"slicks" poems
The snowman slicks his hair
and sits on the piano bench.
He never comes to press the keys
for fear of the warmth
in a major chord.
The snowman lets his whiskey stand
in ice upon his windowsill.
He never comes to press his lips
for fear these poisons
will reduce him to elements.
The snowman browses works of art,
photographs of beautiful women.
He never comes to try his luck
for fear that rejection
will leave him cold,
and preserve his distance.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
He stirs, slowly...
watching the spoon,
break the fog,
settling over his morning cup...
opalescent eyes,
scanning the sleepy blue,
of daytime horizons.
Porcelain fingers, shift
into hard, ceramic claws;
first smoothing up,
snuggly cotton pantlegs,
and then running them down,
forcing his navied thighs, to separate.
The fork, in the road,
as I crawl in, between them,
headlights, and a glossy smile,
on full beam.
He jerks, with surprise
at the unexpected motion,
lips, arrested in a subtle purse--
a pinched pink,
pouted gently, outwards
to blow away the steam
gathering, around tense fingers.
I mimic the tension,
with my own, slaking lips.
Hands shift,
to cup him,
and slide, upwards.
Suddenly, he needs two,
to grip the mug.
My tongue, slicks out,
wetly,
to follow his ascent,
as he stands, upright;
neapolitan soldier,
with the suede skin.
The heat,
gathers,
in my palms
flushing his thighs,
and it circulates, warmly
against flickering flesh;
mouth, moving limberly
to drink him,
under the table.
My feral eyes,
fix his drunken ones,
as we both take each other,
in.
"I hope you saved some cream, for me?
Good morning, honey."
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
Your curls are Gulf Coast weather,
rarely cloudless and sunny, each
frustrating loop a messy
ice-cream scoop cascade.
They look like a love affair,
as sex-centered as your star sign,
too-friendly, sunday-sensuous,
meandering into ***** knots.
Every sweet-floral-fruity
custard you toss them in
is as well deserved as the
satin on your lashes and the
salve that slicks your
orbicular body.
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 4:28 PM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
Twisting, turning, tides o churning
Diving down, to drown the burning
Fires flying, dreams of dying
Yearning and still learning.
Chase the oil slicks,
Douse the blackness.
Flee the river styx,
Let go of false desires.
Set the past, ablaze with matches.
Destroy this hatred, in its masses.
Follow footsteps, frightened faces,
And find fate hides, in many places.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold
raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light
has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I
peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe
dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full
a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense
numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws
for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb
through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell
grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite
tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck
others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity
the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls
moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes
through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
god i love fiddling with Kant...
i still don't understand why
Nietzsche thought he was
a senile old bachelor in the end...
**** similis...
the grand APE...
now...
is the ape a creature:
a priori,
os is the ape a creature:
a posteriori?
then again, i was once accused
of speaking out of my own
*** by a slob Jew in
Edinburgh,
as i was also jested at
with the words
'we'll crucify you'
at a UCL drama take on
the plight of the Palestinians...
**** me...
motley crue dr. feelgood style...
i guess when the last of
the last Holocaust survivors
are dead...
the gloves come off
and we can... rattle the bare-knuckle
slicks...
nope... i always preferred a drunkard's
slang to an ass-licking
****** addict's slack;
but don't get me wrong,
i could read a Burroughs' novel
in a day...
just... drenched....
in (a) hypnotic chaos of juxtaposition;
frantic vagary...
like watching a **** of a fly
darting here and there;
p.s.
(adjective & noun -
so, no... frantic vagary is not
a "misnomer"...
it's a doubled emphasis).
ah... the benefits of acquired
rather than the native
usage of the, spreschen -
hen hen... no spre(h)- -shen.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Evening cleats The Bay,
As cavalcades of passive argon, sulphur on
the ogham slicks,
to treacle ways toward the seeding
cooling of the hours,...
The sleights of crimson, fringe
the bruising cower of the West, to
brightly die behind the leathered hill.
From a wrist of tallowed amethyst,
a Tiercel purls a last ellipse, and in
his sinking helix ships, the Sommes
of curdled estuaries, to brood
the closing Mill....
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
Desensitized by the sands of time
I'm abhorred you're a cultural cog
Bobbing on the surface
you find eating gulls disgusting
but don't bat an eye at nauseous oil slicks
I wish I could set it all ablaze
so we'd pick our destinies more carefully
Or more care freely
You see me as a motley mesh
Flesh covered by cloths from mismatched fads
Yet, you're a pretentious simian that's forgot our past
Just a gussied up grazer, disavowing discomfort
scoffing at any endeavor that isn't grass flavored
The chimers on the lawn are all robed outcasts
bellowing to the fodder eating fodder
the posh set the stalks to be mowed over
But for the justice of all the inside out bulls
leaving their wallets on the ground
the entrail fashion never catches on
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Deep sighs at day break
Our heated surface no match for the inferno inside
Raging for the ache of your dark touch
Sweat slicks already lubricated flesh
I curve into the muscled wall of your chest
Closer
I need it
I need you
Appalachia shadows criss cross fogged windows
Penetrating stories written along their dewed edges
I writhe beneath your whispers of
"Come for me"
Body bowed, tight like violin strings
Played by expert, elegant fingers
Shudder. Surrender
The seat of my soul flooding with pleasure, with release
Request granted
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
It’s a June-hot part of May
and I’m in a swimming pool,
head underwater,
and the whole world is filtered
through chlorine.
I try to open my eyes
without them stinging
but the burn slicks my eyelids
back, like a doll I had as a child
when my stubby fingers would push
sight into those glassy eyes.
At the bottom of the water
my back hits cool tile,
and I only know which way is up
when I exhale some of the precious air
and watch the bubbles blink
out of existence at the surface.
I wonder if I, too, will become
something intangible once I
reach the land again, but I cannot stay
down here forever.
I know about drowning.
I have read many poems about people
who wave death in like an old friend
and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Perhaps we all end up
in a swimming pool, one way
or another. I’m just at the bottom of mine,
seeing in my mid-twenties in a haze
of unconscious sleep.
If there’s something that’s going to jolt
me out of summer adolescence
then it may as well be CPR,
but for now, I can sink,
like I am not the dead body,
but the boulder weighing it down.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 9:01 PM UTC
I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures
Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon
“The stories they’d tell”
Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it
“Someone should do something”
Someone, but not they
Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew
How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks
Past fallen trees and draining pipes
Until being caught by a shopping cart
Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul
Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save
From which it was taken
I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way
Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking
Until I reached
Well...
Fond Du Lac
Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe
Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag
Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can
and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar
And he told me I was just like you
I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley
Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side
Or be courageous like the captain
Sailing to Muskegon
Over choppy freshwater treachery
I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep
And never wake back up
I can drive all my loved ones away
Just like you have
For the past five decades
I’m exactly like you
Because I too
Wait for a sunnier day
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
A year out a year away I yearn for freedom far away
Far away far beyond to the place where cars go bomb
I would have joined the boys at the bar
But instead I’m off to join Hezbollah
When I arrived I jumped the cue
The bulletproof Jeep was waiting for me to
The rifles round the waist the men at the door
I had funny feeling telling me I had gone to far
Did I really just leave home to come this place
To join Hezbollah and their CIA mates?
Its all happening so fast I said after my first fast
What’s with the black robes and the cotton face masks?
Can I not just watch do I have to do?
Who are these mercenaries we have here to?
I hope you got my message amongst the blah de blah
In the letter I sent you from Hezbollah
I was lost but now I’m found mum, Iv been shown around
On the back of an armour plated Volkswagen I was driven around
I saw the desert slums, the graveyard pits
But the road was greasy from oil slicks
I was told iv grown up I was that I’m a star
I think I might stay here for a while with Hezbollah
It was goats knee that was fed to my face
Three days before I was to leave this place
Because I was chosen and I’m a star
White upper-class turned Hezbollah
Chosen amongst many to do what few will do if any
It was an open invitation on a Facebook group conversation
So to this night I say goodnight, till tomorrow and the good fight
I will not die in vain my pain shall be relieved with fame
I’l see you soon my ma and pa thanks to my savour Hezbollah
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
There are two of involved in this battle.
One of us just making war.
Two of us made love in summer.
Both of us just lived for spring.
Walking hand in hand together on beaches.
Beside streams.
Sadly it seems.
That the river's polluted.
The sea it froze.
The beach was covered in oil slicks and washed up dead birds.
Separately at differing places at different times, we stroll on the seashore.
We pick over the bones of those who are lost.
A figurative exercise.
Working out why we are at war.
Why we ever were.
Together in the first place.
Two lost souls walking through dark passages.
Seeking and finding.
Hunting as predators.
Wanting to eat love.
Swallow it.
So hungry.
Ate too many.
Far too many.
Breathing space.
Broken hearts.
Fractured faces.
Time repairs.
Wait and see.
Whatever will be will be.
(c)Livvi MMXV
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés
black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones
she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks
those artists
selling cheap
second hand
Picassos
or such like
but mostly
she likes ***
between sheets
in back street
hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters
listening
to a cheap
transistor
radio
some French dame
singing of
a lost love
as she feels
Benedict
kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips
and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove
the outline
shadowy
of his ****
rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves
of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves
Paris streets.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
I swim.
Warm water.
Warm day.
I think of you.
I lift my head up
and my hair slicks back.
I smile widely
as a monarch crosses my path.
I think of you
when I look at the
trees.
See the shadows
and the sun
and the shrubbery underneath.
So beautiful,
for no one.
I hardly noticed
but now I see.
Highlighting and
contrasting
colors.
Shapes.
Smells?
It's all here. So I dry
and catch a picture
when show and tell
appears.
I think of you
when I untie my top...
I wonder if neighbors can see?
Still alone,
I don't stop.
Imagine you entreating me.
I laugh
I smile
and even when I get mad
or sad for a while
why is it
I keep thinking
of you?
Somehow,
of my senses,
your touch
flows through.
Anytime I'm without you
I feel the longing
for your hands.
And to tell you things
that excite me
because I want you
to understand.
I learn more; I want to share.
I hear something great; I want you
to care.
But what I want now
is just for you to be here.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
it was the kind of heat
that slicks your skin
and dampens your clothing,
matting it to your body
but i kept on walking
each step was another day closer
15
14
13
12
the edge was getting closer
11
10
unbearably hot
but somehow comforting,
like a blanket
it engulfed me
and it started to feel okay
to be exposed
9
8
7
i could hear the waves
getting louder
as they crashed onto the rocks
spewing foam up the sides of the cliff
6
5
4
the baby carriage was getting harder to push,
as i had loaded it with more
at each step
3
2
my mothers tears,
some naivety,
thoughts of looking back,
fear,
anxiety,
questions
1
things that i didn't need anymore
swelled in the buggy
and the day was here
to let them go
the drop was steep
and unrelenting
0
with a swift push,
i covered my eyes
and listened to it fall
as i rose
into the sky
higher
and higher
and higher
goodbye
to everything holding me back
my destination,
new and uncharted,
was all that was on my mind
and as i looked out
over the Pacific Ocean
the fear of saying goodbye
became nothing
but a shipwreck in my past,
a reminder that
it is so much easier to say hello
and welcome each new experience
with reckless abandon
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC
Pasts of myself
Reflecting off the bookshelf
A naked truth of original sin
That every time I look
I can't help but laugh
In time there was a truth
And in present there is only this
A hope to see you again
A breathe where there is no
Exhale or inhale
Only the breathe you were made
To believe was real
Sitting atop my bookshelf
Sits the faces I cannot recognize
In dreams they come back to me
So I know I will never be free
Each birthday the shadow of celebration
Makes my heart tear when names mentioned
All forgotten
Where once I was near walking
And dreams are
The oil that slicks the road
The ribbit inside the toad
The unmentionable code
A crazy pattern not sewn
Sick tired suffering nodes
Realizing that no one ever really knows
There the faces float
Each eye a time long past
And though moments pass fast
With struggle the warmth wanes
Bringing a pain that dances profane
Pain doth not mean an untimely death
For these faces do not bring life's theft
Start anew from a new bookshelf
Touch a heart that has not yet been felt
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
Desynchronized glances,
evaporate
into long, ravenous gazes.
Each of us is a mirrored pool,
a reflecting pond,
that the other could swan-dive, into,
facefirst, and drown in.
We drip hotly
and melt, for each other,
like simmering rivers
of molten candle wax.
I twist around you
like a curl, of oiled hemp.
Your fingers tense, grip,
and peel back the skin, of
cotton thigh highs
as your face elongates,
and your mouth, moves...
languorous tongue,
trailblazing downwards
from the mons veneris,
to worship, devoutly,
at my sacred shrine, below.
The slippery wetness,
of exposed thigh
slicks, and grazes,
your stubbled cheeks
tenderly perfuming
the tensed column,
of your working throat,
with my feminine scent.
We interlock, tongue and groove.
Your tongue tip flicks the nub,
back and forth,
like an ignition switch,
as the engine hums, to life.
You stoke my fires,
with every lingual stroke.
You blow my torch,
into a fervid flame
that spreads heat throughout
the inner chamber,
and you warm your face
in its baking, radiant glow.
I bite down, delirious with ecstasy,
into the skin, of my own tensing arms;
wrists bound, in python restraints, overhead:
resisting the force, of the virulent scream
forcibly spreading, throughout pink lungs.
Yes...oh, God, yes.
I churn, from the hips, down
raining, into your expectant face,
mouth pealed, helplessly, for the scream...
and the sunlight breaks overhead
as I smile brightly, and collapse, around you.
...Oh...puddin'...have mercy, on me.
Now...
we separate,
and interchange places, smoothly.
Your hands, dig, into the voluminous depths
of loosely bound, twin comet tails.
You wrap their trailing, cherry cola ends,
around tight, clenched knuckle fists,
as my lips, purr, against ever-expanding skin.
Don't you dare...let go,
of these handlebars, baby,
as I rev up, hard,
hit a wet patch, and SLIDE.
....Hold on tight, to me, and RIDE.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
Syrup simple. Sad and slow.
Sweet run juice, slips down
the rotted core.
Mirroring the sweeping tears
Salt slicks your face.
Black with overripeness.
Sugar shot through.
Quick slaloms of sea wash
High cut cheekbones.
They cave with the decay of sorrow.
What once was taught and full
Now is sunk and sallow
Sweet turns bitter.
The sad in your soul
Rots you like a peach.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
eye am out on a rainy weekend day, feeling the compulsion to escape the imprisonment of one's living quarters reflecting off of the rain puddles slicks on black city streets, that shine bright like an addiction's craving. For Single people in a city that values personal beauty and anonymity simultaneous means entering the outside world of a drizzling, more like misting, gloom and be outside dressed as if going to, and indeed, perhaps some were actually going, to the gym though for most, off for a Starbucks moment of community.
all dressed to code. The code says all black, hooded yoga clothes, exercise uniforms of various sort, special string chain mini-pocketbooks to hold phone of just in case, always all black always, all of no color, except, by code, by some global understanding of a legislated law, somewhere on the body must be a splash of pink or a luminescent pastel.
Usually it's the sneakers, but not necessarily. Some pinks streaks were observed in the drawstrings that pulled the hoodies tight around the face or just the laces of the black sneakers...there are rules in the world that must be obeyed though they are never legislated or indeed, never spoken...this is one...the coda of black and pink splash.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
If you can feel pain;
the soft slicks and flicks upon places
you thought
were
impervious,
just close your eyes,
and let bittersweet memories ribboned and edged with yellowing creases infuse into the little emptiness within you.
Just cautiously remember,
no,
actually
be
silly-crazy-reckless
with this,
remember that you can feel happiness too.
Those untitled somethings,
just please,
please,
let them dance & flit across your heart.
Let their little etchings of 'Happy' remain there infinitely.
∞
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
creeping madness slicks black and manic
spider high up on the wall
eyeballing me nervously, "who are you?
why are you stalling? whats come crawling back?
you know how this ends don't you?"
swift answers and an amniotic happiness installation.
speaking of stone, wired the lilies grow and the intrepid sank there was quite a stillness in the air.
sunken sand around my feet water cold and green.
out to meet the entity
her languorous form so ravenously tempting
so utterly repulsive and unspeakable.
looking for lights offshore
heretics of the unimaginable disciples of the moon
chemical ooze gels burns in the stomach
lit on up and walked out over the water.
after his peak, went heat seeking to the east and he ceased his babble easily, stuffing his mouth with pennies and bits of charcoal. we called him land-lubber and left him for said.
there is no part to this.
there is no heart in this.
blistering and out of control the fever spins.
wandering tills the level.
filtering cold and pushes me out into the yarns.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC