"writhed" poems
*I think to be thoughtful
I speak to be heard*
I write to decipher
The truth in my words.
*I smiled to ensnare you
I laughed to secure*
You slipped through the trap
That I built to procure
*I kissed to consume you
I hugged to enfold*
My arms close on nothing
You're no where to hold
*I writhed to entrance you
I clutched you to keep*
Now the place where I hold you
Resides in my dreams.
I write so you'll read this
My hand pens the truth
All that I've written,
I've written for you.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
We dug up the soil today
Thousands of insects rushed out
Centipedes, beetles, spiders
A crumpled grub writhed in the sun
Too weak to do much else
I’ve always hated agriculture
Fingers tearing plant roots
Sap soaking flesh
A neighbour walked past and said ‘looking good’
And it was the saddest thing I’ve heard all year
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
I awoke into a morbid dream
A shadow realm of neither form nor scheme
A subdued mirage without shimmer or gleam
A foul abomination
In this nightmarish realm of dread
Weary souls are tapped and bled
Demons feed, Spoil and spread
Like dengue in the hearts of men
This was surely a prison for the mind
Perhaps even beyond even gods reach
A place where dark kings rule and black priests preach
And life itself has been impeached
I writhed and recoiled in primordial plasma
Managing a precise thought in my horror
“Is there not some chaperone
To guide me through this hell unknown
Some charitable entity
To which I could bond eternally”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air
Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear
Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce
Eat them with bags, eat them with moss
Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread
That's what the wise elderly miller had said
Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead
Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead
And then came a centipede, long and sanguine
And bit a small child, so recently weaned
Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs
So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs
"Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew
While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue
A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky
Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly
But the Miller was quicker, even in old age
He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged
Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue
The worm turned away from the sky that was blue
Never with pelicans would he fly with delight
Never with owls would he soar through the night
For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings
Tapeworms simply have no need for wings
So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs
They hatched and devoured his liver and legs
And as the man writhed, waiting to die
He vomited upward, up toward the sky
The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds
The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud
For once in his life, he soared with the birds
Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third
His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground
Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown
From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog
Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog
The End
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
You burned me
We smelled like Mary and Jane
I laughed hard
Dug my nails in deep
As I writhed in pain
I was too quiet
But I screamed too loud
You didn't care
We were like fvcking kings
Living in a cloud
You tied me up
So I could stay resting in bed
Lied to me
Betrayed by a kiss too is how
Jesus ended up dead
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
He sat watching as the love dripped out of her,
like broth dribbling off the spoon back into the bowl;
each drop of pho causing ripples of warmth.
He wished to plunge deep inside of her soul,
to penetrate her mind and pause briefly, but
long enough to see how much love remained.
He watched as her hands became a swarm of bees,
her brown eyes turning to fire as she spoke,
and in this moment she was still beautiful.
His heart writhed while slowly realizing that,
it doesn't matter how much you love someone.
Sometimes love just isn't nearly enough.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
my grandmother too, is love.
in the weeks before she died
she writhed.
in pain and suddenly,
her attention shifting inexplicably
though no less pain it was in inner diastrophisms of the falseness carved in masks she shuddered forward all herself
at 97 and in shining reservoirs of urgency
she went through bouts of chanting:
'i love you' moans and 'so much, so much'
and 'thank you, thank you, i love you' for whatever hours
there were visitors
to hear.
her cat still slept on her head.
she with all her flaws expressed it to the point of drymouth,
perfecting mantras never known so well
her brink of death an apex in our hearts
.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I drafted my dreams out on a string from window to window
Where they could see some sunshine
So that they could feel the breeze that whipped the willow trees
I lay on the grass for hours hoping something would change
Everything seemed so strange and sadly serene
My dreams used to be such a large part of me
I finished my cigarette as the wind writhed, breathing
Pulled down the preliminary principles made of follies, folded them quietly
Walked inside, adjusting my somber eyes to darker lights
I open the closet door gently, hands full of my old fabrications
I keep lying to myself & trying to tell myself I'm
putting them away for
'safe-keeping'.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
The passion was so intense the spark stayed alight and burnt bright even when they were not together
They wanted one another so deeply
And they knew when they were next to meet
He would lay with her holding her in his strong embrace gripping hold of her wrists as she writhed around in sheer pleasure
Kissing her mouth like it was the first kiss she had ever tasted
Looking into her soul through his beautiful piercing blue grey eyes
Feeling his way into her
Meeting of mind and body
In that moment time was irrelevant
It was as though they had forever...
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
Moonflower petals secreted nectar
the lovely sublimity of blossoming flower
Tall, thin~stemmed , pastel flesh~
bud to open
only after nightfall
An elicit echo
the way moonlight reflects
on warm raindrop
impearled *******
Her moist curvaceous silhouette
night~blooming lilt
with summer breeze
dulcet sway
Window open ,
sultry , and raining in
single delicate petal cast off
like a party dress fallen
in a beautiful mess
upon the rain puddled
wooden floor
Entrancing shadow cast
a pleasing taste
the flower’s exotic fruit
Satiate the hidden hunger
mirrored within
all – devouring
deep brown eyes
Writhed in the beautiful
passion throes
the naked sweetness
of the wanton agony exposed
✩ ✩☺ ✩ ✩
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
It's taking everything I’ve ever had,
not to crawl into the crevice between your arm and hip.
I want seep inside of you
and live with you,
like the parasite I am.
I’ve bribed to God to make you love me,
And bargained away my future sins.
I want to forget the golden retriever
You took on walks longer than our **********
And the way your body writhed beneath my touch
Like a body bracing for a car-crash,
And how with every kiss
I could feel your rigor mortis set in.
I want to read you poems about Kurt Cobain,
While we do ******* at midnight in Golden Gate Park.
And watch you have a visceral reaction
To the memories
Of the times you tasted someone else’s skin.
Instead I’ll
dye my hair black,
Cancel all my credit cards,
And run away to Chicago
to Cheapen myself
and reek of Popov
In a dive bar next to the railroad,
That no one’s heard of
so you can tell strangers
in the subway
and at the New Year’s party,
(at which you’ll meet your wife)
how much I’ve always meant to you
and how
You will always wonder what happened to me
(Even though
you won't.)
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living
Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world,
And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
W.B. YEATS
* * * * * *
My soul looked down from a vague height, with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
And pitted with great pocks and scabs of plagues.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,
There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped
Round myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,
And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openings
As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered, more and more,
Brown strings, towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,
All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,
Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop and straighten.
I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.
Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,
I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, bur crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head
2.1k
and bowls full
of wilting basil, stewed
until the house was angry
and steamy and sweating
and i was a *****
all alone. i burnt a batch,
and cursed the garden
for its absurd bounty.
what is this? this late-august
harvest of excess. too much
for me to enjoy. but nature,
she has been good this year.
later, i watched a woman push
her cart down the middle
of the road. i could smell
the funk from her moldy jacket
and unwashed hair and the fungus
between her toes. she stared
with her hardened eyes,
like the bitter sun that burned
the tomatoes into exploding clusters
of juice and seeds. her calloused hands
squeezed rotting blankets in her cart,
writhed in some quiet strangulation
of some stranded moment.
i passed by and caught her eye.
we were equals, in blood and in bone,
trapped in some jarring expectation
of destination, in uncertainty
and in hope. she will go back
to her corner to watch the world
drive by, i will go back to my stove
and simmer, waiting for the summer harvest.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
1.8k
Drink deeply
The fever inside eyes
Lost inside whispers
Hidden
Beneath intoxication;
Where
Fingers
Tangle ecstasy to
Burn on the thrillsssssssss!!
Schhhhhhhh!!
Rage the pendulum
Hips
Rocking...
Finger-tip trails
Quiver-sink
Petulant pouts
Pressing positions,
Spanked!!!
Beneath palms;
Ahhhhh!!
Shiver-scream his name
Deep throat cry!!
Molton
The crave,
Writhed in
Arch,
Beneath a
Quickened pace,
Beautiful rising bask of
Bodies bathed...
Tongue feathers
Feeding the fuel of
Burning desires;
Ohhhhhhhh!!!
Ravage-me-gently,
Make love to me...
Until we are
Sssssssspent;
Saturated between lips
Anointed
In sacred secrets...
Moistoned, sheathed
Inside the tremors
Swollen, in wet cradles...
Pooled...
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 2:50 PM UTC
I used to need a submarine
to visit the dark depths of my soul
To where the bottom feeders feast
on the dead and feces from the shoal
A completely inhospitable, light-less,
savage, alien underworld
Where the spineless slimy sea cucumber
writhed, wriggled and curled.
Now I prefer to scuba dive my soul
or gaily use snorkel and flippers
Among a rich vivid abundance of life
Up and down the aqua big dippers
But I admit every now and then
at certain dark times of the year
I swim above that unforgiving trench
and can not hold back the tears
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
A solitary tree exists in the centre of a barley wheat field
No one sits for miles
So no one cares how he feels
He grew from a seed till he stood tall and strong
But no seed grew beside him
He was all alone
Seasons would pass and crops would be sewn
Leaves would be shed and again they'd be grown
A lowly old oak tree he began to become
Then one day something happened under the surface
A seed started rooting before it had sprout
The ground opened up and the sprout shooted out
Now the oak he had company above the soil
But the sprout she was struggling through times of toil
She was straining hard to get sun and water
The oak soaked it up before it could fall to her
But down below, underground, something stirred
The roots of the oak began to move like a worm
They wriggled and writhed through the soil to the top
Where, as if though by nature an innate ability had been drawn
The roots of the oak tried to keep the sprouts roots warm
Just like a parent would for its child
The oak shared nutrients with the rest of the field
So; the water he drank would be evenly shared,
The sun he soaked up its warmth would be spread
The sprout it was grateful and soon, it did grow
And beneath the big oak, some care it did show
For when the oaks branches began to bend
They were given support from the branch of a friend
The roots underneath entwined and linked
But to the naked eye you'd have to think
Was the oak still alone?
Did he feel pushed aside?
Would this small tree last?
Or would it just die?
But look you, to this field of barley wheat today
An there sits two trees
Together, I'd say
For the oak had, some company
The little tree, had a friend
And the roots of these two, were linked
End to end
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
IN a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
1.6k
i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.
some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.
ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.
Mar 14, 2022
Mar 14, 2022 at 9:47 PM UTC
In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.
“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.
I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.
“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.
“Who are you?”
“We are the Dead,”
they replied.
Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.
It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.
“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.
The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.
“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”
The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.
I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.
A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.
The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.
The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.
“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.
The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.
The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.
The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.
Screaming.
Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.
The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.
The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.
From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”
The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.
And the screaming ceased.
Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.
Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.
The bodies recessed
back into the earth.
Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.
Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.
But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.
“It is here,” they said.
And I could not look away.
“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
He is the Colosseum,
With high walls built up that have withstood centuries of harsh winds and violent storms.
He is looked upon with such admiration, this looming citadel of aestheticism, and is unmatched in any respect.
All who pass pay reverence to this fortress of great strength.
At first, navigating the Colosseum is a daunting task,
But as I started to wander down his narrow hallways and stroll past his looming arches,
I began to learn my way around and figure out just what it was that made him so magnificent.
And then, Thank the Deities,
I wandered upon the brilliant stadium of his heart.
But sadly I came to realize that behind his stable facade was a decaying sight, for his walls were crumbling on the inside.
The stones that were built to protect his fragile insides served a different purpose, to mock him of the storms that have hurt him in the past.
He was hidden behind this fortification and writhed in the cold darkness, alone and scared.
He was afraid to go out and fight, convinced that the violent storms outside that have battered him so, will surely come again.
I pity his soul, for having to take the time to put up each monstrous pillar, put down every concrete block, and fill every crack with cement.
He felt that this was necessary in order to be sure that no evil forces could hurt him ever again;
He was filled with hatred for the world because of what it had done to him.
But as a dedicated warrior, I musn't let him be scared any longer.
He has been gracious enough to let me into his life, into his amphitheater of a soul.
He is my Apollo, and I want to show him how beautiful the cosmos can be.
So I will be his gladiator, and fight for his name.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
The soap in my downstairs bathroom reminds me
Of the ooze that leaked from a pregnant snail
After I mutilated her shell to use the meat as bait.
Forcing a hook through her body and casting it into a lake,
I waited for a fish to swallow the tiny knife
And hoped it would get lodged in his esophagus.
I pulled his lungs from the water
And laughed as he writhed at the end of my string.
I don’t fish anymore.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 6:04 AM UTC