"splats" poems
Another tomato
splats to the
floor,
but I'm getting paid.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
**Jackson *******
*my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,
and thus as,
co-creator*
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
*all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor*
***a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened***
*I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced
perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made
perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased
there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,
3/13/18
1:09am
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
covered in flies only the letters KYLIN ILLE were seen. ripped corners of grease, caved in drooping. the way the ants ran, weak to the prophesied speaker. gathered around the mushed manifesto, soaking extensively in the intrigue of carelessness. Ravishing.
Only by the absence of thought could I stumble onto the moments before the drop off. a blurred glance at the road, a swipe of unclean against deep blue. easy strides and a weighted spine. in the vacancy of worries a quick glare to the sun, a double checking of unexpected, brisk anger.
Your slip n slide fingers, loud mouth cowards. faltering in the responsibility of a finished task.
Down dipped merry words of toxic proclamation, viewed by your carefree t-shirt, openly believing it has all the time in the world before it splats against the static concrete
and spoils
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
My sister never had any boyfriends
which was quite surprising really you know
because she had a nice pair of knockers
and a very cute little **** on her
but never once a gentleman caller
came knock knock knock on her friendless portal.
So I asked her what was the ******* score
that no butch lads wanted to part her bush
and whyfore was she not barking for it
in a vague manner of ******* speaking
and she told me to glue my keen peepers
on her keyhole the next night to find out.
Thus I knelt down before her bedroom door
my eye glued to the appropriate hole
with a full view of her "sleepezee" bed
on which she casually lay spread out
legs opened like a major T-junction
and then her friend appeared to my rapt joy.
I gasped in wonder as her lesby love
straddled my **** sis and gave her tongue
a good chance to lick out her womb entrance
causing me to indulge in self-abuse
as their eager mutual ***********
gave way to some red hot ***** action.
(I hope they didn't hear the noisy splats
as I squirted my lovejuice onto the doorpost)
Good taste, eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
The mums at nursery like me.
They are reassured by dark rings beneath my eyes,
blue jeans, clean-scrubbed smile, pulled back hair.
A soul more boring and more tired-
Just knowing I exist makes them feel better.
Not today:
Today I’m wearing make-up.
And my shorts are, well, short
which I think is against the rules.
My hair shines like a barley sugar sweet
and my finger nails sparkle
like long forgotten jewels.
Today I dodge dressing-up hats, snotty noses, spilt milk,
play-dough, paint and mud-puddle splats
with practiced precision.
Today, just this once, when I give mums their children back,
I look more together and more stylish than them.
I run home, cross busy roads in record time,
wave to total strangers who want to say hello.
I get the polish off my nails,
scrub my face under the shower,
dry my hair, pull it back,
grab yesterday’s jeans and baggy sweater.
He returns from work and asks:
Did you have a good day?
I think:
*Yes. Yes **** it. Yes I did.*
Do you know-
my eyes are pretty, and I can get into shorts
I wore ten years ago?
Stop traffic - check.
Turn heads - hell yeah!
The roofer down the road nearly fell and broke his neck.
Your wife is, without a doubt, a ********* **** thing.*
So many words, like popping candy on my tongue.
I imagine his reaction.
I shut my mouth.
Danger passes.
But lies won’t come. Mouth’s gone dry.
I swallow back the truth then feel like I’m gonna gag.
Panic rising in my chest on top of bile.
Then:
My day was fine
I say. Just that.
My day was fine
And I am saved.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 3:08 PM UTC
"I shall write a poem today", says my mind
Though I know, ultimately no verse will be designed
And many a day has gone astray
In wait of a single, inspired rhyme.
"I shall write a story today", claims my brain
Even as I watch my thoughts miss their train
And a screen stark white mocks my plight
While the cursor blinks expectantly in vain.
"Maybe I should take a walk", I surmise
And far above me, in the skies
A troubled bird drops a ****
And inspiration splats between my eyes.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
they come fast
puncturing my very soul
my body only a coffin
if they stay trapped
it is torture
this feeling of eagerness
relentless fists punching
through my very chest
once my sternum breaks
blood, bone and marrow
splats on the digital canvas
pouring out everything
to the last drop
of creative blood
though satisfied
of the ******
what I see before me
is strategic
as a general in war
a visual interpretation
of society
feeding the design of
consumerism
Oh yes this work
of my blood, flesh and bone
they will consume in such
drunk laughter
like cannibals they
will judge, speak, and post
of the visual
that lead them to
experience the indulgent gorge
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
20
seems like the end of the line
to me.
Car crashes, bad habits, white rabbits
will reduce me down to just a spec of debris
chillin' in a petri
magnified
by a giant
eye st aring
wi th
disdain.
"Helicopter pilot? Yeah right"
hit me like the last thing through a bug's mind
when it splats.
Its own ***
Switched my postion from
s
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
A student
p
to drop out flying u
Eyes down. Laying to keep on track
low
blinded, cataract, stepped out in traffic
splat
like that bug again
or maybe more like promotion
Brand New Adventure
I've seen the way the world
turns
I don't want any p a r t
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
A fist in Strong Man’s face.
He stares it down with pride.
Opponent’s eyes are narrowed –
Strong Man’s stay bold and wide.
Opponent throws the insult;
it splats on Strong Man’s chest,
then trickles down his body
‘til at his feet it rests.
Defiant, Strong Man clenches
his fists and bites his lips –
where lands a soft-boiled insult
which cracks and smells and drips.
A third one cracks upon his head,
trickles into his eye.
Opponent mistakes it for a tear,
stands straight then leaves with pride.
Strong Man watches Mother Hen
as she leaves with satisfaction.
Strong Man is left alone once more;
once more, he didn’t take action.
He wipes away the egg white
but still there stains the yolk.
He feels a lump stuck in his neck;
a tear, on which he chokes.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
whatever we think we have
is destructive
they say opposites attract
but what they don't say is
damage seeks out damage
we both know this is temporary
we'll never gonna choose each other
we are asymptotes
staying close to each other;
would never gonna cross the line
or would we?
maybe we're perpendicular lines
we'd cross the line
once
but that's it
or is it?
maybe we're each other's point b
each other's end point
but i doubt that
I think I know what we are
We are black splats
or stains hiding
in each other's blind spots
we see each other
when we want to
hide each other
when we want to
and I am tired
of being your temporary cure
because healing you
is like alcohol
it kills me but gets me addicted
makes me miserable yet happy
healing you is like being offered
space cakes
no matter how hard i try
to convince everyone it's harmless, it destroys
it builds me up
then lets me down
makes me feel everything then nothing at all
i don't know how it happened
all of a sudden then all at once
we both know this won't last
please erase me
wash the stain
open both your eyes
let go
whatever we think we have
let it die
---
let This die
but dont forget
we'll stay close
enough to keep each other warm
but not too much to let each other burn
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
~
***Nobody Loves me
Nobody really cares***
But I do my darling
Just take a look into my eyes
I've been through hell and back with you
Together we have touched the skies
From the beginning to the end
We've seen each other through it
The lies and deceit, heart stopping truths
Where others would have split
We made it through our youth
When we first met you were smol
Barely even my height
A friendship made through stripper jokes
And you being my favourite white
Casual racism erupted
A classic joke among our friends
During a time where we were once happy
Innocent even, before that bitter end
Slowly you grew taller
Quite frankly you have changed
No longer that touchy goofball
Reasoning for that we leave unexplained
Though I still love you dearly
No matter what kind of person you become
Even if you turned into a vile beast
I would still act like your mum
From your oddly perfectly shaped eyebrows
Those glistening endless voids you call your eyes
Hair roughly pushed to the side
Matched with a cheeky grin that people seem to idolise
3 Years I would say its been
Though clearly its the wrong number
Knowing all about your weird life
Sharing memories from past summers
An ungodly collection of hats
littered throughout your room
The ugly ones shoved above the closet
That black one with green splats I presume
We went to that amazing concert together
Rocking it out within the mosh pit
I'll never forget that amazing day
As we reconnected even if it was just a bit
Your escape through street fighting
A dark time for both of us I remember
But it looks like we stuck it out
We made it past that December
Even if we wanted to end it all
The depression still hitting us in waves
The relaps of that fateful period
Still echoes within my brain
But like I've said once
And will say a million times over
I love you my dear boy
Even if you feel like a complete loner
I'll continue holding my hand out
Incase you slip and fall
Even if you don't need it
Just don't forget its there is all
*I want you to know
I love you
Remember that Riy*
~
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
always a nice little resolve at the end to make the prior words have more context and make up for the drivel
1 egg here
another in the garage behind your trophies
1 kid in the tub
the other in the grave,
and the other missing its head.
forward thinker
progressive -
savior of a nation called peru. mosquito dusk woman of glass-shrapnel
receipts? on the
desk,
forward now. I have work today at 8.
how are you?
"good"
park it and fill it with all your hate-- tie the knot an extra time so it looks good when it
splats
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
The Apron and the Gun
I see an Apron around your waist
And its tied up about your breast
It is Keeping you from spills and splats
and it's keeping you from the mess
Is there a machine gun at your side?
Or something just as strong?
What does it take to care for all of them
and Protect them from what's wrong?
I know your mothering and all your care
I know your life's gone up and down
You've shunned tears and ignored despair
Your strength shows us how to hold our ground
The strength that is in you my dear
Is a power not often mentioned and not seen
But it Keeps our lives safe and without much fear
Makes us who we are and keeps us safe and clean
When you hang your apron and put aside your guns
When you loose your hair and lay you down
You still have time for me and some
Love, and hugs and kisses and fun
You are the perfect woman, the mother of all living
You are my wonderous friend and spouse,
Your comfort and all of your daily giving
Make you my warm and safe home and house.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Picture-perfect spectacle, splattered upon the canvas
White canvas polka-dotted, splashed, smacked
With an ensemble of colors partaking in lively dances
Artistry exemplary, simple applause apparently apt.
It was this artist’s one shot
The proof was in the painting
The piece ; joy is what it brought
The other piece, other joy, exhilarating.
Reds, violets, blues
Pinks, greens, and orange hues
Rainbow splats and careful flats
Certain clusters of paint make me glad.
Though, like every painting painted
A hidden passage creating vexes
Faint sadness ; happiness tainted
The mind of this creator perplexes.
All the while I’ve been feeling his art
And touching the surface
Deep below was his heart
Well crafted mask that hugged his face
I shall pick his brain
Quite literally, though it’s repulsive
For this painting was his last, ashame
His retirement is messy, but in an eye of an artist
This gunpoint suicide was one that held artistic fame.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Acid leaks from my fingers
and you watch it with glee!
as time fragments and loops
repeat themselves redundantly.
My logic knows all and my shoes
have left my feet in search of a
robo-walk to maximize the pleasure.
I move in angles- trip trip trip----
stutter
All energy flows throught this very vessel
no need for nourishment, this ***** flies
backwards. Marching in grotesque lines
heading nowhere in particular. Faces
lose recognition and I die. die. die again.
My eyes are open? There is no difference.
All I see is a spiral tunnel filled with the
gruesome buzzing of infinite electric flies
and shades of nightmare.
Sound, words, fall short. I'm in a box
at a distance. Can't reach to decide whether
I'm sitting standing speaking. It tumbles out and splats
to the sticky purple mass
spittled like the sides of my brain
which pulse in a threat to implode
Waking dreams and living death
no borders in this country
a kaleidoscope of tulips, twisting strands
of gelatin, columns of panic,
and a glitch in the night.
A quick scream soon stifled.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
My colourful mind
melts upon your skin
drips from your lips
slips from your hips
you’re looking like
rainbows in raindrops
tints trapped in teardrops
blobs of purple slop stain
violent splats of violet paint
on the palette of my brain
stay in the line of my mind
eyelashes for brushes
red roses and rosy rashes
fireworks and knee jerks
yellow and low blows
all these and much more
are greener than folklore
seasides and sea-saw
whys your eyes so blue for?
go ahead and kiss me
taste the colours you adore
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 6:49 PM UTC
When a cat
Splats
Flat on your lap
(That black cat
That first heard ****
But came right back)
With no care in the world
Dives deep into cat nap
On your lap
Pray a poem of thanks:
This stretching feline
Trusts you
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:47 PM UTC
A crack and a clap of thunder
Makes you jump
Steam rolling off the cement
In tidal waves of fog
The scent of freshly washed
Leaves and pavement
Fresh in flared nostrils
The sound of the downpour
Slaps your ears with splats
Of condensation
But then the clouds rumble by
Freight train roaring
Full steam ahead
Lightening striking
So close you can smell the
Burning scorch
Of electric
And then gone in a wisp of smoke
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
What we were once, two words,
we are no more, taken in
When ten sticky layers absorb
the shadows of our predecessor shapes.
Purple bruises bleed through
the buried steel
Where one-hundred shouted
stories slid down into
a waiting mouth of obtuse angles.
Vague numbers now,
we follow, ask
Why one-thousand labors
couldn’t gird us against not-
birthing gusts, their reverse alchemy,
aching to prove
How countless precious lines
can turn testily from true
geometry’s parallel path, and seek
an improbable calculus of chaotic drips,
those splats that trace a figure
Who in the flash of flame
realizes his distinctions
have lavishly become
obliterated.
Our tomorrow will know
what our today’s forgotten.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
I walked back through the empty streets tonight after work.
I felt alone, as usual, but not as lonely as usual.
The moisture in the air gave a halo to the lights
and I breathed in the rain drenched night
and the air stuck in my chest and bathed my lips.
Before I entered my apartment, I paused:
The quiet of the night thrilled me for a passing moment.
It's a night Shakespeare would have written for his fairies.
I opened my senses to the universe:
The sound of a distant train,
leaves rustling,
droplets falling in a "Ping! Ping! Splat!",
the taste of a cool May night,
the moisture covering my face like sweat,
the sight of a street lamp casting a glow that lovers might have run off into the night to avoid...
The smell of clean air:
just washed cool after several days of rain
...and the dew...
falling...
falling.
I looked up at the large Maple tree in front of my doorway
and allowed the "Pings! and Splats!" of the vestiges of the rain from the day
to fall on my face
touching me.
I felt so attuned.
So. Aware.
And to make the moment perfect,
I willed myself to cry...
But
Didn't.
Because sometimes, the night and the senses and the mere truth of being in a moment:
might not have to move me to tears.
So I let the night continue without adding my dew to the "Splats!"
and I went up to my apartment to sleep.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
I'm going to egg a house.
I shall walk to the door quiet as a mouse.
Take the white egg.
Fire away!!!
Egg splats.
Sorry I slashed your tires leaving them flat.
Shouldn't have ****** with me *****
Hope u got a tow hitch.
Your car payed for your actions.
Can't wait to see your reaction.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
The battlefield is a canvas
splats of red,
dead bodies,
weeping young warriors,
painted by the devil’s paint brush.
The battlefield is a garden
red roses,
blue British,
maroon mustard,
purple parapet,
the thorns of war.
The battlefield is a crib
the cloud of lead
like a blanket
that covers the soldier at night,
smothering him to death.
Guns, weapons,
innocent beauties
manipulated
and overworked
to do the devil’s deed
until they over heat
from despair and plead.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Another day,
another scribble on the page of life
why not make it extraordinary?
Leave your mark
like you were leaving ink splats all over the canvas
magnificent arrays of colors contrast and intervene
within the scene.
Resulting in a more vibrant display of life.
Strife exists each and everyday
and beauty has always coexisted beside it
It's resisted so much longer than us
and we bask in its radiance much more often than we realize
so through all the pain of life's crucible remember,
to be as daring as you were the day before
if not more so, make an impact.
Shine brightly, so that everyone can see.
It's just one of the things that makes this life worth it.
What you worth really?
I mean only you can tell me,
because the only thing that can limit you is yourself
anything you set your mind to can be achieved
you just need to believe, and then back that up with the work
talk is cheap, unless you give it the support it needs.
make your words an extension of yourself,
as if they were arms and legs that can help lift another up
whenever you happened to let them roll off your tongue.
I used to have dreams I'd light up stages,
now I just want to light up the diminished flames in your hearts that you hold dear.
If not today,
maybe tomorrow I can convince you
each day is a new day to craft a better you.
Take a look in the mirror,
reflect in who it is you've become and what you've get left to do.
So much strife in this life,
so much beauty too.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC