"spritzed" poems - Hello Poetry

Today I put on that perfume And it hit me With a memory forgotten; Sunken at the bottom of the almost empty bottle. “Mhm, wow you smell so good. What perfume is that?” You had asked. I’d been over the moon waxing outside. You had tickled my insides. So when I’d spritzed that on my neck and inhaled that scent and that memory… I was glad. Glad that the bottle was finished. Glad that there was nothing left to remind me of that moment, Glad that as I tossed the bottle into the trash, I had, in turn, trashed the memory. The memory sunken at the bottom of that perfume bottle.

0

Jun 23, 2019

Jun 23, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC

Nuelle1_

That Perfume.

Today I put on that perfume And it hit me With a memory forgotten; Sunken at the bottom of the almost empty bottle. “Mhm, wow you smell so good. What perfume is that?” You had asked. I’d been over the moon waxing outside. You had tickled my insides. So when I’d spritzed that on my neck and inhaled that scent and that memory… I was glad. Glad that the bottle was finished. Glad that there was nothing left to remind me of that moment, Glad that as I tossed the bottle into the trash, I had, in turn, trashed the memory. The memory sunken at the bottom of that perfume bottle.

12

In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *"It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. (Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you.) I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.

0

Apr 13, 2015

Apr 13, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC

a-mareship

bluebird

In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *"It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. (Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you.) I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.

41

i cant read so i just write i quickly become tired with your work i would much rather pace wear down the blades of grass in the familiar place i cant read because while the graces of poets philosophers and scholars make pretty the page syllables dancing atop meticulously pressed parchment while this happens through their beauty i only think of you toss the tome aside and imagine all the ways i can express the things that capture and drag the fingertips to their home back to the place where i feel full loved and laughed at where i carouse and cherish this was never about the "reads" never about the ratio of lit to likes it was only ever about me writing you love letters every day ten max though fact is, half of these ******** scrawlings these are returned to sender but crying alone is far better than pretending pretending you were never upset and begging for something you need begging doesnt only work if there is a listener i cant read i cant read our future i cant give you house keys a front or back yard a cat box a leash i cant read i write. all 106 of them garbage some think but its garbage i sealed with tears and stamped with a kiss spritzed with cologne (if i wore it) i cant read star charts memos concert bills calendars no parking signs or the expressions of cats but i can write pour out every guttural spasm scribble every inspiration leer and laugh toward a glowing screen mute and accepting of the drivel banged out below it i cant read i can write things though some things good things things see what i mean?? i cant even write. "things good things" hay-seuss x-mas!

0

Apr 26, 2013

Apr 26, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC

allan-jain-bonder

i cant read

i cant read so i just write i quickly become tired with your work i would much rather pace wear down the blades of grass in the familiar place i cant read because while the graces of poets philosophers and scholars make pretty the page syllables dancing atop meticulously pressed parchment while this happens through their beauty i only think of you toss the tome aside and imagine all the ways i can express the things that capture and drag the fingertips to their home back to the place where i feel full loved and laughed at where i carouse and cherish this was never about the "reads" never about the ratio of lit to likes it was only ever about me writing you love letters every day ten max though fact is, half of these ******** scrawlings these are returned to sender but crying alone is far better than pretending pretending you were never upset and begging for something you need begging doesnt only work if there is a listener i cant read i cant read our future i cant give you house keys a front or back yard a cat box a leash i cant read i write. all 106 of them garbage some think but its garbage i sealed with tears and stamped with a kiss spritzed with cologne (if i wore it) i cant read star charts memos concert bills calendars no parking signs or the expressions of cats but i can write pour out every guttural spasm scribble every inspiration leer and laugh toward a glowing screen mute and accepting of the drivel banged out below it i cant read i can write things though some things good things things see what i mean?? i cant even write. "things good things" hay-seuss x-mas!

79

In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you. I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.

0

Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC

a-mareship

letter

In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you. I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.

41

looking back and forth from you to her to them & the others and i wonder... who of you are sincere which of you go home in complete & utter contentment? you... wearing plastic smiles coifed hair painted eyes and lips gelled sprayed sprinkled & spritzed iron out blown out shaken & tousled for what? to add to the alcohol induced facade of the similar? no, i am not unique i'm just better at showing what's real than most.

0

Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC

susanjj

pretending

looking back and forth from you to her to them & the others and i wonder... who of you are sincere which of you go home in complete & utter contentment? you... wearing plastic smiles coifed hair painted eyes and lips gelled sprayed sprinkled & spritzed iron out blown out shaken & tousled for what? to add to the alcohol induced facade of the similar? no, i am not unique i'm just better at showing what's real than most.

25

i wrote you a letter, spritzed it with pheromones, dotted it in tears every grim notion was far too pretty — dressed in ballpoint ink dancing a legato cursive tracing everything i didn’t say; my tongue was tangled up, and your hearing was selective but pain was bubbling out my pores, and starting to burn the only remedy was writing it out: dear you, i want to mold me into the pedestal i put you on, but you have to scooch a little i want to go on a scavenger hunt in your brain, but you didn’t think to draft out clues i want to use your heartbeat for 808s and play them on repeat, but you’d probably say that’s ludicrous i want to find our favorite frequency, i think it’s somewhere close to middle c, but you didn’t meet me there never really cared to care, and that’s fine, that’s fair your debt to me is absent same as mine to you yet i’m still paying in time wasted analyzing your words in my head that don’t have double meanings like i devised you’re as literal as stem majors uneager to decode the metaphors i made for you so i’ll stop writing them at least i’ll try love, me (please) folded up my fears of feeling something more than my pulse the impulse wasn’t strong enough couldn’t muster the courage to address it in your name still i hoped you’d somehow see so i let the wind take the reins with fate in the passenger seat clutching my precious card-stock cargo will it find it’s way to you, or dissolve amongst the mist? i guess that i can only guess

0

Aug 10, 2019

Aug 10, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC

hillarylitberg

inconsistent with the existing association

i wrote you a letter, spritzed it with pheromones, dotted it in tears every grim notion was far too pretty — dressed in ballpoint ink dancing a legato cursive tracing everything i didn’t say; my tongue was tangled up, and your hearing was selective but pain was bubbling out my pores, and starting to burn the only remedy was writing it out: dear you, i want to mold me into the pedestal i put you on, but you have to scooch a little i want to go on a scavenger hunt in your brain, but you didn’t think to draft out clues i want to use your heartbeat for 808s and play them on repeat, but you’d probably say that’s ludicrous i want to find our favorite frequency, i think it’s somewhere close to middle c, but you didn’t meet me there never really cared to care, and that’s fine, that’s fair your debt to me is absent same as mine to you yet i’m still paying in time wasted analyzing your words in my head that don’t have double meanings like i devised you’re as literal as stem majors uneager to decode the metaphors i made for you so i’ll stop writing them at least i’ll try love, me (please) folded up my fears of feeling something more than my pulse the impulse wasn’t strong enough couldn’t muster the courage to address it in your name still i hoped you’d somehow see so i let the wind take the reins with fate in the passenger seat clutching my precious card-stock cargo will it find it’s way to you, or dissolve amongst the mist? i guess that i can only guess

55

I'll peer through the flaxen strand of night with your color that excites, and think myself the blue pither of fire or a flummoxed stone left unturned. it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable beast or the common grip of the eye's gift for unsparing detail. it's the way the queen moves to all corners unclenching a fold of sidereal, and then like a child with almond eyes spruced up, spritzed this morning's incandescent dye, the lapping of strange tides revealing fish with dreams of brine or that one moment when you had at first light, the hot flush of coming into, recognizing insatiable appetite, whistling its overdue intent and the detritus we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back at mirrors.

0

Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Hot Flush

I'll peer through the flaxen strand of night with your color that excites, and think myself the blue pither of fire or a flummoxed stone left unturned. it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable beast or the common grip of the eye's gift for unsparing detail. it's the way the queen moves to all corners unclenching a fold of sidereal, and then like a child with almond eyes spruced up, spritzed this morning's incandescent dye, the lapping of strange tides revealing fish with dreams of brine or that one moment when you had at first light, the hot flush of coming into, recognizing insatiable appetite, whistling its overdue intent and the detritus we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back at mirrors.

21

Spritzed me with rain, this morning. Rooftops unravel inner coating like old scabs to wounds. Quiescent mercy of the Sun bleared behind curtains of cumulus. There is a far more in-depth correlation between an insurmountable ex-facto and the fruition of affront: something a sutured lip unwraps, a sotto voce. Murmuring murmurings, tousled the leaves to a zither like salad on a depthless bowl: a coarse susurrus unattainable through lip-reading: tongue’s the scythe and the message that rummages athwart, something that rushes in the blood, a scrape on the sinew as I coil in pain like a thing in womb revealing its fetal nature. something that speaks for another one – ventriloquism in its keenest sense, speak for me, you, both of us lost in frenzied translation.

0

Jan 27, 2016

Jan 27, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Translations

Spritzed me with rain, this morning. Rooftops unravel inner coating like old scabs to wounds. Quiescent mercy of the Sun bleared behind curtains of cumulus. There is a far more in-depth correlation between an insurmountable ex-facto and the fruition of affront: something a sutured lip unwraps, a sotto voce. Murmuring murmurings, tousled the leaves to a zither like salad on a depthless bowl: a coarse susurrus unattainable through lip-reading: tongue’s the scythe and the message that rummages athwart, something that rushes in the blood, a scrape on the sinew as I coil in pain like a thing in womb revealing its fetal nature. something that speaks for another one – ventriloquism in its keenest sense, speak for me, you, both of us lost in frenzied translation.

16

A blank stare. The soft rustle of long black hair whipping in the wind. Tear stained cheeks and red eyes, a certain feeling of numbness that won't subside. The sound of painful screams echoing in an empty mind that is bustling inside all at the same time. Distant memories come back to haunt while the good times have already been forgotten as if they were some wild dream. Upon looking at the calm water and being spritzed in sea spray, most don't realize that the same crystal waters they are gazing upon is part of the body that swallows up unsuspecting victims and sent many to their graves. The sun reflecting upon the clear water burns her eyes. She jumps as a soft hand rests upon her shoulder. It is a young boy, An unfamiliar face that seems so innocent and so pure that she feels she has known him all her life. Then she remembers that she no longer has one. The person she was, the person that would smile and say hello was long gone. She died in that same sea long ago. The boy asked her name but she only replied, "I don't have one. Not anymore." Upon seeing the confused look that had washed over the boy's face and the curious gleam in his eyes, she said, "Names are for people with purpose, for those who have someone to love and a life to live and a home to arrive to at the end of each day. They are not for the broken. They are for the people who are blissfully oblivious. They are not for me." And so she walked away, her frail body becoming smaller with each step she took into the distance. And the boy tried calling out to her, but he couldn't. For she had no name.

0

Jan 2, 2019

Jan 2, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC

yeeyee420

Nameless

A blank stare. The soft rustle of long black hair whipping in the wind. Tear stained cheeks and red eyes, a certain feeling of numbness that won't subside. The sound of painful screams echoing in an empty mind that is bustling inside all at the same time. Distant memories come back to haunt while the good times have already been forgotten as if they were some wild dream. Upon looking at the calm water and being spritzed in sea spray, most don't realize that the same crystal waters they are gazing upon is part of the body that swallows up unsuspecting victims and sent many to their graves. The sun reflecting upon the clear water burns her eyes. She jumps as a soft hand rests upon her shoulder. It is a young boy, An unfamiliar face that seems so innocent and so pure that she feels she has known him all her life. Then she remembers that she no longer has one. The person she was, the person that would smile and say hello was long gone. She died in that same sea long ago. The boy asked her name but she only replied, "I don't have one. Not anymore." Upon seeing the confused look that had washed over the boy's face and the curious gleam in his eyes, she said, "Names are for people with purpose, for those who have someone to love and a life to live and a home to arrive to at the end of each day. They are not for the broken. They are for the people who are blissfully oblivious. They are not for me." And so she walked away, her frail body becoming smaller with each step she took into the distance. And the boy tried calling out to her, but he couldn't. For she had no name.

41

today I watched meek flies die at the center of a grapefruiting sun and marveled as it's feathering wings peeled and spritzed and clouded. *funny how transparent life is. everything that gives takes*

0

Mar 28, 2016

Mar 28, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC

marieniege

grapefruits

today I watched meek flies die at the center of a grapefruiting sun and marveled as it's feathering wings peeled and spritzed and clouded. *funny how transparent life is. everything that gives takes*

6

It is a porcelain battlefield and I hear the brown bodies drop with a wet thwap. I push and strain against the pain to purge this unpleasant thang. Prickly peanuts thick and hard tearing me up as I yell “Arrrrggggh.” Hold on tight, it’s one hell of a fight. A fearsome foe falls once more. Then I hear civilians holler, “God no that’s so gross!” “Oh no, collateral damage!” I think as puffs of spray are spritzed my way, cause in the heat of this hard-won battle, I forgot to shut the door.

0

Aug 31, 2018

Aug 31, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC

graff1980

Untitled

It is a porcelain battlefield and I hear the brown bodies drop with a wet thwap. I push and strain against the pain to purge this unpleasant thang. Prickly peanuts thick and hard tearing me up as I yell “Arrrrggggh.” Hold on tight, it’s one hell of a fight. A fearsome foe falls once more. Then I hear civilians holler, “God no that’s so gross!” “Oh no, collateral damage!” I think as puffs of spray are spritzed my way, cause in the heat of this hard-won battle, I forgot to shut the door.

31

0

Feb 24, 2021

Feb 24, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC