May 6, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Thinking About My Own Reactions Poetry!

Here’s a poem about my gut reactions and how fucking stupid and jealous they are. Not one of my best, but eh.

Spent Youth

That's you at 20.
Right there.
Emptying without asking,
I see you,
at 20,
and I have to look away
from words bouncing into rods and cones.

I'm not going to say "mistake"
because that's stupid.
Your life, your body,
and all that entails.
Why not have fun?
Three ways in a work environment
while the boss is away
and alcohol to finish the night,
inherently, there is nothing

But I yell.
Do better for yourself!
I shake that cane and grumble,
pacing before keyboard,
knocking over objects in frustration.
You hear nothing, of course.
I'm polite in words typed.
But I'm frustrated,
mind convinced you're ruining
for someone,
target unknown.

I could never have
all that.
So clearly
it must be wrong.

April 10, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Success Poetry!

Well, okay, sort of.

To Do

Success is a lot like failure, to be honest, to the point where I can't tell them apart as I'm squirming and blushing and trying to figure out how to deal with the fact that I'm all tied up in all these obligations and problems and issues and general spikes driving themselves into pressure points on my body to relieve and or increase stress and it's just so hard to pick a direction when every direction makes you feel like the way you feel when you win or you lose, that hard breath punched from your gut that tells you that hey, it's okay, you've survived, and you're moving on, just for today, moving on to something better, just for today, moving on to something else and you never need be concerned with that again, and you turn around and there's all those new concerns, all of them, ready for their family portrait, even though they won't stay in place as you set the timer on the camera and the little light in front flashes and you try so desperately to convince Aunt thing-I-was-supposed-to-get-done-two-days-ago and Uncle failed-dreams-you-really-wish-you-hadn't-given-up-on-so-try-one-more-time to look all normal and happy and like things that you could, you really could, complete, or fail to complete, sometime, for real, but even as you study the picture, and see her there, and him here, eyes closed, expressions wrong, positions off, you still can't tell what needs to be done, what needs to be traveled to, what needs.

You still can't tell, no matter where you stand.

March 1, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Checking A Theory Poetry!

Welcome to March! I wrote a poem today. Is it good? …maybe? I’m unsure. Let me know. It’s about checking things.

This Way I Know

Inside are insides
just waiting to get out,
dance among each other,
breathe in the cool winter air,
cry out
"This is what I am!"


I mean, it doesn't have to be
just because I think so.
Thoughts have lead me wrong,
being formulated in meats
that rot constantly
with the sickening smell of memories
or so I've heard
not seen for myself
and maybe I should,
reflected in a mirror
as I get dizzy
and my head slides wetly
to smack against the counter.
You know,
double check
just this once.

I'm tired of shells,
calcified hardness
that screams for a hammer.
I'm tired of prying
and squirming
and exhausting every method
to get a peek.
Yet the sun rises and falls
and once again I am there
Once again I guess,
and take up arms
against the unyielding beauty
and once again
the pieces
are never enough.

February 14, 2012

Obligatory Valentine’s Day Poem For A Certain Wuff.

It occurs to me after writing this that maybe this is more depressing than “Happy Valentine’s Day” love poem. But… emotions are emotions. I could write a million cookie-cutter greeting card love poems in no time flat. But that wouldn’t reflect how I feel.

I’m happy to keep waiting for you. I miss you. I love you, wuff. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Things Will Be Right

There is a door I don't open,
sealed room I try to keep pristine,
for soon it will be filled,
and things will be right.

It's not painful, perse.
Numbers turn into other numbers
and things progress,
lists checked and dos to'd,
nothing ruined, nothing gained,
routine continued
until it can change.

There is a time I don't work,
keeping track of monitors,
for soon they will flash,
and things will be right.

Each little slip,
exhaustion, setback,
extra responsibilities
eating away at time
reserved for us,
inoculation to loneliness,
but it doesn't stop
my head from wandering
towards what you're doing
during those missed connections.

There is a life I don't live,
because it would be pointless,
for soon I'll have motivation
and things will be right.

My placeholder functions.
It works, and I smile,
knowing it's close
to my desire,
but without you,
simply a preview
of what's to come
using only B-roll,
staying away from the action.

February 9, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Eating Enough Poetry!

Today I felt the need to create. So I did. I’m unsure what I think about it. You let me know, hm?


If I eat enough, I'll grow, swelling into something altogether different, rounder, more more, more yes, more possessable.

There's this moment when I'm flipping open ring boxes and swallowing the contents, jewels just sliding down throat, scratching their way and sitting heavy in my stomach in a pool of blood, all expensive and shit, and it's really hard to sate myself, so many boxes to open, calories on fire with the effort of forcing each and every one down between coughs and sputters, and I tremble with the necessity of it all, the desperate way my paws grip at each lid, fumble slightly as I reveal, and once again swallow, ingest, and become.

If I eat enough, I'll sparkle, shining like I was worth something, like I had a claim to be, a passport to reality.

I feel it coming on again, and I let out a little whine, but it's no matter, time wasting, pounding click of hands high-fiving each passing second and minute, joy and thrill of a successful succession, and I succeed in succumbing an additional time, then another, surprised, surmised into crunching down on carats with shattering fangs, an atog fed by chucking artifacts to the graveyard with a cackling noise, a well-thought-out suicide pact to, in theory, annoy those around into dropping their guard long enough to sneak inside, and hug, muscles contracted so firmly, what you find there, small, eyes huge, something that could be swallowed, but isn't, for once, isn't on the way down, deep down, but is, for example, happy, and true, and in general kind of worthwhile at least in theory and, while many wouldn't notice, you can as I drop that guard, lumbering, hoarding behemoth, revealing glowing weak point.

If I eat enough, I'll molt, shed layers of shit-stained cloaks and breathe, just breathe the clear air, trying to stand on my own power.

January 18, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Seeing Things Clearly Poetry!

I’m exhausted. Not sleeping due to nerves and then working all day does that to you, I hear! But I still wrote a poem. I bet I’m going to look at it tomorrow and see all kinds of problems but, for now, here it is.


they exist.
You'd say that, you know?
You would.
There they are, surely.
They're there.
But you wouldn't look for them,
using a side-eye view,
always placing them
in the blur of the shot
to the point where
they're simply paints
splashed into a beautiful background.

When someone else turns the focus,
it injures the diaphragm.
Everything seems sharp,
ready to kill
with thousands of tiny punctures
and those brushed away trivials
linger before you,
for once,
a point of debate,

January 8, 2012

Poetry Scribble: Being Obsessed With Stuff Poetry!

Been awhile since I did one of these! Figured I should again. Here’s a poem about obsession.


Don't mention it.

My jaw will open and close
without a second thought
and my vocal chords
will strike a haunting tone
of facts nobody wants.
Obsessions jam marionette strings
deep into skulls
and tug them this way and that,
and soon you simply aren't aware
of the ridiculous dance
that fills up your day with high kicks
and twirls.
I was at one point rational,
a model citizen
who used intelligence
to grease the wheels
before I poured over tiny details
stomach churning
to absorb them all
with the desperate burn of acid,
molecules becoming cell walls
until, finally, it was me
who shouldn't be set off,
cued to go into a spiel
more annoying than factual,
she who needs to be ran from.

December 10, 2011

Poetry Scribble: More Poetry!

Started with the first two lines as a writing prompt, and this is where it went. No idea who it’s about or who the character speaking is. But that’s why it’s a draft, right?


You’re more than just
a fucked up piece of ass
sliced and preserved
for convenient serving.
No, the plating counts,
your movement,
slow brush of fingers
through exhaled breath,
scattering it across
bruised skin.
You move your chest,
inward and out,
in quick, heavy action.
You view like a desperate photographer
about to miss the moment.
You present yourself this way,
hurt, horny, hopeful
that someone will deem you relevant,
and I am tired of the act.
I can hear the click of tiny gears
deep inside your plan,
wound and working.
I can feel the way you’re always there
just when,
the small opening of weakness
I require for recharging,
and never else.
Setting the stage for a performance
normally takes stagehands
bustling about
swinging hammers.
You’ve done it alone,
like always.
You’re more.

So am I.

December 4, 2011

Poetry Scribble: Results Of Being Tired Poetry!

It’s not Thursday but I wrote a poem so DEAL WITH IT. I’m a poet! I write poems! Fuck yeah!


In that tiny crack
in between consciousness and exhaustion
lies a different sort of person.
with an ability to do what wants doing
instead of what needs.
Epoch of shackles
keeping me under
the glass ceiling of acceptability,
and she breaks through,
casing expelled behind her.
List of my wants gripped tightly
she makes her move,
mostly talking,
panting honesty
with the moment’s excitement.
Lacking censors,
reality is a vacuum,
movement frictionless.
Touch can shatter a personality
into useless slivers
that I find hard to ignore
as they dig into my skin
and remind me of what I’ve done.
Her skin is full of them,
a carapace,
and it just makes her smile more,
lips moving purely for current desires.
Taboo topics are unearthed,
shovel working furiously
during what time she has left
until finally,
with a thump of skull on floorboard,
she leaves.

I awake to find the deed done.
Rough, usually,
but I can sandpaper edges
to find a decent shape.
It’s a relief, mostly,
and as I run my fingertips
along the inset designs.
Leaving streaks of me
to paint the surface
as I leak from last night’s affairs,
I can’t help but think
of what I could accomplish
if she always existed
and who I’d be then.

December 1, 2011

Poetry Scribble: TV Show Pitch Poetry!

Yes, Aesa, this is inspired by that conversation we had the other night. Heh.

Unreasonable Things I Want

I often want unreasonable things.

I think a company should make a show
where everyone is a character
with so much depth you could
jam your fist into them
and sink down to the shoulder,
but would also have
jamming of other things
into other things
in a character-appropriate
arousing manner.
Constant sexy would radiate
but not too sexy,
no need to be gratuitous,
but I just want to see
sex lives functioning
for people who deserve good ones,
a normal day ending
with a run-of-the-mill lay,
maybe some cuddling
before a cut to the morning.
I want to see lazy sex,
boring sex,
totally vanilla
between two people
who don’t look like they were stretched
in eager repetition
until they were proper,
softness, bulk, texture perfect
for sale.
Each lick of a pussy,
each cock filling a mouth,
would not be for the audience,
although filmed,
but would clearly be an act
for the participants,
a transfer of mutual respect and emotion
between eager conduits
that simply have so many electrons,
they have to go somewhere.
I could watch,
maybe lick my lips hungrily,
but in general just be glad
that true happiness can exist
between two or three or a room full of people
in such a simple, overused act.
Like all fiction,
I will be reconfirmed in my belief
that endings like that can be happy.
I will feel safe in my knowledge
that love can be brewed
within a cauldron of pants and moans.