"slightness" poems
The slightness of soft
skin rubbing past
is in the past,
but I don't mind that.
In fact, I'm chugging along
despite the warmth of
lips being gone.
Stay strong.
That withdrawal is nothing compared
to the gut wrenching, stomach stomping
of a feeling I get when I realize
I don't feel any thing toward
anyone now,
that I
don't
care.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
there is something tragic about the young.
there is something haunting about the slope of a young man’s browning neck.
his neck and those sweet earlobes and the tremor and clench of his thoughts provoking him
and tension bleeding quietly through the tissue and muscle and precious bone. there is something tragic about the young.
men, how they break out of one neediness and into another….
i had this lover who hated women
he hated women because his mother hated him.
when he told me this i decided i would forever keep my heart away from him,
he was dangerous
and full of fear
and full of this need to destroy.
he needed to ruin.
he needed to tear into something tender and pure and foolishly expectant
and pour all of his darkness into the frayed, howling gap.
suddenly he needed something in my slightness, my body whiteclad and open and unbroken ...
one spring cold with persistence
i forgot about that promise to myself
when for some reason i felt so ugly
and then yes he ripped,
ripped softly
into me.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC
Hello there
gruesome stone,
blood flowing over you,
making you lifelike
once more,
I can see your limbs
escaping your nothingness
like the useless appendix.
Your beautiful thighs,
and loveless algae-green eyes,
your senseless fingertips
and heartless glow,
your tiny brain
with it's one-track philosophy.
Gruesome stone,
you grow from wantoness
and neediness,
fed by the blood of those less fortunate
in love,
you harbor an innate greed
to be found again,
to caress the excellent jest
of unrequited love.
You are an out-of-this-world high
when you speak,
and you are not meant
for the
human heart,
and yet,
you follow the rivers
till they empty into the ocean,
and finally become stone again.
Until the last drop of stolen blood
has been washed away,
you and your beauty and horribleness
taint the very spirit
of love.
Taint the very problems
you intend to solve.
So, gruesome stone
like Dracula,
when there is nothing left,
you remain,
lifeless and pointless
a stone's throw away
from the human heart.
A pebble waiting for the wash of the slightness of a droplet,
to mar the warmth of the heart.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
a poem to lou reed
feeding the animals
everything they want
and never getting
that perfect day,
you left me hangin' on.
while the girls sang,
we found that vivacious
slightness you'd felt
as we began feeling that light,
they blinded us in your mirror.
now we're twisted
waiting for the shine
those boots of leather
to the transformation,
we can't say we're not forsaken.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
Smoke rolls over the ruins
The solitary garden of serenity
Lays ablaze, desolate
Crying in the droughted fountain
Filling it with sorrow
Making wishes with invisible pennies
A calm wind approaches
Of no storm, of no extra pain
Sincerity in slightness
Clearing increments of fog
The sun beaming somewhere
Tears no longer fall
The fountain gains clarity
Lost in the obscurity of ash
Barren grounds find reincarnation
Sprouts bloom again, simplistic beauty
The sun shines once more
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Love is a frail word,
whispered out by the pressing
of the tongue against
the roof of the mouth,
falling deafly outwards
and with little consequence.
It comes rattling out slowly,
beginning there in the epiglottis,
mulling forward and pressing
against the back of the skull
like the blade on a dull knife;
never quite hard enough
to break the skin.
You hear it in the slightness
of the air, pushed through the
smallest gap between the
front teeth and the lower lip;
forming the mouth in precise
measures.
Somewhere within all of this
movement of air against the
contortions of the mouth,
there is a wonderful lie that
we have created for ourselves.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
open me your hands
fists cruelly which
their tightness conceal
a
Slender
blade
Of
spring
In
heat.
(a cut distinctly of certain cuteness bleeding)A
dolllike limpness
of stiff
cherry breaking.
a branch of sometimes petal bearing stems.
(a kiss and roughness)
Open me them
there
slightness
will
bare
a span
of
lewd innocence.
a strip of easy with parting rain which sometimes in April feels like dying
feels like pusshing apart of lips, hot redness, and ***** of steep fuzz.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
night, when freezingly encounters my cheeks, some slightness rouges them
like roughed almost cheeks
like when you lay a hurting kiss upon them by the languorous hammer of
thy paleset palm. like, i do, how kindly unkind stinging your touch deftly
embraces their(mycheecks)
puffed unrude metal. and it blisters with the painful bud of cherry wreak
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
He packed the remaining slightness of her
tightly into an old timey suit case the same
color as his home made heart
to catch a red eye out of Arizona
Brass buckles caught his pant leg
as he ran, throwing him to high traffic carpet
made of things that burned
his face to slow him to a stop
Sitting up, he noticed she was spread
about in pieces again and understood
saying goodbye would be more difficult
than an old timey suitcase could be packed into
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
*and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
∞ = a-z....
the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
sell her tomatoes...
and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
pet a rat!*
and will i dicta villager simply,
qualm?!
you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
avocado fat ****
let us bravado a chin!
that double! half-wit quiff!
fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....
you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
i carve my name in lamb limbs...
so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
into basin...
for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to? ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
a warring tide...
there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc. as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
Scavenger by very nature,
And nuisance to those
Who’d judge and propose
Only pessimism of this creature.
Though troublesome, in a sense,
To instinct it’s bound,
And blame confounds—
For its entirety mere innocence.
Lions, though great and proud, it aids—
For in its small size
And its meekness lies
True intent and respect others evade.
Despite the slightness it commands
The large elephant
Is fearful and can’t
Overcome what it doesn’t understand.
Viewed as disgusting, vile and weak
Though when the time comes
And all others run
I’ll scurry on, stand proudly, and squeak.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
lekki, and
thus said leki...
former: slightly.
and latter: medicine....
medicine: or pills...
that's half a summary
of leftovers...
strutting toward
a hamstrung plagiarism
worths' worth of
kindergarten blah blah...
if ever the case
was ever the rheumatic catchphrase
or said: gyroid stubble...
the five o'clock tanning...
yep, lekki meaning a slightness,
meaning a gargantuan woo...
a slightness,
and that's half of ascribed Loci...
leki means medicine,
a plural circumstance...
letki meaning
paper-weight...
lekki hark and stutter...
Loci... or lost jarring toward
insinuated lightness,
as said: personified lightness,
unbearable to the suitor Kundera.
oh the stutter.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
*It was summer
that long ago dream filled day
When we walked
by the shoreline of a lazy sea.
The gulls cawed from above us as if
To celebrate our union
even they could recognise love.
I remember the slightness of you
Your summer skirts
blowing about your legs.
Your hair a haze of auburn freedom,
I know it was at that moment
we became the only
two inhabitants of our own island.
the sea sending dancing wavelets
onto our bare feet.
Showing us we were now marooned
on this
Island that was to be
where our lives would
be spent until our our last breaths.
Was I so infatuated by by you back then
I know i offered you my breath
My blood my heart anything.
I remember your eyes telling me
Just give me your heart my love.
So i tore it from my body and
Held out my hand
And my heart was in it,*
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC