"rumple" poems
i often, longingly, of your striving pinkest
lips do eat by my own lips curling with
them into a neat pile of tremendous ***
i often, strivingly, long to eat, of your chests
pale basin, the apt fruit of your *******
i, longing, and strive with the savage
electric lash of thy fragrant throat
i dance and marvel at your feeling
my chest hands
i drink of them
and i'm etherised smoothly at
their hot rumple of my skin
and i you just can't barely
for thou art the dripping
rill of Cupid's apt *****
thou art, between darkness
and light, abruptly hung
with my flesh (from which
is sated thy lustful flowers
perfectly glistening petals
'neath me and groaning)
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
I live in an
Enchanted Forest.
Where woodland animals appear
In misty twilight from behind
The mineral-stained shower curtain
And dewdrops sparkle on
The toothpaste-spattered
Mascara-blotted mirror.
Tiny little elves
Rumple my sheets and
Throw my clothing on the floor
Magic fairies dance over
The dresser top and eyeliner-strewn vanity
To the mystical, elusive strains of Owl City.
Mushroom jewels spring up
In my closet while I sleep
Dreaming of princes and turning sixteen
Ruling a kingdom and graduating highschool
Christmas lights twinkle like the
Multicolored stars of a fantasy night.
I spend my days in
This little woodland cottage
My loyal mutt snoring on her rug
Notebooks lined up on
A shelf with drying herbs
Chattering mice and potions of tired hopes.
I live in an Enchanted Forest
Or maybe I just sprayed too much perfume again.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
He is a gentle, lonely man
Looking for love
But willing to accept
company, and comfort.
He is crying alone, now,
In a vast and empty bed
Having said goodbye to another someone
Twelve hours later than advisable.
Those transient lovers
Are always impressed with his beautiful house,
His designer bed, with Harrods sheets
Everything white, and the best of the best.
He tells them he's an architect, and it shows
In the immaculacy,
But last night he took home a builder
To ***** and rumple those pristine sheets,
And he wished for an excuse to knock through the walls
And tear it all down,
So he could keep him, to rebuild.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
Outside the porch before it began to rain
And their smoothness and dips and mountainous valleys
And inevitable destinations and their journeys
And feeling the rain before it fell, without touch,
And today will never be another tomorrow
And fleeting, transitory roughness.
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
As the foundation sank into shifting earth,
And its progressing non-smoothness
Laced cracks through the dents,
And I rumple my fingers into each notch
And feeling without touch, too,
And I remember slipping on an unsecured brick
And slamming my head against the pillar
And roughness and pain and inevitable destinations
Like hospital beds for the busted heads
And hallways for the churning stomachs.
The dents are molding from the rain
And yellowing with the oil from my fingertips
And I haven’t moved my hand in five years,
And the valleys are so deep now that I see flames dancing in the depths
But is the world so complex as that
Or is it simply same outcomes and same purposes
In an infinite score of time passing
And seven billion dents across an ornate pillar
That stands with so much pride
But feels hollow to me, is hollow.
I wish to feel each indentation
When feeling without touch won’t suffice,
But I haven’t moved my hand in 500 years
And this poem is about dents,
But it was only inspired by the honesty of them
Because it’s really about roughness and valleys
And oily finger swirls and inevitability and unsecured sameness
And the pillars keep sinking into themselves
And the dents are folding into the cracks
And I can no longer touch them with feeling.
There are smudges on your cheeks from my finger touches
And dents on your heartbeat from trying to keep mine in time to yours
And mountains in your mind that I fell for in the first place
And everything is transitory
And this poem is about the days you sought the pillars in my skull
And the night they began to sink into themselves
So that neither of us can reach them now.
There are dents on the pillars,
And it has begun to rain,
And you’ve curled miles into the folds of transitory time-passing
As if we were inspired by the dents, too.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Where is Ken?
He's such a doll!
He and Todd are dancing with Skipper
grinding to "Milkshake"
Another round
for the ladies
sitting by themselves
in the corner
Thanks for the drink, sucker!
you can go away now
We're here for the free *****
on Ladie's Night
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
We have mates
they are on the dance floor
grinding on Skipper
She's such a *****
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
We love our men
like they love
their *****
"straight and to the point!"
Hey Ladies
I am genuinely nice guy
highly educated
a few pounds overweight
FU** off loser!
***
How dare he talk to us
Yuk!
We have mates
they are in the parking lot
grinding on Skipper
She's such a *****
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
Where the hell did they go?
They left the club
with Skipper
She's such a *****
Don't worry Midge
i'lll drvesed us hoooomee
b
u tttttttt
f ir
s
t
another round
of Rumple Minze!
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
Believe I am ruined
Habit of believing them
Always made me their followers
Even they proved thorn in rose many ways pricking other
Wanting or not wanting them
I sold my time further and further
Consequently, passing of era gave temple brown brother
Swallowing spit and even believing
Weightage of vote turned pale
Youths of both sexes decreased from my town brother
Couching in sofa their faces glow
As if almighty they are for all and for time
Consensus or process of opinion
Dying in my lap untimely brother
Believe I am ruined not having to drink pure water
Name of disease appears day by day
Killing numerous one after other
Town’s rumple in the evening and night
Tries to extract beautiful glamour
Poor they are even not know culture of death soaring hoard
Orphan children piles themselves
In my ruined town for sake of future
Certainly someday their turn of plight signals them come brother
Why a zero invention circles in me
Circumnavigating hopeless culture
When will those skyscrapers nod to salute my poor brother?
A class of enthusiasm and spirit glimpse
In the light of TV channel always
Programmer holding Mac to me and me like thousand brothers
Flown jets in the aerospace indicate
Dollars return bringing happiness for family
Suppressing heart by two hands see coffin’s of youth brother
Believe I am ruined in earth and space
Hesitantly seeing behave for soil, water and youths of village
Believe I am ruined seeing, leaving to respect youths’ spirit for.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
you move the sun closer to me
and that has no disaster.
your All is the wet funk of my Yes.
the graven image of a total thing -
masquerading as ****** glint
of my " just asking " without the burden
of my suspicion. only the wonderful
of my submission.
You.
You are the One
that Two
looks up
too.
you march into my femur. break my bones
where the soul is course and rancid.
where the Always has no Answer
but the Never has as a
Speech.
you move the Sun closer to Me.
you bring me joys that hate
and mutter the rumple
of lesser men
who have no Love.
you join the disjoint
and mock the cradle
of our discontent
with the spectacle
of our humble
What ?
you move.
you move the sallow fortunes of our weakest
too the strong weeping
of our dire " of course ".
the code. Morse, may be... but the dots
align in the ragged farse
of our profuse jungle.
we are these monkeys
lifting hammers
we cannot claim
but we have stars
that march
against
the verity
of our lies
to preach
the brevity
of our almost
in love.
with an up-close sun.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
I fear of becoming an animal to pin within the
forest of your silence yet a manifest
If I said once your accidental burden
was my presence, which cage shall I occupy?
To accept that being is sure custody.,
To the inundated moon to a full that was only light
when everything shook within the height of absence,
To have you a rumple on the thousand-fleeting foliage
and have me wronged as the green is cut from the
throat of dew-soaked grass
a mistake. Now the fear of
you almost peering through the shaded hall like a fugitive
waiting for an open space interfuses
with my burden. The geometry of our
setting has become the shape of ruin:
a descent. A path that arrows
to a consistent departure. A trajectory
lost midway, murdering the forest.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
some harts through forests dappled lope
gentlest
keen feet
rumple leaves
scatter
or trees unspeaking sing
with the fat incurable
lust of sharp
lovers sore
hands
fingers
nuzzled
against
the fair muscles of arched
backs wriggling muscles
so sudored magic muscles
viscously
o'er
the pretty spines of
roots
splendor
splits and
out bursting
harts
through loping forests
lovers sorely
hurt with crisp intricate eyes
looking
lean raw eyes
wide into omnipotent pain
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
What’s
The
Deal
With the airlines
Mid-air Snacks ?
It always
Reminds
Me
Of the girl
Next door
Where
Firstly
In early morning
Where all the young
Hearts around the
Neighborhood knows
The
Exactly time
She would be
Coming out
For her morning jogs
Like a hawk
In the sky awaits
Its pray
Like the bumblebees
Waiting for spring
Like the black bears
Hibernating
Dreaming
Of
her sweet seducing lips
I bet
Taste just like honey
Like that wet dream
I once had
Dreaming of exploring
Her seductive body
In my inappropriate
Thoughts
I can almost taste
The
Paradise
Desperately in need
Of
Conquering her heart
And rumple her sheets
I
can almost guarantee
To be a lot more
Delicious than her
Favorite candies
Lol
Butterflies in the
Stomach
Couldn’t dream
Of any
Other girls
To help Bring
The animal out of me
Anyway
I was always there
To capture the moment
Yoga pants
Embrace her body
So perfectly delicious
Where all curves
Screaming out loud
For attention
Without
A doubt
She never disappoints
Except
few hours later
Just to be picked up
By that fine looking
College boy
Driving
His
drop top Benz
At
that moment
Painfully, we all knew
There wasn’t
One threaded chance
Of Us
Feeding the beast
What
a freaking tease
A bag of chips
and a soda
Always
Reminds me
of the girl next door
Just
Enough to get
me exited
But Never
Enough
To completely satisfy
My hunger.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 5:18 PM UTC
Cuddly Carnivores
Why do we humans cuddle carnivores
Give names to yapping little quadrupeds
Who growl at socks and shoes and closet doors
And rumple all the covers on all the beds?
What possible use is a dachshund pup
Who chews whatever her tiny teeth reach
And what doesn’t digest comes right back up:
Little dogs are impossible to teach!
But in my arms my Astrid softly snores -
That’s why we cuddle baby carnivores
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
Arms that wrap about your waist.
Fingers that pull against your lace.
Teeth that tug on your lips.
Skin that burns hot, fevered by electric sparks,
as addicting as dreams.
But there's a truth that shows
In the fire of our souls
That can only be told,
Only made known
In the voices upon the bed sheets that
rumple and fold
beneath our enamored and ardent action.
The axiom revealed betwixt is this.
There's no cold
within this sweet, sweet heaven.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
Late nights lead to early mornings when your on my mind. So close yet so far. This drunken dream of ours has shattered, just like the mirror above my heart when you broke it.
How can I go to the ocean when your eyes are the same color? Tell me, how I'm supposed to make myself feel loved? It takes two to tango but baby I'm a wallflower that doesn't bloom for anyone else.
I want you to rumple my hair the way you do the sheets, messy. Trace a love story upon my neck,
One that only we can read.
Ingrain it into my skin so it's there forever. You know I would catch you a star, but oh you'd only catch a cold.
And sometimes I think I'm going mad,
Constantly tormented by your lack of presence. Maybe in another life we will get through the storm, cause the wind is a swirling disaster and my heart is icy without you.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
It is in this moment of shame that I am most dishonoured
I can physically hear the folds of my clothing rumple as I collapse into the sidewalk of my mind-- skull fragments reverberating off the backs of my teeth and echoing dully in the absence of mind.
Silently and absently, I will expire -- My final call
Again
and
Again
I will die here...
Even if only just in a dream
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
a gentle foreboding:
bidding salutation
and a formless farewell,
into a toboggan of
a bottomless memory.
when things begin themselves
as fine objects, i see their
threats of fading. refulgent light traipsing back to its console.
a tangle of words congealing
to become a forest infested with
voices passing through and perfectly occupying space.
or when you open your mouth
as if you were to say something,
its almost perfectness,
its straightening out the fringes
of my soul to rumple them again,
blue head nostalgia peering
through a soft drape of water,
something as untranslatable as
the shatter of a wave with its forgotten foam slowly making its way down the stairs of jagged rocks, leaving no marks on the very core of thinking this.
when you are about to claw your way back to a memory's drop on the silence of still objects,
reducing all wounds to scars
and there will be no commune
to still its message or tuck its blaring clarity underneath tongues labyrinthine without anything to say, and that what remains to be
conceived is
that this silence
remains to
be something familiar,
like speech - or departures.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
I wish you were here
I wish you were near
You've already crawled from my bed
Already said all there is to be said
I felt you leave
You pulled back the covers ever so gently
Then set them back
I heard your cloths rumple as you pulled them on
You stopped and paused for just a moment
Paused by the door
My heart raced and I prayed for more
Then the handle creeked in your hands
So did the floorboards
You walked slow and steady
Not quite sure of your own steps
But you took that last one
Right off my front step
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
*Break bones
rumple them into
unrecognizable
splinters*
**but spare the Heart,
bones may heal..**
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC