"spinal" poems
Never let someone else decide how good you are. And never make an exception to that rule.
Your words, and your unique we of expressing them, are a gift given to you. If someone else doesn't appreciate them, then good for them. It's not their gift, so it has nothing to do with them. Its your responsibility to respect your gifts and to protect them from negativity; typical of these lower life forms, called Haters; annoying little creatures that feed off of other people's energy and hard work - they spawn fairly quickly and dewl in the depths of social media, hidden behind computer and smartphone screens. Usually over-weight, bad breath, single and filthy broke. Hindered by limited hand-eye coordination; they simply **** at every thing. They are pretty pathetic, in person. I mean they look human, but have no spinal cord, so they don't stand up straight. Their habitats similar to that of a large roach, just messier with and more filth. I hear they are contagious, so be careful. Don't let their negativity rub off on you, or you will end up like one of them. A soulless zombie, paroling posts looking for a something stupid to say.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
White dreams cascading
down my spine, down my
trembling thighs
with thoughts of slumber
close to you,
I must have been swept away
by this crystallizing sugar.
Heavy eyes, fluttering open
like an aloof spring day,
I have had my fair taste of
******* for the day,
yet it tastes rather like
infidelity and prayer.
Bitter to admit, yes,
this ******* has overthrown
my gut.
I have witnessed the curves of
it's chest and wrapped it's
spinal cord around my neck.
Platonic it may have ended,
yet my *******
began with such a sweet taste.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
What are fingertips but pulses and pauses?
A spinal sigh---a cradle to all existence?
The punchline of all sensory implications,
the culmination of our tangles and departures?
All flesh is ephemeral, soft to shards in hours;
Touch is but a ****** tendril in memoriam for desire.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.
In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.
Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.
I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.
Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.
I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.
My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.
Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.
They are novices.
But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.
I’ve been in hell for years.
People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.
It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.
But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.
I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.
There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.
Because talking is futile.
Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.
And sometimes people aren't strong enough.
It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.
Exponentially. Worse.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes
One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace
In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge
A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin
Over and across the bed
Released from my grip
Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist
Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers
For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs
Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar
Slow let go of her feathers tangled
In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose
Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose
The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints
In a mechanical motion
Hair pulling emotion
Triggers upward
her chest and chin
Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent
When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget
She takes me in invest
I take her in continuous shooting
All the unfastened
unclothed
Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
Isela
takes it in
the mouth.
She'd get on her knees,
positioning herself
half-in,
half-out
of focus.
Just enough for Joe,
behind the Cannon,
to capture
the whole thing.
Eric,
the producer,
was on his hands and knees
beside Joe.
'Come on Izzy
work it,
work the dick.'
'That's right,
stroke it,
make him sing.'
'I love it,
Izzy.'
Izzy wanted to bite
down.
She hated each and every ****
she ever saw,
but she had a few things to do.
Her **** had to be new
and renewed
on the daily,
her ***** had to get wet
on command,
and her stroke had to be
so fast
they'd burn the dude
as her mouth
cooled.
After her mouth
was littered,
and her face was a mess
of spinal glitter -- You could make a man
come out of his
brain, Eric would say.
Izzy would get in her car,
wiping her arm
where'd she'd gone
to the clinic
to get pricked
and tested,
and pull a long haul of Virginia Slims
down her throat.
'
It was always the first sweet thing
she tasted.
Izzy would pull into the Terrace View apartments,
all that long black hair,
and wipe all that make-up off,
three napkins-worth,
so she could kiss her baby.
Because Rocco was in for a bid,
and not coming home anytime in
the forseeable future.
Her microbiology degree was somewhere
in her closet underneath those pink stillettos and
more fishnets than fish.
And Izzy knew
that with those double d's;
*** like a backseat,
mouth that could grease
a ****
and her hands
Eric liked to call his own,
that she could pay the light bill
and maybe
put Romeo
into a daycare center
that wasn't full of roaches
and
angry *******
"Someday I'll get out,
but it's illogical
to say
with all the money I'm making,
and it's just a job
when you get down to it,
I've ****** a lot of *****
and never gotten
paid."
Rocco Jr.'s cheeks were always the second
sweet thing
she tasted.
"I know a lot of girls
that got defeated by this game."
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
To: Sarah Joyce Crimson 8th July 1943
A man in a gray suit has captured my heart, mother
Along with the tie, of course
Surrounding plants would've died
At his gaze and grace
Armored charm and wide toothed smile
His last name could've might as well been poise
I don't know what it is about him, mother
But his gentle crinkled eyes certainly isn't
His voice is as flattering as the lullaby you once sang
The tone itself symbolizes warmth and stability
Undiscovered treasure in the midst of all volumes
It is home I feel closest to when I catch a glimpse of it in my ear
I don't know whether to feel astonished or quivered
By all means, that'd be deemed as eerie
But you once said when a man one day turned my cheeks bright pink
It sure could only mean one thing
It is unreliably evident not to notice me blush
It is even more apparent not to notice his blunt stare
Sending chilly shivers down my spinal cords
Activating fondness I'd never in a million years imagine I'd sense
If only you were here to see for yourself
How proud I'd make you, indeed
You said one day I'll be able to marry, mother
Well, this day isn't as far planned as it once seemed
From: Christine Louise Crimson
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
Love on my toes, love in the cabinet, love jumps off balconies
it is an eighteen year old succubus offering spinal taps.
Bring the gentlemen their evening numbness before next
morning’s nightmare and ******** are scheduled on God’s map –
he just steps out for a moment, settles his sleeping mask on.
God is so unhappy: he understands nothing of love.
Get this recipe recited so we shall feed them pink and blue pills
which knobs can sting boys in the *** a fleabite or bow
soon our leather heels chime through their ears like hooves.
The master may question their nutrition so hold out a paper cup
sloshing in female nectar, our vaguely cerise saliva
sustenance that comes from between slits carved for such –
these acids are love, love, love. Love from cavities, love pearls
knotted in the roots of a mother clam, fallopian love tubes.
Every shoebox offers warmth, complementary wakeup calls
a petite blonde to peel him out of his pajamas, too –
lay your husbands down into the doll-case if he has no love
as God is not watching here. Oh, how happy our gentlemen are.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Come to me.
your inscribed
slashes of verse
branded upon
the juice of
my tongue
a specter
of the ultimate gift
as we allow
the magic
to rise
and peel off in
swathed, aching
layers,
undone
Each stratum of
dermis shed
is a prayer for
our succulent
redemption
Each shadow of
silky cuttlefish caress
a plea for sanctity
or perhaps simply
being loved
into a frenzy
of sanity
healing in waves
of electric eyes
You open me
like a holy book
and I am suddenly
filled with light
as you unlock
the blessings
from my spinal fluid
and I am a priestess
on her altar
arms raised,
love braised
into slick-lit wonder
a spiral cone rising from
ground to crown
chakric palette pulsating
phosphorescent ripples
on deep-sea creatures
Your ubiety
slakes my naked,
somatic anatomy
a mere shelter
for our souls
a working
of muscle and skin
with heart strings pumping
the essence within
Our brainwaves
sizzle in
glandular fire
as pheromones
envelope us
like incense
This goes far beyond the
wet cuntflush of desire
beyond the embellishment
of moistened sword
It is the sacred dance
of souls that merge
before even touching
pre-verbal animal
first light of mankind
in ancient swells
of earth that
rise like sparks
the constellations
of firework chimes
in arcs of
chiseled
dark
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
A mansion reeking of mystery and ***
Unlike your parties, the brain is the hex
Who's got the most phantastic story
Stitch the real hunters with unreal quarries
By candlelight she writes in her mind
Death-obsessed, web-like bind
Study the corpse, exhume the dead
Fresher the better, revive the head
Harvest the organs, strike a chord
Of nerve tissue and spinal cords
Touch your jutting collar bone
Think there's no place like home
Electric frogs and pinwheel rats
What do you think about that
Run from the monster disfigured
It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger
Go worship all your seraphim
Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
Where have you gone Prometheus
Were you our guest or just an atheist
Yeah, wonders come in clear handcuffs
You're only safe anonymous
Oh, it's dead and it's jiving in no man's hands
Oh, it's alive and it's lying in no man's land
Electric frogs and pinwheel rats
What do you think about that
Run from the monster disfigured
It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger
Go worship all your seraphim
Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
you cry like lost toys and dead pets
there's nothing you can do about it right now
you cry like a small animal with a broken spinal chord
you keep whimpering, but it can only heal in time
you cry like pressing the skin of your palms
into the membranes of your eyes
when everything in your head is so cacophonous
you want to rub away all the little things you absorb
want that your hands could throw out this migraine
like a candy wrapper on the sidewalk
and if you believe hard enough that it's gone
you'll never notice the sugar rush or the comedown
so you press your hands to your face
as hard as you can and try to pray like a religious person
but you were raised christian and american and
the ways of believing and hoping and loving that you knew as a child
seem insincere now, and hard to speak
the language is not truthful
everything is what they told you it was not
nothing is what they told you it was
or everything was always what it was
and you or i could've told them that
and you think that wrapper might eventually end up in a landfill
if you go throwing it carelessly around
and sadness taken with too much sugar can be a toxic combination
so maybe making the bad things go away
is harder than throwing away the wrapper and enjoying the rush
maybe the wrapper is somewhere else now you can't get to
where you can't hear it crinkle or see it shrivel,
but you can still relentlessly feel it
getting whittled away by time and weather
while steadily melting down bits of you
as you pass your heart around
gasping inside the icebox
until one day you look up and the sun is a bloodier color
and your lungs are full of ice like pins
freezing inside of you
and when seconds before you had oxygen
as you begin choking, you think it's amazing how long
it seems to have been
since you were alive
your knuckles are dry from holding on
to a rusty ladder wrung
even when you want to move so badly
and there's nowhere to climb
you refuse to jump
and you're still trying to figure out
how to fall correctly
to break the least amount of limbs
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
Women are so beautiful
take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve
the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles
the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her **** fit into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her ****
her *** on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth
she's so beautiful
and it's all so perfect
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
All Along this chain link fence
pulsing incessant down ground-ward decent
Bone paved side cracked and twisting this winding road
No street lights rest stops my nerve twitch eyes closed
swelling and curving no stretch in shoulder
Wheels rub the hot spot as ripples get louder
Sliding highways you know that fun
till happy turns hazard drinking redrum
tumblingdown head first
shatteringhigh star burst
scatteringmy focus
splatteringlike bone crush
scaffoldingdo not touch!
Another brick in the wall of fame
extra activity considered the game
Now Excel at macro Alt Shift and paste
spreadsheet my back line the facts on my face
"Say Boy!, your speedy." from there I can trace
That needle-nosed issue in tissue displaced
bend over run forward turn left then cough
so perfect small packages get checked in then lost
Like milli tary or leaves when it out lived the need
***** the life from under shelter asteamed
Sleeping pins needle in terminal sensation
clinching and grasping to my spinal decoration
twisting and turning will bring no release
this physical chain from my **** cyst to neck leash
when typing or driving the pleasure is lost
when numbness takes over attention to high a cost
I'm broken together
one round at a time
yet the cords are in place
to ring in tune as it grinds.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
blank stare
balancing on spinal columns
tripwire produced by mitochondria
four million breaks
i have the answers to the world carved into my torso
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
a ring of stone under water
a breathless figure sits
between red coral-fingers
blue eye-fish
and from her hand the lava pours
steam
running away with the motion of stone
leaving silent twisted images
basalt black
wracked back
spinal cord columns
to salt
and become green
and beautiful with algae
Violent underwater mother
birthing continents
all mineral
gem
metal
plant and animal
birthed
thru her
and the sand that is the
product of so many
ancient fey stone and glacier
meeting each other again
and again
and the sun
and the wind
the river
the hoof
the root
the heel
the rot
the sand that is
the mana
that make
the motion
the Aa
and Pahoehoe
slowly rolling new mass of life
that we are
is!
submerged
remembering
remembering
a ring of stone under water
a breathless figure sits
between red coral-fingers
blue eye-fish
and from her hand the lava pours
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
BULL FIGHTING
(WITH A CLASSICAL TOUCH)
* By Raj Nandy*
(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, -
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-jerk,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!
(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!
(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, -
That's all I have got to say!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and *********** simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"
~
*may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately
entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^ know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******** ***********
your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without*
"without any best position plan"
*not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity
for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?
this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly
so here is an aligned confession fecundity
this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan
however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud ***********
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming
hallelujah, i'm aligned!
the man found albeit briefly
a beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution
may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned
as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and ***********
hallelujah, we are aligned!
~
**disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem**
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
There was a squandering ember that climbed her spinal chord
and lit the deteriorating birchwood on the peach-fuzzed tea lamps.
When those stairwells cramped and swelled with staggered liquid terraces
in the foundational pin-cushion that cradled family after family.
Woe begone chants that railed support beams moaning under elemental abuse.
A litter of ghost kittens coiling underfoot where the rug
used to yawn before the grandfather clock,
now senile and rotting with absent-minded tick-tocks.
Inside her streetcorner, the music was that
monkey hopping to street ***** blue notes on somber ropes.
The air thick with the regal, chunky vibe
of batting eyes, flirty sighs, and bourbon.
Between the buildings again...
embraced with the same warm feeling that
entrances your fingertips, lips, and ears when within a man's arms.
In this city, Love is those two birds on that same powerline
that bowed and ebbed with summer's sweet sigh.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:47 PM UTC
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.
Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery
What a bunch of crap.
I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating
Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth
I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks
Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
I'm here to spread the news that.
Despite its bad reputation with people
Back surgery works like a charm.
When I was 23, I injured my back lifting weights
I began to have chronic back pain
I researched what was the best thing for back pain
And yoga came to the top
At age 28, I began 8 years of yoga
That I practiced every day
My back pain was reduced until my age of 35
When yoga eventually failed
I moved in to physical therapy
That worked into my late 40s
I was rear ended in a car accident,
With the car entirely totaled.
That was the beginning of the end.
Nothing "alternative" worked anymore
I felt like there were razorblades in my groin
I would fall for no apparent reason
And then could not stand back up
I went to my doctor about it
He said if I got a MRI, that surgery would be the next step
Since surgery has such a bad reputation
I skipped the MRI
I was riding horses at the time
One day, I went to get a horse in the pasture
I kept falling and could not stand
I thought it was due to the mud.
I had to crawl through the mud and horse ****
To get back to the barn.
I thought once I was on concrete
That I could stand
But I couldn't
The stable manager helped me
To the office.
I rested for half and hour
And then drove home.
We were watching TV
In our downstairs family room
I went to go upstairs
And in the middle of the stairs
My legs stopped working
We drove to the ER
I had an emergency MRI
It showed that my disc was entirely extruded
And surrounding my spinal cord.
I went for emergency back surgery.
The procedure was called a microdiscectomy
They just took the gel
Away from my spinal cord
And within 2 hours of surgery
I could walk again.
I noted how easy it was to walk.
After a few weeks of just weird stuff
Like lightning bolts down my legs,
My back entirely healed Within 6 weeks
And that was the end of 27 years
Of back pain.
I often tell young people that
I had an extruded disc that
Was older than they are!!
It's been 5 years now and my back is cured.
If back surgery did not have
Such a bad reputation,
I could have saved myself a lot of pain
Microdiscectomy has a 95% cure for referred pain
In my case, it had a 30% cure rate for back pain
I am in the lucky 30%
Back surgery does work
And every year
There are more advances.
I went to my surgeon
And gave him a present
And a big hug of thanks.
Spread the word!
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
"I Wish I Was A Fridge"
I trust no one,
But I agree to see you;
You come every six weeks,
To see anything new.
I hardly know you,
I saw you last year;
I've seen others since then,
I know im difficult - thats clear.
But you came back again,
because there's no one else,
I have to trust you again,
When I dont trust myself.
But should I really trust you?
Or are you the same?
I hadnt seen you for so long
..i'd forgotten your name.
You ask me to explain,
And I try my best,
To explain whats in my head,
All the confusion and the rest.
I tell you everything,
With paper and pen;
Absolutely everything,
over and over again.
Then you say you cant help me,
So I feel even worse,
You say you are not a therapist,
I should have remembered that first.
All you care about
is whats in my fridge;
You go into my kitchen,
and check out my fridge.
Well the fridge is fine,
It might not be full,
But it has milk and leftovers,
...I wish it had wine too!!
You come here and visit,
And then I feel worse;
For I trusted you with things,
I should have thought again first.
For you cannot help me,
Why do you come?
My fridge is always quite happy,
My fridge is having great fun.
It has no nervous system,
No brain, no spinal cord;
Its incapable of "feeling"
Or trusting in the Lord.
You come all this way,
To look at my fridge,
You come here from Lamlash,
And check out my fridge.
I am clearly a failure,
As its always the same;
The fridge is just fine,
The pain is in my brain.
I wont see you again
for quite a while;
But I cannot promise
to put on a smile.
But my fridge will be fine,
I can promise you that;
If only I was a fridge...
...does anyone else feel like that?!
I shall get out some pens,
And draw a big smiley face;
Stick it on my fridge,
Just for you and your "fridge case".
I wish I was a fridge too, could put in and take out what I choose;
But im not an inanimate object - im a human being,
And I do often wonder....what got me into this state ...in the beginning.
All the best...with love...from the fridge :/ x
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Inside this plastic orifice pulsates the vibrations of flies
Around the frontal lobe of the brain,
A honking trumpet of confusion and
Fake self-confidence,
With that fake eyebrow raise of condescending question.
A drunk woman’s loop just spilling insecurities.
I remember when I was 18 years old
and so much more sure of myself
than I am now.
Now, my questioning analysis turns to stammering cindersm
My voice to quivering gibberish,
My spine to a trembling cane.
This is the age we were worried about,
Shaking coats off to try on new ones.
To be fearless again, a shit-talking hardass
With no reason to five a **** no reason
To be ashamed of words I spit, the norms
I shatter, the growing genuine demeanor
I cherish.
My words leak off the page and down
The spinal column of answers,
Stacked and jacked for another gear change.
Green lime crime in a gray lipsticked
Lip-lock torn asunder in cheap talk.
I’ll stop apologizing for nature’s wrongs.
I’ll forsake the jumbled up mumbled mess
That drooled down the spider fingers of
Those lonely, lost days.
And for a coin, I’ll stake my life
On the candle that refused to burn
Because now the reason crests the waves of
Pedantic experience.
Made past the overly-viewed statistics.
The curves now drip away the
Remnants of fabricated wool
Into a bed of once exhausted syllables
And frequented sobs.
Without a known ending, I’ll know this much:
The insecurities are a bottomless chalice
Full of the Catholic’s guilt
And the people you see around you
Are warriors bred without Fathers.
Streamlined sick in a wonderbread coffeehouse,
These are the hours worth reckoning.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC