"pronged" poems
Clayton
How I know you
Paternal parenting
DNA infused
Carbon contribution, to my physique
Father
In everything
My skin, eyes toes,
Unfortunately; inside my mouth
Spitting plaster-walled
Copy-paste personality
The same
Intimately
Close-dangerously
Different
Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love
Something that didn't work out
Photocopy
Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh
Reminder of her
Mom
Enough!
Teeter tottering
Tip-Toe tangling opinion
Excuses
Words fermented
Rotting-rigor
I know you.
Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas
Bearing pronged poker
Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion
Suppressing supplement thought
********
God's love the good life
Living a life to be proud of
Excuse me!
For not being as I am "supposed" to be
Eatting rancid lies
Your reality relative
To kiss-ass preferred siblings
Who like the taste of ****
What you shovel
Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over
Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man
Letting cracked-cackled toothed
Field Gap-smile
Decide your next move
I know you
I see what you push into hidden corners
The bias, nasty film of your character
Under whitecollar shirttails
Citizen, Patriot
Americas American
I know you
Your oppression
Not new
As underhanded and seedy as it was
And still is
I know you
As much as I'd like not too.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
Listen.
I know you've lived longer
Than my short quarter century life.
I know you've seen more,
Done more, loved more,
Touched more, tasted more,
Experienced more things than i.
I know you're only trying to help.
I appreciate the giving of advice.
I know you mean well
When you say it's time to give them up,
It's time to move on,
To be my own person,
To learn to live for only myself.
But you haven't lived through
The total decimation of your family.
You haven't watched as the lives
Of your loved ones fall into utter ruin
One by one.
You weren't relegated to helpless paralysis
By the fear that you'd lose them all
And by the depression that came with knowing
You couldn't even help yourself.
You don't know what it feels like
To have the dagger of abandonment,
The shattered shards of broken hearts,
The pinpoint needles of disillusionment,
The three-pronged fork of misunderstanding,
****** into your soul over and over
By every lemon life throws your way.
You don't know what it is to stand
On the brink of death
Because if you don't have them,
You have nothing.
You still have your family.
All intact and whole.
So don't begrudge me
My clutching, grasping, clinging attempts
At keeping what remnants of a family I have
Together.
I will not let them go
Until they have to be pried
From my dead hands.
And even then, I will still be loyal.
They are all i have.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
It's a three pronged hum-a-long.
No captions while you sing-a-long.
Mumbling, stumbling
over words that don't belong
in your mouth.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
As I concentrate on the X on the ceiling
I feel the burning pain travel
O this enduring feeling
Farther I travel into subconscious
My mind barely still reeling
The needle drags past skin
Past regret, past nerve endings
Body, patiently waiting for the healing to begin
O three pronged needle of shades
Dripping into blood stream
Trapping yourself between layers of
Epidermis, leaving your mark unclean
I try to find my tranquil place
A quiet forest, a a glaciers gleam
Yet my mind shouts and doth protest
This is your finest moment
Do not hide from it
Endure the present
At that moment the machine strikes my chest
I am here focusing on the X
The buzz becomes a lullaby
But do not fall into the minds eye
Living in the present
The girl watching see's the blood rise
A color I cannot see from my perspective
I smile with clenched teeth
To show I will not accept demise
O perseverance you have prevailed
The needle lifts, antiseptic applied
The tingle of chemical purity relaxes my skin
I try to stand but my head is a blur '
Legs lack equilibrium for a moment
I am reborn, like a religious experience
People of faith describe
I am new
I am proud
I am high.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
dear spider of the blue depths,
i fell for your suppleness;
forgive my inability to reciprocate,
your eight pronged embrace.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
Blackness tugs at the edge of my vision.
Everything is blurry and all I see is a man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
He scares me, with his yelling.
I look around, searching for something,
But finding nothing.
I blink and I’m in a meadow,
Blurry images of grass and trees.
Beautiful flowers nuzzle up against me,
Hugging me and filling me with warmth.
I see him again.
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I’m surprised to see him, and hear his yelling.
I look away from him, and ignore his voice,
And I feel pain in my ankle.
I look down to see snakes where
The flowers once grew.
I fell, away from the snakes and the man,
And into a room with you.
You hold me tight, and whisper things to me.
I look over your shoulder and see the man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I pull away from you, listening to his yelling,
And see you’ve changed.
A pronged tongue pokes from fanged teeth,
And your kind eyes are slit green daggers.
I turn and run
Away from you and to the yelling man.
He leads me to a meadow where
Flowers don’t bite.
I asked him his name, but he refused to answer,
Just reassuring me that I’d be safe with him.
I wake with a warm feeling, and a clear head.
I forgot his face, the story, the why
But I remember the warmth and the safety.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Scares even the
Moonlight away—
His only friend
The artificial
Eight-pronged
Sun of street lamps
Marking "X"
His position.
I'm quite sure he's
Undocumented—
Perhaps a new age
Nightcrawler only,
Not powerful at all.
I can see
His hands—
How they yearn
To clutch something more
Than the cigarettes
And the rosaries
That line his left and right
Ring fingers—
Shapeshift and
Solidify—
Take heart.
Behind him is
The old Senate,
To be converted to
A museum—
His name swallowed up
By the hollow grandeur
Of a once great Nation's
Emptied stronghold.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
I watched him hop down the cobbled streets
that young brassy robin of mine, I wanted to keep
with his wings all a fluttering he cheeped
his voice called his freedom, that one day all will repeat
To see him dance by the Vale Green pond
to see with his beak, did a worm he pronged
some sorrow it will be and some joy
when I have to say goodbye to my boy
I had found him in the gutter
all muddy and tattered
I stayed with him day and night
just so death he could fight
My heart is so full of joy
beating so hard ,I fear of it stopping
for it's all for him to be free
as I bid farewell to my little **** robin
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
oh see,
i will take this outlet
[this two pronged outlet
one of you and one of me]
to reply because
i picked up the phone today
and called someone else
thinking
"oh hell i'll warm up a bit
before i dive into this-
i mean, i want to get
my personality right
don't i?
I MEAN DON'T I?!?!?!?
WHO THE HELL AM I ANYMORE?!?!?!?!"
panic set in.
i called my dad.
he's always calming.
we talked about christmas ****
what he wants. what mom wants.
it calmed me down.
i figured out who i am:
i'm just a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude,
not breaking character til we're done the DVD commentary.
[paraphrased of course cuz I don't plagiarize.]
i'll call you
but how late will you be awake?
i'll call you
but what are you doing right now?
i'll call you
but why am i nervous?
i'll call you
but aren't we all one Being?
i'll call you
but but but but but but burt but but but but but but but but but
don't you have home work
or something better to do
than listen to me preach
and flap flap flap flap
and not hug me again
and not listen to me
or are you listening to me
or am i neurotic
or is it all smoke and mirrors
and seriously i'm coughing uncontrollably
and you'd think i'm crazy
but it's that holiday season
and for the next handful of weeks
i've got a handful of excuses
of why and how and what and how
but burdens only stack up
and i've released literally every single one
except i'm still replaying josh ritter in my head
and the car ride home from that purple chair
and the walk around the duck.
[not stopping for breathing
or trimming my toe nails,
which started growing again.]
and LA and Delaware and pencilwania and where we met on that pier at that show in socal and house of blues and mini golf and lists and names and places and "there's no hell when you die, so don't look so worried."
and i'll call you
but will you answer?
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Merry dear Dad his Inner Kevlar endure
And allow my Years to promote his Prove
For Right-Side's Heal let his Honour be Pure
And mirror the Big Hand in Sky's Glory
For if it be this Son, sullen by Age
Of Desert Years twice-score he should Wander
Would share his Bread; To patient Sky quench Rage
And emulate our Saviour's Mercy ponder
Yet you. Still you. Be my Foundation's Best
Apart from Powers I could Un-Concieve
That Feigned but Guiding Hand; With all Lime's Zest
Harness it ever from Sugars too Sweet.
And yes, dear Dad; The Five-Pronged Bot did die
Yet withered their Ghosts to greet your Day by.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
Delirious, this Satin and Paper Cot
Should these Agents once Past permit your Chore
Even to attempt a Link on your Lot
Was but a Mistake from your Fortune's lore
Though Un-Respond, such your Sun-Chariot spells
As Saturated Stars are wont to do
Those Gods from Olympus shake Mortal's Bells
Then encase their Voices enlisting You
From most Causes be yours in-Demand,
Primmed or Pronged Endorsements as they become
Only your Decide allow this Remand
Well your Talents sustain; But Visage done.
Which by Essentials would it Matter, O Prince
Though Wax steers your Morals be ever since.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Screaming,
though all is under cover
and my whole is still all wrapped.
Can you see it, too,
the myriad mirrors casting my form
my shape across dimensions
worlds
universes of possibilities unknown and
unreachable.
Screaming,
though nothing shall be reached
and the thought is not what counts.
Can you feel it, too;
the trembling and tremors
in the fault lines of the air
causing nightmare images of
a reality that none may know.
He stares at me,
the many pronged deer
a demon in my own right
but never his own.
I mustn't look--
no, avert your gaze--
keep looking forward
keep screaming shrilly
uselessly
against the all encompassing cracks
of a reality already bent out of shape.
I am still screaming
and I say,
"--"
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
Ah, that your Flesh be that Smooth Leather pierce
Pricked by Needles on the Sands of Dubai
As the Blue Giant hovers; And shakes your Fears
From the White Winged Djinn hovering on high
He wants your Temple; Such Beauty obssessed
That even in his Realm his Kind turns Green
On how such Coil as you - Divine possessed -
Which to Retirements abhor the Mean
Which Font, then, must your Alphabet construct
Something which verily made to Run and Blow
So you lie down; And flash the Comfortiduct -
That same Pronged Victory we all should know.
After all, long have we Enjoyed such Bulge
Of Eight Metres spread; Less Five Inches indulge.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
VII
This is my end
surely this is
the end of it all
all I know is here
and though I am
young this is the end
of life as I know it
now and soon I will
see my home no more
for this is my end
here where I shelter
from all I cannot
think beyond this ending
surely the end of all
I know is here
and will be gone
(after a cine still from 1930 of a St Kllda woman)
XVIIIa
house above the hut
of shadows holds itself
against the relentless wind
on so open a shore
islands and inlets beyond
reasonable number stand
before its policies
its promontory land
Up on the third floor
light fills every corner
expelling its shadows
to the hut held
within its sight
XVIIIb
slowly the darkness
reveals less than
a shadow thrown
against a plastered wall
inside silenced from the wind
an image grows as the eyes
succumb to less than light
used to looking Suggestion
and the memory of outside
supply the rest
(two poems connected by Chris Drury’s Hut of Shadows on North Uist)
XIX
following footsteps
crisp in the sand
hour-fresh from tide-fall
now the shadows form
in the weight of press
the imprint mark
different with every
fall of limb and claw
the 3-pronged bird-foot
the sandaled human
step singular one
before another after
another until perspective
conceals and merges
into distant sand
**
silence suddenly
the ringed plovers
hold their breath
then chorus
a chirping as they wade
together in their own
reflections
the water like glass
at their feet
mirroring
movement that light
hop for a few steps onto
a slight but sturdy island
tweet then terweet
inflected upwards
a questioning call
terweet?
XX1
the taste of salt sea
in the mouth
the touch of water
thick sea-water
on the legs between toes
the sharp cold plunge
immersion envelopment
sunlight throws a cascade
of bright steps across the sea
gradually merging into a band of light
ablaze on the horizon
at the base of distant Monarchs
a silhouette of massed rock
rises from the sea crowned
by static clouds decorating the sky
gentle white ermine-soft
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Your Hopeful Youth invest these Notes upon
Near to their Hearts do their Flung Fingers sing
Admit their Love's Honest Pocket to this Song
Of Meanings sprang Verse of Heaven's found Ring
Also must we Plomb your Black-Customed Ox
Whose Milk-Bleached Teeth by Black Hooks clandestine
Your Three-Pronged Partner; A Trademark ad hoc
Marks this New Page of New Music define
Though Common will my Marked Verses become
At least offer this Bow-Headed Advise
To Honour your Craft; As Honour well Consume
Dance these Darling Sweet-Hearts to your Consise.
After all, Intent by this Fame your Chance
And Effort less-viced cause Markings enhance.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
A slither of Spanish Moss arcs up,
dances like a snake-
but my tires pummel pavement
in the dark and windy wake
of
mankind's mechanical hand!
like a five-pronged pencil sharpener,
bringing elements into focus
by scraping them away
bit by bit,
fitting wood and stone and earth
into blue-printed plans in order to
get
whatever it is,
you want.
Two yellows lines and solid white
are all that keep me in line
tonight.
The darkness shrugs,
knows it's all
right.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
i like power lines
theyre comforting
like a mcdonalds or a holiday inn
you know wherever you are the same power
is pulsing over your head. the same that lights up your home somewhere else
so gaudy and bright.
i like the way they ****** up into the sky,
their many-pronged arms reaching and holding,
connecting.
i like the Orange lights that illuminate them at night
and the way they look against early morning sky.
they are a reminder of this connection. wherever i am i am not alone. i am lit up
so gaudy and bright
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Enclosed in a shell
a road to nowhere.
Just a frothy mess
What does it care?
Snails, messy things
In and out all day
Just a frothy mess
In which to stay.
Snails, messy things.
Then a huge pronged fork
and into a wet mouth it pops.
Chewed, crushed to death
and there the taste stops.
Snails, messy things.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
we watched a movie tonight
the interview isn't very romantic
but you sat next to him
slithering him who talks to you
the lies i would tell you with brutal truth
over his pronged tongue
with the lighFUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Weekend, shorn spoof head-to-toeing,
Sunday sobered...I saw
a squirrel sleep for the first time,
from a second floor, cozying
between pronged boughs.
Tiff-tough puff of a tail, spot-spread
by a breeze.
A split vibrational decision,
raring a decided tree--in this
cellular mockup city, NY.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
Like absurdity...
A constant w, wondering what the who and how the why,
It's like a constant state of the rip between a false eyelash and an eye,
I lie upon a thin surface between reality and psychology,
Is my mind playing a trick on me, or is it just me...just me...all alone,
Gone but here, see this is more than fear, this is pure terror,
No hell could be fairer for the one that induced it on their own,
A cone of darkness and light, I ponder what's right,
Was it a vision all along? Pronged up to put together pieces,
A mind game that maybe ceases once i figure it out...but,
what if it's not a game...and all this time It was a sentence,
Commencement of war upon myself, what if it's the same fire,
Dire in my mind like the wine of wrath that crashes upon my line,
A full on catastrophe...i don't really know me, a fear i've always pondered,
Which places me back at the top-
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 9:22 AM UTC
The day is young and I begrudgingly traipse out of the covers to check my messages.
My seventeen inches of pride lies proudly slumped across the desk - a laptop.
I lovingly push the plug, slowly, but forcefully into the socket.
The switch is turned on.
Now I use my finger to hover around the power button.
I gently rub it before pushing it in.
Electricity surges through it. Lights spring into action and it starts -
Sounds of an engine revving, purring.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, before moving my fingers lower,
Descending towards the keys,
And place them softly down, sprawled across the keyboard
Before assuming the appropriate position.
Now, a strange thing happens.
Each button slowly starts to rise up,
Inserting and engulfing themselves in my fingers.
They burrow deeply into my fingerprints -
An abyss of identity caressed by technology.
It doesn't stop.
Meanwhile, the plug has detached,
The lights surviving on battery power alone.
It grows hotter.
The cable slithers across the floor,
Slowly working its way up the inner side of my legs.
It wraps itself around my calves and rises up between my thighs.
The chair gets thrown from beneath me across the room
As I forcefully drop to my knees.
Both my fists are now inside the machine,
Swallowed by blackness.
The cable has worked its way around my waist and up to my neck.
It caresses my ear as it tightens, before making its chiselled tips towards my mouth -
A literal three-pronged attack.
I can only kneel motionless, and gag as it enters my mouth,
And scream silently in horror as it forces my head down,
Dragging me completely inside as I choke on its power source.
Swallowed by blackness -
An abyss of identity ***** by technology,
Standing silently on the desk, seemingly unmoved,
Until it runs out of battery and dies.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
We ain’t sending Christmas cards any more!
We’ve done the list and that’s it!
Oh no!…There’s another one just dropped through the door.
You approach it gingerly like an unexploded bomb
Cautiously wondering “who the eff is it from?”
“Oh no! It’s someone who’s not on the list… the ********
Or, an older relative who doesn’t ‘do’ computers....
“We don’t do computers!”...
And so it bounces off them this ‘losers’ two pronged attack.
like getting one in the post and not sending one back!
But we definitely ain’t sending cards any more!
Can’t they just send an e-card, maybe one of those Jacqui whats-her-name jobbies...
with floating fairies, sleigh bell sound effects and ****** labradors too.
Or bang off a picture of Santa on FaceBook, Twitter, SnapChat, Instagram…surely that will do.
Oh no they’ve got to go the whole nine yards.
Even if they buy ****** Poundland Cards
there’s still the cost of a ****** stamp! That’s extortionate too!
No… Sorry… actually not sorry...
We ain’t buying OR sending cards any more!
We’ll donate to charity instead - that’ll be us…
It’ll be cheaper and a lot less fuss.
Sponsor a neglected reindeer, maybe a redundant elf
Or yeh…better still - rescue a pup.
One that WAS just for Christmas then just got chucked.
For me this Christmas mail-out is over - the game's definitely up!
Or really… if all else fails…we’ll just buy next year’s supply
in bulk from the January sales!
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
breathing techniques cannot salvage my mentality
dry - cold - gales whisking shards of icicles
jet stream frozen oxygen into my pink lungs
and as nature’s razors draw red blood
my capacity for speaking matches the bleeding
of a headspace drowning in black ink
-
The quills of my fingertips have been continuously dipped
Into the reservoir of dye crested by the hole in my head
-
a yellow sun rises anew day to cast light on these visions
a red rose withers on concrete of unwalked opportunity
a orange three-pronged leaf exists in this dissension
ambition will either
flourish to match a perpetuating green
or
decompose to return compost the dirt of earth
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC