"singes" poems
While you were away,
My words seem to fall on deaf ears.
Unvoiced mutterings that fall out in droves,
Burning rants swallowed back in singes and sears...
While you were away,
Time was stagnant; a viscous puddle.
Hours only stretched longer,
The second hand jabbing its ferocious needle...
While you were away,
The clock drove me insane.
Ticking my life away in literal seconds.
Losing sand grain by grain...
While you were away,
And when it's all quiet and dark,
I could hear my heartbeat...
Awaiting the new day to make its mark.
While you were away,
My words seem to have lost their meaning...
As if they were stuck in limbo,
Unanswered calls that keep on ringing...
While you were away,
I am but a little lost foal...
Because whenever you're away,
I am never whole...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
red stains, fading, cracked, scented
_if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?_
sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints
spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .
but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement
where are the lines?
why won't you go there?
why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?
if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?
if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?
lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?
because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,
on a line of our own.
_>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,_
_sharp wounding painful_
_and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?_
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
When you do an action enough
Your body naturally remembers it
My hands still remember the trace of your face
Moving to your lips, a soft outline
My eyes remember the way it felt to divert the attention you had so pleasantly given me
My mouth remembers the way I spoke your name
The laughs we shared together
And in a way, my tongue remembers yours
Learned ways on how to pleasure and love
My body remembers the way you touch it
Innocent touches brought to my face
Passionate touches went to a different place
Muscle memory shows us the past
Things we might’ve forgotten had it not caught after us
Your lasting touch still burns on me
It singes my memory
Until now my muscle memory bugs me about you
Oh how I would love to be touched again by you
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 9:44 AM UTC
I played with fire once;
Ashes on my lips,
Singes on my back,
And I'm still burning
I'm a whirl of smoke;
Waiting for your flame,
Hovering above,
The match that you are.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
Cast it aside I…
Can the world be so…
Is anything actually…
Where does it go?
Promises they kept
Lifted from the well.
Hurt me just a little longer…
And I will never tell.
Basically, the chains they…
Craftiness all ensnared…
Turned round to face the…
Was it ever there?
Sever my motives
What does it matter?
Emptiness concepts…
Meaning’s in tatters.
Legs wrapped tight on…
Hardly notice the…
Singes the backside…
Looks so good, huh?
Push me to action.
Call me a fake.
Hurt me with venom.
Lies from the snake.
Nobody knows that…
So much of knowing it…
Is there a knowing such…
Yet, how we commit.
The pain sets it free now.
The blisters remind us.
Sifts through unknowing…
Blood, guts, and ****
Will it ever be, I…
Where is the voice of…
Searching for aching…
And finding love.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia.
Cathartic beads of sweat roll
off the horrors of your back
under the saggy breast lamps
in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids
come to watch you sleep.
Somersaulting walls made of human tissue,
the love of your life overseas, and everything you say
comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.
poetry is dead.
Liars smoke ten packs a day,
social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition
across the rot of post-modern vices,
their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.
'This is a story. A dream!'
Everyone sees the fire under the bed.
Watch-fires earthbound by every word
before it is said,
gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.
Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes
the vacuum of today's soul,
a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink.
No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.
One bed-room apartments locked with pearls
visible only to soloist dogs.
No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running....
to the pharmacy
because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities.
And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought
--here it is: Forget your name.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Sometimes,
words hit like bolts
of yellow and blue lightning.
Erupting from their
bottled container,
spattering bits of
charred glass
and gore of the
words that have been contained for far too long.
Reckless in their nonconformity
with what is expected,
what is,
and what needs
to be said.
When they spill
out of painted or chapped lips
like liquid fire.
Fire and lightning
that burns and singes
and electrifies
everything they touch.
Almost as painful
as the real thing.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
The Smell of Honey, Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry
<^>
*my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt
The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,
one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate
you see!
give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry
but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option
love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,*
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
#*To this body
Death does as it should,
Consigns the shell
To the firewood
And sets the spirit free.*
Close to the fire
the heat singes me.
I know it's only the prelude
to the fiery furnace
licking my skin with flaming tongues
reducing me to powdered ashes
disappearing and in no time fading
what was me but in an instant
dusts in urns and upon wall
and years after maybe one's
untimely rains of dusty memories.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
The heat singes my fingers as the strength leaves my legs
The sweetness hits my nose as I blow worry out of my mouth
I think it's hesitation but it's peace that slows down my hand
Peace is the mini smoke stack that churns stress and life to a smiling cough
I'm not clear but I'd rather be blind then look in my minds eye
I like the discord, the order has grown to heavy to handle
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
we
mill the
wheat
and our bread
is
broken.
slack lung
sponge
anemone the cavitous
tide
po
ol
s.
we
chill complete stars
and oi ! our dead
are
tokens.
bad
nuns
expunged
eternally hap-hazardous.
blind
fo
ol
s.
we are not risen. we are unleavened.
our chevy glistens where the chrome clings to the rust bite.
the light tingles the rods and cones of Time's swipe across narrows,
it's arrow sings. it singes the rind of our fat lips
where it's teeth slide,
where our worlds kiss the pavement
from so much grinding
chaff
into gold.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Grace Before Meals
Sunday afternoon, a year ago.
Early but late afternoon, end of July sun still high enough
to provide a loving and kind warmth through fractus clouds,
But doing double duty and
Supplying continuous eye candy via
riots of razzle-dazzles glistenings upon the prima facie of
my friend, my boon companion,
my bay.
Sitting on a weathered Adirondack chair,
grayed like me, a solitary outpost,
our third Musketeer,
it so belongs where I find it, in the corner of the yard,
hard by a white picket fence and footed by
an out cropping,
a patch of wild grass uncarpeted, we are aligned,
the chair and I, in so many ways,
we accompany each other
beach-facing, one unit,
designed by man but
nature-made of, and signed by her in a cursive, gentle script as follows:
**Quiet, please, for this is
a place of our mutual
quiet contemplation.**
These regal chairs are tinged with green moss stains,
as I am tinged with silver streaks
so we laugh at each other
and we laugh together,
delighted to share
the grandeur of the pleasure of
the exactness of this precise moment.
The bay claps its waves
in honor of the symmetry
of the trinity of man, wood and water,
a more perfect union
My woman calls to me,
supper is ready and
I smell the onions and the raisins
and the love that singes our shared salted air
With deep regrets and promises solemn,
Adieu, Adieu my friends, bay and chair, sunlight extraordinaire,
wait for me!
This poem but my R.S.V.P.
an oath of return sworn,
for I am man, placed here only
to sing the praises of my earthly delights,
my truest friends,
I sing of thy grace,
Grace Before A Meal
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
The flame engulfs us into physical bliss
Energy so powerful it knocks me to the ground like a ragdoll.
With every thought and hope for you to be happy and content
Another lick of fire singes my heart and soul.
When things are going your way,
Your smile can melt a snowman
And your eyes magically draw me to you
Like a moth to a flame.
But when the wind is gusty,
Your heart grows cold and hardens
The ugliness of the ice freeze me away from you.
While my fire is burning out of control just wanting you.
This flame I speak of is our energy merging as one.
The ice and cold comes from distrust, suspicion and rage.
A fire that consumes every molecule of my oxygen
Pushing me farther and farther away, being burnt bit by bit.
My heart is shattered with emotions I didn’t realize were possible,
Yet you react aggressively, without care of the consequence of your action
I pray you will never endure the utter destruction of a spirit of love
But maybe, you can have a chance at your next possibility of true love.
Unfortunately, I was the best you will ever have.
My love for you was pure and true.
The pain will subside over time, I pray
Hope others reading have the strength to leave someone they love
to heal their hearts and love another who deserves it.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
a tiny woman
has hips
with a thousand mouths to feed.
her little feet
are
acetylane-based
and her philosophy
is
a
by-product
of a lack of faith.
"It's going to be a good night, for a little while,
but let's not spoil a night
by thinking about it,"
her hips
say
to your fingers.
The thousand tongues
lap at your fingerprints.
Her tongues
make rollers
of passion,
and bury love
deep beneath the ruined sand
of a nimbus-warped beach
blackened by pain,
x-rayed by fingernails of lightning.
She makes you think
of such a beach.
The tiny woman
wraps her long, lean
arms
around your tiny
hairless neck.
Her breath singes
your uncovered Adam's apple.
Little man,
she calls you,
this old cougar
with rat teeth
and **** eyes.
"Little man,"
she says,
"I know how men
get down these days,"
Her body is verve,
electric skin
and loose, vibrating fabric.
Her legs are muscle
only,
as tight as a horse's quad,
you can see all the veins
and their tributaries
in her thighs,
and how they wiggle
against olive muscle.
"Little man,"
she says,
beer like a Titan
on her breath,
"I'm hungry."
And you are too,
and she will lead you,
holding your arm
by the drunken,
half-holding,
half-forgotten
vice
of her fingers
and you and her
will eat at Waffle House.
At 2 a.m.
She will dry out,
and become salty.
You will dry out and finally be hungry.
Eat,
Little Man,
she thinks,
because you're walking home
tonight.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
Impatient breath
Hands erasing, smoothing all ridges.
Skin to skin becomes just...skin.
You cover me and discover me
Your fire singes any thought I may have had
And all that is left is you
And me
And your hands on me.
As my desperation grows your movements slow
Until desire is all there is.
This is more than you and me.
This is us as one.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
Do you know the bird?
Of course not. each
updraft a soaring appreciation for
worldly things, textbook happiness
drowning distraction in a pond plump with water
lilies and tadpoles, sinking down to the
dirt, belly raw on dizzy ground, feet
scrabbling for a safe touchdown, sure this day there
must be a rock or a tree trunk, some natural end to the in-
between where a bitter desperate aftertaste singes the mouth, certain
nothing else will be known, that this sour tang is only to
remain on this tongue forever, no
asking you if you can relate is like expecting the sun to
rain down and openly weep itself out, quite
impossible, come on - remember, you
must see clearly - here
comes the lift again, fondest flying above, fully
forgotten panic until winds falter once more
I know the bird.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Intangible computer guy
The one you trick yourself into feeling closest to,
When in reality he is the farthest away.
Hell, an entire ocean separates the two of you.
But none the less,
He has gained importance.
Your life has become so lack luster
That more and more you find anticipation rising
As you near your PC.
It practically singes your fingertips
As you reach for the keyboard
And paw at the mouse.
Your body is
Taken over by an infestation of cyber butterflies;
Flapping their steel bolted wings
So hard,
That they thin your breath in anticipation of his next paragraph
Of small talk words;
Adorned with innocent courtesies
And make-shift smiley faces of semi-colons and parentheses.
Perhaps you’re eager because of the complement he threw in near the end of his last message?
As you scroll slowly down the page,
You see that he has not replied
Even though it has been two days.
In that instant
you realize that “intangible computer guy”
Is only so intangible to you;
For on the other side of the Atlantic,
He lives a life that is real.
Maybe it is you who is intangible?
Your shell of a life has been a bit depressing as of late.
For you,
A 20 year old
Who should be having flings and going to parties,
Has only been kissed once and never been touched;
Stuck living a life not your own.
Maybe “intangible computer guy” is so real
That your pathetic life can’t fathom the fact that he has one too.
You realize this as the mild depression
That has been like an infestation of maggots,
Gnaws at your senses;
Causing your eyes to burn, redden and cry.
Yes.
You realize that with Mr. Computer Guy
You get the chance to be charming
And talk about yourself,
When in reality you can barely get a word in edgewise;
Too busy living for others
That you,
In a sense,
Have begun to fade.
Becoming almost…
Intangible.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Shes been French kissing death
I can smell it on the scent of her breath
It singes my eyelashes
Each time I take a breath
I feel like I'm flirting with death
Kissing death stained her teeth
Turned them brown
Rotten her breath
Killing me
When she smiles I can she hairs
From whatever animal crawled up there and died
Does she know whenever she inhales
The riptide of chemicals that shouldn't be
Is the cause of her putrid breath
Even when I she's gone away
It lingers
And stays
Polluting the airwaves
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Her mind is as loud as a whistle blow
I can see it in her smirk
As we talk over dinner
I hear her silent sarcasm
I’m not psychic
But her wheels turn quickly enough
That I know to be ready to dive into the dirt
And out of her path
I hear her train comin’
See the coals burn in her eyes
The way her eyelashes flicker flakes of cinder away
I feel one fall on my arm
It singes my arm hair
It smells like the square-root of burning bodies to an over exaggerator
This feels like
People who have prayed in silence
And caught fire
Because they were begging for the answers
Before the bomb went off
They are souls who have been told
Praying is a waste of time
Wondering is a waste of time
You don’t always get answers when you ask for them
You don’t always get answers when you ask for them
Sometimes you’re lied to
Souls who have to learn to accept
The helpless agenda of living
Whatever happens was supposed to happen
If it wasn’t
We wouldn’t be here
Ready for the fire
Ready for the whistle blow
Ready for the hog-tie train track love she has to offer
I ask
Do you still love me?
She picks up her glass of wine
Sips it
Leaves a stain of lipstick on the rim
She says
I do
She says
I do
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
i am far too flammable to be playing with matches like this but i like the way your hands burn and i like the singes on my dress, my hair, my skin and i know i shouldn’t but burning feels more alive than freezing and my body has been shaking from the cold for months now and even if this hurts just as much it’s so nice to just feel something, something different, something at all. cold eats you from the inside out, the ice spreading from your stomach to your throat before it appears on your lips and cold feels like nothing. you lose the sensation of touch and you lose your breath and it happens so slowly you don’t realize it at first. this is what my life has been like: slowly freezing me solid, deep freeze through to my heart, until my flesh can’t remember what it’s like to be flushed and warm and alive. fire is different; the flames dance on your skin and scorch you before your nerves register the feeling, before you realize the danger, and this is what you feel like. i want to commit small acts of arson with you and i want us to burn down the house i grew up in and we can kiss with the flames reflected in our eyes. you are my original sin, you are my Morningstar turned lucifer, you are mine.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Push away, push away,
I'm just residue of cosmic rays.
Aurora leaks through magnetic cracks,
riding backs of solar winds.
Poke holes in the cellophane,
**** in the sunny dust;
universe can fill me up
but it's never quite enough.
My skin is bored and leaves me,
my insides throb without their shell
my mind's a traitor and defeats me
dressed like a heart, grey matter swells.
Plasma swimming, again
aimless, still seeking; charging
pent-up venom, radiation
singes the surface as my fingers explore.
If I can't feel your magnetic field
pressed against me, like the moon
I will bury pieces below your surface,
little pockets of cancer,
warm and unflinching.
Then I'm gone again,
gone to lay dormant
in the interplanetary medium:
undulating electricity,
sparks of stars to cauterize me to you.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
Because of you, everything I touch,
Bleeds and turns to dust
I want to **** you first,
Because a broken blade singes, feels good with a ******
Against my wrist.
Your German tongue, I can't bare
Not a single word without a snare
Your Aryan sly,
Your black gutted soul.
Go away, I say
Go away,
You come as swiftly as you stay,
You bruited, withered man
I tried to burry you in the sand
With the Pacific ocean, we found sacred
Ah, to crush your brittle skull with my fair hands
The empty vessel that lies,
My brother's fears, my mother's tears
My sister's sorrow
Her disposition that fallows
Go away, I say
Go away, you shadow of a man
Your skin is already cankered
Your hair thin and gray
Spitting tobacco out the window
Passing by your old church
Your God you hold so sacred,
Hates what he sees naked.
How ironic,
As you fill your stomach, with gin and tonics
Your only son, drenched in your malice
His confused identity, at your callus
Your worst fear, your biggest secret
I see what you left behind, in his tender cries
Your drunk is merely a symptom.
My mother's wisdom
Trying to gather strength to circulate the essence
Of her household kingdom,
Yet, destroyed at the presence
You left her, pavement scratched.
Busted blood vessels, continuous contusions
Led to the comfort of capsules
Trying to mend the thrash
Laying in front of her children on the hard, wooden floors
You demon of destruction
With death in your demise,
How your lover's family feels
As you dragged her heals
Into her watery grave
For you, it's not a worry; you think your God will save
Now it is time.
Take your pride,
The evil you hide.
As your golden ticket to hell
Alas, you’re dead
No fragmented memories shrouding my brain
No more drugs, no more pain
FREE, of the demented ways
I am the murderer now
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
The heat of your anger singes my soul.
These ashes are worth keeping, as they burned for you.
Take your tribute with satisfaction. In such light I am blinded of my own existence.
Like diamonds from coal, I have awaited your revival; beautiful, rejuvenated.
Forever doesn't seem as long as you will have me wait.
A response is like gold to me these days.... My poverty astounds me.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
stomachs churn, insides
twist, anxiety bites
chunks from the swollen
brain. silver glints in the
corner of the eye, quivering
hand snatches metal
weapon, slicesliceslice.
feels warmth ooze from
wounds, thigh catches
fire, singes part of any
remaining self-control when
roses fall from
perfect blood lines.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
I've been dreaming of precipitation
Rain, snow, and falling faces
Melting wax that singes skin
Suspended still in the act of the spill.
I've been wandering into ****** graces
Scents of flowers
Hammered
With a mortar and pestle.
Ground finer and finer
Beneath the pressure
Forming liquid with the dew
Cool darkness had drenched them in.
I've been howling during the day
Slicing the serene innocence of songbirds play.
Expelled from my lung the repeating madness
Of the harlequin hand that demands
The openness of my thighs
To jolt me
With feels that
WREAK HAVOC
ALL
OF
THE
TIME
And still I will dream
of wolves and serpents
Bear claws dug into my wrists surface.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC