"trios" poems
***** *** and cigarettes
bad decisions, no regrets.
Painted lips and fingertips
lace, leather, gags and whips.
Cheap motels, steamy nights
sweaty flesh and candlelights.
Pushing limits, breaking rules
naked dips in swimming pools.
Getting high while living low
riding rails, pure white snow.
Playing games & telling lies
the look of lust in lovers eyes.
Rendevouz in seedy places
sloppy kisses, hot embraces.
Ménage à trios, or even four
anything goes behind locked door...
Shots of Jack make it all alright-
just another low life night.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
Did you know that every time he searched your eyes,
While he pushed deep-
That his emotions passion and lust was equivalent to her?
For every time he traced his finger tip down your spine;
your hands grasped to cover more surface.
Cotton.
Polyester.
Satin,
as you braced for smooth impact.
He only understood the similar love language he shared with her.
With you-
craving of possessive feelings,
Proving your worth to him
asking for time via a clock whom hands couldn’t unwind
Separate.
Disintegrate.
A Minaj a trios-
unbeknownst to you existed,
Co-starring you
For every soft connection within each curve...
Your identity was a reflection of another.
For all the things you projected
Marriage.
House.
Dog.
Children.
His capability of taking you to ecstasy,
Lead you here
Had you any clue?
This little game called life,
Excluded the other woman (you).
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
I've been blessed to know a few
who understand my pain and triumph too
N we'll know each other all our lives
as I'm all finished alone looking for knives.
Distance we make into a friend as still days alone I’ll dwell
Yet keep always the hope that their
future’s brightness is to sell.
While mine I auction off with ease-
Doomed;
addictions appetite is never pleased.
So quite different I am from both of them, as our unlikely trios formed
by want and need and struggle too while beauty and youth is mourned
A blessing for us to know this type, of friendship near or far
to know alone is not alone no matter where we are.
Kimia and Sammy, it's your two thoughts that I keep close
As the future that I contrived grows impatiently morose
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
Gently soaring against green sky,
white world above.
Glimmers pass just under each crest.
Starry reflections mesmerizing
the eye of the beholder.
Soon begins the dance.
First to cross over
bursts free
shattering planes to open air.
Gliding on warm sea spray,
a brilliant spectrum off
silver forms taking shape.
The pinnacle moment,
poised the dancer holds the world still,
and bows.
An angelic descent,
merging back to the old world.
Murky cold envelopes the winged dreamer.
Now in pairs and trios they come.
Each shuttling into a similar pose,
stopping time,
only to fall again into the fathoms
of the emerald abyss.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
I have delayed writing about you
Because I know that if I do
I will develop feelings for you.
Its not that feelings are that bad
Just that they can't be taken back,
And that thought drives me mad.
But as I sit here avoiding the write,
My true feelings have come into light
And I have found that what I want is for us to be right.
I feel like such a fool
Laughing this hard, smiling this hard, not keeping my cool,
My mask fades when we speak and so do my tools.
Strawberry blonde...
It makes me giddy how I am fond
Of that description, particularly when you respond.
In your presence, I don't manipulate,
I can only manage to speak straight,
My ego you sedate-
Take what I have to say with weight.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
What does it take for a poem to be great?
A riddle, A rhyme, without any mistakes?
Does it need words, those that are fancy?
Or simply bold words, not of a nancy.
Should it have humor or wisdom?
Written on rest or excessive ***
For Hemmingway said “make sure to write drunk,”
Or to make it scary, get locked in a trunk.
I heard about some guy, who wrote on his head,
While rappers turn poems into righteous street cred.
It’s rumored that some poems were writ on a trip,
But not the kind with a map and travel tips.
Other great poets flirted with death
or were simply in love with their friend named beth;
some great poems came from hate and abuse
or about women whose pants were too loose.
Some poems inspired by breaking the law
or by an unforgettable ménage trios.
So many things could derive a great write,
But these extreme measures just don’t seem right.
Maybe all that is needed is a little emotion
So that one can avoid all that commotion,
and maybe what’s great is all a perspective,
And that it’s better to read without an objective.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
Have you ever loved someone so much?
Where every moment you spend without their arms wrapped around your waist is so incredibly painful, you think it’s slowly killing you?
Where you long every second for that certain trio of words to be sent your way, on the lisps of the wind?
“I love you.”
And
“I miss you”
Were trios that I did not catch that afternoon. I’m sure you sent them, but not to me.
Instead, what did I get?
“You will never be half the person that she is.”
I read that, and instantly I wanted to cry. I felt defeated, crushed, broken down. Ashamed, upset, and alone.
You said you weren’t thinking, that it was an accident, that you didn’t mean it.
But if you sent it, you thought it.
And that’s enough for me.
You tried to take it back, and believe me I wish you had succeeded.
But you didn’t, and you left me for wanting.
Because when that was over, when you said the only ten words I never would have expected to come out of your mouth, I was done.
Done what?
I was done fighting. Fighting off bad luck, insecurities, you name it.
All this time I was there for you. And this was not the only time you’ve come back to slap me in the face.
You never bothered to really see if I was okay. Never cared to look into my eyes and discover that I’m worse off than you are.
That day you watched me fall asleep… you said that I was peaceful.
I can assure you those are the only moments of peacefulness I get out of my day.
That day you said you needed me, I was there.
But the day I needed you, you had vanished into somebody else’s arms.
Not a care in the world, not a look back to see me far off in the distance, too numb from the pain to wave goodbye.
It’s me or someone else, you say. You say I don’t care about the other, which is wrong.
You say it’s stupid of you to assume things about me, which is funny because it’s something people constantly do.
I’m used to it, it happens often.
But I never thought the assumptions would come from you.
I miss you, I need you, and I love you.
So talk to me, please.
Because you’re a part of me that I need.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
She said she was a twin
And had a twin sibling
So right away as I'm not gay
You know what I'm thinking
And if not then I'll simply
Be abundantly clear
A ménage trios is wut a man
Fantasizes will appear
So I imply and she hears
Understands and says hey
"if that's wut u want then I will do
It cause I love u" and so I wait
For her twin siblings arrival
Still In shock that my girl
Is willing so I'm praising her in
My head, as best in the world
And as the doorbell rings she smiles
As I jump so eager
And I'm not the only one as my
Girl looks happy to greet her
So as she answers the door
And invites her sibling inside
They both walk where I sit in the
Living room so I
Lift my head from the magazine
I have been pretending to read
As they stand infront of me now
And as my girl introduces me
My face has shock as my
Sister talks and grins
Saying *** this is my twin
His names James but likes Jim
And he's **** ****** incase u
Still want to get
Freaky she says laughing
Walking away and yes
Twins are opposite ***
Sometimes I forgot
Now wut the hell am I gonna do
With this rock hard ****
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
*At the reluctant transition of the daystar
Where lantern flies tote the account of murk admitting through Oak quarter
The colored palette of Dusk swallowed by the curve of the Earth
Umber tree line , audial aberrations , the fervor of burgeoning , multitudinous songs before ebony companion Venus
Dove coo , Katydid trill , Mosquito hum trios
Bobwhite Quail give thanks to the dying day , as
reverberating odes do carry from blackened palmettos* ...
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
I head out unknowingly
into the ****** of fray
the tyrant's berserk
into frisky delay
the title screams
of a monsoon champagne
as I cast about
my insecure monologue relays
kings and queens
knightly rose golds
flattering **** all over castles
we all call home
vain painted faces
hiding
waiting
searching
poppy lemons in fertility skies
prairies danced upon
to beg for faulty mercy
in reality they stench of lies
shattered mirrors noses gone cold
tragedy struck this elegant mellow
solo trios in crowning malachite fur
guardians who seek for the murderer's slur
how mistreated, gallant fright
guardians topple bridges to hearts precise
yet I have built a fortress around mine
so I cannot possibly fall apart, concise
fog scurries, ghouls writhe, pounce in mist
the mountain and sky embrace, insist
the walls are caving, their laughter gone sour
as vain painted faces **** remove the powder
earth stretches, starkly white canoes
easing gently through streams, hello
me and my guardians, my guardians and I
we have built a garden
ruins no longer cowering in disguise
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
-
Strolling down the naked street,
I follow brick facades and paint chipped doorways,
listening to music from open windows above,
static to the sleeping trios
with silenced violins in cases of quarters
Whiskey bottle wind chimes
****** on the curb in high pitched sonatas
floating on waters from washed dogs and cars,
denting front lawns in tread mark stupidity
as the city pulls out the stops
Sirens join in the festivities,
out of tune with hopes for happiness,
but running red lights just the same
as envious teenagers fall from death metal
logo’d skateboards, tearing already torn jeans
While wondering why no one smiles anymore,
a yellow cab stops, the window rolls down
“Need a lift buddy?” and before I can answer,
the back window rolls down and I see her,
she pats the seat and motions me in
As the car pulls away I ask, “Where we headed?”
“To the sunset, I hear it’s beautiful this time of day” she giggles
then leaning over, she kisses me
“How was your day handsome?” she asks like a song
“Perfect now, I just love happy endings”
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Sharply dressed in their finest duds,
The night-life awaits these young studs.
As they walk the streets of thunder,
Prepared to tear this town 'sunder.
Clint, Flint, and the top-hatted Gent,
The trio terrific struts in Kent's
Ordering their usual brew,
An air of trouble starts to stew.
Ed, Fred, and Mr. Lead-Head Ted
Decked out in ratty, torn thread,
Decide to make their presence known.
Clint, shaking his head, can just groan
Ted grunts to the bartender, "Three!"
Fred glares hard, expecting no fee.
Ed stares blankly, always quite slow.
The barkeep stammers out a no.
The brute's eyes widen, surprise clear.
In a second, his features sneer.
He barks out his demands once more.
The fool stands his ground, finger to door.
The thugs rise from their seats, laughing.
They smirk and they scoff, still clapping.
"Oh, really" they say, all with grins.
They circle like sharks, suits like fins.
Before things can get any worse,
And 'fore they have to call a nurse,
Clint, Flint, and the top-hatted Gent
Decide to make then their ascent.
The trios all **** heads, jawing.
The bar senses a brawl gnawing.
All it takes is just one thrown fist,
One clenched fist to make a face kissed
Hours pass, and much blood does spill.
The trio fights, through force of will.
Soon enough a winner is called,
And Fred, Ed, and Ted lay out sprawled.
The crowd claps and cheers for the three,
Clint, Flint, and the Gent, all marquee.
The barkeep smiles, handing their bill.
They groan, before drinking their fill.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
Mrs. Maisel is
Marvelous!
Set design:
NYC, 1958.
Repurposed speakeasies,
Basement comedy clubs.
Wig, hair makeup:
Yes.
Period props:
Yes.
Costume design:
Fifties fabulousness.
Sound design:
Classic jazz,
50s smaltz,
Faux folk trios
Finger snapping
Beatnik poets: yes.
Acting:
Everyone.
Envelope, please…
And the special acting award for
Above and beyond
Goes to no shlemiel or shlimazel
The Monk with the Funk:
Tony Shalhoub!
(Please do season 2)
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC