"zags" poems
Warming up; broad strokes, slow.
Weaving in; zig zags, back and fore.
Quick flicks; **** and sip. Wanting more.
Long circles; slide, gently touching below.
Come hither; and it's off you go.
Wet drawers; when it rains it pours.
Foreplaying; got us both on all fours.
Knees weak; can't take it anymore.
My lips; tugging yours.
Amazing sensation; curling your toes.
Lapping tongue; series of sips.
Guiding hand; full of tips.
Bodies part: tongue, fingers, nose, lips
Raising tides; lifting your hips.
Quality time; best spent like this.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
He walks with himself
He is his own best company.
He pushes forward and you often do not notice
You ignore his plead but you see him wander
A breathing tumble ****
Shrubbish, wobbly, and *****
He zig zags through the crowd
Sometimes he screams and he too cries
Just like you
Sometimes he trembles in the night
Just like you
Sometimes he dreams of better days
Just like you.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Warming up; broad strokes, slow.
Weaving in; zig zags, back and fore.
Quick flicks; **** and sip. Wanting more.
Long circles; slide, gently touching below.
Come hither; and it's off you go.
Wet drawers; when it rains it pours.
Foreplaying; got us both on all fours.
Knees weak; can't take it anymore.
My lips; tugging yours.
Amazing sensation; curling your toes.
Lapping tongue; series of sips.
Guiding hand; full of tips.
Bodies part: tongue, fingers, nose, lips
Raising tides; lifting your hips.
Quality time; best spent like this.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
you hurt like ache
and adderall
and arnica
you hurt like bruises
and battle scars
and broken bones
you hurt like cuts
and *******
and countryside
you hurt like death
and destruction
and die-hard
you hurt like electricity
and emergency rooms
and edit-undo
you hurt like **** you's
and fire
and fallen trees
you hurt like garbage cans
and gonorrhea
and gang ****
you hurt like hell
and holes in the road
and heartache
you hurt like israel
and illness
and ignition fumes
you hurt like jaundice
and jugular veins
and jack in the box
you hurt like karma
and kissing
and kerosine lamps
you hurt like lightning
and love
and literary terms
you hurt like mother
and mary
and moses
you hurt like nakedness
and nosebleeds
and nervous breakdowns
you hurt like oil spills
and old yeller
and oral quizzes
you hurt like parkinson's
and parties
and panic
you hurt like queens
and questions
and quantum physics
you hurt like rogaine
and roses
and rope burn
you hurt like solar power
and stomach aches
and ***
you hurt like teeth cleanings
and tar
and tobacco
you hurt like ulcers
and underwear
and unrequited love
you hurt like viruses
and venus fly traps
and vapor rub
you hurt like warning signs
and weight gain
and war
you hurt like x-rays
and x marks the spot
and xoxo
you hurt like your mom
and your dad
and you
you hurt like zig zags
and zero
and zip ties
(a.m.c.)
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
My 80s Days
When Jimmy was a kid in the early 80s, he used to take the **** out of glue sniffers. Hey you, you ******* They used to chase him and his mate. Running in zig zags, never catching us.
Back further, the old stone house opposite Locking Gate Rise at Waterhead. We smashed the stones out of the walls. On the day it collapsed, I wasn't there. Wasn't me! I was watching Grizzly Adams. We heard the roar as it fell. My mum saw the dust cloud go past our window.
Soon after, new houses were built. I used chalk to write on the wall: Glen is gay! This lad wanted to beat me up but never caught me. He threw a big white pebble at me. It missed.
Years later, I remember the alternative girls. One had a house with Siouxsie posters on the walls. She looked the same. Stunning. Another gal ran barefoot. With blond hair, she played New Model Army over the CB. What did she do with the rest of her life?
The 80s. I remember.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
i am overwhelmed;
bursting through plaster cracks
and jagged leftovers of stained
glass, my mouth full of wet fire
and heavy things and my limbs
shaking and shaking and shaking.
i have been devoured by love
for you—its teeth have never been
honed this sharp before they have
never snagged so deep but i think
they do now because love wants to
hold on this time, tear the protective
barrier of flesh and bullet-ridden hesco
skin off of my bones. it’s okay, i would
love to be eaten: i want the bites to crawl
up and down my fingertips and tiptoe
in zig-zags up my spine until all i can do
is sing and cry and listen to the
insatiable beating of my ink-swathed
heart. i have only ever loved literature
until these moments but now i have
made you into a book and will
tattoo your words at the crook
of my elbow and in the soft
craters of my chest;
god, i will read you for eternity.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Sitting on a bench just off the
Liberty Trail in Boston, waiting as
the rest of my family made a restroom stop.
An old man with a thick, greyish
beard and heavy eyelids
took a seat next to me.
His ***** white hair caught
a cotton seed sailing through the air.
The bag of tobacco in his hand
was wide open, and he
pulled a roll of Zig-Zags
out of his pocket—he tore
the paper about six inches long
and proceeded to
roll a cigarette. His fingers,
bent and forlorn,
worked tediously as a
diamond cutter’s.
He lit the cigarette, let out a ring of smoke,
and introduced himself as
Lenny. I told him my name
and we talked for a few minutes.
"What brings you to Boston
young fella?" he said
in his aged Boston accent.
"Family vacation--personally, I'm
interested in all the history of the town."
By now his cigarette is
half-burnt, and my family is
ready to continue on the trail.
Lenny turned to me with
a low look in his eyes,
but he cracked a smile.
He had a couple teeth missing
Before I got up he said to me,
“When I want to sit and think,
a cigarette isn’t long enough
to burn through my thoughts,
but a conversation with a
stranger every day
is what keeps my mind
from running away in smoke.”
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Rollin fat kush ****
Red lights on zig zags
****** haze got me high
Puff puff and pass it
Spark it and blast it
****** haze free my mind
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
run into the crested shorelines where the greatest empires have fallen,
and kiss the tides of the salty sea in hopes of calming your clumsy pulse and flippant thoughts.
stretch your legs.
limber up like a prideful little boy before a rigged game of lava-monster...
and run!
run like your shoes will never untie and your heavy feet will never misfire.
run to the reams of yellowing pages you cling to,
full of ball-point memoir metaphors and pithy,
expressive descriptions of the beautiful women you've trained yourself to hate along the way.
don't get friendly with your paintbrush when you reminisce this time.
run.
full-fledged, snot-nosed, scared-shitless-grinned
sprint.
run to itchy cotton bedding drenched in the stench of day-dreams and nightmares;
peppered with heaps of insight they've yet to diagnose,
and one cold pillow
that can never seem to lull your static head to sleep or fully support the weight of your heavily burdened shoulders.
run like it doesn't mean anything for once;
like a wide-eyed kid who's never seen a map or compass,
he just zigs and zags through the seemingly limitless emerald velvet at full speed as he navigates the backyard in pure and honest bliss.
run to sun-soaked golden fields where the night sky tints itself purple to reach the perfect shade of darkness,
and your breath hangs low on the tops of the tall grass like the fog hanging over a prehistoric low-land,
and the stars shine like slicked-up pebbles about to let you decode the mystical secrets they hold...
and everything comes clear
and clean
and calm.
run free
and wild
and nameless
like it's the only thing you've ever known,
until you're ready to run back into me.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Ride!!!!! What's here where am I going oh man cheer for all those biking yes yes yes oh yes! Held my head up, and working legs kicking tight and free release done done done stop for coffee but not to drink but just to have, to think in, let me ride my cruiser to my death
I love being weird! I do zig zags, Rush through Main Street!! Lightning yes yes yes take me there! All body, liberation salvation! Oh numbness of spirit! Looking up and hearing voices, I am of stone! Yes!!!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
Among the flowers of my Persian carpet
vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk
and wool. Sliding through warp and weft,
I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and
my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats,
I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness
of a blue silk river runs through my ears.
A blend and blur of color mark the horizon
spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt
undisturbed by my addition to the scene.
Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat,
silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel
through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited
pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung
across their backs, chase a leopard forever
peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never
hits its mark eternally suspended by woven
threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence
as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow.
My arms slide round the leopard's golden
ruff and I am bound by threads of color
to be hunted forever through fields of silk and
wool, chased by frozen horses, another
player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
Red bikini
With zig zags, black
Ties untied, tucked into my sack.
I said no
You said that won't work
Sly smirk
Distaste and bitter
Forcefully you litter
Your body onto mine
Below the line
Above my face
Now my red bikini just causes a sour taste
Ruined high and low
By my unheard no.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,
paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,
envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward
with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.
"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."
The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan
to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead
her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking.
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 8:55 AM UTC
Sadness-
Just let this little thought meld into your mind; this labyrinth and zig-zags,
"S" in this word only, it's a half-infinity. It won't last quite as forever as you think.
Some infinities are smaller than infinities.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
burned into the paths we tread
are these dots, big and black
drag your feet, and they are
connected but your continuous tracks
you never really cared for change
unless you made it happen
the zig zags, the diagonals, the dips and plunges
the robotic transformations
it's all lines and points
a graphic view of these phases
take it back to the origin, trace the way to the present
and pray you don't get lost in the nostalgic vines that encumber you on the way
-cj
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Lonely black lab on the path behind the garages I used to sell crack
Went to the shop, brought some **** blacked out windows on a cab
spells danger backwards that's Reg Nad
So I'm looking all around me, back at the cash grab
Where old ladies clutch black bags and wear glad rags
I'm not glad lad, 'cus the world looking like rag mags
with girls selling soul on corners right now
where their daddies sag lag on the track; Baghdad
where war heroes return home back to the smack
and clap traps where they get and share the clap; sad
or when little kids run to their mummies 'cross roads all alone
to their home that used to be a home but now is a dome for the dome
so food can be put on tables that rust and break and the kids get hurt
child protective services, what's worse
I'll tell you what's worse living in a hearse
or a one berth tent on this Earth where the ones in charge
discredit your worth
or better still when they ignore your very existence
so we're standing here screaming and pleading
bleeding and scheming
because there's no food in the cupboards
quit dreaming
stop the screaming
Lousy demon fiending, feeding the sea men with *****
on seashores the sea's ****** sing hee-haw the horse of remorse
hits the veins and see more the way the see-saw zig-zags
back to the black labs on lagging black paths
behind the garages I used to sell crack
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
The clouds in the sky are fluffy runs
With the imprint of skis passing through them
In perfectly rounded patterns of the experienced skier
And in zig zags of someone who may not be so inclined.
I drive to my next task, the sun burning my face with intensity
And I breathe in the cool spring air that juxtaposes the blazing star.
It's so beautiful and yet so dim.
Those memories fill my mind with a thick smoke of remorse and regret.
Beautiful images turn to ugly truths as I drive down 95.
I turn on the music to hear a good song,
Hoping that my playlist of feel good music will help to lift the burden.
And yet, I'm still caught thinking about you
Amid the overbearing wash of depeche mode.
I love their songs as much as I love you still. It's a forever love that even after weeks of not thinking and not listening, I still return to that hollow yet comfortable place.
My mind rolls on to other thoughts as I roll the window down to aid the wind in caressing it's fingers through my hair. I allow nature to substitute for you.
I only wish the rays from the sun would be as gentle as your touch once was and not harsh like the words that were spoken between us.
And I wish the clouds did not form into such shapes as to remind me of that smirk you held as you skied beside me, so proud of my progress.
And I wish the wind was you instead of simply just being wind.
But instead, as I drive and think all these wishful thoughts, there is not an element to nature that can dry my tears like you.
I sob as the sun presses and the clouds move. The wind continues to caress me and I can only accept the little bit of solace I get from it.
God bless the wind.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
Mystery intrigued me,
3 zombies walking with a ragged stagger,
talking guttural sounds,
wanting to know if I had any zig zags?
I looked at the hats into the eyes,
thought and said "No, don't smoke guys" and they,
stumbled by, hunger for a smoke
mounting; I had spoken truthfully, never have, never will.
I stopped and turned to stare, they asked,
an older woman, who didn't slow down or say a word,
looking ahead, the day walkers approached
a couple of construction types at the bus stop, who
patted themselves down and shrugged.
Their pace became more erratic, as they were
denied, they sped up, getting
twitchy as they weren't flesh eaters but they
were addicted to smoke and
rolling there own, the heat and flavour, they savoured.
The knew what it would feel like as soon as they...
Amazing what grows out of a few tobacco seeds,
oh and what seeds have you sown...
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
Deaf to nature's harmony creates a deviation
not meant as God's creation.
The unnatural bent is towards
false pleasures;
fools can reflect at their leisure.
Climb an ascent and see fire in the sky
is perfect harmony as it zig zags by
but the old male beast sees only youth
when all is worn; dumbness or delusion,
it remains illusion.
Life in a greater sense is harmony not madness,
performed not by chance but in nature's fullness.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 12:12 PM UTC
You felt so perfect, as you dripped, from your lips; are the softest, my fingers slip, up-n-down, the sides of it. Both touched, off the topic; their taste still lingers on my upper lip; the fragrance alone, makes me want to take another sip. Roses are red; but I wish the smelled like this...The feeling of your warmth; coiled around my lips; my tongue tied, then a zig-zags; the finish came with a twist. So turned on; from - ******* on your lips, each kiss, teasing you- we are both so slick; follow it, another slow lick: as I notice. I love the - feeling of this, and moments like this; its best we permanently address the issue; for easier access: I'll seal it with a kiss.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Clarity
As if a rare flower
Found only in the depths
Of remote jungles
Eludes me
Searching
For that which cannot be found
The Loch Ness monster
Atlantis and focus
All are a myth
Fog
Ever present
Clouds cover my mind
Engulfing my thoughts
Choking their oxygen
Brain
Zig zags about
From one idea to the next
Like a wild horse
With no reigns
Stomach
Churns with anxiety
As I force these words
Onto a screen
For someone to read
Writing
Not a chore
Though today my love
Is work
Like any relationship
Fault
Lies with no one in particular
But all parties
Equally culpable
We struggle together
Together
We stay
I will not leave
Nor will you
So we press on
Perseverance
In the face of adversity
Like a bunny chased
By a hungry fox
I will not give up
Together
Mind, body, soul
We conspire to create
Somedays greatness
Others - just something
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 6:22 AM UTC
He has a bench in Central Park,
a step on Seventh Avenue,
a corner on Broadway.
But home is a feeling rather than a location,
something those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.
The gatekeepers tell him
‘That bench is for people to sit on’,
so he grabs his sleeping bag with beat up weathered hands,
and leaves the park,
realising ‘people’ is another category in which he does not belong.
Autumn is here
so winter is near.
A chance to rush to snowy mountains with Chanel scarves
to escape ‘dreary’ lives.
He takes his vacation
from park to doorway,
views aren’t as nice but it dulls the bite.
As night drapes over Manhattan, he zig zags between expressionless crowds,
invisible
like an unread word.
He seeks a corner just off Broadway (the bright lights numb his loneliness).
In soiled clothes and old scuffed shoes,
he sits on newspaper wrinkled by other hands
and watches passers-by with bloodshot eyes,
bills burning in their pockets.
A man with shoes shinier than dreams
soils his corner with a *** of spit.
He wonders,
do I belong everywhere, or nowhere at all?
And he pulls out his guitar and begins to sing,
October cough thick with illness,
‘They say
the neon lights are always bright
on Broadway’.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
God writes straight with crooked lines.
He zigs and zags out of compassion,
out of recognition of our fragility,
our inability to walk aligned to the sun,
our preference to shun the glare of the bright
and to tolerate that light only from the gloom,
but God makes room to write straight with His crooked lines
and so He completes His story.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 7:42 AM UTC
**** it,
Damage.
The small hole that lies
In all hearts
Is a larger part
Of my whole,
My arteries hold no
Holy blood, but
Ole faithful spurts
More life then ancient articles.
Art is Gold.
Not folded in papers.
Though, these zig-zags have
Had their fair share
Of wear and tear on my soul
My core
Is iron ore
I wore, and tore
The fabric of space
For us
To meet face to face
Fate
Has nothing to do with it
I only ate
The apple
To show the faults
Within me
With sin
I have nothing
Left
But what heaven sent
Right
Next to me.
Where window’s to a soul
Hold enough water
To feel a widows pain.
I see through you
Like sheen stockings
Worn
To hide
What you’re trying to show
On purpose
You’re perping
Like the drug
That deceives me
Into believing that I need it
Needless to say
I’ll take needles
Of your love to vein,
In vane of God’s name
As I search
For the rib
I lost in his name
Competing with
My empty heart
For completeness.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC