"scripts" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
Will it be all the nights of your bed empty when I couldn't sleep?
Are you going to choose instead, the moment
I put underwear on my head and asked in a horrible Russian accent,
"Would you like some bread?"
(--Look that wasn't entirely all my fault I...
had a lot of coffee and had been awake two days in a row.)
I'd prefer--
the flash of my mouth at your belly,
the way your cold feet shock me awake and
the run-on-wheezing-snorts
from you making me laugh so hard I cried.
Actually, I'd prefer
every moment of every day I said I loved you in cups of morning coffee.
Bacon and egg breakfasts.
Hanging out of cars and making Wookie calls;
the moment you taught me about Baba Yaga and I said
you were the smartest man alive.
I'd prefer if you remembered me when I go,
as the sun on your face in the morning after you get to sleep in.
(because I know how work, life, goes for you.
They never let you sleep in.)
As the lips on your closed eyes,
as the love that men and women fight and die for--
wrote legends, penned scripts and made movies about.
That love, our love.
I'd prefer if you just remembered me
as love.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
Even the idea was worthy of a fight
and all too much preparation.
We dolled ourselves up for alienation,
even though the faces present
were so familiar and etched into memory.
Who are you Mr.Cool?
If that is your real name.
Whiskey breath and filterless smokes
only impresses the girls in the movies,
with scripts written by clueless men
like you, who can't supply injury
so they bring only insult.
You are a secretary bird,
a mime, and the copycat kid.
Trying to be a bad boy and hide
amongst the spoiled brats you claim.
Keep on burrowing and severing ties,
ravishing resources leads to ruin.
You say you've heard rumors?
Well, I've heard facts.
I've seen facts!
Your parasitic disguise will crumble
under the weight of your genuinely selfish persona.
While the company I keep will only know
the side you wished to reveal
in front of all the pretty boys and girls.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Sometimes I ask myself
when did my thoughts and hopes of blue and green
turn into violet worries, violent dispositions
When did this soul with its empty bookshelf
burn all its unwritten scripts of things yet to be seen
and my steady solace turn into a contradiction
I know what I want in life
when I see my favorite pieces of art
scattered accross the canvas of my solitary nights
my cold fingers once touched it and I can count it on all five
I want to believe that I'd be content with really only a shard
to know my dreams aren't just made of imaginary sights
My open heart drives me
in uncertain directions with clear aspiration, sometimes just insane
but always looking, always wanting, always one heart ahead
If my eyes could only look beyond uncertainty and I'd finally see
a way that goes far and will let me travel along a green country lane
If I could feel as if I'd know why it seems so difficult not to be dead.
In everything that had to be broken and shed
these distant promises on remote and empty shores
For only the contingency of all that could be good and whole
Truly not knowing where this road might have led
and still keep my hands open and reaching and breathe in deeply through all of my pores
let me just find one wholesome and abiding content in this burning library inside my soul
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
All that we know maybe distorted
Or a methodical manipulation
Where truth is obfuscated by few
Which spreads like an epidemic
Words used with vested interest
For us to play a role given to us
Memorizing the scripts, to deliver
Speeches with someone else’s ideas
Thoughts and feelings engineered
To suit the machinations of few
With sinister ideas to play with the mind
A conscious and intelligent manipulation
Bereft of the tools of our own judgment
Our perception is not even ours
For the mind has been violated
With the scheming and methodical manipulations
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
The fear of the same.
why does my happiness affect you?
Why do my pictures and comments spark hate?
Why do you feel the need to put me down about my life?
It's the way I am!
It's the way I've been!
It's the way I will be!
Call me queer,
Call me gay,
Call me bent,
I DONT ******* CARE!
Your insults aren't insulting!
Your words are useless!
You try to bring me down by labelling who I am?
That's pathetic.
So let me ask again,
Why does my happiness affect you?
So much so that people get hurt!
The community stand tall!
Taller than religion,
Taller than the government,
Because we follow our hearts!
And not fairytale's and scripts!
We live a life we choose,
One which makes us happy.
Your bible supposedly accepts everyone?
So why did my friend feel the need to **** herself because of you!
She was happy,
She was smart,
But you put her down!
You drove her to depression,
And for what?
After all I thought that God creates everyone?
So why create a transgender who is not to be accepted?
It's a bit stupid if you ask me!
She is in our hearts,
Always,
Religion means nothing,
And shall no longer hinder our happiness,
R.I.P Leelah Alcorn
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Clicketyclick —
sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second
Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces
rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts
the resultant
retinal scarring
Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels
triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas
every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience
Am I a server,
or am I a servant?
Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin
I'm waiting for my fix
Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —
—Clicketyclick
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Your fingernails give away the debris you've collected
I've known you for a while but it feels like longer
feels like sunsets under my tongue
blue bruises behind my eyes
every skip of the needle brings back our old skins &
the hush-hush type of self worth,
keeping pens full of red ink so we can
play the demon in this one instead
of closing the door, we don't wanna gossip
at the edge of the room like strangers,
we wanna be in the center
and your fingerprints look a lot like mine sometimes, especially when we laugh and cry together
especially when you fall asleep and I watch
for soft signs of openmouthed breathing that signal
we are in deeper than we thought.
I can't stand the way you look at yourself though, sometimes I wanna
run away from everyone here
sometimes I wanna just up and leave it all
in a shallow grave where it belongs,
but the moments are softer when you slip my name onto your cotton tongue,
and I don't punch out a pattern for my self loathing quite as quickly when
we tally up our thread counts and what time we have left
together.
Inevitably, I still paint my teeth black,
because words about my future never felt right coming from my pink and purple mouth
but your lips could twist anything up into a lot of sense,
I could kiss you and **** time forever
in parking lots and on the edges of stained mattresses
I didn't ever want a home until I thought of hanging up your colors to dry
keep them here in the niches or
scrawled onto notepads I keep beside my bed,
put down your demon scripts and ask me in the morning
if it takes a while for seeds to grow,
I'll tell you to keep a can of water nearby
and to make sure it's somewhere sunny
I know there's something foreign growing in me and it's
bigger than I've ever been,
but I think maybe you know and
it's bigger than both of us, maybe
you know and
you've been doing some growing, too.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way
There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd
Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a match
Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there
Chico plays piano and
Harpo with his harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie
You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Never have I seen such an Avid Score
Then draw your Players back to your Credit
Once Clocks have wrung your Springs tight before
Now ring Best Conclusions to your Debit
So your Tendons ripe and joined Model Bro
Each with Burned Spectacles for Thigh's attract
And he taught you well; A Flame burning so
**** Timbers do kiss your Tongue's Good Act
The Green Elf was right. If you could agree
That Advanced Levels only stunt your Mane
But just Read the Play; And Scripts follow free
Your Lion-Born Instinct is one and the same.
Chelsea has Won. And wore Arsenal's Shirt
The Meaning of which, Tie's Variance still hurts.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
I need rehab from you, and I’m sorry
but this isn’t healthy.
Admitting being a problem is sobering
And I hope you can recover from my withdrawal.
I’ll be busy detoxing myself,
For everyone after you.
But mostly for myself.
I hope you remember how great you are!!
As I try to forget all the poison you gave me
I'll be cheering you on from a far!!
& revising the scripts I tell myself
So that one day I'll stop playing the role
You put me in
And I'll start living
For myself again
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
Even something distant
Can give enough light,
Longer than just a while,
Carrying vivid, tender moods,
Rising like green plants,
Despite the cold, acid rain.
A hypnotic, sweet mantra,
A grateful murmur,
Whispered my true name,
Coming on time,
Before I closed the door.
I am at home now.
In a quiet zone,
On my piece of uneven,
Creaky floor,
Grounded by gravitation,
Free from messy thoughts,
Just to save the plumb line,
Not to collapse inward
Into an inner gap
Of what it should mean.
I shift my wardrobe
Of emotional scripts
To clean a tame mess,
Collected into short breaths,
Like colorful, sharp stamps,
Justifying a fading reason to stay,
rather than give up and go away.
Yes, I know that I can.
So, what am I afraid of?
That I am ready
To drop the weight
Of past attachment,
To feel the lightness
Of being loved?
To accept human warmth,
Enfolding peacefully
A fractured existence.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 10:41 AM UTC
I draw a picture A simple fixture. Of two vertical bodies at vertical ends, do you see the picture. A verbal description of a beautiful beginning with each other they never felt richer, he had won her heart so I named him victor. Her heart in his hand a solid pitcher he caught it one hand.How could you not understand. One heart one hand her boy her man. He grew inside her she became his home she held her own against all kinds of foe he relished in her midst he thought love was a myth a mixture a blend of two perfect chemicals now do you see where it all began one kiss sealed her lips. The ending to many scripts and clips was the beginning to their bliss. All this because with a song she stole his heart he knew from the start she had won the part. Number one on his charts. You couldn't take her part. You couldn't keep them apart. She was the apple of his heart :)
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Can we exchange dialogue
from master scripts too ten minute plays?
Inhaling every exhale from your line breaks
Prefixes soothing my ear drums
intellect holding suffixes.
Allowing your stories to take me too worlds
literature can’t reach.
Where archetypes are dynamic
antagonists don’t exist
and you’re the only character not flat.
Stasis starts situations
When you’re the intrusion
I follow all stage directions
put me inside your prepositions,
cover me in your verbs
let me hold your nouns
lay my head on your adverbs
and fall asleep to your adjectives.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
daffy duck is tired
daffy duck is quacking tired of being drawn
and being scripted
and engineered
into always being a cartoon character;
daffy duck no longer wants to be
daffy duck the cartoon character
daffy duck wants to be a philosopher
which is all quite quacking satisfying
even just to think about
and so daffy duck the philosopher thinks:
*daffy duck thinks, therefore daffy duck is;
but if I, daffy duck do not think I am daffy duck
and renounce all the scripts and the words
and the expectations and the roles;
if I do not think I am daffy duck
I am no longer daffy duck
or, for that matter, any quacking duck*
and so (much to the dismay of loyal fans
who want always to be Daffy Duck Fans)
daffy duck is no more the cartoon character
and becomes daffy duck the philosopher;
and daffy duck the philosopher
thinks himself out of the quacking role
of daffy duck as any quacking duck
or anybody at all
(much to the dismay of loyal fans
who want always to be Daffy Duck Fans)
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 2:34 AM UTC
to more than I can be...
a sad isolated man,
throes of an agonizing,
stretched by her for painful
revengeful gain,
kissed with pointless avarice, divorce.
children deeming
him alienating, his faulty
insensitive sensitivities,
to easy blame
little do they know of the
piercing lowliness, the looniness of
nights he listened to sad-eyed singers,
and his late-of-mid of night scribbled scripts,
where he
off loaded the agonies of a midlife
disaster, not entirely of his-own
sown making,
but still his to bear and bare alone...
some accidents happens for unintentional,
unintended intentional new seasons appear,
stumbled, tumbled, fumbled his way onto
this H~oly P~lace, where someone might listen
to his explanations, expiations, excoriations
of his all too common tragedy, and said:
this broken human, he's got his reasons,
read his overly long treatises, his entreaties,
to those that prowl, rowing, in this corner
of the silence of the internet, where only the
trolls, the cold, the easier to-be-meaner oft thrive,
and found none of that, but an oasis of sheltering,
embracing comforting, those who actually admitted
his writings could be loved, and perhaps the writer
himself, was
deserving
of a second chance, a verbal embrace. a rereading forgiveness,
a pat
on his natback, a sympathetic sensory intaking,
and perhaps-this debt, eternal, that put the
for and the fore in a new baby born, named -
new forever
came into existence
the very same
e
that begins those conjoined words
***e~ternally grateful
"and now I sleep in peace when the day is done"
but the night time
is still the
write time
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:42 AM UTC
You should know
You're just a temporary fix
She's a ****
An obscured partial eclipse
She runs and hides
Behind a mask of addictive scripts
She's the game
You just feel good against her melanin
You should know
She's incoherently captivating
She's a naked lady
Amaryllis Belladonna
Poisonous and pink
She'll hit a switch you can't describe
Concurrently splitting your spine
Yet enhancing the fruits of your mind
She's a ****
And you're just a temporary fix
Where she lives
Love does not exist
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
i can feel spirits of tortured souls
they can crawl right up my spine
they won't let me let the horror go
their suffering is all mine
i can hear voices of murdered dreams
like a ringing in my ears
i ask god why i'm serving screams
i ask why i'm herding fears
i see fingerprints of ****** grips
crimson smudges paint my wall
i write down their troubled scripts
every time those spirits call
audio recording
https://soundcloud.com/gary-loftis/spirits-of-empathys-burden
if you like my poetry, like my page please
facebook.com/Garyspoetrypage
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
My recollect is of the each,
The Two
And within the Two
One is the One
Holding and using our lead and ink utensils
as if they are weapons for winning at Love,
and reasoning for our written duel
Expressing desires the voice would customarily sever into dissection
Permitting authority to the crafted scripts *********
and may it’s barrier lay
over the possibility of a broken and scattered tongues communicate
Giving our internal intent its day
the way hoped it would speak
Expecting the requited, the return
was a pesticide over wide horizon,
Where the organic surprise of rainfall kept us neutral and thankful
And apart,
our minds maintained with
and of our other
With no need for philosophical proofs only the inner felt proof
Of forwarding shards of sentiment
with compiled assurance
and a dispatched formula
the best way we could phrase
Alongside images
that came in and held tight
in sectors tucked away and reserved from the cherished
to this day are still to be amazed
Spontaneous placement of universally synchronized jewels and stones
Of not have to have
[Only the simplified, pushed down and planted fact]
Of want her to have
So when away,
You feel a personal, singled-out
appraisal of praise
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
Everything is broken. Broken clocks, broken doors, broken spirits. Struggling just to softly breathe your name without my voice breaking. Shredded letters, meaningless scripts to highlight just how much my life is a cleverly constructed piece of satire, poorly printed on a newspaper page that no one reads, tossed to the sidewalk and stomped into fibers that do nothing but pollute the already ***** puddles on the side of the street. The words upon that parchment, the ink within the pages, is insignificant. I am insignificant. I am a vagrant. I am a knot in a tree trunk, and when a tree falls in the forest, it screams. It silently screams to be held back up by it's brothers, by its friends, by its family, but none of them move. They let it fall and they watch it rot.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Playing with me is like, playing with ur life
Cut you down slice by slice, no knife
Make you a sacrifice, then slap you back to life
It’s a full on scrap when I rap,
You wasn’t ready for that,
I went straight to hell, after I made contact,
Battled in pitch black, now they won’t let me back,
how many MC you know, is rugged as that,
I’ve been to the unknown, and left an impact
I kept my pride, it’s all mine, fully intact,
I’m on my shrine, come from behind, ain’t no going back
If ur verses really nicer than mine, that’s fine – now rap.
My scripts, so wicked, they flip manuscripts with one rip,
I’ll tear you in half, my warpath is your bloodbath
You’re a joke so I just laugh, at this simple task
Terrorizing ur *** the terror rising in your eyes
You shouldn't have ventured down this path
I’m wearing a jason mask, sipping a flask
Anyone else jump in, Freddy slicing his ***
My writing is brash,
If your a titan than clash,
If not, your just trash,
So I, Hulk smash,
Then wipe ur blood off my mask, and relax
And get back to stretching cash like yoga class.
cause I could care a lot less, about flows that's so monotonous
It just shows you’re a hot mess, Your raps blow so much you success
You are too slow, to keep up with my progress
my style been buck wild since I was a child it sounds like you are much less.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC