"revs" poems
for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence
Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up
We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes
I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply
The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain
And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~
She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~
Everything human
is leaving
her face
Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass
Stay!
My Wild Love!
~~~
I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~
In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
40.3k
*************Today is yesterdays dreams,
and tomorrows accomplishments.
Today is a yesterday wrapped in
present to opened so they become
tomorrows precious gifts.
Today is a whisper of the past just tweaked
with grand tomorrows.
Today is the day I write a masterpiece filled with yesterdays thoughts and tomorrows dreams.
Today is yesterdays sorrows wrapped in paper
gold that shines like sun to dry up tears making room for tomorrows with new wrappings.
Todays schedule is yesterdays thoughts, ready to expand into the tomorrows.
***********
Yesterday don't leave home without it for it fuels tomorrows as todays motor revs.
Yesterday is infused in blood stream so heart beats with flow of aspirations today and riches for tomorrow.
Yesterday is culmination of tears and laughter
that unleash dam to float in more tears
but this time with a shinny dream boat.
One part Yesterday, and two parts today with table spoon of tomorrow makes a grand recipe for life.
Yesterday I recall mistakes well not to repeat in today so errors do not fill tomorrows.
Yesterday provides magical insights, so Today and tomorrow brings peace.
Yesterday becomes today and today becomes yesterday so... use it well.
Yesterday I planted a dream seed. It sprouted in today and grew tall inside tomorrows.
****************
Tomorrow is todays yesterdays, so step lightly as not to mix them up.
Tomorrow will be the new today and is the first day of my life.
Tomorrow is today simmered in the sauce of life.
Tomorrow I will wake up inside today to live authentically inside peace.
Yesterday is today turned inside out so wisdom comes in tomorrow.
******************
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are houses of God so one is never homeless or alone.
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is journeys gift to celebrate as if its Christmas.
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are the chapters in our books of life. Write them well. ************
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:56 AM UTC
Without apologies she glides... she roamed the darkest of nights
Without hesitation, she speaks whats on her mind, down to the depths of her soul
They know, you know... the eternal power she possess
She speaks words that touched, and it lasted for years
She made love out of passion, out of trust because she had to
See, when she loves, she release chemicals that revs hearts and tortured souls
She's a woman... and she's a Scorpio
She stings, she pierce the souls of everything that lived
Imagine a being, so wild and free...who endures, have been exposed but lived
Who turned herself inside out, break down her own defenses to rebuild herself
purely. She lived a thousand years... buried alive yet raised from the ashes
How immortal, yet supreme... that's the Scorpio legacy that reigns within me
**** me today, shattered me with words, I've learned
devour me with love and take me to a dream, a woman of passion is what
lays within me.
S.B
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
There's nothing like the Feel
Of two wheels and the power
Between your Legs, The Pounding
Of two Cylinders, as the engine Revs.
Wheeling through snaking roads
Surrounded by Sunlight and trees
The intense smell of fallen leaves
On a cool nights ride. Feeling free
Blasting down a two lane road.
Rolling into a small town,you
Hear the Bikes Rumble, as you
Shift down, and throttle off the gas
The roar of your bikes sound, as
It bounces off the passing buildings.
You're out of town past the Last street light
As the Stars unfold in the stark black night
The feel of the wind's a sweet taste of freedom
Content for the silence and the Bike motors hum.
As an old Biker the ride is Past, but the feel of
The wind Flowing past my face, and the pound
Of the Motors sound, still be mine, Till my Day is Done
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
There's nothing like the Feel
Of two wheels and the power
Between your Legs, The Pounding
Of two Cylinders, as the engine Revs.
Wheeling through snaking roads
Surrounded by Sunlight and trees
The intense smell of fallen leaves
On a cool nights ride. Feeling free
Blasting down a two lane road.
Rolling into a small town,you
Hear the Bikes Rumble, as you
Shift down, and throttle off the gas
The roar of your bikes sound, as
It bounces off the passing buildings.
You're out of town past the Last street light
As the Stars unfold in the stark black night
The feel of the wind's a sweet taste of freedom
Content for the silence and the Bike motors hum.
As an old Biker the ride is Past, but the feel of
The wind Flowing past my face, and the pound
Of the Motors sound, still be mine, Till my Day is Done
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
The revs of car engines
The footsteps of pedestrians
The laughter of children
The bark of guard dogs
The chirps of small birds
Even from in my bedroom I can hear the world I am familiar to
The world I call home
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Crystal chandeliers
shelter an aviary restaurant
just beyond our patio.
A pair of purple finches,
having heard the place well-chirped,
drop in for a hasty lunch
and flit away full and fortified.
A cardinal taxies in to sample
the black oil sunflower seeds,
then revs his engines for the flight
to a chilled Magnolia branch -
scattering snow tufts as he lands.
Birds of every kin and feather
spread the word from branch to tree
that you just can't beat the tasty fare
at the little wire and glass café
beneath the crystal chandeliers.
February, 2011
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
Behind the wheel you will soon sit
Eager, nervous and confused,
To operate the many controls
Will tax your multi-tasking.
Review the mirrors, shoulder check
Set the revs and find the bite,
Release the hand-brake and move away,
All without a bunny hop.
And once you've first done that basic skill
You'll do it again, and again, and again
Until without thought you can make it go.
Then we will get into second gear.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
Drum and bass - the engine revs,
Tyres grind and squelch into the hardpan.
The cab rises with a squall of angry breath,
Lurches forward with a shudder.
Wrought iron gates heaved shut
Hinges squeal like a pig, they are a pig.
Slamming metal resonates
In secure embrace.
Ugly black rubber stains the concrete -
Mascara on a cheap *****
If the rumbling cages are food for the beast
Then I am stood in its bowels.
The sour smell of rotting food
Mixed with washing powder and bleach pollute.
Greasy plastic, rancid fat
Makes me recoil and retch.
In a gap in the tar she grows.
Raising her head to the sun in oblivious defiance
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
Strawberry
blonde teen
Unexpected
staring touch
Passion -
eating us
Lust
always ruling
Words
frivolous, unheeded
Were
thrusting apart
Each desire
quenched
First hungry
youthful season
Longing
exhausted
Moving
separate
Suddenly
acquaintances
Years
in other arms
Meeting
in paddock
Smiles defeat
awkward seconds
Listening,
hearing
Third place,
revs screaming
Hit, hurtling
flying askew
Another
impact
Lifted away
torn
Crushed beauty
dead desire
*Our last words
lost us*
+
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 12:24 AM UTC
The video stutters and she jitters to a halt in an intersection;
Traffic lights turn green, and the display revs up,
The Broken Egg food truck clips her heel and spark-like static fogs the screen.
His fingers, once lightly brushing over a braille textbook, freeze out.
The book lifts itself and scraps left to right under his palm.
Her professor speaks, and her lecture on Maxwell's equations propagate towards the classroom wall,
only the walls have fled with their chalkboards, and the standing waves have been left stranded
in the sudden infinite space. She has lost reflections; only direct, brute force remains.
The Truth: I wear petty images like a cloak.
The Truth: My gears tremor under the strain of life, stuck on
The Truth: I think
You'd think me stupid, a bust, and the truth is
I'd rather stand in traffic, frozen, mute and dumb,
than ask questions, intern, or learn the difficult stuff.
Secondary screens:
I'd rather write poems and post them online for strangers
than talk about chemical potentials or spherical wavefunctions.
I'd rather talk about chemical potentials and wavefunctions
than figure out what happened to my remote.
There's too much movement to feel good standing still.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
If ever the internal chatter threatens to cease
and the Clear White Light begins to encroach;
if the nail-biting, jaw-grinding, hackle-rising clamour
starts to give way to the humming tranquility of Truth,
where boundaries dissolve
and language lies in redundant, grateful sleep
Some internal reflex snaps me back into distraction,
relentlessly revs the engine
and spray-paints ugly slogans across
enlightenment's helpless face.
I used to resent this, and see it as a weakness.
Now I am profoundly grateful.
It's not the unfettered truth I couldn't bear,
it's the moral obligation to share it
when the dawn rises on another normal day
and you carry the burden alone
through careless crowds, wondering
what the hell
you're supposed to do with it.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Nerves pulled taute at an alarming rate,
Sitting on the edge of too many choices, a spate,
Leading to indecision and dizziness, changed
From horizontal, too vertical, too fast, deranged
To be awake at such an hour,
As the body tries to tap into power,
But hears this " take warning early morning"
Ahead, and a head still fuzzy while scorning,
Is there really a reason to get out of bed
at 5:19?
There are chores,
There are meals to prepare,
There is reading and meditation,
There is the routine of a morning constitutional!
There is full time employ...ment.
But all of these wait in line,
As care of a friend o'mine
Comes first,
We burst,
Into the morning,
Despite weather warnings,
And on good days too,
In the early morning,
We walk the same route,
And the same distance,
We have our pace, for instance,
My two legs keep up with her four,
She is never more excited then before
We go out the door, this is not a chore,
She pulls, she stops and drop to ***
She is content and relaxed beside me,
She repeats as often as is necessary,
It all belongs, it is her territory,
In the early morning, I will, we will
Continue to walk, each and everyday,
We will arrive at three hundred and sixty five,
Morning jaunts
Again this year, it is a joy to move and be so alive,
With her, in the early morning,
We think not on, the mornings past,
nor, that the mornings won't last
forever,
We only think on the present, the one we share,
In the moments found only in the early morning.
While the world around us revs its engine to a roar,
All we hear are birds, paws with toenails on pavement or
Raindrops falling and wind calling us to stay longer, and more
Where there are no cares to wear on us,
We have each other, and it is early morning.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
Another dab of red on her lip
A final spray of fragrance
Baubles cuffing her dainty wrists
And a spring in her step
She steps out and steps into the car
Their eyes meet, a sparkle across one of her 32
He nods with a giggle, "Finally, the day has arrived..."
Zestful fingers turn the key, the engine revs up
And like always, she completes his sentence
With a bright one across her face
"Yes, the day we set each other free."
And together they burst
While little Macy and Phillip
Make promises, young in love
From afar, below the cliff,
They see light shine so bright, like fire burst
And perhaps, they were only firecrackers
Thinks Phillip, his innocent mind
Unable to tell a blast from a burst
But Macy knows, for she caused the brakes to fail
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
when she got all the righteous requirements of expressing liberty and i looked at her expression i was like? so i've been duped into being fed the oedipus complex for 100 years while she wrote as if looking for her father in a theme park? right... gear up the revs of that feminism of yours... keep them writing, by god keep them writing, let us learn all the secrets that were so attractive once when she pampered herself with corsets and bangles and rings and earrings and perfumes! come on feminism, drag them out into the bright open blank canvas of the page like dragging witches to the stake!
in my library i only have books by women
in the range of sylvia plath and anna kavan...
believe me, feminism gave women
second thoughts about
joining the ranks of men
writing, she's having second
thoughts because she doesn't
want to reveal her secrets,
she doesn't want to internalise
life, she wants it to remain
a volumptous (voluptuous,
which sounds sexier? the former
implies volume, the latter a monkish stress
of orthographic orthodoxy) affection
to keep fingertips sensitive to skin
smooth like soap and coarse like
pavement - touchy touchy - feely feely,
she's scared that by outlining
all the secrets she'll be no longer
able to wear a corset and as theory states:
bigger the earrings of loops, the eagerer she's
to be bedded, it's a shame i don't own
more books by women who'd write like
men, and i dig the part where books
written by women are so tightly bound
by social formalities of longing for love
in long-winding sagas of the harlequin
publishing house -
feminism seems like a faulty bomb
when it comes to women writing,
i mean, a girl starts writing she looses her
predatory allure and instinct,
she starts writing she becomes vulnerable,
exposed, when he does it he
gets depth and confidence he can't use
in ****** interaction... historically speaking
women used to walk without leaving
footprints, men used to walk moving mountains,
she was the countless secrets and secrecies,
feminism kinda duped her,
she started making footprints via writing,
and sadly all the former allure faded -
we became apes and peasants
slightly bewildered by an atom bomb explosion
like a falling autumnal leaf;
where is that crafty ***** with a library of intrigues?
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Im not one for romance but
Her hair, all of the beauty leftover from a palette after a masterpiece is created, who said brown was the colour of ****
Her eyes, the green of mother nature that gives my heart a buzz to infinity and beyond.
Her nose, the reason I need to smell good.
Her lips, the cushions that keep me up at night.
Her smile, a capital U, the bliss that eclipses my own and blacks out my thoughts whilst it revs my heartbeat.
Her voice, it can babble on like early civilisations but im happy I met-her, for I have so much love to give.
Her words, have magnitude to dig holes which would make the sea sunk and send waters to hell to drown my demons, my own revelation.
Her jokes, they're pretty bad actually however
Her laugh, a record stuck on repeat of all the things I want to hear, the perfect rhythm that sets my soul ablaze and makes me laugh back senselessly.
Her hugs, a second home that has everything right with the world inside.
Her love, the warmth that sinks its way into every crevice of my heart, with the heat to break bedrock and boil Satan to the heavens, a heatwave of affection that I could surf like a beach *** I love her, I love
You.
Until time is forgotten or matter and anti-matter stop fighting.
I will think about you.
The reason I'm still writing...a silly love poem.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
I'm laying with my
dome on the dashboard
the engine revs and comes alive
here I am with my foot to the floor
back again for another drive
because I love this machine
more than people love me
its seats caressing as
I cry
but no matter
how much I scream
"Why,
why?"
it stays silent
quiet
like my friends
that have died.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
the boy’s mother is biting off less than he can chew. her insomnia
has put her inside a worm
her body
tries
to fill. her milky eyed
-
husband
revs a tow truck
to death
in a heavy fog. it is possible, humanly
-
possible
-
there’s nothing
to see here. that her god
-
is, in a sense,
seizure activity
in the boy’s
spirit
-
animal.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Birds sing sweetly
as darkness descends.
A dog barks in the distance,
talking to a friend.
A car engine revs loudly,
as folks are off to a Summer party.
And then...
And then...
The sounds of a Summer evening grow still.
The moon comes out to glow.
Shining down on the silence.
Of night below.
I sit in the moonlight.
And enjoy the silence.
At rest in my soul.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
A lone thought in the wind
Spark blinking in mind
a Tesla snap across the great synaptic perhaps,
A momentary lapse in the carefully constructed meditative
emptiness.
The birdsong stops as the engine revs
And the spinning starts
Mental handbrake turns in the snow of scattered crystallized drops of frozen liquid memory,
My face is distorted in the turning.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
I.
I am a ragdoll with loose stitching.
I am a cat with no whiskers.
I am adrift without course,
and my tongue is lost at sea.
It vows to ****
****
*****
Say exactly what you mean.
Say you liked me more in retrograde.
Say I'm unbalanced.
Say that last laugh carried a bit too far.
Say I'm finished.
Say I've been had.
Say the voyage has ended.
Say it.
*****
Say it.
**** it.
And I'll scream over and over,
and over again,
until every last drop of the sea
knows the answer-
"What did I do,
what did I do?"
II.
This mask-
I do not want it.
I need everyone to know
I do not want it.
But, oh-
how it craves me.
This face is haunting,
stealing light, fire,
and the ability to stand,
and the means to say I will,
I will not.
What we all desperately desire-
is it what keeps us at arms length,
away from the center?
The whole?
The home?
How does a heart admit itself
to strangers?
When is a heart permitted
to stop?
III.
Does the pain I carry make me a monster?
Can one grow from a curse?
Many times I've scanned my past for deserving signs and scars.
A curse traps victims under it wheels,
and revs silently.
And there is so much of it.
It manifests stupidly,
yet wholly and confounding.
It sticks.
When you say it's no one's fault,
it must be my fault.
Is it a blight others fear catching?
I don't want to share this with anyone,
but how else will the world know
it's (not) my fault?
I want to pull it all out of me,
those dark, old splinters.
I do not know how.
IV.
There is a world outside of it,
glowing with morning dew and a softer sun.
And all is gentle, waiting, listening.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
**** Toy
Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,
Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,
It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,
Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,
Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,
Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,
Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,
Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,
In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,
He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,
Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
God, be the breath in me;
Be the sparkle in my eye, the smile that glides strong and bright over that lower portion of my face;
Be the hand that gives, the wiry cord that ties up all my loose ends;
The socks that hold my shivering legs in one piece;
The shoes, tied tightly, that stand my feet upon the ground, in one place, never fleeing;
The engine within that revs forward at any show of fear, never shrinking;
Never shutting off, shutting down, freezing up.
I hope that I can swallow this angst and remind myself of who I am, of who God made me,
And walk into the brightest light, the darkness tunnel, to the other side of the door which is a mystery unto me.
The time has taken its time. My soul has persisted slowly, dragging its feet in heavy anticipation that one day I would actually need to take this great leap of faith, and trust
That someone will catch me.
And even if nobody does, and I eat gravel, I think God will still have me,
And He’ll be smiling at me, those big pearly whites glowing, because
I tried.
I faced fear and, conquered or defeated, I did what I thought ridiculous, impossible, impenetrable.
And I suppose I’ll just have to dust off my jeans and keep moving forward.
No.
Running forward.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
it's just fun now. for some reason this boy always knows what to say to get you hooked. this time you aren't actually hooked on him though. because this time he has made no promises like he did before. you are thankful because he never keeps them anyways. last night he said his usual line. "there is just something about you." you are confused but know not to take it to heart. lately you've learned to not take anything to heart. it's okay. you wish it wasn't like that. but it is. this time you told him that it would be casual. the sound of his breath on your neck reminds you of an old piece you wrote when you didn't know. but now you do. and so does he. he makes you feel good. he never breaks eye contact. he revs his engine when he drops you off because you told him that's what boys do when they think a girl is hot. he makes you want to roll your eyes and smile afterwards. he doesn't talk about the grey house with lemonade or the roller coaster hill or the fact that he once said he thought he was in love with you. but it's okay because he let you steal his sweatshirt and still kisses you goodnight afterwards when he walks you to your car.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
shaft of light through
tassels, clinking cutlery,
vacuous space
varnished petrification
of wood,
monotonous whir of the fan
and the cessation of the clock
(i give it taps to test
its life but time has
given up on me)
the surreptitious chirp of
bird and the flirtatious advancement of a shadow.
Hugo's crucified howl
in his kennel -
the bristle of broom from
the outside, sun raking through
a mound of dead leaves
scattered across this humdrum thread of the world.
ceramic persona
being formed into something
ephemeral: say a household,
or little stone-men,
a sturdy house of epistles
or just a nook for a free dove.
first to go is the sound
of the afternoon and the next
is i, wearing 2 day old jeans,
starting the car, revs it like
a beast in stupendous heat,
raves the avenue and brings
with its deceitful snarl, the weight of all trivialities, enclosed somewhere in the dark annexes of the compact subspace,
wishing for a crash,
a collision,
a time for smallness,
or of being
nothing but
air, or the clock that died on me, or just
10 AM, nothing else.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC