"saran" poems
dalam soal perasaan dan cinta-cintaan,
satu saran dariku ialah
jangan kau gunakan banyak-banyak hatimu
kau tentu boleh merasakan,
asal tidak terlalu dalam.
jangan.
bahkan kalau kau mampu
biarkan orang lain menganggapmu
berhati beku soal itu
biar saja mereka menganggapmu begitu
asal dalam hati kamu tahu,
perasaanmu sesungguhnya hal yang paling murni untukmu.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
though said to be golden like that of Eris,
the mores which you so savor are hollow with worms.
your stony statutes, finally crumbling, now
remind me of rose-colored saran wrap:
stretched too thin across the epochs
to bind each lawless Julia at present.
able now to be whole—free from your unadulterated peace,
spun, measured, and cut are your class lines at last.
and so with a sigh of relief so great that it could echo across
all of the Caucasus,
your Ovid, cast away, has returned.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
To be perfectly clear …
I’m a nut case.
Not only a nut case, but a hard-luck case
Wrapped up nice and neat
With Saran wrap of mental maladies
And bubble wrapped with faulty perceptions
And you know what?
It’s ******* comfortable in this box.
Relaxed is a side effect of anxiety,
Like having an ****** you get tense
Then that sweet release that leaves you
Melting into the mattress, that’s what my “disorder” does to me.
And while you sit and you stare and you judge and you blame
I … smile and wipe the sweat and tears from my face.
So, to be perfectly clear.
I’m nothing but a beautifully taped box
Of stress, anger, resentment and depression
With a slight mixture of joy and pride mixed in
Waiting to be shipped off
To anyone, anywhere, away from that gaze
Of unrestrained disdain.
And so, again, to be ever so clear.
I’m what you’d call emotionally unavailable,
Damaged goods, as I’m sure you can see
The dents my last handlers left behind for me
To bash out to regain a sense of normalcy,
Then you had to come along and reveal them all again.
Thanks for that. And sorry, but the person you are trying
So desperately to reach is Unavailable.
To be perfectly clear.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
.
I looked
Thru the glass at a trembling lil thing
Beady eyes of a worried gerbil
In a worrisome place
The Petco by my house had
Everything you could have
-almost
Rhino's, Daffodil's
Lynx's, Gecko's & even
Alaskan Klee Kai's
Wrapped up in Saran wrap
Or in little glass cages
With little bobbly water dispensers
And kindly placed dishes
Holding nifty pellets of tasty food
That fits their Specialized Diet Plan
They don't have elephants yet
We'll have to ask the manager to order
some of those
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
after watching
the videos of children and humans
striving for a breath
their bodies limp
from a saran attack
I would strap my *** to
a cruise missile
after getting a tattoo
all over my body saying
Assad
this is for you!
It was sickening
beastlike satanic
and I cried
my stomach wretched
I shuddered
here this world is
in the 21st century
and some of us
are still barbarians
I pray
we listen to the
little girl some
call the Syrian
Anne Frank
my heart breaks
again
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
Jumat, 1 Oktober 2010
Aku punya banyak teman dekat
Mereka semua baik pada ku
Tapi ada saat aku bingung
Bingung akan saran yang mereka beri
Yang ini bilang ACD
Yang satu kembali ke ABC
Yang itu bilang jangan
Ada lagi yang bilang coba dulu
Semua membuat ku bingung
Aku berkata, dibilang salah
Aku diam saja, dibilang tambah salah
Ku ambil keputusan sendiri
Tapi aku tak yakin
Oh... Hidup memang sulit
Penuh pilihan dan tantangan
Created by. Aridea .P
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 12:48 PM UTC
The
cyclones are cellophane
saran raptures, and
gale forced smiles in the rain
that comes after a dead-end starts
with a grave intuition.
Out of the blue,
a sky you knew would be safe
as sun-strokes-
of genius,
proof
that love had
a heart...
you found
mars
That's you
wishing where stars
don't fall
they just hang
in the black hole
dark...
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 10:00 AM UTC
i’m a flytrap in Saran Wrap
Definition clingy
shouldn’t be satisfied to be qualified
as the gum that’s stuck to your shoe
This anxiety could be all from nowhere
It might not be real
But honestly and actually
it’s just how i feel
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
my words stumble out of my mouth
like a drunk from a bar
without direction and ugly as sin
banging uncerimoniously against
my teeth on their way out
as if they had some hidden
sober thought begging
for me to stop them
because they can't stop
themselves
my skin feels like saran-wrap
stretched over the bony remains
of something forgotten
left to rot within
protective plastic
my heart is alone
it locked itself in a safe
so it could pretend
it was worth something
but even if the key
was not inside with it
nobody's looking
anyway
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
I want to love you, but I'm afraid to feel
the hollow space in my chest--hallowed ground.
I want to kiss your lips and warm your skin
with the vibrations pulsing through your sense of
touching me where I can't reach
in that cavern housing my thoughts,
the "will they see me? will they want to know"
that I cover myself in dog hair disarray,
that I stand with the fridge door open, chewing shriveled carrots;
hoping to shrink what is soft, weak, feminine, emotional,
dangerous.
but you never respond. you match my arched eyebrows
and my tired dry skin, stretched like saran wrap,
keeping my stench our secret for now.
a mirror never lies,
so why doesn't she love me
as I love her.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
We are on the hunt,
Hunting hunters, hunting.
And desolate travellers are we
Surprised by sinking ships
Wrapped in saran-wrap, forced to stick together
All reaching a Shakespearic end to a means that
never really mattered in the first place.
Is that what you believe now?
We are the players playing.
And we are the grey, sunken in eyes of a child needing sleep,
dreams of fishing for Nessie in the local lake,
far-fetched fantasies only exhausting the youth,
we are the needy needing.
Surprise me of your fleeting lost memories of old,
we are the laughter, laughers laughing.
We mock feeling, reality. The raw human emotives.
And we are the biting bile taste that follows slaughter and unsuspected chaos,
The moment pre-regret, where innocence is forever lost in a tossed about immoral sea. Salty and familiar.
And we are the prey, prayers preying
For things we can’t even remember like unmotivated love and a taste for fate.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
so sometimes I'm just right,
cold, calculating and perceptive.
and sometimes I can't make it through the night,
policing my thoughts and perspective.
But tonight is a night of freedom and purity,
closing the doors to opression,
spilling inpure and conformist thoughts,
and avoiding resurrection.
smoking and snorting and popping and coughing,
breathing, decieving, and barely talking,
focused now.
never later.
still breathing this atmosphere of pure hatred.
can't see past my hands in this tomb,
alone i lay and quietly consume,
every last one of them.
I've let them all go.
the part time, doin time, ebb and flow of cold.
growing old.
when I finally outgrow this taste in my mouth,
i'll be able to breathe.
when she finally outgrows me maybe she'll leave.
never looking back, always forward,
never late.
she quietly escapes the debate of our fate.
never look back kid,
cause your soul might turn blue,
tied tight with saran wrap wrappers,
duct tape and glue.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.
how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
lousy
ingrowth
here. how we
try
to
pluck
and erase
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
Flay me, shroud my body
in Saran wrap, for others to see
what you mean to me: a relief
map of live suffering,
writhing organs in a plastic bag,
a human soup to drag
behind you, sensitive to everything you do,
overflowing with formless worship,
pink, raw and dreaming
of a vicious kinship:
Open yourself and slip my parts in,
we can exist, two hideous beasts
within a single beautiful skin.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 5:20 PM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, kiss
puppets?
Our mumbled whispers
that tapered ladders on gargantuan folds and slung-held
boy-grips.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing sores --
tell me how to cross rapid waters of social trends.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a car crying white chalk bricks
onto saran-wrapped concrete.
There were antennas perched like speckled,
mangy feathers,
poised, reflecting defiance toward
the wool-ashed sky.
With dirt-trekked journey marks,
there were trees growing silver hair outside the grocery store --
and frown-marked women -- that skin-folded
war paint -- yelled at their daughters to pay attention.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
This reality, different from yours.
Sandpaper ice-cream cones sold
in engulfed, aflame stores.
This body, tense yet soft
tears underneath
the rub of rope.
My friend's feet swiped
a flailing chair,
And her neck did snap,
feces everywhere.
This sky, wrapped in saran wrap,
becomes pregnant when it rains,
the plastic weighed down by water,
slumps down the aquarium sky,
we slump down as it kisses us,
crushes us, mashes us, thrashes us.
- It all changes here,
from god to god,
from year to year -
Her hips lay like cursive,
pale, promising, pent up
like the shoulders of
an anxious angel.
Her hair a burnt brown,
wrapped around a whatever-count pillow,
like a L'Oréal snake, sleeping sullen,
drifting off into a designer dream,
unsure of this, unsure of me.
I see her as a child --
No, I see me as a child --
No, I see us as children.
This. This surreal feeling I get
when you're around me.
When the world is around me,
vibrating underneath my Toms.
Vibrating in my prescription bottle.
Vibrating between her legs, my ribs.
Between each page, so much is hidden:
my early swearing that my late love
is slowly draining.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
the words catch on my tongue
like they're bound with saran wrap
I can feel them
clawing for escape
I bite and bite and bite on the speckled pink flesh
but I cannot free these pathetic
slaves in my museum of emptiness
chained to my esophogus
by long, thin, elastic threads
my teeth are too dull
to rip through
despite my constant gnawing
like that rat I once saw
in a memory so faint
I may have imagined it
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
I watch as his hands reach over the couch
underneath my arm towards her body
like he’s saran wrapping his left overs
he’s drunk so he trips, falling onto her lap
and resting his head oh so conveniently
she makes a face at me I don’t recognize
and merely allows his eyes to rest on her
she turns to me and shrugs and I feel it
like she feels his stubble on her neck,
his beer breath between her teeth,
his hunger, appetite, desire to devour
I watch as his hands wrap around her
thighs like it’s time for thanksgiving dinner
and rather instinctively I slap them away
because she’s a ******* vegan after all
I watch his eyes burn holes into her skin
I watch him lick his lips and size his prey
I can hear his stomach growling
I don’t want to know you’ve loved men
cause I know the way they touched you
slowly at first then fast and rough
skimming over your edges and dog earring
each page to the point of causing damage
I keep a pen with me so I can scribble in
my books but only ever to remember
for the sake of nostalgia not ownership
for enjoyment not overconsumption
it smells like cologne everywhere I go
and some days I’m scared we’ll
never be able to escape the gaze
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
Different voices whirl
Around brain mass.
Pang for a tone
That hasn’t gone mad.
Create a realm
Where memories,
Of November,
Are cut out and sold.
Tell the voices
To draw a tale.
Boxes popping about;
From dry air.
Screeching rhythms
As you fold
Onto men,
Like Saran Wrap.
Authority can’t resolve
Genetic stigmas.
Hidden formulas appear,
Toxicity enthralls.
Grasp her bony joints,
Bathe in unkempt hair,
Let marsh stricken irises
Put an anchor inside.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Maybe
If I buy new sheets
I'll have an easier time forgetting you
And your shifting eyes
All morning sun and maroon.
I had better get a new color too
Just not blue...
That was the one before you
With the thin hair and half lies
And winter city lights.
And before that I like to remember nothing besides the yellow daisies on a peachy sunrise of my youth,
But the silky stitches will forever hold
Their petals;
White centered with a splintering,
Tainted innocence;
A pasty white puddle of
Bodies too young-
Caught in the riptide of our
Childhood storms
And a desire for adulthood
Or something seemingly more....
Stable.
Details will only cause us to once again derail
so I must insist you don't question this.
I've been going out of my way so long
Trying to wrap up my Saran facade.
Now every interaction
Feels wrong
And rubs me raw.
My plastic skin is wearing thin
And I might melt against the heat
Of the confrontational defeat
That I suppose ...
We all just get used to.
I keep tripping over perceptions
Strewn across a convex looking-glass
Of stereotypes and slurs that shaped my past;
And I suppose
Made a lasting impression
Rooted deep enough
to now be the
Instigator of my regression
And unrelated, runaway thoughts
That seem to always get deeper
On accident.
Everything will become a hazy memory
And glob into two word phrases
Of the forced politeness
That accompanies the acknowledgement
Of a past regret-
Still freshly gawky
As a transitional stranger;
I am inquiring
In an attempt to find an explanation for this untold something
That remains unseen
Until we're too disheveled
To distinguish it from a
A misplaced dream or idea.
Relativity counteracts the sheen
And perspective is everything,
But I feel myself slipping away
Into a despondent complacency.
I left all my linens in places
I no longer cared to be.
Yeah,
Maybe new sheets are what I need.
C.e.M 12.23.14
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC