"pestle" poems
It's within the grown out roots
where the Garden Owl still hoots
Sings the melancholy song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.
It's within the thatching of the dwelling
And a failed attempt at fortune telling.
Beyond the garden of the bugs
Beyond the magpies and the slugs
A moon was folded into quarters
Grind it with pestle and mortar
Strip it down to crater powder
Feel it till the song sounds louder
The Garden Owl sings his song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong
And under the brown thatched roof
The girl detests her blue eyed youth
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
a) i am the mortar incurring blow after blow
from the abrasive quality of your negligence.
no, i am herb between pestle and mortar
the full realization of 'rock and a hard place'
b) i am the mortar between each brick you lay,
in blue collar glory, or rock star slumming,
to bind shaky corridors of past serenity
and bear indiscretions on my limestone shoulders
c) i am the mortar you fire before crawling under covers
for inexpensive *** and trashier beer
by a lake on a camping trip where tents trump love
like the queen of spades in a hand of hearts
d) in fact, these are false, merely possibilities --
actuality: you were never enough
to make me spew homonyms in metaphor
because you were nothing like them,
always appearing changed but monotonous in meaning,
and if you're so into contraposition,
are we not but names for each other?
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
wasted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC
I'm Outstanding in a field
While out standing in a field
....with these teachers
C̵͍̞̓̄r̸̛͖̣͙̋̀ë̵̝͔́ä̶͎͕͉̈́t̶̢̠̍ͅǔ̵̹̠̖̊͠r̴̜̙̗̊̀e̷̡̢̜̕s̵͖͚̒̿ and prophets
You'd think its an easy hike,
but its more seagoing
I see, means my ego pre-going:
Just Color coding as another motif to talk with
No Shovel loading this buffer coating some mock spit
Of Sirrus winds and summer loving...
Was it other living or utter loathing?
No component, Native I'm Buffaloing
Icarus took the fire and I took the flowin
We've got the water ̶̧̧̼̖͙͔̹̻͕͖̠̤̓͊̆͋̐̓͂̄̊̚̕͠r̵͍͔̮͒̿̎́̊̈́͝ ũ̸͖͇̟̯̅̌̈́̕͠ n̵̲̤̙̜̑̑̽͑ n̵̡̺̪͎̯̫͐́̉͜͜ ì̷̺͍̹́̓̈́ ṉ̸̣̪͓̗̤́̈̊̈́̀ g̵͓̲̺̙̘̤̞̦̺̥̓͋̈̇͌̈́̃́͂̍͝
Is it fear or love?
Got the mother-loving
is it dear or turtle-dove?
Talking in terms of
inhaling foxglove
Stuck in the mud asking:
What's the size of....
What are we in the Light of?
Still:
Growing like a d̶̰̊̿̈́̓̿̿̑̈́͆̈̅̕a̵̻̤̒̅͛̿̀̎͘i̷͎̜̰̯͆̏̚s̵̡̢̼̺̬̬̖͚̦͍̠͑̀̀̃̀͌́͛̈́̌͝ȳ̴̞͖͓̝̥̭̥̖̑͋̔̎̀͗͘ ̸̢̪͍̠͕̩̥̒̍̓͋̈̐͊̂̎̓͝ ̵̡͇̳̦̦̥̰̝̐͐͌̐̓͐̈̏̀͘̕ ̶̡̨̟̼̺̺̝͇̍̀̓̓̏͌́͗̓̂͆͠
Growing like my Day Be
more than Dimebag lately
Growling like I'm Day Z̶̯̲̹̠̙̊̏́͗̿̎̅͗͐̿̃
Standing tall // Just Massing Nation
Is it all in my Imagination?
Fountain passion Claim free
Mountain Fashioned hazily
Passion Painting with Green Sea
Ripples passing freely through the sword
I be puffin on a horn like G̶̹͎̓̄̃͛͂͐͐a̵̻͕͔̯̹̿̕͝b̶̧̛͔̙͙̰̭̯̥̩̉̅̅̿̂̃r̴̝̞͎͂͗̈ĭ̴̘̈́̄̽̃͂̑́̈́͘͠ȩ̷̞̹̮̃̑̌͛̂́̀͝ḷ̶̢̡̭̫͉̬͇̀͜ ̸͚̳̘̜̫̱͖͂̇̓̈́̂̽͂̀̒
(Pfu du duu do duuuu)
Tougher than....
~imagining_
All the rougher
when we matching wings
Most people here
~just gather things_
Always stuffing torn like here we go:
(̷̛̰̼͕̰͊̂͆̿̅̀͝F̴̧̛͎͎̹͕̬͔͉̃͆̄̎͛̈͋͆̓̇͝ͅū̸̪͎̦̻͕̼͉̼͇̤̄̀̏̓̅͗͌ ̸̧͚̝̟͎̺̝̱͉̓͝ḑ̷̧̰̞̪̥͊̈̑̑̔͋͐͜͝͝ų̵̢̮̙͙̭̫̤̤̖̽̄̈́̀͒̅̀̕͜͝͠ ̷̨̨̥̩̘̱̘̓̉̈̈͌̃͊́̾̚͘d̷̺͛͂̏͑̂͛̊͛͘͝u̷̧͉̹̟͎͉̎̓̎̌ú̵̢̪̺̱̥͆̅́̄̈́̈̚͝ ̷̨̝̥̫̣̻͚̍̍͊͛͌̃͌̀̆̃̚͜͠ḑ̵̡̛͚͚̩͓̼̲͇̮͑̃̅͗̿̓͐͝ͅõ̵̢̰͎̹̥̫̺͍̎́͌̓ ̵͚̺̼͇͔̻̫͇̤̆̔͛͐͆̀̚͝ḑ̴̻̪̉̍͌̽̿̚̚̚ͅư̶̛̘͔̹̰̈́͒͑̍͐̎̈̈́̒͜û̶̬̮̙͍̺̬̯̻͚̺͌̂̌ͅu̴̞̫͓̭̮̽̽͌̊̄̃̔̎̃͘͠͠ŭ̷͎̎̉̆̈́̚͠)̷͖͔͔̤̗̋͛͜
Come and tumble
Hear how can it sing...
All the colors, Smatterings
Can't muck with my energy
Mastered the art of astral projection
Grinding rice with mortar and pestle
Just to Vortex the best view
Motor no next to you
Torn from the best of true
R̶̯̞͕̭͠͝e̴̳̗̍͒ͅä̷͎̬́̀̋̂̕l̴̼͇̗̈́̿̈ỉ̶̙͔̤̓t̵̩͚͎̥͕͓̍̏̌̉ẏ̸̫͌ worn for the rest of you.
Rolling free with no potent fees
Taking liberties with the energies
Got the water ̶̧̧̼̖͙͔̹̻͕͖̠̤̓͊̆͋̐̓͂̄̊̚̕͠r̵͍͔̮͒̿̎́̊̈́͝R ũ̸͖͇̟̯̅̌̈́̕͠ Un̵̲̤̙̜̑̑̽͑ Nn̵̡̺̪͎̯̫͐́̉͜͜ Nì̷̺͍̹́̓̈́ Nṉ̸̣̪͓̗̤́̈̊̈́̀Gg̵͓̲̺̙̘̤̞̦̺̥̓͋̈̇͌̈́̃́͂̍͝
Is it fear or love?
Got the mother-loving
is it dear or dote?
More like do or don't.
Floating on the shore like: Heeere we go.
Blowing on a horn with Gabriel :
(̴̨̳̙͕̲̤̮͕̖̅͐̄̍͒́̎̋̌̈́̾͑̆͑̊̿̃̓͛̓̒͘͜͝F̴̧̢̨̹͎̖̼̝͚̤̥̖̰̭͕̳̖̩̘̜̝̩̟̠̩̝̘̰͎̜̮͖̓̏̾̔̉͗̈́̕͝ͅͅ ȗ̶̡̳͕̘̲̜̳͖͉͇̮̟̪̬̜̜̩̥̻̝̭͓̥̍̍͂̈͆̉͗̎̈́͗̓́̑͊̋́͗̿͐̍̏̋̓̓͊̿̚͠ ̷̢̧̹͙̫̜̝̲͖̹̪͓̲̫̟̹͎̖̦̝̳̙͎͍͍̱̳̼̗͎̻͖̰̘̻͈̲͌̏̐̽̀̉̇̒͗́͑́͑͐̈͌̿͐̍̒̒̌̀̈͑̃̅͋̌͛͂̔́̀̍́̎̅̚̚͘͝ͅͅḑ̶̧̢͇͎͖̝̠͈͍̫̰̝̯͔͉̝͓͚̭͖̻͓̗̬̺̞̖͈̜͍̹̜̺̩͈̃̎̀̂͂́̀͂̄̐̍̆̈́́̈́̈̏̈́̉̿͒͋̈́̓̾̍̆̍̈͊͂̐̒̀̚͜͝͝͝͝ û̷͚̻̟̰͈̒̊͒̀̿̾͋̒͌̊̾̇̉́͆̅͒̈́̈̾̓̑͗̃̈́̓̄̀́́̽͗͘̚̕͘͝ ̵̡̢̢̡̢̘͍͉͕̠̮̤̗̻͈̯͙̲̳͎̪̹̗͓͈̟͕͇̃͒̋͒͒̉͊̎̂̽̋͋̈̀͊̅̔̒͐̋́͐̏͑͋͌͛̇͛̓̄̄̍͐ͅd̸͔͕̞̪̝̖̩͂̂̎̀͐͒̿͘ư̶̡̩͙͇̥͈͔̮̟͕̺͙̈̅̽̍̒͌͛͑͋̉̿̎̂̿́̈́̊͗̄̔̎̏̑̂̔̊̈́̕͝ͅ ư̸̧̡̼͈̲̰͓̹̗̩͓͙̹̯̹͊͐̒̾̆́̍̒̓͑̍̈́͆̉̀͘ ̷̢̧̺̩͕̟̙̳̜̩̗͔̻͕͈̥͈͖̩͇͈̠͉̩̈́̃̌̈́͌̇͂̓̐̇̍̏́̋̔͂̈́́̒̽́̓̓̚͜͜͝͠͝ d̷͔̮͓͖̉ ờ̷̧̨̡̛̛͓̗͉̪͖̼̜̬̜̦͎̻̙̖̣̠͈̳͊́̈́͊͋͊̉̈͒̔̐̄̌̎̀̈́̊̋̉̏̒̑͗͋̓̔̉̓̋͒̇͘͘͝͝͠͠ͅ ̷̳̦͙͙̤̺̜̥̖̬̮̰͈̣̗̙̮̬̈́̈́̾̂͆̓̈́ͅͅ d̵̛̳͈̗̋͊̓̒̅̿́͗́̒̂̈́̌͋̄̀́̌̄̈́͛͋̊̎̈́̓̉̕͠͝͝͠͝͠ư̵̘͚͔̫̮̭̖̱̞͔̦̩̹̱̺̺̝̬͖̜̼̬̮͎͚̪̼̯̫̳̜̙͓̥͎̳̥̻̾͆̄̋̅̂̃͒͛̿̐͒̿̊̌̓̈̅̃̒̈̈́̎̿̓̕͘͜͝͝͠͝͝ ư̴̡̧̢̧̦̭͍̮̜͓̫̪͇̖̤͙̻̮͉̭̯̙̞̥̗̱̩̞̞̼̟̱̟̦͚̼̲̼͚͈̈́͆̏͆̌̉̀͛͆͐͛̇̇̍̓̔̄͂͌̿̒̄́̌̕̚̕̕̕͝͝ ų̵̧̛͉̺̜͎̜̩͖̲̟͔̬̦̤̖͎̫͔͖̮͕̗̼͙̫̼̭̦͕̫͖͉̆͐̾̑͂͋͂̎̊͗̈́̂̕͘͜͝ͅͅ ư̶̛͙̠͆̓̃̀̍̄̔̄̇͗̀́̐́̌͂̋̑̏̄̑̕͠͠͝͝͝)̵̨̡̧̛̛̙͚̪̬̤͕̥̳̥̱̞̺͎̫̩͌́̈́̑̂̌̈͐͐͊̈́̇͐̍͒̓̓̀͐̃̆͐̓̍̀̐̃͑̕̕̕̕͝͝
Oct 27, 2021
Oct 27, 2021 at 1:12 PM UTC
I called her Molly Bloom.
Then the final blossom fell from Molly
As I sipped over the lip of morning.
She grew on me.
I grow into things as well.
I was once worried about my height,
But I had large feet,
Not to worry.
I grew as the present slipped.
Hair was important
To grow.
It appeared, slowly, on arms,
Pits, lips and legs.
And groin pains followed.
Atrophy and entropy grow,
Take root like my historical assimilations.
I daily **** out apathy.
Molly was different.
She was presented with love,
And received with indifference,
Then I cared too much.
She was my Bloomsday
When I raised her ashen petalled face.
Should I vacation on Reunion Island
Where they make great ***
I could pestle her blooms to reinvigorate myself.
Or kid myself, believing her shadow
Will open in the sun.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.
I'm not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.
s Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car, I'm a person,
A man-god, a god-man
Whose days are numbered. Hallelujah.
3.2k
Memories traveller.
I remember when I was younger and my mother would sneak into my room with a handful of secrets, revealing them to be flowers. Lavender. She said it was to help the sleepless, and that I was. Restless from the monsters under my bed she’d sing me songs, the scent and tingles she’d sent streaming up my spine were seamless, one melting into the other. She’d tuck me in cozily and I’d noticed the smell of a light purple colour that she’d crushed into my palm, a mortar, her soft fingers the pestle. So when the years went by and our time grew shorter, with the linear layout of these memories would I wrestle as I’d strain to remember what our time together was like before you passed finally one last, lost, dreary November. Then one day, as the rain fell outside our house the bushes it struck were made of lavender and I felt like I had been saved, because once again I’d found you.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
/ *because such examples have to, have to(!) be perpetuated, reiterated, perpetuated, reiterated... these... "things"... these minor quests of establishing being - against, the authoritarian rule of the democracy of beings.*
you don't shout,
you don't disturb the "social", "peace",
of proverbial english society...
nope...
shouting does not good,
akin to:
silent water eats
away at the shorelines...
what you do...
is akin to what birds do...
you don't gnash your teeth:
i.e. clench them molars...
gnashing means clenching
your molars -
a gnashing a gnarling,
a pestle & mortar scenario...
no...
no shouting...
silent movie era of hollywood
translated...
you... simply... chatter...
you strike incissor teeth against
each other... crafting a lightling storm
like crackling sound,
like corn flakes...
in a bowl of milk...
you... chatter...
inspiration? birds...
bird calls...
you... chatter...
mind you, unlike the english,
looking into my mouth...
the jaw should fit within the confines
of the skull...
the upper set of teeth
should accommodate the jaw's
line of teeth...
but you simply... chatter...
which is embodied by attempting
to take a phantom bite at "something"...
you...
echo:
central incisors against
the lateral incisors...
you subsequently: chatter (χατερ)...
i missed the eta (η): given that i also
missed the excess of tau - in what isn't,
a translation - other than a phonetic
equivalent of putting on sunglasses...
because, when your neighbour,
tells you... that you can't smoke...
in your own home, perched on a windowsill,
out of the window,
implying that the smoke is
vacuumed into his bedroom?
and somehow, the law,
and the air, we share, is somehow his,
and his alone?
and i can't do, what he can,
within the confines of his property?
NOW WE HAVE A PROPER SHITSHOW!
some english are ******* backward
hardly insulting the ****** community,
with some succumbing to prosopagnosia,
while some (notably down syndrome)
actually having a memory capacity...
that curious look and a familiar expression
waiting for a smile...
i basically live next to a mental illness
example, par uno...
and englishman who "thinks"
he's king, rather than a convenient
citizen...
****** won't budge...
guess all i'm equipped with is
my chatter remedy;
and english society still "thinks"
that i'm the "mad" one.
- because it's like...
how can you dictate, what someone can,
or cannot do, on their property?!
like smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill, outside a window,
with the accusation:
the smoke is coming into my bedroom...
oh right...
so...
erm...
you own the dynamic of air
to suggest such a bias?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
Crush the painted pestle stained
of berries, purple, black
Liquid crimson geranium blood
red the paper sack
Gathering colors, lushly green
go shades of tan the water weeds
mixed upon a stone
Woodsy calls, her depths of fall
lone a painter's
home
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
10,000 steps to a poem
<~>
walk to save my visions, my subterfuge-self, trying to
encapsulate the moments, seconds of nano-instances of a
tableau of histories, of actions becoming interactions,
a physical mitosis, ground into one human paste of word-cells
by a singular mortar and pestle that more than blends, but condenses
walk in Whitman’s footsteps, prowl old cobbled
streets seeing them anew, listening to the patois
of each skyward pathway, a commingling of
catechisms, Tefilot, Salah, Stuti Karana, into a stampede becoming a tornado funnel of a multivariate alphabets singularity - a prayer|poem returning to birth-mother
rush homeward desperate to retain the holy mess of verbal music,
before aged eyes release the visions, into a heavenly lost but found
depot of single lefty gloves, snatches and refrains, hymnals, phrases,
10,000 preservation band steps keeping but scraps, weeping
for the so much lost, yet blessing-uttering thankful for this one,
to a one
*who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to
this moment, to this season.*
4/4/21
1:50pm
~writ by night, daylight born~
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
Flashing c o l o r s, and ongoing music it hits me in the face like a wave of static electricity.
The ecstacy strikes my taste buds like sugar and neuro toxins dancing on my tongue.
The smell is foul of puke and ***** Teens are raving,
while the music is playing. Grinding against one another like a mortar and pestle.
Watching an influenced man try to get with a vulnerable women.
Taking advantage of every drop off alcohol that goes into the women’s veins,
there is no blood left, just firewater.
Intoxicated, lying on the floor, blacked out from all the dope.
She finds herself bare in a bed with a man twice her age.
She wimpers to herself saying “I’ll never drink again.”
As she practices her teetotalism,
at a fast pace she grows weary of blood flowing,
and vision clear. She once was a party girl, but that night has saved the day.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,
and she says;
hey poetry man!
which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:
Solitude:
Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke
when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…
and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:
soliciting solitude attitude
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 11:03 AM UTC
MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
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I let you slip through my fingers
As every day yours began to slim
And the puzzle pieces that fit perfectly began to float away like melting ice caps under the Alaskan sun
And I wanted to hold you a little longer
But all the while I felt you absorbing into death like spilt coffee in a washcloth
And bit by bit I watched the sand of your hourglass slide to its end
You always told me you couldn't be scared because heaven was real and you kicked the devil sideways years ago
And for your sake I hope he stayed down, and for your sake I hope you were right
But these days it feels like he's standing up, holding his side, coming back for revenge
He's got his pliers out and he's coming for my soul and I'm kicking I'm fighting I'm screaming
But I'll never be as strong as you and I never learned how to keep afloat of my own sin
So now I'm sinking
And I sit and listen to them speak in artificial intelligence
And wonder how they've kept the devil down
Do they stand on his back and scream "You can't have me now"
Or has he just lost interest like I have?
When all sounds are lost and I've made enough tissue paper thin excuses to stay alone for a few hours, I picture your smile, cloaking me like warm candlelight
But you know the wind came years ago and now it's a flickering warmth
I remember your fingers, skeletal now
And I hope you were right
I hope our slender fingers meet one day
But for now I will feign strength and grind my fears to dust with a mortar and pestle
And for the time being
I cannot look at my own hands
For fear that they be bloodstained
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing.
Your head is what I remember that Augusty
you were in love with another woman but
taht didn't matter. I was the gury of your
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten,
bone bag man, garlic in the North End,
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish,
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth.
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you're thinking
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale,
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones.
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain,
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias,
me of the sawdust tavern at the city's edge.
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh
and I admire them also, but your bones
supersede loveliness. They are the tough
ones that get broken and reset. I just can't
answer for you, only for your bones,
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles,
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its
own life in its own skin.
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If it is sunny in Europe
The Dutch caws of misunderstood will hallow my pestle and mortar skull to round tinnitus into song;
The French Fries will come with mayonnaise in a Bruges cafe,
Light lines tracing dust in cycled prose.
Light lines tracing medieval footsteps on a Roman road.
Bonjour, old world.
Mon nom est Kyran.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Flashing c o l o r s, and ongoing music it hits me in the face like a wave of static electricity.
The ecstacy strikes my taste buds like sugar and neuro toxins dancing on my tongue.
The smell is foul of puke and ***** Teens are raving,
while the music is playing. Grinding against one another like a mortar and pestle.
Watching an influenced man try to get with a vulnerable women.
Taking advantage of every drop off alcohol that goes into the women’s veins,
there is no blood left, just firewater.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.
It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.
It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.
The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.
'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.
Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.
Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.
An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.
The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.
The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
After the day's work, the canopy of stars
sheltering our heads, tell me a story
as you sit down to do your washing;
The night has now fallen silent, now
tell me Senora, stories, of bygone times,
of heroes and kings, of sagas of valour
and of the denizens of the forests,
wolves and lions, and of ancient wells.
I wonder in awe, when you lift the stone
pestle down. Here's mine a heroine own.
It is cold, and the fires warm our souls,
woolen caps too, and the flickering lamps.
Now put me to sleep by your side, on
the charpoy: I hear the wind sleepwalk,
jingling her silver anklets in the thin air,
when I wake up in the dead, as crickets
rustle, and shadows talk, to count my
blessings that you are still by my side.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
Toss these brackened antlers
to a Babylon of early crows
where slim repels of cirrus
lace the marches of Orion.
I wore you as an amulet
hard pressed upon my pestle arm
as charms of montane lunar drift
rebelled about your peacock gaze.
There is balsam on the Eastern run
in piquant writs of clementine ,
where jubilees of Persian mote
reveille in the waiting still.
As hieroglyphs of scrying palm
lay wraith about the cindered pane
you harried in ancestral bell..
The name of some forgotten God.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
heart of my heart
flesh of my flesh
the merry bell tolls,
cries tinkling chimes
of young laughter
I sink in the depths
of your pestle, mortar,
delicate dripping lips
the hours are now years
hazy and blurred
of swaying breeze, and
careful steps; flighty
translucent limbs splayed
out in the sunrise of
pale moon eyes
shadow, shadow
I breathe in this now
exhale the rest, leaving this
heart in your trembling
willowy hands
(A.H.Z)
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC