"slowest" poems
As I **** this cigarette
my life go's up in smoke,
in clouds of gray and white
some day I'll die of stroke.
If only I would quit
this habit that I have,
my lungs would never rot
all cancerous and scabbed.
And though I know this all,
to my love I still return,
for nicotine I crave for nicotine I yearn.
Take this poem to heart,
and let thy cigarette go,
for dieing of lung cancer
is the slowest death I know.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
I still cringe when I meet someone with your name
Your name
Like the slowest poison
It never leaves me
Just slowly eats away
Ah your name
How I wish I could eradicate it from my soul
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...
Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...
Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...
Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.
At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.
Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.
Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
the collar on my jacket is frayed
but I have clothes on my back
(just)
the packaging is white with green print
but I have food in my belly
(of sorts)
the soles talk and leak when I walk
but I have boots on my feet
(for now)
so I’m OK
(I suppose)
***** deep into the Smart Price ™ life
this man, his daughters, his son and his wife
where all their food comes at discounted price
expired meat and rationed heat
sweepings and fat wrapped in plastic
the walk was wholly unexpected, but it was easy
leaving the town where the forward leaning walkers
were the slowest thinking talkers steeped in sugary urgency,
and all the way we **** giltterballs and Skittles
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
ripe fruit unconfined to the width of fruit
frightfully absent-minded of it's metaphor
burgeoning with sweet to burst-
...’The slowest devastation of a perfect sphere.
Bloated in the sun
at the peak of yes
a trifle to a god; and everything He meant.
the raw sub conscience of Love Itself.
Forest olde and valley wide
heeps of time upon time in a bramble of lush
vast with green enough to burst
...the joyous vegetation of a perfect world.
Garrulous in the sun
at the peak of yes
a testament to god at His first attempt.
the sheerest genius of Love
Thyself.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 5:40 PM UTC
I’ve been thinking about hands
a lot lately and how fingerprints are like
permanent, foreshadowing tree rings
etched onto our beings; I wonder if
the number of rings on my palms have any
correlation to the number of years I’ll live or
the number of years he’ll live or the number of
years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about
life lines and heart lines
and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry;
I wonder how my fate line got to be
so muddled with my luck line.
I see my life the way a clairvoyant would:
in cut-up and choppy strips of film—
I should have seen the omens,
I should have read the smoke signals,
I should have recognized the cards.
Act One began on a waning crescent moon
and continued until its gluttonous belly
had swollen with light; I thought to
myself that craniums made of gallium
often melt the quickest, that blood filled
with plutonium often flows the slowest. I would
have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge,
would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for
some sort of divination, some sort of revelation—
I was never told to beware the Ides of June
nor the Kalends of November.
Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost
and has been continuing without intermission for
the past four celestial cycles; I thought to
myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate
often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as
fingertips often feel the deepest. He whispered
in my ear cliched words about not believing in
God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in
that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being
that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996—
I guess you could say that, sometimes,
I believe in love.
There is an art to fortune-telling
there is an art to hands
there is an art to bones
there is an art to dreams, and over the years,
I have found them coinciding more often
than not. In my sleep, in notebooks, in
irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs.
I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in
God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy,
but I do know that I believe in you. I find myself writing
sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do
not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because
I’m bored or if they’ve somehow
mergedintothesamething.
I’ve been wondering a lot lately about
where you show up on my hands; about where
he showed up and where she showed up. I want
to know which lines bisect and which lines fall
short; I want to know if the resemblance between
mother and daughter
continues into that of my palm lines. I want to know
if my life line matches hers and if my heart line
is even worth giving away—
find me in your crystal ball, make me
your sacrificed animal, look for my body
in the stars, and we will know that
it was all made to be.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
It was never my intention to place you in harms way.
Enlisting your heart to trouble after we kissed on that precious day.
As time elapsed, my heart took a moment to understand.
You were portraying your earnest emotions subtly then crass.
The turmoil you must’ve felt during the time you kept to yourself…
Causing you to experience agonizing despair while delving into mournful swells…
Find it in your heart to forgive these third degree burns.
For it was never my intention to crucify your kind soul.
My love yearns to romanticize unhurriedly,
Seducing passionately while intimately feeding the soul so fluidly.
Is it too much to ask for an amorous exploration?
For what is love without a genuine vibration?
If *** is all you seek,
Be explicitly direct; don’t play games that will cause deceit.
Otherwise, in the end, ambivalent emotions will prevail.
Crafting a false sense of endearment that will soon be too much for you to bear.
I once journeyed to a crucible of love and hate.
Traveling far beyond the unfathomable depths of heartache.
Hopelessly exiled to endure the slowest of brutalizing pains;
A light was discovered, allowing the abhorrence to dissipate.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
Who do you think you are?
You, the one with the prettiest of faces but the ugliest of hearts.
Who do you think you are?
You, the one with the brightest of eyes but the dullest of mind.
Who do you think you are?
You, the one with the quickest of tongue but the slowest of wit.
Who do you think you are?
You, the one fastest to judge but not acknowledge your own flaws
Who do you think you are?
You, the one with the smallest of knives but the biggest of smiles.
Who do you think you are?
You, the one with the twist of your knife at the back even as you're hugging.
Who do you think you are?
Nobody. That's who.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
All-new
****** lands
(except for the natives)
dying to be properly deflowered and nailed and ******* and erroded
to make way for gun forts and gold mines
(they can be built!)
they're called Zale's and they love money
funny, not to all but to enough
call them crazy call them savage
but maybe they just love their homes
and don't own the kinds of weapons that make the loudest noise
but that **** the slowest and with least dignity.
Color-me a Cosmo girl
fit to be cover material, just look at my hair
look at Pocahontas, you know she was bald?
Hideous, un-English in every way
probably because she wasn't
but gotta give credite where credit is rejected, overdrawn
maybe never even earned just splurged and secreted
but wanna hear a secret?
The land belongs to nobody
not a soul not a body not a mind
they knew this but knew others were destroying it
that's why they were mad,
not because they were children who had their toys stolen
but because a living lifeless matter was being assaulted
catapulted into the future of steam engines and fried chicken
feathers blowing in the winds of convertables
they took scalps to maybe open the minds to the error of ways
not that one's head should be disassembled
but one can't seem so oblivious or wide eyed when shown the facts
of obvious emotional response
but we are young
dinosaurs were old and we have time to forget.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
Like a throbbing sensation in the center of my torso
My heart and my stomach feel as though they've met halfway in there
My jaw pops open in the slowest motion
So slow I never notice.
I squirm and squirm
Fidget and fidget
And constantly find myself in very awkward places and positions
Oh, the things I feel around your presence
A never ending mystery that feels like torture
Hope drizzling all over everything and every dream I've dreamt of
It's heartbreaking, you know,
Liking you a lot?
Its devastating.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
If you don't have it, you regret.
If you have, then I bet
that give it a break and
you'll get it very correct.
Imagine a forest without a grass
A band without an instrument of brass
Imagine a butterfly without colors
that you thought, will bring for you wonders
Imagine a desert without sand
a sea without a drop of water
Were standing but there's no trace of land
Pots given shape without the hands of a potter
Imagine schools going on without a teacher
This world without the trace of a creature
A class in which nobody passes
Flowers decorated on tables without vases
Water in pots with holes at the bottom
Trees full of green leaves int he sesason of autumn
Imagine the tongue tasting nothing kept on it
or if the slowest moving animal becomes rabbit.
this all wasn't for getting irritated
'cause "Haste is waste."
Like all this sounds funny to be
The same is the condition of life without patience
and around honey, no honey-bee.
There are curves in the Nile
They're also in our lives
Like the crescent sand dunes and the shiny crescent moon
So a man should have patience, whether morn or noon
We need to have a cup of patience
Atleast to understand the answer of its equation
Patience has to be applied
In every desirable part of life.
This all is known by that man
who doesn't have patience in his pan
Patience in life is like
Soul in body
Rhythm in music
sunlight on leaves shone
me i my mommy's womb
Mother is the biggest and
the greatest idol of patience fpr
it is totally undoubtful that's bound to hats off
be a man full of patience
its one of life's greatest lessons!
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
The rooster does crow at the break of dawn
but five to seven a.m.
is the hours of the dog
"Time to wake up"
Cheerful beyond belief
face in mine
dripping licking tongue
tail wacking the dresser
in perfect time.
Hot breath
not yours not mine
but you know whose.
Through the fog of the mind
knowing it won't stop
until food is served.
I am never that cheerful at sunrise.
Seven to five
the birds and rats
are in their time.
Squirrels chipmunks
deer
everybody working their *** off to survive.
I gotta go to work
Calling in sick every day
But one foot in front of the other
And I am on my way.
The crows line up
on the garbage man's run
The ducks laugh at every move you make
but you take it in stride.
The cows lay down to
take a nap.
But not I.
At about five
The bear comes sauntering down the street
tossing garbage cans
this way and that.
The best part of work is the drive home.
Neighbors come out of their houses
to watch him.
Power and hunger
a dangerous combination
But in a rare moment of neighborly cheer
even a cocktail was had.
He was big he was strong
We gave him a wide berth
but owwed and awed him
along his way like watching fire works.
Five to eight
The hours of the skunk
and you get very cranky
through the PTSD
of a mean and angry father
and tires on the driveway.
As darkness totally sets in
the racoons come out
making mischief on the roof
batty as the bats that flee into my room.
Those racoons
the more you try to
chase them away
the more they come over
to see what your doing.
You look at me and wonder who I am
Sometimes you snuggle up
While the night birds sing.
Three to five
D.H. Lawrence
called the hours of the wolf
when madness and suicide
remorse and dread reign
Blood pressure
at its lowest
Heart rate at its slowest
Breath down
Body temperature as cold as the ground.
Remember to not
take very seriously
what ever you think
until with relief
the sun begins to rise
and doggy smooches
awaken your time. ..
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
in the closet across from the delivery room, a janitor disguised as a hospital janitor sits on an upside down bucket under which he’s trapped what might be the world’s slowest rat. in his mind he is attempting to clean his mother’s body while supplies last. his hands are curled like the receivers of certain phones con artists used back in the day to convince people they could talk only to ghosts. the young and personable volunteer assigned to the hand he doesn’t answer is speaking so softly the man leans forward.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Sitting in my skyscraper
Watching the world burn
Just sitting here, untouched
On the flaming globe I earned
I sit back in my skyscraper
Pull the blinds and shut my eyes
I think of what is left
In the world that I despise
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Reaching far and wide
And they're faster and they're hotter
Than your mail-order bride
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Taller than you'd think
And they'll burn you to a golden crisp
Before you've time to blink
High up in my skyscraper
I know the outcome’s wrong
And it never would’ve come to this
If the world all got along
I know I’ve earned this skyscraper
Because it’s the slowest death
Yes, I’ve earned the prolonged agony
And I’ll wait for my last breath
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Reaching far and wide
And they're faster and they're hotter
Than your mail-order bride
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Taller than you'd think
And they'll burn you to a golden crisp
Before you've time to blink
Sitting in my skyscraper
Watching as I burn
I sit here as I’m touched
By the flaming death I’ve earned
The flames consume my skyscraper
I’m falling from the skies
And I’m all that is left
In the world that I despise
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Reaching far and wide
And they're faster and they're hotter
Than your mail-order bride
Oh, yes! The flames are coming
Taller than you'd think
And they'll burn you to a golden crisp
Before you've time to blink
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
530
You cannot put a Fire out—
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan—
Upon the slowest Night—
You cannot fold a Flood—
And put it in a Drawer—
Because the Winds would find it out—
And tell your Cedar Floor—
1.9k
You are the star that pierces darkest night
When new moon doesn’t rise or shine her light.
You are the melody that knits night’s sweetest songs,
The resting place my lonely heart belongs.
You are the star. You are the star.
You are the juicy peach plopped in hunger’s outstretched hand.
From the ocean of my tears, you are the sight of land.
You are a mountain stream rushing through Death Valley’s thirst.
You are the biggest, fastest, slowest, best and worst.
The very end of ends, and always, Absolutely, the first.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
#
There are six ways to die on my table top
There are four ways to get lost in my cupboard
There are seven men drowning in my bottom drawer
There’s a coma above the ceiling fan
and an incinerator under my covers
Under the bed is a mouse trap
In the sink is a death trap
In the gap between the walls
is the most appalling noise
and my radio produces
only the frantic breaths of fitness breeders
The tortured hide under my pillow
(though they belong in my ears)
The glass in the window is made
of the slowest distorting tears
(I never produced them)
The carpet covers my blood
My clothes are covered in sod
The wallpaper hides my dreams
and my dreams have spilled at the seams
I collect masks that are the person I hid
Where do I sit ?
The door is a lid
The room is too warm
Enclosed
An expanding balloon
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
What makes you dead and feel alive?
Love; the slowest form of suicide.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
Hello little fly lying there on the ground
Did you ever stop to think what end would come around?
Did you ever wonder how it may all end?
What kind of death that fate did wait to quickly your way send?
Most of the time generally you get old and die
All the buzzing stops at once, and in silence there you lie
Another common way in which you may have died
Is when your inside someones house and they spray insecticide
You start to get all dizzy and fly iratically
As the chemicals penetrate and affect you dramatically
After a few seconds though, you stop flying around at all
On your back you spin around break dancing there you sprawl
Another way that's quicker and happens just like that
Is when you're swiftly swatted and you insides go 'Ker-splat!'
That is rather messy as everyone can see
All your guts and blood get spread. Oh my goodness me!
All your little entrails and intestines so fine
And look at that. Your blood is red! The same color as like mine!
Sometimes there are even eggs that get squirted out
A death and an abortion, simultaneously no doubt
There's also an electric zapper that does a real fast job
Twenty thousand volts that your life from you does rob
You simply explode and your parts vaporize
Into fly mist without any time to say your last goodbyes
But the slowest and most gruesome by far seems to be
The fly strip that beckons you with a smell of food for free
As soon as you land there thinking it's a treat
You find yourself stuck there by your six little feet
The more you struggle though, the more the glue does bind
But it seems to take very long, you for death to find
Sometimes you squirm there for oh so many hours
Sometimes so stuck moving would take super powers
And then what is this grossness that I see
Little tiny baby worms squirming out of thee
I wonder if they realize that you're in trouble dire
And decide to abandon ship to escape the deadly mire
I guess it is that you flies have no morals or loyalty
The only thing on your minds survival seems to be
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
He said "just friends, good friends."
and i nodded in agreement,
even though i felt the fire spark
in my chest long ago.
They all warned me about you,
and i didn't listen.
How was i suppose to
push the feelings away
when all i can think about was
the traces of your hands all
over me
and the warm feeling i got
when you kissed my shoulders.
It was nearly impossible,
but maybe i should've learned my lesson
when i saw you talking to her
pushed up against the wall
in the middle of a party
at three in the morning.
Maybe i should've learned when you
told me you couldn't possibly
have feelings for anyone,
but told me a few weeks later
she was the one that sparked the fire
in your chest.
You would always choose me second.
I think this is the slowest and most
painful way of killing yourself.
But i shouldn't care,
because he always said
just friends,
even when he got too drunk
and decided he wanted to
be in love for the night.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
She moved away when I turned 9.
She's the best drummer I've ever met.
He used to sing Ocean Avenue when we walked to class.
He said that no one could keep secrets quite like me.
He told me to learn how to say no.
It didn't seem as important as it does now.
She was half my height but had twice the heart.
She was the nicest friend I ever had.
He'd wake up at four in the morning to go running.
He read a lot of books and never spoke to me.
He wasn't quite the fastest swimmer on the team.
I wasn't quite the slowest.
She likes shelves and the color red.
She hates sloths.
He is the fastest swimmer I knew, but I'd never seen him swim.
He told me that he liked my haircut when I hadn't cut my hair.
He told me I owed him four years.
I don't owe them anything.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
<>
thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>
*we are a thrifty thirty years apart
but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack
laugh at myself once again
for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of embers brightest glow
the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^
can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him
physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race*
"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "
as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15
*too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap
I mind the gap,
I mine the gap
for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer
she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy
replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way*
<>
"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
among milkweeds and thistles,
on rocks and scraps of metal that tear our clothes,
in a mock lacking more than ivy,
but plenty of barbed wire,
the game is clean. unadulterated.
the slowest five seconds
birthed via a fundamentally sound
thing of beauty.
hands back, the other way.
ah the sweet spot.
we conjure trajectory: wind, speed. geometry.
run away!
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed.
Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true.
With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect.
And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise.
It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything.
.........
On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live. We were out for a walk. (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.) He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . . The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk. As we passed the house, my son speeded up. My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees. Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes. The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand. (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.) And, then, the car stopping. Did the car stop because of my scream? Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car?
.......
I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable.
All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them --
instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear.
This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC