"twitchy" poems
hist whist
little ghostthings
tip-toe
twinkle-toe
little twitchy
witches and tingling
goblins
hob-a-nob hob-a-nob
little hoppy happy
toad in tweeds
tweeds
little itchy mousies
with scuttling
eyes rustle and run and
hidehidehide
whisk
whisk look out for the old woman
with the wart on her nose
what she’ll do to yer
nobody knows
for she knows the devil ooch
the devil ouch
the devil
ach the great
green
dancing
devil
devil
devil
devil
wheeEEE
10.3k
I
On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
Twikky wikky wikky wee,
Wikky bikky twikky tee,
Spikky bikky bee!
II
Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
'Spikky chippy wee!
III
'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
Tikky tikky tee!
IV
'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
'Chippy wippy chee?
V
'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
'Jikky wikky bikky see,
'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
'Twikky witchy wee!'
VI
So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
Zikky wikky mikky bee,
Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
Sikky tikky wee.
VII
Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
Zikky sikky tee.'
3.5k
"You're not one of them", he says
"I can tell, I got this GIFT, see?"
The relief clear on his animated face
Too twitchy, too... off
"They watch us, you know?
They got those satellites and ****
They'll read your ID through your pocket
Then they gotcha!"
I nod, only mildly alarmed
And throw down my smoke.
Step on it to make sure it's out
"Only you can prevent forest fires"
A childhood echo
He picks it up
Looks wildly around
"Your DNA is on that! Epithelials!
I seen it! I seen it on that CSI!"
I mumble something
His eyes narrow. He laughs too hard.
"Kidding man, I'm just kidding"
He skitters off, like an ant missing 4 legs
I look up, and nod to the ****** on the roof.
~JNc
9-15
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
twitchy sniffly noses
silky bracelets woven
a sennight of whispers
and soft rains fallen
bones strident ringing
skins slow submerging
bloodshot eyes and
star-shot skies and
cheekbones shrouded
in staling chlorine
sneaking syrup smiles
under honey gold
four tonics drowned
to fight off the cold
and fast fortune-telling
for finites foretold
trace the lines and
face the folds, please
hold both palms closer
but leave them closed
twitchy ditzy fingers
***** rings unspooled
a sennight of stories
and sinking in pools
bones washed in phenol
skins slick like ferrule
bloodshot minds and
star-shot why’s and
wisteria lips speckled in
the warmest shade of cool.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC
I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.
He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof
But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."
He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.
He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.
This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.
Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.
Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed old flute.
So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
Beat
Beat back the urge
Beat it back to the Stone Age
You nerd!
I got a motor mouth
A mile a minute
It's a song and dance
But I'm not in it
Bite
Bite your lip
Fool yourself into thinkin'
You've beat it
I got a tigger finger
No gun to pull
A fragile headstock
Lost my cool
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Keep
Keep your cool
Keep it locked up tight
One rule
I got a worn out shirt
It Never fits right
I shift my shoulders
Under the lights
Make
Yourself do better
Make it all go away
It's the weather
I'm a bit twitchy Don't touch me
I need you to love me
You're so far above and I'm so far below
I'm losing control and it's just not enough
My nerves are aching to just get rough
I'm worried what happens if I'm in freeze
I get up the itch and I need a release
There's so much to manage to do and to say
My mouth is just in the way
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
A Moth rests on your nose for your solace,
Disoriented by anxious breaths instead.
Still your lungs.
Postpone your life for another’s,
an insect that lives for an average of three days is worth
more than you of eighty years.
It has less time to live and
So is forced to live each nanosecond as its minute.
Hold your breath for a second and give it thousands of moments
To study the purpose of your pores, the nature of your nostrils, the message of your mouth.
It is a blessing that one who has such a blink of a life should choose you.
Its tentative, exploring antennae acknowledge your existence
For that moment
You are its universe.
You
Are the mountains, and underwater caves, the forests, the savannah, the tundra, the planets.
You
Are the suffocating suburbia, the twitchy towns, the neglected neighborhoods, the seductive cities.
You
Are sighing waterfalls, lighthearted hills, free-spirited skies, heartwarming dreams.
If god was the universe,
Then you’re set for heaven.
Except
The Moth flies away
Leaving you to take its place.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
sweaty palms
legs made of wood
my mouth agape
but no words
so i nod
yeah, i'm okay
twitchy fingers
brain made of static
my eyes restless
blinking wildly
i'm alright, i promise
clenched toes
skin made of steel
my heart resting
on a bowl of nails
i'm fine
my ribs are shaking but
i'm fine
my ears are ringing but
i'm fine
my bones are breaking but
*im fine
i'm fine*
(but maybe
if you'd ask me
one more time...)
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
I’m at work
Buzzing to get out of there
Out of the fluorescence
And the din of screaming children
As it downplays the howling heads
Of their mothers who
Dream of their children’s exposed
Necks and getting out of the grocery store
Before it starts to rain.
I am Bobcat Goldthwait
underneath
The large hanging lamps,
pale green as barge lights
I make little sounds with my lips
And tongue, little incoherent sounds
To push the time forward .
A man comes through
My line holding a beige patch
Of cloth
Over his exposed trachea beneath,
with a voice like he crushes cement
puts it in his coffee
and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw.,
He drops some
Toothpaste and a brush on the counter
And says to me with that mutilated
Voice:
“there are only two types of *****
Big old *****
And old big *****
His skin is blotchy in the cheeks
like the husks of craters seen from the sky,
and the corners of his mouth
are dry and cracked
snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.
For a second I want to laugh so hard,
That people will think I’m crazy, and
Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have
Me committed.
If he says any more, it’s this:
“You’re young, enjoy it,
if you worry
About the fuckups now,
you’ll Be worrying
until you’re an old ******
and that doesn’t do you any good,
***** hates the old **** ups.”
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
There's a mouse in my room,
she's silver and white,
mom's chased it with a broom
and the fella's put on a fight.
From the kitchen KABOOM
did shout one cold Christmas night,
dad was the bringer of doom,
he and his shotgun's great might.
Turns out our little mouse
slept in our house
with her husband and kid
but hungry they came unhid
by father's twitchy right eye
so they met his gun and goodbye,
our mouse friend is forever now
a lonely Christmas night widow.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Love you daily
There is no maybe
Vibe is live
To some its crazy
I don't care
I wont tear
Into your eyes I will stare
Oh so lovely
Go ahead hug me
Play a little rough
Pull and tug me
Full attention
All my affection
Open wide
For this injection
Devil..Angel more of a Devil
So **** bad destroy next level
Wicked Witchy make middle twitchy
Scratch and claw satisfy your itchy
Mind goes hazy
From path I'm blazing
Describe our chemistry one word
"Amazing"
Time stands still reality wavy
Where you are..From afar..Love you Daily..
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
you told me -
what did you tell me?
so many things.
you told me
i was your best friend,
which i am.
you told me i'm pretty;
you also told me i'm infuriating,
annoying,
obnoxious,
and weird,
all of which are true.
you told me that i'm a good person,
that i'm not stupid for crying when a girl in our class got cancer,
that i'm smarter than i think.
you told me so many things, and all of them
exactly what i needed.
jesus christ.
you're my best friend.
i know things about you that i
shouldn't want to know about anyone, such as
you fall asleep in the shower
and certain words, like "indubitably", make you twitchy;
you can't sleep unless something near you smells like old spice.
seriously: so many things.
i know your masturbatory habits, for god's sake!
so it shouldn't make sense,
this,
rabid desire of mine,
to know more,
to know everything,
to read you like a book, to know you like i don't know anyone, to absorb every fact of your existence like a sponge, to spend hours hearing your mind, to want everything of you, to share everything of me -
it shouldn't make sense,
and it doesn't.
but i haven't forgotten the way,
how,
in the darkness and the clumsiness
of a tiny space
in the silence after the half-hissed teasing and the muffled laughter,
you wrapped your arms around my waist to steady me,
and kept them there,
there in the dark,
or how,
sitting in the air of your basement,
you held my feet in your lap,
and jokingly gnawed at my toes when i teased you,
or how
you flick your fingers together like you do when you're thinking,
making me fall so in like with your mind,
or when -
well.
there are too many times,
for me to remember.
so it shouldn't make sense,
you ******* badass specimen of best-friendship.
and it doesn't.
but i know,
and you know,
and everyone who knows us knows,
that really, sort of,
it does.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
It’s funny how a memory works
I was thinking today about how I usually don’t remember exact days
For example, Christmas
I remember getting excited and I remember waking up
and looking under the tree for the outline of that typewriter
I begged my parents for
but I can’t remember what day of the week it was,
not even from this year
I think to the night we spent together though;
and I know that it was a Saturday
I was supposed to be at my friend’s house
but she cancelled on me
I would learn later that fate works in mysterious ways
even though I was mad at her at first
You texted me and asked me to get coffee
It was four in the morning
We talked until eight about nothing
but we also talked about everything
I guess it was Sunday since it was the morning
I guess I could say I spent the whole weekend with you
but I know that it was only four hours;
still the most prominent four hours of my seventeen years
I remember being in the coffee shop,
and the song “Edge of Seventeen” came on
I thought it was a weird coincidence because
I was on the edge of seventeen and you were on the edge of twenty
and we were both on the edge of falling in love
We talked about dreams, and I told you that I don’t like to sleep
because I have nightmares and I forget what reality is when I wake up
You stared into my eyes and I felt a tug in my chest
Your eyes whispered to mine that they understood
I don’t think we were even speaking in English
we were speaking in smiles and nervous twitchy body language
I told you that I found you intimidating
you laughed and told me you were sorry
I told you not to apologize, I just thought you were so cool
“you’re cool too” you said with a smile
I just laughed and looked at my coffee mug
I get nervous with compliments
We went out for a cigarette and I had trouble lighting mine
because I was so enticed by the way the smoke floated
so effortlessly out of your mouth
I remember thinking that if I was the smoke in your lungs
I wouldn’t fight to come out, I’d stay warm beside your heart
I told you that I needed to get home
before my parents noticed I was gone
You walked me home and the whole time I was praying to a God
that I don’t believe in that you would kiss me goodnight
But you didn’t
We didn’t talk again after that night and
I know now not to fall in love with the
twenty year old little boy
who still wants to grow up and be a poet
and who stares at you while he sings
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
*i find the crow more eloquent,
more treacherously abiding
a fulfilment of aesthetic investigations
when walking, the crow
more beautiful than in flight,
unlike the sparrows' comic grounding,
with its epileptic quick-step twitchy
caoutchouc trot... poetically drawn
as: huh?! huh?! chirp. huh?! huh?! chirp;
really quickly.*
the only way to transition back into
the humanities from learning science,
******** p... chemistry and physics,
from these two into the humanities:
because you wrote a high standard
sociology essay plagiarising trying to
beat the anti-plagiarism logarithm
imposed... and that camus' l'étranger
also written to a 1st in the degree hierarchy...
the only transition from the sciences
to humanities is with philosophy,
which is a qausi-humanism...
mind you... edinburgh is the last gothic city,
and scotland the only place
where university can be like high school,
diverse, equipping you with many choices,
you can major chemistry, but understudy
computing, french, history, sociology, etc.
so in the background you have my favourite
theorisation: friedel-craft's alkylation & acylation /
effects of substitution on the beneze ring properties:
ortho (β) / para (ν) directing goups...
meta (π) directing groups... ipso (α) directed
at dislodging the algebraic x already attached...
i was never going to write cute poetry...
lessons in inductive effects of σ-bonds orientation
controlled by resonate (of) π-bonds...
the faustian myth continues without cute goethe rhyme.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
For fuck's sake.
How did we end up here again?
The soothing, annoying word flickers on my blue-back lit screen and I am ****** back to the tumultuous moment when once upon a time it yelled bipolar.
And here we go again.
My thoughts flick, flit, floss between teeth made for biting and real meat. They need plaque, collection, to grow and accumulate mass to progress. But there my flicking thoughts go, flossing.
I've always struggled focusing, but I just got excitable, got manic, and it would solve everything. Mania was my monster, my red bull, and now that its sated and off to Wonderland...
I'm left here, face to face, with a twitchy white rabbit wondering why I would ever think to use my pretty little head when its such a good projectile into the sky.
I had always wondered, in those whispering nights, when my hands couldn't stop moving and my head wouldn't shut up, if something was wrong. But it was silly, I had two already, full of worry then full of poles. Couldn't be another, could it?
Of course, a Grace of Wonderland always knows best, and here we are. Another bottle to drink to keep me sane.
I wonder if my fingers will thank the capsules when I might stop biting them? Or my toes? Is this why my toes always twitch and dance, why they stand center-stage in so many of my mild fantasies? After all these years, the divas that my lower digits have become may not appreciate losing their star titles.
I just want to be fine. I want to figure out how to move beyond all the strange misfires in my head. How did I survive so long without a notice? Inflates my ego to know I should have been caught by now.
Guess just like the White Rabbit, despite my widgets and worries, no one can stop me from running when I'm madly, absolutely, refusing to be late.
Graces only knows to fight with fire and fists. Tis the state of my Wonderland, and perhaps now things will only get better.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
I look deep into the mirror
And I notice I have aged before my time.
I see the caverns in my eyes
Pasty skin and sleep deprived.
I can count the lines upon my forehead,
Etched deep by years of surprise,
Of frustration,
Of surly indifference
And I am only through a score of years.
I could go to bed sooner,
For it is not down to an enterprising purpose,
Or a creative flair
That I am awake until five every morning,
Stubbornly refusing to
Fall
Into another twitchy sleep.
The dead of night is rarely punctuated here;
Only by another sleepless soul,
Just looking for a reason.
For what?
This peace is only ever broken
By the sounds of the birds
And their sweet melody
Of territorial threats,
Both for the safety of their nests
And for your intrusion upon their time.
They sing: “go to bed, go to bed, a dreamless sleep if you go to bed”.
I know now I will not feel fresh when I awake,
But in these bleak months,
I see nothing to feel fresh for.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
There are three of us in the room
You
Me
And Silence
Sometimes Silence is kind
Gracing us with hands wrapped tight
Breathing deep, scents of each other strong
Legs tangled, arms bent, not knowing
Where one ends and the other starts
Sometimes Silence is excited
Static between us building
Twitchy and impatient
Eyes large and watching the trees roll by
As we drive down the black road
Sometimes Silence is content
And sits with us while you write words
Stroking the keys, like it is a fine instrument
And I lay reading, sipping tea across the room on the floor
The world is quite and so are we
Sometimes Silence is angry
Though we haven't experienced this yet, we will
And tension will hang like the humid summer time atmosphere
While we sit, confused and bubbling, trying to think
Of ways to say sorry without fumbling with words
Because words get in the way
And Silence is malleable, fluid
Silence is water
It can slip through our hands
Or can be contained
No matter what you do
Silence will be there
Thank you for making the Silence bearable
For making it less frigid
Less lonely or painful
Thank you for filling the Silence with so much life
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
As the tables were filled when we came in the door,
could have went home, if we wanted space for sure,
we sat at the biggest table, with the noisy crew
moved the chairs,
staked our ground, after all what else could we do.
Go home?
Go home.
Go home!
And leave here because of the crowd,
were we too addicted to be loud'n proud?
But today would be a special day,
Sue a regular, senior street type,
was yelling at the world, with hype
and attitude, no Beatitude came out
of her mouth, as I watched her shout,
I knew I had to learn from her.
A new guy passed Sue on the sidewalk,
their gestures were not related or anticipated,
one talked about trees and yelled at the sky,
while the other walked by carried a Coke,
on his thigh.
He came in the door all sweaty and twitchy,
swear words were every second word that came
from his mouth every second it was open.
His eyes did not understand what they saw,
his mind'n mouth hated it all, jutted his jaw,
Stuck the Coke in his pants went out the door,
at a run, streaming curses, from his lips
hung in the air, scary for some with kids,
at a run to London Drugs next door,
less than two minutes he was out,
running fast past the Burger King,
while Sue yelled profanities from the Boulevard
called King George, daring traffic, to drive close,
standing with one foot in a lane, the other foot... as well
where are the traffic police, when you need'em,
But what does Sue need, she is always around?
What about sweaty, angry guy, a new face in the
crowded traffic of my favorite coffee shop,
Bring them peace Lord, and a safe place to sleep, Lord,
and someone who has what they need, Lord,
to keep them out of the traffic, off the street.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
.
War. Famine.
Pestilence. Death.
Enjoy a game of poker.
It relieves the boredom.
They only have one Big project
booked into the work diary.
The horses are stabled,
so why not have down time?
The day-to-day business
takes care of itself.
Ably supervised by the humans
in a race to the Big day.
The stillness is penetrated by sound.
Death cleaning his teeth
with his reaping scythe or
Death sharpening his reaping scythe
on his teeth.
Either way, it shattered vertebrae.
His nerves were getting twitchy.
Three Kings, the Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Royals were dropping like flies.
It was going to be a busy night.
He met Wars eyes and her bet,
**** She looks beautiful sweating),
paid an advance and called.
Uncharacteristically delicate,
he lay down his souls.
Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Kings of Diamonds, Spades and Hearts.
War smiled sweetly.
Her dirk-like eyelashes
fluttering an assassins dance.
Letting her cards fall soft,
triumphant with winners ecstasy,
she declares her hand...
… “SNAP!” she says.
© Pagan Paul (14/03/17)
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
The Story of Love
A long time back, when
Vices and Virtues were,
Young, playful, and inexperienced.
They had made a game of which,
None wished to ever remember.
Long forgotten in the span of time.
There was once a story of,
How Love had gone blind.
In this tale, it spoke,
How those friends were caught in,
The boredom which Idle Time bestowed.
In nature’s garden, they lounged,
Until the music of,
Silent minds had,
Riled Impatience twitchy thoughts.
“We should play a game,
Of Hide and Seek.” he said.
“What’s that?” Madness asked.
Impatience smiled as he explained,
The rules of the game,
Of how they would play.
“Everyone hides where ever they like,
But there will be one that will seek.”
“Sounds fun!” Madness thought.
“I’d be ‘it’.” He suddenly said.
Vices and Virtues went to hide,
As Madness counted,
The grains of sand on the river side.
Envy hid between, the clouds to watch,
Wishing she had a better spot.
Anger hid under a rock to think.
His face as hard as that thing.
Laziness laid on his bed to sleep,
Caring little if he was caught.
Patience sat behind the leaves,
Together with Tolerance he hid,
Amongst the trees.
Secrets stayed below,
Hidden in the Lakes,
Clouded by a shadowed face.
Vanity cloaked herself in,
The reflection of shiny things.
Love hid behind,
The white rose bush,
Of which she liked.
There she lingered for some time.
In time, Madness had forgot,
Why he counted the grains of sand.
So he searched every where but,
Was unable to find anyone.
In hopelessness, he glanced,
Up and found,
Envy’s sinister face
Peering through the clouds.
“Found you!” he declared.
For he knew he was right.
Infuriated that she was the first,
She gave him her brother’s site.
Anger turned cold,
In sight of,
His sister’s mocking laugh.
In his head he knew,
Someone had to pay,
A pair of eyes for,
Giving him away.
“Love is in the rose bush.” he said.
“But she wont come out till,
You stab her to death.”
Devoid of thought Madness believed.
With a pitch fork he charged,
Yelling madly for Love.
Wildly he stabbed until,
White roses turned red.
In her piercing scream, he stopped.
As she crawled out of her hiding spot.
Blood dripped down her face.
Madness knew it was a mistake.
He begged for her forgiveness and
Apologized. “What can I do for you,
To make it up to you?” He asked.
“Be my guide,” she said.
“You can be my eyes.”
And ever since, it was said that,
Love was blind.
And Madness always had,
Guided Love.
-Vas Bismark
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Kid trying to keep up
I want knew shoes
ones that will just float me there
always been a clever kid
nose in a book
or to the grindstone
decent grades
but could do better
*** I never can quite keep up
I break down
I mess up
I have a twitchy personality
makes me neurotic
nu-erotic
overly loving
maternal
and likely to get broken and swept off the table where it was that I was learning
the secrets
of the universe
Sexed up
hating ***
hating pleasure
but seeking it
a contradiction
and not happy with it
nobody's gotta tear me in half,
I'm doing that myself
but that hasn't stopped folks from trying
One was a snake
sliding around me
whispering things
manipulating
pushing
pushing
pushing
the other was like the spring rain
cold and sweet
and always beating on my head
they tried
**** near worked
but then after them,
one found the glue
and one to hold me better
and I'm still not there
watching a super nova in slow motion
gotta give you a headache after a while
pass an Aspirin
I talk like a bull whip
and I could give you whiplash how quick my moods shift
threatens to yank my own head off
You know what I mean?
I guess you gotta
Firecracker
over excited
panicked out
strung out on my own issues
then wheeled out to dry on the line
flapping there with the fish and your knickers
but hey, I could just go on all day
about why it is
and what it is
and what thing is bugging me now
and yeah, this is a long poem,
*** I feel like I've never talked to any of you
and you seem to like me
you know what I mean?
Like I said before
I'm a kid trying to keep up
and ****
my head hurts
but I just gotta keep running
you have an issue?
Fight me
**** that
I'd win
get guilty
and I don't need that
so just stop reading, whatever,
if you don't want to be my friend
like I said, you may want an aspirin
'specially after this one
Means a lot to me that you read this far, though
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
*so here he was stripped naked in his bedroom
aloof lost in ****** imagination
his mind swimming with thoughts of big ****
curvy hips and long legs
how they looked without impediment of clothing
he pictured his engorged member between a lass
thighs
his wet tongue swirling around her ******
leaving a trail of warm saliva on the areola
occasionally his head would swivel scanning the
**** magazine he held on his left hand
a cross scrutiny drawn all over the teenage face
as if he was admiring Da Vinci's art
the right hand lubricated with lotion stroked up and down
in a rhythmic motion
he was breathing hard as the hand performed self loving
there was something about the ****** expression
pleasure painted all over the contours of his flame:
it was ecstasy but not in religious sense
his eyelids would droop from time to time and the lustful
smile would camouflage inner conflict
the tempo of jacking increased and the magma started rising
eyes still glued on the mag
his body started to spasm
it wasn't just a little twitchy ****** it was a volcano
of pleasure that shook every inch of his skin
the magazine fell he clutched the blanket and clenched his mouth shut
he looked at his sloppy handful junk and thought guiltily
what have i done......*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
anti-narcissism,
painters with self-portraits,
the damnable face used
to kindred of inanimate things
taken for granted via still-life or impressionism,
damnable visage, yet
not exactly a finite banality of narcissism and acting,
it’s just there, if it isn’t being bosomed by
kissing it might as well be painted,
shame to leave it to simply frown,
or undue the english stiff-upper lip with
the fisherman’s hook, that phenomenon
of the fisherman’s / elvis’s upper lip aha hum hum:
it’s a twitchy eye when you mind the nerves
and just say: i’m in r.e.m. stages of parkinson’s:
rapid eyelid movement: got a joke coming
with the tourists, find your face in the throng
and give it four walls, a floor and ceiling and a campfire.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
As he opened one eye a new existence awaited
it was cold and he was semi naked!
A salty smell filled his sensitive nostrils
wearily he sat up.
Blood ran down his arm from a savage ****
clothes strewn about like trash!
No memory of how he ended up in this spot
a watery sun began to shine.
Standing it was though he had a hangover
how his head throbbed.
Gathering his clothes and putting them on
he heard a clock on seven ****
That splitting headache rampaged his thoughts
trying desperately to remember.
He was sure it was a celebration with mates
must have had too much *****
Finding it hard to even remember his address
how had he got into this mess?
His parents thankfully had already left for work
weak had a job climbing the stairs.
Couldn't even recognize himself in the mirror
more zombie than human!
Still early so dizzy collapsed on the bed
soon his duvet had turned red!
In a deep slumber awful images started to form
of wolves ripping his flesh!
The next thing he knew his mum was shouting
shocked at his appearance!
Evening when he was rushed to hospital so ill
that ambulance siren shrill!
A month passed now resting healed in the garden
darkness was ascending.
A full moon shone that night he was twitchy
as his hearing became acute.
Starting to sweat his entire body began to ache
the wolf inside began to awake!
The Foureyed Poet.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC