"wring" poems
I'm sure I look fine.
Days like today,
I want to strip the skin
From my forearms
Using only my fingernails.
Days like today,
I want to wring out
My legs like a washcloth,
Squeeze the rolls on my stomach
Until they're empty.
Days like this,
I want to walk away from my body
forever.
I'm sure I look fine.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
'Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!'
12.3k
My back is laced with scars
Given to me as a parting gift,
As a symbol of the love-that-never-was
Some have already been fully absorbed
Just their tips sticking out,
Forming a grotesque picture
Others, still fresh, still being taken in
Just their tips are slightly embedded
Another one would hardly make a difference
Might wring a cry of pain but nothing much afterwards
-
The glint of the tear as it slides down,
silently,
heedlessly,
into the black abyss,
threatening, wanting,
desperation lacing it's movements,
-
There's a silent 'plop!' sound as it touches
The floor so far below.
So far, so far that no one can see it.
So deep, so deep that no one can hear it
She hardly notices the spare, the extra
There have been too many for her to care
For one more.
A dozen more land in her back,
Angered by her impassiveness
She swivels around because she's still savouring
The ones that are there
For a minute, time stops, the blades stop
The girl's heart, or where it should've been...
That empty little space, occupied by three long
Swords stuck in it's place
They pierce right through her body,
So different from those knives that decorate her back.
Their tips face your eyes
The sword entered her through her back
It would've been a tragedy if only her eyes...
Oh, if only her eyes were something more
Than just endless holes
( - deeper, darker, blacker
more despairing than
the black abyss under her
very feet
- )
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 8:00 AM UTC
A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.
9.5k
With hearts in tandem
we stand: lip locked
bated breath, sweaty palms
tongues wrestling to wring a sodden truth.
A simple truth that is this: _I love you!_
~ Inori
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 8:31 AM UTC
1716
Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to **** it,
But decoyed may be.
Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.
Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill—
Wring the tree and leave it,
’Tis the vermin’s will.
6.9k
I think about my death.
The seed of life
is so
profuse,
and that
is
my demise.
I might live,
but I will die.
When I dream,
I dream
of Judy Greer.
She's been there
talking
about
love and *******
and death
and hurting.
So what can I say now,
when bulletholes
of lightning
people my dreams.
When a couple
shots of whiskey
have put me on the edge
of missing you
over memories.
I moan
and dream,
because dreaming
is a moan
for hope.
And being in for a bid,
is the same
as your lips
to
my
lips.
So I evade promises
and dribble
into traps
of
depression.
I've had this problem
for so long,
it seems inconsequential
that I might
wring my neck
by an electrical cord,
or by the chords
of your heart..
Because i miss you
and that
type
of
thing
never lets go
to much.
I stare at humans with an anchor in my hands.
I don't know if I should break
their noses,
or
tell them how it got there.
Don't hate me,
just be grateful;
that I told you I'm so sad
and worn out.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
what's the proper etiquette for falling in love?
is it hushing lips and tripping over lungs?
is it squinting eyes and falling falling falling in mud?
because here we go down and down again,
but everyone's doing it, My Lovely Flowery Friend.
if i dive in between your legs,
and find other bodies there,
does that mean i should run in toxic fear?
are we supposed to dry out from licking up all these tears?
if i fall into your arms,
while they were open for someone else,
does that mean we're in love?
are we supposed to spit on the floor and call it ***
you said you've done this before,
you said it would be fun,
but when you've got me trying to wring my head dry,
of all my pretty girl lies,
i become less and less sure if this is love.
tell me, please tell me,
is this proper etiquette?
should i be building mountains out of my bones so you can touch the moon?
should i constantly carry around these pillows in case someone else makes you swoon?
i don't know what i'm doing,
but you say you do,
so i guess i'll bury my heart so it doesn't get broken by you you you.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
If the sky itself could break
And the moon could fall out of it
I would hold it on my palms
And wring the colour out of it
Never for a moment believing
That it could not make its own light
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
My mother enters the kitchen, says that her hands
are dripping, begs my father to finish his work
at the sink. I observe, for a moment, the expression
upon her face which seems conflicted between
a desire to laugh and a need
to feel clean.
I interject that clearly her fate is to have
dog placenta on her hands for all eternity.
Her disgust and amusement seem equally to rise.
After she has washed herself, she speaks of
Ponyo's last intermission between long
intervals of birthing to nap three fleeting minutes;
another contraction gave way to a wriggling
new mole who squeaked and groaned with
bizarre endearment, seizing my heart and causing
its mother's head, after jolting awake,
to go limp.
Mom says it's sad-but-sweet. Dear dog
has spent herself six times already in increments
which, as they increase, draw her spirit still closer
to a totally inevitable chasm of fled energy;
as soon as she falls asleep, yet a new indignant mass
of living parts swaddled in loose skin and wet fur
shoves its way outward, forward, world-ward.
Ponyo is not selfish. Immediately after birth seven,
she begins to lick her offspring clean and nudge it
towards her belly, where it may feed itself.
"Only just got a break, and already she's
back to work."
I'm one of five children my mother has carried
and raised--and for a human, five are many!
I'm afraid to give birth even once, despite
that a greater want of mine is to hold
my own child someday. I wonder if that
is motherhood: discomfort and indecision
concerning the worth of the effort in labor,
in birth, in the weak moments thereafter--
stroking one's child's downy, collapsible head
and feeling a need to protect her, to nurture her,
that is more pressing even than the so-
alluring whispers which Sleep may breathe--
and even beyond these moments, when I have said
to my mother that I hate her (because
to me, it was obvious that I did not,
and was too callous, obtuse, and insensitive
to think that she might just believe it)
and then missed church the next day to stay
with her when she felt ill and tired--if this
is motherhood, I wonder. It must be more even
than I could ever have thought like wanting
to laugh and to wring one's hands
(and even just to go to sleep)
all at once.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
3.8k
There's a fire hose:
You drink it.
Well, you try to drink it.
You playfully examine it
For a few moments, then
You wrap your lips around the nozzle,
And pump up the pressure:
It blows you back
And pins you to a wall.
The spray stings your eyes,
But if it brings tears to them,
They are washed away by the flow,
Before you, or anyone else,
Can be sure they were there.
Your limbs ache,
You think that if only
You could rest them,
You could hold them stronger
But the time for rest rarely comes.
Some people, washed in despair
Or simply sanity, step out of the way
Never to look back and never to regret.
Some collapse or simply drown.
Others stand the force.
The mass of the waters accelerates,
But still they stand strong.
Wavering at times,
But never giving up.
And one day the flow slows
To a stream, to a trickle, to a drip
Then it stops.
You stand there:
Sudden and Sullen,
Dripping and Deflated,
Percolated, but Proud,
Wet, but Wise.
And you reach out,
Brass Rat rusted to your knuckle:
You grab a beaker and into it
You wring the waters of knowledge
From the clothes of your experience.
You take this drought and distill it.
You bottle it, you market it, or you give it away,
But, with luck, it takes the world by storm.
From the fire hose flow rises the rarefied results
Filtered through your hands,
Tested in your trials, Fortified in your failures,
Vivified in your victories.
You look back with mixed emotions:
Wondering if it was all really worth it.
Your prospective my grow,
It may never be clear,
But the fire hose flows on...
~D.B. Guy (March 6-12, 2010)
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
I am not the type of person that can easily hide
And I am not the type of person that can hold their tongue tightly
But for you i shall wring it like a wet towel
so all the dark cropped up secrets drip out
And I will put them in a tiny box with a lock
And I will throw the key away in the ocean of trust
I shall live in the goldness of remaining silent
Your terrifying dreams and your secret stories are safe with me
And I won't ever share them with any other person but you
&
I hope you do the same with me.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
'Good evening, residents of Joker Asylum! Some of our...crazier guests have crashed the party early, and when I say crazy, I mean REAL ****** Word of warning, if anyone sees a dribbling fool barking at the moon or maybe just purring like a kitten, do your civic duty. Walk up to them, put your arm around them, show them that you care...before you wring their necks!"
"Plans, plans, plans. They always have their plans. But the problem with their plan... is that when you take an insane person to the asylum, you're just taking him home - the very place he knows best."
"Welcome to the madhouse, Batman! I set a trap and you sprang it gloriously! Now let's get this party started."
~batman arkham asylum
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
there in the wilderness
all things go to live
and all things go to die.
she stole my shirt and hatchet
and took to the woods.
hacked out the heart.
traded one wilderness for another. city into
trees.
she needed to breathe
and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot.
she she she, like a marvelous
new love.
the grass and green stuff woven.
canteen replete with wheat nectar
or half-batch whiskey.
needs nutrient,
the seed so new.
needs space,
the daughter as she grew.
what tempest breaks the trees and old heads
of mother timber?
perhaps deep-winter,
to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek.
she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul,
drank water from a clay-thrown bowl
and granola to heat her bones.
new fish.
the river is cold on glacier blood.
new day,
driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching
gulches bloomed in chaparral.
up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder,
giants sleeping.
she she she, live a marvelous new love.
the wonder is seen.
the wilderness lived and remembered
by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems
when ready.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
"We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance
We have come to be danced
not the jiffy ***** shake your ***** for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance
We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance
WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance
We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance
We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME"
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
As a maddened beast it charges
Emanating with expanse
Brute techtonic plate reaction
From the epicentre’s stance.
Huge concentric rings diverge
Expanding at horrific rate
Black, titanic, towering waters
Ploughing to a deadly fate.
*Kneeling in her bed of roses
Pollinating bees abound,
Morning sunbeams kiss her shoulders
Peaceful garden bliss surrounds.*
Surging to the coastal shelf
The black gigantis rears on high
Claws toward the placid beach
Seabirds scatter to the sky.
Tide receds to bare the reef
Stranded mackerel whitely leap,
Enormously the massive wave
Attacks the land and they who sleep.
Death comes fast to they who loiter
Violence in the tangled purge,
Massive pressures, crushing debris
Broken buildings in the surge.
Ships and cars are tossed asunder
Inexorably it slams
Far inland to slay those fleeing
Locked in highway traffic jams.
*Strange roar at the garden wall
Terrified, she finds her feet,
Roses, bees, sweet girl engulfed
As black entombedment swamps the street.*
Far inland the chaos flows
Wreaking death's destructive bands,
Halted now by highland hills
Where souls in horror, wring their hands.
Slow retraction leaving ruin
Desolation far and wide,
The smell of new death in the air,
Heartbreak in the countryside.
Marshalg
For Nippon
18 March 2011
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
I don't want to be in your bed sheets.
And I don't want you tangled up in mine,
I made my bed this morning.
I don't want you in my bed sheets,
Tangled up in them
Entwined
As if they were the vines of lust,
Binding you to the mirage of Us
The vines of love are coated with dust,
It's dangerous.
It's slippery.
Wet like the ocean as soon as you dip in me.
They say the ocean is deep and within it lie secrets...
Kiss me farewell and dive to the bottom of the seven seas just to keep it.
I don't want to go swimming in my bed sheets.
Then they'd be drenched from the high tides of expired desire
I don't want to wring out the deception that you perspire
I don't want to make my bed again.
My laundry is clean.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
Justice is a *****
With claws
Miles and miles and miles
Guillotine jaws
And when she throws the book at you
It's 1000 pounds
With a curse in every clause.
And when those swords
Turn in on you
It's miles and miles of claws
To wring you out
In a razorblade chokehold you won't ever
forget.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice
Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within
A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce
a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh
and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth
Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye
Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander
heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock pot's always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!
And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh
when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash
I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!
Ahhhh!!!!!
*chicken broth
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
Which is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?
The cloud, a little wind can move
Where’er it listeth?
The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?
What time that yellow leaf was green,
My days were gladder;
But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.
Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring
My lips asunder—
Then is mine heart the weakest thing
Itself can ponder.
Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined
And drop together,
And at a blast, which is not wind,
The forests wither,
Thou, from the darkening deathly curse
To glory breakest,—
The Strongest of the universe
Guarding the weakest!
2.6k
caveat! —bursting out as the fuse fetters away
wafting t'ward oil spills, tranquilized guns
with pace maker minds
and time to ****
sickle celled, graving shores
plead to crawl underground
through cascading bile and sedatives
that sift through these negatives
like bangled thieves
who crawl on broken knees
and lie idle under haunted bridges.
bouldered bones intertwine
or veins cut along a dotted line
caveat! cries the sayer's sooth,
for he says it scours and devours—
the slinking nightmare sleuth.
the tar is interrupted in carved equinoxes
soak in the crippled toxins
as the air becomes as thick as theophany
and tharm like grease in blood that take me in,
through ash and mud and
all the spider webs caving in
like delicate gorges forges beneath
nightmare sleuth reaching zenith
caveat, silhouettes
stretched out like oil in water
and this silicon tomb can hold me no longer
for i must break out before i am a goner
because it's a mistake that i'll never shake
your face turns opaque
and there was nothing in your eyes
but dripping flesh
wring out all your words for me
your jeers and your juries
but go cling to your crutch
your kings and your qualms
and the church that burns
in its hallow vacancy
for none can resist the urge
that thieves its delinquents from catatonic catacombs
and quagmire junctions
where the swamp will **** you in
and festering sweat sticks like guilt to your skin
and hell is a nightclub where every loss is a life
and heaven's a daydream with your neck to the knife
it needs no rhyme or reason
and every slip of your broken lip
just lose your grip and give in to the treason
would you rather burn at the stake
than suffer your cement heart break
with no reason or rhyme
it's just the weight of the season
backdrop collapse
railroads unfolding
and like a cell storm the train
is coming your way
and slinks away like a nightmare sleuth
it just takes one swipe of the claw
or one bite of the tooth
and it drags you in
feel the sidewalk sleeping
and the blinking lights creeping
above the overpass
and the cold wind reeling--
it'll be your last.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
1343
A single Clover Plank
Was all that saved a Bee
A Bee I personally knew
From sinking in the sky—
‘Twixt Firmament above
And Firmament below
The Billows of Circumference
Were sweeping him away—
The idly swaying Plank
Responsible to nought
A sudden Freight of Wind assumed
And Bumble Bee was not—
This harrowing event
Transpiring in the Grass
Did not so much as wring from him
A wandering “Alas”—
2.6k
Feel the wetness between those thighs and envision the moments we long,
Wring her up, toss me aside, and realize you were wrong
Escape internal madness for the gift of such despair
So, when I seek joyous encounters, all there will be left is fear
As the sun begins its cycle this morn, I picture the ache of light
Gone. And compressed of all your sins, she drowns in all her might
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC