"vertices" poems
i guess i still miss you
but talking’s for functioning people
when we stand stark
at the vertices of our dog days
we don’t say anything at all
in uncharted autumn
we still have a little sun left
trying to make sense
of the irregularities that compact
this relationship
into tiny little boxes we check
every once and awhile
ostentatiously
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be red,
Running down his veins
and kissing his
Curves and corners
and edges and vertices.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be pink,
I'd be the loving heartbeats that beat synchronized
and the love which is in the air.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be yellow,
I'd be the sunflowers in the field
smiling at the sun with sorrow.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be brown,
I will be the colour if his eyes
and the sparkle in them that never dies.
The soil on which he would sit and cry
and one fine day
leave me with a dejected goodbye.
If I were a colour,
I'd choose to be black,
embarrassing the moon and earth in my arms,
I'd be the colour they see
after the eyes are closed
and the world is dark.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:32 AM UTC
Decorum is corrupt, decorum is dead, the books we told were good
have all been read.
Fitzgerald has been bled dry by institutions, teachers and those guys in
red chrome cardigans.
Those Pennine walks have turned to drunken talks in the eaves of the night,
high above conscious thought and the cold glow candle light
The long haul flights back to the heavenly sight of tyre black
tarmac have become tedious meditations;
though those lamentations still exist within my wrists,
a yearning for your riverside kiss.
Bus journeys along roads and routes I already knew are
changing without consultation,
it’s temporary probation, an experimentation, a test
of time well spent.
Time well spent in ground floor, high rent, properties,
fading away into a slack attitude disease.
Needles and fluid, *** and Cupid won’t lift you from this
perpetual stall,
nor will anything at all; though maybe plans scribbled down on
napkin edge corners will.
With thought, white paper vertices can quickly become
mountain range peaks.
Throw politeness out of your transport’s window
and become a widow to the road,
black veil eyes, cold and grainy, lost in your endeavour
to find somewhere new to feel safe and clever.
Take those books that you thought were good to tear
into the new prose of the year.
Rip title pages and dedication pages and index pages
from the spine
and throw them in the air
to make a new line of literature and pain.
Take also your pencils and strip them of
their back bone lead
and shave them into clean kindling for fire start
shavings for a warmer lonely camp bed.
It’s there and then, in your fake polyester,
four season sleeping bag womb
that’ll you’ll experience the darkened tomb
of unbound freedom.
But like paragraphs of small print found in the back of the squint-again-magazines,
freedom comes at a price, as if long hair and lice or poverty and bedroom escapade vice.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
regular delivery
it arrived with the standard 8 vertices
rigid and battered
******* box
i kicked it around the house
oh bout two months
maybe three
till i got sick of lookin at it
it started kicking me back
hard as hell
and right where it counts
you know what im talking about
chunking it out the window
never worked
just re-delivered
i had to sign for that *******
every time
my john hancock is all over it now
i should open it
rip back the crumpled packing tape
and just peer in
and when i did
and that rip stopped echoing
in the cave that is my room
and the moldy ***** were pulled back
the cavity was exposed
a cool gust shot up
curled back my mustache
and made me grin
like i just saw a russian blue
do a back flip
funny too
it smelled like you
sweet perfume
and that ***** drawer whiskey
i gasped and tried to **** it all in
to ghost that hit of you
i stuck my head in
to get _all_ of it
licked the inside of the cardboard
for each last scrap
i made each fold into origami
crane
dragon
turtle
rabbit
so on
and just before i knelt down
to pray for another breeze in a box
i opened a window
and sat with my feet dangling
grinning with you all over me
sure that a wind
would soon blow up from the south
warm and loving
fragrant and laughing
to smack me
just when i need it most
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.
She looked up-
someone was
explaining functionality
She stared at
the new argument
on the white board
then returned to the letter-
the fold
the plane
pressing and creasing
vertices meeting
corners peaking.
Sighing:
His orientation obvious,
they were now mismatched.
Incongruent
she rose
and left the room.
There would be many such
lessons.
Tommy Carroll
redrafted
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
The docile cork passes us by
as we struggle between the waves
torn between moon and sun
drawn out to open waters
followed by megalodons of our world
viewed by haughty fishermen
plummeting below the frothy waters
spun around in vertical vertices
turbulence taking hold
crushing pressure pulling down
the light above fades
red hands start to turn blue
lips start to tremble
bubbles trickle
up up up
a presence appears, I am not alone
a dolphins beak nudges me gently
the eyes ingratiate my being
I feel my breathing ease
my lungs now as one within the space
tension around my head is released
audacious colours are diverse
the motion of the water provides comfort
the dolphin fills my being
at one the boundaries of sanity are established
I power for the surface in confidence
the water erupts
suspended in air folds
I bark in delight
freedom
fingers drill into my soft tissues
my breath is warm amongst the towelling
toes and fingers tingle
my nose walks through the lavender field
drifting banks of pollen powder my bare back
carefree, what a great time to live
the door closes
I enter my world again
same time next week
Jul 7, 2020
Jul 7, 2020 at 12:25 PM UTC
My strength has gone,
My soul has perished,
I lost my home,
The Light was vanquished.
Dystrophic sounds,
The brutal cacophony
Of silence and longing,
It's a bludgeoned symphany.
-
Caressing the cheek,
Fingers through her hair,
Smiling subtlely,
Then I awake without air.
The wind eats at each bone
The rain chills them still,
And what good is this home
Without her will?
The imagination runs wild
With dreams of perfection,
The qualities of flaws,
The insurrection.
Grieving turmoil and, alas, it has,
Been determined to happen as fast,
It creeps along its vertices,
Stoking fire of improbability,
Fending for myself, alone,
It seems to me I must here drone,
Wasting away every single chance,
To break free of a pallid trance,
I've always escaped my heart of thoughts,
I've always ended what all have brought,
I've always ended what songs she sings,
I've always brought about suffering,
I've always snuffed my last candle-light
I've always gripped the ledge too tight,
I've always choked the life from myself,
I've always drowned my sorrows in Hell,
I've always heard of my downfall,
I've always scorned the love in all,
I've always been plagued with bitter hate,
Although,
I'll always hate love, and love it still,
I'll always wish for someone until...
I'll always lust for something great
I'll always rush for my own fate,
I'll always need the hand to hold,
Whatever in my life may happen in the cold.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
On the sandy shore of a distant memory, Euclid picked up a stick and began tracing the outline of some vague shape. At the first vertices he was interrupted by a hissing sound. Looking down in horror, what initially appeared a stick slowly coiled around his forearm and sank its teeth into his veins. As he watched the ocean spread its depths, he felt the sharp pain of platelets separating from plasma. Euclid walked into the gaping void and awaited reunion. Waves folding around him , his last sight was of a naked woman; she had the curves of a triangle.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
put off on the sweat
There's something nauseous in my ****
United in the vertices and acid
The axis lamenting and venting
Sitting us out, putting it's mouth
Over you, over me and sorting
Tongue slide around move the mind without
Youthful thoughtful private number one
Exhumed adoption and children listless
Why don't you just give it to me?
I'm tired of gliding in this outlook
Let's **** let's scream our pain out
Bees in needles and nails deflated
You flatten in your pool of stick
You shine in your muffled movements
This is a temple for the primal language
Words annoyed many moons before me
Howl under the eclipse dissolve me within
The translucency of the way we are
I feel it radiate
I can see her crawl
Away catlike in night
Try to spoil this moment
Let me feed you me
Forget hunger and dreams
Let's lose our minds in ecstasy
I'll never return
I'll never call you again.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
There is a vast, cool intelligence out there
watching & searching in the blackness of space
& reaching out into the vertices of time
to pluck our minutes from under our chins
& to steal our seconds from under our upturned
noses. They take our time & give us nothing
in return, unsympathetic to our four-dimensional
existence & our tiny ideas & our meaningless
ideals. They strike at the moment of ******
when we stare into the gateless gate &
all of life is white & drips like yolk from a
fallen egg, drips like snow onto the branches of
enormous trees, drips like ***** out of the
**** of a blushing ***** drips like milk
into a cylindrical glass, all the way to the brim,
& then filleth over to cover the wood of
a well-polished table.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
Here it is
coming together
slowly and quickly
points being connected
connections being disappointed
disappointments being appointed
appointed proportionally and
disproportionally
click clack
stick it together
vertices criss cross
bricks and feathers
interlacing lines and
concentric circles dance
in and out of time it is a
convergence
a coming together
a going apart
it is silk spun in
every way you can think of
it is spit spat from every mouth you've ever heard
this blob of tip tap gloopy gloop tick tack
criss cross criss cross make it last
make it first
on the bus or in the hearse
in between or outside of
either way it's kind of
all the same and
very different
but look at that
and then it's not
a ghost in the periphery
a shadow in the center
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
The shape of the reason why I am not getting any response from you,
it's ʀʜᴏᴍʙɪᴄᴏsiᴅᴏᴅᴇᴄᴀʜᴇᴅʀᴏɴ
20 regular triangular faces,
30 square faces,
12 regular pentagonal faces,
60 vertices and 120 edges,
Yet you told me our hearts are asymmetrical?
Paint me as the woman you once loved,
Blend my past and future into one another
in sfᴜᴍᴀᴛᴏ
Without lines or borders,
With myriads of minuscule brushstrokes,
Till the smoke hoaxes their visual for few seconds,
Albeit they know what they saw some time after,
The melody of your heartbeat,
Just like my poems,
it's ᴜɴʀʜʏᴛʜᴍɪᴄ
"Lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub lub lub lub-dub",
Every single night failed to lullaby,
So all this time I've been an insomniac,
Wide awake studying the pattern of your pulse as you call it a night.
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 10:36 AM UTC
I fold in on myself
Like the wadded origami designs I could never fold quite right
Layer upon intricate layer, receding
Into a crumpled relic sheathed in dust patina
Taking up space, a relic to my past
I surrender to your guiding hands
As you carefully unfold and gently press my form
Unfolding myself to you
The desire for new edges
Shapes us –
Convening at the crux
Our vertices press into transformations
And I fold into you, unfurling concurrently.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
The recognition was incomprehensible and I thought of my face in the mirror
the look and the sight of the white line cigarette pinched narrow and thoughtfully between his very first finger and his thumb. It was the pose of vocabulary. An expression of the understanding of words and the pauses that build them. A sigh for the sighs that frame them. He was an only. You don't look and forget.
I lean over throw my shoulders right in front of you towards the far corner of the room. A deep breath and my skin fills my dress. This is the physical of release, and the fabric falls. You fall into the light laid out on the floor your face follows up to me while it turns into a question. Adhere to vertices and hide the lift of your lash.
You want to know which way I'm going you mean by that which line of verse enunciates me next. I understand but you don't. In tiny things we find enough to let go. To demolish wholes, flood systems, blink. In tiny things we are commanded to go on. You’d known, but I - I had not yet walked home of solitude since we had spoken to each other without interrupting with another.
Open your Bible to show the empty room static that with more knowledge comes more sorrow you are very sad. You’re on the cross of tired and hungry because man does not live on bread alone and can we ever be sure of what God meant by that - especially when he conceived of distance. When you read the red letters give your eyes to the sky and keep a hand on either side of my face.
Deep underneath my eyes I think of you (I think you see me thinking you) and see you trying to write into crossing paths with poetry itself, specifically, the ****** embodiment when your words expand beyond yourself and with a turn envelop to evoke another. I open my mouth slightly, shut it and lift a hand to you to say: it walks in with it's own grace, beyond force. wait, love Everything, you try to create into it is only taking - only sit and wait. Until you stop taking, nothing. but you had known, the wait, I had not yet not known
the pause was helpless but the silence was becoming. There was no choice, we kept going
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:12 PM UTC
Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.
She looked up-
somebody was explaining
functionality,
She stared:
the new argument was
written on the white board
she returned to the letter-
another fold
another plane
pressing and creasing
opening
rereading
vertices missed,
words realigned.
Sentences brokered
with each new
configuration,
yet its meaning
reformed.
He- was disengaged
she- was misplaced.
Incongruent.
She rose
and left the room.
There would be
many such lessons.
Tommy Carroll
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.
She looked up-
somebody was explaining
functionality:
She stared
at the new argument
written on the white board
then returned to the letter-
the fold
another plane
pressing and creasing
vertices missing
corners peaking...
Sighing:
His orientation disengaged
they were now misplaced.
Incongruent
she rose
and left the room.
There would be
many such lessons.
Tommy Carroll
redrafted
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
The shape of the sun; circle
The shape of a city block, square
The shape of a baseball field, rhombus
The shape of a house, pentagon.
But the shape of a home
Is based on what lives inside.
A pyramid proves a simple structure can still succeed
All lines involved
Connect to complete a common goal.
An octagon interludes
So all sides can solidify
A promising whole.
So what is to happen
To a house with
No shape?
When the lines are misconstrued
And the corners are mismatched.
A splatter on a plane
Lacking effort to be real.
A shape is not a shape
If there are breaks within the lines.
A shape is not a shape
If everyone neglects the vertices.
Geometry should have been priority
while planning a family.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 9:23 PM UTC
buddha vishudha
sweet purple umbra
ajna penumbra helix ribbons
rise like feathers out of my face
I looked into our eyes today
I tried to smile when I was dripping with awe
and the corners of my mouth quivered 'til my jaw dropped
I sit and breathe deeply as I see our reflections
and the vertices of all our faces interlacing in intricate ways
I find myself breathing in their rhythm
I find myself telling my mother I love her
We cry jovial understanding into each other's eyes
I catapult myself up through
deoxyribonucleic staircases into
blossoming realms of emotion
There's no time! No words.
Everything is so familiarly alien
and entirely understandable.
I feel everything.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
I was reflected over the x-axis
And then translated into the third quadrant
All negative coordinates
On my three vertices
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
We echo the chaos portrait,
a dictum of quantum entanglement
Pervading into the breadth of dynamic space
Fingers and hard planes
Lips stained with stardust,
Of where our vertices convene
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
I keep hanging by these tangents
Of your dashes and curves
Trying to figure out how every
Version of your twists and turns
Unravels into a canvas
Of visual perfection.
It's perplexing, really
How you mend your schisms
Into waltzing polygons
Every time I break you down
Into fractures of your selves
I end up lingering in your angles
Of oblique abstraction
Turning vertices into suns
And edges into horizons.
Then I reconstruct you
From your purest form
This brush provoking
Both palette and palate
For every stroke and spatter.
Your beauty didn't mind
What madness to this method
The monochrome requires
To finally become free
And shackled at the same time.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 12:23 AM UTC
Architecture waiting to be embodied
Boxes and boxes of un~buried treasure
No time for writing the stories
Already in extra time, flitting about and anxious for
Focii to make themselves known thus leveraging the
Many vertices of an under~powered power structure
To repair the leaking forms
Of our realities, seeking assistance
In bringing to life that which
Dreams are made of
Built on soul iron or iron in the soul
I prefer the latter to the former
Not really enjoying those entities who
Extract rather than add value
Willing to teach and learn and flow
As cupid and psyche dance the roomba
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC