"slotted" poems
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone,
all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned
networks,
fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
megabytes and terabytes,
down
Everyone
Far from the wood, the brine, the
mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter
digitised projections,
click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,
enter:
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in
bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow
of our Being.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Got the kids and stopped *******
Four times a year you get *******
Forcing yourself for my pleasing
Truth is that you **** at *******
Leaving me always for fapping
So many years still not knowing
At least do a bit of upskilling
Go online and get on reading
Use videos if you prefer watching
My cues are also worth listening:
- Comment as you're tasting
- Time to time pause for starring
- Be generous with licking
- Also do a bit of *********
- Do not finish up spitting
- Kiss me if not swallowing
If you can't handle the praising
Let's instead do some facesitting
Head slotted onto your opening
A lesson on oral I'll be teaching
Devouring until you let go shacking
Anyway, in parallel, ************
Get those pleasure juices flowing
To see you orgamiscaly smiling
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
His ***********
Purloined my desire
Stole, requested expectations
My boyhood kidnapped and
Fed secrets for other
Purposes
Blue eyes, pieces of
An unsolved jig-saw
Slotted into my need
Such theft, such theft
Such theft, such theft
So generously given.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
they lived
like the only customers at a funfair;
weeks caroselling
with swollen rise and fall,
like the horses forgot
to gallop in circles.
they had their own world
of haunted houses
and helter-skelters
but the stalls were all out
of candyfloss
and, as they slotted coins
into cork-rifles,
they shot themselves
to pieces
without winning
a single prize.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness
Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase
Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away
Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy **** I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!
I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.
Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.
For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.
With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
I have only seen myself as a beautiful artwork once in my life,
It had been the advent lovely Spring of sweet sixteen,
There is a photo of someone else’s mind in which I am the subject, rife
With calculated gorgeousness, the white blouse and powder blue skirt
And I had been wearing black ballet flats; a day upon my feet had left me hurt
But the enchanted, oil forest before me had healed my eyes and entranced me
That pose, holding onto myself with ribbons in my hair, someone could see
A beauty that which I have never known since.
Into the heart of the Prince
Into the hearts of all the folk for she was a fairy tale heroine,
Cinderella, lovely lady of ashes, had glass slippers
And upon such toity-toity footwear, she had slipped
Yet, it had been such fragility that would unite her with her love
Will I be united with such grace, such love for myself, if I hold onto my ballet flats?
After all, I have not once seen this grace, such love for my own self since sweet sixteen
Since the foolhardy winds of chilly, oceanside Spring;
Where upon the Museum modern, I saw myself as timeless artwork
Admired and appreciated by all; much like the lovely lady of ashes whose slippers
Have walked her beloved soul into the hearts of all; into the best of time
Yet, these beloved shoes of mine
Have seen so much better of time
For I can see through the soles wherein holes
Have shown where I have worn my own souls
In bitter wanderings and light-hearted adventure; so many type of walk
For a single lass, I could not talk
Of all the places and thoughts these shoes have led me astray within
Of the beauty that had once sunken in
How am I to part?
How am I to part with such faithful companions through all my wanderings of
Yonder years soon to come asunder as I am no longer sweet sixteen,
As I am no longer before entrenched trees of oil, elevated in buildings upon
A chilly, Springtime by the sea I’ve only known in passing afternoon
In black ballet flats; not unlike the glass gussied slippers of lovely cinders
Am I not unlike Cinderella?
For whom would she be if she had not received the night of her life
As carried upon the fragile spurned glass of her magic slippers
For whom had reunited her with her love, the foot fetishist Prince;
Lovely lady of ashes would be just that: lady of ashes,
Worked to beyond the bone; dressed in rags, head in clouds,
Dreaming of opportunity squandered in her slippers of magic glass
She would be like me.
She would be like me, contemplating her toes in birdsong prose
She would be like me, wondering when she would feel as refined as a classic artwork
A beautiful timeless painting with grace and poise without rival supposed
If I part with these worn soles which have born my souls cross
My journeys long, will I ever be at loss
Over mine own image rendered beautiful: my own body rendered beautiful to my eyes?
How can such skin-deep bliss exist without my black ballet flats?
How will mine own eyes recognise my beauty
If it were not for dainty small feet slotted into impractical, magical glass slippers
In want of my dear and precious black ballet flats.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
I wrote you a love letter today,
If you listen close enough
You'll hear the gentle drumming of my heart beat
Inside the envelope.
Don't drop it.
Open it gently.
Inside you will find
Chemical solutions, black
Ink on a page, a heavy handed mass
Of words, slotted carefully between each other,
Lines saturated in love.
Hand crafted works of art
An attempt to articulate and communicate
The fires you send swimming through
My veins, the tsunamis you send
Tripping of my tongue.
Scribbled confessions of just how much my body aches for your touch.
Don't drop it.
Open it gently.
It is yours.
It has always been yours.
I have always been yours.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Love's Subscription
Oh garden of love, grant me lifetime membership,
Ignore the other subscribers as I offer my passion.
Scribe who tends to the garden hear my plea,
Add me, for here my heart wants to be.
To sing the songs of love's sweet eternity,
While basking in the flowery garden.
Scars of painful wounds healed and forgotten,
Scented roses and petunias fill my senses,
Caressing my mind and heart in peaceful solace.
I seek to dwell here for an eternity in love,
My subscription has no expiration forever slotted.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
by Kim Addonizio
I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula
that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the ******** known as the Pocket Rocket
and the ***** that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken *****
in order to ruin
what love I was given,
and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,
Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.
I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty
of this degraded body,
or maybe
it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me
groping back to my desk to ****
on perfection, to lay my kiss
of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.
My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness
of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-
black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—
Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best
gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose
world this is I think I know.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Gravity rips raindrops from
the sky to the earth of my face,
as your fingertips violate the soft
skin of each cheek I offer.
You tell me, I make you so happy,
as salt flows viscous in the pitch
of our bedroom and I say nothing
and you say, nothing much, either.
I bring colour to a life you have never led
and I punish you for it with my silence
and my soft steps and my one single smile,
bequeathed so very grudgingly.
You try, it's true, but I am too far gone now,
too lost in her eyes as she looks at this
shadow of you that I have readily created,
this masochistic need to hurt myself.
I love you; it's times like these I know it
best, the times when I am so insubstantial
that I cannot even bring myself to speak
words I am bleeding to scream at you.
What sick love is this?
When the only time I am sure of it,
is when I feel so very very very
unsteady in your palm.
The night slinks away, with the full force
of sunlight unrefined burning
through slotted blinds.
So ends the the first time I have slept with
someone whilst tears leak from my eyes,
and I cannot say I will ever do it again.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
You were a slotted spoon
You appeared to be picking me up
Cradling me to your lips
Enveloping my body into yours
I was too starry-eyed to see the giant holes in your arms
Doing everything I could to nourish you
Wanting your stomach full of warmth
Letting me skip so easily down to the ground
Disgusted, you turned away
I’m still in a puddle on the ground
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
You’ll let me in.
With thorns growing from my head and fire in my eyes,
You’ll let me in.
Charm will roll off the forked tips of my tongue,
And you’ll listen, for it’s the same shape as yours.
I will outstretch my arm to you, but you won’t be afraid.
You’ll see the familiar trail of paired puncture wounds,
Marching up my flesh towards a space where a heart might have been.
As I draw nearer, your coin-slotted eyes will sparkle with delight.
“It’s as if he’s some great fly, knocking and knocking against the glass around a flame.”
The flame I was made in.
I’ll delicately wrap my crooked hand about your body,
All neck.
As I lift you from your jar, my fingers will dance along the silk of your skin.
They dance to streets of Cairo.
While I hum, a clean, shimmering blade will materialize in my grasp.
My song, leaving you helpless as I press the flat silver of the blade against the roof of your mouth.
Your eyes take only pennies now.
Your moment will arrive, as the song crashes to a halt.
Out come your fangs; they come off just as easily.
A pool of venom will spew across the floor, spilling your only hopes of hurting me.
I’ll dip my knife in the coagulating puddle
Then clean it in the pressed curls of my lips.
There is more poison in my veins than blood, you could not hurt me again.
I’ll set a hook through the top and bottom of your mouth.
The barb holding it shut.
I’ll cast you into a pit of fire, just long enough to sear all your skin.
I’ll reel you back in.
While your scorched body lay, sizzling, I’ll poor whiskey down your spineless back
Just to delight in the symphony of muffled vengeance echoing off the walls.
I’ll conduct its decrescendo with a cleaver for my baton.
One final thud will end the song.
You’ll pry open charred coward’s eyes – that only ask now for death – to see my ****** stump.
I’ll leave you there to read it: written in braille, scars from your dropped pen.
“You let me in.”
You let me in.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
I wrote you a love letter today,
If you listen close enough
You'll hear the gentle drumming of my heart beat
Inside the envelope.
Don't drop it.
Open it gently.
Inside you will find
Chemical solutions, black
Ink on a page, a heavy handed mass
Of words, slotted carefully between each other,
Lines saturated in love.
Hand crafted works of art
An attempt to articulate and communicate
The fires you send swimming through
My veins, the tsunamis you send
Tripping of my tongue.
Scribbled confessions of just how much my body aches for your touch.
Don't drop it.
Open it gently.
It is yours.
It has always been yours.
I have always been yours.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
My thoughts are the slots
Put a coin in to play
Two pennies for some sense
Since the banks recompense
the poor sitting on a lower shelf
The rich are empty, lost themselves
Attached to puppet strings
Pulled up by faceless masters
faster full of things
Stop. Cut your strings.
Sell the loans and mortgage debts
Escape the ensnaring nets
Look. Now you’re free.
Fear is free just look at me
Im stuck inside with my soul to hide
a sinful slip up ups my chance
My tongue is doing the liars dance
Two toes on point, or into finger guns?
That’s the one that I still fear
the freedom to do, drive the car, yes steer.
Drive away or drive by
to these feeling on the sidelines
second string emotions turn
with stinging motions. Burn
my offing notions with a note
not a hundred grand but a modicum
I lay in my bed try to sleep, feeling none.
The slots spun a short win
when I put my two cents in.
Now the lump sum is sitting dumb
My thoughts are dimmer
I’m the loss when I’m the winner.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
if space could translate
thoughts onto blank pages
and into color spotted images,
would you hang mine on your walls?
or would you throw them away?
you were copper.
the kind that's sticky
and melted.
you were a slotted spoon.
dripping and a mess
spilling out
all over the kitchen
floor.
you were a drain
clogged with cotton
candy colored hair.
dreams take place of memory:
I can't
:fold the way:
you do.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
Long hours forgotten in sheets of paper,
A better bottle, more for nothing:
Lost saints and false idols,
Iconoclastic Oddfellows -- strange masters bellow
Shows of blue smoke and mirrors, a dream
At Bradbury's 2 am, shared nightmares
Ending all the same way, with no
Connection to be known except the lack of sleep.
Making the long drive, ending in your arms,
No direction except for tiredness, no
Autumn except for slotted time,
No finished books, only started stories,
Just a taste of dry leaves, dryheaves, and delerious summer eves.
My middle name is sleep, and I will dream
In wakeness as easily as with my eyes closed.
But sometimes the best answers lie
On the backs of your eyelids.
Read carefully.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
She was like a force of nature
Manipulative, dangerous and beautiful.
Without even looking at you
she could make you feel insignificant
She made you feel pathetic
But when she looked at you it was worse,
those cold, bitter eyes fixed on yours
and she saw so deeply into your mind
that your security leeched
out of your fingertips
like spilt milk.
Those soft, harsh lips would twitch,
and her eyes would mock you.
She oozed feline contemptuousness.
But you were hooked,
from the word go, you needed her.
She was your ******
And without even knowing it you were hers.
There was something delicious about her
something refreshingly suffocating,
like a rib tightening power-cut shower.
She lovingly despised you,
couldn’t bear the beautiful sight of you,
and pinched the backs of your arms with violent affection.
When the text came through my world jolted,
something shifted as the realisation
of a different existence slotted into place.
In only a few digitally transported words
of no deliberation,
the person I required most had stopped my heart.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
If I had a heart in my hands
One not made of flesh
If I carried it all the minutes of every day
And it was made of friable stuff
If I stumbled in a careless way
And it slipped before my eyes
If it fell to the hardened ground
And smashed into a billion atom bits
If the fractured shards were
Myriad made in a smear of salty tears
If I had no one but me blameworthy
Because it was only me around
If this was the case
Then I can’t look behind me
With accusations tumbling from my lips.
If I had the chance to glue, piece by piece
It back into a heart-shaped thing
If each tiny silver sliver was slotted into place
To once more catch the noiseless light
If I took a thousand years
And made my fingers bleed
If I once more held it up
And it had glinting form
If this repair was done in the dry dock of my hands
Would it still be a flawless gem?
If this repair is painfully gained
Does the time and care infuse the fault
With a lustre of perfection?
If all I see is the spinning binary pulse
If all I have is a sparking
Einstein-Rosen Bridge
If all around me is a sea of foaming mediocrity
If nothing else is worth my time
Then surely repairing this shattered glass is
The worthwhile work of every second
Of this remaining life
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Not alone
Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk
“Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”
Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet
“Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”
We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores
“Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”
When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures
“What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”
We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality
“Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”
We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone
“Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”
For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked
“Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”
Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk
“Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”
Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet
“Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”
We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores
“Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”
When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures
“What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”
We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality
“Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”
We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone
“Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”
For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked
“Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”
Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
I saw him... Ripping the posters of hope to the ground
The bear stuffed. Cardboard box a home he never dreamt of
An abandoned minefield of metal gongs.....still clanging
With life encircled on its rim, clearly in full erosion
One eye had begun to fall, clinging on by a theatrical thread
A small hole had appeared, the left ear on hard times
He looked sad...his 'Bravo' days departed, kicked like an
Old tin can scattering nailed organs, strewn carelessly
The haphazards hurt the most; those that landed head first
They burrowed into the soft fur, grizzling through
Lack of gripe water to anaesthetise the first cut
Fur ***** were out of stock, cleaned right off the shelves
The posters painted with high definition, torn with sad
Hand shakes. Lined up ******* into fists, like used tissues
Their eye level aim skimmed the parcelled plots and slotted
Into basket cases, breathing in ***** dumpsters before their due date
Shrugging it off didn't work, shouldered earrings...stuck in rutted
Situ for too long. You came between them and the tombs of truth
Caused a nasty virus to accelerate. Baldness stole the soft
Funishings from your limbs in between the stuffing years
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
.
Like crooked wheels our lives stumble
between the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk
“Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”
Fear begins as shades are drawn
and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears
in colander fashion, dripping fear at our feet
“We long to speak as waves conduct sound, crashing violently as we hear”
We long to speak but we cry,
hoping these tears will
somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores
“Wishes, more waste than want at least of these eyes”
Wishes, more waste when
from the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall,
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures
“What is this light, soft yet sure, found within?”
What is this, darkness hints at light
and skies blush among prism colors
and soft breezes collecting on our
damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality
“Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”
Dreams of footprints in the dirt,
two which are not our own, closely, affectionately
following our way and bringing direction
to our souls, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone
“Fences built may keep us in yet, may keep us out”
Fences built fall, as this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond
the bricked wall, the ivy covered monolith,
the chain link disaster which once stood locked
“Finding that a breath may exhale peace, again”
Finding that a breath, neath arbors of hibiscus blooms
and teapot pourings, exhales open and
hopeful of the coming truth once lost beyond our dreams,
and we breathe for it feels right to breathe
while facing the darkness, no longer alone
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
The only reason I stare back at you
is to keep myself from looking into the lackluster eyes above your ****** metal bed frame belonging to the only person I could possibly hate more than you.
Which *****
Because I hate you in a
youtoldmeLenniedies, youatemylastoreo, youdidn’tgetmypoetry, youforgotmy19thbirthday, kind of way.
But it’s her.
It’s her
in the weathered frame
that keeps putting coins in the slot
just to get drunkenly slotted for five minutes at 4 a.m.,
It’s her
that sits with an empty vase
and assures, “It’s fine, I don’t mind,”
while in fact salt water pioneers trek across her pillow,
It’s her
that ironed that patchwork of
dimples and freckles into the mocking mirror
for safe keeping.
Poor thing.
She only
holds thistles to her heart
because scorpions surround her.
What’s a girl to do?
Be bought, be bruised, be broken-hearted, be buried?
She couldn’t help but
frame herself.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC