"wolfish" poems
veracity,
faulty.
it's hard to tell who your friends are
at the bottom of the ocean.
sand grains. black, white.
everyone is blind.
jellyfish are wolfish
at the bottom of the ocean.
spoken sounds sting.
starfish are spearfish-
one might hear a feather drop,
one might hear a pin drop,
noiseless word string.
beneath;
sky, rise up.
the bottle forlorn.
willowy hair will stay strong,
while the luminous
go on stillborn.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
how do insecurities creep inside
at our most powerful moments?
how does weakness get through power?
is it not just weakness?
how does sunshine get through rain?
well, is it not just sunshine?
can rainy times not provide a bit of power?
is it not, still, just a little rain?
is it not, still, just a little aitch-two-oh?
do we not, still, need it to survive?
does the rain just not provide?
does the sunshine not provide, too?
do we not need both to stay alive?
again, I will ask you,
how does weakness get through power?
is it not still weakness?
is it not still power over all?
are they both not necessary?
do we not need both of them together?
maybe 'why' would be the better.
why does weakness get through power?
does it not know . . . how to be a
weakness?
what?
no, why, why does the weakness have the
ability to push its way through walls of power?
that's not possible! . . . right?
how??
yes, how, how does the weakness have
the strength to stop the power from doing its job . . .
how does it know what to do to counteract power, at will?
is it not just weakness, still?
is it not just weakness . . . still . . .
why does weakness have the power . . . ?
yes, why does the weakness have power . . .
how does the weakness devour . . .
how can the weakness be wolfish . . .
how can the weakness over power . . .
how can the "weak" get through the "powerful" . . . I ask you . . .
[tbc]
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
The man he sits,
Upon the bed.
Watching his sister die.
"No don't go" he says,
Eyes glowing red.
He's losing his mind.
The house, the house!
Is dark and defied!
He roams about,
Only hearing her cries.
The eyes of gray,
With no sleep.
He has no one to keep; to love.
His heart is very weak.
My dearest,
Fear thy presence.
She has come..
Within the rising storm.
He's gone now,
Blindly chasing a dream,
Her voice.
Insanity now holds his chains,
It won't be long now,
Before the blackness reigns.
Eyes bloodshot,
With a wolfish grin.
He's become thee,
Insane Usher again.
This house, it haunts.
With the dead below...
Where restless souls creep,
Carrying solemn cries.
There Usher Stands,
Lost in his agony...
The land where his sister sleeps.
No diary of his sweet.
His face is written,
In superstitious derail.
Beyond Hells Gates,
His final line frays...
The name of Usher will end,
This day.
No more sons,
To bear thu name.
A sibling is lost,
In this game of fate.
The house has fallen,
Broken and decayed.
Where no life breathes.
The fall of the house of Usher,
The tomb hath stayed.
Exposed by nature.
Never to live again.
Insanity takes thee,
Drowning out the calm.
Superstitions rage wildly,
Within the Ebony storm...
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?”
They’ll ask, loudly
even though the wolves that roam these streets
are merely feigning sleep
and are starving
“Yes!”
They will agree
as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin
from the forked tongue
of an angel
“What else could she expect?”
Of course
they must abide by the code of the pack(of course)
which is of course
the root of disrespect
“How obscene! How uncouth!”
(how to measure human flesh)
as if they could hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes”
which is bigger and louder
and stronger
“Yes! … Yes! … Yes!”
As if to them
to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned
what happened, really
was for the best.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
My lips clash against a bottle mouth and
my mouth strangles a cigarette and
my teeth clamp down on a paint soaked brush and
my tongue taps my teeth in taunts against
your lover, The Cause and
I wonder if ever you will
tilt your angel face down from your pedestal
and command me tell you why,
my body is your mannequin to pose
though I'm not malleable enough for you,
my skin is yours to wear for a cloak
though it's too large and rough, oh Apollo,
my heart is yours to fill with bullet holes
and that at least might be to your liking,
and I'll bare my teeth in wolfish joy
as the guns blaze and
molten metal makes a home in my chest
and all I will feel is your hand in mine
your hand
your hand
your hand
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Not all my days were white and not all the nights were black. Groggily whiteness I splashed sometimes with smiling brush in an abstract marble, and nights illuminated with a fire in the wolfish eyes. When the walls became too blunt, and the air too dry, I took mindless walks. My long legs loping tirelessly along black paths, and a friend was making me a company. While talking him, my voice still trembles and my throat scratches sharp dust of compassion. My friend was the one-armed elf. He lived in a large, abandoned, dilapidated shack near the circus tent , fed by the grace of great circus Masters of Ceremonies. When they were in good will he performed for them trinkets, collecting their garbage, all for small coins. Circus visitors avoided him or pretended not to see his pointy ears and tortured eyes. We rarely talked, this friend and me. Sometimes I went to the magicians to get some of the green, sometimes purple potion for him to sleep better. Once I bought at bartender a pack of cigarettes. We had a pact, him and me. I wasn't a fairy brother, neither circus water-bearer, nor merciful sorcerer. We had a pact, he doesn't ask, I don't ask. We wandered the city in the small hours, under the adrenaline of flaming street lights, in silence. Someday a steel dragon stumbled and with his tail swept the hut, I saw him no more, neither his pointy ears nor his tortured shoulders . Only sometimes during a quiet walk, down the path lined with quivering birch i remember the long shadows under his eyes .
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
hand reaching over
the phantom scars on her leg,
eyes profoundly broken as
flickering christmas lights,
a child weeping inside
the grown woman.
she smiles, she sighs.
there is grey where there
used to be sunshine,
there are desolate trees,
where the birds used to sing,
and crane their necks
like curious strangers,
at women who sit on lone benches
cradling palms,
stirring up memories of
touch so gentle it hurt.
until people float in and out
like a lifebuoy at sea,
until a wolfish man in scruffs
whistles and waves slowly,
as though time itself has broken.
she sinks deeper into herself,
into the womb of mothers;
into all the love
and all the heartache.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
Lilac moons still frolicking
In that meadow of your individuality
You smile to yourself your wolfish grin
Because no one else will ever get it...
That rainbow coursing through your veins...
The delicatessen within your mind
It doesn't matter Erin
Secrets for the privileged zombie muffins
Allow your splendid vortex to swirl
Don't keep the cubic wheels of your world from moving
Christmas tree cookie cutters...
Should only be used for baking
Not for defining the shape of humanity
Hatred should stay out of it
Indignation was called off today
You're too special...
And not in that little yellow bus way
You're always on that rocketship of wow
Don't fear the envy of all the others
For your soul burning so brightly within
It still shines throughout you
Just love it...
I watched you grow like a dandelion
But are you a flower or another garden ****
Make the decision on your own
It's all on you to choose your own adventure now
*Eines Tages wird die Welt dir zuhören...
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
I used to tell my mom
I'm scared
when the wolves came calling out back
but really I was shy.
was ashamed to admit
all I wanted was to be one of them
to slip into their paw prints
feel the dewy night kissing my ears
to lift my face to the wolf gods,
their bodies reflecting my dark eyes
I'd scrabble through the stale snow,
run until my lungs were scorched
I'd follow until they let me in
to touch them
feel them
lick their cheeks,
winding into their memories
with a slightly steaming spool slowly spinning,
ready to gobble them up
and replace my own
I'd yap and howl the way they do
Leap; spine arched,
into their midst
and match their moon choked tones
I'd want to be a mystery
Have those feeble humans claim they know everything
about me
but really, they’d never even scratch the surface
of the wolf who gleams like ivory
of the wolf who streaks like fiery song
pulsing through the snow
I'd want to be the invisible; you know, that thing that’s watching you
bending through the slip of trees
the thing your eyes strain to find
the thing you wait all night to see
I want to have them look at me,
the ones who think they found me first,
I want the poets
the artists
and writers
to look into my face and say
how beautiful, those eyes
how brave or fierce or wise
and I would grin my wolfish grin
bare my snarling teeth on cue
ignore their stupid human stupor
knowing what they never would
that being a wolf is better than sitting alone
inside
waiting
for them
each night
to lure me with their round raw voices
their silver heart shaped faces
their unforgiving bodies tensing
tails whipping
hammered paws sailing
like white frost oceans
the kings and queens
searching for castles
among the rabble
rubble
waves
--Lily
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
I can not stay still.
I'm not of wood
But of water.
If I remain still I grow stale
Become useless to all,
And harmful to those who try drink me.
He tried to hold me back with anger,
With lingering glares
And wolfish growls.
He tried to hold me back with pity,
With new found pleasures he'd never tasted before
With words to prove his mind was similar to my twisted own.
He tried to hold me back with promises,
Of change and getting better
And everything being perfect in the end.
I would not have it.
I am water,
And not meant to be contained.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
you are so ****** in the head.
they say "crazy can't see crazy"
but, baby, i looked you dead in the eyes,
and man, someone stirred your brain with a fork.
cerebellum penetrated by tines.
amygdala spooned into their mouths like lukewarm soup.
sliced a knife straight through your hypothalamus.
left the rest to swirl around in that thick skull of yours.
you're used goods, they told me.
you passed your expiration date.
a little too ripe around the edges.
i could see that.
you asked people to palpate your skin,
like checking cantaloupe.
you spit out your seeds in between
inhaling smoke and ******* down liquor.
she warned me that you were a wild one.
rebellion and fierce independence.
all lions and tigers and bears,
sutured together with wolfish teeth
and hyena laughter.
forever breaking out of cages
and biting the hands that fed you.
now if only you could see it too.
or if only i'd saw it earlier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Another poet, reading Sandburg,
claimed the challenge of a poem
is a sense of sound and structure.
Blank verse not verse at all,
but wolfish prose in sheepish clothing -
tennis played without a net.
To me, a net's a barrier;
a woven cage of twine and rope
spread to catch me taking risks. It
keeps me safe, keeps me angry,
feeds to full my fear of falling
graceless, from taut wires of passion.
I come to love the fear and anger.
Days of process, days of progress
unwind cords of prior *******
Rule by rule, step by step there
comes a danger, comes a freedom -
writing poems without a net.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:57 AM UTC
Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
I can't remember not falling
Swirling lights waver magnificently
Enticing thoughts into a fine mosaic
That you and I no longer hear
Yet, my ears strain for
That ticklish melody
Who held sunrises and sunflowers
in time capsules of devious accord
Drawn by its wolfish howls
And dangerous tenacity
Oh, how painless it was
to slip on that second skin
Though, its removal was
far from godly
and no stranger to malice
unmasked the anguished well-wisher
As onus pined for its keeper
While doubt feathered the weary
Laying its soft touches
on bruised shoulders
That lost the will to carry the weight
of your unknowns.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
There she lay
figure just beyond the rising turquoise spray
spooning sugar right out the jar.
******* her fingers like a babe, woe be to her, far.
Much akin to the salt in the pools by her bay
only so better loved upon the tongue.
So loved better, so tender and young.
There she was - pale feet to sand
in an even fainter dress, lace to be flung.
Sugar, between the creases of my hand,
press her closer
flavor, the monotony of man.
Curls, red, like hills of strawberry blush
lips wide to such wolfish song.
Sweet fingers, mine to touch,
from still night to golden dawn.
And constellations, in her eyes, between her bones,
upon her nose,
sprinkling her thighs.
Anew with confiture was I, filled with her breath
to lose her would be cruelty, to lose her would be death.
Why - do I love her more than what I know to be?
I'm sorry I could only write of heaven,
and not of what she sees.
Jan 29, 2020
Jan 29, 2020 at 11:13 AM UTC
We were warworn; you were weary with
my wild, wayward theories
and as I worried, so it worsened.
That's the way.
You were waygone from your wanderings;
I was waiting for you, always.
You were wolfish, but
I wanted you to stay.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
just today, i was walking past a house, where someone was
trying to "encourage" an "alcatraz" escapee
back into the home & abode...
but as i walked past, and turned around...
its pupils were glaring back at me... yellow...
seeing without a camera lens.
anyway, i remember times, maybe before the digital
way of encoding photographs,
that on a rare occasion, in a photograph,
your pupils would turn red...
perhaps due to dilation, and the idea
of the dark room being morbid omni-red...
you can't encourage cats to do what
you want them to do... you might put a collar on a cat,
but you can't exactly attach a leash to that collar...
it would be like telling a gorilla:
grow some testicles on your head!
but yeah... yellow pupils of a cat without
taking a photograph, and the once upon a time
red pupils of peoples' eyes in photographs...
cat's yellow pupils in the night.
right now? this is a digression by the way...
i'm thinking of innovating egg-fried rice...
cook the rice... fry an egg... jumble the two together,
and add some bits & bobs to the mixture...
soya sauce.... and sweet chili sauce...
i'm scheming up a recipe for a mongol...
i'd love to see a cat with an american spy in
a soviet museum... sleep deprived...
just a "thought" experiment...
it would probably equate to seeing idiotic
people making cats ingest l.s.d. tabs in america
that were once available online...
ubran myths these days, i'm afraid...
well, you know... people have their kicks
and pleasures...
the only people i have respect for
are the people i'd sit down and eat some food with.
respect and people i'd drink with?
i'm a lone wolf in that respect...
i prefer my own company when drinking
a liter of *** and trying to think up some bonkers recipe on the sly.
oh... the wolfish hunger recipe?
add 3 pieces of rye bread with some butter, just before falling asleep...
next day?
a **** that comes out of your ***
like a knife cutting through butter.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
A little bit of greed had crossed my mind,
when I saw brother, pale with that lush fruit.
Like a ghost he sat, yet my envy grew.
I rushed down the hall to my dear mother
and in a single breath I told my tale,
Oh dear brother, why did I heed her word?
Your head rolled, and beside it went my mind.
Mom's wolfish grin claimed you for supper,
but you deserved more than Midas could give.
I took your remains, and wrapped them in silk.
You rested by the woman with no name.
As a bird sang on that juniper tree.
That night we ate my brother's memory,
father with sorrow on his furrowed brow,
and mother whose mask was merely a mirror.
That little songbird came down from heaven,
and mother's mask started gaining some cracks,
as the bird sang on that juniper tree.
With a final song, my mother was gone,
and on her gravestone, my dear brother stood.
it was a miracle, our love was warm.
Our hearts embraced by that juniper tree.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
time thought of long words and
the sun’s life as it burns,
never minding the hip or the un–
as the cat awaiting shores
looses his body to
the darkness of the year,
lame-eyed ******* wrote thirteen
in repetition. lingering on Vonnegut.
unnamed, land-lover ran between
the death of the night and day,
creating waste. riding on, rinding on.
hoarse questions grew as
tea scalded palate and man tapped
his heart in waste of thought.
drawn by claims of a saxophonist,
******* wolfish with stolen cigarette,
spouting roundabout racial slurs
called the Ocean’s syllables.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
The wolfish face
laps water from the
laughing creek.
A snap
and off go
the feet through
the giant redwood
trees
up the stone, down the moss
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC
us beasts,
with terrible claws and yellow eyes
rule the untamed jungle.
then on white sails
blown with rebellious wind
thrashed a child's dream.
the one with pointy crown,
wolfish grin and solitude,
joined the group.
max the wildest king, beat us up
with his roar.
filling harsh lungs
without love, or bedtime stories.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Despite these masks of happiness,
Jo drown in dark despair,
Jo mind may be a paintbrush,
What Jo create with it, beware!
The pen is mightier than the sword;
It has no limitation
Can't refrain, Jo mind can stain,
Now nothing can erase us now!
Can Jo describe the face Jo saw?
It would be ones you recognize.
Can't harm hands that holds, writes, and draws.
Imagination cursed us all with 'life.'
Jo blinded by Jo disease growing;
Jo heart is full of finite-loathing-
With secrets that Jo keep from showing,
Is disease sheep in wolfish clothing?
Flood Jo mind, with disease flowing-
Push Jo to the brink of blowing.
We hope disease think of going,
Jo weighed down to keep from floating.
Come with us, tell you 'bout Joey:
We keep Jo from being lonely,
Silent screaming, sinking slowly-
Give back Jo soul, what disease owe we.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
I am a kaleidoscope—shapelessly shifting, and
dominated by colors that I cannot change
without some sort of grandiose outside force
granting me a helping hand. I might as well be water.
But my reflection insists on creating dissonance. She
and I, although we look the same, do not coincide
as neatly as
yin and yang
Adam and Eve
my hand in his. Perhaps because
thoughts and feelings generally
do not mix like paint.
Human beings are full of hypocrisies; I am merely
one of seven billion. My doppelganger knows that
I will never be harmonious, and I am but an echo
of Sisyphus, yet still I wonder if she also knows how
sanctimonious I can be at even the best of times; how
wolfish my attitude can turn; how
downright wicked I can become.
(Perhaps she is overlooking it.)
Oftentimes, I find myself wondering if those ugly,
impulse actions I grudgingly stomach are really my
own choices, or if they are hers. I am the analytical
one of us, and she, the fervent, the hot-blooded prima donna;
I think of how easily I lay down my neck to her will, how often I
throw my frontal lobe at her, belly up,
as if to say, “this is my
white flag.”
I allow my duplicate’s hands to twist and turn my paths.
She makes me self-conscious of the
coffee splotch birthmark on my shin,
my flummoxed feet that flounder about;
the mausoleum I keep buried
six-feet-under in my backyard. Her sentiment
bleeds into me and permanently dyes my bones red
like the red meat I am; she tries to coalesce us.
Perhaps it’s idiosyncratic of me to
rip myself in two, but being made of water
makes it hard for oil to blend into place; it makes it
hard for logic to have any room for a
seemingly clairvoyant heart, though
sometimes I wonder if my sophist thoughts could
possibly have any consideration for my twin’s
sibylline yet affectionate disposition. I
wonder what the
secret is to being whole, what the
secret is to ending civil wars, and what the
secret is to placidity—
I wonder why all my answers are kept under lock and key.
The internal bloodshed within myself might not
be as abnormal as I think it to be, but if it’s not me who
I see when I look into the mirror,
what is it that others see?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
It was the heat.
That is the only conclusion I've come to.
It was far from
exclusively physical, in fact
it was primarily an inner-warmth.
I found myself persistently pressing
myself against his chest,
as if curling into him
would have an incubator-like effect.
I could be covered in a film of sweat
but beneath my skin I was frozen.
Not in the emotionless, stoic way
but in the starved for touch, anyone's touch way.
I wondered if everyone else
stayed as warm as him
all the time
or if it was just my own perception
which had a habit of being warped anyhow.
I was content with not knowing.
I didn't need to know everything,
or anything for that matter.
I filled my own gaps with
the consuming, wolfish ache
for that same warmth,
the only thing that could thaw my skin
and whatever lies beneath.
I must have only been able to endure
that frenzy for so long,
because now I discard the notion altogether;
hot or cold, it can't be helped.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC