"spasmodic" poems
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
The Milk-and-Water School
Alas! she would not hear my prayer!
Yet it were rash to tear my hair;
Disfigured, I should be less fair.
She was unwise, I may say blind;
Once she was lovingly inclined;
Some circumstance has changed her mind.
The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School
Well! so my offer was no go!
She might do worse, I told her so;
She was a fool to answer "No".
However, things are as they stood;
Nor would I have her if I could,
For there are plenty more as good.
The Spasmodic or German School
Firebrands and Daggers! hope hath fled!
To atoms dash the doubly dead!
My brain is fire--my heart is lead!
Her soul is flint, and what am I?
Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye,
Nothingness is my destiny!
5.4k
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
Echoes of yesteryear’s
Blissful laughter
Fade away
As new profound
Sorrow blooms.
Disoriented in the murkiness
Of a wistful haze
Writhing in unending
Spasmodic aches
A new day is born
The mid-morning
Deceptive sunshine
Briefly kisses my skin
The sweet taste
Of what it means
To be human
The paralyzing
Feeling of unraveling
As the May icy winds whistle
Through the eucalyptus trees
Forbodes of calamity.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Wrestling with his conscience
Abstaining from verbal exchange
Regretting his words
Offended by obscenities
Forgetting his ticket
What is happening?
Obnoxious little men
Rallying in no mans land
Dire consequences
Spasmodic verbal abuse..
© Hazel
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
*You are the deep blue sea,
my red shimmering sun
little
by
little
sinks deeper
a gasp,
a silver shiver, exquisite
inside the dense waters
sun moves in sensuous pace
arousing hellacious passions, sea hides
makes her yell out
in thousand voices of seagulls
Intense spasmodic waves
rise and fall transmitting euphoric notes
that dissolve in the gentle golden light
of a lone curious star, watching
without batting an eyelid.*
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
I'm really not a dancer
more like a fish far from the sea
flopping gasping, dying
on a spasmodic twerking spree
don't ask me to explain
why the dance floor lacks my style
trust me when I say
***** Dancing, I'll defile
so when we hit that date
the one where you check my moves
don't judge me right away, but wait
cuz in bed, I'm really smooth
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
I'm nearly catatonic.
My eyes shift spasmodic in their sockets.
They're closed, and it's far too quiet
for the racket ripping my inner eardrums.
Reliving the sound of grim acceptance.
Slack faced,in the blackness.
"I guess this is it".
I said it then. And I say it now.
Didn't make a terrible difference,did it?
Gifted quesarito wrappers are
halfheartedly crumpled in the floor.
I was dead, I died, I'm dead once more.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
Die at the mouth,
live at the eyes...
nominal head
downed.
Action Painted
by misfiring
nerves...whose
spasmodic dance
choreographs
days...on...end.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
Have you ever stepped out of bed
Awaken from hibernation
Unravel from your cocoon of blankets
Lift arms and pull muscle from bone
Soft cracklings like the afterbirth of new wings
Well I spent the night
Spent fourteen whole hours someplace else
Flickering eyelids
Spasmodic twitch
I only wanted to forget the warmth of your palms pressed against my skin
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
a lyric from Plaisir D’Amour (1),
these singed edged memories,
the grievous tingling tinge of
lost love,
last a lifetime,
can reappear symptomatically,
with crystalline purity,
for longer then any ejaculatory
momentary spasmodic instant
joyous vibes of a hallelujah salutation
Grief, Why It Even Can:
erode away the smooth
s skin casing of years of
effective affection,
a long term construction project
of a million individual additions
*why then
is pain so long lived,
grief never brief,
but deep rooted,
and pleasing data
so easily
overlooked, pushed away by the*
“sharp edge of a short knife?”
why
does the low, slow beat of a sad song
bear down,
demands endless woeful
exhalation&repetition,
and
reversus,
the celebration tuning of a happy
days are here again,
an us, a wee-two-too~together,
always hummable but not
overly memorable?
I posit no solution
but whenever I think of
human
it is of the soft tissues outlining
our long bruised wounds of suffering,
that rise up
from deepest within
flooding the plains
of our thin~skinned senses
colliding and collectively
rendering us imbolized
do you have an answer?
cheap confess
do not know
no answer
but believe now
it is a
seasoned characteristic
that is genetic,
the sum of thousands of years of
the harsh
struggling of lives hard worked
where the life balance
is ar best a sometime thing,
*and the really real is
grief that lasts a lifetime*
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 8:13 AM UTC
As I closed my door and lay down to sleep
A poem came and violently knocked at my door
Being late, I put a rein on my desire to admit it in
In my sleep I could hear the faint sound of a knock
In the wee hours of the morn, as I sat up to house it
scattered phrases and broken lines floated around
A crazy excitement made me trap them in ink
But nothing worthwhile showed up on the writing pad
I found I had only violated the virginity of the paper
After hours of spasmodic labor pain
What came out was a stillborn with no heart beats
It lay limp before me and all excitement died down
It’s still body, I found had closely resembled me
Something of me was there stamped on it
How could I who had parented it
Callously discard it in a dustbin?
So I carefully stashed it away in a secret place
Where no one’s prying eyes would ever fall over it!
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
Jesus was a liar and Ghandi was a fuccboi.
Prophets hate themselves the most.
Try to be pure light and you will never be.
You are not a single drop of ***** in an ocean of ****
You are an ocean of **** in a single drop. Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
You came from sacks of fat floating around in primordial goop.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
You are 99% vacuous void but that 1% still makes you visible to me.
Tell me that's ******* disgusting.
I used to think I was all love and light and that was it.
Everything else was shame.
Everything else was to blame.
Everything else was also me.
I am mostly nothing and mostly darkness.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
That despite being a walking maelstrom of empty space and spasmodic dance,
I am a ******* universe expanding in all directions simultaneously.
The only reason you can see the stars in the sky is because of all the emptiness.
The only reason you can look into my eyes is because of the little bit of life that shines through my pupils.
The only reason you can hold me in your arms is because the trillions and trillions of quanta that hold me together hate themselves and love each other because they all know that they hate themselves.
It's because they're entangled in a hot mess of spaghetti, sauce, and melted cheese.
Like a functioning dysfunctional family, we are trying our best and we all hate ourselves but we are trying love each other anyway.
Because we feel it.
Vacuous void. Chaotic dance.
Mostly nothing and a little bit of everything.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
I was afraid.
Terrified, even
paralyzed
with fear.
But that’s all
gone now.
Like a vapor
scattered
on the breeze.
Happiness
traces back
to only one,
for me.
She’s so
beautiful
and strong,
and her hair
is soft and red
like a fox’s.
Oh how
I love her.
Beyond words.
More than
every contour
of every leaf
on a forest,
fall yellow
like an oil
painting.
More than
the sudden
spasmodic
fits of gentle
laughter
that make my
entire upper
body vibrate
like one huge
drumhead.
More even
than the
hidden,
distant stars,
sparkling
imperceptibly
through the
misty clouds.
She makes
my arms twitch
with excitement,
my body aching
to embrace
her and hold on.
With her head
on my shoulder
this world really
does seem so
much brighter.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
***Haunted in my flagrant dreams,
awake on hallow'd ground
you watch me breath
as I seek you out
cold spirits taunted past
spasmodic verses chant
hollow insides afraid to sleep
your sanctification renders me
uncomfortably conscious
numb within breath's shallow inhale
undone in the nothingness of rhyme
fearing truth's brutal reality
bewailing in grief's heartfelt desire
pull me up to new sight'd heights
in your wayward plight's surrender
save me from this cruel humanness***
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
I ran away and started a new journey
Caught myself in a peculiar story.
Been to different places and found myself startled
Obscured, grotesque, melancholic, and bleakly mottled.
Meeting different people, but never got the chance to stay
Mind fickle and heart let astray.
But then, I understand now how it feels
Of these surrounding silent hills.
All those stirred up feelings gave me nostalgia
But aren't you in spasmodic sequence of amnesia?
Alas, reality throws me up in all that regression;
It teared up my obsession.
Then there goes a series of flashbacks;
It occured to you all of the setbacks.
And oh, I remember a certain old man,
Told me a something about a plan.
With conviction, he said, "Maktub, it is written;
Those who can see and listen,
One's fate has been predestined
To those who is good and sinned."
"Young one, it is about time for you,
Know all that is true
And seek to discern for your true happiness.
"Well, I say "That's intense!"
Then as I pondered on this old man's wisdom,
**** that old geezer is just random.
But what he said did make sense,
If BMW is better than Mercedes-Benz.
Though it may seem easy for him to say it,
My mind went into a frog's "ribbit!"
How vague is it to listen to such hearsay;
The horses neigh and the hearsayers, nay.
Life is giving me much more farce
Though the sarcasm is all so scarce.
Oh, I give up cause it's better to be at home
With my friend Gary the gnome.
Now I know it's better to return
Than travel further the world that is too stern.
It's all but you I see is missing
In a picturesque abode with me, kissing.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
The orchestral and harmonic vocals of monks echo down spiralled and cast-iron staircases to the dungeons of our carefully crafted castle chambers of submission.
It is all in the warmth of our carotid pulse.
Oh delusional salesman of presumed superior status, it is important to acknowledge those spasmodic and physiological celebratory responses which resound like cross-cultural and cosmological anthems within the questionable corridors of fitness to stand trial.
I can feel your quivering pulse.
However, we must recognise that the required reports are not dissimilar to a beautifully carved chicken which is subject to the paradoxically crude and culinary eloquence and deviance of the gleeful pyromaniac.
The geometry of midnight has clearly outlined her symmetrical shapes, which require seasoning and the skillful administration of being quartered.
Chef, can I ask you: is designation superior to our authentic anthropological status?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
I write better as a broken vessel
Spilling over my own inadequacies tumbling through the what ifs
And how comes, getting lukewarm and numb
Over the disenchantments of life and slowly
Switching sides and catching rides
To where its dark and admitting in quietly ushered
Murmurs that it’s left its mark. Stronger than a water,
Hesitant to admit while I reminisce over brands
That’s burnt delicate lines in the skin on my hands,
Reminding me of my past while I build my future,
Grasping at shadows and stacking over the quivering edge
Of all the things I have left unsaid,piled high to seal tightly
With all the promises I kept, made columns out of those I loved
Then fell apart at there loss, when they left I wept, swept
Nice and clean by the words I said but didn't mean.
I live better tearing at the seems,
With screams gushing over while words bubble and steam.
I hoped a lot harder when I still believed in dreams and .
I hold up more rubble when I’m sensing something shifting
When I know I’m in trouble, and there’s no reason
To hold spasmodic thoughts hostage for a chance
At remaining on course, reasonable and on topic,
You can’t be expected to stop it if you don’t want it,
Plus I’m a better writer when the stakes are higher,
And my heart is racing keeping pace with the keys I press
Relieving stress in the small space between shift keys,
Nothing like poetic word ***** to put you at ease,
I just pray the release provides me the relief that I need
to close the windows to my soul and cling to some sleep.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
Short struggle to the floor, I sigh,
your wrenched fingers clamped
tightly around my pointed wrists
Your convex caps join thigh to shin
pressing mine through scorched earth
slowing seconds grab my breath
pushing further out, and drawing ever in.
Spasmodic jolts, kicks and flinches;
failed punches, rattled writhing, wriggling
under your smirking calm, this is
second nature. Third wind I strike again
with snake like prowess, your dead weight flipped
but inches. Obey or suffer, your knee rolls,
to my chest; laser precision, your other uncoils
on the blackened dirt, ash and soil.
Flat footed battering ram to my ribs
then throat, ever slower, ever heavier.
The pain goes, the knife enters:
over and over and under flesh
ripping, torn skin.
I pity not the wondering victim who trips
on my carcass. Face first, horrified glance
towards the sign that reads:
Beware trespassers, out here
nobody hears your screams.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Billions of years before humanity
Before Neanderthal fell on the scene
Before the big lush trees and falling greens
Before the protoplasm spasmodic things
The intermittent glowing growing proteins
Before there was darkness and empty space of potential
Before there was dense matter waiting to explode
Expanding mass waiting to flow
Ever outwards were stars would grow
What came before the big bang
Is what I would like to know?
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
'Ten years from my successful seventeen, and a cold voice says: What have you done, what have you done?'
Sylvia Plath - journal entry Wednesday 4th November 1959.
Now, like a typewriter ribbon,
worn-down and weak
as a shrinking pencil,
but there are white days
among those fruitless, bare ones,
spasmodic,
where the machine
gorges on characters
you create.
Multi-coloured rhapsody,
confident stories
have upped and left,
what can you do,
what have you done.
Feast on unknown delights,
astrology or foreign waffle
and wait for them to come.
They will come.
Ten years, ten calendars gone,
now your hair is up
rather than tumbling down,
need some buoyancy in a bottle,
medicine again,
take twice a day.
What you need,
crave, long after seventeen
sleeps inside you
silent
and will come alive,
your small siren,
as will every pitch-black word.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Are you there
Miss Clairvoyance?
I feel your electrifying hands
reaching out to touch me,
to soothe me into submission.
I feel your weight
pressing down on me,
holding me tightly
with your finery.
I am breathless,
your sensuous conduit,
lost in a world
of extra sensory
perceptions,
feeling your
spasmodic-ripples,
inhaling your spirit.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
Like a ferris wheel of self doubt
On the dance floor she moves about
Controlling limbs is not that easy
Stumbling round and looking ******
The crowd stare on in wild amusement
Of spasmodic spins and erratic movement
A spectacle not seen before
She collapses spreadeagled on the floor
Unnoticed a stranger enters at the back
An aerial extends, the controller tracks
She jumps up straight just like a soldier
Eyes focused and calm composure
He moves her into graceful steps
More appropriate for the female ***
Now she is surrounded by romancers
Wanting to be with, this robot dancer
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
I'm writing a poem of alliteration,
Promising perfunctory proliferation,
Rendering ragged rambling randomness,
Scribbling stupid spasmodic silliness.
Finding words requires a Thesaurus,
Collecting curses chirography causes,
Needs necessitate natural nuances,
Instead incredible imaginary influences.
This task is beginning to wreck my head,
Beating boredom before bed,
Wretched wistfully wandering words,
Agreeable arrangements absolutely absurd.
Keeping it logical is becoming a bind,
Maelstroms merging, mashing my mind,
Deranged, despairing, definitely diminished,
Fortunately, fudging finally finished.
Cinco Espiritus Creation
26/09/17
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC