"wadding" poems
White cotton kisses
I pretend you occupy the space of this pillow
I remember your navy sheets
I think they kindly absorbed the blood
it was there, somewhere.
beating or gliding within walls of muscle.
This type of loving has become liquid and electrical.
It is certainly electrical.
spiky pains edging fingertips
Strands of copper threaded into the grooves of your fingerprints
It has a real colour. I don't know what that is.
It's weight fits inside your body.
It is manufactured.
Maybe the ***** triggered it.
Or the serotonin shots when I see your face.
All I have with me now is bone dry fabric and wadding
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity
(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen
(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones
(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments
(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human
(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy
G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
If I had a time machine, there is only one place I would go. To the meadow, where we would launch dirt clods, back at the boys. Then climb and hide in our woodland suite, where no boys could annoy us. I would like to see our fortress again, and pretend, that we were still friends.
If I had a time machine, I would try to go back to when you cried. Because your bearer was more of a bear than a mother. She didn't understand, but I took up the stance, and we marched our way through the madness. I would like to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop again, and pretend, that we are still close friends.
Goodbye my sister, my childhood friend. We have ended the games we pretended. We both have homes now, lovers now, bills now. Our barbie village blown up into living breathing reality.
And we,
Incapable of seeing each other old, In the new mold. Everything that I'm told makes me so proud of you.
And I'll wait, while we migrate, through different schedules and rituals. I'll be at the front gate. Once I have my Tony we dreamed of and you have your fashion line we seamed up, in every major cotour city.
It will be then, that we'll emerge back together again. Helping each other through hospital corridors in replace of wadding through muddy shores.
There will be two glasses of wine, one with your name, one with mine, where we can rewind, and reminice about time.
If I had a time machine, I would quickly jump to the future and sneak a peak at us. Just as we imagined it long ago. Both sitting in our rocking chairs, just above the front stairs. As the porch wraps around both us and the house. A glass of whisky in one hand and a shot gun in the other, prosting to the old ways and the new days
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
FOR certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
1.9k
This Christmas is cold.
Even as the moon is scalding
To the heat of the stars
In the humid air
Of the hidden sun.
My heart reaches out to closest flames
But they are in full-fledged fuel
For their own
Feisty foolish fellowships
Furiously festive in the ignorant bliss
Such is the permafrost
Of no welcoming arms
And so, I host Revenge
Who welcomed Bitterness
In my thoughts
While suffering from the sinister snowstorm
I alone perhaps have made this night cold
Cold enough
To trick me to sleep
In tears, only my dreams are warm enough
To thaw but a single thumb
Frozen and Alone
I fade. Evaporating into the clouds
I am part of what will be
Rain, wadding the earth
In a pool
I will remind them of loneliness
I
Will be the cold
Next Christmas is cold
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
At this momment I'm currently in myspace....the area around me that you cant penetrate...I Dont get to close to your face...you tend to regurgitate...garbage from the radio..you's a stupid *** stupid stupid hoe...pollution...that we find to be revolution.. we came from wadding in the water...and being born by the river...What we over comming screaming *** *** ass...throwing out this paper shake it... fast fast fast...What happend to the love make it last last last...Love and happiness see thats the past past past...See we use to be 360 plus active and well rounded...now we just 360 plus a little more the rounded...Hey my people hey my friends...Come and join myspace...We can have a chance to win...Just Come close to MY face...
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
looking directly
into the depths
of darkness
im suddenly short of breath
wadding through an ocean of black water
looking up to a starless, sunless
sky where no light has visited in a long time
time is gone,
as it can no longer be measured
im wadding through darkness
and
i get claustrophobic in vastness
and it seems like it will go on forever
because i have lost all concept of time
how can i be loved
and still feel this alone
i can't exist
just for you to love me
there needs to be more
to me this darkness
that i have painted over,
to resemble a person
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
The city and the buildings
determine
being in love.
Drag her by the hair,
cut flowers in the desert
Without books about love
you wouldn't know how to do it
or make it, or feel it
The funny
Sad-funny thing is
Poets only pretend to be in love.
I puke love blood
ha
ha
on the off-white rug
I carve your face only in mirrors
I set dolls of
you on fire
watch the pink dust
of your lips make
patterns of impossible density
You have to be well-versed in
insanity
to know you're insane.
Drinking vials of your
pitch black
I turn it red to decorate
my squirming
I've read the rules
I know how to be in love
I’ve seen the healthy city
The building of love.
Big Blue empires of love,
A king and a half to every throne.
Some of them full of
bones like the old day
(Who's gonna sort you out?)
Strand up straight
as to not fall over
every time I see an eye
that could match your left one
I shrink in my shirt
and climb out the
head hole
and look for my brain in
broken jars
wadding around in anyone's soul.
The tale of common things,
my savage tooth on your rich arm
Whoever showed us the methods of in love
(you taste like cracked glass
to coat my stomach)
Whoever showed us the methods
of in love
like accidental ****
Come out, come out
I'm ****** lands
and a naked flag
And the straight lines, sticking up
Soul-sick too...
Read it in the windows
and hanging signs
"You Are To Be In Love"
Come out, come out
I'm ****** lands
Smooth flat
an almost naked flag
and
the lizard-landscape
of you
here
in the
flat
anti-city
lands
here
we
keep quiet
on sins
(crawl into my mouth, the sun
isn't out anymore)
Big blue queens
are out
reigning around me
and you don't think I'm lonely
(?)
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 9:21 AM UTC
This Christmas is cold.
Even as the moon is scalding
To the heat of the stars
In the humid air
Of the hidden sun.
My heart reaches out to closest flames
But they are in full-fledged fuel
For their own
Feisty foolish fellowships
Furiously festive in the ignorant bliss
Such is the permafrost
Of no welcoming arms
And so, I host Revenge
Who welcomed Bitterness
In my thoughts
While suffering from the sinister snowstorm
I alone perhaps have made this night cold
Cold enough
To trick me to sleep
In tears, only my dreams are warm enough
To thaw but a single thumb
Frozen and Alone
I fade. Evaporating into the clouds
I am part of what will be
Rain, wadding the earth
In a pool
I will remind them of loneliness
I
Will be the cold
Next Christmas is cold
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
I looked off in the distance, a horizon of mountains strung together, the whole range atop an alpine lake.
I looked out only to be fixated on your tanned skin wadding off in the water, the same skin that I’d watched darken in the summers sun, the same skin I became so familiar with under the covers of blankets and snow. Layered but much paler than your tone now, it always was winter months that inspired warmer thoughts.
But there you are, you’re no longer the warm thoughts I pined to grasp.
You’re here in view and more than I could’ve ever imagined, watching you unlace your boots and rip your socks off in rolled clumps as you marched through the overly saturated banks still recovering from the past, the thawing warmth of spring at the end of a snow season, just like you.
Taking high steps, you feel the mud tugging at your heels, attempts to hang on, to cling instead of breaking clean free only to be washed away with another plummeting progressive step. Each part of you beginning to drown a little more in the experience.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Chipping nails,
shards of hardened skin
and turquois on silver, her hand
attached to a paperback permeating of rotting corpses and wilted flowers among
washed up license plates scuffed by sea glass,
once a bottle of a failed enlightened and darkened drunk, I am sure of it.
You drool, salvia skulking your chin—
loose fingers drop the rain-soaked umbrella
and
I’m drenched in water, I sail down the street, on an arc brimmed with mammals
and arachnids; six of the spiders, two of the dog.
I spit out and profess the skin once clung to my lips, I see the layers,
out here, two dogs prance around the field, tripping over each other
as six spiders creep and crawl under us, slithering
one lands
on my sweater in the classroom,
I squish it dead,
with the heel of my hand. Usually, I’d scream.
Instead, I took the power to make something alive—something dead.
Fog-Horn Leg-Horn, “and then-and then, I say-I say” kills you,
wadding you beneath the cooped-up coop,
Swiper Swipes No More.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
I followed the tide
Into the sea
And now I feel
Her tug on me.
I followed the tide
For want of her feel,
Of soft frothy foam
And currents warm,
And feel her I do,
Tugging on me.
I followed the tide
When she was in,
In her I played,
As sun traversed sky
In her I stayed.
I followed the tide,
To bring her back
And now I'm with her,
In the black.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 7:49 PM UTC
****** rednecks and tabloid editors,
Choosing a big-mouthed wussy,
Voted into office a ****** predator who
Brags he grabs women by the *****
He goes on and on about himself
Blows that he is highly educated
He only tells lies, braggadocio, or
Unpresidential rot that is R-rated.
He boasted he could shoot
Someone dead in the street
Even that ugly deed would
Not cause his defeat.
It turned out to be
Unfortunately true!
That’s the kind of thing
Ignoramuses will do:
They vote some dingaling
No matter how disgusting
And decide this grifter
Is definitely worth trusting.
He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.
He said he keeps the best
People to back up his boasts,
And when he chooses one
His accomplices all toast.
It won’t be very long until
As his TV show has inspired,
He’ll open that ugly mouth
And snarl out “You’re fired!”
He knows he can keep on
In his lucrative term of office
If he just keeps the rich happy, and
Fools who can’t see he’s bogus.
He’s busily going about
Taking the rights of the poor
And wadding all of them up
Then kicking them out the door.
The only people he wants to succeed
Are him and those ass-kissers
Who hang with him out of greed.
He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
So the journey postponed
By the method of twine.
Twas decided they’d book on the telephone line.
A jungle safari with gin and Campari.
And lashings of kippers on toast.
Despite the location of bison migration
There was still time to fish by the coast.
At the end of the plodding in boots made from wadding.
They both had a wonderful time.
They couldn’t deplete all
The stocks of the meatball
From bellies of African swine.
There’s no moral this time.
As their trip was just fine.
Said the owl to the pussycat’s purrs.
Their next time in Turkey
Was rather more murky.
On their quest for some jewellery and furs.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
Living life slow
With
Not a lot mojo
It's people so miss understood
Pregnant and barefoot
Sorry, this is not textbook
We don't have a lot of neighborhoods
Something better
A lot of woods
Filled with flowering dogwoods
Grew up learning about manhood
and Womanhood
Taught
To stand with our neighbors
We should
and
We just would
Family feuds
None, as along as you pay your dues
Excluding
The Hatfield's and the McCoy's
We all know about their attitudes
We love our Whiskey
Our Makers and heaven hill
and our moonshine
how mighty fine
Spend our days
In the fields
Sometime wadding in the mud
Where we had just dug
Tug!
Maybe loose our shoes
All we do is shrug
We speak with a southern draw
We call our mom, maw
We call our dad, paw
By the time we start to craw
And we consider everyone ya all
Kentucky
Where the stars shine bright
Where everything is just right
And everything is alright
!!
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
Wadding in a bath of room temperature lovers
Smoking cigarettes that taste like your breathe
Wine out of the bottle
A box will do
As long as it helps me forget you
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
One day my feet will touch the ground of the ocean..
one day I'll find true love again...
one day my conscience will follow my head and not my heart.
One day I won't be afraid of real living and feeling free.
One day my best friends will actually see me hurting.
One day my heart and mind w will be sown back together and a scab will be there forming its own band aid.
One day my daughter will fully understand how she makes my world turns .
One day she will forget about hiding under her bed comforter.
One day she'll forget riding out the fights and the screaming and the crying.
One day my lips won't have to remind my brain to breathe in & out.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
The sun has not yet set
but he is big and red,
majestically is swimming in the sky.
As a landlord he flies
ans sends cold rays to every window.
And silver stars are calling our moon to dance of darkness.
And the vehement wind will join the dance, and chant with him. Catharsis.
That song is quiet, that song chimes
and trees wil chant these rhymes.
and cold clouds will shadow for a moment
our moon but they don't want to hide it.
Then they step back, and he is on top:
he’s calm, majestic, rich.
Lord of the shadows, he will never stop,
as if he wants to turn into a witch.
He soaks up all the dark, enlightens bad
and when the time comes, he’ll send
a dream to who is chosen.
He’ll never take what’s noones’.
So he festively passes in heaven,
sanctifying everything below,
he dictates his way like baron
until the morning dew will flow.
The nature is quiet, the clouds fly
scattered in the sky like wadding.
And owls no longer cry
in woods, no longer calling.
--
(Ukrainian)
Ще сонце не сіло, а він вже пливе:
великий, червоний, пихатий,
проміння холодне він мовчки зашле
як ґазда, до кожної хати.
А зорі сріблясті, мов в танець пітьми,
наш місяць собі зазивають.
І вітер шалений примкне до юрми
і пісню нічну заспіває.
Ту пісню ледь чутно, та пісня бринить,
дерева йому підспівають,
а хмари холодні затулять на мить
наш місяць, але не сховають.
А потім відступлять, а він вже вгорі:
спокійний, величний, багатий.
Володар тіней, він прийде на поріг,
неначе щось хоче забрати.
Не візьме чужого, все темне вбере,
погане собою осяє.
Як прийде пора, свій сон він нашле:
щасливі, кого обирає.
І так він святково пройде в небесах
все знизу собою освятить.
Аж поки не впаде ранкова роса
він буде свій лад диктувати.
Природа затихла, вже хмарки пливуть,
розкидані в небі як вата,
і пугачі більше до лісу не звуть,
бо сонцю живому вставати.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 9:22 AM UTC