"whetted" poems
Betrayal is the closest friend
and the most eager lover.
Betrayal is the whetted apathy towards the willow tree
that lay in the rubble of old letters and scents.
Betrayal feels nothing
but joy in itself, blinded by its ignorance.
Betrayal is the abrasive hug
and the facile drawings of a thundered smile.
Betrayal feeds the poppies
and waters the corpse.
Betrayal is the closest friend
and the most eager lover.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven
Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven
Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.
Against ****** prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven
To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven
Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.
4.2k
untimely orifice,
subtly trodden
on whetted stones.
an oasis of
nostalgia splurged
into your wake,
tissue plunging into
an indefinite praise.
the echo frayed
your form and
saturated your
sunken flesh.
a fissured whispering
of distinguished life.
even you knew more
about fluttering eyelids
than my mind could
sort to decompose.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
youcouldhearourflesh rip
apart.
(as though it had ever beentogether
as though we were ever
more
than car crashes
than house fires.
I held onto your address, you know
when you held on to my hand;
when you held up the traffic;
when you left
me
and drank
Copenhagen
through a paper straw.
The whetted splendour of it all:
I wonder if the drowned ever
noticed
how the sun kisses The Sea?
down
we
sank.
Did your feet touch the bottom or
did you swim
to the sound of -
to the sound of br ea k ing vi oli n s ?
I snapped each string
like I was pulling teeth.
Your address folded into
waves,
your house burned to
dust,
the kind god keepssafe -
“one last
keep sake”
in his pockets.
If I tightened my hands,
doyouthinkicouldchokeonthis
cable?
Wouldthatstop time or
your voice or
my voice; the voicemails;
the answer machine that
no one ever
answered?
My blueeyed boy was born in goodbyes
he sleeps in seas
irrevocable:
and The Tide washes him home to me
every day.)
it sounded like fingers
tangled in phone wire
and br ok e nv io l in s.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
Traditional warmth
Mix of seaweed and tofu
Appetite whetted
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
i run the bath once more
and rewind your home, too
cuddled and tucked into each other's core
eleanor
all the sweet lies about sweet love
that were said from you
eleanor
roars howling outside my apartment
wet faces reflect on its windows
you were the patch around these bombardments
whetted daggers under her pillows
eleanor
casanovas in the city
fancying themselves swing stage licenses
hung me out to dry, technically
consider the pegs and dive into silences
eleanor
may god act as he see fit
i did mine, at least...
eleanor
if you've never been in love
eleanor
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
In a world of my own construction,
reality bends to my will.
Ancient secrets of ancestral blood
transmute to its inheritor.
The voice of eternity whispers my name,
carried on winds of rolling laughter
to my ear, waiting.
Naive enchantment behind child eyes
is transformed into something magic,
but real; second sight becomes
second nature.
Soon, the joy behind my eyes will return,
forged in inner fire and whetted with love.
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 10:48 PM UTC
Taking wings of paper, gone flying
to where it must not,
naive,
whetted by fancy, that (neither)
sensing, seeing, nor knowing
the limits -
lost, how silly this heart!
Crosses castles
and scales heights, yet,
feels like theft, this love:
Ifs and buts, and again and again
tossing about like a ball,
Applying of dust, like
sandalwood on the forehead;
Whetted by fancy, neither
sensing, seeing, nor knowing
the limits,
Lost, how silly this heart!
*Soars high, the soul-bird,
yearning, leaping out of this frame -
oh a big flame, this love!*.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
Kiss me in hallways and backyards,
in barrooms, and back rooms and in basements,
enslaved with the treatment and easement of lips
twisted which time ceases to be with
and be of, to believe of lease treats of the Grand Paradis,
trysting bright lights of the night.
Give me a center to move around,
a dance to take my hands into, a wall
to build a fortress on, a body to move
motionless inside a shadow upon, fending off tides,
embodied in touching, this turnstile of heavy whetted emotions churns a fuse,
burns loose the moment that time has lead us to produce.
So cute. Impeccable,
irrevocably festive with all of the pyres night's desires
iron onto our wrists, lifting up each other's shirts,
flirting with our fine twilight dessert.
Sewn by such estranged Earth's involvement, our arms
wrapped, chests spasming with deep breaths and ripe
peddling. Pampering first chaste grace of the soul, whether
our bodies entwine or fast in the hours of this world.
How conceived of delight, the moments effervescent reproach,
like Apollo's gold wing's flying from his chariot's coach. The mien
of publicly idling in two, what seemed like an hour happened
in only sixty seconds times two. A year passes, entranced with
shining infinite lust, with a cornucopia of different kisses that
began with just us.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
i'm standing by the marker stone
feeling wind upon my face
listening to the echoes from the grave
i feel the tears freeze on my cheeks
from the wind upon my face
as i listen to the echoes from the grave
I'm in a darkened corner of the graveyard
It's overgrown and not well kept
It's been a long time since a visitor
Has on these markers wept
I feel the spirits all around me here
I hear their voices on the wind
There is not a single angel here
These are souls who all have sinned
The grass has grown halfway up the stone
You see the name but not the years
It's been decades since any marker here
Has been whetted down with tears
I tend the grass and **** growth
Cut it back right to the ground
And except for ghostly echoes
I do not hear a sound
The man here was my father once
Though I don't recall his face
But, here he lies, worm food and dust
In this long forgotten place
The voices of other souls do float
Waiting for someone to show
But, their families died out years back
And those left, they do not know
I hear them as they call out names
Frozen snippets lost in time
And though I am on my father's grave
Nobody calls out mine
i'm standing by the marker stone
feeling wind upon my face
listening to the echoes from the grave
i feel the tears freeze on my cheeks
from the wind upon my face
as i listen to the echoes from the grave
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Oh Gods on high,
I’ve heard thy musings.
As you are above,
So am I below.
But why am I below?
And who hast placed thee on high
Aside from my perceptive imagination?
Your adorned fire illuminates all of element and void.
The Mystery is laid bare before thine eyes
While my dull and hard ember
Barely reveals what is inches before me.
Of what heinous crime have I been indicted
To deserve such a life of ignorance?
Reveal to me the exact pomegranate of which I ate
And I will prove to you
That I can master the Art of Evolution.
Tear from me these vestments of corporeality.
Free me from this prison of time and matter
For I wish to join thy ranks
Of illumined Consciousness,
To see all there is and Beyond,
To be all there is and Beyond.
I am but a piece of mySelf,
A fraction of my whole soul,
The One Soul.
My mind has been divided into countless fragments,
Isolated perceptions seeking to be reconnected,
Floundering so alone in the vacuum of infinity.
And if you are truly above
As I am below,
Then you must share in my suffering
And I am reassured
That my pleas fall not on deaf ears
But on open hearts and whetted appetites
Eager for my ascension into utmost Awareness,
My triumphant return Home.
But if Thy Spirit is indifferent,
If Thou hast turned Thy back toward me,
Or if Thee truly do not exist,
Then may there be a swift end
To this ceaseless and pointless dance of atoms
For I would rather have no experience
Than to play games in the Grand Mistake of Creation.
But this is the resentment of a frustrated child,
One who feels abandoned.
Make known to me Your power and presence
And I will live a humble and devoted life
Or You will lose another exiled child
To the Annals of Hell.
If I am the Devil, then the Devil I will remain
And wage war eternal against Thy Throne.
But if I am truly Thy Son,
If I am truly Thee,
Give me an unmistakable clue
So I may wake from this nightmare
I have built from earth, water, fire, and air.
Oh Gods on high,
Why have I done this to mySelf?
Why have I caged my mind
Only to seek what was already known?
Why have I made this Labyrinth
So nearly impossible to navigate?
How might I lift the Veil from Isis’ face
To gaze into mine own eyes
So that All is known
And All is at peace?
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:13 AM UTC
Marionette spread
On her bread
Some cheese,
The evening sun was red
When flew above her head
A few wild geese!
As she looked up the sky
To see them prettily fly
Buzzed around her head,
Black honeybees!
She held her ground
Moved her hands around
But they do as they please,
These stubborn honeybees!
The smell struck their head
Fine cheese on bread
So luscious was the sight -
It whetted their appetite!
Marionette felt uneasy
The bees kept her busy
And obstructed her sight -
She was not allowed a bite!
It was getting late
The sun was about to set
It was coming to twilight,
But our poor Marionette
In her agitated state
Couldn’t enjoy the sight!
Cute little Marionette
She went down on her knees
But her evening was spoiled
By the uninvited bees!
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
I am The Christmas Angel that sits atop your tree
No one's seen more Christmases than your Christmas Angel..me!
I've been around since time began and I was at the first
Christmas celebration that has since whetted the thirst
Of nations spread out globally who celebrate the Lord
Remember, I was the one who arrived and did deliver the word.
I represent to many folks a time of Christmas past
Of joy and love and family we all did hope would last
To others, I'm a symbol of the Guardian Angel who
Came down out of the heavens and spread the word anew
I am only what you see in me, I may be just a toy
But to others I'm the messenger who told about a boy
I've seen alot atop this tree, more than just this place
I've seen people fighting for the right to dignify their race
The Lord himself is many things in churches all around
He is not just one icon, there are many to be found
His story is not lost in time, and if I may be so bold
They even say his story is The Greatest Ever Told!
I came down that night to tell the tale to the shepherds in the field
I told them of the little child and how their fate was sealed
I gave them all directions to follow the Brightest Star
For even if they lost it, I will still know where you are
They made their way to Bethlehem months after he was born
But still they followed what I said and arrived one early morn
From where I sit I've seen some things that just do not make sense
I've seen nations put up blocking walls instead of just a fence
They believe in the same deity but they have a different name
Then they fight for years and die for naught and no one is to blame
Some people do not put an Angel on their tree
They put up stars....or baseball caps....but I still know it's me
I watch the spirit die in homes where Christmas has grown stale
Where greetings are all limited to saying hi by mail
In other homes I've seen the joy that little children gain
They gather round the tree and join in a choral song refrain
For all I've seen and I've seen much, there is no better sight
Than to see our soldiers sleep in peace upon a Christmas night
And through the years there is one thing that I have to ask
That is how in our God's name...did this tree get up my ***
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
If I leave for Africa and take the bus
to the edge, if I step on an animal mine
and write inside the bellies of snakes—
with an alphabet that’s ruined thousands
of years of evolution—dirty letters
to Mr. Rogers who rubs his pockets for candy
then bends pink-mouthed girls like matchsticks.
If I crawl through Kampala and find our bones
lined up like crayons, uncovering themselves
over years and hundreds of years, sifting upwards.
If there are questions behind those
question marks, more soggy appetites whetted,
more curvy rib bones bumping in a soup pot.
If I run into a man who holds an empty bag
up to his ear and takes it at its word,
if this truant god—your cup and handle,
held like a pistol, love like a nail hole—afraid
to be the villain or stay longer
than an atlas, more afraid to hold than jump, chokes
the bag that won’t shut up, snuffed on camera.
Nearer my god to thee. He will take care,
will last out the cave. Hands sewn like armor,
fingernail mosaics and a propeller under each arm
to carry the faces that fell
away, curious as ever, hiding in museum cases
not in the glass but of it, not taking up spaces.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
She strode the stage in swathes of silk
That swished in synchronicity
To the drum beat,
As in the heat
Her voice oozed electricity.
It coursed the room
With her perfume
In concert with those sultry tones,
Deep in the groove,
So velvet smooth
Like chocolate o'er the microphone.
All eyes were fixed
Upon that mix
Of swinging hips
And painted lips,
Her clientele a lust fuelled fire,
All whetted mouths and dark desire.
Yet in the midst of all those cheers,
The wolf whistles and sexist jeers,
She played her set of old school jazz
With elegance and pure pizzazz.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Traditional warmth
Mix of seaweed and tofu
Appetite whetted
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
I was mad;
but when he
spoke I saw
his words
wrapping
around my
heart softening
the edges I had
whetted too quickly
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
waxing, planetary
odd moonlight—
the faces are whetted to diamonds.
the paralytic shadow begins
to twitch;
benign light froths to full afternoon,
this sedentary creature in between teeth,
a clear consonant of dull air.
thereby gleaming, tapered to
a nightingale's song;
i take my place amongst the elements
of night: as if to say a new portrait in mausoleum crossed by grass and aureole
the laughter shattering its dull one—
a lurid memory, all to itself amongst
kindred of parks.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
quite drunk in this evening tender with rue – there is a gentle hand
that whirls against the bougainvillea.
things remain to be constantly in the tranquil as I am not
yet shaken in my fragile frame –
the leaves rustle in the 19 degree cold moon,
the beer bottles emptied, stacked beside the receptacles.
she and I could be dead, and it took me 3 years to know this:
there is a photograph of her thrown somewhere
behind scraps of metal, caged there, like a jailbird
in a jailhouse, screaming blue against redness.
I had love, and love died.
you neither flinch nor move at the very slight of me,
passing over the porch of your reading.
the thing that once moved now festers
with stillness, and so many vibrant explosions begin in the sky
and there is nothing discernible in her abject eyes.
I remember driving past your home in front of
a little, quaint house and I swore that the even your voice
speaks to me in evenings full with the thought
of never knowing you again.
you are so real like the horse that grazes the field
underneath umbilicus of power-lines,
yet so fake and feigned like the truth that tries
to assess itself , crawling mazy back into my drunken arms
like a child startled speaking a thousand things
I have already no use for.
sometimes the sun is like a house on fire.
sometimes the simmer of onion smells like ******
most of the time, the look on my face, half-drunk and half-believing,
looks like a night distilled and fractured by voices.
I will never ask for your hands to touch,
I will never ask for you body to make heat,
I will never ask for your footsteps to chime in grave music:
I have my own defeats to keep me
that way: toppled and scrounging for light.
let me be.
I have seen many warfares and not a single shot of a rifle
has broken me into the man that I once was.
I drive back to you and it is never the same:
it is banal to say that you have yourself
and I have my own, deep in study.
let us drive back to roads whetted with kisses
and from there, start to disentangle
like leaves from boughs
deep in December.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Her eyes kindled the fire,
touch raised the temperature,
kiss whetted the appetite,
got us equipped for Cupid's test.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
This palpable air is an organism.
Each movement penetrates its wraith-like flesh.
Each step is a dagger into its still breast.
It weeps and bleeds. Beaten daily,
It is wont to anguish.
Weeping hourly, slowly it shall perish.
Each minute chimes its piercing toll.
Soft and dreary shall each minute roll.
From these whetted hooks shall it hang.
And from your hands shall come the pangs.
Wet and weary, cold and heavy shalt thou wake
To find the dripping body that thou did forsake.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC