"technicolor" poems
A harbor town, just like this one, swept up in fog
the seagulls, ghosts emerging from the skies
the river glistens soft & wide,
the Cranes for now are sleeping giants
he kisses her, the anxious gun pressed tight
against his hand in his pocket
he is a dock worker
she is a seamstress
they're a black & white film
because technicolor here is impossible
he is you & she is me
we speak only in French
the kids on the block
will get you the next day.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
I hope it makes you feel better, my Love. Seeing my heart melting for you on the roaring fire…
There is nothing that I could have done to change the way that this has ended, yet I would still happily melt to make you feel better. I would still burn to keep you warm.
Did you notice the way the fire made my heart glow in the orange yellow flames? I did. I also noticed the way that it cried out, feeling lost and empty and broken in its final moments of misery. And I heard how you cried out when you realized that there was nothing left but to set fire to my lonely love.
I cannot explain why I have chosen this route. I cannot tell you the reasons behind choosing to burn, and at the same time, scorch you with the melting remnants of my heart. The only thing that I can say is that I am sorry. Sorry for the pain and the burns and the fire, and the need for them all.
And that I am left, burning with you, just the same.
And in those cooling embers, there lies the ashes of me that I will never regain, for I have given it to you. It was the shattered pieces of my Technicolor heart that filled the barren canvas with the imperfections of my love. It was the only thing which has ever made any sense and at the same time, no sense at all. It was all that I ever hoped to be mixed with all the doubt of who I was never worthy of being.
It was yours, and I gave it freely to you. It should not make me sad that you have chosen to put it to rest in the funeral pyre, yet I feel the want to cry.
Sleep sweet, my Love, knowing that I would throw my heart on the fire a thousand times over for you to remain un-singed by its heat. I only wish that I could have.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
I've gotten so used to greyscale
On this faulty monitor
That I've almost forgotten what colors look like
As they dance across the screen
I have had enough of this monochromatic monotony
So I snip wires, rip out cords
Do anything I can to see if I can get the color back
The only cable I leave alone is the one connecting it to the wall
I stand there in the robotic wreckage
And see a bit of red blinking on the screen
My world is not yet in technicolor
But this is a start.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
At first they were vivid,
Technicolor dreams.
So real you could touch them
and taste them it seemed.
With time all the images
would fade to pastel.
He saw his dreams
for what they were,
as realists often will.
When they turned to black and white
in the cold hard glare of day
He'd prayed then for a dreamless sleep
who needs them anyway.
Then came the darkest night
when all was bare and drear.
He longed then for the dreams of youth,
but none, of course, appeared
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
And when you fall for a girl with hips like hammers and lips like pens, never let her go. Though it may be difficult, do not let her go. She will be the girl who is there to keep you safe. She will be the one who saves you.
She is everything you've ever needed in a person and more.
You always said that all you need is someone who can make a dull day be seen in technicolor
And who will love you for who you are.
And that IS her.
But you never mentioned how you need someone whose eyes are so blue that you could drown in every shade of her iris.
Or how you need someone that will make you bathe with her even though you're not the one who needs cleaning.
You never spoke of how you need someone who is able to make all of your insecurities melt-
Even if only for a second.
You never talked about how you need that girl that will tease you for how tightly you grip her hand when it's dark
And who will make your body thrash and tremble in pleasure rather than terror at night.
You never said a thing about how you NEED that girl whose laugh is too precious to ever forget the shape of her smile.
You never mentioned it because you had no idea.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Sarah
Sarah is a virgo
but she is no ******
She is full of experience,
and im not talking about *** or drugs.
( though she had her fair share.)
Im talking about life.
Sarah hasnt lived in a fairy tale,
but if she did,
she would be a prince.
She is charming,
bold,
kind,
and tenacious.
Sarah would **** a dragon
just to make sure you were safe.
She will make you laugh,
and iron soap,
Dancing as she watches you with
her precious knowledge of Amity.
Sarah will hold you when you cry,
and she will tell you its okay to be sad.
Sarah had her vision turn gray when she was a child;
words tore at her skin,
but she is still alive.
Her vision turned back to technicolor
but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn back to gray.
Sarah dosent like to talk about herself,
but you can talk to her,
She will help you see the world.
If you can’t see the flowers
Sarah will hold your hand and
sing you a picture.
Sarah holds all of her friends,
there names taped to the front of her heart.
She plants her seed of friendship
deep in the roots of your garden.
You dont need to meet her more than once,
you can tell that she is always there.
Sarah can be mean,
but thats just cause shes tired.
Sarah carries the troubles she has with her,
they are wrapped with the sign
“do not enter”
but she dosen’t let them weigh her down.
Sarah dosent ask for help
she is given it,
and she will always return the favor
but she will complain about you giving
even before you finish your task.
Sarah is a mystery,
She smokes a lot of
cigarettes
but she still
smells like
Sarah.
She is far from perfect,
she animates her life with overdramatic hand movements
and tells her wisdom with sonnets or
Monologues from act i scene ii,
She plays overtures from her heart,
and talks lyrics from her soul.
Sarah is a musical of a life
full of future.
She is a name in lights
not yet recognized.
Sarah hasn’t finished her life yet,
but she is the lines
of poetry, and songs
not yet written.
Sarah adds years to peoples lives.
Sarah is a friend,
and im happy to know her
even if a short minute of her hourglass
is all I ever see.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I find myself looking for words.
Combinations of feeling
I did not know existed.
I cannot breathe.
I struggle for them
& make myself a fool.
The world was so big before I met you
& now I'm grasping for it,
unable to recall it's delusion
as I am pulled into your orbit.
Out of drifting dreams.
My mind goes blank
& all I can see
is the dark galaxy that is you.
Alien, beautiful & natural.
You haunt me.
I nearly never believed so big,
& you infiltrated this complex defense
to show me what's been missing.
Half crazed by the loneliness of space
I cannot articulate.
Another form of art I hesitate to express.
I do not trust myself
that it will not be perfect,
fluid,
each stroke of the tongue
like the brush fear failure.
I want to show you all I see
beneath the stars.
Let the brilliance of the moon shine through.
But she is stuck.
In the cloud of curious awareness,
my eloquence cripples me.
How many things can I say
before I lose my grace?
& I dread
the company of simple minds
who cannot love stories.
So eager,
your patience holds the hand of the clock.
I want to watch your eyes glow
lit up by the music from my lips,
& I want to be carried off
by all you reminisce.
I can't believe in chance
when a soul like yours comes to court.
Thrice even.
I am challenged by the core of you.
Inquiry.
Things I cannot see
& stopped looking for.
If I take no notice,
I will not be seen.
Drawn into someone else's dreams,
Abandoning me.
I forgot how to identify
with my kind
so that I did not lose me.
Then I rusted over.
The great machine locked away
while the shows went on
in Technicolor.
Introspective
losing passion & luster inside this shell.
How you found me,
only body in forum.
You took me out to play.
Engaged, stalled, oiled & sparked
Life.
I am reminded of a better me.
An affirmation,
of my Dominant heart.
His voice,
the coaxing in my womb to Be.
Away with closed up, dying to shine.
You wanted to show me off,
pretty girl.
I remember being a Goddess
& shattering the abyss around me
with heart & raw warmth.
The fire of honesty.
Unsatiated wander bred in me
& I held nothing back.
Now the world is clay
& my garden to build upon.
Train me to grow.
I am inspired to be stardust.
Permeate every corner of this heavenly body.
I find myself the eager student of Aquarius.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Under silver wing
San Francisco's towers sprouting
thru thin gas clouds,
Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
Declaration
typewriter at window
silver panorama in natural eyeball--
Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'
brown wasteland scratched by tires
Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
persons of tender years...immature
judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam
Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,
Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
Earplugs in, steak on plastic
served--Eyes up to the Image--
What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
June 19, 1968
4.5k
Lights flash.
Glowsticks twirl.
rip snap glow
rip snap glow
ripssnapglow
ripsnapglow
rispnapskgoa
thelkaljth
the words blend
the sounds smear
the colors undulate
and suddenly
i heave
i hurl
i ****
i puke
my stomach caves
my body shivers
my brow sweats
my knees quiver
i lurch to the ground
splashing in my warm milky surprise.
and expectedly
i puke
i ****
i hurl
i heave
the world twists
the technicolor dream-coat of Donny Osmond happiness swells.
it rips
it pulls
it tears
it *****
and I'm a hostage to its psychedelic screams.
Faces twist into positions they aren't meant to hold.
gasps wheeze into my pores, burrowing like soft, comforting mole rats into my being.
I'm dissected.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
This monochrome life is nothing without your light.
The colors pour from your finger tips as you frolic about.
The carelessness of your touch creates new brilliance.
To tame you would be detrimental, but to free you would be exquisite.
They try to hide you away and hinder the beauty
you could create with their monochrome ideals.
Monotone voices and monochrome people,
surrounding and clustered
to catch a glimpse of such a sight is like
watching the soft sun light trickle through the tree tops.
The beauty you are able to expel is like no other you love in spite of everything else.
You shed your light on the cruelest of nights.
Paint the colors of life into everything you see,
and strip away the melancholy of everyday routines.
So happy so lovely so free.
It's time to color our lives withe the beauty of of our imagination...
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
We are surrounded by shatter broken beer bottles, wine coolers gone to waste.
We've gone to war inside our own heads, pulling ourselves into corners and kitchens and couch cushions where all I can think is how pretty you look tonight
I can feel my heart beat to the technicolor rhythm of your butterfly gas leak eyes
"This music hurts my heart I want to leave now" is what you whisper to me under dropped basses and stepped dubs
"I know" is what I whisper back alongside the same sad forget-your-worries rhythm
So we leave, floating over alcohol puff swollen bodies left behind by unreliable boy-girlfriends sick of cleaning ***** out of the back of their pickup trucks
And we roll our sickly drunken souls to the Mcdonalds where they give you coffee to get rid of wasted smashed faces if you're underage and alcohol-laced
we sober up over cold coffee and scalding fries
We sober up,
But I get drunk on your candy stained mouth as you pour out lies you've never told anyone before
I want to let you know all my favourites, all my secrets, all my everythings
But I don't.
And after that pretty pretty night
where we sobered up
but I got drunk on you
The only time I see you
Is past someone else's head
As I smash my drunken lips to theirs.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
your gusto
ripping through my veins
'merican flags
trump supporters
platinum beer
fireworks flaring
fires visible atop seedy peeled-paint rvs
technicolor lights amped up on edgy recreational vehicles
4000 (BRIGHT BLUE), 6000 (BRIGHT GREEN), 750XR ON-AND-ON-AND
covered in dirt and filth
eating meat
sizzled atop
flames atop
charcoal bricks and lighter fluid
complimented by krafts brand
mac n cheese
i am apart of it
you know
your triumph burns sticky, out of my skin
guiltily i came into being
birthed inside anthracitic sediments and lighter fluid
scratching, writhing, biting
at the mercy
of a hyper-paint / subtle-death encrusted
reality
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
i was reborn, like a phoenix
but without all the glory.
i didn't set the hospital on fire; i struggled
to pull myself from the ashes
of a former prodigy,
one entwined with madness
in all the right ways
laced with misery like a noir heroine,
so sexily depressing-
whereas now i am just empty
i did not emerge unscathed, no,
not like the fledgling, i
am covered in scars and faultlines from where
the sorrow tried rip itself
from my sorry body
and the crimson glue holding me together
replenishes itself more diluted each time
before i died
i swung through technicolor
episodes of scarlet, rose,
ecstatic white, and the
sapphire blue to haunt my dreams
waking and at night
but the color leached away,
the antiseptic began to pervade, refilled my veins
and purged me of everything but grey.
before my death,
i reigned over the darkness, banished it
when it did not suit me,
manipulated reason, lived in a waking dreamland,
in complete control of my life-
but now, when i am fragile as eggshell,
it's the only place i can hide,
a haven where i can act like the lack of light
masks an imagined vivacity and not a skeleton in flat black and white,
disguises and emboldens me,
allows me to be whole again,
to forget the borders, my limitations
indiscernable in dusk
i used to cast my own light-
now i am my own shadow
and in the dark i fumble for
what i used to be,
reconnect myself with the world
throw myself from the cliff
and hope to find my wings again
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.*
oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
**** i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
what a load of ********
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
or...
karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. Dorothy's Kansas never looked so comforting, her black and white world never so safe--never so flat, so barren.
Didn't she learn her lessons? She caused such trouble! She gave Auntie Emm such a fright! That bump on the head must have caused her brain damage. After the "big storm" was only a memory, and the terrible twister only a town tale, Dorothy did it again.
She ventured out on her own.
Yet Mrs. Gulch was still a witch. And Dorothy's "nasty, little dog" still got into the garden. The sheriff was ready to track her down and clamp down on her for good! Running home frantically for help, Dorothy realized that Auntie Emm was still too busy ******** at her shiftless farmhands, henpecking tired, old Uncle Henry,
and he was just too cranky to care. The farmhands were supposed to be her friends, but they just started crabbing at her again.
They soon gave her what for. "Dot, didn't you learn a thing in life?" "Didn't we rescue you once from a pigpen?" "That heart of yours leads you in the wrong direction! " "Where are your brains, anyway?"
Heartbroken, naive Dorothy realized something that was quite profound. Her heart was always in the right place--she just needed the courage, the courage to know she was smart enough to make it on her own. So Dorothy packed her bags, especially remembering her red ruby slippers. She would never forget her loyal friend and sidekick, her beloved pooch, Toto. If she was going, he was going with her.
So there she stood, suitcases in hand, in her bleak, little, colorless world. Terrified, she stood upon the precipice. Fear or faith? And all of a sudden she was noticed again! Just what was she doing? Who did she think she was fooling? Was she crazy!?
"You'll never make it!", they all warned. "You don't know the first thing about how to live in a Technicolor world!"
"Sorry, I do love you", Dorothy answered back. "But I disagree and I will forward you my new address". So off she went finding the path down the yellow brick road.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 3:54 AM UTC
So I've been thinking lately
What if
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
What if
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
What if
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
What if
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
his dog
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and ****** hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?
What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:05 PM UTC
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck
I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter
Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question
I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s
I am
I am what I will be
I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light
I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies
I am
I am what I will be
Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"
Choosing well
choosing better
Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully
Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
Fire Walker
Angel Talker
Tree Hugger
Technicolor Dreamer
Imagination Jumper
Long time Barber
Recent Photographer
Twisted Big Sister
Missus of the Mister
Wicked Stepmother
to Some
Auntie of Others
Armchair philosopher
Always a Poet
and my Friends
mostly think
a Know- It-All
but in a nice way:)
Karen Newell
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
I went to Wal-Mart, the other day
To buy you a shower curtain.
Not just any shower curtain, if I do say so myself,
But the perfect shower curtain.
I wanted a shower curtain that would describe you, as a person.
A shower curtain so wonderful
And weird
And uniquely you
That everyone that saw it would say,
"Damn! That's a fine shower curtain!"
And what's more, they would know,
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
That it was your shower curtain.
No one else's.
I didn't find it.
I'm sorry. I am.
I tried to get one that fit
Your style, your class, your ******* beauty,
But I'm not sure it exists.
First, I tried to find one that smelled like fresh-cut flowers
After a rainstorm
In the Amazon.
Then, I thought about trying to find
Something that would match the color of your eyes,
But I don't think they've invented a material
That starts out sea green
Then changes to iron gray when you're happy,
Sky blue when you're sad,
And a mix of all three when you're angry,
Like a technicolor warning system.
So I looked for one patterned with cartoon owls.
Because I know you're scared of birds,
And the best time to face any fear
Is in the morning.
And the best way
Is as a cartoon.
They didn't have one printed with your favorite song,
Or one made entirely of white lillies,
Or one cut into the shape of every snowflake
From every snowball
You've ever fired,
With the accuracy of the captain of the softball team,
Directly at my head.
I tried to find one with your vicious brand of humor
That I find so compelling,
But they don't make a shower curtain
That insults your mother,
Then gives you a kiss on the chin
Because it can't reach your nose.
I went to Wal-Mart to buy you a shower curtain.
So I bought the only one they had
That I could justify
Because nothing else would have fit.
I bought one that is translucent,
So that if I walk in on you one morning-
By accident, of course-
When you are busy washing your hair
As you sing Elvis songs,
I'll be able to see you,
Without seeing everything.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
She was the dream that never ended
Her garden was always well tended
Technicolor flowers and trees
Birds and bees.
But in the distance the shadowman danced
when the sun set in the sky
He spoke about the whereabouts of the moonchild
Their child together
A link they couldn’t sever
For they were divorced and divided
The shadows grew when the moonchild rose
The shadowman had the night, she had the day
But the shadowman kept the child from her
if the child chose it would be midnight forever
and the shadowman was manipulative and clever
His son he always spoilt with many gifts
but his son the moonchild sleeps and dreams of his mother
He will never hurt her or any other.
But sometimes on an eclipse
the moonchild steals the suns light
and his father and mother fight
But he always gives it back.
because the light of the Sun is blinding to the moonchild
and he has to let it go
So the sun will again glow.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.
Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.
The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.
Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.
The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.
The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.
The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.
The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.
The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?
Was it me?'
The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.
The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.
The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.
They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.
Because that's what tortured people do.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
Life
Happens so quickly
You must divide it
Into sections
Almost like a
Different fragrance in the air
Another perfume or
Like re seeing
everything you saw before
Through technicolor eyes
Only there's a new color
A fresh shade
of spatial light fragments
Consuming your being
And warping you into
A new stage
Hitting you with
Intensities
Of our so called journey
Turning
the dial on your radio
So
the frequencies align
In a continuity of waves
Colliding
amongst pink matter
The insensitive intensities
Present to me
A mystery
Or so it seems
A new light
A dawn to the dusk
Of my fragile fifth stage
But I lost count
And forgot the feeling
You'll know when it happens
It'll flow through you
And you'll realize
You've felt it before too
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC