"regard" poems
~for those who will read this and weep~
*the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience
localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!*
*the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life ***** advertisement
I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs*
*summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created
so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)*
*but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early*
got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind
these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Leaning into the afternoons,
I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.
There, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames;
Its arms turning like a drowning man's.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
That wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness my distant female;
>From your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges.
Leaning into the afternoons,
I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
By your oceanic eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
That flash like my soul when I love you.
The night, gallops on its shadowy mare
Shedding blue tassels over the land.
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To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.
Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: **** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."
It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
the world needs a lesson in self esteem
we can start by re-examining exactly what each part of that term means
self (hyphen): "to, with, toward, for, on, in oneself"
esteem: "favorable opinion or judgement; respect or regard"
self esteem: to hold a favorable opinion or judgement, respect or regard, to, with, toward, for, on, or in oneself
the world needs this lesson because our children do not know what this term means
because the reason they do not know is because their parents did not know
because the reason their parents did not know is because every generation before them passed along
a belief that you had to fit into every box, had to blend in to every crowd, had to meet every bullet point on the checklist
in order to be considered a person of worth
because the great secret that they never told is that people were not made
to fit into boxes, or be marked on a checklist
because my mother married a man who did not deserve her
because she thought that she wouldn't be able to do any better
because that man looked at his beautiful new stepdaughter
and told her she was worthless, and that her mother knew it too
because that girl was cursed with the hips and the **** and the waist of her great grandmother
and when she went to school with her stepfather's words in her head
a boy in her second grade class said the same **** things, and worse
because i was that girl and i was never the girl who got to walk behind me in the hallways
and laugh at the way that my shirt was too tight, and my thighs were too big, and laugh even harder when i cried
because my best friend in high school was always "the hot one"
and because i cried myself to sleep every time one of our guy friends talked to me about how much he wanted to **** her
because i craved objectification before i'd even finished ninth grade
because i wished that i could sink my hands into my own flesh and rip pieces away and be left with something "beautiful"
because i looked in the mirror every day of my life and pointed out every small detail of what was wrong with my reflection
because i hoped that would help me pretend it didn't hurt when other people pointed out the imperfections
because even after satisfying girlfriend boyfriend girlfriend boyfriend, i still did not feel good about my own body
because it took finding the woman that i want to spend the rest of my life with to make me want to turn the lights on when we ****
because she is the most beautiful woman that i have ever seen
but before me, she'd always wanted to leave the lights off too
because we are grateful to each other for the confidence we have gained
and because we both wish we hadn't needed the other to find something that should have been found within ourselves
the world needs a lesson in self-esteem
and i know this because
i had to write this poem
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
I saw a Man both Lean and Hard,
Who smiled at me with warm regard.
As I notice the Bulge within his jeans,
I stretch out my hand. to stroke his seams.
And see the Size of his Manhood Rise,
From Soft Flesh, before my eyes.
Then Kissing the Now Swollen Tip,
As it Slides between my trembling Lips.
Engulfed within, my Lips Now Part,
I feel the Beating of his Heart.
His sighs give rise to other tones
As I Hear the coming of His Moans
And he Collapses, Having Spent
His sweet Manhood now Content.
JMF '98
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
It's in the way she moves her hips
It's in the way her lips touch
It's in the way she bites her lower lip,
Oh how my world turns inside out when she does that
It's the way she says my name
In the way she whispers it, "Lefa... "
Sends shivers all over my body, goosebumps all over again
Problem is, she is taken. Unavailable
It's in the way she looks at me
All the whole new universe inside those eyes I could just get lost in
It's in the way she smiles at me
Just can't help but shy away
It's in the way she wakes all the once buried feelings,
Back from the dead with no regard whatsoever what people might say
It's in the way she makes everything around just lose sense
I know its been years but I can still feel her touch,
Soft, warm feeling
One look at her and I find myslef in high school all over again
Can still remember the very first time I laid eyes on her
Priceless, all words needed to describe her
Short stature
German-cut hairstyle
Gold earrings
Furnished with a smile
Grasshopper shoes
Short grey skirt
One hand in the pocket
Complete with the swing of her small waist when she moves
Still takes my breath away
There is still one problem, she's a taken woman
Maybe I waited a little too long
Maybe it wasn't the right time then
Is it right now?
Maybe I need a hard slap to put some sense back into me
Because right now, I'm deeply in love with a married woman
The worst problem is, I think she's in love with me too..
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells ----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
14.2k
61
Papa above!
Regard a Mouse
O’erpowered by the Cat!
Reserve within thy kingdom
A “Mansion” for the Rat!
Snug in seraphic Cupboards
To nibble all the day
While unsuspecting Cycles
Wheel solemnly away!
12.8k
Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress, and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with love's anguish!
But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers as you have done before;
O, come Divine One, descend once again from
heaven's golden dominions!
Your chariot yoked to love's consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you once came gliding from the utmost heights, to
the dark-bosomed earth.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my hopeless, bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should
Persuasion summon here?"
"Though today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, soon she shall return them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"
Come to me now, most Holy Aphrodite!
Release me from my heavy heartache and anguish;
grant me all I request, be once again
my ally and protector!
"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. We do know that Sappho was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses. Keywords/Tags: Sapphic, Sappho, ****** translation, ancient Greek, hymn, Aphrodite, Zeus, daughter, immortal, goddess, holy, lady, heaven, enchantress, enchantment, love potion, charm, spell, persuasion, beguiler, beguilement, mistress, discipline, ********** prayer, prayers, chariot, heaven, descent, ally, protector, lust, desire, passion, longing, *** crush, girlfriend, women, grief
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 2:51 AM UTC
My my, what a special little snowflake.
Why did you choose to be this way?
You chose to be different, you chose to rebel.
No binary for me!
You chose the grief, the pain.
You chose this abuse, bruised by
the verbal ferociousness, forged by physical fallacies
To be thrown out of bathrooms
because doing your business in the bathroom is abysmal.
You chose to be derided by decisive discrimination.
You chose to be murdered by misconceptions,
***** by ridiculous requirements.
You chose to be beaten, assaulted.
You chose the words I weave to weaken your will.
You chose the sacred sermons I spit at you.
You chose to be
What I find disgusting, despicable
because you chose to be what you aren't,
but I realize what I really regard you to be.
My my, what a special little bigot.
You think I chose to be this way?
You think
I chose the injuring, injustice,
the jester, the joke
the target, tortured,
This pain, my poison,
the prey, praying,
the sinner of sins so bittersweet,
So I could be "special"?
Special isn't a sacrifice of physical self
Nor the gunshots and gruesome grief
Nor even the crass comfort of a half-assed comrade.
You think I CHOSE this,
and you didn't choose
to spit and spew your sour speeches
to disperse your disgust in discrimination
to integrate your ignorance into my existence.
Or did you not choose
to deal the abuse
by your hand
yourself?
My special little bigot,
You live as you are.
So be it, if I am so "special", the special little snowflake.
Yes, we are the little snowflakes that your palm's presence melts away,
And you're that burning persistence of life
Blocking with your own self our slow, wistful descent,
As if it were futility and not of your own will.
If I am the snowflake, you are the fire.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
To lie or not to lie - that is the question:
Whether 'tis better to keep the truth
Shutting the light in the dark,
Or to bring upon pain or pleasure
Why, by bringing truth, gain unwanted reaction. To lie, deceit -
No more - and by secret to say what we want to say
The will of truth and lie
That flows from lips - 'tis an infection
One craved by all. To lie, deceit -
Deceit, perhaps too much. Ay, there's the problem.
For in that deceit of truth what pathologic lieing may come.
When we have gained such filthy pleasure from this lie,
Must force us thought. That's the reality
That makes chaos of such pleasure.
For who really wants to hear or speak an ugly truth,
The lover's love gone, the child's art trash,
The woman's ugly face, the man's unattractive body,
The co-worker's stench, and the embarrassing blemish
That gives opportunity for lie,
When they themselves would appreciate
Why give them heart ache? Who would give them truth,
To give them hurt,
But the chance they would enjoy the truth,
The unknown glee from fate's unlucky victims
For the victim's mind confuses the liar
And makes the liar want to speak truth
And to see that reaction instead.
Thus turning pathologic lieing into suthe saying,
And thus the addicting infection
Is cured with the disease of truth,
And infection seems less appealing
With this regard the lies soon stop
And lose what effect they once had.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
That blank, white, round face
Almost filled to the brim with apathy
As I regard it from afar.
Quietly ticking and tocking
Bearing witness to us all
Almost everywhere
As if to emphasize
The impossibility of escape.
It is omniscient yet knows
Nothing
Telling us with 12 numbers
2 spinning “hands” and 44 small lines
Everything.
It aggravates me
That men thought wise in ages past
Gave power to a thing so trite and unassuming
By desiring to order the abstract.
If I were to suddenly to abandon it
I may be thought of as insane.
But how can you not be
When it is not the sun
But the beat of
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
That continually spins the world?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Ah, the season of gifting.
Antagonist of year-long thrifting.
Tradition sadistic,
Materialistic,
Four quarters in pockets worth sifting.
This year I hereby proclaim
I shan’t be consumed by the game.
Cycle of curse
Purpose perverse
The namesake, an oversight became.
Christ’s birth did in fact begin,
Holiday distracted by sin.
Misguided it be
To forget idly
The sacrifice He made for all men.
We naively regard generosity
As holiday’s behavioral piosity.
But if dollars and cents
Are the tools of offense
Over shadow favor luminosity.
Water in Africa is *****
American child in poverty.
Politics aside,
Convenient homicide,
To enable the ills of society.
In the global economy we flaunt
Wealth by comparison, bitter taunt.
First world problems abound
Pass the turkey around
Central heating and air, what a jaunt!
What if this season we decide
To extend two palms open wide?
Sacrificing ourselves
Rather than stocking our shelves
Dying whispers echo true: “we tried.”
Don’t spend your money on me this year.
Not iPhones, not tickets, not Blu-ray or beer.
Instead know you can
Distribute more than
A snort, a lie, and a tear.
(optional conclusion to assist interpretation of last line)
Snort of derision,
Lies of provision,
Tears, even true,
Hardly subdue
Anguish deprived of tradition’s revision.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Ye won't comprehend what I mean
Unless acquire the eyes to have seen
Emotions by their true image
Do you know what I mean?
Once harnessed power to play with emotions
Impossible seems revival, work no potions
When crawl back half alive
Anaesthetised images, walking drunk motions
That deep sorrow, sadness and pain
The efforts and struggles all in vain
Isn't what you cry for and say?
Ask thyself,
Who drove you into that lane
Pitch dark corners of thoughts arouse the feel
Four stanzas including this one's just half meal
Clouds of this kind circle forever
Pressing the haunting words, in time I'll heal
--------
<***>
Presence of happiness none sees, a pity
As we surmise, there does exist a Deity
For a reason, all this emerged
In everything, there might be something pretty
<*>
Once gripped that strange feel in the prayers
Shall form over body, invisible protective layers
Addition in tons, not kilos
Of sagacity, on each climb of the stairs
<>
Life devoid of expectations isn't the option
The mindset's worthy enough for adoption
Great expectations pave dirtiest of roads
Too precious to be displayed up for auction
<**>
On Him can we lean and must firmly believe
Direct contact's the medicine for mind's relief
Affordable yet unaffordable jewels await
For the closest beings in His regard to receive
F.A teeri
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
LGBT.
You may have never heard of this acronym before,
Or maybe you associate it with liberals, or Obama,
Or hippies.
LGBT stands for:
Lesbian:
I was approached by a straight man
At a gay bar, who asked me if
I wanted to 'have a good time'.
I told him no.
I could see something in his eyes
Flicker, and he asked me why
I told him I only liked women
In that regard
He stood up angrily,
And told me that I was an
Ugly d*ke anyway.
LGBT stands for
Gay:
I was holding hands with
My boyfriend while
We were walking in the park.
We watched an older woman
Walk up to us and say,
"You're going to hell."
I said, "I'll see you there,"
She glared at me before
Storming off in a rage,
mumbling, "Disgusting f*g."
On her way.
LGBT stands for
Bisexual:
I came out to my family today.
My cousin said,
"You're just confused."
My father said,
"Don't you dare walk in
My house with a f*ggot."
My mother said,
"Pick a side."
My supposed "friends" said,
"You're just desperate and greedy."
I've been dating an amazing person
That I can never share if I want to
Stay on good terms with "family".
LGBT stands for
Transgender:
I binded my chest today
With Ace bandages even though
I know it's extremely unsafe
Because I didn't want to be
Seen as a girl again.
I finally cut my own hair
And when I told my mom why
She told me,
"Leave before your father gets home."
I am sleeping on my friend's couch tonight
Because my parents couldn't accept me
As their son.
You might associate the acronym LGBT
With liberals.
Liberals that don't use their religion as an
Excuse when they're really just scared.
Or Obama who said, "No one in America
Should be scared to walk down the street
Holding the hand of the person they love."
Or hippies who refuse to conform to
Heteronormativity, because it only matters
That you love, the who or when or where or why or
How
Doesn't matter nearly as much.
People are more than their secondary ***
Characteristics.
"Love thy neighbor as thyself", right?
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
Purity is not just about virginity,
It's also about dignity,
Purity is not restricted to femininity,
but requires the protection of chivalry,
and regard for responsibility.
Purity is not innocence out of ignorance,
It's making a choice that's different.
Even when facing a challenge.
Purity is not just about hiding behind a white veil,
Or donning a white spotless gown.
It's about going through a season of waiting,
even if it can be tough.
Purity is not just a state of being,
It's a state of knowing,
valuing and protecting...
The sacredness of a marriage.
The loyalty to one's spouse.
The unity of two to form one flesh.
Not giving up one's body to all the rest,
but leaving it for God's best.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
I can't wait till I'm awake..
Plugged into the wall.
Nothing noted until the shell of the capsule
collapses under the weight of your trembling hands.
No there is no notation for what was said between us, just figure-less voices and a strenuous pain that strained our throats for the fear of nothing being communicated between the exasperated gasps of what was less than incommunicable silence.
Ugly is not a word but a feeling applied with meaning, applied to a certain truth about that metallic taste in my mouth, that tearful pain jostled in my chest and that consuming fear.
I know little of what this ugliness could mean other than it harbors shame in my corners. This shame is not inborn in anyone, but it builds it's presence as a drunken braggart who shouts obscenities and believes he is a prince of highest regard.
His ugliness is in what he slings from his tongue and his criticisms of all who in his mind toil about. But he is simply a angry troll with no heart and delusions of grandeur, frittering away time.. for time stands as an eternal judge and measure.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
What is it that causes me to smile
for no apparent reason?
To feel my heart occasionally skip a beat?
To be so much happier than I used to be?
To sing when there is no music?
To regard tomorrow with such promise?
To feel so **** young again?
Like a kid still in High School.
Outwardly to those that know me,
There is no visible reason for all of this,
They might even begin to question my sanity,
Just a little bit.
Only you and I know the reasons,
That Love is in the air,
This rarefied air we are both breathing and sharing.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without question.
we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.
when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork
each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words
so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Whereabout of the heart, where might it be ?
When fury is a feeling which engages your senses, your mind and your soul in a raging outburst of negativity expressed in adrenaline,
Everything seems to be one sided, a loop which only fuels your anger with thoughts of unpleasant, disturbing annoyances, making it harder
Harder to resist, until alike a super nova, you explode in a viscious rampage with knows no escape, so, where is the heart ? Where is it?
A tantrum might be encouraged to grow in size if it's revenge you seek, desire, want to live for to make it expire, with violent passion,
Mercy or compassion, forgiveness and simpathy may be forgotten, within the depths of your burning soul, lit ablaze solely by hatred,
You may lose your mind, oh beauty of a living existence, becoming alike a lily of murderous intent, spiteful, yet elegant and wonderful,
A shivering star, ready to take its opponent down with itself while destroying what used to be so precious, unique and simply sweet,
Blemishing the unconscious without thinking of patience or the chance to calm this nuclear meltdown, unfolding in tragedy for us,
The pure light of your praying palms might help in this regard,
Because his remembrance is what makes furious hearts become calm.
~ Umi
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’
The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’
The last twist of the knife.
8.2k
in a taut black dress
you brush by me
you are
dark summer fruit simmering hot
a sopping estuary
i gather you into me
you cascade like an undulating cat
giggles like trembling gelatin
cherry kiss lips
agile muscle shifting
pleating like soft furs
against my thunderous chest
your tremulous tongue rupturing
like spiced chrysanthemums from heaven
i inhale your lavender breath
your saliva melts stormy mouth up-leaping
i eat your soul
and paradise ********
licking honey rainbows
filling my mouth a thousand times
and a thousand more
its never enough when some one has your heart
suffocate me in your drooling mouth
your body is my aviary
and hot house of man eating plants
i run to your teeth
beautiful cleavers gleaming
shivering with excitement
from your dragging bites
my blood languishing at your feet
have no regard for me
eat my love
i live to be swallowed by you
i hold you through the night
all dire raptures
dark in mystic paradise
tangled in your hair
may mourning never find us
torrid scorched from flames infernal
black candles uncrossing pasts
devils **** your adoring toy
kisses never ceasing
hot weather nostrils steaming
your flexed body writhes
a royal contortion
your heart cleaving
so that i may like a sun
consume your darkest edges
bitter chocolate so sweet
to fill griefs mouth with ecstasy
my heart aches like a siren of echoes
calling to you
shaking your gates down
you are a titanic gravity
and i'm forever tumbling
like eternal burning ashes through cobalt night
it is a steep decent into heavens arms
as i crumble
all smashing diamonds
and hissing flames
into open wounds weeping glitter
your chin jutting
throat stretched
while pulling the roots of your hair
exposing arteries pulsing
stuffing myself on your marrow
you plume like a volcanic moon
showering me with spooling stars
and butter **** kisses
ill turn you into my glistening little *****
all swollen tears for more
rituals of adoration
kisses like monsoon rains
i look up at your supple form
your haunches my temple
worshiping you
smothered in heavens jaws
you cascading pantie-less
in a taut black dress
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
I'd heard about problems with police
hard to hear harder to believe
personally I never had a problem
oh a few well deserved speeding tickets
probably cut a break no definitely
I drove very fast especially in the turns
roll-the-tires fast in the turns
that was me
and the more I heard the faster I turned
as a young kid I applied and was accepted
to six colleges six for six piece of cake
why the stress my SAT score equated
to an I.Q. of 1 above plant life
accepted open arms those WASPs loved me
graduate school one for one
best in the country
bar none MBA with honors that was easy
they called it the golden passport yes
passports are even faster
I never had problems
with band-aids
the bank
the insurance company
the healthcare system
never turned down
for a credit card car loan
life insurance policy
or request for a specialist
experience is the best teacher
and the more I learned
the less I wanted to know
and the faster I turned
then I learned
about certain specifics
certain policies
with regard to traffic stops
bank loans rental property
heath care voting rights marriage
read the color purple
and then that invaluable government
syphilis experiment
that would have been inconceivable
even to doctor mengele
that the star spangled banner
has more than one stanza?
really there were four stanzas?
MY country ‘tis of ME
and it was making me feel *****
learned that no one
voluntarily held that flag up
that hellish night
o’er the ramparts WE watched
as slave and freedmen
were ordered
to their near certain death
with the threat of absolute
certain death
then I watched a cop
shoot a kid in the back
in cold blood
near a merry-go-round
on a playground
in baltimore maryland
I liked baltimore
fast very fast he emptied the 10 round clip
of a semi-automatic 9mm Glock 27
into THAT kid's back no hesitation ******
baltimore baltimore baltimore baltimore
I hit the brakes hard
on those fast decades and decades
generations generations generations
of turning
I slowed down way way way down
stopped
took a deep deep deeper breath
then did what I always did and do best
I turned turned turned I turned around
and as I turned I woke
to kneel
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event
Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.
They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro
These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.
Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC