"tacks" poems
Being kissed on the back
of the knee is a moth
at the windowscreen and
yes my darling a dot
on the fathometer is
tinkerbelle with her cough
and twice I will give up my
honor and stars will stick
like tacks in the night
yes oh yes yes yes two
little snails at the back
of the knee building bon-
fires something like eye-
lashes something two zippos
striking yes yes yes small
and me maker.
7.5k
i have not spoken to you in
four or six years but
the hex code for the color of your eyes
i could determine from:
strawberry-kiwi juice, thumb tacks
CD rainbows
softball (
and kickball, hours of it)
chicago in 2007, white pebbles like teeth, and converse shoes—
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
There's this special seed inside of us
That glitters, shines, and grows
Planted by an equally special person
One that everybody knows.
The one that woke up early this morning
And downed their coffee for the day
While you dig out your favorite shirt
And they keep their nerves at bay.
The person that decorates for new children
Hangs up posters and note cards
Tacks up the yearly alphabet trim
And clears the weeds from the school yard.
Stands and greets equally nervous kids
Hands them name tags and a book
And hopes that their anxiety melts away
To be excited like they should.
The history and math books open
Pages are assigned
They're there to help you through it
To make problems easier to find.
To journey across another dimension
Of equations and butterflies alike
That prepares you for ACTs ahead
And tests that you'll probably dislike.
Well, that's all fine and dandy
All these books and passing grades
But what's more important is the seed inside
That's planted in your brain.
The seed that fuels your drive to learn
Creates a light to help you grow
Makes you crave another book
Acquire everything there is to know.
And I know a certain farmer
That specializes in these seeds
Who wants to make you reach the top
So you'll realize everything you can be.
These farmers go by 'teachers'
The most amazing you can find
Because of them, I try to be my best
So I thank my teachers for their time.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
What to do about wanderlust?
Should it be quelled?
Desktop backgrounds are my only escape
Maps with tacks and backpacks with knick-knacks
It all seems so far away
Cobblestone steps are wearing down
By the feet of enlightened in wondrous towns
While chairs are pushed in
Or left out of place
Thoughts are escaping to the vacuum of space
This Earl Grey is mint tea in Tangiers' seats
Or gold and black Yunnan at her highest peaks
It's sifting through pans of Fynbos' red leaves
What to do about wanderlust?
Should it be quelled?
I seem to dwell
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.
pruning fingers from another world of empty reach, i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous
laughter.
smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon
kiss.
and sweet
disaster.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
When you die I will surely mourn,
I will miss the warmth of your embrace,
A blanket in the cold cruelty of the night,
I will miss how you'd tell me,
"Darling, it'll be better in the morning"
But it'll only be better after the mourning,
Oh Mother we're all going to die,
That's certain,
And there will be just as much not to miss,
I will not miss your words sharp as blades,
Cutting away slowly at my insides,
And the way they stuck like severed tacks in my mind,
I will not miss your beliefs,
So isolated and different from mine,
Your good intentions and fouler methods,
I will not miss the strike of your hands,
Like thunder,
Or your temper,
Like a hurricane,
Nor the vigilant and wary eye of a self-proclaimed victim,
An agent in broad daylight, lurking, critical and hideous,
But most of all, I will not miss your condescension,
Oh Mother,
I know I told you I'd never bow,
But just this once,
At your tombstone,
I will be free of it,
The best of the worst and the worst of the best,
I will mourn,
I'll take a bow for you,
Good riddance, I'll miss you,
Adieu, I love you,
And Mama?
Godspeed Mama, Godspeed.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
3.4k
She remembers the day the stick turned blue, “wow for **** up the spout”
He remembers her smile when she told him. Smile, really?
Then there was telling her parents, “okay we'll make this work”
Then there was telling his parents, “You threw your scholarship away for this ***** you're a dumb ***
She remembers the morning sickness
He remembers the hangovers
She felt warm inside when he said it was her choice
He felt like dying when she said she was keeping it
She framed the first ultra sound photo
He deleted his Myspace page
She noticed the day she started showing
The same day he noticed the legs on the waitress
She was snickered at behind locker doors
He quit the team
Her mom brought home baby shoes
His mom circled the classifieds
She got peanut butter cravings
He got hand gun cravings
It's a girl
It's a girl
She remembers finally talking again after four months
He remembers being cornered after 3rd period
She wanted to pick names
He wanted to hang up
She remembers their second first date
He remembers how nice she was
This could really work please kiss me goodnight
We'll see how this goes please don't kiss me
The doctors say the shadow on the ultra sound could be nothing
What if the thing on the picture is something
She prays for the health of Amelia
He begs God to do something about this
They have such a bright future ahead
He had such a bright future ahead
She goes to Goodwill for maternity clothes
He rings her up at the cash register with a kiss
She remembers buying baby clothes at the mall
He remembers how cute the onesies were
She sees him smile
Amelia...good name
She's due next week
He packs his cleats to make room for the crib
She packs to move into his house
His dad packs for a motel
She's still craving peanut butter
He's still craving the waitress
She ate peanut butter
He ate the waitress
She's in labour
He's in traffic
Hold my hand
Ouch...Okay breathe honey...ouch
There's no crying
Nice, quiet baby
Amelia's dead
I'm not a father
She cries into her shirt
He leaves the hospital
She cries into the onesies
He returns the crib to Wal Mart
She burns the ultra sound photos
He grabs his cleats
She gets a hair cut
He quits his job
She returns the diapers and shower gifts
His new Myspace says “single”
She shops for a prom dress
The waitress finds out he's seventeen
Her mom hugs her as she falls asleep
His dad pats him on the back after wind sprints
She can't stop starring at him during prom
He wonders if she went to prom
She writes Amelia in bubble letters on a piece of paper she hangs on her wall a reminder of what's important
He buys a Costco pack of condoms and tacks one to the wall a reminder of what's important
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
I am a ***** of the very worst kind
Not of *** and promiscuity
A ***** of my own
Creation
You come up on my radar
Latch
Seek
Destroy
And you will never know
Each and every one of my
Dead lovers
Never loved me back
Tear them up
Spit them out
Abandoned
Just like me
But I hurt
I feel emotion
Like clods of dirt
Inside my chest
Rip it open
Scream at each
Small thing
Wrong thing
I want only this
That I can never have
Curses
Plagues
Dead
Ex-lovers
Stars in their eyes
That look past my
Efforts
Hints
Advances
I am invisible
Invincible
Or so I like to think
The invisible *****
You never saw me coming
Till I cry these three tears
Drop
Drop
Drop
Two from the right
One from the left
Just like the rest
So many to name
That wouldn’t even know my
Hurt
Abandonment
What have you done to me?
Nothing
It is I
Only I
Want so desperately
To touch
To be touched
3 little tears come from
Within this cold hard
Clenched fist
Wetting my palm
Trying to escape
Flung at your calm
Silent face.
I want to be empty
I want to not feel this
Gift.
Emotion.
In the pit of my stomach
Back of my throat
Behind these eyes
Sick
And they fall
One
Two
Three
The time it takes to
Break
Die
Latch
Seek
Destroy
I am on a rampage
To eat each man up
Bone by bone
Flesh and blood
Thoughts and loves
Till I spew it all back out
To every person I meet
I am a ***** of the very worst kind
I’ve been everywhere
Nowhere
Inside everyone
No One
You cannot pay for me.
I’m too cheap.
You do not want me
I am curse
Brought on by
Liars
Abusers
Molesters
I am the product of
A past
Mistakes
And I want you to
Make me better
But I become
Worse
Liken me please
To those on the street
Full of disease
Because I am worth
Nothing
Of your time
Energy
Nothing
And I expect
Nothing more
Than this
Agonizingly
Painful
You
Are just like
Everyone else
That I never wanted you
To be
So much more than
Dead
Ex-lovers
Death from their lips
In long streams of wire
Attached at my wrists
Ankles
Binding me
Cutting deep
Blood
Red
Stains like my shirt
Cutting me
Scarring me
Until I feel so much
Nothing
And uncountable tears
Flood cities
Destroy taverns
Come knocking
Breaking free
Again
And again
And again
And you are
The same
As those
Starry-eyed, wire binding
Dead
Ex-Lovers
So much alive
Reminding me of every
Failure
Each scar on my wrist
In the form of a name
And now you join the rest
In this shallow unmarked grave
You are alone
With them
And I will
Consume this hurt
Like a breakfast
Of nails and tacks
Each bite will puncture
The last remaining composure
Till I am nothing once again
Radar
Radar
Detecting
Latch
Seek
Destroy
All over again
The very worst kind
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
***the damage
has already
been done
by the time
brass tacks
rise to
the surface,
and all the pretty
maidens are stacked
like Russian wooden
nesting dolls,***
**in an insatiable
hunger, yearning
to possess
the most toys**
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
There was a girl named Peg Leg Peg,
Called her that because of her wooden leg,
She was known as the best in town,
Guys would come from miles around,
You see, Peg’s leg could detach,
For better access to her ******
And though it wasn’t ***** that bite,
There was the occasional termite,
But this did not seem to deter,
All the guys who called on her,
And though there were occasional cracks,
About how she held her stockings up with tacks,
All the guys would practically beg,
To put another notch in Peggy’s leg.
04-19-10.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
Whisper, whisper but I can still hear you.
Your eyes tell it all.
You don't even know me and you don't even care. It's people like you who ****** onto me a two ton weight that kept me from walking tall all these years.
It's people like you that ignited a feeling of torment for the unrelenting realization that I will never escape people’s stares.
Days like these I wonder why, friends aren't friends and everything seems like a lie.
“I never asked to exist”, (words that echo through my head every time someone falls from exceptional to unbearable) .
You don't have the courtesy to talk behind my back, instead you boldly break me with your tacks; tacking your words onto my skin, until my pride and self-worth wears thin.
That’s why on weekends I would sometimes cage myself in my room because though I was not free, I was at least free from your gazes, and though I was not living, at least I was alive.
I stayed inside because outside there were wolves and I refused to be a meal. I've seen what they do to their prey, cornering, growling in order to strike fear, battling with their eyes, and then they consume them until all that is left, are bones.
This is what they do,
and many of us can attest to their brutality.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
cocktail heels
sharp as tacks
watch your feet
every step the green mile
you could hear a pin drop
(or was that a pearl earring?)
the lipstick on her teeth smiles at you.
skin so creamy
it’d feel right at home in a cup o’ joe
free that poor hair from *******
so the red sea comes tumbling down her shoulders
just ignore the diamond on her finger—
it’s merely a suggestion.
that dress
smooth black and form-fitting
follow the zipper towards the small of her back
now emerging from the chrysalis
madame butterfly
nice clothing like hers looks better on the carpet.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.
Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.
Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.
Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.
Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.
Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.
Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.
Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.
Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.
Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.
Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.
Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.
Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.
Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.
Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
Today there will be no siren nor
simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
forethought and afterthought.
Dislimned – all; you, left
in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
in pursuit of light.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
I’m praying for Pangaea so I can run to the ends of the earth for you. Mixed signals are cancerous so I swallow yours down to keep you safe. Sure, souls like fire in my bloodstream burn on the way out but they’re streaming for you into this chest cavity missing a heart, my own Judas, betrayed me for your eyes. Even saints can be lost causes, darling, but you’re neither. You’re a superhero, all technicolour capes and dollar-store disguises and you’d think I’m the damsel in distress but I’m your nemesis. Why else do you think I’m burning Earth to the ground, for my own perverse enjoyment? I’m pulling your hair, putting tacks on your seat because I’m too afraid to say I love you, which is a truth, which is a bomb to defuse before our bed becomes ground zero. I laugh at your jokes and offer myself up for slaughter but you’re not biting so I’m walking home in the snow, alone. I’m cold, I’m frozen. I’ve gone home to a Heaven of ice, heads in the freezer like a good luck charm, your words carved into my palms so I won’t forget. Back to the lab, back to the drawing board. Maybe I’ll close the warplans for tonight.
I know you belong to her but I’m jealous, baby, I’m so jealous. I’ll tell you to bow down, defer, sing a hallelujah to lull me to sleep before I remember how much it hurts to love you. And tomorrow when you’re gone I’ll plan death: hell, maybe the world’s. You might love me then. I’m not too hopeful.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
Happy Halloween
Trick or treats at the front door,
give them candy, but they want more.
I put poison in their candy bar,
razors in their apple will leave a scar.
Tired of hearing, the ringing of my bell,
all these **** kids can go to hell.
Putting tacks in their Milky Way,
don't they know candy causes tooth decay.
Even with the lights off, they still knock,
I hate every kid on this **** block.
I give them lint from my dryer,
their stupid costumes, I light on fire.
I put pennies in their pillow case,
some kids so ugly, don't need masks on face.
I smile at their moms, standing on the sidewalk,
all the hot ones, I can't help but gawk.
When they say trick or treat,
I make them lick my smelly feet.
Putting pins in their Baby Ruth,
no longer will they have a sweet tooth.
Putting nails in their peanut butter Twix,
I have a big bag filled with rotten tricks.
I put Anthrax in their Snickers,
on the Kit Kat i cover with chiggers.
Three Musketeers are filled with staples,
Butterfingers have splinters from wooden tables.
Naughty kids get a bag of my ****
from the toilet, that I often sit.
Maybe next year they will learn,
or I'll give them ashes from their parents urn.
Sometimes I scare them and make them beg,
their so scared, you can see *** running down their leg.
I've even given left overs from the fridge,
all the maggots make their bodies twitch.
Next Halloween, if I'm not in jail,
I will urinate in every candy pail.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
As the years you live
Are continuously progressing
You find new things
To keep you stressing
About a life that you
Hadn’t a thought about thinking
Because your head was in the clouds
And your hands were busy painting
Although time passes
Memories still hold true
Like those many times in math class
When you didn’t understand, and I helped you
Through the years I’ve seen you grow
And I’ve heard of some changes
But some things hold true
And I still have your paintings
A rose made of lead
A fallen savior risen from a blank sheet
And a man and his belly
With colors that made me think
About the person behind
These amazing creations
What a wonderful woman
With such a vast imagination
Beauty becomes you
And you’ve done nothing but flourish
Not one flaw would flaw you
You will always be timeless
Now, as these sentiments draw down
Let’s get to "brass tacks"
You’re all grown up now
And it might shock you to face facts
Because it’s hard to grow up
When all you want is to be young
To lay around with friends
And listen to your favorite song
This day is yours
In so many ways
Your 20’s are over,
IT’S YOUR FREAKIN’ 30th BIRTHDAY!!!
I hope the basket of goodies
Got to you in one piece
And didn’t arrive spoiled
Before you had a chance to drink and eat
Enjoy the cheese and crackers
In times of reminiscing
And save all the chocolate
For when you’re alone and pissy
The ***** is there for you
If bad memories should creep up
So you can wash them away,
And shut ‘em the **** up.
These are the first gifts
I’ve given in awhile
I hope it lifts your spirits
And brings you a smile
Now one last thing
Before my novice poem comes to a close
It’s just a short read
And it’s got a touch of flow
Take time to enjoy
All the things you hold dear
And grab all the moments
You can when they are near
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
In this moment all I can possibly wonder is the way I will remember you,
Will I remember the sweat on your bottom lip, like thumb tacks puncturing a map,
Puncturing the places I would like to visit;
Or will I remember the way your eyes look in sunlight,
Iridescent and blue like the sea the day after a storm.
Except you are not a reflection of something else.
You have not shriveled up and died,
Or reserected yourself from your most sinuous nightmare.
I always wanted to take you apart ; leave your fragments to sun dry.
That is the silver barrier that separates us,
I am wasted potential, a sick twisted mind, I will spit in your mouth and smile.
I have been thrown to the vultures,
And although I clawed my way out,
Something inside of me has died.
A candle has burned out;
And then there’s you.
And you light up the sky with sparks,
And set my whole world ablaze.
We are burning,
Burning down the cities and engulfing the towns,
Swamping the planet with embers.
We are a flood of inferno,
A glittering holocaust.
I have loved before, and that was much softer,
It’s different when you don’t know how bad it hurts. I could write a book about all the different places in my body I felt heartbreak.
I wonder if I will always carry this flame with me. I could keep my heart in my pocket, leave my memories in the photo frames and card board boxes.
Oh dear,
If only it was that easy.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
Fresh like a breeze along the beaches of caribbean seas,
squeezed orange juice on early mornings in champagne glasses.
Fresh like a bald cut on a Marine, Navy seal
or even the old man down the block keeping it real.
Fresh like a baby in a womb, car smell, new perfume, dorm rooms,
or anything that seems cool.
Fresh like a new pair of J's,
or even a basketball player even better than Kobe when he plays.
Fresh like a girl opening her legs for feelings of ***********
or even teenagers using proactive for there pores.
Fresh like tired of saying fresh like
I'm the best right, lyrical lights
infested blood, Z Type.
I know its wack but I try my best,
to even contest with poetry,
complexed not even a inch of talent flowing in me.
My enemies telling me that its real
still there scrolls are sealed,
lying to keep my lips sealed.
They laugh behind my back
giving false facts, about me laying down wax
to keep my rhymes charged to the max.
Instead I walk on tacks bare foot open toes
its a lie to tell the truth why should I even appose.
I received a broken nose mentally
foreseeing scripts critically
AM I FRESH I GUESS NOT.
More of a plot to leave me blind,
terrorist worst then Sadam
aligned to lock my mind
I look at myself below divine.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Lucifer just said I'm two-faced;
But the reality is I wear many faces
Each one a mask
Picking a bouquet of oopsie-daises
Unabashedly lashing out at you
I eviscerate; wielding a scalpel
Then I pounce; scalped him,
Pelt dangling from my ***** pack
**Went Kerouac on ***** ***
Surprise, surprise
Palpable attack
Thumbing tacks into your eyes
Lame as a bad sitcom
Band-wagon careening off the laugh-track
Everybody loves disarray
**** Vamoose!
Underlying interloper
Feel the allusion in high resolution;
Little tike on the *****
Anne frankly I'm that Führer fomenting furor
Have you lost your marbles?
Inaudibly garbling warbled garbage
Mauled to death
**I **** narwhals**
Convoluted revolution
I revel in it
Elusive illusion
Testify, I bring the excellence in electrocution
I'm the executioner
Putting the fun in funeral
Like a neurotic necrotizing narcotic
A lobotomy to the temporal
I dreamt the demented torment of descent
Cascading like a torrential waterfall
Ghoulish delight
Primeval upheavaler
With hopes to elope, many fold
Mic bold, but I suspect she's hitting the slopes;
Ice cold
Evoking emotion but a hopeless show
marionette in a stranglehold
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC