"veiny" poems
i never used to understand why people
hid their pop preferences like
they might hide a **** room...
or like: the toilet paper ran out,
so i jumped into the shower story;
what's with pop music in older people
and getting the embarrassment sticker
that says: HI, MY NAME IS JEFF
AND I LIKE BRIE POP FROM SCANDINAVIA:
nostalgic culmination? death growl
dark metal: the frustration apparent throughout:
frustrated amateur singers with their
strained veiny necks... see that aorta?
opera singers? are they even opening
their mouths, or is this opera meets Roy Orbison?
and by god, that's the case, people are
ashamed to actually acknowledge their
pop preferences... no wonder Patrick
Bateman is fuelled by it...
it's very much like that... pop's the foundation
in you actually liking music...
shame i love music more than women:
keeps my sanity... 2 months apart
and you can't hear a vacuum cleaner,
maybe once a week... maybe...
then the radio starts playing some vintage Roxette...
Abba who? that's for those aged
40 and above... Roxette is my generation's equivalent.
Roxette's masterpiece? Joyride:
the entire album, yes, you'll listen to
this album like some prog rock feast:
Joyride ( : + italics
is the same as bold:
double emphasis )
***** you will! Roxette's Joyride is the
epitome of pop!
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
She frequents here most weekend nights,Big **** long kegs, freaky appetite,Her eyes scan every inch of the club,Wet *** all hard and ***** to hell with love.She licks her lips, and warmly, her other lips respond,She sees her prey and grins at knowing this night will be long,They stroll towards her knowingly, they are the lucky ones,She straddles one, while the other mouth makes her come.Moaning ***** words, and writhing, her **** are bouncing freely,Two on one's her favourite, it makes her come so gleely,Her wet tongue finds something hard and veiny, she takes it in her mouth,Her stroking slips and slides make both guys moan and pant out loud.His ball sack dangles over her, she's begging for a suck,The other's fingers enter her, she loves a finger fuck,Her mouth fills up with pleasure juice, she comes onto his fingers,She licks it off, but takes her time,intent to make it linger...
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
somehow all neighborhood tribes & tribe lords love you.
somehow you beat my score on the nickelcade spaced invaders.
we leap fences
in escape of party befouled
cops. crusaders
of mustache & veiny hate.
you rip your jeans
& lose your artifacts in the creek. into
convenience store warm lights
& makeout mixtapes.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Two people once residied in a flat in London city,
A man who had a drug addiction, things did not seem pretty,
His ***** at eighteen, barely grown who worked the streets at night,
She slept all day while **** guy flushed her veins with coke mixed *****
Now, girl would wonder what life would be like if she were home,
A georgian three up, two down house, with trees and garden gnomes,
She wondered how she got here, reminiscing on times better,
A stupid fight with mum, some awful words, a goodbye letter.
So many times she tried to get away from her **** guy,
But cravings soon kicked in, so she would pierce her veiny thigh,
She saw the flyers on the walls, she knew her mother missed her,
She pleaded with the **** through lips all swollen full of blisters.
Two people now reside inside a house so filled with sorrow,
A mother,racked with sadness for her girl who evil borrowed,
A dad who knows his brother fills his neices veins with drugs,
The money that dad makes from her will never make him snug.
A flat lies empty, desolate, void of two more souls,
A child lies dead from overdose,
Her uncle full of needle holes...
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms-
My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting-
Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel-
To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades-
To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon-
Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom-
Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind-
Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight-
Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Liquid Impulses seep through my bones
and become an unavoidable poison
with the power to shatter my glass organs right through my bleeding skin
I am getting you ***** but you handle secrets well
anything to make you feel more special than standing at the airport making small talk with every pair of lungs so it doesn't look like you're facing all this mass alone
I asked you politely to stop forcing continents and veiny constellations on me
but nightly pleasure is your forte
and I'm not going to pretend I want you to stay
you have handguns that you pray you'll never use, during your long visits to ceremony
you call yourself lonely, but can barley say it because like always you're loosing your voice
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
###
today
I went to the beach in search of epiphany.
I was hoping to find her among the clouds,
witnessing her morph into an ivory shape that would
probe my unconscious into fashioning
some big epiphany
out of her silver linings,
relentless against the beating winds.
or perhaps
unearth him beneath the patterns of cracks in rocks; and
he would weave a veiny trial to
lead my psyche into navigating
the big epiphany
after testing his infallible focus,
relentless against the beating waves.
instead
I felt the sea spray tease my toes
the maritime breeze whip my face
the scraggly sand stab my heels
the roaring waves crash against the jagged cliff
I did not find epiphany.
all I found
was that again
I felt small.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
I fell in love with his hands before I fell in love with him
Veiny & calloused
Sweet & gentle
They held me in a certain way
like the way I wished I had a grip on my life
His fingertips played a sweet melody
which had once put me to sleep in a finger snap
From teasing to caring
his hands were comfort
& now
I'm left with just my own
and nothing to hold
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
A candle in my hands
And I watch the panting flame
I see her idly breathing
Her heart pulsating
Vigorously, her body
Inhales the air of this deadened night
A candle in my trusting hands
I have been told my heart is on my sleeve
She is aching
She is sighing
She is wandering
What in the world have I done
A candle in my sighing hands
And the memory of that evening
Kiss my thoughts
A peck...
And I see your strong jaw
And eyes a perfect sight to find my gaze
A candle in my forgotten hands
I remember you gently easing my way
On the dance floor
Under the moonlight
Under the sun's forgotten face
As the darkness enveloped our skin
A candle in my nimble hands
And my hopeful eyes
Stare in wander
Stare in awe
At the intertwining branches
In your arms
Muscled and toiled with strength
A candle in my weak hands
And I stumble
Hold this candle
With all the strength I can muster
A candle in my terrified hands
As you leave
Footsteps drawn
Ready to go
My eyes screaming, my love
Please stay in my sanctuary
This haven made for you
A candle drops from my weak, crumbling hands
As my legs crash
Like a thunderous wave
To the platform
Unraised...
A flood plain
Where the ruby bleeds
Her reflected colours
From the flame...
A candle lies at my tip of my veiny, Shaking fingers
And you are gone
And the flame dances softly
At the tender touch
Of the Wind.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
i am waiting for my coffee
i am the old couple eating pastries
with their chairs turned towards the window
i am the wafting scent of musk and amber
i am the bright magenta trees lining route 240
blooming in april while it rains
i am the veiny hands i know nothing about
except that i wish they would touch me
i am gulping down the foam
tasting the bittersweet memories on my tongue
the ones that have yet to happen
i am remembering what it means to have teeth
to feel so different, so distant
but entirely the same
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
You taunt me, your
perfection,
your tan skin glows like a god's.
your legs pale with a criss-crossing of
light brown hair,
a furry overcoat.
Your veiny forearms
and blotchy red face, pink with
acne and scars.
Chapped lips and eyebrows
forever quizzing what has been said,
artificial black hair gelled into
stiff shapes.
I could look at you
forever
but you still seem to
puzzle me.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.
No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.
I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.
The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.
Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
*"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."*
as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.
I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."
"What?"
She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.
"Tell me something beautiful."
"I can't think of anything," I said.
"Try."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Run from me.
Did you run from me?
No baby runs faster into my arms, i'll cause you no harm.
I can softly soothe my icelace fingers into the sockets of your eyes, my hands may shake but it's only from love as I move your veiny white eyes to my palms, let them melt like your voice let them drip like your bottom half on my ***
And now you just can't look away, i'll stare into your eyes forevermore, forevermore.
Oh darling, you're trying so hard to get away, Its so ******* cute that you cant tell that i'll make you stay.
My lips on your lips, my teeth bite your tongue, harder harder hurting hurting, copper ink spills through our kiss, and your tongue dripps so lonely from your cold purple lips.
You have my heart so i can take you apart until you give me yours.
Brush your hair with my fingers, dear you'll stay with me forever.
Your soft large thighs, so easy to cut, fingernails, fingernails, fingernails in the ruts. Pull the muscle, bone and flesh apart, make art my lovely canvas. Now i can taste what you really are, my beautiful work of art. we fill your legs with our wedding cake, oh baby aren't we so cute?
Can't run from me now, your mine and you love me but you don't say it enough so I bit off your tongue.
And Im Here smoking cigarettes yet still i want a kiss, burns at the back of your mouth.
Every strand of hair burns just like candle wick, your skin, it cracks moaning like a house full of poisen.
You only moan when I hurt you, but hey, it's sexyer this way aint it?
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 12:25 AM UTC
Our father liked to play a game.
He would count each hawk
preying, circling above veiny tree lines
graying like shadows of industry.
There’s a redtail, he would say, look
at its proud chest and talons of mastery. Our
eyes searched for the creature, noses
pressed to cool glass and 65MPH speed.
Sometimes we’d catch the bird with two eyes, one eye
or none. Meanwhile, our father never took his eyes
off the road, fixed on painted yellow lines stretching
to heartlands down New York’s I-90 West.
With age my eyes became engaged, detecting
the slightest movement peripherally. Rods
in retinas distinguished plump plumes from leaflet
tufts, razor beaks from thorny stags, white breast from
billowing plastic bags. My sideways scan
of leafy fringe is an artifact of habit
when traveling down state roads of this infra-structured
nation. I search for evidence of its natural relation,
beyond all that is manufactured by the jelly-
spine of convenience, beyond wheels spinning
at deafening speed, beyond the grubby hands of greed.
Still, our connection to place is still here and Earthly,
coexisting in delicacy, like the hawk’s nested-blend
of twig and trash. I trust there is a chance for us yet,
despite cloudy puddles of progress, despite integrity
lost in capital gain, despite a forgotten native name.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
tall
lean
tanned smooth skin
short dark hair
crooked smile
big rough hands
veiny arms
emotional
funny
mysterious
guitarist
athlete
shy (but outgoing)
sweet
but what i miss most about you
is the person whom i created memories with
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Part 1
"How about some long beautiful hair" the Santa says
The little girl rubs her head bald and veiny
She looks like a baseball
"No. It doesn't get in my eyes anymore when I play basketball" she says
The bunch of us
Sunken eyed and balding
In wheelchairs and on crutches
Some of us holding our I.V. stands for support
I can only imagine how the Santa feels
The tiniest zombies
All waiting for a turn
Me
I have silver caps on my top front teeth
And dentures
Look like an old Cadillac
Insides all rust and rumble
We all want to know if we were good this year
Part 2
Cut to the bunch of us
Watching the Blue Angels air show
All getting pictures with a man dressed as Shamu
He is supposed to write something on the backs of all the pictures
I try to imagine
What you could possibly write
To a group of kids that looked like us
Each photo
In shaky black ink
Because whales aren’t prehensile
He writes
I love you
Part3
When the circus came to the hospital
We all gathered on a balcony
The news was there
Clowns painted our faces
I asked if they had room for me
Told them I could be like that guy
From the 007 movies
With the silver teeth that could bite really big stuff
They said I might miss my folks
I told them I wouldn’t
Then took off my gown
To show them my scars
They weren’t impressed
Ever since I’ve wanted to join the circus
Part 4
Despite our qualifications
We could not join the circus
But that is okay
All we wanted really
Was to know if we were good
And that somebody loved us
We were
And somebody did
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.
It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.
The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.
She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.
—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.
The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.
Rock forward, rock backward.
What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.
Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.
Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?
I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.
She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
" Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)
Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....
And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
I want to be a man.
I want the broad,
Sculpted shoulders.
I want the deep, gruff,
Musty vociferation that roars
From within the pit
Of his stomach.
I want the veiny, *****
Callous hands. The ruffled,
Strong hands that hold dirt
And flesh without hesitation,
Or dubious grasp.
I want the broken nose,
The ****** teeth,
And the enraged, inflamed eyes.
I want the hair, the dark,
Damp, coarse hair that grows
From his every pore,
Resembling more and more
The body of an ape.
I want the smirk,
The arrogant smile splat
On his face.
I want the swagger,
The saunter that is
So impregnated in his walk,
That one which steps the earth,
Waiting for it to shatter
With his every advance.
I want the commanding voice,
That which with his footstep,
Orders the world to be held
In his hands.
I want to be proud,
Be primitive,
Strong.
I want my immediate desires
To be quenched
By the milliard.
I want to destroy
And create.
I want to seek,
Seek with zeal,
And desperation
Despite stability,
Despite being pleasured.
I want the dissatisfaction
That comes with being a man,
The constant unhappiness,
The constant yelp
For something
Other than what is being offered.
I want to hate,
I want to enrage,
And be enraged.
I want to punch,
To butcher till that which I despised
Is nothing more.
I want to rip that which is his,
And his, and mine.
I want the lack of restraint,
Because it is all acknowledged
When you are a man.
It is all pardoned,
And when condemned,
There is always exile,
Exile to then live in solitude,
Still seeking for that which isn’t his.
I want to breathe freshness,
And deliver the putrid breath of
Meat, *** and saliva.
I want to be a man,
For I am not.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
As close as the rain which runs down the veiny leaves of the poplar trees. Closer still to you and to your thoughts do I wish to be.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
Recoil. And recoil fast.
She was of simple taste so He shattered her veiny lungs with his spit almost effortlessly.
Under his weight she was stunted, her limbs frozen by the constant of his blarring audioporn.
At every touch she had to brace herself for his embrace.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
A leviathan i'm beneath my skin:swimming
bulges veiny skeleton rippling dusted morsels
of
muscular innovations
infinite minute orbs bustling scarlet oxygen
my limbs
w,Re'tHe my copper hugeness
i'm so tiny, in your heat, innumerable witless drips of
sweaty hours drawn long nights groaning
in your skinny monument
i'm hip and teeths and fist and gnashing
thigh purple delicate spiderweb of bloodshot
moans
hey
VENUS and cupid a cushion for his pins
in your nudeness. i'm skin just crumbling to your fingers
in the finite naked cells of your palm
i love you
darling
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
Beige at the top
Folded in a perfect crease.
Look at them.
Those distorted twisted veiny.
Puffy legs.
Nobbly knees
Hairy as bumblebees.
Men in shorts and Jesus creepers.
Sight for older woman's peepers.
(C) LIVVI
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
I remember everything so clearly
I remember when the sun was shining to your face and you looked down at me and told me that I'm beautiful
I remember the feeling I felt after our first kiss
I remember when you told me you want me in your life forever
I remember the look on your face the first time you told me you love me
I remember feeling safe whenever you wrapped me around your arms
I remember touching your hair, your skin, your lips
I remember me kneading your veiny hands
I remember us feeling empty when we're not together
I remember us missing each other's lips even right after we kissed
I remember us naming our future kids
I remember you ignoring me
I remember you throwing everything we had
I remember you not remembering me
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC