"shimmies" poems
* * *
Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday
The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano
The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay
Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live
Way back when
* * *
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Hell shimmies when I am blunted ;
When I take a knock to the senses
When I am skinless,
singing stings
and misdirected by pain
If I had trained better
I'd be deep sea
Sussing distant messages
Operating with slight tremors, vocals and movement
and only when correct...
I'd be home
I'd be instrument
Not an act
Not a pet to society
No mood fool ;
flaked,
flooded
and littered
Rapped at by experiences
Attack reacting
An embarrassment
Watching my own pattern spooling
the same sums
and spoiling with repetition
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
black bee
head first in a
hibiscus flower
waxy pollen beads
dabbled down
its gleaming back
foraging done
it shimmies out
to spy the next
allurement
darting and hovering
as it chooses its mark
close enough
to feel its pulsing whir
breeze the hair
on my arm
I hover too
allured
and unfurled
before turning to dart
through this
shimmering world
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
***** and butts
****** and *****
parents and "tut tuts"
shimmies and struts
primps and cuts
falling, falling into ruts.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I found a dead ladybug in the sink
after washing a head of lettuce
the red had faded to peach
and the legs no longer reached for life
~
Standing in the school playground
during a warm fall afternoon
a bright red bug with black spots
lands on my arm
I can feel its little legs trembling
as it shimmies along my forearm
slowly turning my hand over
when it reaches the wrist
~
I hope that ladybug landed
on as many hands as possible
as a harbinger of joy
simply with its presence
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
Asphalt hot will scald the toe
The smallest step will stub it,
Succulent pots will catch the eye—
Surely to leave you rubbing.
And Fear, the wretched, ***** cat,
A mane sheer black with pause
Shimmies down the fire escape
Like good old Sandy Claws.
Blind as night these twenty years
With memory for an action.
Fear, that ***** is blind as me,
But she seems to find her satisfaction.
The difference between stepping
Stones and stumbling is the lesson;
You turned the light on, a quarter to three,
And from my blindness, drew a crescent.
Asphalt hot could scald the toe
Could melt holes in shoes, you know.
But nothing ever burns quite like
Denying your weary feet that road.
And Fear, the wretched, hoarding cat,
A mane sheer black and sane:
You ought to thank her for the ride
Once you’ve felt, at last, the pouring rain.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
well, wasn't it so oh so beautiful
once upon a time:
a naked man holding a fruit -
fast-forward....
a monkey holding a rat:
hmm...
enter Elvis: ahum ahum hum:
shimmies aways...
if genesis was to be rewritten again
it would be a monkey holding a rat
thinking about a tailor and a barber
with a schizoid format of interpretation
of an octopus!
said whaaaaaaaa-t?
said that.
maze needs no rat,
rat needs no maze,
man needs both rat and maze -
but man doesn't need
rat, when he's already
acquired a need for a maze...
and there's the: a need
to acquire a maze and disavow
a rat...
the human "concept"
of a soul: or animation force -
has become degenerate from
monkey through to rat...
if the ancient Adam was
naked holding a bitten-into apple;
modern "man" is
but a monkey holding a rat.
i'm far from casting the logic of
counting or spelling...
even though i can do both...
that man needs a maze
but not the rat...
in reality: the rat is not welcome...
but to conduct a proof /
pirson of meaning there is a rat:
in a maze...
so Tetris is debunked...
and?
the monkey has evolved
and thus devolved to a rat status!
no... wrong...
technology supports
the antithesis...
the rat is the proof
that a monkey is in a cage, and can peel
a banana!
**** wrong answer:
the rat can bite off its own snout!
¡ay, caramba!
wrong again?
can anyone be right using
this ******* spreschen?!
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
who is it now who loves me
who changes tune for every feast
of every new curve learned
who echoes deeply as I howl
responds to shimmies and the luster
sliding all along the rim
I like to think it's all of from him
but peering over edges I can see
who shines a light in darkness
It Is Me
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
In the dream we were in a hotel in New York. We were walking in tandem towards a really tall glass elevator. We got in and went up to the hotel room; we were both carrying powder blue suit cases and the same expression. He unlocked the door, outside the room the carpet was plush and forest green. Keys jangle, tumblers fall, cut to us in the bathroom. Him on the toilet, dressed in tuxedo pants and a Hawaiian shirt, head in his hands looking tired. Me in the tub, the water is transparent purple and the floors are marble. I say something: inaudible. He slips out the tiny white box and shakes one, two, three times - always. A thin cigarette shimmies out of cardboard, into his hand, into mine and finally he lights it. Smoke curls up like a cliche and we do that until it's gone. We both know it's over, but the audience... The audience knows he's found the girl he wanted. She's got strawberry hair and only listens to Bright eyes. Who is she? Stage left, pan to elevator door sliding open and he's leaving. He's got his powder blue and baby pink beside him and I'm still in the tub with the ashes.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
God created her to look lovely only in moonlight.
To only be beautiful in the most intimate moments.
Like when she shifts out of her tired clothes
and lies in her naked bed gently swaying to sleep.
When she shimmies around the hard corners of
her granite-topped kitchen,
cooking sweet broth and dancing to the music
she only plays alone.
When she sings
loudly
in her car.
Windows rolling down as
the wind tumbles through her hair.
She is unseen
and she is beautiful.
So profoundly beautiful
in her own time and measures
and this is her most exquisitely silent misfortune.
Sunday July 6, 2014 1:16 PM
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
He asks, "define emotion?"
In my own state of carelessness,
I give him the answer he never wanted
Happiness, is driving 115 in a 65 MPH zone
Not caring,
Because a part of you wants to die young anyways
A part of you is dead already
But that is your secret
And no one needs to know,
All the aspects that you will never show.
Desperation, is the feel of a sharp knife,
Gliding against ****** skin like an experienced lover
Giving release without slicing too deep.
A smear,
A mark,
A badge of ******* honor
Because you flirted with death and made it out alive.
Stupidity, is the freedom found at 16
Driving through a coastal city
As the first cold front shimmies it's way through the trees
Illegally smoking cigarettes
With a half bottle of ***** rolling around underneath the seat
It was always *****
It just had to be
Pleasure begins in a clever little pill
It was almost too much,
Sublime in nature....
Dangerous in reality
But it made you feel good
And for once
Everything was ok
Reality is the writing of my transgressions
Like I haven't a care in the world who reads them.
I'm flawed...
Why is this such a surprise to you?
© 2014 Peach
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
there is a door
obscura
in my mind
a black ocean
that smears alizarin mist
between love
and the dissolute
i hear
a storm of thick whispers
a breath calling
in free fall
my malleable lover
plays voodoo poppet
carousel of lady buddhas
diagramed unholy ***** *****
with scumbag eyeballs
contort for eager ruin
an ornamental cadaver
bejeweled
in a lake of tears
give me flesh
smell my rich ****
bouquet of **** the *****
transfixed eyes of flames
spread legs wide
thigh spillway buttered
loving the snag
and strangle
of a silk tourniquet
watch me shunt
and glassy stare
a glittering doll shimmies
blood bauble
and flapping tongue
torrent of curving jaws
clever teeth
to tear
and lips to be torn
a cockeyed brain
drowning in
illegible consciousness
for foot slaves
in a sweat and ****
magick show
body of irresistible horror
in descending spirals
to love
in the grotto
of furies
imbued with prayers
that fill the spaces
in her throat
martyr of transfiguration
she falls as
dust falls
i depend on her
tapestry of shuddering lust
in moist air
locked behind
a blood stained door
marked no exit
this savage pageant
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
~
Sitting on this roof,
seeing the colored lights in neighboring windows
finding frosted panes in abstract happiness,
as winter’s wind howls about my face
Speakers blare in cramping holiday tones,
(What’s so wonderful about it ~ this time of year?)
Shingles damp and slippery,
still I hold on for dear life
Fingers numb but clinging,
for without my seated sadness
on this peak above chimney ash
watching streams finding the edge
how else would those muddied
tear drop icicles form?
~
Then I hear it on shivering vibrations
A voice from ~ out there ~ somewhere
A shadow beneath a flickering street light
Footprints in circles about the square
Moving in my direction
My silhouette on white clouds shimmies
A little to the side, for a better view
Wings ~ it has ~ she has wings
I blink a frozen eyelash ~ she is sitting next to me
A warm, feathery quilted wing about my shoulders
Chilled cheeks burn as I smile
and my heart melts as she whispers to me ~
“No more icicles”
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Last night as I lay in my bed, just outside my house
I heard the familiar patter of her footsteps
As they mingled with the rustling crimson and golden "fallen of just yesterday"
I leave my window open, waiting
To breathe in her delicious scent, that heavenly bouquet of
Upturned earth and crisp cool air that's been kissed by Gulf of St. Lawrence
Oooh, she's arrived
Her full hips, gracing Horns of Plenty, sway as she shimmies and struts about our island
Gathering firewood for Samhain and climbing the birch, the poplar, the maple
Adorning their leaves with Byzantine colours, cinnamon and mustard
Oooh, she's arrived
And as Islanders dream of abundance, she slips in through cracks and crannies
To sample pickles and jams
And to bless every farmer and their harvest as they sleep
Oooh, she's arrived and she calls to us to celebrate, to lift up, and give thanks!
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
In from the rain the barber comes,
and shimmies off his jacket.
His customers' hair
is already there,
waiting for him to attack it.
Swish! Slice! Snickerty-snack!
Face the mirror, forwards!
How ya bin?
Tilt your chin -
the hairs fall to the floorboards!
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
It dances and shimmies and leaps.
I jump and howl and weep,
While the tail-less lizard tuts in dismay,
"Oh dear I'd never dreamt of this day",
Wiggling away to the deep.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 6:28 PM UTC
Fall is the most beautiful time of the year for me, with its blushing
Apples and fruitful trees dressed in zesty rubious healthy leaves with
Luminous fruit hanging off its stems, like galas, granny smiths, and fuji
Leaves of multi colored sunburnt shades of yellow, gold and brown
Inside the orchard, ladders, bushels, straw hats and farmer pant- grins
No better place to be then underneath an Autumn tree when every
Golden leaf shimmer-shimmies before swiveling down at your feet
Leaves that dance and shuffle-shake before landing in your hands
Earthing to the ground covering you with giant leafy dry crispy limbs
Arrest the night, stop the moon, hold the stars, its time to listen to the
Voices of the night, the falling leaves have their sorrowful story to tell
Ease into their season with a quiet soul. Help them say goodbye to the
Summer. After all it is the season of Autumn, a time for falling leaves.
September 27, 2021
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 9:36 PM UTC
See her shake her *****
as she stirs those pots and pans,
her hips a thing of beauty
as she taps them with her hands.
Her slippers keeping rhythm
as she shimmies cross the floor,
and she's singing along with em'
as she rocks from 12 till 4.
She's a twisting and a turning
as she raises up the heat,
with the passion she's a cooking
in her crazy tea time beat.
Clapping hands and jiving
as she adds a pinch of spice,
now her upper bodies writhing
as she slaps her buttocks twice.
there's hand prints on her bottom
where the flour left it's trace,
and she shakes em' cause she's got em'
with a smirk upon her face.
Now she's potato mashing
as she did back in her day,
and boy she still looks smashing
as her hips so softly sway.
Now shes Serving up and beckons
for me to pass my plate,
asking if I fancy seconds
then the meal will have to wait.
Now she's walking to the bedroom
with a two step on her mind,
and I turn up the volume
and close the door and draw the blind.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
My heart shimmies and shivers,
While thinking of you,
Poetry for my eyes,
You stand like a dancing,
Sentence of silver,
And dance like a whirling,
Diction of diamonds,
Your dimple crescendos,
Calling out my own upon my cheek,
The curves of your mustache and beard,
Carve into my heart, and add to holes put there by your gauges,
You don’t care,
And I love that,
You enjoy a good drink,
Laugh in life’s face,
And speak as you wish,
But walk humbly before God,
You sing gently.
A Man you are,
And Man to be.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door
he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe
she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******** line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look
he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Your tongue used to sneak in my mouth
like the old days, girls climbing trees to sneak in an older boy's bedroom:
he had a single bed and plaid sheets she would think of
in the same way she thought of wrinkled bubblegum wrappers
but neither tried to taste good for the other. The
boy and the girl just were what they were, just hidden in each other.
My hands could be the bedposts, my hair the headboard,
my skin the blanket she will dig her fingers into, thinking what is home
what is home - somehow it has become a
tap on the window, a whispered I am here, hello.
You helped me to get over my fear of silence,
my chirophobia. When everything was meant to be quiet, when we have
nothing to say, you would pour honey down my throat
and hold hold hold me tight
so tight that it would seem everyone knew. I imagined turning on
the television, there would be an image of us lighting up Times Square:
you would calm the whole wide world. It took us years
to realize that we have the kind of love that is always, always okay.
The girl shimmies down the tree, an old oak
so tall she feels like she has dropped fifty stories before she finds grass,
she feels like she has lost fifty feet worth of body and flesh.
His window is open, her lips separate, it silent and
it is okay. She mouths, I miss you
then climbs up again almost desperately, completely dependent on her
legs to pump air into her lungs and breathe through the pores -
blackbirds see up vines up her skirt, and twigs
bruises like wide bushes and then his hands like a nest. What is home.
Your saliva grew like moss against my cheeks,
I once bit and bled in my sleep, had nightmares so I could hear something
but you gave my teeth a garden to pick vegetables from
and I stopped needing traffic to rock me
to bed: your tongue used to sneak in my mouth, now I have its words.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I been strollin down by the riverbed
Searchin for answers
Shifting the rocks, the pebbles and stones
Trying to dig up the secrets and unknowns
But the ripples never speak
The ferns never reply, that's the natural technique
Only silence
As the water slips and shimmies on by
I been walkin on the beach
Searchin for answers
Under the sun I wander and roam
Diggin the sand, kickin the foam
Tryin to unearth
The secrets of the world's worth
But the sand barely whispers, the foam only scorns
Only silence
As the tide shies away and mourns
I been crossin every desert
Searchin for answers
Climbing the dunes and braving the storms
The scorching heat, the flies in swarms
I couldn't understand what they were tryin to preach
And the solace of water remained always out of reach
-Never an oasis
Only a mirage
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
sunlight licks the kitchen floor,
but sunlight is delirious;
soft-brained, a half-wit,
deaf to the creak and slam of doors
blind to crumpled t-shirts
lacking tact, a clinging idiot
leaning on whitewashed walls
to read what's in the cat scratch
it doesn't understand
it wants to play, it dribbles
it pokes my thighs, it dimples
rolls around in the soil
shimmies in the grasses
brings back the scent of warmth
on its grimy cheeks
it's just a child,
it doesn't know I've lost you
can't smell the stomach acid
or register my shame
it tilts its head, i slap it
it was there, should remember
your soft skin, your name
i melt into my pillow
pull the shutters on my eyes
don't think about the water
or the *****
or the mauve congealing blood
forget about the battered sun
just wait for moon to rise.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC