"pterodactyl" poems
Free concerts
are full of potheads,
they get all in your ear
and start talking about
the land of milk and honey,
DENVER ******* COLORADO.
The beers cost
15 bucks
for pisswater
and barely a pint.
The girls
all wear pink spaghetti straps
sagging acid-wash jeans,
and a smell like
old milk.
The old people
dance.
the old people dance;
there wrinkly
pterodactyl arms
flapping as they swirl the air
with bad knuckles.
The air smells,
like sweat.
Sweat smells like
toilet water.
Free concerts are usually outside,
so hope to ******* Gaia that it doesn't rain,
because you're stuck there,
drunk and yelling
dancing and laughing
******* and falling.
Matt, Dang and Me.
We spent our summer going to free concerts,
because the girls that go to free concerts
think tattoos and ************* and toilet humor
is more ****
than money.
The old people dance with you
performing some type of necromancy
in the air
that brings dead things inside of you
back to life.
And the bud,
it's so ******* sticky,
and it causes a hacking
paroxysm of coughing
to the point that you can
taste the blood in your mouth,
because those people from
DENVER ******* COLORADO,
really know their ****
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
LET SLEEPING PTERODACTYLS LIE
Rusted scythe
perched on a nail
high up on a wall
a sleeping pterodactyl.
I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real.
Smacks its lips
laps up my blood
from my foolish fingertip
deceived by shadows.
It's grin glinting
the smile come alive.
The ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable
that's gone long gone
the then merging into the now.
Or maybe Mr. Death
too tired to go on
hangs up the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones.
“No way to make a living!”
I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight
that screams. . ."Run!"
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
Trash bag suits,
****** innuendos galore.
She’s a potato!
He’s a pterodactyl!
Well, she just transformed,
She’s now a sock.
Bro *******
Analyzing bread.
She can’t comprehend.
Snapping,
Shoddy renditions of West Side Story.
Bashing,
On my observational skills.
This is normal,
It is routine.
No drugs,
No mental asylums,
Just my lunch table.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
Is that a flying pelican?
Or is it a pterodactyl, I can
see a flying pelican,
It's like Pleistocene history,
Not evolving? That's a mystery,
Look, a flying pelican,
Its beak holds more than its bellycan!
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
On really good days
I'll leave a crisp five
In the back pocket
Of my ratty blue jeans.
That way when my future self
Feels as fragile as spun sugar
But tastes like burned bitterness
And needs to shake herself awake
Drag herself from chore to chore,
Convince herself that collapsing isn’t a cure,
[Though doesn’t the cold tiled floor feel refreshing?]
She’ll only have clothed in comfort:
Her baggy gray sweatshirt,
Consuming her body whole,
Making her shapeless,
So maybe she can shape shift,
Into a bird or a bat or a pterodactyl,
And make the most of her new wingspan,
Flying further from her fractured reality,
Into a fabulously far-fetched fantasy.
Her ratty blue jeans haphazardly thrown on,
So worn that there are holes in the knees,
Frayed hemline attesting to the tired trampling,
But when she tries to shove a ***** tissue,
Into the back pocket hoping it’s mere placement,
Is enough to leave the memory behind her,
She’ll stumble upon a long forgotten monetary love note.
Yes, you do love yourself,
Yes, I know it’s rough now,
In fact, I guessed it way back when,
But life is just a series of juxtapositions,
And maybe you’re in a hole dug so deep,
That you’ve burrowed out into China,
And now look, really look,
You’ve got a world of exploring to do!
But if you’re not yet strong enough to
Climb the Great Wall,
Don’t you worry,
Building endurance takes some time,
But until then,
Here’s a crisp five,
Go buy a Kit-Kat,
A can of Sprite,
And a cheap horror flick,
And never forget,
I always love you.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Hey remember that night when we chased the burglars in the front and back yard
and you almost kissed me?
God, I wanted you to.
I submitted a Post Secret of two young French lovers kissing in the rain
and I wrote “This will never be me” over the woman.
******* Parisians.
Once upon a time,
I bought flowers for myself just because I wanted to.
It was the most empowering thing I could have done.
But for the two weeks they sat on my window sill,
I was constantly reminded no one bought them for me.
Long ago, in a land far, far away,
I used to believe in miracles.
This one time, We sat at the Spanish Arch,
the one the Conquistadors built,
comprised of ancient old stone that caught the tears of the heartbroken,
heard the tales of the old salty men coming home from the bar,
and saw the transformation of an old Irish city into a new, artsy town.
We looked up, saw a shooting star, and wished on it I would be with him forever.
I was 19 once, and he sat on the beach with his flicky blonde hair
and a Corona and his oversized tee shirt hanging off his body
and we sat on that beach for hours, in the eye of the storm, soaking it all in.
It was the first time I realized I could love.
We were 22 and he was in love with somebody else and I loved his soul,
but I wasn’t in love with him and we found out we’re in the same boat.
We will always love each other but we can never be together
because we cannot give each other what we need.
He’s the only man who has never let me down.
As a child, I thought I could fly.
Not physically fly, but Peter and Wendy inspired me,
and I knew I could fly as a dreamer, and soar through the skies
like the hawk or the raven or the finch or the ******* pterodactyl if I wanted to.
And I wanted to. And I did.
I wrote a story once about a girl who ran several miles at two am when she couldn’t sleep
and the personal demons kept haunting her and taunting her
and the whiskey wouldn’t shut them up.
Every once in a while, I clean the house naked.
Sometimes, I kinda wish the UPS guy would catch me.
Every day, my life is filled with sullen, sunken, exposed regret.
I wish I did what I didn’t do.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:14 AM UTC
if i lived in a world where dinosaurs roamed
as beasts of enormous size,
i would be a fern.
and if you lived within this world
and drank from the purest springs,
we would never meet.
if i were a cake of velvet frosting
with many layers to make my shape,
filled with jelly of dark fruit
preserved beyond their days,
you would cringe at my appearance
and never know my taste.
if i remained myself,
and you remained as you,
we would be these things,
and know not what to do.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC
Pterodactyl tech in the firmament
Prophets dare speak in invisible ink
Leaders conspire to make average permanent
Long lines form the sweet pink Kool-Aid to drink.
Faint white rainbow in winters’ dull bone sky
Say can the blind see dysfunction’s junction?
They whisper quit, and we can’t though we try.
Tarot cards tell of death and destruction.
What did you expect, believe or aspire?
Master politicians play right the wrongs.
Feigned respect the cheap price of desire
It don’ matter ‘cause they pick the songs.
Black market work, lost dreams silent shout
Walking in star shadow, power is out.
Floyd Alsbach
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
I had a dream last night
I was a Pterodactyl
But that's beside the point
When I was human
In my dream
I hooked up with women
As far as the eye could see
(Maybe 2 or 3)
I knew these women
I went to school with them
But every time I touched,
Kissed,
Nuzzled with any of them
It felt wrong
I was disgusted
And it hurt
And as a Pterodactyl
I couldn't glide
So I hit the pavement
Hard
Even though it was really windy
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
I met this tungsten tongued pterodactyl
tiny ***** terror with a rattle snake rattle
cattle feasting, battle tested, harp playing harpy heathen
carpe diem; seizing the days of the dazed, the refuge of the refused
---
They said I should have seen her angel wings were dinosaur's
I guess I didn't see through the lipsticked maw -
the silken glove over the sharpened claw.
---
a little devil before a little death
petite mort with heavy breath
----
before she sheds her skin and starts again
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
She squishes the pill bug
with the tip of her shoe
giving it a nice twist at the end
to be sure the deed was done.
She stares for a long while
at what must have looked like a Rorschach test
speckled with bits of recognizable body parts -
legs and guts as such-
as if searching for the bigger picture
it must have been hiding.
She jumps back into her self
when she recognizes the voice of a little boy
calling from the swing set nearby.
She looks exhausted
like she's spent all day carrying the world
and this is a rare moment
when the universe allows her to sit down.
She reluctantly rises from her semi-comfortable bench.
and shuffles toward the impatient child
who is now screaming wordlessly for her.
She's been dealing with this behavior for a long time
you can tell because the pterodactyl screeches he's emitting
that send the nearby blind man's dog into fits
don't phase her at all.
She grabs the metal ropes of the swing,
pulling him back to the highest point of the pendulum,
and lets go.
The little siren boy falls immediately silent
his eyes slowly shut
His face melts into what can only be described
as the untarnished bliss we all misplaced,
or packed away somewhere in the attic
with all those old picturebooks,
long ago.
He's flying.
For the first time all day,
she doesn't have to fake a smile.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
what's inside?
a fish? a duck? a bird of paradise? candy? lizards?
or something more exotic -
a dragon?
a platypus?
a firebird?
pterodactyl? sea serpent? roc?
maybe a village, or a girl, or a death, or all three?
eggs are wild cards. fate puts a baby [___] inside, and it claws its way out when gets impatient of sitting pretty. we are all basically eggs waiting to assume a shape and shake off a shell of past dreams and childhood nicknames.
yes they're delicate. so they can break apart when needed. so they can enclose themselves gently around a realm of potential, but it is a maze, not a prison. escape is the ultimate end. birth is the ultimate end.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
I saw a pink dinosaur
at a discounted price
in the local mall
I saw another dinosaur
blue and smiling
and a green one looking so friendly
being so soft and fluffy.
These dinos are so majestic.
Why must I suffer their absence?
I want a T-Rex
He will stand guard on my bed
I want the Long Neck
To survey the outside from the windows
I want the Stegosaurus,
To give my smaller toys a ride
The Triceratops will watch my books,
and the Pterodactyl flies with my alicorns.
Let's PLAY!
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:25 AM UTC
(last Friday)
My English class just ended and everyone’s packing up (18 students). The class is held outdoors under a tent due to COVID. My professor says, “Ms Vionet, may I speak with you for a moment?”
I froze, Oh, my God, I thought, is he about to tell me to quit - has he already identified some fundamental inadequacy in my work? The world seemed to go silent as I hefted my backpack and approached him.
“Ms Vionet,” he began.
“Anais,” I interjected.
“Anais,” he patiently started again, “We have a small professor’s choice (invitation only) writing group that meets every two weeks, 7 to 8 PM on Wednesdays - would you be interested in joining us?”
It was hard to hold back a pterodactyl screech of delight. “Yes sir, I’ll be there”
“Here”, he said, motioning to the tent classroom “weather permitting.” He had packed up, he turned and headed for some nearby stairs.
I did a twirl of joy.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 7:39 AM UTC
i remember
you said when you first met somebody you looked at their teeth
& you said you liked my teeth
& for some strange reason after that
we were friends
you told me a joke
as our first conversation
the one about T.G.I.F. (thank god it's friday)
& **** (sorry honey it's thursday)
& for some strange reason after that
we were friends
once we were friends
we sat next to each other in art class
joking that we were no michelangelo
we went camping
you called me just to talk
& we talked for hours
you would just draw me random pictures
& for my birthday
you were the only one who gave me a present
when you drew me a picture of a pterodactyl
on a piece of notebook paper
it stayed in my locker
& made me smile every morning
you told me that if you layed down on the floor
& laughed
it made you laugh harder
& it worked
but now
we are only accquaintances
and sometimes you smile at me in the hall
but all that i see is your teeth
& that's the only thing that involves your mouth
nowadays
no words
& i feel sad
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC
Upside down world this is
Where even Alice would
Loose her tracks
This forest inside uncontrollable
Lack of purpose
The path is squirming
From left to right
Leading nowhere
But puddles of
Unidentifiable earning
Somewhere between bitter coffee
And lack of sleep
The absence of inspiration
Is seeping at a childhood dream
Air is free of substance
Like the dungeon of a
Crashed butterfly
Fly away little bird
...insect... whatever it is that
Makes you feel safe
The winged mouse
The pterodactyl of your own creation
Tell me what is that truth
That strings all these beads
Into a sufficient reason
To continue the conversation
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
my feet had barely greeted california
when my face matched the new summer,
cheeks blooming uneven,
eyes green as moss
and every face i glared upon
avoided looking too long.
walking through my least favorite airport
chin high, silent and ugly and wet,
i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past.
something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance
and clarity and confidence than i have ever known
"this is not where i belong!"
i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches
old skin disappearing in tiny fish
or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops
taunting flora and fauna and fate
i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed
exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days
and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive
a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.
i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent,
of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls,
or the same six songs played in every club in cairns
and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.
i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose.
i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.
mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the
pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation
to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst
like floodwaters in dorrigo
the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive
that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks
and bubbled and flushed and insisted
so fiercely so strongly so urgently
that to relent was not even a choice but a right
and then half a year later
i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal
feeling my heart retreat, defeated
dreading the long months ahead
promising nothing but drudgery and boredom
letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass
black ink lamenting, too
and not a single person approached
or spoke to me
until i asked to wash away the moment
with a diminutive bottle of ***
a mile from the surface.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Unidentified monograms
we are floating through a machine-gun pterodactyl
that shoots lay-zer tiger gamma-ray photon blobs at a flying bag of nuts.
We ride on a an escalator accelerating toward the speed of sound
towards a symphony that shrinks in our synapses and breaks our bonds. Without words we wander towards a waxy floor
and slip or just trip on a trampled stumbling block of sand.
And I cry at the sight of a man who will probably die for the sake of his pride; who had lied, and cheated, and been mistreated for the sake his gains that caused him pains, but were vain and empty and deserve no sympathy. (for sure)
He will endure for the glory of the cure which will have no discrepancy, and will illuminate the enemy
when it comes within proximity
of the light of God,
which burns all flesh.
For patience is a virtue that the universe attains to, with billions of years gone passing in a flash now.
With breath and reason there will be a passing of this season by the times and dates marked down at the bottom of the page under sub-section be
after "I am" and "I was" and "I shall"
and there won't be a televised broadcast.
There will simply be radio silence for those who are listening.
(Yes they are indeed still listening)
Towards a siphoning of nitrogen out of air into the ground
without sound but with space.
All to be brought back out again
out to spin again;
begin again.
(Better than the last time)
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
I can burn you down,
or scare you with a howl,
I am the wonder of the ages,
say the witches, the wizards and the mages,
Many warrior have had to fight my might,
a valiant attempt to set the scores right,
.
.
.
I love gold, and lust for treasures,
I am invincible, and there is nothing left for a measure,
How dare you compare me to a pterodactyl?
a feeble, birdbrained projectile,
My birth was kindled in a volcano fire,
and once I dance, you will soon be on a burning pyre
.
.
.
Alas! That is all a fad,
My reality is not really too glad,
I am confined to the tales which grandfather told on a rainy day,
and the farmer sang as he cut the fresh dewy hay,
You can also find me in books, movies and computer games,
as an emptiome of 'hard to tame'
.
.
.
I wish there was more to myself,
than just stories of gnomes, goblins, and elves,
I will never spit fire and smoke,
nor will I scare the townsfolk,
Enjoy reading about my feat
be it with popcorn, or from under the bed-sheet
.
.
.
As I wag my tail
only to find my place in another telltale.
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 3:15 PM UTC
A thunderstorm now blossoms, stealing the sheen from a lambent sky.
Selfish clouds harvest light, storing it away for security,
An aetherial currency long-forgotten.
But she remembers, hiding amid grey flannel bedsheets.
She remembers all: the birth of the ground as it fell from the trees,
The death of the moss that hoped for more.
She remembers the haunting shriek of the pterodactyl, circling into Oblivion.
In her room on the moon, with doors of ancient bone and holy song,
Locked away from the great hereafter, she hears the whisper of a promise meant for a whole world and falls asleep.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
I'm pterodactyl
Flying through the blackest night
Taking everything.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:52 AM UTC