"suffices" poems
reaching the back of you
not sure I could. not sure i would.
scent of the crime uncommitted uncovered
the meandering is the man demigod demagogue taking
time
pleasured mercy
the remaindered searchingly
suffices
you don’t speak plain english the only tongue i got
insert the coin in your slot commencing researching the
way in and
don’t think i want to find the way out to the
back of you hiding in the inside learning the way you visualize
playing amy winehouse as an overlaying graph to the autoroute
to the south of france, sur-la-mer, why ever leave and you come
in my mouth poems new each time
no exit. no back of you. stuck in a longingly heaven
this house is my home and I know the sun brightest
when i put my coin in the slot of play and press the
new tune button at 4:10AM
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
It is over. What is over?
Nay, how much is over truly!--
Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
Now the sheaves are gathered newly,
Now the wheat is garnered duly.
It is finished. What is finished?
Much is finished known or unknown:
Lives are finished; time diminished;
Was the fallow field left unsown?
Will these buds be always unblown?
It suffices. What suffices?
All suffices reckoned rightly:
Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
Roses make the bramble sightly,
And the quickening sun shine brightly,
And the latter wind blow lightly,
And my garden teem with spices.
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On this tan cutting board
You earn your corrupted name:
“Alligator pear.”
The serrated blade
Punctures your hide—a balloon
Under a pin’s pressure,
Shades of green furling out.
I’m sure you’d prefer
Vegetable status if you developed
Self-awareness; or maybe
You’d withdraw from knowledge
Of the human type.
I trust my cooking songs—
Slowdive and Chaka Khan—
Can’t hurt you anymore
Than your predestined obliteration;
Mastication via your domesticators:
It all ends in fertilizer.
(Where you began!)
O, avocado, phantom “fruit”
Born of the self-same Life Source,
Schopenhauer’s Will,
My transient enjoyment of you
Within this vegetable salad—
An Achaean enclosed by Trojan blades—
Suffices for a life of sanctity.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
traffic in dreams
the deeper the love
the longer it will be to pay it off
deeper the diamond to carve from your heart
the darker the desire
the more cold cash
the harsher the wind in the lonely night
take sandpaper to your luxurious soul
but you keep its stain from your pretty eyes
pretty face barter for fish n chips
pretty words barter your bed and breakfast
dress it all in fashion from magazines
the strange combination of gloss and paper thin disguise
the strange combination of truth and lies
the greasy haired stranger
peers with all his might into the mirror
trying to find the man hidden within
he traffics in dreams
will sell you a plot of land
and the rainbow that comes with
ten by ten souls wide
ten by ten deep
sell em to you for a taste of the pretty
sell em to you for a touch of the tender
so rancidly reflected in his greasy smile
you thought the weight was easy to bear
thought that the lie you tell yourself suffices
but dreams are brittle thin walls you hide behind
watch the cracks spread across the pretty picture
it is painted with
watch the colors fade like sweet summer sunshine
the sweet wine turned bitter like tears
he sells you a dream that must be forever replaced
with an ever darker version
he sells you a lie that you will come to see vividly
it won't taste so sweet for so long
it will taste like dust
it will taste like loss
you seek him out once again in the dark city passage
his greasy hair fallen long ago
skin gone gray
he found the man in the mirror
he found his answer in all the chaos
tastes like dust
tastes like bitterness
seek him out to find he is gone
only a shell remains
a brittle shell
no-one gets cheap seats
without paying the price
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I do not question whether I am happy or unhappy.
Yet there is one thing that I keep gladly in mind --
that in the great addition (their addition that I abhor)
that has so many numbers, I am not one
of the many units there. In the final sum
I have not been calculated. And this joy suffices me.
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It started with a kiss
Hand in sand
He swept me into the mist
That wasn't the plan
The music rang through both our ears
Playing & playing
Delaying, delaying.
What was this
Not dominance
But a mutual self-inflicted full oneness
Acting out not a doubt
Gain some control
While the body suffices & one feels whole.
Wholeness or numbness one will never know
Whilst playing & playing
Delaying, delaying
The inevitable
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
I'm consumed in the thought of my dear
As i stare at the vast ocean and lay here
The cool breeze that softly brushes my cheek
Reminds me of your touch that makes me weak
This glimmering star is like your smile at day
Such beautiful sight that removes all my dismay
How I long to have you in my arms again
To be with you till the very end
Won't you come and be with me my dear
Remove this pain and all I fear
For it is only your presence that suffices above all
In this love for you I'll always fall
Please embrace me as i close my eyes tonight
You're the only one i need my shining light
Bless me with a kiss from your soul
I'm always yours my darling I call
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
Everything has become so irrelevant.
I'm searching for an explanation but it doesn't add up. Nothing does.
I stay Comprehensive but nothing suffices. Its a case of reversionist logic.
A impending cycle with no absolute meaning. Fog seems to cloud my judgement so my conscious doesn't comply.
Loathed anti prescription swallowed daily, while the white walls and blue ocean make it's scenery.
The voices try to compromise, but it's a debate that holds an never ending rebuttal.
Always forced into the unknown.
But a understanding of me, my voice, my demeanor, and my place in this bounden life circle is lost. So you must believe that no one will understand me.
I consider my self a ancient relic.
I'm one of a kind but not rare.
Cause once someone sees something extraordinary over time, it looses it's taste and someone becomes tired of seeing the same thing over time..
logic at it's finest.
We all soul
search to fill life's embrace of these mixed emotions.
To experience what keeps my sanity afloat.
My vices keep me intent.
In a way of keeping my head up and realize what power Im withholding that makes me immune to unknown circumstances.
But the path to the void is too simple.
My courage consumes and corrupts my will of giving up.
But yet again, it all seems irrelevant. Maybe your point of view on these lines I speak is a clear one. But then again maybe manipulative resources blind you. Or do you see my point?
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
The perfume of your body dulls my sense.
I want nor wine nor **** your breath alone
Suffices. In this moment rare and tense
I worship at your breast. The flower is blown,
The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,
The yellow heart is radiant now with dew
Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South;
O flower of love! I give myself to you.
Uncovered on your couch of figured green,
Here let us linger indivisible.
The portals of your sanctuary unseen
Receive my offering, yielding unto me.
Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!
The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute
Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep,
While we lie loving, passionate and mute.
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368
How sick—to wait—in any place—but thine—
I knew last night—when someone tried to twine—
Thinking—perhaps—that I looked tired—or alone—
Or breaking—almost—with unspoken pain—
And I turned—ducal—
That right—was thine—
One port—suffices—for a Brig—like mine—
Ours be the tossing—wild though the sea—
Rather than a Mooring—unshared by thee.
Ours be the Cargo—unladed—here—
Rather than the “spicy isles—”
And thou—not there—
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It seems that nothing
suffices anymore.
I
discard everything as
useless, don't pay
attention to the
screaming in my
dusty brain. Seems I
can't
endure the simplest
tasks, I break and
feel as if the world
is swallowing me whole.
It's so hard to get
out of bed, let alone
stand
up and face whatever
lies in store for me
that day. Feels like
this
rollercoaster is stopping
soon, coming to an end.
*[My stomach can
stop lurching now.]*
The fun is done, the
ride
is over.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
Beloved earth covers me
so it covers my longing
with time eats everything
but just excuse this heart
my heart is like gold
although my body stinks
because here lives my beloved
and my hope of being one with him at last
how can I give my heart to the earth
my heart is with my beloved
what will I show on the judgment day
I have nothing special
only this heart is all I have earned
no prayers and no meditations
my heart is His, and I am His
and His is my longing/ thirst
how do I ask for Him from Him
When nothing else suffices
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
A drop of sunshine
i sneak glances when i know not to look
for one glance would leave me blind
and broken behind the nook
A drop of moonlight
i search for light, in vain by clouds
you're as hidden as a winter night
and as far away as the wind allows
A spark of darkness
i light up only to have you fade out
silence suffices one to harken
and i hear nothing in her shout
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
Some converted industrial uptown space
$20 brunch at a table for one
Nice and filling it seems, no room in my gut
Nor wondering why I walk gasping for breath
Pouring water, wishing it were alcohol
Too dumb when the check comes to add a figure
Some deep lasting sustenance from that, I figure
Stumbling home down block past shop and vacant space
Nothing sanitizes quite like alcohol
Great to see strangers holding hands one in one
Except I'd claw them and beat out their breath
Wrenched and stuffed I'd kick them in their stupid gut
That's not very nice, I know it in my gut
But somehow don't care much more to figure
Which story to tell or the smell of my breath
When tables for two require just as much space
And a spot at the counter suffices for one
Despite the sadness and lack of alcohol
I think lager, Malbec, other alcohol
And there is some deep craving still in my gut
For drunkenness or eternal truth, which one?
What luck, I'm rescued by a dashing figure
Some vibrations in my pocket fill the space
Imagination comes up to catch its breath
But that's about it, no handsome man with fresh breath
Just me standing in line to buy alcohol
Squeezing past the register makes for tight space
But maybe it's all the sausage in my gut
There's no lasting sense in minding my figure
So long now resigned to the comforts of one
The alternative is an uncertain one
And to explain I feel I'm wasting my breath
But there's no harm in ogling a nice figure
And there's no harm in a little alcohol
Oh, poor decisions, I feel them in my gut
Forgetting prescient matters of Time & Space
Perhaps there is one, sipping on alcohol
Inhaling deep breath, with a fire in his gut
Awaiting a figure to write lines in space.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
Pain's accretion--black snaked with royal purple--
therewith and more of, in cold case of less--
pain inexorable.
Fear's favorite pet spoilt with handling.
Pain's redemptive quality is repulsed by plain
sight, it must mobilize malignancy, purloin the
jury, condemn, palm hope to hopelessness.
Fixity--its host must remain in firm attendance.
Enough is ready...a ripened type of monologue...
the crosshairs of silence.
To grow demented from overstimulation,
breaking the same news to what needs dying.
Fetal position suffices...warm, a spinning vinyl
record scratching toward dawn.
The woodwork calls a name--as a woman hoarse...
with labor pain...rebirth.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
I want the love
familiar chords promise
as I smoke by the windowsill
and think about quitting.
Hair doused in seawater
and drying out in the sun,
a conjured reality suffices
to salt my food, to revive my senses.
I want the love
of an angry mob,
revolution on every tongue
and violence never far from the centre.
The removal of myself
from society coincided with my brief insanity
and I should say that I am never coming back.
I want the love
that remains after that.
In the absence of Jesus,
in the absence of Fact.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
half used
left side remains
empty
although dreams
are filled with company
reality sets in upon wakening
when you realize
the pillow next you
rests unwrinkled
nights are cold
no body to warm up to
nobody to warm up with
so an extra blanket
is the compromise
needing music to sleep
when normally silence
suffices
a bed
can be
one of
the worst reminders
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
even a week is sometimes
not enough to recuperate
from a novel -
something has borrowed too much
time and expects its worth a miracle of
a penny found on the road of
the eternal walker:
long the road toward a majesty
of the riches...
whatever novel it might be -
and with it,
a paralyzing ****** of doubts -
whether sober or intoxicated,
not even when: wine and music
and a book of poetry suffices...
just like now:
Beethoven, kalimotxo,
and the preferred gems by
Frank O'Hara to suit the music...
chez jane and blocks...
if ever there is something
missing in terms of
Beethoven: it's a voice reading
a poem,
but not reading it,
not like a Beatnik who would
read in the furore of jazz
in the past century...
anything more than what
is still not a whisper...
and like some farce of
the sword of Damocles...
the pen of Dickens...
not the labours of a novel,
no... not the month's long
journey into the labyrinth...
music and drinking
simultaneously with a novel
will never work...
but a poem can...
my god... some wine some
classical music and... words...
when there's music and wine
who needs words like
labyrinths when:
just on the tip of the hour's
passing: a bird in the form
of a poem...
all i can say in the most mundane
phrasing...
but i have capitulated
all prior to thrill and audacity
for a novel...
a month's labour:
and silence...
a soul in such hiding...
feels hardly a thought necessary
to reinvent itself in its prior
activity:
an mingling of wine
and music and words: come and go...
like all novels:
as much an accomplishment
of the writer, as an "accomplishment"
of the reader...
and is it so wrong
to not be agitated with emotion
that: a month's worth of
base arithmetic sentences -
the logic of: once upon a time
as the logic: the end...
sanctity of prose:
that sensible nature of that
sensible afternoon
of that sensible life,
of that: unlived crucifix
of a shadow's confiscate;
routine and sitting
akimbo on some far removed
stage:
of a sea knocking
on the door of earth -
seeking rhythm -
or a heart.
as mundane as this language:
i'm not going
to find a different language
to change this evening,
even though not awe:
or relief... but a paralyzing
doubt has overpowered me...
and, come to think of it:
that's still much more
than a heart's worth of
sitting's comforts in
the armchair of apathy.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
I’ll keep my fingers crossed
That fall back will see me back
In your arms for the hour we lack
Give us back the hour we tossed
We spring forward between the flowers
We don’t notice the hour that passes
But somehow that still suffices
To make us slaves to time and hours
We’ll pretend nightly ghosts are our enemies
But I’ve learned the opposite in my twenties
The sun can be just as cruel and mean
If you get caught in all its timely schemes
So turn off the lights and hide with me
We’ll build a temple where we are free
From last minute and a second too late
From years forgotten and maybe our fate
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
*Hey over there you gods of the earth and other planets
Your creature like I, a human mold suffices knowledge not,
As you mightly rove all over the sphere and share domains amongtst thyself
To reign over the whitenes, Jewry, negritude, sinotude plus yakeetude of mankind,
Enjoying your ethereally eyeview onto the earth at your creations,
Permit me to shoot up a guestion to you over there in your deitly realm
Be you jehova of the jews or amadioha of the igbos,god of the english or anything dogmatic,
What happened to your clay mud and tools pertinent in trade of human ****** creation,
So that you of late on umpteenth scale have created men who are women
And beautiful women who are aggressive mefolk and then ubuguitous earthwise ?
What has gone heywire with your human architecture ,when *** organs and feelings
Are center stage beckoning for their traditional orientation ?
Is homoeroticality your new creation technology ?
Or it is man recreating himself ?
Don’t you have enough clay ?
If material matters do you honourable deities
Come to Africa , chief Mugabe bob will guide you to copper-belts
Of chimurenga fields were clay is beyond any control,
In such quests you will go back to goldenly old
Human ****** creation topography
That will glorify your deitiness
In the old manner of hetereoeroticality.*
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
I'd like to think,
That,
From the moment I met you,
I fell inlove with you.
But reality is,
I didn't.
I fell in love with you,
When we couldn't stop texting.
I fell in love with you,
When we spoke for hours on the phone.
I fell in love with you,
When the sight of you
made my heart jump and my palms sweat,
Like it does this very day.
I fell in love with you,
When I started acting all cool and awkward
so I wouldn't make a fool of myself
In front of you.
I fell in love with you,
When you laughed at my jokes
and smiled at me.
I fell in love with you,
When you listened to me complaint
about everything under the sun.
I fell in love with you,
When you put your hand on my shoulder
and told me it would be okey.
I fell in love with you,
As we said goodbye for the first time.
I fell in love with you,
When you rejoiced everytime I came home.
I fell in love with you,
As we fell asleep in movies.
I fell in love with you,
Through the times you loved others.
I fell in love with you,
On the day you told me
you loved me.
I fell in love with you,
As "I Do's" rolled away from our tongues
and we shared out first kiss.
I fell in love with you,
Holding our babies
watching them grow up.
I fell in love with you,
As you hold my hand,
And breathe your last.
So I guess,
It suffices to say,
I fell in love with you,
When I first met you,
And we smiled at each other.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
my beautiful body is killing me,
it longs to seek no rest.
even without weighing myself
every hour is a moral test.
do i even want to be here?
could i be here and just be me?
but every minute is an endless sea
reminding me that i'm never free.
most days i feel like i was never meant to be
because my beautiful body is killing me.
my beautiful body is killing me,
it keeps me as cold as ice.
i no longer feel my fingers from the moment i arise.
and even when i want to eat,
looking at a plate of food usually suffices'.
and i don't want to be this way anymore,
i don't want to be alone.
i don't want to wonder for the rest of my life wondering what its like to have a home...
but no one holds me close enough anyways,
so alone is usually the best way to go.
when i fade away from everything i have ever known,
my beautiful body reassures me its okay -
that its probably better off to die this way.
that i was a failure when i was around them every day.
that i couldn't ever keep up with any game life ever tried to bestow to my name.
and its just better this way.
its just better this way.
my beautiful body calls so much attention,
but never any real recognition.
no true understanding of how strong a mission
it afflicted me with for total abolition.
to leave my mother with all of my favorite sweaters,
in an empty room with empty boxes,
packing away her daughters necklaces and lockets
and praying that it never ended up this way.
that her daughter could just come back one day.
that she had never become a spiritual stray.
that i had never become an apparition with no face, or no name.
my beautiful body is not beautiful,
it ravages me whole. every day that could of been happy
that anorexia stole. i can't help but face the reality that
i'm no longer on parole
i'm back in it again. and i don't want to be.
so don't call me beautiful please.
you just have no idea so you really can't see
how much of a waste of life i grew up to be.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 3:58 PM UTC
Your smile bewildered my thought
Trapped somewhere between fantasy and reality
Kept by a throbbing emotion being fought
All I ask is for you to be with me
Your embrace is my air
A subtle irony is what I feel
Oh destiny let you be fair
And concede time stand still
Your touch alleviate uncertainty
Unburden feelings that suffices to confound
Your love is my symphony
A music that is forever bound
I won’t let it go
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC