"pockmarked" poems
|**“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”**|
you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work
plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure
not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined
turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
and
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear
mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion
happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable
breathe poems constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud
taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising
all nonsense you plead,
indeed,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from
*******
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
superimposition of celestial ampersand:
a continuity of all things
stars hanging loose in the pupil
of this deadbeat word.
typhoons in a swirl of tempestuous ballet,
dogs shivering in the blue cold,
biting their canine integument the way
scarabs would, sinking in a temporal flotsam-way within tectonic display
of text
hectares of blank stares bringing
to life lysergic field of black birds.
and then some
equal number of evocativeness:
continuing on into the ground
are the bones warm in their compost.
the sudden fragrance of rat ****
appeals to the masses.
too much laughter in flooded thoroughfares pockmarked by
the vehement jam of staccato jackhammer.
choking us is today's headline
in supreme obbligato - its stench
reeks of libidinal perfume etched
in the flesh of the rigmarole.
one filthy day in Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
Her first name did not fit
she wore cloddy shoes &
knees & elbows were
dead skin & lived
above a bar with
a pockmarked
brother & invisible mother,
she ate cardboard, chalk,
paper & paste;
Glory was her name.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
Some poems never end,
Nor were meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.
Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on,
Free to steal it,
For ownership passes to you,
with your first reading,
And lost when you close it,
Stamp it and release it into the atmosphere.
But some poems do. End.
Unique and distinct,
Pockmarked-faced at birth.
Owned by my initials,
Never to see the shelves of a
Lending Library.
Like this one:
*Cannot remember a single day
When suicidal thoughts
Were not heard clearly above the fray
Of jingle-jangled, responsibilities
Demanding my immediate attention.*
The end.
NML
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
So many eyes lay upon cursing skin
crevices grit, pockmarked with each thrashing intrusion
budding enthusiasm, awash, boiled...
suffer, oh suffer, green potato.
Crinkle cut? Jib of glut!
manipulate form and function
stain of starch satisfaction...
coffer, oh coffer, oh cough, ahem, cough!
It ain't about money.
That's right, mustn't disturb the soil,
So many eyes lay upon cursing skin
crevices grit, pockmarked with each thrashing intrusion
budding enthusiasm, awash, boiled...
suffer, oh suffer, green potato.
A memory, distant, the taste of that green potato
rots in the kitchen... eat it, enjoy the flavour,
dine on discourse...
digest it,
bury it deep inside,
release it,
let it grow again.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Sketches of being nonchalant through symphonies of unsent letters. Playing.
Drinking the melancholy through a cloudless night, alone. Swings betrayed.
Stealing the numbers, sitting in the blue, sinking.
How red the moon hangs below?
How crushed are the fairy lanterns?
She lived. She died. She survived.
To breed a demon within.
She wanted a pause. She wanted a release. Not weeping. Not longing. Surviving.
To breach the silence its thickness, She pretends to crumble her summer.
Idle musings to feel the blade cut of the grass, dancing barefoot, losing a grip.
As laughter emanates, pockmarked with a mortal sense, trying the road, less.
Inhaling does not hurt anymore. And nor does the whiskey in her tone.
From her hidden detritus, she laughs.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master. They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach. Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating. Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?
Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man. And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Bed sheets become red sheets,
Pillows becomes tear catchers,
No dream catchers here because only nightmares live,
Feasting on wakeful exhaustion.
Deflated bouncy castles for intestines,
White blood cells searching frantically in enclosed darkness.
Enemy invaders seeping into blood, bone and muscle
As the warriors remain trapped in sticky villi.
Drug dependency is a permanent solution
And overdosing is a consistent caregiver for sleep.
Nausea is a rebellious, suicidal last stand
To go down with the invaders as they're taken out.
A seven year war fought inside your body
With no visible battle lines drawn is lonely.
My skin is pockmarked, riddled with the craters of bombs
Fired from all sides with no mercy for the land.
Sometimes I can't help but wonder what'll **** me first:
The invaders or my body's own troops.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
I am unafraid tonight
To write and sign my real name.
To like what I read which is almost everything here
For the sake, for the pain, for the unashamed, for just
Celebrating those who breathe life for the just
Trying.
I am unafraid tonight
To disclose that I live as an
Agonist
In a city that ghost taps on my windows,
( thank you Ilion gray for that),
When the quiet is pockmarked by so many crying the
Loudest tears.
I am unafraid tonight
To express my dissatisfaction with you.
I am unafraid tonight
To express the miracle of those across oceans,
And across town,
Welcoming me into their hearts and wonder
Where else do the wayfarers gather
I am I am
unafraid tonight
To curry your favor,
Despise your silence
Expose corners of me
That should be buried
Before my body later follows
I am unafraid tonight
To use or abuse punctuation
For their are spaces and ,
Between us that can and cannot be closed
But I am compelled to try to narrow the differences
For
I am unafraid tonight
Tomorrow, we shall see,
If the shale within can yet be fractured,
Brought to the surface
To be consumed,
Or the fractures spread
Destructing the whole.
But tonight,
I am unafraid.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
there's no delicate, politically correct way to say this.
as soon as i saw you leaning against the wall of the bp,
with your pants halfway down your ***
your wifebeater thrown over your shoulder,
your big brimmed hat on crooked,
and your white skin pockmarked with needle tracks,
i wasn't scared of you, i was disgusted.
my first thought? *burned out ******
my second? just please don't say anything to me.
my third? **** he's probably looking at my ****** white girl ***
my fourth? he just opened the door for me.
i think what i said was, "oh! thank you. excuse me."
and i think what you said was, "ain't no thang."
and i saw on your forearm not needle tracks,
but the very same scars that have lined my hips and thighs.
i looked at the sodas, and you pointed out the cheap ones.
"my girl drank three sodas an hour before she passed.
i guess you could call me a cheapskate, but it's worth it."
i was lost for words, so i just thanked you again.
you got in line, asked for the usual. you got your cigarettes.
i bought my soda, and turned around to you holding the door.
i said, "thank you again." and walked away.
i don't know you. i don't know your life.
i don't ever feel bad about making snap judgements.
but you radically changed my view of you in two short minutes.
if there was any way for you to know, i'd like to say i'm sorry.
and thank you...you've inspired me to change.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 6:02 PM UTC
Learn to write again
learn to type right
first time in 3 decades of life
I want to write closer to when I think
speed time, to slow it
make it feel like I do more
like I was in my teens or early twenties
**** these days 3 go by and it feels like one
I count my blessings to build confidence
Life grows more cruel but
I might win if I act like already won
Chaos magick, nay we do not speak of it
You forgot to pretend
to suspend quests for rationality
No longer moved by a book or film
We conditioned to be unconditioned
only to realize we ought to been wistfully in the herd
the whole time
We're the Bodhisattvas forestalling enlightenment
to get drunk with the butchers
after decades of sober high ground
We're the over-analyzers
lamenting our anachronisms in self-assuring
new philosophies
Either fully embrace one or drop out of being smart at all
the only tolerable choice to start to enjoy life again
No, no it's a false dichotomy
I want to be the eternal well-wisher
no matter the decadent displays
The shared dream of a soon to be future
We scavenge and defend
through pockmarked streets
make shelters amid crumbling concrete
We forgot how to imagine a secure society
Measured expectations and social safety nets
they took it all away along with our balanced serotonin
I used to get all jazzed up over a library book
but now the images promise us much more bliss
right around the corner
But it never soothes
never comes close
We cannot buy the contentment you claimed to offer
so we'll get it in collapse
We'll be sniped, starved, and deranged
but the thought of that life
makes us whisper excitedly to ourselves
"finally something has happened to me."
I, the eternal well-wisher
will wag no more fingers at preachers of death
Neither will I become them nor pity them
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
hey, ma. it's been a while.
i don't know if you remember
the sound of my chirpy voice
anymore.
it still comes up, every now and again;
when i'm baked beyond my brains
when i had just cracked the rankest pun
when i'm tangled in a boy's arms, lost -
lost. just like you ma.
i wonder where your mind takes you
when the ringing in your ears doesn't seem to go.
when you dissociate into the otherworld, and
the lashes of your
third eye sweep me away from your vision.
i thought the power of the universe was
supposed to be
abundant.
yet i have lost you to the vortex of your gods -
the same ones that leave
only the wind
to rock me to sleep.
ma,
i am pockmarked with your bad habits.
i lose touch with reality
myself, looking for the warmth of your
recognition.
i guess space is too large
for me to find your meditative corner.
or perhaps
i'm just looking in the wrong spaces.
space is nice because you have
no weight on your shoulders.
i miss the feeling of having
no weight on my shoulders.
when i grow up, ma
i want to be just like you.
lost.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
Cinderella’s mop,
A fish on ice.
A picture of a
Spinning top,
A neighbour’s lights.
A framed page,
A line of ancient words.
Somerset at five am,
A line of birds.
Foreheads locked
At midnight,
Spent and heavy.
All the lives that
Have been lived
Already.
Bones of sailors
Sleeping through
The ocean.
Thumbtacks sorting out
A month’s commotion.
The moon’s ghostly
Pockmarked
Other half –
Still, moving,
A rebellious photograph.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
I chose the lonely road
The withered willows,
The pockmarked path.
I plunged headlong into defeat.
I chose this road-
Or did it choose me?
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
The first time
I saw a ******
I saw it in the open legs
of a smouldering woman
pockmarked by bullets,
and her curly black
hair
was pink
with brains like worms.
Her knees shook
spasmodically
like spider's
when you smush
them under your thumb.
The first time
I saw and
held a gun,
I yanked it from my father's
eternal fingers.
His head was open too,
and it buzzed
in a black rain of flies.
They were shooting,
and little plumes
of dust
exploded all around my feet.
Whizzing, Banging, a roar
of warfare, and I burned myself;
the shells kept falling against my skin
as I held that AK
squeezing
and falling
as the gun
pow'd
and recoiled.
Little bubbling lakes of skin
hurt my arms for days.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
Stimulated by Neva's lovely verse "Layers of Faces"
Phasing from the pockmarked scowl
Of urchin from the pauper's keep,
To fresh complexioned beauty
As she prepares herself for sleep.
Plunging to absurd
Amidst a paroxysm of mirth
With heaving breath and yellow teeth
Atop substantial girth.
A vacancy of shock
Within two eyes of palest blue
Who witnessed a young fledgling killed
By the cat who lives with you.
Dribbles from a masticating jaw
begin to dry
And a sudden bark of anger
causes feeding birds to fly.
A smile as warm as sunshine
Brings the pherimones to bear
And the young and the beautiful
Both magnetically stare.
There's a fan dance of faces
Stretched across the prosaic
And the layers within layers
Etch it all a rich mosaic.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
22 February 2011
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
*Her soul is made of
scattered glass and broken spirits.
Her flesh is pockmarked
with bruises and cuts.
Her face radiates with
agony and despair.
Tears shine
like freshly polished crystals
Mouth frozen open.
Cannot move, cannot
reach the blessed silence.
Of which fragments of me
try fruitlessly to
Hide in, to give in to
cowardice.*
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity
Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains
There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes
I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you
The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
You're staring daggers
Right at me.
Your tongue,
a sword.
Your mouth,
a gun.
Your words
Are bullets,
And you never miss a shot.
I am stripped bare
Before you:
No shield,
No mail hauberk,
No helmet.
I am stripped naked
Before you.
My skin pockmarked
Blue, violet,
And in some cases black,
As I suffer the bruises
From the punches and the jabs.
My body covered
In exit wounds:
Bullet wounds,
And knife wounds,
As I endure the
Metal piercing me.
My fingers bleeding
As I hold on to the shards
Of our broken hearts.
You are my downfall.
My undoing.
You are the
Bane of my existence.
And everyday,
I die
A thousand deaths
Because of you.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:31 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
Prologue... Voyeurs Notes: Two lovers entwined in the blue black room of the ante meridian (a.m.).
Under a cutting ******* moon
he enters you
You took him in with Pavlovian drooling eyes. He took your innocence and you shrieked in dripping compliance:::
Only that sickle overseer in the night sky bared witness
to the end of my pleasant fiction
***Halogen orb
Halcyon days***
Left only with the abscess of the apparition
that was “us”
and a
Phantom pain for the never was
Perhaps she is
somewhere
quieted by enormity of it all
Life in fast forward, a fallow future, a vertical victim of his ***** ****
Predawn...
Coldness without catharsis on a cobblestone street
**she is again spread before him,
he’s already tired of her**, and again that ******* fading crescent
watches:::
she’s wishing for a flashback, a do over,
a dream of sanity before her teardrop salinity (it could’ve been us)
But here I stand eternal
Butchered by your lunar lunacy::: alone
Against the backdrop of a pockmarked sky
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
Months of sweating
vetting every word written
Shivering over all
that remained hidden
Rocking back and forth
Recognising the demons scream
Asking to be fed more
Inside of empty dreams
Then the words, they spill
from cracked and broken lips
bleeding onto tissue paper
inking stains of fatal trips
Then comes the rush
a verbiage of torrential pain
Crouching on a backlit screen
pockmarked with finger stains
The first spike of adrenaline
fizzes inside a broken mind
The churning end to a journey
that has completely left you blind
Collapsing in upon itself
is the high that's found a low
and when the reader is gone
You wonder where you'll go?
Perhaps you'll find a new pusher
Someone else to feed your pain
Someone that will dig that needle
deep
even deeper into the vein
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
on a city swing set
a boy flies
perched for a brief second
on a sunbeam
before gravity rips him
back down from the clouds
and away from the
green chain link fence he faces.
as i drove by,
i wondered
if the thought had
crossed his mind
that a few inches from today
he would be
too tall to ride
the already aged sunbeams;
too tall to ride
one final time
knees scraping the
pockmarked metal and
he, i imagine, will
sigh quietly,
exhaling a body temperature breath
that will dissipate
before it has
the chance to cool.
already past, i
will be even farther gone
before the air
absorbs a piece of him,
memories of a green chain link fence
facing a rusting swing set.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC