A Pocketful of Poetry: Uncut

The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Monday, December 28, 2009

.Moving Day.


Swing by, leave a comment (a nice one) and make me smile!

Sunday, December 27, 2009

. Black Cats and Oranges.

Twisting through the midnight streets, we meander,
Touching any hope floating by.
The shadow of a tree makes me
pause. My eyes lean in and when they wrap themselves
around the little sunset globes, I cry.
I hate oranges.
Look, there are plastic stars resting on all the fences;
I wrestle them.
I lose and I sigh.

Black cats yowl, the yellow, hollow
O's of their eyes pulling me into the darkness.
I take a step back.

I'm on the outside now. I can taste it.
I'm walking alone, a single solider,
leading but not the leader,
but it's alright.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

.Anonymous Numbers.

You loved me once and maybe I loved you too. I don't know. I love a lot of people. We
Used to sit on rooftops smoking for the stars, for the dawn, for each other. I think we
Misplaced a whole month of sleep. That's for how long I loved you. I don't know if you
Loved me longer. Maybe. I don't know. I've been loved by a lot of people. Perhaps you
Thought you loved me. That happens a lot. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, I
Think of the numerical buildings you used to draw. I think I understand them better now. I
Think I understand more better now. I think that maybe now I am just a number to you.
That's alright with me, you know. I just wanted to say that it made me sad to see you
And feel distant enough to avoid a hello. You've been inside me, I thought. Once, when we
were two numbers in the same building. What made me sadder still was not that we
are strangers now. In fact, it had nothing to do with you at all. I was floating, rapt up in my own world. I
Thought I was a stranger. I saw you see me and then I was more than just I.

Someone saw me and suddenly I wasn't anonymous.


Throw down that bottle but the paper tiger will still grin. Stamp on it
To shatter your simmering secrets. Don't forget to use protection:
I have scars on my souls that will make your toes curl like lace. Make
Sure you put that bitch down! Scrape off every label with every burning word.
Use his limbs like toothpicks, casual as a cowboy; peel him like a mandarin;
Toss his skin, Suck his flesh, Spit it out; throw a fistful of leaves into his folding face.
When you're through, crawl off into the sunset. And for god's sakes,
Try not to throw up this time.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

.Mirrors In My Hair.

When I was
they wanted me
to remember
who I was
they put
mirrors in my hair
every time I think
I am looking
I am actually

.It Was Just A Poke.

Lovers folding, heartbeats fluttering like a flock of a thousand sparrows.
Toes twitch as static lips finger the fine lines between staccato kisses.
I make you try, diamond hard, for me, a meek kitten, as I roar from one too many
Licks. Come, run your change of hips by me, swinging from cold to hot so easily,
you stupid ape. Draw me like a magnetic ace, the winning card you
Pretend you don’t want. Fill me, yet another hole, as if I wasn’t gaping
enough. I have my own spade, thank you.

A simple pout pulls the upper hand but
I’m laden, and you are no gentleman, and there is no concierge for this.
Lord I would love to club that silly smirk off your dick.


Delicate and drunk I wander a
garden of dreams, bitter flowers twisting,
petals ripping at the seams, and I
yawn, silent indignance at the
sweet flickering shadow sneaking around
the edges. This garden is not round, it does not
roll, but it is dough in the hands of the weak.
Helpless and raw, I smile still, my tongue
beating in the cave of my words,
manipulated, like the tune of the
thousandth fiddle. One lazy lick and I blow over like
gossip, all the while winter whispering in its milky rasp,
‘You are awake.’

The Library

Le Petit Biographie

My photo
I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.