"thom" poems
He was taken into custody on Friday
After he got off a bus in Marseille
That had come from Amsterdam
By way of Brussels,
According to police.
The manhunt began
After he opened fire
At the Jewish Museum
In the center of Brussels,
Killing at least 3 people,
Obviously: an anti-Semitic attack.
He was taken into custody
“As soon as he set foot in France,”
According to François Hollande,
Congratulating himself
For an efficient round up of
The usual suspects, all Jihadi
Round trippers from Syria.
He was taken into custody in a mere 6 days--
A magnifique display of French efficiency,
A sublime achievement by
Our furry friends in
Police-Protective Services.
The swarthy perp was carrying a Kalashnikov--
That’s AK-47 for you NRA gun nuts--
A handgun, ammunition, a baseball cap,
A small video recording device, and a
Copy of The Koran,
All items matching
Descriptions of the gunman,
And, even if not, a known-terrorist
Named Mahdi bin Laden,
Carrying an assault rifle
Would have been enough
To fit the profile,
Justify the profiling,
Sufficient to stop anyone
Passing through Customs,
Except, of course
The French Corps Diplomatique,
Wreaking most of the havoc in the EU these days.
There was once a time when any Thom, Dieter or Heine
Could get outta town on a ratline,
Blessed by the Pope,
Assisted by the OSS.
A white linen suit and a Panama hat:
Was all it took any Schutzstaffel
To pull off another Argentine makeover,
Melt into the landscape,
Speaking Spanish with a thick German brogue.
It’s nice to know
Jew persecution is criminal,
Socially frowned on these days.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
Death descends like the statement of a credit card;
life goes on in eight columns, sometimes six,
dropping out should have been an option, instead my
world is turning pages while I am just sitting here
listening to atrophy whisper through a megaphone:
“It’s better to fade away than to burn out, let
champagne supper turn to bile by breakfast, bark up a
fake plastic lemon tree till she hurls pomo grenades at you.”
The streetlife serenade is recklessly tempting,
in the club the girls in ***** shirts come and go,
talking of Felu, Neru, Derri… da, what inertia!
Sitting in a club with so many fools(,) playing to rules,
Hell is a blank generation with no vacancy,
I’m doubting Thom: meeting people isn’t easy,
Them clones in rubber souls from fab India
try to impale me right next to the paintbox,
In she walks, head going nowhere close to the oven,
eyes me like a Pisces riding shotgun on a WAG,
says growing older in the rain ought not be done all alone.
Bring on the moonshine, dancing days are here again!
Happiness was Scotch Mist, now it’s suddenly a goal,
It’s past AM on a holiday, do I wanna know if this
isn’t, like always, just un-certain platonish bromance?
Or will she journey with me till the end of the night?
Optimism is fleeting, afraid to commit, tends to elope,
Pray that she lingers long enough: I need a feel-good poem.
There’s a restaurant at the end of the universe,
I’ve heard the well-done steak they serve is actually rare
but their awesomesauce can make us live forever,
we can make it there in time if we slide away right now,
and if in the morning we don’t know what to do,
I’ll toast the bread, I’ll make the bed, she can make my day.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
That double crescent moon bite mark
That Thom made on my arm
To show me he was, *****
Those five purple fingerprints
That Riley left, to remind me
My pants? Gone last night.
That weird, mysterious oval
On the inside of my thigh.
...Was that Kelsey or Nyssa?
That tiny yellow mark that splotched my eyebrow
From when I ran into a telephone pole
—completely sober.
Tyler still mocks me about that.
That blood red under-eye
That made me realize
We all get hit.
That Texas-shaped purple-to-yellow transition
That screamed to me,
We all heal.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
My hands are not my hands
My voice is not my own
My lip never was my lip
But this blood is all mine.
The spoon sedated my fears and insecurities
It's tender metallic surface gleaning
And involuntarily shaking
As I lapped up alllll the yogurt.
I could use a cartwheel.
I don't want to sleep
I'm afraid of dying
as my back and forehead sweat in agony
My eyes don't open anymore
A steady beeping
A flickering fills the air around me
I told my brother I'll be back soon
If I stop
I'm writing with my eyes closed now.
My heart rumbles like a cannon shot
My only regret is how I never knew you better
Mr. Cobain.
We had such fun nights with Mr. Yorke
and Mr. Coyne
Just laughing
And taking turns rolling Thom's glass eye across the floor.
Spring training.
I'm laughing on my bed outside
Catching glances of the summer
Coiled and contemptuous
They go on their lives not caring
Who lives.
Who dies.
Three girls climbed into my window
They smelled of grass and
polyurethane
The children died 6 years ago
The Johnny Carsons of this life
And
GET OFF MY HAND *******
PASS ME THE FOOTBALL
Percodin.
Codin.
Coding.
I just turned the page
And I'll be ****** if I do it again
“oh ****
If Dan went white-face ghetto
And wore beatnick clothes
It'd be
AMAZING
The incisor broke my fall
Sorry.
No pork and beans today.
Ericccccc
Help my head
Chalk these mint leaves up to fate.
Because GOD **** are they good.
I'm reading your expression
On an empty pizza box.
You don't seem too pleased.
I fear
This ice in my tray made me soak my bed
Honest!
Flounder had a mohawk
I don't give a **** what you say.
His **** mohawk was badass.
His stubble made Sebastian jealous
A bed of ice is better than a bed of coals
Or a bed of cars
Or a bed of rice
But that would feel really, really good.
Take a guitar solo
Now a bass solo
Now a keyboard solo
Now a harmonica solo
Now beatbox, no go?
Maybe the former
The TRANSFORMER of course. I hope I live to see that one day.
Yes.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
In what dimension did I imagine this
Not a very happy one. I pulled and brought this onto my cosmic dust
Im sure it’s a door. For it has brought me to a plane
They are good times and they are
Well they
are the ones i bare on my back every single day
A couple of sweet caress and the day you stabbed my heart with some sort of hell inducing sin
One most try to understand these words as they hit
How to get rid of this love
It is getting rid of me
For some reason you keep getting pushed into my realm of life
With each time of horrible down
. I think, you think we all think
It would be over
But as if some magnetic pull of thought brings you here
Every month , every day of every year
Consequently
Bringing us here , and you with some horrible sense of taste
Drag the devil on your tale.
Ofcourse it would be you , after all it is your favorite thing
You seek the feeling , as you may call it
Like a ******* animal
Im just wondering I what dimension this will happen , after a night like I know you had. How do you come to me with your sweet seducing lips and your wide eyes pulling out a guitar in the middle of some rich peoples parking lot
playing a melody you concealed in your memory of what i bring to you.
Ofcourse I will be melting in this reality.
How does this even happen
time after time we have seen hell together
Rock and roll saves my life
Time after time
Theres something in the sound of god it sounds a lot like Hendrix
Stop touching my face
I can touch it all I want you’ll say
It’s hard
What if really funny hipster music helped me say this to you.
But maybe I should speak in your language
You’ve got some nerve coming here
You stoled it all give it back
Thom yorke reminds me of us
After all it reminds me of you
And as this happens my phone rings your name
It hurts
Its hard
You know you should
but you don’t
give it back
how to get rid of this love of mine
how to forget those nights I cried
his reality is in another time where he can separate the truth by hoping the future is kept.
what dimension am I living
I should be in Colombia
Col-OM-bia
My spiritual home to you I shall return.
I wirte to remember I remember to forget
It seems to work im tired of thinking of you
I even ignored your call
For today is the first day of many days where I attempt the so far impossible.
I will forget you.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Even though I've been writing for years
(not that it's any better than when I started)
the title still holds true.
Words don't spill out,
thoughts don't process
like they used to.
Pieces need second checks for meaning,
thirds for grammar,
and a fourth for meaning.
Maybe it's the absence of physical affection;
certain chemicals aren't being triggered to release in my brain
but I decided if I couldn't keep my unspoken promises,
if I can't touch with a deep understanding of love
I will not touch at all.
It was shocking,
the impact one night could have
and so I have not had a second try
(or a six or seventh if we're counting).
I let the words of Thom Yorke
and Ezra Koenig say all that I cannot.
"Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
'Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
I can't kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart"
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
*echoing through the dark sky from miles away
the sound of fireworks
and you said let's just close our eyes and listen
and I knew you saw the sparks just as I did
I wonder if you felt them
as we laid together in bed and talked
mental ***********
I listen to the echo of your voice in my head
it doesn't want to end
the last look I caught in your eyes
before I fell asleep against you the night before
told me as much
and we lay here now
your arm on my waist
as if making sure I would still be by your side
when you wake up
is it weird wanting to touch your lips
while your soft breath passes steadily through them
or the suddenly heightened desire
to have your body pressed against mine
with your hands in all the right places
I question whether or not this is all going to stay
being so real
because I'm here writing in the dark
to the voice of Thom Yorke
and the sound of the fireworks I can't see
and when all that goes away
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
people always talk too much
and I try to sleep anyway
but silence is hard to come by
and you must silence
everything
with a knife.
(purebred aggressiveness
is preferable to casual ******
even when solace arrives
in the morning,
as punctual as the mail,
your bloodstained hands
have still come away empty
and you still want to be held.
(too bad you don't let nobody
touch you, too bad they get the idea
after the riposte to the heart)
Of course they have survived it;
we lived in a civilized day and age,
after all,but they will still
steal furtive glances at you,
like they're waiting for something to
drain away the remaining time
until you next explode.
it's a fair price to pay
for the skill to breathe words
like mere ambient gases,
for free thought
and a good pen.
at least , I fell for it.
I was never good at bartering,
and what more could I ask
than to wield words?
and so the cycle continues!
life,death,ashes to egg,egg to
firebird,
firebird to ashes.
people will continue to
misjudge where they've stabbed you
and you will continue to
obediently burn all letters
and end up
listening
to Thom Yorke sing about
cheap *** and sad films.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
i eat my soul
out,
eat my heart
out,
eat everything inside
until I am a wolf creature
outside
in the dark,
howling at the sickle moon,
raving at some girl
in a bar
who I could ****
but don't want to,
I can't erase
the stain of that other star
and the nebulas
of bright crimson
and hushed cerulean
that flourished
in the disturbing galaxy
and it's black holes
*******
away at light,
so I come back home early,
stumbling
through the girls that talk about raw ********
while there is one star of knowledge
distancing itself from me.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Nothing like a love song.
One with smooth love lyrics like composer Smokey Robinson that touches your heart.
Describing her in ways you thinking of in your mind.
Nothing as beautiful than listening to Curtis Maybe spelling out the best of a gorgeous woman.
Especially one with soul.
And pointing out looks is in the eyes of the beholder.
Males understand the focus of an attracted lady.
And how to craft ways to touch her within.
William Hart and Thom Bess are others writers that left their mark with smooth love lyrics.
And this goes for Eddie Holland and Norman Whitfield.
Of course there are others just as good writing smooth love lyrics.
Words, are written and songs are born.
Some coming from just a simple love poem.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
thom yorke,
when will you teach me
that lightning does strike
twice, but the second time
the electricity ******* hurts
so much worse
because you know
just what's coming
it's not there,
i feel it
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
There’s this black cloud that follows me
Wherever I go
It drains all of my energy
It likes to do it slow
It’s been so long since I’ve seen an outcome
When all I want is the last straw to come
So I can be completely undone
Neil said someone would come to rescue
Thom said to wait
If we all breathe the same air
Why so many worldly tastes
There’s no splendor in the grass round here
It’s only lies
I stand without a cloak and dagger
But they all have a disguise
It’s been so long since I’ve seen an outcome
When all I want is to be undone
Waiting for that last straw to come
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
I might not be Smokey.
Or any of the Beatles.
Or Burt Bacharach or Hal David.
Just believe this.
I write a song just for you.
Explaining just how much I do love you.
Oh, these words are true.
I lay out my heart to you.
Describing all the things I'm would do.
Oh, yes for you.
I might not be Elton John.
Or Lionel Richie.
Or even a Cole Porter.
I just know.
I write a song just for you.
Yes, just for you.
Explaining how I love you.
Yes, why I do?
You just a dream that came true.
When this guy met you.
Oh, so true.
Yes, so true.
You a shining star.
A magic wish.
Someone meant to be mention.
And deserve all my attention.
Girl, it's true.
Yes, so true.
I might not be a Thom Bell.
Or a Linda Creed.
But I have the skills to acknowledge you in a song.
Believe it, my love.
Believe it.
And when I'm through writing.
You will be so impress to confess that you do love me.
Oh, you do.
You truly do.
Whatever I do?
You'll be the reason why?
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
(Song title from Michael Jacksons’ catalogue, by Thom Bell and Linda Creed)
I have felt lonely and scared,
And done things they wouldn’t dare,
I have felt upset and blue,
And been so happy, it’s true,
And all because I have found,
People make the world go ‘round.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
love is patient,
love is kind.
thom yorke keeps telling me that true love waits
so why do i feel that waiting has made me weak.
(like i'm letting you get away with something)
i am not patient,
nor kind.
i am envious, and boastful.
i keep a record of how wrong i feel.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
(for Thom Hickey)
It is, one supposes, a business establishment, if just barely
Though more than one would-be shopper,
Having been squeezed against some ancient china cabinet
Or banging an unsuspecting knee
Against some camouflaged table leg,
Has opined that it as if four walls and a low-slung ceiling
Had suddenly thrown themselves about a yard sale,
In any case the place being filled with such things
Which are, if by no means useless bric-a-brac,
Rendered unremarkable, even somewhat undesirable
By their very familiarity,
And in the midst of this rabbit warren of commerce
(Holding an ancient clarinet in his left hand,
Wand-like, a bemused Prospero considering its pros and cons)
Is the proprietor of the shop,
And he notes that you have stopped
In front of some sixties flying-saucer-cum-willow-tree lamp,
And he says Ah, well let me tell you something about that,
Holding forth on its manufacturer,
The curious backstory of its design,
And how he came in possession of several other pieces
At the same time, and of course they have their own tales as well,
And you can't help how this confusion of things of former lives
Has suddenly taken on a certain light, a glow even,
The illumination of shared memory,
The recollection of why such things hold a place
In our pasts and presents, and after you exit
You give in to the musing that there were some items
You did not give due consideration,
Which may necessitate a return trip.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 7:56 PM UTC
knowing furnace heat,
not the inferno beneath.
playing cat and mouse,
not cheetah and thom's gazelle,
but knowing the chase,
the atomic shiver:
it boldens
the least brave.
Sweating out pain,
but not until it throttles
the *****
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
i just saw a feather fall from out of nowhere but i
cannot be deceived anymore
i take in everything through salt circles
i always let my sentiments float
open the box at the wrong end i want to
grab a hold of them and
smash them against the wall i do not like
Pandora anymore
my limbs blank limbs blank
i cannot feel how i am leaning over
dotted lines i am consumerism
scared eagerly not falling but simply icing another
dimension having dinner regularly
doing everything completely right
helpfully fully conscious rambling of the wall
black flies fingernail tinted dumb
at the height of a crap-seated liquorice fashion
and Thom Yorke politely knocks on my ribcage
Are You Okay: No
then he sings I will eat you alive I will eat you alive I will eat you alive I will eat you alive
when you sigh again i can see your breath like an ice cloud it's
because you are cold from the inside it's
because some radiator is stuck in there obviously
even when i see you walking
your limbs are somehow frozen
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC
dear whatevers up there, im currently choking on my own soul in my room whilst thom yorke croons into my ears,
surrounded by paper and **** and all i can think of is the decaying in my bones.
dear whatevers up there, please save me.
im not here, this isnt happening.
everything is piling up and im drowning in myself.
dear whatevers up there, please save me.
i want to shiver and breathe until i reach something new.
dear whatevers up there, please save me.
i want to curl and coil until i reach something old.
dear whatevers up there, please save me.
i want to fade and dilute until its like i never really was.
dear whatevers up there,
please save me.
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 8:11 AM UTC