"prickling" poems
Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.
53.4k
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly **** out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence
36.3k
I pried out my own skin
wide open
with needles dipped
in cheap india ink; I dabbed
at the black mixed with red
staining my fingers.
Do I do this for the pain,
or to get the poison trickling in
to my skin, to my veins?
A symbol, an alphabet.
Vast meanings that I tried to bestow
upon them hours later
really means nothing at all.
There's the cause and the effect,
which really goes both ways.
The pain for the gain
of the blurred out ink under my skin,
and the gain for the pain
of the sharpness prickling
my ankles, both legs
bare the stain of alcohol tinged
nights.
The skin beneath my eyelids
a darkened haze;
but the tattoo still burns
needle-sharp against it all.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
Water filled eyes
Tear stricken face
Mascara running all over the place
Trembling hands
Vermilion drained heart
Shriveled up soul, ripped apart.
Solid enough, a single tug
Unravels each strand
As a woven rug.
Weakened and empty
Failed once again
Never enough to fight through the end.
Prickling fear
Climbs down the spine
Paralyzing each victim that it can find.
Locked in a ruthless, icy cold clutch
Struggling for air, but the suffering is too much.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
I lock myself in places - so no one can see me crying,
So no one can see my tears
Or my pitiful face.
My mind explodes as my thoughts torment me
It all gets so overwhelming
And I can feel the tears prickling my eyes
I close them - and they sting
But no tears fall - although I can feel them,
Scoring their way down my cheeks
Outlining my faults,
Outlining my weaknesses,
And forcing me to atone for them
By keeping them suppressed in my ****** up mind
And not permitting my tears to fall...
These are my restricted tears.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,--
And he, perplexed;
He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.
4.1k
Rugged body hunches,
Impression of a humpback,
Spit blood more than saliva,
Straighten posture to reveal
Ghastly mold of ribcage,
Bones poke at the dermis,
Gasp, prickling oxygen,
Pierces respiratory system,
Flinch to agonizing pain
An hour of spasms at the most,
Wounds deemed trivial,
Famed hers walk around
To stitch the prized emblems
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
I may never know what exactly happened,
but I think I know the why of it
Tadhana…Fate…Destiny…Kismet…
Put it in so many words,
but it all boils down to that.
Tadhana…
shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
She was being stupid,
crashing into the waves that day
just for the thrill of it
He was being pensive,
reflecting on how those waves
just somehow seemed to soothe him
People slowly left the shores
as dark clouds loomed in the horizon
save for these two souls...
She wasn’t even supposed to be there,
just a spur of the moment thing,
forgetting her other worries
she loved storms, she loved the beach
combine them and for her it was bliss…
He went there for closure,
the 10th year of his brother’s death
trying to accept that he did all he could
he loved him, he loved the beach
but guilt drowned him…
The rains then came down in sheets,
winds whipping, storm waves crashing
she was almost at shore though,
when the undertow pulled her back
He thought he was imagining things,
his brother’s ghost perhaps?
When he saw her again,
and fear was tossed like jetsam
Was she the answer he was seeking for?
His redemption in another form?
Was this the reason why he was here now?
Her only hope for salvation?
Rushing out to sea,
adrenaline rushing through his veins
Faith and Fate working together,
he swam towards her
and as they reached the shore
the winds dropped to a whisper,
the waves went back tickling sand,
the raindrops trickled into drizzles
She was breathing, thank God
He lay beside her, exhausted
She could only thank him with a smile
well, a smile that could match the Sun
and she took his hand...
and put it over her heart
It was not so much that their hands fit perfectly,
but there was something else
mole on her right ring finger
perfectly aligning
mole on his left ring finger
Tadhana.
Shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
and of why I am here.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
To strive, for recognition
An assembly point for thought
Triumphed within an open page
Paper evidence of unspoken verse
Retrieved from the place behind this heart
Do you mind?
Don’t look over my shoulder at my vulnerability
Private stance is mine
Do not mock as I turn the page
A personal preview of this unlocked memory
Back of my neck, prickling
Anticipating on the spot reaction
Young, ill at ease
Crying from the yard
Hiding the scars
Don’t rush away the memories, a deluge
When time was so limited
Become brave
Force open the private recess
Cobwebbed and masked by dust
Speak clearly, not from mumbling
Mouth, I need to………….. know
I am blemished
So glad to be alongside you
Reunited, forgotten, forgiven.....now ribbon tied
Can we bury?
It would seem not......but wait and remember
Deceived by the dark
Under dressed for the occasion
Battered suitcase dragged and kicked open
Essays of remembrance
Headlines screaming for discussion
Released for a while
Obeyed and tidied
Press down and close the rusty catches
My new day transcribed here
I don’t mind, lean on my shoulder
See my vulnerability
It makes me strong
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 6:29 AM UTC
Anxiety
A ball of prickling fire tearing beneath my sternum.
Fear
A bolt of electric ripping through my veins.
Depression
A cloud so thick is suffocates my soul.
Anorexia
Starving the outside from within.
Bulimia
Inhaling the world and purging it back.
Failure
Being crushed by society for all of the above .....
And still wondering why oh why is it me???
Why?
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
No, I am not alone
I turn to the sky
and glisten with the same stars
that touch the whole world
and I am not tired
My face is hidden in shadows
covered in blood, sweet
and tears as well
but I am alive.
I feel the gravel beneath
and between my bare toes
That prickling fire air
only sparks me more
Everything is heightened
in my scope of mind
and screaming with life
I know it deep down
like a charge through my bones
and remember that I used to feel alone
but now I look up into
her eyes, the universe
and know it was never true
I run past the illuminated windows
of lives people have built
for themselves
and even feel connected
to what they represent
I make my decision and begin to fly
the distance from lonely
growing inside
My roots are unwinding
and finally
ripping free
from all the cages
I made throughout my years
I take the forest path
in the comfort of dark
so that I can be alone
but won't have to feel alone.
I sit among the towering old trees and
I breathe
a deep gulp of the universe
It is calm and eccentric
and everything at once
It breathes
I breathe
and I am not alone
not ever
wherever we are
we are not
alone.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
although there are only
blue skies overhead
i can still feel
a prickling approach
of distant rain clouds
in the air
Mar 21, 2024
Mar 21, 2024 at 4:39 PM UTC
There is an electric hum from traffic lights
Barely audible to the people waiting at the corner
Overwhelmed with confusion over the former
Condition of the economy in spite
Of the surplus of traffic signs
So they stare at traffic signs
The signs don’t mind
They stare right back and watch and contemplate crossing, too
But the signs will stay behind
Because people go
As they please
Under an ashy sky
And flickers
Of lightning
Appearing in the clouds
Consider the aerodynamics of taxicabs
You wish humans were so streamlined and yellow
We’re not so bad!
Said a fellow
Accountant using an algebraic formula to attempt to derive
Why you smile for us and I’ve
Noticed, though no one else has, the electric storm churning
Miles above
Polarizing the sky
In silence
They tremble, these, the not-so-poor
It’s that fearful tic, the one we’ve seen before
But you tremble, too
Do you see me quiver
We’ve got that quick jitter
Like a prickling under the skin that’s pulsing through
Our blood the way that caffeine does
Or the wattage exploding in death throes or birth throes
Above us now
Hypnotic
And powerful
Though I cannot tell
Exactly how far away
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
There he stood outside the windowsill waiting for the wind
to whisper in her ears, his soft call of her name
heed the faceless man, and there he stood, outside the windowsill.
Her soul awakens and her hand in her chin
fresh from the bathe of her blood. There Avernus and
faceless, standing outside her chamber waiting for the woman to fall asleep.
The faceless man then wanting to reside by her side,
softly lulling her into death, prickling her thumb with a needle of life and death
through the parallel of his world and hers — there he stood waiting for his muse.
He grows slowly and deeply, his stomach churning; savoring
her blood in his mind, he waits until she falls asleep.
Her eyes wandered through the thin port outside her room —
the trees harshly peering through her window,
it is as if, they were telling dark tales in the midnight dawn of the night.
Avernus then sang in his native tongue; his muse terrified at the sight of him yet there was
comfort between the wind and the chilly night outside her window.
“It’s cold outside, why are you standing there?” She called out.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 8:16 AM UTC
I used to like you a lot.
i don’t know what ******* happened.
we’re children and you pushed me off the swings,
off the playground,
out of the park.
And now my best friend only wants
me for what i can say about you,
you sea urchin.
bouquet of prickling spikes
piercing my jagged rib bones.
rip through me,
feasting scoundrel,
you ***** you fox.
you viper.
wipe her from my soggy slate.
dinner plate? it’s empty.
everyone is the garbage disposal,
grinding my teaspoons of self-worth
into dusty pieces. i am the garbage.
and i never pegged you as one
to leave me in a
dark parking lot,
shadows curling their bony fingers
around my purple lungs,
but she found you making love to
him in the same car we sat.
the bull frogs saw what you did.
i’m warning you to stop pretending
like you’re still a fawn.
a doe-like female.
i can see through the speckles
on your face
and your mixed tapes.
i don’t have heart left for you,
you ******
kneel in front of his knobby
knees. beg,
*****
muck him up and then
lick him clean,
feline.
slink past me in the night,
in the broad daylight.
you are not a spy
i can see your arteries.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
The season is a lullaby
of frosted clocks and prickling ire
impatience with the steadfast solemnity
of the wintertide uniform
Locked in crystal formation, the sunshine sleeps
where the mountains beckon
the very peaks
and the hours of the passing days diminish
into austere darkness,
Yet my heart thrills with each crystal shimmer
and beats a pulse that cannot be met
by any life
contained in snow
There is a whisper to my very soul
from the whitening glow
as it shatters the bones of cold
Such Redemption in the icy sound
sets my mind heaven bound
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
Caught myself amidst the wilderness
Where I was neither born nor raised
It always appeared so, so strange a place
No place for a child
My heart resided in the certain and familiar
Now I wonder where it longs to take me
Desire's inbound with unflinching insistence
But perceived reasons stake me to the ground
Curious odors, pulsating flashes, prickling noises, voracious appetites
The atmosphere overwhelms me senseless
Am I here to enjoy or to observe?
My chains answer with invisible weight
Now comes the rainbow-colored mist
Is this a magician's home--a flourishing disguise?
Sparks and shadows scatter into the expanse
All I see is a vista like the blessing skybox
Desire will you take me?
Lead the boy out of his crib built by the safe
Who are one and the same
Sitting, allowing the box for forge us
A light of the mist careen's my way
Its pleasant sting spreads, boundaries finally disintegrate
Remains litter the ground, I'm finally free
I'm finally lost
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
I’m swimming in a sea of warmth,
Waves that rub along my skin like silk,
Each wave a push and pull,
Of muscles being massaged,
Relaxing and softening,
With each wave that splashes,
Sends tingles vibrating through,
They rush through as I gasp for air,
And I breathe into this sea of warmth,
And I taste all of its salt,
Prickling and tickling my tongue,
And with one final wave,
I disappear and surrender into this sea of warmth.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 10:31 PM UTC
A whisper from a shadow
Prickling at my ears
Anything you have to say
I find I long to hear
Standing still behind me
Enticing me with words
Hold my breath, close my eyes
For all that you infer
Good or bad it matters not
It's your presence that I crave
Whip me, beat me, bleed me
I promise to behave
Or at least I promise for a bit,
An undetermined time
Knowing well how much I like
Crossing over your line
Bind my hands in silken rope
And hook them to the ceiling
Leaving me on tipy-toes
For pains blessed healing
It's playful punishment
That I daringly seek
A red moment captured
Your hand print on my cheek
Or perhaps my inner thigh
A delicious smack or soft whack
Of fingertips sublime
To pull me to the present track
Help me now, you know how
To take the world away
Here I am just for you
A piquant entree
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
****** Finds Her Love
as the rising heat rose,
prickling horse pose
a young jockey is born
among saddle of thorns
she sees his harden well
up close it looks swell
looking both in the eye
will he teach her on the fly
his widening eyes yearn
of nature's lesson she'll learn
one must trot before she runs
labor of love before the fun
she pets and explores his tap
and he sings and fiddles her gap
a plumb beautifully glows
yearning love for the rainbow
she takes his bridle slowly in
crawling like with a grin
on wings of sage she flies
higher, higher as she cries
kiss me through the night
as her widening lips incite
a fire rages the rarefied air
a trotter shaking the pair
to the moon and stars she goes
her first orbit coming to a close
down to earth with a pop and splash
their wedding night's dance a smash
LR-5/7/17
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
upon waking, i could feel glass in my lungs
small, sharp shards prickling the breaths from my chest and
stealing them away from me—
like some stolen innocence i remember once was mine;
but that was years ago, now
i've been ruined for a long time
i don't sleep very well, and i don't-
don't really wake up very well, either
particularly as we accelerate towards winter
and the only thing i can associate the cold and the dark with
is childhood and threat,
and my school teachers called it Seasonal Depression
but my therapist knows i'm always depressed
Depression is a long-time cuddle buddy;
she's kept me company through trauma.
my therapist tells me that
the cold and dark, they're incentive to flashbacks
too many nights, only single digits in age, forced
to sit in the frost-bitten shadows of an alcoholic's living room
with the AM hours throwing bloodied ***
and violence, through a TV screen
and i still remember the crippling ache of empathy,
watching that little robot boy's family abandon him:
lost in the woods, found only to be beaten.
i breathed through the glass in my lungs,
and never could quite let go of the memory,
nor the popping eyes and crashing cars
or the bleeding walls and possessed children;
wondered, briefly, if maybe some strength could one day possess me
and make my father see i was worth more
than a black-blue shadow in his home, and an accessory in his favourite bars
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
**your demeanor
is highly suspect,
attempting to disguise
malfeasance neath a heart
of fortified wrought iron,
Machiavellian by nature
still, you have your wily ways
like that of the allure of roses
within prickling thorns,
twisted of laughable
frivolous superficiality
and reckoning's bereavement**
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
it shocks me to think that i let you touch me the way that you did,
your fingers dipped into my skin and an arm slung my neck.
you left an imprint that will never leave.
i have rubbed my skin pink and raw countless times but i am never truly clean.
who am i more disgusted with?
myself,
for letting this happen?
or you,
for still having the nerve to get so close- hot breath prickling the back of my neck, sparking skin, inferno eyes- and tell me our game is done?
yes, the game i was never told we were playing... every tiny motion, every syllable, every touch… just a simple strategy to win.
i was unknowingly an opponent that you sought to knock down.
you never even let me know the rules.
now you flinch at the touch you once so lovingly leaned into.
(i use the word “lovingly” sarcastically, of course. you and i both know that, to you, there is no such thing as love. only winning or losing.)
so, you’ve emerged a victor. what’s your prize? tears that leave me hollow on the inside? midnight migraines while i long for a love that will never come?
does it fill you with satisfaction to watch the way i tremble when you come near?
you keep the trophies of every body you’ve invaded along the shelf of your room. i’m sure you run your finger over the plastic lip and think about the way her breath hitched and eyes fluttered shut when you did the same to her. she tastes like golden-plated achievements, doesn’t she?
but what you already have is not enough. you are constantly on the lookout for another medal, another souvenir from her heart.
you will make her laugh, deep from her stomach that causes her head to snap back. her chest will feel heavy when she looks at you.
(but it is not love.)
you will give her those half-lidded gazes and whisper in her ear and trace patterns into her side.
(but it is not love.)
you will get close- far too close.
(but it is not love.)
then you will sever that thin thread between you both.
dip it in gasoline.
set it on fire.
add fuel to the flames with a few venomous words.
but you are not to blame.
it is never your fault, is it?
misunderstood,
that’s what you are.
acrylic fingertips
and regurgitated phrases.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
The well-oiled clunk of padlocks
slotting smoothly home
for dark to close off
rooms to outside days
and droned opprobrium.
The morning shine that
carries breezes brimmed
with birdsong must await
the sliding click and clack
of opened blackout blinds.
Open to a bundled clump of
tumbled, crumpled, crass,
incessant, prickling,
self-reflective musings
binding me to doubt.
It is this lair wherein I
rest and find the peace of
reign; 'Tis here I manifest as
Father Time to forge a faulty
rise and set with blackout blinds.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC