"syrupy" poems
Fettered by syrupy curves
of well-handled prose. Exposed,
prone. Bound to bleed
maraschino in free-verse.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
7.6k
I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.
The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.
His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
_place a ******** he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.
The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.
But he winked at me
while telling her _love you, babe,_
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.
Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.
was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Tiny black bulging dots
Marching in a skewed line,
They hunt down,
The syrupy hints left by your sweet boxes...
To fill up their primitive huts,
so no fellow ant dies-
hungry.
I wonder often
To myself,
Humans with green, blue and yellow revolutions,
And Bt products,
Are perhaps the only species,
Which suffers the worst hungers known.
I haven’t seen malnutrition in ants.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
you spread me like strawberry jam,
licking syrupy wrists and chewing on pips.
i will thaw leisurely, until my skin has saturated through
your insanity.
open me like a mango,
slurping, drops of juice upon blemishes,
sprinkling candy through open wounds.
bite through me, an apple hard and
mouth watering.
the pits of me will fall, searching for fertile soil,
and grow.grow.grow.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
She tastes her tongue
-stuttering, spluttering-
and recoils -bitterness
and bile- slobber down
the side of the chin,
spitting it out.
She tapes her tongue
to the front of her
teeth -so that it
does not touch her
uttering buds going
down-
Slurping loudly
the syrupy silence
and its sounds
her thirst grows
to frenzy
Sacrificial
blood offering
-trembling-
to the ancients
within her
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
This is a tricky game
Infatuation floods the chest
Instantly; but it isn’t water
Far too vast for that
It’s warm, syrupy and thick
Wreaking havoc and
Producing symptoms
Glazed eyes
Flushed cheeks
Formed through
Indulgent nights
Grinning
Giggling softly
Instead of sleeping
It all feels so good
Within your chest
You would never want to
Rid yourself of it
But infatuation is disorderly
Overwhelming and easily spread
A molasses mess of fantasy
Of everything you think you feel
Once those feelings
Curdle inside your chest
Into a hardened truth
You will not be able
To breathe
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
The sweet sound of innocence
from rampant fits of laughter,
Lemon bars embellished
with a coat of sugar,
Cartwheels in
the freshly mown grass,
the taste, the smell
forever engrained in my mind,
The sweet, syrupy
cherry lollipop,
tinging my tongue,
ever-so-slightly reminding me,
nagging me to feel
this nostalgic desperation,
for a time and place
that no longer exists.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Take a sip
Strawberry syrup
Sweet and soft
But never enough
Strawberry sweetness
Smooth in your mouth
Tangy but not sour
Covering the dollhouse
Strawberry syrup
Dripping from your lips
Red
On your fingertips
Staining the lace
On your pretty white dress
Strawberry syrup
Making a mess
Can’t see through the syrupy haze
Covering my eyes in a strawberry glaze
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 3:24 PM UTC
It is February
From my balcony
Yesterday I saw
a man in suit and tie
eating his lunch in a Mercedes
some old ladies crossing the street
in colorful hats
Maybe they were from England
A group of Jews with beards
and long coats walked slowly
“Let them mind their business,
while we have *** in the city”
Said she
and we took our clothes off
All this time
amid the noise and mayhem
We made love
culminating in syrupy peace
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
[Sidra of the Stars]
a goddess has awakened
eyes slowly open
penetrating...
light reflects off the irises
(recessive blue alleles on chromosome 15)
my name is Sidra
and I will not be diverted.
-
I stand under sol
I stand under the earth's satellite
I stand in the vale.
-
look upon my feet
the fine lines of support
and strength of design
golden light showers
my long legs
strong and graceful
gaze upon my curves...
silky
ample
hypnotic
look at my golden arms
that comfort babes
dig into the earth
and create abstractions
hands and fingers of elegance
given to me by my grandmother
nails to claw and hands to hold
look at my long neck
draped in silver metal and black glass
falling between my *******
hips compliment the
curve of my spine and
the upward tilt of my chin
my hair is a golden light
shining over hoops of silver
and diamond studs
crystal pierces my nose
lips soft and full
eyes lined in black, never faltering
-
this goddess is aware
conscious
enlightened
eager.
-
I will not abide
silence
undeserved
because you lack the courage
to face me.
I will not abide
deception
manipulation
or syrupy black selfishness.
I will not abide
injustice
mockery
or ultimatums.
I will not abide
misrepresentation
vagueness
or weakness.
-
I am Sidra
of
the stars
of
the sky
of
the night
-
I move swiftly in the night
eyes bright
a creator
a lover
a muse
thoughts align
images swirl
pen to paper
my body moves
sensuous and confident
music booms
lips curve upwards
-
the day descends with
distractions pulling awareness
into waves of concentration
tiny fragments of
thoughts and ideas
begin to build
for later contemplation
-
I know the minds of men.
I will not be diverted.
My power has been revealed.
I will protect the unprotected
**And I will stand
Made of stars
And unleash Hell.**
-
I will reign terror on your ego
and bring the sword down
on your garishness.
Naked and ******** on my warhorse
I will strike you down with silver spear
and you will pay for your misdeeds.
In all my thundering beauty
with nothing but logic and art
I will slam you to the wall
and declare you a fool.
-
I am Sidra of the Stars
I stand in the vale
I will not be diverted.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
From the Azul sky a diving sparkling speck,
An unmatched beautiful creature without circumspect,
The golden leaves of spring like soldiers on parade,
Dip and make way for this fair winged maid.
I have so much longed to be first bite of this season,
To be touched and blossomed to perfection by your reason,
I grow juicy, soft and ripen as I fall for you.
Tumbling into your soft Cashmere hands on cue.
Salivating, I’m tasty, savour me between your teeth,
Sink deep in without remorse, how delectably indiscrete!
Say my name with a smile it’s so safe in your mouth.
I’m tingling the roof of your brain with my flavours coming out.
Take me away! as we fly, I’m cast about like an enchanted spell,
Moistening your soft syrupy lips of caramel.
I’m drained to sustain the iridescent colours of your gilded wings,
Moved by the high passionate notes as you sing.
Your smooth, probing tongue, my flesh diabetically sweet,
Leaving streaks of sienna nectar on fates smeared cheeks,
Wipe away before staining fabric from our black and white lives.
They keep returning, stubborn like long goodbyes.
Surprise! New emotions enveloping, hypnotic like Night Jasmine,
Mimicking a rainwater spout so bubbly, escaping, and exciting!
Your caught hopeless as a fish fly rod with a glass eyed trout
Choking while love swoops silent from heaven to pluck it out.
That’s when you look at my seed and you can tell.
I’m good for your ego but as bad as a toadstool’s spell.
So I’m placed in the first mound of mud you come across,
Where you replant me sprinkled with fairy dust.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
"Love is Blindness"
is inaccurate
Love is the buffer
That sees all imperfections
Makes them perfect
Love is the cataracts
Blurring all troubles
Into a milky sweet balance of good and great
Because bad days are now still good
Love are the pupils
For life
Letting in nothing but light
Blocking out at darkness
Love is syrupy sweet brown eyes...
Even though you thought you liked blue
But Sweet Browns now hold your universe
Love acts as the glasses
Sharpening everything you used to see
Creating the picture of where you were meant to be
Love is the depth perception
For feeling
Used to calibrate all emotions
Love is You
but mostly
Love is sight
Because of Love
I can see
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
She is in the blue shadow of a city on the horizon,
the metronomal click of six inch heels, hypnotic on linoleum,
the reflection of one window in another,
the scoliosis of the trees in an unlit wood.
When the sun is setting, and each blade of grass casts a shadow against the others,
here the images are ready, like Velcro, to hold fast to a heart.
In the slumber of dead flies on an attic windowsill,
the cacophony of the contents of a garbage can spilled into the truck before your alarm,
the way the syrupy night covers the windows to make it seem the world beyond has ended,
there are words with which we amplify the beats of our hearts,
most especially when they are too soft for us to hear ourselves.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Under harsh street lights
And a rusted skeletal overpass
We walked in the syrupy
Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday
Night
A man asked me in accented
English
"Want that burrito spicy?"
"Yes"
His eyebrows go up
"Spicy?"
"Yes, ******* spicy!"
He smiles to himself
Reaches back into the food truck
And pours sauces and
Liquids of varying color
And viscosity into the
Tortilla
Wraps it up for me
Gives me my change
And waves me off with a smile
When we get back to the apartment
She is mad
Because I choose to make love to the
Burrito instead of her
I can't help it
Drunk eating is one of the
Forbidden joys of life
She slams the door and
Shuffles around yelling
By the time I'm done the burrito
She is telling me to sleep on the couch
Which is fine because I can't
Feel my mouth anyway
The burrito is so **** spicy
I tell her this and that her
Kisses would be wasted
If she wants to waste her time
With me, I want to feel it
We sleep together for
The night
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
My favorite feeling is coming out of a restaurant
cheeks are flushed, and eyes are lively
everyone is high on a strange syrupy feeling
how it makes you feel so sleepy, yet so awake
clattering of plates, clinking of perspirating glasses
the soft glow makes everything seem more beautiful.
It’s there I see you, for the first time, I really see you.
Small smile and all, amid the roar of conversation
time doesn’t stop; it become preserved in memory
it becomes a part of how I will always remember you
Your breath lulls me in, calls to me
sweet words pull out of your mouth
like bubbles escaping languidly
for a moment, all is dampened as if we’re under water
sanguine, hearty, I am happily trapped
in this space with you
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
The perfect amount of salt
It dissolves in my mouth
Melting on my pancakes
Complimented with sugary flakes
Dipped in syrupy lakes
My fruit salad with grapes
Bananas and apples too
It's too yummy to be true
While butter is still melting
I dig in, it tastes overwhelming
~12/5/21
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
pretty girl with pretty flowers,
do not be afraid to trace the soft curves of your body
with your round, round eyes.
your monsters hide not there—
your guardian angels do.
when your night feels longer than the day,
breathe the smidgen of youth you have left in you
into the birds swimming fluidly with the stars—
their wings swiftly cutting smooth ripples into the sky,
disturbing the grumbling twilight.
you could be one of them,
able to go nowhere and everywhere.
like air.
don’t you want to go home?
sad girl with sad flowers,
keep your leaves tucked inside your old books,
in lacy sleeves, your peeling boots—
hope He finds them all there.
sing sweetly of the poets of all ages—siken, plath, wilde, whitman—
shamelessly climb inside His chest,
gently rip His ribs apart,
the you that's serenading, softly seducing Him
with songs unsung and dreams undreamt.
let your baby blue skirt ride up,
drip, drip, drip,
let His calloused fingers brush your thighs made of syrupy milk,
as you smile, and smile, and smile.
fiery girl with stormy flowers,
the best things in life cannot be confined to a physical shape, cannot be
seen, or touched, or heard, or said—
yet in your eyes set heavy by damp eyelashes,
there is the primal, unconfined, raw thirst,
desperately hoping and searching.
is it a lost love? an unfounded love?
what is it that you are looking for?
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
Somewhere out in another universe,
I'm 12 years old
and I'm sitting on my bed listening to something through
a hopelessly tangled white headphone string,
flipping through the dog-eared pages
of my favorite book while everyone is sleeping.
The sticky, syrupy air of summer floats through an open window
and nothing bad has happened to me,
no scalding words or hot fingers
etching their prints into my skin.
I haven't menstruated or fallen in love or yet shrunk myself down
or any of the things that made me a woman.
I am warm in my white tank top
and the blue satin shorts with the printed clouds
wondering about trips to the beach
and sticker placements on my new notebook from Borders.
And I hope she's always able to stay like this,
that she never knows of the kinds of stains
that won't wash out of her white tank top.
And that every once in a while,
I might just catch a second of her laughing
from the room next door.
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 12:56 PM UTC
Driving off onto the 101 rush hour concrete jungle, there are no exits,
only obligations to stay stuck in my mobile cubicle moving at the speed of slow.
Hidden flowers on the hillside bloom away mocking my insanity,
they cheer me on to see beyond these gray prison bevels.
Gray blocks hollow until they're filled with my humanity,
making me take the choices reaped with devils.
I feel like I've lived a day in one hour, it's so early it could be midnight.
Twisting and turning in my brain, the sun suddenly ridicules, feeding me a fresh case of insane.
I'm at a point of sorrow, sorrow of an exceptional quality, Grade A-farm raised, take two tomorrow.
The raven croaked nevermore, Juliet is the sun, dangren-burang1.
We have to go. I'm almost happy here2. Complacency rots insides, then refills with fear.
So - Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make3. Clamoring for sight.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to **** There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof4. Filled with truths, synapse salvoes, loves, and drugs. We love what we eat and eat who we are. GERManic germs looking for psychological thrills. You work the guns, I'll rattle the hills.
Smoking cannabis to an over-extent, hope lost, old kung-fu and 80's movies won, I eat smoke for breakfast.
This sun is still mocking me, “Start your day, be productive, make a baby, then expiry.”
Stepping into society, I'm a satanic leaf-tailed gecko wanting freedom, abdicate, and let go your kingdom.
Halfheartedly half washed dishes in my sink; this entropy roller-coaster of highs and lows drives me to drink and think, then drink and smoke, making life one strange syrupy green swirl of mammarys and calamities filled with brevity’s of rarities.
5,000 images, 2 comedies, and a numb right arm later I've turned into dark matter, invisibly pulling all that matters together into a forever stretched infinitely, literally making synergies out of life-energies.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Over the top to sail lips float
Oversweet travel in any sort
Two lips sway back and forth
Have lips we travel
Unravel-Hot lips Brazil
Satisfying-Gratifying
* * * * *
Sugary-Syrupy the sky like
Our lips high
canopy travel shaky
Lips met her rivalry
Lips together acceptable
Reasonable-humble
Lovable-venerable
We travel up
Lips frown to fall
Lips* color* rich* never* to* be* frugal
First class lips diamond- coral
Forever my lips half open
Traveling closed lips
* * * *
She walks and trips*
Museum art
* * * *
Our lips never part*
Jun 15, 2023
Jun 15, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
Rockin' on the front porch
Gazin' down the street
Loathsomely fannin'
Away the Southern Heat
Oppressed hands
Pickin' the days toils
Balmy and wet
Southern Heat never spoils
Whisky bottles bourbon brown
Deep fired and syrupy sweet
Vices to die for
Welcomin' Southern Heat
Clothes pinned on a line
Flappin' in dense air
Mamma starched ‘em stiff
The Southern Heat dressed debonair
There is a trouble around
It smile’s with a firm handshake
Jesus in Confederate Grey
The Southern Heat for the Devils sake
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC