"spinny" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
1.
He lights another mortar
and the dog runs after it
barking and trying to bite it
he grabs it's back leg as the sky lights up
since he had barely thought to look over
and the words around here don't reach his mind
his ears defective as they are.
He says something with his hands
something foreign to me
but six people watching laugh
and so do I.
2.
His wife sits with her sons
her stomach wide with their third
another boy
she's gotten so used to talking with her hands
that her voice is rusty
and her vocabulary limited
but she's here as much as the rest
sitting and laughing and having a good time.
3.
The owner of the house sits off the side in the nicest lawn chair here
a cup in her hand
we've quit counting how many drinks she's had
but she only drinks a couple days a year
and nobody is giving her any problems
and she seems to be able to be her normal self.
She had been questioning me earlier today
seeing if I was really a good guy
testing whether she'd have to sit at the table with a shotgun
every time I spent any time with her niece.
4.
Her husband is launching his own collection of mortars off
with his brother
while her brother-in-law hands the teens the novelties
I launch off a dozen flowers
and a few spinny things.
She occasionally breaks her fingers away from mine
to launch off a flower, smokebomb or firecracker
and occasionally runs over to poke-chop her uncle
who keeps talking to the fireworks.
She always comes back and we'll wander by her mom and stepdad
(the latter always throws in some sort of comment
so we act careful around him)
and over to her cousins
or toward her aunt and roommate.
Occasionally we'll have to get something from the house
and we sneak three kisses
but we mostly just stay in each others arms
keeping each other warm in the almost warm 4th of July night
our hands both entwined
one of our heads always on the others shoulder
and in all the craziness
all the family drama
everything is perfect and she's smiling so hard her cheeks keep hurting
and she keeps telling me how little sleep she's gonna get
and I tell her I ain't gonna be able to sleep at all
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
pap
pap
pap
I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza
my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint
my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?
I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?
What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go
at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.
pap
pap
pap
Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.
Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa
Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.
It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.
A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.
Hypochondria being accurate
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.
Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.
pap
pap
pap
Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,
this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.
I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.
I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.
Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before
it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.
pap
pap
pap
Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
Why can't I be
the spinny chair
in your office
for two?
There's nothing more
I want than to
matter to you.
Please, Please
let me be what I am
trying and dying to be:
Your lover that you'd
prefer to be some other,
with our kisses
covered in fleas.
I'm remembering to miss you,
but you'd have to
be here at some point.
I'd miss you so badly
I would dangle
your intestines over my mouth.
Can we kiss in the shade,
if we pretend I'm somebody else?
I can be the running car
in your suburban garage.
I want to steal you and feel you,
or just feel at all.
Catch me in your water,
smiling with the goldfish
and the flakes of snow angels
that bleed out every wish.
We can tremble
and mumble,
and stumble
in our darks.
There's no love that couldn't
hurt me now.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
neat.
His compatriots
Sister Life and her Brother Death
sit close by,
the Sister sipping *** on the Beach
while Brother blows bubbles in his Shiraz.
All served at the cosmic bar by The Great Spirit
nursing a big 'ol Long Island Iced Tea.
I'm thinking of creating my next masterpiece,
Brother Death said.
"Maybe this time, don't use a bucket of paint for just one blade of grass,"
Father Time chuckled.
Sister Life spun around
and round on her spinny stool for several decades
until she hopped up atop the bar, proclaiming in French,
I don't make the best hexadecimal frittatas in the seventh dimension for nothing!
Suddenly all brought their glasses together in a supernova clink
as they cheered
"May we continue to move forwards in the trajectory to wherever the hell we're going!"
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
he made her chest fill with air.
tight, constricting air that made her feel like she was suffocating.
tight, heavy, constricting air that suffocated her with sadness.
heavy, suffocating, uncomfortable sadness
that makes her feel spinny and her mind loose.
a slackened heart,
a tensed intestine
a clenched grin
while people drone on about nothing
she is a cavern.
she spirals into a thread of insecurity.
she lunges for shiny objects.
she is made of broken bones and glass.
she is everyone that has been pushed aside.
and she kept her promise not to cry.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
i am purple-dark wine stuff
the kind of marks that get flash-frozen over white skin
because i am yours and when you drink me in
i get drunk and dizzy and spinny
and stupid as i fall over myself
drooling and grabbing
at the one girl in the room who i have
but i can't have enough of
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Itsy bitsy spider
Her heart is breaking inside her
Chandeliers turn into webbed hanging rope
Inflicting toxins that destroy hope
Eight eyes eight years two parents one parent
Stings from his death are still inherent
Restricts bruise brown skin with black lashes
Knives give out desires to mark with red slashes
Eight legs eight birthdays two paths one destiny
The memories make her head go really spinny
Poison has covered her whole shaking yet still body
And now she is set to succumb to what she has embody
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
you want heaps of Wisdom
pouring out your
lonely head BUT you're
not worth
your own time!
Tell me that one.
you're sittin ******
stationary in that good-of-everything
spinny chair that
makes an axious grate against
the rubbing of
enamel
and shining of wonderful wonderous bone
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
Dizzy head woke up today,
He's spinning the world away.
All a busy blur with no cure,
Nothing to learn, nothing to gain
Another day of spinning all the same,
He wonders if he could focus,
Would they let him dream?
Dizzy is he, he sits behind a desk,
Wanted to do something more
But instead he just sits in subtle rest.
He showed off the art
Of all the spinny places he had been
They gave a look and traded his paints for pens.
Dizzy never showed his heart again.
Dizzy, did he, wanted to turn the tables
Sat in silence waiting for tables to turn
Learned a career, then never learned again.
Dizzy stopped spinning
Sitting behind a stationary chair and desk
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC