"sofas" poems
They wear their wealth like a crown
Glittering jewels adorning their kitchen chairs
Red leather velvet resting on the sofas
Pearls dripping in champagne
This lavish mansion is their Kingdom
The money their thrones of precious stones
Their influence their ermine and silk cloths
Their wealth like crowns
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
My first impression of the children's hospital was how nice everything was. It was new, with fish tanks and red sofas; pastel windows which made pretty colors on the floor when the sun went through them; walls were freshly painted and everyone talked with a smile. Everything just looked so peaceful.
It wasn't until my second visit that I saw the flaws. I was sitting on one of the red couches, waiting for my name to be called, and I was looking at the fish tank. A little girl was pressed up to the glass telling her mother that she could see nemo. But when I looked closer, I saw a little fish turned over floating at the surface. A man behind the glass quickly pulled it out of the tank, but I saw. That's when I started noticing other things. Like the bloodstain on the cushion next to me. And the fact that a few tiles were missing from the floor. The wood paneling had scratches on it; one of the pastel windows was taped up; and every parent was smiling, but the little kids holding on to them kept asking what was wrong.
Maybe that's just how hospitals are. They want you to think that everything's okay; that all that goes on inside are couches and fishtanks. They think that if they write out the word HOSPITAL in bubbly pink letters people might get it into their brains that everything's okay. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a hospital. Masking pain only works for so long, until broken bits and pieces push their way through.
I think hospitals are just fish tanks. Everyone is put on display for doctors and visitors and things seem okay for a while, you know, until they aren't. When a little nemo dies, they send away his body and just replace him with another orange fish that people can look at. We are all the cracks in the pavement; elevators shut down for repair; a phantom pain that nobody wants to believe is real. If you stand far enough away; if you distance yourselves from anything close to the word hospital, you can just let yourself focus on the mask they put up. But once it's time, and you're sitting on a red couch in the lobby of the children's wing, with a kid asking you where her older brother went, you'll find yourself staring at the cracks in the facade with a single tear running down your face and with emptiness in your stomach.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong
You been putting up with my **** just way too long
I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most
So I think it's time for us to have a toast
Let's have a toast for the **********
Let's have a toast for the ********
Let's have a toast for the scumbags
Every one of them that I know
Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs
That'll never take work off
Baby, I got a plan
Run away fast as you can
[Verse 1: Kanye West]
She find pictures in my e-mail
I sent this ***** a picture of my ****
I don't know what it is with females
But I'm not too good with that ****
See, I could have me a good girl
And still be addicted to them hoodrats
And I just blame everything on you
At least you know that's what I'm good at
[Hook]
[Bridge]
Run away from me, baby, run away
Run away from me, baby, run away
It's about to get crazy, why can't she just, run away?
Baby, I got a plan, run away fast as you can
[Verse 2 - Pusha T]
24/7, 365, ***** stays on my mind
I-I-I-I did it, all right, all right, I admit it
Now pick your next move, you could leave or live wit' it
Ichabod Crane with that ************* top off
Split and go where? Back to wearing knockoffs, haha
Knock it off, Neiman's, shop it off
Let's talk over mai tais, waitress, top it off
Hoes like vultures, wanna fly in your Freddy loafers
You can't blame 'em, they ain't never seen Versace sofas
Every bag, every blouse, every bracelet
Comes with a price tag, baby, face it
You should leave if you can't accept the basics
Plenty hoes in the balla-nigga matrix
Invisibly set, the Rolex is faceless
I'm just young, rich, and tasteless
P!
[Verse 3: Kanye West]
Never was much of a romantic
I could never take the intimacy
And I know I did damage
Cause the look in your eyes is killing me
I guess you are at an advantage
Cause you can blame me for everything
And I don't know how I'mma manage
If one day you just up and leave
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.
3.9k
My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Grab your Kerouac coat,
get on the road and
find everything you lost about yourself,
reclaim it from city street code.
Dust travels with the wind
when the wind is hesitant to go alone.
Along with the clouds that
cover the sky, cover the unknown.
Cars with driver and passengers
flee the mounting mess,
the debris of souls, money,
cash around the necks-
Choking on greed and new sofas,
deep porcelain baths, chunks of
meat: expensive, not kosher.
So grab that Kerouac coat
and get on the road.
Find something worth doing, before dusk becomes sweet-taste cold
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;
divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.
Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,
to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.
One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for
these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself
And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow the
evenly laid out, sorrow yellow street lamps
and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,
where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems
to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they
wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived
in a previous life.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
**What a day!
Oh what a tiresome day!
A guesome hurdle
A dire way,
As afternoon embraced,
The lights all fade,
So does the sparkle in her
little eyes..**
*oh how pretty she were
How her tiny feet ran all over the place,
Made me smile
A little gay,
Her nose so tiny,
it fit in as my thumb,
Her tongue so pink
Even strawberries
Looked shy..*
But oh! Her jibber jabbering,
Her questions,
Her answers!
Her shouting,
Her cry!
What a sly thing she was,
You know?
she hid behind sofas,
Scared me to death,
**So I thought of giving her
a taste of lifelessness.**.
*but, she,
she,
Was my princess,
My beauty in petals,
Her funny giggling,
Made everyone laugh!
Oh such a cherry
Skin like honey,
Her hair amber,
Like wings of burterflies
Flying across the sun..*
Oh! But she ****** the life
out of me,
Everyone praised her,
But me,
they said what a lovely
Little thing she is!
The irritation!
The moral dissatisfaction!
She made me look old!
and ragged,and torn,
Frustration!
*but how could I cut her
Feeble hands?
Hold her so tight,
That she couldn't breath,
how could I?
How?
after all I was her mommy,
The most beautiful
She considered..
How could I not think about her once?
I gave her life and in
3years I took it back!?
Forgive me lord
For I have sinned,
no how can you forgive someone
So heartless,
so mean,
Such a hippocrit!
such a ***** person?*
But who cares?
when I have my life back,
**To start anew,
Never look back,**
Yes I hit her,
Hard and numb,
Made her blood,
Come till my feet,
but she was the one who wanted forgiveness,
yes she,
So I gave her
What she wanted,
freedom was my forgiveness,
Stains of her,
still stick to my life story,
but I don't care..
*you,fair little fragile thing,
You made me do that to you,
Had you not come,
I never would have been,
An inhuman,
A mother,
A disastrous
Murderer..*
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
We little light footed ants
are free from giant egos
as we throw them off and live
within our tiny bodies
And we find that we have
so much room,
so much room.
As we keep gravitating in
a love towards each other.
We work within an almost
sacrificial love for one another
This love so strong that
permeates our bodies it willingly
carries many times its weight freely.
As we find a freedom in a devotion
as we build a great life together.
Sometimes we let go of understanding
the world and humbly live close to
what feels a boundless earth.
As we realize with a beautiful
simplicity that much of the world
is above.
And we understand however big you
build your ego God and the big picture
have an understanding so much greater.
We see however elaborate your system
however beautiful your tower it is the
lubricating love which enables the whole
thing work.
We live with perfect honor with each other
as we build our empire on stone which
will never crumble.
Many giant egos show us disregard as they
think nothing of stamping on us.
But being humble beings we simply slip
between the many cracks of this world and
remain completely unharmed.
We know it is the being without ego
that finds himself so surrounded with
so much space and finds so very easy
to find his place.
Empty of ego we are drawn together
with so much love for one another
we just cannot get enough of each other.
As we build great structures almost invisible
to us which can only really be seen by giant
beings like Gods we feel our importance.
And as we work for this higher picture we
we cannot see we all merge together within
an unquestionable trust that always serves
the greater.
Living on a tiny point we feel the worlds
stresses collapsing infinity to a point.
Bursting balloons all pressures released
our souls sits back on energetic sofas.
Sitting on this micro dot we dance and rest
upon this junction spot.
So as we fumble and tumble around within
our daily routine choosing not to be tall
but to be born small.
Within a endless love threaded through million
of busy connecting little legs we work closely
together.
And in a deep cooperation we feel a
fusion as together we feel complete
in one giant heartbeat.
There is so much to be admired in the
beautiful busy working ant.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Sonnet pour mon épagneul anglais Nils
De son smoking de noir vêtu,
mêmes quand il court dans les rues,
à un artiste de gala
il semble emprunter le pas
Ton ventre est blanc comme une hermine.
Sur ton museau blanc, une truffe
Son dos de noir tout habillé.
Sur le front, il se fait doré.
De « prince », il s’attire le nom
Tant sa démarche est altiere ;
mais de « Nils », il a le surnom,
Car autant qu’un jar, il est fier.
Assis, il paraît méditer,
Sur le monde sa vanité.
De ses yeux noirs il vous regarde,
Comme un reproche qui s’attarde.
Quand il court, parmi les genêts,
Il fend l’air comme un destrier ;
Et le panache de sa queue
En flottant, vous ravit les yeux.
Mon épagneul est très dormeur,
Et aux sofas, il fait honneur.
Mais lorsque se lève le jour,
A se promener, il accourt.
Quand il dort, il est écureuil,
mais jamais, il ne ferme l’œil.
Un léger murmure l’éveille
Tant aérien est son sommeil.
Il semble emprunter le pas
Lorsqu’un aboiement le réveille
De sa voix, il donne l’éveil.
Et les chats, les chiens maraudeurs,
Il met en fuite avec bonheur.
Lorsque dans mes bras, il vient,
Son pelage se fait câlin.
Et la douceur de sa vêture
Lui fait une jolie voilure.
Sur ma table, sa tête repose
Lorsque je taquine la prose,
Comme pour dire ; même par-là,
je veux que tu restes avec moi.
Sous ma caresse, il se blottit,
comme le ferait un petit.
De ma tristesse, il vient à bout,
tant le regard qu’il pose est doux.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
***
Poème à ma chienne Laika dite «Caquine»
Tu as un gros museau,
Cocker chocolatine,
Des yeux entre amandes et noisettes
Teintés d’une humeur suppliante.
Ta fourrure est quelque peu rêche
Mais prend l’éclat de la noisette
et le reflet du renard roux.
La caresse se fait satin.
Ma fille Célia t’appelle : «Caquine»
Pour des raisons que je ne peux
Au lecteur dévoiler ici,
Mais toute ta place tu tiens.
A ta maitresses adorée
Tu dresses ton gros museau
Et te blottis pour la garder
En menaçant ceux qui approchent.
Tu es peureuse comme un lézard,
Et sait ramper devant Célia.
Mais ton museau, sur mes genoux
Au petit déjeuner veille et guette.
Quand je te sors, tu tires en laisse
Jusqu’à m’en laisser essoufflé,
Après avoir d’énervement
Dans ta gueule, mes chaussons saisis.
Sur les sentiers de senteur,
Ton flair à humer se déploie.
Tu es, ma chienne, compagnie.
De mes longues après-midi.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
12 inches
Maybe more
And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
They smile.
And he bites their hands.
Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.
They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.
He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!
Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Fate!
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.
He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.
Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.
And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 9:45 PM UTC
*** my brother, is so destructive, he treats even a jewel like its *******
he is soo stubborn, he gets under my skin like sunburn, but in the end he's still my brother.
i wouldnt have in any other, why? cuhz he down for the fam like southern? lol
i realized people you can never govern but even currently as he proceeds to walking on the second story on his FREAKEN KNEES! i realize i must make a compromise that there might be something about me he doesnt agree with,, so lets avoid the conflict cuhz it looks like a slippery cliff,,, *** is he doing upp there sounds like artillery ships and **** im about to throw this fit,, but my homeboy like na flames here smoke this spliff,, na NAGA my mind is a gift and you kn ow im trying to quit!,, witch brings me across the next subject,,, i suspect my inner demons which demoralize my drive to subside with most high take my closest friends minds for a joyride,,, undercover like a spy to poison my ambitions to stay sober im so bipolar, being high is mediocre but when mind is clear i tend to turn into that ogre,,,i feel as if all is hopeless,,, i live in the moment i live in the ocean,, i think my name is Joseph,, and i sleep on my best friend sofas,,, i dont know where this story is going, long as i continue typing i guess its my way of coping i guess its my way of invoking,,,,
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
Idyllic love poems wander the hills
with a pining goat herd playing his pipe
and singing mournful song
echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge
beneath waterfalls
where alabaster-skinned Naiads
lithe and languorous
bathed in crystal brooks.
Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless
wearing corsets and crinolines
desperate
and untouched
*********
strands of hair
John Donne’s love poems
are wet
with wit.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
Home.
It's a noun.
It's also an adjective, adverb, and verb.
It is the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.
A place in which
The essence of childhood, innocence, and versatility
Bloom like a spring annual.
But after the clock of those 18 years
Runs out
You are free to leave.
In fact, you are encouraged
To move to another
Until you build a home for yourself.
Some never build another home
They find decent company
In one night stands
And the nicotine tinged, cigarette burned sofas.
Some build a home better than the one they came.
Gardenias, chrysanthemums, and marigolds in the garden;
Scrubbing a crayon medium portrait
Off the comic latte walls.
I have a distorted image of home.
All these places I want to go and
All these people I want to meet.
I cannot settle
Until I have shaken hands with the world itself
But the argument still standing is
Do I go alone?
I have never been good with loneliness
And yet I crave the anonymity
Of standing on the street, watching the cars rush by
Knowing
I am not bound by failure.
I am not tethered down by my haunting past
No definitions chained to my shoulders
Forever slumping my chest.
No.
I will meet many people and learn from them.
I will tell people my name is different.
Soon, I will be the wisp of stardust
Hovering in the void
Between here and there
Changing,
Yet staying absolutely the same.
I deem myself a traveler.
Eventually meeting the civilizations
That created my favorite words.
Maybe in a few years at my high school reunion
My old classmates will have kids to show their progress
And I will have the words and wisdom from a thousand cultures
And that will be enough,
For travel is the soul of me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
Sleeping on sofas, sleeping on floors
Friends are her family
Her mother abroad
Little miss nobody, pin-ball girl
Says why are you being so nice to me
It's our job says the nurse
As she stitches her hand
Everyone is somebody
You folks are amazing
You really care
Best phone the hostel
Tonight I'll go there
So vulnerable
Naive, street-wise in equal measure
If you had a family
You would be their treasure
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
There were bright lights
from the ceiling
once it got
dark outside
and when big Ted
brought in
the sandwiches
for tea or supper
or whatever
they called it
I sat next to Christine
on one
of the double sofas
and she looked
at the plates
of sandwiches
that were laid
on the table
and said
usual boring stuff
I’m not eating
I’d rather starve
big Ted said
O come on
young lady
we've got
to get you well again
and out of this ward
he offered her
a ham sandwich
real ham
he said
not that tin stuff
she looked at him
don't fancy meat
she said
he took up
a cheese sandwich
Cheddar
he said
good stuff
I’ve tasted it
downstairs
in the kitchen
I could eat a horse
I said
taking the cheese sandwich
no horse sandwiches today
Ted said smiling
Christine gazed at me
then at the plate
of sandwiches
it's an effort to eat
she said
I should be coming home
from my honeymoon now
if the **** hadn't left me
at the altar
done my head in
Ted raised his eyebrows
is there anything
I can get you other
than sandwiches?
they've got
sausage rolls downstairs
all dressed
in my wedding dress
with flowers
and waiting
and he doesn't show
I take a ham sandwich
his loss
I said
he must be missing a *****
not to wed you
she gazed at me
then took
a cheese sandwich
and ate
Ted frowned
and walked off
to get the teapot
and coffee pots
and cups
from the trolley
you'll find someone
I said
don't think
I want anyone now
think I'll become a nun
or missionary
in some far off land
sexless and taking care
of others
she sat eating
in silence for a moment
or two
not sure
I could go long
without ***
come to think of it
she took a ham sandwich
with one hand
and placed a hand
on my thigh
with that dull light
in her green blue
left eye.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
keeping warm by that old stove
kicking back shots and
always a beer in hand
we lived as if nothing could
ever matter for nothing ever
changed the same man sleeping
at six or seven having passed out
from half-a-days work
and a hard days drinking
sitting around there for warmth
some kind of something men
don't often talk about much
women there were hard to
find, not for lack of trying
they just always seemed so
out of place when they
did actually appear
extending the night was
the main concern making
the most out of the ample
time given to us
trying desperately to squeeze
out juice from every instant
with anything free at hand
retreating back to sofas
for sleep waking up with
head aches intolerable beer cans
all around going hard because
there was no where to go
debasing our minds with the nights
succulent spoils tabbed pilled or
powder madness feels like sanity
at the right moment
knowing full well it can't
be caught as it slips
through your fingers only
to be inhaled the following
friday then blown away
once again at day break
a perpetual mind ****
was the goal with actual
******* just secondary reasoning
living to forget what it
means to be alive in
this world where identity
has been distilled to mere
pages in an infinite book
that doesn't really exist
what else to expect from
shattered youth abused mainly
by design but also by choice
you could class it all up
increase the age and ornament
add black books, black dresses
black ties champagne & chandeliers
still dormant at its core
as time passes and falls apart
the fire still there burns
even in museums at midnight
Dionysus consumes Apollo
so warm your hands for as
long as you can it
only grows more insipid
increasingly cold and bitter
both the truth and the liquor
till everything’s but a pause and black
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
the lake hurts. the lake hurts my lake. it’s not one of my regrets. i don’t know what to call the water place inside me, so i call it gothic barbie dream house. no, not its real name. yes, i spend too much time inside. i grow a tail fin. it’s beautiful, but i don’t appreciate it. complain about missing bikini bottoms. complain about sore throat. gothic barbie dream house isn’t on any maps. gothic barbie dream house has a NO DIVERS ALLOWED sign, just in case. gothic barbie dream house is a silent movie with future color. gothic barbie dream house has posters of punk ken in every room that i use to practice kissing. punk ken is going to think i’m such a good kisser. gothic barbie dream house has a room for *** toys and a room for mutilation. i spend equal time in each. not a huge fan of either. gothic barbie dream house has a bathroom; has clutter of perfume crystal, silk wing, menstrual cup. gothic barbie dream house has a kitchen, but i don’t use it. pink and purple plastic. easy bake oven and short tables. tea drinking mice eating tooth sized cakes. gothic barbie dream house has a mouse problem and so many mirrors. gothic barbie dream house has a dungeon, a disco ball and blow up sofas. menageries of giant stuffed animals. there is a demon dancing in the corner with an unlit candle. gothic barbie dream house smells like blood. gothic barbie dream house smells like water. gothic barbie dream house is full of bubbles, new fins, air hoses. this is where i realize the demon is a diver, and it hurts gothic barbie dream house to its distant river. this is where i don’t know what to say when the diver asks, does it go deeper. i tell the diver gothic barbie dream house goes on forever, but they don’t understand. it looks like a lake to them. the diver asks my name, and i say, listen. diving is dangerous. let’s have a tea party. and look. we both have fins-
Dec 2, 2022
Dec 2, 2022 at 12:39 PM UTC
Half-moons turn to full as my eyes flutter open
The white hot light is disorienting.
My fingernails are the first thing I notice
They’re clean.
Clean has been distant for months.
My hair is combed and cut
And I’m all wrapped up in ivory.
But they forgot to bandage my memory.
It’s still oozing and crusted with sickening pain.
And I can remember their cries and angelic faces still.
And then they turned empty,
Like those grown-ups who used to putter around on Mondays.
At least they’ve got hunger for life now.
And as these trailing thoughts leave my mind,
I remember that I’m not alone.
Not all was lost after that apocalyptic crisis,
Where all I’ve ever known turned to a rotting, dead end.
His face will be forever embedded in my mind.
He and I made it out.
We were plucked out of the ground like two white roses in a field of weeds.
Saved like two animals for Noah’s Ark.
We, are all that’s left of origin,
All that’s left of our kind.
So before it was too late,
They rescued our scorned skins.
And we flew up into that blue sky,
And we just left them there.
We left that fair skinned freckled boy,
That lanky knobby kneed kid,
And that dark haired round eyed little girl,
We left everyone that ever was.
God.
I wish there was.
He’d breathe us in and never let go.
Never let those demons touch us.
Never let them sink their rotted teeth into her tiny neck.
Those *******
Limping around seeking blood,
Looking for lives to demolish.
If you’re reading this now
I hope you’re not running from rotted versions of your friends,
I hope you’re sitting at home on your plush pillowed sofas
Puttering around on Mondays.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
An old curiosity shop
a lost world depository
dark dusty as pharaoh's tomb
worming squirming carefully through
where 'Breakages Must Be Paid For'.
Stopped clocks claiming time is up
sofas trailing their entrails
peeved pictures offered for their frames
and bureaux bursting with bumf.
Rummaging through dank passages
searching inner chamber book stocks
classic novels at six old pence
thumbed pages bought for improvement.
Nelson Collins Clear Type Press
Dent and Everyman in distress
Dumas Dickens and Conan Doyle
countless cultural references.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
There is a room.
Dark red walls.
Priceless sofas.
Expensive chandeliers.
There is a gun nestled in the arm of a sofa.
There is a cigarette dying on an ash tray.
The lights flicker on and off.
Too quiet.
The man comes in the room.
The girl is waiting.
She is wearing her pale grey dress.
He takes the gun.
And shoots her in the head.
Everything is normal again.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
Ice skates and two bite brownies
I don't know what innocence is
Walls, I need walls.
Darkest rooms and beige hallways
In an instant, stolen.
Run, run away.
Leather sofas and pure accidents.
What is happening to me?
Stop this, stop it now.
Tinted windows and background music
What have I done?
Walls, run, stop.
Please, just stop.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
And so, health.
And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,
Turns to the evolution of mattresses,
Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,
Foam,
Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,
Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,
And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
That light any room she’s in.
Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.
A mango,
At the right time,
Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
The entire house,
Dispersed into cupboards and,
Dispensed across living room sofas,
They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,
Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…
If we live long enough,
Aliens may bring fruit,
That excites Amygdalas,
And titilates glands,
Caressing more than nasal passages,
Creating new sensations.
Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,
I remembered my sister and her fight with cancer,
And the frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,
But with the body that would not allow her,
To spend time the way she wanted,
Time with her mother,
Her lover,
Her brother…
Out walking I was thinking,
A million dollars can change everything,
I feel now though that,
I’d be happier with health.
So.
Health.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC