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"tinfoil" poems
A black crow's darting eyes spans the wheat field and an orange pumpkin patch. She sees tall grasses of brown seedlings, bristling in the wind, soon to be bushels of grain and a pumpkin pie that she never savored. She sits, atop her tree perch, at times warm and storybook, hidden by tree branches, and at times out of harm's way and infamy. Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert, dancing along. Her other friends bring alms and smiles. Life is so good at times. Down the road sits a mill next to a waterfall and a cabin, with reindeer horns hanging above the doorway. She is in her element, happy, carrying for her nestlings. Back and forth her parental eyes dart the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies, all crawling with sustenance and awe. Storybook. A mother feeding a worm to her baby. Storybook. Off to her side is not a blind eye watching her, scary stick figures of straw tucked under red shirts and hats, with a tied tinfoil strips dotting her eyes and tease. Scarecrows, cease. At times life is good nature, hand in hand, knock on wood. If only life could be circumspect. Than darkness filling the light and a stutter of life. For a sad page is turned, pause ... tears. Then, feathers fall. Hers. The sound of a thud. Silence and tears of her friend's swelling. A baby's cry, missing her mother. More orphaned tears. Who would be this despicable? On that rogue day. A kick of a donkey, an *** one bad rock on her path, breaks the air, as three little elementary kids were walking along to school. One, me, with a rock in his hand, taking aim at her perch and the death of the black crow's pages. I confess. ... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned it has been fifty years since my last confession ... a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse. I repent. Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns, including stealing the reindeer horns and milling my brother and sister's storybook. Waterfalls stream tears, and a sorry boat rowed downstream sadly thereafter. Logan Robertson 7/25/2018
0
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
logan-robertson
No Storybook Ending
A black crow's darting eyes spans the wheat field and an orange pumpkin patch. She sees tall grasses of brown seedlings, bristling in the wind, soon to be bushels of grain and a pumpkin pie that she never savored. She sits, atop her tree perch, at times warm and storybook, hidden by tree branches, and at times out of harm's way and infamy. Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert, dancing along. Her other friends bring alms and smiles. Life is so good at times. Down the road sits a mill next to a waterfall and a cabin, with reindeer horns hanging above the doorway. She is in her element, happy, carrying for her nestlings. Back and forth her parental eyes dart the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies, all crawling with sustenance and awe. Storybook. A mother feeding a worm to her baby. Storybook. Off to her side is not a blind eye watching her, scary stick figures of straw tucked under red shirts and hats, with a tied tinfoil strips dotting her eyes and tease. Scarecrows, cease. At times life is good nature, hand in hand, knock on wood. If only life could be circumspect. Than darkness filling the light and a stutter of life. For a sad page is turned, pause ... tears. Then, feathers fall. Hers. The sound of a thud. Silence and tears of her friend's swelling. A baby's cry, missing her mother. More orphaned tears. Who would be this despicable? On that rogue day. A kick of a donkey, an *** one bad rock on her path, breaks the air, as three little elementary kids were walking along to school. One, me, with a rock in his hand, taking aim at her perch and the death of the black crow's pages. I confess. ... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned it has been fifty years since my last confession ... a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse. I repent. Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns, including stealing the reindeer horns and milling my brother and sister's storybook. Waterfalls stream tears, and a sorry boat rowed downstream sadly thereafter. Logan Robertson 7/25/2018
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79
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled with barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green **** hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen --the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly-- I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. --It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip --if you could call it a lip grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels--until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
0
4.2k
Elizabeth Bishop
The Fish
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled with barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green **** hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen --the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly-- I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. --It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip --if you could call it a lip grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels--until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
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76
a penny is a penny and i am a monk hawking birth control pills without any shame or pride disguised in flamboyant tinfoil. i am an extra sensitive *** on my daily street corner turning into a crumb of hunger staring down a long alleyway and eating the flowers that grew up in concrete. there are shadows of jugglers on the wall jumping into the sun, and i am a burning lampshade. henry miller is in a wheelchair now and i am a walrus with a backache being forced among the proverb writers, but i'm no prophet because i've seen the bubbling fire and the swords on the doorway. i am a lover with a guilty conscience and i have too much on my mind. i stole the bread from the riot squad and i blow out these words from a keyhole, pounding my fist on a book while the mystics get drunk with skinny ****** i don't go to birthday parties or funerals instead i'd like to do something worthwhile but i am your typical flunky, writing eccentric jokes about rich pimps while my father lies dead on the hill.
0
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
david-badgerow
swords
a penny is a penny and i am a monk hawking birth control pills without any shame or pride disguised in flamboyant tinfoil. i am an extra sensitive *** on my daily street corner turning into a crumb of hunger staring down a long alleyway and eating the flowers that grew up in concrete. there are shadows of jugglers on the wall jumping into the sun, and i am a burning lampshade. henry miller is in a wheelchair now and i am a walrus with a backache being forced among the proverb writers, but i'm no prophet because i've seen the bubbling fire and the swords on the doorway. i am a lover with a guilty conscience and i have too much on my mind. i stole the bread from the riot squad and i blow out these words from a keyhole, pounding my fist on a book while the mystics get drunk with skinny ****** i don't go to birthday parties or funerals instead i'd like to do something worthwhile but i am your typical flunky, writing eccentric jokes about rich pimps while my father lies dead on the hill.
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25
The smell of a spring rain settling on the earth is the smell of life anew. At the window, I sit with a book, both cracked, cooled by the alfresco air seeping through, and tiny droplets glissando down the pane. The pitter-patter of a soft rain falling to the parched earth is the sound of life replenished. At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair, exiting the front door, to saunter through the lush green pastures that linger outside the library's confines. How green the trees appear, and the grass-- how rich the stalks of the trees, their boughs with budding leaves quenched, glistening in the sun. I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement-- it is the smell of the earth, freed from its impedance, rising above the stifling asphalt.   I smell the life that lingers beneath, and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement fills my open nostrils-- It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape. I inhale ever so deeply, relishing my favorite part of spring, in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day, sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths, to the paved parking lot where my car awaits-- delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue. It needed a wash anyways.
0
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
jarjarrhine
Petrichor
The smell of a spring rain settling on the earth is the smell of life anew. At the window, I sit with a book, both cracked, cooled by the alfresco air seeping through, and tiny droplets glissando down the pane. The pitter-patter of a soft rain falling to the parched earth is the sound of life replenished. At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair, exiting the front door, to saunter through the lush green pastures that linger outside the library's confines. How green the trees appear, and the grass-- how rich the stalks of the trees, their boughs with budding leaves quenched, glistening in the sun. I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement-- it is the smell of the earth, freed from its impedance, rising above the stifling asphalt.   I smell the life that lingers beneath, and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement fills my open nostrils-- It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape. I inhale ever so deeply, relishing my favorite part of spring, in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day, sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths, to the paved parking lot where my car awaits-- delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue. It needed a wash anyways.
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33
unscrupulous universe      steeped in illusion and so      electrifiedcrazy with infernal edges chafed      against tinfoil stars      bent and      broken. they make believe that they are beautiful. unscrupulous people      sharply disillusioned and so      upandoutwild with rough edges filed smooth      with makeup and glam      but they're still      bent and      broken. they make believe that they are beautiful. understated words      creating an illusion and so      slipperysilverfleeting with dark corners coming      alive under the      pretense of fiction      bent but not      broken. they know that they are beautiful.
0
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
lackofsegue
Make Believe
unscrupulous universe      steeped in illusion and so      electrifiedcrazy with infernal edges chafed      against tinfoil stars      bent and      broken. they make believe that they are beautiful. unscrupulous people      sharply disillusioned and so      upandoutwild with rough edges filed smooth      with makeup and glam      but they're still      bent and      broken. they make believe that they are beautiful. understated words      creating an illusion and so      slipperysilverfleeting with dark corners coming      alive under the      pretense of fiction      bent but not      broken. they know that they are beautiful.
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29
You’re basic, a lengthy silhouette miming the human experience. Staying up late to blind yourself, blinking to the sounds of sleepiness heart beating to Skinny Love. What ifs, pre-recorded scenarios imagining that first hug. Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink that new film that you want to see, condensation in the lid of the teapot. You’re candid, unsure if all scabs heal trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus, when you slept through the night, when purple was the only colour you didn't use. Purify infectious matter, ***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing. Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers, melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons. You’re laconic, often dying to create, like the verbose and the wordy sighing simply to translate. Missouri gift exchanges, loose blue jeans ****** stacks of classics. Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling to a slow 50s song. You’re a try hard dying to knit, only true fear is disappointment burning in the lime light. 6000 voluntary hours linking syllables to daisy chains, dropping pesos to foreigners, hands sandwiched inside the front cover and the first page of The Count of Monte Cristo. You’re basic, down for maintenance, compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
0
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
juliana
Unlabelled CD cases
You’re basic, a lengthy silhouette miming the human experience. Staying up late to blind yourself, blinking to the sounds of sleepiness heart beating to Skinny Love. What ifs, pre-recorded scenarios imagining that first hug. Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink that new film that you want to see, condensation in the lid of the teapot. You’re candid, unsure if all scabs heal trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus, when you slept through the night, when purple was the only colour you didn't use. Purify infectious matter, ***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing. Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers, melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons. You’re laconic, often dying to create, like the verbose and the wordy sighing simply to translate. Missouri gift exchanges, loose blue jeans ****** stacks of classics. Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling to a slow 50s song. You’re a try hard dying to knit, only true fear is disappointment burning in the lime light. 6000 voluntary hours linking syllables to daisy chains, dropping pesos to foreigners, hands sandwiched inside the front cover and the first page of The Count of Monte Cristo. You’re basic, down for maintenance, compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
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44
On the sidewalk standing in the rain the old man is a wounded dove. Longish white hair: wet feathers grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy and repeats itself, like buckets of water thrown out of windows. The old man stands there holding a memory or a wish. Under the streetlight his wet hair glistens like tinfoil. The downpour is a creature that’s eating him up. Darkness projects from a deserted apartment building. The ground floor windows and doors are boarded, nailed shut. It appears dead, like an old disease, or stripped, like a despoiled tomb. Its bricks cracked and crumbled, wooden casings dry rotted and helpless. Painted in bold red across the boarded front entrance, a graffiti-message: Girls Rule. Looking back at the old man, he stands the way a king stands alone when doubting himself. Dark crawls around him. The old man stares at the building. He is motionless, in memory. Rain gallops over him. Inside the warmth of a café, my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets are laundered clean of everyone except for the old man who stares at the apartment building. Time has grown over his face and body, has grown over the broken down building. Now the rain is as heavy as mucus and with his tiny body the old man shuffles away into the dark and gradually disappears like a casket being covered with earth. _______________________________________ from my sixth book-length manuscript ©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015 all rights reserved "In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in 'Switch (the difference) Anthology' from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
0
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
dahlusion
In Streetlight, His Wet Hair
On the sidewalk standing in the rain the old man is a wounded dove. Longish white hair: wet feathers grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy and repeats itself, like buckets of water thrown out of windows. The old man stands there holding a memory or a wish. Under the streetlight his wet hair glistens like tinfoil. The downpour is a creature that’s eating him up. Darkness projects from a deserted apartment building. The ground floor windows and doors are boarded, nailed shut. It appears dead, like an old disease, or stripped, like a despoiled tomb. Its bricks cracked and crumbled, wooden casings dry rotted and helpless. Painted in bold red across the boarded front entrance, a graffiti-message: Girls Rule. Looking back at the old man, he stands the way a king stands alone when doubting himself. Dark crawls around him. The old man stares at the building. He is motionless, in memory. Rain gallops over him. Inside the warmth of a café, my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets are laundered clean of everyone except for the old man who stares at the apartment building. Time has grown over his face and body, has grown over the broken down building. Now the rain is as heavy as mucus and with his tiny body the old man shuffles away into the dark and gradually disappears like a casket being covered with earth. _______________________________________ from my sixth book-length manuscript ©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015 all rights reserved "In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in 'Switch (the difference) Anthology' from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
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48
the big easy is hard lives, what gives this rainy city so sublime, it's almost a pity that streets are lined with **** pests and rats in the alleyways how did things get so ****** or have they always been? overpasses with people lying underneath so many homeless it staggers the mind to think bread bags and coffees floating in the wake of the ferries outnumbering 10 to 1 the loads that they carry all the old growth coming down all the gold of their headpieces tinfoil hats fashioned from crowns no jazz or blues can save them from the fate that waits an engraving reading, here lies what once was a haven
0
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
manx-kronos-pragna
The Big Easy
the big easy is hard lives, what gives this rainy city so sublime, it's almost a pity that streets are lined with **** pests and rats in the alleyways how did things get so ****** or have they always been? overpasses with people lying underneath so many homeless it staggers the mind to think bread bags and coffees floating in the wake of the ferries outnumbering 10 to 1 the loads that they carry all the old growth coming down all the gold of their headpieces tinfoil hats fashioned from crowns no jazz or blues can save them from the fate that waits an engraving reading, here lies what once was a haven
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26
Eat Venison strike fear into his bones appeal to his intellectual bankruptcy make it run make it hide under his own verbal garbage disposal conquer him little man squash egos into fertilizer for your plants turn his nothing into another form negative to positive as he decomposes inside his tinfoil crap
0
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
arthur-vaso
Make a Troll Disappear
Eat Venison strike fear into his bones appeal to his intellectual bankruptcy make it run make it hide under his own verbal garbage disposal conquer him little man squash egos into fertilizer for your plants turn his nothing into another form negative to positive as he decomposes inside his tinfoil crap
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16
My house is surrounded by Illuminati operatives. Lizards!  Everywhere i look... green ones in the grass like slithery snakes with feet, brown ones on my porch running counter-intelligence on my kitties, tan little enforcers with an ochre-red streak of war paint along their spines. i know what you are thinking... but i stopped wearing a tinfoil hat.  It wasn't keeping the N.S.A. out of my emails anyway. Just yesterday, one of the lizards' double zero agents followed me to McDonalds. i saw him through the windshield, gripping the wiper blade with all his might, tail whipping in the wind like a whip antenna, broadcasting my subversive Big Mac purchase. i don't use Geico insurance, therefore it was clearly an Illuminati spy, without question. Nowhere is safe. My days are numbered. They fear what i could expose, that i would tell others what i remember about freedom.
0
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
derek-yohn
Draco Minoris in F# minor
My house is surrounded by Illuminati operatives. Lizards!  Everywhere i look... green ones in the grass like slithery snakes with feet, brown ones on my porch running counter-intelligence on my kitties, tan little enforcers with an ochre-red streak of war paint along their spines. i know what you are thinking... but i stopped wearing a tinfoil hat.  It wasn't keeping the N.S.A. out of my emails anyway. Just yesterday, one of the lizards' double zero agents followed me to McDonalds. i saw him through the windshield, gripping the wiper blade with all his might, tail whipping in the wind like a whip antenna, broadcasting my subversive Big Mac purchase. i don't use Geico insurance, therefore it was clearly an Illuminati spy, without question. Nowhere is safe. My days are numbered. They fear what i could expose, that i would tell others what i remember about freedom.
Continue reading...
34
Hairline cracks are breaking through the slough I'm about to shed. Dry and dysfunctional as the neuron sac in my skull. I'll change my hat and change my ammo honeysuckle artillery polished, waiting in my drawer. Sliding an empty coffee mug back and forth along a counter like a puck preparing for a slapshot. Paper matches in colourful books pressed between the pages found leaves for child arsonists. Takeout boxes filled with poems are sold as artefacts Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags, not styrofoam. To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil. But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam or your fresh concepts will get soggy. Equipped with tennis ***** spandex suits picket office blocks standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks making health and safety inspectors nervous. Out of control students launch dictionaries out of third story windows, donning 21st century masks. I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table. Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver. Nearly responsible nearly nine nearly time for bed I resolve again that I’ll resolve more but this time write it down. Folding kamikaze paper planes to hide behind park benches, fly into trees. Let the sun fade the pencil crayon. I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
0
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
the-monster-in-the-mirror
Drip Dry via Clothespin
Hairline cracks are breaking through the slough I'm about to shed. Dry and dysfunctional as the neuron sac in my skull. I'll change my hat and change my ammo honeysuckle artillery polished, waiting in my drawer. Sliding an empty coffee mug back and forth along a counter like a puck preparing for a slapshot. Paper matches in colourful books pressed between the pages found leaves for child arsonists. Takeout boxes filled with poems are sold as artefacts Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags, not styrofoam. To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil. But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam or your fresh concepts will get soggy. Equipped with tennis ***** spandex suits picket office blocks standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks making health and safety inspectors nervous. Out of control students launch dictionaries out of third story windows, donning 21st century masks. I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table. Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver. Nearly responsible nearly nine nearly time for bed I resolve again that I’ll resolve more but this time write it down. Folding kamikaze paper planes to hide behind park benches, fly into trees. Let the sun fade the pencil crayon. I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
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40
My social life is a stillborn My people skills are a crib death My self image is the feeling of chewing on tinfoil My will to live is a festering wound being awake is mowing a 40 acre lawn that's ok never ok but better now
0
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
jacob-sykes
Description Of Life's Antonyms
My social life is a stillborn My people skills are a crib death My self image is the feeling of chewing on tinfoil My will to live is a festering wound being awake is mowing a 40 acre lawn that's ok never ok but better now
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8
I threw a little funeral for us. Gathered our things. Photographs and poems. Your bra and tinfoil and straws. All tucked tightly in a little oak box lined with all my hopes and dreams. And I buried them in the backyard.
0
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
charles-barnett
Funeral
I threw a little funeral for us. Gathered our things. Photographs and poems. Your bra and tinfoil and straws. All tucked tightly in a little oak box lined with all my hopes and dreams. And I buried them in the backyard.
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7
and so... There ! Amid all allurement and soft machines; the spoiled brat of Venus, knicking the doors and kicking the canned laughter to the foot of a mountain of existential speculation. Amid the cherry bombs and the Persian rugs; so many menageries of tinfoil origami swans. so very little Time. so little rosemary wine in the pickle jars. So few wolves in the porcupine dens  - and only a swarm of hornets in your nightclothes, this morning. and nothing but nettles in your tea. well, nettles and golems and orange hope.
0
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
third-eye-candy
And So... There ! Amid All Allurement And Soft Machines
and so... There ! Amid all allurement and soft machines; the spoiled brat of Venus, knicking the doors and kicking the canned laughter to the foot of a mountain of existential speculation. Amid the cherry bombs and the Persian rugs; so many menageries of tinfoil origami swans. so very little Time. so little rosemary wine in the pickle jars. So few wolves in the porcupine dens  - and only a swarm of hornets in your nightclothes, this morning. and nothing but nettles in your tea. well, nettles and golems and orange hope.
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11
Mortal coil, tinfoil hat Crack open my skull with a baseball bat See into my mind Cross the line- The boundary of no return If this disturbs you then walk away Ignorance is bliss behind your rose colored shades So rise up, join your fellow man, one by one, hand in hand, You too can drown in a pool of blood, for the price of dying to protect the ones you love.
0
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
nasir-jan
Protecting The Ones You Love
Mortal coil, tinfoil hat Crack open my skull with a baseball bat See into my mind Cross the line- The boundary of no return If this disturbs you then walk away Ignorance is bliss behind your rose colored shades So rise up, join your fellow man, one by one, hand in hand, You too can drown in a pool of blood, for the price of dying to protect the ones you love.
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16
late october, today my heart is wandering, I still listen to your music. things I like fall in my lap and I pick up the phone to tell you, someone I can hide behind maybe I just like warm waists and strong arms maybe I like feeling small, I met this boy today, love, he reminds me of home, of fresh tortillas wrapped in tinfoil he reminds me of this summer, and of you. he doesn't like the things we liked, but he's a different fabric and I am patching this idea that we never stop loving anyone
0
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
patti-1
mannequin loveseat
late october, today my heart is wandering, I still listen to your music. things I like fall in my lap and I pick up the phone to tell you, someone I can hide behind maybe I just like warm waists and strong arms maybe I like feeling small, I met this boy today, love, he reminds me of home, of fresh tortillas wrapped in tinfoil he reminds me of this summer, and of you. he doesn't like the things we liked, but he's a different fabric and I am patching this idea that we never stop loving anyone
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14
I wonder how my ancestors feel Knowing their escape from home Would lead To children ***** in cages Traced Nameless Unheard of conditions Like their rabid dogs But really puppies still needing their mothers milk Who made those cages you call sanctuary Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth Who made those regulations? Ripping the child from their parents grip I've seen the ******* pictures Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go There's no need for translation This is universal These children are treated like felons With no warrant No warning Is this justice? Does my so called president get off to this? Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan? He takes it out on us? I wake up in my bed Every day I cant fathom The nightmare those children wake up to Alone with others like that look just like them. Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement I cant even imagine The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds Do they think they deserve it? Do they think this is their fault? If and when they do finally escape How scarred will they be? They already have a criminal record for being born How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education Before given a ******* a chance.
0
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 5:33 PM UTC
Jimbojumbopoetry
Contemplating My Safety
I wonder how my ancestors feel Knowing their escape from home Would lead To children ***** in cages Traced Nameless Unheard of conditions Like their rabid dogs But really puppies still needing their mothers milk Who made those cages you call sanctuary Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth Who made those regulations? Ripping the child from their parents grip I've seen the ******* pictures Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go There's no need for translation This is universal These children are treated like felons With no warrant No warning Is this justice? Does my so called president get off to this? Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan? He takes it out on us? I wake up in my bed Every day I cant fathom The nightmare those children wake up to Alone with others like that look just like them. Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement I cant even imagine The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds Do they think they deserve it? Do they think this is their fault? If and when they do finally escape How scarred will they be? They already have a criminal record for being born How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education Before given a ******* a chance.
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38
Entry ~ *By the pit of a black hole. That's how it'll happen. By the flick of a lighter, and a burnt up spoon tucked away in the corner. A half *** attempt to be discreet. It'll sit there. Staring at you, haunting you, taunting your very existence. By the death of a friend you called your family. A stupid, avoidable death at the hand of ***** needle. That's how it'll happen. You'll look up one day, at the bottom of a hole you can't remember falling into. You'll climb, and climb, clawing your way to the top. Desperately slipping back down every time you make headway. It's a hopelessly dark place. It's the kind of place that stays with you forever. Even if you're lucky enough to claw your way out for good. It's the kind of place that leaves you void of love. It's a place for broken down souls. For desperate addicts turning tricks just to get their fix. You'll find yourself there, alone. Cold. You'll find yourself wishing it all back. Wishing you never took that one little hit, never sniffed that innocent little line. You'll hate yourself for thinking just this one time, because you knew it was a lie the second it crossed your mind. You just didn't want to believe it. It was a choice. Falling to the bottom of this hole. You made it the second you chose to say yes that very first time. It was the moment you sold your soul to the devil. A signature scribbled half heartedly on a piece of charred up tinfoil. It was a choice, and you knew you were making it. It's the worst part about being this kind of addict. You know you'll die eventually. Just like that friend you called your family, but nothing is enough to make you stop. The opiates leave you hollow. A shell of a person that used to love. You'll find yourself so empty. You don't care about your family, or those friends still around that don't **** with what you're doing. You can remember a time when you were so close to them. So different. Still an addict, but just circling the rim of that hole you're in now. You weren't addicted to those drugs, but you were on your way. It was those friends that kept you in the light. That kept you from falling into those harder drugs. They were a lifeline. A silver string hanging from the stars. You held on for so long. Every time you looked down you got so scared. It was a long way to the bottom, but you had scissors in your hand the whole time you were hanging on. At a certain point, you got weak, and cut that silver cord. You fell so far down, and at the bottom of that hole, sitting in the corner to comfort you, a burnt up soon and a white bic lighter. You traded in your lifeline. It was no longer your friends that could bring you back to the light. It was a bag of tar, and a silver spoon. It was a choice, and when the day comes when you say you're getting clean, you'll reach for the hands that used to be there. Out spread, patiently hanging there waiting for you to grab them, and they won't be there*.
0
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
haeneh
******
Entry ~ *By the pit of a black hole. That's how it'll happen. By the flick of a lighter, and a burnt up spoon tucked away in the corner. A half *** attempt to be discreet. It'll sit there. Staring at you, haunting you, taunting your very existence. By the death of a friend you called your family. A stupid, avoidable death at the hand of ***** needle. That's how it'll happen. You'll look up one day, at the bottom of a hole you can't remember falling into. You'll climb, and climb, clawing your way to the top. Desperately slipping back down every time you make headway. It's a hopelessly dark place. It's the kind of place that stays with you forever. Even if you're lucky enough to claw your way out for good. It's the kind of place that leaves you void of love. It's a place for broken down souls. For desperate addicts turning tricks just to get their fix. You'll find yourself there, alone. Cold. You'll find yourself wishing it all back. Wishing you never took that one little hit, never sniffed that innocent little line. You'll hate yourself for thinking just this one time, because you knew it was a lie the second it crossed your mind. You just didn't want to believe it. It was a choice. Falling to the bottom of this hole. You made it the second you chose to say yes that very first time. It was the moment you sold your soul to the devil. A signature scribbled half heartedly on a piece of charred up tinfoil. It was a choice, and you knew you were making it. It's the worst part about being this kind of addict. You know you'll die eventually. Just like that friend you called your family, but nothing is enough to make you stop. The opiates leave you hollow. A shell of a person that used to love. You'll find yourself so empty. You don't care about your family, or those friends still around that don't **** with what you're doing. You can remember a time when you were so close to them. So different. Still an addict, but just circling the rim of that hole you're in now. You weren't addicted to those drugs, but you were on your way. It was those friends that kept you in the light. That kept you from falling into those harder drugs. They were a lifeline. A silver string hanging from the stars. You held on for so long. Every time you looked down you got so scared. It was a long way to the bottom, but you had scissors in your hand the whole time you were hanging on. At a certain point, you got weak, and cut that silver cord. You fell so far down, and at the bottom of that hole, sitting in the corner to comfort you, a burnt up soon and a white bic lighter. You traded in your lifeline. It was no longer your friends that could bring you back to the light. It was a bag of tar, and a silver spoon. It was a choice, and when the day comes when you say you're getting clean, you'll reach for the hands that used to be there. Out spread, patiently hanging there waiting for you to grab them, and they won't be there*.
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2
Do you think that you’ll remember washing your least crusty mug in the cracked bathroom sink at four am, blinking afterimages of Wiki articles and Midwestern poetry out of your eyes? (Always the Midwestern aesthetic– what is it about starkness that drives people?) You’ve spent too many mornings watching dawn from the wrong side, pacing up and down beneath the streetlights as they go out one by one. The earth keeps turning but your thoughts scattered last night and they never came home. The percussion is (you heart is) pounding, crash ratatatat thump, ratatatat crash, time slipping between your fingers in fits and starts to the beat fluttering in your chest; no repeats or hesitations. The topic is– Magpie, bird brain, you line your nest with tinfoil to keep the world at bay. You’d say “I want to believe”, but instead you just play the song again, hoping that maybe this time— Did it take this long to realize you’ve answered your own question? You have to run when there’s nowhere to stay. Maybe you should take a vacation to the desert yourself, get some dust under your nails so you’ll stop chewing them off. Quit glancing at the clock, sweetheart; you’re on a timer here.
0
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
emily-overheim
Concentration 64
Do you think that you’ll remember washing your least crusty mug in the cracked bathroom sink at four am, blinking afterimages of Wiki articles and Midwestern poetry out of your eyes? (Always the Midwestern aesthetic– what is it about starkness that drives people?) You’ve spent too many mornings watching dawn from the wrong side, pacing up and down beneath the streetlights as they go out one by one. The earth keeps turning but your thoughts scattered last night and they never came home. The percussion is (you heart is) pounding, crash ratatatat thump, ratatatat crash, time slipping between your fingers in fits and starts to the beat fluttering in your chest; no repeats or hesitations. The topic is– Magpie, bird brain, you line your nest with tinfoil to keep the world at bay. You’d say “I want to believe”, but instead you just play the song again, hoping that maybe this time— Did it take this long to realize you’ve answered your own question? You have to run when there’s nowhere to stay. Maybe you should take a vacation to the desert yourself, get some dust under your nails so you’ll stop chewing them off. Quit glancing at the clock, sweetheart; you’re on a timer here.
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40
I built a time machine Out of barbie shoes Plastic legs and heads No-junk Ken Mr. Teddy bear Baby Blue quilt That doesn't even reach to my shins anymore Spilled finger paints On the bathroom floorr Primary colors Forming little swirls A refrigerator box makes up the body And there's tinfoil For the roof I've stocked my miracle machine Full of PBJ's Spaghettios My childhood comfort foods I fired it up Admired the purring Whirring Wheels in motion Turning I thought 1999 was when I felt alive Was when I thrived When all the toys could talk And all the dogs Boys still had cooties I didn't want to kiss them all It took a refrigerator box An overgrown backyard To break a smile Break a sweat I was betting on the past To match my memories Take a breath. Press the button. Go back.
0
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
holly-salvatore
The Time Machine
I built a time machine Out of barbie shoes Plastic legs and heads No-junk Ken Mr. Teddy bear Baby Blue quilt That doesn't even reach to my shins anymore Spilled finger paints On the bathroom floorr Primary colors Forming little swirls A refrigerator box makes up the body And there's tinfoil For the roof I've stocked my miracle machine Full of PBJ's Spaghettios My childhood comfort foods I fired it up Admired the purring Whirring Wheels in motion Turning I thought 1999 was when I felt alive Was when I thrived When all the toys could talk And all the dogs Boys still had cooties I didn't want to kiss them all It took a refrigerator box An overgrown backyard To break a smile Break a sweat I was betting on the past To match my memories Take a breath. Press the button. Go back.
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39
Defrauding the public isn't hard When you're one of the Trumps. The president is especially good At duping his loyal chumps. So, after Trump fired James Comey, He fired AG Sessions. Those two firings were just a part Of the president's indiscretions. Next came Matthew Whitaker-- A Donald Trump lackey-- As acting AG, and whose background Was--let's say--a bit tacky. Now AG Barr is there To willingly play his part And show how he and Trump are both Connected heart to heart. Barr's recent appointment has Very clearly shown That the president has managed To get his Roy Cohn. Keeping Congress from seeing the full Mueller report, Barr Acts LESS like a fair AG And MORE like a czar. Flouting the rule of law, Trump And Barr, political hacks, Can end up doing a lot of damage Behind Americans' backs. Now Barr has mentioned the word "Spying." It never fails That Trump's appointees tend to go Completely off the rails. Making Trump a victim only Satisfies his base. Trump and Barr don't care whether Their actions are a disgrace. Now the tinfoil-hat group can say "All the acrimony Toward Trump is a nasty plot." What a bunch of baloney! Our leadership has never been So chaotic. Never! Elections, they say, have consequences. Boy do they ever! -by Bob B (4-11-19)
0
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
bob-b
The D.T. Playbook: Chapter 6 (Defiling the DOJ)
Defrauding the public isn't hard When you're one of the Trumps. The president is especially good At duping his loyal chumps. So, after Trump fired James Comey, He fired AG Sessions. Those two firings were just a part Of the president's indiscretions. Next came Matthew Whitaker-- A Donald Trump lackey-- As acting AG, and whose background Was--let's say--a bit tacky. Now AG Barr is there To willingly play his part And show how he and Trump are both Connected heart to heart. Barr's recent appointment has Very clearly shown That the president has managed To get his Roy Cohn. Keeping Congress from seeing the full Mueller report, Barr Acts LESS like a fair AG And MORE like a czar. Flouting the rule of law, Trump And Barr, political hacks, Can end up doing a lot of damage Behind Americans' backs. Now Barr has mentioned the word "Spying." It never fails That Trump's appointees tend to go Completely off the rails. Making Trump a victim only Satisfies his base. Trump and Barr don't care whether Their actions are a disgrace. Now the tinfoil-hat group can say "All the acrimony Toward Trump is a nasty plot." What a bunch of baloney! Our leadership has never been So chaotic. Never! Elections, they say, have consequences. Boy do they ever! -by Bob B (4-11-19)
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45
The definition of "Bleeding Heart" is "dangerously softhearted." I recoil, then nod. It is dangerous to care so much. My heart will crush itself under the burdens it takes on-- Fold like tinfoil, till it has turned into nothing but a hard silver ball, I cast into the kitchen garbage.
0
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
elaenor-aisling
Tinfoil heart
The definition of "Bleeding Heart" is "dangerously softhearted." I recoil, then nod. It is dangerous to care so much. My heart will crush itself under the burdens it takes on-- Fold like tinfoil, till it has turned into nothing but a hard silver ball, I cast into the kitchen garbage.
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9
As I tossed you in your carboard coffin Pieces of you I loved too often Now shelves for dust and feelings softened By time and intrusion And lack of exclusion Of the wickedness in you I marveled at each fragment laid to rest Photographs that caught you at your best The scent I breathed while on your chest Now I see your smile is lopsided And the cologne you once prided Yourself upon now reeks of decay An imitation engagement ring A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing Your last bid to try and cling To a disenchanted free ride Exhibit A to say you tried To be half of what I deserved A love letter in invisible ink Clear for a moment till the words sink Like a stricken ship upon the brink So worn and frail from frequent view Shoddy proof that you loved me too A poor Exhibit B Your faded tee I found comfort in When doubts crept in of where you'd been Now the costume of a man of tin There is no road for you to follow You have a heart, metal and hollow For you, there is no place called home For someone who seemed so central This tiny box makes you seem incidental Perspective for the seemingly monumental You would fit nicely in the attic A burial I cannot find tragic I won't even need my black dress Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve Two strips of tape and to the curb A resting place undisturbed Till the grave robbers haul you away You're no ones treasure, just trash today A garbage truck is a proper hearse
0
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
cassandra-millam
Garbage Hearse
As I tossed you in your carboard coffin Pieces of you I loved too often Now shelves for dust and feelings softened By time and intrusion And lack of exclusion Of the wickedness in you I marveled at each fragment laid to rest Photographs that caught you at your best The scent I breathed while on your chest Now I see your smile is lopsided And the cologne you once prided Yourself upon now reeks of decay An imitation engagement ring A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing Your last bid to try and cling To a disenchanted free ride Exhibit A to say you tried To be half of what I deserved A love letter in invisible ink Clear for a moment till the words sink Like a stricken ship upon the brink So worn and frail from frequent view Shoddy proof that you loved me too A poor Exhibit B Your faded tee I found comfort in When doubts crept in of where you'd been Now the costume of a man of tin There is no road for you to follow You have a heart, metal and hollow For you, there is no place called home For someone who seemed so central This tiny box makes you seem incidental Perspective for the seemingly monumental You would fit nicely in the attic A burial I cannot find tragic I won't even need my black dress Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve Two strips of tape and to the curb A resting place undisturbed Till the grave robbers haul you away You're no ones treasure, just trash today A garbage truck is a proper hearse
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42
I had the Needle in my arm,but couldn't take the Plunge, Like a Fencer Poised to do some harm,but somehow couldn't make the Lunge, my life has gone to **** lately to be honest fellow chasers of the Muse, so I started Chasing Dragons amongst other systems of abuse, I made a new pal! Sal,my Dealer,what a Pal that Sal!, he told me I was wasting time with Tinfoil,Lighter and all... So I got my instructions (Safety first use clean gear!), and Needle in vein,Thumb Poised I heard a whisper in my ear, it said **Life's not so bad,compare yourself to millions without food, or clean water or a future,or the horror of abuse** , so with a Sting of shame I pulled the Stinger out and snapped the Wasp in half in disgust, pulled out the rest of my stash and it duly got Flushed. so that's why you haven't seen me lately Hello Poetry,sorry pals!... and there's a poster up looking for a missing Scumbag name of Sal
0
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
rob-sandman
The Needle and the Plunge...
I had the Needle in my arm,but couldn't take the Plunge, Like a Fencer Poised to do some harm,but somehow couldn't make the Lunge, my life has gone to **** lately to be honest fellow chasers of the Muse, so I started Chasing Dragons amongst other systems of abuse, I made a new pal! Sal,my Dealer,what a Pal that Sal!, he told me I was wasting time with Tinfoil,Lighter and all... So I got my instructions (Safety first use clean gear!), and Needle in vein,Thumb Poised I heard a whisper in my ear, it said **Life's not so bad,compare yourself to millions without food, or clean water or a future,or the horror of abuse** , so with a Sting of shame I pulled the Stinger out and snapped the Wasp in half in disgust, pulled out the rest of my stash and it duly got Flushed. so that's why you haven't seen me lately Hello Poetry,sorry pals!... and there's a poster up looking for a missing Scumbag name of Sal
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15