"welded" poems
like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim
like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul
like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness
like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers
like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided
like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her
Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.
it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.
it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.
it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.
it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.
it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.
it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.
it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.
it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.
it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.
for I am not one.
it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?
it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.
and I am one of them.
and 'neath my heart,
I always will be.
for it is my birthday,
and wishes don't come true.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
You drag me in
past the point of
personal boundaries
Hands like hot plates
welded to my waist
Eyes undress me
with a penetrating stare
exposing me to everybody
Your kind lurk everywhere
I struggle away from
potent, *** ridden breath
that invades my air space
I try to breathe in
some respect
from anybody, anywhere?!
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC
Oh yes! I had plans to woo you
with roses and chocolates
and other mushy make-up
that might just rev up your fireworks
Yet I knew deep inside
it wouldn't work so well.
So jugular it was
condoms and plastic roses
knotted in shoelaces
painted and welded on a metal frame
worded: I will take you
to take me: Now!
But you laughed
and blew the condoms into balloons
and spray painted the roses in silver
and I used the shoelaces
to hang my head in creative shame!
Yet when we met on the deck of union
for the first time
the sparks lit up the nightsky
and we slept curled up around each other
like question marks
Thats how we bought tickets
to forever
Crazy?
I waited-you came!
Author Notes
Most enjoyable poem today.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
#
*Souls embroidered with sweet sighs of passion
Musing of nights in lace & white satin
On a vista of flesh, flushed with desire
Riding the flames on a passage of fire
The beating of drums, commanding the night
To the rhythm of hearts, passion ignites
Wrapped in immortal flames of the sun
Burning together, two become one
Flesh upon flesh, a spirited dance
Welded by whispers of love, of romance
Temperatures rise in a fever of lust
Stoking the flames, ****** after ******
Riding the swell, in a race to the shore
Try to repress, but needing it more
Virtue be ****** in the rage of desire
Flames rise in hunger, higher n' higher
Charging the crest, temperance slips
Drawing the reins in a white knuckle grip
Crashing of waves unleashes the flood
Quaking the heart, and searing the blood
Spewing of flames in the crash of the tide
In a warm sheen of sweat, fervor subsides
Energy spent in the throes of release
Collapsing together, the story complete*
#
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
My leg hurts
The jaws of this inhumane trap engulf my lower shin
I have the tool to disarm it and free myself
But I muttle in my adolescent egocentric pain
Caught within monotonous routine and self interest I rot like my peers
I've sunk to a level of self loathing, that I enjoy pulling myself down
I
Am
Disgusting.
I
Need
Help.
I cry for things I can give myself but alas I withhold it to feel sorry for myself
Me and my fellow youth
Equally as useful, equally as useless
Although I am free of the crowd I am still blinded by my adolescence
Purpose
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
PURPOSE
all I've know is I am here to be a vessel for knowledge and indoctrination
I am here to have an opinion I voice, but does not matter.
I do not matter.
This function is welded to me
However...
The voice of destiny reasons with me again and I hear:
Seek what's within
Garrot it.
Place yourself into the walls of meaning and the murals upon't
Serve others in selflessness. Share with others in selflessness. Learn from others in selflessness. Teach others in selflessness.
Your a pawn in the samsara. Do your duty within its game.
Gain higher consciousness so you can share the path to it. Become a giver, not a taker.
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
Six lessons left, define yourself within them. Or perish within your self indulgent pitiful hole.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
The Quiet perches
My ***** burden true
Eyelids drooping
and then the quiet grew
It, from golden bowl
To quench its thirst
Drinks my soul
Now my legs are set in lead
And I lie welded to my bed
I should do something
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
their voices are stolen away
but even if they were to get it back,
their lips are welded
and shackled to their fears.
theistic idols
shaped predominantly
by the culture in which one is raised.
contradictory fallacies
leading society away from
self dependency.
im tired of being a minority!
apparently your god bestowed to me
this voice
this brain
this body
this mind
so...
im utilizing it.
i refuse to be oppressed any longer
i refuse to believe i was created
by some deity that claims
people have the free will to do as they please.
If god gave man free will,
how can everything be a part of god's plans?
If everything is a part of god's plans,
how can we have free will?
I refuse to be oppressed any longer.
I dug deep within my fears
and yanked my voice back.
I no longer fear being a minority,
I embrace it.
a society where minorities are scared to have a voice?
stand up,
find your voice,
and use it.
We are more than outcasts.
We are minorities
and together,
we can eradicate the title.
We're human.
- d.b.d.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.
The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.
The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.
As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.
Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
If only you’d done the washing up
I wouldn’t be slamming plates into the sink
Half sobbing
Half seething
Stubbornly burning my hands on water that’s too hot
Angrily scrubbing at three day old tomato sauce
And bits of chips and jumbo sausage that have welded themselves to the plate
If only you’d done the washing up
We could have *** later
But we can’t now
Because I’ll be too tired and bitter after doing the washing up
Again
Do you think I like washing up?
Don’t you think I’d rather be sitting on the sofa
Watching crap on the telly
Safe in the knowledge that the sink is empty
The plughole is clean
And the worktops are sparkling
I bet Beyonce doesn’t have to do the washing up
I bet she has a dishwasher
If only you’d done the washing up
You wouldn’t need to call me childish
For getting worked up over something as silly as the washing up
And I wouldn’t be standing here wondering
If you’ll ever really get it
“It’s only the washing up” you say
Exactly
So just ****** well do it next time
********
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
I want to be welded to you like the tongue of a curious child freezes to a poll when it's below zero outside.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
I-AM-NOT-A-DOG.
Today,
I cut loose from your leash of degrading comments.
My ears have learned to ignore your whistles
and the only thing I am going to fetch
is my dignity.
We all have cracks.
People’s words creep into our most foreign parts
And bother us like gnats in our food.
However,
At a young age my mom welded me by hand.
Sealed off every corner so
Your undignified vernacular wouldn’t disturb my peace.
Your mother must’ve had deleterious effects on you.
She told you that love can only be found through intertwining genitals.
I have iron fists and your forcefulness will not supersede my strength to protect what I own.
Let me tell you sir,
Obeying men is an archaic practice
And I wasn’t born yesterday.
I endure life with fortitude even with the threat of your loaded fist 2 inches from my face.
Your catcalls sting like the hearts of mother’s who have lost their daughter’s to the streets.
I hold my mace like a loaded gun walking in the petrifying night.
Apparently big butts lie, they give you the impression that you can squeeze, but back off the anatomy.
Remember that all women embody beauty and grace, not for you, but for themselves.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
1.
Each of us like you
has died once,
has passed through drift of wood-leaves,
cracked and bent
and tortured and unbent
in the winter-frost,
the burnt into gold points,
lighted afresh,
crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf,
gold turned and re-welded
in the sun;
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us has crossed an old wood-path
and found the winter-leaves
so golden in the sun-fire
that even the live wood-flowers
were dark.
2.
Not the gold on the temple-front
where you stand
is as gold as this,
not the gold that fastens your sandals,
nor thee gold reft
through your chiselled locks,
is as gold as this last year's leaf,
not all the gold hammered and wrought
and beaten
on your lover's face.
brow and bare breast
is as golden as this:
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us like you
stands apart, like you
fit to be worshipped.
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The smell of you,
is like metal,
probably because you weld metal together,
as one would sew two fabrics together,
only your fabric is made of metal.
and ironically enough,
laying next to you,
the smell of you and all,
makes me wish,
to be welded to your side,
but I am not made of metal,
and though you smell like it,
neither are you,
so I can only hope,
to keep lying like this,
for the longest while,
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
I meant myself to be most true
With strong my heart o’er desire
But welding as one me and you
Is like welding ice and fire
My heart was once bright with love’s zest
And perchance I believe it so
That our strong love, it was the best
Before it diminished in woe
I meant myself to be most strong
My anger o’er love to control
But all the rights and each my wrong
Has welded in bitter recall
I know what I’ve done was a sin
Abandoning your heart but then
I realized all was great as been
So—will you love me once again?
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Let the molecules charge and crack
and rip the world right open
around me.
Let the closet under the stairs
smoke and fry and cook,
let the tangled wires melt
into each other like they'll
never let go,
their flashing shadows
welded arm in arm like a
Pompeii puppet show.
Let the air's discontent
rumble softly and
let the rattling house rock me to
sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream—
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
"It's not that bad,
I tastes good, I swear"
It was cold, and bitter, and vile
Yet I still ordered it
Every
Single
Time
Like a magical elixr
Of momentary freedom
From the wires of guilt
Welded into my neural pathways
Just enough-
To not cause suspicion
But not so much
That I'd collapse
Strong enough
To make me jittery,
Anxious, nauseated,
But still incomparable
To the unspeakable sin
Of sustenance,
So when I saw stars standing up,
Or buckled over at the knees,
And wondered why
It was even worth it?
I'd come to the same conclusion
Every
Single
Time
And it was this:
It doesn't matter anyways
Because I'll never
Be able
To stop.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
i am cheap logic
bought from a man on the side of the street
who says it's the real stuff, nothing but the best
and i guess you believed him, i guess optimism ran in your veins that day
and i should be glad, really
except you've been tricked, and the man
walks away laughing with your petty change in his pocket
glancing back to grin at your smiling face
as you slip your arm around my waist
and i pretend to be worth it
dress me up, because i'm tired of painting myself
i just wanna hear your description
i like it better than mine
take me out, at least as far as the road
to show me why i usually stay at home
i am a solid shell
this logic has been welded into my surface
and i make sense, just ask anyone
i am a rock, i am an unmoving blanket
i am a hand to hold, a smile to be reflected
i am a solid shell
within which the logic falls apart
too bad wandering gypsies
don't give refunds, eh?
you'll never track him down
be my computer genius, crack this code
make me logic from spinning numbers
make me make sense
make me make sense
make me make sense
keep the optimism running in your veins
i like you that way
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Not unlike the monster for which it was named,
With debaucherous whims that divide foreign lands;
Here at the briny, gilded portal to our home now stands
A hollow woman with a torch, whose warmth
Has become faded and disheartening, and her name
Mother of Philistines. From her once guiding hand
Emerges world-wide distaste; deranged eyes ransack
The smog-filled harbor that dystopias fame.
“Keep, other lands, your progressive pomp!” shrieks she
With welded lips. “Take our tired, our poor,
Our huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Take these, the homeless, tempest-tost from me,
Lift your lamp as a guide and take them all!”
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
The stars seem brighter when I think about you
When we kiss the way we kiss and love the way only we love
Together, for infinite moments consisting of nothing but us
The way we bind like welded metallic
And we always stay this way
Though seldom at times we drift, the polarity of our love connects no matter how long the split
Time has no name, a faceless clock keeps track
Because this attraction is eternal
The stars seem brighter when I think of our intimacy
When the images of our hands held tenderly on my lap appear
Never once would I think of anything else given the option, nothing is more pleasing to think about
The eternity of the moment never ceases to amaze, I feel resolved and inspired by your lovely, touching gaze
The stars seem closer while I close my eyes near you. I touch them with my fingers and you kiss my cheek
Rubbing my back with the compassionate palm of your hand
Watching these stars become infinitely closer, so near I taste their pronounced flavor with my tongue
And I whisper into your ear canal carefully the words I want to say but cannot speak
These stars, an infinity away, are tangible with you
Just as anything is possible in this moment
In every moment I lie next to you
When you lay next to me
While my tongue longs to be intertwined, because it makes the moment stronger
And I want to tell you about these stars
So let me begin again...
For infinity
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
This is what I vow;
He shall have my heart to keep,
Sweetly will we stir and sleep,
All the years, as now.
Swift the measured sands may run;
Love like this is never done;
He and I are welded one:
This is what I vow.
This is what I pray:
Keep him by me tenderly;
Keep him sweet in pride of me,
Ever and a day;
Keep me from the old distress;
Let me, for our happiness,
Be the one to love the less:
This is what I pray.
This is what I know:
Lovers' oaths are thin as rain;
Love's a harbinger of pain--
Would it were not so!
Ever is my heart a-thirst,
Ever is my love accurst;
He is neither last nor first:
This is what I know.
2.3k
THEY have taken the ball of earth
and made it a little thing.
They were held to the land and horses;
they were held to the little seas.
They have changed and shaped and welded;
they have broken the old tools and made
new ones; they are ranging the white
scarves of cloudland; they are bumping
the sunken bells of the Carthaginians
and Phœnicians:
they are handling
the strongest sea
as a thing to be handled.
The earth was a call that mocked;
it is belted with wires and meshed with
steel; from Pittsburg to Vladivostok is
an iron ride on a moving house; from
Jerusalem to Tokyo is a reckoned span;
and they talk at night in the storm and
salt, the wind and the war.
They have counted the miles to the Sun
and Canopus; they have weighed a small
blue star that comes in the southeast
corner of the sky on a foretold errand.
We shall search the sea again.
We shall search the stars again.
There are no bars across the way.
There is no end to the plan and the clue,
the hunt and the thirst.
The motors are drumming, the leather leggings
and the leather coats wait:
Under the sea
and out to the stars
we go.
2.3k