"whiff" poems
Love her like
She's the raging sea,
Unrestrained and dark and deep.
And you crave her touch
Through aching pores
As you slowly drown in sleep.
Love her like
She's the tender storm,
A lovely shade of grey.
Like with every whiff
Of breath she takes,
She's taking yours away.
Love her like
She's the silent clouds
With calmness floating by.
Like you'd want to make
Sweet love to her
Under the moon's apocalyptic eye.
Love her like
She's the blazing fire,
And you lust the candied pain.
Like she's the disease
That swallowed you whole
And you'd like to die again.
When her gentle touch
Makes your chest explode,
And your addiction is your girl.
Promise you'll love her
Through hell and back,
Or don't you dare love her at all.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
I will randomly get whiffs of scents
that remind me of moments spent with you.
The smell of the lake in the city at your dads that first summer.
That scent that stuck to our clothing from burning cedar in the barn we called home.
A whiff of cologne that you would wear only because I loved it so.
I hope I never have to smell those again.
Painful nostalgia.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
The walls screamed poetry disease & ***
an inner whine like a mad machine -
dropped in a
cave of roaches
or rodents
The Computer
faces of the men
The wall collage
reading matter
The Traders (dealers)
~~~
I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & see me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 p.m.
I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like, on the
verge of evolution
-Fear The Lords who are
secret among us
~~~
Leaving the phone-booth, I was
Struck by a whiff of
the weird.
Insane old country woman
come to nag the haunts
of town
Hairy legs w/open sores.
From what swamp or under-rock
did you crawl to remind
us what we choose
to leave
13.8k
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
.
I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.
And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
now tender patches
of failure.
I drop the fork ...
… pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.
And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …
And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?
© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
please do not serve me **** pie on a silver platter!
oh, your unfamiliar with this type of pie?!! it is the kind
that is hot & fresh with buried lies and deceits colored scented to seem sweet.
Please, I do ask that you not serve this dish to me!
I see through and know there are many many layers
covering the other so I tell you do not serve to me
**** pie on a silver platter!!
Just be straightforward
then we are good and clear as long as you are a truth
teller you will have nothing to bury or hide baked
into quadruple **** layered sphincter pie so keep it straight
and girls won't hate but we will test and figure things,
So go with caution just as long as
we don't sniff a whiff
being served to us by you via silver splat
oh oops, that was your face oh-oh.
SorryNotSorry bout that!
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
They say that smell
Is your strongest sense
When tied to memory.
That just a whiff of a smell
Or even thought of a
Smell can bring you back
To a place and a time that
You had previously
Thought were left behind.
For me the smell of
Bleach is comfort, as my
Nanny used it as a
Standard, household
Cleaner. I love that smell
As well as of my favorite
Dinner, mildew (reminds me of summers spent
At camp, living out of a trunk) and
My favorite flowers
Each of these smells I
Love to revisit time and
Time again. One smell
Though has embedded
Itself in my memory and if
I have my way, I’ll never
Smell it again.
Mom had Colon cancer most
Of my time in
High school.
No clue on the stage
But it was best not
To
Ask
Surgeries, chemo, radiation, the
Whole
Nine
Things seemed to be fine,
Well, even great
Until it took a turn
My mom has never been
Skinny; she is petite, but
Normal
Suddenly she looked like
A holocaust victim
She would get quiet
Draw into herself
For periods of time
Another surgery. Fine
She returned home
And then something crept in
That something was death
And I’ll never know how I knew
You just know.
The smell of something
Dying
Isn’t pleasant
It puts you on edge
And turns your stomach
Mom was confident
That she was getting better
The smell, that can’t
Be described (dying tissue, pain
Suffering) was glaring
To me
I never asked Mom or Dad
If they could smell it
Because the smell of Death
Isn’t a sense that should
Be shared
I would just maintain that
I didn’t think
Something was right
A day or so later
Surgery. Fine. Home.
Smell.
Surgery. Fine. Home.
Smell.
Surgery. Fine. Home.
After that last
Surgery. The smell
Left. But even now
When I think back
To that time
That complicated time of
Soccer games
Chemotherapy
Apply to college
Surgeries
The one thing in the
Foreground
Is
That
Smell
Just a whiff of death
Of human decay
Of dying
Of suffering
And I’ve had my fill
For a lifetime
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
When I was 5 ...
Your kerosene heater .. I hated that smell ..
Your snoring .. kept me awake at night ..
Bathtime .. my ears hurt when you cleaned them with the rough flannel ..
Bathing in the river .. I was ashamed to be naked like you ..
Your teeth .. in a glass scared me ..
You had no mercy .. when on the hunt for head lice ..
Now I'm 45 ..
You had no mercy .. relentless, you got them all ..
Your teeth .. I keep mine in a glass in the bathroom ..
Bathing in the river .. unrestricted & one with nature, I get it ..
Bathtime .. your ears do get ***** I use a rough flannel too ..
Your snoring .. any snoring reminds me of you ..
Your kerosene heater .. the whiff of kerosene, my strongest physical memory of you .. I think of you .. now I love the smell of kerosene ..
Every cherished memory of my Grandmother, no detail forgotten, I will always love you Nan XOXO
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
It takes me back
It pulls me close
To itself, I cannot leave
ln my dreams
While I dose
The summer scent of mango tree
I remember well
When we were young
My friend and I hung on its arms,
Cuddling the leaves.
Now remain
Just memories, echoes of a simpler past
The flowers promised
June was close
Summer's sins would be redeemed
By the childhood paradise
Salted raw mango slice
Overarching newborn smiles
Yellow sun on green leaves
Greenish-yellow chrysoberyl
Oasis of the summertime
I remember picking them up
From the rooftop of boyhood-life
Our winged friends came, bees, monkeys too
Attempting another bite
Fond, fond memories
Mother used to cut and bring us mangoes
While I tasted the golden slice
My granny told me stories of
The tree, it stood there when they built this house
When she was eight or nine
This fruit, this taste
Connects this land
Magnifera indica
The secular deity of the mango nation
You cannot begin to understand
The gift of Indian summer
My childhood wrapped in emerald leaves
The whiff, the scent, I transcend
Time;go to an age when all was well
Or at the least, to me it seemed
As I'm taking a bite of this season's last mango
As the golden drops stick to my pubescent stache
I remember a conversation I had
The mango tree
It talked to me
No, I'm not crazy
It was the mango tree
Little things in life
Leave something
Oh!so many memories
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
I wish that I
was filled with stars
intricate, intimate arrays
to guide me to the edge
of myself and beyond
my soul
the brightest
in a unique constellation
of my naming
my love
many-hued nebula
expanding
to fill the void
my losses
supernovas
both beautiful
and tragic
But I am not
celestial
earth-bound
I must navigate
by stroke of skin
whiff of memory
trace of sadness
night vision
rudimentary compasses
in a sea of misunderstanding.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Creatures of the night,
howling and cooing,
in the dark forest,
sending chills that
run down my spine,
with goose bumps
all over my body.
It's really spooky in
this quiet night as the
drizzling rain makes it
more difficult and
uncomfortable to see
in the dark.
The tranquil of this
night is so frightening
and makes one go weak
at the knees.
I can hear the ****** biting
the wood to make a ridge
so the flood will find its path.
You can hear every
footstep of these creatures
moving in the dark.
The flapping wings of the
dreaded vampire blood *******
hammerhead bat flying so low
above my head,
another nightmare of the night,
the night owl staring at me,
the park of wolves barking
at a distance,
the creepy noises of other
animals in the deep dark night,
the noise of the ruffled dried leaves
by the king cobra hunting.
It seems they are watching
your every move in the dark.
The whiff of your scent
they perceive from afar.
Alone in the quiet dark night
with the night creatures
is a perfect place to test your
nerves and witness
the beauty of the night unfold before you
in display of their magic.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok !
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
I don't feel
Your touch
Anymore.
Or hear you
Calling my name.
I love you (past tense)
I don't taste
You on my
Tongue
Or smell your
Sweet, sweet
Scent.
Because
I love you
(Past tense)
I don't see
You in my
Dreams
Or think of
You that often
Anymore
Because
I love you
(Past tense)
But sometimes
At night
I lie awake
And I feel
Your touch
On my skin
I hear
Your voice
Calling me.
I taste
You on
My tongue
I catch
A whiff of
Your scent
I think
Of you.
Just you.
And hope
I'll dream
Of you again.
Because I
Don't love you
Past tense
Still,
I love you.
(Present tense)
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
I am like a dew drop on the edge of a leaf
Cautiously balancing on tip toes
Another dew drop appears next to me
A whiff of soft wind sways the leaf
We start pirouetting on the edge
Balancing with all the skills we have
Finally, we bond together
Different, yet unrecognizable now
A ray of light passes through us
To create a beautiful rainbow
It’s just the dewdrops
© Amitav (Radiance)
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
(Explicit)
I couldn't tell you what it was...
Or what caused it...
I honestly hadn't thought about you much...
It was a first but it came in plenty.
It was like I forgot about you...
Even if only...
Briefly...
My theory is...
Yes, of course I have one...
In the wake of,
a recent devastation..
I was..
Quite vulnerable..
Teetering on hopelessness...
It was in the midst of all this,
That My,
Boss,
My Employer,
&
Friend,
Starts confiding in me for marital advice....
Seems harmless right??
I mean really...
Why the **** did I even care?
Why would these harmless insignificant things bring back so many memories.
I remember going home that evening...
Drinking wine on my little black sofa...
Looking out my window, as the rain began to sound against my window pane..
It was then, that I realized..
Something started stirring in me
...
I was missing you...
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why do familiar situations, have that pile of **** way of digging things up...
You've already buried ten feet deep?
I'm angry...
I'm ****** off at myself!
I don't want to miss a man who doesn't miss me.
Whose not thinking about me.
I don't want to feel the icy sting in my heart knowing he never loved me.
How he got away Scott free.
Without pain or agony...
I don't want there to be some piece of you I always love or a special place in my heart, where you'll always stay...
Because you don't ******* deserve it.
You never deserved me...
You never indured...
The pain and agony...
You don't know what it feels like, to be suffering.
Having to go through what it feels like when, your heart gets even a whiff of something that's tied to your memory..
I hate that my heart still entertains this **** because I wanna be rid of everything that has your memory tied to it.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
I crack an egg over the pan,
And drizzle it with salt
The oil seethe with anger,
As the sides of the egg turns brown
I push a spatula between the egg and the pan,
Then I slowly lift it and transfer it to a plate
The yolk wiggles in a funny motion
A whiff reaches my nose and it lingers for a while
The last one joins the other plates on the table.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
How could you leave me so unexpected?
I was waiting, I was waiting
For you but you just left me
I needed you, I needed you
Yo, I don't know what it's like to be addicted to *****
But I do know what it's like to be a witness it kills
You told me you love me, I'm thinking this isn't real
I think of you when I get a whiff of that cigarette smell, yeah
Welcome to the bottom of hell
They say pain is a prison, let me out of my cell
You say you proud of me, but you don't know me that well
Sit in my room, tears running down my face and I yell
Into my pillowcases, you say you coming to get me
Then call me a minute later just to tell me you not, I'm humiliated
I'm in a room with a parent that I don't barely know
Some lady in the corner watching us, while she taking notes
I don't get it dad, don't you want to watch your baby boy grow?
I guess that ***** is more important, all you have to say is no
But you won't do it will you? You gon' keep drinking 'til the ***** kills you
I know you gone but I can still feel you
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me here?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Oh, Hey
I got this picture in my room and it kills me
But I don't need a picture of my dad, I need the real thing
Now a relationship is something we won't ever have
Why do I feel like I lost something that I never had?
You shoulda been there when I graduated
Told me you love me and congratulations
Instead you left me at the window waiting
Where you at dad? I was too young to understand where you at huh?
Yeah, I know that alcohol got you held captive
I can see it in your eyes, its got your mind captured
Some say it's fun to get the high but I am not laughing
What you don't realise and what you not grasping
That I was nothing but a kid who couldn't understand
I ain't gon' say that I forgive you cause it hasn't happened
I thought that maybe I feel better as time passes
If you really cared for me, then where you at then?
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Our last conversation, you and I sat in the living room
Playing our video games, you started slurring and I broke down in front of you
You started crying, telling me this isn't you
Couple weeks later, guess you were singing a different tune
You Drank that ***** for the last time, didn't you?
It took you from me once, guess It came back to finish you
Crying my eyes out in the studio is difficult
Music is the only place that I can go to speak to you
It took everything inside of me to not scream at your funeral
Sitting in my chair, that person talking was pitiful
I wish you were here dad but every time I picture you
All I feel is pain, I hate the way I remember you
They found you on the floor, I could tell that you felt hollow
Gave everything you had plus your life to those jack bottles
You gave everything you had plus your life to them jack bottles
Don't know if you hear me or not, but if you still watching why
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
I know her intimately and not at all,
Her fragrance infiltrates, chases me,
A whiff off the tips of my fingers,
The smell of her is hunger,
It makes me wont to wolf and devour,
Her flush on the flat of my tongue,
Her angel whisper,
Our quiet choir a pleasure,
A harmony,
A crescendo until we seed and mute.
Between us,
Our damp swap,
A no man’s land,
A moist design,
The map of lust.
The art of love is always,
In its stains.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
I was born a mermaid.
Half divine fish,
Half human female.
My thoughts swam far and wide
taking no prisoners.
I did not know I was myself
until the age of six.
My life had seemed like
an extraordinary dream
up to that point.
I wasn't a girl bound by a name.
I was the queen of a world
of sea-kings and sea-nymphs.
The day I glimpsed myself in the mirror,
I rose from the waves,
and caught a whiff of reality.
It hit me so hard
I couldn't breathe anymore
amongst the fish I called friends.
I had to surface
but I couldn't leave the sea.
Land is too harsh
for a mermaid's glistening scales.
It roughs them up,
takes away their shine.
But the sea was also
inhospitable to those
who only halfway belonged.
I drifted between
the two worlds
always keeping my head upright
above the waves.
My skin grew sunburnt,
My wrists grew thinner,
My eyes grew dimmer,
with every appearance
of the moon's wistful face.
The two sides of me
were at war
and I was slated to be
the sole casualty.
I did the only thing I could
held my breath
sank under the waves.
I made a deal with the sea-witch,
tore my tail apart
til it made two legs.
Shed every single scale
til the skin underneath
wept red tears.
I made a deal with the sea-witch
I gave her what was left of my tail.
I made a deal with the sea-witch,
I didn't realize that
my rebirth from the waves
onto the gritty shore
would be the last time
I tasted the salt on my tongue
and the wind in my mermaid-hair.
I made a deal with the sea-witch
I gave her my soul.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
summer, spring, winter, fall,
it always carried a whiff of cleanliness, like lysol,
bleach and daffodils had made a not so secret love
child.
there were never any marks. no signs of mistakes,
accidents, humanity.
the floors glistened like the sun beaming off a black
convertible.
the windows, you couldn’t even tell they were
windows. not without the panes.
transparent like the shores of the Mediterranean.
I never touched anything.
I held my breath among glass, ornaments, picture frames.
afraid one intake would show up like a smudge that could
never be wiped off, no matter how much one tried.
she fits the house. like those china dolls, polished to perfection.
blonde hair rolled in unison curls. no frizz. never any
fly aways.
face just like those windows, eyes raging in a storm too far away.
his room was the only one i could sink in.
legos scattered
(i always stepped on the yellow ones)
clothes fuming with dirt and almost manhood.
his posters crooked, carrying characters dressed in
armor, or tuxedos, animated, weapons in hand.
his bed, never made, incasing the last impression of his body
(he always slept on his side)
a spot of drool still visible, blankets holding his scent.
soap, laundry detergent and oranges.
game controllers trashed, bite marks, dents, too many battles.
i finally breathed when i walked in.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Your scent has become chlorine to me.
Every whiff,
Every inhale,
Burns through my nostrils
And into my lungs.
And yet I still cant get enough.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC