"scuttled" poems
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
This is our blitz, puppydog, I said,
dragging him away from the whizzbangs
echoing green and purple off shopfronts.
My Chuchundra scuttled ground-bellied
from fallen ******* bags spilling guts
like casualties of war
and hoodlums tremendous in commando gear
who set off peonies and chrysanthemums
before charging triumphant down alleyways.
We go home. I’m happy to leave these heroes
the soda from the Catherine wheels,
and the drizzle, for which London has yet to apologise.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:51 AM UTC
Bereft of love all my life,
Thought I would not need any.
Still, you entered my life,
And now I need you as my wife.
Proposals, you can get many,
Yet you say you will be my wife.
You scuttled my ship.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 10:52 PM UTC
Truckled to the heavens
Atlas could do little
But brood
On the sisyphean futility
Of his task.
An atom
Hidden in the tail
Of a fractal
Cannot see the form
It helps shape
So in time
It becomes a thing
Turned on itself.
And with each turn
Atlas bent
Until he was as
Crooked as a sixpense
As stooped as a dowager
As prostrate as a slave.
And when he could bend
No more
He was ground
Into rock flour
The stars on his shoulders
Falling into the sea
Five fingered starfish
That scuttled across
The ocean floor
Until they found
Their land legs.
A thing turned on itself
Cannot see
The pixelated shape
It forms
Atom by atom
Cannot see
Its purpose
And even if that purpose
Seems otiose.
It counts.
Jan 26, 2010
Jan 26, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
Born in a spiders web
So silky and neat
Spreading over her crown
To her tiny, pink feet
A family of spiders
Scuttled and stalked
Weaving their way
Through dust and chalk
As the baby grew
The web threatened to break
But they repaired and spun
Around her like snakes
She was different to them
So innocent and pure
They tried to trap her spirit
With lies, secrets and lures
The child, now a teen
Succumb to their ways
Her truth unspoken
The web's now a maze
She knew no love
No heart or care
Just lies and jealousy
A world of traps and snares
Through the tunnel she shuffled
In front of her stood
A girl just like her
Someone she understood
This girl smiled and unwrapped her
From many years of web
From her bare, mucky feet
To the top of her head
What freedom she felt!
She smiled and laughed
It echoed in bright lights
Through the tunnels and shafts
The spiders squealed in the light
Angry and eight eyes blind
They could no longer contain her
No longer bind
The girls escaped together
Hands held and then she knew
This was all I ever needed
Love from me to you
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
‘Why ask’,said the field mouse to Hedgehog
Who scuttled along softly on four short legs
Wearing a bobble hat made of apache wool
‘I don’t know but truths must be brought on.’
‘Yes’, said Mousey as it perched with fairy
In the brown bed filled with green cuttings
For only here with my friend is the world’s
Beauty allowed a sharing heart and voice.
So take me into the garden with pink roses
Growing one with up turned bright bud
Shoes holding tightly your peering down
Fills out the future with seeded windmills.
Love Mary x
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Sadie was a doubtful one
Her mind was tightly shut
When faced with the fantastical
She’d fold her arms and tut
She pranced around her garden
With an playful evil aura
And dealt a merry flattening
To all that passed before her
Their bodies lay around her
And an imp of mischief found her
She loved to trap and poison
And wished she’d been a spider
When a fizzing overtook her
When a rumble grew inside her
When a shrinking and a shrivelling
Across her form did tickle
And soon did Sadie realise
That wishes can be fickle
Her legs and arms divided
Her eyeballs multiply did
So sorry Sadie scuttled
Alternating creep and crawl
She tippy-toe’d across the grass
And past her victims all
And sadness was upon her
And with mourning in her eyes
Her grief compounded hunger
And an appetite for flies
Her lengthy limbs belied her
Sorry Sadie was a spider
She loped along a lily
And her sorrow turned to guilt
Her carapace was aching
For the blood which she had spilt
She wept a web of anguish
With her sticky little tears
She wound a downward spiral
Like the falling of the years
Her malice had been stunted
Her fangs were dull and blunted
Sadie gained existence
On a web of worldly woes
She fed her tiny tummy
Where the buzz and flutter goes
And she learned the price of living
So she killed just what she ate
And she knew why killing needlessly
Was such an ugly trait
And with a human soul inside her
She chose to be a spider
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the ********
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.
I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.
I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.
This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.
No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.
He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.
The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
~
*gone to earth
left for dead
everything is tickety-boo
forget your iron-on measures
and scuttled installation
your life is a bakery
that cake is like your head
bittersweet
and full of regret
what am I reading these days?
a book across the stars
where dreams in the throes
of giddy aerosol cans
**** the passersby
and sleep against
the exit sign*
~
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
~
*this once sound vessel
succumbing to agony,
as if scuttled by
a siren at sea,
and in her heart
flutters and sunbeams,
she's not alone
in her dreams,
there's a torch light
with wings, dancing
about her wounds,
it burns of empathy,
but too numb to feel the pain
of her dying rooms,
hereabouts goodbye,
under the silk of anesthesia,
she whispers,
"blade of grass, then away we fly..."*
~
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Sitting in a chair counting spots that passed before my eyes.
The insect smiled and said "hold still" i missed one.
They swirl this way and that.
dont move Please. be still.
Not an easy task
a fever of 104.2
could you. I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
Sitting on my blanketed chest
The insect did his best to sing me a lullaby.
his breath was horrendous but he meant well.
He stroked my burning cheek and
changed the cool washcloth regularly
on my aching head.
Then turned my pillow to the cool side again.
There my friend.
He scuttled under with me and snuggled
his hairy legs were itchy and rough.
small price to pay.
eh wot.
Oh yes we have no bananas
We have no bananas today.
Captain if we keep pushing her like this
she's gonna blow.
We regret to inform you that
the price of tea in China is now
High as gas in California.
Chicken broth he brought
with a silver spoon to boot
The insect waited patiently
as I swallowed then spooned
the next load in.
"Here let me wipe you chin."
Ladies and gentlemen and all ships at see
The Hindenburg has landed
oh the humanity.
This is not the end
No not the beginning of the end.
But more, the end of the beginning.
Help me up Mr Checks. I think I gotta ***
Oops forgot to raise the lid.
Mr Checks. Can you have room service come up.
we need more Trowels. Uh towels.
Stop hogging the remote. Where's mom
Have you seen my Teddy with one eye missing.
To bed to bed
You sleepy head .
Tarry a while said slow.
Put the *** said greedy glut
Lets stuff before we go .
Mr Checks.
All hands on deck.
We dont have enough lifeboats sir.
The iceberg is sky blue and beautiful dont you agree.
What do you do with a drunken sailor
early in the morning.
Heave ** and up she rises
Early in the morning.
THIS FEVERISH DREAM TO BE CONTINUED.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Here we are again, in the deathmask of the city spinning.
The circumcised sea with its crocodiles and scars.
Never is the onrush of blood so violent the falsehoods
of the sky that drip neon on our heads
from desiccated clouds so true
This is the wild:
To the clusterfucked and cloistered swimming
in their bowls of soup and the scuttled
shells synchronous in their bass pulse beeping
to the blackhats who don’t believe
their messiah will ever come because they hear
the trump of doom every second of every day
yet they still stomp in their flatbeds for joy
and the prismatic dead who drag themselves from
their gurneys to march through the alleys
like tuskless elephants shoving their fingers
into the sun’s fumarole determined
to disintegrate into a mist of Krylon and copper
where we carry our concrete world slung
over our shoulders and the ravenous
moon in its ellipse above beached night heaving,
eyes curling in their sockets like gunsmoke smoldering
hearts humming like taut snares beheaded fish
in front of us, beheaded bodies behind us
I drag mine along by the hair.
To the children and the panhandlers who greet
the lion like hello kitty
and the skittish magnetic few in their
lightning-spaded furrows
on the ecliptic chained but leaping ever farther
and higher like the wrecking ***** pendulum
and all the naked lost milling among the mummified
tenements, waving Geiger counters before them
as they wander the sweaty street holding their heads
high as they grind flesh against flesh
pulverizing themselves into rubble
measuring the toll of time by destruction
drinking in mercury and hard water and
shrapnel and gamma and fire and gold
to them I say:
turn your hourglass on its side turn
your hourglasses on their sides
then acknowledge me so I can die in peace.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:35 PM UTC
*The LOVE
That flostered the sentimental ties
of good hearted people
Like You and ME
When those enligtened soul
Kneeled down
To surrender
in front of their BELOVED
Where heart-beats
The lover filched
To hold their romance
In one piece
Where, while probing
For emotions in intelligence
The snake from the garden of Eden
Entangled on the arms of
Adam and EVE
And frantically offered
The apple of LOVE to eat
None of us scuttled away
And we ate the apple
Longing for the pride
of LOVE to preside on us.
Yes this is the same LOVE
That was born out of Adam & Eve
In the garden of Eden
Between YOU and ME...*
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
#
*As it is brought towards completion
the boat, through my interaction
with it, out on the lake
will then make possible the access
to fish that I, up till now
have only dreamt of
The fish are the fire.. descended
down from the heavenlies--
made available solely
through the fineries.. restored
back in to wholeness in part
through the value I first saw in it
when in its primitive, used and
unfairly treated and uncared for, form..
But it was the deep love for that form
that helped give the vessel its access
back into the restoration of its
own, true glory..
And now, all alone--
out on the lake with it
it brings me access in to
places and magical depths until now
only thought of and dreamt about
as that which exists only, in heaven..
It is the vessel's motor, now fully restored
that brings the boat and I together
out on to the lake
but it is the boat's very uniqueness
within it's own natural state of beauty
that helps to give me access into the magic
that lay currently undisturbed
deep in that glorious lake's depths
The boat has always carried within it
the rarest of gifts
and somewhere buried in my deep
love for it.. those gifts, while out on
the lake with it, will make themselves known
to me as we together find those fish
that so beautifully represent, this..
the Holiest of all fires.
Those trophy fish are the magical moments
that up until now, lay dormant,
swimming far away from current distractions
of the every day, mundane
accessible only through the restorative process
and one's love of it's rare and magical beauty
It sometimes feels as if all of heaven is
waiting. (I know I am insane to talk this way..)
I truly do love that boat.
When I am out on the lake with it,
every difficult moment will be so very
worth it all to me. That is the joy I get
from the giving of myself into it's
much needed and fully deserved, restoration.
. . . .
You will not sit out there,
so all alone--
weathering, out there somewhere
in the corner of the shipyard. If that is
the case, and that is your current fear..
I know that you will find a way to
make yourself find-able by me. The
greatest tragedy of all would be for a
vessel of your unique and rare beauty,
to die off all alone--
unloved..
scuttled, by the wind.
The energy that was meant for you is
now, going into the boat.
--tho I can certainly do both.*
#
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 3:26 PM UTC
He found her hiding
In the cities cowers
And thought to befriend her
By offering a carrot
She wouldn’t take it
But she couldn’t leave it
Her eyes
Droopy half moons
Darting between him
And his offering
*The Scylla
And the Charybdis*
Knowing that if
She didn't starve to death
This fox would eat her.
But the fox was a Magnus
He knew her pain
*A Pea - hard as tuppence ha'penny
Under twenty mattresses*
And appealed to her sensitivity.
He too had been alone
- His rhombic truths
And scared
- A slant on the straight and narrow
And when it was time to leave
He asked her to dine with him
In his burrow.
But still she hesitated
So he scuttled away
Leaving her to follow
And apologize
For having vexed him so.
*If he had wanted to **** her
He would have done so already*
And she was very hungry.
So they talked of books
*Peter Rabbit
And the Velveteen Rabbit*
As he sharpened his knives
To dice potatoes
And chop carrots.
They were going to have
A German dish
-Hasenpfeffer.
-What does that mean
She asked
Sniffing the broth.
- Rabbit stew
He whispered.
And then he bit her
Hard
And held her
Until she stopped struggling.
He really did love rabbit.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 3:44 PM UTC
He started it at seventeen
That most fantastic time machine,
Whose power to manipulate
The basic fabrics of our fate
Eradicates the Clock's control,
Who executes the midnight toll,
Whose hands have strangled man's ambition,
Whose sands designed decomposition,
Both talkative and taciturn
Now caged; the ravenous cuckoo bird,
And man, once puppet, now pilgrim, soars
O’er crystal skies and dusty shores
And Dimension's seas with waxen wings,
His fourth realm wrinkling like a string,
Testing theories in time traversed
Of history, life, the universe.
He finished it at forty-two
In subterranean solitude,
A pallid, daily de-livered mess
With faceless pictures on the desk,
So he sighed with earnest evanescence
And scuttled back to adolescence,
To own the life he would have seen
Without that hollow time machine.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 12:44 AM UTC
I prayed to God in the silent house,
In the quiet stillness, in came a mouse,
Yes, in scuttled Horatio the Mouse,
Sardonic God has sent me a mouse,
So, a little fur friend,
God's blessings don't end,
This mouse is way too hyperactive,
I ask, does it come from a mouse collective?
Is Horatio pregnant? think twice.
Shall I be plagued by furry mice?
I bought poison and mousetraps, too bad,
Is the mouse collective about to be sad?
Thus spake God, in the silent dark house,
"I shall send you a fur friend mouse?"
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
It was dark in your house
It felt dark, and it was dark
You scuttled about everywhere
No one could hear
No one would wake
There is a common walkway
There is a light
It is dim yet lively like fireflies
You ease up to the light
Ever so wistfully
You stand with a confident posture
Once satisfied with the distance
A sedge of paper cranes
Fly out from the light
And dissolve into the night
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
He’s journeyed many a treacherous route, scuttled ancient-ships,
ridden the skyscraper-troughs of crystal-seas, hunted enemies,
alone.
He’s guided by the lamps of the Heavens, the countless stars,
the sun and the moon, calculated the astrolabe,
alone.
He’s braved hurricane winds, the triangles of Bermuda, windless days,
leviathans & squids, scavenging whites and other such hungry things,
alone.
He’s got the strength of a Goliath, keeps his tenderness guarded under lock and skeleton-key,
his wounds bleed forever in the brokenness of a self-induced solitary confinement,
alone.
He’s the truest mariner, fights black-tempests within, protects himself from overexposure,
from another broken heart,
alone.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Running naked through the ruins of Detroit,
deep embrace against a graffitied wall.
The clink of spent bottles chime with passion's song,
and echoed down a forgotten hall.
Bombed out, Nagasakieque, sur-reality,
a strange and desolate aphrodisiac.
Ghosts watch our post-apocalyptic tryst,
through every wrecking ball crack.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown,
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Paradise, hidden among the rubble.
But only for the discerning eye.
Her pen painted poetic justice here,
and tried to reveal the reasons why.
Street coney's and cold bottles of Stroh's
could not be scuttled in the wake.
Its someone's hometown, no matter what,
though it looks like hell for heaven's sake.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Like some lost and lonely stray, she takes it in,
dusts it off, and holds it to her heart.
Sees promise in every burnt out factory,
and hope in every unattended park.
Empty crack houses sleep down the darkened alleyways,
like effigies awaiting to be burned.
The clock tower is stuck on borrowed time,
with hands waiting to be turned.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
And on our cardboard mattress
and the last few sips of wine,
the stars never looked so good to me,
her body never so fine.
Perfection amid controlled chaos,
eloquent profanities.
She dances naked in the moonlight,
and quelled our insanities.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Inspired by "Ghost Gardens" a poem by Rebecca Askew
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
I've seen the work of the best minds
of previous generations scuttled and
passed by like garbage in a dumpster
the angel headed hispters
have gone the way of the dodo
their legacy nothing more than
some printed word and fading images
replaced, for a time
by the high energy punks
fighting the machinery that
keeps us enslaved to the grind
and the money that they own
and use against us
buy buy buy or you’re not
doing your part!
but alas
their legacy is nothing more
than safety pinned faces and scratched
records discarded in bargain bins
replaced, indefinitely by apathy;
global apathy
pockets of resistance remain,
but they are ground down,
shut down before their fire
can be seen
a new movement is needed
angry music, vitriolic poems
revolutionary diatribes
printed in meatspace,
where it affects real people
not as ones and zeros
in blue lcd glow
ignored as rantings of
crazy people;
demonstrations, pranks,
hoaxes, calling out the
powers that be to own up to
their actions and decisions
a pulling back of the curtain
to show the gears and cogs
that make it all work
but who shall lead this
revolution?
not I, I’ve got TV to watch
and things to buy,
and alcohol to numb all the rest
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
Trite query from pen so weary
My muse has blown a fuse
The light that once shined has declined
My fleeting hope hangs from a rope
A vagabond whose muse did abscond
With illuminating spark leaving him in the dark
Out on a lark; my scuttled engine in park
Night and day I recon the lexicon
But the literary discourse is no recourse
To a stray itinerate who has lost his way
The stye in my eye has begun to cry
The pus is no fuss; my page is dry
A rhyme for a dime would be sublime
Perhaps, a bartered verse in my purse
Will break the curse, or still worse
Might stain with shame my languishing pain
Incarcerating my fraudulent pen in the critic's den
Oh, if words would rain then my brain drain
Would filter inspiration to my perspiration
The fertile strain if only but a grain
Would fertile sprouts shoot extinguishing my doubts
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:25 AM UTC
You made me wait for 45 minutes at a Banh Mi shop as the afternoon sun
morphed into a ceiling of darkness. I read a story on Buzzfeed
about break ups and relationship rocky as the road my car sat on.
The gas station was lit up like a theme park, but no one arrived,
and soon I believed you'd been taken, or you'd forgotten about me.
The cicadas started chirping and the humidity in the air cooled down,
and when I was about to turn over the engine, your black Honda scuttled into the parking space covered in puddles. As though, you knew
you could survive on any terrain, whether rough, or wet, smooth, or dry.
We talked briefly, small chit-chat, nothing worth mentioning.
I had already devoured a double-cheese burger and some fries,
but I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to ruin your appetite.
You touched my bicep, told me to flex. I did as I was told, like an old dog, wanting to please its master. My muscle hurt after your fingers drew away, as though my skin showed a wound, something ugly and worn.
I tried to smile, but inside I was drowning in false ****** expressions, and shortcut body language. We went inside, shuffling to the L-shape line, you picking up Mochi Ice-cream from the freezer, and me just happy to be in your presence. You said, you missed me and I knew you mean it too.
I said, you don't know how good it is to see you. You nodded and put your head on the nape of my shoulder. Closing your eyes momentarily, I touched your hip and held on for dear life. Because all around us, war battered young and old in countries stricken by fear and poverty. Gifs and Memes provided us with distractions, as you showed me the trailer to a new rom-com. They're just like us, you said.
You're right, I said. I gave you back the phone, before the trailer ended.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
The melting toll of empty hours,- chaste
Among the dry-stone steeples,-stirs
The cobbled rune of foetal wonder.
Forgotten waifs, in teasing, see
The scheming torpor of our ways
Then mingle in the vaults of our regret,
Through half closed eyes the
Unremembered rise on drafts
Of innocence, to spell their names
In Spirit in these scuttled, pin drop Realms.
The utters of an arcane tongue that
Whittled horses from the hill, now merge
Into the chiseled henge of lanterned Citadels.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
deep fried kool-aid in a purple Intrepid
the scepter of our Grief; falters
the Orion of our Agonies in the Least-ville of our Nova !
i'm about to outshine !
but before i can condemn my most recent assault
on God's little Plan.... I thought i might Jam the Signal
with a volley of Pretension
in the wane Valleys of the Seldom
and the Orange Jews.
i'm in my hard January and your Carnival, rivals my Fantastic...
you'd rather my dark be sunlit travesties, to Parade before the court of Desire
behind a chain-linked rinse. these snowflakes
are the ones with teeth.
not the ones you meant.
blue whales can hear us Dying, from Here.
And You still Think i love you
the haggard crags of our elliptical wards against a Pleasant Breakfast
the scuttled broth of sour tyranny and Nonsense
you abscond with -
the virtue of our wizardry, aligned with Hostile Invalids
From Beyond !
have i said much ?
have i begun to plunder the tripwire epiphany
of the rogue star from the Unknown ?
I'm in my hard January and the Spring in Winter's failing
is a Crossing.
And a Dread
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC