"snakelike" poems
Hand softly against your cheek.
Lips pressed to your ear.
The whisper drifts into your consciousness, almost inaudible.
It's a request. A wish. A desire. A quench for passion.
The words tickle your canal as they enter.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall.
The speaker does not own these words but rather they own you.
Captivating, filled with desire, a yearning, wanting more.
As they trickle in, you process the slivering snakelike progression of words that just met your ear.
"Kiss me."
The very word "kiss" can set you on fire.
There's something about the word.
The way it's sharp and bold in the beginning...
Yet...electrifying at the end.
It is drawn out, poetic, tongue tying.
If you close your eyes, you can almost envision getting lost in the letters.
First, there's the K.
That crisp, clean K that is proud yet does not boast.
That K cuts like a knife, no not a knife, a kite, it cuts like a kite, soaring high into the sky. Never planning on coming down.
Then, you've got the I.
It stands tall but it's shy and sandwiched in the middle.
It cowers from the past and even more fearful of what is to come.
It is elusive, slightly **** coy, perhaps even unattainable.
Then you've got the electrifying, alliterative "ss."
Almost as if you're not ready for the word to end, holding, dare I say, clinging onto those last precious letters, dragging out every last sound.
Every last breath has come to this.
"Kiss."
It comes and then goes before you can say it.
Fearful of missing it.
You hang onto that "S" for it is the last thing that ties you to this.
Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
Once you've said it, never stop saying it.
Kiss Kiss Kiss.
All good things, though, must go. Then the time comes to let it be.
So then you say,"Kiss me."
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.
Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.
The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.
Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.
This pain is eternal.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:13 AM UTC
there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording
her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children
there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute
where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy
with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step
somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Once upon a time in a far away land
there was a girl with a golden hand.
She lived to dream and dreamed to live,
and once she loved she loved to give.
Her perfect face had silver eyes.
Those silver orbs held golden lies.
Her platinum hair cascaded down,
a nimbus of light, seraphim's crown.
Enchanted looks, by angels blessed
with skin of ivory, ocean's crest.
Body like the Goddess Bast,
catlike grace with snakelike past.
Elegant hands wove magic light,
spinning threads throughout the night.
She wrapped the world within her web,
controlling tides, the flow and ebb.
Seductress, warrioress, lovely queen,
she's breathless beauty, strength unseen.
Once upon a time in a far away land
there was a girl, with a golden hand.....
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 3:06 PM UTC
Lazily I slip along the mud bank, gliding with out a sound.
Low tide demands my interest to pass within the marsh.
Snakelike, I travel the path that time has set
I round each bend to wondrous creatures big and small.
Be it heron bird or turtle sunning on a stump, they greet me,
but only to a point – away they go! I have disturbed their day.
Forgiveness is assumed as they flee to a comfortable distance.
We gain equilibrium of trust, the creatures and me.
Neither wanting nor fearing, we enjoy our moment of faith.
Again, the tide demands my attention as I touch upon the bank.
I bid farewell to my companions and travel down the way.
The next turn is calling, new friendships to be found.
Time grows short, as the day passes and the surge is rushing in.
Freedom from the banks has her price - I see the marsh no more.
Only the Spartina reaches above the waves, bidding me time to go.
I row now, home with a smile, for soon I will see my companions again.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Come,
let me coil snakelike
round your mousy faced complexion,
spinning till
I squeeze the life back in to you.
You'll be wrapped tight in me,
forget where I end, and
I'll swallow you whole into us.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Think of it as a bad dream...
You're sleeping soundly
on a Greyhound bus
Suddenly you're awakened
by cold water
creeping up your shoes
inching over your ankles
You jump up
only now it's too late
The door of the bus
is locked
from the outside
The windows are stuck and
the glass can't be shattered
no matter how hard you pound
The water is no longer gradual
It is swift, rushing upward
enclosing your body
past your waist
up to your chest
covering your neck
In seconds
there will be no place
left to breathe
just the rapid snakelike swirl
of ***** water
You're left submerged
Your eyes sealed shut
Your hands gnarled
in a deathlike grip...
You're hopelessly caught
in the rising, surging
pull of water
moving out of a river
onto the city streets
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
You send me a song every Wednesday,
a soul offering; a slice of the strange radioactive
lunatic madness -
love-
growing inside your wonderland.
(It is not a cancerous tumour, please stop calling it that.)
You say it is dark, the Arctic's lover;
I say it is dark, like
velvet punk music and
stained checked shirts and
almost-blood wine (in shared glasses); like
the colour of your skin.
Come on.
We've both been more fascinated by the depths of the ocean
than the blue glass surfaces.
Isn't that why we fell into bottomless black holes and called it
love?
Isn't that why we branded ourselves poets,
seared the red hot poker labels onto our backs,
so that we wouldn't have to say we're just
sad...?
Yes, we are carefully disintegrating;
the world already gave us a head-start
by curling our spines into the snakelike 'S'
It was preparing us
for our careful meandering
into a river mess:
living.
No doubt, in the pool depths of African evenings,
you drink,
vodka-tinged cereal or tea,
the glass Roobios surface reflecting
a lover's face and the boredom of sadness.
No doubt, I drink to you,
coffee or warm milk,
to try and wake myself into
dying without a purpose.
No doubt, we both drink
the night itself.
And let it fester in our veins,
to curdle our blood into that same wine-shade of
darkness.
We drink.
Virginia Woolf had courage,
Sylvia Plath had courage,
Ernest Hemingway had courage,
you and I don't.
We are too fearless to live.
So we drink
and clutch at each other desperately
without reaching out a single finger.
We form shotguns with our hands, make pacts, go
home again.
And drink.
We are helping each other to die
and live
at the same time.
We are helping each other to try fit the day
too
into our arteries.
You send me a song every Wednesday;
this song will save our existence.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Strike— bare, boastful light.
Snakelike, your silver serenity
Strike with firm, flaunting fatality
Surrender then, to specks flush-light.
Split asunder, your thriving fragility
Shuddering then, a humble complexity
Shimmering so lovingly bright.
Spin I the crystals; your dancing simplicity
Simplicity— oh, so generous in its creativity
Scarce old stars rather I,
than sun’s lifeless white.
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 1:55 PM UTC
Little children love to come dancing,
Like tiny raindrops falling from heaven;
Glimpses into their unspoiled hearts,
Spread joyous rapture we can not measure.
Fallen angels come silently flying,
Like forlorned agents of lonely desire,
Their wings so gossamer, light as feathers,
How sad and distant their hearts are crying.
Furious demons come creeping along,
Slithering snakelike in the darkest hours,
Longing to carve their history in blood,
Causing great havoc on all who will listen.
Transparent clouds come floating freely,
Holding miracles of peace on this earth;
Hoping and healing we bask in their glory,
Knowing that faith is the beacon of light.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
Little bird in my heart
Your songs have urged me through the years.
Sweet, sad, arresting, wild and clear.
What will become of us now?
Little bird, you fluttered in your cage.
Clutched the bars and made for the soaring sky.
I should have known the day you flew too high.
What will become of us now?
There were those days when your song was faint,
But oh, those when its sound filled every bone of mine!
Hummed me like a tuning fork, a fever in my mind.
What will become of us now?
Little bird, recall the day
When your own song shattered your trembling heart.
Frantic for you I pried my ribs apart.
What will become of us now?
You stopped, my dear.
Your song has long since ceased.
Sometimes the echo rattles back, but weak.
What will become of us now?
I think perhaps I much preferred the dying days,
When you beat yourself ****** on my crushing ribcage,
And your song, your screams, inside my chest would rage.
And what will become of us now?
They were all dying days, my little love.
And really, we both knew it all along-
The cost, the price, the tithe inside your song.
Still, I thought we'd both have longer- look at us now.
I fear to peek inside your darkened cage, a tomb
Where blood trickles free from vein to vein,
Defying physics, curling snakelike lanes,
Ignoring the sad empty space between.
The cage remains locked, but it is vacant.
There used to be a little bird there, singing.
There used to be a swollen heart there, beating.
Oh, what will become of us now?
Rattle-rattle, shudder, clink and crunch.
Bird bones are brittle, tossed and tumbled.
****** like slender windchimes, snap and crumble,
Knocking against my leaden ribs all day.
The music is new as my hollow bones.
My hollow lungs, my hollow chest, my hollow eyes.
Hollow, lighter, sharper- think they'll fly?
And what will become of me now? .
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
You
with your intriguing, snakelike lies
your cocophanous ragings
You
with your overused words
apparently I wasn't the only one
You
with your arrogant charm
making everyone feel special
when in reality
it's all a joke
a play
my oh my,
you were one of the best **** actors I've ever seen
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
insidious,
is a word
that deserves
a poem written
about it.
mostly due,
to it's ,
Machvellian nature.
but also because,
it rolls off the tongue,
to be,
what it is.
perdiferous and snakelike
slinking... sliding...
and much, too slippery
to grasp.
it deserves,
acknowledgement.
if only,
so,
you can see it,
for what it truly
is,
*insidious....
sly, on a big day out.*
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
I felt the heat of the thing.
Dragon breath,
Silk skin stirring
Slurring snakelike. flowing
mouth muscles maneuvering me like a map.
meaty fleshy heavy
strongly, musky, dewy bodied, dense demanding maladjusted dragon
of-a-thing.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
Last night I dreamed of you again.
We were together in a crowd,
And I turned and walked away
into a silent, sunny forest.
Trees knotted into strange shapes,
Like lifesize bonsai.
I struggled over swollen roots
Exuding damp moss,
And slipped down an incline,
Into your arms.
You had followed me there,
Caught me, saved me,
But you dropped my hand as I slipped it into yours
And walked on, talking, expecting me to follow.
I’m done following, though,
And turned immediately,
Struggling on over the resistant landscape,
Over a ridge and across another of those bulging, snakelike trees.
I didn’t think you’d follow,
But again, there you were.
I asked you why you’d dropped my hand.
I know what I want, you replied
But I don't think you do,
And I'm trying to do the right thing.
I find myself wanting to ask, why? Why now?
Why, when I am over the confusion and the pain,
When I am past the most dangerous phase of withdrawal.
But, oh, that’s right – it didn’t really happen.
And I wasn’t really there.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
blood slithers snakelike
from cold neck to grated hole
a serpent in hell
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 4:32 PM UTC
i live my life as a series of moments
strung together as a spiders web
yours is a mass of accomplishments
thrown into a suitcase, shoved under a bed
in emulsions a critical factor is heat
to bind unlike substances for a period of time
cold calculations and even colder feet
lead to the disintegration of a futile design
so the heat dies away as it eventually does
and we pass each other, strangers on the street
your shadowy sweetness lingers only because
you worked your way into me firm and complete
but the moment you withdrew in a snakelike deft
is precisely the moment i got up and left
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC
I wish I were young again, I would bow to the majestic
beauty of the sleepy sunset.
Happy like a kid with a kite, my feet would bathe in the
snakelike streams escaping through
the meadows, beneath the starlit autumn sky.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC
I wasn’t looking
for God, but I
found the Devil,
He slid his
hands up my
skirt, rosary
beads and
all, breathing
skewed
bible verses
into my ******
ears like Mary,
The only tongue
he spoke in
was the one
he was sliding
down my throat,
forked and
snakelike,
He told me,
*"Your absence
of faith is pleasing
though incorrect,
you see, just as
seeing doesn’t
mean believing,
rejecting something
doesn’t rob it of
it’s existence.
That means your
sin still counts.”*
And I will burn in Hell,
just like everyone else.
- S.G.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
*Raindrops falling like pearls on her neck
Sun shines like the dazzling of her nose ring
Breeze is the air, she breathes out
Moon smiles like her glowing eyes
Blooming lotus of her smiling lips
Plantain stems of her hands and legs
Crawling snakelike is her move
Icing sugar as sweet like her voice
Milk with saffron is her colour
Every beauty comes out of her
She is the beauty of God's creation
Admiring her from far away
Knowing that beauty cannot be his love*
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
I remember dark warm nights of love
When you were nothing more
Than a trembling shadow in my arms
For I was strong from years of reformation
I suppose I sat upon your knee too long
Or ****** too full the poison of your mother breast
Now my rainy day: a yesterday's nothing
And no one to take this tomorrow from my lips
I thought the moon sad until I saw the Sun cry
For years He hid his face away
And though you snakelike
Coil and crawl, I won't step on you
Because you bit me once in love.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Kennedy’s dead, Warne said.
Cole couldn’t comprehend.
The President? Jack you mean?
Things seemed simple then.
Now he knew the dark truth
Of how things fell into place.
Warne had lied about the facts,
Distorted matters; brought in
The Oswald myth and kept it
Going. Cole sips his *****
Looks across the city, wonders
How it will all pan out in the
End, whether truth will out.
The girl enters the room and
Sits beside him; half dressed
In simple reds, some foreign
Chick he'd picked up some weeks
Back, feeling lonely. She kisses
His cheek; simple thing kissing.
Something not there though;
Something missing. Kennedy’s
Dead, Warne had said. Cole
Remembers seeing that other
Photograph of Jack’s head part
Blown away. He sips his drink,
Feels the girl’s lips, wet and
Warm, remembers, forgets,
The Oswald myth, the lone
Shooter, blood on Jackie’s
Coat. The girl licks his ear,
Snakelike, worming the wet
Pointed end, another orifice
To explore. Jack’s gone; head
Blown apart; Warne passed
Away some years back, ******
Up heart. Cole sighs, the girl
Moves away, the ear wet with
Spittle; nothing matters now,
He muses darkly, or very little.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
This heart stops,
Chataclismic disaster,
A rushing sound fills mine head,
Rushing and working, realizing I'm dead...
A popping sensation explodes these brainiatic molecules..
I step out side mine self..
I see the surgeon's and nurses,
A scapal bloodied and marked, I see the stars and an arch..
I hear all words being spoken as if no one may see me,
Can anyone hear me I yell?
Through a tunnel I fell,
Downwards to thine pit...
In a cell made of spit I can see the snakelike creatures,
Hungry for human spirit!!!
They try to bite and they gnash,
I bow to hands and knees,
Crying!!!!
(Lords prayer comes to mind)
For the demons eyes go blind,
As suddenly......
I'm pulled up back into the tunnel,
I'm starting to regain compassion feeling and pure muscle,
I feel Alive once again,
Washed from these sins,
I see mine own self....
Standing...
With ark angel Michael with the universe on his shoulders
I feel instantaneously overjoyed,
No more sin, no skin void,
An angelic choir I can hear in the background,
As the father's son comes forward..
His light in twixt to your own,
As no need to speak with your lips,
But telepathic gestures...
Your and his thoughts grow bigger,
As around his throne room you shall bow../
I was saved somehow.......!!!!!!!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
I wasn’t looking
for God, but I
found the Devil,
He slid his
hands up my
skirt, rosary
beads and
all, breathing
skewed
bible verses
into my ******
ears like Mary,
The only tongue
he spoke in
was the one
he was sliding
down my throat,
forked and
snakelike,
He told me,
"Your absence
of faith is pleasing
though incorrect,
you see, just as
seeing doesn’t
mean believing,
rejecting something
doesn’t rob it of
it’s existence.
That means your
sin still counts.”
And I will burn in Hell,
just like everyone else.
- S.G.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
Her body wrapped around the white sheets snakelike.
Eyes half shut and hair tucked behind her ear she took a deep breath then in a post ******** state rolled her eyes closed them, smiled and bit her bottom lip with a half smile.
As my fingers ran down her spine there was only one thing on my mind.
"Now you have to leave him" I whispered softly as I kissed her neck with the conviction of a man possessed consumed by all she had to offer.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC