"positioned" poems
a (the) woman’s body (pretty pleasing)
is my reciprocal
her waist is my happy place
her neck is my doorway
the rest is
best when she is mirror accessorizing,
preening, **** upon first rising,
tallying the gains and the losses
unaware of my watching,
never satisfied she, tho she is 98% unadmitting contented,
as she shifts her weight,
from knee to knee extended alternating
with slow delicacy
for the pleasure is trebled
for her imagine image reverberates
throughout the house
for ever(y) mirror is pre-positioned,
accidentally angled just so, lol,
her image transported from living room to dining alcove
all the way to the kitchen’s bleacher seats
she doesn’t know and asks why I’m grinning,
answer is
no confessionary, no telling I’m swelling and
sinning
eyes scheming-dreaming of her reciprocity
she smiles and says
“good morning bad boy”
maybe she does know
but you won’t tell her,
we, you and me,
are pretty pleasing
she is 1/me
she is won over me
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
I just wanna make you wet
Rub my **** on your **** till that ***** fire is lit
Feel my breath on your skin as we begin
I am sin I will win
Passion spills from within
Let me fill
I am real my hard **** will thrill
Undo your seal with my drill..inhibitions I ****
Let us fuck..It is what we were created to do
Me and you..feel my ***** when I'm inside of you
Kiss your lips
Lick your neck
**** positioned and set
Slide deep inside wetness my guide
As we pound..love the sound..grunting while I wiggle it around
Find your spot..make it hot...squirming from my ****
Let it go from your soul..lose total control
Feel you gush..As I crush your ******** rush
I am lust you can trust..till I turn to dust
Created to fuck..to **** you I must....
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
She dances,
Alone.
In such grace and poise
Positioned in between the tallest buildings
And she poses
For the camera
The bright flashes
Or on stage
In the spotlight
Twirling and twisting
Not a hair out of place
Not a step out of line
Not a breath unplanned
Trained to be accurate
Self destructing, but so well collected
The most beautiful dancer the world has ever seen.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
Maybe there is no me?
Maybe me is just we?
Oversimplified, over-exemplified,
Positioned so that I can't see.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
mean beam bottom ***** without reluctance.
\\ air above \\
since forever baby boy: since forever liquid sparkler.
he has sense
& peanut butter jelly geography to his page.
his romance is of the west.
his eyes are of dandelions kicked & to the wind.
he moves like ancient turtle migration.
reaches feet to sidewalk \\ sand to depths \\ ride \\
night:
velcro-tightened mind withstanding.
party lights, ***** willows, retro punch, he
is orpheus descending: with all the elements positioned just so.
\\ jellyfish electric \\
he says he likes the loneliness.
he says it’s the water.
& so he moves \\ wills himself into the next measure.
liquid resolute bits.
so move \\ orca \\
curl of eye \\ so ride \\ black rollo wave \\
basilica \\ & \\
coral reaches below \\\\\
he likes to tell it, with warmed exaggeration.
slow-motion buffalo stampede. ride the railroads free & easy.
orange glowing bars of elsewhere. oscillating seal calls.
oily portland hipsters howling on the beach. those
juno cheeked rosy-red lips.
somewhere, sister getting married.
spring, summer, fall, winter, spring.
africa girl on a branch of a tree of a forest, overlooking elephant burial grounds.
color & white material:
plantations, gas stations, diners, & sharks.
this is the morning lunar \\
sweet blue beach of the old & awakening.
he crawls out & into her breaks.
her deep heights & bombora reef. the serotonin
functions twice, exposed between thin tissues of warm-blooded neurochemistry.
human, shown.
he is as a raw page, blank, yet
dipped \\
\\ so ride \\ bulbous waves of air mother agua \\
ride \\ &
\\ ride \\ &
brew by light these occurrences forever.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "
I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died
So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.
and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.
oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.
what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.
'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
Prepared to your liking
Trussed and bound
For you, I wait
Palms up, knees apart
Positioned just for you
Spine posed straight
Your approval means all
Rewarding by far
Pleasing you my pleasure
As instructed
Ready, willing
My master, my treasure
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
I realized I was definitely
Capable of loving more than one person
As I stood ****** in a bar
Positioned at a table between
My partner and my ex-fiance
My ex and I had gotten food beforehand
My first time seeing them in a year and a half
And I swore to everyone that it wasn't gay
I believed it too for awhile
Up until they said they didn't want kids
Which was part of my own logic used
To explain our incompatibility
Hearing their stories made my heart ache
All of the things I'd missed in their life
All the things they missed in mine
Then that night at the bar
When a performer was called on stage
My ex mentioned that she was my favorite
A small fact I didn't think they'd remember
Yet it carried such a significant feeling
That left my heart heavy and fractured
And when my partner looked at me I felt guilty
They must be able to see it
To sense it
These residual feelings
That I swore were not there and were
Definitely not gay
And while lost in my mind
My ex looked at me and asked if I was ok
They could still see me
I wanted to run away
My mind kept screaming for an escape
And yet I also heard a whispered voice
Reminding me that this time with them
Would be the last quality time I'd have
Before we returned to being strangers
So I shouldn't waste it
Because as much as I crave their friendship
I know in my heart it'd never work
Friends would never be the word
It's always been and
Probably always would be
Something much more than that
So I'll let it go
I'll let myself mourn these feelings
Despite the dreadful pain of it all
Because we all deserve to be happy
And by giving up this ill-fated dream
I know one day I can be
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
My voice is nestled within a river
of transitions, positioned
in endless sets of pre- and post-
parentheses. Pre-revolutionary,
post-Missing Link. Post-postmodern,
pre-postmodern revival.
I sit in a somersaulting purgatory
sandwiched between evocation
and paralysis.
My hatred is exhausted, shoulders
hunched over a guillotine,
cursing with its tongue sprawled
dead and dry at an imaginary hunter,
a mass of bones clumped
under the rug I keep pulling
from my own two feet.
Will you hack through this cocoon?
Have you got the muscle
and the patience?
Nevermind that bedtime story.
There must be some wounds
of yours, those placed beyond
the verbal tanline, that need
immediate bandaging.
Can I get you anything?
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
I want a lover.
Someone to share an intimate touch.
To bask in their presence.
To feel their body.
I want to bring a man joy.
To see the peaceful smile grow
As I gently stroke his chest,
As I kiss his lips, his cheek, his ear, his neck.
I want to feel him hard against me
As my hand moves down his torso.
Closer and closer to his ever growing ****
And down the side of his groin and upper thigh.
I love the smell of a man's body as he gets more and more aroused.
I breathe it in as I kiss his chest
Quickly flicking my tongue over him here and there.
As I move down, touching, kissing, licking.
Finally I'd put my mouth to his hard ****
I kiss the tip, quick flick of my tongue
Then kissing the shaft.
I give a lick from base to tip, while caressing with my hand.
I revel over how ***** he is for me
As I slip my mouth over his dripping tip.
Oh yes, release that pre-cum into my mouth
As I slide my lips down your **** and **** you.
And I release, pause, stretch out the pleasure.
I gently glide my fingers from your ***** to tip
While looking deep in your eyes, smiling.
Both of us enjoying each other's pleasure.
You would roll me on my back
Reciprocating the thrill I just gave you.
Gently stroking and caressing my breast, torso and wet *****
Kissing and licking, increasing my excitement.
And the thrill as your head goes between my legs.
You lick my ***** and it pulses.
You **** my **** and I get even wetter.
My muscles tense with the thrills shooting through me.
You love my arousal as much as I love yours.
Your licking and ******* makes me so wet.
I am more than ready for your **** inside me.
You know it.
You slip your tongue inside me instead.
Bringing me to the edge before you raise up.
You slowly slide your body over me.
Your hard wet **** is perfectly positioned
To slide into my waiting ***** as you move up my body.
The feeling of having you inside me
Is more exciting than anything else.
As my warm ***** drips over your ****
I tighten and release my muscles
To milk every last drop of *** from you.
Waiting for the look that makes me hornier than ever, your *** face.
I love your pleasure, and knowing I affect you like that.
As you push deeper and harder into me
My once loud moans and cries of 'Yes' and 'Oh God'
Become muffled, caught in the breathless ecstasy.
Yes, yes... YES!
You *** squirting your beautiful *** deep inside me.
I few flicks and I *** dripping all over your twitching ****
Oh yes
Pos *** bliss
Hold me
And let me smell our powerful ******* on you.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
As I stood along the path,
I seen the little girl.
She had on a floral dress,
And her hair had flowing curls.
She stood still, all alone,
With a ribbon in her hand.
And above her was a balloon,
tied to it, with a band.
She had fallen away from the crowd,
Just to stand and breathe.
I watched her as she closed her eyes,
And positioned her two feet.
Her hand was held up-right,
To let the balloon dance,
In the wind that would take it further,
If it only got the chance.
After a moment in the silence,
The little girl opened her eyes.
As she done this, she loosened her grip,
And then sent the balloon to the skies.
I considered this symbolic,
And thought of you as my balloon.
Who had danced off with the wind,
And left me way too soon.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
**Casting the line over glass like waters,
Float coming to rest on the unseen bond of air.
The lure of the insect so irresistible,
we watch with a fisherman's stare.
Hour upon hour sitting and staring into space,
Umbrella positioned strategically over head.
The rain mercilessly poring onto the water,
Soaks the fisherman he wonders why he is not in bed.
The line moves; slowly jerking ,
Then more as the fish takes a bite.
The fisherman takes a strong hold,
He is ready for the fight.
The spool whizzes round and round,
Faster And faster as it spins and takes it's toll .
The fisherman holds; and pulls in the line,
As the fish really takes control.
At last the fisherman lands him,
A ten pound-er really, "for sure"
His buddies in the pub do believe him,
As his tiddler flounders on the shore.**
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
On a bogus hill, a man stood
in self defence and shot himself,
clean through the heart of the white
flag that hung breezily around his
neck, like a neckerchief in situ
A calm reverence, self awareness,
had positioned itself, 'enough' shone
in the deaf hours before daylight begs,
dislodging sad meanings from
ungrateful dictionaries.
You bought words, they lead you,
rocked a changed lullaby....au revoir,
checking the white flag of departure,
arrival of metal, red bled wounds,
flag swaying, stained under surrender
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
we got a goldfish,
for my little boy.
a tank, some coloured grit, three plants not two,
must practise goldfish fung shu.
all the water testing guff
and of course a filter.
a sunken ship
and a treasure chest .
we paid the pirate...
and took our ***** home.
so we set Bruce.
( for that was the name chosen).
up in pride of place on sidboard.
the list, above,
was positioned after meetings of commision. water tested to the highest degree,
filter fizzing, wizzing,whirring.
Bruce swam in his bag
in the tank,
for a time as instructed.
then released to a slightly larger freedom.
he swam and swam,
golden scales a flickerin.
we, (that being, mr just about three and his dad)
fed him, watched him poo, and eventually,
read Bruce,
a bedtime tale or two.
one fish, two fish by Dr Suess went down a treat.
the little man then,
was bundled off to bed.
thoughts of Bruce left our heads.
the evening lengthened.
we retired to sleep the sleep, of ignorance it conspired.
for in our planning we forgot one thing.
a devon rex cat,
who has a bath weekly,
a penchant for tuna,
no top to the tank.
so we thank the lord
for Bruce. however,
brief was his reign.
now we introduce
to you....
Murtle the turtle
who has a glass pane,
sitting above her head.
just in case......
the cat likes, turtle soup.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
I watched the sky turn
It's marvelous, too-perfect
Gleaming tumblers in a cosmic
Dance of light and silence
And the hula-hoop girl
Spun her hoop against the massive
Sky turning those
Dots into positioned perfection
To which she dashed them to the
Earth in a frenzied
Calm which met the moon
By the singing tree tops
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
I should have kissed you before you ****** on your smoke,
Before the fluorescent elevator lights illuminated the flaws
That danced and drifted along your skin.
The thick smoke mingled with your shadow,
A shadow of a man; no face, only a cigarette.
You breathed in smoke, but your lips were positioned for a kiss.
I don’t look like the other girls, the ones you used to kiss.
I can still picture your eyes, reddened by smoke,
And your lips as ashy as your cigarette.
And I hoped you, too, could forgive my flaws.
Like how my body casts too wide of a shadow,
And the sallowness of my ordinary skin.
Things that really shouldn’t remind me of your skin,
like old leather books with burnt paper that I bet taste like your kiss.
Such books I read in the shadow,
And hide, like the way you hid behind your smoke.
Because, like the way I love a bad book and its flaws,
I could love you and your cigarette.
I’ve held your hand, the one that holds your cigarette,
And I felt the sandpaper of your skin.
I smelt the airy cologne you use to cover the flaws.
It smelled light; you used just a kiss.
Now, I smell only smoke,
And the memory of your touch is a shadow.
In the hospital you were no longer a shadow,
But a body, surrounded by walls as white as your cigarettes.
Your voice cracked from the smoke,
While needles pulsed life into your skin.
Your lips were cracked with only blood to kiss.
I saw you naked, and I saw your flaws.
Your favorite vice was your fatal flaw,
And the black fire of death became your shadow.
It followed you around, and it saw our first kiss,
Which was our last, because you chose your cigarette.
So a charcoaled monster brooded beneath your skin,
And your flesh succumbed to the white ghosts of smoke.
You died in smoke, from your flaws.
Your skin’s now dust, roaming with the shadows.
So I’ll smoke a cigarette, ‘cause it tastes just like your kiss.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
The cat is positioned in the northern corner of the world. The room. The room from which I never wander from. My world, through which I experience life.
The sun, which rises in the east of the confinement, it is as my anger, my heat, my wish for ease. In contrary terms, the west, where it sets is my mind's rest.
The cat does not change positions; even when the clouds gather and dim my room does he stand still. My only company, a standing statue of a true carved wooden soul.
The clouds are dark and the walls are dripping, sopping like grey wet paint streaming down, and puddling on the ground through which I walk over. My tears and grey damp surroundings fill the room until I nearly suffocate under my own emotions for lack of oxygen.
I can sing my soul out into the grey and wait, the wind is my key, the thunder my tone. Such a monsoon through which I crave my well being. The salted tears falling from my chin only further fill the room, and in my boisterous battle against my world, as soon as I slip under and silenced I am does the rain cease, and drain into my soul it does.
Once I finally take a breath, the crickets begin their melody, in tune to my heartbeat, and emotionally wasted does it want to give up on me. But never does it lose its faith in my ability to rest and be content. Trying harder with all its might to withstand the room and its tribulations.
The moon greets my sleepy eyes, and as it is generous enough to let me lay my eyes upon it, unlike the sun, I am thankful enough to lay my head in its rays. It represents my chance to start tomorrow fresh, wherein I'll wait again to see my moon and hear my heart by my side, and beat the monsoon which is as my mind's rush.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
The water pooled up at the lowest points on the sidewalk.
The rain gave way to the sun and the random puddles of water now sparkled with life.
My attention was guided to a single puddle.
The puddle had positioned itself right in the middle of the sidewalk.
People were hopping over to avoid getting their feet drenched.
Others sloshed through the puddle paying it no mind.
The puddle was calling out, but received no attention from the people.
A small child heard the call, and approached the puddle.
It was a small boy no more than the age of eight.
He leaned over and looked at his reflection in the still pool of water.
The boy began making silly faces into the mirrored surface.
The puddle responded by making the same silly faces back at the boy.
The boy squatted down and dipped his finger into the water.
Small ripples left from his fingers, and made their way to the edges of the puddle.
He carved his finger through the water making shapes for a time.
The puddle enjoyed the attention, and was glistening.
The boy stood up, and a smile slowly made it's way onto his face.
He then leapt into the puddle splashing water in every direction.
Jumping up and down in the puddle, and smiling the biggest smile the entire time.
An infectious laughter sprang from the boy.
Other's noticed, and smiled and laughed with the boy.
The boy's mother appeared, and scolded the child for playing with the puddle.
The smile left from the child's face, and those watching now walked back into their lives.
The puddle calmed itself back into a smooth surface.
Slowly evaporated, becoming smaller and smaller, leaving only the dry concrete below.
The puddle would return after the next rain. Calling out once again.
Waiting patiently to give away it's joy.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC