"snagged" poems - Hello Poetry

"snagged" poems

Blue pleather bomber jacket, You are smooth against my skin. Your surface is cool and inviting As it wraps around my torso- Like a protective blanket You are my security, Blue pleather bomber jacket. I pick at your skin and it falls apart. The zipper, like your bottom teeth, Are crooked and misaligned. You shrug over my shoulders, But leave my chest defenseless. Blue pleather bomber jacket, I bet you cost a fortune. Almost as much as your nonprescription glasses, Though you break just the same Like the promises you keep making. Blue pleather bomber jacket, You never kept me warm Just less affected by the cutting winds of your back lash. But when I fall asleep at night I sleep beside the indent of your absence. Blue pleather bomber jacket, You are just now brand new, Though your skin is already worn through And your lining thinning by the second. I trusted you, Blue pleather bomber jacket, To protect me from the cold. Though you slump lazily Over others' shoulders, Not really caring I've been waiting With my shoulders bare and frigid. Blue pleather bomber jacket, I thought you were one of kind. But I see your manufactured gaze Walking down the street, Sitting across from me on the bus. Go on, blue pleather bomber jacket, Temporarily dangling over person after person. Soon I will see you dangling On the rotting hanger in a thrift shop, Years from now looking preserved in your waning beauty. Blue pleather bomber jacket, Your trend is dying and your color fading. I have been snagged by your imperfections for the last time.

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May 4, 2017

May 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC

Blue Pleather Bomber Jacket

Blue pleather bomber jacket, You are smooth against my skin. Your surface is cool and inviting As it wraps around my torso- Like a protective blanket You are my security, Blue pleather bomber jacket. I pick at your skin and it falls apart. The zipper, like your bottom teeth, Are crooked and misaligned. You shrug over my shoulders, But leave my chest defenseless. Blue pleather bomber jacket, I bet you cost a fortune. Almost as much as your nonprescription glasses, Though you break just the same Like the promises you keep making. Blue pleather bomber jacket, You never kept me warm Just less affected by the cutting winds of your back lash. But when I fall asleep at night I sleep beside the indent of your absence. Blue pleather bomber jacket, You are just now brand new, Though your skin is already worn through And your lining thinning by the second. I trusted you, Blue pleather bomber jacket, To protect me from the cold. Though you slump lazily Over others' shoulders, Not really caring I've been waiting With my shoulders bare and frigid. Blue pleather bomber jacket, I thought you were one of kind. But I see your manufactured gaze Walking down the street, Sitting across from me on the bus. Go on, blue pleather bomber jacket, Temporarily dangling over person after person. Soon I will see you dangling On the rotting hanger in a thrift shop, Years from now looking preserved in your waning beauty. Blue pleather bomber jacket, Your trend is dying and your color fading. I have been snagged by your imperfections for the last time.

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we met like two birds landing on a wire and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing at distance where no flights could we conspire though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire like humans holding tight to form a ring we met like two birds landing on a wire that laid upon the face of earth's attire so far that only light-boxes could bring at distance where no flights could we conspire yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting we met like two birds landing on a wire and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring at distance where no flights could we conspire above the clouds now dreams have floated higher and soaring past the heavens there do sing we met like two birds landing on a wire at distance where no flights could we conspire (C)2012, Christos Rigakos

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Oct 10, 2012

Oct 10, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC

christos-rigakos

we met like two birds landing on a wire

we met like two birds landing on a wire and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing at distance where no flights could we conspire though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire like humans holding tight to form a ring we met like two birds landing on a wire that laid upon the face of earth's attire so far that only light-boxes could bring at distance where no flights could we conspire yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting we met like two birds landing on a wire and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring at distance where no flights could we conspire above the clouds now dreams have floated higher and soaring past the heavens there do sing we met like two birds landing on a wire at distance where no flights could we conspire (C)2012, Christos Rigakos

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Above my home where the dark clouds curl into the sky clinging for a home to rest their sleepy depiction, shadowed trees hum sweet lullabies, lonely leaves breathe in the sad song of fallen dimensions, letting its lifeless view roll upon their frame, the chilled breeze sailing in the skyline, as I scramble my way out of a filthy dumpster, a mountain of disintegrating mess covering my broken body, hovering flies surrounding sticky strips of spaghetti, moldy mashed potatoes, and moldy chicken *** pies, while my mind sunk into traveled thoughts, bruised hands pressed against the creases in my forehead, allowing my existence to feel the stranded scars streaming in various mazes, dull eyes flushed with a burning disorder, aching cheeks and chests nestled in darkening chamber corners, buried hips and thighs uprooting in somber blades of grass, thorned, torn, and destroyed in different worlds. As I stood on the slippery pavement staring at the ruffled scenery in my sight, spinning streetlights thickening into slouched positions, screaming sidewalks spilling sadness and madness in the drenched air, razor-edged buildings inching into crushed centimeters, jumbled meters, ****** yards. I replayed the sober images in my head, the way my young brown-skinned mom said I would never amount to anything, how I could hear the raged noun ****** sift into the distance, its flaming mechanics accelerating into screeching sounds, the way she hurled her fists at my smashed face, every vibrant language breaking apart, slamming shut into closed infinites, snagged contractions and gerunds diverging into shuddering double spaced negatives, the way she threw my lingering body inside the trash dumpster, her sharp scarlet words, You are no son of mine, ricocheting off savage surfaces, sparking my soul in a calamity of choking diction.

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Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC

You Are No Son Of Mine

Above my home where the dark clouds curl into the sky clinging for a home to rest their sleepy depiction, shadowed trees hum sweet lullabies, lonely leaves breathe in the sad song of fallen dimensions, letting its lifeless view roll upon their frame, the chilled breeze sailing in the skyline, as I scramble my way out of a filthy dumpster, a mountain of disintegrating mess covering my broken body, hovering flies surrounding sticky strips of spaghetti, moldy mashed potatoes, and moldy chicken *** pies, while my mind sunk into traveled thoughts, bruised hands pressed against the creases in my forehead, allowing my existence to feel the stranded scars streaming in various mazes, dull eyes flushed with a burning disorder, aching cheeks and chests nestled in darkening chamber corners, buried hips and thighs uprooting in somber blades of grass, thorned, torn, and destroyed in different worlds. As I stood on the slippery pavement staring at the ruffled scenery in my sight, spinning streetlights thickening into slouched positions, screaming sidewalks spilling sadness and madness in the drenched air, razor-edged buildings inching into crushed centimeters, jumbled meters, ****** yards. I replayed the sober images in my head, the way my young brown-skinned mom said I would never amount to anything, how I could hear the raged noun ****** sift into the distance, its flaming mechanics accelerating into screeching sounds, the way she hurled her fists at my smashed face, every vibrant language breaking apart, slamming shut into closed infinites, snagged contractions and gerunds diverging into shuddering double spaced negatives, the way she threw my lingering body inside the trash dumpster, her sharp scarlet words, You are no son of mine, ricocheting off savage surfaces, sparking my soul in a calamity of choking diction.

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Went our hunting, shot a tree Sure looked like a deer to me It don't matter, I can't see I'm an American Hunting Man I like hunting, but, I'm blind My dogs always stay behind I can't shoot what I can't find I'm an American Hunting Man Three years ago I shot a moose It looked to me just like a goose Man, they're fast when they cut loose I'm an American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man When I'm hunting my friends are fishin' They don't like the competition They even give me ammunition I'm an American Hunting Man I've hunted deer to wild turkey Most things I make into jerkey My vision ***** it's kind of murky I'm an American Hunting Man Went fishing once and snagged my ear Flipped the boat and spilled the beer I gave up fishing to hunt deer I'm An American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man I was shooting ducks one time I shot a truck, but that was fine Until I found out it was mine I'm an American Hunting Man Give us weaponry and beer Then get away when we are near There's nothing more that you can fear Than an American Hunting Man I have the shakes and I can't see When I shoot once I bring down three One for real and two for free I'm an American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man

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Mar 27, 2014

Mar 27, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC

American Hunting Man

Went our hunting, shot a tree Sure looked like a deer to me It don't matter, I can't see I'm an American Hunting Man I like hunting, but, I'm blind My dogs always stay behind I can't shoot what I can't find I'm an American Hunting Man Three years ago I shot a moose It looked to me just like a goose Man, they're fast when they cut loose I'm an American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man When I'm hunting my friends are fishin' They don't like the competition They even give me ammunition I'm an American Hunting Man I've hunted deer to wild turkey Most things I make into jerkey My vision ***** it's kind of murky I'm an American Hunting Man Went fishing once and snagged my ear Flipped the boat and spilled the beer I gave up fishing to hunt deer I'm An American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man I was shooting ducks one time I shot a truck, but that was fine Until I found out it was mine I'm an American Hunting Man Give us weaponry and beer Then get away when we are near There's nothing more that you can fear Than an American Hunting Man I have the shakes and I can't see When I shoot once I bring down three One for real and two for free I'm an American Hunting Man Give me beer and loaded guns I'm sure we're gonna have some fun I dress in camo when I can I'm an American Hunting Man I'm an American Hunting Man

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A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible it could be that long It seems to stretch across continents It joins up the water and land that lie between us Threaded through airports and harbour walls It effortlessly knits up plains and cities A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible it could be that strong It sketches a random pattern, known only to us Disparate, otherwise unconnected backpages Mississipi, Dallas, Mountain View, Santa Barbra Stoneybatter, Skerries, Paris, Milan A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible to think for how long It stitches and gathers up time; so when you said "It could be a thousand years or five minutes since we met" I knew we both thought that forever is possible That everything previous would make sense of our present A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible to see how it could From a distance I saw you go through revolving doors The golden hair caught my eye, flowing as you walked I was a man trapped, saved only by one fact That a golden thread had snagged on my clothes

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Feb 16, 2014

Feb 16, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC

A Golden Thread

A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible it could be that long It seems to stretch across continents It joins up the water and land that lie between us Threaded through airports and harbour walls It effortlessly knits up plains and cities A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible it could be that strong It sketches a random pattern, known only to us Disparate, otherwise unconnected backpages Mississipi, Dallas, Mountain View, Santa Barbra Stoneybatter, Skerries, Paris, Milan A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible to think for how long It stitches and gathers up time; so when you said "It could be a thousand years or five minutes since we met" I knew we both thought that forever is possible That everything previous would make sense of our present A golden thread connects us Although it seems impossible to see how it could From a distance I saw you go through revolving doors The golden hair caught my eye, flowing as you walked I was a man trapped, saved only by one fact That a golden thread had snagged on my clothes

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I let my nails grow long And the polish fade and chip away. I did not cut them or file them down. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not until you returned. But in time, they snagged on clothes. They became jagged from breaking. I bit them until I could not deal with them any longer. So I did what I said I wouldn’t. I cut my nails and I painted them again. I started over.

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Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC

courtney-snodgrass

New Nail Polish

I let my nails grow long And the polish fade and chip away. I did not cut them or file them down. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not until you returned. But in time, they snagged on clothes. They became jagged from breaking. I bit them until I could not deal with them any longer. So I did what I said I wouldn’t. I cut my nails and I painted them again. I started over.

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I am cobwebs and smoke. I am shards of a person who cannot decide The difference between Love And god. I am razorblades and thin air. I am ink and shadows. I am drowning in moonlight- I am a spun web of starlight and wanting. I am the wire frame of myself- See through shape with nothing inside. I am the wrong port in this storm, Sending out beams of Don't-ignore-me, Blades of light that split the hazy fog of apathy. You've sewn me with seeds of humanity And I feel the life beneath my skin Like it will sprout Roots Any day now. I have a ribcage full of fireflies That shine through the spaces when I breathe. I have glimpsed dreamcatchers In your eyes And snagged my darkness in their dizzy thrall.

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Oct 13, 2013

Oct 13, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC

I am cobwebs and smoke. I am shards of a person who cannot decide The difference between Love And god. I am razorblades and thin air. I am ink and shadows. I am drowning in moonlight- I am a spun web of starlight and wanting. I am the wire frame of myself- See through shape with nothing inside. I am the wrong port in this storm, Sending out beams of Don't-ignore-me, Blades of light that split the hazy fog of apathy. You've sewn me with seeds of humanity And I feel the life beneath my skin Like it will sprout Roots Any day now. I have a ribcage full of fireflies That shine through the spaces when I breathe. I have glimpsed dreamcatchers In your eyes And snagged my darkness in their dizzy thrall.

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...and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? ________________________ My poetry performed— before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups Their faces toward me in unison— they listen Intense, motionless energy Velvet applause of purple and Yellow yelling! Encore of performing in the perfume with a troop of lilacs They will remember me While I— await their return to May through billowing miles of drowsing sachet breathing euphorias between the lingerie of clouds What happens after ecstasy? Grieving in life’s presence? Loss of mind to self-possession? _________________ ...and when my sense of smell gives out I will hold on for a while to the walker of hearing trying not to stumble past the song of thrush beyond me in the blurring leaves once so clearly— crinkled, shiny, and infant green…. _____________ As a child I held on to nothing for dear life I could cup a storm in my hands! Could run with the rhythm of a horse! I could fly in my mind’s eye if the ferns I used were only wings! If I pretended hard enough I could eat my own home-baked mud pies! If only I could be— more than a fledgling of eight so earthbound, clumsy _____________ But while the lilacs were out of town thunder met the flash and gutted summer! I ran for dear life! from the amazing distance of its echoes pelted by its gentle gift Snagged by growing things— the clinging prattle of their momentous tendrils.... ______________ Lovers run off the path past water lilies along the swollen veins to the river toward a grave and pounding heart The Ancient Flood was jealous.... Now when the wind softens and rain is tossed last, and only from the leaves may their encore be cupped in the hands of some passer-by Remembering— that either because of a trifling wind or the weight of time... a tree fell here clubbing the river’s bank senseless

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Sep 10, 2016

Sep 10, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

If a Tree Falls

...and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? ________________________ My poetry performed— before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups Their faces toward me in unison— they listen Intense, motionless energy Velvet applause of purple and Yellow yelling! Encore of performing in the perfume with a troop of lilacs They will remember me While I— await their return to May through billowing miles of drowsing sachet breathing euphorias between the lingerie of clouds What happens after ecstasy? Grieving in life’s presence? Loss of mind to self-possession? _________________ ...and when my sense of smell gives out I will hold on for a while to the walker of hearing trying not to stumble past the song of thrush beyond me in the blurring leaves once so clearly— crinkled, shiny, and infant green…. _____________ As a child I held on to nothing for dear life I could cup a storm in my hands! Could run with the rhythm of a horse! I could fly in my mind’s eye if the ferns I used were only wings! If I pretended hard enough I could eat my own home-baked mud pies! If only I could be— more than a fledgling of eight so earthbound, clumsy _____________ But while the lilacs were out of town thunder met the flash and gutted summer! I ran for dear life! from the amazing distance of its echoes pelted by its gentle gift Snagged by growing things— the clinging prattle of their momentous tendrils.... ______________ Lovers run off the path past water lilies along the swollen veins to the river toward a grave and pounding heart The Ancient Flood was jealous.... Now when the wind softens and rain is tossed last, and only from the leaves may their encore be cupped in the hands of some passer-by Remembering— that either because of a trifling wind or the weight of time... a tree fell here clubbing the river’s bank senseless

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I find you in the margins of old school books, in the cupboard where I keep my old notepads, in the stories I’ve forgotten I’ve written. It’s all scraps of myself in rounded letters, uncanny because it looks like me, sounds like me, but it’s you and it is you but it’s like me too. I’m opening you (and me) back up and I hate you. I hate you, but here we are, in the mirror maze, all these mes and yous in the endless tunnel of mirrors, back to back, side to side, caught in ourselves at every angle. We’re all the same: We’re all so different. None of us are good. I hate you. I hate you at every age, *Then reality splays, sprawls flat out in front of me, exams, money, work, decisions, tight nooses that bind me to life. Get your head out of the clouds, girl *(2012) at every stage, Big smiles, A stars, clever girl, the anomaly, dry compliments, sand paper against my skin. Locked in, not a word, just a mind gone grey, a growing mass of dust that swallows the light and only allows for glasses poured half empty (2014) at every moment, I don’t fit in, never have done, never will. I’m always one step ahead or one step behind. I’m never quite there. But no one understands. They say they do but they don’t. I’m different and I don’t like it but I don’t want to change because this is who I am and whatever happens, I have to put up with it (2012) all your hatred, you happiness, your ignorance and your sadness The scab peels and leaks. Too soon to heal, too late to undo the fall. Tomorrow, you’ll trip again and your skin will bleed but this time you’ll know where to find the first aid kit. (2013) You make me sick. The world was blue today, a metaphorical wish wash of tears and a meagre ocean. Ice cream dripped in depression, picnic blankets snagged on pebbles and the kite committed suicide on the telephone lines. (2013) I hate the scraps you’ve left behind I put bits of you in the bin. I put you out for recycling. I donate you to charity shops and so you live on and I can’t get rid of you. There’s no way out of this mirror maze, no way to avoid the mirrors at angles, no way for me to escape you or for you to escape me. There are so many of you and I literally want to beat you all to death. Oh, I hate you. I hate you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything more than I hate you. I hate the tone of your words, I hate your stupid sadness. I hate your happiness. I hate your hope. I hate the memories of your laughter. I hate the memories of your fun. I hate you for all the things you’ve done and never had time to feel bad for. I hate you in the photographs, in the words, in the schoolbooks, in the poems that I’ve shared, I hate, I hate, I hate. I wish I could smash up this maze of mirrors and you, but then I’d only be left with myself and I hate her too.

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Jun 14, 2017

Jun 14, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC

The Mirror Maze

I find you in the margins of old school books, in the cupboard where I keep my old notepads, in the stories I’ve forgotten I’ve written. It’s all scraps of myself in rounded letters, uncanny because it looks like me, sounds like me, but it’s you and it is you but it’s like me too. I’m opening you (and me) back up and I hate you. I hate you, but here we are, in the mirror maze, all these mes and yous in the endless tunnel of mirrors, back to back, side to side, caught in ourselves at every angle. We’re all the same: We’re all so different. None of us are good. I hate you. I hate you at every age, *Then reality splays, sprawls flat out in front of me, exams, money, work, decisions, tight nooses that bind me to life. Get your head out of the clouds, girl *(2012) at every stage, Big smiles, A stars, clever girl, the anomaly, dry compliments, sand paper against my skin. Locked in, not a word, just a mind gone grey, a growing mass of dust that swallows the light and only allows for glasses poured half empty (2014) at every moment, I don’t fit in, never have done, never will. I’m always one step ahead or one step behind. I’m never quite there. But no one understands. They say they do but they don’t. I’m different and I don’t like it but I don’t want to change because this is who I am and whatever happens, I have to put up with it (2012) all your hatred, you happiness, your ignorance and your sadness The scab peels and leaks. Too soon to heal, too late to undo the fall. Tomorrow, you’ll trip again and your skin will bleed but this time you’ll know where to find the first aid kit. (2013) You make me sick. The world was blue today, a metaphorical wish wash of tears and a meagre ocean. Ice cream dripped in depression, picnic blankets snagged on pebbles and the kite committed suicide on the telephone lines. (2013) I hate the scraps you’ve left behind I put bits of you in the bin. I put you out for recycling. I donate you to charity shops and so you live on and I can’t get rid of you. There’s no way out of this mirror maze, no way to avoid the mirrors at angles, no way for me to escape you or for you to escape me. There are so many of you and I literally want to beat you all to death. Oh, I hate you. I hate you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything more than I hate you. I hate the tone of your words, I hate your stupid sadness. I hate your happiness. I hate your hope. I hate the memories of your laughter. I hate the memories of your fun. I hate you for all the things you’ve done and never had time to feel bad for. I hate you in the photographs, in the words, in the schoolbooks, in the poems that I’ve shared, I hate, I hate, I hate. I wish I could smash up this maze of mirrors and you, but then I’d only be left with myself and I hate her too.

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no count-downs for birthday parties no arm wrestles, no jump shots no go-cart donuts not even a snowball where did we go? blond hair up to my shoulders surrounded by jewels some empty-paned picture frame couple sprouts beneath a pine saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak red clay on your feet pink frosting in your teeth me, sheathed in my favorite shirt "I'm the big sister!" with a butterfly depicting what I've yet to become how wrong have we gone? well, I'll be twenty once spring rolls around and brother you're not far behind I can't tell time to change its mind but I promise you it won't be changing mine from the photographs, scrapbooks I'll forever feel your laughter just like goosebumps the brail I'm reading into let's gaze past glares straight through white sunbeams spiking your brown eyes twice as deep as mine the truest shades on the face of the earth to this very foggy day this mirror, this moment snagged before shutters snap and capture us, splatter us on matte paper, or cell screens with brown hair up to your shoulders way to go, little brother but I'm still keeping that tee because the only thing I've always been proud to be is your big sister

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Mar 4, 2018

Mar 4, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC

and then, we stopped racing

no count-downs for birthday parties no arm wrestles, no jump shots no go-cart donuts not even a snowball where did we go? blond hair up to my shoulders surrounded by jewels some empty-paned picture frame couple sprouts beneath a pine saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak red clay on your feet pink frosting in your teeth me, sheathed in my favorite shirt "I'm the big sister!" with a butterfly depicting what I've yet to become how wrong have we gone? well, I'll be twenty once spring rolls around and brother you're not far behind I can't tell time to change its mind but I promise you it won't be changing mine from the photographs, scrapbooks I'll forever feel your laughter just like goosebumps the brail I'm reading into let's gaze past glares straight through white sunbeams spiking your brown eyes twice as deep as mine the truest shades on the face of the earth to this very foggy day this mirror, this moment snagged before shutters snap and capture us, splatter us on matte paper, or cell screens with brown hair up to your shoulders way to go, little brother but I'm still keeping that tee because the only thing I've always been proud to be is your big sister

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crew-cut, winter’s rust, my tongue smudged with coal, snagged with the bug I rise, crawl my stare across space to where you lie perfect in ashes, un-spread and boxed, I plant a kiss on your screaming lily.

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Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC

crew-cut, winter’s rust, my tongue smudged with coal, snagged with the bug I rise, crawl my stare across space to where you lie perfect in ashes, un-spread and boxed, I plant a kiss on your screaming lily.

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i am overwhelmed; bursting through plaster cracks and jagged leftovers of stained glass, my mouth full of wet fire and heavy things and my limbs shaking and shaking and shaking. i have been devoured by love for you—its teeth have never been honed this sharp before they have never snagged so deep but i think they do now because love wants to hold on this time, tear the protective barrier of flesh and bullet-ridden hesco skin off of my bones. it’s okay, i would love to be eaten: i want the bites to crawl up and down my fingertips and tiptoe in zig-zags up my spine until all i can do is sing and cry and listen to the insatiable beating of my ink-swathed heart. i have only ever loved literature until these moments but now i have made you into a book and will tattoo your words at the crook of my elbow and in the soft craters of my chest; god, i will read you for eternity.

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Aug 25, 2014

Aug 25, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC

my pen slipped and i wrote about you

i am overwhelmed; bursting through plaster cracks and jagged leftovers of stained glass, my mouth full of wet fire and heavy things and my limbs shaking and shaking and shaking. i have been devoured by love for you—its teeth have never been honed this sharp before they have never snagged so deep but i think they do now because love wants to hold on this time, tear the protective barrier of flesh and bullet-ridden hesco skin off of my bones. it’s okay, i would love to be eaten: i want the bites to crawl up and down my fingertips and tiptoe in zig-zags up my spine until all i can do is sing and cry and listen to the insatiable beating of my ink-swathed heart. i have only ever loved literature until these moments but now i have made you into a book and will tattoo your words at the crook of my elbow and in the soft craters of my chest; god, i will read you for eternity.

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Sleeves of scars and a garter of silver lines and burns oh the hurt I've endured Seated by the fire as a child Lord knows I've had thoughts like this for a while I'd dwell on the discretion I took brooding over every hook that snagged my flesh made a mess of the little girl I never was and they who shook me pet me from the inside out must have forgotten to what degree their consumptive hands made me bleed God how I wish they could see every stain left with or without cause was provoked by their nostalgic applause but I don't even blame them It was a conscious disease perniciously eating still chewing at me.

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Dec 29, 2014

Dec 29, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC

Sleeves of scars and a garter of silver lines and burns oh the hurt I've endured Seated by the fire as a child Lord knows I've had thoughts like this for a while I'd dwell on the discretion I took brooding over every hook that snagged my flesh made a mess of the little girl I never was and they who shook me pet me from the inside out must have forgotten to what degree their consumptive hands made me bleed God how I wish they could see every stain left with or without cause was provoked by their nostalgic applause but I don't even blame them It was a conscious disease perniciously eating still chewing at me.

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Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

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Sep 16, 2016

Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC

Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

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they snagged on her gown as she attempted to flee the retched night that had gone horribly wrong, they worked with the enemy to ensure she would not escape this town, piercing her satin embroidery and tearing at the draped silk, hooking into her flesh, softer than a rose’s petal. she gasped as pain struck her and little rivers of blood streamed down her skin

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Jul 15, 2012

Jul 15, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC

they snagged on her gown as she attempted to flee the retched night that had gone horribly wrong, they worked with the enemy to ensure she would not escape this town, piercing her satin embroidery and tearing at the draped silk, hooking into her flesh, softer than a rose’s petal. she gasped as pain struck her and little rivers of blood streamed down her skin

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The troubadour planted his last name between a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos; rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City, where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours for a week straight. To escape, to begin. He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all. He shared a room with two high fashion, burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour, was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air, code for a cigarette. "She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed, atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you. Viv brought him between her legs. "Gentle. Gentle," she said. The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her **** A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop." And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-homo escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

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Jul 18, 2014

Jul 18, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC

The troubadour planted his last name between a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos; rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City, where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours for a week straight. To escape, to begin. He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all. He shared a room with two high fashion, burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour, was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air, code for a cigarette. "She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed, atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you. Viv brought him between her legs. "Gentle. Gentle," she said. The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her **** A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop." And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-homo escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

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I called to you softly when I was young; my voice bounced off the bricks of a suburban slum, sauntered down side streets and stirred piles of leaves, then snagged in the branches till the wind tore it free to collapse at your window like a weary songbird that had been singing for decades and finally, you heard.

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Feb 22, 2016

Feb 22, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC

I called to you softly when I was young; my voice bounced off the bricks of a suburban slum, sauntered down side streets and stirred piles of leaves, then snagged in the branches till the wind tore it free to collapse at your window like a weary songbird that had been singing for decades and finally, you heard.

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Everyday I saw them flying Heard them screaming Cursed their noisy presence Resented the danger they presented to my wards The baby fish that I was charged with One tourist commented that "Kingfishers sure are beautiful birds" I agreed solemnly (out loud) but privately I didn't agree at all Didn't see any beauty in their white and grey feathers Didn't hear it in their coarse shrieks Then today I was taken aback by a strange shape flapping and struggling above the water It was one of them, one of the kingfishers Somehow he had snagged his wing on a fish hook and was dangling helplessly I saw blood and torn flesh, my approach simply made him more frantic I tried to pull the hook out but it was viciously intertwined with the creature My hand brushed incredibly soft and downy feathers His eyes were wide with panic, his thin, powerful beak open in bleak desperation I put my hand out to lift him His black claws put pressure on my hand, relieved pressure from the fishing line and allowed me to extract the lethal hook from his ruffled, ravaged wing He flew, he was scared of me, he fell back to the water I was ready to save him but he was swept out of sight I stood there thinking How terrible for a creature of the sky to die in the water How scared he must be to be surrounded by the wrong kind of blue Sinking instead of soaring Then I saw a kingfisher suddenly fly up behind me It might have been the same one but I'm not sure Logic tells me that it must have been him But my heart remains sad and tells me no

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Aug 9, 2012

Aug 9, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC

Fishing for Kingfishers

Everyday I saw them flying Heard them screaming Cursed their noisy presence Resented the danger they presented to my wards The baby fish that I was charged with One tourist commented that "Kingfishers sure are beautiful birds" I agreed solemnly (out loud) but privately I didn't agree at all Didn't see any beauty in their white and grey feathers Didn't hear it in their coarse shrieks Then today I was taken aback by a strange shape flapping and struggling above the water It was one of them, one of the kingfishers Somehow he had snagged his wing on a fish hook and was dangling helplessly I saw blood and torn flesh, my approach simply made him more frantic I tried to pull the hook out but it was viciously intertwined with the creature My hand brushed incredibly soft and downy feathers His eyes were wide with panic, his thin, powerful beak open in bleak desperation I put my hand out to lift him His black claws put pressure on my hand, relieved pressure from the fishing line and allowed me to extract the lethal hook from his ruffled, ravaged wing He flew, he was scared of me, he fell back to the water I was ready to save him but he was swept out of sight I stood there thinking How terrible for a creature of the sky to die in the water How scared he must be to be surrounded by the wrong kind of blue Sinking instead of soaring Then I saw a kingfisher suddenly fly up behind me It might have been the same one but I'm not sure Logic tells me that it must have been him But my heart remains sad and tells me no

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His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched *** His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth. His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard And his insults were sharp staccatos And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread. His eyebrows were gargoyle wings And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass He sang, and it was cough syrup And his beard was a soiled litter box. His fingers, dried seaweed And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges. His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun His grin was a snagged zipper And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss. His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey. His chest was the backside of a dung beetle. His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog And his knees were skulls And his touch was a snug pressure cuff And his compassion was a guillotine And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.

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Apr 25, 2014

Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC

Dodgeball: The Resurrection

His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched *** His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth. His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard And his insults were sharp staccatos And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread. His eyebrows were gargoyle wings And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass He sang, and it was cough syrup And his beard was a soiled litter box. His fingers, dried seaweed And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges. His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun His grin was a snagged zipper And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss. His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey. His chest was the backside of a dung beetle. His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog And his knees were skulls And his touch was a snug pressure cuff And his compassion was a guillotine And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.

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*We were both still quite sleepy. She laid her head in my lap in fetal position for most of the ride and I nodded off as the thunder rumbled, and rocked me to sleep, my head lolling to one side. It was miserable out. The sky was a toxic, smoky gray, swollen and bruised purple like rotting flesh, and the rain, so incessant, berated the windshield of the cab the whole ride to the theater and all the while after we had handed a couple crumpled dollars to the driver and gotten in the cue. We had our backstage passes tucked away into our coats, we didn't want any of the regulars to see. She huddled closer to me to guard her ashen lips from the needle ****** of the wind, that would bring a tear to her eye when they scraped against the tip of her nose. She was thinking, as she fingered the strap of the shiny, clean, new camera she bought to photograph us doing ***** things, the lens reflecting all of her good intentions, warm feelings onto me. As a vendor strode by I snagged up two cups of coffee, and handed one to her and then we sank back into the shivering, shuddering mass. She took a few sips, as I drew the flame to my cigarette, ducking behind her and cupping the tip in order to get it lit, I could see the steam dissipating into the cold, wet air. She smiled with amusement and after a few moments looked up and whispered to me "I want him at his best. I hope he's super depressed." I said "Yeah", as I exhaled the smoke and simultaneously, in one heave, cleared my throat, "I hope he ******* hates us."*

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Dec 23, 2012

Dec 23, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC

shashank-virkud-1

Upon Arriving to Meet Our Favorite Folk Singer

*We were both still quite sleepy. She laid her head in my lap in fetal position for most of the ride and I nodded off as the thunder rumbled, and rocked me to sleep, my head lolling to one side. It was miserable out. The sky was a toxic, smoky gray, swollen and bruised purple like rotting flesh, and the rain, so incessant, berated the windshield of the cab the whole ride to the theater and all the while after we had handed a couple crumpled dollars to the driver and gotten in the cue. We had our backstage passes tucked away into our coats, we didn't want any of the regulars to see. She huddled closer to me to guard her ashen lips from the needle ****** of the wind, that would bring a tear to her eye when they scraped against the tip of her nose. She was thinking, as she fingered the strap of the shiny, clean, new camera she bought to photograph us doing ***** things, the lens reflecting all of her good intentions, warm feelings onto me. As a vendor strode by I snagged up two cups of coffee, and handed one to her and then we sank back into the shivering, shuddering mass. She took a few sips, as I drew the flame to my cigarette, ducking behind her and cupping the tip in order to get it lit, I could see the steam dissipating into the cold, wet air. She smiled with amusement and after a few moments looked up and whispered to me "I want him at his best. I hope he's super depressed." I said "Yeah", as I exhaled the smoke and simultaneously, in one heave, cleared my throat, "I hope he ******* hates us."*

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I wish I could find Another Word One plucked from a Chicken or Snagged to a line But all I have is Drift You Laughing Like a drunken Gondolier This momentous Rise of horns And the little Spittles of foam That froth at Our legs The sea Creates you A scarf And you turn To look at me Your eyes Drifting Through the notes Around me Sweet Music Who are you If not mine To keep

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Jan 4, 2017

Jan 4, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC

I wish I could find Another Word One plucked from a Chicken or Snagged to a line But all I have is Drift You Laughing Like a drunken Gondolier This momentous Rise of horns And the little Spittles of foam That froth at Our legs The sea Creates you A scarf And you turn To look at me Your eyes Drifting Through the notes Around me Sweet Music Who are you If not mine To keep

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**The fairest hair, peroxide blond beer shampoo feeding the roots primped and pinned with paperclips blown and set as candyfloss sticks. Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches colourful lashes, stuck to the lids with copyright brows by electrolysis both almond eyes are now penciled in. Lines of life filled with putty trowelled in layers, foundations built delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered rouged and shaded, giving them youth. Clinical lips, Botox injected tattooed outlines guiding the brush the budding artist colours by numbers pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss. Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles genuine paste, drawing the eye both purl and knit-one inside the jumper pulled and snagged by glued on nails. High heel shoes, stretching the sinews of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure gently molding, the form to behold. With grace we age throughout the years a time filled life, craves respect hairs of grey are marks of distinction an occasional blemish, a beauty spot. Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour experience of life, lines proudly worn for with laughing eyes and glowing smile who need wear a plasticine face.** ... ... ...

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Apr 30, 2011

Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC

... Makeover ...

**The fairest hair, peroxide blond beer shampoo feeding the roots primped and pinned with paperclips blown and set as candyfloss sticks. Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches colourful lashes, stuck to the lids with copyright brows by electrolysis both almond eyes are now penciled in. Lines of life filled with putty trowelled in layers, foundations built delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered rouged and shaded, giving them youth. Clinical lips, Botox injected tattooed outlines guiding the brush the budding artist colours by numbers pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss. Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles genuine paste, drawing the eye both purl and knit-one inside the jumper pulled and snagged by glued on nails. High heel shoes, stretching the sinews of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure gently molding, the form to behold. With grace we age throughout the years a time filled life, craves respect hairs of grey are marks of distinction an occasional blemish, a beauty spot. Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour experience of life, lines proudly worn for with laughing eyes and glowing smile who need wear a plasticine face.** ... ... ...

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I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart. You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day. I wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper. How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after. A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new. I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me. On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained). New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts. I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy.

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Feb 21, 2014

Feb 21, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC

A Mess in Various Dresses

I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart. You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day. I wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper. How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after. A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new. I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me. On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained). New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts. I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy.

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