"prised" poems
Prised from your mouth
I am fully risen
to the ache that pours
nectar in peach sin,
so slippery to your lip
as your smile splays
across my skin
I am folded taut,
revealed in curves
in the suckling of night
as translations
of words unspoken
list the weave
between swollen moments
succumbing to your fire
held above to
shatter the mines of need,
each shaft stains
against heaving breath
as I strain
to grasp the boiling
of your drenching
surges with teeth and nail
where my voice blends
to the ache and growl
of your tongue,
sedition is slain on this precipice
stroked into a blaze
your raging
is my primal victory
as is our tempest to race,
lost in naked textures...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
A Stirring biomass, a grim river
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
Dumped over the slow years -
'And we saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked and open,
we prised her from the mire, and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer,'
The Lady from sludge,
your toady skin broke
as you flopped, nymph-like on board
Caved-in by the tumbling sky,
And air like leather. Dry in the throat.
The sweating walls spun his head,
And the cogs whirred to fast
To bite back. Space and time-blind,
He turns to the sepia city.
Like new life,
ready for the fall of man.
Through the river of time elapsed,
Churning up memory.
And there's the glitz, the cracking lips.
that bet on goodness.
'I remember being a girl - and my mother -
smiling but never sad -
I waited for her every morning'.
The forgotten root scratches out life
Underneath vast and forgotten hangers.
The lungs of the city shed their skin
To keep pace with the smog.
See what we all don't know.
And live where we all can't see.
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.
Dank Amazon.
the roots are wires,
sprawling for grip for the sulking trees
In the great ape eco-system
'I'm a cruel joke, don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled.
'I'm sorry'
As her fists unclenched
'Im Sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm Sorry'
Belted by un-silent night
And below gridlocks of light
An I.C.1 male is being chased
By screaming vans, run rabbit
Down the hole and off you go.
And the hiss of 'one eight seven,
one eight seven' from the radio,
is scoring his run - as the pools on the floor,
neon-flashed burst open
in a booted shatter.
'And the time went by,
And I looked at your form
And I looked at your cuts
And you are the river
And one of its secrets, un-watered'.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Sometimes
She felt his skull could crack under the passion in her fingertips
And wouldn't that be beautiful
To end here, in the immediacy of desire
And wouldn't that be kinder?
Than the drawing out of this pain of inevitability
The guttural ache
Before the final crack
The splintering, not of bone
But of two hearts
Prised apart by the fingernails of realisation
That their shattered fragments can never make each other whole.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
she'd the option to skin you alive
- hack the flesh off with the band-aid -
but she dared to do it softly
in this deliberate slaughter of dignity.
she wrapped her arms around you
and then prised your persona away.
still, she slips into language you taught her
and perceives it as her own.
in part, you're a souvenir:
the crisp packets on her bedroom floor.
the toiletries on her bathroom shelf.
the scent on her pillow.
the look in her eyes.
the rest of you is tucked away -
your laughter lies with her high school photos
and the clothes in her closet aged with moth-eaten decay.
you'd take less offence if she'd buried you under the floorboards.
now read it back. who hurt who? am i her or is she you?
i am the compost laid below your buds
and narcissus' wobbling reflection.
i project what you want to see:
(spoiler: it isn't me.)
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
i
let´ s be birds
repulsive creatures
though they saved
my bacon i
on a few
occasions
when in the jungle
when there is silence
lily is jane
i liked hairy women..parenthesis..
i found their gossamed armpits
a delight
fine as a bird´ s underbelly
ah yes birds
prophosize the future
so when you hear their
happy little voices in the
morning
ii
excuse me i am trying
not to go into shock
i was bitten by something
my hand is bright red
and pained tingling
runs amok..
in the jungle
there are so many death..parenthesis
iii
a few years i was bitten
by a snake
i was trying to help
and grabbed it´ s pretty tail
you will be happier over there
yonder green..
but the ungrateful little *******
sunk his fangs into my hand..
and i eased the back of his delicate
skull like a miracle from god..
and prised his delicate jaw asunder
i thought that will teach me to interfere
put him in the grass..
iv
birds..
let us be..we have a lot of blackcaps..
quite a lot of jays
though it has been years
since i have seen
then hoopoe
i like them
man bird
who does not
love and fear the
waxen wing..
the sparrows laugh
the blackbird like
some gibbet´ s shadow
outside my window
the pyramid
and golden eye
the seagulls don´ t care..
sometimes what sit of
goldfinches arrive like
gatecrashers and it is
a thunderbird..lol
shit..we all panic like
detroit..
i watch the crane
like dinosaur
slide across the sky..
there is a stray parrot
abroad
our ducks were murdered
one windy night..
but the parrot silent
once i thought about a robin
and it appeared
i thought that weird
and it said well
we have some vulture
lily stop that
no
we
don´ t
....
v
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
*I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.*
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
Creaseless warm bed
Soft pillow under head
Sleep tightening noose
Just then hell broke loose.
Breaking through that spell
A remote warning bell
Prised open the eyes
In streaming rhymes’ disguise!
Day’s stress though immense
Mind strained in patience
To find from maze a clue
For images one or two!
In that poetic trance
Sleep lost all its chance
In an agonizing dingdong
Clock said night was long.
The bed became one of thorn
Sleep died poems were born
Some trapped some were gone
Like night lost at dawn.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
Light cracks open the comfort of somnolence,
Eyes are prised apart with Thought For The Day
As distributed by Pure DAB, words, in part,
Punctuate consciousness; something about foregiveness,
Some parable or other from some comfortable priest
Trying to be comforting to those
That will be work bound in short order,
That will be departing with a packed kiss
With their lunch. I throw off the double duvet
And try to distract thoughts from single-mindedly
Reiterating her recent cruelties, or from pondering
Upon my secluded anger which breaks my peace,
Hunger will dissipate this tendency as I crave to break my fast,
Consider the longs days stretch without hint of incentive.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
The door needs to be kicked in.
No gentle open and whispered hello
It needs become of splinters and dust.
The glue of its joinery to shatter and crumble.
The latch which would open smoothly
With the simple request of a raised hand
Needs to be driven shattering through wood
Sending formal wooden trim embellishments flying.
The myriad of small retaining nails will be extracted
Reversing a collective hold they held resolutely,
Pinned by hammer blows so long ago.
That door needs to come down.
To lower hinge will give way completely,
Leaving some screws still biting desperately
Into a fragment of the wooden frame.
The hinge at eye level will twist apart from our blow
One side remaining stuck in place on the frame
The going with the door as it disintegrates.
The pin that held it together in smooth harmony
Soon will dangle pointless on half a binding hinge,
Still now – the mechanism prised-apart.
The door shall be destroyed.
Our collective force irresistible – it will fragment.
Once trees were felled and sawed into planks,
Smoothed and shaped and joined in the build.
Now we need to render it all into firewood.
And where once stood a blank, heavy door
There will be light and air flowing through.
And the only hint of the barrier that was before,
Will be a final clear, metallic note
From the pin that finally falls
Upon the smooth stone floor.
A single note will ring out
And lead into a song of freedom.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
The doctor probed my eyes
stethoed to feel my lung
had my mouth wide prised
got rolled out my tongue!
He gave it deep long mulls
hmm was all he said
in his grip throbbed my pulse
beating fast afraid!
Hmm he muttered once again
*there’s no problem specific
but for that undefined pain
that you say is making you weak!*
*More apparent is the darned thing
that has really blighted your face
beneath your eyes the black ring
you are counting stars I guess!
May I know what keeps you awake
why you find sleep bothersome
keep tossing on bed till daybreak
pray tell me don’t remain mum!*
Poor doctor how he would ever know
best time for poeming is the night
when crystal dreams in moon glow
pour out from heart with might!
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Pain dies quicker than love, they say
as I held your hand as your
heart stopped
and took your last breath
into my mouth
my pierced lips clamped over yours,
red meeting blue, blending into purple
colours mixed by artless hands
a shadow on a grainy photograph
the last image of our love
prised from my fist
pain dies quicker than love, they say
and I loved you too much
to care
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Bleach you out.
Shave it all off.
I wish you were gone.
My hair,
A prised possession.
Your love,
Another dimension.
Don't forget me,
God.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:34 AM UTC
Weighty! The above balances on my eyelids
They are held shut with tight fingers,
But soon they flicker
Dilate and are prised open to the whiteness
Shapes dance atop on it and spin
Induce such sickness
But they do not go; they hang over the
Desecration beneath, what remains after
The indulgence
I need an ocean to arrive here
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
and he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan's worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully- rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson which was the name of the pup Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze on it not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they thronged up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a ****** for his pet bolt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peered sur- prised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take bolt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.
Mark Twain
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
You prised me open
Pages and pages that were stuck together
Like opening a letter, you tore me apart
From the stories that were bound together in me
Like webs of intricate secrecy
I was my diary, my heart my closet
Where the skeletons lay unseen, for years at rest
Then you came along and opened my dark corners
Opened the gates to the secretly guarded treasures in my chest
You did not like the ink in the pages
The stories they told, the people they embraced
In blood and memories, in emotions and opinions
You opened a book you never should have
You threw me away, shelved me
Because there'd be one less plot line
To lose your sleep over
Wondering where my stories would end
And how they'd end with you
My soul's legends and lore
Shall remain closed forevermore
And the next curious reader that comes along
Will rest in knowing this:
Ignorance is bliss
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
When it all looks so final
totally banal
and the canal looks like a nice place to sleep
so cool and so deep
and it would keep you forever wrapped in its water
caught up
in a green swirl of a dream amidst the pike,carp and bream
that would nuzzle your nose
and pick at your toes
blowing bubbles
your troubles are but drizzle on the breeze
here and there gone tomorrow.
You don't get to see sorrow until you've been through the mill
paid the dues and wanted to **** yourself at least twice a week
and leaked blood from your eyes
when you've seen her out with several better looking guys
when you've prised off the top of your head and in bed when you can't even sleep.
Then
the canal does look so cool and so deep.
I keep a canal in my heart
it's been broken and I don't want to start looking for another place to sleep
so I keep and will keep it
bit by bit
it will drain away
and another day will begin.
Just another day to watch him and see her
and see that grin on his face.
but I'll show him how to grin in a deeper place
somewhere off the beaten track
he won't be coming back
but I will.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
.
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 10:43 PM UTC
The bee was forbidden from kissing flowers.
Out of the hive, she found her free will. Though
her wings fluttered under heavy turbulence.
Amazed, by the liberty that flowers held in petals, all around
She began to work on arousing subjects, in the playground.
Irises, roses, fuchsias and sunflowers.
Purple, red, pink and yellow- for endless hours.
Her mouth met many lips, sensing negative charges
She finally understood that natural energy was harmless.
Satiated, by her existential discoveries in The Garden
She returned to the tall trees to receive her pardon.
But along the path home she was surrounded.
The colours melted and mixed into grey and brown.
Unable to control the velocity to self-discovery,
Wary droplets of perfume sprayed in cries.
It was then she found her guise,
Judged by those who told lies,
Reached into her abdomen and prised,
No fail-safe to catch her from the skies.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
may be as well if two buckets are bought
at the same time
not to keep them
one
inside
the other
for length of times..
saw them on the way to montgomery by bus
& finding them cheaper than elsewhere bought them on the way home
popped them in the shed where they melded together well
heat and sheer determination eventually prised them apart
two buckets
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 1:19 AM UTC
What orange bosoms
Can you press to yourself
Prised out a candied tube?
What lice make thoughts creep
And hands run down stockings?
What time spent brainless,
Hoping for a life outside riches
Growing into a chair?
What losing streak
Paints your face, sorry?
What can we talk about
That isn't hopeful,
That asks true questions?
What can I say
of big arses on fat girls
and big biceps on vain men?
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
Tessa III
Two people sitting unidentified in cinema seatings missing
reality. If we touched classical screen will be on, two to 20
minutes long. A private facility at home, what is happening?
A million faces said it before, *** can't change things when
silent. It's not about the hurt or pain of memory humanity,
a gut feeling that won't come out. Your bowl of fruit, act sur-
prised. Turning up the dramatic sound, it won't be a smash hit.
I am trying to forget about your special traits. I got talent, you
see... If I go toward the exit first, our secret will self- destruct.
"Houston, we have a serious problem. Re-entry zero burning."
Tessa IV
It's easy once you see it, yours and mine ideology. I
want kindness from you, from me, when we sleep. Bla-
ming is the gravestone when all method is dead. Our
bed is floating and we can't say why. I am capable of change,
another challenge to meet the talisman. Indifference
to use in this sentence upholds the vision, was it virtue,
loneliness? That is the supporting middle that we have.
Friday morning glory, coming in boxes on the table. For-
tune teller in your tealeaves, what is it saying? When will
I be dead? The level of threat has moved to another level.
Tessa V
Weekend readings, a million heads per second. I do the
writing, and so a few hundreds more. The gurkin inside
your oyster, making intention go blue and green. The sun
is what I call the architect. High shadows when looking be-
hind now. A glorious morning, I can just smell the coffee.
I am looking forward to a good saturday this weekend. Dis-
tance between us is a good thing. This lovelife is homeless,
without memory. Let's grow old more decently, talk when
having breakfast, or just be quiet. You know when they say
'a good life', I don't see it in your eyebrows. Oh, please, don't
smile... Sometimes I wonder why they left you, stunningly
beautiful when you were young. What can I say, my charitable
me is a DNA- thing or the Chuckle Brothers. One more thing,
what is it with this metaphor, when you are young with the sun
wrapped around your waist? I am just happy with my readings.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
intentions crystal clear
daylight savings time, saving us from paranoid suicidal minds
future plans and remakes of the past
carefully deposit them in a clear green vial of dust,
unbroken flask made out of dreamy hazy glass
as memories fade,
(this won't -ever- happen to us)
making-of-my-wildest-dreams
lovingly embrace you & hold you in my arms
still, the daylight can't help but ask me why,
how we're supposed to never come apart
Destiny forgotten due to our childhood's screams:
Romeo and Juliet were prised apart by their mother's grin
now I'm done
questions asked, better left unanswered, better to forget instead
paranoid insomnia (no sleeping at night),
waiting to be forgotten
(even worse, will I forget?),
when the distance gets too heavy
when the drunk thoughts get too weary
when my feet hurt from running in circles
when you realise what you've done.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC