"stickily" poems
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
3.3k
Oh! Honey Honey
Can I be the Honey on your leaf?
Stickily clung
and so sweet
My name a remembered taste
On the tip of your tongue
Honey
and so sweet
So why not?
The air is cold
The bees are tired
won't have to fight for long
My Honey
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
I would like to be that girl;
the protagonist that doesn't cry.
Where she is able to push aside fears and tears, like fog on a mirror.
Her hands aren't afraid to be ***** and ******
But bitterness and anger drool stickily on mine.
Right now, I am what I am.
This is all you get.
And it's not up to myself
for you
to
want me.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
the sun comes down a little earlier around here
a hemisphere away and winter's setting in
but i stopped feeling the cold
a while ago
it used to sting, stickily fresh
but now the wound's healing
knitting together with paralyzing heat
with suffocating heat
just let me breathe
just
let me
i unzippered my chest the other day
let out the butterflies behind my ribcage
spilled sparrowsong from my wrists
good god, i'm finally free
you guys
are all
just
shallow believers
you guys are all
just
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
HOPE
Gushing stickily out of heart
Dripping from the dagger stabbed
Flooding on the floor is my blood.
I sense the deadness of death.
Numerous skulls round his neck
Monstrous foot over my head,
Grim reaper thwarts my throat
Life Sap tastes briny on ground.
Facebook is not what it it is.
Single post can stab to death,
Oozing out of the holy wounds
Blood and water plops but flops.
I can see the Sun setting in zenith
Gleaming rays fall on my eyes
I padlock them to the world
Far-sighted a dawn dawning o'er.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
My bed is full of crumbs:
It's odd how very very dire that is.
I'm surrounded by empty plastic
Things
Containing the memories of food:
Traces, some crusty cheese, a last sip.
And my bed is full of sugary crumbs.
.
My hair clumps stickily to my neck.
The fluorescence of the room flickers -
(The fleeting worry of unfixable darkness)
How terrible it is to be sick in my bed
And sick of my bed.
Sick of nothing, nothing,
Nothing at all
And surrounded by
Hollowed, consumed, abandoned, desiccated,
Used-up, plastic
Things.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
I know I make more mistakes then most people do
But unfortunately do to circumstance I wasn't raised like you
Yes I had a house
Yes I had a mouth
But I didn't have heat
And I had no food to eat
So I may have many under lining mental problems
But no matter how many drugs I take I can't solve them
Why am I the odd one out?
For doing what I did to survive
It's not my fault this society makes 13 year old sell coke to strive
So I did things i may regret
But I was stickily looking out for my own neck
I have anger problems
I'm an addict
A drop out
A failure
An *******
A liar
But in alive
I stayed alive when life wanted me dead
But unfortunately it ****** with my head
I'm a awful person
A downgrade
I hurt the world more then I help
Though I stayed alive
Should I have gone to hell?
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
She dies so elegantly
Glorious gore
Sublimely spattered
Across my senses
Watching crimson syrup
Pool stickily on the floorboards
Putrid tang of copper
Wafting up as I inhale
From the core of my soul
The sudden realization that
Cold has a taste as
I gently lick her life
From my stainless blade
Her banshee death wail
Resonating in my skull
Like a struck gong
Titrating in decibel
Like a tuning fork
As her spirit slowly spirals
Down the drain toward her
Own mortifying vision of hell
Her heart and vitals strewn about
The flat like soiled laundry
Gives rise to a fire in my *****
As my chakras glow with the
Insatiable blood lust burning
In the furnace of my desire
I take a step
Give the sign and
Exit on the square
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
It is Sunday, 7:45am.
The oldest child is scuttling around the kitchen,
I can hear toaster-pastry wrappers
being torn asunder.
Staring at the ceiling fan, with its dusty blades,
my arm extends above my face, my hand separates the pages
of the very first Longmire mystery.
No words have been read for several minutes.
Putting the insurance agent’s business card between the leaves,
the book finds the nightstand.
I roll to face my wife.
Propped on an elbow, I look, rewind a handful of memories and know
I’m in the right bed, in the right place, and am grateful for that knowledge.
That isn’t to say that I’ve never pondered other beds, other ceiling fans;
androcentric honesty with myself proves otherwise, of course.
The adorable high school chubster, crystallized into the stately blonde;
what would it be like, staring at her ceiling fan, lying stickily next to her, trying
to drum up conversation?
I cannot imagine.
Or, the raven haired stunner, with her perfect imperfections;
she steals my breath with every glance, at every venue, every time,
yet, despite the ease with which I can imagine her polished toenails
stabbing the air beside my ears, I cannot imagine her ceiling fan,
nor can I imagine the effort needed to assist her to an aura of comfort
inside her own skin.
So, here, in my home, in my bed, with my wife;
propped on my elbow,
I look at her
and I am glad when she adjusts her position,
her snoring intensifies momentarily
and she chuffs some morning breath into my face.
Dismissing the smell, I am mesmerized by her
fairy saddle of freckles. (I count them. Eighty five.)
I am enthralled with her unruly strawberry-blonde haystack,
the paleness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, and the fullness
of my heart for her.
A minute passes and I have replayed some of our most memorable
moments under this bedroom’s ceiling fan.
Sure, they’ve been sweaty, sticky, and such;
but they’ve given way to some of the best, most honest,
and most vulnerable conversations of my life
and they’ve given me the best people I’ve ever met,
or played a part in making.
Like the blades of a ceiling fan
my thoughts can turn,
my eyes might wander,
but my heart will always
come home.
***
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.
was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more
it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.
it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.
trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.
but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.
wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.
please, let me be,
a thought, complete
and in context.
let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.
it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.
that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
Bleed with me
Bleed as they did
at the typewriter
Be bled
Blood spilled
Paper soaked
with blood
Stickily red
Sickly red
Dripping parchment
Sheets of red gold
The scarlet coloured
stain of truth.
--------------------------------------
*There is nothing to writing
All you do is sit at a typewriter
and bleed*
-Ernest Hemingway
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
*Would you read my letter with my handwriting on it
Even when it’s like run through by a tornado
Would you be all ears when I can’t stop singing,
Even when wrong lyrics I’m uttering
Would you care to dance me with my two left feet
Even when you get your toes filled with bruise
Would you walk in the streets with me wearing weird shirts
Even when people stickily stare us
Would you play hide and sick in a grocery store
Even when the crew gets us *****
Would you run with me and chase geese
Even when they run after us too
Would you give your share in a food trade fair
Even when your stomach glare
Would you eat ice cream with me in the winter
Even when cough and colds got you in between
Would you stole a picture of me in my most awkward moments
Even if I look almost always awful
Would you brush and smell my dull hair
Even if I don’t took a bath
Would you still carry me at your back
Even if I weigh a double
Would you tell me “honestly you’re always pretty”
Even when everybody agreed “I’m ugly”
Would you love all of me, head to toes, inside and out
Even when I’m at the worst and unlovable mode
Would you be thankful
Would you say “I do”
If you do, should we stop this “would you’s”
And begin with “Let me”*
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
For everyone theirs a spot, weather there crazy or weather they're not. They fool themselves they'll fool you and me oh yes they'r great at trickery.
Someone wants them to be, so they'll tell them okay and smile stickily.
They have no integrity, the truth won't set them free, they like it were they are, they're where they want to be.
Though they may lie and shout oppressed, between the two us it's just they're sickly little jest.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on ..........
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
Hardened glue is in my brain
Stickily I play the game
Happy faces cause my pain
Gleeful as I rise to fame
Captured since they know my name
Tears in eyes slowly misting
I discover they are mine
All my dreams they are twisting
Throwing pearls before the swine
Stepping out, I toe the line
No, I won’t, not any more
Throw my talents to the ground
Calmly walking out the door
Heart is suddenly unbound
Swimming bravely to the shore
Feet are firmly on the floor
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
I'm not a game to be played
when feeling bold
then quickly dropped into cold
once your nerve wavers thin
affection shifting to chagrin
looks like I am tricked again
as inauthentic you crept in.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
you are not some toying thing
to be cajoled to dance and sing
as my will does ebb and flow
this is it, there you go, there you go
you hot you cold you shy you bold.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
we are not we and never where
distant boy and gold hair girl
so I do you and you do me
across the sea to shining sea
if we could I think we would
it's written now so should be good
the feels were felt deep under hood.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
there still will be the filling up
your nectar unto my loving cup
I pulled you in you pushed away
the push and pull is how we play
a pretty glisten on the morn
did offer stickily sweet to adorn
fingers tips and lips did drip.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels
we switch it up we switch it down
in penners pens a friendship found
and so unbidden feels abound
I'm laid bare across your knee
my breath held pulse running round
I know you know I want it now 'la fessee'
this newly new thing sees me free
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels
© J.C.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 12:09 AM UTC
I'm not a game to be played
when feeling bold
then quickly dropped into cold
once your nerve wavers thin
affection shifting to chagrin
looks like I am tricked again
as inauthentic you crept in.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
you are not some toying thing
to be cajoled to dance and sing
as my will does ebb and flow
this is it, there you go, there you go
you hot you cold you shy you bold.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
we are not we and never where
distant boy and gold hair girl
so I do you and you do me
across the sea to shining sea
if we could I think we would
it's written now so should be good
the feels were felt deep under hood.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.
there still will be the filling up
your nectar unto my loving cup
I pulled you in you pushed away
the push and pull is how we play
a pretty glisten on the morn
did offer stickily sweet to adorn
fingers tips and lips did drip.
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels
we switch it up we switch it down
in penners pens a friendship found
and so unbidden feels abound
I'm laid bare across your knee
my breath held pulse running round
I know you know I want it now 'la fessee'
this newly new thing sees me free
clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels
J.C. 08/03/2019
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC