"winces" poems
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
*that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"*
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
somebody knew Lincoln somebody Xerxes
this man:a narrow thudding timeshaped face
plus innocuous winking hands, carefully
inhabits number 1 on something street
Spring comes
the lean and definite houses
are troubled. A sharp blue day
fills with peacefully leaping air
the minute mind of the world.
The lean and
definite houses are
troubled.in the sunset their chimneys converse
angrily,their
roofs are nervous with the soft furious
light,and while fire-escapes and
roofs and chimneys and while roofs and fire-escapes and
chimeys and while chimneys and fire-escapes
and roofs are talking rapidly all together there happens
Something,and They
cease(and
one by one are turned suddenly and softly
into irresponsible toys.)
when this man with
the brittle legs winces
swiftly out of number 1 someThing
street and trickles carefully into the park
sits
Down. pigeons circle
around and around and around the
irresponsible toys
circle wildly in the slow-ly-in creasing fragility
—. Dogs
bark
children
play
-ing
Are
in the beautiful nonsense of twilight
and somebody Napoleon
6.4k
She paints her hips the color of her blood
the way she paints the water light blues and greens.
Except the cuts on her skin aren’t beautiful
not like the trees and branches in the painting for her sister.
That razor hitting her skin and spilling her blood
it’s far different from her paintbrush hitting the canvas and spilling paint.
She etches her skin with this blade
the way he etched his lungs with smoke.
One is visible to the eye if only they look
The other is hidden and can’t be seen.
Both are deadly
but one of them stopped and the other has not.
The numbness takes over leaving her cold
She lays on the bed staring at the ceiling feeling nothing.
The girl hates it so she grabs that blade and finds a new spot to cut.
She winces as the blood begins to drip down her hip
and feelings begin to form in her chest again.
The feeling may be pain,
but to her anything is better than nothing.
The girl knows she needs to stop
she knows that on her hips
there are no beautiful pictures in blues and greens
but tragic stories written in nothing but blood.
The tale of a girl who would rather live in pain
than die in numbness.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and ******
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags --
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
4.2k
romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice
he's over on 18hh street as usual
lookin' so hard
against the hood of his car
and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand
and for all the pachucos at the pumps
at romeros paint and body
they all seein' how far they can spit
well it was just another night
but how they're huddled in the brake lights
of a 58 belair
and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife
and they all jump when they hear the sirens
but romeo just laughs
and says all the racket in the world
ain't never gonna save that coppers ***
he'll never see another summertime
for gunnin' down my brother
and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife
and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette
and they all reach for their pack
and frankie lights it for him
and pats him on the back
and throws bottle at a milk truck
and as it breaks he grabs his nuts
and they all know they could be just like romeo
if they only had the guts
but romeo is bleeding
but nobody can tell
and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest
and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear
that every thing is cool now that romeos here
but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then
and he leans against the car doors
and feels the blood in his shoes
and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store
romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door
and he brodys through the signal
with the radio full blast
leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos
and they all try to stand like romeo
beneath the moon cut like a sickle
and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero
but romeo is bleeding
as he gives the man his ticket
and he climbs to the balcony at the movies
and he'll die without a wimper
like every heros dream
just like an angel with a bullet
and cagney on the screen
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
*if only I knew how to love...
for my Victoria
winces-grimaces, that these words even leave my fingertips,
reminiscences, a chrome bookmark tab full of decades of near misses,
instances, subway sideway stolen daily glances of she who would be the only, the one, but one day failed to appear, left to dream peer,
and/or
decades long of romanced lasses, flying spectacular super crashes, when my heart-blanched, lanced, and the lawyers danced, poems shriveled as dried ink crack'd and words rusted shut,
cut by so many p'raps, and ugly motives, beautiful covered up, disguised as synapses of sin and insincerity, and I,
the sad man,
both the sinner and the sinned against,
totalities, of shoulda-woulda-asked/kissed-her-gallantly,
activities, when kisses were doorways to trap door rooms
and an over decorated monte cristo prison cell
ah well
the 'and yet,' the 'but for,' a single finger, sealing silenced lips,
passions mourned and irrevocable sensations, frittered, fractured,
all that I calmly called love was sprigs and broken branches,
cut flowers destined to shrivel,
not of what I believed in, something akin to a tree rooted, an oaken strong unbreakable love
of this certain, all approximations, all failed incantations,
for surely, if but only one escaped, could have been saved,
and if truthful love it was,
I would have known it,
for would I have dared to let slip away?
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
The weight of the world weighed heavy
She was a modern day Olympus feeling the pressure cracks of a spherical burden
Bearing the full brunt she winces yet sheds no tears
Her plight remains silent in the deepest recesses of the night
Hers and hers alone
She confides in the stars
Polaris her guiding light
As she sets her sights to the heavens
Letting Orion aim his bow and fire arrows at her rigid frame
She moves for nothing
Steady as the mountain she holds out through wailing winds and piercing rain
The weight of the world heavy but never enough for her to bear
Her eyes shone back the light of the moon
Merely a third party reflection of faded sun rays
She let the tides of seven seas and 24 years of misery swell in her stare
Breath crisp yet labored at the reality of it all
She remains awake silent waiting on the sky to fall
Bearing company to her closer than anything she ever knew
She'd hold the world forever just to give it all to you...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.
this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.
we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.
the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.
it's all levitation and transcendence.
the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the thud
of the senseless head of metal
on the body
the clackety-clack
of hours thereafter!
ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
appendage. the solstice is lost
in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of
thunder — the steady phoenix of
that night! this is learning
to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
this river flowing into our throats,
jamming our souls to compelling music.
remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Inside your eyes lies a little princess
She often cries, she often winces
She seeks her wonders, she cheers for beauty
She faints when she sees human cruelty
She falls in love, she bursts with laughter
She changes her mind about what she's after
She has high hopes, she's got big dreams
When you do good, she proudly beams
She longs for stars, she longs for stories
She hates it when she sees your worries
She's your helper, she's your friend
She will be with you till the end
So go and look, show her the world
The greatest stories ever told
Do kind things and keep her grinning
When she's happy, it's you who's winning
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 2:53 PM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.
I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.
She winces.
Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.
You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.
You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.
Sorry,
I should have
told you.
(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).
She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.
I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.
Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.
I wish she had, too.
My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.
What did did she say?
They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.
And did you?
Janice asks.
No, at least not
if my parents
were around.
I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.
She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.
Have you ever
been spanked?
I look at her.
Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.
She pulls a face.
How ***** of you.
Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.
I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.
She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.
I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.
She’s almost there,
smiling,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Hobbling over rock and dust,
The Nameless winces with every weary step.
His soles scorched and torn
By the unaccustomed roughness underfoot
The jagged teeth of a prickly piping earth.
Alone he makes his way
With tiny treads towards the dying dusk.
Fatigue dragging at his limbs
Bowing his neck to leave eyes downcast
And unfocussed; seeing naught but blurs and
The swirling and swaying of the trembling past.
A city:
Grand buildings stretching as one toward the sky;
Great lions waking from their feast and basking
In the brilliance of noonday air.
The bustle of flesh coursing about their purpose
The tight press of bodies all around
And the chatter and the natter and the laughter and the anger.
And then the silence.
The fear and the glares.
The hunger
And a guilty aversion of one’s eyes.
The shattering of glass
The raising with fire and boot.
And the stealing of Names.
And now here he trudges.
With tiny treads and into naked night.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
CLOSE SHAVE
Always her fascination
with me
shaving.
This her early morning ritual
observing each action
as if it were
holy.
I hide my face
in foam.
“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! ”
she chants
winces with delight
as the razor
(she gulps)
goes over my bump
without slicing it off.
The shaving uncovers the me she knows.
“Soft…soft! ”
“Mr. Daddy Soft Soft! ”
she gurgles
in a lather of laughter.
“Me now…now me! ”
she pleads with me.
I take the brush
coat her reflection with foam.
I shave her
with the tip of my little finger.
Her reflection sniggers &
she sniggers too.
Later, in the early evening
she appears
bearded in fresh cream.
She shaves herself
with a lollipop stick.
“Me... Daddy now...see! ”
I cha cha cha her
on the tips of my toes
as she clings to my
fingertips
dancing around
the living room.
One delighted
half shaved little girl.
One delighted
soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Santa Claus is 100% pure love
his heart does not divide
the starved and homeless man with his tin cup
from the wealthy politician in his black limousine
nor does Santa ever blame
the frightened small town girl
who paints her lips and struts unsure
down hard dark streets
Santa Claus remembers his own mother
and weeps for the lonely karma of octogenarians
diapered in wheelchairs along fluorescent hallways
abandoned by the ones they birthed
our great elf winces every time
he feels the crocodile's fearsome jaws
drag the wildebeest down
while the zebras flee
he prays relentless sailors
stop harpooning the great breaching whales
and hears the grasses scream
when bloated oilmen pound holes
in the prairie dog's kingdom
he regrets that schoolteachers lie
about what a great man Columbus was
and why the Sioux, the Apache and the Arapahoe
were incapable of evolution
he knows you don't need a bicycle helmet
to ride downtown for ice cream
knows our legal system is for sale
knows surfing is Neptune's brave ballet
Santa delights in the spiritual joy emerging
when patients see angels hovering everywhere
before doctors scream psychosis
and numb what they do not understand
with sad needles and leather restraints
his reindeer are the dreams of the spastic child
who knows he will never run
his sleigh a zero carbon emission vehicle
and his great heavy bag carries
the sweet prayers of the Jew, the Christian
the Muslim, the Buddhist, the Hindu
the Gnostic, the Wiccan and the existential humanist
on the night before Christmas
Santa dreams that all the cars and trucks disappear
and every freeway grows trees and flowers and grass
where everyone chats and meanders and strolls
and vendors sell SnoCones, apple juice and pears
because Santa Claus is just doing
the one thing he knows how to do best
on a long winter's night
to bring some light to a world
that races toward extinction
while the butterfly sleeps with the lizard
and the children still believe
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
582
Inconceivably solemn!
Things go gay
Pierce—by the very Press
Of Imagery—
Their far Parades—order on the eye
With a mute Pomp—
A pleading Pageantry—
Flags, are a brave sight—
But no true Eye
Ever went by One—
Steadily—
Music’s triumphant—
But the fine Ear
Winces with delight
Are Drums too near—
1.5k
To my lover,
the one I crave the most.
My core winces to see you weep,
but with the state of your home,
I don't wonder why you're sad.
If my empire was torn to shreds I would tear also,
but my place is within you.
You are the one I'm invested in.
You are the one for me,
so, just text me when you read this
...because I'll be your home.
I'll keep you warm.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.
A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.
His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...
Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.
Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.
I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.
Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
I see my snowy steps disappearing in the
snow. The coldness will swallow them.
Wet winces on snow ,wetter than any wince.
I am more involved in a sharp snowless stretch
than I was ever. I forgot that I'm existent .I try
to remember. A cloud is tossing its white to rain.
Nothing never rains outside, everything rains
inside. Everything is tossing firstly before raining.
The trees always feel this. They are existent.
The trees need to be existent. This freezing rain
is breaking the trees’ limbs. Their branches are
encapsulated in glaze ice. I need my steps back.
I hear a song coming from the coffee house. There
is a coffee stain on my right shoe. I take a taxi to go
nowhere. This rain falls down over the snow blanket.
The snow is existent until it becomes a bed for the
falling rain. I can be existent as long as I’m not cold.
This rain is not a tropical one ,and I cannot care less.
There is something moving toward. It's my body. There
is something having no beginning and no end. It's the
movement in losing time. Rain and snow need time
to prove their similar personality and their different
appearance .Time is existent. I’m not existent in another
particular time. I can’t come into existence twice.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
The river's current starts slow,
chilled streams trickling,
toes shifting, in the dark blue-gray;
almost unpleasant to the touch.
As she wades, the pull becomes stronger;
ice cold, it entraps her chest.
Slwoosh fwssh, she winces as the wind picks up,
and her mind goes still; resilient.
Drifting, her body gives way,
fwuomp, pssshhh.
Almost lifeless do her eyes wash,
away into the water's murk.
Like a ship stranded at sea,
her body struggles to withstand,
water filling her lungs like the hull;
her cheeks pale and wet.
Gasps break the water,
sending ripples as wide as her eyes,
and the tormenting storm laughs;
Each time it moves, grabs, without asking, takes without giving,
and she floats.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
IN BED WITH STEPHEN KING
backstage: Romeo
tries it on
Juliet 'its 'im 'ard
the slap
shocks the extras
they pause mid-make-up
Juliet's received pronunciation
slips back into her native Cockney
Romeo told to go forth and multiply
anyway, Paris is
more her type and
oooh his *** in ahhhh...those tights
Romeo's...ughhh....halitosis
she winces with each kiss
taste of garlic...cheap cigarettes
an audience applauds
the curtain falls
glad to be just Jane again
she takes time
to un-Shakespeare her self
boy but she could ****** a kebab
Romeo: once again Andy
her ex & yes yes
she wants *** but...not with him
Paris: now Peter
gives her a saucy wnk
"Hmm!" she thinks "Hmmm!"
she imagines him
nakedly mad for her
sans tights...sans everything
alas that wink was
for Tybalt...god ****
another night in bed with
- Stephen King.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
The farmer and the poet walk side by side.
The wind is blowing and with every grain of sand approaching their skin, the kettle moves closer to boiling.
The farmer with his miniature mule in his palm sweeps in motion with his other hand, the one with golden rings and chewed nails.
He shows the poet that the land must be toiled.
And sweat must mix with blood to form meaning to one's life.
The farmer combusts into ashes over the poet and the untouched bloodless ground.
There is no anxiety.
The poet and the glassblower walk hand in hand, shoulders pressed closer, finding rhythm in each other's differences.
Warmth and love shine from their portrait.
And the poet thinks as he walks.
The thoughts collapse and the glass blower breaks into sheets.
Furthermore into jagged shards and then, into pieces too small for a human eye to see.
With each step the poet contains his winces and his groans.
Walking his every step, a moment closer to suicide.
I'm aware this is temporary.
The solution is permanent.
Stay as permanence, pouring as warm oil from the eternal lion's mouth.
I grow uncomfortable.
Distance yourself and twist language.
Pull yourself together.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
Poor reaction:
Stipulated by thumbs and notions to excel
Steadied eyes, that keep aims harboring sense?
Of quiet, that looked hard for us, to wish in hell...
Left, do we remember a tears cause?
With the language of frozen thoughts?
Many and metered loyalty's, laws?
That took the obvious to oblivion, for what mocks?
Pyres or piety
The tale I tell, is for the coming and the done
****** to rights, the toil we adjust, we show anxiety...
Is a legend in its own right, risen from the curse, we own
Liberty, is an expensive friend, come to tell us a fortune
Of dignity and callous vice, to share a kept dream of avarice's fit
And final lip of sincerity, that knows where you have been
Acted upon like a thief in the sight, of another, and in whit:
We are that we are...
The poise of destiny to a frightful mind, that keeps charisma
Like a treasure of deliberate calm, when we know passion afar
And ready to strike, nothing but a conversation that is a proven same, somehow sad...
But hating the very roots of opinion, for an art?
Of redoubt in the temptation of cope, to witness a shyness
Forth a remaining tooth of drama and lowly starts
Of nothing at all, but the richness of causes, we have seen come to bless...
Feb 5, 2023
Feb 5, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
The cell phone rings
The young girl answers
And winces at the pending pain
The truth lies trampled
In deception
The healing words
Held in disdain
A story, morale for all others
Spinning tales
And tangled webs
Causing wounds
Of self infliction
Kicking integrity
In the head
So we all
Can be the liar
And choose the what
And when and why
The road is paved
With good intentions
To the hell
Of living a lie
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC