"scantly" poems
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
1045
Nature rarer uses Yellow
Than another Hue.
Saves she all of that for Sunsets
Prodigal of Blue
Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly
Like a Lover’s Words.
4.7k
The weighted press of measured steps on stair
accompanied by an echoed call to the familiar.
The first syllable of her name severed midway,
yet it tolled long after the utterance rang out.
The comfort of routine;
tethers of association
snapped under the strain of realisation.
A mocking gift from forgetfulness...
...she left him..
Mechanical body shifts
fighting urges to hesitate and listen to her vanished sleeping breath.
Vacant the cold bedroom,
the chamber harbouring her scent on fabrics, pillow and scantly furnished dresser top.
Each sniff raw as salt on opened wounds.
She left
and left him
only remorseful residues
from the harvest
of three years and five months.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Perish the thought that coats
Our tongues with hard harsh words
Inchoate reaching beyond grasp
Scantly strum our plush stairs
Scaling arpeggios
To soft crescendo as hands clasp
Gently brush angel hairs
Like magnet and shavings
Draw forged iron from gorgeous shrouds
Cherish the touch that floats
Like snowflakes whispering
In hushed descent from secret clouds
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Saintly calm amid storms
Whose roil-released crystals
On sprinkled tongues and cheeks alight
Enlace the fringe that frilled
Our sheer contours' luster
Emerging from dark thunder bright
Embrace the mists that build
Like cotton enfolding
Cumulative nimble and fond
Faintly kiss dermal forms
Like ghost lovers made flesh
Coaxed tumescent from far beyond
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Proudly self diagnosed as non compos mentis , the gallivanting hermetic of Hill Country , walking barefoot this evening , scantly clad , joyfully whistling beneath astonishing skies of blue , fields of clover , clear running creeks , copious woodland greenery ! A fickle , fanatical , fervent lover of every creature the forest has to offer ! Rolling hill , pasture and homestead , Wood duck , blue jay , otter and crawdad ! Every rooster , wild turkey and dairy cow ! A boisterous , benevolent , painfully reverent disciple of Earth and sky , lover of cascading brooks , placid lakes , the cool breeze , bumblebees and centipedes , bobcats and chickadees ..
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Take those decades of resentment
Rolling around in tortured minds
And set them just behind the heartache
Created out of silver piercing words
That were uttered so long ago.
Dress it up with red like all the
Blood that’s spilled from broken
Knuckles, and hearts torn through
Out our time. Let the snow
Place a blanket over hate
And old vicious addictions
Wrap it up in shiny nice ribbons
Pretty and so scantly hidden,
Underneath the green pine
The smell of hope squelched
By disappointment that can’t be helped
And the sort of familial dysfunction
circled around the Christmas tree.
The smell of food and treats
The sound of jokes and laughter on the brink
For one to think they have been crossed.
For one tortured soul to think too loudly
That it’s too late, they are lost.
Balancing on the edge living momentarily
To the explosive nature and fast pursuit
Of broken people put together in a single room
Face to face with how reality
Has made them their *****
Itching at demons
Screaming as there seeing that not the all of them
Could hold the Curtin up, and magic in
And let Christmas be Christmas for a kid.
But people don’t like to hear you don’t like
Christmas.
That snow melts in your socks
Or why broken glass reminds you of
Wrapping paper and ribbon.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
twitters and tweets
pictures are sweets
keeping you hooked
on the tabloid elites
just out of bed, hair on his head
matted and messy, way better than said
your public is waiting and verging on vexed
"stay tuned for more selfies", you casually text.
stand by the mirror and pose for your followers
leading them into the worship of men
drawn to the sight of your bare naked belly
this bowl full of jelly is quaking, and then
this one, her *** just after the baby
she's worked out like crazy, perhaps she just clazy
spray-tanned and bare butted
tattooed and nare studded
back in the crack but her tact has been share gutted
no worries, it all comes around
in some hotel bathroom you click at your Iphone
like all of the rest of us, yet so alone
trying to snap one both **** and manly
the wife beater t-shirt, the boxers and phone
we can't really blame you, your business, your life quest
but fashion is funny right down to the jewels
both earlobes sport earrings, just like mommy dearest
whatever your pleasure, some little girl drools
and she scantly clad there, for all of her viewers
could not give a **** about "ahhers" or "ew'ers"
but don't stop, you're on top and making your money
and laughing right back, since we're also quite funny
we once wore our hair all pulled up or with mullet
thought no one was laughing, we knew we were cool
and now all the stuff which we wore gone forever
or passed off as costume, just vintage, old school
where somebody bought it from some smelly thrift shop
and wore it again with a sense of true style
the polaroid pictures we took at the bus stop
that camera is back and will be for a while
Stand at the mirror and smile for your camera
not really getting that folks can be odd
some are perverted, while others disturbed
and still others are cranky and smelling like cod.
Someday you'll grow up, a mommy or daddy or maybe
a granny once shaking her *****
or maybe a pop-pop
and scoff a their moptop
and laugh with your grandkids
it all comes around.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.
My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.
Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.
A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.
Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.
So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kissed away the tears
That filled the eyes of Morn;—the laurelled peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;—
The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discovered revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
1.2k
Thank you for the shiny things
Long beautiful gowns
bejeweled gold rings
Thank you for a home cooked breakfast
Scantly clad,
I must say, you've got some of the sweetest juice I've ever had
And thank you for taking care of my head and heart
Love and lust
Sweet G&H;
counterparts!
Thank you sweet face
for giving me your love
I could never
ever
thank you enough!
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
Among these fragile porcelain days
Winter lays around us to rest
And She begs to be touched
The shivering want that never pays
Crying out from faintly shifting bodies
scantly dressed,Hands clutched
In these cold winter days
I want to throw myself into you
I want your warmth, skin caressed
So exposed
I see your nakedness
Untamed
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Of course there was ***
Before 63 and the Beatles
First LP. You found some
Proof. Grandmother kept
That quiet. The photo was
Tucked away between pages
Of a Percy Shelley. One lives
And learns. New knowledge
For old. Who was the man
Kissing Grandmother’s neck
And embracing her fondly?
Passionate whoever he was
And she enjoying it quite a
Bit, and scantly dressed at
That, you muse, turning the
Photo over to the back. In
Fading ink, some pen had
Written, you were never shy
And always bitten. What a
Way to be remembered, you
Smile, tucking the photo back
Between pages of the book
And put it in your pocket for
Safekeeping. You’ll keep it
Safe all right, tucked beneath
The pillow where you’re sleeping.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
This is a gift
that cannot be wasted
our breath to it pass
through our lung
it is tasted
and in matters so scantly
do our questions unanswered
sleep quietly at the footrest
of paradise
We are moments awaiting to happen
a gift that can hardly be wasted
© tHE tERRY tREE
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
'Round back alleys, and down black side streets
sits [laying] newspaper mattresses, and makeshift houses with no heat.
Just a step, or two, from Big City Lights, (a rolling neon technicolor wasteland),
lives the bottom tip of the bottle, and a short supply of all, but upturned hands.
Two streets over, over-the-top sparkle of high heels, and scantly draped dresses.
Down here, dweller's fever's rush down from old minded babe's spiralings of deep depression.
The language most commonly spoken is lies, but it's not much different up hill.
What's not translatable from "bag," "spliff," or "pill," can be easily related with "shot," "bottle," or "bill."
I find myself fluent, a traveled veteran of countrysides,
adjusting to the headache of the city's heart, but unwilling to take the full ride.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
As you lay there, scantly clad, content from the love we just made, I wonder if you know...
The swirl of my hips and rhythmic dance of my tongue in your mouth, are clear indications this is mere lust.
I've banished, even forbidden, the L word from the act, since this hair pulling moment is just to scratch an itch.
How I wonder if you knew that I was contemplating a second round, since I'll most likely change my locks.
Old toys get replaced. No offense.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
Who will sit on the iron throne?
Will anyone outlive the doom to come?
For the winter forewarned,
Has reached our shores.
The threat scantly believed,
Is here to wipe out all that breathes.
The Night King is coming.
A dragon of ice in tow.
To conquer Westeros,
And all that lay claim to the throne.
The wall will fall.
Innumerable lives will be lost.
Who will endure, to rule it all?
Only the Three-Eyed Raven knows. . .
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
Of course there was ***
Before 63 and the Beatles
First LP. You found some
Proof. Grandmother kept
That quiet. The photo was
Tucked away between pages
Of a Percy Shelley. One lives
And learns. New knowledge
For old. Who was the man
Kissing Grandmother’s neck
And embracing her fondly?
Passionate whoever he was
And she enjoying it quite a
Bit, and scantly dressed at
That, you muse, turning the
Photo over to the back. In
Fading ink, some pen had
Written, you were never shy
And always bitten. What a
Way to be remembered, you
Smile, tucking the photo back
Between pages of the book
And put it in your pocket for
Safekeeping. You’ll keep it
Safe all right, tucked beneath
The pillow where you’re sleeping.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Miriam
sips her cool
Martini
I drink beer
the disco
music's loud
people dance
we just stand
by the bar
both smoking
and drinking
Malaga
the place where
Picasso
was born in
and she says
how about
we drink more
then go back
to my tent
and have ***
what about
the plump dame
you share with
won't she mind?
I ask her
she's gone off
to Tangiers
by ferry
and will meet
us later
at the camp
Miriam
says to me
o that's good
I tell her
I didn't
fancy the
idea of
having ***
with the plump
dame as well
she titters
as she drinks
her red hair
of tight curls
is shaking
I watch her
standing there
her figure
scantly dressed
I thinking
of the time
in Paris
that first ***
on the coach
at the back
Beethoven's
music on
the coach
radio
all others
asleep or
occupied
by the sights
of Paris
going by
the windows
let's go then
Miriam
says to me
so we leave
the night club
and wander back
hand in hand
to her tent
but there by
the tent flap
the plump dame
changed my mind
she utters
drunkenly
stay the night
go with you
tomorrow
I gaze up
at the sky
of the night
and ask the
o big why?
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC