"sheened" poems
I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,
Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,
Groovy black men,
******* with attitude,
But they intimidate me,
Black men.
Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,
And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,
Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,
On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,
And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,
Because,
That one there,
The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his *****
I know him,
-conquistador-
He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
****** ***** *****
Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Will he make the tribal dance?
-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-
I ********** from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.
I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,
I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst
Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me ****** ***** *****
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
***** spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
I’ve strode this road of war and love
And born it’s bile and spleen,
I’ve wept at death and laughed at birth
But nowhere have I seen,
A sweeter place to live and die,
To quest for things supreme,
Than to forge these days of hard forays
In the Land of In Between.
Candied apples hang from boughs
Like jewels bequeathed by Queen
And silver sounds of bubbling brook
Cascade to tumbling stream,
Parakeets in vivid hue
Fly by with shreeking scream
In forest’s green majestic light
In the Land of In Between.
Paint no man black or vivid white
Whilst points of view be gleaned
With race and politics ignored
Then manifest, obscene.
Where labour be a man’s reward
And filthy lucre screened
As noxious be a spider bite
In this Land of In Between.
Where hate be strangled to the end
Then with a keen blade ,sheened,
Be put to death with avarice
No guilt or guile redeemed.
Leaving in the pristine wake
A countryside so clean
That God be queuing up to live
In this Land of In Between.
All ****** love be sacrosanct
And soft endearments seemed
As normal as the light of night
When by the moon dust preened.
And that laughter be our currency
Affection always seen
As bonding in fraternity
At the Land of In Between.
M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ.
30 January 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
The alarming realm of the vertical,
so immence a hue – a blue
of such majesty that wonder
comes over all.
The magical universe of color –
linear filigrees of tone sheened
on unlikely surfaces : clandestine
rose and violet, a shout of crimson,
a whisper of pastel.
Sun-honeyed pine trees,
wind-silver rumpling of fields
falling into manes of lustre,
galleries of varying shades
fading into each other,
mirroring a marriage
of likenesses, mauve
through cerulean.
Tinted pavilions of firmament
overhung with luminescense
where mind is lost in the
amazement of impermance .
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:51 AM UTC
The spout
Of the battle
Shouting
In inconsiderate
Babble about bling
While i'm saddling
My steeds
Manning the machines
And breathing easy
Before i speak
Clearly to your dreams
Interjecting the theme
Of the losing team
Cheering in victory
Snickering in mockery
I remarkably sing
In drowned out tones
And zings
And i'm gonna be
Everything you been
In a week
And its weak
That i win
And you grin
With your arms up
Hooray!!
But you lost today
Too dumb to know it
But showin it
To everybody
Rhyming
Isn't about money
Its about diction
Metered rhymes
And harmony
Arming the
Alarmingly
Disarming memes
Of scattagoried kings
Euphorically
Seized
In the lean
Of delivery
Creativity key
The breezy
Sleezinous
Sheened
In the has beens
Gassed up
Gin drunks
Grunting whats
In response to love
Callin bluffs
On the tuffs
Of your huffs
And shrugs
Whatever punk
I got a foot on you
And your ****
On my side
Talking over you
Until you shut
Out the light
With your mouth
Over your eyes
And your house
Of flies sized up
In tough love
And shoved off the shores
To the unexplored oceans
In the notions
Of severed portions
Aborted with a snorkel
In the cortex
Of Oxygenated
Brains showing you
A thing or two
So ******* vein
Watching you strain
To speak
To breathe
To think
When your ready
Il be brief
A pat on the back
And declaration of king
Before you bend over to be
Blessed by the best
In this contest
Im tested
Only of my patience
In the vagrancy
Of your empty words
Freshly matured
In manure
Skewered
In the lured
Obscurity
Muraling
The masterpieces
Stealing thesis-es
With the soul content
Of cheeseless pizzas
Sauceless in the lossless
Belligerence
And im tempted
To kiss
My fists
And commence
To smash out the comments
To astonished onlookers
Booking for Brooklyn
When im shooting
Blood across the pavement
With fury of a patient
To fairfax and back
To break the bones
Of your home
Set your soul apart
From the heart
That pumps lumps
Of ********
From the start
Of your every sentence
Ill take two seconds
To count on your blemishes
To settle this
In nubbish
*******
Stumbling
From a kid
Im only kidding
In my giving a single ****
Get with it
The mic is yours
And ill freely admit
To being bored
Here you go
....
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC
The news came into town like the flu,
rubbing the sleep from the eyes of the people,
Clearing them to see the words in pixels of ink
spelling out what had happened.
Mothers dropped plates,
car brakes screeched,
the cats and dogs
stopped in the middle of their whims,
and the gums got to flappin'
in the hospital-sheened caskets on wheels
where forgotten old folks were left
to feel forgotten.
The collective energy of
all this dude’s friends and family
rose and pushed the clouds in a mushroom,
A rude intrusion into the heavens,
where little old ladies
and blindsided grammar schoolers
had convinced themselves
he was sitting, looking down
in somber remembrances,
happy thoughts,
shared joys,
and all that jazz.
They piled into cars
and trooped to the viewing,
to cry and behold a waxinine figure
with a painted smile.
Then they kicked dirt
into the hole in the ground
and left him to rot.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Remmel's
pocket smelled
like armpit,
and his switchblade
felt good
and heavy
near his thigh.
The air was humid with
passing rain
and asphalt
and he pulled out a Marlboro
and stuck it
to chapped lips.
A flood of water
hammered the gutters.
And the grass he stood on
was an island.
A flash of light rolled around the corner.
Two glimmering beacons
riding up on him.
Rolling slow.
The windows were all blacked out
and sheened in a perfect
reflection of orangeish streetlights.
Remmel put his hands in his jeans,
his white boxers
pin-striped in orange
bars.
He'd come out the house without a shirt, and
his black *******
got hard as lead in the new wind.
He licked his lips.
As the car rolled up,
a murmur of bass
making the windows buzz.
He put his hands on the hood
feeling the buzz go through him
warm and tickling
as he leaned into the car.
He checked up and down the street,
and finally squared on his reflection
in the black glass
seeing nothing but
the shaking
green God of himself
about to create.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:59 AM UTC
Forty miles
Pieced by gannet
The saint who never was
Keening through skirts of sleet
Her broken psalm
Against time
Forty miles
To jaws of gabbro , dark Hirta
Boreray, Stac Li. Towering teeth
Bird-crammed. Men spidered, scaled
Over a void where one fall
Could blacken time
Forty miles
The wheel spun, warping language
The world weaved on
Behind oiled womens fingers
Picking at time
Forty miles
Over sheened cobbles to the bay
Men and dogs taken last
Out of a mornings haar
To stranger seas in time
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
You could tell she
was really someone special,
walked as if she floated on air,
wore her sheened-hair
in abundance,
wrapped it flowing
all around her sweet pretty face.
The bandana & pretty flower,
indeed were an attractant,
but the real grace was
in her penetrating-eyes,
they glowed brightly,
peered right into your soul,
melted your heart
with unspoken kindness.
Her feminine thighs
spoke volumes &
the other guys were listening,
stood speechless,
surrounding her,
mouths open in awe.
Her voice sounded pure nightingale,
not too high-pitched, but rather
an alluring melody & hypnotic.
She wore her **** clothes
to accentuate her finer details,
****** borderline exotic,
all the others paled
in comparison.
She was so fine,
genuine heaven
on two tiny feet,
first-rate all the way
& somebody else's date,
that was the problem.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
Sea gulls had blown
in from the coast,
circled themselves above us
screaming sounds of laughter,
so full of revelry
& true excitement.
We untangled plastic
in the strong winds
as big black birds mocked us,
along with the purple-sheened crows
strutting around the periphery
with some other
unidentified carrion.
Lifting like
an experimental tunnel,
strong currents blew
through the covering
while we slowly
tied down each corner,
basked in the odor of refuse,
laughing at ourselves and
the stupidity of the moment.
When we were finally done,
had completed our task,
finished the mundane project,
we looked at each other
and thought about
the concept
of no free lunches,
wondered why such
beautiful birds would
want to eat garbage,
these smelly leftovers.
It seemed so strange,
not to forage for better meals.
But minutes later,
just down the road,
we spotted the carcasses
of famished-looking
winged-creatures,
it was surreal,
almost mystical.
We stood in silence,
our jaws hung
as we truly understood,
felt like guilty killers
with blood on our hands,
staring at the falling sun.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
In a night of soft and muted starlight
I saw myself
Erected upon a battlefield
Clad in shining armor
Wielding in my hand a sword
Wreathed in gilded fire
In a night of pouding thunder and
Lightning white hot
I saw myself
Cowering in terror
Before a beast dreamt up
From Lovecraft's nightmares
And woke sheened in sweat
In a night of cool breezes
And the warm song of the cicadas
I saw myself
Married before my friends and compatriots
Saw happiness across my face
And woke
Not terrified
Not over joyed
But sad
Because I had not the contentment
Of my other self
In a night dark and thick as pitch
I saw myself
In snippets
Saw what was to be
Mundane happenings
And simple laughs
I was, but for a night
A seer
In a night blanketed in fog
Thick as the rolling clouds of smoke
Wafting from a warrior's pyre
I saw myself
In a mirror
No dreams
No sleep
Merely myself and my thoughts
And I was more scared than suring any nightmare
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC