"quibbles" poems
he said/begged,
make love to me just like a woman!
kiss me toe to head, linger on my neck,
trace my waist, begin at my lips, pause at my hips,
quibbles intersperse, quips and licks on eyelids,
nibble me, near me, close and closer yet
unto the glorious victorious near death experience...
whisper me sweet everythings
before during after and over again,
when you must pause to exhale, blow all their warmth
upon thy fingers and bring that warmth inside
Columbus
me with tongue and eyes,
take me slow then again,
even slower, for thy pleasure,
than execute summary judgement upon me
falsely accept, then deny, deny, deny
my every appeal to
oh my god
for anyone's mercy!
adjudge me then guilty yet again,
and to the tower take me
to drown in mine own lashing lamentations,
thy incontrovertible evidence,
mine own uncensored revelations
execute me twice,
slowly, goodly with lengthy and lovely measures
*she said, and so I shall, eventually,
do what you beseech, what you most excellently seek
but you may recall, somewhat earlier, I called out
shotgun
so you must start my dear by following
all the precise driving instructions you just stated,
and bring your GPS^, and, oh yes,
I'm waiting...*
too wit and sod this!
he gruffingly huffingly, hurrumphingly, replied,
*all hell and damnation,
treat me like a woman just once pity-please!"
*can't can't can't -
she be-witchingly cackled!
then sang to me the lyrical words of a
Nobel Prize winner!*
"***You fake just like a woman
Yes you do, you make love like a woman
Yes you do, and then you ache just like a woman
But you break just like a little boy**"
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
I never said I loved you, John:
Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
With always "do" and "pray"?
You know I never loved you, John;
No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
As shows an hour-old ghost?
I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
Who can't perform that task.
I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;
But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
Use your own common sense.
Let bygones be bygones:
Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
Than answer "Yes" to you.
Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at today, forget the days before:
I'll wink at your untruth.
Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
And points not understood
In open treaty. Rise above
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,
No, thank you, John.
3.1k
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
Quips and quibbles of
A teenage heart
Drip drop dribbling
Through my chest as
Teardrops made of rain and
The screech of tires
And flashing city lights
Pour through my veins
Running writhing wriggling
From soul to stomach
Twisting turning
My mind is
Sick with
The feeling of
Nothing
Because
My heart is
Iron and ice and ire
Steel bars separate
Emotion from
The streets that lead to
Freedom and expression
Release
And Happiness rots
Alongside Rage
Molding and mildewed
In the deepening darkness
Where Rational and Reason
Locked them up
Long ago
But I?
I have no reason
To feel this way
My love-sick stomach is
Always fed
And university walls
Surround
My head is
Bewildered,
Brilliant headlight-beams
Blinding my
Aching eyes as
I stumble home
Twelve hours of
Class and work weigh
Heavy on my
Mind is hung-up
On him
Again
Still mostly
My life is
Fire and whiskey
And friends
That burn off the
Chill
And soften the scars
Except on these
Winter nights when
Alone in my room
Blood pounds cold
Through shrieking veins
White-water-whipping
Whirling and
Storming through my
Soul and I
Know
I am nineteen years old
But my teenage heart
Isn’t so hopeful
Or naïve
Anymore
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
Mr White Rabbit
Take me down
To where the grass is greener
And the Queens are meaner
I'll follow you anywhere
Down that Rabbit Hole
Cerulean skirts and white lace petticoats
I pout and I cry
I sulk and I lie
Eat me, drink me
I don't know what to think
But I do think
That I pout and sulk and cry and lie
Too much
Pour me a drink
Tea in a teacup
Quibbles wrought in mercury
Perhaps not retrograde
But perhaps a renegade
I believe in fairy tales
I believe in tall tales
I believe in animal entrails
I believe, I believe, I believe
In magic and in mythology
Wonderland, oh, Wonderland
Take me to Wonderland
Let me wander through
The Land of Wonderland
Come with me
Come down the Rabbit Hole
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.
Who's quill he,
quibbles with.
Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.
In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.
Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.
Slash, ****
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 11:32 AM UTC
Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas;
Lie down with demons, wake up with teeth.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
The little shnurple speads its wings
and sings of heaven's hellish kings
Adrift on memories future flung
Swinging, belting all eight lungs.
Awash, it never comes nor goes
It just is, what no one knows.
Flicking from the back of minds
Dismisplacing the meanest kinds.
Tick-Wicking prickles
Fig-Wiggling giggles
*** for tat
It neither qualms nor quibbles
Just lifts is hairy airs and sniffles.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Face first
into the pasty mud
too weak to crank myself up
too ashamed to continue hugging earth
but we all hug our mothers when we're hurting.
Finally risen from the pit
Face up, proud, and defying
I gave him my stony gaze
Face caked with loam
He sneers
I could swear there are
canines in all gum roots
as he speaks
tongue dancing to farce
I hope he guillotines the messenger
He utters
you look pretty when you wear
the ****
He thwacks me deadly
I tip and tumble
right down
down
It is the betters years now
I've soared up, up
up
and now people wear mud
for me
not on faces
not that I'd care
I'm paying them, after all
after all, I'm not buying their souls
after all, they want to be here
they're happy
and after all I've been through
It's high time someone takes the mud
for me... and then
I see her
Red hair rippling in radiant sun
casting glints of desire I catch with
hungry eyes
Her skin pale as pearl
Her face speckled like rich mineral
Her features delicate and strong
Her eyes, sharp and bright and silhouetted, like
windows to a garden,
yes,
green eyes.
I've tasted never
I've spoken never
of such quibbles as love,
but her beauty is the embrace
I've never known
It's all a shimmering flow
a cascade of fluid memory
the quenching of things
not known to be thirsted
My eyes open to a path
I've just found the will
to traverse in peace.
Yet, like Jack and Jill,
we go tumbling down
down
the hill
and...
It's a wedding anniversary
not ours
because silence
and delirium imbibed
is preferred on such occasions
I smile
She glances
and sighs deep
unearthing cavernous
voids
of misery
caked on memories
of bittersweet mysteries
called love
It is only in the mirror that,
with those windowed eyes,
she gazes with scorn, pity
a truth meant for me
Shame crushes my heart
heartbeat pulsing like
a crumpled soda can
rattling on empty road
With languid brushstrokes
she applies the mascara
You look pretty when you wear
the ****
I said
The pin drops
and with it
the canvas...
One man's trash is another's face
We can find solace in the
shattered remnants
of our dreams,
or we can challenge
the very precepts that
assured our rightful happiness
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
Oh darling Flower Child, you speak ever so pretty
Your breath is like the summer wind, young and warm
However with such lovely youth, comes such a pity
Too many thoughts come and swarm
Upon your gentle tongue is such very good advice
However, seldom do you follow such good thoughts, oh, what a price
For wisdom that comes from yonder year
You do not know. What you say, I love to hear
Because I want to learn
I want to learn from your fantasised mistake
Be bold, be daring, act out of turn
Tell him you love him, Flower Child; gamble all your hesitations upon that stake
I swear by all my moons and stars, he will love you back
He would be a fool not to love your soul, untainted and beguiled
And your verdant eyes and your wit sharp as a tack
For all your eccentricities and more, you will be loved, dearest Flower Child
So, open your mouth and speak: relish the uncertainty
To the adventurous winds you speak of in breaths of eternity
Tell him Flower Child of the love you have for him
Even if your heart is fit to break at there mere thought
Tell him of the wondrous quibbles, of the loving hymn
That you wrote for him; of the words for him you wrote
Into lovely wreaths of poetry
Laced with dulcet sincerity
Quit your flower fortunes; stop blowing dandelion seeds
Your precious little dandelions are but weeds
Stop plucking petals from roses; white painted red
They do not know your heart, they do not know your head
They are but plants, dearest Flower Child
They have no sense for sensibilities so pay their predictions no mind
I know you wish to surrender to your feelings; breathe as wild
As the winds of fortune in your mouth and you may just find
That your first love may just be your first lover
But there is only one way for such sweet feelings to be discovered.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
late loveless slick chime
sprays carnivore quibbles, sly
gazelles spray blithe lithe
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
That dear brother.
For whom I do a little bother.
To recite further.
I know he is amiable.
Ah,
He is staunch enough when he quibbles.
He is,
Confident in his content
And debates until he is content.
I thought he was downright polite.
But nevertheless, he is
That inquisitive charm of his is elite.
He, a good advertiser
But a better reasoner
And the best advisor.
"Dear, dear brother
I know not your second face
But am aware of a hand full of few."
Apr 25, 2023
Apr 25, 2023 at 6:59 AM UTC
Wibbles
Wobble
Quibbles
Quabble
Oceans
Ripple
*******
Stipple
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 2:38 PM UTC