holler,
a collar unbuttoned,
casual abundance with the radio on
seeking a Clapton tune
as nimble fingers
show the difference between a slow hand
and a destined position,
where rain doesn’t matter
because it I just as wet inside
though hotter than an August day,
perspiring in the friction
as love hits the four way flashers
blinkers accelerate, left, right, faster,
names are called, tears are cried
and the road home now beckons . . .
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
If Happiness is a contagious drug
then I’m sure I’m hooked and high,
where'd the sad flee off to,
when did the falling sky stop crushing my lungs.
I’m for sure that the air's flooded and barraged in fantasy drugs.
If God's got happiness in a needle then I’m in the bathroom,
plunging my thumping veins of cyanide in my happy suicide.
The air's thinning down,
lungs collapsing
rooms running round and round.
I've got the trigger twitching up to heaven and space,
I’ve got the barrel lodged against this perspiring face,
guts to glory life to lord
I’ll blow the universe sky high,
never to see,
never to hear,
never to know fear.
The roulette's spinning a Russian game of life or death,
I’m lost in conscience,
high on **** and happiness.
Give the word my hands a twitch set to snap,
scoured to tense,
there's nothing left, but these dreams of bliss.
A heresy of contused and flowing light,
day dreams illusion sugared sweet in an infedimine delight.
Pull the switch assign my soul to lasting high,
take my crackling mind for one last ride.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:07 AM UTC
I woke up
and things were colourful,
the blanket was warm with my body heat
and that proved my existence
so I stayed in bed
just a little while longer
before standing up
and beginning the drift of day,
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway
I stepped in
and the water was inches below scalding,
the tiles were perspiring
and I closed my eyes
shrinking, folding
back into my mind
just a little while longer
before stepping out
and beginning the ritual of
Sunday
cold feet,
wet hair assuming responsibility
for the chill around my neck;
unsure
but I’m doing this anyway
I woke up
dead or alive
determined
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
*With heavy breaths
Pounding heart
Perspiring temple
I woke up in the middle of the night.
Was it a nightmare?
Or what?
I looked at the watch.
3 AM it said.
I gulped some cold water.
And let my breaths settle.
I tried to sleep
But in vain.
“I’ll take a walk.”
I said to myself.
“A bad idea!”
No sooner did my feet retort,
I found someone’s still gaze upon me.
I’d never known him.
But something about him
Seemed familiar.
Was he a colleague of mine?
Or my milkman?
I smiled at him.
He smiled back.
Forced smile, noticeably.
With unkempt long hair
Sullen abysmal eyes
Wrinkles of stress
Head loaded down
Wrapped in shabby clothes
Lost he was in his own thoughts.
He looked troubled.
Did he lose someone special?
I decided to talk to him.
I started to walk in his direction.
Astoundingly he too moved in my direction.
“He too wants to talk to me?”
I thought.
We kept moving towards each other
Until he crashed into the reality
And I, into the mirror.*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
With our heads over the starboard of the boat trip we took taunting tropical storm Fay on the port and our dresses in the wind.
He watched from the captain's chair, pistol in his hand. Salty seas hinder our vision of the man in the watchtower turning him into a blur on the vast expanse of grey skies and rotting wet wood.
Angry crew-children with their bodies touched, banging on the stained glass door to his room where the little girl looks through the marbled blue with tears on her cheeks. Laughing at the confrontation, sent back to work.
Gathering lobster and lost time, both of them scream in the boiling *** Escaped breath from incestuious embraces return to lungs and we find out that we can scream too, the boiling *** is overturned dripping off the starboard where we stand.
Lightning bolt touches the flag above his head causing chemical reactions to develop into a spark. Flames at the back engulf the wheel the children blister their hands grasping onto the lines as Fay rolls through, lightning after thunder rain never ending. Chaos perspiring on the ship he calls the battalion to secuestrar the children.
The battalion is overturned at the punch, bruise left on grey skin. Captain blubbering with lies the fire heat on his back. Rotting wood is burning, we cover our noses with bandanas and letters marked for Groton. The tide rises waves overtake the port, splashing onto the starboard where the victims jump into the black water uncertainty chilling them.
Swimming to Key West with the dolphins on our back the fiery ship burns in the distance the captain tied to a chair of ********** and lines untouched, denying allegations until his heart is charcoal and all that's left is a charred body smelling of ****** and aftershave. The starboard side is empty causing imbalance to the ship.
Dripping tears and sea water, walking through the streets, we lower our bandanas and hold the letters close to our hearts. Searching for the sun that will lead us home.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
Diagnostic- Unknown
Perhaps another cause of unknown blues
Induced by memories clenching to nerves
Fondling the withered mind
Withering...
withering...
withering away.
Fusing to her pores
Recycled from a whiff of intoxicated breath
Nails coated with anxiety
Eyes, dazed, drug heavy-peaking.
****** appetite?- unaffected
Patient rationality?- Logical
Distressed, but unnoticeable
Lost, but optimistically searching
Health History?- Discreet
Just a mere case of teenage disillusion
Nerves?- Resonating memory-filled-synapes
Lungs?- Intoxicated
Lips?- Sealed shut
Pores?- Perspiring nostalgia
Heart? Misunderstood emptiness
unknown ache
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
cold drink perspiring, your
hands suddenly clammy,
granite, you order another
float or maybe a milkshake
and a slick hamburger on
a checkered napkin. your
memories don’t fit through
the opening of the straw.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
Another session greets
me for another
beautiful day.
I flow effortlessly,
from one
position
into another,
breathing prana,
in and out,
my hips reach
toward the heavens
into a nirvana-state,
rock hard & perspiring,
I am connected
to the sacredness
of other kindred spirits
engaged in similar activities,
a million miles away,
in their own sacred places,
exploding.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC