"prongs" poems
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,
Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,
The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****
Snapped **** with teeth
Then grizzled grin at me and spit up
I poked at my chile relleno
Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs
Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque
Between my own fangs
I spit back scalding ****
Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"
Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see
Flashes his gleaming grill
I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle
Chattering ivories
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
lover old voice
bed bug boy
timbre distinction of
man vs. boy vs. baby
raspberry at the lips and
bubble beaten air
boy in bed clothes
locked
rolling
sad sad boy down
the steps in a
laundry basket
weathered hands and makeup
prongs boy
you’re cute
let me buy you
a drink
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Blackberries, fat with summer rays,
Burst sure and true, like ocean waves
Against my tongue they carry too
The scent, the touch, the taste of you.
Each bramble stripped with greedy hands
Felt no qualm from scarlet brands
Those such marks would wash away but
Stains of you will still remain.
The scratches heal, I’ll brush away
Those nettle prongs that stick and stay
I’ll brush the bracken, soothe the sting
But thoughts of you will always cling.
Those onyx beads, their shiny spheres
Imbued with Sunshine, wet with tears;
The taste is fading from my mouth
Their waves of sweetness drawing out.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. Two fingers limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, ***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, **** guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild **** as tool is to you as to yo ***** Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ****** Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a **** "What you want, ***** You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.
Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ****** flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Intriguing the conscience, burning the desires inside the heart.
the reason behind the lie and the sorrow behind the words,
the warmth behind the blush and the summoning call„
the curls in the vines and the dark shadows,
the secrets and the treasure,
hell and fire,
or heaven and love,
the magic and the lullabies of night,
The righteous and the right.
Caught in the prongs of Thy,
Intrigued by the essence,
caring not to hide.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC
times like this, the plenary moon
tonight wearing many faces,
the white-washed truant at bay
white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
of say, prongs of fire on the kiln
the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
what the heat of placeness mints underneath
our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.
we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of light’s bendable
rondure harnessing a truth we let in.
I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
like a well-oiled machine. what do you hear?
we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
or the wild sibilance of breath trying to utter something,
going back home with a song in between teeth,
without words.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I’ve been trying to fit in my whole life
Self-imposed my own strife
wishing to overwrite my life with something nice
but I just keep running on the wheel of life with a bunch of mice
I’ve been trying to fit in, find the light
Honestly, This is all a joke, I'm done faking polite
doing what's right, fighting the fight to end all plight
Fighting the fight only plightens the plight
hardens the strife
Deepens the knife and turns it to the right
all because we think we know whats right
we act like we know what's best for them
but do we know what's right for us?
No, we lost sight
I’ve been trying to fit in for so long
Forcing myself to do what feels wrong
Listening to the thong song, hit the long ****
Play along and act strong
Just to prolong the life long theme song of
“I don’t belong, but let me see your thong thong thong thong ”
I’ll just stop singing along with the throng of prongs
There is nothing wrong with thinking with your ****
But do you want long term fulfillment or
Yesssssssss…now what? Cigarette? Emptiness?
That’s why I was depressed because I was trying to fit in with a world full of regret
Humanity feeling like they are always in debt, but have you ever checked
Why you do what you do and what gets you through
And how whatever you believe comes true for you
Not enough? Everyone **** Life is tough?
Here you go, would you like fries with that too
It's no surprise that it's true
the one creating the blame is you
the shame's from you
The creator of the game is you
The only one you can change is you
You change you and the world around you changes too
Try to change the world around you first then it gives you a clue
That there is room for growth within you
I began to change from within
when I asked one question
Why am I trying to fit in?
Only because I never became my own friend
Only to hide that I wanted life to end
Only, so now I can show you what life is like when you never have to pretend
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
mischief and such wit
moony, wormtail, padfoot, prongs
they're the marauders
and when the job's done
wave your wand and just say this
'mischief managed!' done
cleverness present
but wasted on breaking rules
yet used for the fun
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
It’s all come down to this:
prongs and damp curves
and lots of serration.
My bite and your bite
and we all
bite down.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Fear is a natural feeling,
A part of life
To be afraid of something in this world
Is not so farfetched a thought
Death, being hated, never finding love
All completely fair to be afraid of
But the irrational fears that some have
Simply never cease to amaze me
And let me inform you,
That this is a true story
A mother who stabbed
Her husband with a fork
At the dinner table
While the children watched
Four prongs pierced skin and veins alike
Blood showered forth
As ketchup from the bottle
The children were devastated to say the least
Now twenty two years later
That same little boy from the kitchen table
Sits in the restaurant haunted and alone
No date, no friends, no company
Eating his steak with a plastic spoon
He murmurs something about
Forks being a leading cause of death
What a sad and untrue statistic
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me.
It's old. It's broken. It's beautiful.
"I wish I could use it." is always my first thought when I stare up into its under-carriage of prongs and teeth.
It doesn't fit on the shelf, and it surely doesn't belong there.
My first thought should be "That may fall and **** me at any moment", but I think I avoid that thought because I kind of hope it does. What a way to go out. Not intentional. I didn't put it up there with the intention of it becoming some sort of Medieval time-bomb, but the symbology behind that accidental death would be enough for me to be satisfied with the ending of my life.
If you manage to banish the senseless fascination with your imagination's speculation of what people will think of you if you do THIS...or when THAT happens...then what's there to fear about failure? Failure just becomes progress at that point.
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me, and a part of me hopes that it falls and bashes my skull in.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
As my illogic breaks, I'll robot make
to be this soul's chamber,
robbing a piecemeal joy from misfit toys
tossed out for fine tuning
by toddlers cheery mad to gorge on fads.
I'll take their T-Rex head,
with droopy lids that wink as if to drink
the world's wide-shallow stares,
plug its plastic prongs in torso of tin
while twin squeeze-box arms splay
to tie magnetic bows round pads below
gold, plush lion cub's legs.
This moppet of mixed breeds I'll learned feed
with animate cunning
to be ruled by charmed laws that give it pause
when whole-sum circumstance
tangles fuzzy circuits. Then a circus-
wire's unbalancing act
I'll paste from templed flesh to doll enmeshed
by transfuse rigging,
and as coil comes to slough, just as I'm off,
I'll flip that gilded switch,
implanting my spirit into a bit
of copper-hued country.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 9:49 AM UTC
A lifetime of wrongs
Wrought by insensitive hands.
Grasping like prongs
And, well, as it stands,
I'm ******* ******
There's nothing left but this.
All the chances, you missed.
So give my fist a kiss.
You're gonna bleed, you're gonna die
I'll burn your past, I'll skin you live,
Before you open that mouth and ask "why",
I don't care, take a ******* dive.
I can't stand you breathing
You made me mad, and don't you see?
It all ends, in a ****** wreathing.
And you bet your *** you'd better be scared of me.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
outstretched hands
overlapping timelines and lives
circling back to the same origins
and stretching far enough out to forget them
promises twirled around fork prongs
paths meeting and crossing and departing
held together by cohesive experiences and sauces
the chaos of our own existence
shouldn't prevent us from taking a bite
Mar 5, 2023
Mar 5, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
Close my eyes and I can see yours again
Let myself get lost in the distant memory
The song plays through my head
And it's like watching a movie through my own eyes
Because I know it's not real
And I remember how I pressed my head against your chest
How soft your lips felt on my cheek
And how my heart shuddered when you whispered that you loved me
I never wanted it to end
And I'll never forget how soft that dress was
Or the respect I commanded dressed in blood with crown in hand
I wont forget the glittering lights
Or the warm air that night accompanied by the soft breeze
But most of all I wont forget you
Your smile your laugh
Your pocket square with four prongs
I can't forget your dancing
Your sweeping me off my feet
And how could I
You made me feel like a queen for just one night
And as wonderful as it all was
All I really needed that night was you
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
If we’re not careful we’ll destroy,
and all too soon, the privateness
of the local: what we come to own
when we walk out of the box of home
into the anywhereness of outside.
Let’s not say too much,
but keep what we find
to ourselves. Maybe share it
with the one whose heart
lies close before sleep.
Draw it, certainly:
her hanging dress, the kicked off shoes,
even that hairbrush you bring to your lips
to taste her, your tongue touching
her hair’s fine curl and tangle lying adrift
amongst the noduled prongs.
Let these things speak
of what is not there. Or, rather,
of what is not there in front of us.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.
She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.
The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
*** otherwise. She rubs
the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.
He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he
often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her **** She holds
her breath as long as she
can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell
invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread
like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her
with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s
**** push it in with all her
might. Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She
breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers
caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ********* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,
sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
As I lay on my back, I think of myself as dirt—
Not in a bad way, but like how some soil is soft, like cake.
I am soft and loose. My bones are gone; I am only flesh,
My skeleton stops protecting my heart and mind.
All this anxiety, all this stress, leaves my head
And my heart is just buried loosely under my chest.
If I don’t have any bones for a ribcage, do I have a chest?
I only know that I have my heart and mind buried in myself, my dirt.
“Do geese see God?” not a scenario, but a palindrome, a light thought, in my head.
Scenarios are the foundation of my agitation. Who cares, I guess? Let me eat cake.
(I make due with my mental health, in my mind.)
Anyways, I’m going to continue being with myself, my thoughts, my flesh.
I’m okay that my bones have disintegrated into my flesh.
I’m okay that my ribs no longer enclose my heart in my chest.
Later I will be aware that this is a meditation; it’s all in my mind
But right now, my reality is that I am dirt.
I am a soft, crumbly cake.
And this is all at once going through my head.
Another element arouses in my head:
Nails poke through the ceiling, aiming towards my flesh—
Or sharp prongs fixed on this beautiful mess of crumbly cake.
I am still, motionless, an open target, my broad chest.
I have no problem with this, because right now I am dirt.
(Death never crossed my mind.)
The sharp nails in the ceiling are now loosening, in my mind.
Now the nails fall, and drop into my chest and head
They pin me down to the ground, to the earth, to the dirt
With ease through the soft, rich, flesh
Of mine. It softly punctures my chest
I am being devoured, my body of cake.
Since my skeleton is gone, and my body is soft as cake,
I embrace the nails—a therapeutic acupuncture, I think in my mind.
My heart is heavy but happy in my chest.
And these nails keep sinking deeper in my head.
I am content being alone, by myself, a pile of flesh
I am one with the earth, with the dirt.
Nails in my chest, or prongs in the cake
I am dirt, I like to think in my mind
I am my heart, my head, my flesh.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Small and tainted black,
Four reaching prongs that spiral,
Spin, draw you in,
Seen with ****** eyes; traumatised,
Violence of ignorance,
Slaughter.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
Of course I noticed when
he placed his hand next to mine on the counter
(a little closer than accidental).
The hand that once made my soul swirl when it touched me.
The same hand I watched rip my heart from my skin
and crush it between its fingers,
while mine frantically fumbled and fought like fiends
to prevent him from slipping through them like sand.
I knew that hand better than the back of mine.
So I pulled back and pushed away
any of those memories before they gained enough strength
to pick and pry and wrap their prongs around my neck.
But by the time I realized what I could do,
I could already feel them on my throat.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
I descended the stairs in dread,
Shading my eyes
From the late August sun
Coming through the window,
Onto the landing.
The rakes leaned against the garage wall
Like prisoners on work detail.
Mammy had plain porridge,
Toast, jam and strong tea prepared
For our last summer breakfast.
No tomatoes.
We'd work on the clumps of dirt,
Breaking, raking, smoothing,
Preparing the ground for next Spring.
The root cellar we dug beneath
The newly poured porch
Was filled with the harvest
Of the auld sod's outlook.
On the sideboard, stacked in four neat piles,
Rose our school supplies for Tuesday.
He stood guard at the bottom of the yard.
I drove the prongs through the clumps,
Waiting for the school bell.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Her beat had been so bastardized that a tree had grown to protect it;
To harbor silence in pandemonium.
Isolation was the only remedy to a disease persistent to turn past into present,
So she grew on her own terms, and her heart beat for no one but herself,
Because to let someone in, meant to risk axing away at the barricade she had worked so arduously to withstand.
When she fell into him the first time, the wounds were preemptive.
Her brittle bones cast away at the hopes that he would see her heart before her mind;
From which idiosyncratic branches wrapped around her fingertips,
And the oak shards springing from within, just barely inching away from his own heart.
Strangely enough, he didn’t seem to mind.
When he stripped to bare back the scars were evident,
They cascaded from collarbone to the dip of his hip.
That’s when he brought her closer and whispered marvelously:
“I would bleed again for you.”
At the beginning, the boy hurt,
Yet he still saw the heart it held between the prongs of wooden cage.
So he continued to hurt, for her.
His mission rooted in the purpose of painting her the canvas of what life ought to be.
Penciling in the possibility of a reality where her aching shoulders could be lifted,
And a new smile plastered onto her lifeless frame.
He painted her in the image of who she used to be-
As if he knew her before she grew weary at life’s expense.
In the canvas, the wooden cage had disappeared, and a luminosity introduced itself.
He had uncovered her heart, and no longer was it encompassed by a shell, but freely beating;
Beating for him.
Every morning, day in and day out, meters of her branches gradually retracted,
And the boy’s scars gradually sealed over.
Oddly enough, it seemed as if they had healed each other.
That the quiet embraces they held each night didn’t pierce him,
but rather comforted his mind that this time, it would be different.
Somehow, she would come to love him, and him, her.
She saw in him a soldier; whose battle wounds were ghastly.
He had lived through hell and came back to dispel the stories,
But instead of stories of agony and woe, and anger and spite,
He spoke of the morning dew on dandelions reflecting the sun’s rays and how they most beautifully sprung from nothing.
He spoke of the quiet whispers of the wind bringing music to deaf ears.
He spoke of how if you listen closely, you can almost hear each cricket sing its song
in a field of thousands.
Each time he kissed her,
he did as if it were the last.
Each time he held her,
he did as if she were asleep.
Each time he healed her wounds,
he did as if they were preemptive.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 12:55 PM UTC
Hearing music,
And songs.
Centimetres cubic,
And prongs.
Feeling deep bass lines,
Drinking the blues,
Echoing shines
Eloquent muse.
Blabbering brooks,
And useless tongues,
Deceiving looks,
And exploding lungs.
Seeing colours saturated,
With patterns that prickle,
Sensing hues evaporated,
With a silly tickle.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC