"swivels" poems
My back is laced with scars
Given to me as a parting gift,
As a symbol of the love-that-never-was
Some have already been fully absorbed
Just their tips sticking out,
Forming a grotesque picture
Others, still fresh, still being taken in
Just their tips are slightly embedded
Another one would hardly make a difference
Might wring a cry of pain but nothing much afterwards
-
The glint of the tear as it slides down,
silently,
heedlessly,
into the black abyss,
threatening, wanting,
desperation lacing it's movements,
-
There's a silent 'plop!' sound as it touches
The floor so far below.
So far, so far that no one can see it.
So deep, so deep that no one can hear it
She hardly notices the spare, the extra
There have been too many for her to care
For one more.
A dozen more land in her back,
Angered by her impassiveness
She swivels around because she's still savouring
The ones that are there
For a minute, time stops, the blades stop
The girl's heart, or where it should've been...
That empty little space, occupied by three long
Swords stuck in it's place
They pierce right through her body,
So different from those knives that decorate her back.
Their tips face your eyes
The sword entered her through her back
It would've been a tragedy if only her eyes...
Oh, if only her eyes were something more
Than just endless holes
( - deeper, darker, blacker
more despairing than
the black abyss under her
very feet
- )
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 8:00 AM UTC
In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
he is home
he came
from siam yonder
shouts from the ground floor
heralded his return
smile escaped from my static face
call out
his name
thunder, rain
dark face
swivels to the left
five foot ten rises up from the plastic chair as dark as him
i
expect a hug
but lo
i am not a child, not anymore
a protocol of high fives replayed
and the traffic of words return to the highway of arsenal, chelsea, man city
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
•
Duterte said, "My gahd I hate drugs."
Do drugs if ever you want free hugs
With some cardboard and tape embracing you
And a statement saying: "I did drugs too."
•
Do you see a turtle swimming in the air?
I know we're lucky, to see a sight so rare
Swirls and swivels make you feel so alive
Oblivious to the life that you are being deprived.
•
Wait. Where do I live? The monsters are near
If I enter this tunnel, there'll be nothing to fear
There's a rope in the sky, way up high
If I grab this light, will I...
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Expectations swagger
And clutter.
Small talk
Loiters dangerously near big talk
As gazes dance between
Lazy freckles.
Questions are asked
That require too complicated
Of answers.
Answers too uncertain
And even once certain,
Limbs putrify and freeze
In the daunting path
That has been figured,
Fathomed, barely
And never traveled.
Habits, self inhibitions,
Self-destructive agendas,
Pull at the walker
As his own mind swivels,
Exhausted,
Tipping into madness.
He’s found the path
But finds self-provoked
Difficulty in walking it.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
He’s no God like Sachin, neither is ‘Wall’ his sobriquet
He doesn’t whack them a mile like Sehwag or Ganguly.
He just comes in with a resolve and soaks in the pressure
Where others would succumb to panic, he thrives beautifully.
When the team is sinking, his steely nerves bring them to shore
He kisses the tension in the air away with his assuring presence.
When the gods turn away, VVS emerges – serene and tough
And clears up the mess with divine grace and elegance!
When his bat swivels below his magical wrists, its pure bliss!
The cherry caresses the grass and dances towards the fence.
Like a stroke of an artist’s brush that just painted a perfect arc.
And with his own people, the enemy’s admiration you can sense.
He doesn’t evoke fear, excitement, anxiety or frustration
He doesn’t pump his fists in the air, doesn’t snarl or stare.
You either see the calmness or a bright smile on his face.
He’s a stern fighter with no arrogance – a quality so rare!
They say he’s ‘Very, Very Special’, which he indeed is.
In the country of demigods he’s a man that makes god proud.
He’s not worshipped by sponsors, doesn’t earn big bucks,
But he owns a bigger treasure – Respect from all in the crowd.
The Aussies ***** feared the world over, swear by his name,
For, he crushes their strong might with his class and sublimity.
Their killer-instinct turns into shivers when they see him walk out
Their razor-sharp words get blunted by his poise and humility.
VVS epitomizes romance. No wonder he loves the Eden Gardens!
Where the ‘Lord’s’ of Indian Cricket reside, is his fortress.
When he bats, you just surrender your senses to his splendour,
The twirl of his hypnotic wrists can bust your biggest stress.
The world seems a better place when you watch VVS on song.
Even time stops to admire his delicate flick that goes fine.
And as you lose yourself in his determined yet soft eyes,
You find yourself sitting in heaven, enjoying a glass of wine!
Selflessness is his middle name; there is no 'I' in the word 'Team,'
The hardest job that no one wants, he will do for his team.
I’m blessed to have experienced the beauty of VVS…
The skill of his splendid batting and the purity of his beam!!!
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
What she saw stole her innate calm.
She could see from across the room that he was in trouble. A kid, stumbling towards her. Desperate for her.
Eyes wild with fear and fatigue. 14, 15, maybe he's 16?
She knew from experience gained over a few months that he had an hour--maybe--before the weakness she saw stole his primordial drives.
A life is on the line
She wraps the plastic gown around her, she bends the metal of her timeworn mask against the bridge of her nose. She hides her hair in a net. She covers her feet with booties. All done with purpose. All done at full tilt.
His name is Paul. And he is scared.
She is by his side when his eyes roll back in his head. He's still breathing, still holding her hand but his eyes have gone white from the work of it all. His head swivels on its axis from north to south. "Please " is all he can manage to exhale.
**** she thinks, as his oxygen saturation registers at 20%.
A life is on the line.
10 days later. Countless like him have come and gone.
But, it's the exhausted exhale exchanged in
his final plea
that leaves her breathless now.
A life is on the line
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
the door swivels
and you hobble in.
what's the matter?
you're fro-zen.
come in and sit by the fire.
oh no --
your fingers are white
like the lace on your waistband.
who did this to you?
tell me as I make you some coffee
no sugar, no cream.
your voice is scared
and I try not to turn red, turn over in my skin.
I tried to slow my heartbeat for you.
I am not the dominant figure here.
I am the helper, the healer, the envelope
sealer, the stone.
you are the flame
and I am the wood.
you are always welcome to burn me up.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
Waggle dance of the honey bee plays in my mind --
Insect intellect tipping and tapping on toes;
Music monomentality swivels the swarm
‘Til the sweet sum of floral fecundity flows.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
princess blood cult
throne of tethers
rumor's of frazzle drip murders
and blood spatters
on a bed of grinning hooks
X
marks the *******
she bled they fed
in love in bed
torn dress and flutter ******
form her squandered torso
as bare feet dangled
while skies shrieked knotted eyes
watching her get it hard
wet **** drunk
she tumbled
in this little black house of madness
****** her in a sack of sins
while **** buckarooed
in a wood shed paradise
welcoming death by sexicide
she backstroked head over heels
exposed
flirting in the graveyard hacked and black
beckoning orchards that
caressed her by squirming *****
she adored the mole that snuggled her
while thighs shuddered with anticipation
hurricane tongued
she licked grinning *****
for pudenda's pillow
shimmed black light disco daggers
down her lips
to ****
to thighs
to drooling
raw lips
her ****
like a shucked oyster
whimpering disciple
of enticing wounds
bloom in gloom
she tasted like taffy panicked *******
erotomaniac
from head
to lips
to feet
chanting squeals
of infernal opera
in the throws of blood *******
and weeping barbarous
stammer
beezel blaba blaba
Beelzebub
her body stained labyrinth floors
in soiled cathedrals of desire
while growing phantasm babies
he whispered death music
in grottos of legs over head
that made her hotter than
boiled fish eyes
chopped her in two
she squirmed
shivering inkblots of madness
cu cu cu cu cu cu
*******
swing the scythe
and
get the knife
she shrilled
pump the ****
split the bone
smudge the lips
spit and blood
moon eyes turn blood gauze
and heads swivels hula
the **** yields
a spooled mouth contortion
her *** crack
a smile of accomplishment
and tormented ballet feet
stretched tickle toes
for heavens edge
she panted rolling away dark air
in an uneasy creeping
and widened thighs
she lost her head
like a chopped carrot
for the miracle of oblivion
you could hear the last thump
falling as silence falls
she spread like bat a wing umbrella
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me
i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment
and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes
he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back
he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person
he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has
he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice
he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.
noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face
or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him
but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me
i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here
never has been
©Brandon Webb
2012
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Maybe happiness is
Rediscovering parts of yourself
That were buried long under
The murky abyss of conformity
Maybe happiness is
Finding the long lost faith
Deep inside your own self
The naked flesh of your mind
Maybe happiness is
After all a state of your mind
That you have to accept
As it swivels in rhythm
A playful youth of ecstasy
Mar 5, 2023
Mar 5, 2023 at 2:23 PM UTC
drifting in and out of wakefulness
feeling everything and nothing all at once
that lump in my throat
but i can’t cry
i shut my eyes and press against them my palms.
i see swivels and vanishing spirals,
i see everything and nothing all at once
and i’m begging for it not to stop.
i scream into a pillow leaving traces of saliva
i still can’t cry, i still just can’t cry.
my head hurts like a hundred fingers flicking at it
it tingles like ants crawling underneath.
it feels sunken like the titanic with all its people
and i’m jack in the freezing water.
my eyes heave and try fluttering shut
i say no, not now.
it’s strange how my brain is a different entity,
almost like a guest that is always “going to leave”
but ends up staying the whole time.
maybe if i slit my forehead open
the ants under my skin will stop
maybe my head will finally feel light
even though my hair has been gone for days.
dear disheveled mind,
**** you.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
If the skies would break out tonight,
you will see the fury--
silver white streaks across the prussian blue,
that every once in a while,
the night too,
shall give in.
The rain rips through my turpentine roof,
splitting the cold raindrops on my forehead,
while somewhere across the city,
two lovers meet under the canopy
of a shared umbrella.
They will eventually get out of the rain
that brought them together
and reach across the surfaces
for hands in the darkness.
And get into a car,
drive away,
forgetting everything else.
Lightning strikes,
thunder roars.
They get scared,
the driver flinches
the car screeches
and I lose the only one I have.
The car swivels,
hits the one on the road before,
a flash of light
and into the one forever.
Headlight.
Heaven.
They will drive away
from the rain that brought them together,
while I will still stand there
in the rain that took away
the love of a forgotten man.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
your body is my habitual enclave,
I know the roads, the routes, the rails,
the way it sparks in the night, how it creaks with the sun.
I coast your body like a map,
the compass in my palm quivers, the needle
whirls and swivels, disoriented, north left behind.
instead I will globe-trot through your anatomy,
with no concerns of foreign lands, with languages
of gibberish and people unfamiliar.
first, I will plunge into your shoulders,
gape at the brawn, the vastness,
compare them to the beautiful mountains seen in Colorado.
next, I will huddle in the wool of your torso,
stealing a quick snooze,
submerged in the berceuse of your coronaries.
afterward, I will drift among your hands,
skipping among the grooves,
stumbling upon the calluses.
then, I will float among your lips,
stealing speckles of salt while playfully
greeting your lingual.
and, and, and, my darling, this adventure
will exhaust me.
so I will traverse back, through your lips, your hands,
your torso, your shoulders, until
I come to my favorite monument.
they are waves full of sapphire, clashing among
charcoal thunderstorms, dancing along
fields of jade.
two orbs of magnificence (and mine)
you will smile, and ask how the journey was,
and I will reply, as always:
“unforgettable”
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
as she's
taken awestruck
that her
inhibitions tuck
her smoothly
that post
her triumph
where silky
swivels exclaim
how willingly
her mantra's
buck begin
this cool
tale only
beguile this
gristle or
a snook
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
It’s chocolate chip pancakes at 2:30am
And empty mugs of coffee on my desk
It’s adrenaline pumping through my chest
And the whir of my refrigerator
My focus is ping ponging between
All of the holes in the wall
Ignoring everything but
the pages in front of me
Watching everything through
A double pained glass
Realizing control is an illusion
I fight to get closer and closer to the audience
In my head
Exaggeration stretching onward like salt-water taffy
In the window
Fingers slipping, sweat beading
heavily above my upper lip
Not being 100% sure of anything
Who can blame me?
I am lost in the swivels of society
My face, as a ballerinas, when on pointe
An elegant mask full of nothing
Spinning and spinning
Relying on the inner soles of my feet
The clock slowly and forever slipping
As I cannot reach the top of the bunny hole
Too ******* stubborn to let any of the voices
In my head tell me I should crawl away
So, I look down and begin to read.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
A shock of that medieval gait
Iron clad and shut tight behind
our failed visit to this church or that.
Wandering slyly
Sphinx-like in our mysterious gaze
across the Douro
Avoiding eyes but
touching hands
'Because...
Well...Vacation'
he says
slipping his hands down my spine
I say, 'that's fine'
Because...
Well...Temporarity.
But it's not-
Tid in the stomachways.
It churns at the sight of you,
Not in the good way too,
It swivels and slights
always threatening, threatening, threatening
to give up on lunch.
But I guess,
that's all to rest,
because four more days
And you're a stranger again.
Not this succubus sprite
trying to bask in my light,
Not some peeved preacher's son
desperately adopting what I've done,
And not some Disneyland duo,
or too sweetly caricaturised lovers,
But a boy;
and a girl,
Too hurt by this world to admit that
sometimes, it's not where you go
but who you're with
that can ruin the trip.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
There is a cut on my thumb where you have been
There is a callous on my pointer finger where you have been
There are marks all over the ground where you have been
There are swivels on my shoes where you have been
There are indents in steel poles where you have been
There are all these places in which you have been that you could measure your impact
Measure your presence
But you can't measure two places you have been
You cant measure the place you've had in my heart or the place you've had in the sky
But its the moments that you are in both in which you soar, we soar
It's the moments in both that make the difference, that matter
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
Your over sized eyes offer no kind of fear
Mostly just a jovial inquiry
Into the most trivial causes of our existence
You eager little child
The tuffs of you hair sprout sideways
A random treble of camouflage comfort
As if to explore
Not obstructed by some code of calamity
Not a paw or a hand
The tiny tongs of your fingers spread
grasping some house wives fruit salad
Your nails colored like a stained cigarette
Once pried away from the comforts of your cage
You grasp tightly to the mixed fabrication of my dress
Ever so snugly you claw at my hips
With your coarse outer being longing for more
If I loosened my grip you would tighten yours
Not out of fear
But of pure connection
Even in this writhing heat who could not welcome this kind of embrace
Once placed in a tree
Your head swivels as if on a pike
The look on your face indicates you are on the best acid trip of your life
Perfectly content just to be staring at my face
Examining the purple shadows
And the hidden valleys of my eyebrows
Sunbeams radiate from your egg shaped contemplation
You are dewily mellow old friend
When you look at me
I want to burst into ironic symphonies of bliss
The love of a sloth
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC
John Lennon once said:
"How can I go forward when
I don't know which way
I'm facing?" And I, I never
know which way I'm facing.
You see my head is kind of
like an owl's, constantly
swiveling in circles taking
in as much as possible-
trying to find a way.
My pupils dilating huge
as they go, a feeling
I once knew well
when I placed tabs on my
tongue too often.
But, I'm not tripping now,
I'm just looking;
looking for any light source-
any star- anything
that can fill the darkness
I feel within.
I don't know which way
I'm facing and my feet,
those collections of bones
encased in flesh below me
meant to hold up all of this,
all of me, all of the worry
I've put in my pockets
weighing me down-
my feet, they don't know
whether to walk or run
or skip or hop
or spin me like a top on Christmas.
But spinning tops, they always
stop, falling down
and I guess if you think
about it that's finding their way-
laying down on the kitchen table.
But that's not for me,
face down at the dinner table.
No that's not my cup of tea,
or hot chocolate
because I don't drink tea or coffee
or anything with caffeine
for that matter because
it hurts my heart and if I
am ever going to have a
chance at finding which
way I face, which way to go
I need my heart in perfect
working condition.
I was once told there is an
eighteen inch path from your
brain to your heart
and that every communication
you have ever had,
every feeling you have ever
felt has travelled this path.
But, I don't know if my brain
is talking to my heart
or if my heart is telling
my brain or
if the two even know
eachother...
I still don't know which
way I'm facing, my feet
they don't know if they
should walk or run and
my head it swivels in
circles but I am always looking.
And I promise you,
when I find the way I'm
meant to face, I will go forward.
John Lennon once said:
"How can I go forward when
I don't know which way
I'm facing?"
I do not know which way I'm facing
but I know one day I will.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
And So The Wind Came!
Clouds amassed in morning sky.
Grey and dancing.
Breeze fresh.
Blowing as the winds of change
Legions, brimming full with rain.
Appearing as sentinels.
Protecting the concealed sun.
Matinee brings with it the weather.
Acting out her violent scenes.
And so the wind came.
Lashing of legs tied in her bite.
A thrashing inferno that's burning with pain.
So stealthily the rain it came.
Let not Saint Antonio visit.
The saint of fellows lost.
May the blast not purge us in it's wild whip.
Let the wind not bring amass of rain.
Dispatch not floods our way.
Let the hurricane play and bay.
Her heart's content.
As wild hungry hound.
Barometer pointer swivels.
Storm it shrieks.
Melee over land.
Let Heaven guard the seas.
May the sea control her swell.
Keep all safe and well!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
The dark standing on my shoulders and chest,
the walls whisper
as they creep closer
as I move forward to get away
as they creep closer
as they
in, in, in
the path swivels, I am blind
I crawl on my knees for the comfort of solid ground
and when I feel the end I scream
there are hornets in my hair .
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC