"purses" poems
As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things
That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset
My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it
But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because
In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
A bunch of roses so she won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
10,000 dollars
9 new airplanes
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of flowers
So my honey won't **** me
At the last minute of Valentines
I got my honey
11 new purses
10,000 dollars
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
So my honey won't **** me
The last thing I got that truly broke me
12 different houses
11 new purses
10,000 dollars
9 airplanes flying
8 new yachts
7 maids a waiting
6 roundtrip vacations
5 mercedes benz
4 sets of earrings
3 diamond rings
2 box of chocolates
A bunch of roses
After this she better marry me
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:37 AM UTC
Hometown girls
are real with you.
If they don't like you,
they'll even make their *****
look ugly;
pulling them in all the way
to the tops of their thighs
through their buttholes
and you can smell the stench
in your brain.
But when they let you in,
when they let you sit on their ears,
it's like warp-drive.
They smoke virginia slims,
because that's what their mom's smoke,
and the bags under their eyes
are filled with nicotine,
but they're pretty bags,
purses of flesh
full with the kinetic beauty of coal.
Hometown girls are mostly black,
mostly white,
fifty-fity,
but nobody's checking
and when they whisper something nice in your ear
it's colored with a microbrew
or a wheel of Jim Beam.
Sometimes they'll take you by the wrist
into the bathrooms;
sometimes they'll take your drink
when you're not looking
and smile when you catch them
with it on their lips.
But that smile is good even,
on par with a supernova
in its ability to crush
and make beautiful.
But most of the time,
they stand around
outside Casbah
and Motorco
--if they're bougie
it'll be West End--
in the middle of the night
under the porch of the sky
looking out with amber
slitted eyes
like cats,
their legs twitching thoughtfully
as they wait for cabs
and pick at the night.
Hometown girls
are sexy/beautiful
because they'll watch your every move
from the gallery
out of empathy,
knowing they've been that ***** before,
knowing they've been that lonely,
knowing they just want to get drunk
and want to be around randoms
that aren't so random.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear
comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.
What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-
with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-
Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without
unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead
at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection
skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,
a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem
of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”
She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
Quite a picture of a happy woman ... in love ... or falling in love perhaps - two rows across me. Her earphones are plugged to her ears, but she is listening to no song. She is busy; typing messages - perhaps whatsapp!. Someone is teasing her ... must be quite adept at it. It has to be a boy ... not yet her boyfriend. Her smile ... her blushes ... are giving away the truths hidden in their secret flirtations.
She has to wrack her wits ... she must win this war of words. She purses her lips and her cheeks cave into a lovely dimple .... that flattered glitter in her eyes has enough for a novel to begin. She is determined to reply to this message and is scanning the lounge through the corner of her eyes as if we have a cue to offer. Her head tilts and a strand of hair falls across her temple curling in a single curve from her thick eye brows to her lips, presently secured between a thoughtful bite of her teeth.
The dimples are back again ... and her smile tells me that she finally has won this conversation ... and my mind tells me that while the war of words is her to win ... she has pleasurably lost the battle of hearts.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
Girls who go on bended knee
And show the world their *****
Never ask for love or care
Or one to call them honey
If they choose to put a price
On showing men their body
With empty hearts and purses full
It seems kind of funny
If only they could love themselves
Half as much as money
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
****** ****** robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
*** except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
so you say you’re a bad ***** huh
so you prefer to be identified by bad ***** instead of ur real name huh
so you prefer to be valued by money instead of your worth
so you are a bad bitch,i ain’t tryna judge you,this ain’t no court
the term “bad ***** can’t end you up as a wife
those instagram pictures wont work,you can’t put a filter on life
you were born original,now you chose to live as a copy
look colourful on the outside but your life is sloppy
the beauty of having beauty is a lot more than being beautiful
the path to life you follow isnt geting any where meaningful
so you say”love sucks,i chase paper”cus to you love is just a verb
no cure for your attitude so you take drugs and herbs(weed)
anything that has a monetary value is worthless
you used to value more but the tag”bad bitch”made you less
you are now defined by pictures of you kissing the air,
exposing you ***** and *** looking for the next prey on facebook or instgram
we follow our dreams but a responsible man wont follow a”bad ***** on twitter
so you can say,you are not any responsible man’s dream
be a bad ***** all your youth and when old a baby sitter?
you raise the stakes for yourself and still cant cross the beam
life is not rosy and even if it is,roses have thorns
those things you do will hunt you,they’ll come with horns
lipsticks,eyelashes,short gowns,expensive wrist watches and purses
money first and then back on the ground,now thats a curse
bad ******* exist amongst us,they are our friends on facebook
"prostitute"sounds bizzare so she says shez a "bad *****
the person you are still searches for the person you should be
and i hope youre eyes dont remain shut for you to see
and the younger girs see you and want to be like you
they want to dress all thight and paint their faces like you
no one wants to be like margareth thatcher
they all wanna be nickky minaj
these days there are more bad ******* than wives
and to responsible men it’s like stabs from 100 knives
because a bad ***** will follow men
but a lady will cling to a man
and if you say youre a bad ***** and you need no man
tell that to yourself when you turn 40
a lady isnt defined by how bad or ****** she is but how elegant and classy she is
a bad ***** is pretty but the beauty of a lady is defining
so choose today to be a lady and start the change for our generation!#thepoet
.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Spt 5-- domestic dispute inv alcohol + firearms Hawkins Terr. area-- Spt 7-- burglary purses stolen from 3 cars Wipple St-- night of Spt 18-19-- vandals untied shoes of large statue Center Park-- Spt 20-- mugging homeless suspect young woman cheeseburger Rt 8--
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
From the very far dark, deep and beating black,
there’s ghost breath, and blue light after,
where I un-broke myself,
next morning.
I’m under, curled to a pupil
of the bed’s eye,
so I blink the dream out.
Asleep, plants are respiring,
and the loam of their dream
is lifting, thinner.
Then the real interrupts,
erupting as a day,
and shimmering back again.
Like the shore that shares it’s time
between sand and ocean.
A fully open cup
fills up in the moment,
wherein that infinite shrinks,
and the universe grows backwards,
backwards Into,
cold coffee and dog ends.
Strange that.
It's not a nocturne,
It's an echoe of a day,
It's a memory of a memory,
It's a remora on reality.
Strange that.
why when last night,
my ashtray was full of stars.
The clock infinitely deepens
the memory of the dream.
But it’s there,
only just there.
That maybe, perhaps, dreaming of us,
somewhere in the brightest time of the night,
somewhere in sleep,
in the inbetween spaces,
somewhere there,
we left ourselves in mermaid’s purses.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west
a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone
there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)
it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.
A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.
What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?
Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
The horizons ring me like *******
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
3.3k
Occasionally, I look into the sky.
Searching for answers that I’ll probably never find.
But the feeling of wishing and wanting overpowers my body.
The spirit, that lives inside my soul suddenly reflects an aura glow.
It shows, that I have determination, an eager will to never let go.
It lets people know, that I am strong, and I will not walk away.
Go ahead, judge me from my past.
But who’s to say, that one day.
One day I will be able to give my mom that dream house she always wanted.
Give her those designer purses, so she can go ahead and flaunt it.
I want so much for my future, that I am impatient.
I want success now, but I don’t have the resources to obtain it.
Lord give me a sign, that I’m going in the right direction
For my biggest fear is to fail, in which would lead me to destruction.
Hard-work, dedication, and persistence.
Stop me now if there’s something that I’m missing.
My dream work will work, just wait and listen.
For the sound of success is breaking out of my prison.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
Violent Films
Pretty dresses
Whiskey or ***
Getting my hair done
Smelling Pretty and
Video Games
Smoking cigars
Crying to sad movies
Black Coffee
Fruit Smoothies
Gang Member Memoirs
Cheesy Romance Novels
Steak, Burgers, Caviar, French cheese
Hell yeah
I'll hit you
and talk ****
I'll be an *******
and a *****
on a deserved occasion
Laugh at ****** innuendos
and giggle about boys
Love Variety
Spice of life
Underground rap
Classic Rock
Jazz
Lounge
Metal
Country
Indie
Folk
I'll take it all
and more
Dancing, Romance
Knives, Guns
I'll write and draw
and go for a degree in Criminal Justice
Getting giddy over make-up, purses, shoes!
I can drip with sarcasm whenever I choose
What's to lose?
My best friend's a girl
The rest are just boys
I like to talk about feelings
I hate to cuddle
Many faces
all true
What's it to you?
Maybe, I'm too much
Maybe, Just enough
Goldilocks
But **** Stereotypes
Girls will be girls
Walking Contradictions
Put that on your Popsicle
and **** it
World
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:50 AM UTC
She buys herself so many pretty things
like shoes and purses, underwear and rings
A pride in her appearance she does take
but cries when once again alone she wakes
Perhaps is not the way she looks that counts
the frustration of her loneliness starts to mount
In time she'll see her attitudes the key
and a nicer person she will start to be
Cos it don't matter if your pretty,
well dressed or even rich.
When push comes to shove
a ***** is still a *****
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 11:06 AM UTC
boy coils in the lawn
& early air.
grass touching him wet,
smoke crawls from his lips,
into the blue awoken,
or sky before his face.
there it dances like wild life lived
& falls away with breezy.
dearly herb to glossy reds,
he purses, thus to inhale.
sparked ember, spark clench, fist to fist.
life given to life encapsulated.
the sense of it goes steady,
goes patent cool.
he exhales, and looks to the south,
where his legs once were.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Ever present life...
Ever present life...
3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ
against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐?
W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̭̝̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦe̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!!
CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE!
Still Sun Tzu
hit my enemy first
in the verses
no physical damage
no trauma purses to manage
I already lived afflicted with curses
from savage researches
Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me,
...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕
But not enough to stop me !
I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE
but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell
sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign
Hi.
Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̭͉̲̱̙̼͎̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅfͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̗̤̞͈̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone.
Passionate like a Shepard's SON.
Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue.
[[God said to me]]:
Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON
You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean.
So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision
Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being
We release the storm my drips speaking.
But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights.
Easily distracted
by how others say
"stay away from illicit people ..."
Illicit people ...?
More like
people illicit
[!?meaning?!]
formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚
Responses from the ghost markers
self-induced parasites better host dollars people!
FC*K that!
>NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE <
-Just watch and listen-
Tectonic plates shift
when I talk back
Demonic cosmic rift silent
when I talk rap
people never seem to mind
unless you say I did that
But you better believe
This ***** not much more than a formality.
Fancy phantasm shorn from reality .
Never base your life in a fallacy.
No waste your life chasing the phallus see?
L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆
Like Harry Potter,
I always catch the snitch
end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
So few leave this life of crime
now I teach yoga
super stack your spine
till that ***** aligned
so try and find me
I’m in orbit right outside the mind b.
To look up my next move in the dictionary
doesn’t make it a **** move, this is :
"My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot
and its OH so scary!"
Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽
I’m married to my Wife,
my Diction,
God and Mary.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
The horizons ring me like *******
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
2.9k
That was then, this is now
Who was where when what was how?
Hear them take their last breath as they're shot down
I scream
Floating in the gene pool, expecting the man who can walk on water to arrive
Sell outs and everyone who has had a bad week even though it's only Monday
Whippersnappers hang their heads in shame
I am one of twelve
So expendable
We live in gluttony
Lineleaders, math teachers, bottom-feeders have no idea
Watch them fall and be forced to crawl on their bellies
We laugh
Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia, getting back to your roots
Progeric clock-makers, lying dead on The Yellow Brick Road
Thin-skinned Transsexuals putting bricks in their purses
We live by eight
We die from our weight
And go unbloomed
-Tommy Johnson
Standing in a nuclear reactor somewhere in Chernobyl looking for the truth
It might be in my contaminated endoplasmic reticulum
I am a radiant
Doppler radar
Monopoly dollar
Singing in the shower, amateur hour
Projecting sour notes
Pouring out their hearts and souls, hear them
Trying
Moo-juice nectar, spilling off The Round Table
Blondes in red bracelets, Kabbalah saves them
Henry pays no tax, John Berryman's bats tell us
You are the lunatic
We are the two quarters of a half-wit
This whole thing is insane
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched
between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach
In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds
Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune
Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay
A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
1
*Tap, tap, tap
Pinch and expand
Pinch and expand
Tap, tap, tap*
I love this dance you do
my dearies, each one of you
on your mobiles and devices
We too play with our fingers
and keep our eyes fixed
on your pockets and purses
and wallets
*Tap, tap, tap
Pinch and expand
Pinch and expand
Tap, tap, tap*
Stay diverted -
we love this what you do,
me Fagin
and all me children
and Jack Dawkins too,
that Artful Dodger
2
Come on, dear children of Fagin mine
this here is Paradise
All these people with eyes
and fingers on their devices
and brains in idle mode
in these crowded malls -
it’s our Paradise, dear babies mine
Whilst they are so preoccupied
let’s to our devices
And we can pick, pick, pick
whilst they tap, tap, tap
3
Ah ha, keep tapping on your mobiles
each one of you, my dearies
with your eyes on the mobile
when at the shops and in crowds
and at new year celebrations
Keep your eyes there, indeed
each one of you, my dearies
Tap, tap, tap
pinch and expand with 2 fingers on the screen
eyes mostly there on your devices
*Tap, tap, tap
pinch, pinch, pinch*
and let your two fingers
burst like shooting stars
All like a dance, as in a dance
each one of you in public spaces,
my dearies
so do the merry dance of your fingers
and eyes on the devices
And we?
We love this, me Fagin
and all me children
and Jack Dawkins too
(that Artful Dodger)
while You
tap, tap, tap
and we
pick, pick, pick
at this our harvest at shopping malls
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
he is six feet tall, curly and blond, and john-lennon-glasses
he purses his lips, trumpeter-sans-trumpet, wherever he goes
he is the only one on the sidewalk
even when everyone is on the sidewalk
he smiles at you
“how are you today!”
and reminds you he is from west virginia
he cooks corn on the cob in a too-small kitchen
and stops after one beer most of the time
he’s the neighbor of neighbors and he’s
the trumpeter of trumpeters
if you’re listening
and he might be alone but you’d never know it
he'd offer his couch, an ear
a cup of sugar
if you should ever need
a trumpeter
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Cacaw cacaw
sing the sparrows
to her tiny china toes
the shadows criss-cross
the cherry hardwood
like a board of tic-tac-toe
tick-tock! the phoenix
rises from her coffeepot
tickling her freckled nose
she scrunches her forehead
into a fan and pats her alarm
good morning!
ambles to the sparrows
sighs out the exhaust
and breathes it right back in
another day
another sheet in the reams of paper
of people
she purses her lips
into a folded envelope
seals it with a kiss
and slips it out the window
wonders if today
she'll be the one
lost in the mail
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:40 PM UTC