"stowaways" poems
Last light on the bay,
The sky stained red
By a butchered day,
Dying with the grace
Of a sinking star.
All of its charm
Chastened by the waves
To its grave.
Because their sharp rebuke
Would be swift
And angered outburst be sound
'That thou should not sail
Where the sky meets the sea
If thou dost not wish
To be drowned'
Out there on the unsound
Ground of a different galaxy,
Where aliens have no right
To be,
And salt bleeches bones
Right down to the grain
Leaving lost,
unfortunate stowaways
Scattered like shells on a beach.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 2:15 PM UTC
Its not the point of killing faith that u will find someone.
Its the action of loneliness and controlling your bonds
Its empty alone and so is pretending to love
You cant make connections not like addiction to drugs.
Save the drug of infatuation.
No reason just meaning less
No selection. Just what drips in your lap
No focus just lenses that crack
The sextant marking starlines that guide your path
is no longer Coordinated calibrated to designate a map
Walk amble climb along to view a moral prefix
to design a way out of a sea just arms length
with the depth of the roots of mesquite trees in the spring
We are all stowaways in a ship waiting to jump to shore.
Trying to find a place to spill seeds in the tilled rows of a *****
The words you whisper are pretty and my minds enthused
tho i know every go at this game i shall lose
Im wandering in a labyrinth
Chasing in a brain
like a rat in a spinning wheel following reflections from a cage
You tricked me. Oh yes. You win
Im no longer a man like all women before you ate the innards left a shell
spit out the hull
Dragged my meat to the floor
One final kiss and i leave, i am missed
You say lies again
i pull off your fist
its on my head
its in my throat
i read words that you spoke
its not my fault
its the blood clot
keeping us unconnected in this note
I am dreaming
secret beaming
red lights blinking
help is sinking
No hope between two
softly stroking
my cross is burning
No fires stoking
On my fore arms
on my chest guard
all is sinking with the funeral
All the voices in my head
are telling me it should be dead
yet the ***** in my soul
tells me that he still pleas for bread
But i starve him
and i lash him
and i strap him to this ledge
for he is wrong
and yes he lies
you're the harpy of my dread
You ******* killed me like i was a lame horse to be put down
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
My imagination runs wild with thoughts of you.
Your footsteps forever embedded in the sand of the beach that is my mind.
"Why sleep?" I used to ask myself.
Now I crave sleep, for in my dreams we can spend an eternity together.
We are not what people say we are, or what we say we are.
We are lovers, dreamers, stowaways, addicts.
We will live on and love on forever,
In our own little infinity.
{alaska}
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Patchwork angel slumped
in the corner chair,
she settled herself carefully
amongst the immigrants, dust-mite communities
who built cities of lint within
her woolen hair.
It began with stowaways
who clung fiercely to cardboard walls
with their transparent hands,
smuggling themselves in
with hoarded nostalgia,
too precious to release but
forgotten once a shiny trinket
attracts the eye.
Hanging her rag-doll head
the wingless wonder
allowed herself an internal sigh,
mute from her
back-stitched mouth,
sewn to silence her opinions
and leave emotions stagnant.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
There in the shadows lurk the darkest of creatures
The stowaways in hiding,
The ones cast from heaven
Constantly at the heels of the vulnerable,
Trying to coax the innocent into their oblivious blunder
To fall back behind, in a never ending slumber
For these, are the Fallen Angels.
Disgraced and abandoned, they contaminate cities
Angered and confused, their wings need mending
They are fighting a war that must always be fought,
Banished from the land in which they were born
The empty night sky is all that is left for them.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
sitting back in my studies,
i guess im home,
old girl,
tried to see me when i wasnt home,
talking slang to others in the parking lot,
they get suspicious when they see the up and coming cops,
federals taking cousins,
dieing in the fear of needing a sense of guilt,
glad there were no guns blasting,
no clarity in the media when he was killed,
born into an unfair life,
like hitting the club full of stowaways
or prostitution all over the streets,
or maybe your uncle shooting drugs in an abandoned place,
guess they were right,
when they said the best things in life were free,
20 got Facebook,
Trying to sneak,
Dont go in the cave,
And dont wake the bears,
Flesh overly tears,
With claws and teeth,
If you mess with his New Family.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
shes a wolf.
a real cool-gal.
the kind that shotguns beer
and fixes cars
and shoots guns off of rooftops.
yeah,
a real gum-off-the-wall-steal
kiss me
before
my teeth fall out
yeah,
tell me im worth-less than this
use me
and ill use you
till we're used up and use to it
yeah,
we're
true garbage kids
fogging up strangers car windows.
just children
huddled so close
in a world full of landfills.
except
i am still trying to get away from you.
tell me..
why do we stay the same?
why don't we cry like the other kids that are left behind?
why do i continue to
live with the stowaways stitched to the bottom of your pockets?
take me somewhere new.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
these serotonin sentiments seem
to be sustained by sick fantasies
of misplaced affection
dopamine deficiency disrupts delinquency
reminding me that
lackluster lusts are only passing passions
and we here are all unlucky passengers
harbingers of each other's suffering
stowaways on this interstellar starship
called planet Earth
where perception signifies
the faulty frailty of unreality
all the while
exchanging integrity for a fragrance of hope
that we might somehow terminate strife
tacit tactics can't alleviate anguish
only forestall future fractures behind
a flimsy facade of fortune-teller fairy tales
but we all know how the stories end
and no happy ever after exists
in this blissful ignorance you call a life
so when you stand at my grave and weep
when they lower me 6 ft. deep
know this promise is yours to keep
it's too late
now
i'm already gone
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
milk jade spiders
stowaways from our past home
a pout of breeding pouch
appears
our new home is similarly blessed
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 4:44 PM UTC