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

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

***** and butts
****** and *****
parents and "tut tuts"

shimmies and struts
primps and cuts
falling, falling into ruts.

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.

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

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.

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?!

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

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.

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

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!

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.

"Nou wie is jy?"
"Ouma, my naam is Siyasanga,
Ek is jou dogter Lalie se seun"
"My Lalie, sy wat in Suid Afrika bly?"
"Ja ouma, ek het vir ouma kom keur"

I watch on as the spark of recognition lights up her eyes
Happiness flowers through the creases on her face like fresh rain through a Namib riverbed 
Her brow furrows as if trying to keep this revelation prisoner
The Sun continues its long journey across the sky
Her brow relaxes, and. . . . .

"Hello virtel my, my kind,
Wie is jy?"
"My naam is Siyasanga Ouma,
Ek is ouma se klien kind.
My ma se naam is Lalie"
"Lalie, sy is my dogter wat in Suid Afrika bly"
"Dis reg ouma, ek het vir ouma kom keur"

The spark returns
The fresh rain flows
The love warms my soul as we embrace
The Sun once more takes flight

Taking respite from the heat
I watch as she shuffles and shimmies and shuffles once more down the corridor
To the foot of the bare bed I've made my haven
Words like spun silk spill from her lips as she asks
"May I sit here my child?
"Ja my ouma, ouma hoef nie vra nie"
She shuffles and shimmies and sits down to read
What a beautiful life affair she has with words,
Even those from a magazine,
Whose pages danced that day at her touch
A letter whose ink for 2 decades laid dry
The name of the man she loved preserved in his evergreen book
Both retrieved from the vault that was her purse
Oh how she loved those words, and they loved her
She turns her head to look at me
With that spark in her eye
"Jy is my Lalie se seun"
I smile, my face awash with fresh rain
"Ja ouma, ek het vir ouma kom kuier"

~

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”

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.

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!

Aching neck and back, soothed.
Stiff sore muscles from the hike in and the previous nights vigor, relaxed.
Step in, sit down, lay back, breath out, breath in, feel the warmth seep in.
Soak it up let it devour you, let it consume you and take you away.

   Aching tired feet, soothed.
Stiff, sore muscles from the prior nights vigor gone but the memory stays.
Dip under feel that warmth envelope you, cocooned again, inwombed again.
Senses hightnd  keen to the shrill of a whippoorwill, the sulfur gallivanting before your nose.
A touch on your shoulder shimmies down your leg to your toes, breath in breath out there it goes.

   Crisp the evening air around you, a little angel hug, her arms of fog the gentlest of touch still, it too shimmers to your toes.
Bright the moonlight through the ever thickening clouds still enough too see the silhouettes of the faces looking round.
Tranquility abounds in glory all around, where everything goes both noticed and unnoticed, you heard the shrill of that whippoorwill yet its call did not intrude upon your state of zen.

   Breath in, hold          , breath out slowly, let it just seep out  now feel that, yes, clean, crisp, rejuvenating.
Listen to the trees hear the old man in the forest he speaks gently to you, listen close, for what he has to say is for you alone.
When you leave this place, and you will go, you will leave with a since of euphoria and wonderment but your not leaving now.

   Even the others voices cant intrude upon this moment, cant invade this serenity.
Let go of the things in your mind that have been plaguing you, turn them out and block them from reentering.
Breath, dont forget to breath so that your lungs can purge all that need not be taxing your breth.
Remove all that encumbers or hampers you, its not needed and optional here now just relax and enjoy all that there is.

   Let the fog envelope you, breath it too in, its silent vapor a most refreshing breath.
Watch as a little flame dances before you then disappears, dances and disappears again.
Now watch as the glow that flame created slowly dies before your eyes.
Breath in while the flame is bowed toward your feet, exhale as the flame dances around your eyes and blinds you from the shadows and silhouettes.

   Let free the sole to fly around you to see what cant be seen by the naked eye that is hindered by its captor.
Here in this serenity and tranquility you can sore where eagles were meant to fly.
Here you can let yourself go completely you can surrender to whatever side of you, you choose, be it animalistic or or sensual, or it be tamed and conquered.

   I choose as I sit here in these hot springs to feel the angel hugging fog envelope me and hold me till Im delirious from her touch. I choose to allow the warmest breeze blow over me and let my sole fly away with it. Through the mountains around the river bends and out to the world at my feet, my oyster presented to me in a dish most pleasing to this minds palette.

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.

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

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

Love is not pink.
It is is not the squeals of a little girl,
of a little baby whining in the cradle.
Not pearls round your neck
or a flower blooming in your soft, soft hair,

Love is not white.
Not the song of an angel,
of the innocent beauty of ethereal light.
Not the heavenly singing from above,
or a dance in tutus around a swan's passing,


Love is not black.
Not the harsh, gritty sadness,
of an age old fire's remnants.
Not the evil darkness lurking,
or a lie that breaks down the walls of the living,

Love is not purple.
Not the mystery of a simple mind,
of death's lullaby to sing you to sleep.
Not the murky depths of an old sea,
or a wicked distortion of concrete old rock.


Love is red.
Love is passion, fire,
it is a great, great inferno,
it crumbles your life to ash,
Love is the taste of cherry red lips,
of a dress which shimmies down your shape,
of everything just coming together like strings on a piece of fabric,


Love is red.

my innocence flutters in the breeze of your gaze,
as I dream away the haze of your face,
the lights dissolve the velvet of your ear,
breaking my porcelain lungs, time erased,
all I demand is a constant place,
dropped down the chasm from your leg,
to your heart,
where polaris shimmies ****, yet alert,
in the way our eyes can't adjust to stare into the sun,
and the way our fathers have a hard time looking their sons in the eyes,
telling you that everything will be okay with a hollow heart,
but I will tell you now,
all will be okay.
even if you must pull cubes out of
paper circles and dance barefoot
on flying volcanic rock, it will
be okay.
you know tomorrow is only a day away,
if you recline in your rocking chair,
begging for a sooner arrival of the next,
I'll sing you a broken prayer
tearing you farther from the air.

I like to hold your hand
Creating sparks of electricity
That travel through my body
My toes, my head, my elbows
Sending jolts of gleeful reminders
“You love him; you think he’s pretty cool.”

I like to hold your hand
My heart puts on its tapping shoes
And performs an acrobatic masterpiece
It flips and shimmies, and shakes it all around
It skips and jumps and smiles as it goes

I like to hold your hand
It covers mine so well
Like the best friend that tells it
“Don’t worry I’m right here
I’ll keep you warm and safe.”

I like to hold your hand
I like to know it’s yours
I like to know it claims me
*“Hey, this one? Yeah, she’s mine.”

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.

It is a night like any other.
The room is semi-crowded,
the lights are cool, ambient and allusive.
The music glides and shimmies,
reflectance of electronic symphonies,
with a sinuous pulse to
provoke and tease.
Still, you sense a creeping unease.
You are on your second drink...yet,
somehow, even the 12-year old
Macallan is getting a little too familiar;
its usual savor of spiced plum, dry sherry and
salted caramel dies a slow death
by a cold-water corruption -- its once
robust quaff is reduced to a faint, forgettable flavor.
The dreary day, too, has been flat, predictable,
diffuse in focus and devoid of passion.
Life has been set adrift, on trepid tides.
The dissonance of these thoughts
unsettle your soul and mind.
You feel some kind of reckoning  
approaches and is unavoidable.  
Under your breath,
you ask in fraught confusion,
"What time is it? Why am I still here?"
The Bartender sees the lingering trouble
in your face and he provides
a moment of empathy, of quiet
understanding.
He reaches for the bottle in response but
suddenly stops and looks past you,
over your shoulder.
A subtle smile forms where
a sober shade once stayed.
He sees something that has changed
the energy in the room,
pivoting as if on a dime,
to a sweeter wave,
a smoother flow.
Someone approaches…
You realize you must turn to look, but
slowly, friend; get your bearings...
Settle your thoughts for a beat or two.
You stand and turn, adjusting focus...there she is.
"....wait. Whoa...
Breathe, brother. Steady, soul!"
Then it hits you:
You realize the sensation you feel,
that unstoppable, sharp, sweet,
seductive suffering,
is the longest and strongest
Of long, lost friends.
You remember
why you are here.
You know the time,
this moment you've waited for,
for so long.
Your heart speaks and  
your eyes lock in,
to capture hers:
"Hello..."

Sleep and quiet eludes me
It shakes and shimmies our of my grasp
20 in 4
20 in 4
I am sore
hours and days run, there is dark but not total
The weight on my face pulls me down
I fall head head first in my chair, my neck can't support my bare empty head, full of half made walking dreams, I reach out for a translucent hand
20 in 4
20 in 4
There is no giddiness in this, only floating in semi nothing, work stumbles out of my mouth hours after my shift, I just need to drift
20 in 4
20 in 4
I will settle for lucid, these dreams where I'm chased by shadows of the day are giving me whiplash
20 in 4
20 in 4

Thousands of humans paint the empty air that
lives on the ***** surface of the subway floors

They wait impatiently
for a train to take them to their eventual destination
twiddling thumbs,
no hint of conversation

Mesmerized by hand devices
and every so often,
a book of pages

Careless children brag in their aura of innocence
creating circles of shimmies throughout strangers with
more laughter than the concern of danger

Polka dots dance with legs no longer than
half the height of the turnstile
filing memories while adults admire
and flash photos they’ll show forty years from now
yacking about young New York and the old times it holds

The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

She slides to the left
Shimmies to the right
Makes me smile
That lasts all night

The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

I’m missing sports center
Netflix too
Having watched a ballgame
since 2002

The remote don’t work,
but my baby can dance,
the remote don’t work,
but she can prance, prance, prance

The remote don’t work
And I don’t care
The remote won’t work
And we don’t care


Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.