Toxic Rambles

I write a lot of poetry. I mean a LOT. so be prepared to see this thread well-used.

Writing is a hobby to me, and I do it often, but please give me your constructive criticism (the operative word being "constructive". I'd love to hear what you think or if you have any questions about my work.

synesthesia
taste my colors on your
​​​​tongue
can’t you see my stripes of
​​​​silver
or my blush of purpled
crimson popping like a
​​​​bubble
when i grasp the
​​​​prism
of your name?
your eyes are my favored
​​​​flavor
tart like swiftly shattered
​​​​glass
through the sky like
​​​​fireworks
i see your voice-
​​​​violent
spires like curved
​​​​corners
with you i shine like
​​​​redwoods
i want to sing a
roadmap
or paint your
​​​​concerto
come,
smell my smile.
lounge in the cucumber
​​​​warmth
of my fireside and
​​​​i
will tell you
what your name tastes
​​​​like.
 

Progress:
 
I.
The pits of stone fruit like petrified
Next to the discarded baskets and shovels
Left by workers who dropped them there
And filed away
Like a column of dusty soldier ants
Haggard towards the dying sunset pooling
Over smoggy mountain crests
Quivering at the bottom, in the valley of sun
Valley of dirt
Briefly shining a sanguine spotlight on
Ribs of dead grapevines and skeleton trees
Comatose in the shadow of a neon city
And its twisted metal trees.
 
II.
In the city of lights the tarmac lies trampled
And worn under the drone footfall of
Mighty machines and heavier egos.
For all the xenon exist far more shadows
For all the personality there is no character
Artificial suns pale the day to the night
Bath the stars in pollution curtains
We forget they ever existed
See how we conquered the earth!
See our lights and our pleasure!
See the power of the ultimate animal
Squatting in their high-rise squalor
Dimly muttering at the hazy stripe
Just visible through the bars
What is it like to walk through grass?
What is it like, the sun?
 

Familiar
 
There are
Knotty roping snakes
Crawling under my fingers
Over my shoulders
Shiny and taut
Buckled
Warped
They tell more of my past
Than I can remember
Some fade
And blur
While a few opalesce
Others see in them violence
But I consider them old
Friends.
They are markers of my progress
And roadmaps of my past
They make me feel so lonely
And so loved
They slither softly and
They speak
Reminding me of who I am
And why
There are letters from forever
Written on my skin
Indelible on my thighs
Rainbows of flesh
Soft and hardedged
Each one a message
To me from the past
Some undulate
And flex
While others hinder movement
Others feel for them pity
But I consider them
Old friends.
 

The Entertainer
 
Ten clumsy soldiers battle fiercely
Dueling squat, white foes on thin, black steeds
When struck
The enemy speaks springs back
As though the blow was never landed
However
The soldiers are easily discourages
And when stubbed
Falter out of rhythm
Angrily bounding over the field
And breaking formation
Forever at an impasse with their faceless foes.

Biologyography
 
Give me a pen
I become a syringe
Suck up my essence and centrifuge
Subterfuge
I type out my tongue
On the slide I am cell
Magnify brainwaves and extricate
Annotate
Read from my palmprints
What follicles tell

January Linoleum
 
 
 
L
​O
​​V
​​​E.
 
That consonantvowelconsonantvowel four-letter repeat
 
​​​            l        e
Of high-school graffiti that   f         i         s   through the air on
Every breath
  ​and
tongue
O v e r u s e d  so as to slip through your fists and get  tramp-led
into the muddy linoleum
​​​footprints
made of January
​​​​​snow.
 

Mama Tried
 
The man was just released from prison
Riding the Greyhound to civilization
He stared straight ahead in forced concentration
His shorn head shone in the lights of the station
On the skin of his throat were the words
“Mama Tried”
He was covered in scars from when he should have died
And when the overhead lights all were turned out, he cried
Cried in the dark, on the bus, in the station
Riding the Greyhound to civilization

He presses his lips
to
The bellies of my wrists
(seed-row p
​      l
​      a
​      n
​      t
​      e
​      d-the crop of despair)
​moonskin/lit/glows
​and
​I
​blossom
 
​​the fallow can hide such wild beauty
​​​only to lather the ditches away
​​with the gentle pressure
​​​​of the promise
​​​​​of a
​​​​​​kiss
or maybe just a
word
(simple steam  u
t
t
e
r
e
d-secret thoughts embodied)
​shy eyes/wonder/glitter
​and
​I
​smile
 
​​the clouds can mask what would be truth
​​​only to be blown away
​​on the breath
​​​​of a tiny
​​​​​gentle
​​​​​​sigh

Playing God
 
Beautiful?
Yes, beautiful I may be
But the wolves see not my blue eyes
but my rich blood pumping
under my skin.
And they can only wait to taste-
They can rip out my heart with
their red deathred nails
-manicured catholic claws-
Beautiful?
How is beauty defined in
a mind with no eyes?
How is it seen in a
pitch-black room?
 
Oh you would HailMaryOurFather
your way into a holy existence by
burning the sinners at the
stake of your piety.
The love of your Jesus-
your bleeding Christ-
the one you say will forgive me
​​​​​if I repent
of my sins-will it be enough
to save you?
Is mindless martyrdom
a mindful murder?
Take back your hypocrite rosaries
your candles make me ill.
Save your riot of redemption
for an unblessed moment
and maybe your god will
unlock the secret of your
fate
 
or maybe the eternal punishment
for playing God with mankind.
Who will walk on your still waters
now that they are the rapids
of your conceit?
Write me a scripture fating the
unjust to the stake-
my love will light the flames
as your choir robes burn-
summon your saints to save you
Now.

Bare.

You would think that it would look
Unnatural
For a woman to have to no hair.
But
She had never looked more beautiful than the first day I saw her
With nothing to cover her face but
A smile
A pair of black lace hoop earrings
And the pattern of the sun
On her bare scalp.

Doubt.


You say you only jot down your thoughts
​I think you a poet
The Louvre can’t compare with the ramblings in t he margin of your notebook
​But in your eyes you only track dust on the lines
Every word you speak is music
In every flutter of your fingers, nervous things,
I see a seamless, graceful waltz
And yet
No matter how I gaze at your shadow and see a sunrise
​You will be forever finding fault with the miracle of your mind
 

You
 
I asked why you loved me
And you said -I just love
​​​You
Pretty, but a lie
You only love me because I
Have darkly shining hair
And your hand fits under my ribs
Just so
​But​
If I scrubbed off my makeup-
​​If I scrubbed off my skin-
​​If you saw what my ludicrous
Expensive clothes and cocoon
Of bottled scent are meant to hide
​​Would you still love me
​​Would you even recognize me
Or is it only this mask that I mold
Onto my jaw and my eyes every day
That you’ve convinced yourself you love?
 
Now that I think about it
Do I really, really love
​​​You
Or, instead
Do I love your aura of pretentious calm
And your impressive stature
And the way your football jersey clings
Just so
​So​Do I love your heart or
​​Do I just love what you
​​Do to mine when
You say to me
So sweetly and distracting
When you say -I just love
​​​You
 
 

Victorian Bus Stop
 
 
A :​Do you recall the evening that we met?

B :​Your blush drove out the pallor of the rain

A :​That splattered on your dripping skeins of jet

B :​And caused the silver moon appear to wane

C :​We stood under the pouring monsoon skies

D :​Though either could have sheltered in the stores

C :​Both too shy to meet each other’s eyes

D :​Through the mist of steam from cautious pores

E :​I offered you the use of parasol

F :​Though it had not been opened in my hand

E :​Instead you pulled me closer to the wall

F :​Where there was room for both of us to stand

G :​Hence we waited for a coach to hire  

G:​When you had let yours leave an hour prior

Blood.

I used to be frightened of
Blood
Childhood accidents produced plenty
But I never grew accustomed to the sight of
Blood
I would get queasy, panicked
Running for a bandage
Or an ambulance
At the merest glimpse of
Blood
But then I got sick
Majorly, for the first time
And the doctors wanted to take my
Blood
Away from me
Sucked up through tubes and collected
To be analyzed
It felt odd to me, to have my
Blood
-That hot nectar giving me life
Invisibly sustaining me-
Analyzed like milk at a dairy show
Over and over again
They stabbed me and drained me
Like mosquitoes, hungry for more
I felt as if I would run out of
Blood
And the sight of it no longer nauseated me
I found it distantly interesting
Like watching waves break the ocean
The blue foam of an enormous meringue being folded over
I actually like the smell of
Blood
Not quite rusty, not a salt
A hot smell
Comforting
And when I got home from the hospital
Full of track marks like an addict
I imagined my veins collapsing
Emptied
I wanted to see it again, my
Blood
An immature, if morbid, curiosity

Take.

How can I
die
when I haven't figured how to
live?
I've been wasting this body
Thisheart
Thismind
on longborrowed time
Can I give it back?
just take it, take it
I don't need to squander
this gift any more
than it was mind to give
please take it, take it
give it to
someone
who will use it well
see what they can make of it
I don't need it any more
so
take it.

Radio Heart.

My song
Tumbles from lips and
Beats in pores
Not enough to hear alone
One heartbeat on it's own
But with you
I hear you sing
Your simple supple melody
My song played back at me
But better
Clear bright beautiful
Noise
When you come closer
Joyful proximity
Your body sings to me
Our songs as one the perfect sound
Pouring from your radio heart
Tuned to your brainwaves
The only music
I'll ever need to hear again
Noise constellations
Showing me where I've been

Asthma Season.

I hate seeing fat, sleek fish pulled up on hooks
their fins flashing
                    gills flapping
I hate watching them hang from a line
Because
I know what it feels like
To drown in air

Falling Short.

I loved her from a distance because that was the only way I could love her
But oh, how I loved.
Selfish obsession, those hours- spent imagining movie theaters and sweaty palms, playing acoustic to lyrics of her
All time well spent.
But eventually I no longer found myself in love with her
I was intoxicated by the idea of her
And so when the time came for the mask to shatter and the veil to shred –find out who she really was—surprise![You were hiding not for your love but from love this entire debacle]
She fell far short of the perfect being I had painted in my imagination
And I let her go
Because it dawned on me that it was not she
But my own mind
Whom I loved.

    
That Kind of Perfect.

You speak a lot
About love, don't you?
If I asked you what love is,
You would paint me a portrait of
Abercrombie abs and a chemical smile
Your poster-boy pick-me-up basketball star
Who takes you to movies and fastfood you won't eat
So you can fit into the strip mall lingerie that he gave you
The day after your birthday, too small in the waist, big in the bust
Wouldn't you?
Well, you can forget
What you think you know
About love. Perfection is gangly
Size-twelves and rumpled denim hand-
Me-downs, on the wind of an inky smudged
Letter written on the back of a history paper in
His best print, and the song he wrote for my birthday
Paired with his God-awful guitar playing and the peanut-
Butter sandwiches he made me to take to the park behind my
House to tear the crusts off and throw to the ducks that he knows
By name