"puckers" poems
His mouth puckers to the side,
his brow furrows when aware
an assumption crawls around
in the wormwood of his mind.
Every misconception,
unrecognized at first
swells within, until
his error bolts forth
like lighting on the prairie
breaks the swelter of
a summer day.
Meditations sooth his disquiet ,
perplexed by her perfection
he searches for scars in blossoms,
and defects in tree leaves. His mouth
grows dry as he mumbles
"there is no perfection."
If he finds a flaw
upon her cheek,
or a birthmark
on her shoulder
will his love fade?
Eyes staring ahead,
his mind in a trance,
he ruminates phrases
" stay open," "remain tolerant"
wait for flowers to bloom,
rains to come and
her to remain
incomprehensible.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
*********** does not appeal to me.
According to the masses
It is a delicious experience
With only bliss and comfort involved.
To me
It is awkward
Uncomfortable
And fruitless.
When your face descends
My mouth puckers up
My eyes close
And I just try to not offend you.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 7:59 PM UTC
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.
Electra-girl squeals,
**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,
shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.
Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,
Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,
Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.
Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.
Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
A man poses at a dimly lit table,
a light hangs directly overhead
with a cobweb ribbon-wrapped around
the steel wire escaping the ceiling.
An inverted roulette table,
a man betting against the house:
It is always this way.
Light flickers, flipped on,
and off, and on,
without a switch
with which to assert control.
He is alone in the squeaking chair,
sipping tea and dipping his crumb-covered
hands into the napkin-covered basket
of water crackers and salted peanuts.
Sitting, he poses for practice, but for now,
he practices for no one.
The house is empty.
In the back of his mind, there is no worry
of what one will find upon entering
the kitchen: A scarecrow at a table,
full of straw and teeth dulled down
from night grinding,
sitting in, what could be mistaken
as, a pensive position.
The scavenger hand makes him look wanting.
It's partner is propped on chin,
accompanied by his half-sculpted smile
and the dark-light contrast of his hair and eyes
with yellow shining off of his two front teeth.
The color is not the fault of stumbling home
too late to care for the mouth, but of the old
incandescent staring him down
and the obsessively clean, marble surface
at which he puckers his face.
A tapping in the hall stirs his bones
and his body darts up.
A crow, it seems, with small grey beak
has wandered in from the overgrown fields,
the fields that haven't been tended to
since this boy began taking himself too seriously.
The both of them with stilts for legs
and no breeze of running feet
from scream to sway the pair of pairs.
Their eyes connect and neither moves.
Who should place the first bet,
black or red,
and who will set the ball in motion?
The light goes off.
Denoument is a bad time
for a bulb to die.
As calm as a hand
with razorblade against skin,
the scarecrow sits down once again
and poses.
The bird observes his motion,
calls, and waits,
but the man moves no more,
overjoyed with an invisible audience,
a full stomach.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
Thinking in sparked lighters that
sting your thumb and cut your
lungs
Glints in your eyes and burns in
that 0.2 of a second
Scarlet grapefruit that puckers your inner cheeks
Breakfast you've only seen on
Latenight Television, behind the couch, in secret
it's been years since they've
promised your order so where is it
you scream
You scratch, scathing, panting
promising to yourself
of sweetness
bitter sugar
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
I step towards the pool.
You look at me like each step is the end of my life.
I swing my leg on the side.
You flinch.
I laugh at your expression.
You didn't find it quite so funny.
I guess it's really not that funny to you,
how your mouth puckers into a straight line when you hear me laugh,
like the picket fence outside the house you were born in,
only the stark white boards of that fence don't curve downwards at the ends.
There's a fine line of difference between us,
the difference being "don't", "won't", "can't"
and other four letter words, such as "fear", "play", and "lame".
I stifle my laughter and try again to coax you to the edge, the edge of the earth.
You frown, and back away, mumbling like that one Muppet.
Beaker, right?
"Come down!" Beaker cries. "You're being crazy!"
Meepmeep.
The thought of this causes me to laugh again.
You. A Muppet.
You would die if you knew.
I take another step, another, another, further away from you,
up the metal rungs to the top of the world.
The ground slaps beneath me, resilient and springy like summer grass.
I remember your face, panicked, frantic.
I dove.
You claimed you couldn't.
From the bottom of the pool, the world is crisp and clear,
like a vat of liquid nitrogen biting at my skin.
When I resurface it becomes blatantly evident.
I dry off and walk away through the counter.
Don't try to follow me.
I tried.
You didn't.
Maybe I AM crazy.
The bottom line is
even though I'm afraid of heights,
I still climbed that ladder.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:10 PM UTC
He takes photos.
His books are filled
With spilled coffee.
Wavy sun ray hair
Lime green citrus eyes
Sturdy safe shoulders
Rich, melted dark chocolate voice
Pouty peony puckers
Stolen lenses
Quirky movies
Oversized sweaters to cover his quivering hands when he cautiously holds hers.
He reminds me of a child's desk
That was personalized by doodles dinged and carved into it over the years
The desk that his parents probably adore.
He is a collage of all the things he photographs.
He takes pictures of anything and everything
To make himself whole.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
That girl has got moves
blaring music that grooves
Shaking, swirling curvy hips
Closes eyes, puckers her lips
Flowing, moving in a trance
Back away so she can dance
Pull out cash, buy her a drink
She's really hot, don't you think?
Don't be a fool, go dance with her
Or the moment will pass in a blur
Get her digits if you can
Treat her right, be her man.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
Person Number One
Looks at
Person Number Two
Person Number Two smiles and
Moves a little bit
Closer
Person Number One returns the
Smile
And inches
Even
Closer
Person Number Two closes their eyes and
Puckers their lips
Leans in
And
Person Number One closes their eyes
Just the same
And, wouldn't you know it
Puckers and leans
Person Number Two's lips touch
Person Number One's
And they share
That first
Kiss
Smiles all 'round
Both of their faces alight
Thoughts of happy futures and
Secure days
Ahead
Fast forward
A year or so
Person Number One slams their car door shut
Gets out
Walks through a
Large parking lot
No one around
Except Person Number Two
Person Number Two rushes
Politely
Toward Person Number One
Her heels make little
clickclickclicks
As she moves closer and
Closer in
They are five feet apart now
Person Number One smiles
Person Number Two's heels clickclickclick
And as sure as they do
Person Number One and Person Number Two
Stride, slide and click
Right
Past eachother
Without even a
Second
Glance
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
When the pale Luna, goddess of the night,
Her silver blanket did upon the pond cast,
While gliding along the inky sky,
Near to the milky stretch-mark of stars
(Sign that the Universe is our mother)...
The air was thick with the violin symphony of crickets.
Beneath the knotted hair of a willow tree
A campfire, asked to dance by the breeze,
With sheer joy crackled and sparkled
At the sight of the petal-faced imps.
In a foolish manner, one prodded the other:
"Go you and kiss a frog on the nodding!"
Wanting to impress his comrade,
He sprung up like a grasshopper off the ground,
And like a fox pup disguised himself in the reeds.
There, his torch revealed two sinister gleams,
A low CROAK and RIBBIT RIBBIT came with them.
The boy jumped and caught the wet ball of slime,
It protested in his cherub hands and wriggled in vain.
He moved his puckers closer to the little being,
Nature is the one who likes a good teasing,
He kissed it on head,
Then froze with dread,
The frog was a toad and the taste was displeasing.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
i watch her from below.
every time she descends,
slides down the pole,
time slows
until it comes to a stop.
she moves her body gracefully,
head held high,
professionally,
she sways her hips
puckers her lips
as intoxicated exhilarated men
shower her with tips
but she glows,
vividly against neon lights,
like a firefly who cannot cry
so it burns bright
till the day it dies,
on the brink of death,
she shines like a
star on its final breath
i watch her from below
she says she’s used to it,
but i know
her better
than all the body glitter—
i watch her from below,
still i cannot say anything
for i am
nothing but a mere spectator
of her show.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 4:55 AM UTC
My lovely Sophia,
She gets naked for me.
When I'm lonely she calls,
And talks to me.
When I make a joke, she laughs,
sometimes with, sometimes at me.
As long as I can hear her laugh though,
I am quite happy.
Her ***** are perfect,
So round and bouncy,
And when she pinches her pink *******
I get quite antsy.
I want her, I lust her,
I desire to defile her greatly,
Her mouth puckers up,
And her eyes beckon me hungrily,
Its better with her fingers though,
The way they spread her *****
I can see everything, my **** little ****
Putting it on display,
Then ******* it clean,
Though, of course,
Only for me.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
That I shadowed your Invite, I admit
Though such Quip must be uttered in Reverse:
Me the Famed Star; You the Commoner's Wit
Was simply a Jest to see you Rehearse
Seriously, Hearts, be my Concept to Thank
Regardless if Certified your Profiles based
Then plomb this Gift; Appreciate be Frank
Like to the Learning of your own Good Faith
Until then, when your Avid Eyes digest
When Beauty's Kind be Beauty's Faith revealed
The Tongue-Tied Suitor; Glued to his Invest
As Roses sprinkled with his Puckers sealed.
Behold my Verses. Un-Worthy for your Name
Forgotten by Time; Though Loyalty sane.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
I wake up every morning
To stare in the face of death
I love my wife with all my heart
But not her morning breath
I put tic tacs under her pillow
And even a bottle of scope
But do you think she'll ever take a hint
Well I'm guessing probably nope
I'd swear that woman eats road ****
Or something crawled in her mouth and died
When she puckers her lips to give me a kiss
I look for a place to hide
The dog won't lick his **** anymore
He licks her mouth instead
Don't ever tell her I wrote this
If you do I'm as good as dead
Okay, you know I'm only kidding
I'm not really being mean
But you know what I got her for Christmas
Yep, a bottle of listerine
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
She stares at the wall and
she curses it all when all is
said and done.
But at night she’s thrown,
by the brink of her bones
like glass into the silent sky.
So she’s suddenly lost in
nothing but rain
with a glimpse of Sanity Hill.
There’s nothing to lose, but
mirrors to gain
in pursuit of cloudless dreams.
And when she wakes
she frantically shakes but
always takes her time—
she sits and sifts
by burying her misfits
beneath the fluff of steel pillows.
She stares at her
chapbooks from Poe and Sylvia
plathed upon her cedar shelf.
She puckers and sighs at "the end of the world"
but remains afraid of herself.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
How can you spit fire- on earth’s back?
a hot breath that puckers a wind's crack
Your eyes, fill up the Heavens a distant so far
and When you were in motion, I thought you a shooting star
When I was motionless, You became the orbit to my sphere
but You spit fire, spilled it and burnt my earth’s atmosphere
With jettisons to blow soft kisses to try and lull it away
but with a harsh bite to open a closed wound in pain
Your flutters, they fill up my stars with a searing heat
When you're in motion I tethered with you with you when I need retreat
I orbit around you, and I am unwillingly your shooting star
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent.....
flicking tongues of
allitrative illustratation unsure
of present
improv packaging
puckers lips
to pout
and preen
..
grunge moth
in hoodie comes
to sauce the play
tounge twister fandango
...
paperlace lizards ...dreaming...
days streamin by
.
all the mouths
of ritual making
fourth wall breaking
....
accummulate the method
scribe to the write
formulate the figure
linguate the lyrical
....left.....
to the pintered flighted .....sighs.....
shake the speare
this night
.
with finger drumming colour rhythms
reveal the reasoned might
of the fledgling dramaturg
......
foot stomping
posse blighted brainstorms
...
burn limelight
burn, bright, burn
..
...throw your fleeting... searing glow
on these little
dramatic vacations
from life's realities
freeze frame moments
of luducrosity
and
humming,
allocentricity
.
egos pay homage
to floor door
and wall
drink
the life
the love
the moments glorious
of it
all.
........
the fear
pin *****
and bucket dance it
......come one......
come all.
learn the art of
the comic pratfall
here at the home
of drama 171 improv. .
by
the pants
of
your seat
and other
mellowed
dramatic
complexities and pratfalls
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
**** on
My
Succulent
Suckers--- and give me a kiss
With your exuberant
Puckers---------: sit on my
Lips, lavishing luster---
Take me to your kingdom,
Where its honey and
Sugar.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
I speak your name into the night
my hands crawl across your sheets
and your body isn't there
I wait
the chill in the air puckers my skin
you've got a steaming cup
in your hand, as you come
softly padding in
the nights blue light
and your warm honeyed eyes
"Come back to bed," I say
"My feet are cold."
"I'll be your heater. Am I hot enough for you to hold?"
you climb in and thump my head
We waited there
Till the rays of light
Shined on our forms
Tea forgotten
Sleeping like two children
In a storm
Clutched to one another tight
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
I have an unknown happiness,
From the bottoms of lakes and roots of apple
Trees, fish swim by and inch worms
On Branches. My Happiness stretches and inches along.
My Happiness is afraid of turning corners, and eats limes
And lemons. My Happiness puckers and pouts.
I have an unknown happiness.
It favors beige trench coats that protect it
From the rain, and snow, and weather vanes.
My happiness runs marathons, collapses in ditches,
Covered with quilts it sewed and knitted.
I have an unknown happiness,
Would you like to become acquainted?
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 8:09 PM UTC
Spanish puckers
Peck mine European cheeks
Maketh me melt
Pull me down between thy belt
Maketh me lick
Until thy secretion overleaks
Until thy bones go weak
Until thy moan speaks
In amour' language
Let me ride to thine advantage
As thou shalt maketh me keep going
Until we both beg in mercy
Handcuffs
A blind fold tease
Please let me seeith
Thy eyes
Roll
To heavens perfection!!
As thou shalt burst
Once, twice, a third
And over again!!
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent
.....flicking tongues
of ......allitrative illustratation
unsure..... of present improv
packaging.....puckers lips to pout and preen....
........grunge moth in hoodie
comes to sauce the play....
tounge twister fandango
...... paperlace lizards ...dreaming...days streamin by....
all the mouths....... of ritual making.......
fourth wall breaking. ..
.....accummulate the method
scribe..... to the write
........formulate the figure...
linguate the lyrical....
left..... to the pintered flighted sighs.....
.....shake the speare this night
with finger drumming colour rhythms..... reveal the reasoned might ........of the fledgling dramaturg.....
foot stomping . ...posse blighted ....... brainstorms
. .burn limelight bright burn...
throw your fleeting..... searing glow....on these little dramatic vacations from lifes realities.....
freezeframe ......moments.....
......of luducrosity..... and. . humming allocentricity ......
....egos pay homage to floor
door and wall...
drink..... the life ....the love ........the fear
pinprick and bucket dance it ......come one ..... come all.
learn the art of the comic pratfall ...... here at the home
of drama 171 improv
. ....by the pants of your seat
and other mellowed..... dramatic.......completes
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
the mirror plays favorites
she twiddles the beauty queen’s golden hair
she puckers up so lipstick can be placed on her full lips
her hair the perfect length to play with
not dry, but smooth and so healthy
she picks the prom queen’s silky dress with dignity
it’s perfect for her malnourished body
it lays and sits so beautifully
the mirror sees her and appreciates the craft she created
grins, and puts silver and gold expensive earrings on her ears
but when i approach,
she turns her face in disgust
throws an outfit at me; ripped jeans and a tacky t-shirt
she says i’m too fat and that i should keep my legs far apart so people don’t notice how weird i look
she grimaces at me and i walk away bashfully
‘never letting her look at me again’
i say
but
i always come back for her critical opinion
and i accept it
that’s exactly what i am
not beautiful, a fat failure
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 3:31 PM UTC
I've just started living and I can already feel the lenses start to break
Sense the veneer crack against this solid slate memory
See the creases and folds of this bittersweet opus, *disaster
A picture-perfect desecration, an arduous whiplash
I may not be old but I can feel the age set into my bones
Sense the muscles and their atrophy, *apathy
See the wrinkles and puckers balloon from my skin
A dotted landscape, a jagged puzzle piece
I may not be bored but I can feel the bugs under my skin
Sense the wild, unfiltered urge of a sleeping giant, *mouse
See the time and seconds flicker by without a second look
A bullet train to nowhere, a jet plane doomed to fail
I may not be sad but I can feel the weight of everything
Sense the cool blue water filling up the tank
See everyone outside the glass smiling, *laughing
An antelope in the lion's mouth, a snuffed out candle
But the days go by so fast
In the vast chaos of life
And in the spiraling, sprawling expanse of time
I've somehow lost you, *me
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC