"twiddles" poems
She kicked me in the *****
And I came crashing down
Next time I will wear metal underwear
And we shall see who falls.
Mwahaha!
(Twiddles fingers like a ******
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
The lights all up around me
They dance and flicker
Swirling up and down each tree
As the music gets quicker
What a colorful holiday
Something new around each bend
We climb into Santa’s sleigh
And begin to ascend
The clouds fall below us
As we are launched into the sky
The turns we took were brusque
But the heavens never felt so nigh…
...
...
I cover you with a quilt
For the sleigh keeps climbing higher
Towards your hometown we tilt
I wonder, what will transpire?
There’s something big in the back
Is it full of coal?
Perhaps there’s something else in that sack
A doll, a plane, a little toy troll?
Perhaps we will find out
Your hometown draws near
Rudolf raises his red snout
Followed by the rest of the reindeer…
...
...
They shift their gaze
Towards a landing strip
People down there in a craze
We must look like a spaceship
They angle their flight
Right down the middle
It is quite the sight
And the thrill makes us giggle
What’s going on down below?
I ask Santa sitting up front
“I don’t really know”
He says as a reindeer grunts
“They must be waiting for you
Down there, to see what took place
For you came back with her,
That’s not exactly commonplace”
I look back at you, and you meet my gaze
Together we’ll get through
Of that I have no doubt
The sleigh is landing now
There is no backing out…
...
...
Santa pulls up on the reins
On the landing strip the sleigh glides
Only stepping out remains
As we do, the crowd divides
There in the middle
Surrounded by curious people
Stands a man with thumbs he twiddles
He looks more nervous than you or I
I grab your hand and look back again
This is it, we feel suddenly shy
Now’s not the time, so confidence we feign
We look forward and meet his eye
He looks at us and gives a sigh
“Dad?” you say
You look back at me, with display
Introductions are made
Feelings are conveyed
We no longer stand in a masquerade
Everything is out
The closet has swung open
We have nothing left to hide
You squeeze my hand
I coincide
As we look to your dad and wait
…
…
He looks at you with love
Then he looks at me squarely
Before he can say a word
Santa breaks in and shouts “let’s all be merry!”
The crowd breaks into laughter
As Santa sates the air with a magic
And joy fills everyone’s thoughts
Your father looks at us again
This time, with a smile, he simply nods
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
terrible machines slipstream the extreme in-between where they grind the invalid star heaps into dust
there, they spike the lion's paw of life's Sphinx, methinks it winks at God's Riddle, and twiddles a thumb of some god, in a sky pod of dead people, hording jasmine and madness and pancakes, upon the everlasting Maybach sedan with the chrome piping and the platinum plinth, regal in ice and fire !
what aspires must be crushed into tiny little else. into neutrinos of speculation in the non rational abode of our most holy joke. the spun spoke, in a wheel of cold lotus. we know this is not a dream without motive. we know this because we notice, know this because it's flawless, and flawless reveals a mind of terrible machines that slipstream the extreme in- between where they grind the invalid star heaps, into dust ! they might spike the lion's claw of Life's sphinx, where it thinks that most people are dead inside, that might can take a joke if joke is told in a void baritone with Gamelan Bells of Unbearable Revelation, the revery of a Greek nose on the face of a broken clock.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
As the mind grows weary
in the plum void darkness
a hand twiddles and bends the
vibrations around your
body into a swirling
spiral, hazy lazy magic spinning
sound fog brushing and breezing
around your mind massaging your
brain and igniting a slow pulse
like an ember kissing a flame
in your chest as the warmth winds
around your body like the ripple of
an opal Venus choral dropped in lava
lasciviously lounging in your eyes
as if a phoenix sang an ode in the vast intersection
of time and space colliding together
to make a gravity that slowly compels you into the
wormhole of your self--
the door to many things and realms craving to be opened
if just to get some fresh, rain embraced air...
the smile says everything.
You're right, I agree.
We should sleep on the hammock by the howlite beach
and fall asleep as the indigo water lulls us to sleep.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
A tiny dancer twiddles across my usually blank mind.
I’m defined by the choices I make.
Commercials are killing me.
I wish they were ads for cigarettes.
Maybe then it would make more sense.
Sensibly, I call you out from under the ground.
Just to see you dancing.
It had been a while.
And I feel my foot tap-tapping to the sound
of your body gliding all around me.
Magically inclined.
I'm defined by the choices that I make.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
She stands there,
simply,
cocking her head like
a dog.
She doesn’t understand
the glare of your eyes or
the dip of
the corners of your mouth.
She is innocent,
staring at her Converse,
toes turned in,
hips jutted out.
She twiddles her thumbs,
pulls at her shirt,
just so her eyes don’t
have to meet yours.
You take her in
your arms, but
she pushes you
away,
taking with her
the perfume smell of
gardenias that
you miss.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
That moon of mine
Hides in clouds above the rail line
While wind twiddles tall grass
"I'm all for you," you said
"And you're only for me."
I'd be ****** if I'd let on
I haven't felt this lift in so long
I might have forgotten I'm alive
So these lips shut
What wants out I leave to rust
While eight fingers entwine
"What?" you asked with a smile
"Nothing but happiness."
I'd be ****** if I'd let on
Both naked now I'll sing you a song
And maybe staring you'll catch my drift
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
I scramble around a petrol token mug
purporting to be an ash tray stained in neglect
needling between ash and cigarette butts
looking for some spent tobacco to recycle
and breathe in the cancerous smoke of belonging.
"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I am strong when you are feeble", he said.
The doctor twiddles his fountain pen
a parting gift from his late father
held with the poise of grace
and wielded like a lance
the pen can do many things for he and I
prescribe or chastise
the freedom with solitude
and the four white walls
of limiting restraint.
"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"We are symbiotic you and I", he said.
I wonder though is it:
Mutualistic
Commensalism
Parasitism or
Neutralism -
Who benefits who?
Do we bathe in each others glory
holding hands in the lost age of reason
comfort in the loneliness of winter
or just a dream of the endless
a figment of the imagination
and the passing of time
looking out of frosted windows.
"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
"I lead you in the dark, I am your light", he said.
I sometimes step back into the gloom
He fills my capillaries
clogging up my arteries
with his dark and mischievous veins
calling out to faceless strangers
walking past in the haze
the ones the others do not see
just out of line of sight
mottled and disfigured and blurred.
"Have another drink on me", he said.
I am distracted by the minute
leading this shabby existence
and the opening of unpaid bills
and the carnage of last weeks washing
and the bottles of empty beer discarded
like a tramps ***** in the drying sun
monuments to a day before when we were younger
and wrestled in the long grass of salvation
and the long summer days of liberal libation.
"I am the one and only constant you will ever have", he said.
Without him I will be hollow
like a rotten tree trunk
gashed in initials of love letters
with a pen knife
saturated in the remains
of fortified wine bottles
and leaf litter molding
in the dying frost of spring.
"Just don't ever talk about me", he said.
Just don't ever talk about us, is what he meant.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
I’ve had trouble writing
all throughout this trip
you’d think in London,
an unfamiliar and
wild place,
I would find inspiration
in everything
but alas,
I have found
none
writing has become so integral
to my life
that I sense changes,
in myself,
when I cannot make
them
a man puts a bag above me
my sister twiddles her thumbs
women too old or too pretty for me are everywhere
but two perfect ones are in the next section up
my hand writing is messy
it’s warm in here
it’ll be cold at 30,000 feet
why can’t I write
about all of that?
I get angry
or
annoying
when I can’t
write
I sometimes put bars on my I’s
sometimes not
I tell everyone else my thoughts
my friends, my family,
my mom, my dad, my
sister, my hobo on the
street, my anything else
but the page
yet the page is the only one that doesn’t go
“shush”
a lady texts
someone was working below the toilet
I’ve got a **** week ahead
the exit sign is interesting to me
my music speaks to me too much now a days
I feel better
the ink on the page smiles at me
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
the mirror plays favorites
she twiddles the beauty queen’s golden hair
she puckers up so lipstick can be placed on her full lips
her hair the perfect length to play with
not dry, but smooth and so healthy
she picks the prom queen’s silky dress with dignity
it’s perfect for her malnourished body
it lays and sits so beautifully
the mirror sees her and appreciates the craft she created
grins, and puts silver and gold expensive earrings on her ears
but when i approach,
she turns her face in disgust
throws an outfit at me; ripped jeans and a tacky t-shirt
she says i’m too fat and that i should keep my legs far apart so people don’t notice how weird i look
she grimaces at me and i walk away bashfully
‘never letting her look at me again’
i say
but
i always come back for her critical opinion
and i accept it
that’s exactly what i am
not beautiful, a fat failure
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 3:31 PM UTC
I’m a fanatic when it comes to finding ways to **** myself
A zealot of self destruction
Addicted to pain
The knife pulls me closer
It promises happiness
It shows me ecstasy within my blood
The bottle beckons
“Come in, have a drink. Forget”
It wraps me around it’s spindly fingers
Twiddles me around it’s thumb
“Forget”
My music
It tells me of worlds far away
Promises peace
A quick escape from anything
…
But now The bottle makes me remember
The music brings me closer to everything
And the knife no longer feeds me
It simply bleeds me
Because nothing compares
To my addiction
To you
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:18 AM UTC
Scribbled
Tidbits
Fidgeting
The twiddles
Of a warrior
Wandering
Wayward
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
My eyes can't believe
what they've seen
yet
here you are
the most beautiful
creature
i've ever seen
Your blonde hair
twiddles between
my fingertips
as our lips
make love to each other
you are the sweetest
creature
i've ever met
The gods put us
on this earth
to be as one
together
We are Adam and Eve
the start of a
new beginning
till the
very end
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
You told me I reminded you of a painting you once saw.
Acrylic strokes, not able to spot a single flaw.
You described
every crevice,
every edge,
every brush of colour.
I pictured a girls eyes gleaming as bright as the summer.
Shaking your head you told me to search.
Deep down you said there's more to her.
An ocean of stories having yet to be told;
a heart is the one thing that never grows old.
You went on about her left eyebrow
and the creases in her lips.
How lost she sometimes looks,
and the placement of her hips.
Imagine a girl only loved by some,
people only notice little things about her,
like the way she twiddles her thumbs.
Look at the way her collarbone curves,
I smile,
your voice telling me to give it the appreciation it deserves.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
Playing the waiting game,
one fiddles with his feet,
or twiddles with his thumbs,
As he fancies of a beach,
pressing his teeth against his gums,
Of the worlds he could explore,
he finds himself indoors,
and forms clouds of distant lands,
In the wait of kingdom's come
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC
RICHES
Land of multicolored dreams, where paper's made in pretty reams.
Land where pleasant peasants play, with quills made of peacock feathers,
Exercise in penning skills.
Bank notes made of paper, along with glossy magazines.
Elegant women popping pills.
Stinking rich images.
'pon covers of said magazine.
Magazine holds bullets, aimed at the perfect queen of hearts.
Writers twiddles and fiddle with their pen.
Oh joy, the reader sits and grins as here she goes again.
(c)Livvi
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
he's a superstitious fella,
that's the rumour people throw around.
he often sits inside, twiddling his thumbs,
thinking of what could possibly go wrong.
there are whispers around town,
questions in media about how he acts.
people always talk about him,
and wonder if he'll ever admit it.
most say no, many say yes
and almost everyone, always
just says to ask.
but he's a superstitious fella,
that's the rumour that's true.
he sits inside, twiddles his thumbs,
plays with his hair and straightens his back.
their questions and thoughts about what he is
float around as he thinks about what everyone is saying
and wonders what could possibly go wrong.
a superstitious fella could never sit outside
in the coffee shop with his friends
or a bowling alley with his family.
but this superstitious fella is unique indeed,
because he sits inside and wishes the day away.
this superstitious fella bites his tongue and cheek,
because this superstitious fella is me.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 8:11 PM UTC
I am an addict.
An addict I am.
It's not going to damage my health.
In fact it's going to help.
It twiddles with my mind.
I go to bed, lay in the fetal position on my right hand side.
I have a compelling addiction to writing words.
In singular syllables.
Words and paragraphs.
I'm kissing punctuation some what poorly
Words are life and life is words
(c) Livvi
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
"...I WOULD GIVE YOU BACK YOURSELF..."
( for Jeremy Lyons )
Here in our summer
is Edward's thrush
as it "twiddles its song."
perhaps the very same one
flying through time
from mind to mind.
Here in this moment
I see through Thomas's eyes
that I "have two
million things to learn."
I walking across the landscape
of his thought.
I too forever" in pursuit
of spring."
Time holds us
in his hand
man and bird
sharing the same moment.
The shell blast
over Arras
as Easter commences
its offensive.
The man you were
lost in light and twilight
I following in the footsteps
of your words.
***
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC
a feeling I can't name
as he exits, excellently;
as the ball rolls
and the moon hugs the tide
hand
hesitantly on the helve
the wonderment,
the idiot
who he's exchanged a few words with
from behind the dotted line
that I envision
the upswing of human fear
and tending to be naked in it
if one thing
if it was all my heart had really thought for,
aside from to be useful, in my adult years
do I get, also, for it to end well?
the way envisioned
to climb over the dotted line
the wonderment
at him
the idiot sits
twiddles her thumbs
sinks in and in
I must be a child
waiting to be pulled to the air
if it will never feel quite right to want
I'll wait until I am wanted
and if the moment never comes,
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 10:29 AM UTC
Look inside me
See nothing? Look deeper
Hding under my beating heart,
Just behind the shimmering silver skin of my soul
A foul entity sits on a pile of dirt
One eye half gone, the other not quite whole
His skin a foul purple, reeking of lost things
This cursed creature sits and twiddles his thumbs
He watches through my eyes as I smile and I cry
And just when I think that he has crumbled away,
He suddenly climbs up my spine
And clambers into my head to play
He plays with shadows, he plays with light
He dissolves the clarity of wrong and right
He toys with puppets, all connected to my limbs
And as he plays he whispers
“No pain, no gain, precious heart,
You must break before joy you meet
This game I play is a practiced art
A game that you cannot hope to beat.”
And he giggles, and he shows me
*All these ways that I could die
I could jump and try to fly
I could wear a necklace of rope
I could choke on broken hope
The silver shimmers in my hand
Promising a much better land
But in the reflection I see a new face
And my heart begins to race
For the face is not mine, but instead
my soul mate, who would shatter if I were dead*
This tricky beast living under my throat,
He can dance and he can gloat
But no matter how many needles
he buries under my pale, scarred skin
I will always find my love again.
And this is what will save me.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Expression twiddles its thumbs
Waiting for observation to avert
So it can freely hang off the bones
Rest and decompress
With a bit of solice
It can begin to unveil
From a contented painting
Depicting a face of rest
It is an imitation only
I've crafted this mask
It has given me some peace
At first it did create something
Others wanted to see
But the layers of each new portrait
No longer give the old relief
They weigh on the authentic
My general countenance is not me
Jan 27, 2025
Jan 27, 2025 at 5:15 AM UTC
Everyone was
So happy
And secure
Here in America
And in a heartbeat
My how things have changed
Suburban households
Are on food rations
Shipments
To markets
Are infrequent
Hyper-Inflation
On top of that
The power grid
Keeps failing
After the EMP attack
They get it going
For a while
And then it fails
It was only a matter
Of time
And I knew it would happen
And we weren't prepared
Sure we had a few months
Of food prepared
But that was all
We should have had years ready
Like an old man
I move slow and steady
Never know
When my next meal will be
In America
The land of misery
And the drones keep
A constant eye out
To make sure
You stay at home
If you're out
Past 11
A UN ******
May put a bullet
In your dome
No longer
A citizen
With your rights
And with their
High tech gear
The military forces
Own the night
Life is fleeting
And it seems to me
That there may be a disaster coming
That will bring great misery
And everything
Is always so ho-hum
My family sits arounds
And twiddles their thumbs
Don't have
All the necessary
Emergency gear
A troubling time
May be quite near...
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC