"vacates" poems
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
I had a moment of clarity
In my life
When I would wake up
From my night terrors
The train tracks outside my window
Wobbled louder than my sanity.
Yes you were there
Patrolling my dreams,
Sprinkling hatred
Over the innocence.
You were the fake ****
Who conducts lies
With your promises.
Your nails, nail the impression
That you practice
On voodoo dolls
Hanging in your soul.
Tearing each thread
Back to its spindle.
It cries.
Prying apart
Till frost vacates your heart
Into these dolls.
Look at you go!
Like Reptar,
You mustered the mightiest rawr
To scare everyone away.
Like reptar you are the toy,
Imagine that.
You see,
They use their imagination
To make you look like
What your faking to be.
Someone different.
You forced me
To lock you up in my dreams.
Murderous murders
Slaughtering anyone
Who mentions my name
So you can feed the meat
You store in the temple
Filled with thorns.
People say stick and stones
May break my bones
Yet your smile
Still shatters them to dust,
Stuck between your nails.
An inconvience.
That's what you would called it.
Hear ye hear ye
My apologies
For me not being clearly.
You must understand
My voice is a little drowned
By the lack of intelligence
You ponder about.
Especially when I glossed over the fact
That this is the poem
I've always want to throw down
Onto your trenches
On your forehead,
The gateway to the mind
Which conducted
The illist mistake
Thinking I'm not worth the time.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
As the singer sings his last tune
And the last dancer vacates the ballroom
The forest's divine string their bow
Preparing the hunt of evil, hate, and woe
In the air are sounds of grinding teeth
And swords are drawn slowly from sheath
Out of the trees extends a shadowed glow
While in their guts, the uneasiness does grow
The parliament speaks with the gnashing of jaws
While the public stands impatient with sharpened claws
For the prophets to sing them another lie
And the puppets to dance it's truth to their eye
While they stand idle for their ears to be fed
The rebelled divine load an arrow of blackmail and lead
With sights set upon the political beasts of Nations
Tonight, the hunters will over-step their station
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 9:10 PM UTC
Said she would love him in winter
And summer, regardless of what the
World might do, even sin and Lucifer.
Though Apollo should forge his warhead
In the fiery furnace of the sun,
Though Diana vacates not the bed
Of succulent roses in the morn;
Yet, with him said she would tarry.
But she left him unannounced;
With another has she been hooked.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Like someone hit a baseball into your throat,
as it travels slow like molasses down the esophagus.
Then it just lurks in there for a while,
until it reaches your stomach
And once it's there, it remains.
It grows long spikes,
and longer those grow,
then they churn in the basket of your tummy.
Ripping apart each entity while it resides.
Eventually it vacates,
only to lurch back into your system,
reverting back to old ways.
It poisons your thoughts;
it fills your head,
and it expands until you blow up on someone.
That's about how it feels.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.
And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.
The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.
He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.
He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.
This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
***** voraciously vacates my mind
Slowly slipping slyly swooning
A drink I drank delirious and dumb
Never nearing, nothing but numb
For faint I felt a fleeting feeling
Till I tipped back a bit from the tap
Alcohol has always been an ally a la
Loves lost labors misplaced and lame
I'll drink to that and sink to that
And take a few shots more
And maybe then it will be like before
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
sand drifts down deserted beach
leaves float off once vibrant trees
lashes left untouched on cheek
curtains shut the bright sun bleak
endless hours of midnight sound
bruised knuckles on dark wood pound
sound of sheets sigh on mattress
second-hands strike drum and miss
misspelled words, soft spoken steps
lonely rose, the last one left
no air in two burning lungs
dead garland on mantle hung
dust dances for aimless wind
sunflowers to ashes bend
salt vacates a brackish sea
empty woods hold silent plea
never-ending days to come
deeper nights, but brighter sun
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
Adorned!
Adorned in scarlet,
Love as she bleeds,
A heart torn out still beating,
Bathed in claret,
Drenched in tears,
Silent, cowering in vacant corners of abysmal dismay, in total disarray of obsolete dreams,
Tears flow as torrential rain,
Spirit vacates words, as lies corrupt and die,
Doomed to wait in misery while eternity waits impatiently,
Cloven hooves etch on worn ,
Welcome unto desolation in degenerate spirit form,
Burning as lightening catches me, electrifying fingertips,
Kissing in magnification,as spirit charged in justification,
Live to love another day,from whence pain came and went astray!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Drop a penny in the wishing well.
Watch the ripples emanate.
If wishes were kisses I have but a few.
Those that I have.
Will share only with you!
The ripples will magnify.
In our minds eye.
Pour oil on water.
Somewhat troubled.
Watch colours on the shining surface emulsify.
Play silly boy and girlish games.
Episodic I-Spy.
Count the pennies in our ***
To see how much we haven't got.
Money doesn't matter much.
Missing feeling is true cost.
Ride the rainbow.
Until she vacates.
Vanishes back from spectrum in grace.
At her base is a crock full of gold.
Hidden from lovers.
Two lovers hunting, afore they get old.
She vanishes rapidly.
Back into the mist.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
I wish I had the words to describe what you meant to me.
But, right now, my diction fails me.
What a curse it is to remain silent in this moment,
Where the opportunity is present
And the time is ripe
And my opening is beyond available.
And, as quickly as it appeared
My chance vacates
And I’m back where I began
Waiting for a moment
To repeat the past.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
I find myself
here again, the place after
the ride, the drive, the walk, the run
I know this is the place
because I see a man, stopped in a car
he drives away when my gaze meets his
as men in cars should
So I fill the position he vacates
I stop my (bike)
and I am here
the (corner) of the (streets)
with the (sidewalk) and the (flowers)
and the unimportant coordinates
less important, even, than the (layers of stones)
fencing the (yard)
But I am here, I brought myself here
not to get away from anything, but wholly to get away
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
Fingers crossed,
We stand at the edge
Of existence.
Poised to leap,
We lean to peer,
As if two inches
Would reveal our destiny.
Fate is blind,
So we hold together
What might be our last.
My heart forgets rhythm,
My feet feign friction,
And my mind vacates,
The beautiful absence
of meaning before time.
Air intrudes my lungs,
And halts.
A gradual tilt lowers us
to the end's beginning.
Our descent has begun.
I lose sense of motion;
Sensations blend.
A myriad of mobility,
Summarized into
such simple sounds:
We fall.
Directionless, muddled,
Stymied attempts to retreat,
To take back,
To return things
to the way they were.
I recognize the fear,
And I smile.
This is what we wanted.
This is what was
meant to be.
Knowing not the destination,
Knowing not the journey,
Knowing not the motivation,
We travel onward.
We do not look back,
Because there's no such thing.
We are forging a path
as we go.
Pioneers, in territory
we create.
Unrivaled excitement encircles me.
This is my set.
I know my lines.
The cast contains
familiar friends.
The time is now.
We are here,
to start the show.
And I am born again.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
(You've been visiting me more lately. I was so happy to see your face again, but you overstayed your welcome soon enough. Though, I really don't have the heart to make you leave.)
Surely, you'll leave on your own.
Usually, people don't stay that long.
Seeing your smile all the time brings one to my face...
I still want you to leave now.
Et cetera, et cetera...
It goes on. It goes on. And once more. Forever?
Leave or love, it doesn't matter.
Over time, they mix and match, and my mind
Vacates and accepts.
Eventually, my heart takes over again.
You.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
To flow is to go where you’ve not yet called home
The unknown made of stone that is bare as a bone
Chaos and mystery jostling wistfully
Not yet confined in the annals of history
At the very limits of human ability
Requiring mental and spiritual agility
Not shrieking discordance but mellifluous ditty
There lies a place greater than the Emerald City
Energy bursts forth to fill this new realm
The body takes over, mind vacates the helm
The movement and choices come effortlessly
Without any trying, you’re finally free
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
The infant peers out,
of the window
as it soars high up in the sky.
Introduced by those,
who beget her,
into the land of opportunity.
the years passed by,
infant to toddler to a young adult,
cradled by this lavish land.
The memories with her folks,
the life engrained in her blood,
as she prepares to soar.
With a heavy heart,
she vacates her second
home, with hope for better.
Alas, there she peers out,
of the same window, for the last time
as that life becomes a memory.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC
may the sunshine
find its way into your heart
clearing the debris
leaving its light
in the holes
that were empty
with blackness
birthing new life
into old wounds
forgotten but not released
from the cage it sits
nursing cuts and bruises
tourniquets wrapped around
like lolly wrappers
tightly
the bleeding stops
the skin begins the
repairing process
the heart pumps
the light into the body
from head to toe
attaching itself to every
fiber of this being
the harshness vacates itself
leeches no longer *******
the pureness of innocence
the small amount that she still retains
taken was everything else
except sanity
she kept that
despite all of the insanity
she was immersed in
of others, not her own
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
The kid's been caught up in a current;
he's currently thought of as a servent.
His life's purpose: to bear down the weight of a ***** little brown voodoo doll pendant that's drapped around his neck like
a gold chain stark with disorderly fashion.
Here's the catch: only he controls it.
Grasp at the lantern moon through
the thick of darkness.
The Slumbering One. The Never Enough.
A butcher of thumbs; he's dumb, numb to the tumbling hands of a clock gone wrong,
clawing its way through the wind of them empty halls.
I imagine all sorts of things happen
when he closes his eyes at night and vacates the premises, like dragons and magic in a land inhabited by sages and witches which of course favour the taste of peasants and gizzards mixed
with the innocence of children.
Where he's the knight sent to slay
all that is wicked. But who's to say?
He's to busy caught up with the current.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC