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A Painter
She spoke and cast thin scars upon your hands--
scalding and marking--her voice--a blooming aster--
a laurel tree--scattering seedy strings of thought--
bequeathing her soil to us--shading and spoiling us--
sprouting and sheltering us from the ballasts of her song--
I should like to carve her lined face, around
her eyes, below her jaw, cutting each into
teemed rhyme. To feel the bridge of her nose,
smooth beneath my fingers and thin lips, parted,
and shaping, finally molding life into geometric form.
But no model rests so long for my hands
to brand them into beauty. Shall it always be I,
stunned with harmony and never I, Jovian
seducer of dreams to my sculpting grasp?
Shall I only ever have these letters to read?
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 4
Cut your sign language
upon my breast. I hear bark
split beneath your dress.
You wear torn tights - black -
an olive vest. I catch your
noise lilting on my breath.
Descend your rough branch.
Scale down for me. Sun shall
fail if we may - Sea
shall sing - just sweet - and
I hear high tide receding
where our hearts shall meet.
Can peppered ribbons
musk raw palms, burnt sea-grass?
Can they kill fresh night?
Will winds betray our
fragrant firmament? Our sky
so still, distilled, still
turning, turned gray, turned
lilac with sun-leaked light. Bulbs
bloom on hollow dunes.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
The snow appeared
The snow appeared - Just, gradually -
As Dancers choose their Mate -
As angels turn - in lord's Black dell
And Sinners seal their fate.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
The Joy of Life
I'm at the Barnes--the museum--Matisse's Le bonheur de vivre.
I'm overcome. Blood trembling and thick with a tremor, untuning me
wondrously. Must this revest my voice in a second abstruse tongue?
Not fair. How can this pen write something that cannot be written?
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
Mature content
First Date :iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
wet nightmare
this is mongoose.   this is mongoose alone.
this is divine heat in the pear tree.
this is mongoose in the pear tree.
this is earth wearied with weight.
this is moon-- watching.
this is empty hallway.
this is fleshy pink and wet.
this is an extreme case.
this can't recure itself.
this is snake.   this is me.
this, cobra; this, asp.
this cannot be pregnant.
this cannot fill
only poison.
this wraps me in coils.
this is harlotry.
this is snake in a pear tree.
this is mongoose hissing.
these are no smooth skin
these are no fine hair
these are no smooth lips
this is a dream.   this is me.
this is every night, inevitably.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 1 2
Mature content
consummation :iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
it drags.   its teeth in ankles (mine)--
it really drags.   the people at the office stare,
they whisper.   (what?)   they see a bulge
beneath my skirt.   my belly feels
so full of blood.   i reach and touch
(to touch is wonderful)
my breasts; my hips--
what a burden.   what a weight.
i never knew i never knew
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
night   i'm home
empty house
but giggles
coming from the
walk-in closet where i
keep my mongoose   it is
looking at me (demigod)
hovel made of dresses   it uses them
as tunnels   (i pretend they're wombs
i could birth myself in again)   it's
squeezing into tight pencil skirts
its claws mark the floor
its feet are withered
it's been running in the closet
wall to wall to wall
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
only safe in shadows.
no more lights but golden eyes.   so
many eyes emasculating
me forever.   aching
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
mongoose round my neck.   it
hangs and hangs.   it
looks up at me.   it
tells me: transform mountains into marsh.   it
commands fear--   it
lets in girls from dreams--   my Gods
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
She sang, "Nightmares don't forget.
You turn my heart to wet concrete
and all I care to hear is you. Is that
lunar fever? Even so, I may only speak
to you, dirty old mirror. You mask
my face; you know it's me. You
recognize through your cracks.
You, fawn of man, you, taboo
shadow of myself.
                        I am older now.
I still come to you sometimes. I
still need you sometimes. You mouth
words at me. You twist the knife.
I don't see you anymore. Only ghosts.
I look to you for help--you only choke."
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 9
What kind of mannequin are you? You are
some burning child only I touch--(I only
scar my obsessions)--run hands over you
like two blind spiders. I could spin you up
in me, seek out some scent of impurity.
What kind of word are you? You are something
I've saved for my secret language. I can sense
you on the tip of my tongue--(I only name
my obsessions)--I can't help it. What kind
of curse are you? I only permutate my fears.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
Tunica, Mississippi 1983
I was waiting for the clock,
stuck at that desk and sticky
like the rest of the kids,
all daydreaming of getting
home to pick the fields
with their daddies. I didn't have
a daddy. No old farmer in my house.
No labor lines to look up
to on his hands or worn
overalls that would be mine.
I had pruned fingers from washing
bedsheets in the backyard
and my mama's frilly apron.
The crows were squalling,
picking at each other for
kicks or maybe food, their
eyes hungry in the dry wind.
And every time, the teacher would
just wait for them to shut up,
watching them with scowls,
before going on about the Delta
and the tributaries and what not.
I remember looking out the window,
the highway wavering in the noon-
time heat, and I try to tone out
Miss Levine's old voice, croaking
about "the juice of puzzlement"
or something, and I let myself
out the window, wandering down
the rocks to the road, past the road
and through the corn crop to
your house--little tin and aluminum
shack-outpost on the skirtin
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
A Column
It stays, resting
where some drunk men
knocked it down, kicking and breaking
their feet on it, shattered in three
oblong ends. You can still see
the steel rod, jutting
from where it was anchored once,
a kind of leash, driven straight
through, split in the spill
of stones. The ants crawl over it,
picking the cloudy flutes
full of dirt for crumbs. An acorn
drops and black exoskeletons
scatter, startled into shadows.
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0
My Name
       I have four names. The first three were of my father's blood and were his doing too. When he walked out the front door of my first house and never came back, I was left uneven--three names, an odd number. The last of which would carry his empty legacy, that of a man who would not exist for me any more than as a vague image, shimmering in my thoughts.
       My mother did what she could. My mother usurped that legacy and replaced it with one of her own. I would be a Bartlett and traceable to Josiah's scrawled hand as he signed the Declaration miles from my dirty diapers in Delaware, and years behind me. I never knew what my names meant and they meant nothing to me. A distinction only, between my sisters' and my own.
       It wasn't until I was grown and questioning why I had to be the only man in a house full of women that I was given the details. I can still see mother's mou
:iconpunchdrunklover:PunchDrunkLover 0 0

Random Favourites

Nascent Noyade
They thought he was an ashtray
   until he stood,
   grey and crumbling,
   denim clumped and cracking,
   paper clefts of skin
   worn from use.
His hair was wild dendrites
   wisping off his skins;
   his lips parted, dropping gravel,
   before they knew
   he was a man.
He'd been a swan, once;
   but his feathers were forgotten,
   even their memories pawned off
   to wet his lips:
   he breathed
   spit-flecks of gin.
Bloodshot and squeezed,
   his eyes leak sand,
   and it's like crying.
    They took pity
    until his plucked palm came down
    so as not to leave a mark.
He beat them bleeding
   while holes in his hands
:iconscarredsodeep:scarredsodeep 7 14
You would have kissed me here,
Just for the way the sun is glinting sharply in my eyes.
You’d wipe the pink sand from my legs,
You’d want to share in all my simple bliss,
And would attempt this by osmosis.
Yet this morning I alone dip my toes into this pool of salt,
Open-armed and ravenous to devour all the love in the world.
But from you, I want only to delight in the simple pleasures
Of the everyday timbre of your voice.
And If I’m not your pretty Aphrodite,
You’ll let me be your Rhea,
And I’ll love you like my child.
:icongormanda:gormanda 1 4
This is a letter
This is a letter
to the strange girl I saw downtown who
played opera from her boombox
while I nodded off against a trashcan.
I could've  crawled inside that strange smile
and slept for days.
This is a letter to the old man
who stumbled by my table
wearing someone elses dirty mustache,
as I smoked.
You spoke so sweetly to your pack of cigarettes,
I wonder what you said.
This is a letter to my dreams.
Dreams like coke bottles thrown from car windows.
Dreams like burning bags of dog shit
I remember when you used to whisper.
This is a letter to the bird I buried behind the library.
You were so beautiful
dying in my palm.
I dug your grave with a glass bottle.
I'm sorry it wasn't very deep.
This is a letter to a boy with black hair
and red roots who kept me alive in the desert.
You do not know what you have done.
This is a letter.
Thats all.
:iconstopdropandroll:stopdropandroll 1 0
In desperate search for inspiration,
I find my skin cold and transparent
In the red hot summer.
Humid air crawling into my lungs,
And I suffer from inhaling the water.
Now what is a poem but a scratch in a page?
The lines add, negate, neutralize;
You find nothing within yourself,
Nor within anyone else.
You waste the most brilliant things ever said.
And in this lack of inspiration,
I realize that I am incapable of dousing words in subtlety,
Drowning them in vagueness.
All I can do is carve blue eyes and raven hair into the page,
And carefully calculate the distance, in inches, between here and the farthest place you've ever been,
And how long it would take to escape to California.
Now the pen keeps coughing the words I dare not speak,
The ones I've held in my guts for the last five months.
It's the ebb and flow of everything,
A shining clock, eccentricity,
Knowing that we all are falling.
And to the pits of our souls, the bottom of the grave,
We will tumble, in sheep's clothing, until
:iconforximlovesick:forximlovesick 1 0
Grey Matters
Your myelin nylons
run slick down your legs:
Perfect   Plastic   Sheath.
The thing we can't bear,
from here, ear-to-ear,
gnaws nonetheless in your teeth.
Entry and exit.
Cold cobalt grin.
Barely-there lines bar Tallulah within.
Metabolic, your grave site
slides into the sea.
You press palms and whisper
the names that you'll need.
:iconscarredsodeep:scarredsodeep 2 2
White Horse Rescue
You flick your tongue
and shells fly,
Your lips run red.
You've been biting them—
if only that tongue
could claim the same.
You try to speak
but smoke comes out.
We're poking birdshot holes
in your throat:
we're waking wounds,
you're speaking tombs,
even your savior
can't shoot you now,
while you're happy.
:iconscarredsodeep:scarredsodeep 1 1
How to Bend Mountains
I spread my lips in a sigh
Brought about by desperation floating through the air.
We bite tongues, and onward! in awkward, bitter-cold silence.
I've seen your hair and face and eyes
Tens of millions of times,
But I've never quite known the place.
"Forgive me, for my thoughts are a bit bizarre,
But, perhaps, you know exactly what I mean,"
I stutter as the lights dim, and I stand, making my way to the glowing red exit.
Suddenly, a whimper grows into a whisper,
And I twist my head as you delicately say,
"I've never admired such wind-calloused skin,
Nor the scars left from burns decades ago,
But if you could call the sun by any other name,
I swear by the moon I'd be yours."
"And now I suppose you want Shakespearean quotes,
But, oh love, I know not how to make you melt;
I know only how to breath, how to be,
Only how to bend mountains, if you'll promise to be with me."
:iconforximlovesick:forximlovesick 2 7
dance by CSISMAN dance :iconcsisman:CSISMAN 85 22
II. Daniel
The boy is the antagonist.
                He stands regal
                                Pull back the shoulders and reveal the intentions
Disconnected by a moment
                When I, a puppet to his puppeteer
                                When I became an inmate to his affection.
If you could call it love.
He has large, cruel, cold eyes
The longer you look, the worse the frostbite
He will always get away, and you are left freezing
His shapes are strange,
:icontime-capsule:time-capsule 2 4
I. Stuart
Stuart will not walk in my room
                He says there is something growing on my floor
                That made him grow a third leg, and then ate it
I met him on a simple, dark day
Slumped shoulders, narrow eyes and a smile that looks like it is about to leave
  Courses across the hall and avoid my door.
I spread a smile across my face for him, to keep him happy
                                Oh, so happy, I’d have given him the stars
Made it a point to not be a bitch
                Swore I’d never be like the other girls, I’d never board the Tilt-A-Whirl
:icontime-capsule:time-capsule 1 3
The professor, your mentor, plays tricks on you
Temper flares at his sardonic remarks
Skin tingles with rage at the thought of his tone
Feet tapping on the floor to contain it all.
It didn’t use to be like this.
There was a day
When there were cornucopias of praise
But in the turmoil (the bad weather, the broken relationships, the absolute zero of happiness) you have forgotten how to add these chemicals, to get the perfect score
There was a day
When you did not drive home with the heaviest heart
Tell yourself, you told yourself
“The weight of it (my heart) makes me feel at ease.”
Only when your heart is heavy with the crushing clenched-fist of years of confusion and sedation can you truly feel at home.
The professor did not understand this, pushed and prodded
Numbers dictated your future
The rejection letters stuffed in your mailbox were reproducing quickly
And after a while you stopped reading them.
You do not feel welcome in a home this bright.
A low-budget education p
:icontime-capsule:time-capsule 0 6
Cliff Dreaming by mooreartist Cliff Dreaming :iconmooreartist:mooreartist 146 24
Into Airplanes
For once in my life, this brain is an empty mess,
All its contents thrown on pages; no order, no sense.
I am incessantly searching for words and phrases so appealing,
But at some point I give up because I've simply had enough,
And no one will be there to remember this in the end.
Yes, my penmanship is a trainwreck,
But whenever I wish for it to change,
Those shooting stars turn into airplanes.
If I could, I would erase your face from my memory,
No, not out of lament, just to rid myself of these thoughts because I know they'll never be.
For now, I'll act peacably when I speak,
Even though there's a hurricane tearing up my skull,
Leaving tiny fragments of bone that sometimes fall out of my nose.
So don't ask me about the rain or my feelings toward the changing of seasons,
Everything just stays the same with different articulation.
I have never done anything like this before
(A denial!  A denial!!),
I've never spewed my peripheral vision all across a tile floor.
(Oh, maybe...)
:iconforximlovesick:forximlovesick 3 2
I spend most my time drowning.
my name is
and I've always had
a thing for men with
an extra finger on their left
hand I think this is because
I miss
one finger and there-
for I feel that a man with
six fingers on his
left hand would fulfill me and
break all the barriers and
whatnot with that
extra finger
honestly who would want
a chick with just
nine fingers and
not ten which is actually
the ideal the idial the idiot
who says come on
baby let's swing because
the galaxy is sleeping
in your eyes and
the stars are
the skin of your body
split in
millions of pieces all across
the sky like a mothers
skin around
the sleeping baby
I was dancing
like mad through
the drunken
milky way honey
day streets with bad poetry
on my scalp and
dry tear ducts in
my eyes and empty
shots and burnt babies
in my belly. I bleed with
them I walk across
dead bodies for them and I
split oceans for them. I feed
them and I
kill them. Shepard-like and burning
on the top of the hill.
A girl dressed in negro-white and
black and blue and
:iconheyohio:heyohio 11 9
Because Gorgeous Wasn't Enough
Her eyes
made me want to be a poet again
Because in those great big,
honey sparkle,
gold dust,
ravenwood eyes,
I lived a lifetime
I saw her at the helm of a weathered oak galleon,
weighing anchor into a sea
as green as dew speckled moss
I saw her skip down sand
that sparkled like diamonds
in the heat of the day
and dance away evenings under starlight
In her eyes, I saw
I saw the Aurora Borealis,
and how the first time she saw it
she wondered if maybe God
wasn't done painting the sky
because he wanted to get it
just right for her
I saw her ride off into the twilight
as if it were a liquid
you could swim through,
and she as much a part
of her horse
as it was to the ground,
an animal
born of the earth
with legs that explode
into the soil as wind whips
through it's mane
and her hair,
both, for a moment
fiercely alive,
:iconpeechiz:Peechiz 2 7
If I get married
She'll have to be a poet.  How else could it be with me unable to speak my mind without metaphors and half rhymes.  I need a girl that speaks similie as fluently as she speaks alliteration, exaggeration, and pun.  I need a girl that really understands me, so she'll have to be a poet.
She'll also have to be... insane.  I need a girl that doesn't mind that I'm a random, goofy, overcaffinated imbecile infatuated with an odd assortment of interests because SHE is random, goofy, and drinking esspresso like it's water.  I am, at time, hyperactive, noisy, and utterly convinced that one day toasters will rise up and kills us all! </i>Raining doom down upon us all as they march throughout the land leaving nothing behind but the horrible stench of charred flesh, burnt bread, and the occasional overcooked pastry-dish!</i>  . . . and in order for her not to see that as a problem, she'll have to be crazy.
She'll also have to be... a
:iconpeechiz:Peechiz 3 3



United States
Current Residence: VA
And a man said, Speak to us of Self-Knowledge.
     And he answered, saying:
     Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.
     But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart's knowledge.
     You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.
     You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

     And it is well you should.
     The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;
     And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.
     But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure;
     And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.
     For self is a sea boundless and measureless.

. .

     Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."
     Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."
     For the soul walks upon all paths.
     The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
     The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.


An "I-thou" from an "I-it" as Buber will have us believe?
Deliver this unto me that I might make of us a temple with our words as prayer, our bodies as an altar, and our thoughts an illumination.

Enlighten my soul that she may find her life and joy in thee, until, transported out of herself by the excess of her happiness, she binds herself to thee with all her powers and in all her motions.
  • Listening to: Tegan and Sara
  • Reading: The Prophet, Markings, The Fire Next Time
  • Watching: Synecdoche, New York
  • Playing: Wittgenstein's games.
  • Eating: Popcorn
  • Drinking: Vanilla Coke


Add a Comment:
Memo213 Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2016
b1gfan Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2010  Student Writer
Happy Birthday :D
mariamism Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2010  Professional General Artist
dude, happy birthday! :)
deviantART muro drawingComment Drawing
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PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2010
Is this a comment, request or demand?
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PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2010
Well you'll have to wait for Calliope. No one commands the muse.
(1 Reply)
gormanda Featured By Owner May 24, 2010
Thanks for all the favoriting.
PunchDrunkLover Featured By Owner May 24, 2010
Thanks for posting all the good poems. It's a real change from the milieu.
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