"piquing" poems
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
stove-top percolator sits stove-top *****
house is a flippant mess of disgust and
attempt. there's a distant whisper of a
yell to somewhere someone else outside,
blinded windows and piquing sunlight
writing lawnmower hums to the conclaves
of covered eardrums and a thought crosses
the mind:
*'stale old coffee and undusted, unswept floors.
life is an attempt to keep the world clean and yet
lose yourself in the rubble *** it seems that all
secret desires crave an unmade bed'*
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
You're making me nervous, the way that you smile,
And how you're so kind to me,
It's sickening.
I don't want a special someone, I don't want anything.
Yet you're making it hard for me to say no.
You're piquing my interest, so now I think you should go
Before we lose it, and it all spirals out of control.
I feel some strange connection to you though.
Like every time you walk by me, I just know.
When you compliment me, I feel a warmth inside,
And though I don't want to appear weak, it's too much to hide.
Yet all of these silly rules by which I have to abide,
Are stressing me out, can't we just cut the lies?
I'm so tired of these butterflies;
The nervousness is eating me alive.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
It's thrilling and it's terrible,
it's wondrous while unbearable:
the piquing mind
which seeks to find
the riddle in the parable.
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
i heard my mom use the L word
when i was telling her
about my personally forbidden escapades
with the boy
my doctor
who i’ve let see
a framed picture of
an iota of my wounds
but still cannot bring myself to call
my boyfriend
as if the word is somehow poisoned
as i’ve convinced myself
in my loneliness
that the idea of that
feeling that most definitely isn’t love
was the stinging venom
burning through my veins
melting my skin to
waxy torrents coursing
from gaping wounds
butchered into my supple dermis
trying to escape my corporeal prison.
my body seizes at the utterance
of two syllables
because i am terrified that
the house of cards that
hold up that word on such an
unnatural pedestal
will crumble
evaporate into the
ether hanging around me
keeping me drunk on
that piquing ache churning
reaching deeper than
the bedrock of my stomach
that my incessant pepto can’t touch
a blowfly burrowing itself
into the mucosa of my abdominal cavity
that i know is filled with my
vital organs
but feels more like a vacuum.
he’s not my boyfriend
even though i tell him to turn over
in the darkness of our
shared slumber
so i can be the big spoon
and he can teach me how to breath
his respirations in his back
pressing my chest into
inhalation
just as my head on his chest
rises and falls
with him
my pectoral moon
pulling my tides
surrendering to the
inevitable turn and living
in that imperceptible moment
between inhalation and exhalation
a silence wherein
we are one
and i feel like his skin
could perhaps be mine.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
My inspiration:
My inspiration was the man on the moon,
Who defied gravity like some kids cartoon.
A man who refused to fold to the norm,
Made his own story despite the storm.
My inspiration was the lonely planet,
Who stood as small as a pomegranate.
A girl who’s fought injury and sprain,
Yet still can stand up for her next big gain.
My inspiration was my best friend,
Who’s mould doesn’t quite fit the “trend”.
She seems content within her skin,
At least that’s what I read from her grin.
My inspiration was my mum and my dad,
They’d supported each other all through the bad.
Served our country throughout the years,
Now it was time to forget those fears.
My inspiration lies only next door,
A girl who battles a personal war.
Through day and night she slays her demons,
Piquing all of her worst ever feelings.
My inspiration is you who told me I can’t,
I’ll prove you wrong and then you’ll recant.
For what kills me only makes me stronger,
And your opinions I’ll think of no longer.
My inspiration is the man I pass on the street,
That sits happy in a doorway with a dog at his feet.
The animal who seems to keep his spirits alive,
I suppose helps give him a little drive.
I don’t have one inspiration in this life,
Nor should you for it would cause strife
But towards the top of that growing list,
Should you yourself stand entirely unmissed.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
It's thrilling and it's terrible,
it's wondrous while unbearable:
the piquing mind which seeks to find
the riddle in the parable.
Just when you think you've caught a glimpse,
your eyes will make a trick of it.
Elusive and seducing up until you have to blink again.
Seeking out solutions
to all of the wrong problems.
Powerless to the hourless,
oh, how could you hope to solve them?
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.
A specious speculation
to a quiet congregation,
got you searching your thought corridors--
all you see is already yours.
If you're thinking life post-mortem
could be anything but boredom:
Try to think again.
Create your own Eden.
When what is real is relative,
and yours is unlike mine,
could you say how well I live?
Your virtue is my crime.
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
I thought to understand you, the ones who are in pain
But alas I have an error that can not compute the strain
I have tried but it seems there is no room for them inside my muddled brain.
My ears they will not hear them
All the voices they echo aimlessly in vain.
My eyes will not see them the tears blurred in the white noise and the rain.
The stories of broken heart do not rip at me, but have begun to drive me quite insane.
I don't want to endure your saga in its piquing squall and minotonous refrain.
A reciprocating tale like the deafening hum of a night driven train.
Setting my mind adrift to wander at your words so grating and inane.
I am a void a white wall all filled up with revulsion, abination, enmity, disdain.
You plead vindication but the defense of your own destruction causes my resalution and its silenced sustain.
So move on from me I have given all, there is nothing left here for you to drain
There is no sympathy no open shoulder no compassionate understanding for to gain.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
just like a million
tiny mountain peaks
piquing my interest
random but yet
still so calm
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC