"urchin" poems
threads of salt
drowned land
and sea
brisk on the shore
to the vine
of the tree
not fruit
not sweet
but
check beauty
check redolent
check dog named after
and sea urchin-robbed
the steps taken
through the pink
the sunken ships
the little women
with big hair
the jewelry that
weighed them down
to drown
drown
drown
the flower
floats like
a headstone
from the hand of
a daughter
to the mouth of
the sea
where God still
reigns
with a crooked shaft
and a helmet
long struck
by the sky
pink
the ocean loses its way
through the flowers
thorns and
all
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
Azure was the sky, and leaden was the sea;
Not surprising would the discord be
For him who has read Wordsworth.
What ailed his thoughts were the debris
Of broken glass fishermen-in-boats
Might have thrown into the ocean
On a night of 'Celtia'* with no pairing,
Or the sight of a woman’s dress
Whose swollen darkness was
A sea urchin, whose quills
Were plucked by the greenness of rust;
Or a German parachute
Over Kasserine pass**, my thyme nest
And the center of Tunisia.
©LazharBouazzi, July 15, 2018
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Sunday:
Ant Pills
Bear Traps
Cobra Feet
Monday:
Dolphin Lungs
Eel Soup
Frog Limbs
Tuesday:
Gecko Suits
Horse Pie
Inchworm ***
Wednesday:
Jaguar Barbed
Koala Beer
Lynx Lynch
Thursday:
Monkey Chips
Narwhal Fashions
Otter Drugs
Friday:
Porcupine Rehab
Quail Map
Roadrunner Piano
Saturday:
Slug Party
Turkey Slop
Urchin See
Sunday:
Vulture Guns
Walrus Tongues
X No
Monday:
Yellowjacket Fever
Zebra Clowns
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
1317
Abraham to **** him—
Was distinctly told—
Isaac was an Urchin—
Abraham was old—
Not a hesitation—
Abraham complied—
Flattered by Obeisance
Tyranny demurred—
Isaac—to his children
Lived to tell the tale—
Moral—with a Mastiff
Manners may prevail.
6.8k
Growing up, I was taught the story of two men
One built his house upon the rocks and one upon the sand
And I learned the difference between humility and pride
I was taught to differentiate the foolish from the wise
Because when God sent the rainfall and the waters began to rise,
The house on sand crumbled right in front of thoughtless eyes
And my father would tell me, "Darling, don't build your foundation in the weak, in something that might die"
But I've been constructing my home on gravel my entire life
If there is a God
Why did he let me build my house upon the sand?
Why did he lay down every brick and let the nails tear through my hands?
I am an urchin in the dirt leaving claw marks in the earth
And my cries fall from my mouth and cling to my tattered shirt
If there is a God
Then why would he call himself a Father to me?
Why would he want to break my heart and crush my dignity?
He prides himself on the ringing in my ears
and his mason jars of tears
Instead of being my faith, why would God want to be my greatest fear?
If heaven is where he is,
then hell is anywhere but here
If there is a God
And he's my Father
And he is so divine
Then why did I grow up so sick and sad and tired all the time?
Why would he instill doubts from Satan himself for everyone to see;
"You're inadequate
Inadequate
That's all you'll ever be"
My mistakes render me useless,
At least, that's what Father says of me
And if there is a God,
And he's my father
How could he walk away as if nothing ever happened, although I have seen it all before
Because what happens in this House of Heaven stays behind closed doors
He would enter his bedroom, and leave the door open just a crack
So when he would read his Bible and show us how a true Christian should act
I'd turn to my little brother and say "I wish one day we'd be holy like that".
The mortar in my walls are breaking and the water is rushing in
I wish so badly to repair it, but I've always been like this
The dirt I fell in twenty years ago is matted to my skin
The cuts on my soul since childhood are all I've ever been
I'm sorry Father, for I have sinned
And I have nothing good to show
And I don't mean to point the blame, Father, but sin is all I've ever known
If there is a God, would he let me stand before his throne?
Would he take me into his arms and treat me as his own?
Would he wash my ***** shirt and let me stand where the saints have stood?
Would he help me build a house upon the rocks
Like a father should?
I wonder if I can build it well enough to reach him
Because my current house can't as long as its this way
If there is a God
I wonder what he'd say
about me
I am the prodigal daughter you never learned about in stories
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
From bristly foliage
you fell
complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany,
as perfect
as a violin newly
born of the treetops,
that falling
offers its sealed-in gifts,
the hidden sweetness
that grew in secret
amid birds and leaves,
a model of form,
kin to wood and flour,
an oval instrument
that holds within it
intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned
the sea-urchin burr
that parted its spines
in the light of the chestnut tree;
through that slit
you glimpsed the world,
birds
bursting with syllables,
starry
dew
below,
the heads of boys
and girls,
grasses stirring restlessly,
smoke rising, rising.
You made your decision,
chestnut, and leaped to earth,
burnished and ready,
firm and smooth
as the small *******
of the islands of America.
You fell,
you struck
the ground,
but
nothing happened,
the grass
still stirred, the old
chestnut sighed with the mouths
of a forest of trees,
a red leaf of autumn fell,
resolutely, the hours marched on
across the earth.
Because you are
only
a seed,
chestnut tree, autumn, earth,
water, heights, silence
prepared the germ,
the floury density,
the maternal eyelids
that buried will again
open toward the heights
the simple majesty of foliage,
the dark damp plan
of new roots,
the ancient but new dimensions
of another chestnut tree in the earth.
5.4k
Memories are swept away by the wind
I reminisce all the moments we shared
All my shattered hopes you knew how to mend
No matter what I've done you always cared
Remember how we used to play guitar
On The Road To Nowhere we'd take a hike
All these memories seem distant, so far
I miss those days, I miss you Uncle Mike
I'd like to again visit Urchin Falls
And drag our canoe down The Peace River
Hear the frightening sounds of cougar calls
Fossil dig while the rain makes us shiver
When do we get to spend time together
Play in nature all day, despite weather
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
I saw an Ulila
Whilst riding a Jeepney
Half-Shoed,
Half-Footed,
Saying, "BAYAD!"
An Endearment for Pay
Yet my Eyes affixed
On his One-Footed Shoe
But due to the Wear
Of a Day's Sweaty Trod
Begging for his Family Dinner
Hoping he could have a Full Meal
And Smiles
For him and his family
And still waiting
For his Final Stop
And still scraping
His Hard-Worn Scar
Thus the Ulila
Handsome to Beg
Despite his Birth-Marked Nose
Which was actually blood
From a flavourful fist-fight
And Soil,
Paints his Tender Body.
Thus the Ulila,
Swollen in his Eyes,
Suddenly remembered
He had nothing to Beg
For since his Time,
Was centred on Smiles
Greeting people,
Wishing them the
Best of Cheers and Holidays
And his Reward,
Sheltered and Soft,
Reaching the end of his Bay,
Cried, "PARA!"
An Endearment for Stop
And disembarked
Full of Flavours and Joy,
Wondering,
If he could Share such with his Family.
Then the Ulila,
Felt a Weight,
And Jingles in his Body.
Thinking of his Thursday's Stones,
He took some out
And all he found,
Were just some Worthless Pesos,
Given secretly,
By the Passengers he Entertained
In the busy Jeepney.
Thus Smiled the Ulila - The Selfless Urchin-Boy.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Really my Lady, such was not my Intent
To be the Bordered Jack who ***** your Consent
Your Basket remains yet much Food was Spent
And yes - the Reason - it's Bottom was Rent
Should we blame the Urchin? That I guess not
The Market was charged in Prunes worth to Sell
Else I peel each Fruit and leave it to Rot
Then shoulder the Rage of not being well
There She is: The only Unforeseen Truth
Distempered with my Touch of Forks and lies
Which I should have learned in her Peeling Youth:
That a Prune once tasted tastes better with the Eye.
All this I learned in a Lesson so Big
That the Grape recovered was born a Fig.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.
The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner
I was eight
I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room
I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays
We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans
I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count
And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive
They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time
They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis, tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life
To that first enchilada.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
I saw the smooth hands of children grow calloused,
sanded by the empty hopes
that the cold has whittled down and sharpened into crucifixion nails.
Dragging their feet through broken glass and street waste, one shoe one sock,
I thought they were just urban children, or the ones
in malaria countries. But I see them stagger now, older, defeated
baring their bodies and chewing on their brains, teaching the little ones
how to polish shoes and hide in alleys that smell like **** and assault.
That one looks like me, his guardian about my size, so I pull my coat closer.
I recognize him from school in the smell of unwashed hair and the gurgle of
A self-digesting gut, nothing to soak up the acid that burns his throat.
I watched the world ******* them into hunched shoulders and boney legs
that have forgotten how to hug and run, trapping them in a constant state of shuffling
to the music of moans and cries for help. They come together in an urchin clan underneath bridges and on the exit ramps of highways.
Prophets of the future clutching at signs about war and veterans, the bad economy and the children they can’t feed.
Ten dollars to the one with the mut. Offer him a smoke.
Politicians act like clean-up crews, counting them like statistics;
This one is gone, the one on Brown street died,
We got rid of the one looking for cans in the student neighborhood.
Charity elevates them into a an opportunity—
A little money to the unfortunate is like bleach for your soul. Just enough
to get the smell of affair out of your hair, or to clean up the poison in your veins.
God helps the outcasts; five dollars ought to do it.
I shudder at our similarities. Brown hair, brown eyes, smart.
His sign ignores no rules of grammar and deserve credit for its precise calligraphy,
The dog at his side is ***** and worn like the stuffed toy
I covet from the nights in my crib—the same. He is a victim of people, I am a victim of people
Both someone’s child, both like dogs.
I watch as he turns into a younger man, and then an old man, and then a woman,
A child with no shoes and crucified hands, the boy in my class with eyes that devour.
I walk home, wondering what kind of charity will save me from myself.
And that is the problem.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
A priest arrived by ambulance
to bless our sudden kiss
A doctor brought his bag but cannot
treat such things as this
My jewelry is just colored rocks
like pretty polished hollyhocks
in silver settings gone to curls
the same as any other girl's
but I could be your only love.
A flautist played our melody
in notes so fine and clear
That summer brought her midnights close
so that the moon could hear
the notes, the song so marvelous
the player played so long for us
the priest laid down his holy flask
the doctor blushed before he asked
if I could be your only love.
An urchin took a photograph
of you in uniform
You gave me spice and chocolates
to keep my fever warm
and lucky is the lucky bird
who calls and calls a wafting word
In this peculiar pregnant dawn
his curious and constant song
that I could be your only love.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC
An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.
Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.
But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.
For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.
Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same
You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral ************
But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.
The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.
And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
Bottoned to the jaw
stone cold face to thaw
roughed and raw under
the black cloud dress shirt,
loud like thunder
as a I skirt the jungle
that is the tangle of bangles
and bands, hanging from wrists
followed by hands, twisting
to grab clear courage
with a flourish
Gulp, gulp, gulp
another plunge, more lurching
spiked up exterior like a sea urchin
lurking in the deep, dark ocean
Slowly getting dull
I'm emptier the more I am full
fire slowly flitting out,
I'm a dying coal
a half burned ember
put out by the snow of December
just pretending to be fire
I'm happy (I'm a liar)
but I never tire
of drowning
lurching, lurching
prickly again, I'm a sea urchin
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
It used to live on the hilltop
where a lone bell tolled
by the temple:
but the Deity is long gone
and the bell mourns
in the valley wind on empty
afternoons, now.
I went searching for it:
in late summer, the koel
would sunder open the vaults
of heaven and bring
some down for us mortals
haunted by death.
The koels are long gone now.
Peace,
peace.
Lady siting silent in the evening
staring vacant into the sky,
after a day of labour:
can you give some to me?
I thought it was in education.
But that is stored now, in
almirahs where moths
eat way what humidity cannot.
I thought it was in a position.
But they don't matter, now
a ladder ascending
to nowhere,
vanishing mid-air.
Old man, smiling past hope
that has broken like
your lost teeth:
can you give some to me?
I asked the urchin
playing in the ditch after the rains,
he said: 'follow me, I know where
it lives', and he led me to
a ***** pond lined with plastic
and all our civilization's refuse,
and jumped in.
I returned, disgusted.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
.
Her fine hands gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.
Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.
Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.
Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.
Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.
Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.
Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.
.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:22 PM UTC
The glaring orange and red vermillion rays stretched over the mountain top and city skyline in the humbling spectacle of nature’s dawn...
Lifting away the frightful, cold and deathly nuances of the city by night...
The dull glaze of the concrete motorways,
Spun and circled around the growing organism of steel suburbia...
Filled with a meandering stream of colourful cars
Feats of engineering beauty
The blaring noise of traffic drowned out the natural stillness of nature’s beauty...
In the peak rush hour of a Cape Town mourning....
To the left of me...
Stood the deathly profile of a street urchin...
The little lady...
Body thin and frail, hands out-stretched in a sinewy leather grasp...
Warn and tattered rags for clothes...
Burnt and ***** face....
Yet still able to muster a look of hope....
I lifted my fingers to my mouth
And let out a shrill and deafening whistle
Drowned away by hooting and the hum of the engines, spurting noxious fumes,
Defiling the air....
She turned with a vigorous jolt
Raised eyebrows and a head turning smile...
I ushered her towards me with my outstretched hand, well manicured nails
Not a wrinkle of hardship characterising the clean skin
In the burning rays of yet another hopeful morning...
At least for me.
As her body was moving, all I could see were her eyes...
They pierced me, danced for and contorted the world around me....
A hazelnut brown painting, embedded in a small circular hole in the skull...
A gateway to the emotions
Connecting everyone, regardless of age, race or even stature...
As I gazed, captivated.
I saw compassion, longing, loss, warmth and passion in her eyes – the whole spectrum of humanity
In two small but infinitely deep pools
Cascading into a never ending abyss of emotions
Of pain, suffering, a little joy and infinite hurt....
Then I blinked...
And all those emotions, those connections and our future...
Were gone in the simple gesture of a fluttering eyelash
As she looked the other way...
The car lurched forward yet again...
With the flash of a green light and safety of movement
To the other side of the intersection
My hand still outstretched holding the crumpled buffalo note
My contribution to a severely needing hand
Lost with the bustle of life continuing, and leaving behind all too weak to keep up....
She began to scurry away, back to her pavement
I looked back...
The little lady gone.
Lost forever
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Poseidon reared his unkempt head
Above the waves today
An ocean monster dripped in dread
Chest to chest with the bay
“Today, or any day at all!”
The shore-side heard his plea
Salt shucked shoulders tall as islands small
“No being shall ever challenge me!”
One gull omitted a thoughtful word
Which sounded much like “Rak!”
One offended brow raised at what he heard
Poseidon countered with a slap
Five foul fingers touched the sky
And fell upon the sea
A wave as great as mountains high
Sighed upon the beaches knee
With a drunken beat of lazy wing
The gull escaped his perch
Finding another on which to cling
Without a moment’s search
Fists clenched around the shallows
Poseidon was enraged
With urchin riddled lips pursed he bellowed
And blew the beach away
Up went beachgoers along the coast
Into the sandy storm
Sun chapped mums beginning to roast
Castling children, One man named Norm
Gull glided softly on the wind
Providing a flap or two
And to the defeated Poseidon's chagrin
Let out a cantankerous coo
In one last fit of aqueous rage
Posiedon surfaced to land
And in a briny blind rampage
Grabbed the gull with swole hands
Gull in hand Poseidon yelled
“What dare you mean sly poultry?
My kingdom is unparalleled,
All pilgrims seek my choultry”
But the oily gull slipped through his grip
And flew quite far away
And as he watched it dive and dip
He came to see the bay
Debris was strewn across the sand
His subjects were in ruin
Disaster spread across the land
And it was all his doin’
A desperate shade turned Poseidon
As he returned to the great deep
“What use am I as a mighty king
If protection I cannot keep?”
That is how a seagull won
Against The God of Sea
Who forgot about his job, just one,
To keep the big blue world carefree
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things
So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth
So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila
As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware
But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”
Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Sunset is one time, one thing I dare to love
Different to sunrise, but not so much in light
It’s how fishermen hold so tightly to their line
In evening, my countenance feels pleasantly light
I move through cool air, a smooth-flowing line
Intersecting invisible ties, each person and each they love
I wait for some odd thing in a long ordered line
Calmed by the blending of sun and sea that must be love,
Serenely, I disappoint those in need of cigarette light
The sun bade farewell to the sea, and fell below the horizon line
—Urchins are hedgehogs of the sea, I was called an urchin by my mother, which I loved. The nicknames only got worse from that point
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
I used to like you a lot.
i don’t know what ******* happened.
we’re children and you pushed me off the swings,
off the playground,
out of the park.
And now my best friend only wants
me for what i can say about you,
you sea urchin.
bouquet of prickling spikes
piercing my jagged rib bones.
rip through me,
feasting scoundrel,
you ***** you fox.
you viper.
wipe her from my soggy slate.
dinner plate? it’s empty.
everyone is the garbage disposal,
grinding my teaspoons of self-worth
into dusty pieces. i am the garbage.
and i never pegged you as one
to leave me in a
dark parking lot,
shadows curling their bony fingers
around my purple lungs,
but she found you making love to
him in the same car we sat.
the bull frogs saw what you did.
i’m warning you to stop pretending
like you’re still a fawn.
a doe-like female.
i can see through the speckles
on your face
and your mixed tapes.
i don’t have heart left for you,
you ******
kneel in front of his knobby
knees. beg,
*****
muck him up and then
lick him clean,
feline.
slink past me in the night,
in the broad daylight.
you are not a spy
i can see your arteries.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
2.2k
Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and ****** off
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto
Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head
I'm just playing dead for my recital
better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled
feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael
clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era
but staring in awe before the cycle
Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.
Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it
whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you
to be honest...
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC