"spector" poems
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Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
The thrumming clunk of shocked wheels
Eat up road worn smooth by big junking beasts
Smoking up crisp air
Hungry for a taste of stunted freedom
The rush of wind the pained panels
Pulling a mass of curls with sticky cold fingers
Raking across my scalp
Shaking in the silence
In wake of thought
The bass drum barking out a numbing melody
Sliding like thin blade into the back of my mind
Enhancing melodramatic mood
Touching my tender heart
Fresh from the lash of lonely
Bludgeoned by the deadpan distance between
My soul
Snack sized bit of flesh clinging to the slick walls
Of reason
Hammering in my chest
Still riddled with the mark of your claiming
The imprint of my nails still bleeding
In refusal
But claim it you did
Snatched it up out of my chest
Trailing arteries and the copper stench of blood
Empty cavity
Filling up with dreams and the sweet taste of your breath
Leeching into my limbs and whispering love into my being
But this road is ceaseless
No matter how many times I visit
That long stretch of highway
Promising me the Spector of your memory
The ghost of your touch
Warmth of love
Acceptance
Renewal of my existence
The green glint of freeway sign
Showing me where I would have found you
Down that dirt road
Swing hair pin turns hearing your laughter as it chases me closer to where you should be
Were you will always belong
Where I could have found you had life been kind
Your savage dissection of my soul keeps me yearning
Reaching out and grasping my independence hostage
Where you have become a necessity to whom I am
What I am
And who I will be
Hinges on your well being
Fading into nothing
Where I am defined by you
My angularity is tethered down
But the road yields no answer
Only the Spector
The sad shadow of memories that refuse to fade
Die instead of rotting
At least with death it can be buried
Living with the death of my heart
A tragedy I would not allow to part
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
The smell of sulphate,
emanating from that
accursed thing, its aura glistened,
seemingly smouldering .
But when the breath of life
died beneath sunset,
A Spector of ill conceived retention
contemplated.
Daybreak was mutilated upon the sight.
established placidity..
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
The steps to the museum are many ,
Won’t you help me up the stairs ?
There’s a program with every item ,
every ***** of me .
Up the steps through the open door ,
how many rooms are here ?
Now a chair stands all alone with no pictures on the wall ,
In the middle of a room ,
my heart lies behind that glass ,
a Spector ,
a ghost behind a wall .
Won’t you see how this blood runs from traitors gate ,
with
bread that’s long gone stale,
for judgement falls and my axe draws nigh ,
from deaths daughter must I fly ,
her lips are near ,
her crimson touch
not that I should dwell ,
Never a traitor ,
nor a Herotic
not i ,
Should ever be ?
If my head said yes and my heart said no then is there a life for me ?
What foolish thoughts my mind portraid
that were my very own ,
a complex web unbeknown could that stranger now be ?
The words are so beautiful and their truth no heart can see ,
and yet my heart with holy spirits and angels with keys surrounded me .
How my dreams go back to that same old place how sweet the’re
sorrows tell ,
of fields of bluebells and butterflies,
and all will be well .
I walk into the sun ,
then the sun hides behind a cloud and my world goes dim ,
no Light my heart has fled to a thousand differant things .
Here I sit ,
My heart on display
a traitor a heretic ? ask my heart not me .
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
The steps to the museum were many ,
as you helped me up the steps ,
views to every room every living ***** of me .
You bought a program,
you called it art !
one chair in the gallery ,
my heart behind the glass ,
no paintings of fine art on display .
My heart a Spector ,
lies a ghost behind the wall ,
to burn ,
torcher ,
leave on the rack !
only then
and so might it bleed ?
It’s blood flowed down from traitors gate ,
I ate bread, long had it gone stale ,
for you judgements axe hung above me ,
and for once was about to fall .
Deaths daughter her crimson lips did I touch .
A traitor ? not I .
A herotic maybe ,
for her touch was like no other ,
her words so beautiful your truth I could not see ,
though angels surrounded me with locks and keys ,
their sorrows tell .
Give me a field of bluebells and butterflies ..... and all will be well .
We walked down the steps the doors bolted behind ,
as evening cought the suns light high on chimney tops as
my heart found capture in you’re smile .
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
I am young but old
Not chasing the singing dragon out into the night
Dumping the dragging lull of liquor into my being
Like it will fill the cracks in my psyche
Thwart the emerging of my being like some slick spector in the recess of my mind
Gobbling up my intellect one atom at a time
Relevant only to the tantilzing beat of the bass
The ghetto melody making me elated to the fact that
A white hick hippy want-to-be can never be a ****
I am young
With the knowledge that time is in my favor
Wild wanton ways of youth touch my limbs with excitement
Too much drugs and drunkin dancing in the streets of small time city lights
Where I float on the blissful bubbling blunders of slurred words
And harmless touching that we all know means more than the numbing
Fuzzy fingers of inhibitors want us to believe
I am young
But I grow old
With the acheing feel of gritty mornings
Class time drool-drolling onward towards the final accumulation
Of my efforts
How the liberation of my mind feels fresh and shiney
But at once I feel a regress into old thoughts old beliefs and the worn out mentality of those older
I am old
In that my soul longs for the love that it is denied
Beaten down by the distance that holds it hostage
My tendancy to find rust and petinal signs of age beautiful
Long talks with my mother give me joy
I am old
In that I taste the test of time and see wonder in the generations past
Hoping for the sweet lull of a good nights sleep
Feeling and emoting a progressive approach to a dieing dicotomy
Loving
Hating
Saddended by things that will never change
I am growing receeding and more importantly changing
Looking to renew the implications of the word normal
But above all the old
The young, fresh and vibrant
I will forever more be
And always be me.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Inside the walls of my citadel's
keep, i wander haunted halls
and rooms, broken images of
continuous life flashing light
randomly around, an epileptic's
nightmare, beamed in from
beyond, playing dangerous
paranoid games with my mind.
My grandfather's apparition
stalks me silently,
inching to the couch,
guarding the bathroom,
verifying the existence of
gravity behind door
number three, on the bed.
He approaches!!
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
(Darth Elder and his walker)
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
i evade his ghost of Christmas'
passed, darting to the porch and
in another entry door.
Each time i look up, his
spector stands frozen in
silhouette, spurring my adrenal
response, yet only imperceptibly
creeping, ever closer...
SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...
He is everywhere!
EVERYWHERE!!!
Frozen in time at various locations,
practicing being dead on his bed,
re-living the now, back then in
his head, inside my head!!
There is only one solution.
i have spoken to the others:
no Christmas tree this year,
we will wrap grandfather
in colored lights and
garland, and help him
celebrate life in style.
A slightly motile tree, a
blatant festivity.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
spent; spinning for a poet
& a writer before
how each left.me.hungry
and stuck to-the-floor
because words are what matter
i'd climb inside...if i could
their minds spin that magic
i know better;.... i should
no knack to trade words
with anyone new
it's the writers and poets
who help hear the hues
ah,.. their loving is trag//ic
.... and beautuful, too
cause you can't help, but to hold them
and they.can't.help.wanting it, too...
the minute they let you
into their hearts
you find it's a chamber
with tangled-up parts
and they will love you with all
they've got -to- spare
but there is always some haunting
of ghosts ^hang^ing^ there
they'll hold you so close
while,..they hold you at bay
and they'll crush\you\with\silence
when they've no.thing to. say.
cause they haven't quite left you
but it's headed that way
you're the next empty spector
in their collection today.....
while they're penning you in
they'll leave your heart drained
& alone in your worry
about all_of_their____pain
yet,...i've done it before
and...i'll do it again
....Words/My/Achilles
like Whiskey.and.Gin
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
I live in a constant state where my imagination far exceeds my talent, intellect, know how and ability to create and keep up with it. I have no idea what I am doing or how I ever do it, not when I paint or draw or write or sculpt or... it's always a mystery and a wonder to watch. Though being a somewhat helpless spector at times can be frustrating, it's the strange and dark pull and love towards tragedy and misery and beauty found in unlikely places that makes it impossible not to watch. I am not who I think I am except when I am lost to the imagination of a dream of who I once was or might have been. My name was lost long ago along with the first honey bee to sacrifice it's life to protect itself from harm. I've been buried and born and loved and hated and dreamt and died all in the same moment and found and lost the secrets of life in a single breath that I never took. And maybe one day I will be real if I can only manage to catch up to my imagination....
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
I am the ocean.
And you are a Spector fascinated
by my depth and emptiness.
You're too afraid to dive right
in to the darkness and see life
from my point of view.
You wade in the shallows
and say you love my salty tears
when you really
want to become one of them.
Most of them, even.
You say you'll love my waves
and the shells I'll send your
way to make necklaces
that I can wear on our first date.
What about the monsters?
The ones that lurk behind my ribcage?
you are aware of them,
aren't you?
Or
You are conscious of them
but you'd rather not look
for them with your crystal eyeballs.
Afraid they might burst and spew fruit punch everywhere.
you're simply happy with your
ignorance and
for that I'll wrap myself
around you as you frolic
in my arms and taste the surface
of what beauty truly is.
Drowning in what you love the most.
Kissing me like I kiss
the shoreline and ignoring the way I
constantly pull back and slam you
against rocks
to have my way with you.
Just so I can calmly swallow the light
every night and spit it into
your hair when you visit.
Because oceans
don't speak
or dance
we spit
and cry
so we can be loved
by something
almost as cold as us.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.
I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.
There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 5:30 PM UTC
Spector I Control The Sector
Ha Ha Ha I'm Ghostly
I Insist That I Don't Exist
I'm Heavy Duty
Your An Amateur
A New *****
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
You've changed...
You've changed...
Your minds been rearanged....
Leaves become
Most beautiful
When they're
About
To
Die
When they're
About
To
Fall
From
Trees
When they're
About
To
Dry
Up...
Leaves become
Most beautiful
When they're
About
To
Die
When they're
About
To
Fall
From
Trees
When they're
About
To
Dry
Up...
And I don't want to... I don't want to...
Regina Spector "time is all around"
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
I awoke
during the witching hour
& felt her presence.
A full moon
creept dim light
into my room
revealing
a ghostly
feminine-apparition
floating wantonly
above me.
I was terrified,
unable to move,
felt an icy grip
as this sexy-spector
lowered itself
onto my lap.
Immediately I rose,
became scared stiff,
lying on my back
meeting the earnest demands
of this sensual-fiend.
The tempo increased,
the rising and falling
of this ravenous-being
was reaching an
******** level.
On and on it went,
hellbent on satisfaction.
I lay dripping with sweat,
breathless,
pushing my
hips harder and harder
into the air,
filling the
midnight visitor
with my hardness.
Simultaneously,
the ticking of the wall clock
stopped as
I exploded
a steady stream
into the shapely-mist.
When I finally
opened my eyes,
the sensuous-spirit
had fled,
disappeared
into the dark.
I was totally alone,
but the presence remained.
Outside, I heard
owl hoots &
something
howling at the moon.
That's when I remembered,
she said she'd haunt me forever,
come back and do me right
during the witching hour,
in the middle of the night.
And, I can most assuredly tell you,
there's nothing frightening
about these nightly hauntings.
In fact, I crave them,
every chance I get,
I look for ways to conjure her...
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Standing on a strange street corner waiting
Knowing that soon you will be better has you anticipating
The wait is only minutes but they feel like hours
No umbrella despite the rain showers
Then you see him coming and feel ecstatic
But as he gets closer,his behaviour seems sporadic
Then the exchange goes flawless,excitement begins to grow
No words are spoken,not even for show
You finally get back to your safe place
Getting your rig ready is like a feverish race
The draw up goes smooth
And you tie off above the old faithful groove
As you poke to find the right vein,
When you can't you panic and it feels as if you are going insane
You finally see the beautiful red mix with the brown
As you push it in,you feel like a King would wearing his crown
But this time it's different,something is not right
You fall out instead of taking the flight
Friend finds you unresponsive and calls for help
Your mother arrives and lets out a blood-curdling yelp
You are aware of none of this because you are now dead
Leaving friends and loved ones filled with dread
You may cheat the Spector many times
Like a Judge,he has taken you for your crimes
The funeral comes and it goes
But the pain for your family continues to grow
Before you decide to selfishly satisfy your needs
Remember all the family you left to grieve
It is a smart Demon and it's easy to listen to
Just remember all the people you left behind that love you
It is an everyday struggle for a lot of us human beings
But next time you pick up the rig,try putting yourself in their shoes and see what the are seeing
Live every day as if it is your last
For the Reaper strikes ferociously fast
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
I'll tell you more than the truth demands
Of a land hidden in the sands
A city only spoken of in tongues long dead
Whose name will linger like a spector in your head
And I must confess
That you will obsess
For half a century
From my curse i shall never be free
I don't know what keeps me going
Even if i die without knowing
I know it's too late to turn back now
I wipe the sweat from my brow
As the heat strangles the air
My companions and i all stare
They've all been with me for years
As our hope slowly disappeared
Only our friendship remained
We stared at the sands until it became ingrained
deep within our brains
it fanned the old flames
one more try, one more excavation
I should have chosen a different occupation
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Where there are fields of corn and wheat
and where the river whistles down the spine of the land,
loneliness waits, frigid and limp,
hovering with harmony as he parts the sea of grass.
He nervously grips the pole of an umbrella,
dodging the sun rays,
and shuffling through the postcards in his pockets.
He’s a quite spector.
On board with an unlikely train
of foul, bitter, and loss.
lumped together with
the unpleasant, unfavorable, and alike.
And there he travels,
sipping at tea, and eyeing biscuits.
waiting to fill another field.
Loneliness, who or what is like you?
What goals can you obtain for us?
Why must you travel?
Where is your heart?
Is it there?
Is it beating?
Can you condition mine?
Where there are fields,
just beyond my back door,
cling like a scarecrow no more.
Come inside and get warm,
let’s talk,
but eventually, Loneliness,
I know you must leave.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Somewhere along a mountain side covered in a vastness of greenery. I left you, beneath powered blue skies. I sat for hours watching clouds take the shape of your face. I outlined your lips like a map to your front door. You stepped out along your stairs and we talked for hours. We said all the things we never had the chance to. I promised you I wouldn't forget the way you filled my stomach with butterflies and my nights with wrinkled sheets. I promised you that if I'm able to think before I ever left this world, my last thoughts would be of you. Laughing just before you told me you loved me for the first time. Lastly, I explained why I had to leave that day and how it was simply so you could find love. A love like I had for you.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
Solid as a ghost,
You couldn't be more spectral...
Unless you were dead.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Sentient husbands
The seed and pa jo Rogan
Fear factor. Steve stabwell honey
Something slumming Logan
And Michael as the mass hell coming
*** Steve is Michael
Logans Gabriel
Russ is prophet of the higher word
Titles bright. Angel saved from hell
The lord is blessing.
Morph. When russ lights his spoken torch
Without the **** ingestion
Or the sentiment slowing porch fire
Torch wired for the divorce of his flames
I'm investing
Divorce from angels title demon
Screaming.
Saving dreams from spoken reasons.
Satan was a being of greed and seeming
Prosperity. In finding need
To bleed for Jesus to be seen and
Hell to keep its disease.
Steven your seed will be breath.
Not to breathe with out his greed for your eternal strength and peace.
Logan knows his approach to baby wit
Ma will be slow but holding.
Boasting golden shields.
Jo Rogan terrified. Square lives.
He won't be allowed kani
Manta and his needs spared to nines....
For four square sentient wives
*** he spared shared lives.
Chris pratt.
No history his tatts.
Reveal shape-shifting gifted vision.
Spector. Television
The seed has intelligent
In medicine. He shall have seven children
Omasku Niskani will be with me in the veteran.
*** his younger will be indifferent to time.
With six with the 9.
Russ is signed to sentient contract.
With selling symptoms
He spits like Ali hits in prime.
The seed is god in his high. Try rhyming
With.....
As russ speaks he says
(Not in rhyme)
Timing. His ducks 7 sliding
Call him prophet giant.
Call his logic defiant. But his word is is his ****
So **** the truth.
It still sticks
The truth ***** but he's sick.
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 9:12 PM UTC
i wouldnt know whats under my skin
its funny
when you think about it
i thought i knew myself so well
like the back of my hand
but to be honest
i couldnt tell the back of my hand from anyone elses
i couldnt tell my face apart from the crowd
i couldnt tell myself that im something new
i keep on losing myself again and again
it cant ever end
ill keep on drifting, pale as a spector and eyes like flat stones
with a heart of coal that keeps burning blacker and chars my breath with its smoke
soon it will run out
and then when death invites me with sweet embrace
maybe they'll notice me as i lay still in the coffin
for the first time, i wont be such a ghost
for the first time
ill be me
maybe then ill know whats under my skin
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC