"wiper" poems
There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield, pretty
as you please
She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair
She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves
Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood, going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
Rain falls on the windscreen
in shades of grey brown and fogged-up blue,
car become boat in the rain-clogged road
floating away like in a Monet,
into the evening mess.
Frayed nerves, rules break, as dangers lurk.
The wiper slow tells its tale own.
Irrelevant discourse, irreverent songs,
the FM trend for DJ fame.
And we have two 'rivers' in our city,
swelling in refuse, bolstered by the rain;
And we have two beaches in our city,
soak in the surf, if you can ignore the rubble;
And we have many parks in our city
where litter garlands our heroes daily;
The last patch of green, cramped between
rising heights all around, accursed of
dump and construction junk,
steals a dying look at the moon late.
A walk in the woods, by the mist, by late evening.
A stroll, warm, through a field covered in snow.
Nice paintings on my concrete wall.
I'm told, the money plant is good for one's health.
Trees, a luxury for our wealth.
These are all good developments.
Hyper malls round the corner.
Home prices, soaring to Kepler.
Please pour in more investment into my country.
Guaranteed, riches grow in multiplication.
The markets are all about manipulation.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
I’m sorry I shut you out and blamed you for my own undoing,
You see I have this cloud that hangs above my head and I had begun
To call it home.
My thoughts and feelings got lost somewhere in the condensation phase,
And I trapped them there, only allowing occasional acknowledgment of the pain
I was in, doing as much as I could so as not to show if or how I had been affected by it,
For I am my own prisoner of sorts.
I let you in my cell to feed me water and gruel, but when you asked to spend the night
I immediately pushed you out and handcuffed myself to
The illusion of accomplishment, for lo and behold, I was there supposedly
Protecting myself, abandoning you before you could abandon me.
Over time, my pride turned to boredom which turned to anger which turned
To loneliness, and I had to place the blame upon someone’s shoulders.
There were no mirrors in my cell, so I chose to blame you
For I had forgotten that I even existed.
Your kindness cut into the unripe parts of me, the parts that were not ready
To be handled so gently, where breathing is slow,
Where each time you blink is like having a windshield wiper wash away the rain
From a car so clarity can enter your veins and visceral rearview mirrors.
I unraveled while you were away, I cried over my million losses while I counted
Your continual successes, I was envious of you,
Gradually falling silent to the truth of everything that had once surrounded me.
I was afraid you no longer loved me, for I no longer wished to be loved
Nor did I feel deserving of it.
That wish was strong and I fell down a long and narrow well
Where you were not waiting for me when I finally reached the bottom.
I stayed there awhile, beneath my cloud, locked in my cell,
With the murky water and unforgiving gruel.
You called down to me from the top, your voice
Your voice
Your voice
Oh but how could I possibly forget?
That voice.
It never left,
It never lied.
I can’t promise you I won’t fall down here again,
For my heart is stubborn and I still haven’t learned
The art of removing that which has been engraved
On this selfish mind.
But for now,
I wish to stay.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
My house is surrounded by
Illuminati operatives.
Lizards! Everywhere i look...
green ones in the grass like
slithery snakes with feet,
brown ones on my porch
running counter-intelligence
on my kitties, tan little
enforcers with an ochre-red
streak of war paint along
their spines.
i know what you are thinking...
but i stopped wearing a
tinfoil hat. It wasn't
keeping the N.S.A. out of my
emails anyway.
Just yesterday, one of the
lizards' double zero
agents followed me to McDonalds.
i saw him through the windshield,
gripping the wiper blade
with all his might, tail
whipping in the wind like a
whip antenna, broadcasting my
subversive Big Mac purchase.
i don't use Geico insurance,
therefore it was clearly an
Illuminati spy, without question.
Nowhere is safe.
My days are numbered.
They fear what i could expose,
that i would tell others
what i remember about
freedom.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
The dog buried it in the garden, in one of
Its many holes, it was a dog of course
Just not the normal dog,
No skin,
No fluff,
No idea?
Where it buried this which I needed,
Which I owned,
It was like a mole had been playing whacker
And dug up
50 mounds,
50 holes,
50 buried
But which was that which I needed to hold,
My hands waved too and froe,
I would talk but my anger muffled
Not expressing my contempt but with a finger
Waving as my hands in a naughty silent
Window wiper motion,
"Bad dog"
"Bad boy"
"Bad reception"
A voice unheard,
"OK"
Right now I have a worm playing
Hide go seek in my cavity's, it tickles
My sockets, curls up in my nose,
Sticks you know what daddy will do,
And the last time this happened,
What did daddy do??
Legs in the bathroom,
Ribs keeping open the kitchen door,
And your skull was left outside in the cold,
"With a grumble"
"With a growl"
"With relief"
I saw the light,* and my body walked over,
My bony fingers rummaging around
Left a little,
Right a little,
Are you blind
And with that like a touch down,
My skull was finally found,
I rubbed the mud off
I took the worm from my nose,
I sat him on my rib, he had found a new home.
"Now boy"
"I know you like to bury"
"But daddies bones are a no go"
I give him a cuddle, stroked his bony head,
"What's skeleton to do"
When his dog likes to bury bones,
Last week he buried his tail, in one of those fifty holes,
And its still waggling, wiggling as we speak buried in a hole.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
she asked:
are there words
hiding in raindrops
waiting to be born..?
their life expectation
was really quite short
awaiting only
the swipe of
a windshield wiper..
Some special drops
her camera captured
in one of those
dissolving moments..
one small drop
glimmered with
a pure white light
others angled with
curved prism color..
white and colors
created
but soon destroyed
by those ever
persistent and ruthless
blades..
this play of light
we might reflect
paints our portrait
on a canvas of glass
those colors with white
body and soul
together
life and death
so temporary
yet so significant..
because of awareness
our awareness makes
it so...
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Have you ever noticed
that tail lights reflect
off tire-worn roads
when sun and all
have gone asleep?
A pair of red glow
just seems to float
through space
like a reverse halo
behind and below vehicle
on its 2am way elsewhere.
And how about the fact
that windshield wiper and turn signal
never truly-precisely-
exactly-rhythmically sync?
One clicks and blinks,
the other dryly whaps,
on that first swipe,
of course,
just when light mist
begins to stick
and the exit approaches
at a slick
sixty-five-miles-an-hour.
Turn down the volume now,
it's time to pay attention.
Candle wax doesn't always
melt directly inward.
Sometimes it does dome
perfectly,
which makes it
all the more fun
to push further.
Other times it just bows out,
as if to say,
"There'll be no addition
to the amount of light
I'll be giving you tonight.
You'll just have to bend me in
and pray for a split-less base,"
as hours, seeming like minutes,
in minutiae,
are spent burning our tobacco
and circling our teacups
and laughing effortlessly,
indenting pillows and rugs
and us keeping so, so quiet
as not to awaken ourselves.
Waxing is always
a chance worth risking
because, worst case,
we can inflame another dancer
while we chat
and hope that,
just this once,
God help us,
we realize
our stars align.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 3:36 AM UTC
.
As I walk this lonely path
the music plays for me.
Picking at the neat stitches,
the seams of my inner universe.
Somewhere a dam bursts,
a levee breaks, floodgates open.
And vision is impaired by drops
like boulders of rain on a windscreen,
but I have no wiper blades,
just the rims of my wraparounds.
And the music plays on regardless,
ripping through the fabric,
the cushion of my existence.
Control lets go, an illogical absentee.
Millennia creep by as minutes tick.
Sliding through black curtains sight returns,
the shakes pass slowly, rubbernecking shame.
And as the music plays in my head,
I walk the path and treasure the gift
of tears for souvenirs.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
Took one step into his lonesome world.
The clouds there were peculiarly pixelated in a forgettable shade of #999999
Digitally coded water vapor condensing into dense bubbles of thought
They resembled puzzle pieces childishly misplaced
Naivety was finger-painted along the lining and edges
While other bits played a quiet game that seemed to find them wanting
I did wonder where he hid them
Or if it was someone else who ran away
Who stole the stars in his sky?
Who stole the light in his pocket?
Took another step into his lonesome world.
The wind there had a dance of it's own that seemed to trace a pattern
Oscillating at a rate of 15Hz was a low frequency partner-less sway
Similar to eyelids confused and batting their lashes
Or wiper blades clearing tears off cars during a storm
Occurring without much thought was the drizzle with each wave
I did wonder why he danced alone
Or was it someone else who simply walked off
Who turned his sky on?
Who turned his lights off?
Took a breath standing in the center of his lonesome world.
I looked up and to my surprise found the eye of his mind
Staring back at me from those ***** clouds
It was the reason to all being and the wind was it's doing
Rising high up from an endless undisturbed nap
It was;
Brighter than the Sun itself
Bursting citrus with each blink
Bleeding pulp over my skin
Burning like acid on my own wounds
Delightful heat dripping off my tongue
Psychedelic spirals twisting my limbs
And
i danced and spun
And
i lost and won
Please find me somewhere in those broken memories of yours
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
That's it I've had it
Tired of being ignored with a wink on the side
I'm tired of being told what old men should do
Going to start taking life on the flea..or is that the fly
I'm going to hit the streets of the city
And be known as that cool guy that raps
After I add a tad bit more Poligrip
So my dentures can get down with that
I'll get me a ball cap and turn it sideways
My pants already hang down past my crack
I'll even learn the latest catch phrase
Like, Hey dude..what's up wit dat?!
Think I'll even rhinestone my walker
For that little extra bling, bling
They'll say check out that crazy rapper daddy-o
Man that cat can really swing
I'll keep the lyrics clean like I do my diaper
That's why I bring my nursie with me
After all she's a wonderful wiper
Don't worry I pay the extra wiping fee
I'll also get her to hold up the cue cards
Since my memory over the years has waned
No longer to be known as that old white *******
Beating JZ at his own game
I'll get jiggy with it every chance I get
As I fizizzile my way to the top
I'll be bigger than that guy with the candy name
That young whipper snapper will melt in the hands of this rapping GrandPop
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if I am a raindrop
Lightly dancing on your windshield.
The forecast didn't call for rain
Yet here I am, and so you yield.
Sometimes I wonder if my fall to the ground
Keeps you awake at night.
I know that my bolts of lightning
Are said to be far too bright.
Sometimes I wonder if I can take it any longer;
My atmospheric pressure is about to burst.
No one can explain it to me, however.
The ground I walk on must be cursed.
Sometimes I wonder if you can feel the plates
Moving deep within my bones.
Do you ever mistake thunder
For my body's angry creaks and groans?
Sometimes I wonder if you think of me at all;
The maelstrom you couldn't tame.
Perhaps the wiper on your car
Can rid you of my shame.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
With His nail-scarred hands,
He wipes all my tears away.
And sweeps them into the sea.
The Sea of Forgetfulness.
Where He has cast my sins.
He washes me clean through His Blood of Sacrifice.
He wipes the tears from my eyes.
With His nail-scarred hands,
He washes me clean.
He wipes all my tears away.
I am loved.
I am forgiven.
I am free.
He wipes.
My tears.
Away.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
The Viper
I have an idea for a new invention,
I'm sure it will get a lot of attention.
The name is the The Viper,
and its an automatic *** wiper.
Never again will you have to wipe your own ***
you just install the snake head,
with its tongue made of sea bass.
All you do is push the button on the latrine,
out comes the tongue to wipe your *** clean.
I'm sure this will become a big hit,
people will rush to their bathroom,
just to take a ****
Never again will you need toilet paper.
and if you call now,
I will throw in the automatic *** scraper.
Never again will you have to worry about ****** berries,
And don't forget to order the scented tongues,
if you want your *** to smell like cherries.
There is a limited supply,
please call now,
operators are standing by.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
The winded willow wailed,
and the wild flowers hung on every sigh of the tree’s weathered leaves.
The shed door yawned each time he raised the axe;
blade-on-bark gave him a fractional sense of ‘being there’,
and a wry smile — thin, like dawn’s frost-moustache on the Chevy’s windshield —
shaped his lips into worn wiper blades,
which stifled the sound of his teeth chipping away at winter’s breath.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
The squeeky wiper wakes me
the windscreens already dry
No lights in sight for miles
and I've come down from my high
Noisy nonsense in my head
frustrates me to death
the crazyness of it all
cannot be told in one breath
The capital S ruins me
but, the man finally stands
Because since he did it
he no longer holds the world in his hands
Shoulders can grow stronger
and skin so much thicker
but no one can weave through your thoughts
from the place you call your wicker.
The capital S ruins me
and I dwindle away
there is nothing left to do
nothing meaningful to say
Pictured this so different
but it blew up in my face
not leaving would leave a gap in me
but staying, just a little space
You mirrored me as I plead my case
It was a rational knee **** reaction
but right then me without you
was the only right subtraction
The Capital S dominates me
It has inherited my hateful soul
for once I was broken
now I am an empty barren hole.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
I am a mosquito on your holy-massive windshield.
You knock the air from my lungs and surround me in enough of it to crush my body.
It's all bigger than me,
all bigger than my eyes can see,
or my hands can hold.
All bigger than John mayor's body gives him credit for.
I explode my **** mixing with the blood of millions from which i drank, and you see it like a rorschach test and the results are in, you're the holy mary son of a ***** what killed by brother, and all my brothers, and our souls are in your brain screaming ****** and pain
All bigger than all I know the universe to be, you are lightyears ahead of my understanding,
but nonetheless I strive to get passed your windshield.
I see what you have inside there and I want it.
I want to be with you there. Crushing the souls of bugs like me.
Wiping them from the glass, and not thinking twice.
But since I can't, I'll make sure to bleed for you,
so much that I leave a good smear that will take your wiper blades at least four swipes to get me off.
I'll make sure you remember me.
is that Vera Hall on your stereo, singing out from beyond the grave, singing Death Have Mercy? Vera Hall from beyond the grave hatin' on John Mayer. Vera Hall the old sooth sayer. Vera Hall with one last prayer,
Oh Death, have mercy.
Vera Hall, in a dream but lucid.
Oh Death, you're out of wiper fluid.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 6:56 PM UTC
I left my hand print
On a glass door this morning
And thought nothing of it
Just like your mom smoked crack
Like nothing of it
Or your dad walked out
To avoid the fiscal cliff
Of raising you
I left a hand print
Thinking nothing of Jared
The window wiper
Who makes half as much as I do
With twice as much
To lose
My existence to him
Is the effort he takes to hunch
And clean up my disrespect
Jared is seventy two
And has back problems
From "The War"
His wife is dying of cancer
And he stays late
To wipe away
My inconvenience
Jared will never know my name
I will never know Jared's name
Jared will never understand
Why some people
Can't just use the **** handle
I will never understand
How my daily actions effect everyone
Thinking nothing of it
Jared will work late
I will leave hand prints
But someday
I will wear shoes
Similar to Jared's
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
01:39 on a Wednesday and I realised no, it's not like the way water effortlessly flows down the window shield just to get swept away by the wiper
my love isn't elegant, and there's no point in me pretending to reshape it; think a hurricane, a tsunami, a natural disaster; think beds collapsed under the weight of too much love, think lips so raw blistex wouldn't stand a chance to heal them, think new memories being made everyday so that eventually you stop living in the past because your brain tells you this is it - this is what it was and what it will be [even if just for an hour]
put into context a shade of red somewhere between maroon and magenta and then throw it on a white canvas, see how beautiful it becomes only when it encompasses everything, when it becomes one with that paper holding it up; do not fear my love, please; let me spread around and let me be the one to give you colour, let the bleak melt away
don't let your mind wander to tape because i won't tape any holes I see or scars I run across; I'm not a doctor and never learned to be one
BUT, I will help: I'll be there with your favourite beer, there with neosporin in handy just because I've learned a little sting in the beginning is worth a lifetime of infection, standing there in your favourite shirt and purposefully letting you see that height is just a number and bruises are just colours of memories once lived
01:40 and I think I realised that somewhere in between being a hopeless romantic and being numb I've lost myself, bits scattered in blankets and sheets long laundered after me; I've realised that I don't know what I can and can't give, and I've realised neither does he
here it is: think. think the earth and the moon. think gravitational pull and how the moon is pulled back to the earth if for nothing else because there's some kind of connection it can't control. now think us, and tell me: is it not we're the Galaxy?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
'To me'
'To me'
'To me'
'To me'
"Silence", said Dr. Faustus
They want to hold the light bulb in their hand
One is a pet dog, one is a boy
I mean, who asks for such thing?
Lamp, just throws away the light
My neighbor Mary, keeps asking the meaning of wiper snake,
Woods is spread all over, but suddenly ends at my feet,
Though I have two rib cages, one is obviously to take out,
You can hang the lamp in there,
You can reach to the switch if you stretch your hand,
Right after the ledge, there is an abyss,
You can see it under the light,
The window sill suddenly glows, caught it,
Now, to stand, to speak, to walk, to write, you have to light the light,
you can catch it,
If you ask,
That pet dog might be the boy,
That boy might be the pet dog,
As a matter of fact,
Can be,
Dr. Faustus, a lamp post.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
Almost blue
like some stained-glass Christ
that never felt the saving sun burn
his caulked stigmata soft like
cinnamon toothpaste in the creek
bed.
Were his robes Robin's Egg, or Giotto
like the clergy wanted?
And when their fake pearl bracelets
rattled, fishing out cheap change
from brass-clasp purses,
did Christ stoop to gather
the sixty-something-year-old pennies
from in-between the arm rests
while they sifted through
the silver?
Almost blue
like a southern / western overcast
that never calls New York in advance
to schedule time to sweep up
the sky, standing on cold water flats.
Buys a Southwestern ticket straight thru,
walks past Madison marketing
her ***** underwear to anyone—everyone—,
buzzes in, third floor, apartment B-6,
but the door's locked, and the canary
curtains dance out the window like a house
fire.
Almost blue
like the Dawn dish soap
glass I neglect to rinse well.
But more like a lazy oil stream in a gas station
parking lot beneath the perforated banners
yakking in the still-cold March midday
about $12 sheet pizzas or unlimited
free coffee for $1.19 a refill.
Money better spent on a pack of Marlboro
Blues saxophone squeal by the plastic-
wrapped firewood by the almost-
blue wiper fluid and the antifreeze peaches.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
I forgot how much you like to drive
You always said that driving gave you a sense of freedom
It made you feel better
Blasting your music and singing
The smell of burning rubber coming off the tires
The wind on your face when the window is down
And the wiper blades squeaking as they wipe off the rushing Seattle rain
Driving fast helps you breathe
Calms you down, helps you focus
Just continue talking to me
And drive back to me when you’re no longer sad
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
Today I went to a bookstore
A grief observed by C. S. Lewis.
Into a ziplock bag went this book, and
A quote from C Raymand Beran
--what is a friend?
I will tell you.
I drove the forty minutes along the dull highway
Lamposts like hovering, ghostly figures,
And slipped this package under the windshield wiper of your car.
Why is it that my own words can't express
What I'm feeling, so well as others do?
A-
For the tenth
-a friend
Those were my only words.
Your mother died eight months
Ago tomorrow, and here I
Sit. Selfishly hoping you'll speak
To me again.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC