"salvaged" poems
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory
afterwards
we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor
after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings
and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
smeared
with your rouge painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue
we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver
radiating
and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids leaden
the night mist fell upon us
muttering shadows
and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
buoyant
like two buttermilk clouds
adrift
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Strapless and lace
That's what I thought it'd be
It wasn't just a dream
I really thought that was me
With the done up hair
With a bouquet of roses
I thought that was me.
White picket fences
Children in the yard
Cooking breakfast and dinner
For all of us, three
With that picture perfect life
I thought that was me.
But, forget about that
I remind you of the wedding dress
That I won't be able to wear
Because it has your name on it
The wedding dress
The engagement that could never be salvaged
Not that I want it...anymore
It's just a pity
That poor wedding dress
Will never be worn
Because it's meant for me
But, still has your name on it.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Lustrous but also lackluster
We are gems yet salvaged
Formed inside of a shelled world
Waves waning and whining
Sailors nauseated on our waters
Drifting towards an aggrandized land
Where they might find us oysters in the sand
They'll tear them open,
In search of what only we bear
Camouflaged amongst the cultured,
Or even those with nothing there
Darling,
We are wild,
Yes we are rare
Open up to me,
We've so many layers to share
Your metallic smile,
Your iridescent articulation
Everything happened so naturally
A miracle to be in the same location
They won't crack us,
For our muscles will defend
Our valuable and vulnerable interior
From the worlds vinegary intent
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
the newbie failure complex(ity)
the poems come torrentially,
hurricane, waterfall & tornado are working adjectives
worthy of the task, yet unequal to the unlimited army
of the written dead of unread poems and poets
that occupy the nether of blog, podcast, and poetry sites,
orphan stars in the un-salvaged junkyard galaxy of verbiage
a faceless wight, once alive, now permanently dead,
we shuffle march, chanting each our own newbie poem,
onward soldiers to ignominy and glory so fleeting,
we are forgot before we are remembered
*this is life in poetry,
or better yet,
the worst of it, (sigh)
this is the poetry of lives*
all for nought,
nought for all,
at least we pass our prison time
in the company of fellow strugglers*
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC
This world is full of dreams
many are lost, found
& salvaged by others.
Some fade, starved of thirst;
ghosts haunting minds’ mirage.
But, there are those rare sparks;
shorn flashes of brilliance,
blazing through self-existence.
Yes. Our world full of dreams.
© Qwey.ku
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
For a thousand years, I've found myself in these dark alleys, searching for a light, on the pathway to perdition,Waiting for someone to come along and wake me up from this nightmare.
For a thousand years, I'm the boy that I'm not, I've become the sophisticated mask that I'm wearing which conceals all my loneliness and agony.
For a thousand years, I've felt this burden residing in my chest, the heaviness of my heart, and the profound weight on my shoulders.
For a thousand years, I've been looking to be redeemed, to be salvaged, and to find a way to liberate myself from the curse of insecurity and desolation.
For a thousand years, I've been weary and cold, longing for love, wanting to be understood, and yearning to go home.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
This is not a love poem.
That was not love I fell in.
Rose covered graves,
is it death that I'm smelling ?
Fate knocks on my door
and I don't bat an eye.
"Fate can't be ignored !"
well neither can I.
Winter spread across the world
as the days went by.
My men fled the lands
to catch the last of the tides.
Preachers deep in prayer,
seek refuge from the skies.
Monasteries abandoned
in pursuit of the tides.
Drowning in herself,
in service to her pride.
Not a law left unbroken
now show me one I can abide.
Mountains took shelter
where I chose to reside.
Born to the storms that
cast terror upon the tides.
The storms called my name
until I saw it in those eyes.
Disbelief had all but claimed
what I'd salvaged from the tides.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
I lost a friend and I lost a tooth,
The tooth had to go; the friend I couldn't lose
It was a wisdom tooth, with some decay,
It was a wise friendship, its strings began to fray,
The tooth couldn't be salvaged; the friendship stood a chance,
I chose to cut loose the tooth; cutting the friendship wasn't my stance
Like my tongue wiggles, at the place the tooth would be,
So mind tumbles, at all things my friend used to be
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
you feel it coming, a definite change in atmosphere
thunder (an awful, raging storm) in the distance
you try to take shelter in the only home you've ever known
then the push comes (don't say you weren't expecting it)
suddently it's o v e r
your world just split down the middle
crack crack crack.
panic does funny things to people
you look through the rubble, searching
there'll be no survivors
picking up the pieces of your past
(oh the memories splinter in your skin)
you scramble to rebuild your home
this is a delicate procedure, heart surgery always is
you're gonna think you fixed (yourself) your home
but it doesn't take a storm to topple a house of cards
cardboard and lies never made good building materials
and construction is more of a group project
loneliness does funny things to people
anger (the sad kind) comes next
you w r e c k what's left of your mess
and take the mangled pieces as prisoners of war (between who?)
you use what little you salvaged to build a little house
(a house is not always a home)
a temporary shelter from this man made storm
somewhere to drown in your nostalgia
this is how things come to be
this is how construction finally ends
this is separation at it's finest
heart break does funny things to people
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
I walked beside the cowman across grass
Sodden by the morning dew. "What do you
Want to do when you leave school?" He asked me.
"Want to be a cowman like you," I said.
He stared at me sideways on."No, my lad,
You want to get yourself a proper job."
He said no more and disappeared inside
His farm cottage tied to the farm estate.
I walked on puzzled by his blunt reply.
I was, as he knew, a London boy, fresh
From the smoke and crowded streets, not used to
The way of the countryside and manners.
In my bedroom, in a glass case, I kept
Bird's eggs, chalk fossils, and a rabbit's skull
Salvaged from the woodland floor on the Downs.
Hanging from the ceiling by bits of string
A model Spitfire moved in the wind.
And taped to the walls were pictures of tanks
Or racing cars with all the parts numbered,
And a chalk model of a Crusader
With sword and shield with red cross of St George.
From my window I could see the whole farm
Where I'd been to fetch the milk before school.
Maybe I'd not work on the farm at all.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
A carpenter found driftwood
From a wreck upon the sea
He looked at it with interest
What kind would it be?
He found that it was oaken
Mighty, strong and hale
But it had been broken
By tempest and by gale
He was building houses
From such sturdy oak
So he took the driftwood
Upon it for to work
He carved with sharpened chisels
He began to sand
He had red, raw cuts of pain
And splinters in his hands
He worked with it patiently
Imposed on it his will
It will be something wondrous
He's working on it still
He loves that piece of driftwood
He salvaged from the sea
For the Carpenter is Jesus
*And that piece of wood is ME*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/23/2016
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
Dear DSM,
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who live high up on medical Olympus,
You who live so that others may also live,
You who look down on us mere mortals,
You who look around and all you see is misery,
You who stand above the dark clouds of our minds,
You who stand for all that is noble,
Tell me, is my name written on your pale-white page?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who hold the secret alchemy of melancholy,
You who hold the keys to life and death,
You who preach a gospel of salvation,
You who preach though not all heed the call,
You who sing a song for the broken,
You who sing our song,
Tell me, will my soul be saved?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
I who long for your protection,
I who long ago gave up hope,
I who waited all my life for answers,
I who waited in long New York winters cloaked in bitter fear,
I am here now to testify,
I am here now my soul to cry!
tell me, what have you to say?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
We who float adrift along the edge of the abyss,
We now live while tomorrow no one knows,
We who wear many, many faces, though all are faded,
We who crowd the halls of hospitals and slaughterhouses,
We who call ourselves survivors while we still can,
We who are hopeless, helpless, sleepless and blue,
Tell me, who are we to blame?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
All things that must be said and done,
All things will fall into place at last,
All things we’ve salvaged, and all that we’ve lost,
All things we’ve left behind,
All these things that I must say to you now!
All these things you really ought to know!
Tell me now, will this voice be heard someday?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
Dear DSM,
Until then,
THE END.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Good morning, good evening, good night.
If only one person to send this to.
They've no care for many that care say it to them.
Mute are half the expressions in my mind.
Fighting not to wonder my place.
Where may I fall, how can I tell.
Its only dementia to think I'm just an afterthought.
Surely, I know I'm more than that.
Or am I only debris awaiting to be salvaged and rebuilt.
Trying is not a crime.
But prying from thine time is grim.
Walking the streets with my feet and mind doesn't assail the pain.
Yes I've committed a crime
but sure HE wont leave me no day alone.
Not even the one YOU sent
To rest my head on is always there.
Not even my friend, to no one I can lay it on them.
Working favors those are all the words
The exchange of tongues use
No one really cares if this is
A real good morning, good evening, or good night.
Its just a prefix or suffix for the favor they've asked.
For there's no answer soon, later, or after
If I just say it because I meant to say it.
Good morning, good evening, good night.
Guess its avoidance of the void in the meaningfulness of such words.
If someone cared and I needed you to respond
Guess its better not to lead a farce and leave me in silence.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 4:30 AM UTC
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the ********
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.
I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.
I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.
This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.
No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.
He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.
The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
The displays
Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;
Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;
Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;
Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;
Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;
Foreground
Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
I will love you everyday,
hard as I very well
can.
I will give you my love each morning,
(compounded on the minute),
and I will make sure you’re
well asleep
before I begin again.
I will love you for years at a time
without asking a reprieve
even if I grow tired. Because,
there is no honor
but the honor
of loving you everyday.
and if one day I should notice,
my heart running low,
I will gather up my heartstrings
and wring them out
until we have enough
or they run
dry.
if that should ever happen,
I will take myself to visit each place
I have ever told anyone
I loved them.
I will be unabashed in crawling
on my hands and knees,
gathering up any scrap of love
that fell lost between my mouth
and their ears.
I will weave a very fine net
of lace, you see,
and secrets,
to attract the scraps of love
and catch them from the air
of all those lovely places.
and should all the love I gather
still not satisfy my need to love you,
I know what it is
I will do next.
I am not proud to say this,
nor will I be proud to do it,
but if it should come down to it,
I will put on a nice gray blouse
and ask my big brother
to meet me.
I will explain the problem,
and he will understand.
he will smile sadly,
a smile not reaching his eyes,
(stopping just before the part
where his dimples ought to start),
and he
will want
to help.
he will reach into his bones,
where he keeps his given love,
and pull out a wisp—
then a wisp—
a cloud—
of love I have given him.
it will not even be a fraction,
but as I fold and press it neatly to my chest,
we will both notice its absence.
but, it will be
Okay.
and I will come home to you,
bursting with my salvaged love,
and go on to love you everyday
with that.
and should all of that be gone through,
should I still love you everyday,
it will so happen I need only tug my
heartstrings
a bit harder,
to make that bit more love.
and I will return my love
to all the places I recalled it from
(with interest)
and no one will have minded
because they will be in
lovely awe
at how much I will love you
everyday.
(at any cost).
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
You teach me with a heart of gold.
A gentle persuasion.
That indeed I am able.
Salvaged what I thought was lost.
Friendship is a gift of truth.
No vile tongue, nor be uncouth.
You teach me well.
Grasshopper.
With much respect for you I bow.
Sweet one, I'm not sweetness.
I'm just a holy cow.
Never will I be with you.
Never will I see you.
From a pile of rubble.
My being reconstructed.
For that my friend.
I thank you very much.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
the dead air shrieks
with a venomous lullaby
slams and reverberates
with salvaged impregnation’s
of speeding threads
a stimulus that empty’s
the insides of short lived
moments between reality
and imagination
provides for scattered
but orderly quatrains
that tremble with the sound
what is it? what is it?
it is the metallic blue guitar
the music of the band
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
༷
When A Flower Gets Enough Light, It Opens Up
This Is Where All The Beauty Begins.
That Beauty, Is Usually
Short Lived.
When Enough Light Is Consumed
& The Flower Has Sacrificed Itself To Nature
There is Nothing Left to do but Perish the Salvaged Soul.
∞
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
The bracelet curled around your wrist
skin embracingly ornamental....representing
eternity. I remember when we shopped
windows lit up to enhance the jewelled effect
Wore bright smiles, coats that salvaged
hid the chill from our bones. The cold air paid
a high price to gatecrash our sentiments,
it did not succeed and skulked off to bite
into the heart of one whose flesh was delicate
who wore woes, like parrots clinging to
Shoulders of pirates at sea...all at sea...for dear life
Clearly slipping in and out at sea level
I saw them pegged out, unaware of those tagged
Expressions, labelled on the outside
And me, fingers grasping the secret of our love
Affair, bought and paid for in gold
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
I watched a body burn yesterday,
with eyes closed shut
and brown hair parted so perfectly
that it couldn’t possibly have been you.
But it was wearing your shoes
the faded blue Converse
that I tried to throw away when you weren’t looking.
Your mom must have salvaged them.
I’ve been looking for you
in the places I thought would remember you.
I have found
that you don’t exist anywhere:
not in the urn
resting in your mother’s living room
not in the shower
where I try to freeze the love out of me.
You have left me smoldering.
Your mom told me they burned you
with a pack of cigarettes
in your jacket pocket.
The faint smell of burning tobacco
would follow you to death.
I think I might hate you.
You told me it was your trademark
to leave people wondering
about where you were going.
I thought you were just mysterious
not intentionally cruel.
But you have left me here
left me not knowing
if my heart is on fire
or if I stepped into the crematorium with you.
I can’t breathe right now.
Completely burnt out.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC