"tightropes" poems
My frail glass bones shattered with the windows.
We walk on yellow striped tightropes and dance
with impossibility until his grasp becomes to tight.
I fell into a river of metal droplets wheels rolling as
Mr. Impossibility connected two infinities.
Glass fingers tapped on a glowing glass screen.
Metal clashed, my scream was lost with sirens into a
echo of blue and red lights.
There was a silence that pulled me into the casket that
sat open in the passenger seat.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
What once is now was
My feet tread delicately over egg shells
Balance on unsturdy tightropes
My body's equilibrium thrown off
My legs shake like an earthquake of emotion
From outer to inner core, I see
A slimmer of green light, my american dream
I am the Great Gatsby
Holding onto a bit of the past
Desiring it to become the present
To the future of mine
Yet with soft words
I am met with inevitable flames of anger
A rage so powerful, so dangerous
So provoking, prodding me like a cow
The man I was born from
Whom is supposed to defend me
Is one that destroys me
His words conform, turning into a wrecking ball
Slam into my heart, destroying it
Pieces fall down like pebbles tip, tipping against a lover's window
Except it taps the windows of Satan
Awakening unknown, terrifying horrors
As bottles clink, can crash, alcohol splatters
So does the confidence I once had
mbm
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
Once there was a carnival.
It was exuberant and joyful,
With elephants and lions befriending the penguins and sea otters,
And little fairy-like acrobats leaping and zooming across tightropes,
As if they were walking on solid ground.
There was a faint smell of funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn,
And the sound of people chatting animatedly about,
"Wasn't that act precious" or "oh, darling, look at that penguin! Isn't he cute?"
And then I got a little older.
And the carnival was still joyful, but something had changed.
The carnival had this joyful facade but it was hiding a darker exterior.
The elephants and lions were growing old, and the ringmaster,
Displeased with their best efforts,
Had started to hurt them.
The fairy-like acrobats had gotten injured over the years,
And wobbled a little bit here and there, with hints of hesitation
Perspiring on their foreheads.
The funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn smell lingered still,
But it was almost as if people had grown tired of the taste,
And in the heat of the summer day,
The food had started to grow stale.
And then I got old.
The carnival had closed now.
Overgrown with weeds,
Stalls and tents covered in graffiti and muck,
It was now a gathering spot for children to make believe,
That they were the fairy acrobats who had once been so agile and captivating,
Or the animals that had struck terror and awe into toddler's hearts.
The carnival was gone,
but the children would run home to their grandmas and grandpas,
and they would tell them the story of how the lion was this close to biting off their nose,
and how one time the acrobat honestly did a front flip from a horse on to a bear onto a lion, and they were honest to God telling the absolute truth no matter what their spouse would say in the room next door.
The carnival was gone, but the stories would go on in a bittersweet never ending circle of intrigue and mystery and magic.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
Welcome
Lost Souls,
To a society where
Broken hearts are balanced on tightropes
Stretching across a darkness as thick as an
Overgrown forest that only flickering candles
Can push away.
Welcome
New Fighters,
To a war of words
Where people use their voices trying to make sense
Of the music in their heads and in their hearts.
Where everyone is terrified of falling because
They don't know who they'll be
When they get back up.
Welcome
Newborns,
To a world of childhood and age,
With people who learn to want before they learn
What they want
And what they need.
Where your childhood is dependant on how much
You know before you realize
That some truths were lies
And that there is no rewind button
For sight.
Welcome
Dear Angel,
To a world where you only came
To those who waited for a lifetime and more
Just holding on to a hope older
Than their mind.
To a world where
Some were lost before you could
Find them and
We blame you for not coming
Even though we know it's not your fault.
Welcome
Sad Demons,
To our world where we were taught
To fight with fangs and claws
Against ourselves and against
You.
Where we're all terrified of what lurks
Inside our chests until
We come to realize that
The forest shadows that
We cast as monsters are just
Trees.
Welcome
Far Aliens,
To our everlasting war
Where you'll be left shocked by the way
We'll tear ourselves and others apart
Just to feel whole.
Just to keep what's ours.
Where you'll be left wondering at the fact that
We're terrified of being alone
And that we know we need someone
Despite our desire to hide in our lonely darkness
Whenever a wandering light comes along
Because of the fear of what we'll
Find within that darkened forest.
Welcome
Children,
To a scary world where you know
Everything when you're young because
You knew that everything
Was gonna be alright,
And that's all that anyone needs to know
In order to survive this fight.
Welcome
To our world of broken glass.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
I think I understand now why people compare the one they love to a star filled night. Why they dream of the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I think I understand now why people give the person they love flowers and chocolate. Why the first kiss matters, the first “I love you” matters, the first sleepless night matters.
I think I understand now why people fall in love. Why they’re willing to conquer the cold, to travel any distance, to spend money they don’t have.
I think I understand now what love songs are about. Why people write metaphors about someone to share to the world, poems to recite about ever changing eyes, melodies as sweet as their laughter.
I understand.
I understand that I get the best sleep when I’m talking to you. I understand that I wake up every morning with only you on my mind. I understand that my poetry will always seep with your presence. I understand that there is nothing I want more than to hold you in my arms.
I think I understand now that I’m falling for you in ways that I’ve never fallen for someone before. That nothing else matters besides the way you look at me when you think I can’t see you. That thinking of you brings me a smile.
I think I understand now why people fall. Fall off bikes. Fall off horses. Fall off tightropes. Fall for girls. Fall for boys.
I fall for you.
I fall for sleepy nights, for daily summaries, for adventures and humming. I fall for song sharing, for I missed you more’s, for wins and losses.
I fall for chance, for randomness, for the idea of falling. I fall for laughter, for secrets, for one a.m. conversations.
I fall for you not because you’re the only one to fall for, but because you’re the only one I want to fall for.
I want star filled nights. I want the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I want to give you flowers and chocolate. I want the first kiss, the first “I love you”, the first sleepless night.
I want to fall in love. I’ll conquer the cold, travel any distance, spend money I don’t have.
I want to break the habit of running away from things that make me happy. I want to stay this time and keep every promise.
I think I understand now that adventures are not always physical quests set before a hero. They are sometimes the feeling someone gets when a person says their name for the first time, or a tightening in the chest when that that someone looks a person who has wonder filled eyes and a fiery laugh.
I think I understand now that an adventure is how I feel about you. How I fall for your eyes, your hair, your ability to make me laugh without being funny. How I feel when you interrupt me to talk about silly things. How I feel when your eyes shift to me and you smile.
I think I understand now why my heart beat flutters when we talk. Why nothing else seems important. Why I find you between the lines of my favorite books.
I think I understand now why people say someone stole their heart. You hold mine in your hands and I’m not sure I want it back.
I think I understand now why I write love poems. Why I etch you into pieces of paper, why I contour your soul into words I’ll never forget, why I take notes of the events of my falling.
I understand.
I understand that hands are made for safety. That words are made for comfort and understanding.
I understand that I’m falling.
I understand that it’s for you.
I understand that I can’t change that.
I understand that I’m terrified of it.
I understand that I need work.
I understand that you’re worth it.
I hope you understand too.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
My lines haven’t been so strong lately
They wobble and my hands shake
And I’m a billion feet off the ground
Walking on a tight rope
Risking it all
Writers torture themselves you know
Everybody knows it
I think I went too far
The doctor gave me some pills
To heal the monsters in my mind
Thousands of them running around
Cowardly little bipolar army
Balance is key
I keep saying
Especially on tightropes
But you can only walk in the sky
For so long
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
Troglodytism. get betwixt thy cave **** rats. amass!!! beyond the wooded canvas of life.
and lay beside thy corpse of agony
in the pits of all foul'd demon beknownst to thou's angst.
there lay the chalice of life.
Oh to lay in the darkness'
o' to bask in the decadence of no light.
Anti heat
forth go ye unto distraction.
To over sensual
to photopic cancer
all bio centric failure that reveals itself in the concord of vestige
only one
only one who's skin, brines to salt. Only one who's writhed on the depth of the cave
sub terrain.
Becoming convoluted
with ulcers. In the brain.
Stomach
esophagus.
Till veins squelch the blood from oxygen as gills. Sea water.
till muscle over sinews, Myomeres.
till acts of mycotic deprecations elude your own grey. Destruction.
And sap what is left
the bends corrode all health.
You eek out a full metabolism.
You finish all hopes with each loathsome meal intake.
death.
Oysters take over.
They create their home
shell of man.
Disabled to a merman, made, morose.
Barnacles infest recesses,
chasms that held mountains of bountiful moral.
Filled till bursting in the case fit for a brain,
but these ocean vermin walk the tightropes of this goblins neural bag.
Tearing each synapse.
Like the innards of a necrotic recluse.
I am the dying vagabond of the ocean.
Finally succumbing to its ethereal pitch covered floor,
where no reflections mourn for me
and ghost wail me no remorse,
as I metamorphose.
Into, detritus.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
What if a job interview went like a game show:
each time you got the answer right,
you got rousing applause
followed by the thunderous roll of drums
and an explosive shower of shimmering confetti.
And just when you thought the celebration was over
and the quiet thud in your chest was beginning to return,
pretty girls in pink furry hats
would show off their long legs as they dance
from one end of the room to the other,
like you just won a million dollars.
But if you got the answer wrong
and your brow began to shed tears,
or your fingers stuck to each other, one by one
with each rhythmic inward dance of your knees,
the kind buzzer would go ERRGGGH!
Followed by applause
and a commercial break.
For if job interviews went this way
there would be no sudden gush of hormones
to kick-start your heart into high excessive activity
Nor energize your muscles to stretch
like thousands of short tightropes of flesh.
Rather, the thought of having to deal with
four imposing figures, staring at you,
ready to pummel you with questions,
in a battle ground filled with big tables and chairs,
would not feel like hell with fluorescent lighting
But like an event where you are a minor star in the sky
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
a quart of tequila,
still no feelings,
spinning ceilings beneath me,
in my venomous state,
we went to comedy night at the viper room.
torn to shreds in the front row,
of a gung ** americanised show.
i came because the river still flows,
with depp and the stageshows from the whiskey a go go,
directly opposite the pavement.
the boulevard was full of cars,
and homeless superstars,
that made it far,
but not past the stars on the walk of fame,
Holly would never be the same again.
******* *******
we walked past the cast of a bottomless flask,
cast in the shadows of the sorrows of rodeo drive,
staying alive is easy,
follow,
the yellow brick road and wish for a dollar.
tomorrow is another day.
i seen a man of my same age,
he was a traveller,
vocabular immaculate,
hair cut ****** dindn’t shave much,
one of the same touch.
grubby hands and unfinished plans.
his sign said, were ******
i teared up,
he looked up and stood up and we hugged.
i could see me in his weird look.
just another rhyme in my page book.
i gave him a bag of survival necessities,
i hunted him down after 24 hours.
i was worried to go back,
and finish what i started.
i consider the concept as an artist,
but the truth is this,
the humanist within,
could never miss that appointment.
he sat there in the same spot,
and if i didn’t come,
he could of lost faith in the promise of a circumstance.
i took a certain stance,
he said he was a traveller,
a poet with grubby hands,
i held him with open arms.
i don’t worry about him,
i worry about you,
a ***** and the truth,
trumps and mansion and no use.
i’ve read between the lines,
and wrote this motion on tightropes and suspended emotion.
they want a showman,
but when we show them the ocean,
the don’t want to know the deepest minds inclined.
absolutley,
mutiny in the ranks,
my heart sank when you decided to revamp,
your opinion of me implicitly.
minor to me,
skeleton key to multiple routes.
i never gave a **** about your opinions then,
and I certainly don't give a **** now,
nor have i ever,
stared the gift horse in the mouth.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
Agitation, despair and its winged variations, you name it
all repressed but still rise to test me
What is my recourse?
I tread lightly on this Escheresque concourse
It’s repeated often, I know
but the pen and keys are my most cathartic release
they’re magma to emerging flames
they’re sedatives for demons and angels alike
that reside on corners of this clavicle
How many steps could you take through my lens, my concave mirror?
Have you felt what I felt?
The brimming, cerebral cauldron bursting, putting volcanic geysers to shame
the questions outnumbering seconds spent since Earth’s nativity
the emotions ripping a rift through which rationality deep dives
it becomes Phelps in unknown depths
your body becomes both a Vatican and a Colosseum,
place of worship and place of war
and you walk the tightropes your vocal chords have morphed into
careful to seem like another replica, don’t wanna upset the blades they all balance on
don’t wanna scare the rest hollow, no,
best to follow and best to follow the regimen:
coffee beans and spice of delusion in the hazelnut syrup,
sip slow
follow the same cycle because change is a cocoon and cocoons ache like the past
keep on pretending to love the workplace
love the norms held over you
puppet strings bring warmth after all
in this solitary world cold as winter missile silos
and just as destructive
So I ask again, have you felt what I felt?
Do the few days in utopia offset the majority on rodent wheels?
Have you risen so high, to satellite peaks, to the best you’ve ever been
only to have the worst waiting on the coin’s parallel?
We flip like saltwater fins and backstroke till a back is left broke
I’m learning to discard hope but breathe in the alternative
I believe in better days, I will carve them from local stone
and build a home upon their surfaces
I now know paradise is a set of blueprints
happiness is no state of mind, it’s a direction to me
you may not notice when you arrive
but you keep going
and that’s the beauty of it
you let it be the wind
It’ll find you on your journey
Tell me again,
have you felt what I felt?
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
want to know whats worse than being "owned" by someone? knowing that at
any
given
momen
tthat very same person can disown you.
relationships arnt a secruety blanke
ttheyre a tightrope
and im afraid of hights.
why in the world would i want to be in that posistion
to frolick after
one person
out of the BILLIONS of different people
but why would i want to frolick
after anyone?i have myself, my art, my own world
that i love
why should anyone else have the self proclaimed
rightto share my world with me?i dont want to be
that girl
on a mans arm
i dont want to belong to
to have to rely on
anyone.
i dont want someone elses feelings
that responsibility
weighing medown
down
down
into the guilty depths below that tightrope.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 4:08 AM UTC
Lets fly to the edge of that map that hangs on my wall,
The little border,
ribbons of navy and maroon will be our vessel of freedom.
We can walk back and fourth,
Between the tightropes on my compass,
And I will wear a crown of land.
But keep in mind, that little border is about as
straight and narrow
as it gets.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
Delicate whispers tiptoe across tightropes
My eyes flit between skies and
Crawling ivy, seeking so shyly,
Darling, won't you stare through me?
I can feel our branches entwining,
Heartstrings unwinding,
Curling like my toes in bed, but
Instead...
I am taken by beauty,
These curses of duty,
Forever spinning my head
It seems you could take me,
But I must be broken and
Mended, gentle and gilted,
It seems as though enough has been said
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
You know you're a poet
When you have walked the tightropes
Of being placed into a confined label
And still look up to a brighter sky of hope.
You know you're a poet
When you hear echoes of voices
That resonate within your mind
From all the mistakes and bad choices.
You know you're a poet
When you can see shades of colour
Within a black and white film
And see value beyond the dollar.
You know you're a poet
When the winter comes you cheer
For all the new found imagery
Like the sight of snow that is white clear.
You know you're a poet
When spring has arrived
You think of a spring in a step
and how a pen-spring is alive.
You know you're a poet
When heartbreak is motivation
For a chance to write sullen words
And heart ache becomes a wonderful creation.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
He took away my poetry
A gift to my tongue
A trait to my sanity now teaters in his glance.
One
Glancing blow from him and my world falls.
Balancing tightropes,
Circus acts draw elephants in my room.
He stole my words, thoughts
Now swell in my throat
Fill my mouth with grotesque vines that grow from my stomach.
He looks at her words like flowers that bloom from her heart.
Reaching to his looks
Sweet pollen on his fingers, I know.
I know.
Though he never returned the gift to me that was mine own,
Never my own anymore.
I look to my vines with hate.
My own song now become tightropes
So that you may decide to walk over me again.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
walking the indistinguishable
tightroped limitations of you mind,
balancing completeness
and the incompleteness
you told me was ok,
between the cracks in our hearts
until the foot slips,
the dawn breaks
and I
fall.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
I’m a tightrope walker, strung between
the hedonistic abyss of winter break and
the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry.
The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered
in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein
each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows.
“I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.”
“It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs.
Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless
hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard
work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow.
A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from
taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates
when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or
enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees.
And then there are the spring things that spark joy.
Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning,
with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes.
Laughs stolen in the back of classes,
gossip and secrets exchanged over
guilty coffee and croissant indulgences.
Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks
‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!”
“Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail,
“I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.”
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 5:53 AM UTC
I bet you're #$@&%*! other girls
who don't brush ***** out their curls
the type that rides santander bikes and
can't fall for people their mate likes, who
play piano when they say they will,
and write about romantic things, like walking tightropes
blowing glass or #$@&%*! in your room in spring
I bet you read to them in Latin, bet
they think you're chatting... utter #$@!
and that there's fairy lights above their beds
where you've cuddled all their friends,
it's almost poly, am i wrong? platonic head, you all get on
yes, and they sing
and look like disney when they're close
they're milkmaids, pornstars, near divine
no plasters needed, they shave fine
;
anyway,
I bet he'd love to #$@& them too,
because they're handy with their hands,
they have craft tables or play the bass in some punk band
and when they go to galleries they understand
why some artists are grouped with others when
to me it's all whatever, i'll see them all whatever
oh and bless! their kisses mean things
and mine are ill-thought-out and grime
they remind you of the time, with me it's always getting late...
i'm an r/truecrime date-
i think that dahmer's in my teeth
not great for someone scared of meat...
and when you, when you, when when, when, um, i
i bet you're #$@&%*! them and more,
i bet he'd love to do it too,
his ice clear veins like Finnish waters
your endless thirst for Athens' daughters
but i don't really want to know,
don't need you randomers to call;
no cigar shops, sketchpad summer,
not the clash or prop-up vogues
what i really need is sunlight
and myself
i miss her most
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
Follow the sound of my voice.
Into the valleys of the threads of my dark grey sweater that smells like stale cigarettes.
Where everything is soft like worn leather but everything feels like splinters.
It’s disappointing, isn’t it? The air is thick as smog but it’s easy breathing because you’re used to it. You can close your eyes or open them, either way, it’s dark.
Follow the sound of my voice.
Into the nooks of my wrists that are dry like chapped lips.
Where blood runs in thin lines like dental floss but everything stings like cavities.
It’s very sad, isn’t it? The ground lacks love but only hatred tends to it because it’s the only inhabitant that lingers. In these parks, self loathing grows like weeds.
Follow the sound of my voice.
Into the dark alley ways of the unfamiliar city in my thoughts that only spark interest at night.
Where everything is cold like noses in wintertime but everything makes you sweat.
It’s uncomfortable, isn’t it? The pavement is slick like it’s just rained, but you walk steady because implied tightropes are inevitable. Stumbling on sidewalks is a lot like slurring your speech.
Follow the sound of my voice.
Into the basement of my throat that burns like a shot of whiskey.
Where words jam like friday’s traffic but everything flows like fabrication.
It’s disgusting, isn’t it? The walls are closing like big velvet curtains but you plaster them with paintings to make them pretty. This room was always born for being decorated.
Follow the sound of my voice.
Into every locket. Into every liquor cabinet. Into every favorite pair of jeans. Into every corner. Into every attic. Into every cave. Into every town. Into every ocean. Into every promise. Into every secret. Into every open end.
Where everything echos like empty hearts.
Because all I’ve ever known is silence, and for you I’ll never tell my tale.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
i speak from a dark
place but i know light;
i've balanced on the
tightropes of esctasia
and feel the physical
support of tension
kissing my heels—yet
all i do is look beyond
the nets below and
find myself enabling
disaster before one could
ever hold me.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
I felt at home with you in your empty apartment,
where your mother called me “darling” and “honey” for vacuuming,
and I sat on the floor in the middle of your living room,
imagining I had just bought my own place.
I listen as you furnish the rest of your life out loud to me.
I say we should build safe houses around each other
and call it home.
Now this is where I tell you,
your kisses are like warm honey.
And I don’t even know what that tastes like,
but I swear that is the right simile.
You are made from poetry.
You are tightropes
Overhead, knotted together.
You are the netting beneath the act.
Somehow you balanced me when all I ever felt like I was doing
was crashing into you.
I say ‘be prepared to be tackled when I am happy’
because you are like throwing the front door of my house open,
before sprinting into my yard to peer at the first flowers of spring growing.
My heart slows down to a jog recovery when you’re around.
So I tell you,
your kisses are like foggy breath in the winter.
They’re the frost on my dad’s car in the morning.
Frost like the dusting on my bangs when I was little
and walked into elementary school with wet curly hair.
I tell you,
your kisses are like going on a plane for the first time,
but also like getting off at the airport in your hometown.
Sure, you enjoyed the flight.
But you’re happy to be home.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
money bags, smokestacks, white powder and heights
on bent boulevards with brutal windows
reclusive silhouette stalkers hidden just behind
red mourners on charcoal ice
window shades plume, dust and ash diffuse into
twin horned rebels with sawed off exhaust pipes
ashtray dance/\clouds hover in the dark
as she tightropes straight down into the devils heart
the mirrors that surround
are as a shroud passed down
from the heavens to alter truth
all the cracks between the blue
are here resembled
love, dearly distorted
in the absence of breath or youth
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
yellow light from the coach station
against marble houses-that we wish
we could buy- reminds me of the silver
moon we watch when we’re high.
now I’m crying into the duvet
and feeling far away from whispered
happy compliments I don’t know how
to describe you but you’re mine but
it’s time for a forest fire to still the fire
in my heart. I start to want to hold you
forever though my forever is over
my love, my never again. feeling your body
pulse with each sleeping breath reminding
me of death and I don’t want you to go.
I like being bad when I’m with you, sad
though it might seem when we dream
and you ask me to speak french when I’m
smoking cigarettes, trying to forget the plans
we made. we plan to go to europe because all
our dreams sparkle under the weekend skies,
you sigh, I can’t get back from here, my dear,
I fear I don’t know what’s real anymore,
what to feel anymore. your broad shoulders,
we’re getting older, they wrap around me &
your eye lids flutter, reminding me of a kind of
innocence we have yet to discover, my lover.
now the sun is beating down on london parks
where we sit and talk and dream, it seems
you are so beautiful reading kerouac,
what a cliché but we’ll get away, by megabus,
counting our change, courting our lust,
on 5 hour bus journeys from city to city
ambitions to home, joy to pity.
cuddling to britpop, we keep popping
pills and thrills and whatever is going.
don’t go, I know I’m a romantic
(you have no idea) your passions kills
and your mind excites, I might have to die
tonight, I might. I want you in the kitchen-
I can never untie my shoelaces- living on shoestrings,
tightropes and other things, I think that drinking
in cinemas could be a new favourite pastime,
are you still mine? drowning in wine, I know
I cry too much, but touch me. that night we went
out in your car to the docks, no stars, but you still
shone for me. buckingham palace is against a grey
sky tonight, against us but we still try- england is mine,
england is mine. we don’t usually kiss in public.
I used to spend a lot of time in the cathedral,
scribbling poems in the crypt, hoping something
would stick, but we drift towards a moment now,
my muse. you use me. red flowers in the buckingham
palace breeze, I breathe in daydreams of paris and patti smith
I keep rehearsing my life, it seems.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC