"twitched" poems
Four old friends
Dead of winter small town
Germany.
Smoke rising from chimneys
From cigarettes, and pipes
From trains riding the rural rails
From city spires
And factories
From airplanes
Airplanes
and Airplanes,
From Airplanes.
Smoke dancing and laughing
Stinging and coughing
Smoke in my hair and jacket
In the pores of my skin
Smoke in my eyes,
Up the hill
And through the woods
Dead of winter
Small town Germany
Four old friends
Walk two by two
Three by one
Four and four.
Walk by the church,
Down the creek,
Up the hills, the hills
And through the woods
Small town
Germany four old friends
Dead of winter
Cigar smoke and beer
Cigarillos in a chain
Smoke from crystalizing breath
And fireworks
Smoke from bonfires
And tailpipes
Smoke from airplanes
Airplanes and airplanes
Smoke from airplanes.
Smoke stains and cigarette burns
Little circles in my jacket
Germany
Four old friends dead of winter
Small town
Smoke tears
Smoke promises
Smoke memories that linger
Like the faint nausea
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
I watch the **** end of your last cigarette
Crumpled and fading
In the ashtray of that Badischer bar
And your eyebrow twitched
The heart-wrenching shiver
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
And I whispered:
(airplanes)
airplanes and airplanes
I whispered airplanes.
That’s what the hell.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
the poem her belly marched through me as
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
7.3k
"Look!" she said,
Proudly holding
A tiny painted doll;
"I can make it dance!",
She squealed,
Excitement in her voice;
I watched, bewitched,
As the doll danced
And twitched;
Grinning like an idiot,
I joined the dance,
Arms flailing madly;
"Now watch!" she gasped,
Taking a darning needle,
Stabbing repeatedly;
"Urghh!", I laughed,
Bending over,
Feigning pain;
The doll moved faster,
Limbs blurring,
As she made it dance;
"I can't keep up!"
I laughed so hard,
Feeling sharp pain in my side;
I tried to stop dancing,
But my aching limbs
Kept on flailing madly;
She held my gaze,
Her eyes laughing
With manic intensity;
With a final ******
She pushed the needle
Straight through the heart,
The doll slipped from her grasp,
Tumbling to lay beside
My still twitching body;
The last thing I ever saw,
Her reaching into a silken bag
And picking up another doll.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock
that Ebony met her first thresher shark
He was five feet long or so
two feet shark, three feet tail,
and had just been pulled from the surf
to be proudly displayed
by the fisherman who had caught him
Ebony stood transfixed
her every muscle poised
her feathered tail twitched
as she leaned closer to inspect
and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty
still dressed in fleetingly iridescent
blues and greens and purples -
As the sun’s fading beams highlighted
the magnificence of this dying shark
I mourned his loss that night.
The noise and tourists
in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars
did not detract from the peacefulness
of the Pacific in her chaos
for this was August
and they would soon go home
I watched a distant storm at sea
flashing fire against the deepening twilight
I stood, and Ebony,
gazing at the flashes of lightning
My hand felt her softness and warmth
as I stroked the waves of her black fur
relishing the cool wind on my face
listening to the rigging
of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier
Thinking about thresher sharks
Willing them away
from this place with its fishermen
and cold, baited hooks
Cori MacNaughton
13 Sept 2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
In the framework of the party house turned trap
you pushed a man to the wall and pulled out your glock 357
and held it to his temple like it wasn’t loaded
and you weren’t angry
and I was in the closet with a boy whose name I never thought to learn
and to this day I have kept your secret
I'll never know what you whispered in his ear as
the bass dropped somewhere downstairs
but I will never forget the way your trigger finger twitched
and the way he dropped his cup
and ***** mixed with cranberry juice fell to the floor
and soaked into the carpet
I wonder if the stain is still there
I wonder if they’d even care if they knew it could be blood
on the ground in their bedroom
and you stalked out after tucking the gun back into your waistband
and pushing your hair back into place
and he leaned against the wall and fell to his knees like he was seeing Jesus
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
Today a blackbird gave me inspiration.
It floated casually towards the ledge.
Inches away, only a thin piece of glass between us.
It stared, looked me in the eyes,
Opened my soul with its piercing eyes.
Gouged away until it found some real meaning inside.
Twitched, no, that wasn’t a twitch,
It was a motion, a signal,
A glorious method of communication –
No pigeon could mimic that!
It ushered my eyes towards the beauty of the lake,
And away from its black and grey and blue
And (I’m sure many other coloured) body.
My eyes were dragged from this beautiful, overweight creature
To the forever-moving, forever-living lake,
Then to the fountain.
Six shoots of white water kept the sky where it belongs.
They held it – of course! The sky!
The blackbird had given me light.
The sky was alive, the clouds were rolling,
The sun was breaking through,
And as I re-adjusted my eyes to thank him,
The blackbird leapt from his perch,
Cawed a “you’re welcome”
And soared towards heaven.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
My girlfriend was so pretty
And normal as could be
But then something horrible happened
And changed her entirely
One day she was sipping coffee
A spider fell into her cup
It was too late when she gagged
And realized she had swallowed the spider up
The next morning when she woke up
And scratched her sleepy head
She discovered that overnight she had grown
Eight spider legs and a giant spider head
She screamed as she crawled out the door
And shrieked when she looked into the mirror
Her spider senses tickled and twitched
And made my poor girlfriend quiver
Her life has never been the same
Being half a spider and half a lady
At first I wasn't sure I could continue dating her
I mean, just imagine starting a family and having a spider baby!
Sometimes I think and wonder
What to do with our lives
Normal is seeing your girlfriend shopping
Not chilling upside down from the ceiling watching Desperate Housewives
Sometimes its quite funny
To see her browsing at a store
Where she’d usually buy a pair of shoes
Now she’d have to buy three pairs more
When I couldn’t take her shopping
And tried to run off with the guys
She spun her spiderweb and caught me
And took me by surprise
I’m so sick of her spider antics
I really wish we were done
At first she was a lot of nice things
But now my spider girlfriend is no longer fun
I took her out to dinner
And the only thing she ate
Was a plate of fried houseflies
And a glass of lemonade
When I tried to hug her
Her eight legs wrapped me tight
They gave me such a shock
Eight legs were such a hideous sight!
I couldn't take it anymore
I broke it off with her and made her understand
But now I really regret my thoughtless decision
Because now my girlfriend is dating Spiderman.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Two silhouettes muttered through cigarette smoke next to the tall, black double doors at the head of the corridor
unfazed by the white rectangles flickering above us. The doors parted
next thing I knew, I was in
a black box of four tall black walls, and a clammy black floor
made of the same padded fabric as the entrance doors.
Riotous bass pummelled through the room like a tortured bull.
There were hundreds of people here; maybe more
but they were all lying docile, faceless and still
against each other.
They were all young. I picked up an inconsistent rhythm of chests rising and falling
like ripples ushered across the sea by a gentle breeze.
Yet it was the overwhelming sense of flesh here that
lit a snarling viciousness within me. How it excited me and how
I feared it.
I was a butcher, afraid of what he could do.
I saw someone I recognised – her brown hair was tied back, her eyelashes
twitched in her slumber. I stepped over and sat behind her. She pulled herself closer to me
and kissed my cheek. I buried my face in her neck and placed my palm on her bare stomach
took my index finger, and ran a circle around her navel.
I can’t remember what happened after that. Images slip through like
water in cupped hands.
But I remember the raw beat, and the gentle ripple of chests
and how it reminded me of the sleeping new-borns in a maternal ward.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
The saucy heated beat begins
The body and blood starts to rise
The sensual vibration moves
Shaking in the lower meat thighs
Vibrant lights turn off their burn beams
Crowded areas start to glow
I have that richness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
Arms are tight with a violent sway
Body smooth moves from side to side
The feet are twins glued together
Move into a straight liquid glide
Dance in a mind all becomes one
Gleaming body begins to flow
I have that quickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
Take a chance and slide to the left
Then move the twitched out body right
Yell the dance passion out so loud
From the chest of full burning might
Everyone becomes a crazy
In a hot crooked little row
I have that twitchiness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
Sparked up veins become a robot
Bring into the fake or the real
All the breakers spin the limbs
Move to what the body can feel
The people dressed in colored lights
Starring in a music life show
I have that thickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
Blast many bombs of the treble
Bringing in a canon for bass
The music drug enters the mind
Keeping at a speedy trance pace
Powerful injected speakers
Start a quick mind vibrating blow
I have that itchiness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
People embody together
The happiness like fire spreads
Millions of all colors dance
Laughing from the harmonic meds
A circular world of music
Close your eyes to move fast or slow
I have that sickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
Just the other day
I met Robert Goulet
I was surprised a bit
The way his mustache twitched
A mind of its own
Like in the Twilight Zone
Jumping right off his face
His mustache ran away
Teeny boppers next door
Giggled out of control
As Roberts mustached jumped
Landing in someones lunch
That's when the Maítre ď
Let out a girly scream
Quite an embarrassment
To all us burly men
Then throughout the day
The mustache of Robert Goulett
Made a name for itself
As it ventured about town
His mustache all could see
Has a tinder streak
Helping old ladies out
To get across the street
Why it even saved a cat
Giving all its nine lives back
Pulled it from a tree
That was burning excessively
At that same moment saved the town
Itself from burning down
But that story's much to long
To try to abound
The town was so impressed
They trimmed up the mustache
Of Robert Goulett
Then gave it a ticker tape parade
After that they named a street
Because of its heroic feat
If it had two hands to greet
Would have handed it the city's key
And if the mustache could talk at all
Would have given the greatest speech
If Roberts mustache had only known
It'd do this good out on its own
It would have left the upper lip
Along time ago
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling―
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Henry had thought, not so long ago,
As birds, looped, swooped and soared,
Flocks of starlings, offering a show.
Jen and Olly, were Henry’s best friends,
Three ghostly bunnies with nothing to do,
Then Olly twitched his wispy whiskers,
Until large mushrooms suddenly grew.
Mushrooms so nice, they sat upon them,
And despite what they had been taught,
It seemed, within this, imagination world,
Creation occurred, with a single thought.
Jen giggled, wiggled, her delicate nose,
And three pink kites appeared overhead,
Swooping and soaring, just like starlings,
But held from a silken, gossamer, thread.
Henry’s turn, so smiling at his friends,
He performed a funny ‘bunny-like’ hop,
Creating a bracing, fresh, gusting breeze,
Making their ears go, all-a-flippity-flop.
On mushroom seats, ghostly bunnies sat,
Their minds twirling with kites, so high,
Henry recalled thinking, not so long ago,
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Though my outward appearance may seem somewhat complex
-In this Hard-wired soul
It is the machinery that's run by electricity that generates creativity that would vex Einstein himself
-But it is all relative to this hard-wired soul
Because it was through the wire that I calculated the desire or rather my need to aquire the programming need to love you
-But it wasn't that simple for this weary hard-wired soul
Because I am based upon logic so when I try to complete what I had started the numbers just overrun like a leaky faucet
-You just may be too much for this hard-wired soul
And on one day I twitched, skipped and even began to glitch just from the thought of loving you
Because while the assembly may be perfect for this computerized hermit I still cant calculate if the chances are worth it, so maybe I should just hit reset and accept the regret of not having the correct programming for you yet
-But you ought not sleep on this hard-wired soul
So I beep and I peep, and you reply with a positive tweet the answer this old machine always wanted to hear
I could have cried if a computer ever tried because my data began to skip and glide a most unusual stride
Because she said yes.
But my circuits are fried!
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
I sat on Balzac’s lap, Betula said.
The psychiatrist twitched his nose,
Scribbled notes. Where was this?
Outside a Paris cafe. He looked up
At her and stared. Were you alone?
No Balzac was there. He scribbled
More notes, his pen moved quickly
Across the page. Anyone else?
My grandmother. Can she substantiate
You sitting on Balzac’s lap? Yes, she
Was there. Where about does your
Grandmother live? She doesn’t.
Doesn’t what? He asked. Live. She
Died some years back, but she does
Visit. The psychiatrist frowned, scribbled
More notes. Do you see anyone else?
Yes, my sister, Alice. Is she dead, too?
Oh, no, she lives at home with Mother.
He sat back in his chair that squeaked.
Betula put her hands on the arms of
Her chair and moved them backward
And forward, studying the psychiatrist,
His deep set eyes, his thick brows, his
Thin lips. Why did you sit on Balzac’s lap?
He asked. Because he said I could, she
Replied, feeling the warmth from rubbing
Her hands on the arms of the chair. Do you
Know who Balzac was? He asked. He said
He was a writer, Betula said, putting
Her hands in her lap. He died in 1850,
The psychiatrist said. Yes, I know,
Betula muttered, he said. He scribbled
More notes. He gazed at her. It’s all in
Your mind, he said, these things you say
You see and do. Balzac said you’d say that,
She replied, said no one would believe what
I said about him and sitting on his lap.
The psychiatrist took out a peppermint,
Put it in his mouth and ****** Betula
Looked over his head and said, Grandmother
Says I’m done for, Balzac says, I’m ******
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
a whole spectrum of color
continuously poured into my eyes
as i walked between leaves, under the bright sun
and time, past and present, whipped past me,
faster and faster, as i strolled through this garden.
my nose twitched to every new smell
bakery, vanilla, lavender,
my mother's cooking
this creamy, lovely perfume
my nose twitched to my childhood
i stopped along this path
to find it suddenly became night.
i peered into the leaves for light,
and was granted visions from other perspectives.
other people. such bright lives.
i came across my own vision.
it was of the present.
i saw myself peering into leaves,
during the middle of the night.
i turned and saw myself.
a reflection? i snapped.
the colors disappeared.
the smells refused to come close to me.
evening.
the beach was close by.
where am i?
~-~-~-~-~
on the way home
one thought fought every other:
that truly was
the garden of dreams.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
I
disappeared yesterday
with a basket of lemons
and an empty flask
of wine.
She
promised it would
never happen again;
and filled my hands.
They
faltered under my gun--
their large ears,
eyes,
mouth twitched;
I saw red.
You
ignored
my scarlet
hood.
He
is gone,
but I remain.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
i was walking the other night
closed my eyes
saw you coming at me like a flashbulb
i saw you before i heard you
but you were so ******* loud
knocked me off my feet, you know
you did and you
broke my bones
bled my ears for every last reaction
until i had no more to give
i drifted awake the next morning
silent until noon
i couldn't trust my own voice to produce
its sounds or my ears to hear them
you had deafened me so
and blinded me so
my hands twitched to replace the cane
you'd never offered me so i could find
my way, alone and afraid
crawling back to you
stiff like a dead man
numb like a soldier
soft like a child
now, i sit still
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
There's an itch in my heart
only you can scratch.
I've been waiting for your fingers
to dig in and
give me what I need,
but they're no where
to be found. Today
my toes twitched and thought
of running up your leg,
but all they found was empty
air. Is nothing
on my body safe?
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
i once stole a feather from a bluebird
it twitched and stirred and cried out my name
and jolted away but i wept all the same
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
i have not wrote to you in a while now
the stress upon my hands has became too much
every hollow bone has snapped
shards of my structure penetrate the restraints of my emotion
‘the flood gates have been opened’
my brain screeches like an old freight train
everything was silent throughout my body
like the seconds before a grenade explodes
violently;
these waves of raw, untamed passion
rushed me and bashed me in my face
i tried my best to defend myself
but I am too overwhelmed
to battle this demon
perspiration appeared on my brow
a cold sweat covered my corpse
almost as if my body used the skin as a medium
for tears of anxiety and distress
my eyes twitched and darted
from subject to subject
a burning sensation covered the area of my forearms
almost as if fire ants were gnawing on them
i look down to see no ants;
but my own fingernails digging into my flesh
a rose- colored liquid seeped from these wounds
i then soon realized why i no longer write to you
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
She came to die while I was dying,
She came by night and alone,
I could not see her eyes,
cuz' her hair was down.
She never spoke with me,
She just curled and froze,
I did not learned her name,
but she was like a cup of ***
She twitched sometimes,
She felt pain and anguish,
I just sat there waiting for Death,
but she was already dead.
She came to die while I was dying,
She sang lullabies to the Moon,
I only hold her in my hands,
until the morning broke with gloom.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Hazards on
He stepped into
That slushy sheet of snow.
It fell from heav'n
Pelting face
Onto the earth below.
The silence
Creeped in his ears,
His headlights were dull beams,
That lit the snow
Like a lamp
And shone upon the scene.
Damp pavement -
The body laid
Resting upon the street.
He could hardly
Stand the sight
It crushed there at his feet.
He stepped close
To examine
That mangled body there
To see if it
Was his cat
Or simply just a hare.
Difficult
The task it was
To recognize the dead.
The hair was wet,
Hue had changed,
A car had crushed its head.
Studying
The corpse with care -
The skin had been peeled back.
Torso-Muscle
Was revealed
The leg twitched - he gasped.
He jumped back,
Filled with terror
At what he had just spied,
But in that breath
He re'lized
The creature that had died.
Oh it was
A rabbit there,
Dead upon the cold lane.
Yes, he was sad -
Yet relieved -
From a heart filled with pain.
But, a part
Of him was crushed,
Shivering in the snow.
Like that creature
On the street,
He was there all alone.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
Is there any better feeling
anything more freeing
than standing naked
in a Summer rain?
It is a sensual kiss
from the Mother that bore you
and the Monster
that will devour you.
The air that caresses you
is the motion of the Earth
vibrating on your skin
the transfer of momentum
from the spinning ball of Blue
to the gaseous sphere encasing it
to your body
to You.
You're dancing on the roof
as we fly through the galaxy.
The water that now licks
your entire body
was once part
of a vast sea
wherein the first chemicals
melted together
locked into each other
and twitched
and copulated
and convulsed
and conspired
to move
and to Live.
The molecules that once held
the first Life
All Life
surrounding you
touching you everywhere
setting your skin on Fire.
It is your planet
Making Love to you.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC