"screeched" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
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The sky was under stress
Fire lit up the night
Winds wailed and screeched
Foundations were blasted
Dread, death, doom and demise
A woman crying, "The world nevermore!"
A man thinking "It will be an eternity for daylight."
A baby, so fragile and small, lays in the street.
Danger arises
Hope shattered
Where is the light? And the salvation?
Thugs and gangs roam the cities
Terrorists never seem to stop
People will die 'til the Day.
Lucky seven no longer brings
Death and sickness and disaster come
Will the suffering end
And will the Earth be rebuilt again?
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:50 PM UTC
he used his hands to touch around my pure bare smooth skin
and told me it was supposed to feel magical,
but what is magic without a shinny golden lamp?
he rubbed it three time and continued.
he told me that i was a princess, untouchable to others, but him.
set on a perfect seated throne.
that seat was made just for me.
he ignored every blood drip drop
and shoved the glass slipper in as if it fit.
he whispered into my ear
and told me, i sounded like mourning birds chirping
as i screeched horridly being poisoned by an apple.
it felt like a needle pricking in and out of my skin.
laying there in eternity, still and steady.
wishing i could forever sleep.
but how can i sleep forever when he is the beast that has held me captive in his castle of words?
“the princess is supposed to kiss the frog and he will turn into a prince.”
i kissed the frog.
no.
i did even more, but he was nothing like their stories.
his story was different from the books.
he told me it was my fault that i was a singing siren.
i was just too desirable,
so he had to pull me out of the water and show me something new.
Dec 3, 2021
Dec 3, 2021 at 6:57 PM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
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Once there was a jungle
Every creature great & small
Was given special gifts there
God, he gave them ALL.
He gave monkeys humor
He gave gazelles grace
But the peacock was quite special
He gave HIM the fairest face!
Now, as with all great blessings
This one had a curse
The peacock... quite spectacular!
But he had an ugly VOICE!
Peacock screeched displeasure!
He spread his tail... and then...
He saw his greatest curse of all
His VERY plain PEAHEN!!
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:16 AM UTC
We stood in front of my grandmother’s
Old almirah, facing each other
The peacock feather and empty bags
Of the square room fell silent all over again,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
Then they all came, marched in, reflections,
Paraded in like martyrs of Brute’s History.
I knew them all, she knew them too
They came, touched us one by one,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
She looked confused just like me
Watching life pass by, centuries reuniting
After a very long season break, nations-
Travelled, explorers stood upstairs watching,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
Streets strapped the coffee cans and middle-
Aged hospitals swallowed wars. Married women
Bend over like animals and in months, unable
To breathe they gave birth to few number plates;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
The city vomited battles, human heads
And dreams of muted foul slaves. Men and-
Their violent tradition screeched for blue number-
Plates, lean number plates, handsome number plates;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
Unexploded bombs bounced happy homes,
My brothers, my kids, my mothers
Blew their windows and ran, ran away,
Ran afar without destination;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
They were all dark, their land was darkness
Or were we all blind?
Like a watchman we preserved darkness,
The vapours that filled their glasses did not speak;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
We are all reflections, ripples and mirrors
Of men-dead and living.
They all stood outside my almirah, million faces
Inside a mirror. She did recognize them;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
She did nothing, an unusable empathy rolled in,
The hypocrite did not even cry.
In quiet hours she smelt pain, blood and
History flowing from confronting corners;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
An insignificant obligation drowned her nerve,
They needed a home, candle flame, cotton and wool.
The land, their land has become unfamiliar
And they stood outside locked gates and laws;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
They all smelt the same blood, the abused blood,
I tried to kiss them and they kissed me back with-
Their cold lips. I tried to touch them, they touched-
Me back with water in their eyes;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
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You told me that
the stars were your
best friends.
That you paint
the twilight sky
midnights and crimsons
and magentas.
That each comet tail was
a strand of your fallen hair,
torn away by your tender
fingertips,
and that each meteor
was a bit of you
shedding your broken skin.
You screamed to me
that there was life,
beyond our little
self-aware planet.
That you had met them all,
shook their hands,
kissed their babies.
You were appreciated,
not like home.
They loved you.
Plutonian dollars
held your face,
and Pluto was,
indeed, a planet-
noted, and you screeched;
Your favorite,
in fact.
You told me you
were God--
and your eyes
those blank, lost eyes,
they shone with your smile
for the first time
in the infinity of
the universe.
You believed yourself,
and I couldn't
bring myself
to deny your
honesty.
You can be
my God,
if it makes any difference.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Standing tall on the highest mountain
surrounded by clouds and the most beautiful fountains.
Against all odds, the tree grew on the toughest rock
up in the sky with the highest-flying hawk.
The cherry blossom reached for the sky.
The cherry blossom wanted to fly
to see the world from up high
to see that last as it dies.
The cherry blossom reached its goal
but all too soon it lost control.
it wanted to see it all
even if it meant it'll fall
The cherry blossom reached and reached
while its trunk screeched and people preached
"trees aren't flexible," they cried
yet still, the cherry blossom tried
the cherry blossom soon adapted
for it never ever got distracted
its trunk had bent and curled
and soon it could see the world.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 3:36 AM UTC
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now
“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded
Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!
…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....
How could we have forgotten?
“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”
We laugh
and let the tape go....
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
*A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands*
*Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart*
*The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall*
*If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
The Ravens
On a rainy night so boring
I heard Munin soundly snoring,
I grew tired of my poring
Perched above Valhalla’s door.
“Munin!”, screeched I to the ceiling,
Sending the poor fellow reeling,
“Let’s deal out a joke to Odin,
One that he’ll be falling for -
Just one joke, and nothing more.”
After barrow ghosts-invoking
Odin entered, wet and soaking,
And I started with my croaking
From the dark above the door:
“I’m the first and oldest Volva!
All my secrets I could tell ya,
For the right price I might sell, yeah”,
And I cawed, “Would you know more?”
(He is crazy about lore.)
“What!”, cried Odin, “Quick, be talking!
At the price I won’t be balking.
Searching wisdom, I’ve been walking
Wandering from door to door.
Let my need for knowledge reach you,
All my own skills I would teach you;
Tell me all now, I beseech you!”
Quoth I grinning, “Nevermore!”
(Just a jest, and nothing more.)
Odin with frustration sputtering,
Munin laughing, wildly fluttering,
I was dead-pan and kept uttering
Nonsense about hidden lore.
For his need he found no quelling,
All Valhall woke from his yelling –
Oh, the fun to keep on telling
Him that one word, “Nevermore!”
(We thought it was a joke, no more.)
In the morning ceased his raving,
But that did not end his craving,
And we saw our master waving
To our roost above the door.
“Friends”, he said, “Now I will ride out;
Over Midgard you shall glide out:
Seek the Volva in her hideout!”
- Then it felt a joke no more.
(And Munin, to this day, is sore.)
Every day we must keep flying,
Always for that “Volva” spying,
Acting as though we were trying;
Well, the joke’s on us, for sho…
To escape a rightful chiding,
To this day the truth we’re hiding;
By this tale we are abiding,
And we’ll tell you nothing more!
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
It’s the dark creature crouching in the corner.
You know it’s there, but you ignore it.
When it first came, it screeched into the room,
Clawing at your face, your chest, your arms—
Anything and everything it could reach.
But you fought it off, somehow,
After a long, sweaty, arduous journey.
Now it just sits there, brooding in the blackness.
You don’t look at it.
You don’t acknowledge it.
But it’s there—you know it’s there.
You can feel its presence like a vortex.
And it knows you know it’s there.
And sometimes it reaches out a gnarled, clawed hand
And grips your clothes or cups your cheek,
And ice inches down your spine
And crystals cascade down your cheeks.
Soon the creature will fade from its corner,
But replacing it will be a hole—
A hole in the very fabric of the room.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
We crossed paths after a few snowstorms
And my nerves screeched at the edge of a cliff.
I tugged at my turtle-head hood in an attempt to look good
And a whir of frosted air caked my burning ears.
We exchanged overlapping synonymous greetings,
Your spontaneous recognition and caught-up voice like needlepoint
Left a juicy blackberry stain on my tongue, and I keep licking its
Mystery bittersweet flavor. You fine-tuned your silvery signal
To target the seeds of my darkened pulps
And conduct a lightning strike.
***** minds think alike.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
Oh no,
he did it again,
undressed another woman,
as she begged him no,
while her head spun to a different world,
she pushed him away,
her fingernails grasped at his skin,
she whispered,
“please…. stop,”
but he didn’t listen,
not a single soul would listen.
She’s all alone,
stripped of her dignity,
her spirit pushed down the drain,
as he entered inside her,
her heart beat faster,
but her body was numb,
she couldn’t feel her arms,
or her legs,
her fingers lost all touch,
and her voice screeched with pain,
she’d never cried so much yet felt so little,
as her body stopped,
and her soul tried to escape to a better place.
But truth is it doesn’t always happen in this way,
with a firm “No” and attempt to get away.
Sometimes he’s kind and sweet,
or powerful and famous,
he’s your teacher, mentor, or friend,
the love of your life,
or a one night stand,
and you uncomfortably say “No”,
“Maybe not now”,
“I don’t feel like it”,
“Maybe you should go”.
Yes,
sometimes we scream “Please No”,
but other times we drown under the waves in our ears telling us it will end soon,
or
we fall into the sound of our body begging for forgiveness for letting another human take a part of us away.
As he touches you,
and you pull away,
after the hundredth time you’re so weak,
so violated,
caving like a prisoner pushed to the edge,
laying numb and senselessly wishing for your last breath,
as your body is fumbled,
and your heart tumbles,
your honor and morality thrown to the floor,
stomped and spit on as your words become worthless to another person's soul.
Drugged or drunk,
sober or young,
you’re futile,
as your body becomes his,
and what once belonged to you is stripped,
and slathered in pain,
then thrown aside like a bad book and never looked at the same,
but his life doesn’t change,
and all the things you used to love become a reminder of what once was.
The feeling of his hands on your hips,
imprinted on your skin like a tattoo you can’t laser off,
a lifetime of what should’ve been,
but will never be.
“What can I become when his face is all I see when I think of;
love, lu*st, or even my own sanity?
Where does the healing begin when my body’s just become an empty limb?
What will my friends and family think?
What can I say when the world won’t even believe the rich who’ve paid the same price of insanity for the man who took their dignity?
It took him just a few minutes for me to feel this pain everyday,
So who’s going to believe me when I say by ****** me he took my life away?”
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
Shut away the promising key the queen united is the ruler to be,
overdose runs through her veins,
over and over the dosing pains,
give her substance to numb back to ease,
as the flowers willow she takes pictures of trees,
she's under the sun and kicking back to reign,
she met a girl who hated the world,
she used her body to sell her soul,
down on her knees she wept on the floor,
screaming "god hates me"
she wanted more,
tracks in her arms,
yeah, she's down on the floor.
You could say she's quite the catch,
luminous lies she's stirred up her batch,
yeah, she's confused promiscuous and self abused,
inevitable places she used and used.
When nights get cold she's back at again,
the queen of addiction when will it end?
She cleans up her frown and tries to pretend,
spat out the blood and began to grin.
She took her hand and kissed the scars,
broke the needle as they drove in fast cars.
They shouted and screeched "This world is ours!"
She's stays a awhile,
just a bit of time,
her hand in hers,
fingers intwined,
breaking addiction with this inseparable bind,
opening new eyes leading away from blind,
weary and shooken it comes back,
a train through her veins,
track after track.
Wondering where her lover is out on the streets,
the terror in her heart as it beats and beats,
stranger after stranger this girl meets!
As her star-crossed lover is on the floor,
she's out with a man making money for more.
shakin' and shook,
at the end of the track,
the train has left the station she's not coming back.
Lorry lover pouring out those places,
the stop of a car as her heartbeat traces,
man after man,
meeting new faces.
bends down ties up her tattered torn laces,
the queen of addiction in her presence it graces,
6 feet under her lover places.
A tear on her black slim dress,
the queen of addiction put to rest.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
A child, not of speaking age, sat
across me at tea time. The mother
fed her cake and cucumber
sandwiches, and the young girl
screeched with
a sour face
staring at me as if I held the solution
to erasing the taste of sweets and crunchy water.
I feigned a smile.
It occurred to me that even as old as she was,
she had opinions on things she would forget. No one
remembers not liking cucumbers that young.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.
And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.
“Gifts”.
Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.
Or unforgetful vengeance--
So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--
Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.
Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.
Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.
Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?
The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.
And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
TOAST
"FIRE. . .FIRE!"
The house was busily
burning down.
"Quick. . .quick!"
Mum screeched .
"Go fetch the marshmallows!"
I dashed back
into the inferno
& emerged
long minutes later
my eyebrows ablaze
my nostril hairs slightly singed
The fire had greedily gobbled up
all the marshmallows
for itself.
**** said Mum.
"Damn...damn...damn!"
slapping me
about the head
with...each...uttered
syllable.
"I managed to save a loaf
of Mother's Pride!"
I cried.
"It will have to go!"
sighed Mum.
And so, we had
some toast
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
Dear heart. I am the one in charge here. Neuroscience has long taken the responsibility of handling emotions from you. I am in charge of everything in this body, dear heart, I tell you what to do, and you do it. I think we both know I'm the better thinker here.
So why must you ache, why must you suffer for what I do? For every scalding thought you recoil in your cage and pound on the bars of your prison, wishing to be worn on someone's sleeve, dear heart, you've been hidden for too long. You don't know how this world works, and I do, so you must obey me when I tell you what to do. I know it hurts to keep beating despite of how the chemical reactions in my mind may affect you. For every feeling I take as a thought, every thought you mistake as a feeling, we both protest. For a long, long time we refuse to communicate with each other and I know you are tempted to rest, to stop beating because you're the one aching. It's not me, dear heart, that clenches like a fist, crumples inward like a useless scrap of paper, collapses on itself like a star on the brink of a supernova, it is not me, dear heart, that gets hurt.
Why do I only ache when I'm facing a mathematical problem, a complex theory, a questionable logic, a memory-loss crisis, why do I only suffer when I think really hard, even though I am the one in charge of emotions and feelings? Why is it you, not me, that a knife buries itself in when there is emotional pain? Why is it you that has be shredded into blood strings and crimson feathers of sinew, as if you were plucked from an angel's bleeding wings while heaven screeched its protest? Why are you the only one that is punished?
Dear heart, I am sorry. I didn't know why the body is made this way, that you have to be the one on the edge of a cliff while I sit somewhere safely plucking your strings. You are the one facing the endless plummet into a chasm of fangs and jagged rock, and it is up to me to make sure you stay alive, why, dearest, dearest heart do you have to be shackled to me with a silken collar? I can control you, but you have the freedom to fall, and if you do, I will be the one to grab at a protruding edge somewhere on the face of the cliff, and I will pull hard to get us back up.
Because if I don't, we will both die, and I'm the thinker here, I'm the one responsible for both of us, dear heart, I am the one in charge here!
You won't survive on your own. That's why I'm here to take care of us, because neither of us would exist without the other, without me you will be dead, without you, I will be worse than dead, so dear heart. Dearest heart, let me take the reins, let me hold the strings, let me tell you what to do, I'm sorry you can't be free. I'm sorry I hurt you with the thoughts and the memories inside me.
Let me control you. Let them call me abusive, let them call me terrible, let them call me cold and cunning, let them tell the world I am foul and violent, I don’t care!
I am here for you. I will take care of you. And when all you wish is to cease the wearying repetition of living, I will give you reason to keep breathing.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
In the swirling zephyr,
The grass dances weakly
I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall.
A triumphant sinister;—
My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again..
Such a bounty hunter
What the gods want now?
Doth not turn me around!—
Doth not hang me!
If thou loose my ties,—
Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines!
Spare me!— I am not thy prey;
I am not one of Greek's peccant,
Please, off loathing my purity!
This predator devoured me..
The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me..
The mob held me captive,— by net traps
The culprit lies next to me—
Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked,
I felt the bethel was mocked,—
But my Lord won't despise me.
A paralyzed arrest screeched me
I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat..
Thou art the most cherished
It is still me..
Scattered with mud,
Dressed in a blanket;
Hoping to kiss thee
Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness
Wherefor thy body shivers?
Thy cup is condensing,
Lips ill-looking;
Red flames changing blue—
Am I still the hue?
I sensed—
Thou fell into the pit
My shreds, thy lust
The roots art on the tip of thy nails!
An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,—
And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit—
To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory
Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings,
Whence the bonds turn to heist
Looting innocence and staying in history...
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
Today was the day
after the big news.
Two days after what
once could have been
a harmless phone call.
Two days ago,
however many years ago,
a late night phone call
stopped the world from turning.
My world screeched to a halt
two days ago
but there was hope.
Hope that the phone call was wrong
that he would come back to us.
Hope that he would have changed,
changed his mind and outlook.
But yesterday,
however many years ago,
all hopes shriveled.
A follow-up call
that he would never come back.
That I would never see him
hug him
or hear him again.
Today is the day,
however many years ago,
the reality
of losing my uncle
would begin to set in.
When I would begin to fear
phone calls after nine.
When I would curl
into a scrunched ball
trying not to scream out.
When I would never
be able to look back
without at least some remorse.
Today is the day,
in the here and now,
that I still cry for him.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
We stumbled up the stairs, two drunken fools ~
too high and loose of care, to my tiny apartment.
You fumbled with the keys and I stood, laughing
as you dropped them, not once, but three times
before you finally got the door opened.
Once inside, you pulled out your bowl
and I hurried into the kitchen to get beer.
Upon returning, Nascar screeched from the tv screen
as I tripped over your hiking boots, falling into your lap,
beer sloshing about us and herb scattering about.
You began tickling me in that cousinly way
we always played in our youth. You knew
each spot to make me twist and turn, scream and yelp.
But neither of us expected the kiss.
Lips searching, tongues darting, teeth nibbling ~
I ripped at your tank top, pulling it over your head
and buried my head in your chest, stroking
strong muscles, ******* your *******
You grabbed my ******* kneading them fiercely,
your fingers twisting and tugging at my *******
as you bit into the side of my neck. Moans
escaped us as you pulled me down onto the couch.
I gazed up into the mirrors of your eyes,
so like mine, searching your face for a sign:
Should we? Can we? Will anyone else find out
our secret taboo? Your lips erased the questions.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
We felt as if we’d been born in the desert
Passing shoelace factory prostitutes
Veering memories of Crab Nebula up-skirts
& Slowly obtained convoluted attitudes
“(In our sleep) We let the lizards lick our teeth”:
The grackle chatter from Four Hand Weaver
Met the ears of Guest, who’d arrived in Portsmeth
Riding on deep banjo drones from within the ether
What else can words be but propellants?
They are TLC to mad minds of the 90’s
Coaxing the Guest out of hell with mad chants
& we, the kids, following blindly
“He tried to get me to turn off the electricity
Chanting Southeast Asian Countries with Four Hands
Somehow part of an insane Sun/Moon allegory”
Cries Morgie Saturday morning &
We saw a vision: the Guest up in a crescent
Cast down from the sky and into the sea
Cascading over into a flooding depressant
& cut open the fat man who whispered of banshees
As his steaming intestines float down by the riverside
The boys were passing jolly jokes & joints
“They’ll never figure out how to catch a bride
When they’ve forgotten how to find the celestial point!”
Screeched the Guest with his candle strap
Attached to his banjofrigerator filled with Game Fuel
“It’s in my veins, it’s in my blood like a death cap!”
No longer just a Kentucky Gentleman covered in drool
All in all, a teacher, a preacher, a joke
A gravel eater, unlike the lizards underground
“I don’t eat dirt! That’s a lie I’d never invoke
Lizards eat dirt & I ain’t like that crowd!”
Men are lizards & lizards are men
“& I ain’t a lizard no way, no how!
That’s the truest fact there ever has been
Aside from something being seriously wrong with me"
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
we held hands through
the halls of a concrete
elementary school;
the new shoes
our moms bought
us at the "back to
school" sales at the end
of a short summer, clanked
and screeched and
skited across the freshly
mopped floors
we laughed at recess and played
too much dress up
my best friend,
he hung from monkey bars
and smiled at the ground
and I still remember the first
time he asked to play
hide and seek
with a glaring look in his
big blue eyes
we shared head phones
in squishy army green
seats on a warm yellow bus
on the way to middle school,
and rested our
heads on each other's
shoulders at lunch,
laughing hard about
the summer,
complaining about the heat
my best friend,
he hung upside down
at the edge of my bed after
class was finally over
and he said "I think I
liked that other place
a little better"
we passed bottles
around basements
and blew kisses in gym class
we sped down noble rd
in our brand new
used cars on the way
to high school
screaming songs about everyone
we'd lost and all the ****
we wished we hadn't found
my best friend,
he hung old pictures
in his locker and he watched
the days as he fell behind them
we graduated
with slumped shoulders
and shadows under our eyes,
piercing smiles
& enough memories
to last a lifetime
we went off to college
and got ****** noses
from blowing lines
and telling lies
my best friend
he hung from
an extension cord
in the bedroom closet
of his ninth story
apartment
I still remember the first
time he asked to play
hide and seek
with a glaring look in his
big blue eyes
looks like we can
all use to be found
this time around
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC