"switchblades" poems
Switchblades, *******
more drugs equals more pain
died way too young
20 one, here ends his song
rest in peace
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
Tonight, let’s take God hostage
throw Him in the backseat
have Him show us around town
We're "those kids"
spending our afternoons learning how to do handstands on nail beds
The ones that foresee failure and live in the moment
Sit on street corners and barter for advice
Let's treat this world as an etch-a-sketch
For we are nothing more than flecks of aluminum looking for a physical reaction
More like soul mates than friends
If you fused us all together you might have one functioning addition to society
Making wishes at 11:11
Looking for beauty in air,
We breathe out to give inspiration to sonnets
Dreaming of switchblades and palm trees, we sit next to the fire
Our feet shoved in embers, burning off the memories of passing Decembers
We pass a flask of whiskey and daydreams
Keeping our mouths sealed tight around the top
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 2:37 AM UTC
Shroomers
silly goons
why are they around-
sketchy friends to have
these foes
smoking out in public
not a care
he carries switchblades
openly cries
makes all uncomfortable
but he sells the stuff
right?
They're nice
to his face
and he's nice
to all he meets
but deep down
all can tell
this guy is trouble:
either we'll get in jail
or he'll get killed.
Inevitable
poor guy
so sweet,
who's to believe
his stories
been through hell
maybe
or maybe he's an actor
a pastor
wanting followers
ending up
alone
because none want to be associated
with one so
wrong.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato **** an intervention’
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my middle finger ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Flying in the skying so bule and wide
diving and swooping through branches so fast,
zooming past widnows and houses and cats.
Licking their lips and ready to pounce,
claws like switchblades silce the air.
Feathers ruffled and muffled and shuffled
dirfting to the ground weaving to and fro.
-AM
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
The Bad Kids were the ones your mother warned you about. The kids with messy hair and ***** fingernails as well as thoughts. The ones that rode their bikes with no helmets and looked the other way when their parents called their names. But you couldn't resist, could you? You couldn't stay away from the girls who stuffed their bras and twirled cigarettes in their fingers as if they didn't have coughing fits whenever they exhaled.
They took you under their wing and promised to show you what it really meant to live. You followed, unaware of all the danger you might face. And when the girls with alcohol on their breaths took your hand and led you behind the dumpster to smother you with kisses, not once did you think about your mother's warnings. And when the boys who wore their pants low and kept switchblades in their pockets pressured you into robbing the local convenience store, you felt on top of the world, didn't you?
Everything seemed perfect then. You finally had friends that liked you for you and thought you were 'cool'. Little did you know that all they wanted from you was what you could do for them. They didn't really care about you, no matter how much you tried to convince your mother that they did. When your so-called friends finally realized that you were too good of a kid to be a part of their group, they kicked you to the curb and left you stranded. You spent day after day begging them to take you back, but they stared you down with their cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Your mother waited for you by the door with her hands on her hips. When you walked in with your head lowered, sporting a torn bandanna and a leather jacket, she chuckled.
"I told you so."
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
Her eyebrows are switchblades
My unknown fate her whisper-silver-steel
Dagger breathing intricately carved nows,
Tomorrows lose meaning when her hair
Tastes like smoke fists like ashes
She looks and the signs
Are a fractal explosion
Holding all that I have been.
Won’t you laugh, won’t you frown?
Won’t your whisper-silver-steel?
This is my hand, each ridge
Means I have weathered a storm
Each valley a piece of me gouged
This is my hand, take it,
Take my tomorrow.
Divine, improvise
and whisper, just beware
not to speak out loud.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Dogs start barking, whistling strangers,
passed, tell me that my time has come,
however young I was or fast it went numb.
Horses all over are tied to their mangers.
Two men escorting an other, grabbing
his neck-piece, rapidly and furious. Run
before the dark is here, run from stabbing
criminals and switchblades or a harmless gun.
The mist has found its way and clouds
have no secrets for this place. Droplets of
glorious rain make paces lower and a dove
hide. Some higher some fly in massive crowds.
The growth cannot be contained or laid still.
I'm held here, in a dark depression, against my will.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
Living, well it's just a job.
The unpaid task of population.
A pleasant job with unpleasant consequences.
We build and procreate.
Make families.
Who in turn amass and destroy.
The woods, forests and open spaces.
The deepest oceans, the beach fronts.
With litter bugs of little ones.
Flowers gone and trembling bees.
Look at their little trembling knees
What no honey!
In the city streets full of illicit money.
Plenty of money.
Big business men in pinstriped suits.
All believe they're kings of heavy hearts.
Stiletto heels sported by women of big businesses; nobodies business but there own
Flicked into switchblades in areas where cruelty rules,
Profoundly.
Where children are still sleeping amidst remaining flower beds.
The blades on the flick knives are strawberry toned.
The shape of the world honed from simple child development to world amendment.
Each day's just the same.
(c)Livvi
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
You've got a lot of heart, kid
It's just on the wrong side of the line
You've got a bit of soul too,
It's just hanging by your side
In a basket you rejected at 13
Hoping no one would ever see it
Under the 6 wool blankets
you believed into existence
You stole them from the supermarket
Down the street
Threw them in a bag
of rocks and switchblades
You collected with your friends
And with your hate
It all leads down a sunlit trail
To a point on the clock
where the second hand determines your death,
and if it stops, so do you.
But can you tell me,
Is it worth it?
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
Elegy for a life of war,
21 guns of Brixton firing an all night salute, the bitter irony not lost on anybody, as the very last gang in town tucks switchblades back into leather jacket pockets and decides that violence just can't pay the bills anymore, our brothers and our sisters and our fathers and our mothers will be expecting us home and we will carry our scars back to them with pride, we will talk about this fight for the rest of our lives, where we went wrong and where we really made the ******** feel it, and maybe one day we can win, but we have lost so much blood we owe ourselves a night of sleep at least, in the morning we will be powerful, we will be crass, we will be unstoppable, we will light cigarettes as the flames engulf London and creep across the Atlantic to tickle American nightmares, we will watch all the young punks in their new boots line up itching for the damage and the energy, we will kiss them each and every one as we send them off to die for the cause
I heard your rallying cry coming through the radio when I was a kid, and I want you to know that I will be ready any time you call, and I will come armed to the teeth
And Joe, when the riot comes, I will save you a place among the chaos
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
it's
something out of a movie scene it's
something in its own language like
art or maybe something just a little
bit better, a bit more tangible than
words on paper or paint on canvas.
i want to keep you all to myself. i
would write a hundred letters and
mail them out to sea if it meant that
i could let your heartbeat hum me to
sleep every night. if it meant i could
tell you i love you without choking,
it if meant i could sing your name into
every bad place and let it coil around
my head and stick to me like glue.
one time, someone told me that even
when people leave, art remains and it
will never break your heart as hard as
mean boys with switchblades for mouths
and claws instead of hands. and i repeat
into the silence of your bedroom,
*id do it all over again, id do it all
over again,* every heart break and hurt
on my tongue, every evil hand on my
body and every single tragedy that sent
me packing and running outside barefoot
into the storm, id do it all over again
if it meant that the wind would send me to you at the end of each tornado. i used to
think that i loved art more than anything
in the whole world until i saw the
smile you kept for me after i kiss you
in the dark. i used
to write about the things i saw, museum
walls and blown glass that holds
heat and traps light under fingernails. i
used to love a world that didn't love
me back and i would write about
man-made beauty that sent artists
running for the hills and off of buildings
just for some inspiration.
now i
can't help but write sonnets about how
i am proud to love someone who is
more beautiful than any
god made, god ******
masterpiece i've ever seen.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
Some children in High School
have tongues like switchblades.
Sharpened at home
in parents care.
They scar beautiful souls
trying to live in an often cruel world.
Children in High School
have tongues like cutters,
that should be left in doors mouth.
They cause pain by bulling
thinking they are immune to persecution.
But they will learn,
as shields are formed by
those transgressed upon.
AS parents take control and
dole out punishment teaching them to
leave their tongue bolos firearms inside.
AS people awake to not tolerate
their insensitivity and ignorance.
After all...we are all one. We are all gifted.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 3:24 PM UTC
We were never good at talking things out,
tongues like switchblades
Never good at figuring ourselves out,
wills carved in evergreens
Your wide eyes never knew me
and your hands never touched my skin,
I know it needs to be this way so I
can get out of your mind
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 2:09 AM UTC
earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt
disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies
cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
***
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves
i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades
time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death
gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 3:07 PM UTC