"spying" poems
\ih-SPAHY-uhl\
noun
1. the act of spying.
2. the act of keeping watch; observation.
Quotes
The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
-- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, 1838
s
Origin
Espial is related to the word espy, which comes from the German word spähen meaning "to spy." The suffix -al forms nouns from verbs, as in the word refusal.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
There’s a Devil of a night each year, the night of Mr. Haim!
When the devilish and ghoulie ones come out to play their monster’s game.
And why some would seek to trick or treat on this scary day of dead?
Careful now cause gremlins, trolls …sprites and wolves, will offer up their dread!
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots…
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
That crafty-smith of horns and hooves is spying on these kiddies,
As Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo are hunting strays to do their dastardly-ditties.
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots,
And their costumes, oh-so-foul, the evilest of suits!
And there she is, that little girl who can’t keep up, in a tasty mushroom ensemble.
And the skeleton bones clink in her path to give her quite a tomble!
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
And Sammy Haim, that smithy-devil, a ***** hoof -igniting ghoul’s desire,
He’s howling out, demanding now, “Put that child to the fire!”
And little does he know, no little bit, not even a small clue,
Neither Ra’atan-Zu nor Boogedy-Boo intend on giving him his due!
For once a year on Halloween they get one night to spaz,
Get down and ***** wild and crazy and play a little jazz!
That little mushroom of a girl will play a tiny fiddle,
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo, a jazzy duet with child in middle!'
Ra’atan-Zu, Boogedy-Boo and a little girl too as they get down actin’ a spaz! Playin’ all night, howling to the moon and kickin’ out some wicked jazz!
*And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
Family what is family.
The people that decide to catch you before you fall.
Or the people that decide to pick up the broken pieces when you’ve been smashed into millions.
The millions of millions that no one else would be willing to pick up.
Even if those millions of millions was just a game to pick up a few missing parts.
They are the ones that will build a fortress around you and tell you the world is not safe for you my child.
But they will let down that gate, even knowing that the world isn’t good enough for you.
Family will have left the gate open for you to leave, but they will always beg for you not to go.
Even after you’ve left that mighty fortress they built all for you, they will cast themselves out to watch over you.
They will be the birds spying over your life, seeming to always be there, singing along to your tune of life.
Although family will also be the birds waiting above in the trees, ruining the new wash done to your car.
They will always mean to do their best; they will give all of what they can give and more.
No matter if they have to fight off the jackals of fate to speak to you once more, they will find a way.
If you are in another castle they will travel once more and once more until they find you again.
No matter how lost you become they will find the light in the deepest of caverns.
And if there is no light they will bring their own, because they know what will lighten you up.
Understanding they will be, knowing that tough times are tough to get out of.
With that knowledge they will be the best to have around, they are the ones that will accept that we all sometimes frown.
They are the blessing of life not only because they build fortresses around you, but have the ability to let you live.
No, they are a blessing because whenever you finally find out that they were the reason to so much happiness.
They will be there wondering, **** how did you just find out?
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on my beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.
Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone I invented.
A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the comfort.
The will to pull me off the train,
The weight of every station,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the awkward silence after the cosmic joke.
I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.
-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
.. For as flying.
Spying
Places repose.
Dream, suppose.
Dreams loll without respite Shady oak. Bright swirl spring breeze
Of green crisp apple bite. Shelter bespoke. Insects morn, vast seas
As gold burns warmer. Sleep, still abuzz. Clouds as beat wings
Sun shadows corner Seconds love. Million insects sing
Dreaming more light Eyes shut, island. Time goes, seconds fit
Colours mix despite. Twig woodland. Seen today, exquisite
Great light bested. Instant, rested. The rays pestered
Shadows nested Dreams vivid. Up, now rested
Colours
Mull
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
That's Mugwort
and that's Red Sorrel
and that over there
is Red Campion
Jane said
we were walking
on the Downs
the sky
summery warm
almost cloudless
cattle mooed nearby
a flock of birds
flew over
our heads
her hand held mine
skin on skin
warm
soft
I sensed an appley scent
about her
we had kissed
the day before
and it had been
other worldly
and now
I wanted to kiss again
but didn't want
to push forward
but wait to see
what happened
and that
she said
is White Deadnettle
smiling at me
you know
the countryside well
I said
well you Londoners
know nothing of it
but at least
you want to learn
she said
I liked the flowery dress
she was wearing
red and yellow
with a yellow sash
tied about her
and the white
ankle socks
and black shoes
(slightly muddy)
I observed her carefully
wanting to know
more of her
of nature
of us
and that bird back there
was a pheasant
she said
we paused
in the corn field
and looked back
up towards the Downs
and she turned to me
and kissed me
and held me close
and I felt almost
absorbed into her body
and wanted
to feel more and more
and she parted
and said
I'm no expert
on kissing
was that all right?
not sure
I'll need to try again
I said smiling
and she took my hand
and squeezed it
and kissed me again
and the cattle
mooed louder
and a bird
flew overhead spying
before it took off
in the sky high flying.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
there's a spy inside the airport
Don't ask me how I know
Just believe me when I tell you
It's your job to make him show
He's somewhere in there hiding
watching, doing spy like things
he has a spylike briefcase
tied with spylike strings
He wears a spylike trenchcoat
He's hiding in plain sight
Looking for a spy at the airport
Can occupy a child's night
You know that someone's spying
But you don't know who
And you might be the spy in hiding
If their parents act as you
A child is alerted
By a man who wears dark glasses
He's looking for an airport spy
It's speeds up how time passes
You can keep a child busy
Looking for a secret spy
You know ones at the airport
Waiting for their time to fly
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
Look, you have now broken your back bone
Because of climbing tall trees and high balconies
To spy on your wife as she roves the village,
You climbed a Tall baobab tree up to the apex
To play sentry and spy on your wife
When she went down the river to fetch some water
For you to bathe and wash your jealousy body
And when she met her brother-in –law;
The man from another village across the river
Who greeted her with a prolonged hug
Embracing your wife in his strong arms
They way a giant can do to a beauty model,
Feat of goofy jealous gripped you
And you forgot that you were perching in high danger
At the top of the baobab tree, you left yourself unsupported
As all selfish men can in feats of irrationality
Coming down like a sack of wet sand
Falling in a thud, breaking your poor backbone!
Dude; be warned from spying on your wife.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton.
Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started
Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my
Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston
Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks
Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own
Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between
My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit.
Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to
Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks.
"Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers.
Wednesday is my day for telling the truth.
2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado.
"I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
Oh, sad Poet,
cartographer
of the heart,
mapping the geography
where sadness
is the topography
of your soul.
Oh, Cousteau
of the changing tides,
like an oceanographer,
an admiral spying
the enemy on the horizon.
Your sorrow comes and goes.
Oh, builder of sad dreams
in your house of many rooms,
but one door. Like a grave,
a casket shellacked with
black paint, a mural
of a shadow on the wall.
Architectural sorrow.
Oh, you sad Poet,
open your eyes,
paint us a poem of a rose.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Dysphoria, what does it feel like?
They sigh, trying to find a single sentence for years of caged silence.
Identity: Female
Stuck in the wrong way
To me it’s a sense of nothing will ever be right
The feeling of being in extreme danger
Like you’re about to die
Identity: Male
All I can say is
This isn’t me
The feeling is a long and windy explanation of
Disassociation
There are things about me that I don’t associate with myself
And it’s weird and confusing
When I become aware of them
Identity: **** A drag queen? Trans fluid.
Dysphoria...
It's a lot like,
Anger,
Betrayal,
An itch
Like a really itchy sweater,
You can’t take it off
And the longer you have to wear it the worse it gets
You start to hate yourself because
You’re the one that put the sweater on in the first place
They say we are ill
Broken
******
***
“Butch”
It’s not correct
When they say it’s their right to say those
That’s when I get mad
If there is no way to make the mind conform to the body
You must make the body conform to the mind
If they think it’s their right to tell other people that their identity is wrong,
Then they are ill and broken
They have no f**king clue
And I know,
I can’t tell them they’re wrong
Without telling them why
But I realize
Explaining this is futile
With closed minded people
Bathrooms need to change, Health care needs to change, Identification needs to change
People are forced to “pick one”
Trans-phobia shouldn’t be tolerated
Mental health care shouldn’t be because it’s a “defect”
Social pressure, Internalized oppression, Abuse,
Shouldn’t
Be
Tolerated
Politicians have got it the wrong way around
One in two transgender persons have experienced ****** assault
One. In. Two.
They say, “We don’t want men undercover spying on our women and children”
You think they are in there to spy or ****
Name more than two cases in the last 25 years
Where a transgender person has sexually abused a woman in the ladies bathroom
You can’t
But give me five minutes, and I can come up with five to eight names of transgender people
That have been assaulted in bathrooms since 2019 started
But our Pride cannot be destroyed
It’s our strength
A feeling of belonging
A belief that we can change this
We are not alone.
We Are Not Alone.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
Every year it was brought down from the garage rafters. Green metal frame and
springs, green canvas with white fringe and a little green pillow. It was laid out, hosed
off and erected. Grandpa couldn't have done it without us grand kids. He said so. It
was placed in a spot of honor. Just a couple of feet from the picnic table and in a spot
that was always in the afternoon shade. A folding T.V. tray was placed next to it to
hold cold drinks and snacks. Within a few days, the grass under the frame would be
brown and dead. The grass at the sides of the hammock would just be plain gone.
Scuffed away by feet, as we kids sat on the edge and swayed side to side.
After mowing the lawn, washing the car, or doing any other chores needed, Grandpa
would go inside and put on his "Hammock clothes". This consisted of a pair of Bermuda
shorts and a ribbed tank style Tee. White socks and brown sandals completed the
outfit. Once dressed appropriately, he would head for the hammock. The first "sit" of
the summer season was always a bit touchy. One had to get use to the hang of it.
There he would stand, next to the hammock. Cold drink in his one hand, the T.V. tray
forgotten. His slightly bald head and stick thin legs already slightly sun burned. Slowly,
he would start to lower himself. Reaching back with his free hand to grab the edge of
the hammock.
Note** of course us kids, grandma and mom would all be spying out of the corner of
our eyes to watch this ritual.
Then came the "Grandpa Sit". Grandpa would rock slightly forward and back on his
feet. 1-2-3 and ....SIT! A few wobbles. A couple sloshes of his lemonade. All of us
yelling "Whooooaaaaaa". He would sit there on the edge of the hammock, holding
himself steady with one hand on the edge. His feet firmly planted on the grass and his
other hand holding his cold drink high aloft.
Now, the sandals needed to be taken off. One of us grand kids would run over and
help take them off. Tickling his feet as we did so.
So far, no damage to life or limb.
Ah, but he was not yet fully on the hammock yet.
Now came the "Swing and lie down" move.
Slowly, grandpa would reach behind himself and grasp the far edge of the canvas.
drink in his other hand still held aloft. O.K.....1-2-3...SWING the legs up and quickly lie
back. Let the hammock come to a stop.
Where's Grandpa?
On the ground on the other side of the hammock soaked in lemonade.
Summer was officially started!
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
The man to my right was more than eight feet away. I was going to have to move closer to him to catch my limit of four trout. I halved the distance between the two of us and noted the sideways glance he shot me. I apologized immediately and asked if I was crowding him.
“No, you fine,” he replied within a thick Serbian accent.
“You’re with them?” I asked, pointing to the crowd of people on the bridge some 30 feet upstream from us. I had heard the crowd of eastern Europeans talking earlier, and their accents were unmistakable to me. He nodded and we continued fishing.
With my new angle I was better able to pick my fish in the water, so that’s what I did. I spied one and tossed my jig toward him. It took five casts but eventually, he took the bait. As I netted it in the swift, ice-cold spring water the man beside me congratulated me on the catch. I thanked him and added it to my stringer. This made three, and I only needed one more.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Ivan”.
“Have you been in the states long?” I asked, after the pause following his short reply seemed to invite more questions.
“Since ‘96, my family live here. It is good.”
“You like living here?” I wondered aloud.
“Yes, the fishing is good. It is like back home in Serbia, or in Germany. We have this fishing there.”
“You mean trout?”
“Yes, trout...and some other fish like these, in water like this, but I can’t go home now.” He looked away momentarily. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. I pulled my line in, wanting to ask him more and not wanting to be distracted.
“Were you in the war?”
“Yes, I was in the Serbian police force.” My heart pounded. “When I was in the Serbian police force, we did what you see on the news. We went into villages and we killed them. We killed them all.”
I cast my line back into the water, spying another trout. Ivan shrugged and cast his own line. I couldn’t tell what he was using but it looked like cheese of some kind. “I was drafted in Serb police when I was 15. I had no choice. If I refuse, they **** me. I did what I had to do.” I nodded, and ****** my line, missing a fish. “Before the war, I fished. After the war, there were not so many people, so fishing was very good.”
The air around me was alive. The trees were greener, the water was colder and clearer, the sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer.
“I’ve been fishing for a long time as well,” I responded. My father used to bring me here as a child. He nodded and continued.
“After the war, all the fish come back, no one fished during the war, so there were many of them. You just had to be careful of the mines.” He grunted and gazed skyward.
“The mines?”
“Yes, during the war they mined the water.”
I watched trout number four take my jig and I carefully reeled him in. Ivan congratulated me a second time, and I thanked him in return.
“You’re a good fisherman,” he said turning back to his own pursuit of the four-trout limit, as I left the water to clean my catch.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
Abundant With Life The River Stretches Its Body,
Bending And Winding Around The Earth's *****
Cormorants Swim Happily-Their Wings Tucked,
Diving Into The Clear Water As My Warming Soul
Embeds Itself Into The Folds Upon Her Surface,
Fish Swim In Schools Among The Weeds While
Gators Quietly Lurk In The Darkened Shadows,
Herons Stare Deep Into The River; Spying A Meal,
I Felt So Alive, So Free Over The Turqouise Water,
Jungle Like Trees Waved To Me As I Floated By,
Kayaking Really Soothes The Soul, I Realized
Lifting My Paddle Out Of The Water Then Back In,
Maliable The Water Beneath Me Swirled Between,
Nothingness, And Nobody, Here And Now,
Old And Ancient, Spiraling Where Secrets Are Kept,
Plunging Into Her A Slight Drizzle Disturbed The
Quiet Calm That Lapped Upon Her Cheeks As The
Rain Grew Heavier, While The Sky Broke In Two,
Silent My Kayak Drifted, Following The Currents,
Tugging Me Through The Almost Blinding Rains,
Under The Rolling Droplets My Skin Grew Cold,
Vibrance Of The Water Below Then Warmed My Core,
While I Drifted Back To Shore I Awaited For The
Xenophobic World To Come Back Into My Life,
Yelling Loud To The Heavens My Soul Spoke Of A Wish,
Zealous The World Should Be, Great Spirit,
Take Them To The River
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
I've been sedated and sold
bought by gypsy ways
my inhibitions have been stolen
by mundane sober days
I've been troubled and wandering
trying to find a place to lay
but the sleeping don't bring rest
so I found a place to play
shisha smoke fills my mouth
MDMA rolls hard
in the back of my eyes
and there's no feeling lonely
no hours to own me
no imperfections to hold me
in knowing no place as home
in my eyes
child fires
bright with delight
and hunger for more
my memory written down quickly
in thin white asp bite lines
crimes of the right mind
the creative souls borderlines
sweat rolls over my body
my arms find the sky
I can't see the ugliness
spying through childs eyes
with my hands
razor blade shakes
my poetry's written
one line at a time
and there's no feeling helpless
no reminders of distress
wandering free and careless
in knowing no place as home
in my eyes
child fires
bright with delight
and hunger for more
I hear music even in the hush
MDMA lusch, I crave life
with a violent crush
with two wide lines
and the life of one white pill
my life is filled
with more beauty than I can stand
until I can't even stand
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Billy Joe Clown walked down the street.
Looking for a good treat to eat.
Billy Joe Clown walked all around.
Not a single good treat, Billy Joe felt down.
But out of nowhere, came, something nice, and good.
Jeffrey Joe Child, a treat, eat it he absolutely should.
So Billy Joe Clown swooped right to the scene.
And tried his best, not to look mean.
Eyes open wide, he came to the peasant.
“Would you like a present?
Or a great big surprise?
Something served with fries?”
Billy Joe Clown said, as he smiled so wide.
“Why yes I would,” said the good child, who had nothing to hide.
And so with the quickness of a cat or a bear.
Billy Joe Clown took out a cleaver.
But the child didn’t care, so to his surprise.
He chopped up poor Jeffrey. And ate him with a Big Mac burger and fries.
Oh such a demise.
Oh such a surprise.
So if in the future, your a peasant or a pheasant.
And you hear these Clown words, “Do you want present?
Or a great big surprise?”
Run like the wind, before Joe chops you to size.
Cause he’s always out there and he’s never to die.
Chopping up children, and eating his fries.
Perhaps he’s out there right now,
Don’t ask me how.
Perhaps he’s spying on you.
Looks like Honey Boo Boo.
It wouldn’t be a surprise, to me or you.
For Jeffrey Joe Child read this poem, too.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.
My one and noble heart has witnesses
In all love's countries, that will ***** awake;
And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,
The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.
2.7k
The Ravens
On a rainy night so boring
I heard Munin soundly snoring,
I grew tired of my poring
Perched above Valhalla’s door.
“Munin!”, screeched I to the ceiling,
Sending the poor fellow reeling,
“Let’s deal out a joke to Odin,
One that he’ll be falling for -
Just one joke, and nothing more.”
After barrow ghosts-invoking
Odin entered, wet and soaking,
And I started with my croaking
From the dark above the door:
“I’m the first and oldest Volva!
All my secrets I could tell ya,
For the right price I might sell, yeah”,
And I cawed, “Would you know more?”
(He is crazy about lore.)
“What!”, cried Odin, “Quick, be talking!
At the price I won’t be balking.
Searching wisdom, I’ve been walking
Wandering from door to door.
Let my need for knowledge reach you,
All my own skills I would teach you;
Tell me all now, I beseech you!”
Quoth I grinning, “Nevermore!”
(Just a jest, and nothing more.)
Odin with frustration sputtering,
Munin laughing, wildly fluttering,
I was dead-pan and kept uttering
Nonsense about hidden lore.
For his need he found no quelling,
All Valhall woke from his yelling –
Oh, the fun to keep on telling
Him that one word, “Nevermore!”
(We thought it was a joke, no more.)
In the morning ceased his raving,
But that did not end his craving,
And we saw our master waving
To our roost above the door.
“Friends”, he said, “Now I will ride out;
Over Midgard you shall glide out:
Seek the Volva in her hideout!”
- Then it felt a joke no more.
(And Munin, to this day, is sore.)
Every day we must keep flying,
Always for that “Volva” spying,
Acting as though we were trying;
Well, the joke’s on us, for sho…
To escape a rightful chiding,
To this day the truth we’re hiding;
By this tale we are abiding,
And we’ll tell you nothing more!
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Sometimes it’s something, as
Simple and clean, tapping my
***** hat forwards, and
Kicking my back heel against
The wall.
Sometimes it’s the dank cavern
Of a Dodge’s backseat.
The frozen entrance to the
Diseased freeway, breathing words
Of tragedy and paranoia.
But, sometimes, it’s
The painted landscape of a
Beach, that hung in the
Girl’s TV room, Lodged in place.
I contact my mind’s
Travel agent, to find it, and
Wearing Ricky’s sweatshirt I
Stare at the open water.
Mindful of sharks,
And the smell of ***
Or sometimes, Svedka.
Or I’ll stare into Sam’s eyes,
Wishing instead to be
Spying the bottom of
Jacky’s bottle.
Or Mary’s bowl.
And when my *** hits the ground,
I’ll look up, this time,
And just like last time, the
Trees will melt. Dripping like
Engine sludge, onto a pavement.
Behind the pool of
Vaporized reality, walls of
Fire rise, so I’ll sit
Back a bit.
But sometimes, it is too much.
And I’m down on my
****** kneecaps,
Appealing to the apparitions.
Begging for a
Box of wine.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
*Coiled golden serpent, furiously hisses from behind the thicket,
hiding mongoose, wakes up from its siesta, gets alert,
game of life and death, spying on each other goes on nonstop,
death hidden in serpent either surrenders or escapes now and awaits its next chance.*
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
He peeps through the looking glass of life.
Emotionally detached, a social recluse.
Avoid eye contact.
Avoid eye contact.
Don't dare look at me!
That's right you've seen him!
But.... Have you actually seen him?
Or is he just a figment of your imagination?
For he's the stalker.
Lurking about in the shadows.
Spying on you from afar through those holes in the wall.
A human CCTV system looking you up and down when you least expect it.
Recording your every move in the memory bank.
Voyeuristic tendencies with the inability to openly admit he's one step away from the psychiatric ward.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead
Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants
Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,
Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.
Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,
Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,
That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last
Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap
Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****
Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that
Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe
Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton
Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there
Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC