"plasticine" poems
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,
waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,
handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,
****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,
wooden soap, shortbread tires,
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,
custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,
syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,
lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,
paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,
see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,
****** with a hole in it,
limp **** pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,
one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,
meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,
this poem.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
~
*Time is a dark feeling
—the spell of a vanishing loveliness;
in the present mist
the imperatives in the wind
move less and less.
Haul away the anchor,
this is not a safe place.
Between insufficient coasts
—a land of look behind—
science is dead,
pessimism in the remaining oar,
and flies in the eyes of the Queen.
Their graves decorate the spine
on the east bank
they call Euthanasia,
each crucifix made of plasticine.
There's a discursive quality to the sea,
I can see the pearl fishermen,
the empty dancehall,
victims of latitude and eclipse.
I can see the tattered sleeves
of Edmund Fitzgerald and the pockets
of emptiness inside,
hoping to quell the hunger
of the cruelest month.
I can see an underwater country,
colonized by the unborn children
of pregnant African women
thrown off of slave ships
during the Middle Passage.
I can see myself sinking;
farewell my sorrow,
keeping precarious time
against a backdrop
of silence less and less;
its final sound being
that of seagulls
flying away into the distance
—a force of nature that’s
both solemn and inspirational
in equal parts.*
~
Dec 31, 2023
Dec 31, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.
Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.
Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.
Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.
Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.
Fingers into ****
pulling out the ******
Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.
My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
The sweet scarlet lady
Condemned by the collective
Piously cursed by all
As they revel in their
contemptuous scorn
As a cocktail of lust and hate
Is dealt to her by many
With a heart crushing arrogance
In this dark hidden world
The spite of the respectable
Is poured over her with a disregard
That burns like a molten lead
While on Saturday roses are pruned
And front doors are painted
She collects the angst
And disappointments of lost youth
Of the sleepy bitter soul
As she becomes a giant dustbin
For this world
What great resilience
What amazing strength
As her ****** center dissolves
All the unhappiness of this world
As she is a hidden angel
Defiled by the world she absorbs all
For she is painted with the projections
Of the worlds forbidden fruit
But she is the rose tinted lady
Dreaming of greater times
A coffee in st Peterburgs square
Oh what a brave dare
filling her sisters needs
With all these gracious deeds
Living in this thankless world
She is the rescuer of many men
Used and abused by
The emotionally inept
She remains centered
In a hidden dignity
Only known by her
As she gives and gives
Many faces made and portrayed
As she gives herself up
She becomes a plasticine
For the childish souls to play
As she lives in a surrender
That no monk would ever know
Her surrender so complete
she disappears into her center
A holiness the devils mock
And all the angels and Jesus flock
Her submission to nature carrying
A purity that says yes to life
In the back drop of this world
The Lord can only find a relief
If we find the surface of a ********** *****
It is only because we project
The dirt of our own soul
As we defile their outside with our inside
As they are truly hidden angels
Sent to clean this world
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,
Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,
Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,
Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,
As they ran to their shelter,
And the cows mooed on the fields above,
And the goats cried in the barn.
Mother pumped water from the well,
We ran around collecting eggs,
Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.
In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,
The fire roared in the range,
Granddad sat in his big chair,
He burned anything just to keep warm,
We thought it very strange.
Mother worked at the big white sink,
Knitted squares hung from a line,
We made tiny plasticine dolls,
They slept in plasticine beds,
We drank Dandelion and Burdock,
Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,
It came in enormous stone bottles,
Dad got it every week from a man at the door.
Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,
A room we called the playroom,
Was carpeted with goat skins,
There were jars of melted metal,
Who knows why?
We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,
Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,
In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,
We loved to look inside.
The bathroom was a scary place,
There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,
At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,
We cuddled together to keep warm,
One night we saw fairies at the window.
Our aunty had a gramophone,
Records all scattered around,
We had to be careful where we trod,
She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,
We didn’t understand.
Our uncle slept on the top floor,
In a huge brass bed,
One day I took him a cup of tea,
We were not normally allowed up there,
He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.
He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.
My grandmother slept downstairs,
She always was very ill,
Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,
We got her water from the spring,
To cure her, but she died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.
Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.
Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.
It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.
And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:
A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.
Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that
that
that--
I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!
Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!
And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.
It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!
Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.
Sincerely,
The Bible.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
What do u tell me
when the night shadows
Where does your sense go
To the end of the worlds?
I'm going round in
circles - feeling dizzy
Like an electron
round a nucleus
U say I'm sticking
like some plasticine
But as I spin hard
u r left speechless
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
***** puts together temporarily,
the broken/disntegrated parts of my plasticine self
with band aids and masking tape.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Distant It's heard
The nomads
guitar hum its trembled
arias
Its whispered strum violates
ephemerally
ragged
plasticine walls
It penetrates
stale pine
Punctured by
rust-haggard
nails
It travels
through pebbled hearts and
Nestles
in hidden cracks
Coercing
suffocated crumbs
of life
into the night.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
Saturday Afternoon at the Smithy
Heart-pumped heat wall -
bellow-breathed cherry tip
Tink-tung Tink-tung
spring-hammered hop-head rhythm
bingo-winged ripple, suet and mouth.
Square peg – round hole? No problem.
Hot iron wrought with box-jaw tong tease.
Tight fit. Good. Sweat-drop-splatter.
Wire teeth scrape garnet rifts,
Pig scratch back into scraped coke -
metal to plasticine.
White fizzy sparks fly and hiss
Phlopp – thirsty water stings.
Ferrous blood taste – time for tea.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Stick me together with plasticine
Fill in the cracks of my broken dreams
Stitch my skin tighter and sow my heart shut
Let my hair loose and my nails uncut
Glue my eyes open and stretch out my frown
Dress up my fear in an ebony gown
Sketch in my strings and take hold of the thread
Wrap me in cling film, then leave me for dead.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
*we’re merely strangers
disguised as a family.
four cornerstones
propping up the dinner table --
a doll house
when seen through a telescope, though
the peachy porcelain pillars are tarnished by
the cracks at their corners.
“perfect family” shines in neon lettering on the threshold.
it looms over us, frantically peppering the conversation
long gone stale.
it stings my eyes,
and burns my tongue
to speak.
my teeth are plastic,
my fingers plasticine,
pieced together carelessly
a millennia ago,
when warmth still existed in the spaces between us.
now, we are cloaked in our own despondencies,
eyes staring not at each other,
but through.
we float past each other
as ghosts;
though I’m the only one
who hears the echoes.*
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
yes, the tyrant is ready
to destroy with thousands of arms
with thousands of eyes
with thousands of hearts
a denied collective crime after all
and the old circle of darkness about to complete
again
the worm of history is tattooing our dreams
unbearable the recipe of pain
no real tipping point
especially
no turning point
for any tyrant
wooden tongues speak non truths
to be fed by a tyrant freezes the rivers of the mind
being a tyrant is so simple, so natural in a world we've ceased to imagine
this tyrant like any other free
to toy with history as with plasticine
cause we/you/they are as ready as ever
to support him dynamite
the horizon
of time
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 4:40 PM UTC
* Tumbling,
Tossing,*
Dawn, midnight-midmorning’s crossing.
Comatose in an arcane ether-realm, I’m watching.
Through the pastel, piercing mountains –rifting, I lay drifting.
The curtains parting, releasing two daylight captives, falling.
*Tumbling,
Tossing,*
Unfinished dolls of porcelain, tangled mess of hair -streaming
A girl, brunette, no eyes, no lips –smiling or screaming.
She wears dress in tones of pallid, matching his wee bow-tie -stark against jacket wafting.
Their skin, fire-cast, spare of flush, their jointed arms –like birds, flapping.
*Tumbling,
Tossing,*
The boy finds rest in clouds where birds lay nesting and mists –gently cresting.
He’s posed, his hand exposed, for her hand, inanimate, he’s reaching.
She’s losing ground rapidly, with but mock sense of gravity, while in clouds peaks are breeching.
Chest shattering, glass chattering,
*Tumbling,
Tossing.*
Skewered bodice, broken bits of her calling, giving rise to the blind though she’s not yet done falling.
All at once, his cries come with his fresh face & his babbles, nearly maddening.
Struck with the frozen bite, eyes & lips bursting –painted from her plasticine features -her tears biting and cries raging!
From her inky tears is drawn a river, running, gently cradling before suddenly she’s drowning!
*Tumbling!
Tossing!*
Through the waves, her ceramics washed to skin- her hollow, broken chest now heart beating & lungs pleading!
She takes her breath from the dark waters of her rift, living tattoos on her skin now flourishing, blossoming!
Her soul, wide-awake, taking root in her skin; finding wading too shallow, she seeks higher things of depth & so flies with a lofty dive into the heavenly expanse of underwater, pitching stars for her catching.
Paying one last glance at her lost mate, cowering, she leaves him sobbing after her on a path he won’t be following.*
Tumbling,
Tossing,
Surviving,
to Surpassing
...
She is Rising
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Shadow of two-year guilt,
Rather be erratic than static.
The world rolls its tongue
And everyone is talking
But me.
You said
Something good will come out of this.
You said
That I wanted to be unhappy.
I could reach so far
For impossible dreams
But it would not be enough.
Sleep feigns rest.
Bedsheets weather to discomfort;
Hypnotic inducement
As the sun comes up.
Alarm clock, ***** Cigarette for breakfast.
Food sits in the mouth.
Chewing on plasticine,
Sudden fear of choking.
I do not remember when I got so bad.
Lacklustre tyre swings,
A noose in the half-lit cemetery.
No amount of air
To tame the breath.
Folded, years of divorce,
Of cold toast, early mornings;
My insufferable self.
You said
That I wanted to be unhappy.
You said
That love would never be enough.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
There comes a point in summer when I begin to wish for winter. When I tire of sweat and lukewarm showers.
There is a day when I’d like every tree in sight to stop covering their pain, and expose the reality of grey and withered limbs.
There is a night I wish for twelve blankets on my bed, only my nose exploring the freezing atmosphere.
There is a minute I wish to replace sandals with boots, and tanlines with skin like moonlight.
There is an hour I’d rather you and I hid away, with cold toes and frigid fingertips, than go to the lake and sip beer with plasticine friends.
There is a second I spend wishing for grey clouds to cover the mocking sun, for bitter gales to replace a dancing breeze.
There is a month, I wish the grass would hide its bragging leaves, and the snow would come out and play.
There are a few hours I spend pretending, I turn on every fan, dim the lights, put on pajamas, drink coffee, and cower beneath one solitary blanket. Hoping winter spies me, takes pity, and make the hours-minutes-days-months-seconds his.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 11:46 AM UTC
1.
Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.
I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by its watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.
2.
Horror fails to ferment in silhouettes
Concealed by plasticine despair.
Etched upon the hands
Of detailed
Manipulations of light.
Devices driving devotion to
Fragmentation of
Scattering. Extracting
Photons of feeling.
The city screams its insolence,
At a street too small to house the
Dead eyes walking.
Remnants,
Of ambient echoes
Across a galaxy of glass.
3.
Urban spring falls upon the blanket of night.
Stability leaks from the stained glass city.
Deceased blossoms mark
A realm of unsettling perfection,
Just beyond the threshold
of an urban inferno.
Mechanical coaxation of
Rectangular prism lives within
The confines of light.
This is a false stone hell, it says.
As ancient facets of souls scatter
The waste of a low mass star.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
And she's gone
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marsh mellow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high
New paper taxis appear on the shore
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
And you're gone
Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstyle
The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
Their waspish comments pierce my soul
Like needles injecting poison of some sort.
The girl who greets me in the mirror
Has flawed features.
Maybe people were being honest after all.
Maybe I am what they say I am - fat.
Never before have I come across a situation so abstruce.
A desire to be be made of plasticine fills my mind.
Imagine!
I could mould myself with my fingertips
Remove faults, gain perfection.
I look around for a quick remedy,
Something to divert my mind.
Now that I've found it- thin, sharp and silver,
I hold it firmly and drag it
Over the soft skin of my hand over and over again.
It smarts terribly but it feels like the pain within is fading.
From fear of death and weltering, I leave my wrists untouched.
The scar remains as a constant reminder
Of the sin I committed,
Of how weak I was,
And of how I could not handle criticism.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 5:23 AM UTC
one thing being concerned with
ideograms like with the Chinese defences
having preserved an offshoot from
Egyptian depiction,
but another thing to be in a sandpit
playing with orthographic changes -
by now you realise the Chinese encoding is
too complex to change, not enough
plasticine in it, nothing mandible,
you need skeletons, and even though
i'm not quick to boast, i think the matchsticks
of the affair deserves a pat on the back -
how a new aesthetic was born
from simply looking at the ß - to compete with
the Germans was necessary,
i ensured the Polish orthographic was in need
of revising, hence from sz (sh) came ß -
an ultra-diacritical suggestion of uniqueness,
but there had to be a twin to shorten the
rz into a ż of equal aesthetic concern,
hence the ʒ. in writing it's so wired, so dynamic,
no number of Mona Lisas can match up to it...
it's a ******* Frankenstein by the feel of it
with five blind-men and an elephant...
i know this will not become a standard of educating
people, i know this will take some time before
the revision takes assurance of survival,
but i will vouch on this revision via optometry
of how people read, perhaps reading more than
their current diet allows.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
Her love is graffiti
On the blank walls
Within me,
All those colors
All just seem
Like different
Shades of red
To me,
As they pool
At my feet
I admire her soul
Not like I have
X-ray vision,
But I've seen
Her beauty faded
Before me
As a rose
That wilts
As a flower
That withers,
All that is pretty
Isn't just plasticine,
It's real flesh
As every breath
Oxidizes from within,
I know that all that will be left
Is like
What it must be
For the deaf and blind
Only what I feel
From and for her
When I'm near...
APAD13 - 130 © okpoet
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
I’ve slept in church
that must be when
I missed the answers.
“When will Christ return?”
I asked, waving my phone,
“I have this handy calendar app.”
"My child," he said, putting a
fatherly hand on my shoulder.
I wiped it off, like a spider web.
I’ll never get to heaven,
I lack the plasticine
malleability of belief.
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC