"swipes" poems
I’m sick of hearing my life’s a haiku.
I’m into magic, love, and other sorts of things that are typically voodoo.
I’m half ***** from a half assed absent African baby boomer brat.
I’m half white trash.
Here’s a well formed of dried tears turned into something to sooth my canine teeth.
It tastes like Moonshine.
I can’t swim anymore, so I’m here drowning in a concrete pool.
Always, I look for the hell in you.
I sharpen my boot knife for ****** assault protection.
The first swipes for the plus 200,000 in counting.
The seconds for the 66 percent underreported.
The lasts for me,
the 29 percent victims aged 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, and 12.
We have a higher rate of risking everything.
For depression x3.
For committing suicide x4.
For post traumatic stress disorder x6.
For alcohol abuse x13.
For drug abuse x26.
You all think I’m crazy,
I’m not.
I sometimes get called
stupid, ugly, ***** and thot.
I’m in pain, in sorrow.
I can’t help it.
He did it.
No one can undo it.
What do we do about it?
I wont scream, I won't cry.
I’ll ask how he’s doing with glitter and tears in the corner of my eye.
And after he's done molesting me,
"Want to go grab some coffee or tea?"
Personally, I like the cafe down the street.
They sell good brunch with amazing croissants.
And after this is over,
I’d ask him how it was while he turned me over.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Your sun stroked fingers
smooth my dusted galaxies
spoiling orbiting blues
with swipes of stardust.
You kiss meteors, murmur
how you savored snippets
of Jupiter's moons in the
spaces of a poetic eclipse.
Adorning Saturn's rings
in your nebulous tombs,
rekindling your smile with
flames of lovers past.
The memory is still buried
within my core, a pounding
resonance that evokes the bloom
of summers kiss on Earth.
A welcome release for the
nights wandering stars.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Waiting for that paper, a light
A cursor that keeps blinking for the next word
Even when the screen arranges to sleep in daylight
Fingers begin to itch and start being febrile.
An email, such a pity,
is more accessible than
a post box.
All the handwriting fonts that I did try, couldn’t,
Just possibly couldn’t mirror the impeccable tries
To struggle to be parallel to the top
Or bottom of a page.
The improbability of what the next thought would be
The prediction of where the addressee would smile
Or frown, or pick up eyes to stare at the wall for a while,
To embrace what had just been conveyed.
Letters are like light, they reach us later
From when they were born, but the spaces
they illuminate or burn on their arrival!
I wonder if our pupils shrink.
They more than just tag along, they tap in,
They’re the result of cleaning the ink from
the nib, a thousand times, over thousands
of sentences, or maybe just a few, but they do.
And don’t dare ask the pen for proof!
It’ll track down wrinkled pages
Who had their thirst quenched by
The swipes of fountain pens’ fountainheads,
And pictures of the fingers
Bathed in red, and black, and blue,
And occasionally of table clothes
Spilled over by the consequence of imperfect handles.
Imagine if light came as soon as it was made,
It would be difficult for our eyes to handle such bait
Sometimes, a pause is necessary,
Imagine a world without commas!
I’d like to peek into the writer’s letters,
Not to read, but to sense the shapes of emotions
And stretches of As and Ns, or the reach of commas
On the next line, and then, close my eyes
And shove my nose in it, to sniff hard
The paper and the blue smells,
And die doing so if it was eventual.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
Come every morning you're up with the sun
with hundreds of questions before breakfasts done
like what is a rainbow and where is the dark?
what's that? and why's? can we go to the park?
the beach? the woods? as I sit here and dream
must we have cereal? I want ice cream!
You sit at the table, eyes wide, mine half shut
and chat to the cat about dinosaur stuff
how you like pterodactyls but school, not so much
you rummage through cereal in hope of a toy
one way to amuse such a curious boy
the cat swipes the box, makes it fall to the floor
"there goes our breakfast!" as sweet laughter roars
you slurp at your juice as I sip at my tea
so it's ice cream for breakfast for you and for me.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
My dear miss Able asked me about a hidden place.
A place where words go to find lovers.
A Tinder for f̶o̶r̶e̶p̶l̶a̶y̶ wordplay.
Where "She" swipes right on "Him" to create "Them".
Where "Un" and "Faithful" got together and made "Faithfulun"
Because "Faithful" is also seeing "Dyslexia"
Where my friend "Alone" swept left on "Everybody"
And never changed.
And "In" became "Indecent" when he, infatuated,
Increasingly indulged
Into "Inappropriation" while dating "decent" and then Indiscreetly descended into "Insanity".
Where "Baby" got "Back" after "Laid-Back" split when "Laid"
got "Off".
Miss Able doubted this place even after her first son,
"Question" who took her surname.
But this place does exist-
Where gold is mind inside a poet.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:04 AM UTC
It's common knowledge that after getting a phone number,
one must wait three whole days before giving a call,
to make sure the interaction remains calculatedly casual,
as opposed to needy or uninterested,
which is complete cupid ****
It's appalling that one's intense desire to contact an individual one is drawn to,
is not seen as a mere gesture of sentiment or affection,
but rather weakness and vulnerability.
Even in the darkest and drunkest hours
there will be no super likes,
for no one can afford to wear the heart on their sleeves,
in this world of left and right swipes.
The chase is so overrated not only does it never end,
but also overlooks the catch even when it's finally caught.
True feelings disguised by emojis concentrated into 140 characters
ridicule the ideology of love and romance,
when really we're nostalgic of the times,
we once murmured into brick sized cordless phones at wee hours in the morning,
"you hang up... nooo you hang up first..."
When did meeting the parents not become meeting the parents,
but rather the quick show of another chick to flaunt how well life is going at the moment?
When did compartmentalizing life mean pursuing romantic relationships over the weekends only?
When did to love, to want, to need, to show affection become such girly things,
those who are engulfed by romantic comedies and sensitivity did?
All I really want is to call you and tell you how much I miss you,
and just listen to you breath even if you don't have anything to say.
But, I guess I'll just wait for you to whatsapp me sometime during the weekend...
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
With the sleeping silence of moth
He walks, in this dead morning,
like a winner of the yesterday.
steps up from the sinking hills
drags his heavy shoulder,
carries the soul of today.
The gloomy sunlight of dawn,
shines for him. He witnessed a flood of
the last moon,
In dark night.
With the dogs' howl, face is staring to up.
He doesn't look back,
far back, the villages of ghosts,
He crossed.
The festival of blood ends.
with the red moon.
The flower of wind of east
bruises wounds of his now.
He, immersed from the sweats in many moons.
He sang the songs of tomorrow,
red and silky. He harvests the flower
of sand.
In his hand, kept a treasure,
the dust of last wood.
The cold face is rising now,
with the disappearance of the last firefly.
Like the winner of yesterday,
He swipes sweats, seeks for Eli.
The compassion and vengeance
holds in the grail.
In the dream, He kissed the illusion.
swam in the sea of Milkyway.
He solemnly pierced the flower of the hurricane,
in his blue heart.
And claimed the meaning of nothing.
In the foreign land, He emptied the bag
of the voyage.
The footstep in the snowy path, cracking
the silence of manhood.
Then, he loved the selfishness of
his lover,
He is brave to not to return.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 4:01 AM UTC
he swipes the cigarette ashes on his shirt to the right.
he swipes the coffee stain on the table to the right.
he swipes my damp lips from kissing him to the right.
he swipes his hair to the right.
he swipes my blushing cheek to the right.
he swipes my bra straps to the right.
swipe right.
swipe right.
swipe right.
swipe right.
and i swipe my falling tears to the right.
but our love wasn't right.
that i had to find you again as the choices offered.
i still have those pains from the moment that you swipe your invisible knife on my heart
to the right
to the left.
i thought you were right, but you left.
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 2:29 AM UTC
Left Left Right Left
I swipe, hoping to find it
A Disney story IRL
Alas, I've reached the pit of Hell
Countless matches and open chats
Oh the deep regret one has
A drink, a coffee, a dinner out
Charming, funny or a lout?
Days, months and a year has passed
Too many swipes, none of 'em last
Incredible *** one odd out
But then I'm back on the look out
Left Left Right Left
**** Disney and **** this
I'm on my own, I have a hand
*** with myself is just as grand
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
it's an old tale around town
that if you pierce the ground
with a needle just right
all the spirits will escape
no one really believes it
but the lore's dramatic flare gives a sense of community
at the bus stop stand
twelve children with clay faces
day and night they stare straight ahead
and mumble the same word
over and over
Time passes by,
back bent and wretched
the dead grace of fallen kings
and eventually
the clay breaks,
the heads roll
a visiting CEO
stands to make a speech
but finds an emptiness
clawing at her throat
the clay breaks,
the silent tears
of the heart of a brooding teen
end their tenancy
and return to the ocean
a nightshift manager
swipes their card, closes the barbed gates,
fumbles rolling a cigarette
and draws in a sigh,
but the breath refuses to escape
the clay breaks,
a bluebird sings
but cannot recall the melody
petals clog the gutter
but the branches have long withered
people meet up and gather
to try to quell the empty pressure
they stand to chant the childrens' lost word
but everyone remembers it differently
time passes
routine remains
but there are waves in the waterways
and sometimes people on the surface streets
find themselves lost in the tide
time passes,
the dirt city convulses
under its silent weight
we gather a needle
and pierce the ground,
but nothing happens
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Currents move the water.
Squirming, snaking and slithering
Through the depths till they reach the surface,
And then the gushes of air come,
Plucking the currents from peace
To force them forwards,
Another current swipes,
And another crashes,
Another burns with power,
And another dives through the centre,
The wind moulds the currents,
Sculpting the water to shape,
Until finally a ripple forms,
The gales flood over the crinkles,
They drag and try pierce the perfect folds,
Making the swan into an ugly duckling,
The duckling rises to its feet,
Excessive flesh flying away
Into the moist air,
The wings flap,
It stretches its legs and neck,
More impurities flicker off,
Brown feathers fade,
The beak sharpens,
Currents, gusts and ripples
All bundle into one,
The swan extends its wings fully,
And the water crashes.
Remains of the stunning creature tumble behind,
White foam and twizzling tides are left,
They reach the shore,
Swamping the sand in energy,
Clawing the helpless pebbles off the beach,
And retreating back to the ocean
Where more swans are formed
Endlessly
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
it was a normal day:
in the metro, a tall guy was giving
oral stress to his girlfriend
for spending too much time on her phone,
angry mothers were killing it at Fruit Ninja,
aiming only for the green items;
all because of some article on vegans
they read on Bored Panda,
students were kicking it on Tinder,
deciding their political views
in the same time,
with simple left & right swipes,
Romanian women were being abused
in Italian FarmVille games,
while the cucumber production
was growing and growing,
it was a bad day for poetry;
all the good words were on strike!
the streets were empty
and all the traffic lights were red.
I was still hoping there was hope in this world.
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cdvk7O3Tz6A]
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
What if we met early
Two souls
Destined to be in a train station
At 9 am
me,
knowing how I fell for your eyes
Fell once more
In a less heart broken time
What if we met
In a bar alley
when your interests
matches mine
we danced the night away
not as lovers
but strangers
that are four swipes
late from tinder
To be something more
Than just a one night stand
What if this time
is the right time
How our scars
turn to lines
That form each others names
The words "I do"
begin to spill in our mouths
just waiting
for the right time
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 7:14 AM UTC
Don't talk to me
Ye vanity
Cladding truth in urbanity
Expressions left to emojis
For Conversations we type
Reassuring through selfies
Relationships through swipes
Get drenched in rain
Get scorched in Sun
Quiver once in a while in pain
Drain out after a run
Get in a fight in real
Burst off of sorrow
Then you ll know what matters
It's today not tomorrow
Let go
Let go
O please
Let go
The veneer of sophistication
The hope of impression
Smiling through frustration
And short term-fad salvation
And if not
Never blame it on generation
For We took the turns
and We paved the path
We are here for what we chose
And we only ll be wondering at last
we always had a choice
Always...
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
Fairy tales are how girls get to sleep
Girls who sleep sweetly next to siblings; best friends' pictures scattered about the room
their world is safe and full of love
But I have no prince, no siblings, no daily phone calls, no pictures, no best friends, no sweet dreams.
What does that leave me?
I stop to give a homeless man a taco and to ask him about life, love, healing, karma.
Frosty says I should stop by again sometime.
I smile
The teal green hat I bought in Japan makes me look silly;
I put it on, grin at the girl in the mirror and play with the fuzzy ***** attached to the ear strings.
Today I look up from my tv series to watch Madeleine in her favorite Madeline shirt, chatting with her friend while casually dusting our food storage.
The cute girl who swipes IDs manages an awkward conversation upon my every re-entry to the caf --
Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her sexuality for no apparent reason, or pretended to ***** in the dish room.
My mother once broke her nose doing a pushup
Upward facing dog.
This’ll do.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
It’s the hour before traffic,
around that time when the paperboys
sniff, all of them rubbing their noses on sleeves.
The smog is fowl,
a stray dog howls
orange explosions of bitter pain
through which the sun battles to make a comeback.
Amber lights
flash
right of way
for
whoever’s driving home from the pub,
whoever’s daft enough to face the day
that way.
The last ********** packs her bag,
stubs out her ***
and zips her **** shut,
‘A fat cow like me can only wait for so long.’
Soon the sky is Usual Blue,
discoloured by security swipes,
fake handshakes,
and Columbia’s finest
coffee-stained
coffee shop waiters
who sell the finest sugar cube coke
to those hardworking folk
who keep our nation ticking,
and tocking –
the digital clock,
my rooster with the fraudulent eyes,
tells me it’s time to let the snooze button go.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 3:13 AM UTC
I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right
swipes.
I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.
If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Pitiful aqua trying not to dissolve into the afternoon sky
She feels her dreams of being free also pass by
Her orange to pink hair falls unto the sandy beach
And remembers the dreams that are far too old to be in reach
Nectar from her locks engulf her body into a sweet poison
That the purple tinted water swipes away from the ocean
The black birds flap away as the orange vicinity closes
As the woman’s purple lips drip in shades of wilted roses
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Something like another planet
One wrong move and everything becomes damaged.
Be careful what you click on
Because what's seen cannot be unseen
Relationships left unmanaged
Sitting at the table, but swiping through a cell phone.
Not even recognizing the person you're with feels all alone.
Swipes,likes,emojis,pictures
The devil's intercom
Day by day he plots to win.
Everybody thinks they're living ok
Soon they'll find out
they're trapped within
Their cell phones.
Get out now before its to late
Lets not forget these were only established to communicate.
But with overuse your identity can eradicate!
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
I wouldn’t hurt a fly,
Besides that one fly,
That flies around my eye,
In the middle of the night,
This fly needs to die,
And leave me alone,
Alone while I cry.
Fight or flight,
This fly’s got might,
Dodging my swipes,
And buzzing alright,
A noisy, buzzing kite,
Flying all ******* night,
As if confined to my brain tight.
I’m not alright,
I’m not alright tonight,
I don’t really want to fight,
This fly on such a lonely night.
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 9:06 PM UTC
These days flirting is through Instagram likes and Tinder swipes
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
Jax slinks to the bowl
swipes a paw across the brink
litter in his drink
Java to the sink
jumps up to drink faucet drops
before they ker-plink
M J stops to think
before deigns to take a drink
lynx philoso-fur
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
Mummy
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from;
she comes into my room
stares about, and she says:
“Decadent! Decadent! Decadent!”
And then she mutters:
“Never had such things in my day!”
Ma – it’s a good idea to send her back
to where she came from, I think
And when no one is home
but me and Grandma
she puts plastic flowers in her hair
and dances all round with her song:
*"This eve is my wedding;
this eve am I the bride
And I've me the handsomest man
in all of the land"*
She hid my shoes the other day
and she grinned when I found them under her bed;
when you are not looking
she swipes her hands over a pretend iPad
and sticks her tongue out, and pops her eyes out
and whispers to me:
*“That’s how you look, dearie dear;
like the village idiot in days of old”*
She says I dress too short;
I should wear skirts right down to the toes
Grandma stood over my bed
yesterday morning
and she said I was sleeping late, too long;
and she copycats me eating, and she says:
*“You are at a sumptuous table
but you eat like the poor”*
And she pretends to kiss me goodnight
and she whispers her secret curse:
*“Girls who don’t wash their toes,
they don’t go to Heaven
You might wake up in the morning
and find yourself walking
on the hot coals of Hell”*
Mummy, please
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
The movement of her body was entirely too loud
She is desert throat gasps
When the water is so good
She doesn’t stop for air
Can hear her comin’
Her rusty train wreck tremble
On loose tracks
Her collapse is a cinderblock rain
The crumble is so much quieter than the crash
Her crumble is so much quieter than the crash
Her hands shake as she swipes her EBT card for the fifteenth time
She puts back the bacon this time
Throws down 5.50 for the Marlboros
She talks to herself
Angrily
Slams ever door she enters
Every door she exits
Her children think she is crazy
She is crazy
She is a body built
On passive aggression
And the threat of a shaky foundation
When the earthquake hits
Any day could be my last day you know
Her son turns up the tv
Her daughter plugs her headphones into her cd player
Do you all think I am talking just to hear myself talk?
And if you don’t stop sleep talking
*Telling me you’re going to **** me*
I am sending you to the hospital
The boy mutes the tv
Dries his eyes before they’re wet
He shakes his head
Begs her not to do that
Says he doesn’t know he’s doing it
Says he doesn’t want to **** her
She walks away
And he is left wondering
I remind him later
That we were not raised on truth
So it’s hard sometimes
To trust people
I put a lock on his door
Tell him to shut himself in at night
As for the mother
We don’t talk anymore
Like I said
She’s crazy
And I’ve got too much of that myself already
Somewhere a door is slamming
Somewhere cinderblocks are crumbling quiet
There is a sizzle like slowly cracking glass
I feel it crawl my spine
It crawls his
The girl misses it
Head buried in pop culture
Going deaf in trying to drown out
Her mother’s noise
Do you think I am talking just to hear myself talk?
As a poet I ask myself the same thing
Ask how far the apple can fall from the tree
If any one of us are lucky
It will be just far enough
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC