"swivel" poems
dead tree forks
arizona heat still goes dumb hard
voices swivel for relief
i mouthed every word
of a break up song
like it means something
giving you up
like you gave up on the pronoun game
callous tongue
imagine if you called me by my name
as opposed to a girl
like i told you to
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
sitting here but not
my insides
in a twist
my organs blooming,
their flower landscapes
rising in my solar plexus
like poetry expanding
its cellular shapes
into
light frequencies
I need way more.
I need the pulling off
and stripping down
of souls
I need to meet in
a depth of falling
I need to be pushed off
the silent gates of madness
into endless sea
no looking back
senses piqued
from slightest brush
of oral butter pouring
on hot cream
my mouth, a searing
crimson wound
oscillates in
contraction radar pulses
ripe for intense
tongue exploration
aching to be filled up with
your distinct flavor
My essence molecular is
overflowing with fluid
giving me life
in throbbing, raw
electric vibes
whipped organic, in
rolling tides
Somewhere, out there
our volcanic impulses
meet in steamy ebbs
and send energyflow
to a new and ancient universe,
magnetic
and I am
a raging heaven's child
wrapped in
a tight little
tourniquet
blood pumping
through these veins
my longing for
dark stretches
of intimate caresses
to soothe
the spikes
of snaking pain
Give me
those airwaves that
let me breathe freedom
into the fields of our skin
Let me run like wild herds
of the animal within
and as I find myself
hanging off
my
own
edges
my many-braided loops
in zigzag split,
a-fray
my skin rips open,
parting fibers
that expose my
very
DNA
helix swivel
undulation
hips grinding into
soul
reaching in to
pull out
fresh rebirth
from between my folds
O help me to allay
this tender affliction
undo me, already
so I lose control
one little shove
and I am over the cliff
deep into ocean
**** over spliff
I am beyond ready
so grind it to the hilt
Give me your
tender-ripped heart,
spill your honeycomb milk
I am here, ravenous
in the pan
uncooked yet ripe
saliva and breath
steaming my own innards
flushing out strife
I am piquant hot pepper
ready to be broiled
my blood is already
boiling
my tender meat oiled
mull me over
in your oral cavity
like sacred wine
until I drip
through your bones
and down your spine
Just meld with me
and flow
into that light tunnel
of dark time and space
so I can stake out
my rhythms
and claim
my
new
sacred
place
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty
You don't want to know where you're sitting
What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant
We're inappropriately using a pheasant
What I'm imagining doesn't go with God
And is laughed at because it's odd
Into my life they peer
Trying to insert fear
My owl head on a swivel
My rabbit ears perked
When people don't act civil
And decency is shirked
I needed answers
For my cancer
I find them in love and pain
They both seem the same
I begin to view the rain
As a type of gain
Everyone knows love's scorn
Which leaves me torn
I can't help but feel my situation differs
Something about the rejection seems stiffer
So I become a shapeshifter
To avoid the hate gifters
To avoid bearing the shame
Of being called names
I know other people have it worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
I can't gauge the importance of major events
In my life
I don't know whether to think they're intense
Or just right
Maybe I'm just being dramatic
But these instances aren't sporadic
When those that I love
Push and shove
I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained
Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames
We all have a path to travel
And they're all made of gravel
Our feet become sore
Which affects our core
We find people below us on the totem pole
To know how it feels to treat someone cold
For when our enthusiasm for love has faded
It's easy to become jaded
There are things we're ashamed of
That morph us into something unrecognizable
In which we should be truly ashamed
In the mirror we look the same
But our actions are toxic
We become radioactive
We see where our stock sits
And become merely reactive
And it's hard to find grace
After being punched in the face
But one must remember punches come in all forms
And we must not punch back to survive the storm
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.
Of our pain let nobody laugh,
but pray God
would us all absolve.
If you my brothers I call, do not
scoff at us in disdain, though killed
we were by justice. Yet þþ you know
all men are not of good sound sense.
Plead our behalf since we are dead naked
with the Son of Mary the ******
that His grace be not for us dried up
preserving us from hell's fulminations.
We're dead after all. Let no soul revile us,
but pray God
would us all absolve.
Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows.
Never ever have we sat down, but
this way, and that way, at the wind's
good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel,
more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.
Therefore, think not of joining our guild,
but pray God
would us all absolve.
Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship,
care that hell not gain of us dominion.
With it we have no business, fast or loose.
People, here be no mocking,
but pray God
would us all absolve.
5.4k
All dimples and curls and pigeon toes when sitting,
purple; and gold dangles
light-skinned girl, dark-skinned girl
depending on the translation
hips swivel to the left, ******* that follow
in commanding black bras
and matching lacy *******
Rolling backwards into handstands for most *************
else on the loveseat
whipping love back and forth between the swell
beneath the shorts
and beneath the outer layers,
the lip gloss smiles and masquerades
beneath the veins and bone and guts:
there's a naked, quivering heater
switched on all year long
its dainty wiring peeking out,
the head of the cord puckered.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 1:28 AM UTC
In all of my twenty years of life,
I have been many things.
A daughter
A sister
A friend
A lover
But now, I am no longer my father’s little girl.
My father doesn’t talk to me anymore;
He says that I don’t look him in the eyes,
And he is right, but not for the reason he believes
I am afraid to look him in the eyes
Because I don’t want to see myself reflected in them,
Proof of my failure to separate myself from him,
Proof that I am him and always will be him
I do not want to become my father,
Stuck in a marriage with no love left
Or love that is there
Only because it is supposed to be
I do not want to become my father,
Constantly on the verge of tiredness,
And whether that tiredness is directed at
His family or his life, I shall never know
Because I do not want to become my father
All sharp words and angry edges,
Keeping everyone around him on their toes,
Keeping my head on a swivel to not upset him
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want to make my children feel
as though they will never measure up to
Impossible standards, set way too high
I do not want to be my father,
Telling my daughter that she’s eating too much
And not looking at me enough,
Guilt-tripping her into half-hearted apologies,
Said with tears trembling in her eyes
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want my children to be frightened of me,
Dreading the thought of my arrival home
Waiting in fear of my reaction to something they’ve done
I do not want to be my father.
My home will be a gentle home,
Peaceful and quiet,
With no rage-filled shouting matches
I do not want to be my father,
Wondering where he went wrong with his daughter,
That she would stand in front of him, angry tears on her cheeks,
Screaming at him that she wishes that she were dead
I do not want to be my father.
Struggling to catch up with the times,
Grudgingly supportive of the daughter that is different,
The daughter that loves men and women,
But only because he has to be
I do not want to be my father
But I wish that sometimes,
I could be his little girl again,
Back when everything was ok
And it still felt like he loved me
I do not want to be my father,
But sometimes,
It feels as though
I will never be anything more
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 10:44 PM UTC
What's your take on walking?
My body serves my soul
and tells me how to go.
My heart, affixed -- aims to show.
These ways I’ve walked in my shoes and stockings.
I've looked to heaven’s stars, to daylit clouds,
when I've stepped out, or dropped my gaze
to track the ground.
Yes, it is true—whoever passed me by
could have taken offense and supposed
I lacked my confidence.
And ofttimes, I strode out straight and true
as if toward a far mist horizon.
Un-manifest future,
even peek-a-boo,
could be comprehended?
I should doubt it.
And if I wished to address an occasional
in-the-dumps, lost-at-sea feeling,
I'd shut my eyes, and walk backwards --
owl-like, swivel 360 my head.
Backwards blind circumspection seemed worthy my try;
Ask--Who am I?
I would story where I’d been.
In my most spontaneous of nature foot-trafficking,
in roulette walk; my spin of gun chamber click--
ant, spider, beetle, and the occasional sighing snail
had fled my shadow shoe?
As slow drift clouds in a sky game would play
with the sun to hide—creatures had sought me out,
sung their farewells? (it was an excellent day to die)
Let me tell it, as it had happened today,
and truth says how.
My feet, they had gotten to waltz-walking.
O how my body and soul
danced a-fancy free.
Love was brimming out of me; happiness
whispered her wordless name; and
my tongue tripped nonsensical.
So if, at last, you've kept a-pace with me
in sympathetic striding, then perhaps
you would surmise:
there never could be a flat-footed me,
when I spout off with poem-talking.
Now, what’s your take on walking?
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,
A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.
A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw
To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.
The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.
I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the slope,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back
And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,
Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,
And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.
Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:
He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:
Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I wonder why you want to row
When there are just so many terms to know
Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water,
Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to
Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces,
Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t)
So forgive me if I leave some out.
Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell):
The seat you sit on,
slides, backstop, shoes and riggers.
The skeg that stabilizes the shell,
shoulder, saxboard, and pogies.
The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place,
swivel, stretcher and rollers.
Now for the oar (or rather the scull):
There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade,
Smoothie or Tulip.
Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ?
An Airstroke (in the air) ,
backsplash, backwater, or body stroke,
Go on bury the blade, check the cover,
but don’t catch a crab!
Mind out for the drunken spider,
watch the feather and the finish,
Inside hand, outside hand,
hands away, miss the water,
Leg back, lie back,
pause the paddling, watch the pitch,
Release and recover,
don’t shoot your slide,
Swing the stroke rate,
and space those puddles.
Careful there’s no skying,
and absolutely no washing out.
Ready for a repecharge?
Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater?
Ask the *** to call a flutter.
Easy oars
Hold her hard
Ship oars
One foot up & out
Waist, ready, up
Shoulders, ready, up
Way enough!
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and ******
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags --
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
4.2k
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
4.2k
_Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes
Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High_
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
Indentions such as these never stay
Yet eternally we press against the world
Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
~
*I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes*
Life was a son of a b!tch with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
And it ONLY screamed.
~
I'm somewhere between David Duchovny and Stephen King
And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.
Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
I often wonder if I am detached from myself.
Maybe I am too in-tuned to the moon.
I'm the rose that became fully bloomed under the sunlight of noon.
I took my doom and ripped into two.
I shatter my pride but ironically,
my pride told me to put it back with glue.
Who knew that I would walk in these shoes,
blood pumping through my hopeful heart and I'm singing the blues.
The way my soul moves, I swivel in and out of the grooves of the wounds that you can only see in my eyes.
I see the world like you'll see my demise; beautiful immortality saying her softest goodbyes.
When I cry, doves hear me.
I flock with the birds over the clearest water,
and it sees right through me.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC
Bowling *****
Stepping in and smelling fresh diarrhea and cigarettes
Slide your fingers into the heels of over worn shoes
Then your feet- someone has been here before, hundreds of people have
sit in the solid plastic swivel
step up to the dead rack and pick up a germ infested, god-forsaken ball
bowl terribly and pull your glute
repeat.
Ten frames.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
Springtime begins to prevail
The white blanket slowly shrivels
Lifting winter’s tattered veil
With a slow and sturdy swivel
Little purple ones sprout first
Followed by the dandelions
But until the lilac bushes burst
We’re still enduring frigid times
Their beauty brings warmth and light
To the wasteland winter left behind
Clearing the path for illuminated nights
Of the blazing, treasured, never-ending kind
The breeze whispers soft to the trees
Sweet summer air flows everywhere
The peepers chirp in splendid harmony
The sweltering sun seeps gold into my hair
The vines, the grass, the flowers; they flourish and they thrive
The delicate side of Mother Nature is so gorgeous, and so fair
She breathes us; gives us our homes, our food, our lives
But her harsher side can take life away with just one breath of her frigid air
She can devastate an entire town with her roaring winds
She trembles and buildings crumble, tearing people apart
Limb by limb
So treasure every moment of her beauty; but be well aware;
She will do what she must and cannot be forced to care
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Memory log activation start-up:
0110010001100101011101100110100101
1011100111001101100100011100100110
0101011000010110110101110011
100% retrieved
"If I had a family instead of Intel
I would love them.
If my metal headpiece could cry
It would.
I should be at the packaging facility today
That grey place
Through and through
I get lost in it, everyday
It's so vast and all looks the same
But right now, I'm here at this pond
How can other zzyzx stay at work?
I want to show them how pretty this pond is
They should all
Feel this way.
At home.
With at least, themselves
I could be decommissioned and recycled
Even wiped
For saying that -
Let alone being here today.
It's really secret, actually
I think I'm the only, umm...
That knows it's here.
I write poems, here
Critics would hate them because they don't rhyme
I don't force anything here, I guess
But, my 'poems of the pond' make me smile
Well
Figuratively, (my metallic 'face' doesn't have any swivel points for movement)
Someday, I suspect,
Another zzyzx will find its way here
And I'll be here, too
And it'll be really special, like Love
And that's what I want
- Something like love."
End log.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
She misses his delicious kisses;
relishes his teasing touches,
and wishes his seductive whispers
said in secrecy beneath sheets and covers
while limbs twist and spasm,
axis spring and swivel,
and torso arches and collapses
during shared soft and salacious caresses,
shall soon return in such sweetness
to serenade streams of heightened senses
causing erupting screams of
Yes,
Yes,
Oh, PLEASE,
YESssssses.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
The writer sits and ponders,
filled with empty silent dread,
‘Sorry, this word cannot be found’
the smug spellchecker says.
Weary of petty complications
he drifts, searching for inspiration,
soaring through the African sky
with glorious, lofty liberation.
The yellow plains stretch far below
herds of buffalo, running free
the lions hide amongst the grass
dotted around sandarac trees.
He soars now, over snow-capped peaks
tableclothed in angry cloud,
by eagles, gliding with their young
their talons stretched in readiness
silhouetted in the fiery sun.
He conjures now, Fijian sand, lazy swaying palms
crashing frothy, roaring waves; silky banana ***
A sparkling ocean glittering, caked with yellow icing,
just a mirror for the setting sun.
But then wings of grace are stripped and
he plummets towards uncertainty,
falling back to swivel chair, staring
at desk lamps, coffee, burgundy.
The rain drizzles down outside,
the heating pours through well-placed vents
as Chinese Communism awaits:
confronting, mocking, dense.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Crawling on all fours, traffic drags its bleeding body forward.
Men with collars of lipstick tap tap tap their fingers against steering wheels.
Time slows, cars inch, passing hands find cigarettes, cigarettes find fire.
Tap ash tap finds tap pavement.
This is the unobserved hiatus of daily routines, the dreaded stretch of heaven that separates from and to.
During such moments of inertia
thoughts drift through open windows
forming a cloud for bargains, regrets, wishes, doubts, prayers, and curses to perform cotillion upon.
Faster, faster, so quickly now, oh, change partners, switch lanes, spin, oh baby spin, fasterfasterfaster, until differentiation is impossible, until drivers become one with this steel river, until minds make their essential switch that makes home a bearable punishment.
Someone has broken down.
Do Not Stop.
They are shunned from the sweeping mob of machinery. Necks swivel in uniform towards this abomination, how dare they, how DARE they outshine our misery. Perspiration works its way down backs and pools into leather cracks.
Will it ever end?
Do we want it to?
Finally,
regrettably,
the final exit, the last few feet of purgatory.
We descend into the next inferno where we leap through fiery hoops of interrogation—
yes no it was fine yes okay.
We are exhausted.
If only we would have stopped.
If only we would have hit the brakes and remained in our haven of anxiety and lust and confusion and endless searching.
Our love affair with traffic can only last so long.
So we make solemn promises to ourselves to appreciate tomorrow’s,
to run our fingers along the satin thighs of the freeway,
to plant a rubber kiss upon the ground.
How tap long tap until tap five?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
my mouth hung like an overwhelmed option
i swivel at the window facing
and stay out the entire day in this one gawked position
amazing heat and an ugg shy of thought
withdrawn in a mut of mental paralysis
by an alcoholic system
on a day off
the day dunks into the eve before i shift any movement
having sifted the ull
i mix a jar of *** and orange juice
in the open fridge door
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 5:58 PM UTC
One of his sick molars
was jarring, crying foul,
the root canal treatment
she did, the first, on him
made it quiet,it touched
exactly the love nerve.
Love sprouted,got rooted between
the curvy dentist and him
in exactly five sittings;
the soil was fertile.
The romantic dentist seized
his pining heart too quick,
the causes and effects of
that pain, she whispered, was similar
to what she felt , when he whimpered
leaning his head on her full *******
No reason he had, not to surmise
she didn't do everything she should,
to make his ailing tooth perfect.
Coochiecooing to her, he even
called her" the tooth fairy's baby girl"
overwhelmed she gifted him a smooch.
Each sitting fallowed
soliciting that rare,tender dental care,
on her cozy swiveling chair,
brought them closer to bouts of necking
and things more adventurous,
(may the medical ethics, pardon the pair!)
Vigorous narratives she breathlessly
reeled off, on the state of his each tooth
brought her more closer to the chair
than what professionally was expected,
her perfumed warm presence
brought aches, not necessarily dental.
A stinging pain on a root repaired
at a time his 'root canal sweet heart' was away
compels him to explore for a new chair.
The horror of horrors, it was revealed
here, a piece of broken iron implement
his sweet heart, has left within the root;
a cover up as she couldn't retrieve it
with her skills inept,
it did aggravate, caused the pain!
Isn't the betrayal of the kids,
in the name of tooth fairy,non existent
far less heinous, than a cheating like this!
could any one blame him for this,
to escape a bad tooth future, he did
the best one could; the comely tooth fairy
that found the fault and mended it
shows him his place in the
swivel chair of her heart these days!
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC