"philtrum" poems
Beneath the woven moonlight
And the glistening lapidary against the sapphire eve
Like ice-flakes on a dark hood
For as great as my nearsighted eyes can see
With a cigarette in the driveway
And the feathers of those clouds falling down
My breath and the smoke runs away with the zephyr
And I’m alone again in this pretty how town
Without a sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Without a glance for the ground
Waiting for you to come back
Like the farmers wait for their flax
Or the women tend to the millions of moths
That sound like rain on the roofs
Or that sound like the crackling of my cigarette burning
Breaking the silence beneath the woven cocoon
Light of the white philtrum moon
It’s her and I and the clouds falling down
And just that single solitary sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Hoping you come back soon
(c) 2015
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:15 PM 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
Hasina had gums of a prune colored play dough, much like the type which he used to mold and model into similar contraptions and cases. Contrasting with the teeth of a superb suburban plaster, the ***** contusion continued its conversation. Collecting admirers and adolescent adonis’ innocent of their sins. Since the inoculation, passed away, a pretense to nervousness approached the very essence of our chest; the bead of the brooch where we found the philtrum too close to the nose. Curling inside its own bare curves. A bed without sheet, hindered, harnessed, the horse dragged on.
We soon found that the things we feigned to hate would come close to fame, In a magazine cover sheet, handed in late.
Hasina, and her mother, certainly did not suppose that that beneath the floor boards, neither harm nor concern would be discovered. And neither was. With the way their will worked things became distributed. Disturbed guests of unwanted presents and gifts soon re-sent to other more malleable means of hospitality.
Hungered as the hundredth wolf come to late. He too howled, but not at the moon, or rather not its simulacrum of a glowing truth, its silver light, or any movements its clearly showed. Growing loose the tumor slipped out, slowly. And with a plop, pressed against the walls, The jaws dropped and the mason jar closed and posed on exhibition for lessons, and interests, obsessions, dreads, things grotesque pressed against the walls.
To be captured, resting above the skyscrapers. Where in the hours of dawn, space overlaps, a frowned pace of a clock grows fondly of the time that is lost and past.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
I stare at your eyes and gather;
I close mine and wait:
the soft, yet vapid
on my lips, slightly open.
Yours cupped on my overlip.
The charged air, the sublimed space.
I close mine on yours,
and stay.
The comfort of overwhelmed.
We stay, please.
I push.
The warmth
of your every breath on
my philtrum:
you are with me, now;
I feel my bridge on yours
point it
and rest
on the vast, skin beside.
(carry me)
I run my thumb
on the smooth of your jaw,
the tender and sweet in
them lips
your delicate beauty.
Yes, dear:
I drown myself tonight
in your mouth.
We glow
in our little corner of the dark,
and starless sky.
Your brow loll on my forehead
your eyes gently unshut
looking
beyond the locked lips,
and the caressing chins,
on us.
Because.
My love,
more to tomorrow
and growing surround,
the ephemera of the night:
our lips,
inevitably,
will part.
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 7:14 AM UTC
I saw me
in that. I
wonder
if your
pencil
still
draws
the curves
of my lips
and if it
does I
hope
you erase
in vain,
that you
can't deviate
from the way
my
philtrum
caught all
the shadows
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
As you **** and jiggle
hop and knock
slip and giggle
keep a foot forward
and the other forewarned.
Slack jawed and hackneyed
you're endlessly forlorn
slack kneed and jack knifed.
High on strife and ******
car crashes on black rock
cracked streets and hard
sweets lined teeth so
stained with self love that
your internal apathy fits
glove-like and I am hungry
struggling against your
thundering angry words
filled with fifty year old
angst ugly with stretch
marks but more from
the sadness dribbling
down your philtrum un-wiped
like I was and the only thing
I now want cleaned off is my
memories of you smeared
erratically and etched eternally
onto my life.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC
Yesterday
I felt the first whips of cotton
breath on my philtrum
dancing into my nostrils
piercing my mind
Whitewash and mild breeze
I turned my head and tried
******* in an inhalation
baring my teeth
Grit
and noise
Burn
and shatter
Divulge
and scream
Tears
and blood
Time
flowing beyond my veins
into the abyss of eternity
eternity
Treading softly they
smuggled into my soul
pandoras of guilt
giving me brief glints
Underneath some semi-heavy sandalphon wings
grime and some dusty tomes
undulating like streams and whispering waves
I spotted the angel star
Like every snow fall I had before.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:53 PM UTC
###
I see
bruised crescents under eyes
chapped lips screaming cries
mucus dripping down my philtrum
stubbled chin, cheeks a-glisten
hopeless, tear-streaked as they are
no hope at all, not near nor far
angled bones, where there were curves
fresh-drawn scars, from someone out of love
this is exactly what I see
right here
in the mirror.
###
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
LOVE CHARM
I kiss your philtrum
and you moan.
I lick a tiny trickle
of sweat
from it.
I know
it has no
apparent function
& survives
between your delightful nose
& your delicious upper lip.
But what
of it?
A kiss
fits
so
neatly
into
it.
And leads to lips
& lips upon lips
ending in an ******
ellipsis . . .
I love to look
upon it
as the indent left
by the finger of God
or where an angel
shushes the yet-to-be-born
teaching it to forget
all it has learned
in the world
of the womb.
I kiss again
your philtrum
a kiss
fits
so
neatly
into
it.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
Find out if I'm flammable?
The font itself glimmers on that gossamer skin
Wobbling strings of white-blue seem to
Wink at you, take the hint.
On to the advanced stages.
When you met, that tender peach smile
Set a garden of fire on your teenage altar.
But now her smile is a deeper laceration,
She knows you better. It's in her eyes--
This is the thrill part, this is what the stars all came to see.
Where we have some history,
And I see this woman sort of stalking me around a pool...
Like I just found some secret she was withholding,
and she was waiting for me to find it...
Find out if I'm flammable?
We jump in.
We came to start a fire.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Why do I deserve this?
How do I deserve this?
What did I do and in which
Lifetime that has lead to
Me receiving such prodigious love?
Your face beaming upward
Backward hat left ear bent
Your eyes scale my
Adam's apple
Chin
Bottom Lip
Top Lip
Philtrum
Tip of Nose
Bridge
Bottom Lash
Pupil locked
You smile
Then wink
In that way I said I hated
Because I thought it was cheap
And I'm glad I said that
Because now I love it
And the ****** expression
And words that follow
Every Single Time
"Sup?"
Can I read you a poem?
Our inside jokes
Build
Rigorously
Congruously
Correlationally
To our love,
Pesto.
But you already know that.
You inspire me
Blue flame fire in me
You will agree
To a large degree
Is on account of our
Souls' connectivity
Meant to be
My heart dances on the bridge
That connects tears of laughter
And tears of shear happiness and
Gratitude and as my heart swells
To rugby ball bloat
I ask: What am I going to do with you?
You say: Love me.
Well?
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I'm in love with you.
Pesto, let's go home.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
THE ONLY EDEN
Granny unable to
see
would build me
touch by touch
with her blind fingertips
search for the face
she would create.
Here my cheekbone
coming into being
there an eyebrow
newly born
here an eye
there a philtrum
sculpted from sunlight
hewn from nothing
here blind seeing
fashioning me anew
her fingertips
butterflies
forming this
living portrait
of the face
I own.
Her fingers feeling
for each nuance...each tone
the music of me
plucked from thin air
one moment I am not
then I am
all there.
I made all the more
real.
More realer
that I could ever be
emerging from
her fingertips
as if I were
God's Adam
and this her tiny garden
the only Eden.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
I have baptized myself by immersion of studying your photograph, examining as each constituent lives under my scrutiny. I have been waiting for my brain to acknowledge the imperfections on the details of your physicality and introduce itself to your blemished deficiencies.
So far, it has already shook hands with the distance between your eyes, and the murk residing below the pair, the defined philtrum proudly standing in the middle of your nose and your mouth, the abnormal upward curve at both ends on the side of your parched lips, and the scream from your pupils that seem to sympathize with my observations.
With utmost patience, I have waited for my brain to perceive you under the category of ugly.
But I think that's just an excuse I say to myself so I could reason out why I'm still staring at your portrait after we have come to a compromise of parting.
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 8:35 PM UTC
LOVE CHARM
I kiss your philtrum
and you moan.
I lick a tiny trickle
of sweat
from it.
I know
it has no
apparent function
& survives
between your delightful nose
& your delicious upper lip.
But what
of it?
A kiss
fits
so
neatly
into
it.
And leads to lips
& lips upon lips
ending in an ******
ellipsis . . .
I love to look
upon it
as the indent left
by the finger of God
or where an angel
shushes the yet-to-be-born
teaching it to forget
all it has learned
in the world
of the womb.
I kiss again
your philtrum
a kiss
fits
so
neatly
into
it.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
WELL, KISS MY POPLITEAL FOSSA!
I remember the golden
tassels of my dress
touching the back
of my knees
as I was kissed
for the very first
time bent over
in a clinch as if
we were statuary
the tassels' touch
exquisite in itself
much more sensual
than the actual kiss was
I wondered( his tongue
dancing with my tonsils)if:
there was a name for that
sort of thing
(the back of the knees I mean)
"Ok Freddie!" I commanded
seeing as I seemed
to be in command here
"...that's quite enough of that!"
shattered he reluctantly
took his tongue out of my cheek
"Cheeky ****** I thought
"should never have let him go
...that far!"
crestfallen he
stammered
a sorry
"You won't tell my mother
...will you?"
hid his ******** with his topper
I went in at once
and asked of father
"Is there a name
for the back of the knees?"
"Of course there is my love!
It's your popliteal fossa!"
I tingled to my toes
having discovered my first
erogenous zone
and knowing
that one day
I would become a doctor
***
Just as the inside of your elbow...the crook of your elbow ...the elbow pit is..is called the "antecubital fossa".
And that cute little bit just under your nose and above your lip is called...the philtrum.
The suprasternal notch (fossa jugularis sternalis), also known as the jugular notch, is another part of human anatomy that is known as an erogenous zone but remains nameless. It is that large, visible dip at the base of the throat.
And that bony part of your elbow is an olecranon which I should know as I broke mine very badly. I was known as "the elbow" and doctors would almost drool over how bad it was and forget their professionalism and go "Shitttttttttt!"
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 3:07 PM UTC
THE ONLY EDEN
Granny unable to
see
would build me
touch by touch
with her blind fingertips
search for the face
she would create.
Here my cheekbone
coming into being
there an eyebrow
newly born
here an eye
there a philtrum
sculpted from sunlight
hewn from nothing
here blind seeing
fashioning me anew
her fingertips
butterflies
forming this
living portrait
of the face
I own.
Her fingers feeling
for each nuance...each tone
the music of me
plucked from thin air
one moment I am not
then I am
all there.
I made all the more
real.
More realer
that I could ever be
emerging from
her fingertips
as if I were
God's Adam
and this her tiny garden
the only Eden.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC
THE ONLY EDEN
Granny unable to
see
would build me
touch by touch
with her blind fingertips
search for the face
she would create.
Here my cheekbone
coming into being
there an eyebrow
newly born
here an eye
there a philtrum
sculpted from sunlight
hewn from nothing
here blind seeing
fashioning me anew
her fingertips
butterflies
forming this
living portrait
of the face
I own.
Her fingers feeling
for each nuance...each tone
the music of me
plucked from thin air
one moment I am not
then I am
all there.
I made all the more
real.
More realer
that I could ever be
emerging from
her fingertips
as if I were
God's Adam
and this her tiny garden
the only Eden.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC