"radiators" poems
It would seem the world has quietly fit the puzzle pieces into place over night ,
Like wet washing , crispy and dry from the radiators humming warmth , a satisfactory feeling , a job well done.
There is much beauty to be found on this journey home , moments where the heart is plummeting at a million miles a second , descending from the upper troposphere hurtling down , through clouds whipped up by a storm of ages – waiting for the conclusion – perpetual motion catches me
Elegant design,
Crooked lines make curves,
Spitting at the throat, holding those words,
vision of confusion eats up at the temple of love , bodies are walking shrines.
Taste my karma on sticky fingers.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
It’s winter
and the radiators make for hot summer bedrooms,
fake heat for a false season,
high humid air in the canopy,
a western, British, Tunisian bazaar.
But outside the window frame into
the rooftop mouth
of chimney teeth and foggy breath,
a pair of speckled starlings,
with deep coffee eyes and rings
of white for plumage decoration,
nest in the wound of this building.
Surely if they migrate,
to warmer climates, past
the Spanish-African gate, they’d
be able to bask in the dawn desert
sun that’ll drift slowly overhead,
raise their young their instead.
I’d like to migrate too,
leave this town for
somewhere new.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Decorations are up
hung from fishing wire,
fishing for good luck.
There’s Christmas on her neck
and as she stretches out in front of me
a wake of cinnamon decks the halls.
It remains and lingers,
falls away past nostrils and
turns to festive well-wishes.
The market is in full swing
wrapped up tight in large scarves,
like a low cut sling cradling the cold.
Winter has the streets in its hold,
the wind is sour, bitter to taste,
and punters, commuters, Asian lost-tourists walk in haste.
Shop floors are warmed by radiators
hung above their wide open doors:
let the heat out, let the customers in.
And when the mid-November light dims
and the council gets past the
everlasting electrical admin,
streetlamp sticks will light and spark,
sending effulgent embers down onto
the Cambridge cobbles.
Children will peer wide eyed into windows
remembering names for their lists,
hoping to unwrap them as gifts later on down the line.
Adults, some probable parents and others newly-wed together,
enjoy the festivities, the weather, the bespoke crafts
bought from Argos sold as Handmade Swedish Chairs
And do they care? No.
It’s Christmas in Cambridge and
winter is settling in.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.
In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
1.6k
You are the houses in suburban cul-de-sacs;
Polished, shiny marbled counter tops
Plush carpet on waxed, heavy wood floors
Collections of perfect china displayed in antique cabinets
Matching curtains to center pieces
Sparkling champagne and spotless window panes.
»»-------------¤-------------««
While I am houses hidden in alley ways;
Worn kitchen tiles
Hand-me-down book cases
Collecting dust
Collecting memories in photos on a lone refrigerator
Every breath and sigh stowed in cracks beneath my feet
The whir of aged radiators producing heat.
»»-------------¤-------------««
We are houses whose outsides are structured accordingly
But inside, our unique personality resides.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
But wrapped up in
the sounds of
blaring sirens,
radiators bellowing heat,
the emptiness of each room,
the hush of isolation,
I don’t feel welcome.
Thin walls,
Holding me in
Doors locked from the outside world
All lights turned up for false safety
I glare at the blank TV
Sitting,
Unable to make myself move
Hollow of feeling
other than loneliness.
Lay myself down on the mesh of burnt orange and brown
Cloak my arms around my body,
inhale the aroma of a stale apartment
that doesn’t smell like home.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
The sight of snow
from the window
of the locked ward
made the room
feel cold even though
the radiators were on
that’s how I feel inside
Christine said
as she stood beside you
looking out
her hand touching the glass
of the windowpane
it was a warm summer’s day
when I was jilted
at the altar
she added
breathing on the glass
so that it smeared up
now look at it
she put her hand
down by her side
and wiped the dampness
on her dressing gown
why didn’t he show up?
you asked
he sent a message
saying he changed his mind
she said
just like that?
she looked at you
her eyes watery
yes just like that
she said
and here I am
locked in this ward
because my mind
is ******
and my nerves
are shattered
she looked away
and stared out
at the trees
and fields
covered in snow
and shot up by ECT
you said
she went silent
and wiped her eyes
on a tissue
I can still feel
the headache
from the last shot
you said
supposed to help
you forget
the quack said
she whispered
but it doesn’t work
she laid her head
on your shoulder
I wouldn’t take off
my wedding dress
for days afterwards
she said
her voice vibrating
along your arm
and wouldn’t eat
a magpie flew
from one tree
to another
disturbing snow
her hand found yours
and she held it
and gave a squeeze
we were going
to get married
live in a big house
and have our
2 point five children
she said
he was a creep
you said
not worth all this
she looked at you
and gave your cheek
a small wet kiss
in a distant field
a tractor ploughed
with white and black birds
following behind
welcome
she said
to the house of the blind.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
you can't tell
me anything, Universe.
I ask you
I ask you
I press the
fate button.
and you shut
your coy little
lips and say
no no
don't look
no peeking-
I'll just be
behind this tree
trust me, you'll
like it-
just take another
step forward.
yep, keep going.
But see, How?
how do I know
you didn't paint
a trompe- l'oeil
of a pit
just beneath my
toe tips
how do I know
whether I'll fall
into a cave
or wind up in
an office?
Just open
that door.
I want to
look into the hall
maybe peer at
your houseplants
the radiators
and doorknobs of
the future.
just some
spoilers.
then I'll
leave you
alone, I swear
I'll turn off
the lights, tuck
in and just
keep
walking on til
the end.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 10:32 PM UTC
There! The boiler is fixed upon the wall
Radiators beneath each window
With another in the hall.
Forty five millimeter pipe
Marches away from boiler
To feed a pump beneath the floor
With warm refreshing liquid.
His look, smile, said so much more
Or was it all just imagination?
The pump beneath the floor
Will circulate liquid to bring warmth
To the radiators beneath each window
With another in the hall.
A touch upon the skin adds mystery
Or was it an accident?
All just imagination?
Forty five millimeter pipe
Reduced to fifteen
That feeds each radiator beneath windows
With another in the hall
With warm luscious liquid.
Words sound a strange suspicious melody
Which fill imagination with mystery.
A fifteen millimeter tube rises in the loft
***** and true
***** to connect
The header tank
Away erected in the loft
Gentle stroke upon an upper leg
A smile that say's so much more
Eyes that enchant to speak a mystery.
Tees Elbows with connectors
Join together lengths of copper tube
Beneath the floor all out of sight
Will all connect to the boiler on the wall
With radiators beneath each window
And one in the hall.
Skin touched by lips that smiled creativity
To circulate a warm luscious, liquid mystery.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
a planet of nothing in the middle of nowhere
material out of focus
spread the lines farther apart to see more clearly
all that i've ever said to you, to some degree i've meant
and most of what i've chosen not to share with you served a purpose at the time
this was one of the colder winters, anyway
all the radiators broke so we made weapons out of them
and fought amongst one another
so that we could say we tried
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
1/29/2015
princeton thursday night
all out of coffee
and, sitting by wood slats of the
sad sunroom i
smile at a dead beetle
set the record down on
helen forrest and all she does it talk about
how she loves so madly
the sun sets on the west
sourland bramble downwards the cul-de-sac ridge
was in my line of sight long walks
but pulmonary bruises like the radiators
and that was in what? october? april?
no. april's too early
i close my eyes in bed and
i still hear that ****** song
enraptured i sink back and
i open again i open!
i can't afford to die or lose
same thing, just yet
i have dorms to sneak into and
cigarettes to put out,
more lifetime flatlines to complain about and
drain pipes to stand next to and
grass to sink into when it thaws and
unexpected phonecalls from past men
to receive.
month long in absentia you never called me first and now
i gotta go flip this record over, man.
stand up down the stairs off the bed
remind me not to blink for too long.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
A steady hand against my back
was something I felt like I had won,
Sitting around a table worn smooth
By restless adolescent hands (as we were, always)
Warm to the touch,
The fire that she painted
was slightly pungent like cinnamon
And made me slightly nauseous in the same way.
A sprinkling like cinnamon by the sun
Made a freckled face that pressed against my shoulder.
We felt warm again;
When just days before
We were outside in halfway melted snow and short sleeves
To immortalize ourselves;
Picking apart a radio that was the color of a dusk sky.
Cold blood has always run in my veins,
And my fingers melt and freeze at the slightest provocation.
His blue sweater shocked against a gray and brown wall
Enough to freeze my hands, I thought permanently,
But I melt again with warm water and radiators.
This season I live in constant fluctuation
And my fingers have begun to crack and fall apart
the way that asphalt does.
What was black and certain is now gray and rough.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
you tenderly tore me apart.
even when you ripped every shred,
it felt like home.
in all of life,
ive been without a home,
till your toxicity fostered me.
despite all roofs that were never home,
you became home to me.
with the warmest radiators that worked and sinks that never clogged-
you were my home.
but our household was toxic.
the roof you provided was my sanctuary from the world,
sheltered me from all bad.
but inside our house of carrot flowers,
harbored the greater bad.
in fear of homelessness,
i enabled your manifest under the roof of once love.
and for love i left the home that took me in and took me apart.
and i chose to be without a home.
with no warmth to retreat to in the coldest december of now.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC
Days sometimes blind me like hotel rooms-
all stuffy air heating over zesty grey radiators,
I want to lift the blinds; I already see the light shading through.
That’s not enough; I want to feel orange again,
play with the sunning glow as it re-imagines beauty in skins devilish pores.
I want August’s comfort in afternoon naked towel naps
dreaming that cable dishes are just fish carcasses in the wind,
imagine its possible to watch nails grow,
bed them in earth’s soil, and let it remind me of ***
and the unevenness of intimacy strewn oddly when ***** sweaty limbs
can not keep up with eyes that dart faster than the sway, stay of pendulum pressure.
I want to remind myself that everything exists in contexts
casting emotion on stripped layers, crusts of being.
So I invite my nearest tempest, maybe that moon soft roof
to captain ships of candy shoppe imagination over my starving anxiety
and chalk them out on cemented buildings. I talk to myself loudly.
I tell myself, isn’t it funny when words become tools of composition?
But its ironic because I weigh them with as much suspicion as a glass of milk –
I hesitate to think I ever really have to question anything,
when really, quite possibly, anything is possible
in a sentence pure and ending.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
i like the word epicenter
heard it one night all cranked out trying
to get drunk the juice like water
my nose sweating
amped like hell
wanting to disassemble the VW
bug
find what that sound was,
took apart the carburetor first,
sniffed and stood for half a second said, nah,
not the prob
looked into the glovebox
was sure the bug was in there,
a few screws later
the dashboard was on the porch
and still I had no idea what
that ******* sound was
walked in quick circles
thinking , almost,
it had to be the radiator
or a fanbelt or the tires!
Yes !
I took them all off, carefully snooted around their
hoses the perimeter of the fanbelts circumference
the radiators fins
the pressure
got to me of the tires was perfect,
had to be the ******
I sniffed down my throat went that
chemical taste like antifreeze
I took her out
the transmission
inspected her tip to toe
the servo thing the
valve body
went full bore into the
torque converter
it torqued
converted
now I was getting worried
it was the mirror was loose of course
I took her off
it was coated with a white powder
did a line straight to
AutoZone
for a mirror cleaning
fluid , they looked at me funny.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
I have wanted other things: more than anything
,
The thing I wanted most
was a Barbie doll
Nana said that it was useless and a waste of money
So instead Nana brought me three beautiful summer dresses
~~
When I was about ten years old, I wanted a Barbie doll with golden hair
Instead they brought me a cheap doll with no hair;
and some frilly days of the week underwear
Every part of my doll kept coming apart
I remember my little brother chewing on the doll feet leaving bite marks
~
I had to keep the doll away from kettles, candles, radiators and even the hot sun
Once I leave it near an electric water kettle: To my surprise I never knew that
Cheap plastic usually melt
~~~
When I was about fourteen, I wanted to go to the country fair with my friends
To experience the life of a teenager,
Instead granddad got out his vintage bell and Howell movie cameras
and said to me “watch your friends from afar with these new lens”
~
I wanted others things more than anything else besides
Being under the watchful eyes of my grandparents:
I wanted to be that kind of kid that who stayed out late and get into trouble:
I wanted to be that badass defiance one
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
We used to sit on radiators and laugh.
Heads thrown back, not caring that
Everyone could see my black fillings
And crooked teeth.
Loose-limbed, lazy, brazen, bare.
Cackling now, we are louder
Though there is less to laugh at.
This roar leaves my heart on a precipice.
I curl my toes in my shoes. This is
Not funny.
Today, when I am amused, I cover my mouth
Stare at the floor.
Laughing only with my shoulders.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess
since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling
his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof
and the mice
they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators
they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space
they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity
traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked
his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* ********
the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone
besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently
one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face
"i suffocated the little **** he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store
but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance
one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave
she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and
heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and
fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door
ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"
it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake
finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures
he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
When I'm here;
My soul does not stir.
It settles behind closed eyes
And breathes a contented breath...
A summer sigh.
Knowing that the winter will return,
Like an old friend.
Along with the whistling radiators...
To hold to cold in utter contempt,
And to warm my frostbitten fingers.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
So much of my life is my own fault
I want this, I need that, I, I, I
Rustified, circular logic
so alone, its unfair
deserving no one
He came, brought me to him, took me to him
showed me a bright, thoundering light
I could only, desperately
shy away, turn my eyes
look alway, flinch
at his gentlist touch
turn his words
to lies
This fit my reality, fit my truth
I had to mold him to a pattern
break him, to prove my worth
laugh at his quiet peace
interrupt his turn
intruduce him to my bleak world, pain
misery, sharp, thorned radiators
blame him for my pain
cut him, a razor's
sharpest tongue
my brittle,
poor, dry
self
He is so free, my resentment boils
shouldering responsibility
a firey, solid life
to which, my forfiet
is complete, sold
my pennance
slavery is my only worth, my only lot, its a woman's place
the strings are cables, heavy chains, locking bolts
keeping me safe, its my only precedent
I won't let him, can't trust him
cut me loose, weigh me down
with responsibilities
I have done enough
freedom is not my sorry life, flashing
resentment controls my choice, burns
broken will, regrets, hate, so
I am will, refusal to change
it is all I know
I will cherish and keep it close
for better, for bitter worth
for worse, in wilting sick
and health, such a vow
my marriage shift lost
promises broken
he didn't lie
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
If some Mother could see this now,
And know that her child slept here,
In a tight shed of death and decay,
What would she say?
How would you answer her tears?
Would you dare to meet her gaze?
This is a place of eternal sleeping,
Of wrapping dreams in asbestos,
Cockroaches and leeches reign here,
Those who weep here are ghosts,
The fingerprint of torture marks them,
They have no name, only merciless pain.
Through the window a waxy light leaks in,
Casting wispy streaks across a damp floor,
Each step squelching on the moist moss,
The air is stained with invisible cancer,
This is a cell where Death throws his dice,
The squares of life are fragmented here.
*** ends, broken bottles, needles, empty cans,
Torn rags, and shoes with holes and no laces,
Peeling plaster, and electrical veins exposed,
Razor blades clogged with bloodied hair,
Hope, broken and cracked, smoked and gone,
Fear lurks in every corner, all teeth and claws.
Four claustrophobic walls, doors crushing in,
Held together with the glue of desperation,
This is a house, a bed, a self-made coffin,
No radiators of home and comfort here,
No hope, no form, no fixed abode, no nothing,
They who snuggle here are by poverty ravaged.
Still, through the bitter hunger,
Through the dirt and the daily thirst,
Through the headline of stagnant lies,
Upon the table something yet shines,
In a world of black and white,
The colour of Truth brightly shines.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC