"tailored" poems
We perpetuate heartbreak culture,
teaching girls the man who holds her loves her despite the bruises,
or it was her fault; she looked older.
We fetishes shoulders,
prize youth from the young in return for pre-chewed gum,
swallowing down the same tired ideals from those who still wield them like flags,
waving their patriotism on poles of bone before a throne of medieval ********
They chant mantras with beer stained breath about how 'our' country 'bested' the rest,
but what about the brutality?
The blood split on foreign soil in return for prehistoric oil?
Our land is deemed pure so long as the violence on our hands never reaches our shores,
but the ocean is red and staining our sands.
How can you have pride in a country who's sole identity is based off having the worlds largest navy?
Congratulations. You bombed your way through countless continents, collecting cultures to gather dust on pedestals and alters
We sin on Sundays, drink till we're ****** then wave at the seven deadly's (they don't apply to us here).
We teach preschoolers nationalism before they can walk,
indoctrinate our children before they can talk.
George killed the dragon.
Hood gave to the poor.
we all jumped on the bandwagon before we realised the princess had no choice and the rich still ruled.
There was no voice in the tale for those whose wail could be ignored.
What about those without lines in the script?
Those kicked to the curb, then kicked from it?
Our pavements have no room for nonconformists,
they're tailored to for same mind, same mindless wanderer,
squandering on the lasted polyesters even though that mouth on the street hasn't eaten in over a week.
'God save the Queen' from the vermin;
the homeless have been tossed out of the trash.
Why help them when you could save your cash by turning a blind?
After all, out of sight, out of mind.
Welcome to England, we hope you like what you find
Because we’re not changing it.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
The dawn dipped red the morning light,
Calling forth thundering spring just like
An ocean of storming clouds.
It cracked the sky's black heart.
The large eye socket of Thor
Stretched in gnarled greys,
Tailored in the howling winds,
Clawing the earth in Titan strength-
Drenched the ground in flooding tears.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
We were boys, once.
Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes.
Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11.
We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall.
After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip.
Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone.
*** and sin.
Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns.
He didn't always look like that.
Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine.
He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop.
In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name.
Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest?
Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood.
Maybe he was better off without him.
He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love:
That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity.
The holy adversary.
The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations.
He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite?
He loved his father.
Did he deserve it?
I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday.
What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other?
Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames?
Even as a child, I knew.
Through every slap, scold and bruise.
I would never bow.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
please give to me a proper job
otherwise I'm on the rob
me tummy hearts n me eyes are poppin
as around the shop i go hoppin
gonna steal new shoes, leave the old ones behind
security .... I'll blow ya mind
aberdeen angus, 21 day steak
come on tesco's give me a break
gonna nick whiskey, and fine wine
I'll be popular come tea time
gonna get the dress of my dreams
a vivien westwood, with tailored seams
lingerie, make up, and perfume
i'll get some attention .. in my living room
(c) msrigs 07/10/2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
Her sadness hung around her
Like a suit of tailored tears.
And her vision started to blur
Knowing she lost someone dear.
Goodbyes always hurt the most
When the story wasn't finished
When opportunities were missed
And potential is diminished.
She gazed into the black abyss
Thinking about what could have been.
The abyss gazed back into her
Its loneliness crawled under her skin.
But she heard a whisper in the wind
Saw the sun's diamond glints on snow
A lonely lark appeared to sing
A song that only she could know.
It made her step back from the brink
Of the river never conquered twice
For she was never left behind;
on his way to paradise.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
Truth is the product of the pursuit of knowledge.
Though most people, I have found, do not embrace but fear knowledge.
I believe this to be due to the fact that knowledge is something that cannot be tailored to an individual.
What is, is.
Whether you like it or not.
Knowledge can often be daunting and go against the very foundation of everything you hold "true".
But truth is not there to keep you complacent, it's there to drive you, it's what you should live for.
The pursuit of knowledge is an ongoing process, constantly evolving.
One day you can feel without a shadow of a doubt that you "know" something,
and the next day be proven utterly wrong.
This is why it confuses me so that people hold steadfast to antiquated "truths",
catalogued by humans, and passed down through generations.
Like high school gossip, slipping from one grimy hand into the next,
riddled with the stains of ignorance and manipulation.
Knowledge can often isolate.
Spark hatred in those comfortably numb.
But those on the pursuit are not to be feared or confined,
they're to be celebrated and joined!
Because truth is freedom, and it will only unify.
Don't give up, don't give in.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
Tailored suit, Turkish smokes in a fancy silver case
Gold buttons, collar straight, black tie neatly pressed in place.
Who is he? Well, you must make a deal to learn.
Give me two cents for my trouble,
And a cigarette to burn.
A man made up of shadows and illusions black and gray;
He's a quaint manifestation of the muse you've thrown away.
All of your escaped emotions,
All your unmitigated strife,
Packaged up in flesh and bone and given dusky life.
He breaks apart unfinished thoughts without regard to you,
And uses them to flesh out patchwork dreams of rosy hue.
But happy dreams are wrought of love,
And though Wolf vainly tries,
Internal nightmares oft bleed through and mar his cheerful lies.
He takes your lost sincerities and shapes them up like clay,
Gives them form and simple purpose,
In a rhythmic, pleasing way.
The Wolf is but a poet, his goal you mustn't misconstrue
For he will tear apart your soul
And smiling, give it back to you.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
I read a story today.
Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.
Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.
Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.
Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.
Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.
Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.
Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.
And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.
So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC
Don’t worry
I’ll build you a house in the soft upper spot in my heart
There wont be Barbie’s, or neighbors
And we wont smoke, so we’ll be too good for crystal ash trays
I’ll purchase a porcelain tub so we wont need showers
Our clothes will all be tailored, so we wont need belts
It’s so warm, why not just be barefoot
It suited us just fine as innocent children
so you won’t even need to worry about seeing hard steal or hot leather
Everythings magic so I wont need to pull ropes or need to drag out a ladder
Who needs popcorn, when we have a garden
And the sun is so gracious, mud wont follow us inside
In the soft spot of my heart, its been vulnerable too
but we're still alive
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Too many bottles of this wine we can't pronounce
Too many bowls of that green, no lucky charms
The maids come around too much
Parents ain't around enough
Too many joy rides in daddy's jaguar
Too many white lies and white lines
Super rich kids with nothing but loose ends
Super rich kids with nothing but fake friends
Start my day up on the roof
There's nothing like this type of view
Point the clicker at the tube
I prefer expensive news
New car, new girl
New ice, new glass
New watch, good times babe
It's good times, yeah
She wash my back three times a day
This shower head feels so amazing
We'll both be high, the help don't stare
They just walk by, they must don't care
A million one, a million two
A hundred more will never do
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Real love, I'm searching for a real love
Oh, real love
Close your eyes for what you can't imagine, we are the xany gnashing
Caddy smashing, bratty *** he mad, he snatched his daddy's Jag
And used the **** for batting practice, adamant and he thrashing
Purchasing ****** grams with half the hand of cash you handed
Panicking, patch me up, Pappy done latch keyed us
Toying with Raggy Anns and mammy done had enough
Brash as **** breaching all these aqueducts; don't believe us
Treat us like we can't erupt, yup
We end our day up on the roof
I say I'll jump, I never do
But when I'm drunk I act a fool
Talking 'bout , do they sew wings on tailored suits
I'm on that ledge, she grabs my arm
She slaps my head
It's good times, yeah
Sleeve rips off, I slip, I fall
The market's down like 60 stories
And some don't end the way they should
My silver spoon has fed me good
A million one, a million cash
Close my eyes and feel the crash
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
I am not your accessory
a statement piece
to your spineless connections
The thousandth image-oriented festivity
That you thoughtlessly threw
Due to the boredom of your own reflection
I am not a string of pearly witty conversation that you casually bring up when you aren't capable of employing stimulation
I am not a magenta lipstick you reach to cover up your mindnumbing gossip about the neighbors indecencies
You try to duplicate me and slip your right, then your left foot into vintage leather Jimmy Choos
Oh but your archless perception of life
Doesn't quite fit your soul next to mine
Empathy was never your strong suit
Oh but a tailored cold charcoaled judgement suit--that fits just.right.
Still you try to wear me, despite discrepancies
And oh how you hate the way I mock your silhouette
I clash with your champagne clings
You try to bash me against silverware but I remain mute
"Oh but if I can't make her an accessory, I shall make her an appendage!"
Oh how Christian and courteous of you
In the same way you asked your bridesmaid to step off the alter when she came out to you on that heavenly day
You ask me to be your brothers appendage
Oppressive and aloof
Asking was always a waste of time for you
You expect.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
be my therapist
massage both my temples
from whence these poems originate
will your fingertips perform tailored alterations,
will they insert strange spices and your favors,
unfamiliar but imagined overtime desirable flavors,
thus resolving the question that my answers perpetually fail,
to satisfy my unending need to understand:
*how do my temples
speed the heart
bring forth whole poem utterances inconceivable,*
reminding me to remember what has yet to occur?
she grins, whimsies me and suggests:
that’s why they have been
appointed anointed announced as the
Temples of You
2:19am 2/19/18
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:43 AM UTC
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
Albido
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Or
Completely snuffed
Mountain
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Buffet
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.
Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless
To give a place
To the missed
That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.
Odysseus
Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of
Helios
No,
These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
Sowed
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Eloah.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Totalitarian menace
refined, tailored pants
bleed malignance and
fear.
What stalks the passage,
normally?
Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty
and tortured fiefdom from the sun
invading damp alleyways
and musty cement corridors
abet you enthroned
on that sidewalk stump.
I curb,
the habit
blindly happenstances about
yore salty ruins
we yodel, indiscriminately.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 2:22 PM UTC
In my home city of Dhaka, there is an abundance of bananas. Their sickly sweet aroma hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of human toil and chemical wastes to produce the true odor of despair. The lives of these bananas are relatively short. They start off in a poor farmer’s tree, dragged to market in a broken-down truck, and sold at a cut-throat price to the vendor. In a well-rehearsed play, vendor and consumer haggle over bruised bananas. The tired consumer brings the bananas home and hangs them in the kitchen where cockroaches stalk empty cupboards.
The next day, we, the children, will carry the bananas in empty lunch boxes to school. Together, we will sit through vapid lectures, tailored to make the clock tick slower. Not once will the teacher pause to encourage us to achieve. During lunch, we will devour our bananas with unwashed hands. Despite our best efforts, we will be corralled into our parents’ lives and become the next generation of factory workers and office clerks.
Sometimes though, a child manages to get a glimpse into the other world. I was fortunate enough to be one of these children. One afternoon, my father came into our tiny living room with a smile on his face and an object protruding from his shirt pocket. He told me that he had a special present for me. With a practiced flourish, he took out an orange from his worn shirt. My eyes widened with amazement.
To me, oranges were objects only celebrities and corrupt politicians could afford. They were luxury items, myths seen on television. Yet here I was, nothing extraordinary, holding a real orange in my palm. Slowly I peeled the orange, feeling my old impoverished self peel away simultaneously. As I tasted the first tangy slice, I heard the shackles of the banana chain fall. It was then that I truly felt that I had the power to become anything I wanted. That day, I was liberated from the vicious banana cycle.
From that day forward, I looked for positive events in my life, for signs of hope and change. One day, I saw my strict, condescending teacher discreetly hand an orange to a classmate whose family was unemployed. For the rest of the day, the child stood a little taller. For that day, he was no longer living in a destitute environment, but residing in the warmth of human nature.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
We loved them because
they loved to create.
A tailor and a builder.
made art from nothing.
Left a legacy.
Constructed beauty
from seemingly nothing.
Oh boys,
Our tailors and our builders,
Without you, we’d be sleeping just fine.
He blew her mind
Made her consult
With her old dear friend
Jack
(Daniels)
At hours unmentionable to civilized people.
Who indeed made her feel better
but also made her feel
Worse in the end.
He could talk real pretty things around my head
And I was hooked like a fish
It’s been 4 years and I’m still not free.
I’ve never met anyone so broken
And yet so comfortable with his millions of pieces.
He taught me to take the lenses off
And embrace this life, this love, this way.
Everything that happened before
Is over.
Tomorrow is just what we’re calling 12 hours from now
And oh, won’t those 12 hours until then
Be ******* glorious.
He molded her
Into a volcano.
The kind you see in middle school art class
That the kiln hardens
and it becomes supposedly unbreakable
Until one day, you find it has been chipped all along
[You did that to her, you know.
Broke a piece off her without even knowing it.]
Now that we’re older
they suddenly saw us
When before we were just the backing cast.
Made things that belong in the deep
Accessible to us without fishing lines
Now that’s just a cruel game to play.
It’s funny that it was
a tailor and a builder
who gave us the courage
to not need
to be built or tailored
anymore.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.
Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.
A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.
Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.
Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.
She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.
She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?
Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.
But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -
And she's suddenly upright
And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.
Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,
It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.
And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
A guy walks into a bar
In a posh high rise hotel.
He doesn't look the part,
He is not a swell.
He's in an off-rack suit
It's not tailored silk.
Orders up a drink,
A tall.glass of milk.
He's tall, dark and handsome,
But his tie is just absurd!
He's got heavy glasses,
And looks just like a nerd!
**Along the bar he heard a snort,
And a drunkard gave a sneer,
"Well, hey there kid,
The school's next door,
You're not allowed in here!"
He laughed aloud at his own joke,
And began to walk and sway,
A gap appeared as nervous folk
All slowly back away...
The drunkard called out to the nerd,
"What's wrong, kid, beer too fizzy?
Or is the truth just what I heard,
You're a no-good, yellow *****
The handsome man was cool,
He didn't break his stride.
He pushed his glasses up his nose
And took the drunk aside.
The enebriated idiot
Looked him up and down,
But followed him to the window
Said, "Watchoo wan' here clown?
The dark man smiled coolly.
Said, "I'd like to make a wager.
Just a couple thousand bucks.
You know. Nothing major.
I'll bet you, my drunken friend,
I can jump out - but then
After I'm out this window,
I'll come back in again!!
**The drunkard looked
him up and down,
And grinned an evil grin,
"If you wanna JUMP, go right ahead,
This bet, I'm gonna WIN!
The handsome man just
Gave a wink,
And jumped out on the ledge.
He took one look o'r the brink,
And leapt over the edge!
The drunkard gasped
In total shock!
"My god, he must have died!!"
When in a flash there came a knock
The man climbed back inside!
The handsome man
Straightend his tie
"It's time to pay your dues!
Unless, of course, you'd like to try,
Or are you scared you'll lose...**
"Scared!?!!" The drunk was livid!
"Well! I'm no chicken, friend!
I accept! " And so he *lept!!!
And promptly met his end.....*
The tall, dark handsome person
Went back to his drink.
He finished his milk quietly,
And tipped the keep a wink.
The barkeep, looking sour,
Said, "Well. More cleanup work.
Superman, I like you,
But sometimes you're a ****
(C) Tryst
(C) SoulSurvivor
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
The moon dangled hard through the city
and the moth-lamps hummed discord with the wetness.
The dripping stars like accidents in spilt milk,
waited for a mop.
Walking home I hallucinated men
coiled up with the smoke-stacks.
They pressed through the brickwork and
as shadows flickered in the street-light.
Though my torch cut them down like saplings
and the moon ripped off their heads like scarecrows,
each man was a sermon,
a vastness straining the borders of sight.
A tailored uselessness hung there arms,
waspish currents tore from their mouths.
Starlings turned on their cross-wind,
as messengers of some sleeveless silence.
The moonlight fell on them like whorls,
like hurricane petals, hostile
were the shopsigns, they moved backhandedly.
The gulls raged. The crows filled silence they left.
The shadows all danced to the back of my head.
And when I turned they were gone.
I'm plucking for life and a body.
That shrinks the world to their size.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
We run stiffly,
in tailored suits.
Shiny, but firm,
leather boots.
Never again?
to be free and loose with our feet?
like we did when we were kids?
We run as much as our capacity and tolerance allow..
Swiftly,
but straight.
with restraint .
As to not shake, at our dignity
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
A young lady sashays across the kitchen floor .. Displaying a stunning , red Ball gown , beaming , contrarily to an fro , eager for a compliment from a proud seamstress . A fidgety young boy , hand -me -down jacket with slacks being tailored , patches cut , hand sewn at worn out knees ..Darning Papas socks , repairing a tablecloth , custom curtains , flour sacks made into napkins , aprons , quilts and handkerchiefs . A wicker box that belonged to very gifted hands indeed
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
**Here you are, all dressed up
To take me out to dinner, our very first date
Even more handsome than in your corporate office
So dapper, dignified, distinguished,
so impeccably dressed and groomed
In your Armani pinstriped business suit
Silk tie, starched white shirt, cufflinks
Polished black leather Italian shoes
Your BMW waits outside
Well, I have news for you....
I changed my mind
Yes - changed my mind
We will stay home tonight
You will cook dinner for me right here
You are stunned
"ME?
I have a reservation at the finest restaurant
I know everyone there
And I don't know how to cook!
I know you're joking..
You must be."
No. No joke.
Give me those keys to your BMW.
Yes – the car keys
Take off your Rolex wristwatch
No need to look at the time.
Time to get cooking.
No, don't complain
You’re not in your office now
And one more thing.....
Take off those expensive shoes and socks
I want to see the cuffs of your
hand tailored navy blue pinstripes
brushing your
naked toes....
You are irritated, annoyed, frustrated
As you obey, resisting all the way
You give up your keys with the BMW symbol,
Your heavy masculine watch,
gleaming polished shoes,
still warm from your feet
thin black dress socks
I know it is frightening for a man
like you to surrender his shoes
and by the way
I do LOVE the shoes...
They just don't belong on your
feet right now
You call the restaurant and cancel
Shoeless and carless
Suddenly a servant
I’ll read the recipe.
While you peel the potatoes.....
I want you barefoot in my kitchen**
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Your infectious smile,
Like a drug with uncontrollable side effects.
That real, genuine laugh,
Sweet like damp pines.
Those piercing, beautiful eyes,
Sharp enough to rip through my chest and suffocate my heart.
The lips that drew me in,
Like rosy vines tugging at my soul.
Your fine brown hair,
That tangled my mind with absolute rapture.
Arms of ivory gold,
Wrapping me safely with false bliss.
Your angelic body,
Tailored so perfectly to mine like destiny.
A soothing voice of honey,
I could listen to for hours with a simper reply.
That is just the beginning,
Of what makes you lovely.
Only the start,
To a story of your undying loveliness.
~S.C. Kelley
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
come on darling take a chance with us
our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral
a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh
the thumbs shake
as the fingers dance
makes the rain pull its roots on
for the showcase the generic plants
will perform a feral routine
every **** a command-stop forwarded
the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon
and if they shiver they will find their saw
tailored to the head of that aurulent god
a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist
he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm
they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines
he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms
gold minarets in the distance
serpents living under man-made rocks
counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock
a lion counts his livestock
he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress
in the shape of a flame
just outside the shadows of an autumn day
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC