"spools" poems
*i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication
seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth
glamors that excite
cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards
wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice
your supplication
love pangs
i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life
I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous
waiting humbly in the wings
i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules
your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops
as it echoes through oblivion*
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.
Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour
the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
A country lane, which eats animals, earrings and experiences,
winds in spools around the oat-house and follows the broken wall.
My sister’s bottle green jeep made waves along the hedges,
she shook out her hairband and the conversations of the evening.
An owl asks on all sides, and would seem to answer himself as
the field barracuda, the vast wide eye for the minnow-mouse.
She put a pearl in the bushes, dangling spit-like,
an orb, a moon-berry, full and dead forever.
She drove faster, as the english night slowed down,
down by the where the willow covers the road sign.
She killed a badger,
as if they had both lost something here.
Sun-cooked,
crisp at the curling edges
he’s a dark patch, like a fixed pothole.
his bones tested her michelins in the morning
again, glassy eyed, stillened,
retroflective and blind to the shimmering shadow of flies
rising up through his skin like a spirit.
But both her ears are full.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
she’s the girl who sets a room on fire with laughs or real flame,
and she stands in that same flame; ranting about herself
with blissful intention:
aries.
she’s the girl who mows the lawn all day to throw a memorable party
on perfectly pitched grass; but then spends the entire party
with that one guy on that one roof, just the two of them:
taurus.
she’s the girl who ***** you fiercest only to then display sudden and
crippling bouts of madness; she’s one of a kind, or two of a kind,
and she means some kind of love:
gemini.
she’s the girl who you fall for so easily, and she falls for you so easily,
and everything is a dream; but a dream transforms, seasons transform,
and the peopled cities with them:
cancer.
she’s the girl who steals the show every time, and she leans on you
when she’s tired and lonely; she reads science fiction books
and tells you all the endings, strange planets fixtured in her dreams:
leo.
she’s the girl who thinks too much, drinks too much, and weighs you for all
your words; but words are her demise as she digs her arms deeper
into the dirt to catch that feeling:
virgo.
she’s the girl who piles a shrine of shiny occult objects and spools through
men like shiny other objects; she has a beautiful heart, holy or not,
but without a doubt, entirely stylish:
libra.
she’s the girl who doesn't believe a ******* thing you say but kisses you
harder when you say it; she takes you up the hill to her folks
and they sacrifice you for blood mana:
scorpio.
she’s the girl who knows you best and knows even better she’s far beyond
the depths of your league; she has deafening dreams, with or without
you in them; for ruins she will climb or create:
sagittarius.
she’s the girl who buys the popcorn and eats the popcorn and sulks on
the couch while tonguing kernels out of her teeth; she will never
truly love you, just the idea of you:
capricorn.
she’s the girl who saves your life with a tracheotomy when you nearly die
on that plum street seed; she will leave you for a another man, a man
with a good rifle and a warm little tent:
aquarius.
she’s the girl who sees synchronicity in all things, all life, all dreams
and emanations; she will love you until the smell of mexico drags her
away upon a neverending weekend:
pisces.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Born to the night in the cry of wolves,
We are….inked lovers spilling secrets, under velvet skies,
Shrouding the night in silver spools;
The season of silver silence, hangs upon shades of silken soul,
This midnight offering, a white entice;
My hair shimmers brightly, a wet fleece of gold, of shadow and starlight,
And shimmering hues, emerald and sapphire breathe kindred embers into the bellows of passion;
Challenging the flame that burns; entwined....
Whispered intrigue lays in the crescent of moon,
In an eminent blaze of sweetest surrender
Unborn whispers lie entwined with heated petals, silken;
We shiver....I shiver,
I am warm arms embraced;
Your lips hard yet soft against my side,
The feel of flesh warmed to a rising flame...
The long moon steps into midnight;
My ******* full of your hands as candles, pour hard against the ebon fall,
Luscious to the hush of soft smiles
Steeled eloquence flows in ribbon ripples;
Winter sown, blood quilled, in midnights cast;
Cloaked in beautiful, shadow's bed a bouquet of lacy foxglove...
Eyes closed and deep of breath,
Moistness seeps the sugared flower, and longing surges deep;
Shudder me wicked, drench me quick;
The wildness swirls inside as he moves like a shadow over my heart
His tongue eager to swim the gushing urge;
Touching, slick-slide, the soothe of smooth fingers slip past softness;
Lips cross, moist to moan me quick, sliding to quivers.
Thigh's whispering and heart pounding ,
Soft, the wind blows, tapping walls, fingers dancing
And shadow sways to moonlight...
Velvet-soft, the sweet of tongue's mesh,
Fire burning,
The tips of breast's aroused by the touch of a slow hand lover;
Your tongue gently rolls, wet and burning hot,
Hungrily, it feeds diving deep, and sandalwood spires upon the malachite air,
And burning murmurs the silent song, pleasures
Your flame to touch me hot, softly hard,
Against the darting quivering rose, stokes sweet, the flame of conjure....
I weep as you strain to slay this huntress of indolent submission;
Descending into darkness, I squirm upon your touch, lifting my altar upon your hunger,
Eyes lost to ecstasy, the flow quickens from abyssal moans;
Overflowing with need, release bound by gold shattered stars
Suckling whispered thoughts;
With us, for us, in us, in dreams, in thoughts, in love
....And in....time my love..................
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
5.4k
Like spools of thread, pilled in the midst
Darkness draws attention to the danger
Up few miles, is that place
Where the sign reads, welcome stranger
Curiosity jumps on each step
As the enchanting forest gets deeper
The sun rays sparkle the early dews
And awakens the sleeping keeper
Birds chattering, singing melodiously
Giant rocks, stand as guards of century
Silent kills the morning songs
At the dark weaved, heavy grown entry
Myth say, it may be a portal to another world
But reports and researchers find it their own way
What's there to be afraid of
Besides an approaching thunder day
A torch in hand, walking cautiously
Humming sound follows through, alerting my ears
Tripping, few times on dead branches
Triggers my lost unwanted fears
It's almost past mid day, but not a single string of light
The passage seems like a hell deep
Strange scribbles on near stones, alert
"Do not fall asleep"
Hours of walking on turns and paths
Tiredness and hunger grasped in well
Don't fall asleep rings in my ears
I was not alone, I could easily tell
Within this labyrinth, mysteries lie of all kinds
An evil crackling laugh, shakes my fears
Looking in the direction of the sound
There is an "it" and it hears
Run out now, my gut feelings kick in
Hoping for sun rays, but thunder beats the sky
Peculiar heavy steps seems to follow
I wish, I could just fly
One exit, echoes another entry
A swirl labyrinth has woken today
Running in circles, lost my routes
I can't find my right way
A small spark of light in a corner
Disguised as the suns ray
Traps my vision to walk forward
Like a poised lucidest prey
What happened next, I do not know
But not alone now, as more walk my way
Finding their own possible routes
We have become abundantly stray...
©sim
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:
There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.
There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba. What a joke!
There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!
Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.
It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!
Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.
When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!
Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!
It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.
It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!
It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.
A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!
So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!
Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.
She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.
She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.
November 2014
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.
I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.
I throw away the footage, romanticizing
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
508
I’m ceded—I’ve stopped being Theirs—
The name They dropped upon my face
With water, in the country church
Is finished using, now,
And They can put it with my Dolls,
My childhood, and the string of spools,
I’ve finished threading—too—
Baptized, before, without the choice,
But this time, consciously, of Grace—
Unto supremest name—
Called to my Full—The Crescent dropped—
Existence’s whole Arc, filled up,
With one small Diadem.
My second Rank—too small the first—
Crowned—Crowing—on my Father’s breast—
A half unconscious Queen—
But this time—Adequate—Erect,
With Will to choose, or to reject,
And I choose, just a Crown—
2.2k
I would give you, almost anything,
for the borders, to close.
For our separate galaxies,
to inch, and crawl, ever closer,
winding and unwinding
around each other,
like the red thread of fate,
rocking gently, on twin spools.
I would give up, almost everything,
for my lifeline, to unravel,
if only...
to retangle, around yours,
in a closed,
but infinite loop.
I would give you my all,
my everything
For the distance,
between us...
to vanish.
For the spaces around us,
to suture themselves, together,
and heal,
like gaping wounds.
For the sublime favor,
of feeling you shine down, on me,
in a way no other, could do.
To see all your love,
reflected, in your mirrored irises,
and know that no one,
stands before, or behind me.
And I'd sell my own soul,
without a second thought
just to hear you say
That I'm your one,
your only love,
and no other
could ever
do.
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 12:43 AM UTC
Constructioned paper
With spools of colored
Nails to ***** together a longshot drive Autobiographical predicamentals, (k’s roll hard in *****
Be careful, this system telekinetics, some see as a simple communications mechanism is used as weapon by the powers that be that have Molded themselves into of a bunch of specialist.
I'm still living, so far all i've learnt is
Motive
Freedom kilt a lot of
Shut the **** ups.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
I think I must be a tarnished bobbin
or a spool,
Or something you think you can
reel in
Like a golden thread or a worn leash.
My answers may not wrap around your
little ego the way you would
like them to.
But sometimes bobbins and spools
need to unwind too.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
We have oddly sticky hands
oil, dust and sugar
newspaper ink and ceramic chips
feet track on moldy rug
broken glass and rusty circles raise the question
peeking into past lives of
each room
salvage ex-roomate's ex-girlfriend's
shampoo body wash flatiron dishes
we make a shrine to spools of thread
little lion man and plastic pans
real tuesday weld and smoke with KC
won't you hold my hand?
Let's overthink dating for a night
I will try to be by your side
my rougey lips are for you
and the moon
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
distress men
distress women the children follow suit
rooted to their calculation
pick-pitted-
minds-eye-
bore-hole n' punction
functional ? they ponder the fault idling in their programs din
rescue them ?
their fearsome egos will gum you up
tup and rupture your goodwill
despair man
despair woman the children groping at their heels
sealed and merry mated to the manner spools that habit
rabbits and fools back into the boil
assess
make a meal
displace them ?
their otherworldly longings ?
wrong them welcome into your loving bloom
this is how its done
here's a catalogue
how big you've won
better gig than landing on the moon
distrust man
deface woman the children drink from the wound
battle become the saviour
behaviour shot against the mood
food to greet the newly batched cultural result
faulty
worthy of mention
the soiled spell
going to drown though the generations
recreation
just trust the serpent eye
and the lens of peddling assault holds everything to its station
for a jittering moment
for a breakable moment
a disgraced monument
bereft fidgeting in its place
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 9:49 AM UTC
long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."
her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.
and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
dissipating
into dusted petal wither.
i'll meet her on the next go around.
my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.
and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -
and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Dripping in warmth, she took it back
It does not matter, does it?
A warm, plaid flannel
from someone she sent away?
It is swallowed by the threads of her thoughts
and holds spools of nights thinking about her fabricated personality
was she cut out to be a seamstress?
She could never tell, but whats the use?
She's tangled anyways
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
It is
a lazy nod of orchid shift that sees
the poppies lean in times, where
glockenspiel lanyard clings are
goat herds on a Cretan rise.
Sweet boat-words claim a beltane fare
that calls to mind all Summers gone
in spools of warming solitude
that talk of when the Earth was young.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
power rises in the production
deep in intangible factories
churning digestive juices into valuable
spittle
extracted through death in a warm bowl
battling with tweezers and collected
in spools to make silken wonders
for this you lived on leaves
gorged on mulberry
to vanish in a pillowcase
silkscarf, maybe a tie
poor thing whoever discovered
your intestinal value
give up your secrets
gut wrenching rainbows of delight.
man knows how to breed you for himself
somehow.
Author Notes
silk production happens this way.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Part I
Windows flung open and the breeze stirs
The yellowed muslin curtains
And on the windowsill lies our precious Feline Beauty
As she basks in the warm sunshine
Birds warble and chirp as if to sing her to sleep
The rest of the cats are out walking on the sandy shore
Playfully they pounce on sand covered sticks and palm leaves
And sweetly play the hours away
Later on in the evening they come
Up to the house for their long sought meal
Little noses eagerly waiting for the dish to be set on the floor
And little cries escape "Meow"
Pretty soon it's bedtime
And the naughtiness begins
Spools of thread unraveled
And the rest swing on the blinds
~Marian~
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC