"vacuums" poems
the words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums.
I am waiting to live,
waiting to die.
I wish I could ring in some bravery.
it's a lousy fix
but the tree outside doesn't know:
I watch it moving with the wind
in the late afternoon sun.
there's nothing to declare here,
just a waiting.
each faces it alone.
Oh, I was once young,
Oh, I was once unbelievably
young!
from Transit magazine, 1994
16.7k
"Would it be entirely inappropriate of me to suggest a hangout session in which we go out for tea and some mostly-nonserious flirtation?", he asks, all of which is proceeded by more than two hours of silly, random banter involving eyeballs and pineapples in vacuums.
It seems being asked on a date has become so taboo, to the point that when it does happen, the natural reaction would be to say yes.
TBC...
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
I might've been an only
child but I was never the
favourite. you trailed behind us at every
social event, pulling on my
hair and stepping on the backs of my
shoes. the bottoms of them were so
worn out from years of me trying to run
away that I could feel every footstep in my
lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be
wrapped, because we'd learned the first
year that it wasn't a good
idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight
line, using a ruler as
guidance. I was too young to read the
numbers on it. this year, I bought her a
necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to
take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was
there, it was
there in the spacing of our
names and the negative space between our warm
bodies; we weren't allowed to
touch. she hates you so
much that she could never bear
leaving you. vacuums became my
lullaby and my father quickly grew
used to never getting kissed on the
mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn
stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect
family, and my psychotherapist says you're the
reason I still let myself
bleed.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
(This poem was brought to you by the letter...V!)
She vacuums the worn carpet
Her gaze on the surface vague and vacant
But when you lift the lid
She has been ****** into a vortex
Of whirling cosmic space dust.
She's entered a parallel universe
There her name is Vanessa
And her life's so diverse
By day she announces on
underground trains
'mind the gap, next stop
Mornington crescent'
Her voice is sweet, virtuous,
clear and efficient
But by evening her voice has
more va va voom
She sings sultry jazz
in a smoky back room.
She looks almost the same
Voluptuous lines and a
red haired mane
But gone is any trace of mundane.
Each verse of song she wraps in a sway of the hips side to side
and a ravishing smile
And if the audience try it on
or become volatile
A valiant handsome trilby wearing
gentleman
Can warn them off
With a choice few nouns
And vexing verbs
make them run a mile
And after the show
She and the gentleman
Vanish from view
And as their heated passion grows
They sink down onto A velveteen couch
exploring her peaks n valleys
With his keen mouth
And she traces his muscles
Vivid veins, v lines
She reaches his peak further south.
Back out of the vortex
And back in the room
She is breathless
And her heart is fast and keen
She has stopped the vacuum
Instead saught solace
In the vibrations of her washing machine
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
**** these violent black holes
Compressing each and every passing soul
****** through these eternities
By vacuums of unknowns
On the other side where entropy awaits
There at the eventful horizon
Another big bang
At heaven's new gate
Hope is but a hypothesis
From an obsolete science book
Outdated in spirituality
Humanity is always
On the hook!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
Journal Entry #11
People in my life always ask me why I don't date, my mother included. And we can now add my therapist to that list as well.
I told my therapist I find dating humorous and annoying currently.
I think my answer caught her by surprise as she smiled at me and then asked why?
So I decided throwing out actual scenarios would be my best course of action.
I told her for starters I'm completely oblivious when a guy is interested.
For instance:
My Mother: "Honey, why didn't you end up going out with that nice boy, he seemed like a good person for you?
My Response: "Mom, I planned on going out with him. But then I started watching that movie What Woman Want with Mel Gibson, and I came to the conclusion that I'd rather not wear pants.
So I never left my apartment."
~~~~~~~~~~
My best friend: "Hey, that guy over there keeps looking at you. He's totally checking you out!"
My Response: "Naw, he probably has something in his eye and just so happens to be looking in my general direction. He was probably eating something spicy and touched his face. You don't know!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Sister: "Umm, that man was clearly hitting on you. He was just just taken by you, it was so obvious! He was smiling at you the entire time."
My Response: "Naw, he was just really interested in what my preferences on vacuums were."
~~~~~~~~~~~
My therapist laughed at my awkward interactions with men and then went on to say,
"Clearly men are interested in you, but maybe you're just not ready to even be open to the idea of dating again, and that's why you really don't see when men are actually interested in you. How do you feel about that?"
My Response: "I think in part that's very true. But I also think that the idea of actually having to put on pants and talk to men is just a huge no thanks. I think the day I even humor another mans existence will be the day a man makes me happier than eating bread in a pile of freshly washed laundry.
A girls gotta have her standards."
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Scandalous, you running in your underwear
Droplets like dew, dripping from your hair
If you didn't think it was odd
I would try to catch them
We dried on that rock lying lazy in the sun
Sidelong glances at each other, one on one
Neither of us could stand to look too long
As if the vacuums of our eyes
Would create some black hole
You spoke and the little hairs
On the back of my neck
Stood in applause
Your hand brushed my hand
Goosebumps rippled from that point and
Through my body,
Alerting everything,
Like electricity
I was instantly alive
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again
What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis
I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again
A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there
To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again
Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph
Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or **********
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays
She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure
He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
A solemn wasp invades personal space
It’s buzzing – annoyance in stereo.
Trapped, alone, impending death confronted
It’s passing – a just journey.
Bonds are formed, the wasp’s brothers and
Feelings of naïve permanence
Fill the air.
Lost.
Unjust.
Perhaps dearest wasp truly travels alone.
Why is it this pestering beast?
Itself not a compelling creation
Creates hate with an air of such ease
And when gone, vacuums ensue
To extreme, unexpected sadness
The next life will see done, on equal footings made.
The wasp will be a true friend with a
buzzing friend buzzing relative buzzing girlfriend
buzzing boyfriend buzzing son buzzing daughter
buzzing home buzzing you
Oh dearest buzzing life please release me too.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
The clock smiled at us
as if it knew we were lost.
Unable to see the path, we continued along
on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes.
Tired of our aimless float;
fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance.
With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey
we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts
While lost in the chasm of our indecision
our bodies and minds listed.
Our attempts to unpack the endless
parcels of our unrest ... proved futile.
So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs
and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding
that it was only by closing our eyes
that we were able to see; were able to feel.
However, the rhythm was off
which was immaterial as
our feathers were ruffled and
the rhetoric was pluming.
With the overture of the new day dawning
we turned our back
on the algorithms of our demise
and shucked off self-imposed limitations.
You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and
the world that never seemed to want us
needed us now.
So like anemic royalty, we took flight
breathing down rarefied air and
gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow:
our intergenerational trauma
one more time.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
in line at the bookstore
overhearing three suicides.
occupied,
endless vacuums
and no translation ....
- -
what poet has nothing to say?
eavesdropping as balm
for loneliness -
people aren’t
making it.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
old light. there's
mold on your
information.
your me
is flipped through
photo album. i am
somewhere between
the solar spasms,
deleted and spatial,
****** off. holding
no grudge, i
just can't care
that hard anymore. all
i want is
soaring silent synths
and eyes, mine, closed,
holding vacuums on the lids.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 5:17 PM UTC
My tired eyes,
my fatigued mind
falls slow and time becomes obscured by
the drowsy raven sailing sunset sky boulevard.
My phone is ringing orders and misdirection calls,
that funny little radiation box hollering voices
of somewhere, telemarketers in India, automated messages,
spurious connections anywhere but here.
The rain-shine of approaching April Wednesday
trails golden hues among the treeline being viciously
torn like a gradual atomic bomb flattening the hoary hills
and spectacular firs beryl in frequent times of showers.
Each day I hope for that fabled resurgence,
nearly a year my fingers have been crossed
while wars are still wars, politicians still politicians,
gods still gods. Everything is so still, silence among fury.
Carpet bombings, protests, genocides, reforms, riots, the drowsy
raven circles in view of the window and my thoughts cycle around
my washing machine consciousness wiping off the grit of untruths
of everywhere else but within myself. That seems to be the problem
with most people.
As the clouds roll in, as the sun subsides into darkness,
as my mind is clouded by that ever-expanding raven encompassing
night sky and nightmares, I realize I hadn't even gone out at any point
that day and probably wouldn't the next.
We've become so dull some of us.
Vacuums inside of vacuums.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
I couldn’t have no bunch ‘a “Baby-Daddies” hanging around my life
Jugglin’ ‘em- and tryin’ a keep track of
What each was supposed to do for his
And when
And how
And how much
Naw…that ain’t my style
~
I’m the lady that he introduces to other ladies in his life
I’m the lady that he takes to dinner with his mama
I’m the lady who
Can stand up under his friend-girl’s scrutiny and
Bear the weight of his auntie’s infamous stare
I got
Way too much class to have too many babies
With too many different daddies
Right?
You understand what I mean…
~
So when I looked up
And I had ****** up
And was knocked up
By another woman’s husband…
(With my classy self)
Well… that just would not do at all
I mean I may be
PRO-Choice
But in truth
I had
NO choice
Right?
You understand what I mean…?
~
Hell,
Too many kids and girl might
Fool around and end up a “pogo stick”
And I ain’t no **** pogo stick…
You know…
“Fun to bounce around on-
But no self-respecting grown man
Will be seen in public with one…”
I had NO choice…
Right?
~
It wadn’t so bad…
Once I got past the
Nightmares of vacuums and clogged ******* sounds and the pain in my guts
and the bleedin’ ‘til I chafed and the crying ‘til I puked and the sore leaking ******* and the
Hole in my soul…
It wadn’t so bad…
~
And it had to be done
Right?
~
Besides, I lived through it…
And in the end- it’s all about ME
You understand what I mean…
You hear what I’m screamin’?
You hear
What
AAAAHM SCREEEAAAMING!!!?
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
caked on makeup, lyrical lash lines, clear
thoughts for the first time; trying so hard to type
out the right words to make the world stop spinning ten
times too fast in the wrong direction. can't you see it's making me ill,
the way you casually can't decide and lean
on calves of glass and card towers of achromatizing dust?
I am a kaleidoscope of many other ashes to ashes to dust;
cut across from rib to rib and leeching out the clear
air you breathe. I am perennial, the one to clean
you up when you fail to break the mold and fall back on type-
casted stereotypes of who everyone else thinks you should be. still,
I am the one who doubts and falters, often
has the idea that we are erased and quick forgotten
the moment our idiosyncrasies peter out and dust
replaces bones we came to know. I am shrill,
and I talk too loud at all the wrong times; I can never clear
the plates I stain with blood and pile high with subtype
after subtype derivatives of things I should do and glean
vivification from carefully, anxiously. you have this lean
skin and enviable, insouciant lilt to your walk towards me at ten
o'clock when I can't see straight anymore, can barely type
the last letters of my poems. your eyes are clear
and you're free of that indestructible and obliterating dust
that clogs my lungs and makes me feel so ill
so often. shallow peaks of your shoulder blades, time at a standstill
when I merge into highways of veins and clean
breaks from responsibility, softly tracing jawbones that clear
my head for just a moment; hands that tremble to fasten
the world back onto my hollow aches and faltering nervous system. I dust
off your window sill and think maybe you're the type
that complements an irrational daydreaming messy busy type-
writer kind of lover. you know, the kind that hates to pay the bill
on time because that's another deadline to miss, who lets dust
fly around because vacuums interrupt abstract art and lean
cuisine, who likes cats and very, very often
misplaces her phone somewhere on your clear
floor nothing like the type she has, like the type I have, like the way I lean
toward your infrastructure to hold me still; darling, you brighten
my mornings of habitual stardust and glass not quite clear.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
My eyes hopes to find yours.
It gazes at your eyes,
With its fingers crossed,
Praying for, at least, a glimpse at it.
But your eyes are, mostly, busy with something else.
Miracles do happen once in a while,
When your eyes catches mine red handed,
In the act of looking at you.
My vision loses focus.
Your eyes gets me lost in my mind,
It may be a brief five second stare at each other.
But that very moment, I’m floating in air like a bubble,
That moment gives me the joy like I discovered fire.
But the bubble does pop at some point of time,
When your eyes gives me the ghastly stare,
It vacuums my mind and chokes it for air.
My mind starts flowing with a river of thoughts,
To figure out what went wrong.
So I start swimming upstream to find my mistake.
Before which you ignite your charcoal eyes with anger,
Which makes my eyes perspire.
-Santhosh (TechNo)
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
There's an earthquake going on inside me, my chest is the fault line, My stomach is a shoe lace factory, and a tornado decided today was a great day to do tornado things.
Ya know? It really ***** when your lungs turn to vacuums and not the good kind, the kind of **** when you can hear sand knock around trying to find a way down. There's a sandstorm in your lungs and all you need is an inhaler, but breathing is easy so you don't need an inhaler.
My mom taught me how to handle this. She handles this.
She taught me cold weather can freeze this over.
But when this fails it can turn into tar and we know that tar is hotter than ****
Are you aware that it doesn't work out when your stomach becomes a shoelace factory and a tornado happens to do tornado things?
My mom handles this. I asist.
Her guts turn to strings and don't do very gutsy things.
Her pancreas called in sick.
That was 3 years ago.
Her cheeks aren't very cheeky.
Her bones show through her skin.
Every now and then I feel the ground start to rumble and I wait for us to fall in.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Fingerprints on coffee cups,
Stale air, exhaled,
still circulating through the ducts, and
Crumbs pushed into cushions
that vacuums will never find.
We can try to clean up
the mess we made
but there will always be pieces left behind.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
SECOND LOVE.
Hand-holding as the stars sing:
I think I am getting older.
I don’t believe that’s the roar of God out there,
it’s probably just the wind or crickets, who don’t
burn so bright and distant; screaming in the dark.
Sound doesn’t travel through vacuums anyway so
it’s funny
that I can still hear you
whispering through my phone.
Didn’t that conversation happen a week ago?
You’re under-cover in your bed-sheets,
hiding from your parents while mine just watch TV.
Again, this is all just memory
where sounds cannot reach us,
but I’m sure you can still hear me
as I tell you that, yes,
I’ve finally written words for you, words for me.
What will happen tomorrow?
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
The summer before
her chest hollowed out,
ribs bowing around vacuums,
her lungs ballooning new geometries.
The summer seas invaded body cavities,
feral and chemically sweet.
Her body became a gondola
ferrying pale, diminutive hopes
across the wide strait of your pelvis.
Oceans shifted gingerly,
unborn into the intimate dark
of throats, heart chambers,
marshes between thighs.
She drew the shores around her close, paranoid.
When they got to her
she’d filled her mouth deep
with different types of char: love, anorexia, Quaaludes.
Marrow coagulated and stopped ebbing
with the orbit of the moon.
Her heart smelled like day-old fish.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
*Earth is such a crowded empty place
Filled with the nothingness of life
Clamoring to reach for the infinity in space
Soiling serenity with struggle and strife
Human hearts are vacuums filled with emotions
Running through veins and coloring the mind
Blood red with taunting unclear notions
Tainting humanity hopeless and blind
A species sailing a Titanic bound for the Ice
Battling waves along a rough boundless Sea
Trying to find another world rich in spice
A Universe beyond what its conscience can see
This race is a stifled prison in carte blanche
And it ends as it starts, like an avalanche*
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
The little vacuum was happy as could be, he was
Being treated to a trip where he had never been.
It was out side where the light was real, to feel the
Air on his hose, would it be sunny, cold, blustery.
Excitement was growing his cord extended with
Help of a friend the extension cord Barry.
So the door opened eager to see what could be seen,
Was the outside world all he had heard sites, sounds,
Smells, now he was cleaned regularly he could take
In the smells and sites he was about to see.
They stepped out side it was all he had dreamed no
Longer in the box time to play to be happy, there was
Big Garry the family car gave me a wink with the
Indicator when he saw me.
Time for a clean was spoken, As like me not tidied up
Much, but now was his turn to smell fresh and clean,
Garry was big but not much older than me. Beep, beep
Went the horn, was that the neighbour couldn't be my
Car as I'm not in the seat.
So we started to vacuum the mess was not the best but
Clean Garry would soon be, Then left alone as the phone
Rang, alone with Garry, then out of the corner I saw you.
Approached we were, I didn't like the look of this person,
Specially as they had waited till we were alone. my Daddy
Told me never talk to those you don't know, as a stranger
Can be dangerous, not friendly.
He spoke saying hello who left you out here all alone,
I hovered but could not be heard by my family, he was
Trying to take me where I wished not to go, but I was
Not alone, I had my friend Garry.
Garry did honk his horn his alarm startled the stranger,
Running out, to what could be seen, saw what was
Happening and came to protect me.
The police were called, flashing lights did I see, told was
He never to leave alone things that are part of the family,
As strangers are danger don't you see, Gary was lucky
As no keys did he have on he.
So stranger danger we both learnt that day, never to be left
Alone for any time, as it only takes a moment to be lost to
Be taken by those that are not family.
*--This was the story of how a stranger should
Never be spoken to, or go with no matter what they
Promise to give. The only people to talk to are family
And the polite police men and woman who will get you
Back if left alone or lost away from family--*
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
You spot her on the dance floor
Her milky skin reflects the glowing
light of green lasers. Her eyes are
closed, as she absorbs the beat. The
bass travels across the floor and up
through her legs as she tilts her
head up in ecstasy.
She is in a world all her own. She
drowns out the crowd, within her
own frequency she moves her feet
to the beat that the DJ creates. Her
hips sway, creating vacuums of
energy and drawing people closer
to her essence.
She sweats away her feelings of
insecurity, loneliness, and regret.
The acid on her tongue does not
corrode her skin, though it does
seem to melt away her inhibitions.
Maybe her clothes, if she's in the mood
She knows all the boys are watching
her. Maybe if she's lucky, there's a man
as well. Someone who can attune
himself to her rhythm and grasp
her complexity. There will be sweet
synchronization as they create sin
waves in between the sheets.
This is her release
Tomorrow
She will be a hair stylist
She will be a nurse
She will be a lawyer
But tonight?
She's alive
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC