"sloped" poems
My mind is a maze
Mirrored walls
Sloped floors
I can't find my way out of it
Like a circus freak show
My mind freaks me out
Terrorizing me in the night
Invading my resting dreams
But in these times I'm lost
Although I'm scared and alone
There is peace in these halls
Of my mazed mirrored mind
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
Amanda was a Panda
She was a lovely lass,
Although she had two big black eyes,
She retained an air of class.
She ambled into the Bamboo Bar
To have lunch with Panda Pete one day,
And he looked into her eyes
And to her he did say.
"Oh Amanda with your big black eyes
Will you please be forever mine,
And promise that you will never
Let your panda arms entwine,
Any other bloke panda
In this bamboo land,
Please oh please Amanda,
You've got to understand
For me there is no other
You're the only girl for me,
You remind me of my mother,
And so we're meant to be,
Together as a couple we'll be
With our four eyes of black,
Oh darling please look at me
Why have you turned your back?"
She answered very clearly
She said "because Pete I'd rather,
Find another Panda really,
To be my childrens father."
Now Panda Pete was really sad
He felt total and utter rejection,
So he sloped off before he got mad,
To a future of dejection.
He slunk out of the Bamboo Bar,.
Back into the forest outside
And jumped into his panda car
And took off for a long lonesome ride.
Tom Higgins 07/05/2014
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.
At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;
Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch'd, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of
Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady's cheek,
None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,'
Came their answer. "We've all felt
Just like that." They were wrong. And he
Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words --
Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily
Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among
Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.
4.6k
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
going to the horror films
at ten years old
i wanted to be bitten by the vampire ladies
you know the ones
red brides from the netherworlds
with heaving *******
divinities of evil
with that dah look
in silky white gowns
a little messy from sleeping in the dirt
culture vulture goth girls
with upside down crosses
slags all gauzy bats in the belfry
deranged
but after all they where
dead
and dreadfully appealing
and I'm pretty fussy
so what the hell
they walked like floats
in marshy air
never touching the ground
above frozen dark crypt terrains
with twinkly bare feet
and black high glossed toenails
staring out of blood spilled eyes
drooling cloudy mouth hollows
and a yearning hungry countenance
encouraging me
to get closer
to bite me all over
pierce me
with needly fangs
puncturing little holes in tender me
making me leak like bad plumbing
until i sloped into the bog below
of course, i was panicked
all trembly
but i had a big one
for these evil shadowy ******* too
so i thought
yes
no
yes
no
yes
no
are you gonna **** me?
i asked
they drooled
ooow okay, i thought is it gonna hurt?
they shook there heads yes!
and drooled
real bad?
i inquired further
ah ha
they lingered glaring
drooling
i guess, waiting for me to make up my mind
oh okay anything for you
you dark dreamy girls
dilapidated queens of hell
with ballet derrières
"down and down I go
round and round I go
in a spin, lovin' the spin I'm in
under the old black magic called love"
after all at ten years old,
i already knew i was
a horror *****
and just a little turned on
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Sitting there
you are
a perfect
balance of
innocence
and silence
melting.
like low tides
kissing over
a southern
sloped beach at
sunset.
no motion
wasted or
taken for
granted.
only a
promise that
the next
moment
will be your
best.
your eyes
keeping secrets
deep that no
heart could
ever forget,
like a broken
window long
past the
moment
when the
stone was
carelessly
thrown.
you embrace
all of world
in your
young years and
the world
embraces
all of
you back,
with glee
and open
admiration.
for I too
have seen you
at the
window still.
and now
I like
the sunset sea,
can think of
nothing less.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the slope, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
when life is charmed with radiance
all kicking ponies
and summer sticky sweet with instinct
like a head sloped between thighs
moralities privation comes
stirs its ***
a broth of orthodoxy
evoking a cinematic painting
of Christ's crimson howls
for the ache of life
his blood sacrifice construed
as desire from the embrace of lust
sins cursed maniacal
save the genitals of priests
for little children's ****
while
God
the father
stands aloof
as if nothing but helpless black space
the churches history
a coterie of priests
a prancing parade
in black dresses
with rosy *****
Jesus's own little rays of sunshine
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
What is he buzzing in my ears?
“Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?”
Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view again
Where the physic bottles stand
On the table’s edge,—is a suburb lane,
With a wall to my bedside hand.
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,
From a house you could descry
O’er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue
Or green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weather
Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether”
Is the house o’ertopping all.
At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
There watched for me, one June,
A girl; I know, sir, it’s improper,
My poor mind’s out of tune.
Only, there was a way… you crept
Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:
They styled their house “The Lodge”.
What right had a lounger up their lane?
But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall’s help,—their eyes might strain
And stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,
As she left the attic, there,
By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether”,
And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
We loved, sir—used to meet:
How sad and bad and mad it was—
But then, how it was sweet!
2.4k
there hides a secret in the heart of the ferns
stars sing over this gilded corner of pixie homes and rippled pool
cool tears of the saturated mountain heights flow down the sloped arms
of hills, sprouting with seeds and clovers
to spill into the lake, dancing dragonfly wings
jasper and honey
here the lilies form goldfish ceilings
hearing every incantation above and below
rimmed stalks surround them, soft and tall
rabbits run wild, lacing round trunks of magnolia and pear
olive and ancient dogwood
the air sings of fairy work, a breathing painting of magic
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Someone’s at the Laundromat
with a few bolts of currency jingling in their pocket
and a bright red shopping cart
made of holes and heavy plastic.
An empty machine running on suds
churns the lottery squeaky clean.
The price of wishes
faithed in the Lucky Charms of Loose Change,
is printed on leftover tags on old clothes
on sloped shoulders that have
just enough gumption to
fling coins
into the
wishing well.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
In this world, I travel
To the paths laid before me, I wander
In the midst of this valley, I walk
Not sure where these paths would take me.
The winds increase their speed
Arise then fall again, I traverse still
Past the lea the mountains
Are upwards sloped, the paths grow rough and steep.
I thought this was path
Plain, worn, and clearly visible to see
I have gone so far now,
The path is dark and steep I feel alone.
Feeling lost in track,
No trail to be found,
I started to venture on my own
Make a new route where no other goes.
I found nothing in venture,
No longer wasting time; but then I found
My heart along the way,
Which longed to be filled with the simplest things.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
A big, dark creature is the velvet landscape,
Perforated, so that tiny origins of luminescence
Freckle the breathing mountain’s gently sloped nape
And validates the distant city’s inner flamboyance.
The spine of wet tar, peppered with lustre,
Arcs the creature’s hunch of a back -
It summons me to the city’s sordid muster
To wean me of myself and to render its flak.
Instead, I think I’ll stay on the footed side of the nameless beast
Where I can soak in my tatters and be but my own, homeless priest.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
For a time,
Nova bright,
I burned.
Now, glanced back
'Cross a shoulder sloped,
Smiled over self
At what was learned.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)
The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights
When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter
So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown
He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***
Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow
Poor Santa had landed
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof
Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night
The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****
Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming
Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This **** Ja was fixin
Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way
Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
In my arms
She felt so light
Her body against mine
Her head on my shoulder
This place feels like home
Home
This night feels exactly the night before you left
Ambitious,furious, hot yet addicting
I missed this for years
Remember
When after that night you sloped.
I burned my bed down that day
And bathed in the ashes of my broken dreams
It feels meaningless now
Alone
Yes alone I went down to hunt down
My Incessant desire to touch your skin
To caress and pull you closer
I thought the desire died
But it was subtly breathing deep within
Oh you
Your smell is still the same
It still seduces me
It still captures me through and through
I will never get over you
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
sleepy
it's one am. and the colors are flowing
remember those lights changing in the attic,
sloped ceilings and a hookah
we sat on the floor and he stared at the doorknob,
and we discussed the width of the closet
pillows on the ground,
people on the pillows,
faces in shadows, smiles and heavy-lidded eyes
love for those friends who aren't friends but are.
love for those friends who are more.
we drink we smoke we laugh we listen to grime and dance around the tin foil and smoke and the blinds are closed and the door is locked and we have to be quiet because shh, the neighbors. and I didn't know you before but now i do because you're drunk and i don't know what i am but i said hi and you adjusted your yellow beanie and smiled at me. you make music, i learn,
and we talk and we talk and we talk
then driving, the streetlights flood,
he said it was like surfing and that he was chill and he couldn't remember and he stepped in the snow with socked feet, he lost his birkenstocks
he found his birkenstocks
he flipped his hair and his red eyes were content
and then Let it Be came on the radio and I sang the tune while my legs twitched and my foot twitched on the gas pedal and she laughed from the backseat and I wondered how wide the road was and how much air there is to breathe in the world, and then the cold felt so great
red lights flashing, stop. go. home.
i'm smiling at the orange of the fire
there's a hamster running besides me and i wonder if he is happy
they were happy,
and i forget where the money is but she slipped it in my pocket
snacks in the kitchen
its one am
drink some water,
there's always Marcie's Diner in the morning.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
High in the hills wends the road to your home
steeped and flowered by lupine towers
after long slumber, the waking hour - warmth of summer comes
our feet grassed and green, we wish on dandelion dreams
watch tiny parachutes glide into the sea
this place is wild resplendent music
we have become more than ourselves and slowed
have stopped to feel our breath grow
making a path cut from last year
we are slipped and sloped toward shore
silhouetted just before the end of sun
when the world sinks silent
but for the deeply toned
hum of whale song.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
there’s a boy I love,
the boy doesn’t speak,
the boy is pale, a body full of bones.
his **** limp
his eyes, weeping
his form, skeletal and twined.
i want to dissolve him into body wash,
clean my body with his.
there’s a boy,
a touch of 25 to his grace.
the boy kisses like he’s carving gold into cement.
he makes art out of willowing branches of thighs,
out of dove-necked wrists,
out of a sloped, vining neck.
there’s a boy,
mute; but as loud as roaring packs of waves.
there’s a boy i love,
even when i swore love was what I was most afraid of.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC