"wrinkly" poems
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little ****** skirts!
There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep! -
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
15.5k
The overripe mango that sits promptly on my desk stares at me through its one eye, indignantly asking to be eaten – before it goes bad.
I consider, strongly, the mango’s proposition.
Contemplating the level of hunger, or desire I have for this demanding piece of fruit.
It may be that the latte I just finished burnt off any remaining taste buds I have, or it may be that I find
something amusing about holding a mango hostage of its pride – but I just can’t eat it.
A once firm, confident specimen edging ever closer to becoming a wrinkly, seeping, sack of rotten juice.
Knowingly, I chain it to its fate by refusing to slice the skin back and swallow its sweetness.
It demands to be mutilated rather than aged.
As I sit here writing of my hostage, it continues to stare through its eye – spiting me.
Cursing me with future putrid fruit, with worms in my apples, and with brown bananas.
Oh, how I hate brown bananas.
This mango has learnt well in the time it’s spent in my room, it knows my weaknesses.
I always knew that fruit had character, but this mango – I tell you, it’s something else.
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Nothing works out in the end.
All of us will be gone.
Our name will not be remembered.
The signs and lights will fade to black.
The Hollywood sign will collapse of old age, like us.
Poppies shrivel up, their red coats falling onto the scorched earth.
Grapes transcend into wrinkly sacs of bitter wine.
The way your hand slipped in mine,
the fingerprints will rub away.
Our heart beats slow,
diminish.
Our laughter evanesce,
wanes
as our voices descend past the Pacific ocean.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
freckly nose and wrinkly toes (from bath water)
sway, "hey it's good to see you again, how long are you in town?"
"three days,"
even if we don't spend every minute together
just a night of locked hips is enough for me
my belly is soft
you grab my waist in the donut shop
you have an eye ****** but i don't tell you
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
Free concerts
are full of potheads,
they get all in your ear
and start talking about
the land of milk and honey,
DENVER ******* COLORADO.
The beers cost
15 bucks
for pisswater
and barely a pint.
The girls
all wear pink spaghetti straps
sagging acid-wash jeans,
and a smell like
old milk.
The old people
dance.
the old people dance;
there wrinkly
pterodactyl arms
flapping as they swirl the air
with bad knuckles.
The air smells,
like sweat.
Sweat smells like
toilet water.
Free concerts are usually outside,
so hope to ******* Gaia that it doesn't rain,
because you're stuck there,
drunk and yelling
dancing and laughing
******* and falling.
Matt, Dang and Me.
We spent our summer going to free concerts,
because the girls that go to free concerts
think tattoos and ************* and toilet humor
is more ****
than money.
The old people dance with you
performing some type of necromancy
in the air
that brings dead things inside of you
back to life.
And the bud,
it's so ******* sticky,
and it causes a hacking
paroxysm of coughing
to the point that you can
taste the blood in your mouth,
because those people from
DENVER ******* COLORADO,
really know their ****
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
i never understood the phrase
home is where the heart is
until i was shaking on the floor of
my hospital room and it was nothing
but walls
and even when i found the energy to
decorate with cliché little things
like fairy lights, posters, my
skeletal “art”
i felt the room swallow me whole
until i was nothing but a grain of sand
my new roommate was a wrinkly zucchini-girl
and i tried not to speak to her
but we heard each other cry in the night
and we never said a word
but i could feel her eyes on me
a girl down the hall
heard me talking about my addiction and
she told me she would pray for me
later that day she pushed me
into a wall and pressed her
lips against mine
then told me i was tempting her,
i was a sin
just waiting to happen
so i sat in the dark outside her room every
night before i went to sleep
and sometimes she would
come out
and hold my hands
and tell me she loved me
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
I look in the mirror
What do I see?
Wrinkly woman
Staring strait back at me
Her eyes have bags
She hasent slept in weeks
Her hair all white
White as snow
Her eyes wide like a child's first hope
She looks at me
Puts her and on the mirror
"Dadda?" She asks
" no I'm not your father"
"Dadda?"
" I don't know where he is.."
"Dadda?!" She starts to freak out
" I'm not your father!"
"Dadda!!"
"I DONT KNOW WHERE HE IS! I DONT KNOW WHERE HE WENT! HE LEFT US OK! HE LEFT us.."
She turns her head and looks at me
"Why?" She asks
I tell her" I don't know!"
She points to the watch on her wrist
"He only gives you those so you can count down the minuts to see him! It's not worth it! Every year it's longer and longer, and soon he will walk right out of your life!"
"Dadda is suppost to come! I want to play!"
I look at her, reach out and touch her hair
"The only game our father plays is hide and go seek except we give up looking and waiting for him"
"But I've been waiting since I was three!"
" and now your eighty! Don't you see? Go get sleep or find some friends! You will find other love, it's just as good."
"Don't lie to me!" She demands in a deep voice. Her eyes full of hate!
"No don't do that! You don't deserve all that hate !"
" nothing is as good as a fathers love! Not a date, a true boyfriend NOTHING!"
"How do you know ? We have never had a fathers love!"
" but you see it around you. Then you give up and try boy love."
"Don't say that!"
"You know it's true the only reason you date boys is to find some love for you! You seek attention and kisses and hugs! So you feel someone truly cares and loves! Your pathetic trying to wait! Pretending to love him every holiday ! "
"SHUT UP SHUT UP!!" I say and punch the mirror
"Why don't you make me! You pathetic slime You can't enjoy Christmas *** he's gone mine !"
I stood up and stare her in the eyes. "No one owns me or tells me what to do!"
"Oh I'm so scared!"
"Yes yes you are ! Your scared of never being enough! Your scared that if your not pretty! You'll die and he won't give a **** Your scared that you will loose him! Your scared no one will care! Well guess what buddyriend and family that care !"
"Why don't you sleep it off? And wait for him to care?"
"IM DONE SLEEPING AND WAITING FOR HIM !" I reach in and grab her by the throught. "AND IM DONE LISTENING TO YOU!"
I turn her neck till the mirror shatters
The glass breaks
my hand blead
I sit and cry like nothing mattered
I look at one of the pieces on the ground in front of me. It's a little girl only about age 3.
"Thank you" she says and curtsys and disinagrates away.
I sit and cry. Tears of joy
Nothing is more blissful then freedom
Even more then a boy.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
I think often
Of breastfeeding
The tip of my ****** tickling his skin-thin upper gum.
In my imagination
It is many minutes of calm
I cup his head
Which fits into a palm and a half
My body is full
With his quiet innocence.
I imagine trying to imagine
How much he doesn’t know
All the ***** things
This action may mean one day
How he doesn’t know
What a kitchen is
Or a mortgage or an income
His fears are not boring.
Mine are of finances and guilt
His involve teethed creatures and deaf silences.
He does not know what it means
For the time to be 3:15
Nor can he comprehend
The recentness of his existence.
I and the cat are nocturnal
He lives in intervals.
We associate babies
With a soft pink
I imagine
Looking into his eyes
Two wrinkly slits
Wondering how to
Confirm this.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
she wants to make babies with sunshine and call them buttercup or maybe even [ol' sunny] boy. her mind is filled with flowers and fantasies of {forgetme} not's that make her half naive without a chance of bail.
she pulls wings off of lady[bug]s and collects them in mason jars made of innocence and g[rape] flavored caprisun's. without her faithful pen, she is nothing.
she prays to every deity that man has ever created and every one that will be. she wants to create her own but knows s[he] doesn't have enough faith. her every step is shadowed by something darker than her fairytale brain knows exists.
she dreams of prince charming and wakes up with[out] a thousand smiles and no [less] doubt. her heart is made up of yellow bandanas and sun babies all wrinkly from heat. she wraps a bracelet around her left wrist to remind her that there is [no] hope for the fallen.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
In a beautiful garden
sits a pretty flower
surrounded by plant life
it's filled with music
it dances and grows
as chlorophyll flows
But a vandal comes
and digs up theflower
grabs it carelessly
ripping out good roots
soon the flower
lies alone on the street
the music, the life
everything, everyone
is gone
The flower is left alone with itself
the flower hates itself
it's ugly, its wrong, its
just not perfect
and noone tells it otherwise
there is noone else
as it fills with black hate
it ripps off its petals
and plucks out it's seeds
it starts to die
it does not look like it will last til dawn
But it does
and as soon as sunrise
a wise old woman
out for her walk
stumbles upon this
pile of sadness
she gently lifts up the flower
being careful not to rip the leaves
or break the stem
she cradles it in her wrinkly arms
and takes it to her house
she waters it
and watches it
and everday she sings to the flower
day by day she always persists
and sure enough, that flower
grows new petals
and strengthens it's stem
life flowing though it
so lyrical now
it recognises the beauty
that has always been there
One day, the woman
returns the flower to the garden
and the flower dances and sings
and worries no more
because it feels beautiful
on its own
and doesnt need the other flowers
she sings for herself
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
best way
to describe him
charlie chaplin
wearing stan laurel's
black and white suit.
black hat, white gloves
funny walk..
does not say much
but forever making us laugh
he is just not sure,
why that tail thing
follows him everywhere...
loves the blucat...
the blucat tolerates him
but is warming by the hour
he is tod's new cat...
the blucat....gus is
geting on and prefers
to sleep...
timothy tuxedo
(he was going to be captain wrinkly drawers....but sanity
prevailed...can you imagine
standing at the the back door
and calling that cat..)
...plays
until he drops...
this will be a good thing
once tuxedo boy stops living
in the bottom of the shower...
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Adults tell us to grow up,
But we don't want to,
We want to stay young,
Stay free,
Not grow old,
And wrinkly,
Like the prunes you see on display,
Adults tell us togrow up,
Stop being immature,
Yet they laugh too,
Act just as childish
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
one eye open,
jackhammer in brain
....appears to be blucat
purring.
i see,
my hangover
has not....
diminished his,
need for food.
one eye closes,
drifting off again,
my head, so heavy...
one eye open, again.
whaaa...!!!!
staring up at,
a wrinkly bald blucat belly...
his front paws, on my forehead
backpaws, top of my chest.
still purring...
so not,
letting me rest....
determination...
thy name is....
hungry kitty.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
He's pink and wrinkly and going grey
aren't you
Grandad.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
To my dear wife,
I promise to love you,
to care for you,
to protect you from all harm,
to dote on you,
to cherish you,
to always be here for you.
To cuddle you,
To keep you warm.
To keep you safe throughout the nights.
To come home each day and give you the same amount of love as the day we first got together.
To hold your hand and walk with you.
To always remind you the reasons you are perfect to me.
To never take for granted the depth of love you have for me.
Until we both grow old and laugh with our wrinkly faces as we look back at the life we have had.
I love you so much for you are my wife.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
(I)
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters
Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
one green
one purple
one pink
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made
(II)
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much
(III)
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil
You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
It's not
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
Confucian
except for the young
These people have it made
(IV)
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
Confucian
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made
(V)
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
cough
Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
Confucianism
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
*Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who's the fairest of them all?*
Is it me or is it you?
But you are me and I am you.
"Magic mirror in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?"
It's not you, you're too bland, like the bear's porridge,
lumpy, thick and grey. I think you were unplanned.
"Mirror mirror please understand, I need to know who's fairest in the land"
Oh, please take your pleas and understand this, if I were flesh and bone I'd give you a miss.
"Mirror mirror tell me true, do I look good to you?"
I'll tell you this you needy miss, I have no potion to cure your ails,
and wails and needy questions,
your face and body cannot be endured,
(not even by the big bad wolf, and he likes wrinkly grannies)
If I were you I wouldn't hesitate to put my head into the oven
I'll get Gretel to shove you in.
"You ungodly witch to be burned to ashes"
Mirror mirror on the wall why are you cracked?
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Before I knew that I could fall in love with another boy,
I had already had those feelings stolen out from underneath my feet
50 years old cold and old with a lust for blood,
and innocence,
At 16 years old there wasn’t even a whole lotta innocence left in him,
But he worked and moved in places that felt like dark alleyways,
and promises that seemed too good to be able to break,
The way his tongue slithered out from underneath the church pews,
looking to lap up whatever he seemed to have missed from his youth
I remember the first time I went to therapy,
the way that my therapist kept asking me if I was confused about my sexuality,
It shouldn’t have started like that
Wrinkly, angry, and full of adrenaline, young in the head and sick in his veins,
He liked to touch them,
He liked to hold them,
His eyes always matching theirs,
he made it perfectly clear that he’s not looking for a fight,
he’s already fighting,
and he knows he’s going to win
I’m not a religious person, but I believe the devil comes to all of us in different ways,
Sometimes beautiful and forgivable,
Other times in a black t shirt and a pair of nikes, disgustingly promising,
a place to make you feel comfortable
We let so many people use our bodies to prove their points, it’s so exhausting,
I can’t tell the difference anymore between wolves and sheep,
But I know that he’s a wolf,
And I know that no one listens to a boy who cries ****
And the blood is always going to be there,
The alcoholic breaths taken deep into lungs that promise to carry on, are always going to be there,
The hatred and phobia of old men with mustaches and eyes that look just a little too inviting,
is always going to be there
Your Innocence is always going to be there, just don’t let anyone convince you that they can steal it from you
We are more than their torn muscles and “really, I’m a nice guy”s,
More than their “I’ve never done this before”s,
More than their “You don’t have to mention this to anyone”s,
More than what we think we deserve,
More than what love used to mean to us
We don’t have to love like that anymore,
Our bodies are new,
Not used anymore, but brand new,
We just have to teach our bones how to use the beautiful new skin that they’ve worked hard for
So to the man who taught me how to love myself,
You are nothing more than a distant memory I’ll continue to pack into the bag of luggage I carry and unload when I need to remind myself that I am more than whatever you made me think I was
I forgive you, but only because I forgive myself
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
My grandfather's not dead
but you act like he is
the way you tiptoe around the closed oak door
way you whisper in a scratchy voice
when you talk about the future
way you pop in your
set of pearly whites
and bare your teeth too easily
when he asks you for a glass of water
and your brassy trumpet tells him
of course, dear, are you feeling okay?
You think that I've caught on
and know better than to trade him secrets
beneath the cracked door to your bedroom
like copper pennies for freedom
and that I don't remember him
throwing diving sticks at the bottom of the pool
then snatching them up and waving them above his head
far from my six-year-old reach
or when sitting upon his knee as a child
I would pick at the edges of the sepia photos
as he traced the veins of our family
back to seventy-second great-aunts
and royalty
I help you count the red pills
as I recall my favorite hiding place
(your fireplace)
and you shake your head and scold me
that was an awful place to hide
what if there had been cinders?
I tell you
we live in Texas
and tuck my wishes back into my pocket
and mention that Granddad thought it was
a fantastic place to visit
and that I would sit there for hours
and pretend I was a phoenix
from the old mythology books
in the musty back of your closet
You laugh as you slip him his pills
you can't possibly remember that
But I remember and
I insist on discussing college while he's in the room
his wrinkly eyes smile when I plot out my dreams
and he knows that I know
but I keep our secret anyway
you simper at my mother
oh, isn't she precious
hopeful and hoping a cure will be found
but you don't realize I've already discovered it:
Pretend like nothing has happened
Don't let them see the ticking hours on the mantelpiece
As long as we know that we're not older
beneath these transcripts and chemotherapies
the real world doesn't matter
not really, not at all
My grandfather's alive
even if you think he isn't
but he is
and he's sitting in your drawing room
so why don't you pop by for a visit?
we're only pretending, anyway.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 8:33 PM UTC
Lots of ladies there may be, but I haven't had that many
My **** is always active, and I think I would have any
In the past I could have been, just a bit too picky
The art of wanking I did try, but that left my pants all sticky
Some nice **** I would love, or an **** or three
The fairer *** is preferable, cos there's nothing strange about me
It really doesn't seem that fare, when there are many slags
And lots of ugly fat ****** that say they all want shags
But I can not locate any, I wish there was a way
That I could find a nice gal, and not someone that is gay
Nothing against the Lezzers, I'm just not that way inclined
But I'm fed up with wanking, and I don't want to go blind
I would ***** an old gal, with a big fat rounded ****
A squeezable amount of flesh, inside an **** ****
Big fat ****** are welcome, who want it up their bucket
I would like **** your **** and I'd really love to **** it
An **** I could really try, if only the girls would
******* lots of ***** ***** that could be quite good
A large obese girl I would **** with lots of rolls of fat
I'd stuff my **** inside there **** cos there's nothing wrong with that
Ideal worlds would be good, if you could **** the girls you like
But I will settle for a ***** or a well used ridden bike
Even in a ******** they could be a real good ****
If pussy's are full of ***** I'd still **** your *** filled bag
Maybe I could find an old gal who is a real life *****
I would just think so what, and **** her well used *****
After I have loosened up, her tight old ******* hole
I could have a tighter **** with her **** upon my pole
******** the ladies ******** this is always such a dream
Arses will be filled up, and the cat would get the cream
If you want to get ****** and you find any of this thrilling
Get your ***** and arseholes out, ready for a creamy filling
Come on all you fat slags, I'd like to see you naked
And even you wrinkly old bags, to me nothing is sacred
Your ***** cats are required, and your arses are inclined
Fat slags and old bags are still quite hard to find
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
ravenous ....
...i watch..
the caterpillar
.....munch the leaf..
..edge to spine
in a systematic arc....
with a... squirm and
an inching motion...
he moves ......all energy
concentrated ....on ...the...
mouthpiece..... **********
rhythm,....
...cookie cutter.. nibbling...
...green mouthfuls....
...always ...just.. one ..more......
...willful ...energetic...unstoppable....
...obesity... for a cause..
...i wonder... what
wonderfully... beautifully..
..exquisite ..flutterful......
thing .....will this fat
wrinkly thug......become....
i turn to go inside.....
....i have a hankering...
for some.... green grapes..
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC