"smudging" poems
Are you ******* crazy, he says
and I want to nod,
want to grin
want to peel back my lips and gnash my teeth like a wild thing,
want to jump on the table and scream.
I want to caterwaul,
want to close my eyes and keep them shut
I want to dig my nails into flesh and hear the tear.
No, my voice is quiet like a whisper,
hesitant and unsure.
I want that to be the wrong answer
but I don’t...
I want him to get angrier still
but I don’t...
I don’t want him red-eyed,
blood thirsty,
coming down upon me
but I do.
And when he grips my chin with slender fingers,
I want to sigh,
want to moan like a ***** in heat.
Like a ***** on the side of the road, full with ***
sore with lust and clit-swollen.
When his hand slaps my bare bare skin,
stinging pink brightly under the force of my degradation.
My sweet humiliation,
leaving soft thick welts on my delicate limbs,
writhing helplessly in discomfort,
tears smudging old makeup and
I am weak,
I am ugly,
I am hurting and I am wrong,
impaired and imperfect,
and perhaps I am ******* crazy.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
You were barely dressed.
Why?
Your clothes between us
gave me symptoms of
withdrawal from the
softness of your skin.
You applied lip gloss.
Why?
To leave an imprint
where you pressed your lips,
smudging all over
my love’s arousal.
You slipped on your heels.
Why?
To make it harder,
to frustrate desire
to caress your feet
with legs around me.
You were beautiful.
Why?
I needed nothing
that you were wearing
to know I wanted
complete nakedness.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 10:26 PM UTC
a perfect half hour drive
with a perfect sunset keeping me high
and a perfect soundtrack buzzing
in my perfect battered car
down a perfect country lane
lined with green waves
and soft bluebells
smudging the hard lines of winter away
the air is still cold
but this evening is too perfect
to notice
or care
and i realise i have been driving
with a smile greeting stranger's stares.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
dust
motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
warmth
accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
defibrillator
shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
didn’t
mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
to arc
the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
echo
in the noise of stars.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
she's always depressed
and for one reason
he's not here
and never will be
so her tears fall
smudging her mascara
and blinding her eyes
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?
No.
And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,
I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,
Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?
No.
And so I apply base,
Concealer,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,
Mascara,
Lipstick….
And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…
But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,
I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,
With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,
Everything,
Everyone,
No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
‘Happy’,
I try to mask her with,
She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,
And is she enough?
I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,
With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,
And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?
Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.
Yes.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Smudging blue and red
Across our cheeks
And down our noses
Lines pointing to our necks from our chins
We're ready to beat the crap
From our chests
And the bravery from the enemy
Our war paint is something to fear
As we wear it with pride
The Red and Blue
Oozes with greatness;
A title you'll never hold.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!
Single and free!
Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent
Single and free!
but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery
Yet so full of nothing!
The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
or smudging the glistening floor
The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!
Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;
“Did you squander away your life?”
Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****
There would be a companion
to hold hands!
Now it is too late!
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
they hunch
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.
stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)
sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up
let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit
(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
she sits alone gazing out into the distance
her feet dangling in the water, she questions her existence
and the clouds look like they could fall out of the sky and engulf her;
she says she's not afraid to die
she's afraid of being average but the beauty of her mind betrays this
and she doesn't want to be a burden
a waste
the tears falling from her eyes are smudging the freckles on her face
whilst she sits alone, she plays with her hands
she doesn't mean to cry as her lungs expand and the simple epiphany
that her body is doing all it can to maintain her life
provides a profound ability to view the world differently
she realises she'll never get to live it twice
and she picks up two daisies
one in each hand
and all that's in front of her now is outstretched land
all the while, her tears were drying and with them the sadness subsided
she smiles and is grateful for the time she gets
to witness the world's chaos and madness colliding -
she'd rather be a part of it and watch the sun rise each morning
than let it all go and never see a new day dawning
the stars may implode sometimes and even the sky sheds it's tears
but those stars were full of particles essential for new life
and that sky is home to the rainbow,
awe rife at the sight
every individual has their fears, regrets and may become disheartened or depressed
but we're all on this rock together and no one's alone in their distress
sometimes you have to hold your own hand to make it through
you're strong, you can do this, i believe in you
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Condensation left, the window blind
smudging with a bare hand
the panes allow sight, to
the restlessness of the trees
and the blustering leaves
rain forming puddles
Seeing him wave, from across
the street with, board in hand
smiling upwards, glancing
the butterflies kick and twist
"Meadow, Meadow.."
"Shush, I know, he's outside!"
Her little sister was always
part of, the games too
she knew their ma, would
never allow Meadow out
barely allowed, away from sight,
overprotective eyes
Cady patiently waited, beside
the park gate, as always
as he watched his girl, run
freedom and beauty in her
eyes, a manifestation of
the name she was graced with
Indigo jeans, bleeding
into the rain, as she splashes
through, puddles reflecting
her love, as he smiles with
bright eyes, embracing her
sweet sixteen kisses, connect
Racing through the field, kids
crazy in love, sketching names
into hollowed out trees,
drinking beer, sparking a
doobie, last nights skater
smoking session, come undone
Hours pass, dark skies blacken
street lights lead, a pathway
home, laughter echoes
she's to climb the tree, crawl
in through the window
slightly parted for her return
Great escapes, all well and good,
falling drunk and high, left
her misunderstood, no way
back in home, she calls
"Skylar, can you let me in!"
"Coming now.."
Their kiss lingered, Cady pulled
away, and waved looking back
as his skate board took him
back down the street, home
"You love him Meadow!"
"Skylar, I really do."
© Sia Jane
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
I'm going home,
leaving the pack unknown and unsafe
and my eyes strafe, swoon and sigh at the holy display
of the pure 9-to-5,
walking away from her place of pay,
to go home like me tonight.
A swift above carries on home,
food for its young carried between teeth and tongue.
A family walk from the local school,
with song being sung from the cooler two of the sons.
A car reverses nearly knocking and smudging the woman in blue;
a jacket atop a blouse, pristine shop-bought-new.
I remember her sunglasses.
I remember her eyes from behind her sunglasses.
I remember her staring me down through the lenses
melancholy and blue,
knowing that this was a passing
break-through affair.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
I think Rain is the weary humanitarian.
She’s the voice of reason,drowning the world in throbbing anger with watercolours, smudging pavement and hesitant minds. Not tears, or sympathy, she’s yelling for us in pristine drops of impatience.
Wake up! What are you doing?!
She whispers so loud, she’ll tear us apart,ground swollen with her heartfelt anger. She hates us, really. She’ll erase us away,no laugh on her lips. Just the rat-a-tat of old typewriter keys and maleficent moisture.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 7:45 AM UTC
Against the snow smudging the landscape,
Grey thick fur and spots of black,
Stocky build and small, round ears to keep it warm,
Against the backdrop of a delicate snow storm,
Quiet creature, no ability to roar,
The sweetest of faces I ever saw.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC
Buzzing brains. Familiar clots,
I'll slur my way through second thoughts
blot out doubts with distilled friendships
roll tonight into tomorrow's
bottled sleep
Counting sheep until the ground leaps up
to kiss these puckered features,
I'll appease habit with sacrificial dreams.
Face lowered
head under-
neath; the miles fold into a hood.
Long-distance.
**** tired.
of bleeding small amounts for greater good.
Quaking hands. Familiar shakes,
Five years remembered--fish for dates
Blurring hands held, smudging smiles
cloud last night under today's
soaked, waking sleep
Counting months until a year is up
then fade out of the foreground
and appeal for a new picture to see
Hands folded
in pockets
I'm southbound. Quench my thirst. Walk back home
Long distance
still learning
what it's like to face a year out here alone.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
So long as there’s society there’s much to haunt
and hate. So long as the world has its cages and
everything has proper place the future is no option
until the streets are dressed in flames with torn
pavement roaring as loud as the voices dancing
where nothing’s left empty–their bodies, the buildings–
all glowing, negating the inert night. And when
the walls turn to ashes, they’ll dance in a flurry
to kiss the ground as if smudging their past lives
off surviving maps.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
I like to write my name on a piece of paper over and over again
until it's messy enough that I forget who I am
Erasing the edges, smudging it out until my identity is nothing but a fast blur;
something that could only be noticed if you were looking for it-
something you would probably be disturbed to find anyways
Like when you're driving and you see an animal on the side of the road
and you have to pull over because it's your third week of being a vegetarian
and you almost have to force yourself to cry about it, but not quite
Or when you're cleaning your room and you find that old wooden box
you put your earrings in when you were seven years old
and now you're almost triple the age you were at that time
and you find those earrings, but there's only one of each so you put on mismatched ones
and cry yourself to sleep because you're missing parts of you that you thought would
always be there
"Mama said there'll be days like this,
there'll be days like this, my mama said"
On the messy days I like to forget who I am and pretend I'm still who I used to be.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
We were stumbling back to the car, late at night on aching feet,
Our worn out voices sounding raspy and weak
Makeup smudging on our eyelids and cheeks
Arms entangled, it started with you looping your arm through mine,
Then my hand found its way to your shoulder
And somehow we were holding hands again
It was all a blur.
Your words were slow and slurring
As if you were thinking through honey
For me not so,
my mind quick as ever to put my thoughts into words
Instead my insides felt fizzy
Your blurring remarks making me giggly.
“That’s a church”
You mutter faintly,
Waving a hand towards the Cathedral
Giggles escape from my mouth,
Growing into laughter
I try to make it sound dainty.
Perhaps the passerby thought we were drunk,
But we hadn’t had a sip of alcohol
You were drunk on tiredness and music
And I was high on dying love and music.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
To clear his head
he strips dark and light,
smudging charcoal
across the white.
He renders me
with edges lines,
scratching bones
until they shine.
To unblur the mess
inside his head,
etching softly
while words unsaid.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Last night I watched my own heart break
I watched as it slipped out of your hands
Fell to the concrete sidewalk right in front of me
Shattered, pieces scattering
Trying to hunt them all down as you walk away
Pretending nothing ever happened
I stoop down to carefully retrieve the tiny shards
Ouch.....I think one got me
Throw it in the box and keep going
My blood smudging a few pieces
Sighing as I double check for missed shrapnel
Doesn't look like there's any left
Head out on my not so merry way
I've been prepared for this
Pull out the super glue
Trying to figure out which piece is which
Where does this one go?
Ouch.....another one got me
Deeper this time
Pretend it never happened and keep working
Piecing together what's left of my heart
Finally placing the last piece
It looks nothing like my heart
Unless you stare for a few minutes
Then the recognition hits
This is it now
There's no going back to change it
I have to be extra careful
Might put it on a shelf
Display it as an example not to trust anyone
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I used to believe in the magic of eyelashes.
I would find one on my cheek
After rubbing my eyes "good morning."
I stared it down from my finger
As the words to make the wish
Would formulate in my mind,
Watching the long, thin hair
Like the slits of my mother's mistrustful eyes
When her cherry-colored face
Shakes with vigor opposite
My father, gaunt.
The wind gathered strength
Inside of me,
The eyelash would float away -
A black dandelion.
How many eyelashes does it take
To stop the stickiness
Rolling toward my chin?
One day I may find my eyes bare
With no way
To stop the blotches of ink from smudging
On the paper that I write on.
But that's if I still believed in the magic of eyelashes.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC