"tousle" poems
god pity me whom(god distinctly has)
the weightless svelte drifting ****** feather
of your shall i say body?follows
truly through a dribbling moan of jazz
whose arched occasional stepped youth swallows
curvingly the keeness of my hips;
or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips
my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,
(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid
female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,
laughing body with wise ******* half-grown,
lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone
of I Want a Doll,
wispish-agile feet with slid
steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.
8k
Night,
dark, soft, alluring,
spinner of dreams I want to be lost in,
is a kindhearted courtesan,
who never demanded anything
for all her loving, that to me
was like a swim in the pool
of "Ananda"* I was searching for.
I climbed her door steps
with the silent footfalls of a cat,
all these years for solace,
when the fair lass ,
regaled by my songs evening after evening,
scoffed and taunted,
when I fell wounded
in duels of life, I was forced to fight
to keep my honor intact.
Once,
seeing me left in the lurch,
blood soaked and badly wounded
she led my tired legs
to her house of magic and secret treasure hunts,
blessed me with oblivion, till I woke up.
Her mansion became
arena of silent dances of wounded memories,
till sun appeared above misty mountains
cheering me up with new promises,
but my thoughts never left her.
I spent my darkest hours
in her house,
thrilled by dreams she induced,
in which under moonbeams
princesses gathered,
bubbling fine wine brimmed
in sparkling glasses,
I felt the most loved man
within her tender arms.
I would wait for the night, my sullied lover,
to arrive with her hands of breeze,
to tousle my hair and caress my face.
Night took away my pains,
her lasciviousness is the only drink,
that makes me ask for more.
She is not only mine,
as a courtesan, she needs to entertain
whoever seeks her,
But when I am with her,
she is all mine.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
it makes no sense
how you tousle with my fragile heart.
you have all these hearts in the palm of your hand yet you always seem to want mine more.
it makes no sense
how you kiss her goodbye just to kiss me hello, you have her already why do you need me too?
it makes no sense
how you love her but you're in love with me, love isn't like this.
it makes no sense
how I know exactly what you do,
but I stay, I let you use and take from me knowing how deeply in love with you I am.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Move me
Fast through the winding roads
The tumbling winds
The deepest valleys
And the highest peaks
Settle me nowhere
Move me
Across fields of gold
Azure skies
And silver linings
Because no one
Drew a line I would not cross
Settle me nowhere
Move me
Pick me up and throw me
Over the sleeping bodies of water
And the restless hearts of the sands
I am closing my eyes now
Settle me nowhere
Move me
Weave me
Within the greenest trees
Tousle my hair
When the ride gets too calm
Settle me nowhere
Move me
Let the skyscrapers scrape sky
Let the towers tower
Let the roads twist and turn
And let houses be houses
Because I am not far from my own
Settle me nowhere
Until the rain patters
And the beach plays with sand-less shores
Settle
Me
Nowhere
Until I am home
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
The female temple.
Hollow shell in the minds of men.
An autoclave
for a belly, a copy-and-paste mind
of blasphemies. A page
in man's contradictive bible. Just blondes and brunettes.
Just virgins and non-virgins.
Nothing more than breathing incubators.
I am a person, I have a brain, I say.
They smile at me with a condescending
wink. A nod. Good girl, well done.
They tousle my hair. Well fine, boys.
Watch me climb the ladder with one hand,
backwards, in heels. When I reach the top
I'll ram these six inch Louboutins
straight through your hearts.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
I know a girl
That's pure beauty to see
Won't mention her name
As I feel there's no need
You'd know by her smile
Her sparkling eyes
The way she celebrates
Every aspect of life
Spending her day
Grabbing hold of the reigns
Taking the good thoughts she's got
And giving them all away
The way the wind clearly dares
To tousle her hair
As she breezes through life
With hardly a care
Yes I know I girl
Who's beautiful to behold
We all know who she is
Without her name being told
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
Man enters the tavern
Claps down some cash and outbursts ;
'Thirsty Things Firstly !'
The barman evaluates his condition
And provides a session brew
Man tilts toward potential company
(a ferrety bloke in the shadows)
"Pull up that stack of milk crates
And halve a heart with me"
(he earns a quick friend
in a tolerant stranger)
Soon fellow gaspers fill out the gloom
And an eve of humour descends
Though soon upending
Gourds downed the gullet
Sunk ugly into the scene
The tippling wit drags the night
to the Slurry Pit
things turn Psychologically Rugged
his Mates soon round on him
bulldozing at the Elbows
saying he's a Cheapskate
they Berate him with rigorous Rattleprat
he's been goated with the Cain's mark
they tousle his crown malicious
Thorough in his cups and eaves
he mumbles and leaves
heaving up bile words
unheard
gurgle
over
his
shoulder
outside is dark and harsh
Outside the whole wild world does wail and weary
drunkenly
he sings to match its melancholy
but sadness lifts with his altered view
he sees 'a flock of moons' weigh down the sky
and natures churn
makes a phosphorescent stew of it all
... decay
to lifes' celebration
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
As the undulating bodies part
the neon lights catch her face,
and her piercing gaze catches me.
A panorama of nothing but a blur.
But her- sharp.
Thirsty. Blazing.
Her hair is sleek and straight
but the way she throws back her head,
runs her fingers through the strands,
makes a tousled mess as entrancing and as
playfully wild as the club swirling around her.
Her lips are red. A challenging red.
The color of a delicate rose, but also
the color the harlot wears in old films.
The color of sin; of desire.
To unlock those lips
And tousle that hair
And lure out the voice….
To have the power of a man’s gaze now.
To be able to throw at her the force of
a chiseled jaw and stubble across my chin.
To know my role is to chase her
like a brave doe that turned
to look at me in the forest.
Who bounds away gracefully,
Knowing my sights are set
and the target is upon her.
How she would know my adrenaline
surged with every step she made
that took her farther from me.
All the power would lay in my
virile hands, to pull the trigger
on her when I may.
Ha! I laugh at my roots in the world that
imposes a craving for the rule of power.
Your gaze tells me we don’t belong there.
I move through the bodies toward you.
Toward freedom.
Lift me from my roots, darling.
We’ll run together.
Give up the vision of a pointed gun.
How’d they ever make me think
I wanted to be shot?
Oh, what a vision. What a creation!
My long locks twisting around yours,
how my lissome fingers get their
chance with you. And those
supple lips lend me the magnetic red hue.
How different the whole scene becomes
when the both of us are provocative
creatures, two nymphs swimming together
in the water of seduction.
Continue on, Odysseus.
Go conquer Scylla and Charybdis.
Master the seas of half the world.
The Sirens are singing to each other.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
There is a whisper in the air that seems to yell only at me.
It come in gusts of wind gentle enough to tousle the most well kept hair.
I've know this pitch before.
Even in new places I find myself feeling old.
I haven't lived enough, and there isn't comfort or encouragement in knowing that.
I've held fast to road signs and tree stumps as friends,
kissed their coolness and their groves.
Both these structures can be moved by cars, probably the wind too.
I use to hold hands as if they held me up.
Not a single hand, but a few whose voices prompted closeness.
Most people want promptness.
No one has lived enough, why would you say no?
Sometimes my feet ache when sitting, or when I walk down flights of stairs.
I think I am afraid of falling.
This ache tingles, I both fear it and like it.
At one point hands reassured safety,
like their very structure prevented tumbles.
I've felt this wind before, you see.
Dear girl you were the wind.
From far away you've reached me here and at some point I will tumble over.
I know there aren't hands structured for safety, you know that too.
We just use to pretend we weren't the one knocking one another down.
I never got it until now.
You're hair was never well kept dear Brittany, never well kept at all.
The change in color was artificial, and your constant flux much the same.
I use to see you as an exotic bird with all those colors.
I use to believe in your flight patterns.
The wind does not favor the birds Brittany.
The wind does not favor you.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
I found you in the hum of a dying july
in the sleeping age of stinging summer days
the panic of daylight savings
and a fear of the dark.
you settle for me like you settle for the cheapest pair of socks when you're in a hurry.
everyone's in their own hurries.
all you needed was something to put your flesh into.
all I wanted was someone to spill my soul out to.
my own vat of whispers and lies was somehow overflowing.
you don't love me.
in every secret your green eyes whisper
every preserved thought
you tell me you don't love me.
behind every flutter of my eyelash
flick of my hair
tousle of my skirts that you never notice
or tear i withhold that you couldn't give a **** about
there is a girl quivering
scared of womanhood and scared of manhood.
assaulted in the dark of a summers midnight
both a rarity.
you don't ask. You don't care. You don't love me.
you lie.
i lie.
we all lie.
but none of us truly love.
that's what 17 years and 6 months with you has taught me.
we touch we kiss we sing we dance
my tongue on yours
your hands in mine
my thighs round you
your **** soft as a babies laugh.
because we are purely flesh.
i wouldn't tell you my secrets
if my life ******* depended on it.
so don't give me your ****
you dwell on her.
like a fly on ****
you love her.
but you settle for someone who doesn't love you.
this is ********
i once read that soul mates find each other because
soul mates seek shelter in the same places.
we found each other in the dark.
i do not seek shelter there.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
I will always remember the moment we met.
(Haunting woodlands in springtime, your slim silhouette)
The glint in your eyes sparked a tempest at dawn
overwhelming the dreams of a slumbering fawn.
I will always remember your singular smile
(Fusing fantasies, fancies and phantoms the while)
when I brought you a daisy, then fled from the room,
weaving dizzy designs on a mystical loom.
I will always remember first touching your hand.
(Like the wing of a sparrow, frail fingers were fanned)
With my heartbeat aflutter, I jittered with joy -
on the surface, a man, though inside still a boy.
I will always remember the sound of your laugh
(Merry mermaid amused in a summer sea bath)
as we strayed 'long the strand, for a moment, alone,
with your tresses a’ tousle and tumbled and blown.
I will always remember your breath on my skin
(Seeking castles in chaos, a spirit in spin)
as you drew me aside and our tongues first entwined -
tangled twists of amour had begun to unwind.
I will always remember the fires of love.
(Shades of autumn ablaze in the tree leaves above)
Crazy passions ignited whenever we lay
painting stars in the night with the dazzle of day.
I will always remember the nightingale's tune.
(Divinations awash neath a ruddy blood moon)
When we kissed to its cadency, laughed as we danced,
lurking lanterns in limbo forged shadows enhanced.
I will always remember the shattering knell -
(Wanton words tolled in winter... ‘Adieu, dear... farewell’)
just a note near a nook where so often we slept
which I read and reread and reread while I wept.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC
Offense is a proud, pretty bird
preening her feathers just so,
resplendent in attire
crested and crowned
looking down over the world
without warning,
the wind dares to
tousle her hair--
affection between
connected hearts, between
friends, between
the flier and the flight
the bird shrieks
at her ruffled feathers,
the caring gesture,
and the good intent.
she broods
she resents
and she preens
when she is ready,
the wind does not come.
she shrieks at its absence
as she did at its presence,
but she can't put her pretty feathers to use
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
his voice
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
It's a just a spot.
A small spot, on the back of my neck.
The slight touch, like a warm hug or a quick moment of clear mind; to be lost in the feeling of it.
A tingling sensation of feeling.
She isn't terribly pretty, and has no idea or intentions. She lowers my head back, reclined and relaxed. A surge of water, and soapy fingers through my hair; a firm tousle with a towel, as if for a thorough finality of that aimless frivolity.
To the chair.
Her hands are skilled and carefully attentive. Not a thing out of place, that's the plan. Asking, making sure it's ok. With a plan of attack and a mutual understanding of what's to be done, we talk.
Meaningless awkward talk.
It's coming. I twitch at the anticipation of it's warm steel purpose.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My neck is warm, and slightly tingling. Am I blushing? Better than blood flowing anywhere else, cause it only really is meant for the feeling of my nerves. Almost nothing else to read into it.
But, oh; that feeling!
I'm lost in the feeling of it.
...
"Hey! How does that look?"
She's asking. Where was I again?
It looks good.
"That'll be Fifteen, John*."
Great, thanks.
See you next month, I tell her.
I think I'm still blushing.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
I remember your tousle-haired bright-eyed breathlessness
in the night over the summer.
We were playing some stupid game with our little brothers
to make them happy, and because one of them didn't know how to shut up
You knew just how crazy I was about you.
That night over the summer,
you smiled at me, more shyly
and more accidentally
than a friend.
The last time I saw you
in the dying summer light,
of my house.
Our families watched us,
watched me,
and it ended up (probably,
not on accident), just us two alone
in my basement.
I don't even remember what we talked about
and I bet you don't either.
I remember when you were leaving, and that look in your eyes
("That boy," my dad told me after you had gone, "wanted to hug you.")
and that I was too afraid to even get up to say goodbye,
Because I knew if I got too close to you
I would probably explode
(you, my dear, will have
your work cut out for you).
The truth is, my pretty boy, I am pining.
I am going over all the blond, flirty girls you could be seeing
who aren't me.
I am thinking over that look in your eyes, and listening to our mothers
talk on the phone
about how shy you are, (but not with me)
and the truth is, my pretty-eyed golden-curled boy, I adore you
and I am thinking that the next time I see you
I'm probably just going
To kiss that half-scared look out of your eyes,
because, my pretty boy,
I am sixteen beautiful years old,
And in December you will be too,
And we sure aren't getting
any younger.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
don't forget to lose yourself sometimes
in your favorite books
and on friday nights with friends
don't forget to let yourself wander
as you breathe in the sea
and let the ocean breeze tousle your hair
don't forget to let yourself go
from the anchor that weighs you down
and stops you from being completely free
don't forget to let yourself love
for a heart that has never loved
has never truly been free
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Upon this hill I plant the flag--
Of every imp and scallywag,
rapscallion, rogue and rascal, knave--
Whom kingdoms' laws could never save.
I gather every varlet, scamp,
Around the bonfire of our camp,
And pass around the speaking torch,
For storytelling tales that scorch,
To every sullied man, uncouth,
Unwashed who smiles a scurvied tooth,
The scarlet-lettered harlot, *****
Who loves to scallygag her mensch,
The whoredom-loving scallyhag,
Who trollops round the pirate's crag,
The tousle-haired and greasy scullion
Cooking all a hot slumgullion,
And after tales of those unnerved,
And scullion's slimy stew is served,
I toast a round of filthy ale,
To all who live beyond the pale.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Thoughts racing, fingers tingling,
Slight smile, electric air
Shift legs, look away,
grab his eyes, try not to stare
Tousle hair, lean in,
pulse racing, hold your breathe
Bite your lip, don't fidget,
blank mind, lover's dance
Ears humming, quick courage,
lean in more and take a chance
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
The leaves are changing, can't you see?
Each new shade turns my heart
And brings me back to the me I used to be
I miss the trees' leaves of green
Effervescent colors of life around me
The tousle of falling emerald locks
In the brief and gentle passing breeze
Evergreens and pines flourish in the chill
Beauty, I find, gives little piece of mind
When needles fall, just dreams withal
I miss the northern mountains' touch
The way the streets climb close behind
Mystery and mischief just a break-away
Yet never revealing the secret of youth's fall
Scarlett trees remind me of pain gained
From joyous memories distorted by pain
But love remains, in hues of pinkish stains
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Your olive skin and half moon grin
keep me awake tonight.
Two chocolate dots pepper your lips;
I am mesmerized as he sips.
You are smooth as we speak,
smooth as we walk,
I feel soothed on your chest
while in circles we talk.
You let me tousle your curls
knot 'gainst your head,
and I'm satisfied 'cause
I can't help it in bed.
Tell me again
I'm your nightmare, Babe,
because I know all too well
instead you want me to stay.
La boca, espanol, in my ear
are the only two tongues
I wish to hear.
So thank your God
I'll always be here,
always for you,
my Puerto Rican.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
0
1
beat
1
beat
2
heart beat
3
right toe wiggle
5
right eye wink
hand open
8
place feet
on ground
stumble toward
mighty sound
13
must cry,
mustn't fall behind
drizzle kiss thy face
with dew
amen, amen
21
may ears be deaf
to wicked lies
from cruelty, dread
I shield thy eyes
softly spoke the truth
whisper,
sleeping babe
34
lay thy being at thy fate
tousle I thy downy pate
wouldn't solemn oath be kept
if demons lost their minds and
wept?
Break them, they are within reach.
May strike land true.
55
wander toward thy destiny.
A carpet wove of dreams,
rolls ahead, lays a path,
tearing at the seams.
I lift thy body to the moon,
Earth was in my way at noon.
couldn't dig like I know I must.
When we get there we'll be dust
Heavens bless our journey,
give us rest.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
she's gold on one side
silver on the other
heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.
little passes by her that goes unnoticed.
she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.
equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.
she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.
and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.
she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.
she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.
there's no worth, they say.
so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.
melted glass and ***** cartridges.
spent fits and broken tin.
wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?
she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-
but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.
one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.
she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.
day in and day out
running like a car wreck-
gold on one side
and silver on the other.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
breathe in deep,
{deep breaths will help you cope}
chew gum,
a diet coke and a cigarette in the afternoon,
the carbonation burns your throat
{thank god}
another cigarette after work,
another cup of coffee on the road
{black, with two sugars}
park the car,
go inside,
do laundry,
do the dishes,
do something
{distraction is key}
look in the mirror,
tousle your hair,
you look
{normal?}
there are no external warning signs,
{not that you've exhibited, at least}
this deception you're living every day,
has become the norm for you
{who am i?}
{but he doesn't look like an alcoholic}
silent pain,
no one can hear your cries for help.
{are you, perhaps, too prideful to look like an alcoholic?}
you still wake up for work,
eat breakfast,
go to church,
but your faith is no longer in God,
the blood of your God represented in a chalice of wine,
passed through the hands of the faithful followers,
{moderation is key, isn't that what they told you?}
pass the cup back to the holy man before he sees
the look in your eyes,
begging for more,
{one more drink}
{please}
it only matters if you show the warning signs,
as if this addiction
{dare i say, disease?}
could fit into a pamphlet,
neatly folded,
creased edges,
glossy photographs,
all smiles,
1-800 number in the big font
{this is your life, and it fits on a single sheet of paper}
{no one can help you but yourself, and you're not doing so well}
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC