"ultraviolet" poems
I'm transparent like a window
but I'm prone to keeping curtains closed
to cover up my youthful,
aching, naked soul.
I used to be promiscuous;
my essence on my sleeve.
a charming laugh; a crystal glass
from which many a fool drew drink.
A chalice of life;
warm like cinnamon wine,
soft like angel's delight.
Beheld by every eye.
But it never felt right;
I was smoke off a fire,
yet still smouldering coal.
Just a young, beautiful
byproduct of desire.
There's no smoke without fire.
Although, I tried to fan it cool;
the flames ran only wilder.
But as the old wind blows, it seems
a withered tree still grows new leaves.
A dandelion spreads its seeds
but they lie far away from me.
Now, I move transcluently-
ultraviolet invisible ink-
I speak in soothing whispers;
they travel further than you'd think.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
I'm running from darkness
She is avoiding the light
She is closing her blinds
I'm escaping the night
I can never fall asleep
She can never know
She's not broken like I am
If I give in I go
Sometimes the black lasts hours
Sometimes it lasts for days
She wishes she was asleep
To get over all the pain
She is ultraviolet
Keeping me awake
She is everything
The victim of every mistake I make
She always drives me crazy
But I need her all the same
She seems to really love me
But can't make the claim
I'll want her forever
Love her til my walls are blue
She is where my mind wanders
Her eyes are the best Indiana view.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Hidden in the ultraviolet,
Unseen by most yet to be forgotten by both heaven and hell,
Memories from the futures dawn, luxury of darkness,
Spin the wool and weave the fate, this world end's by my own hand,
Break loose of the lies and get lost within legendary illusions
A world so dark, the stars so blind an alluring form refuses to fall,
Rise, from the fire hell can't hold and is afraid of,
Spread the wings and soar beyond the scene, the art of demonicy
The holiest war is waged of what our hearts are made,
Do you nest in what you feel or have felt in this realm of devilry ?
After the mirror shows you all the truths you desire,
Deceived by your eyes, who do you want to trust ?
The last judgement ends with a long journey,
The nights luxury relies within my own hand, take it!
And maybe then, I will lead you to the light your heart cries out for.
After all, the love for it is for all to engage in.
~ Umi
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
The way
That the sun rays
Sunbathe
Hot day, faraway
Photons travel
Outer space
8 minutes
On your face
Covering you in
Ultraviolet
X-ray
Nuclear waste
Pretty cool,
I'd say.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
Racing in my mind on endless plane
As the thoughts of you turn into a bittersweet dismay
The time we spent together and the feelings you awoke
Violently I toss and turn as I begin to lose all hope
And I shouldn’t obsess
But I cannot help but to hear
When her soothing voice resounds
I am forever to be drawn near
Whilst I sit on a shelf alone
Only to entertain the silence
Slowly it creeps into my mind
An everlasting ultraviolet
Though happy at last it was
Were the nights together with you
Now seem to be a hollow oblivion
As my world is filled with a mournful gloom
What I had for a short season
I can only begin to admit
I can’t help but to crumble
As I begin to reminisce
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
~
*There's trouble in Alphaville:
Caution in the taxi, "I am on a journey to the end of the night."
Remember to silence love when sneaking Sally thru the alley.
There's always one too many wives on the same wavelength.
Seeing is believing in the cold ultraviolet light of a long, warm lens.
And naturally "How to Teach Your Wife to Be a Widow" is all checked out at the local library.*
~
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 6:59 PM UTC
we kip through all the ****** on the news
i left the device on a radio channal
awoke to it burning up static and turned it off
silence as falcon overviews us
ultraviolet sight
looking for neon spots and trails of *****
markings that may betray the entrance of our dwelling
i put the kettle on
our voices are clayed
by our
confessing inner multitude
but they're recorded all the same
i pour a cup of tea
our pattern of submission
is signal tweaked
maintainance by murmers
****** thorough
through our glacial surrender
i take a sip
silence as
aided by the clear weather
a drone nips out its choice targets
we were not selected
neither us or any neighbour
but far away ;
a story heard on the device
Apr 7, 2022
Apr 7, 2022 at 6:24 PM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
How do I show my beauty?
By just being me.
By embracing the things I love in life.
By feeding into my energy.
By diving into my creativity.
By leaning into my curiosities.
By embracing change and striving for improvement.
By showing empathy.
By digging into my strength and endurance.
By practicing mindfulness.
By harnessing my focus.
By utilizing patience and compassion.
By feeling strong emotions.
By loving my nature.
By moving with passion and resting in good reason.
By needing nothing else outside of these.
These are the beautiful things that come from within me.
All that’s needed of me
is to dig within myself,
to dive headfirst
and fully submerge into the water
and pulling out these attributes-
these facets of beauty,
reflecting the sunshine
like the scales of a fish,
the cuts in an emerald,
the ultraviolet color in flowers and birds.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
The future is a blur of smudged paint
Dragged across the canvas by inexperienced shaking hands
They tell me it is beautiful
But I can only see the mess that I have made
The sickly brown smeared across my palms that however hard I try
I cannot wash away
I cannot dream in future vision
I cannot slip those time traveler lenses over my eyes
I cannot see the ultraviolet, only the ultra-violent
And I bleed away my worries in words that no one shall ever read
And I scream away my sorrows in voices that never belonged to me
The future is a daydream,
Bright skies and gentle waves
That wash away my purple fingertips
And yet when I dream of my own
Those waves become polluted, the sky falls upon the crashing waves
Drowning my fingertips in their suffocating embrace and tightening the nooses on my toes
My future is non-existent
It is late night conversation to keep the day away a little longer
It is glances through crowds of people who, like you and I, will die eventually
It is your face breaking apart with a smile that expels so much light- so much goodness
My future is a daydream, a night dream and all the in-between
My future is the terrifying unknown
My future is sitting at bus stops waiting for a taxi
And knowing that it will never come
But waiting anyway just so that I can watch the sunset
It is snow storms and rainy days
It is running barefoot through a field with no real direction
It is counting the stars at midday
I tell myself that my future is non-existent
And yet
It is so full and so bright
It may not last forever
And I will die, as will you.
But this moment
This is the future.
This is rolling skies and glittering streams.
It is streetlamps that never seem to turn off
And streets that I don't yet know the names of.
My future is a blur of smudged paint
And though it may not be clear or simple
It is wonderful and it is mine.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
Most days self-doubt laps at my ankles
in pools that I hardly feel, with ripple effects
so small I don't even sift the footprints
in the sand. Other times it comes in waves,
striking me behind the knees. I wobble,
skim the water's surface with a grasping hand
that's never held on to anything except for broken
secrets, but I don't fall. The salt stings my eyes
but instead of closing them I resolutely
gaze at the sunset in the hopes that I could find
some written metaphor in the pink and orange clouds
about something like "starting over" or
"self-forgiveness". And then there are rare days
when there's an eclipse and I can't blind myself
with sunbeams or use an ultraviolet floodlight in my brain
to scare off all the lurking thoughts I can't pin-point
but know are there... that's when the self-doubt
comes in tsunami waves, and I don't fall but
sink like a wayward torpedo, farther than
any reaching hand could pull me
to shore, to normal rock bottom,
and I realize, as the oxygen slowly leaves my lungs,
as my vision darkens into obscurity,
that I've visited this abyss before.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
[sweet pungent synthesis]
always with dank hysterical women demonstrating the distilled liquid elixir of their many years in isolation.
they are the nitrogen-rich followers of an ultraviolet shrine, such is
a photosynthetic life-form, reacting/enacting/enhancing.
they reach for holes in the moon &
on four-legged fumes carbonize seeds into sons and daughters. birth/
life.
all flowers ache forth to display color and/or
their varietals of hairy oil content.
to dip psychotropics, thus the worship of brain frequency and light.
fresh progress,
the sugar crystal compounds impacting, intact, and swollen.
trichomes, like huddled little masses of grandbabies bowed upon the ridge.
she drips
in dance and derives her form from properties plucked by time,
by moms, and pops.
to discover is to find purity in a moment.
pure travel/ pure
death.
this growing force,
this apparition of sound within me. organics.
organisms bound by great beauty and failure.
sense not the vivid panic, or the shock of last black, but hold true
to an inner joyous/outer motionous, tessellation that is, this
fluttering of us.
us suit of hearts.
suit of leaves.
the fusion of two bodies far beyond substantial pressure.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
It's like I used to be able to see so much
It’s like I used to be able to feel so much
More than I should have been able to...
Infrared, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, ultraviolet
But infrared and ultraviolet were too much to bear
They were blinding me, crippling me
Too much of a good thing, I guess
So they gave me a pill to pop
That blunts the edges
And all I see now
Are yellow
and green
But I remember when I could see ultraviolet...
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
With orange knickers in amber waves
A coyote shadow chases you in rainbows
From green to indigo to black
From green to indigo and back
Into therapy crawl the aggrieved
Still there’s an ache behind the curtain-
The planted seed bloomed as a monster
Arising like a jack-in-the-box
Perspective surprises
When the empty takes form
Half of spirit in altered states
Meditative bliss takes two
With amber knickers in orange waves
From station to station
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Honey-flavored icicles
In a wintry, wind-blown stand
Whispers wander
Waiting longer
A wrinkle in my hand, I can't
Imagine rays of ultraviolet
Infrared
I see
Long lost, bones tossed
But blue shines light at sea
She smiles, crows are flying
They're landing at her feet
A carrion
She carries on
Until her final seat
It's nice
The light, the red is bright
Emitting blue and green
Life is this, all that is
Much deeper than it seems
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
there may
or may not
exist
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
blueish-yellow
an unpalatable
greenish-red
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain
indescribable
they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet
unseen
although
scientifically
the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
simultaneously
and
without reprieve
until the border
between
the opposing shades
finally dissolves
there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
yet impalpable
and the proven
yet proselytised
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 11:30 AM UTC
Tethered at the end
with no hope to amend
seduced each other to appease
your love flow in me with ease
Darling, don't look back on you
The days when the rainbow was lifeless
The ultraviolet was in hues of grey
The sunrise reflected back on the skies
The multitude of sorrowful rainy clouds
All cried out and behind our front
My soul laid and screamed aloud
NOW
The shell of the loneliness undone
Chase of the summerly winds donned
The day beckoned with clarity
All hate erased, our love not charity
Un-crippled chase, the healed ails
Un-rippled wavelets,currents and sails
THEN
I unmask the casket
Claim the frozen confusion called life
On this walls are our sacred scripts
The prints that reads indelible
Of how our love nurtures the nests
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
I see you in the park.
I want to look at you.
You want to look at me.
Our eyes ricochet
off each other.
I can't catch you
looking at me.
I can’t even give
a smile to you.
You’re Alcatraz and
I’m swimming to your rocks
and when I get there
you'd rather stay in jail,
kissing the walls.
There is no you. There are a thousand yous.
I know no you. I see 30 yous an hour.
Where are you?
Are you out there?
You’ve got to stay away. You get too close
and you crumble,
or I crumble. Gravity sends
two lives shaking into screws, identities
unable to hold.
But I could know how fragile you are.
How you sit on an iron bench and open
your long, dark lens
to the ultraviolet April blooms.
Shamble into my arms.
I won’t laugh. I promise I won’t laugh.
I’ll break your fall.
It’s my mistake to think
that you’re fragile, that
you’re a flower.
You are a flower, but
flowers are only
advertisements
for the tree.
Flowers fall away early
leaving only the wide, armored waist.
It isn’t you that will crumble.
It’s only me.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Things you could have been:
We could have built our houses in the shade of the sun’s eclipse
And taught our children to build their lives in the turn of the light
Because, silly geese, ultraviolet radiation pours out of its eye
And into yours all the same,
So it's still the day.
You could have waited more stilly, more patiently, more kindly
For the full moon’s pull of your blood’s tide and realized from the
Cracks and cliffs cut out of the shores of your defense that my face
Is the face you can’t remember
When you wake.
But it’s dark outside and still not night, and the moon is full
But your blood is fine, so we keep building houses,
And I keep talking to
Other people’s children.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC