"veneers" poems
*peace
please*
private property..
intruder hurtled over
seeking who knows what
screaming obscenities
perfect pitch..
find little solace
but by going within
hide well beneath veneers
possible perfection..
but with one
so very far away
loss near calamitous
pardon presumption..
get over discomfort
pick up sad face
work with it
passable poetry..
may reveal a layer or two
if the inner eye ready
shove preconceived away
puerile pretence..
try to prove points
only to efface the truth
lose bits of the light
petty prisons..
all just deadly excuses against living
get locked in by the self
unlock the cell, throw key away
*please..
peace*
S T, 12 June 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.
I **** I **** by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.
I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.
It's a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.
I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.
Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.
But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.
Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.
happy flights :)
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
When she folds into me and weeps,
The world of empty things falls into me
Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome,
Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone,
The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.
Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins,
Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies,
Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple
Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.
A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning
But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 10:17 PM UTC
Speak of the devil and see who appears in the mirrors
Who knows better than you all your fears and what brings you to tears?
The voice that escapes through clenched teeth, grinding like gears
Is exactly the same as the voice saying the things nobody hears
Most all of the verbal abuse does not funnel in through the ears
It stays internal, verbal and mental commingle to create brutal elixirs
Constructing, seemingly out of nothing, life altering barriers
A senseless mugging in broad daylight and no one interferes
Just like no one hears my prayers
The real me almost disappears from years of hiding behind makeshift veneers
Hanging on by a meer thread, I think the puppeteers have switched careers
©2024
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 3:31 PM UTC
I'll take this souvenir of our time
and disappear.
Go before my free will gives way.
Once I was swayed by your smooth talk,
revelled in being at your side,
now I want to run and hide.
My husband, once I was your bride,
now, forgotten vows instead of confetti lay at my feet.
My smile, long gone amidst the deceit.
Veneers cracked, now just a sneer.
I would wish you happiness, but I can't
your happiness hurts the other person.
So, as I said I'm taking this souvenir and disappearing.
You, don't mind my talking to your severed head?
It's just we have a long trip ahead.
And, talking I find helps cheer up an atmosphere.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
the earth world retains its soiled crust,
more polluted than just a few weeks ago,
meaning me is meaner, an iron irony ironic,
madness and meanness anger me more
than-ever-before turning me sour, an infection
and an self-inflection point, forgive me cause
I no longer easy forgive, starting with me, here.
it is so easy to be easier, but the creeps creep in,
what they possess interdicts the free
flowing blood of what we could be,
maybe, even
what we want to be, for some of us,
so I’ve come to display,
come to splay,
come to say,
nice has
been disposed of, in overflowing corner city garbage can,
spilling onto the street, madness and meanness,
littered and the lies sugarcoat it with veneers of
righteous, cause anyone can claim the moral
high ground, but find me the low places, where
honesty is not defined by an ism, or in only your opinion,
and right and wrong are so oft
so easy distinguishable…
yeah, soured on many things, and what hasn’t changed
cannot be shared, for too many will seek to pollute these few
good things remaining.
and the mirrored reflection of my inflection point
is my soiled infection, red, swollen,
and being this away is…new
8:04am
Sat Oct 21 2023
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.
A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.
Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.
“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.
“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.
We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”
To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.
With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.
She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.
“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.
No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.
Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.
Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.
Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.
Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.
To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.
A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.
Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
What a December in this state
I'm spending my days in and nights in with socks full of ice
Nose like Rudolph the reindeer
The opposite Of poor
their brand new Veneers
Everyones Caroling along to those Christmas songs
While I'm baking my food for the next day that feels like ages long
Sittin' on the subway
The wheels are going/gliding/flying fast
Hearing myself inside
Asking, "why must we be mute? And hide?"
We're all human beings with hair, nails, and breathing
will they tell me where theyre from,?
Will that make them run?
This life of secrets isn't so fun
Were all really one
But stuck in a black plum
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
brain dead for years
with a tin man’s ticker
lost in teenaged conveniences and comfort zones
walking through day dreams in the fetal position
tinnitus’ tones drowning out the music in my head
feeling like puzzle pieces forced together when they don’t really fit
like Frankenstein’s monster
limping and grunting through High School
struggling through classes with some zombie’s ears
ditching often to go to the bowling alley
graduating unprepared in an inverted reality
with polluted brown skies and a blue world
wearing the same blue shirt and blue jeans everyday
wrapped up tight like a blue eggroll
futility’s fortune cookie foreseeing only deafness and poverty
hating life and self –EVERYDAY!
then, somehow, a song crept under the veil
seeping through my tough outer veneers
it’s lyrics melting a hardness in my chest
it’s music coursing through my body like chi
exciting my Brownian motion
a simple message of finding oneself
delivered in powerful, rich, soulful baritone
stamped with profound, moving emotional range
inflection mounting upon reflection
it’s chorus and theme reverberating
I played that record over and over again
listening with my toenails
I decided right then and there to give it a try
that “learning to love yourself”* is a good thing
and that ‘good thing’ was who and what I wanted to be
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
People watching people
Gazing at screens
Crouching behind veneers
Of interconnected
Digital
Fibre optic
Cabling
Safely connected
Safely disconnected
To their
Subjects
Objects
Judging them
Demanding cosmesis
Ordering alteration
Controlling behaviours
Controlling people
In an out of control world
The watched
Conforming
Naively
Desperately
Daily
To gross
Aesthetic stereotypes
Pandering
To the hits
Prostituting
For numbers
Disordered society
In which watchers
Hold power
Are you asked
How many views do you have?
Is it enough?
Are you popular
Enough?
Are you worth
Enough?
Are you ever
Enough?
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
I want to be captured just as I am right now
My worries and trials show in my face where before there was only the sweet depth of young hope
The path I have to walk, with its forks marked Mother and Therapist and Citizen of the World loom before me, their pebbly grounds flat
If you look carefully, you see their convergence in the two furrows above my eyebrows
Where is the sepia portrait of me? Everyone has one
That is how I know my mother’s unfamiliarity with married life
It was written in the way she stood next to my father in their honeymoon photo, a bride not yet used to her own body
That is how I know my great-uncle enjoyed bedding his shrill wife
The lines of their bodies compliant in the picnic photo.
Whoever took those photos knew what they were capturing; the intent was there to solidify that moment, in bitterness, in wondernment, as evidence
It was proof they knew the subjects, the characters whose stories bubbled beneath veneers.
Who’s going to take my picture?
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
we lay horizon-angle along aisles of the city,
its veneers bore the clouds as they idle awhile
in copper-bordered cobweb bundles
and rain is language, language is rain,
loosened from the tips of wine-stain tongues,
knuckle being blown or kissed by lip
lines; we trip over them all the time
or shoe-laces of feillemort-freckled boys,
never an umbrella, washed-out old news.
listen to the not-words we aren't speaking in a
shake of salt, a game of conkers, or get out of the city
and to the woodlands where, in a haze of petrichor,
you'll hear it all around on bark and leaf and then
the tinnitus of every caravan or shed.
A tin home with an iron lid to live in,
corrugated skin,
city life is wilderness but I know there is more
and wilder such, but I only half-dream of trees
carrying curses, stolen idols or heirlooms arising in
the anatomy of snakes wearing war-hoods
purely for the purpose of poetry/.
the storms that come can rattle the trees
round the courtyard into an epilepsy unflagging
and then sometimes
in my mind, flowers spit out embers petal-tooth
and lava spills onto tarmac streets.
the night knocks on the closely matched
blocks of paving stones. fireflies are out
but it looks like they'll die, their translucent wings
bring to mind an undressed volcano.
the cathartic outbreak of spiders that
that spread into a multiplication of landmines.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
**abstract endings assaulting
pedestrian beginnings,
save yourself before
you're too late
for your own game,
choking on bourgeois
mind-control interludes
under a spell of
plebeian sugarcoated reality
whitewashed with
iridescent rainbow colors
and unicorn attitudes,
come out, come out
wherever you are
from behind
those glossed over walls
and blush-fogged glasses,
jack and jill weren't
fetching at all,
he royally ******* her
on the way down,
there's a world beyond
blanched veneers
and vanilla excuses
concealed in resolute
conventional facade's
of vindication**
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Can't hide the rigors
Of anxiety and fears
Even knowing what it harbors
Can't cloak their effects from mirrors
It figures
Such a force can disfigure figures
Right under the skin it lingers
The worst possible time is when it appears
Rears up to rip down the facade and veneers
The you you knew is what it devourers
What good are middle fingers,
When only directed at yourself?
For now,
I guess,
I'll have to put that question on the shelf
©2024
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 7:53 PM UTC
Layer upon layer upon layer
Oh but the thinest of veneers
Each one a story, a painting
Covering the entire subject
Each allowing sight of what came before
But not clear
Each new layer distorts the one before
Yet they become homogenized
Merging to form the whole yet some features,
Not all more evident remain
And with it's flaws our shell is formed
A memory of our pasts
An armour with kinks
The shell of a man
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
"At Ease At Last"
By Arcassin Burnham
Hi, my bio's the boy with hearts on his sleeve and chips
on both shoulders with the chip dip,
with same old shoes from when he was 18 , thinking he could get
it quick,
with same old hate , some of it is received to him,
steady tryna' make it on his **** and do things right,
too hard to pick,
between the good and the bad,
you wanna be a saint but they steady treat you like an american
from Us,
the money is the problem with this country,
you really look for peace towards God we trust.
the shape of your mind is the size of an egg,
you only look for what you could get out of life,
and if the only plan is to end up dead,
gotta be smart , you must think twice.
you must think twice.
you must think twice.
for all that I have been in my life,
I'm glad I could find my peace of mind.
find my peace of mind.
find my peace of mind.
At ease At last , I could finally live in my eyes.
✖
"Big WHoop"
I could see my dreams and anguishes,
seeing them as I go further,
your world is ****** in so many languages,
that you might be okay with ******
I could see that music is failing to secure you from
all the bad,
famous people die so much , but just think how did
they get like that?
Big whoop right ?
do you even care?
is this fueling you?
take out your phone and record someone dying here,
do you know the stupid **** that you do?
Big whoop right ?
do you even care?
is this fueling you?
take out your phone and record someone dying here,
do you know the stupid **** that you do?
I manifest and push back,
the negative **** that lingers,
illuminate and attack,
my mind will shine like veneers,
take allegiance to myself , you should hear the words
I'm saying , is this thing on?
I should have guessed it , they rigged it,
As long as my mind knows,
then my imagination shows,
wondering off to the plane,
flying off into the sky, I'm too cold like an eskimo,
will the evergreen forever grow, i guess nobody knows,
My love will show though so
Big whoop right ?
do you even care?
is this fueling you?
take out your phone and record someone dying here,
do you know the stupid **** that you do?
Big whoop right ?
do you even care?
is this fueling you?
take out your phone and record someone dying here,
do you know the stupid **** that you do?
©abpoetry2020
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 7:55 PM UTC
I remember it well.
That naive kind of love
shared through anonymity
when, in fact, I knew it was you all along.
Things haven't changed very much from then,
have they?
We still write
but with a more
colorful
vocabulary.
And with this
I vicariously replace my virtues
with violent vibes and
vaudeville-esque veneers.
I try to become more mature than I was back then
with these words
that fill these notebooks
that ooze
adventure and joy and sorrow and hatred and lust and violence and praise and thanksgiving and trust and disbelief and doubt and
hope
and pain.
My truthbox is full of letters to myself.
Letters that wouldn't fit in an envelope
to send to you.
So I let you read them on that schoolyard bench
under the lamppost.
Did you pay attention to detail?
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
The smooth surface
Life shining off veneers
Nothing gets etched
On the fragile surface
Meaning has no place
Living contrary to life
Tenets, there were none
Slippery memories
Sliding off the edges
Nothing lasts
Edges are defined
Chasms are wider
Fathomless depths
No warning signs
Just on the surface
Makes no meaning
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I wish the clock will never strike 12 tonight
and it would stop
so the world
won't move.
Only then my own warriors will help me
walk up to you
frozen and still, and I'd sheepishly whisper
"I love you"
Maybe you'd realize that
the lights you wish on
aren't the only ones you need.
Maybe you'd realize that
the dead hands you hold on to
aren't the only ones that are free.
Maybe you'd hear her heartbeat
and realize that hers does not follow
the skipping and tapping of your feet.
Maybe the clock can strike 12
and my infinite qualms about us
would end
and the veneers we have
would descend.
Because in our game of chase
you run to her
and i remain the fool.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
that last one's really
all i got for you now
melodies are chanting through my head
at ultimate speed;
i can't quite capture them.
lately i've been going back
to the things i used to run from
in pursuit of something cold
it appears i've lost my muse;
though i cannot bow,
give it a nice "cheers!"
and walk away, no
when all you've left to lose
ain't got no use for old veneers
i'm not quite sure what i'm trying to tell you here,
but it's something screaming loud
i hope someday you'll be able to hear
something so profound
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
Rational men among us state plainly
- that no ghosts walk among us.
But they haven’t really searched the shadows,
or smelled the sweet musk-roses you wore
when windchimes twinkle like your laugh.
If ghosts haunt, then spirits linger.
If ghosts bedevil and terrorize,
spirits hangout, abide and remain.
Time is as nothing to them,
they are now and they are then.
We are shadows, that are becoming
shadows, that were shadows before.
Rational men know what they see,
but they’re dull and though waking,
remain unaware that lemures tamper,
with impressions, subconscious voices
and barely perceptible shenanigans,
across death’s thin, permeable veneer.
Apr 2, 2023
Apr 2, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
while chewing on ice
can shatter porcelain veneers,
the human collarbone can
withstand 8 lbs of force before
breaking.
she sits in a cupboard,
forgotten
like wedding china -
(every once in a while, someone
will take her out, turn her over;
though they may shed a tear,
they’ve never known her) -
all oversized saucer eyes
and teacup fingertips;
too tired
to tell you lies.
delicate and fine,
the cracks in her bones
spell out the stories
of such a lonely
lifetime;
chipped paint and faded flowers
insist upon eternity
as an ancient
antique.
she is a teapot
that cannot even
keep your tea hot
held by too much superglue
to hold any justifiable value.
her handles broken, her lids long-gone
she commands no sentimentality
abandoned long ago
to this dusty
unreality.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC