"tenderizing" poems
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet
thus a poem auditorialy conceived,
but!
the sexuality of the deceiving dualities,
irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties,
plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious,
harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of
marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way…
much to discuss, but this
topic bettered by much
trading of traditional bantering
brevity bettering our wordless battering
insinuating, sensational signals bring
us backwards & forwards
to an exploratorium of wide boulevards
back to new unfamiliar venues,
narrowing alleyways & places we were before,
places before we were before where,
no unnecessary commas to separate,
distingué, distinct
tween the instinct of old and new,
an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism
now I understand what you said to me,
a tenderizing of
the sole synapses directing
the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s
reigniting what what lay dormant,
at long last,
by opening doors to alternations,
ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting
old & new pathways,
from the souls of her feet,
to, too, two,
we become diamond
on souls of our heat
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?
Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.
Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?
Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.
Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.
The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.
Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.
How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Bitter apathy,
Blinding interest,
Blocking Passion,
Binding my hands together,
Bending my thoughts,
Bifurcating my efforts into weaker strings of yarn,
Seeking to cut them one by one,
Apathy in it's own right is more driven then passion,
Driving to end interest,
To war with passion,
To blatantly blend my mind into a pulp,
Mashing it,
Tenderizing it,
Relaxing it...
The Apathetic Man lies needless,
Controlled,
Happy and content with the boredom,
And as he prepares to rest,
One final time,
He closes his eyes,
And just at that moment he notices a flash of light,
A small explosion of thought in the distance,
A fracture in the ground,
He feels a second of interest,
Leaping out of bed,
Snuffing the quivering candle as he flees his home,
Frantically huffing and puffing,
Sprinting with all his energy towards the interest,
Hoping in his mind that apathy will not get there first,
But he has the element of surprise,
Apathy had not anticipated this...
A sudden instantaneous development of a true and powerful passion,
Deep inside him...
Still sprinting he sees another flash,
In another corner of the sky,
Red and Black this time,
Apathy is trying to trick him,
But he will not be swayed,
He is unstoppable now,
A seed of life on a dead world,
Growing,
Spreading,
Again another light flashes,
Apathy is begging him now,
Offering him protection from fear,
But he is not afraid,
He will make it.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC
when you're there i pine for you
like a stupid little intellectual
i theorize your face
make up stories about your eyelids
how they close like a hardcover book
sheltering your wisdom from the judge
you let it spill out to me
your ***** brine
tenderizing my leathery exterior
into broken down, cured meat
you freed me with your trust
i was savory, salty with your laughter on my tongue
you've been waiting for me
but i cannot come
if we are to ever be in the same room again, together
i would smother you and oppress you with
love, tainted by imaginary things
like the fable of us
like my contentment
like your hand in mine
clasping surely,
silently,
home
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
not the prophylactic kind,
nor the rubber kiss road tire kind.
but the rubber of bodies
old and young,
tired and tense,
young and flexible
migrained, played & splayed,
pain paralyzed,
soothed by cherubic
fingertips
oiled with,
anointed by,
a-custom cream
of tenderizing aloe
and gentling, kind loving
quieting & shushing
tho mine own temples,
raging, feverish,
combobulating
as words spill as *********
and then
*she
sleepy whines:
why did you stop rubbing me?*
and for
a sleep deep,
she leaves
me,
going unanswered
but happily
nonetheless
boy be typing
The End
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 12:08 PM UTC
warm fire smile
I taste your heat
you've always been ablaze
and you've never apologized for setting
fire to the house
(it needed to burn, anyway)
I feel your release
I feel that it's different now
DO YOU HEAR ME?
I SAID IT'S DIFFERENT NOW!
I said I wish I could burn like you
but I am water that never stops spilling
(can fire spill?)
my water grows an algae film when your fire can get you
wherever you want
demanding and tenderizing and
so ******* wild
I adore you in your blaze
I savor your fiery rage
I lick the plate of ashes that remain
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 11:41 PM UTC
Darkness Is A Blanket
It wraps me around
The smell of ominous uncertainty
Yet I’m allergic to being wrong
So my skin seems to puff up
My eyes turn bloodshot red
From all of the steam
That cleans out my gears
To move my rusty engine
That is odd
When I think of you
I feel a sharp pain
It’s where my heart used to reside
Before you snatched it
And pounded it
Tenderizing the love
I gave to you
Before you fed it
To the dogs,
Who tendon by tendon
Ripped my soul
From all of the movie nights
And all of the concerts
We use to venture off to
Now my artificial heart
Is asking my insides
Why is there this knot
In his chest.
Looking for answers
That escaped the camps
Through the tears of my eyes
Because darkness is a blanket
Called you
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
The voices in my head
chewing up my brain
consuming what is me
and driving me insane
The predators pursue me
I run to stay away
but eventually they catch me
I'm their favorite prey
My own worst enemy
is always deep inside
self doubt and deprecation
masticating on my pride
I have no more self esteem
it's like I have been ******
pounded, tenderizing me
nothing left but bones
Simply a skeleton left
of my former self
I have destroyed all of me
through the loss of mental health
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
I'm a fool
Yes I know
Use me like a tool
I'll fix everything you know
Treat me with love or be cruel
Just love me and I'll be good to go
Cut me off and cheat
I won't say anything my mouth I'll sow
Beat me like ur tenderizing meat
And blood will flow
I will never surrender to my defeat
I am a fool
Yes I know
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.
Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.
I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.
All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.
She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.
I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.
Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.
She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 3:23 AM UTC
They birthed us into metal,
not light or even air,
but heat lamps and screaming steel,
the floor already coated
in yesterday’s version of ourselves.
We were slick and blinking,
wet with newness,
and still they stamped us:
Product of tradition. Best before death.
Hands in latex gloves
cooed lullabies
while scraping placenta from the drain.
They taught us to crawl
between cleavers,
to smile when we were handled,
to hold still when the slicing came
because it’s not personal,
because they love us,
because their hands hurt too.
They shoved their trauma down our throats
before we grew teeth.
Force-fed us their coping mechanisms
like communion
bite-sized bitterness
they called resilience.
Swallow it.
Say thank you.
We didn’t know any better.
Meat doesn’t ask why.
Meat just learns to stay warm
and pretend the hook isn’t coming.
They called the bleeding becoming.
Called the bruises bad days.
and the conveyor destiny.
We rotted in place,
but they sprayed us down,
made us presentable;
vacuum-sealed smiles,
shrink-wrapped hope.
The air always smelled like bleach and denial.
Some of us tried to scream
but by then our mouths were already full
stuffed with apologies,
with other people’s f*cking expectations,
with the same dull knives they said
they “survived” with.
And when we flinched,
they told us we were lucky.
Lucky we weren’t born into fire.
Lucky they only carved out
what they couldn’t understand in themselves.
Love, they said,
was just the sound of the band saw
getting closer.
No more, no less.
And still -
We line up.
We inherit the gloves.
We raise our children
beneath the same heat lamps,
and pretend
it’s destiny.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 12:27 AM UTC