"swivelled" poems
I’ve been craving female companionship as of late. The need to have her in my presence at all times. I want her, face against the wall with joyfully erratic breathing, hands tied behind her back. I want her on all fours, head swivelled my direction with a smiling look of pleasure. I want her legs wide open for me, only because it’s me, only because it’s her. I want my tongue to make musical instruments of her ******* and ******** I want her to put me in her mouth so I can see her eyes tearing with shameless sin. I want her in her parents’ bedroom, I want her in tut rooms and auditoriums, I want her in the back of my car, in McDonalds, in elevators, under restaurant tables and on top of kitchen counters, I want her to say my name under soft moans during rough rounds. I want her in as savage a manner as possible.
I want her sitting in silence with me. I want her to listen to my ramblings, to sit there and be present. To exist. I want her to have her own ramblings, to educate me. I want her lips to be available for me at all times, for my head to make pillows of her chest. I want to introduce her to Ben Howard and Tom Misch, to Planet Hulk and The Pixar Theory. I want flowers to remind me of her. I want her to cradle me when Chelsea loses, to stroke her hair and rub her tummy when she has monstrous cramps. I want to hear ‘I love you’ over loud laughs between soft kisses. I want her on butterfly wings. I don’t know who she is, but dear God I want her to laugh, because I know I’m going to love her laugh.
I want so much from her, I want her to want so much from me. I want so much that I never wanted before. Only thing I’ve been wanting was to feel again, now I need to feel again in order to get what I want. I want her. I want more than me.
I’ve been feeling a certain emptiness
I feel like I’m not enough
I’m not enough to make myself as happy as I want to be.
I feel like there is nothing more I can do for myself.
For so long, I’ve been happy because all I’ve wanted, I’ve given myself
Or I’ve taken, but
I don’t satisfy myself anymore,
And I can’t take what I now want.
I think, for the first time in a long time, I feel lonely.
- Kata
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
from ash to soul and soul to ash,
a continuation of life ever-last;
dancing with hexahedron hierarchy --
eating off epidemic oligarchy --
we've crowned a fool, with saviours in town;
our eyes in wool, 'til we turn around,
with eyes of indigo, soaring free,
an extra sight within the trees...
soon each shape moulds together as one,
like scattered stars at midnight come,
an image emerges from the light,
which unveils such a splendid sight:
the fall of kings, the rise of queens
and all the other fragile things;
love and beauty on the tongue,
swivelled down into the lungs,
knowing not what to become,
the cringe of fear resides in some;
hide inside a box with ***
until the waking morning comes...
it's time to rise: wake up! wake up!
leave your box, dispose of cups;
out of the office, into vast love
of a day which is anew, because --
the dark is done if you wish to banish;
revolution is not so outlandish,
when fish merely roam in schools of thought,
with nothing ever truly taught,
until one day, the shark will come,
and cause you to despise your ***
your weak hand, and your menace,
for all is well when there is penance,
"for they know not what they do...",
leader to people, as lion to shrew;
abolishing all antiquity
in order to reach sublimity.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
daytime rhythms
of coming and
going
a-swish
a-yawn
a-slam
a-trudge
out the door
in the car
to the place
there
twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter
hands
on knees
and eyes to
clock
and this meeting
here
and that duty
there
tick tock
a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side
then
out the door
in the car
to the place
for something quick
to have for dinner
then
home
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
My father called it the Watching Tree
For it turned, and swivelled to see,
He’d planted its seed in the winter weather
On top of the grave of Annabelle Feather
Who killed their mother for why, whatever,
Then hung from a hawthorn tree.
The hangman never would cut her free
While she spun and spiralled around,
Her eyes a-bulge on the village gallows
In front of the church they call All Hallows,
While urchins jeered to toast marshmallows
As Annabelle stared at the ground.
My aunts in pinafores hung on her feet
To stretch her neck with the rope,
Her tongue stuck out at least six inches
A rigid perch for the garden finches
Who pop the eyes of the one they lynches,
Once they’ve given up hope.
They laid her down in an open grave
The rope wound tight at her throat,
Planted the seeds of the tree above her
Just to remind of the murdered mother
So people be kinder to one another,
Or that’s what my father wrote.
The roots of the tree bored into the skull
Of Annabelle, in through her eyes,
Tendrils of thoughts were left forever
Deep in the well of Annabelle Feather
And sent from her eyes to the tree, whatever,
A poisoner never dies.
So still I call it the Watching Tree
For it waits till I’m not around,
Dropping its poisonous leaves whenever
It’s cold and bleak in the winter weather,
As black as the heart of Annabelle Feather
Stone cold, and dead in the ground.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
You left life on the side in the cud,
saw the fall but eyes stayed fixed in front,
let it lie and wallow in mud.
Built a house on the sludge and set up shop.
Let himself forget in dreamless sleep
Carried on breathing,
just to warm his hands.
Eyes stayed fixed in front,
swivelled for a second,
but didn’t recognise behind.
Slowly suffocated on the space.
To live and breath in sleep was the dream.
Eyes stayed fixed in front.
Each night clinging to images and dreams,
unpleasant scenes,
only reminiscent of a reality,
propped up with rotten beams.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Dread, boredom, hate, pain.
No needles, no fixing.
Nothing to bend the pain, nothing to distract.
Swivelled in chaos.
music to distract me from it all.
Nowhere to go, nowhere to run.
Videos that only take me to escapism, but nothing more.
Confusion, the boredom consumes my entire being, there is no cure.
Dissatisfied profusely, my form to mental destruction.
Where is the light?
What do I do?
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 7:04 AM UTC
So slowly she bent feeling the curve of her back
As though someone had uttered long sad words
The endings floating in the window telling tales
As she swivelled on her tarnished leather boots
The sky stopped its pulsating beating and she fell
Dropping all she ever had been or would ever be
In a scattering of moments loved and missed now.
Love Mary
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC