"plastering" poems
Closed doors never seemed so perfect to me,
To call her mine without the demonic
Stares of the public vultures,
Snapping their claws on the shutters of cameras
And plastering our love across the world.
It is nice to be able to talk to her,
To hide our deep conversations
Under the covers at night,
The luminescent glow
Of another incoming text,
The quiet throb of fingertips
Colliding with the screen,
Each letter creating another
Syllabic heartbeat
Of love and desire,
I just wish that one day
These words will become real,
They will evolve and grow to speak
Louder than the actions we describe to each other.
I want the hugs to be real.
I want the kisses to be real.
I want the inevitable yearning for passion to be real.
As long as at it can be between us and us only.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
My mind could not conjure up the notion that the word, the name, meant something. A-n-n-a. I looked. I looked: she stared back the same. Unknowing, unfamiliar. I wanted to remember, I wanted to.
7 a.m, in the crawlspace underneath the house, flashlight grasped in my hand, sweat from my forehead plastering my hair against it. It smelled like dust. I inched forward on my stomach, writhing as a worm. My body seizing against dirt and webs. I yelled out her name. Just to see. Just to test if my mouth still knew how to speak.
Anna.
Anna.
There. In the corner. I flicked my light against a box with tape on the side and her name written on over it in marker. I whispered it to make sure. Anna. One more time. Anna. I sunk my face into the ground. My breath, soft from my lips but coarse in form, disrupt the filth, made me cough. I crawled over to her with ease, as if the bones in my body were pushing me, the muscles guiding me; these pulsing veins, telling me.
When I opened the box, the first thing I saw was her, smiling back at me in the form of a memory. July 1996, our wedding framed around sanded wood, with splinters etching at the sides, aching for a hold on them. And I cradled her, despite this. Despite my skin giving in.
Anna.
I almost forgot.
My head was hurting again. I blamed it on the suffocating of the casket underground enveloping me, not the staples buried into the skin of my skull, not the remembrance that underneath piles of dirt, her body was just a stack of old bones with only a stone to tag her as proof she was once living.
Anna. My Anna. I cradled the picture against my chest. I clung to her.
My light began to flicker, a spider crawled across my finger. Anna was diminishing, like a ghost, like a gentle sweep of navigating headlights turning a corner, creeping away, and suddenly gone.
Anna. A-n-n-a. I shut my eyes. I could finally remember.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
I sat on the dentist’s chair
With an aching tooth, feeling hell
The dentist seemed quite pleased
As he opened my mouth and surveyed
‘There are holes to be filled
And the plaque to be removed
It needs a few sittings
At the end, you’ll have a set of fine teeth’!
His gentle assurance was so comforting
And I thought my jaws no more have to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth!
He then, in a narrow syringe
Injected something into my gum
I knew a numbness creeping in
Until at last I felt a hard rock within
Now, like an expert work man
He began his rigorous craft
Loud machines began to boom
The chair got flattened
From 'verticality'
I got changed into 'horizontality'
And the overhead apparatus came down
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey.
With blaring lights blinding my vision,
I lay torpid as if my body was strapped
The doctor took out his steel and hammer
And started tapping and chipping
Drilling and boring
Though numb, I could still feel the pull and tug
The crooked forceps and pliers
Made all the nerves in my head irk
My mouth was filled with saliva
And I felt a sprout of blood inside
He stuffed some gauze and resumed his work
I wanted to yell, ask him to stop
But being gagged, I couldn’t utter a word
My pupils dilated
My lips quivered
My tongue got parched
I gasped for breath
With a mix of cement and sand (?)
He began filling and plastering
Scrubbing and polishing
Helplessly lying on the dentist’s chair,
I wondered
What whips and stings one has to endure
To end the pain and give the teeth a shine!
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Sigh
I tap my pen on the desk like my teacher extracting my freedoms
and plastering it on the whiteboard.
He preaches and preaches about how he lost a game of golf last week
I need to take a dosage of education,
But whenever I take it I forget to check the side affects.
SIDE AFFECTS MAY INCLUDE;
-Boredom
-Faeries pulling down on your eye lids making you fall into the pit of sleep.
-Drifting in a car called imagination across this classroom.
-Hands are under mind control as you draw twisters in your notebook .
-NOTE: when you flip back to your notes when you are studying for a test,
they will be useless
Useless like "excuse me sir but is your love for the Broncos going to be on the test?"
I feel like this teacher is testing me not on the subject,
but how long it takes until one of the students in this class to go postal.
Too soon?
Sorry I should ship off my mouth to my mother
cuz mommas got the magic of Clorox Bleach
momma oh momma, use your powers to clean out my filthy mouth
yet he is still talking,
why is he still talking?
I'm still writing this poem,
Should I be writing notes on his college days
Or should I wait until his head lands on this landing strip
So he get his head can leave the clouds
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Oxblood lips. A slit in the center. A distraught film. Shattered pieces that mimic her wounds. She cries for sorrow and weeps in the name of agony. Flashback. High voltage. Dawn's dew left a Seoul night in the hands of mischief. He watched her golden legs in his dingy shirt. She danced in a tunnel of head lights. His eyes. Oh, God, his realm of roses. A spectrum so broad- no force could obtain. 70s misfit. Shaggy rugs. A cheap bottle of Merlot. Kaleidoscope kisses. Craved like a hieroglyphic. He was her warrior. Plummeting grains of virtue into a dust oriented cushion...seven dollars and thirty one cents. I saw the light bulb touch the birch-wood floral. I could feel a thick metallic wind roar. Breaking the depths. A rugged man with a festive beard. His cheeks of stained silicone lipstick. He had shipped off his soul. He was a white man with a grip of steel. "Who put cookies in the watering bucket?" A naive response. "A wicked man with a lustful cavity." Erosion.Despair.Angst. Thin braids housed a blooming mind. Paint chips splattered the table top, plastering it. Morning.Good morning to luxury. What a splendid contrast. A lantern lit van took the highway by 65 miles. And all the while he never looked back.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
When I was a kid we played over the park
climbing trees, building tree houses
playing football, sometimes gutters
challenge strangers to a game
Tag, bulldog, hopscotch, pogs and more
paper ball fights, pillow fights, play fights
when I was a kid we made friends and stayed in touch
playing outside
When I was a teenager we played against our friends
websites, bebo, myspace, msn, yahoo, chatrooms
listened to new music, bands we never heard off
photos all the time plastering the web
when I was a teenager we played games like snake
trying to hold on to our child mind as we got older
In my early 20's, things changed
Myspace no more, we moved to Facebook
Selfies, more selfies and even more selfies
Youtube, Twitter, so many ways to make friends
stay in touch
Edging closer to late 20's
Snapchat, Instagram, Tinder, Whats app, Vine
so many ways to make friends
nearly 30 years, I've experienced so many ways to remain social
I miss those days, climbing the trees
because I could
running without a care in the world
no worries, to problems, favorite teachers, best friends
so many ways to be social
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
I didn’t see it coming,
It wasn’t set on my nightly planner.
4 sober hours ago seem so far away now.
On my left hand,
cherry red lipstick smug stains shows memories of a forgotten night that I’ll always have to regret.
See, I only wish it was lipstick.
Truthfully, I know that 2 hours and a 5th of ***** earlier I was all to worried about which girl I want to take home.
Stumble 1 drunken hour later,
keg stands and **** rips have me defying gravity and federal law.
My beer googles are activated,
I’m captivated with the idea of driving.
30 smashed minutes forward,
I finally reach the forbidden fruit with
2
beautiful blonde blue-eyed babes.
Tumbling into our seats,
we were invincible.
Plastering our way forward through empty roads and city streets,
I’m reminiscent on stop signs and brake lights.
I hear cherry red lips speak sensual words into my ear,
whispers of achieving my goal.
It’s stated eyes are windows to the soul,
this is true because I could see it in the reflection of pupils,
a single tree along with it.
I turn my beer goggles quick enough to see this wasn’t a tanked-up nightmare but,
the bark of a beast that makes no noise.
I saw 2 beautiful blonde blue-eyed girls fly threw my windshield,
I wonder what their moms will say.
I got wrecked to wreck the lives of not only myself but
of entire families and lives
that weren’t even created yet.
I’ll never know the wonders I killed,
the hopes I stabbed,
the dreams I cut down deeply into their veins and watched them bleed out.
30 somber minutes I spent finding nothing else to blame,
it’s all on me,
I was the drunk judge, jury and executioner.
Now, I look to my left hand,
wishing 4 sober hours ago,
I could’ve saw it coming.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
Picture pecan.
Plastering, painted prints.
Plummeting.
Languid Leaves.
Listless, lethargic lives.
Littering.
Sacrificed scenery.
Shattered, struggling space.
Sabotaging.
Beauty dies
This time of year.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
Vapid people
dribbling vapid shxt.
A society of fxck-eyed,
drunken infants
debating politics memorised
from Fox News.
We, the awakened,
plastering social media
with doll-faced mannequins
captioned with some Eastern Philosophy
we read in Cosmo,
enhanced with a filter
titled "Who The **** Is Lao Tzu?"
Comments read: goals af.
(Insert emoji here)
And praise the Indigo Children!
It's a true gift indeed
to talk about activism
until blue in the face.
My, what a spiritual hue, are you.
Are you?
A generation of craft makers,
weaving their way
through the alcoholic labyrinth,
drawing the Hungover Man
from a Rider Waite tarot deck,
for another episode of Dull and Duller
next weekend.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
I'm seriously considering blowing my brains out,
Gray matter that used to hold my consciousness
now plastering the walls behind my carcass.
Blood Art,
a new cultural norm for an over populated planet.
Euthanasia be dambed lets ****
the innocent,
the consumer,
the ******
I could cure this planet of all it's problems
if only I had more ink in my pen
and more shells in my Shotgun
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies
and the rain fidgeted over the retreat
of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away
by a current, and we stood awhile, watching
the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing
is burdensome when cars float on water
and corpses leak out of cavernous
basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold
heart of building code was read again
and then again. It wasn't enough to blame
Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo,
now that we had marvelled away Gaia's
ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked
in folkloric floods each time she birthed
a parable. She once asked Noah to build
an ark so he could ride her waves
and we scrape the sky to impale her
in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,
as we sour the air and burn the water and strip
her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills
and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt
plastering her yearning that calcified her veins
and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet.
We could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears
rolled off her torso like an oil slick
and rode far into the subway for sewers.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
i wonder if you knew it was too perfect.
i wonder if you knew we were skeletons desperately clinging to lifeless clumps of cold flesh, plastering it onto bone after bone, trying to build a romance in a graveyard.
i wonder if you knew it was too perfect.
//
under the neon lights of the bar near your place,
your pale skin breathed with new life,
your blue lips blossomed pink.
every touch sent shockwaves.
we collided,
but not in the ugly way we often did.
this time it was beautiful.
it had to be.
//
i remember leaving that night,
feeling sick to my stomach,
and i’d imagine you did, too.
i hadn’t known until then that sadness and joy could sail on the same ship.
//
still i wonder why we so often crave perfection,
why we long for the saccharine taste of another’s lips.
it all ended up tasting too bitter for me, anyway.
//
under the neon lights of the bar near your place,
your pale skin breathed with new life,
your blue lips blossomed pink.
every touch sent shockwaves.
//
i still think of you,
a ghost trapped in those flashing lights.
but somehow it feels right that we are only just a memory.
(a.m.)
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
How easy it is to paint people
With one color,
With one broad brush.
Over time the various
Colors on your palette
Swirl together to form globs
Of gray.
And now your monochrome
Judgement renders your world
A bleak, barren desert of ashes.
No longer do you see the world and its
People in its colorful splendor.
Some become acclimated to this dulled
Perception that has taken hold.
A perception that dominates the
Senses and gradually turns the brain
Into gray mush.
Undead they become, starving creatures
With the urge to devour.
To hurt.
No empathy. No compassion. No feeling.
Others, thankfully, know better.
Palettes must be cleansed regularly,
Layers of dried, crusted paint scraped off
With patience.
Then fresh paint is restored.
Fresh perspectives, encounters, and knowledge
Passed down by models to the artist.
Yes, we are artists.
We paint the world as we deem fit,
Plastering on others one’s own
Values, morals, and ideals.
But the true masters of this craft go beyond,
Discerning the vast spectrum of colors
That compose a human soul.
But that takes time.
Years of experience and keen observation.
But possible.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Always having nightmares,
Being in a house full of hatred and sadness.
Crying myself to sleep each night.
Dreading when I have to come home from school,
Every single day.
Fearing the words that could ****
Going to sleep is a struggle in itself. I
Hide it at school.
I always act happy at school.
Just so my friends aren't suspicious.
Kids think I'm normal. Just
Like them. An ordinary, happy kid, but
Most of the time, I'm depressed.
No way are my friends going to find out
Of course.
Plastering on a smile until I get home.
Quiet doesn't exist. There is always yelling.
Running to my room, crying,
Steaming mad at my parents for all of this.
Tears stream down my face.
Under my tough skin is a crumbling tower. A
Vacation to school makes me relax. I
Wipe the tears before I walk inside.
Xtra smiles for all of my friends,
Yet inside, I decompose with depression.
Zero tears on the outside.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
I am a ragdoll stuffed with two-cent cotton imitation in a factory in China.
My arms and legs moved by hands seen through mismatched button eyes.
my only desire is to be like other dolls: Barbies, Polly Pockets. Big eyes and plastic bodies.
My pills come in a bottle like a gumball machine, dispensing one brightly colored sphere at a time.
Pills to make me, like them.
The artificial emotion seeping into my veins.
Sweating out my pores.
Plastering smiles on my face, and ironing rainbow patches behind my eyes.
A giant sugar-coated crutch shoved under my armpit.
Force-fed lying happiness.
Here comes the choo-choo into the tunnel.
I am a cat eating grass to make itself *****
I want to move my own ragdoll arms, sit up without a metal pole behind my back.
I want a straight line stitched on my face so I can choose to make it go down.
Or up,
Or diagonal,
Or shed my potato-sack skin and metamorphose into a trumpet.
With freedom to resound over mountaintops,
Dribble liquid gold from my singing mouth.
But I am a ragdoll.
Whose head is stuffed with two-cent cotton imitation on a factory floor in China.
Whose only desire is to be real.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
some people have
really nice clothes
and
really nice cameras
to take pictures of themselves
in their clothes
with
and they
put them all over the internet
so they can say without saying
that they are better
than me
and i guess that's alright.
i don't have that kind of money for clothes
and even if i did
i hope i wouldn't be like them
plastering themselves on facebook
in edgy poses
painted with instagram filters
i hope i would be like i am now
a twenty year old girl
who buys new clothes twice a year
but adopts books like newborn babies
and can smile
genuinely
when the lord wills
a touch of
happiness
i guess what i'm trying to say
is
your designer jeans hurt my feelings
as does your expression
but i wouldn't want to
be you.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
I dreamed my own death,
last night:
dug down deep through
dirges and dingy old dirt
my bed and my tomb are
one and the same.
like a blanket the dirt piles above
and like a mattress the
dirt layers below.
it gets so tiring,
sometimes;
sleep is a cousin to death.
there are loved ones
sobbing far away and
others laid around me,
lost and caught among
the endless eddies and streams
of neverending loneliness
that we all have felt,
some time.
it is a common experience,
a collective, conscious thought--
we float up and out of our bodies,
our gases and our atoms mixing with the
dirt,
the mud,
the worms and
the bodies
and the
ever-lost matter
of countless others come before
and countless more come
after.
we are all living in order to die as
after our death there will be nothing added
and nothing left;
the base materials,
the elements and bits of star stuff
have always been
and always will be
even when they are not
us.
really,
it is the
accepting of our own
demise--
our ashes to ashes and
the plastering of the
dustiest of dusts
that shall settle
and lay on thick
in layers and levels of
lost and loopy illuminations
of a mind that is filled with holes and rot.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
there is pride in pain
pleasure in punishment
and dignity in degradation
so i'll be
in my own little self-torture chamber
wallowing in my own little passion pit
plastering a new persona on myself
and when i'm done
this internal itch for ill blood
will ease
but i myself will be stronger
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
Pressure to be pretty in the unearthly hours of the morning
Eyes pulled down by bags, bloated and yawning
Eyeliner and lipgloss and concealer thick and fast
Covering the callouses, praying it'll last
looking good and smelling good and in the peak of health
Its all an uphill struggle to better your fine self
Judged by a jury of unexperienced youths
Panicing at lunchtime, retouching in the loos.
Hair and eyes and lips and cheeks and clothing and skin
Bottle after bottle, empty in the bin
Scraping and slathering, plucking and plastering.
The never ending problem, thats actually, within.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
**** near me
with perfection talking blues,
caressing crystal drinks,
promising future sneak,
and blanketed romance,
**** near me
with hissing tape violence,
milking the moment,
snagging the attention of the suit
and the tie,
**** near me
blowing every ambition in the room,
plunging into whiskey,
head first and lonely,
**** near me
sha-la-las and oooh-la-las
slither into my forked crypt,
staining my funeral garb,
plastering my cask,
**** near me
brothers looking for to see,
while sister ***** the poison,
I dare her to keep pushing,
**** near me
the kissing and the clowning,
the nightgowning I soon to go a' drowning,
cockroach in the corner,
**** near me
Miranda owes me fifty,
the filthy ******* creature,
draining me of chatter,
**** near me
hustling for the saddest rent,
sleeping with the butcher,
under Martha's tent,
**** near me
the crows collect seed,
the know-hows bashfully reread,
while I **** near wearied, worried;
bleed.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
Over the years I've had a few tries
But it's not been a great success
Enthusiastic but lacking technique
Finishing up a bit of a mess
Now Brendon's out there, plying his trade
He's only twenty three
Done it at college, passed his grades
So he can do it properly
Earning the money, stashing away
To buy a place of his own
Sure he'll get there, for as they say
Where there's a will there will be a way
His girl is local, she does people's hair
He says in her head there's nothing but air
Calls her the missus, she's only eighteen
Like an old married couple to some they seem
She rides with him in his scruffy old van
She'd prefer a comfortable car
She wants to leave home as soon as she can
So likes to see him work hard
As the day ticks away we mardle
He knows an old flame of mine
I say yes, I know her quite well
But not seen her now for some time...
The grand design moves forward
We've had a laugh and a chat
All paid up, thanks for your help
In a month or so he'll be back
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
There are those days
That I just want to disappear
Hidden in a place
Wherein I can shed all my tears;
A place where I do not have to pretend
That I am happy and worryfree.
I am tired of going through each day
Plastering a fake smile on my face
Telling everyone that I am okay
Coz deep inside this heart of mine
I am screaming for help,
I am dying of loneliness,
I am longing for love and happiness;
But no one can hear my heart's plead.
I want a place for an escape
Where I can release everything that burdens my life
To renew my strength again.
I want an escape from this life
Even just for a while.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Only a few hours old,
already surrounded by love;
carefree and joyous
as her mother's lips touch
down on her cheeks.
Twelve months have passed
and she is beginning to learn;
how to walk, how to talk,
how to see the dangers
of this harsh world.
Two years now
her eyes remain blind
as she remains happy, oblivious
to the cruel world outside
her tiny childhood skies.
At three years old
she begins to understand
that the world is not safe,
that although she is young
they are already out to get her.
Four years of age
and happy as ever.
She has grown into a toddler,
careless and clever,
for she is still blinded.
Five years now
and she continues her life,
half-blinded, half-understanding.
She sees them fighting,
but sees nothing of it.
Her sixth birthday comes
and the fighting has not stopped.
She worries now,
but is hopeful that it
will all be better tomorrow.
By her seventh year,
she is joyful again;
surrounded by friends
who keep her away
from the terrible yelling.
At eight years old,
she understands that she lives
in a house, not a home,
but she remains happy
because there's always tomorrow.
On her ninth birthday,
she finally understands
that the world is evil,
and there is no escape,
yet she remains positive.
By ten years old,
she has felt pain.
The pain inflicted upon her
is nothing compared to
what tomorrow may bring.
Eleven years now and
she's plastering on a smile,
forcing a laugh,
half-heartedly joking,
and dreaming of childhood.
Twelve years have passed
now her fake smile is perfected.
No one sees her pain,
so no one worries. They
all assume they have tomorrow.
Thirteen years, her parents
begin to notice.
They say she is too young
to feel this pain,
but depression has no age.
By the age of fourteen
she has only gotten worse.
They have given her help,
but nothing works. She remains
in her shell until tomorrow.
She spends her fifteenth birthday
in a center for kids like her.
She found an escape,
but it comes with the price
of giving up tomorrow.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
There is a screaming silence on the
privatized public transportation of
Cleveland. A scream in the hearts and minds
of a people who live with less than zero.
Car fires in the streets.
Syringes next to the suburbs.
Nowhere is holy in this great city,
a veritable Gomorrah.
It's not a jungle,
it's a prison and a **** shame.
Ohio is for abandonment;
musicians, writers, astronauts,
pilots.
All desperate to leave a crater
where they used to stand,
to blast
a hole in the heart of this state.
A hole it already has.
They make it less than zero.
Plastering Chief Wahoo against
their foreheads, houses, cars,
lawns, chests, arms, bars, streets.
Saying it's not racism,
it's tradition.
Meanwhile, everyone else is
trying to explain that just because
it's old doesn't mean it isn't racist
to the idiots of Cleveland.
Cleveland is a city made of
stains, tarnish, rust and apathy.
Erecting a chandelier
instead of a dream,
a monument to desperation.
There is a scream in the back of the throat.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
i smile too hard in social situations
to make up for the fact that i've sorted through my every thought and can't find anything of interest to say
and i blush at every compliment i receive
because i'm too embarrassed to disagree
you see
I'm kind of vapid
but it's only because I can't control the voice inside my head
I'm not crazy, unfortunately
I'm just overly self aware
and i want you to know that we are stardust
but you're only interested in superstars
and I'm only interested in companionship
so I'll entertain you with magic tricks
I want friends
**** their ***
but women judge me too harshly
and men don't judge me on the right things
they like my mind, but abuse my body
i only care for souls
for records
and old pictures of kids in bulky glasses
neon bellbottoms and
flower power wallpaper
plastering the walls of an alternate universe
where i may blossom and open up
like a flower in the rain
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC