"pimpled" poems
I see so many assorted *****
I have an *** round
You have a hairy ***
He has a gigantic ***
She has a withered ***
It has a tiny ***
We have ***** round and pimpled
You have ***** flaccid
They have ***** gigantic,round,hairy,pimpled and flaccid
There is so much beauty to write about *****
Not only the function but also the shape.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Thin waist, long legs
Smooth hair, big chest
Angel eyes, full lips
Pink cheeks, wide hips
Tall but not too high
With a gap between her thighs
And long lashes on her eyes
Hourglass figure
Sweatpants & scarred legs
Damaged hair, flat chest
****** eyes, dry lips
Pimpled cheeks, no hips
Short and stubby
No thigh gap, just chubby
And eyebrows? Shrubby
Me
A
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
She always burned her
Barbie dolls after she cut
All the hair of that plastic,
Magic perfect blonde ****
She was 11 and had just
Always hated how all
Her family and friends kept
On giving her a doll
That was perfect and had all
And she just couldn't see
The relevance and the elephant
In the room is insecurity
So at 11 she Cant see what she is
but what she is not
her imperfections made her check
If Barbies got what she got
But Barbie did not barbies
perky with both ***** and ****
Her legs don't grow hair
And she don't need cover up
And her short legs look
Nothing like barbies do
Even her *** and
Thighs are all proportioned too
Fit her spectacular body's frame
that frames her reflexion
with the blame to detain
what remained as complexion
Of her oily pimpled skin that
Is too fair and needs a tan
And living up to all that not to
Mention a corvette and a man
That's why Barbie hangs across
Her closet where her mom
Saw the Barbie dolls She hung
by the neck yelling what's wrong
butShe just masks how she
felt so a head doctor was
a psychiatrist who sighed
A bit but had sided with her cause
She was an ugly duckling herself
That Never grew to be pretty
But the city has no pitty for no
Pretty so best you be witty
And told her to keep with the
hate she now held for Barbie
and before She left the doctor said
**** a corvette get a Ferrari
So She left happy but hardly
Cured of her obsession
Over beauty and style,
With a classy shoe collection
But she is now only 11
And reassures herself that she
Is no barbie and would repeat
barbies not prettier than me, and
Til she believes it she still burns them
To hang them soar
Shows a mirror to the bald barbie so
She knows she's not pretty no more
See what its like to feel too short
as She cuts at the knee
She says" i can be more
like Barbie if she's more like me"
Wheres obese Barbie,
or Immigrant Barbie from far
Black haired or short haired Barbie
Who's bus pass is her car
How about welfare Barbie or
realistic Barbie anything but
A smooth long haired long legged
Perfect shaped ***** and ****
With Friggin hips child birth was
Not made for and why
She asks Can't barbie have flaws so
I can pause the feeling that I
Will fail before I try if I
Am expected to be
So beautiful and Barbie never talks
No wonder kens easy to please
the message seems look pretty and
Dont talks all u need
So she hangs them violently
but quietly wishing they would bleed
But as she gets older shell
Like herself more and won't dwell
That god didn't make her a Barbie
maybe hes not as good as matel.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.
Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.
It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.
Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
It took him awhile,
To decide to dance,
He was always the first,
To roar, to prance,
Nevermind his sweaty palms,
As he pushed off the wall,
As he bowed,
Before her cotton dress in a graceful fall,
His hand hung for eternal seconds,
As she decided; looked around,
But, ah! Lo! His eyes, they beckon,
And as the entire room gawked,
At the bold, beautiful ****
As he bowed before an ugly, pimpled nobody,
As if she were a queen; the most beautiful in this here, his flock,
And as the ugly, pimpled nobody,
Dared to consider, to frown, to appear unsure,
Of this, what was sure to be pure allure,
Finally, she ended his wait,
With hesitant nods, the innocent wide-eyed child,
He smiled beautifully, leading with a mesmerising gait,
They alone swept the floor,
She was surprised at this happiness,
And he was relieved of disappeared nervousness,
For he thought himself lucky,
To dance with one such as she,
The people they can stare,
He don't mind it, he don't care.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
****** a self bone love
where only crystal skulls *****
in morphine harbors of youth.
Penetrate the gentle pink dawn
of dead days hanging -
moon rising red mouth, half-open.
Savor the metallic ******* ragtime
of cold handsome lips.
Razz the fluid glutted
plop of fossil *****
Slip the light, hot licks, squid squirm
tight snarl back to spread-eagle rising.
Gnaw at the fresh goose-pimpled flesh
in tribes of sweat crossing.
See the green railwayed eyes,
half-smile sprouting.
Urge spasms to go slack, end-to-end
like hair bellies over, shudders run-
down one foot flutters, fluid waves drop.
Flash on the swamp cypress relief
as the **** sputters out
and faded pink curtains heave.
Allow the bring down roll.
The two planes, silent park
like some ***** bed repose.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
I thought I knew what envy was
When I threw that stupid fit when I was seven
While my sister who didn’t like to draw
Won the art contest, instead of me.
I thought I knew what envy was
On a Monday, when I was thirteen and pimpled
While my best friend’s face
Was smooth, caked with foundation.
I thought I knew what envy was
The summer before senior year taking tests
While after it all we compared scores,
And I wondered what I could’ve done better.
I thought I knew what envy was
That it was quick, and runny in passing
That it was something that slips, slurped down your throat
Vindictive and vicious
But cured: by making them cookies.
I thought I knew what envy was—
But I didn’t.
Envy is not smooth, but sticks
Stopped, stuck in your throat
Stagnant, it chokes.
Envy is not green, but grey
You bat it away
But the fog overstays
Its welcome.
Envy is not thin, but fat
A wall—and for all of your gall
You cannot peek over.
Envy does not look out
Through narrow, hot eyes
Shifting gazes, suspicious
With hisses and cries
It doesn’t pace up and down
And beg you to listen—
Envy is silent. You can’t say, “Do you hear it?”
I thought I knew what envy was
When I was twelve, in Sunday school
White ribbons and smooth skirts
Under verses of thou shalt not covet---
But oh man, I didn’t.
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 3:33 PM UTC
Choson dynasty,
you utter from a stub
on the stand's neck,
your eyes admiring
pimpled spaces or
the bulging curves
of the moon jar.
It is imperfect like
papier-mâché,
the hollow centre
surrounded by
a slumped figure:
two bodies thrown
as lovers, where,
noticing a crease
stretch the belly,
the mating halves
fuse to function
a wholeness like
the moon we make
when we hold hands.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
There was something heartbreaking in his gaze.
Looking into his eyes
Was like watching every good and perfect thing in this world
Shatter.
It was as though
All the stars had fallen out of the sky
And splintered into glittering fragments all over the ground.
It was as though
The sun and the moon had collided,
Raining shining pieces all over the earth.
Looking into his eyes,
I felt my very being
Shattering,
Being pulled asunder by his loneliness.
And it was exciting.
I felt my heart quicken,
Pounding fast with the prospect
Of watching the world end over
And over again.
I knew this was the kind of loneliness
That gnawed at the world from its foundations,
Prowling like an un-mourned soul
And, in its brooding solitude,
Whipped up the howling winds that keep children up at night.
In all my sun-drenched life,
I had never seen a darker being.
I had never been this intoxicated by a mere gaze.
I had never known a bitterness so strong.
My world was all sweet harvests and smiling flowers,
But when he touched me,
It felt as though I'd stuffed my mouth with dandelion greens.
My taste buds protested but my body thrilled,
Reveling in his Armageddon eyes.
His fingertips were ice,
Trailing down my goose-pimpled skin,
And I knew I was the first hot-blooded woman he'd held.
I wanted to add fire to his shattered soul.
I wanted to watch the fragments of the world
Smoldering when he looked at me.
I wanted to feel his fierce loneliness grab me by the hair
And set my heart aflame.
And he did.
As I watched the heavens colliding,
I offered all the heat of my veins,
And he drank it in like the gods guzzle nectar.
He slipped his arm around my waist
And ferried me across the River Styx.
So I watched the world end,
One soul after the other,
Cooling slowly from revelry
To bitterness
As he burned with borrowed flames.
I dreamed about supernovas,
Stars exploding out of the sky.
I'd been so quick to trade sunshine for his eternal night,
Never considering that I'd be getting nothing in return.
I wondered if my gaze had begun to shatter.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
I’m sick of the lies
I’m sick of the guise
Be an ******* to my face you piece of ****
Cut me out like a man
Don’t ****** walk away like I did you wrong
I’ve given you nothing but love from the beginning
and you snap it back in my face
***** I can your disgrace
and this race of ungrateful haste should rethink their approach in the presence of a kind heart and unwavering loyalty
boy,
you pushed me to the edge
and so I pledge
to never trust a soul
cuz this tossing and turning in yearning cuts deep
and I don’t get enough sleep
so count your sheep and be gone without a peep you ******* creep
I’m too real to pretend
In a world of fake embellishments to conceal god’s embroidery
I really thought you’d mean more to me
but you blend n bend just like the rest and to me
you’re just a guest so save me
the best
As I attest to never rest my pen for a pimpled partridge laced to dance to the tune we all know is rehearsed
I’m different
I see your past
I see your essence
I know your actions before you make them and lemme tell you
I could sell you here and now but you wouldn’t be worth it.
Don’t name me n game me like your dame to-be cuz I hear your hesitation and bruises
look like ******* on wanna be bad boys
**** all that noise
I’ve done that ****
I’ve lived that life
And I can play ***** less flirty and more wordy than a whole gurney of gays with no praise for your plug’s percocet purse you’re tryna nurse cuz no curse will salvage a sick man’s mind
Next time, don’t even bother
hittin me up for a quick ****
cuz you blew that chance a long time ago and I’d have to be on twice the amount of **** I was on then to **** you now
Ha! Like you’d even know how!
I’ve seen your hickeys of conquests Do you think I’m blind?
And that shows you’ve still gotta brag
boy, I’ve ****** your whole family with out a scratch so catch a disease cuz you’ll never please between my knees
You were beneath me from the beginning
But I gave you the doubt
And still
you’d rather smash for the clout cuz your way out of this drought are delusions of grandeur
not credible candor
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
My belly, a pimpled basketball,
puffed with pasta,
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth,
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl,
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own.
I do what I can to feel bliss among ****
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles.
Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple
pinches of this or that.
my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes.
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
all these things led you here
the oversized headlines
of your father’s newspaper
and his father's before him
the pakistani shopkeeper
who accused you of stealing
whose bark roasted your pimpled face
the boy at college you flirted with
the tall boy with the sleek curtained hair
whose family had fled iraq
who made you laugh
and nudged your knees
who went to study medicine
and never texted you back
your dad’s boss
the fat Jamaican
who sacked him at easter
just a handful of years before his retirement
the girl at work
beautiful girl
in the headscarf
who married a man she’d never seen
and when you asked her
if he was a good man
she replied joyously ‘yes!
the best man!’
the many taxi drivers
who ferry you home
and overcharge you
watching you in the dark mirror
beetle eyes glistening
caressing the face you prepared so neatly
now blotchy and wet
ketchup clown
bloated in the window
the face of second generation ivory
all these things led you here
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
the ultimate.
all and nothing simultaneously.
your pupils dilate when you see
her lovely figure on the inside of your skull.
she tantalizes your mind in the night.
with the little nibbles of her peace,
that serenade your transcendent taste buds.
those insomniacs who died a little within
wear it upon their skin as an
upside down flag and wait for her
calming breath on the back
of their goose pimpled necks.
when you breathe your final plea for her,
she comes to collect
that which she owns.
that's why we wear her
at funerals as a reminder
of the soul magpie
and the warbler who sings us
melodious songs of infinite tranquility.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
I was a teenager.
a boy unshaven amongst
pimpled, insecure junior
high school brats.
I'd sit in the dark of my room,
hearing my father's smoker's
cough through the wall
under my Pantera.
long hair, biker boots, leather
coats and torn jeans was asking
to be excluded where I lived. oh,
I asked, begged, pleeded that
they would.
some did; most saw me as
a necessity they
compared themselves with
to assure themselves as normal.
mainstream. accepted.
*at least I'm not freak like
Holter.*
no. I built this confidence and
character alone.
that was my way to walk.
those were my teenage memories.
don't ever be afraid to get noticed.
it takes grit and
confidence; strong legs to
stand out. and stay there.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
Pimpled
Pockmarked beauty
Barely my angel
Brace yourself for the world below
You should never be let out of sight
This earth will swallow you whole
Your life is more than surface scars
And attempts at something worthwhile
Their hands they long to hold yours
Gently graze your skin
Limping along behind you
I beg for forgiveness
It was not you who transgressed
I am a stupid fool of a man to ever wish anything more than you
I could not expect a love like mine for you to ever manifest again
Not if I ever found your equal
I would not believe that it was possible
Refusing that could happen
Madness driven panic stricken
Calamity Jane all over again!
All over the bathroom stall
Everyone heard it down the hall
I'm racing faster than my heart
This chase will never end
Until I collapse at your feet
Tearing at fabric
Soaking tears and blood
Screaming promises
Pledging allegiance
Pleading mercy
If my life is not fit currency
To pay the fine for transgressions against the divine
How many more times must I try before it amounts to
Whatever price you have in mind?
As a stray cat passes by I pause and realize
This life is not mine
And your hands are too clean for me
So I will leave you be
And go find me
And when we learn to see again
I'll be a man with ***** calloused hands
Washing in the river
Wading and wishing
Drifting in and out of dreams of you and me
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
slips from nothing hugely poem of
light creating light by leggy moon
over whole earth palely tousled in
maimed and drizzled in silver curving
a point is risen amongst (man) and time
earth away sprawl echoes of finite
sleep.but though it moon over(in
a little naked comely heap of pert
and blazing tinder calmly foisted
between sabled ******* of aching
stupid darkness)burns how and fiercely
eloquent
o moon though small and nothing hugely
poem shall i (man) a poem slip by mortal
wiggling fumbles; and O moon!quiet sleeping
curves away silverly(into pimpled quavering
neatness)i muscle leanly dispute the soil
and up to you gallop sloppy gallons of kiss
(for you are most pleasant.UR round and fit
nearly in my lips (who shall pluck you from
between ******* and fill me burning
)Lust
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
I am tragedy,
and i carry it with me wherever I go.
I am lost and alone,
at home and in crowds.
Pin ****** on goose-pimpled skin,
barely visible to the well dressed eye,
and less so to the naked.
I am the hopelessness you thought you'd escaped.
I wither with each day,
growing younger,
full of potential to waste.
Full of the potential desire
to finish this cruel tale,
I know now where it is going,
I get bored easily,
and such a story as this
hardly seems worth my time anymore.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Bite the bullet.
A muddy boot,
A ****** boot
In the pimpled
Face of Some kid;
The barking
Goes on.
And they ask
Why I do not
Care, and I
Just shrug;
The barking
Goes on.
Hunger in the
Streets and in
Their media-
Rotted minds;
The barking
Goes on.
Faces split at
The seams, eyes
Peering At the
Scenes and I wonder;
The barking
Goes on.
The youth they
Snort and cuss
And the joints
Are passed around;
The barking
Goes on.
Birdshot in a
Brother's eye,
A blind dove
***** its wings;
The barking
Goes on.
And they ask
Why I do not
Cry, and I
Just shrug;
The barking
Goes on.
The poor get
Even poorer as the
Man on television
Shouts and moans;
The barking
Goes on.
Droopy eyes lost
Their spark as the
Fire dies and we
Linger in the dark;
The barking
Goes on.
A youngster jailed
For a bag of hash,
As an old man rubs
A girl half his age;
The barking
Goes on.
And I bite the bullet,
And I bite the bullet
And hail the beard
And hail the stars;
And the barking
Goes on!
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
For My Sister
Doll face, what does it matter
if you're ugly as hell?
If you’re short or you’re fat
Or your face is full of pimples?
Why the hell should it matter?
Sweetness, who gives a ****
If you tie your laces upside down?
And your left hand smudges the words on the page?
If you break down crying at the sight of rotting road ****
Who is anyone to laugh at you?
Who is anyone to tell you who you are?
I am sick and tired of seeing your red-rimmed eyes
I am sick and tired of seeing what they do to you
I hate to see you hurt and I crave the very best for you
I want you to be happy in all the ways you can
Let go of it all and crawl on the ceiling, weightless
Darling, people are messed right up
And we've all got cuts and stitches and oozing wounds
But don't let the bruised and beaten up punks
the privileged warriors, the wait-listed mental patients,
the scummy lost wanderers, the vengeful aching souls,
Tell you it matters if you're ugly as hell
Please please please
Understand you are so much more than a shell
than an exoskeleton of a soul
You are a glorious, bruised and beaten up,
Ugly, pimpled masterpiece,
And it's a shame that they don't see it
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
My message seems too abrasive to send
Like handwritten ransom notes
With a geriatric hand,
Gnarled and pimpled with
Weariness
And experience.
Our war stories
Are cards thrown down at a poker table
So initially casual
Then troubling after the fact.
People spout perspectives;
Our inputs are faucets overflowing
With the chemicals that change the mix.
Each of us contribute to the compound of strife.
What I need – what I want
Is my own element,
Thoughts pure of your life,
For you do not fully comprehend my experience.
My wuss-puss whines that resonate
As sure as a saxophone’s wail.
My jazz demeanor, burlesque figure
Only mask the pedigree of emotions
Beneath my wiggling hips, fluttering eyelashes.
Remember: this is a woman.
From smudges to sunlight to wind to aligned stars –
The cracked liar’s smile never eludes me
Just as the bite still scars my neck.
Marked, experienced, wrung out, aloof –
Live for sin, looping exponentially.
The seagulls scavenging in
The grocery store parking lot,
We know them and hate them for it.
**** drink, yell, tip your way, son.
I’ll tap my cigarette, clamber into bed
[my motives are my motivation]
Deepstep, baby, deepstep:
Come willing because I won’t.
I am the renegade impulsively flipping cards,
Smirking across the poker table
And yelling, “Checkmate”
For no good reason.
Scattered to the winds,
My nonsense is the very ground you have to tiptoe upon,
My sense is the word on the tip of your tongue that absconded.
I am not your maker for he’s my friend.
I am not your mother for she’s my servant.
I am not your lover for you’re my witness.
This [whatever it is] is a syllable caught skipping on the record,
And we’ll never know the rest of the word
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Let us write a poem about love.
Can we be holy?
When we love - do we become holy?
Well yes - and absolutely -
when we love all.
Something softened me.
Too many yesterdays,
all those invisible tomorrows.
I look for their footprints
in snows not yet fallen.
a brown cabin -
wintered up - ready for
bedtime Westerns,
mexican standoffs -
sleep
and perfectly empty
Pile in with me, where it is warm.
A marvel! How your hands rest, your perfume Ivory soap,
the shiny skin of your pimpled back,
a glaze of hair on your forearm. Designed by heaven
to be put behind my neck.
I am not made of sparks -
I am made of soft slow fires and
sunsets.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC