"spackled" poems
Dreams crafted
in
useless yesterdays
and
empty tomorrows
Cracks spackled
with
makeup and tears
Porcelain facade
found
profoundly
... beautiful
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
I.
and I galumphed
to the rock salt
shore and
collapsed
waiting for
you
to run over
the dune’s
slope
II.
it had only been
a few minutes
but I could see
the rhino cloud
coming
full
steam
and spitting
fire
if only I had
the strength
but you stole that
from me
too
III.
the steam was
fresh against
my cracked
skin
I could feel the
salt melt off
into the
sand
crane swinging
jaws engulfing
my twisted
body
IV.
I did not find you
inside
only an
unbreakable bottle
with an
unreachable
note and a skeleton
with rings
on its
fingers
V.
my last dreams
were ones
of us
on a mountain
hot air balloon
shadow
specked against
the sunset
everything was so
big
the wind blew
your hair
everywhere
as I drank
in the
storm
this was the last
time I remembered
smiling
VI.
black expanse
with a little
white dot
popping from
corner to
corner
life always played games
with me
death was no
different
VII.
this creature
feared you
this creature
was a long visit
with fire burning
and love notes
this creature was
spit out by
your mouth
this creature
was loud by
your breath
this creature
spackled and
magnetized
never reborn
boat stench and
teeth
mashed
and mashed
again
raining on
your body as
the desert breaks from
its last
drought
VIII.
we will meet
again
I’m sure of
it.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.
came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not
and they ate
in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam
he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn
no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
I sit holding my aching head in calloused hands
experiencing ‘forlorn’
a worn soul aged beyond the calendar
dreary eyes look upon the state of humanity
irradiated babies trading rabies with deviants
live on pay per view
seeing the shape of famous faces
manipulated flesh blankly posed
only desperate oculars show the truth
darting frantically form mirror to mirror
attempting to validate existence through reflection
but not like the monks in Tibet
regret fills bent cheekbones
spackled with Botox and raspberry jam
thinning peak aligns with the occasional grey strand
and I sit wishing only to see people love themselves
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Under the weight
of loneliness
I wear the universe
like a cloak,
pressed around me, pinned
holding me close in
its wild womb
gathering up the shards
of warm fire laughter
and voices
that weave into bones
rising in chants
pinnacles gently rocking
into a frenzy
of dark lunar dance
and my
inner moon rises
it's spackled lights
like penetrating eyes
wrapping me in its
blanket of
stars
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC
freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey,
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:00 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
Last night I dreamed of roughened hands,
And pristine walls with spackled sand,
And feeling less,
But wanting more,
Of windows open,
And a creaking door.
Last night I dreamed of voices mild,
And smiling faces, and laughter loud,
I dreamed of grackles in parkling lots,
Of finding familiar and imagining what.
I dreamed of witchcraft and of lore,
And linen hidden in a dresser drawer.
I dreamed of you,
I dreamed of you,
And all the things I'd like to do.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
staring up at spot spackled ceilings
buried in fifteen dollar sheets
tucking toes under lumpy covers
and tasting cheap beer on your teeth
hiding under dim, midnight lighting
and tossing pillows on the floor
icy fingers entwined
swearing all's fair in love and war
making breakfast in baggy t shirts and socks
and eating cereal on a faded couch
maybe a little bit of day drinking
hoping word will never get out
blushing when you glance my way
and loving every minute
regretting every decision we ever made
but not changing any of it.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
Don't spackle the bowl you nasty troll. Did you think your mommy would clean it up? Ah ah ah...don't say a word just grab the brush before I make you drink from your cup.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
I’m the sickness,
the grotesque singularity that envelopes and gropes that sick nectar.
The sickly substance drains so subtle upon the cut edge of lips
and the pillar draw strings stitched and bound between cardiac flesh.
I’ll cleave,
cut and seethe,
suckle upon the sin I glower as I twine
and tug at those piano puppet strings caught in twain with every heart beat,
just trigger happy nerves spackled in misunderstood concept called love and impulse.
Pluck the collar cuff at your guttural sing and sentence,
those ballots fluttering from between pearl teeth,
I’m stealing those breathing gasps and loving longings;
they’re all just flecks and fragments of lackluster human baggage,
just mannequins treading sluggish,
fractured splinter frame and hinge fickle.
I’m the socio experiment,
the fiendish distaste of a chimera,
the zealous of corrupted cold hearted,
faux feeling skin wearing thing.
Just a copulation of electrical splatter and liquid tissue,
inorganic animal,
snapping jaw and glass shard fangs.
I’ll rile and reeve between the click and snap of your heart beat,
coddle the smoke of prey’s scent,
I’ll parasite the life blood that courses and holds beneath your emotional connect.
My cancer’s a slaughter fed consolation,
ever feasting malignant circumstance,
it rallies a thousand eyes,
irises blood thick,
fragments my moral conscience with teeth riddled limbs,
claws that chew and tear.
A multi-armed fiend,
segmented soulless and black tainted blood lost long ago,
all that remains ***** is the tissue wearing skeleton I claim domain,
fragmenting the soul into steel shards,
all’s just razor edge mechanical once the human feel falls to ash amongst the clutter of bone.
You’ll find the soulless circuit board in the gulf of your cancerous conscience,
as the human corrupts to cancer
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
Don’t worry, I turned off my heart.
I disconnected its valves and
tapped my foot to its last beat.
I repainted the walls of its chambers
a nice neutral color that would
really brighten up the space.
No trace of love.
No trail of grief.
You wouldn’t even be able to tell
that it belonged to someone else.
I spackled the holes left behind,
plastered its cracks, sanded its nicks.
Refinished the worn floors where
too many games have been played.
With any luck, interested buyers
won’t look too closely.
“This one’s got some good bones,”
they’ll say, and marvel at its potential.
I marvel at its potential.
For now though, I’ll turn it off.
I’ll turn it off, if only for me.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
(I. Summer ‘ 13)
Freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
Smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey—
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
(II. Fall ’13)
Spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to Sunday,
built me up to shatter jaws,
car windows—me
bar stool battered,
you my perfect carpenter,
smile with wooden teeth
(you made them yourself)
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.
(III. Winter ’13)
Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-boned, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes--
we are palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.
founder a self, rusty copper
with adamantine eyes,
steel core unbroken by absence,
drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.
Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endlessly,
a clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once
it very much mattered.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
My Brittle Star arms detach in the acidic water of you.
I stir, and try to escape the gaping tremor or your teeth
uncovered face
free of meat.
Roaches crawl inside your skull,
the bone powdered with the years,
all that remains:
Toskavat.
You are an Incan Mummy, the sack pulled off,
as rosy-cheeked, young boys stare through misty bus windows
still spackled with flecks of mud from your wet road.
They smile -
their microbes shared unintentionally,
a condomless foam party.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
We are a tuning fork let
Tingle, spewing off in crests
Of interference,
Concentric circles met
Mingle, in rippled patterns; lest
We sink our pebble cupped hands,
Tiny polished eggs spackled
With inference,
And us, but mere cosmic sand
And gravity’s weak shackle
My wrist to beddings iron frame,
As the evening chirps quiet; chisel
Through indifference,
My marble block, blown by flame
Reduced to dust and grainy gristle
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
I walked along Fraser against the wind.
At 32nd there was a “for sale” sign
zip ties around the top and one side to keep it still.
I wondered what would happen first,
the L shaped sign post falling down
or the sign itself flying away.
The memory resurfaced, gasping,
the dull ache of an old cut
hurting only if you think about it for too long.
It was a sunny day,
though it couldn't have been summertime,
we moved in May.
I bet it was a Tuesday
perhaps a Wednesday.
I remember that everything seemed rather bright,
the leaves on the bushes were jade,
the evergreens hiding tiny flowers.
The walk way,
a twisted tongue,
ran from the porch stairs to the decrepit sidewalk.
It must have been a little bit windy
making the sign sway and dance tauntingly,
because my dad took the “for sale” sign as a personal offense,
the contempt swinging gently from the wooden stake.
It had been up for days, or weeks, or months,
I don't remember anymore.
I don't know if he directed anything ****** or hostile to the inanimate object,
but he attacked it as it hung lazily over the lawn.
I do know that it came down,
bringing up clumps of dirt as it fell.
It stayed down until all our boxes
and toys
and beds
and shelves
were long gone from the rooms
in the spackled white bungalow
where I learned to ride my bike and dance in the rain.
It could still be seen through the front windows,
it stayed on the dandelion covered grass.
I'm not sure how my dad took it down
but it stayed there and laughed at us.
I don't know why I remembered that,
but it kind of hurt and I had to write about it.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
A Styrofoam box to hold my pain
To keep it safe above the water
To hold all the roles I've ever lived
Be it wife or be it daughter
Floating safe upon the surface
Mirror smooth or rapids white
It carries all the hurt and struggle
It hides my truth and holds on tight
The world can see the love and laughter
The spackled mask that faces all
The one with saccharine filled open fissures
Hiding a broken little girl
For in this body of a woman
Every gentleman's sinful lust
Is a fragile shell of being
A soul, if touched, would turn to dust
Drowning in a world of wonder
Losing sight of who I am
Safe from harm or dissolution
Floats the proof that I'm a sham
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Unfurl origami entries dated
March 8, June 2, countless undated of an
amygdala hijacked
that pitted Moira against Peirce,
rejecting my name of Kismet,
to watch Forer take his effect
(who now has spread his contagion),
babysitting Little Albert while
Watson scribbled notes in the lecture hall;
witness sagacity smeared all over skull walls,
spackled on cranial ceilings
as I stuck my head out onto subway platforms and
displayed out onto train tracks in my
mind's eye in favour of recalling
Christmas festivities with sisters dolled up in
grandeur hospital ball gowns as
subjects were consoled in camps and
I slept in fields
screaming anything audible to
no one,
listening to track 2 on a
continuous loop,
sitting on flagpoles and lamp posts
as vandals smashed and grabbed,
cackles echoing in alleyways...
now before I vanish right before
your very eyes
tell me,
why
am
I
here
?
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I am the acantha bud
with a rootless stem.
Suspended, wet flesh.
Not planted; placed
on an exhausted window sill.
Catatonic:
in vase.
I live in this old room.
Exact: I do not live here.
I am waiting.
Spackled layers and many coats of paint.
Ill-concealed cracks.
Walls that still attempt
a proud face.
My stem aches from holding
this pose.
And the legs of the bed ache in anticipation.
Passing in private anguish.
I think the room is ignoring me and
I sense that the crowing walls yearn
to weep.
I'd like to burst into 1,000 velvet thorns.
To feel the stretch of my life on full display.
Streaks of sunlight beckon a burgeoning future,
but my flower never finds spring.
A stillborn bit of matter.
Months pass on this sill of ruin.
My once sturdy base,
drops my wilted stem,
and my fragile vase.
Shattered bits and splinters.
At last! a new pattern on
the snoring carpet.
I am the vagrant acantha
with a rootless stem.
But you could house all of my existence.
You, the body of infinite sympathies.
A cherished vessel.
Exact: You could house all of existence.
But my infinite oblivion
left you lost and fragmented,
like the shards of
my face.
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 7:02 PM UTC
trim and finishing
the paintwork will reveal no matter how spackled
if the planning and footings aren't square.
custom millwork and artsy craft
do not hide the lack of deft blueprints
and engineering
Correctly spacing the 2 by Fours and !/4 Rounds
without plumbing and building on solid ground
leave many a stair to be climbed
Upper floors are where it's at when we are designing our houses.
If a temple or an apartment, a plan,
is our solid foundation.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I can feel the throb
of the bellows in my chest
within the crest of my clenched
left hand. The red sun
of my diaphragm is perpetually
stuck traversing my horizon line,
rising a bit, then setting some,
and so on. My ears stare outward
like the dead eyes of a fish,
a gateway to the inky blackness
both outside and within.
But I digress! Now is not a time for such thoughts, friend!
Come! Let us sit near this hearth,
and I will tell you about how
consciousness is being spackled
to the insides of our skulls
in this house where you and I live.
I will tell you about the memories you lost
when you were injured in the war.
They are filled with gorgeous women
on motorcycles, and handsome men
in leather jackets with fine-toothed combs in their hands
or t-shirt pockets. I will show you
a tornado and a rock garden,
side by side. We will walk
down this one-way street, together.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
My heart is a house
and it's open for rent
To stay and to sleep
I thought you were meant
to live here for good
I was about to hand you the keys
but you lived and you left
without paying the fees.
More tenants came in
and they messed up my floors
they ripped off the wallpaper
and they knocked down the doors.
Then you came along
and you spackled the wall.
You painted the doors
and I began to fall
down those stairs so high
I tripped and I hurt
but by the time I got up
all that was left was your shirt.
It was stuck on the banister
as if you had fled without thought
I fell to my knees
because my breath was not caught.
Tears clouded my eyes
as my hope was shattered once more
To love is too dangerous
now I will forever lock my door.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC