"tss" poems
You're my favorite cake;
I don't get you too often but when I do its exciting. It's the best one. That's you. I be like, oh can't wait try her!
Like that one time you gave me that head. I was like omggg this ***** esta mujer, gotta be my girl.
You wanna be my girl?
She laughs, and roles around as if to be searching every Window surrounding for faces. No!
Oh, so now I get it.
You hit me up every year or whateva, you make me beg every time I see you Mami. And when we finally **** it's amazing, & then you wanna bounce. so I'm here to serve you, hu'?
Aye, you listening to me?
Yeah
I'm serving you? You come here but can't **** it mami. Here chula, put it in your mouth.
She laughs, I don't want to.
Psh, agghh.You get me so tight, so why you come here then?
But he's right, she thought, why had she come? She had imagined it wouldnt happen this time.
Did you fuckin' slap me?
What? That was hard?
Tss
Come on, we was playin' around. If you hit me I wouldn't get tight. I know it wasn't hard.
It was unnecessary.
You like that **** why you playin?
He turned the lights off while she laid on the bed still fully clothed.
He was taking off his shoes then pants.
She waited.
He creeped onto the bed headed her ways.
Why didn't I try to leave again, she thought
Come on mami, you gon' take this off or what?
Is that mine? Is that mine?
She moans.
Who's is this?
Huh, he grunts.
Yo..
You..
Youurs.
Yeah!
No worries, I'll always serve you. As long as you're alive.
We laughed and I walked down. The last three steps and out the foggy air of season June,
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat…
The beat repeated over and over as the band plays on.
As it approaches I feel the butterflies flutter.
My arms start shaking nervously.
My hands begin to sweat and grow clammy.
The drumsticks become harder to hold with each stroke.
The band crescendos….
LOuder!.
LOUDer!..
LOUDER!!!... Then,
silence.
Only the drums are playing.
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat.
Everyone is waiting, all of their eyes are staring.
The band now holds the beat, as the drums take the floor,
Center stage.
Shivering in a cold sweat, fearing failure, I change the beat.
Bass drum and hi-hat start off…
Boom-tss-boom-tss-boom-tss-boom-tss
A snare rolls…
Dadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada… it crescendos… GAT!
*** dum da de dum bop a duba de dop pop…
I play several measures.
All of them unique, but connected.
Finally the band joins back in, and the pressure is off.
Back to the same old groove, the comfortable beat.
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat.
The audience roars with applause.
I look to my father, and the smile on his face is all that I need.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Most species of rattlesnakes control
just how much venom
they release into their prey.
The hemotoxin destroys tissue,
clots blood and sometimes
causes a severe paralysis.
A necrosis:
a caused premature death
in its victims.
Now, as far as monsters go.
The rattlesnake is one that scares me
less than the ones I've seen of late.
The rattlesnake offers its victims a chance to run.
Before the venom is released.
Before the deadly bite.
Before the pain
and the paralysis.
There is a rattle.
Tss - tss - tss
A warning for the victim
tss - tss - tss
to run.
The monsters I've seen of late,
they have a rattle, too.
But it serves a different purpose.
tss - tss - tss
It serves to reel, meant
to draw their victim in.
tss - tss - tss
A drum beat.
A dance, a club.
Bodies meet.
tss - tss - tss
A forked tongue, and a flash.
The venom consumed:
uncontrolled.
And still
tss - tss - tss
The rattle goes on.
The victim sees no danger.
Rather comfort in a monster's smile.
The deadly bite,
it happens next.
And the necrosis,
the premature death,
begins to take hold.
A darkness consumes the conscious.
A paralysis takes to the body and mind.
The victim no longer has control.
No longer herself.
Fear, now is only of the monster --
no longer that of
snakes and clowns.
And nightmares make what memory exists replay.
tss - tss - tss
The darkness consumes again and finally.
And the rattle continues.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,
I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting
“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.
Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.
Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question
“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,
I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:
“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.
The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”
Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.
Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.
El,
ese,
acantilado.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 6:40 PM UTC
The music of insanity
plays its song inside of me
The snare does snap and
The crashes crash
Inside the mind of me
The hi hat goes tss tss
And the ride says ting ting
Inside the mind of me
The tom drums role
And bass drum booms
Inside the mind of me
Inside of my chaotic mind they ring
With the hateful opposite of silence
The music of insanity does sing
If you ever ask if I am mad I will
Surely hear ding ding ding!
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 7:37 PM UTC
if i can read with sympathy and empathy,
it can only translate into: when reading my
own bits & bobs i’m an executioner -
with my work being charles I -
but that’s relevant, i can’t be a one-man
stalking sycophantic groupie,
and for whatever criticism comes my way
i know the price of the maxim:
true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
oddly enough because it is already overly self-critical -
e.g.? the peacock and the encyclopaedic content
of the cantos of ezra pound almost desires to
be sung and not squared-up to be relevant,
given that in the majority of life’s canvases
the privacy of such thinking is for the reclusive readership
allowance, that might undermine all
reckless speeches that either slither through the amassed
audience like an electric serpent to stage a furore,
or simply attract ridicule and dispersion
with a joke’s punchline drum roll - tu dum tss.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Oof
Ow
You got me.
What now
Tss
Ah
What a
crushing
blow.
Mm
Yah
You showed me
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
To reach out at dusk,
across the near-night sky
where all is turned to dust,
past the galaxies,
and completely around a
cylindrical infinity,
to discover:
that she is nowhere to be found,
not a single sweet breadth of her existence,
none,
not even a sound.
So the rain falls with soft
tss tss and patter pitters,
and is oft what withers
away my desire to quell the hunt.
For the rain reminds me,
of the cycle, the infinity,
the growth of the 'morrows and
divinity.
No matter the cloud-cover,
the star-blocking puffs,
I see the suns, moons, planets,
the habitable and the rough,
to know,
That to reach across space and time,
with a few short words,
and a few short rhymes,
is not the way to a soul
as pure as hers,
but in the way the
lone bird cries out in the night
as the rain falls upon its nest,
it is all I know to do.
To fly out among the drops
as would a butterfly
and to be returned to the Earth
as the water explodes on my
so delicate wings,
and the darkness traps
my mind.
And in the dirt
of such loving Earth,
I search.
To reach across every entwined root,
and to extend to every network of the fungi,
which so dutifully disposes of me,
and to strain and grasp
toward the center that burns
as hot as the scars within
my lifeless body,
to discover the gems of millinea
and the gold of centuries,
but not the treasure
which I so desperately seek,
even in my destruction,
not her.
And to reach across these words and thoughts,
as they bloom like the Spring trees,
and as the grow like turkey's tail,
as vibrant and recognizable,
to dissect them with razors
and hang them with rope across
the headboard of our lives.
We search for the meaning of our demons,
and our demons search for each other
in our words, in our motions,
to tear each other apart
for their emotions.
Until we scream red
to make it stop,
to erase the dead,
to bury the pain of our
childhood battles.
And I search within myself,
as the cold seeps in, and the wet
turns to an ice only for me,
and the lonesome star peers through the clouds,
as if to keep company with its
solitary light.
I sift through the darkness and
mushroom driven decay that smothers
the soil of my being, my center,
my soul, and my heart,
for her.
I cast aside the dejected and deplorable
self
to reach into the nucleus where all is
pure,
to find her,
to find you,
the only place where you belong --
within.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC