"tousles" poems
Something’s stirring
- hey honey, sweetie, sugar-
Something’s ******* up and in, like their stomachs,
(why don’t I look that flat, mummy?)
Something’s furious and seething, something strong
And stuck and breathing
My bones in. It’s the *** you see, yeah you bet,
All they are is *** sweaty, oily, wet
With some such suffocating, suffering, surrendering
Desire to please.
Please the man, the thick man, with your eyes.
Please him with your deadened stare – glare -
Please him with your chest, your hair,
Feel the way that wind rustles and tousles, as you dance,
As you feel the liberation of a thrusty, ***** pleasing stance,
As they slip money between your legs. As they wrap you up, up,
Up in its crinkles, up in its arms,
Swept from your feet and in love, swept up from harm,
Just as you desired.
Love is the one – but what? Love comes from beauty, right?
Full lips, bright eyes, as dead as the night,
The best thing a girl can be is pretty.
(well that’s what they are on screens)
And that’s why I cried when they drew a picture,
Fourteen and they took all our ‘best features’
Ripped them from our bodies,
Bundled them up into one jigsaw creature
-where’s mine?
They forgot me,
But it’s fine – she’s got your per-son-a-lit-y.
And I cried.
It’s easy to say, I know, and I see
That things are better now, I am almost free.
But oh she’s been in the wars:
She’s hit; she’s ripped; she’s cut; she’s lost;
That pleasing object onscreen – she’s yours.
But passion’s no good, gotta be pure, sweet and true
Well she’s gotta be new, and a girl's gotta do
What a girl only can do,
‘Til she’s through,
‘Til she’s cold cold and blue,
So hey lady, lady, lay-dee,
Who are you?
Sorry for the passion, words disordered in a heap.
Didn’t mean to make it bleak. Didn’t mean to make her speak.
But you see this is how she might.
Flocked in furious, in flight,
The little bird - the beast - is heard:
Each word, each word, each bite.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I think you're the sea.
Your blue plaid shirt the waters and
My red plaid jacket the sunset,
Our hands are oars,
Yours tracing my fingertips-
My skin-
Arms, legs, and stomach,
Sending shivers down my spine,
Exploring my body like a ship
Sailing out into the horizon.
I hear your heart,
It beats in time with the tide,
Your breath a sweet ocean breeze
As it tousles my hair,
And I'm hyper aware of how
Deep your eyes are.
Not blue,
But brown like the ground of
The earth underneath the water.
Our kisses are dives,
Striving to reach the
Sunken treasure at the bottom
Of your ocean,
Of my ocean,
The pieces are scattered but
We'll find them and
Piece it back together.
Our hands intertwine to
Lock the chest but
I find I drown in your stare
Because seas are violent.
I'd forgotten that, but the thought
Seizes my mind as your waters
Grip my throat and I
Gasp for air but I find I can't
See anymore.
Your hands are cold against my body,
Like the tide of your heart casting me out
Onto the shore,
Naked and sure of indifference
Your breath a typhoon of ice
Hurled perfectly at my chest-
You used this sunset and
Left a storm in my eyes.
Painted a picture of sincerity but
Blue is the color of clarity and
Mine won't forget your
Murderous waves or
Mischievous ways and
Through you I've come to know
Some people aren't that lucky-
We cry alone.
Throw a rock, aim right at our chest,
Our hearts are stone.
We suffer in silence. And
If I could catch all the tears I've cried in a pitcher,
I would rain them down,
Drown a river in my sorrow.
Drown my sorrow in a river?
What's the difference? Life is only borrowed, anyways.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
A sensitive
little white
flower,
opens
her
petals
by the
opening
of lunar
light,
seeking
to heal
others
as they
lie in their
dreams, she
whispers
to them
within
their
hearts,
“hear
these
words,
and
allow
me
to take
care
of you,
allow my
petals to
heal your
wounds,
I will gently
touch your
tears and
dissolve
them
within
my own
heart”
the soft
wind
tousles
her, the
butterfly
touched
upon the
flowers
heart,
“tell
me the
secret
to flight”
the fragile
one asked,
it flew
again
into the
nightly
hour,
she felt
a dew,
she
looked
up and saw
the florist,
who
sung
to her,
“the
secret
is love,
where
it is,
there
is flight”
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you
naked.
ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.
I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.
there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.
I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.
I hug myself
and feel very
very small.
the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.
it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.
the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.
the shore has too much of your face.
I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence
but I am too small.
my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.
cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.
I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.
Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.
Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.
Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.
Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.
And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.
You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Shivering in the wet air,
Grasping to the last of the pink, fragrant
petals for whatever warmth
they may provide –
Rain runs over the soft, moistened bark
And falls off in sheets.
The wind tousles outreached branches,
And sighing, it waits
For the sun to bring warmth once more.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
How dark it gets in the woods on the shadow side of the hill
A fresh breeze of air and how it makes your skin feel
The leaves next to you are moving but you don’t feel the wind through the heat
The earthen smell of summer ending makes your heart skip a beat
A clear blue sky and a playful wind tousles the cornfield
Look at those trees and all the fruit they yield!
The sunshine through the leaves draws a kaleidoscope of color
It makes the forest look so much taller
The pretty spectacle makes you want to say thank you
You feel like hugging a tree and then you just do
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 2:26 AM UTC
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY
Leopold Bloom
tousles my hair.
Tells me I'm a
"...grand little fella altogether!"
His large black eyebrows
look as if they will leap
off his face and land on mine
chew my mind.
Of course he is
only Milo O'Shea.
Actor extraordinaire
from Strick's ULYSSES.
Some concert in the girl's gym
has mad him appear here
before me
quaking in fear.
He is the first man I see
in a tux.
Our class is to recite
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
Was I not nervous?
Jaysus I was so I was!
The spotlight a Medusa
turning us to stone.
An audience a many
headed monster.
I...I...I
petrified.
I throw my voice
out into the dark
like throwing a mad dog
a bone.
"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky."
Guy beside me starts to cry
wee running down his left knee.
Now it's over and I
am returned to myself again.
Meeting Mr. Milo
is just a happenstance.
Later he will will become
Durand Durand
trying to **** Barbarella
with sheer pleasure.
Now, Zeffirelli's kind friar
in ROMEO AND JULIET.
But for me
he always blossoms
into Bloom
tousling my many many curls.
"A wink of his eye and
a toss his head.
soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread."
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
*"What's your current mood?"
"Well, I'm anxious. But I'm literally anxious all the time. And sleepy. Basically I'm just chill today."*
What makes us girls
might be
when we're silhouetted
as we walk home with a pizza in our arms.
When I stole your band shirt and washed my hair in your sink and then cut it over a pink towel in my lap.
Us sitting under a bridge,
graffiti,
telling us nothing is real,
as birthmarks,
next to the railroad tracks as a train flies by
and tousles our hair.
Your eyes hurting because of the sleep hanging on them
with dark, stained fingers.
Passing a wedding
and being tempted to crash it.
An empty, blue bottle of whipped-cream flavored *****
lying in the dry grass.
Waking up to the sounds of a block party outside.
Knowing that if 11-year-old you saw you now,
she wouldn't believe her eyes.
Laughing until you're positively sure you're bruised inside.
Screaming with joy
because I finally finished my math homework.
Swearing I'm going to grow up and write a sitcom
based on our adventures when I grow up.
Wearing shirts with angel wings on the back.
And
being both terrified
and back-of-your-head-hurts-excited
for the future.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
She strokes the beautiful piano keys,
Her music speaks to me.
Her enchanting melody,
So soft and long,
Mingles with the sadness
In her unique song.
The more I listen,
The more the meanings spread,
As her gentle notes dance in my head.
Her delicate hair tousles in the breeze,
As one single tear strokes the piano keys.
Her heart is so broken,
This I can see,
As her beautiful music speaks to me.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 1:57 PM UTC
I could still see you.
The manner the wind tousles
you straight, unruly hair,
The firm grip of your spectacles
on your big nose,
That silly dance you do
whenever it rains,
The inside lines
of your wrist I used to adore - used to.
I could still feel you.
The weight of your arm
on my shoulders,
The dampness of your lips
on mine,
The irrational collywobbles
whenever you smile unexpectedly,
The heartfelt embraces
I used to long for - used to.
It's still you - used to.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
I'm at the park on a beautiful, white-sunny day.
I'm with my loved ones, I see them playing in the sand.
My eyes get that lovely ache from the bright sun,
and I am warm, dry, and sleepy.
The wind tousles my hair softly,
I have dandelions in my pocket.
My head is hot and my feet are not.
I could stay this way for the rest of my days.
New bench, new scene.
Cooler wind, more green.
I smile at the leaves and yes, they smile back.
Ducks in the stream go quack quack quack.
Under my **** it says "NATE + MANDIE FOREVER".
Somewhere I wonder if they're still together.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
She tousles the bouquets
Of her hair
For our love
To bloom like roses
irises and sunflowers
With sweet moonlight
everywhere
To be sweetly loved
is to be deeply cherished
and
adored
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 9:34 PM UTC
I'm fighting the breeze as it tousles' my hair.
My fingers are rapiers, they're cutting the cold
The wind carries lances and they're fighting back.
The glowing sun is icy.
Brightens up the morning sky.
Still so cold, I am ready to cry.
Inhaling the cold and my lungs feel like cracking.
Deceit fills the sun loaded skies.
The smart bite of frostbite, still waters my eyes.
Flowers, fancy flowers.
Annually sparkle the beds.
They're no longer sleeping.
Springtime's weak sunshine, gives them their life.
Naughty husband pinches a few to give to his wife.
The children know mother's day is on the way.
I remember stealing daffodils from the roadway outside my house.
To give to my mother when I was a mouse.
Could never steal flowers now.
It's a criminal offense.
They smile so very beautifully.
Behind a gilded fence.
(c) Livvi
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
as the hands pray without the diver knowing, I ease my father’s ****** heels into the shallow end of a public pool. inside your mother, a girl screams like a girl. at home, my sister kicks herself for getting pregnant. while beating his brother into the fence, our stock bully gives himself heat stroke and has to out his ***** before it disappears.
I only have one memory of tugging at my father’s heart. he checks for his toes, tousles my hair, and damns the lazy fish.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
In the distance, there is a cliff
I go there sometimes
To hang my toes off the edge
Maybe my legs; eat some lunch
Look out at everything
There's an old oak there
Half off the edge
It's roots are dug in pretty well
But that's only half
Others seem to keep growing
Seeking down, looking for soil
You can tell its alive
You can tell its strong
It seems to have this perspective
Probably from the view
But most of the cliff is gone
And it's still here
So I'll sit in its shade
Eat my lunch, take a nap
A gentle breeze tousles my hair
Like a lover's hand, finger's touch
But it's just a branch
The old oak's touch
Just the wind
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
So here we lie in our bed of lies but really it’s just a couch in an overheated dorm room. We try to alleviate the aroma of our sin by opening a window, letting the breeze of conscience in. It tousles my hair, but yours lies flat. It cools the sweat on our bodies and the heat of our action. In a moment what was pleasure has turned into shame. I become awkward and wish the courage liquid provided me hadn’t worn off. I notice my naked body in a way I didn’t before. I suddenly want to cover up; I’m embarrassed in front of you. We delved into the initial sin, letting lust be our next. Now we’ve conquered lust and made it our own. But what happens next? Naked bodies, afraid to touch, realizing that the other doesn’t belong to us. It’s still warm in here although the breeze is cooling. Your body is cold and in return so are my words. Awkward silence, each to our own thought. The quickest escape? I can read your mind. I throw you your clothes. We hesitate a goodbye kiss. Goodbye had meant nothing before this. Your face is red, your hair a mess. You leave in a hurry and I’m all too relieved. With the door shut behind you I return to the instigator of our lying bed. Which is really just a couch. Enough liquid: to give me the courage, to ignore the shame, to do it again.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:53 AM UTC
That I was alive: I suppose,
there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–
the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.
Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.
(I love you.
Knowing I will die–I love you.)
I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.
How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your ******* I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.
The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?
(Reading this perhaps.
And am I alive? And where?
Or dead?
Could be.)
And what is death?
Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.
There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.
I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.
"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.
(I will be dead someday.
I love you.)
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
there are good days
and i can love the sun beaming at my laugh
i can feel the canine affection
as the wind playfully tousles my hair
i can sing along to the sweet melodies
that the birds chime into the air
there are good days
but there are days when
the sun seems to stay in the sky for too long
and its malignant rays seem to pierce my eyes without mercy
and when night,
blissful, dreamless night,
finally sets
all i can hear is the echo of a tap
drip
drip
dripping
its hollow notes a dull ache in my mind
where i reel with a tempest of self hatred
while i bite my knees
and rock to and fro to the eddies of worthlessness;
i am losing.
i'm fighting, believe me,
i'm fighting
but my arms around my knees
and the movement of my body
is a dull sword
and i am tired, so tired
but there are good days
There are good days.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Salt in the air
Wind on my skin
Tousles my hair
Breathing it in.
Spray from the mist
All stresses cease
Time won’t exist
Life is at peace.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
The wind pulls on me
It tousles my hair and says come and play
Pushing and pulling me as I walk
Gleefully blowing dead leaves into me
When inside I don't feel it at all
That tug for adventure that thirst for thrill
The wind is there as a reminder for you
A reminder that nature is always there and ready.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
I breathe your loving words in deeply
Fill my lungs with your sweetness
And exhale those petty insecurities
That once stained them black.
Your gentle smiles tickle my skin
Your laughter tousles my hair,
Dead leaves swirl upon cold concrete
In the wake of your joy.
But your fury.
It is screaming against my window
Rattling the glass like old bones
It is scraping my skin raw
I cannot speak with such chapped lips.
And the silence after,
My hollow chest still echos your gusts
Your cold front has torn the warmth
From my very bones.
Perhaps,
Next time the wind howls
And the trees shudder
I will just stay inside.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC