"unlined" poems
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
I look through my photographs
And see a person I never knew.
An open smiling soul you might
Tell almost anything you wanted to.
And what a fine face I had
With shining unlined skin.
I look at that face and shake my head
Wish I looked like that again.
I don't remember being that cute
It must be a camera trick.
I'm surely not that hot now.
This just makes me sick.
Someone just managed to
Aim that cheap camera right.
Or else it was the lighting
Whether day or night.
I remember that outfit
And the length of my hair.
But I am sure someone doctored
This picture up somewhere
Because I never take pictures well.
I always look like a freak.
I mean these picture make me
Look like I had a widow's peak.
And, look how tiny my waist
And how great my style was then.
I wish I could be that hot
And that young once again.
I would take that face back again
In a minute if I knew how.
But please no pictures of me today.
I don't like my pictures now.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
writing orrery unto unlined pages
lest my hand stills and my mind with it
turns away from all insignificance
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 1:31 PM UTC
White walls empty walls pure white
Such an infinite blank canvas
Enriched with expectation
Of all that may come to pass
White walls empty walls pure white
A life unlived a life unwritten
In the time of innocence
Before life's hurt has bitten
White walls empty walls pure white
A face unlined a heart unbroken
A heartbeat dancing with joy
The fatal lie still unspoken
White walls empty walls pure white
A hand untouched a hurt undefined
Everything left to play for
No need yet to hit rewind
White walls empty walls pure white
Fingers unburnt tempted by fire
Scorched seared and blackened
A soul emptied of desire
White walls empty walls pure white
A mind in prison a mind in chains
Lost without an exit sign
In a land where chaos reigns
White walls empty walls pure white
Boundaries of a life unloved
Scarred with the marks of torment
But those walls have never moved
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
"the sacred geometry of chance,
the hidden law
of a probable outcome"^
*so many days,
composing years of a book
of empty days
unlined with lines,
white on white pages,
subtitled
no joyous fear
of the
life changing chance taking
wrenching a thing past,
mostly forgot,
except for periodic
ache stabbing
you can't recall
the choices
that you didn't take
that got you here,
nowhere
the road split,
highway and river path,
always chose
incorrectly,
now
so past the younger days
question the lack,
no courage flaw,
what does it matter
anymore,
safe until death,
death having arrived
early on
always bore right,
when left was
the soul
go go
the chance right
un un taken
wanted needed accidents,
trip wires,
incendiary kisses
that rebirth
you one more time,
over over to
alive confirm
but fears of
breaking pain,
made you a broken man
the angles of life
obtuse,
the planes of life
flat fuzzy,
irregular, smudged,
flatlined
days drone by silent,
not a single word
out loud uttered,
three hundred and sixty degrees,
volume measured and
zero summed value
every normal distribution
has a tail,
some fat, some skinny
even this lonely man
has a tale
where the
improbable
is the most unlikely
day of likelihood
his days
were numbered,
they were,
each one had a number...
that day arrived,
calendar unremarked and unremarkable,
when
the hidden law of a probable outcome
saved,
the sacred geometry of chance
was rightly computed,
his number chosen
don't know this man personal,
heard the story from a mate,
third mate third
so third hand,
cause the other two were busy
one, holding her hand
and the other occupado
writing this poem
-----------------------
*A lyric from "Shape Of My Heart," as sung by Sting
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction
there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested
this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver
*as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown*
they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:
briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
to be frail
is a beautiful thing
I think.
with those thin wrists
writ from sheets of unlined paper
and wrought with simple weak.
with those delicate bones
daring to disintegrate
with the lightest brush touch.
with those supple eyes
wide but suffused of colour
used of black and grey.
with those delicate movements
from those who do not divide
and the dance with pinned wrists from those who add.
with those lacy eyed lashes
that listen and lapse the lone deserved
lost in a world of felt and move.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
show me
but a glimpse
of your alluring beauty
an unlined forehead
streaked with vermilion,
lotus-like eyes
where cupid resides,
bow shaped lips
which shame the tulips,
and those full-moon bubbles
which alleviate all troubles
even shiva
cosmic ascetic
gets weak in the knees,
in your voluptuous presence
© 2019
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
The world will wait on you awhile.
Let your heart be eased, and all around you peace.
Let nightbirds sing you to your rest
And all discord and cares and efforts cease.
My love is sleeping in his tousled bed.
At last his breath comes now in sweet repose.
His face, his cherished face, at last unlined-
As in his dreams, Sleep, all his hopes bestows.
Oh,that I could be Sleep, to give him thus!
To take from him, his cares and give him bliss!
But I can only watch him as he sleeps,
And, quiet, leave him all unknowing, with a kiss.
Mar 26, 2011
Mar 26, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
Burning passion, gentle movements, and unwavering precision
Are only three sets of words that describe her
She moved en pointe with her ink-dipped shoes and wrote herself down on the pages of my existence
Delicate cursive appeared across the blank, unlined leaves
Creating soothing poetry amidst all the chaotic rants in the pages before
I watched as each step, throw, and turn add new words to the narrative
The spotlight followed her every movement as she floated across the stage
Jotting down line after line of her calming words
The lights faded after she ended the fourth stanza
And she was greeted with thunderous applause by the voices in my head
I could see her silhouette dance slowly on the unlit stage
She spun for what seemed like hours before the lights came back on
There she stood
The once pure and clean ballerina in white was drenched in blood and ink
She moved aggressively and without remorse painting rough lines on the soft syllables she'd written for me
Her eyes glowed with unholy strength as she knelt upon my pages
And ripped them from one corner to the other, tearing the book's spine
All I could do was stare at her as she smiled at her work
And silently exit stage left
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
The meek and mild
Have much within
To touch eternal
Neutral’s whim,
To walk in step
With time’s embrace
And court emotion’s
Unlined face.
To enter contracts
Soft and slow
Where stronger mortals
Will not go.
To savour life
In bland relief
Avoiding
Competition’s greif.
To throw the race
Before begun
And glide beneath
A duller sun.
Accept restraint’s
restricted prize
Contentment
Sealed in compromise.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
Auckland
26 May 2010
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
The sweetest torment of your lips, I seek,
A kiss that makes my very spirit weak.
Each gentle press, a fire that doth ignite,
A yearning flame that burns through endless night.
Your lips, like velvet, soft and full of grace,
Do haunt my dreams, do stir my heart’s embrace.
In every touch, a world of bliss I find,
A longing deep, a passion yet unlined.
O’ let your kiss be mine, and ne’er depart,
For in thy arms, I find my truest heart.
The world may fall, but you, my sole desire,
Shall be my bliss, my passion, and my fire.
The sweetest torment, bound by love’s design,
Your lips, my dearest, shall forever be mine.
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 2:16 AM UTC
Writers are humble beings.
We are not arrogant,
Mighty,
Or triumphant.
We are merely the artisans of words
That will forever exist.
We mold what we already know
Into a black and white painting of what we don't know.
To better understand
Ourselves,
Our world,
And worlds beyond us.
Between keyboard taps,
Pencils that scratch,
And minds that rage on.
We rarely ever write about
Ourselves.
If we do, it is only our perception of ourselves.
We do not brag,
Only tell,
Perspectives,
Views,
Arguments.
We use characters to view the world sometimes.
The morbid words come together nicely.
They say something loud and wonderful,
Yet too often the words are mistaken for
Personal
Feelings.
When that is not the case at all.
We live through our writing
Our imaginations.
That is how we thrive.
Little notebooks are scattered
On bookshelves and desks
Around the house.
Reminders scribbled on lined,
Unlined,
Stationary paper.
Random words,
Quotes,
Brilliant ideas.
Ideas that will be
Unused,
Forgotten,
Misplaced.
But the important part is not
That we are writers.
The important part is
That we have readers
And we owe it to those
Readers
To put forth the beautifully
blunt,
Excruciating
Truth.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
In the realm where whispers doth dance and time standeth still,
Three voices rise, with purpose sharp and will.
Perfume, Scent, and Fragrance, in a sacred throng,
Declare their truths, each claiming right and song.
Perfume spake, with elegance refined,
“I am the soul of artistry, confined
To bottle's clasp, a crafted dream,
A potion made to linger, to gleam.
I bear the weight of ancient lore,
A muse of kings, of lovers, and more.
I am not mere essence, drifting free—
I am the art of memory."
Scent, a fleeting shadow, whispered low,
"Thou boastest of power, of permanence, I know,
But I am life—breathe in, and then I fade,
In wind, in rain, in every glade.
Not bound to glass nor vials that bind,
I slip through cracks, a breath unlined.
I linger soft on fleeting air,
A reminder of the earth, everywhere."
Fragrance, in silence, sought to intervene,
“Is it not I who weave both worlds unseen?
I am the union of the pure and the real,
The fleeting touch, the lasting feel.
I grace thy skin, I fill the room—
A subtle dance, an endless bloom.
Without me, perfume would not endure,
Without me, scent would not be pure."
The argument raged, in circles vast,
Each voice demanding, steadfast, fast.
But in the end, a truth was found:
Together, they’re woven, the essence profound.
For Perfume and Scent, though both distinct,
Find harmony in Fragrance—linked.
Each alone, a part of a greater whole,
Together, they speak to the heart and soul.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
Oh, there is light in such places:
The galleries of Soho, the catwalks of Milan,
The boardwalks of Blackpool,
But it exists to flatter, to obfuscate, to tell alluring lies,
A trompe l’oeil of a family picnic
Etched on the wall of an abandoned orphanage,
The siren song crooned by a spider
To the enraptured and wholly credulous fly.
Ah, but the illumination here!
The sun reflecting off the roofs
On those Bob Evans and Shoney’s you would shun,
The starlight backed by a host of owls, a symphony of crickets,
All serving to peel away the layers of artifice and cunning,
To be shucked away like so many cornhusks,
Allowing the secrets of the universe to be whispered to you,
Faintly yet unmistakably, and once moved by these epiphanies
What is to stop you from running along the narrow, unlined streets
And green open spaces in mad, unfashionable celebration,
Exempt from the clucking of the chic and the congnoscenti?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
I stand frozen in the darkness
as I stare into my mirror lit by moonlight...
barely able to believe - my old age is near.
See those wrinkles; see each shadow and dent.
Please, someone tell me where my years
of living went...
No pleasure do I find in platitudes
about golden years.
It is real and it is here with all its agonies
and tears.
How sad she is - old woman whose years
have passed her by.
She refuses to tint her hair - no white lies...
It is right there in the face that used to
be pretty and unlined.
Live your life before your days
are trinkets you can’t find.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
The cardboard that became my mattress
my last but one address.
The names with which I have been tagged,the once fine clothes all turned to rags,the sagging cheeks,the days that wandered lonely into weeks and years became my duvet,there but for the grace of god knows who, is who I was and am.
Any woman,man should understand that landing on one's feet is not magic ,just a neat trick and how quick it is to fall,how quickly life can stall and leave you stranded.
Even handedness is not a trait that you will find, struggling on these unlined pages,raging against the might have been,if only you had seen it coming and running through scenarios where only poverty and sadness goes,there is always the hiding in the dark,on the benches in the park you're not alone,so many fallen through the cracks of broken homes and getting shot into slugs of alcohol or drugs like demerol.
The crowding out of being in and being in is what you need,the only hope that feeds the hope eternal is for the cycle to spin and turn,for the wishing star to burn across the moonlit sky and crying to your god above what little love there's left is,
well you know,
the last of any place you go when you're put on show for all to see, and all to see and comment on your misery.
This life blows hot and cold,you're burning rubber then you're old and nothing ever turns to gold unless you really want it too.
I leave you on this satellite to orbit through another night and hope that one day I just might
begin to understand.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
Distance from resistance
Missed shifts in risk persistent
When I'm remiss in the kisses of listed insistence
Your confidence wishes assistance
in the blissful existence
of
Any preexisting feelings
amiss of desistance
You lock you load the slock to hold
Secure and compound the slur to hound
The insecure, the bound
The insincere and the frowned
Until
Your blow quells the next risk
Swollen from a deft fist
Stolen by a neck twist
Beholden to your inner drift at the mirrored wrists
Of the monster betwixt this fixed rift of our mix
The signs won't unwind in your mind
They can't hide what's behind a sombre face unlined and undefined by your take on this time
Let's realign it
Let's redesign it
Let the lock smash with a rash motion borne of flashed emotion
Torn from some shared idyllic notion
Of a presupposition for mutual commotion
Or even of a genuine devotion
Give me the whole of the role of shrouding your soul
Or the hole for which it was sold
I will mould the folds and hold back the cold
With my own old extolled blindfold
Good enough?
Should be tough
No rebuff
Could be
Maybe
- love?
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Miss, Atomic Bomb,
how are you today?
Do you feel a jittering in your veins,
hear a chattering of ivory teeth
in your sugar skull
candied by your wish to always be oh-so-sweeter?
When you fell to the ground under his hands,
rough with militant knuckles
tattooed in unlined blues and purples
transforming into nausea-inducing camouflage hues,
and your new, Target brand, $2.99 black tights
ripped viciously at the knees,
did you feel an explosion in your chest?
Did you feel angry,
willing to lash out with toxic words
that your floodgates had always tried to hold back,
the dams now creaking and groaning in beautiful sighs?
Did you,
when it hurt,
fight against that war hero who had held you close
during a time you could barely remember,
blurred crimsons shading the edges of every smiling photograph?
Or did you fold him into your campfire-scented embrace
and apologize profusely
for being so naturally destructive?
I bet you open your lips-
swollen and bleeding through cracks
that could define
‘damaged’
in the dictionary you flip through
when everything is numb,
and only battle wounds of paper cuts will suffice-
just to speak those awful words.
I bet
you allowed him to tell you
that you were a weapon-
self-triggering,
horrific,
prepared to injure
those
innocent,
pink-lipped,
blue-eyed girls he stared at on the street
just to keep what you had.
But,
Miss Atomic Bomb,
someone had to have dropped you.
someone had to have thrown you
from your security,
and I bet against life itself
that the guilt lies in those calloused palms.
I bet you never noticed
the rope tied around your ankle,
expertly knotted so that he could just keep
reeling you back up into his arms.
He liked you on that verge of manic destruction,
eyes wide,
holding onto oceans threatening to flood that little studio apartment of yours
in New York City.
He wasn’t ready to let you truly fall.
He still isn’t.
So,
Dear Atomic Bomb,
know that that
run in your tights is only the beginning of the end.
The scraped flesh on your knees
is only the beginning of
the carnage that could be wrought.
And none of it will be your fault,
your ******* crumbling-at-the-seams fault.
You won’t cause the war,
and you can still crawl out on
shrapnel-coated limbs.
Take my heed,
little girl –
desert.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
Trains arriving day and night,no rest for me but I sleep light along the sidings,hiding dreams among the cracks between the rusted railside tracks.
Tracking back to sit inside,a cup of coffee split open wide will hide the stains that hide beneath the figure of the man.
The 10.27 can and will spill more than me upon this sea we call our land,I raise my cup to British rail it never fails to give a clue when trains arrive on platform twenty two.
I am blue with cold,my eyes feel older than my face,no lace in my right shoe,I do the right thing,slink and sink into the subway,underground the sound of night and day where only rats and madmen lay,out of sight and out of mind to leave the streets above unmarked,unlined as if these were the better times that we were fed upon,
but we're not gone or gone or gone away and you can say it,say it,say we don't exist,it doesn't make it true or so,so go and take your first class,second,third or any other class you may have listened to and never heard and remember this,
Trains arrive here day and night,some will make the grade others might struggle and yet others will juggle with life and longing and I'm not wrong in thinking that some of them will end up slinking,sinking under the sound,under the underground,hoping there's no one around to see them fail.
Only I and British rail will ever see,who will swim and who will be a footnote on the footplate in our history,a city write,another night and one more train arrives.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Tick tock
**** that clock
stupid face why do you mock...
empty seconds
wasted hours
vases full
of wilted flowers
Pointed fingers
judging me
as grasping hands
won't set me free
Pendulum
without the pit
counts me a fool
with surreal wit
wooden case
unlined with silk
the stench of death
and soured milk
funeral dirge
in hourly toll
breaks my heart
destroys my soul
In a(na)log
I pen farewell
and spend my time
alone in hell
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC
It's always the poor folk who get dropped in it,init? and ain't that the truth,isit?It's
no wonder this country is lagging behind when all that you find are the youth who put more than the truth in the words that they use to confuse,like,
I was like init,wasit,yeah and she said,'get you, king for a day',d'ya get what I mean,d'ya see what I say and that's the problem with the country today,no one can understand the native language of this land.
I blame the teachers,the parents,street preachers,Tesco,Unesco,the allied mills,electronic tills and mostly these little blue pills which make me drawl and crawl across the unlined sheet until I meet the pen that meets my hand and makes me write about the language of the land.
Banned it should all be banned and we should speak in picture frames with names wrote out in jig sawed games and the youth should be seen but never heard,an absurd idea,another flawed plan for the youth will grow into the woman or man that we are,
never far from the truth are the youth of today,we should stop for a while and hear what they say,
but we won't and we don't because the truth's too close to home,so we'll gripe and we'll moan and understand even less,
c'mon fess up
you know that I'm right.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
You're lucky, you know, young sir.
Your face will not fall into lines and you will never wither and fail and have to watch yourself degrade, be given a seat on the bus, a taxi called for you as you leave a shop with empty bags filled with value promises, your body parts replaced until you're more than half-recycled titanium, knowing that you're doomeddoomeddoomed but going out with as little dignity as the modern world can manufacture.
You will never be scared of the streets and the cut-throat carcasses that impersonate the young, never slip and break all because you've become as fragile as a Fabergé egg, whose fault lines too could conceal golden greatness within.
You will never be disillusioned, disavowed nor diagnosed as a faulty by-product of society, to crumble in corners as they count up the continued cost your existence creates and shake their heads.
No, Arthur, this was for the best, you did say that you would never make it past 28?
So many young mouths have echoed this, eyes wide and unlined and naive, brazen to time and unwilling to succumb to its effects regardless of the life lived in between.
It was for the best then, that speeding car and your drunken feet, inebriated on the futility of existence and the unforgiving slip of time. Never mind the driver, the hopeful fool going anywhere until she met you, never mind the infinite loss of possibility to your future self, nor the silence in the halls since you left, yes the trees still sing on as your mother cries.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Do we not say that time know no bounds, like an endless mill of flowing water. For that life is a delicate balance, constantly on the brink of shattering, a burden that is known forevermore. Alas, the dawning light marks a new beginning, but today weeps only sorrow.
It is true the heart can fracture, but with it infinite wisdom is gained. It is said not to fear hope or regret your despair, the memories of both bring promise of brighter days, etching a tranquil peace into the eyes.
The light is seen, but rarely kept. The dark is felt but seldom remembered; for it is a mere glimpse of our very existence. Our broken words breathe luminous spark into the world, a moment of radiance the morning star yearns for.
As today brings sorrow, yesterday lovingly sighs away the regrets. The memories, and the emptied wishes that it has borne alone and alas it finds its face, unlined by the years that have changed your fate, right inside you after all.
Tomorrow? It is not for us to know. The past indeed shines brightly on the future, but for this it has no place in stone. The advancing steps that are made surely have no determined path, for we are all adrift, floating through life’s stream.
Vitam ama (love life)
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC