"spoilage" poems
My lovely volley ball
Shattered your panes
Like an action hero
That kills spoilage
Dawn downs from death
To open the file of life
As if it was an owl
Blinded by the light of darkness
A slash from your lashes
Build me this real Lear
A hero is killed forever
You hit a very bad dab.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
exterior
summer night
streets
city
unwelcomely cast
with blighted solution
an abrasive wash on the senses
like an orange filter
of muted television static
everything is one lit shade
budged shy of a reality
streets city
pried
between the housings
the baked on drain spoilage
munched under my tread
dwelling units weigh
loud down above me
beat in silence
no one alights balconies
a clustered population bulk
no one shares light in this building
and no one is known to their neighbour
anxious of their fellows
they coil
around their trusted genitalia
soundly
and despise
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
You coated your words in spice;
fragrant lies perfuse deep inside.
Wrapped and bundled and brandished
in bouquets of flowering excuses.
You’ve taught me a lesson;
after letting those words of yours
taint the inside of my head,
dripping into my heart.
Spoilage, wasted.
Never could you have committed
any crime more cruel.
When your flowers wilt
and fade,
when your spices turn rancid,
I will know what it was.
You never loved me at all.
You can replace me in days.
Find a new love to call.
Apparently she fills the voids
I couldn’t anymore.
Take those fanciful dreams of yours,
of you and me and memories,
and bury them alongside what’s
left of me.
I don’t need to be pulled along
into your little playground;
your little fair, exhibit, of
times gone by when we
once touched.
Just know that I’m still the one
who took you exploring.
I’m the one who offered you a different
revolution.
I’m the one you worshipped naked before you
not very long ago.
And you, girl.
I can only offer you such sympathy.
Because you’ve opened yourself to the same shadow,
the predator in all loves;
the one that toys and bends and preys on that
vulnerable little parcel of yours.
The one that beats for him.
But don’t forget it also beats for you.
And do you really want him to tease and taunt and
hold that thing?
Poor girl.
When he brandishes that same bouquet at your door,
you know it’s time, poor thing.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation
and a sort of relief, temporary
*many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone*
*besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived*
*we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words*
inscribed thus:
”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth
Jun 4, 2020
Jun 4, 2020 at 9:05 AM UTC
Repetitive complaining spoilage
Asking for help but pushing away anyone who tries
The way people help isn't the way I want it
I want you
I don’t get to see you when I want to
Because sometimes I need to hold your hand
And I'm punished for needing help
I don’t know if my problem is this depression doc prescribed me with
Or the idea that running away from problems is the path most travelled by
They said that when you held my hand, you brought me down the wrong path
And they said your hands were filthy
But you promised me that you would wash them
Clean them of the sleepless nights
And the assumptions of your life
Prove them wrong
But don’t change who you are
Don’t rinse your hands in bleach like they want you to
Rinse them in the forgiveness those people need while reciting your ABC's
And don’t forget to wash in between our mistakes
How do they expect me to hold foreign hands?
Without a razor in my own
How do they expect me to find sanity?
When they’ve taken everything
Transporting me into the hands of others
Am I too much to handle?
But they didn't even stamp "handle with care" on my crate
Carrying surprises of disappointment
It’s been shipwrecked stormy seas
Seeing familiar faces
Explaining myself over and over again
Monotone and white lies
Of all these 16 years they didn’t even know me
Now pursuing every secret
And every locked door
I don’t hold the key to my own body anymore
It’s in the freckled hands of lullabies
Strings attached
I'm their puppet
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Independent Howls grow, reflect glass image
mirror through cat shaped eye lens, fowl shiva womb
Third date, walk La Vrill Lake lines coarse Spoilage
Primarch high Heart lowly toxic Felt slip tomb
liv Camo red tiger sense concubinage
addict cut Salut Ida Pingala Perfume
Taxi Entomb whom enclose enliven Bang
Driver Thirst see "Who'st shall thy envy?" Bang
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
A note of 10 rupees flies through the damp sky,
Perhaps some well-to-do might have dropped it,
Perhaps he might have even forgot about it
Or just didn’t give a **** about it.
The parentless piece of cash floating carelessly,
Finds shelter in the tender palm of a young boy,
The No-worth paper finds immense value with him
It’s now become something of great joy
With the cash in his hand, he leaps off of happiness,
With colors of imagination about to paint its spoilage,
“Should I buy the machine that roars?”
“No No, I’ll buy myself a castle!”
“Or should I buy some toys with this?”
Perhaps he’d never seen paper of value,
All he knew of wealth were some old wrinkled coins,
“Aman”, yelled his partner in crime,
“What do you have there?”
Both of their eyes gleamed with innocence,
The Cash allured them to spend it, To waste it
And now- As they walk proudly,
Acting like the richest people in the world,
They get the shock of their life.
They wanted to buy the whole shop of sweets,
But
The Shopkeeper handed them few pieces of toffees
With gentle hands clenching on the sweets with young rage,
With disappointment and realization they exit the stage.
Aug 18, 2024
Aug 18, 2024 at 12:52 PM UTC
Why factors
Why do the hopeless die?
Factors the programing called for,
quired first,
ere ever
were required.
(re, once more, locked in place after first.)
Why called for
reason,
why,
why do what you can't do alone
alone?
Never heard, is a discouraging word
on the range
where home was. Why not?
Nobody who came this far, carried that dis-crap
in our corazone
past Sisyphus, laughing at gravity,
and our struggle to face
eternity as mortal
hopers for more.
Discouraged folk die out here,
beyond the effect of discouraging words,
on uncloudy days, developing
negatives from
imaginations linked in to blurry, tearstained
yesterdays.
Look here.
Yes, t'day, in tight bundles of hows,
tied with memory string,
bound to be better
stood up under by
why factors helping you along.
Reason is
your heart is a phor of the amphora ilk,
round, pointed bottom meant to
easily and snuggly fit,
into a square slot on the inner hull
of the ship, below deck.
If the amphora is emptied of any earthly spoilage,
scrubbed and cleaned by the fuller apprentice,
songs come to fill it, virtually,
to over flowing,
---
trauma drama on an oceanic scale Himalaya high
suddenly
time goes
geo
logical and we are other wise,
slowly
absorbed in being able,
as our voice crys out to cain, it's okeh.
This ain't hell,
it's now.
Live or die.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 2:01 PM UTC