"wriggles" poems
My lavender is burnt and loveless;
Painful, devoured and helpless,
Weak by the side of its dying corpse;
Solitary yet at an age so young.
My lavender cries in its daydreams;
Giggles in sorrowful screams,
And faints and dies beneath fun daylight;
As though tortured and wounded by the sun.
My lavender wriggles in isolation;
Like those ragged clothes in damnation
And there's no more death between heaven and hell--
For none is alive, nor breathes to live.
My lavender longs not to drink nor die;
But it sleeps by the hushed setting moon,
Trapped behind the tail of his lethal winds;
Blinded by too many mysteries, unseen.
My lavender peels its own skinny bones;
Its quaint lust cut and fiercely torn,
Teased by the cold trees of summertime;
Faded by the sweet whispers of time.
My lavender eats its own bloodless veins;
And its hateful friendless world,
Having laughed at anonymous walls
Marveled at unspoken poems.
My lavender drinks of its own soul;
And to love now is but to have none,
With her autumn love stolen by fate;
All her gripping sonnets are far too late.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Standing on the edge to a sea of pure lunacy this lily blooms,
Her scars, she wishes them not to fade but to shed more blood,
Corrupted by the world around her, which took what she held dear, The only wish to seek revenge she blooms while sympathising with fury and hatred thicker than the spreading of the darkness of night,
A murderous intent, likely energetic enough to break through the ground to get what her desires tell her she needs so dearly,
Getting rid of everything, the love within her hurting chest, so she'd eventually awaken as this distorted image of what was once pure,
Her enemies shall try to escape while observing their dying moments,
Laughing at them whilst watching how they are ruined in seconds,
Throbbing in the dark, the figure of hatred wriggles in moonlight,
Lonely the soul resented by life, keeps up her riot for once more,
In bloodlust and vengence for her own reflection cast on the water,
Deep within her, a crying, broken, yet flickering light calls for help,
If forgiveness could be served, her wounds would heal and she would be able to be herself again, free without any grief or sorrow,
Maybe then, she will even be able to feel love again.
~ Umi
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Crawling through my brain till it has made channels connecting to tunnels like little circuits replacing my nerves, the little worm I call Loneliness wriggles onward.
A constant motion of forward goes that worm, bringing with it a never ending feeling of monachopsis.
Day after day it dwells in my mind as the worm carries on.
It adapts and evolves finding a solution to every mastermind plot I find from removing this creature, this beast, this worm from my mind.
“Friendship is betrayal, they all leave and deceive in the end,” it whispers through my head as if another conscience inside my being.
I fear the worms words and obey every command. Dare I disobey what dismay would come my way?
“Happiness is a lie along with perfection, never trace your hands along such deadly lines, the lines of which a mortal mind should never tread,” he says using my beliefs against me. “Happiness is for those who belong, not for you, never for you!”
The worm screams those words through my mind anytime I laugh or smile reminding me not to be so daft.
Oh beautiful, wonderful,brilliant demon of mine.
Keeping me from trying to find ways to end the suffering in my life
Morbid torment in the back of my mind,
Keeping me from trying to find ways to silence the loneliness screaming within, bringing me further into the dark.
What would I do without you, dear Loneliness?
You cloud my mind and free me from my foolish desires.
Why should I not be alone?
If I was meant to feel together,
Then together surely I would feel.
Why should I feel happiness when happiness isn’t mine?
How selfish I would be without you holy creature,
Beautiful blessed worm of wonder.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC
there is this drug in me, swimming inside my bloodstream, kissing insanity away and forming sunflowers on potted vases, in to vast gardens. I can't stop it. sometimes, when I don't consume it, it rips through flesh and wriggles itself in, tickling me until I dissolve in to fits of laughter; and then it would usually pick one of the sunflowers and ask me to take it for a dance and I would, oh I would. I think about it every time I wake up or read a book or breathe; some days when it's quiet I would still sense it's touch but very faintly, very softly; I can't live without it though, not ever; even if it couldn't come in some days and plant it's sunflowers I'd still need it; I wouldn't want those sunflowers withering away without it, and that drug I need swimming in my bloodstream and kissing insanity away and gifting me with sunflowers is, yes, you.
You.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
THE SIX month child
Fresh from the tub
Wriggles in our hands.
This is our fish child.
Give her a nickname: Slippery.
2.5k
You got her from the tailors
All neatly wrapped in pink tissue
Plenty of pretty dresses
But he did not attend.
The phone calls appeared promising
In the beginning, even excited
But then it was always six o'clock
And inconvenient.
Loving can't be part-time
Need is a regularity
Not a hundred pouches of food
When you promised to be around.
Bluebell smiles in the silver bracelet
A trophy baby for a quiz night
And you can't move on
Because your lighter is broke.
And you can't see in the dark
Because your scared to death
Because no one knows
Bluebell wriggles her toes.
Love Grandma ***
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean
amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns
I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart
I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers
look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
As the sun briskly rises on a chilly autumn morn,
my Dormouse pokes her nose through the side of her nest,
her gorgeous loveable eyes are still half closed,
but she still crawls out of her soft home to start the day.
She has a long day ahead of her,
scurrying around finding blackberries to nibble,
on the odd occasion she might stop for a nap,
but she wriggles on to look after her partner,
Me!
Mr. Wormy!
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
A merry forest pig was he
he woke up very early and hunted until three
snorting, sniffing, the air he's whiffing
never is he ruffled, only focused on his truffles
He goes **** rumping
grunt, grunting for truffle - O's!
Wild he runs and trots the greeny forest
with a jolly jig he wriggles and digs
his cloven hooves moving dirt like lightening
hunt, hunting for truffle - O's!
When at last he finds his gourmet morsels
a squeal is heard and fly the birds
clear from the forest, a happy hog
a squealing song of treasures found, his beloved
Truffle - O's!
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
With its life in the palms of person(s) unprecedented,
And its soul orbiting other oppressor,
And its eyes glaring at glistening gloaters,
It slithers and slides and twists and turns,
Ruthlessly reaching for a rapid revival.
Its heart lays limp on the long, lonely lawn
And its spirit sinks silently
And its mouth cries carelessly
It pulses and pushes and wriggles and writhes
Hopelessly harking for a hint of help.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Nourish these seeds.
For the nourishment they each receive determines how prepared they'll be as trees.
Prepared young trees.
Told to find their own sunlight, lest their plight ends early. Branches seize.
Drifting, curious breeze.
Sin slips slyly through the forest, spreading guilt varicose under leaves.
Impending Winter freeze.
Even the most upright trunk may lose more leaves than it that shed a few in flirting with that sinful breeze.
Each believes, if it survives the winter freeze, it was of greater stature,
that its leaves, or trunk, or journey up set it apart from brethren battered.
But is a tree ever more a tree? Or do wriggles and postures not matter if, in the spring, they all are trees?
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs.—
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).
A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.
The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings.—
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.
1.7k
Drinking Guinness from a wine glass
I watch the beetle on his back
rocking to and fro, frantically jerking his legs.
I imagine his voice, squeaky,
a balloon poodle stretched at the end
and spiked with a shot of helium
“help me, help me! Please I have grubs I should feed”.
I throw out a laugh like a Hammer House villain,
staggering from the sofa I am Nosferatu,
teeth bared in ominous intention,
spilling sticky black froth as I ******* my glass.
Wouldn’t it be good to stick a pin through his middle?
Keep him in a glass box? Whip him out at dinner parties
as a curio example of helplessness,
“yes! Look how he wriggles. Do try the stilton”.
Suddenly I’m aware that I wasn’t laughing.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
Life has peaks, moments,
that begin just beneath the denim.
Neurotransmitters in a frenzy,
every nerve ending buzzes,
wriggles, screams, every nerve says,
"This is all there is. Inhale the smell of sweat and
****** fluids."
Serotonin, Dopamine, "This is your function," they say,
"This is what your body is for."
Testosterone, Oxytocin, "This copulation, this second, stay here."
Hands cannot be still,
Mouth cannot close,
Tongue cannot retract,
And it builds with every inch you feel.
It seeks your spots, your sensitivities, your favorite weakness,
It seeks them and presses on them,
In that slow-at-first-harder-now way,
Until,
You wake up ******* your bed.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
She wishes to know if I am oh-kay,
if I am doing well, smiling over the rim of a tea-cup like jackals with secrets.
Persephone gets caught in my teeth
every time I think of some answer.
Trapped in rows of off-white winter bone,
she wriggles around in my old lady gums,
cursing, shouting, kicking--
our mouths are epic ballads of lies in the name of not-worrying-anyone.
Then they worry us to death.
The Hades made out of all of our lies:
Everything's great! We're all great! Everyone is fine!
keeps pulling her back down into the earth of my heart.
Where no one knows I have eaten a seed of myself.
Demeter, howling for her lost child dies,
like doves crushed in cruel children's hands.
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 12:24 AM UTC
In a dream a spider swallows a snake and
smiles
like a
giant yellow sunflower being kissed by
bees
who
dance wildly with the wind as it turns
white
with
anticipation. The snake charmer plays
his
tune.
The spider dances, rising up, stretching,
elongating.
Her legs
disappear, drawing into her body where
they
turn
into a flickering tongue that protrudes from
her
lips.
She wriggles in her dance; her tongue waves
in the
air to
the melody, begins to sing a sultry, hissing
song.
Then
the charmer's flute begins to move, undulating
to her
song's
cadence. And the charmer is himself charmed.
He
sits
in a trance as his snake-flute wraps itself around
him
and
the spider looking like a snake swallows them
both.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 9:22 PM UTC
The chrysalis unfurls.
A bundle of rolled up rags that wriggles at times,
The photographs speak volumes and photos never lie.
He is a miniature parcel of ****** expressions, breaking free.
Not walking, but moving.
My amazing grandson,
soon to find his wings and fly.
Six months old today.
(c)Livvi
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
It's April the 2nd, the day you were born
when my eyes met your perfect little form
my heart was overwhelmed with happiness and Joy
and giggled when your mother said oh no
because she was sure you'd be a boy
You're entry into this world gave us quite a start
as you flopped out still, I nearly swallowed my heart
was this an appointment with death you were keeping?
No! all things to be believed! you were sleeping!
The midwife woke you by picking you up
you kicked and cried like a hungry seal pup
another then pulled out soft paper towel's
laying them gently on the cold weighing scales
popped you down to see what you weighed in
I wanted to hold you my sweet little thing.
After some wriggles and screams
they got what they wanted, it seemed
then they left us alone and we gave you fuss
a new family was born that day ..... Us
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
when the sun is sulking
she swells like the moon,
a sylph bright
and naked
crescent ribs blossoming in the doorway
a bruise like a kiss
on the hollow of her
hip
footprints spot the lawn, there is
earth on her feet when she wriggles
across the quilt to where I lay
she traces the line
of my jawbone to the place
my ear nestles into my hair and she strokes
the crook of my ear lobe
there is brine between her
collar bones and I drink it in-
the salty-tang
when we lay afterward, repose,
we are splendorous in our sweaty, cavernous bodies.
she rises to rinse off. her legs, like a just born fawn’s,
tremble with a new found glory and her hips are
tender, her thighs bruised raw.
my residue shines on the expanse
between her ribs and hips
and I feel strangely attached to her
in that moment, but then she returns to bed
and it has passed.
I mourn for it,
that nameless moment.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
Hold thy tongue
it wriggles
between my fingers
it stutters
across my palm
my lips
long for its
most loyal companion
my tongue
basks in its
liberation
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Every nightmare that seeks to find
Purchase in your very mind
Creeps and crawls and wriggles there
And then your brain beings to tare.
Doubts that seep, and leech within
Are your excuses growing thin?
Can you hear the wolves that bay
At the door, what do they say?
Is it them or only you
That feels the chill creeping through?
Are those eyes upon your neck,
Do you dare turn to check?
Now the feeling's taken hold
And your secrets all are sold.
Who then is left on your side,
Where on this earth do they reside?
Your broken thoughts do contend
They all betray you in the end.
No hope will your mind allow
Paranoia has you now.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:11 AM UTC
maybe it's her smile,
that keeps me entertained for awhile
maybe it's the way she twists her hair,
and she's unaware
maybe it's the way she walks,
or the way she talks
maybe it's the way her eyes sparkle,
or when she's startled
maybe it's the way she wriggles her nose,
or the small tantrums she throws
there may be a million reasons,
why i feel something burn inside
the moment her name slips from my mouth,
or the moment her hand brushes mine
but it'll always be simply because
she exists the same time as I do
and nothing will ever compare
to the unfathomable coincidence I call 'fate'
when I met you.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
In the park
sits the Man
with his box
in his hand
The Woman
draped gracefully
next to him
Frail they may be
his fingers
sing three
Of the songs
from within
his heart.
The Woman wriggles
and dances
and calls out with glee
To the passers
she says
"Have you heard such a thing?"
The Man hears
her sighs
with a gleam
in his eyes
He plays
his three songs
for She.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
The wistful wind tugs at me,
Willing me to come out and play.
I can see it tickling the barren November branches,
See its aftermath in the chaos of crunchy leaves.
Cotton-tail clouds yield before it,
And it wriggles into the core of flustered students,
Who flee from it and clasp their jackets more tightly about them.
I embrace the breeze, its chill enveloping and ensnaring me.
It brings moisture to my eyes and chafes my chapping lips,
Yet it is within this maelstrom that I am reminded of my own vitality.
I am hyper-aware of my own temperature,
98.6 in stark contrast to its harsh ice.
I can feel my blood pumping sluggishly,
Steadily, beneath my fragile skin.
I am reminded of my own mortality.
The pulse could cease,
And the universe would not stop its song.
The fish would stay in rhythm and harmony,
And there would still be new life and beauty.
A sobering thought, but freeing as well.
I am not the center, not even close.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC