"terrifically" poems
I dive left before heading right, more times than I care to admit,
Each time I turn right and am not confronted, it feels like rejection,
A small death of little consequence for the life that could have been
So sweet, so superficial, a mini life grew- as I read your bio,
To be dashed in another instant of silence,
I have a tendency to rush into things without much guidance.
Your voice is sweet and smooth- to read,
Imagine a personality that fits- perfectly in the palm of my hand,
Conveyed in small white messages, poked through smaller holes,
Each one I read makes me feel a little brighter inside,
But each little light catches fire and dies, I must confide
That each one I read makes me feel alive.
But only for the moment, so I conduct another,
Small parcel containing another little piece of my soul,
“If you can feel your soul slowly, slipping away, that means that you still have one”
That is a phrase that will lead you to defeat before you have begun,
It leads to me giving away much less than I can afford,
These ‘one for one’ serotonin boosts are leaving me bored…
So maybe we could meet, go get something to eat,
I am sure that I won’t be bored by your topic of conversation,
Or at least I will try and make it look that way,
Because the cold reality is that we have nothing in common,
Except for a lack of self-esteem and an overestimation of our-
Social skills, next to non-existent,
I am perpetually distant!
I am sure that you were terrifically disappointed with last night
Because your messages are written on withered pieces of paper,
A full stop is the most definite thing that there is,
Subtle undertones have a pulse and it beats,
Black blood to and from a dying heart,
I should have known that you were poison, right from the start.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
YES. my simple biceps are purring perfectly slick immobile death
rictus wearing skulls. i needle my flesh and ink it and make it pretty
the smiling violence of my triceps
bulge distended arcs of fists. ladling terrifically through stale
air mingling vibrant vibrations
calm tigers of effortless dream making darkness my arms dance and
jolt pleasurably and every body loves
the infliction of their splendid pain;they roar and combust
suddenly at the night crafting carpals imbued to my wrists
jouncing and blustery voices thrash from throats
they love it
they love it they love it
i
'll do it some more
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
Let's start a business today!
We'll call it Complimentary Mirror. Here's how it works.
First thing in the morning you look into the mirror and say,
"mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all"?
And the Complimentary Mirror answers back - you are, your
the fairest of them all. Then it tells you one of hundreds of
reasons why your magnificent, which it keeps stored in its data base.
The mirror would give compliments why someone is so
terrifically wonderful.
Compliments such as:
Your wonderful because you don't take **** from no one.
Your awesome because you practice revenge on your enemies.
Your the fairest of them all because you extort favors from your
inferiors and blackmail your superiors.
You rise above all others because you don't tolerate stupid people
and publically humiliate them.
Your terrifically wonderful because you discipline with spanking
other people's children.
And you get raises at work by threatening your boss.
And want public hangings brought back.
And loathe loud talkers to the point of wanting them dead.
And other complimentary mirror things.
A mirror that compliments you each morning to help you get a
positive start on your pathetically wretched day.
Let's start a business today! (Trademark pending).
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Baptized to be a martyr
of sour lyricism, I am
immolated to the lavish denial.
Inconceivable,
waiting for mid- September,
hunting season is open,
here in the limbo of jade falls
I’m a prayer of not allowed harmonies.
No use in trying to exalt
every single bit of black twinkle.
Enviable,
devoted to light,
the glaze rainbow prays,
shocked by the fantasy
of so much epic adventures,
in which, repentant,
feeling terrifically safe.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:56 PM UTC
I lost track of time
& fell short of a lot,
like I fell short of
a body that could be
happy by itself.
& I fell short of basketball,
calisthenics, boyhood. Where
growth should be was misshapenness;
where rapid should be was idle;
where scrutiny should be
was massacre.
& I was terrifically sad
yet deemed not officially depressed,
though in front of the mirror I would
see bathed in motor oil the reflection
of my genitals, which is made of
calfskin and bruise. I also tried
various other things, like
licking my armpits, talking
to a tree, snorting
ammonia off public urinals;
every sample of grime I tried
to touch. Maybe just
to see if cleanse was a finite
thing, and if I was nearing
the end of my supply.
& I fell short of buzz cuts
and *********** Also, fighting
after school and legitimate
swagger from a legitimate
boy.
I looked too long
at differently colored lights
and stared too little at
women I was meant to
impregnate by some order
of prophecy — or the privilege
of ***** I trimmed
my nails each week and
waited for my beard to
grow. I didn’t own
any robes, and I didn’t
drink alcohol. I also
trusted too much and
ended up on the last
waves of a beautiful song,
jumping at the right
moment before siren
becomes pause.
& I fell short of bones,
breath, and humanly powers
of affection, and I waited
for someone to explain how
everything worked because
the gospels put the world
in a jar and threw
them between fire and cold
air. I would step inside
churches prepared to listen,
then at the pew I would
get lost in the tar pit
of my subconscious.
& I fell short of being
a son, a brother, a friend,
an avid decipherer of
the poetry that lands on
my palms and eats itself
if I don’t eat it first.
& I fell short of saving
the world every chance I got.
& I fell short of distinguishing
love from pity.
& I fell short of the
day a promise was supposed
to unfold
in the brink of disaster;
and it just so happens
I was asleep when miracles
occurred under my blanket,
and so to me healing
was just waking up to
an alarm clock.
& I fell short of days
I was to remain
in place as the planet
anchored itself to
the rungs of my rib
and flattened like a
gum under my command.
I was my own God, my own
whisperer of lies. I tried
to see beauty with
these eyes.
Each day, syrup.
Each day, sedation.
Each day, escaping lament.
Distortion was the
language I fell into
and bounced on.
& I fell short of
this poem, which I had intended
to make perfect sense.
Maybe to some of you
it will.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
barely it was swaying terrifically in cotton wind of sharp niggling wafers that flummox specially the growling infant sea, this lake, where i am by and satting with my soft particular femme who's metal slithers from her very roundest nostrils glinting rather unobtrusive and stubbornly silver. and jousting by in meager dollops college children blatantly. a basic scent of nonsense huddles on the 2's and 3's (or mayhaps more) they slant upon the dappled lazy soil reticent and uncouthly tread upon with flats little souls. their heads are fat with gullible churning knowledge. they farted from the dusted books. that stately chord of mugging music. that lays in bricks and mortared sighs. on the hillest of tops over looking the cordial bay.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
A colourful candy bar,
Giving her warm fuzzies,
An angelic face,
experiencing a heaven sent,
A devilish face nearby with a malicious grin,
Ribboning lust in his heart,
Stepping towards a room full of toys,
Winning the child with petrol soaked perks,
**** of the door clicked,
Curtains being dropped,
The laughters altered to screams,
As a new leaf is turned,
Rapacious hold on the wrists,
Making the angel to vociferate,
Filthy hands and animalism,
Staining an innocent soul,
Carnal thirst being satisfied,
By victimising a child by libido,
Walls of the room tainted with a secret,
Childhood squirming in the corner,
Star shell wishes turning into coal,
Angels mourning,
Dolls gulping their tears,
Teddy bear covering his eyes with dismay,
A bruised piece of flesh and blood,
Stabbed from pain,
Butterfly peeking from a window,
Loses the colours of its wings,
The earth trembles terrifically,
As the sky detaches a star ! ⭐️
~ Ayesha Nadeem
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
niTe?
do stars hang from you nimbly
dancing in breezes shook the
apple heavy bent boughs of
laughing gargantuan trees
nite you are first me
and secondly
you are quivering with intense
feverish quips of ladies
so thick and exacting legs
are completely tumbled open
waxy perfect thighs
(you are skinny limped
skirts of light
about the hair of forests
you cavort with
lusty sighs
and you are so
indescribably still
even on balmy summer nights in the moment of an hour you are a park filled with me
and going about the beauty of your small adept
cheeks i do the terrifically kissing thing
and i love you
)
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 5:48 PM UTC
i got inside you last night all stupid and naked between the rubber of your
jelly lips and licked the deliberate threads of your ribs who were littered
with my skin; the gruff shale of my livid dust got sticking in your niches
and your little secret back ways and your valleys and your mountains
and your velvet terrifically peach
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Why do my thoughts seem to run So deep,
when the late hour beckons " Time for Sleep" ,
But sleep isn't headed my way it would seem,
perchance a respite for lucidity in dream.
melatonin melancholy * Hey You*speed slumber , TODAY !
i have things to do and while yet tired , ...Well ,NO Way.
Surely ! Sleep doth approach whether by faith or fatigue ,
I should have , Terrifically traveled terrains tracked to a league.
But slumber, hasn't my number, or asunder So i'd be.
i'm leaping by faith , But first should brush the teeth.
I'll then recline my ,thoughts and frame, to "succeed" ,
By simply accepting position of such rest i do need. :D
< Brain Mog >
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Terrifically tragic transportation
Transpires on the tempestuous
T
Boston buffets bystanders with
Banging, belching B-lines branching
Into one of four long
Limbs
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
She's a CAT.
-Just a cat?
Nope, a CAT.
-What's that?
It's the cool, calming sense she carries to all she knows and loves,
it's the able-bodied awesomeness she wears as she does her favorite hat,
It's the terrifically tight hugs she gives, warm like woolen gloves.
See, that's what makes her Allie.
-And the best kind of CAT at that.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
O, earth your heart
i(init),plant,1 seed:
my heart,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
rooting splendidly
between your lungs
does breath an ultimate
lily whom i pull to my
chest from out your
pale shoulders it marvels
on **** imperfect beating
(the stiff impossible soil
forget me in it
when last finally
all motion ceases)but till then , hang me in your lips
hulking radiant fragrant lips
i will be a god in you
and whisper terrifically
your name in even immensest
consuming stillness(and the grass will eat of me; and i will be a garden !
'
,
'
,
,
'
.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 3:38 PM UTC
how strange, how unfathomably empty and grand
is life. death.
people are not small, they are terrifically gigantic, brilliant---
and when they die
they create black holes,
like stars
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
And the winner is
probably
the last one standing
but
I'm standing in for a friend
who doesn't want to be in
at the end.
It's a tad non-specific
though
this mid-Atlantic accent
works terrifically for me
she likes the fire
to be put out by her
ocean.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC