"scritch" poems
heavy head, ****** and tired sleep echoes through my corridor head. love, a treasure, buried deep within my x-marked chest; i stuck blades of grass in a picture frame, because everything else went away: like the cleaning lady outside my door, vacuum like a pet dog, pawing at carpet, grooming it with its soft, snuffly nose. mess cleaned and she went away. vacuum like a pet dog, hip-hugging, man's best friend.
lines in the bathroom, lines out the back. waiting and shaking with a crazy laugh filled with warmth like a smile radiating from my muscles. powder leaves the plastic surface, like the cleanin lady outside my door, and her sniffling, snuffling vacuum-dog. ****** into a ten dollar bill, with a whimper and a sigh, the pup hops away with its owner, the cleaning lady off to brush along some other fool's corridors.
on the cold steel, the train slows down, a mile out from the station. up hill, down hill, steam choking carriage, searching for thrill in the click clack, crazy rails of a cool powder train. in the bathroom crushing pills to get you up hill, down hill, with a steam choked carriage and that cleaning lady outside my door, she brought that dog, and he was barking real loud, makin' a fool out of me, in the bathroom of that click clack, crazy powder train. hands scritch' scratchin' on the white sheets, until in a moment, it all crumbles to dust, ridin' on the wind's back, leaving like they all do, like the cleaning lady outside my door, and that pet vacuum-dog of hers.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
I remember when you took me
corkscrewing down kaleidoscope tunnels for the last time
mounting hummingbirds to fly through the crystallized sky
air splashing against our skin
like an intoxicating perfume, dizzying
old daydreams, new friends like
humans with spectrum eyes and hair that coiled around their shoulders like serpents, all donning galaxy cloaks
reptilian monsters that sprouted raven feathers while chasing each other through smoke trees
silhouettes with rusty-nail teeth who danced like leaves in a gale
inky, spindly limbs reaching
trying to catch the moon
fingers entangled like a dreamcatcher
We were more then the kings and queens, heroes, idols
We were gods,
ruling from the velvet mountains to the silken seas,
everything beneath the candlesmoke clouds and the caramel sun that drips like wax
everything shining beneath the stars
made out of that smoldering purple dust we know so well
always whispering to us in scritch-scratch voices
reciting elegies and hush-hush songs of longing
but then,
reality ignites and burns beneath us as we soar,
elysian fields crumbling,
flames consuming the wonderland we’ve built
that is nothing but a paper thin house of tarot cards
the future written with seeping poison ink
We are left keening in the ashes,
tears to late to douse the inferno
but maybe
they will help some seedling fester beneath the scorched earth
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Woman with a stroller speaking
Can see her baby girl is sleeping
Little pink boots out the bottom peeking
Scritch scratch
Bright orange pen bobbing
Lime colored note book I am holding
Feels like everything is unfolding
Scritch scratch
Looking round, strong smell of spices
Business suit and silver glasses
Dreadlocks trailing, wonder how he ties them
Scritch scratch
All these little notes I'm keeping
Find the places I keep seeking
People never seem to see me
Scritch scratch
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
I am in the coffee shop.
You wish you were.
Your snouty head is one great flappy nostril.
Your belly is huffing and I know if I could hear you
You'd be whining.
Your eyebrows are raised in a way
that defies (or proves) evolution theories.
Your pinkly jowls dripping with the mixed
urban aroma of cars, pigeons, and
smelly bipedal mammals.
An olfactory carnival.
You sit on the pavement red-leashed to a bike,
a statue of solemn dignity as passerby
pause to scritch your ****
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
I count seven
rosebuds of pink and purple hue
on the plant I bought for Mother's Day
two years ago
The sun is shining after a morning of rain
we make plans for dinner. but the house
so full just last month is empty now, and silent
except for the snip of scissors as Shari cuts
the cloth for a new creation, and the scritch
of my pen on paper as I write this. The robin
out front sings mourning for it's young one
fallen from the nest, as ours have done
perhaps I need a puppy
not to replace, but for company
now that Samoa my old cookie
is no longer there, right here, where
I can reach out my left hand
to feel her presence, for my comfort
Ahh! There it is just that right spot where
the itch lives waiting for my scratch.
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 10:59 AM UTC
the sun the sky the breeze the trees toes quicksand scritch scratch dryer 1950s lovely lonely hair compliant help keep safe home quick kiss hello hug hello hi hello pretty lovely lonely cut scratch drink puff lovely lonely drive go fast drive cruise i'm sorry money help home safe plaid light morning pop crown smear free mind heart soul clunk jingle ching change kiss hug lovely lonely ***** help kiss heart breathe suffocate help drowning kiss my heart my lungs special hug kiss help quiet static smear dark help quiet kiss help
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
*There's this thing that I think
that I thought I once knew;
but the thing is I think
that I ain't thunk it through.
~
Perhaps this is old,
perhaps this is new,
this odd little thought
I thought I once knew.
~
So I sits and I scritch
and I says to myself,
"Sort your wits slowly,
like plates on a shelf."
~
Maybe it's big,
perhaps it is small,
this odd little thought
that I cannot recall.*
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 11:56 PM UTC
As mad as a cat chasing rats that never leave the walls-
day in and day out-
spent following the scritch-scratch
of their god forsaken paws,
just out of reach.
That would drive any creature livid,
and I’m as mad as that.
Madder even,
I daresay.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
You try
making up for your
thinness of character
by slurping the thick
syrup of Chinese food
the broccoli a glittering slick
of sauce
too rich for me
saccarine
the chicken glowing
in the neon light
in its neon sauce
radioactive under the dim lamps
the curling carpets
and wax flowers
You know I don't like it
here
you know I'd prefer
a switch of sweetness
from morsel to mouth
know somewhere
in the stitch and sketch
that is your brilliant brain
that noodles decked
like a war hero
lack charm
in the dark
could you pass the wantons
and take me home
to your warm nest
to the scritch of old blankets
that smell your spiced,
and soapless smell?
to a place where
past the books
I'm not allowed to borrow
and the sleep
we do not share
there glimmers
naturally,
occasionally
like lake water
where the streetlights don't show
something more tender
than snow peas
in a sticking sauce.
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
Taking and giving
respect,
see once more the flaw in the flow
of knowledge,
weaponize a wall, ha,
who thought
a wall ever held a garden?
Honest,
it was a poor fellow, outside the wall.
Yep, no lie, if once there were
a tree
that bhor good fruit, full of words to wise,
knowers, after one bite,
sublingual receptors ready, salivate,
no waiting lick the dew from the cortex,
slip the tasting probe deep into that
sulci, there
just over the left ear, there,
scratch that itch, gentle
scritchy scritch scritch
are you truly experienced, impressed upon
the truth you seem to think
we all see same as you,
same optics,
same alchemical ATP to ADP energy source,
sunshine
comes softly through my window today,
I looked out after all,
saw you looking
through the old tear in the curtain.
Inside and outside are easily seen as unreal,
in certain pre-envisioned vessels
can't not, gotta say, must make, say do you see?
SEE, see me, see me, come see
the freak, come hear the mad man scream back
from the abyss,
don't come this way, getting out takes
all the time you ever realized
was wasted,
lying piled idle words that were high fashion,
back when
acid
tore the prudent stitchery my princess stitched,
while waiting, in truth, in truth, waiting
for the soldier boy, returning as the man,
who kept the peace,
and painted the picket fence white, to prove
I dreamed the valid dream,
and swore my children's allegiance,
-- PTSD, circa 1950, it was secret,
what broken men did to broken wombed men,
who broke the children,
fit them to the harness, taught them manners,
and how to carry a tune,
in time with the marching band, hurah hurah
- little light right then - see
dark days during semper fi why why why
last call, … no soul sits, all rise
or I black your ****** eyes, rise up, o men o'gawds,
ye gads, meet this in m'gut,
here here, to the dead and gone, who rule
our hearts and minds 'cause we be left behind.
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 3:09 PM UTC
the cat silences with a scritch under the chin,
the basement is organized in bins
the **** garden mocks my back
the inbox smugly holds its stacks
each moment a jump from clockface
slash to slash
wife lays in the afterglow, flies buzz two and fro, night stages house creaking, shingle colors leaking, dishes sit sloppily in the sink,
the ticking drives me to tears
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
stick your thumb in my mouth,
Alleyway, alley cat.
scritch
scritch
scratch
I hereby solemnly swear - to you I'll bow.
Between your knees.
Wedged between your thighs,
while I stare up at your face -
into your bloodshot (deceptive) eyes.
You act like no one's ever called you a **** before.
But that can't be true,
cause you're the devil himself.
You do what feels good.
"To take the edge off," you say as you promise to be okay.
I don't believe you.
You're not sincere.
Because the first time we met - you weren't wearing underwear.
You degenerate.
You minx in the prime of her youth.
I'll love you and use you,
but only because you asked me to.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
Nestled in bed is the family of mine.
The mice are alive in the walls,
Scritch, scratch, scritch.
This is my time to rise.
Manic are the dreams
That course through my mind.
Ghosts of the past, be free tonight!
Keystrokes fire in rapid succession.
Release these demons,
So that I may rest.
The sun is rising,
I am falling,
Fast, fast, asleep.
1/17/2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
Tick Tock
Clock hands move on
Drip Drop
Rain falls down
Scritch Scratch
My heart drawn
Tip Tap
I wait till you're back around
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
Scritch and scratch graphite on stacks of paper.
What will come out of my mind this time?
Harvest creative memories from the depths of my mind.
Fractured pieces come forward to order.
Sketch it again and then do it over:
A thousand times a thousand I shape the same lines.
and all the
Pieces come together at the very
End.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
Scritch-scritch-scritch
To others, it's words on paper
click-click-click
To others,it's typed lines
To us?
To us,it's our whole heart
Poured out onto that page
To us, it's our whole life
In those few stanzas
To us, it's our words in a cage
Finally let out
Writing is magic to us.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
Inspiration
It blew in against the tide
with so little fanfare
that it startled the longshoremen
who had taken to rust in the salt air.
Smiles of self-congratulation
rivalled the blaze of the setting sun.
“To patience and perseverance,”
trumpeted a hanger-on
who had practiced neither.
Tonight, all along the shore
the scritch of pencil on paper.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
There it is.
A bubble
red.
Buried in the metaphorical rubble.
Alive, yet dead.
target sighted
I'm still wrong, not yet righted.
Phasers locked, loaded, and ready to scritch
Entering the level of crazy...bitch.
And scratch. Penalty shot.
And it's GOOD!
Though truthfully, I've been here a while. And it's bad.
I already lost.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's a bug bite ya fools.
It's been quiet for quite some time.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's actually not a bug bite ya fools.
Metaphors are dead
and now the smile wears my face like a simile.
Thoughts in my head
unravel faster than a sweater string all pily.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
I itch.
Like ticks and fleas are covering me
Like insulation flows along the air I'm breathing shallow to cease this itch that craves release from my incessant will.
A warden then?
I've held to many in contempt to acknowledge the comparison.
Shed now blame to another less gluttonous soul my eyes prop up to hang.
This itch, I bear the weighted shackles, my pierced abdomen cries for any patch to fill it.
I refuse the temptation, becoming now a wanderer of egrigore. Watch this gore pour out this festering itch more now than ever since it's initial scritch and scratch
My path behind a tar black trapping
My road ahead not looking much better.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
take an itch, wait
scratch it,
did the itch ax fo d scritch or was that
you
voice in the head of the ehearer
radio, maybe so
maybe so
Frank Zappa, or
Emily Dickenson
or Suzie Creamcheese,
only her words reamain, yet
remain
mainly in my head a phrase
it seems, a phase shift
maybe so
electric trickery, I don't know
can you hear me now, is there reason?
is reason being
reasoned with?
Are we, reasoning together,
and you know not
is it me, it is
maybe so. May is thy word,
in this phase of
your moon
fuzzy light croissant logo,
Batman or is that a cross, and a rho?
Chi Rho praxis nexus Latin lying
demnation time wastin'
funny books, retelling stories
as if it's true, as if
I heard it, I told it, as I read it,
believing every word.
Classic Illustrated.
What good does that do you?
I confess,
Professor, I don't know
if, right or wrong, ification is
done by me or mere
fictional
May, the power, given a go.
I could say. May is my word, now.
May my best wish be,
the quest is,
good beyond reason,
doing that phase shift
electional trick to May,
seasonal reason
for unbridled joy.
Tending, pretending, trending
means more to AI than I.
May I make the difference?
Say I may.
May is your word now.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 6:57 AM UTC
Scratch scratch
Scritch..
*what the ****
**I wake up with claw marks
On my right arm..
I put them there.**
in my sleep.
My ******* subconscious
Is into self harm.
Woohoo.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
There’s an itch that
Can’t be scratched
That’s what you see on me
Face pock-marked red
(Legs worse with this skin curse
A mottled battlefield)
Dead patches picked at
Skin flayed raw
My admission:
A compulsion…
Work the edge with a
Fingernail wedge
REMOVE DEAD SKIN!
Quick dry then dead again
Itch, scritch, pull scab anew
My dark avenue.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
Scribble scratch
The world shall hear my words
Scritch nitch
Paper is outdated
Scratch scribble
The art of poetry is dying
Nitch scritch
Thank god it’s being saved by tech
Scrabble scribble
Poetry learns to thrive once more, but at the cost tech
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Thats up to you
Scribble scratch
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC