"turpentine" poems
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
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I don’t care how
or care what you do
to make it happen;
I just told you
make me shine
so slather me in turpentine.
I want the sun to shrink
and the world turn dark,
when she’ll no longer rise
after she rests her eyes
upon my fiery spark.
I want the moon to swoon
and raise the tides
when he looks for the sun,
but instead
it’s my beauty that he finds.
I want the stars to bow down
and shower me in gold
when I shine brighter
and reach higher
than the stars of old.
I want storms to make
the world stir
when I walk upon
their earth,
no matter what it’ll take.
I don’t care
if it kills me;
just answer my plea.
I just want, so badly,
to shine,
so slather me in turpentine.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Hold your breath
Count to three
Be Whoever you need to be
They can’t hear you
anyway
It’s not the time
internalize
Tip and slop like turpentine
Stick me on the fishing line
Cast it up
above my head
Thoughts glisten
I breathe dead
Weightless
Wakeless
Asleep at the wheel
begging and praying
Make me a deal
Finish me
Finish them
Don’t turn back and see
They’re crawling on the walls and beams
Still stuck there
A creepy christening
Tell me I won’t remember who
Who I was before
I met you
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
she walked
foot on each crack in the sidewalk
the heel of her boot
sinking
and then her skin peels away
turpentine wiping away
the painting that is her mask
and she walked
she crumbled
her bones dust
come back
you've gone too far, little girl
the wind blows her away
the sun cremates her memory
and she is born again in the rain
sprouting from between
the cracks in the sidewalk
and she walked
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Pine needles
Pine cones
Pine floorboards and beds,
Pining for a lover can make you lose your head.
Pine tar for turpentine,
Pine nuts to chew,
Pining for years long gone,
And a tango prance for two.
Pine woods deep and long,
Crisp kindling underfoot,
The compost here is lush and dark,
And bright insects crawl the root.
A drizzling breeze through pines is calming,
With rain clouds moist and full.
Yet headwinds of grey-orange smoke,
Make nineteen men the toll.
For when the pines are exploding,
And the Yarnell fire burns through,
Who but the stones will be here mourning,
A green love so fresh and true?
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
even teddy said i got the sickest tricks brah.
like my abilities source from some kinda legendary liquid
/ praise the lord /
monster energy should sponsor me.
a kickflip over the king’s *** hole
& a halfcab for the looky-loos.
i feel so tall when i climb that heap of asphalt trimmings
& see clear from the water tower to the bluffs.
gimme a good day, any day at the bluffs,
bottlerockets & girly birds.
her body brings a swarm of worms.
decomp,
said the f.b.i. men one by one with tweezers.
not quite the homecoming queen, still
wrapped in plastic.
look up.
see that great mess of wires, nest of powerlines and owl bones?
it crackles and croons its electro-spectral purr
all night and day.
new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull.
wet cigarettes and turpentine-soaked socks for a good huff
in the dry of the roofline as it dumps.
there’s that little boy in a ghost mask again, tap-dancing
in puddles below the streetlamp,
& oversized shoes.
his grandmoms always be watchin’ from the window.
[whispers] she’s teaching him magic.
lucky unit 19: where our young dead damsel once dolled
herself up, you see
men and headlights would roll thru thrice nightly,
maybe more.
& i remember her punch red lips &
big whicker hat; while she weeded and watered her garden of begonias.
the sheriff’s deputy, hart? hicks? hogan? well he loved her a bunch.
stole her clothes in the middle of the night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra and blouse.
i bought ******* from that guy once or twice.
harold? howard?
guess who showed his face today?
josiah, from unit 08.
since the incident with molly’s beagle, he’s been rarely seen.
took a bee line straight for the mailbox.
a package. a prize. a decoder ring/secret map sweepstakes
to be seen and deciphered.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
you'll never know how it feels
to be a potato being fried
being mixed with salt or cheese powder
as people eat and digest you in their stomach
you'll never know how it feels
to be a teddy bear being hugged
or punched at because of its softness
since it has no life so you just kept doing it
you'll never know how it feels
to be the fat kid in your class
because you were popular
and everyone admired the pretty ones
you'll never know how it feels
to be gay as people tear you apart
because you're a disgrace
and the bible told you you're invalid
you'll never know how it feels
to be black because your skin is clear
and they never tried to **** you
because of your race and skin color
you'll never know how it feels
to be vincent van gogh as he tried
to poison himself by eating yellow paint
and drinking turpentine
you'll never know how it feels
to be a **** victim
whether you're a man or a woman
because you kept thrusting and it hurt
you'll never know how it feels
to be in heaven or hell
because you're dead
and you're starting somewhere ahead
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
The best mistake I ever made
Was opening that tattered black book
There I sat in a pub
On a mission to forget the world
6 or 7 drinks in
and a bartender all to happy
To pour what ever the roulette produced
thumb, thumb, flip
flip flip
Stop
Category is shots
To the new friend next to me
"why yes, I am to get **** faced"
"oh, you came here for just an occasion"
"well dear sir if you are brave enough next ones on me"
"Hot **** he exclaimed
As I close my eyes and say a silent prayer
I slowly count 4 pages
and place my finger on the page
I call Gwendolyn over and request
With eyes closed the item of my demise
***
She cried
"I love ya but I won't do that to you"
I slurily open my eyes and focus
MEXICAN BLACK JACK
1 part tequila
2 parts whiskey
151 floater
"Double Shot"
I think out loud
whats a lil' ta'kill-ya?
vhiskey? bah.
151 it's just a floater ppppssssshhhhhhh
After a few minutes of convincing
With many a hoot and holler
From my new friends
She takes my keys and reluctantly agrees
Even kindly offers me a chaser and some limes
I will not forsake the liquor gods
Ever get a whiff of turpentine and diesel?
Well that could be gardenias compared to this.
I sit in silence sniffing it
eyes closed lapping at it with my nostrils
I look over at my new buddy
"well chuckles it's now or never ready for this lil' endeavor?"
"Well **** he muttered "I'm a man of my word"
"to life" I exclaimed
head back as that little bit of ******
started it's course
over my tongue into the throat
(why are my sinus' burning?)
don't breath boy
(you know better)
don't
you
eyes pop
and just on cue
flame ever rendering flames
I'm not blind
I'm not blind
I'm not blind
ok I was just squinting
really hard
I look over and my new friend
is now drinking my free chaser.
my game my pain...
Hey Sven leh's go again...
It's a good thing she loves me
I complain to no one
if she hated me I don't think I'd drink here.
2
hours and
4
shots later
I needed a nap good thing the loo was warm
I salute you Sir BlackJack and when I call your name
It's never in vain
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 11:56 PM UTC
Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you
You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true
Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art
Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed
No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 6:10 PM UTC
The leaf frays under chaste
turpentine which fractures
it's skeleton and tumbles
to bed whilst
raining silver strikes
air raids to the wind and fires
the sirened sun
who was soaking asleep
in a bath of roses as the moon blossom glided down the slippery slope.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
You said that you didn't believe in anything,
but that you believed in me.
In truth, I believe in you more than I say.
I see more in you than I say.
When you fight me, fight so hard against hope, I see you.
I do not know what you have been through.
I do not know what has been done to you.
I do not know how to tell you
that your belief in me
means more than
the fire on your tongue,
or the laughter in your eyes,
or the darkness that you draw from me.
Though you do not apologize with words
you do
with softness in your eyes,
and the brush of rough fingers against my arm in passing,
the curve of my neck lovingly sketched with graphite,
You say that you would die for me,
but I do not want you to.
I would have you live,
vibrant and happy,
laughing,
the bottle lying forgotten in a corner,
your hand in mine,
breathing in the scent of turpentine;
because I would like to believe in us.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
I see your ghost everywhere
The ghost of who you once were
Before all the **** went down in your brain
The beauty that flowed from you till you woke up from the dream that was your life
That dream shattered right out
Right out from under you
Made you want to forget
Forget who you were
All brought for nought
Fragments still rattle
Behind your eyes
Those candy rock promises someone whispered in the night
Lost that luster, didn't they?
Couldn't find the silver lining?
What was once radiant phosphorescence
Became gangrenous and insipid
Leaving a malodorous taste
Stagnant in your mouth
The feast turned to crumbs left for the rats under your skin
You become to stately for our unostentatious life
Now you've painted the Petunia's colors of your choice
Rearranged your furniture
To play at being all grown-up
Bit of turpentine blotted on the canvas might smear the lines
But that won't erase your past
Your fingerprints are etched into
Every discarded can of spray paint
Lips carved into the pores of to much skin
You'll slice them off to get rid of the feelling
Keep up your newly minted fascade
That caused you such strife
To grow in the petri dish
Under your mothers sink
While you tryed to burn your
Bridges to ashes
Ashes embedded forevermore under your fingernails
Now you linger in ghosts
Haunting cities you've never been to
Places you're naught to see
In them breathes a
Chilly air wishing to keep you alive
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
If you ask him he will talk for hours--
how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers
raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on dark bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this century
began. He seldom speaks of painting now.
Young men have time and theories; old men work.
He has painted countless portraits. Sallow
nameless faces, made glistening in oil, smirk
above anonymous mantelpieces.
The turpentine has a familiar smell,
but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies.
Perched on the maulstick, it nears the easel.
He has come to like his resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.
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the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
And then he stepped into my mind.
His ephemeral arrival
Flirting with the departure of our time.
I could feel the rising tide,
Pull me in toward,
Atlantic suicide,
Planted and watered.
Peripheral with its crystallized hand.
Seductive with its transient satin touch.
I dressed my face with a painful smile
Lacerated like a mutilated porcupine.
And watched a rancid trace of gooey paste
Bleed through sticky crumbs of debris
Like cascading turpentine.
It consumed me whole.
I was swallowed overseas.
And then he strolled inside my brittle soul,
Bloodshot in disguise.
Impermanence
Beginning to realign,
Within the stitching of this blanket.
Suddenly,
I find it towering over me,
Saluting with protuberant glare.
My tugging devotion,
Had lead to a realization...
And then I stepped out of my mind.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Sip a lonely dosage.
Click the Bick.
Wear a lovely personage.
Ready the pressure.
Throat clenching.
Eyes forever.
Without you,
I'm turpentine.
Wasn't I clever.
Wasn't I?
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
I'm fatally dancing advancing with and toward
a slow zoom through hallways to the dark room
trying to shorten my strides or grip the walls at my sides gouging
a fingernail fear of mortality that makes out the shape
of the cursive-signed names of everyone or thing ever in a
not-so clever attempt to accept the thief that's in and is the night
I breathe heavily and wide to prove that I'm alive until my ribs
touch the white-walls rubbing along in a washboard song
that peels paint like turpentine with a rank smell wafting
from the room at the end of the line and time knuckling under
the backs of my knees scraping off of the floorboards slouching across
the adjacent door frames where exit signs should read thee
forehead pulsating expelling sweat to absolve me and for moments
the room might shine and I am still
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
the face of a man whose children I almost had
he bought me a teal house that needed some work- but it wasn't that bad
spending hours in a stream finding every last crawdad
laying on my back in a field on a summer night feeling glad
these are the things that make me mad
a man who's loyal to no land
what things are in the drawer of your nightstand?
shouldn't I know first hand?
this feels like I'm sinking in quick sand
the announcement of someone new loving you didn't tear me apart
it's you sleeping with your brother's wife that did me in, sweetheart
who did you outsmart?
whose lives are kept in the dark?
locked and confined to the four corners of a house
you turn the lights off and take off her blouse
broken vows
what happened to the man who couldn't even hurt a mouse?
when you look in the mirror what do you see?
blue eyes as deep and vast as the sea?
a face full of deceit?
grabbing all the things you gave me, wishing I kept the receipt
bury your self respect in concrete
let your face burn scarlet when they ask
"so how did you two meet?"
black eyed susan vines
when and where did you both cross the line?
what you've done feels like swallowing turpentine
but it's all fine
good luck trying to untangle yourselves in these web of lies.
Apr 8, 2022
Apr 8, 2022 at 4:32 PM UTC
she wanted it to be the way she felt when painting
fearless messy vivid
instead of this faded photograph of a staged existence
and click click click she winds the film
dreaming cadmium red and deep cerulean
and the tightening of drying oils on her
fingertips arm lip pulling and biting at flesh like an old lover
wet sable slides across canvas
sweet turpentine and resin saturating the room
like the smell of sweat and *** lingering over some half forgotten affair
and back to the taut fabric again
in flashes of titanium white
the intensity of vermilion
slipping with animal instinct into rich umber and raw sienna
and a final stroke of ultramarine
click
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
Forty seven nights
Spent sleepless
Or wasted, shitfaceded
Stumbling I'm aimless
And fear
Stabs at my mind
Porcupine hides
And bee stings
Wasted passionate ambition
An ad for lost tenacity
Cruel fate
Just world
Full court
Swine and pearls
Six months
Of restless days
Assurance didn't ever run
It sat and washed away
And my hopes burn
like turpentine
In a fire-breather's lungs
Singed ****** hair
And scorch marks
On the surface of my tongue
Forty seven nights
And just as many days
Youth never tried to run
Just sat and washed away
Youthful love,
stupid love
Happy gluttony
Waste of time,
In my mind
Says hateful heartless me
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
The Elder Supremes are staggering
Under the Pillar of Superposition—
They who stream emotionless minds, streaming
Scripture as alcohol to tea-head Kneelers, praying
The elixir of Olympus isn’t turpentine; tarnishing
The great, drear light of child-minds like onions in the Sun
Molding through its layers; the taste extinguished—No poetry Survives!
They who crackle doom over whitened rooms
Filled with the white coats of Nature’s secret Heroes—
The best minds, sagging like iced-over limbs—
Made dim by a false Heavenly connection.
Oh! They deprived the gears of Grandfather Night,
And deemed Him wicked in his flickering sight.
They who are Hollow, yet still colossal; these spinning Hellions,
This Machinery of Older Skeletons;
That steams and heats and comes to life for an innocent
Bottom, with the name that lies in Sin of Archaic Text,
Vexed, hexed and expressed in all Prisons and War—
Prisons and War reverberate like bad music in the name of a doG;
A name the Sun once owned and cast below to a dimmer Star,
It billowed and screamed: Keep it in the ******* Church!
Now it comes to Damning the Beast:
“Get thee behind me Savior, for the Microscope is over Prayer.”
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
rattle lips,
be the air conditioner's vent,
on the bent, the bent,
bet the insides of your sister's thighs
for this month's rent,
two-step, lip balm, and liquor,
turpentine, fashion gurus,
and abortion clinics,
everyone's afraid of fairy tales
and heart disease,
your mother's a nurse
for your fathers hedonistic purse,
i found the id,
follow me to the id,
i found the id,
it lies under sheet,
under sleeve,
under bleeding wrist,
and callused bride,
dig graves in the image of god,
die in the name of everlasting life?
vision trips amidst weary moons,
silver slivers
on past treasures sail on sinking ships,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the harlot,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the wind,
we ride 'em both and write home
of only the wind,
history books, history books,
paint me heroic,
history books, history books,
i've got hooks to sell,
children to condition,
and banners to wave,
god save america,
god save america,
god save the liar,
the creep,
my mother,
my *****
and everyone of
my summer homes,
and each of my televisions,
and each crevice i can crawl into,
and each dream i can divide.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC
each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.
when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,
when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,
when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,
out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day
when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.
when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.
the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.
i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
i cannot reach for.
when it is time all of this,
mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
and not a sign of your colour
will scream pain like a tortured vandal.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC