"tangs" poems
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
****** universal **** as if the sun
Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.
Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.
Your world is you. I am my world.
You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,
Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
3.1k
Icy tangs are all the early morning, budding its flower
The young mother born into the sonata of her own being
That seems so foreign to thick sheltered blood,
My adult notch in this Exquisite Rotation.
Humid skies are as spy glasses to the truth
So says the colossus with our sun for an eye;
She steps out of the illusion beautifully blue
Robed in silks of celestial gold;
The skin hangs taught over the most beautiful
Pair of collarbones you’ve ever seen
The pass of your previous life comes in sublime waves
Of crashing aether and all the souls flee with irreclaimable mirth
Before popping in the atmosphere like spit and wishes
And everyday is the day of rest, a pondering
Of avant-gardens where a savior once walked.
He and his church left the path of the geese
For, he hears not, the pass of prayer on their lips.
But, I do not blame them: their mouths are full
With the sky’s drawstrings, reinvigorated from their disuse,
They’ve no time for the good word.
My family of geese fly for the astral bodies’ abode above
Where the casual speak of poets, philosophers can be hears
Talking about their *** lives, talking about themselves
No longer galvanized by their own recreations.
And as I go to place this thing in the place of pain
Warm rushes in the shifting life-force, the green of
Exuberant joy hits our hydrophobic throats
And we exhale, watching it roll back as the geese fly overhead
With no mind or reason why.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
It's not all pretty. this life. me. But what's not, can be. Pretty. It's not all sweetness, and light. this life. me. But what's not, what. stings. tangs. bites. What casts shadows, it can shed light. Or give sweetness. As unpretty as it is. An upturned bug, big. brown. hard. Its legs, twitching toward death and night. Sour, and ugly, and yet pretty in this fading light.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
Ayr ye scurvy turnpike,
turn yer eyes from me!
The beauty of yer blizzard blue
tears me flannel heart.
Ye bake me mind into applesauce
that hotly drools on down,
me stomache is dissolvin-
all me courage ye have drowned.
Ayre ye wretched rogue of lies,
no one could be so fair.
Must be an imagination demon
with soft an tender hair.
When yer tongue tangs sharply on me lips
me life is drained and dying.
shut that song of love ye sing
that sets me soul a flyin.
Ayre ye **** banshee
Don't never let me go,
Grip me with yer slender claws
so closely we can gro.
This world can't stop yer fire
were gonna burn it down,
with nights of satin passion
were gonna paint the town.
Ayre me ***** of wonders,
ye know I keep ye dear.
I thank ye for yer nightmares
that ye give me every year.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
He reminds me of a mandarin orange,
easy to hold and easy to peel
with a slightly rough yet firm exterior;
sensitive to the cold.
His character is that of the sweet flesh
like his gentle words and actions;
with sour tangs that emerge on rare occasions
like a nudge of loneliness from being homesick.
But his mind and soul are the little seeds buried
deep within the depths of his eyes and his heart:
he stays rooted despite in drought; persevered
and grown to enjoy the fruit of his labor.
There is something about the mandarin and its layers
which bring me much more than luck,
love, and even life.
All of it—he—brings me home.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
*A soulless body she was
Pale skin, chapped lips, dreary eyes
Her ribcage filled with soil
Flowers sprouting from her mouth
Her veins like vines,
Wrapped around her legs
Her skin, ripped
Corrupting was her flesh
Worms coming out—
Out of her senseless ears
As unfathomable as nadir—
She buried herself,
The insignia and rosettes,
The books she read,
The verses she chanted,
Her dreams, her fears—
A forgotten temple she was
Hidden in the middle
Of a busy city filled with people
She never knew
And at night, she would write
About nothingness,
Her cats, the mustiness of her youth
Tasting the divinity from the salt
Flowing from her eyes
She wanted god, she wanted sin
Pondering on the elusive thought
Of life and of death—
She just craved for sleep
Lay her body on a casket,
Be one with dirt—
So she drank the ink,
Poisoned her senses
And with her pen, a dagger
She stabbed her core
Rejoicing as she bled magenta—
She decided to die,
She decided to die
Before the monsters inside
Would have feasted on her meat*
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
I love the carnival
I don’t love butterflies or photographs
But I love the wings and faces
When they’re caught in the lights of the rusted rides
I love the way the light dances on your face
And makes amber to hold your pupils
I love the way you blur when we go in circles
The way your nectarine laugh tangs over the children’s
When the wind makes your hair a fury
And your teeth are naked in the glow
I love the ferris wheel
Over the river at night
The fake dahlias hanging from the booth tresses
The lilac smell of warm nightfall
And the cold fence wires passing over my fingers
While four eyes are hitched to the stars
I love the immortality
Like a kitten I was too afraid to touch
Delicate as a paper ornament
When I would twitch around 9:30
At the thought of my feet on the carpet
And my raspberry joints turning sour again
You overhearing the mortal in me
Became my midnight sigher
Ambrosia, I think
Is made of wet cotton candy
And the games we won
It’s made of teacups
The peer in the dark
And the way you looked into adult eyes
Older than they will ever be
And more innocent than their children
Your sneakers covered in dust
And your head lolling against the car window
With our hands touching like wind chimes
In our candlelit drive by the ocean
Your lips would open ever so slightly
When you started to fall asleep
As though you had something more to say
Man,
You carry me higher than any big drop
With your arms at your side
And when I go to the carnival at night
I still look up at the stars
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Hands tick to tock
Minutes slip and slide
Time painfully dies
Poisoned off clocks
Faces familiar and new
Enclose caps and gowns
Grouped up in two
Sprinting the home stretch
Turns of tassels
One voice shouts
Before hundreds of caps
Flying off small heads
Tangs of bitter
Smiles of sweet
Here comes goodbye
One journey complete
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
*( Haiku )
.
Inclinations
All dream comes to naught
Still I sing at great mountains
Fantasias of faiths
Spinsterhood
Ancient fruitless tree
Time droops on leftover boughs
Such weight in the winds
Morning Poet
Taste of wings smoking
Flighty tangs breathe in coffee
Words land onto page
Fresh Eyes
Rain clings to window
Morning world is washed away
Now garden sparkles
Springtime
We teared love naked
In joy winter cloths broke down
Rains ********** us*
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
the salt tangs and swirls
in the mist
giving the world outside
my door
an ocean lisp
all the tree's now indistinct
and ghostly
all the world now mostly
secrets and whispers, soft this morn
the cloud have come to visit
and the sun....
he is up there somewhere
the little blucat has made
his decision....hibernation
is the mode of coping...
the boys of the same intonation...
who am i to disturb the flow
....back to bed with book i go,
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Trust, ties, tears, tears;
With setting rising sun,
just Truth remains.
Trinity's traits transcending to transcript,
The temple trusting the tryst to tall togas;
Truces, tangs, tangles, tags, teams,
with tricks or trills are tackled, tamed by
Those trained to taste the towering truth.
Taints, taboos, tattoos;
With cycling of seasons,
only Truth stays there.
Transgressing traps, talons, treasons,
Thorns, thongs, tides translucent;
These tapes, talks, tales transient,
Are trifles, tickles, trivial, trite;
To tribes treading the track of truth.
Talents, tacts, top techs;
Against infinite labyrinth,
Truth alone can pass.
Taut troops trotting the toiling trek;
Taunting, tapering the tonnage of trash;
Transversing tough tests of tempts,
Are trails of tiring trials, For
Those who treble the tone of truth.
Thrashing traumas to transfixing trance;
With beast or with beauty,
Truth belongs to soul.
Through love and death,
the true timeless tapestries;
Life translates to truth,
and becomes a happy moment;
The moment which is forever.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
I wish to kiss the mountain with my feet
And burrow tight within its frozen maw
To craft a trail amidst an angry sleet
To puncture frozen shell with metal claw
I wish to hold the ocean in my reach
And drift amongst a swirl of yellow tangs
To float and flip and light a sunken beach
To dart away from rows of gnashing fangs
O how I wish to find my world of light
And sleep within the cradle that I've missed
To shed this sack of flesh and free my blight
To feel her soothing hold and once be kissed
Encased in flame, my body will rescind
Ascending to my mother in the wind
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
*Taste of wings smoking
Flighty tangs breathe in coffee
Words land onto page*
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Two beaten baboons
Cling to each other
His dear wives
Kids flinch
Cross banana fingers
Hope for the best
Flamingos are shallow as ****
'How do lions go?'
'Rrrrah'
'See him in the corner
Shall we go to the shop
And buy one'
The last time I was
At the zoo
I contracted
Ragworm
Regal tangs
In aquariums
Across the globe
Are sick to the back gills
Of being called Dory
By over excited children
S
Lucy really wants to eat a mountain chicken frog
Lucy would touch that croc's
Xylophone tail
No issues
Lucy doesn't reckon
I could pass
As a zoologist
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
By evelight lay lackless when by happenstance,
Moved to stoke fires by a wordsmith's en-trance.
Salute you Oh Scribe whose savour words evoke
Mellow cheese, crusted bread and drippings fire smoked.
_And on to kitchen with hungergreed,_
_Then to see what we shall find._
Greeishly seeking ** hum! Hubbardmum!
Remorsal to not spy no plump honeycrumb.
Hoardings bereft of gorgeulent fripwhips,
Desumed save for wholesmug and blandiment pips.
_And on to bed with hungerneed,_
_Then to dreams alone to dine._
Ill-matched vestements, quick-foot before routine,
Grogful from slumberfast, not spruced nor clean.
Green of the wind that bites first to incense,
Cornflaked under boot, toiling towards drudgcompence.
_And on to secure with hungerspeed,_
_Then to home with food on mind._
To sizzle, not to bake, fits the need to be sated,
Though the tangs now unaired bring relief once it's plated.
From first ****** to last spurt no sooner guzzied down,
With all gourmeaches now quelled and all yearnishes drowned.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
This waveform
rat-a-tat-tat
is for you
of or not
the vibe
drops the mic
on your day
wakes your ***
superseded maybe
by your electric shaver's
buzz
in the moment
you are drowned
reach
for the sound
of high heeled boys
toyz
someone's attic
emptied on this line
zing zuhing
zang
clangs in key
and ahm rahmin
and bumpin
an
this tangs
are or are not
of
the vibe
what is the lot
of not
at this level
note less
ring not
give not
live not
and Thursday
is the day things
feel better
sliding down
slammin'
charge down
my gullet
against
some good song
drenching the backdrop
with rich darkness
squirt i know
is the down
down down down
ahm just reachin'
your backteeth
grit ting
on now
tearing out
you now
just ink
and not even
just link
the pulling
from tomorrow
'cause today
Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC