"sleepyheads" poems
the unattainable girl in cotton dress with her untouched hands
her perfections body and soul are store purchased at trending boutiques
she illustrates the room into vivid colour with her casual presence
she becomes the motion in the still life drawing you live
she is the utterance of everything to be attained by dreaming
by hope
for you
the unattainable
she leads you through the broken gate
a backyard overgrown and
past the rusting skeleton of a child's swing set
night has rendered it life
and it looms large in the minds eye with terrible
wrath for its cheated years
inside the bare room
streetlight filtered by the boarded up window
sound is muffled in here
her voice strangely stagnant and heavy
as she clumsily removes her shirt
laughing a small embarrassed laugh
so unlike her cool and convincing hardcase appearance
the two of you rest a few hours cupped in eachothers arms
till daylight leeches your sleepyheads of dreams
but the tattered cover of your romance novel
is by no means a feat of strung out fairy's on a mission to condemn
they only want recompense for the time they spent wrapped in the
soiled leather sheets entertaining some middle aged naked man
and his sole desire to be pretty
she sees all this
she sits in the dry corner
eyes wide but unseeing
a song of terrors paused on her lips
the reality's of reality has not yet sunk in
but its soft spoken voice is whispering to her now
it sets its christmas card well wishes on her mantle
it lays its warm gifts on her bed
careworn toys of her bitter embraces
sit in the grey snow abandoned like her lovers
now that she found her nirvana
she will spend her days
in hard red leather and fishnet
plying the flesh pots and the mystery's exposed of naughty naughty
the unattainable girl is just a photograph now
one dimensional image of a four dimensional demon girl
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
1.6k
light leaps lengthwise
purging this promontory prismatically
awakening all us awestruck
shameless sleepyheads, spying
delicious daylight drowning
out obscurity and occlusion,
frameless fixtures focused,
beams bouncing back between
emphatic eyelids,
leaving lenses lacerated,
despair defeated,
darkness destroyed.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
I like you in purple,
purple flower fields
We're safe in our meadow,
but they're nipping at our heels
I like you in blue,
blue swirling monsoons
Just think of happy thoughts:
puppies, kiwis and raccoons
I like you in yellow,
yellow playground slides
It's too hot in here,
but it's a place to hide
I like you in green,
green stalks of bamboo.
Puffs of smoke and pocket change,
help me lace my shoes
I like you in red,
red blankets by the river
twilight, moonlight, Starlight,
waking up with shivers
I like you in purple,
purple lazy sighs
Sleepyheads with heavy limbs
and guilty, smiling eyes
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
Imagine
if you can I say,
the certainty on Christmas Day
If Infinite Wisdom should decree, Christmas
Day to be snow free. Happy children need Christmas snows,
(Ask your parent, they already know);
To use their skates, sleighs and skis, And mitts and coats
so they don't freeze. History dictates outside toys
Combine quite well with outside clothes.
Skates match well with socks and toques, Sleighs slide faster
warm in boots. Snow awakens sleepyheads, gets kids outside riding sleds. They'll ride their sleds down downy slopes, begging
brothers to man sled ropes. For smiling Cherubs on Christmas morn, hope and pray for snowy lawns. There in safety they can mold
a fortress or a snowman bold. HA! Now listen to my homily, snow's not for kids only. What would we do on Christmas Day, with ready kids, no snow for play. Imagine kids - your very own - doing
everything at home. Your son, too eager with his horn,
playing Gabriel in the early morn. Recall the rush for toys and games, the push of crowds gone insane. "Why won't she play outside at all?"
Instead she cartwheels down the hall. SCREAMS OF LAUGHTER - RESOUNDING; PEELS OF JOY
ECHOING; HAPPY SHRIEKS
RESOUNDING
on silent
Christmas
morn.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
Tell me where you're coming from so I can write you off
Then I will put a question mark in place of what you thought
The Darkness brings the sleepyheads together in the night
But only those who know the sun will wake up to its Light
I wasn't even listening to anything you've said
I thought you would've noticed I was every kind of dead
I guess the people talking now can do it in their sleep
And force the words to leave their mouths, developed tendencies
But somewhere in the time it took for me to move my lips
I took a breath and let it out before it even clicked
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
He remembers each of my lyrical night caps,
Sings them on her sleepy head.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC