"untanned" poems - Hello Poetry

*(Not a home, I said. An address. The badges and the blossoms Bragged ‘excess’. Etched into every tree The word: S U C C E S S)* I am London And he is me, Not ever knowing which London to be, A button eyed orphan, A one man band, A Dickensian madman Whey-faced and untanned. I was a Ruby Infant, (Montpelier) Via turreted school (Machiavellian lair) My conspiracy of ravens The guardians of lore, Falling in feathers To a barbershop floor. My mind is confetti - From each Westminster wedding, Each pill, each stumble, A little be-heading. I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square And the memory of her is still there in the air, In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists, In the lost eyes of pigeons, (I know it, I’m sure of it - because I know London And he knows me - We flow into each other Like the Thames, to the sea). Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes, Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains, The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly, Our deaths, our murders, So many, so many... Bells, Chiming, Dark Oubliettes, Cradle me, London, My bowed silhouette, Settle me down in your newspaper bed, Love me, Watch over me, And when I am dead, Make me a martyr, Smooth out my head Swallow me up in your gum studded streets, Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet Treading into me, Over and Over again, And every so often, now and then, Play out your bells for my syllables four, *Ding **** ding **** Four and no more, To remind yourself, London, Of silly old me, Who like you, Never knew, Which London to be.

0

Sep 9, 2013

Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC

a-mareship

London

*(Not a home, I said. An address. The badges and the blossoms Bragged ‘excess’. Etched into every tree The word: S U C C E S S)* I am London And he is me, Not ever knowing which London to be, A button eyed orphan, A one man band, A Dickensian madman Whey-faced and untanned. I was a Ruby Infant, (Montpelier) Via turreted school (Machiavellian lair) My conspiracy of ravens The guardians of lore, Falling in feathers To a barbershop floor. My mind is confetti - From each Westminster wedding, Each pill, each stumble, A little be-heading. I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square And the memory of her is still there in the air, In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists, In the lost eyes of pigeons, (I know it, I’m sure of it - because I know London And he knows me - We flow into each other Like the Thames, to the sea). Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes, Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains, The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly, Our deaths, our murders, So many, so many... Bells, Chiming, Dark Oubliettes, Cradle me, London, My bowed silhouette, Settle me down in your newspaper bed, Love me, Watch over me, And when I am dead, Make me a martyr, Smooth out my head Swallow me up in your gum studded streets, Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet Treading into me, Over and Over again, And every so often, now and then, Play out your bells for my syllables four, *Ding **** ding **** Four and no more, To remind yourself, London, Of silly old me, Who like you, Never knew, Which London to be.

67

the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not ~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~ the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures, ***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences, the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface. Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents, (who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck, chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t, unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom, who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors. thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey, a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth. Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed. The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere, so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents, but easily could, for who else writes poems like this?

0

Jul 5, 2020

Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC

island-poet

the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not (for any grandparent-poet lurking about)

the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not ~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~ the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures, ***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences, the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface. Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents, (who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck, chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t, unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom, who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors. thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey, a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth. Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed. The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere, so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents, but easily could, for who else writes poems like this?

25

perroquet avenue lips poems and polaroids pornitography hariness protected by vickies cleavite libertinism third base strobe-lit memories slang.. perroquet = a delicious, minty French alcoholic drink avenue = a shade of deeply red lipstick vickies = victoria's secrets cleavite = untanned areas usually covered by a bathing suit, and thus pale third base = come ON, everyone knows

0

Sep 23, 2023

Sep 23, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC

anaisvionet

fuzzy nite

perroquet avenue lips poems and polaroids pornitography hariness protected by vickies cleavite libertinism third base strobe-lit memories slang.. perroquet = a delicious, minty French alcoholic drink avenue = a shade of deeply red lipstick vickies = victoria's secrets cleavite = untanned areas usually covered by a bathing suit, and thus pale third base = come ON, everyone knows

14

Dear Cristina my friend Cristina The wisp of March wind could not have come sooner I just walked down the road in the purple hour through an unearthly tropical mist that swirled around my body like the ocean swirls around a dancing mermaid like the snow that encircles your body in a snowstorm like floating on the enchanting breeze of a love song I don't go to bed until dawn these days when the earth is blue and sad and echoes the emptiness of the desert with no stars it makes me happy it makes a strange sensation overcome my cheeks as my teeth are exposed to the air and my mouth stretches into a smile it feels a bit like pain but it's not pain and it feels a bit like acting except it's real a smile from the dawn of man a caveman monkey smile of vague origin and strange ceremony a smile that might disturb and perplex even closest friends but it is not my intention to frighten so it's for the best that I am mostly in solitude and that the few remaining friends I had are all gone now I bounce around from place to place 5 places in 5 months I'd forgotten what it was like not to have a home it's nice I was spoiled but I can tell you for a fact I know I am alive now no questions asked no doubts I'm sitting in a ramshackle old beach house that's haunted with a ghost made of mold surrounded by a clutter of bizarre and beautiful paraphernalia dusty antiques that haven't been touched in years and little statues in corners hidden by five hundred green plants dinosaur plants here and there my clothes scattered about my open suitcases in a corner my new acid wash jeans bunched up on the floor The kind you've been searching for for a year now I spent my last 5 bucks on them yesterday I haven't much in the fridge this week so I eat potatoes I'm still on Steinbeck's "Cup of Gold" sipping it slowly like a fine wine the March break kids are in town this week shooting off firecrackers outside my window and stealing all the cool sweaters at Goodwill We should go to Paris on our way to India this fall we're gonna paint that town literally until then read some books and go to the movies at night and when you put on your first shorts with still-prickly untanned winter legs think of me

0

May 18, 2015

May 18, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC

k---m

Dear Cristina

Dear Cristina my friend Cristina The wisp of March wind could not have come sooner I just walked down the road in the purple hour through an unearthly tropical mist that swirled around my body like the ocean swirls around a dancing mermaid like the snow that encircles your body in a snowstorm like floating on the enchanting breeze of a love song I don't go to bed until dawn these days when the earth is blue and sad and echoes the emptiness of the desert with no stars it makes me happy it makes a strange sensation overcome my cheeks as my teeth are exposed to the air and my mouth stretches into a smile it feels a bit like pain but it's not pain and it feels a bit like acting except it's real a smile from the dawn of man a caveman monkey smile of vague origin and strange ceremony a smile that might disturb and perplex even closest friends but it is not my intention to frighten so it's for the best that I am mostly in solitude and that the few remaining friends I had are all gone now I bounce around from place to place 5 places in 5 months I'd forgotten what it was like not to have a home it's nice I was spoiled but I can tell you for a fact I know I am alive now no questions asked no doubts I'm sitting in a ramshackle old beach house that's haunted with a ghost made of mold surrounded by a clutter of bizarre and beautiful paraphernalia dusty antiques that haven't been touched in years and little statues in corners hidden by five hundred green plants dinosaur plants here and there my clothes scattered about my open suitcases in a corner my new acid wash jeans bunched up on the floor The kind you've been searching for for a year now I spent my last 5 bucks on them yesterday I haven't much in the fridge this week so I eat potatoes I'm still on Steinbeck's "Cup of Gold" sipping it slowly like a fine wine the March break kids are in town this week shooting off firecrackers outside my window and stealing all the cool sweaters at Goodwill We should go to Paris on our way to India this fall we're gonna paint that town literally until then read some books and go to the movies at night and when you put on your first shorts with still-prickly untanned winter legs think of me

70

My time is not meant for those who pretend to know me because they have seen an untanned patch of my skin Do not etch me into your wooden bedpost as another tamed ***** Titles are not awarded for time served and ***** licked in fits of feverish lust Not your girlfriend barely a friend Do you even remember why I was crying last august?

0

Jan 4, 2017

Jan 4, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC

hope-e

-tired

My time is not meant for those who pretend to know me because they have seen an untanned patch of my skin Do not etch me into your wooden bedpost as another tamed ***** Titles are not awarded for time served and ***** licked in fits of feverish lust Not your girlfriend barely a friend Do you even remember why I was crying last august?

6