"suspecting" poems
Softly seductive, some solvent serenity
Under unbelievable umbrella unlimited
Basking baked, both bonafide believers
Making music more meaningful, memory's made
Intellectual, introspective, incalculably impervious
So **** said sits salted, suspecting supplantation
Soon silly slips said summarize serendipitous
Indefinitely inplosive, internalized into intangible inflagrante
Viciousness voided, vague variables vital
Eroticism enduring, end erit empathy
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
1657
Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.
How fair on looking back, the Day
We sauntered from the Door—
Unconscious our returning,
But discover it no more.
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A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
The leopard and the lion chose to become friends,
For they were all proud of claws on their paws
They each glorified one another for their mighty,
Ability to live on meat of other fauna throughout a year,
They each admired one another for running speed,
They each remained firm and loyal to one rule;
Lions don’t eat leopards neither leopards eat lions.
They felt warmth in their companionship without verve,
Until the time they initiated a certain joint venture;
To hunt an antelope as it was famed to be the sweetest,
Again, there had remained one antelope only in the world,
They dilly and not dallied anyhow about such glittering project,
They both endevoured to set forth by each dawn for a whole year,
Tediously hunting throughout a day, the lion doing a great part,
Setting ambuscades and arduously sleuthing to orient on trail,
The leopard severally fainted in the field due to exhaustion,
On one eve of christmas day, the lion captured the prey,
When the leopard was a sleep shivering in fevers of malaria,
Their prey was a middle aged female antelope with swollen hips.
The leopard was sparked to fire of life by a mysterious fillip,
He boldly requested work, now to help the lion in carrying,
The un-suspecting lion relinquished the carcass to the leopard,
Feat of shrewdness gripped the leopard, he took off
Running away with a lightening speed, the antelope on his mouth,
The lion again began to chase, shouting to the leopard,
To be a gentleman and stop running, for them to share the plunder,
The leopard never listened, he craftily climbed to the apex,
Of the most tall and most slippery tree, he perched at the peak
With the antelope on his muscular mandibles of voracity,
The lion remained at the stem, wailing like a toddler
His family does not climb trees, not even a shrub,
The lion wailed, using all styles of wailing,
Pleading with the leopard to donate even an iota,
Not even a small piece of antelope bone dropped
To drop on the ground for the lion to taste,
Human leopards are not good hunting companions.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
167
To learn the Transport by the Pain
As Blind Men learn the sun!
To die of thirst—suspecting
That Brooks in Meadows run!
To stay the homesick—homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore—
Haunted by native lands, the while—
And blue—beloved air!
This is the Sovereign Anguish!
This—the signal woe!
These are the patient “Laureates”
Whose voices—trained—below—
Ascend in ceaseless Carol—
Inaudible, indeed,
To us—the duller scholars
Of the Mysterious Bard!
3.5k
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
or …
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
And you
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
I’m definitely Matrixed in,
feel like every girlfriend is a program,
feel like every experience is a dream,
feel like I don’t feel anything at all now,
maybe I’m a machine,
maybe I’m not a human being,
maybe I’m more cyborg than Sapien,
maybe I’m more electron than neuron,
and maybe none of this matters,
maybe we’re cogs in the vehicle,
maybe we’re abnormal cyborgs,
more flamboyant than incog,
more insignificant and important,
and maybe I’m special,
and maybe I do stand out more than most,
but at the end of the day I don’t think it matters,
because when it’s all said and done everything is just dust,
no justice,
it’s justice,
feeling a bit awkward and bazaar,
suspecting that they spiked the fruit punch,
and I don’t know for sure that none of this is real,
but I do have a pretty strong hunch,
want fresh squeezed not pre-made,
want a spontaneous feeling not an automated response,
want to stay here with you for as long as I can,
but I think that might be impossible because I’m probably already gone,
so please say something real or say nothing at all,
constantly trying to find ways to reaffirm our existence,
that’s why I still go out socialize and initiate relationships,
even though every time I do it all feels sterile cliche and pre-rehearsed,
but maybe that’s because we’re living in a Matrix,
I’m definitely Matrixed in,
feel like every girlfriend is a program,
feel like every experience is a dream,
feel like I don’t feel anything at all now…
∆ LaLux ∆
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
Still hunger for your skin,
thirsting the lips that
once melded into mine
one last blissful night together
flowing of wine and passion,
never suspecting you were
letting me down easy,
our hearts were in sync -
or so I was led to believe
veiled in ecstasy,
a cruelty worse than death
in the least, dying has a final chapter
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
We can all spit on those tablets of stone,
the trinity's on hiatus,
the devil's alone,
School's out for training
it's raining hell fire and the bishops
are recording the antediluvian choir.
Noah's going to Goa,
A lot safer than here,
they say Indian beer's the best.
With his wood and an axe and
several packs of cool Cobra, he sails
into the wind and ends up in the Gobi.
On the edge of a rainbow
'jump Noah',
'don't go',
two people are shouting,
somebody's outing the sailor.
The choir got wrecked on microdot specks and
suspecting the worst, the bishops in Rome
all spit on the tablets hacked out from rough stone,
it was a quiet day in the Vatican, no miracles pronounced
in Perpignan, no Lady of Lourdes, no shroud of Turin,
only the blessing of Geneva dry gin.
Angels with harps all ****** as farts and
the devil sits alone.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.
1.7k
I trembled in darkness, ashamed and alone
My cold, loveless heart was as hard as a stone.
Too frightened to venture outside in the light
Yet hating each moment of this endless night
The demons were whispering lies in my ears
Confounding my doubts and confirming my fears.
I wanted to die and to end all the pain
But ‘twas then that I heard a voice calling my name
“Fear not” the voice said, and I looked all around
Trying vainly to discern the source of this sound
No one could I see, and I thought in despair
“I only imagined that someone was there.”
But again the voice boomed, and it lit a small spark
In my heart where so long there’d been nothing but dark
“Where are you?” I cried, still suspecting some trick
And I peered through the blackness that pressed in so thick
From deep in the shadows a figure came toward me
With kind eyes that knew me and saw who I could be
With a robe white as snow and a face pure and loving
He held out His hand to me, though I was nothing
Then the door opened wide and the light shone in brightly
But this wasn’t a choice that I could take lightly
“I’m too scared” I whispered, my face wet with tears
“Then trust me” He said “and be free of your fears.”
I took one step forward, my heart beating fast
Hope sprung up anew. Would I be free at last?
Bathed in sweet sunlight and breathing fresh air,
Knowing my Savior would always be there,
This was perfection, such sweet paradise
Freedom at last from fear’s cold, clinging vice
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
We’re making movies that no one will see,
about things that mean the world to us,
at a certain moment in time and space,
but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.
We never regret the echo in the large hall,
nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other
during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –
their tears are ours,
their love,
despair and
hunger for life
will be included in next month’s newsletter.
We’re making movies about those parts of our lives
that weren’t played out so well.
It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.
We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” –
intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds.
It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.
We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.
We wake up in the middle of the night,
running the entire dialogue list in our head,
sleepwalking through the entire movie,
screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,
“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.
We’re making (silent) movies because
we’re tired of all this noise,
because
that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our lives
and some frames to be proud of.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong
nor that we possess the ultimate truth.
No.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful
and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.
No.
We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,
that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.
We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way,
the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate
and diss in the digital environment,
as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shots
and not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!
We’re making movies because
we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves,
like I’m doing right now.
Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. **** You know what?
The truth is that we’re not making movies.
We’re making moves.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Hate feeling..
skin peeling..
world of hurt..
pain so pure..
Scratching nails..
down the walls..
Disrespectful..
unresolved..
feeling scared & suspecting..
drowning ties..
imperfective..
lying vows..
stupid pictures..
pushing me..
a wayward drifter..
let me leave this fake abode..
broken pieces..
left alone
run away..
my deepest yearning..
downward spiral..
slowly burning..
greater trials..
approaching me..
phony manic..
eloping me..
a broken bone..
an ugly scar..
hurting when it rains..
like a former fracture..
the limb will never be the same..
falling off a tree..
I'll run the hurt away..
although encaged in this dilemma..
I know I have to stay..
I recognize the ledge,
but I'll always hold the rope..
For when your balance falters..
I'll be your only hope..
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:06 AM UTC
finally its a glacial melting
of cold stark undertakings took standing
falling failing wounded kicked down beaten
while the beast was surely overcome beyond all
mercy; the soul sold by whatever devils bargaining
body beaten by voodooed ***** till worth extracted yet
worthless made mad into madness itself devils not so friendly
now; but time and time again possibility can be and is reborn then
still many mountains many spills many failings pains accusations pills
there a heart warms beats again here a bit and there what rhyme and reason
if not ones own can one wounded heartless warrior predict; mercy here sweetness
there one day you can feel once in a while you think you may be able to care; you love
you lay out all compassion, careful without flattery and thee endearing; one is so suspecting
the other heart ache clear dearly, you think you may too be human and a warm heart and hands
tender may mercy touching all creation but there is no witness alone; but ever closer ever looser losing
all senseless and of all reality; then they play ya...they play you player; hate the game that is their life; where
things we want are more than things we need and they are not each other; and they do not come from the earth; and we are all so 21 forever......better take from other and I've been like 3 and 99 more forever and take trips so like 30 trillions of light years this life alone.... and it's excruciatingly beautiful alone together, and the pain is so beautiful here for it is given between the here All beautiful place and way but for our chosen willingness, it's quite simple again again,
i long for one warm heart again someday where we can be afire again across this universe, for this body wills as much as this heart mind soul understands believes accepts and knows just one thing; so it's alright one will do i sense many yet somehow it seems what ya get is the proverbial of instead
nine cold shoulders!!!
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
Qualified Abstinence
I’ve decided - though not wholly -
As of morning’s bath - to put on hold
The daily custom, habit’s viewing -
NCIS, Dr Phil - suspecting as I do
That they are doing me some harm
Engaging, charming
as they are.
Mind as thought and mind as stomach,
Turn to worry, churn with fear
As states of things in world and home,
Play out the clearer,
Signs maturing in their chaos,
Ever growing, ever baiting;
Making brilliant, analytical dear Phil
Ever more mouth-watering.
Well-loved NCIS plays its part,
Portraying nations torn apart
With ever cleverer technologies
And cleverer–type baddies
Getting ‘theirs’ from even smarter good guys.
If then, strong enough to not back off,
The morning TV staying off,
Then maybe, only maybe
This old belly
Can restore its tranquil peristalsis,
Family squabbles turning babble to a kiss.
Phil, dear Phil, continue to be wise and kind!
NCIS’ cast: brave, cuddly and seasoned -
Flag unfurled, continue to engage yourselves
In world salvation!
Stationing my thoughts in action,
I must leave you both
To carry myself into truth
As cellular Arlene conceives, perceives,
Inherently achieves it.
(If, of course, l don’t fall back into the -
(crude, ill-mannered rude word) shit!
Qualified Abstinence 7.20.2014
Pure Nakedness; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
arlene corwin poetry.com
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Depressed and bored but not paranoid at all
Marvin had all the solutions for the Universe
But he was sad, with a billion years of boredom
Waiting tables nightly at the End of the Universe
While awaiting the arrival of his Heart of Gold.
We meet our paranoid Marvins every day
Friendless beings fearing mortal threats
From us, the great unwashed human herd
Suspecting everyone, enemies everywhere
Unconscious of their need for a real hug today.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
Is it the pompous pope
That blessed off tanks
And hailed fighter Jets
Bombs to drop,
On modestly armed patriots
Marching for a fair battle
Entertaining hope,
Not suspecting
A non-stop
Rain of
Banned poisonous gas
Lethal as Nazis
Mass destructive soap?
What is more
Is it
The self seeking pope
That sacrificed
An independent
Country, a push over,
Expecting a reward handsome
- an earthly kingdom?
Or
Is it the martyr monk
Who warned(cursed) the people
And land
To fascist colonizers
Not to give a hand?
What is more
Is it the
Selfless monk
Who was atrociously
By atavists
Gunned down
Scanning the sky for
A heavenly crown!
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
From flowing rivers of light, you will become a comet-star left alone, who has deliberately deviated from its now predictable orbit around the earth and, true to itself, wanders in the galaxies of infinite cosmos, because it is driven by some unknown-familiar homesickness-Odyssey.
You will sooner or later only take off the Enkidu-shroud of your body before your calculated mortality, as you yourself know that even a simple man sets off on his own towards the other shores of the underworld, no one can accompany him. Your restless, self-defeating Soul wanders on the paths of the deceived; it would be good for you to find your own depth and height inside. Because be careful!
This current mud-world offers only superficial, old, tinsel-like brilliance, nothing else, with which the greedy loyalty-chambers of beating hearts can never be filled, because a growing army of ghosts of doubts is already raging and besieging it. Outside, they can understand less and less that the Darius-treasures they have acquired are only the nails of Golgotha for a coffin, and the boundary line considered honesty, from which there is no turning back, is far away.
Take good care of yourself, Man, as you can know and feel; the beast of hesitations, suspicions, the underdog, the belittling one, is only watching you, watching, suspecting, while it sneaks unnoticed into your troubled nerves and tears apart your handful of self-esteem. It would be good to believe for sure that somewhere in the holy gate of the All, besides your life, which you believe to be wasted, Someone is waiting for you. It would be nice if that crazy mechanic would put a stop to his restless atomic bomb impulses in his buzzing, cogwheel brain.
And although you have long been unable to bear the shackles of your meaningless, wordless silence, your intermediate silence, you must decide within yourself to finally forgive your stubborn, childish selfishness!
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 12:24 AM UTC
I get easily annoyed,
Being the only sober person along
On this tirade
Of ******* kisses
And malformed care.
I spend my time easily convincing myself
That the only way I will believe he loves me
Is if he splits his bleeding heart
Over my chalice
When they display my body to him
At the morgue,
Toe tag so lifeless against my sole.
I think of my body not as a temple
But a bear trap,
Sprung or in the process of springing,
His ankle twisted in it's teeth.
We walked into this together
Knowing each others baggage
But suspecting there to be hidden compartments.
With ease
I compartmentalize my anguish
And move one,
My emotions just a simplicity
Too enticing in their entirety
To be dealt with accordingly.
I have brought myself to believe that he loves me
But only in his frontal lobe,
My life and personality
Being at the root of who he is today.
I say ******* kisses because he is addicting
But I say ******* kisses because
He is deadly.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Drowsy rosebuds dip their dainty
heads in perfect slumber
This vision of rapture has torn asunder
the placid image of false love
that once rode high on the waves of feeling
that, for you, are unheard of.
Butterflies wings tear through the hot,
muggy night of bitter scorn
and build fragile cocoons of faith
hoping to again change form.
Never suspecting upon emerge
fires of wickedness that wait to purge
all the sparkles from their starstruck eyes
Blinded and breathless they catapult
into still, stagnant waters of slaughtered hope
and drown on their own good intentions.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
A resounding response to the crack below my feet was heard through the forest
The ice had broken under the weight of my foot
And I froze holding myself still as I stared at the wood
Wondering, "Where did that come from?" whispering
"Not an echo! there must be something within the trees
A light breeze could not displease the silence of that looming dark!"
I approached the trees, each a veil, bark by bark, forming
A shade to intimidate the night, lining the freedom of that frozen lake
With fear to cut through any heart, as I approach the trees
The edge, waiting for me, towering grim, counting the steps
Accusing, suspecting of my intent, and I fearing what will come
I draw towards the end, and it paints my heart a deeper black,
"Every end a means!" they say, their leaves a darker hue, all a shade,
The sky only murkier, blot fainted stars bleeding to shine on my icier day
Cold, my fingers, scared, my feet, moving forward, they ask for more
More! for passion! for the call! the trees, in unison, they call!
Quiet, they crack through the Winternight, claiming
"Yes! still alive!"
Finally! my foot strikes the lucid gray snow! and I meet my end
But, "Every means an end!" and the life that colors around me
reflects the sun,
bright and vivid,
a shining presence
encompassing my own
And, as the world of the human mind's intent frenzies, no relent,
still, to see the bird
teaching her next
to swirl through the air
is to see the gem amongst us
I have met my end, my journey is done,
I die here now, but I have seen the world,
I have taken it my own, and it has killed me
"Was it worth it?" I ask the trees, now silent somber black around.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
Speak to me in darkness
when the sun is tucked behind trees
and stars welcome insomniacs to play.
Whisper to me through silence--
our secret strawberry pancake recipe.
"Eggs, flour, milk, sugar--" you list.
"Shhhh."
Parents are dreaming, not suspecting
two young lover frolicking their kitchen,
breathing their souls across a steaming skillet.
"Don't forget the strawberries," you say.
"Yeah, I know."
Thoughts swirl through my head
like steeping tea.
How cute you are while
you wait, licking batter
off calloused, worn hands.
To say that you are cute would be
to say these strawberries are sweet.
As sweet as a strawberry tastes
it has secret flavors, hidden--
sharp and ****
red and deep.
I would love to find you growing wild
out by the woods. I'd make
a basket with the looseness of my shirt
to carry home as many of you back to my kitchen
as I could possibly hold.
Lips pressed to my neck pull
my attention back from the brambles.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
You saw a closed door,
I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a,
blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams
greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise,
pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore,
once swore,
one more spell in bedlam,
well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps,
and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary.
Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes,
suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do.
They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed.
Tomorrow ,
what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more,
I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there,
In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round
it's bleedin' flat.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC