"wirey" poems
Never should I love,
For never will you love me.
Never will your deep, blue eyes
Look in mine and read my mind,
Like a psychic running her fingers along the lines of my palms.
Palms that belong to hands you’ll never hold,
And handle with care like you would antique china
And at the same time grip with a firmness that tells me you’ll never let go.
You’ll never let go because you’ll never wrap your soft,
warm arms around me in the first place.
Your soul will never entangle with mine and fill that void
Left by a **** sliced deep within me.
A **** left by my father’s youth,
And my mother’s faith,
Whose knife cut out their acceptance for me
And gouged out my trust in them.
Can’t you see that you are the antidote to my lifelong suffering?
The Accutane to my welted face,
The braces to my crooked teeth,
The nitro to my aching heart
The rhino to my bulging nose
The morphine to my broken mind,
The running to my fading health
Running, running, running away
Far away from this broken house
Where your dreams never do come true and
Where you come out to yourself alone in the bathroom and
Where they can’t ever know the truth because my house is
Where God resides in the attic and
Where Jesus is the only one you should let in your room at night and
Where The Holy Spirit has possessed us all to live a lie because my house is
Where lifelong love is dead at the delivery room
And who is there to blame but me?
Who is there to blame but me?
But none of that matters to you.
It can’t matter to you,
Because all you do is love
And love
And love
And love
And love.
But you never love me.
Each year I have known you
I have reached out farther than the last,
Yearning for something I could never obtain.
Fifteen pushes past Fourteen,
Both of whom fall short of Sixteen’s growing arms,
Which are narrowly outpaced by Seventeen’s spindly, wirey fingertips.
Every Year’s efforts have met the same fate;
Failing to reach their target they instead grasp fruitlessly
Into a dark, brewing storm,
Full of tears,
And of crackling sparks of hope
That are met with the resounding booms of fate
Telling me that I am doomed to be alone.
Telling me that never should I love,
For never will you love me.
But I never listen.
Because I know you too well.
And I know that someday,
Someday soon,
You’ll make the happy accident
Of stepping too close to my many straining hands,
And I’ll pull you near to me
And you’ll realize that you never loved her at all.
And that you always,
always have loved me.
-The Boy Who Loves You Too
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
The coppery screeches of metal against metalorange dust floats down from the hingesrain pitter patters on the silvery paintof the old chain link fence.Breezes float in and out of the wirey criss-crosses.The sky is lavender.Cement holds the posts in place,the fence is leaning to the left.a frisbee and toy airplaneare amongst the litter on the front yard.As no one dares to cross the gate.At night, the lights of the other houses on the streetare lit. Except for this one.Dead branches shake against the windows and the gate screeches slowly.Rotting wood falls off the house.Lightning strikes and fire sparks.Slowly the house is burned.the fence leans to the left.1/28/10
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
The old man with no luggage
wears a pilling houndstooth jacket
and suede fedora with a
leather strap and horse-bit buckle.
Stark seams line his trousers.
He has:
Wirey gray hair, calloused wrists,
a popped blood vessel neath his thumbnail,
and deep crevices in his palms.
He folds his boarding pass into a kite,
as he looks into the sun
through the tiny cube of a window.
He sees:
The geometric shadows
cast in early afternoon.
And skyscrapers.
They cut through the sprawling
grid like an artery.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
And everyone's O'Toole
But in a bliss of ignorance
They fashion him the fool
For whoever saw an Irishman
Vesti-ing a luminous emerald hat
The size of a navvie's bucket
Upon a wirey titian mat
Or quaffing pints of soylent ale
for the Irish wine they can't abide
With phoney tears for the troubled years
whilst faking Irish pride
No, tis not O'Toole who is the fool
But every other class of twit
Who imagines that to dress in green
Bestows one charm and wit
For when Patrick's feast is over
And the clock past midnight ticks
your false fair weather Fenians
will disavow us 'Bastard Micks'
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
snare is sprung
flesh from the forrest fruit
the humming drum
of its fright
an untamed meat
struggles like the life
wirey noose tightly
wrist hook and thumb
ridden to bone
energy shrugged
in fits of the struggle
defeat
and then the meat
is untenanted
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 1:58 AM UTC
I patiently wait
Beneath the Hospital cot
Holding onto Maitreya Buddha for
Release from death's
Hypnotic kaleidoscope
Eyetwitchings.
Afternoon light flows thru
The ivory curtain and
Winter's soft dress
Appears in lacklove phantoms,
Gayatri Mantra clanging like distant bells of Mont Saint Michel Pilgrimage
Toward Roseflower India!
Bringing me back to memories I never
First experienced.
This mind waltz calligraphy of
FLASHTHOUGHT
Scripture for dawn insanity!
Day opening her mouth and breathing
Cold vacuums of the universe,
Groggy dew of frontlawn grass in
November.
"Om bhur bhuvah svah
Tat savitur varenyam
Bhargo devasya dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah pracodayat"
Samsara: the non-reality hornets nest,
DISTRACTING those in the garden!
Wirey battery powered
mammals,
Spring loaded elephant's
Cacophony weepings
That existence has become so
Ordinarily material and
!LackSpectacular!
Even the zoo animals realize this!
Butterflies lacking mental stimulation
Hovering Vancouver unknown to their own emptiness.
institutionalized populace (continental)
Voluntarily part of mass electroshock execution.
Soldierly blood is ink for the warpoets
Who will fight back with automatic language fired at the man behind the mask!
Till the last mad writer types
Their last mad verse.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
farther reaches
long speeches
endless capacity inside your head
further you fall the higher you get
it will only be a matter of time
before it reaches you
how long would it take to end it all
have you seen the snow tops in colorado
try to imagine the river of passion within
have you ever got lost in an english garden
where have you been
hide and seek
nothing has fallen out of reach
you just don't know how to lean
there is hope inside that body
but the light is dim
raging on toxians
coping a feel
although the visions through your eyes
are opaque
your body is an etch a sketch of scars
the red ribbion tied in your hair
a reminder
that something once did exist
but it has been long since it resided here
farther reaches
larger objectives to obtain
tiny body
wirey frame
a lion heart
freed from a cage
hollow eyes
of sorrow
why dream of tomorrow?
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
he/she/they
sits quietly
in front of hour glass
grains of sand in tempered sand
a cosmic distortion wakes them
from his/her/their trance
a wirey-haired dog
a cat just the same
speaks to them
a question is raised:
what else speaks
so eagerly, when i listen?
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC