"tartly" poems
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.
The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.
The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.
The pain
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.
She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.
Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.
A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.
Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.
She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.
Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.
She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****
Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?
But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.
And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.
© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
a man cloaked in dust bitten rays skip down the rude lit hall
as a voice calls to him run your fitful bow across my cracked
teacup mouth and draw forth a loosed leaf smile at first
i dismiss it as contrived twaddle one might hear in settings
where silk roses bloom on synthetic counter islands or
a cloth lily wrecks on its maiden voyage mid-way through
a copper sink’s bounded blue but cigarette tip joy burns
peep holes into my cottony resistance it’s a compact thrill
as dense as the peach pit my tooth struck to chip that once
such piquant frissons dissipate into damply aromatic trickles
when the man replies with a tartly rolled lavender bud ready
to burst its pink i’ve the heart of a wobbly kneed boy about
to pull back the tulle cloud on an auburn morn’s feathery
bathers petaled girdle strewn on the slippery rock path
leads up to her dewy lap where luminescent splayed fingers
lay printed hymns when ash trimmed logs fall from his fatty
lips i take the house sparrow’s hasty cue to flap a skyward
exit out from the bony white glow of his unfulfilling promises
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 8:54 AM UTC
I'll walk down the halls
Hand in Hand
Ready to take a stand
Music of macabre origin then plays
"This dance if I may?"
I wear my best noose.
So obviously Obtuse
This ball
Is the ultimate call
For the crazy's
To have a death day party
Our lives never were so hearty.
Shoes made of razor blades
Bloodied nursemaids
Punch is spiked with cyanide
To evoke a lethal tide
Pop a pill maybe 4
That way there is less gore
Less to clean
Please don't be mean
Knives glitter darkly
Our faces grimaced tartly
Cut and slice
Stab and dice
Blood will fall
And run down the halls
For you see my dear
Do not fear
For in these halls
Lurks the suicidal ball.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
So tartly particular,
About picking from treats.
Throw them all up -
See which lands at your feet.
07.2011
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
I had a dream that I saw you in a hotel room with two other women. I was chasing them down the hallway with my 6 inch stilletos, a knife sharper than my mind, and a heart full of rage. I welcomed them with a formal greeting before I took their heads, "hello, my name is Delilah. I'm here to **** you. I'm sorry if I'm sweating profusely. Now, if you wouldn't mind getting on your tartly knees." I kept thinking to myself, as I slowly inserted my mind into theirs, 'I never knew I was capable of doing such things.' And it wasn't until they were finally dead that you were finally gone.
You were the milk to my white oleanders; ever so soft, innocent, and pure and I could easily absorb you through my stems and blossom until I was plucked from the bouquet the very next day. Now, instead of your milk, only your stench remains and I can't seem to wash it off no matter how hard I try. There's no longer that sweet flora and fauna that I once remember. You are now but an awfully sweet memory that remains in my bell jar forever.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
It's been perpetuated. Archeologically timed, primed and adjusted. I am organically, a tartly steamed wallflower, hair wined from the petals of a dragon's breath, queen of ten sheets all blue and green like the nips of the Chesapeake Bay, tongue heavily cheeked, I am the bulb beneath the shrines of your muck, I am your weak-behind-the-knees, wallflower. The hue you pasted against the fours of your walls and only remember when your eyes trace your skies from the ceiling to your bedroom floor.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
The bitter melancholy
Stings the open wound on my lip,
Bit through the parched skin;
Words which I tartly exhale
Only find their way out
After catching;
Perhaps my mouth would be best
Kept closed.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC