"roughen" poems
Fingers
Chew chew chew
Through string flexible cords
Of peached chalked skin,
To the roughen sharped corners of the
Piles, piles pile of papers
Cutting into my head,
********** away to my very own writers tool,
Bite to bite,
Itch, blood and sting to the nails, skin
Aye aye cries the mind,
With the heart and soul echoing along.
Tingles from white aching tingling flesh that knows
No escape from my addicted mouth,
Salvia coated causing pain to durate the hours of sleepless
Nights and un-filled days.
Bite, till my very next appointment
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Tonight, I would disappear if you would
only put your hands away.
The trailers on fire here, country
music boxes for the moon to tinker with.
That moon with one knee
bone deep in each of us, each of us
half of this altar.
The moon on borrowed fire
with the lost snow of minor wishes.
The moon using you like a shovel
to bury January in what I’ll admit years later
is my blood forever. For now,
I’m a bracelet of words for you,
for if only and since then,
a bracelet of words for the black gravity
of your bones asleep
with nothing but your jewelry on. Tighten me
until you feel your heart thud back.
Silver then green then a sentence
that ends in your name. Then
another sentence ends in your name.
When you feel me fall through you
like snow into roses, no, slowly
start to roughen your dark edges
like some rusted tongue
in the ribs of a bell,
hold me like the news,
where more and more of everything’s on fire,
where the prayers fall through
the fingers of language like ash
into your name and other ornaments of failure.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
You are a doll,
too pretty, too arresting.
But you are mass
that demands shaping,
and my fingers are not accustomed
to one such as you.
I press too hard
and sculpt too much.
You are too soft
for my fervid hands.
My own prints roughen you up.
I am anxious.
You should be
as you are.
You are an unshaped doll,
demanding familiarity.
I draw back.
I don't know how to draw back.
My fervid hands are arrested.
Too soft, too much, too hard.
You are pretty but I am anxious.
I can't sculpt you.
My prints are too rough
to be familiar.
I am too unaccustomed.
You should be as you are,
without my prints.
I am not a doll.
for l.r.
091718
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
There I am, I think!
With finely worn shoes and
The exact amount of wrinkles in my
Knuckles cast in bronze.
Just Look! at the way the streetlights and
The trees conspire to sketch feathers on my
Jawbone, as majestically angular as the
Blocks I stand on.
Try to Believe! how many colors there are in the
Tear rolling down that perfect hairline, as
Substantial as a granite butterfly.
While her hard feet roughen the sidewalk and
Scratch into the ground, looking for the
Warmth she's learned is beneath.
While the air she surrounds gets caught on her ribs, and
The wind in her lungs shakes the aged leaves down to the
Bench that tries its best to cradle her through the night.
But Look! there's never been a sun as bright as the
Glow that wisp of hair kisses to that brow.
Such a glow I've never seen,
I'm sure.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
i.
Versonos, mine scarlatinian craves
For thee, instinctively. Attent I am
In wake, or sleep; I shantilize by the
Seaside, of the shaded creek's.
ii.
In lavunger, mine frame needeth
Held, attended to; the mires art
All around us philaprose, though
Through the ill abysmal, we hath
Been through.
iii.
Much ashru, O' much velanuv,
I shalt be on bended leg's and
Knee's; just to seeith mine Jane
Of soothe. Thus the avenue's
Shalt be rough, and the stones
Shalt roughen ourn soles, I'm
A king that shalt do whatever
It taketh, to get to mine lass;
To findeth mine way home.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
i used to play guitar,
as i also used to fiddle with
my fingers, against the thumb...
titilating experience...
playing guitar?
let's just say...
how would a guitarist read
a morse version of
braille,
would it be easier
to read the morse
version of braille...
or just braille?
numbed tips of fingers
of a left hand...
∴
morse braille
. _ ⠁
_ . . . ⠃
_ . _ . ⠉
_ . . ⠙
. ⠑
. . _ . ⠋
_ _ . ⠛ (g)
. . . . ⠓
. . ⠊
. _ _ _ ⠚
_ . _ ⠅
. _ . . ⠇
_ _ ⠍ (m)
_ . ⠝
_ _ _ ⠕ (o)
. _ _ . ⠏
_ _ . _ ⠟ (q)
. _ . ⠗ (r)
. . . ⠎
_ ⠞
. . _ ⠥ (u)
. . . _ ⠧ (v)
. _ _ ⠺
_ . . _ ⠭ (x)
_ . _ _ ⠽ (y)
_ _ . . ⠵ (z)
point being... you really must have
tender finger tips to read braille...
which also implies...
if were not born blind...
when you were not blind
and had to roughen your hands up,
with some mediocre "waste of time"
akin to playing a guitar?
**** you're ******
no, literally...
because if braille is the answer...
and you have thick finger-tips?!
that's it...
unless of course,
braille is replaced with morse...
test: i write with my right hand...
but... if i were to read?
i.e. use my left hand
for both playing the guitar
and reading?
braille, or morse?
morse!
at least it is adherent to some
sort of translateable
arithmetic / quasi-algebra...
you must have very tender
finger tips to read braille...
i tried it a few times,
given that its provided on
most of the packaging
of pharmaceuticals in england...
i.e. diabetic type 1,
born with it,
diabetic type 2,
overdid the chocolate...
sorry, my finger tips are too rough,
shouldn't have learned to
play the guitar,
i couldn't read you braille
with these fingers...
but if you translated braille
into morse?
chances are...
i probably could.
plus? i wouldn't require tender
fingertips, akin to a french origin
braille reader...
give me morse, blind?
i could read it...
but, the current braille?
requiring tender french
finger-tips? no hyphen,
solely dotty?
well... good luck...
finding the next blind lemon jefferson...
who, apart from playing the guitar,
could also read braille...
good luck!
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
My blood creeps through my head, in reverie.
I was left unspoken to and there are things I couldn’t say,
how this was I could not talk with whom
it mattered, at least to whom I thought
it did. And purging through the sand in the hourglass, the
grains start to feel like though they roughen up
my skin, it remains untouched by you. And it bleeds
on the inside, as I have my head and heart waiting for
reply. But it won’t come. How silence can unpierce
through me like an ethereal needle cushion. Am I not worth
it, have I left your mind now more than I have before? For the
screen I look and sit, patience I am burning, like
long incense sticks, but alas, my room’s ceiling has not
the height to hold the scent imprisoned above me, and it
escapes, with light smoke spiraling down the stairwell, it
is devoid of all serenity bringing quality. Still I keep myself
clean, from the foul smell of darkness, and maintain my artificial
scent, longing to break the concentration that I need to
stay calm over this. Though in almost more time I feel it become
more useless. I am not built for the speechless weight of others; I
wish you’d just come talk to me.
© 2004
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC