"uvula" poems
morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
The Holy Ones
I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,
he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Words run down rutty cheeks and phrases pour out of ears and snotty clauses pool on a top lip. A sleeping lizard with tough skin fills the mouth with a little bit of space for the foot propped up against the molars in the back. Some magnificent ******** can part their jaws to let cascades of magnificent sense pass from them. This unfortunate individual, however, cannot stream any quips out of the correct orifice. If some promising witticism manages to squeeze past the big fat iguana under that palate then the bitter thing would flick at the uvula with its tail and the witty remark would be gagged out in the most broken form it could possibly take. The lie it cultivates is that everything inside is at least a little embarrassing. Desperately romanticising about growing a soft, lizard-less mouth must somehow cure the hard working mute someday. Because what the hell else is there to do when one needs to be undaunted and well-spoken?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
A fool sits alone.
Not dumb but naïve
drinking ideals that were both sweet
and biting on the uvula of his thoughts-
thoughts that once resonated
from truth no longer ring true.
This terminus of sentiments that started veritable journeys
in the muck of questionable sources
housed his hopes
while he dared to dream of a day these hopes may be fulfilled.
But over hills and plains filled with grating winds
of inquiring eyes looking for lies so intently
while false truth slips through their gates,
these hopes gained grit.
Grit built in truth,
and to hazier eyes,
grit grained with wisdom.
So our fool finds himself at a
beginning wrought from this inverted journey,
He’s discovered his truths to be soggy
with the living mire of human deception.
No longer does he sit
with starry eyes
hoping for truth,
he has found it by traveling backwards
through experience until he stands upright
amongst the crawling with lies filling his head.
It is in this moment when all he sees is deceit,
that he knows he has found the truth.
No longer does he believe in it,
he understands how ill-fitting that word has come to be.
In the grand cacophony of the human experience,
the sterling ring of truth deafens.
It takes a qualified lie to reach our hearts.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
The roles
have turned
and the tables
reversed
phobia stricken mouse
will clean your ***** from the floor
I am stronger than my anxiety
and yours
and the rest of those
guilty and afraid
have you no faith in medicine
more so science
than powders you take for fun
I am so insulted
and so angry
imagine the first glimpse
of the top of your head
black roots on black thoughts
I could not feel my legs
and my stomach rearranged
to tickle my uvula
you remember it all
mom
you remember nothing
mom
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
Monday mornings are always easy.
Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.
Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,
Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From
The West. Beyond the horizon,
Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,
Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
Beyond, the continual rings of Agorapho-
bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.
Monday mornings
Are always easy.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 5:00 PM UTC
You can not get angry right now. everyone is looking.
exhale
focus on the
exhale
inhale
**** colored popcorn diesel tobacco
place two feet ten toes on red dirt
swing
no paws
you are not a dog
no one is asking you to sit
spin your phlegm past your uvula
Loogie perpetrates surprised face
this is much more effective than fisticuffs
disgust.
disgust them as much as they are disgusted by you
see
your tastes are mutual
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
*your dangling desire
tempts me to pulsed explosion
intimate speed bag*
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
we're almost nowhere. just one more block...
the town clock a white dot with prayer hands and a mute halo
we inveigle the fireflies in our mantis
our mantras throw tantrums in tandem
we polish lanterns and leave chrysanthemums
for Amish sirens. your wine a thick miasma of phantasms
a Cabernet of rich spasms in the delicate worm
your apple turns.
off again and another alabaster more pale than actual...
the fat uvula pendulum in the dark tower
where the bats nap in ammonia, fuming with green dreams
that turn black the clock, behind the white solemn.
a virtual girl.
an un-promise promised
one hand over your heart
indivisible
halfway.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I miss you with such ferocious intensity
that I start to wonder if it's you I actually miss.
Perhaps, it's simply the idea of you,
or how my puzzle shelf seems to now be missing a piece.
You asked me how it was possible
for two people to be able to share such depth
and such shallow waters together.
I wasn't sure how to tell you how deep those waters went.
It's like your black, your notes, the vision of sheet music moving
once the player gives life to the sound. It's how sometimes,
you feel certain. Others, you feel a million rays of doubt and trouble
and construct that weren't made by your hands.
It's when you can't fall asleep because you're hacking up a lung,
and when John Green makes you want to cry and throw the book and pick it up and whisper
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
I still haven't figured out if I'm talking to him, the book, or you. Or me.
It's when I wish you were in my bed, just so I could lean over and kiss your forehead,
with the light still on and your snores filling the room.
I'd probably take that back once your chainsaw uvula nasal passages filled the room,
but as for right now, my starfish doesn't quite tuck so neatly.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
Iris’s dance back and forth behind closed eyelids
Chest expanding up and down, steady
Mouth hangs open, inhaling and exhaling midnight air.
Slither between cotton sheets and bare skin,
Against arm hair, weaving between hills of *******
Pave the trail of goose bumps.
Tunnel past saliva soaked taste buds
Slick scales snag on a slippery uvula
Oil coats the esophagus
Where are the lungs?
Hiss down the vocal chords, echo
Limbless body navigates the diaphragm
Weave past ribs
Under, over, under, over
Spot the synchronized lumps of flesh
Dancing in unison to the rhythm of the life beat
Coil around, hug them tight
Constrict the chest until the dancing stops
Locate the heart, file the fangs
Make the ******* beat stop
Release the venom into the bloodstream
Paralyze every nerve, every fiber
But just enough to nurture agony.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
There's a dark wolf
behind my heart--
licking chops
ready to feast on the future
and guzzle the night nectar of what will be.
His smokey wings agape,
drawn to fly in to the moon's uvula.
The ash black fur smells of burnt strawberries.
A pale bobcat spectre leans
behind my mind...
smells like a gin bath...
looks over its shoulder
longingly gazing into the murk-muck,
that is.... the past.
Lavender eyes, and patterns of dirt
on its sopping cold fur.
And here I am,
between the two...
a silent meditative fox
under the cherry blossom,
the breezy moment twirls the desert red fur,
nature's hum drums and strums the heart
as it grows into a lotus reaching for the burning sun.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there
Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose
Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat
Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara
Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly
Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:15 AM UTC
Let’s talk about my knuckles,
and how scarred they are;
how the callouses seep
into flesh, become part of me,
rubbing circles underneath the hood
of my uvula.
So let’s talk about my knuckles,
and how they’re only the starting point
for throwing up apples,
golden, red, green,
bitter and sweet,
all of them mine, to be choked
back into me.
So let’s talk about Mary-birds,
and the sacrifices they make
for their children,
and in doing that, let’s talk about *****
and how beautiful the sheen
of afterbirth looks in the toilet bowl,
and how often self-destruction
tastes like sacrifice on the way back up.
So let’s talk about my knuckles,
again, and the visceral scraping
against teeth,
and how much it feels like giving up
to not sit by the toilet
waiting for a sign
that this is somehow enough.
So let’s talk about being good enough,
and how I’ll never feel that way
until my knuckles mingle
with milk-white bone,
and how the rows of pews
are pearlescent,
tainted yellow,
with smoke and bile.
So let’s talk about talons,
and vultures, and everything that happens
after death, and let’s talk about
how one day the sea will swallow us whole,
and let’s talk about the belly of the beast,
and let’s talk about Jonah,
and oh - sorry - the sermon is over,
and the priest is taking confessions,
so let’s not talk
anymore.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 6:52 PM UTC
NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED BUT IT DID
your nightmares had their petrol and fondled the dead pools of your eyes.
they troubled the next world you just got use too
but then; you had that thing with your eyes.
you bit the moon in some kind of
bite the moon why ? not frenzy.
you kept your cell clean
but bartered for mice
that harbored a cat's
hate,
you sleep with jewish nuns from the planet Stop.
you shared dreams with neanderthals of ponderous love.
you had Novocaine to talk too.
the brilliant sleep of Houdini and Passion.
you had your demons sweep the floor of your cave
and you ain't been seen
since you got
that way.
gone are the things you had before the having was all ready false.
you might slip into a giant's maw and cling to the uvula of " now what ? "
i remember your scars like broken promises in a prom dress.
you had your soul varnished by madness and black cotton...
soft tufts of rough judgement and lightning
and bad blood. a conglomerate of was.
you're impossible if you might be you.
i dream you
a wrinkle
in a Paradise
for all the right Reasons
for you.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Come hither, Dear Hallows Eve
and covet these sickly sweets
till porcelain heaves
poor uvula cleaved,
by Sir Grim Reaper’s teeth—
till eyes do burst
like pop rocks cursed
upon the ghost’s white sheets.
Come hither, Dear Hallows Eve.
Come forth, This Villain’s Night,
fair ghouls, you need not hide
and spectres: don’t be shy!
deliver your joyous frights
the witches do abide—
unearth your tombs;
prepare the brooms
and sweep across the sky
on this Villain’s Night.
Come now, Halloween!
hear October’s screams;
the heart’s curdled beat
against my haunted dreams
from which the darkness seeps.
You call me sick
you cry out “trick”
but still I stick to treat—
Yes!
Come now, Halloween!
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
The sound you hear,
Is exclusively yours,
The uvula swings,
Wishing good night,
But remember my dear,
You got to repeat I fear...
When I yawn I turn deaf, I swear...
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
Click-slap of uvula-tonsils and the
brown vanilla on my tongue
write a poem about autumn
and how not to let leaves in your
hair
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 10:07 PM UTC
before the world ends
begin.
that you may not love
is the haunting.
where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.
and nothing is foreseen
like the past.
II
in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.
unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.
and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
I be illin'
The bones in my body be chillin'
The dope that I'm slingin' be killin'
Zig Zag fillin', 40 zoner swillin'
I got twenty...got a five, bro? I'll cut you in!
I got twenty...got a five, bro? I'll cut you in!
I've bought plenty on the live wire, where you been?
I'm walkin' too straight 'n' I'm eatin' my mashed potatoes
L.A. hoes you don't wanna know
Keepin' my toes warm
See how they swarm
They're like bees when they tease me
With their slingers, humdingers
My epiglotis is a-stingin'
And my uvula is swingin' back and forth
Twenty, son, back to four twenty
I get away with a wounded knee massacre
I say what I please, Lenny Bruce on da juice
I ain't no racist
I'm a future born Papist
You got to listen to me
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.
Maybe you consider yourself a god.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried
Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.
An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.
No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
Stranger danger, I am about to make all kinds of poets surrender... how? you wonder why? let me clarify :- let me amplify; my voice is sharper than a knife when I say I love Natalie
Adding a twist between different lives
i magnetise, form faster than they spread there lies
they say that I NEED TO BUY ***** JUST TO OPEN UP YOUR BIBLES
because i am possessed by Love demons
but to all Poets, i stand as a Villain; my messages stay hidden for someone with greater vision
you can't understand my cranium inside, i have a god's insight
I have been painting the future just to fall in love with the past
I miss them all! i miss my soul busked in the devil's mask
this is something that you will never outmatch! this is life vibrating a damb man's uvula
cute babies lubricating toys with saliva, while i am busy kissing a former lover in a world under, but above all you poets that slunder
Your words I plunder!
I am a first class writer
You can't bring me down
because I robbed you of your Crown!
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC