"tattooing" poems
survival of the most dissociative
you don’t need anyone
to make you feel
you can feel all by yourself
you can feel any emotion you want
you have been given the full reportoire
whiteness can give you wealth
can get you ***** and enslaved
whiteness can get you anything
any type of dissociation
legal liberty
dissociative profit
an accumulation of dissociative value
to get this much sugar
dissociative cooperation of whiteness
an empire of dissociative investment
dissociative throne of power
out of control
with the need to control
anger
jealousy
envy
of those who are trying to be human
native
culture
ethnicity
anger and frustration
force and pressure to make dissociate
whiteness breathing together
against
if the cooperation of whiteness catches you
going back to help those
it tried to bury behind
dissociative reality
a desperate reality
that ceases to exist
when the intensity
of the dissociative cooperation
ceases to exist
am I the only one manifesting this honesty
a diagnosis of the diagnosers
intimate communication
tattooing the world forever
undeniable language of change
I gave all the history of dissociation
to the world
exposing abuse that is
the pride of dissociative
white supremacy
we are not the objects
of dissociative value
an association of focus
not cooperating
studying and exposing
resisting dissociation
conflicting value of nativity
accumulative value of resistance
resilience unafraid
unflinching fearless
vulnerable
reincarnating
intimate honesty
lights down low revolution
subtle
in the face of dissociative force
I need my fix of dissociation
please
do it with me
no wait
reinforce resistance
keep it up with breathing
dont conspire dissociation
I am decomposition
so I leave behind
an abrasive language
so abrasive
any remnant
of sensitivity
of dissociation
is drawn in to contemplate
to question its intentions
an exorcism of dissociative whiteness
giving into nativity
self righteousness
desperately competing to dissociate
like whiteness
**** them and you
there is beauty outside of this dissociation
Americanized
the diseased spread
of dissociative *******
dissociative procreation
the evolution of dissociative selection
Darwin’s cousin tortured and destroyed
it is fun and exciting to
denounce dissociation
do it with me
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
Not an enigmatic smile
Like the constipated, condescending smirk
Adorning, and inexplicably adored, on the Mona Lisa's smug face;
But a smile to justify God's existence;
A smile that, when dazzlingly bestowed
Upon one fortunate soul, caught rabbit-like in its
Wondrous radiance, infinitesimally, and cumulatively,
Increases the World's joy. Where every living thing -
Whatever exists on the planet, imperceptibly hums
To a new, more celestial pitch -
An effervescent vibration celebrating Life's mysteries:
A reason for existence.
It's a smile to make an Alchemist cry -
Turning a leaden heart to gold in an instant.
It's a smile to make a mediocre poet struggle
To articulate an adequate description
Using all the hyperbole, simile and metaphor at his limited disposal.
Inestimably more brilliant, and more valuable,
Than the most flawless diamond ever found -
And, perhaps, just as rare.
Thankfully, a renewable resource,
Enabled to enlighten and heat
The recesses of any beneficiary's
Heart and invigorate their soul.
Helen may have caused a thousand ships to sail,
Destroying a nation as a consequence;
And Cleopatra nearly caused the collapse of an Empire;
But Tao's smile, unleashed in all its glory
Could melt the Antarctic ice-sheet -
Drowning us all in its magnificence.
Mayan's have a myth that states such a smile
Only comes around once every twelve thousand years,
In the Great Galactic turning.
Einstein's General Theory of Relativity
Is often mistakenly considered to concern gravity,
But is, in fact, concerned with one's relative position
To Tao's smile - an inescapable vortex of pleasure.
No music conceived of the fabled Celestial Spheres
Compares to the silent, ethereal harmonies tattooing my heart
Whenever, beacon-like, that smile flashes fleetingly in my direction.
And Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle has not a Quantum core,
But revolves around the statistical uncertainty of being blessed
With the ephemeral thrill of a benign grim.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Tattoo
The universe
Captured
At the ends of fingertips
Like gentle tattooing needles
Synnapses firing
Chemical arrows
In sequences
Drawing patterns
tattoos
On receptive skin
Mapping new sensory
territory
memory
Tattooing eternity
In a dream
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
i detoxed myself under this pale sun
(you stood by and watched the
unfolding saga all the while
questioning the meaning of zen)
the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
(can you recover your own fumbles?)
every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
(my love for this is a game of solitaire)
i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.
i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
(i have seen you ignoring me)
in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
(you will know me by the number of the dead)
i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.
i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.
i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.
Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
(aren't you proud?)
(isn't he cute?)
i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
(what do you know about pain?)
i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe
my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....
i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...
i have run out of things to sacrifice
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Most days I wear flip-flops because I am too lazy to wear socks,
and I like the feeling of summer somewhere close to me,
and I like to watch my feet move. Do you know, there
are so many small little bones in there! it amazes me.
My mom used to massage my feet to wake me up.
She's been the best foot-massager of all, better than all the friends
and the boyfriends. Better than the early morning
sleepy-satisfying stretches, better than the feeling of sunlit
warm wood on my bare feet. Better than grass. Her calloused hands,
and softly hummed melodies. Tattooed arms, faded turquoise. Sun on her
skin. If I could see my mom in myself every time I looked in the mirror
I think I would be relaxed. I would play more music. I would spend
my next paycheck taking a day off with a pina colada and
tattooing a turtle, on my foot, just like hers.
Flexing my feet. Cold night air. Flip-flopping on the concrete. I wish
I could dive into the ocean, ice-cold, something worth laughing into
the nighttime. So much seriousness all the time, I think that people
need to eat more butter and not take skin to mean so much.
Silly, really, I guess. But a Mom-massage might just mean the world
sometimes. And smiling with someone is like a Mom-massage, right when I need it most.
To everyone who's been there, thank you.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking. i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic. these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide. now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect. the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.
depression: this is a gray day. i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania. so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.
anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through. i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low. i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.
self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time. i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.
addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.
all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
there is books stacked in the corner and words flow out of every nook and cranny
a single light burns in the middle of the room
a light that dissolves your mask, a light that highlights ever scar you cut
on my oh-so innocent face, that was never touched by a man
you burned and branded what you wanted into my head
a head full of imagination, now empty of thought
you poured acid in my mouth, to cease my right of speaking
a mute... a freak of nature, with pink ribbon scars tattooing my arms
my freckles hide behind tears and mascara
no longing knowing freedom - caged by you, a fake friend
a fake man
i thought a man was supposed to protect their girl from harm
not cause the harm themselves, but of course it is not entirely your fault
maybe if i never said yes to your offer, without reading the fine print
maybe if i wasn't such a little girl, when you wanted a tough woman
but you can see my past in black-and-white
and the past in never pretty
i've never experienced a boy-meets-girl relationship... but i've known of a boy-hates-girl relationship
but now the light showcases this on a podium for all to see
maybe i'm not as crazy as you think
maybe i'm just human - diseased
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Artists minds
Have fragile souls
The delicate way
We pen our words
Shows our vulnerability
We bare our scars
Triumphs
Hopes and dreams
To heal the pain
Of our wounded hearts
We must create
For our own understanding
Self-discovery
To process the turmoil
And calm our fears and anxiety
Tattooing our thoughts
On our readers minds
Letting each person who reads
Carry a piece of the pain with them
Until there is none left
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
She is like no other, always in her necktie.
I knew her before the necktie, before many
the body manipulations, but not all. I'd stare,
engrossingly, at elongated lobes, the wardrobe.
I, now, her technophobe, longing to digital
age do her. "It's complicated," we call it.
How I long to stand next to her at the bus stop,
like we used to do. Waiting, staring, baiting,
glaring, like we used to do, at Fillmore and Haight,
while we'd wait. Didn't care if my bus came and
left, sometimes I'd just wait for hers, to follow
her aboard. I think she liked the way I stalked her.
Me in my blah corporate attire and necktie,
her in her outlandishly wonderful. Going to work
those days were keen broad bean, where we'd
convene, sometimes out on the scene, or where
folks ought not be seen. And we'd just look,
for long periods. If we spoke, it was egg white polite.
But that was then and this is now and now we
chat all naughty fun. I call her my baby, my honey-bun,
my long distance impassioned one. Virtual realities
do often please, something I like about the tease.
If ever again together, I'll be on my knees. She's
my fiancée and we plan to tie the knot.
Guess I'll be tattooing a matching necktie.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
we floated around in an ocean
of mediocrity
sharing poems etched into the skin
on our wrists
wondering when the weight of the world would drown us in our own thoughts
thoughts of people who didn't even know
we existed
places we would never go
and things we would never say
no one knows I still sing you happy birthday
in the room where you died in my arms
its only a metaphor, of course
I'm sure you're out there somewhere
in a city that could never care
about you
like I did
tattooing your skin with her bed sheets
and kissing over coffee tables made
of all the ways I'll never get to say
I love you
the coffee table you lay books on top of
but never read
or run your knee into and curse
under your breath
I imagine this is what loving you
would have been like
and still
the thought is enough to keep me up
at night
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
each time you kiss me in unknown and untouched places, like the backs of my knees, the curve in my spine, the flesh behind my ear, the insides of my ankles; each time you run your fingernails down the expanse of my stomach, across my arms and the curves of my thighs; each time your tongue marks dates and times and places and memories onto my fingertips, and cheekbones, and ******* each time you drag a pen over my skin, drawing hearts and flowers and guitars, tattooing phrases and numbers counting down the days and hours to this and that; each time, you add a poem to my body.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I felt you
before I saw you;
your almighty presence filling the room,
filling me.
I turned and met your eyes;
blazing green prisons
that confine me,
emerald pools
that drown me.
I move closer,
and you smile that
all-knowing smile,
wrapping your arm around my waist
feeling the bone of my hip
your hand moving down
stroking my thigh whilst I quiver.
How can this be wrong?
These feelings I have when you enter a room,
when you touch me,
when you know me...
how can they be wrong?
Your fingertips dance over my body,
tattooing your name under my forbidden skin
scarring your lust in to my heart.
I look up
to meet those burning eyes once more
and we lose ourselves for a moment;
your lips almost grazing mine
longing for a silent lament of love
in the form of a kiss,
getting ever closer to fulfilling your desire until...
You stop.
You pull away.
You swallow your love.
You walk away
from what is sinful
tempting
and above all--
forbidden.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
I remember vividly,
The days of my tender immaturity,
That complemented an air of naivety I had.
But now I have learnt,
How to maintain a reticent manner,
An agreeable countenance,
And an unceasing anesthesia.
I have tamed my heart not to beat fast at the sight of you,
But it still needs practice.
It needs practice because it has never known how to face its fears calmly.
So, it remains hidden right here in my chest,
Eavesdropping on you.
I have taught the sinews of my wrinkled lips to smile freely.
I have taught them to smile freely because sorrow chokes me.
Sorrow chokes me because I cannot resist the thoughts of your indifference,
Running wildly down the nerves into each sombre inch of my skin,
And every inch of my skin mutilating itself,
Tattooing your name,
Slowly.
Silently.
'Painfully'.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
Drifting....
waning, wandering away from myself....
electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
greeting me,
a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....
I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist, fleshy rocks...
memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
moonbeam embers glow
indigo guitar strings sing hymns
swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
a new age baptism.
My wings shimmer,
visions simmer and chill
the darkness returns
left with myself again
I flight right into another lightbub storm
as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.
Distantly, native flutes flourish
like rippling water rises slowly
into incandescent tides...
sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
washing
bubbles popping over pores.
and I rejoice!
a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
rejuvenated!
berserk bongos bump 'n thump
a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
vicariously lift my visage into everyone
at once!
astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
we laugh ourselves into ******
And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
*
should have taken one
picture as i walked in
bed spread tight
all folded and straight
me dog tired
before a long hot shower
cramped in one tomorrow
with everything i own
spreaded wastly around
a colorful explosion
I will walk around
picking up the pieces
stepping on geography
not singing over maps
using a finger
to caress a route and
the thought of you
limping from hotel to hotel
and a sleeping bag
go away
artists’ lives are messy
it’s a known fact
the walls are disheveled
would I have some glue
to nail you there and there
I will hop around happily
tattooing words about us
and hiding some
under letters
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
color me the hue of your cigarette ash;
slam broken beer bottles in to my palm
and wipe the blood on an old t-shirt.
paint me pretty with ***** red lipstick
(stolen from my mother)
and stuff me in to china doll shells.
you say “this change will be good for you”
i say “this is too fun to stop”
my father says “oh good god, what have you done?”
but darling, let’s not listen to anyone else,
and continue tattooing memories on our skin.”
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Thai By
This place gets under your skin. Slowly creeping in like black Texas gold. I said I'd never partake in the cat house girls. Seeing them each day for eighteen months was routine. Walking past the 'venues' to my shop. Usual hi's and hello's.
Then one fine humid day, bang! I happened. I changed. Cabin fever? I walked into Suzi's Place. I put my cash on the counter and grinded the mamasan first. Then her two daughters followed by every other girl in there. It took thirteen hours.
I totalled twenty eight girls. Most were nice. I can't tell my wife. My mate could, his wife's cool. Mine isn't. I'll say I was busy inking from dawn to dusk. I'm not sure what came over me. The Thai air got under my skin. That day tattooing could wait.
Maybe I'll do it again. Invite my wife and her toy boy. Did I say that people are strange here? I fit in well...
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
Opening up to Monday
I unwrapped myself from the duvet
Pasted my limbs to the floor
Slippers winked at me
Invitingly, I settled my feet into their snugness
As I stood, I was thankful that today
Is Monday, wonderful Monday
Free as a song bird to create
My own melody, a chorus of hurrah
I caught up with the shower
On hot house temperature
Scorching...I fumbled for the cool
Climate, turning it sufficiently to
Bathe and recycle myself
As I stroked the cat meowing
A feline opera, making her presence known
The outside world had a dismal feel
The window onto the day told me so
Yet, blue escorted the clouds
Pushing the doubting rain packages
To another realm
Introducing the blue yonder that
Had won the day
We all gathered up into the aroma
Of a new week, stretched our
Arms towards one another
I joined the links for a few hours
Tattooing their conversation into my
Subconscious indelibly
Unhooking ourselves we separated
Turning towards the duties of the day
Swiftly we deposited out parting gifts
Hugs
Kisses
Our best
Our loving wishes
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Alabaster white skin pinkening
Jade eyes moistening as my ministrations continue
Electricity crackling between us
The last two on this earth
Two who are and always will be
One
Ruby red cupid’s bow parts
No sound escapes
Just a breath taken
For we do not need words
We feel We touch We play We tease
Each other
Until the dawn breaks
Sunrise dappling across our bodies
Erotically tattooing us
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
After hitting a brick wall with your face
Over
And
Over again
After walking against a rubber band that refused to be broken
(for 18 months)
After wading through snow and sleet and humidity and fire and water and electricity and deserts and Edens and hells
After rubbing dollar store ointment on the battle scars and scribbling pointless questions in your diary
(asking if it was all worth it)
tattooing the pointless answers to your forehead, wishing that you were more capable of deep thoughts
When the dust settles
When the roar of the engines have died
When the ugly monsters stop rearing their heads
When all of the hornets retreat
You look down
And realize that what you were overcoming all this time
Was yourself.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
Thread wound from petals of black tulips line her soul
As she dances in the moonlight her silver lining starts to glow.
Her pale, glistening skin making love to the night
My mind escapes reality as my eyes regain their sight.
No matter how much she tears me down
She hit me like magic
I'm under her spell.
She'll leave me every time but i'll keep coming back
Enchanted by her madness i'm imprisoned by her grip
And i'm ******* black magic.
It's all of her imperfections that hide in her mind
As she creeps in the shadows her hearts beating black and she's swallowed by her pride
But my thoughts still surround her and she laughs as I cry.
One day my eyes'll roll back in my head and my heart will sink in her poison and i'll drown in India ink as she pokes her lies into my skin tattooing my soul with her malicious grin and i'll still be ******* black magic.
No matter how much she tears me down
She hit me like magic
I'm under her spell.
She'll leave me every time but i'll keep coming back
Enchanted by her madness i'm imprisoned by her grip
And i'm ******* black magic.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
that i am willing
to sit through this
suffering discomfort
and awkwardness
repeatedly and
of my own volition
must be a testament
to something
i am just not clear
whether it should
be taken as a positive
or negative
it might show courage
could merely be folly
a sign of resilience perhaps
or remnants of my naivety
it could be inspirational
belief in oneself or
simply a case of conceit
let's be honest
it could be any of those
or it could be none
yet more than likely
i am overthinking
everything again
Dec 20, 2023
Dec 20, 2023 at 8:17 AM UTC
poetry masquerades under too much
freedom of ineffective
politics, which it does not which to
engage with, namely it's own:
far-left mummification,
the far left mummified its heroes,
the far right cremated theirs...
one took the route to
Prometheus absence as subsequent
lack of camp-fire eagerly hell-bent;
what truth is woman? the woman worthy
of socio-political affairs, or affairs
of paranoid idealism signature sentenced
as counter-argument with haircut stylistics
and tattooing? a healthy visible status,
rather than an unhealthy counter, status
or no status, one ascribed the guillotine phobia,
the second a necessary Buddhist heroism -
both left reward-lost: dream of troll maidens,
dream of perfected bedroom antics with
so much **** reducing acting to naught
and theatre to desperation with the ignited
insignia of bureaucracy rather than
bored harpsichord rebels hash tagging
emily davison for bets and awareness in having
monopoly - of her beauty i'll speak but little,
am i the shopkeeper, the merchant,
easier under the Niqab than for her fancy of ******
taking place... dreadlocks un-kept,
and three signatures on lips that made kissing
a pain... removed, thus revenged...
if i knew woman i'd have kept one...
but since i know none, i kept cats, bypassing women
and imagining children; and all the better
for my liking, such that the world shrunk
to the size of Lichtenstein - oh but the few
buttered friendships are there to be spoken off
in old age... the few that remain have already leveraged you
to bite the worm closest to the heart,
in times when educating yourself equated itself to being shamed;
when education became shame and trivia quizzing,
when education became Latin bulimia
and even that didn't fertilise the earth to spawn
the awaiting, unearthed root for what came to be
known as the chattering colour: as death stood,
in its wintry palace, jokingly mannequin.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
tattooing,casting desires deeper than your itch
my ink spelling words every where you stink
you seem more responsive when they call you *****
I just want YOU to deliver after YOU think
we will cast lines into the now,living the new
angling or casting nets in different schools
you whistle one of my tunes,thoughts carry our points of view
with me battering your shields,you sharpening my tools
I'm casting lots,chancing,I swear you might call me sinful
knowing no boundaries,spanning bridges,jumping fences
your prize ***** is perfumed wine by the divine skinful
I do dare to share in your gifts of senses
I dare to cast an eye over your image within your frame
and hold them both when you are hot and cold
listening to your songs when you play your name
you will cause me to search for treasures of old
cast down your burdens speak to me in confidence free from fears
downcast looks have never been emblematic of your worth
I toil with dirt and sweat in exchange for your loving and tears
to buy tonight with you and tomorrow with the earth
broadcast the forecast sell me what you believe
tell me what you think let me feel what you throw
do you bleed from the heart tattooed on your sleeve
are you typecast do you ink what you think do you show what you know
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC