"treacly" poems
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
NY
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Bag
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?
She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
Hustler
And on the other, two
Strictly
Business
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration
It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against
pale
pale
Skin.
Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that
Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?
We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that the three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull
She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we already know one another?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
sat in your lap
jealousy builds
like pressure
once a fissure
it now inches
its way across
my soiled soul
lather it on my body
like blood -
thick and treacly
dark, sticky
ever so sickly
tell me your lies
tell me your truths
trace them into my flesh
mark me
cast the runes
now they have spoken
clatter on the rocks
like my pride has
broken
my rage glowing
all I can see
forever growing
I embody entropy
A rule of disorder
hatred rises
through the flames
let it burn me
to ashes
like your touch
sizzles my skins frame
it's a crime scene
of blood swirling like ink
pills scattered
around me
like a ritual
I wonder what
my mother would think
you're a dream thief
knife in my
heavy heart
you've stripped me bare
and I stand
as you depart
with nothing but
at your mercy
I'm you're experiment V
the looking glass shows me
what's left
a withered mess
existing
for you to thrive
tired pile of crumbly bones and
shrivelling rotting insides
tossed aside
burn me to
oblivion
I want the skin
to stop sticking to my bones
melt it off
let the blood pool onto stone
let the fat droop and distend
mocking me, me mocking
never ever stopping
wretch and stretch
till I break
rip my organs out
serenade my limp body
with the liquid lava that drips
as you extract
my black heart
take a sip of my sublimity
I am all you will never be
because I don't think I ever was
do what you will to my material
never to extinguish my fire
that does
never
cease
limitlessly
increase
the
entropy
KG
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
The music of silence
is just like an old sailors' story,
of a siren at sea—
lt lures you, when you are alone
in disguise of treacly tunes;
then rots within, alongside your soul
waiting to embed itself;
more into yourself.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 4:26 AM UTC
3/2/2015
“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,
couldn’t do it anyway,
just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made
any sense, anything.
And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead.” Richard Silken
I wrote of vultures once, I'd found in the sepulchral little category of "poems I had burnt a while ago" that I kept in my brain. I spoke of predatorial lashings against the dead prairie dogs of her and I, class of 2005- add ten more years and...
Contended May heat like the May-December romances in trope, I'd walk to bridges with notebook in sullied hand, a bit flushed, a bit healthy with the sun on my gold flakes shoulders If I had only known? Right? Haha.
The grammar rules of english: you (I) is a proper noun- but of course, i refuse to give myself that much pomp. To be full of such vanity is to be full of treacly purity- which does not apply so much now.
I had been given time to love you - until I didn't need you anymore, you said, then you'd leave- a sweetly sardonic little note, seeing as you hated the conjugal and impossible implications of "forever". I feel, now that you are gone, this is an imprisonment I am doomed to til atrophy...
You are dead. Your corpse rots in the sun of the soil in the coffin and it is still cold outside. Everytime I leave the house I ask myself what I seriously am expecting from March. The heat, the permenance of your being gone makes me sit down on the cold snow,
My dullard heart sits with a bread knife wedged on a rib when I realize how utterly alone I am- so alone the vultures do not even circle.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
i want to shower you in sugar
and unleash the spate of syrup
but that might be too strong
i want to give you candied comments
and reveal all my honeyed hopes
but i'm afraid that could be wrong
i have all these citrus suckers
and balmy butterscotch
and treacly truffles
i would give them all to you
but i don't want you to get sick
of me and all my candy
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
1/25/2017
the sky melted, sweating glass
for three days straight-
once, we marveled at the inexorable and eventual
at
the drop that makes the bough
bow.
i remember the ache
of the sunlight on my
crooked nape
one May day . We sit in a January cafe
"It is springtime," she announces
except these days, it's no emotional pantomime, not a hopeless mantra
"and why?" I beg a question
"oh, because something's starting"
she mixes milk into her honey
it is too sweet for me
the umbrella opens in the shop
"put that away, it's a bad omen" oh, as if I care
imagine me so treacly?
she talks about pregnancy and politics
about marriage
and something in me,
i realize
wants to be, is disgusted by my far future maternity
at the supermarket
there's a jingle
hey, mom, what's for dinner?
"Uh, hey, I feel like Plath... marriage is oppression and all that"
"Well, join the club. Oh, domesticity-"
"O'Hara said : There is only one man I like to kiss,"
I misquote, intentionally.
"*Heterosexuality!
you are inexorably approaching!*"
perhaps we can't wait
to be thirty and bored
with three kids
watching them play at the Minetta
wondering where the hell our time went
and there they'll sit
polish- to her irish, italian- to my puerto rican
new jersey mutts
i laugh
thinking of drunk days down on
53rd and Lex
we're not ready to live like it's 1953
*oh, johnny promised me
and i wear his
ring*
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
Naked tree
Infant being
Dew on ancient veins
And all nocturne
Hush
The winter city does not speak
It creaks
It moans
It whispers
Rasping yet calm
From deep within its Immense grey nothing
Of a childlike ******
Oft from the away
Of the deep, dark, warm blooded secrets of a cure
Come now, blizzard
Snow or dust
Infinitesimal and wise
We’ve hung our wounds out
We will rejoice
While we find colour
Burning in your brilliance
Alabaster, gold, honey brown and chestnut
Now we’re all camouflage
The grass is olden, wistful and unkempt
We’ll look through and find each other
Or maybe a passing bird will carry us through
To other realms
Or back to our wombs
Like the echo of steely friction
And the ***** of alpine thorns
Like a thousand needles
From the paraphernalia
Urban nomads play on
Amorphous and obscure
Boldly proclaiming their dissonance
And in its trails
The treacly placid darkness engulfs
the mind
with its Itinerant leftovers
from an infantly battle
It returns
To sleep
To heal
To prepare anew, for a duel
In the Winter City
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
the stars are ours
the moon is too
we've got it all
me and you
our love sticks
like a treacly
goo
we sure make
flames of passion
imbue
as we mix
our potent
brew
baby them days
aint done with yet
we can still stir
the furnace of love
you bet
snow is on the roof
but the blood remains hot
why don't you and I
go on a sultry trot
the stars and moon
ever say
that love's embers
agelessly
flicker
away
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
For some ego is bigger than verses holy.
Saintly demeanor but hiding needles treacly.
For some ego much bigger than pure logic.
When atheists preach sermon it doesn't click.
Few tongues very sweet and few extremely ****
But God Almighty knows the secrets of heart.
In matters of faith I pity the way people think.
For them everything is just winning or losing.
Exchanged shoulders, to cry and fire gun.
Don't like any convention then quietly shun.
Question beliefs of millions and simply walk.
Won't be allowed, you need to walk the talk.
Mingle personal tragedies with worldly affair.
Many will peep, life will become thoroughfare.
Without pointing be in ample or meager wear.
It is your personal choice, I just don't care.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC