"pinings" poems
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
*you nuzzled your head
unto the shoulder of my soul
tears streamed into my heart
steamy moments of resolution
lingering breaths of quivering whispers
stolen moments of life's endurance
wafting through athanasia's elusion'd moondust
dreams of uninvited icy cloudbursts
plunging wing'd poetry into posterity
remembering future's sacred pinings
like fire gasping under waterfall's torrents
i wished upon a snowflake before it took flight
appease this illusion yet one more night*
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.
the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.
it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.
they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.
i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.
flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.
gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.
its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.
wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;
buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.
i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.
at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.
it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.
you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.
it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.
i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.
i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
I don’t want to whisper anymore,
nor wish for stolen glances
to be my messenger,
odd hours and pillow talks
on different beds miles away
have now become my misery.
The faucet of excuses
to meet you in person
and pet my pinings to sleep
has run itself dry.
I wish to say it aloud
for your heart to hear
and the universe to register.
I love you.
I love you,
and I am left with no will, nor patience
to not be with you.
To be around you
is no longer flattering,
for in the moon and musk
I see distances and measures
that pull at the chords of my longing
and render me a sweet wailing
in its own wake.
I want to come home now,
make my bed with you
keep the phone aside and hold you.
I want my emptiness filled
with your touch
and find my closure
in the heaves of your breathing.
Take me in
and leave me in no doubt,
for I would live a moment with you
than a lifetime without.
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 8:00 AM UTC
Red streaks the latest paper
The blood of martyrs splattered on walls
For their faith.
For the whole world to see.
Red blotches a Gentile face
He wakes up to see Jesus
Coming with healing bright
Shingles, white patches
hideous bumps, flaky scabs.
They vanish at His faintest whisper.
He runs into Samaritan darkness
Screaming, Your name reverberating.
Red is what they ate in Eden, too.
Red is being torn from Your side
By smooth connivance with
Reptilian deceit.
Red is how the world looks
To lovely young eyes
Enamored by it for the first time.
Red is their world
And You turn pale
In their sight.
Red is what I feel
When I learn
Your anointing on my throat
lies–almost forgotten
Preciously hidden
Tucked behind the veneer
Of daily pinings for applause
From dim, glassy faces
Made red by stage lighting.
Red is the color of my cheeks
When I realize
You love me despite.
Red is Your sacrifice.
Red is Your atonement.
Red is my ransom.
…You are everywhere.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
I find it
startling
How much I hold onto
The poem you wrote for me.
A few typed words,
now on a tattered sheet of paper
(isn’t that just how we are—
tattered?).
Maybe it’s because all you feed me now
is a few cold looks,
a half dozen half-smiles.
But in this flimsy, poetic dénouement,
I have tangible words &
evidence of your unexpressed perception.
I hold onto your poem
(my poem)
And won’t
(can’t)
let you go.
I pray that the pencil smudges from
your first draft to me
still linger on your fingertips.
May they cause you to think of me
and write me again.
Whispered tremors on wavering pages.
I pray that I’m not the only one who
loves to long for what we could have been;
the scent of your skin on mine.
May those pinings sing you a lullaby
as your window lets in that cold, cold draft.
Eyelids heavy and body aching.
I pray
You write.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
You do you and I’ll do me;
but if you do me I’ll do you one better.
I’ll set you free or buy you a sweater
or some other **** I think you’d like.
Maybe I’ll just keep sitting here
on this oversized armchair next to Jer,
and continue wondering
what you are up to,
what you are thinking,
how many blinks you are blinking,
how often your neurons are linking.
I’m thinking,
and I’m thinking,
but still the numbers don't add up.
I'm sinking and shrinking and
I’m getting real fed up
with feeding the schlupp
inside my chest with pinings for you;
for the way you look in my favorite dress,
for the way you find beauty in every mess,
for the way you should be here and not there,
or I the reverse,
but you’re there and I’m here
and it feels like I’m cursed,
like I'm Jesus Christ left in the manger
to die of thirst and exposure.
Im a twenty-year-dead motor struggling to turn over,
or maybe just a dude with a storm in his head
that’s getting steadily older
and rapidly sober,
who's missing a shoulder to press against,
and lacking defense against
A soul that grows perpetually colder.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
pointless re-pinings exacerbate my sorrow for paradise lost
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Her sweetness-laden face,
beckoned with a grace,
A wishful ray of hopes,
inconspicuously morose.
He read it with an ease,
The Pinings cached in crease,
Swaying like a tremor,
Agog for a breather.
Whilst unfurling the crease,
He feared his irrational leash,
Careened before her eyes,
And pulled his hands back inside.
He thought he had better,
Leave intact the wrapper,
For a sudden quietude hurts more,
Than a phlegmatic uproar.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC