Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
💚
Cherish
My nails are dirty, hands bare,
diamonds hide miles beneath
the soil
and the effort and the timeless smiles, with false courage,
are wasted.
What a scruffy effort.
My love, am I
the fool you knew? Why did you fuck it?
My love, did it cum? Did it tremble,
the way I do?
And with you, could I burn my cotton shirt
with twigs on the marble floor
and with hands held high,
as a Magpie's wing
draping across the Sun?
Yet this Magpie saw
my ...
diamonds hide miles beneath
the soil
and the effort and the timeless smiles, with false courage,
are wasted.
What a scruffy effort.
My love, am I
the fool you knew? Why did you fuck it?
My love, did it cum? Did it tremble,
the way I do?
And with you, could I burn my cotton shirt
with twigs on the marble floor
and with hands held high,
as a Magpie's wing
draping across the Sun?
Yet this Magpie saw
my ...
581 reads
0 Comments
Train
649 reads
0 Comments
Mr. Robin Red Breast
It was Autumn when she was last here,
we're stared down upon her,
my family and I.
We even sang her melody
as she seemed sad but she stared peculiarly at the roses.
While the wild leaves blew around her, constant petals were
in her sights. It seemed strange to us, my Wife and I
that she would come such a long way from home
to stare at a bunch of roses.
When she returned in the Winter
my wife suggested it might be lost love,
I wasn't entirely sure,
you know how terribly emotional women are.
Each time with these roses, ...
we're stared down upon her,
my family and I.
We even sang her melody
as she seemed sad but she stared peculiarly at the roses.
While the wild leaves blew around her, constant petals were
in her sights. It seemed strange to us, my Wife and I
that she would come such a long way from home
to stare at a bunch of roses.
When she returned in the Winter
my wife suggested it might be lost love,
I wasn't entirely sure,
you know how terribly emotional women are.
Each time with these roses, ...
773 reads
2 Comments
Looking
Staring into water.
Light bounces,
light will bounce,
birds will fly,
my chest will inflate
and the air will disband,
tumble into atmosphere,
fall into space.
Turn, on the rye field
where a path leads off.
Lay down, though the ground is wet
and the scent is fresh, as crisp a morn' breeze
should be.
My chest will inflate
and the air will disband.
The weary mud will stain.
In this rural scene,
tell no lie.
Speak
as if there's been
no missed time
and unbutton my ...
Light bounces,
light will bounce,
birds will fly,
my chest will inflate
and the air will disband,
tumble into atmosphere,
fall into space.
Turn, on the rye field
where a path leads off.
Lay down, though the ground is wet
and the scent is fresh, as crisp a morn' breeze
should be.
My chest will inflate
and the air will disband.
The weary mud will stain.
In this rural scene,
tell no lie.
Speak
as if there's been
no missed time
and unbutton my ...
644 reads
4 Comments
Him
Simple and
chaotic thought process
slows down. It's moving,
as if it's alcohol poured toward cuts on the throat.
Swallow the plug
and know misfortune
ties, close at side,
to the addict's pocket.
Wake black
from bruises
and pale from touches,
stare vacantly, locked the other side of old photographs.
Read a book, The Quiet Life,
or smoke until feeling subsides
and, with the curtains drawn,
hush those endangered thoughts.
Gag on the smell,
stale from sweat and obsession.
Empty passionate...
chaotic thought process
slows down. It's moving,
as if it's alcohol poured toward cuts on the throat.
Swallow the plug
and know misfortune
ties, close at side,
to the addict's pocket.
Wake black
from bruises
and pale from touches,
stare vacantly, locked the other side of old photographs.
Read a book, The Quiet Life,
or smoke until feeling subsides
and, with the curtains drawn,
hush those endangered thoughts.
Gag on the smell,
stale from sweat and obsession.
Empty passionate...
792 reads
4 Comments
When I'm good you're not here.
Dressed in solitude,
a canvas
to be slashed
or eroded
by
the
chemical,
black on black,
falling for the crush.
Come, where wind breathes me
and see those words follow and echo and expand
in the hollow rock
that offers
a sanctuary
far away from your
experimental phase.
Westerns play,
cigars and games
where you can take
to sporting and
I will play the machine
that's scripted
to say every line
the correct way.
Will I hear the rusted...
a canvas
to be slashed
or eroded
by
the
chemical,
black on black,
falling for the crush.
Come, where wind breathes me
and see those words follow and echo and expand
in the hollow rock
that offers
a sanctuary
far away from your
experimental phase.
Westerns play,
cigars and games
where you can take
to sporting and
I will play the machine
that's scripted
to say every line
the correct way.
Will I hear the rusted...
914 reads
11 Comments
Who takes a shadow?
Crush
my head
space with waves,
over
the bounding mountains
and the plains
where
dreams
exist
and float under a fertile,
crimson light.
Crush my head
space with those
devouring
clouds seeking
vision.
The watered down photographs
that were smudged with
white
chalk.
At least
that's what the dealer
mentioned.
Where are the neurons
free?
Through the fables
where words
were no more than fill-ins...
my head
space with waves,
over
the bounding mountains
and the plains
where
dreams
exist
and float under a fertile,
crimson light.
Crush my head
space with those
devouring
clouds seeking
vision.
The watered down photographs
that were smudged with
white
chalk.
At least
that's what the dealer
mentioned.
Where are the neurons
free?
Through the fables
where words
were no more than fill-ins...
752 reads
5 Comments
For believing.
The primogeniture
enjoyed hectoring Beauty
through fields,
over the rotting planks that spared
her saturated flippers, beneath bridges.
The primogeniture
possessed an iced disposition
and his mind was incongruous with
our world,
he was stygian and birthing sin.
Composure bled from his trenchant organ,
delight washing his shell
with proud peccant.
The comely angel laughed at his Potemkin village,
at his xenophobia towards love.
Her appearance was as...
enjoyed hectoring Beauty
through fields,
over the rotting planks that spared
her saturated flippers, beneath bridges.
The primogeniture
possessed an iced disposition
and his mind was incongruous with
our world,
he was stygian and birthing sin.
Composure bled from his trenchant organ,
delight washing his shell
with proud peccant.
The comely angel laughed at his Potemkin village,
at his xenophobia towards love.
Her appearance was as...
600 reads
0 Comments
Masochist
753 reads
2 Comments
Block
Trying to write poetry.
That's a laugh,
it's as if dragging my soul along the blank space
with a pencil or pen or emotionless buttons on my a keyboard
leaves me like a stubbed cigarette
between the sheets
leaving it's stink in my room.
The emptiness shifts,
to a place below my ribs, finding a home in fat.
The lighter days are illuminated
by my unwilling temperament
to learn the art
of conformity.
And I switch the keys,
move to a place, where I disgrace
my original melancholy
in the empty space
I jot,
I scribble,...
That's a laugh,
it's as if dragging my soul along the blank space
with a pencil or pen or emotionless buttons on my a keyboard
leaves me like a stubbed cigarette
between the sheets
leaving it's stink in my room.
The emptiness shifts,
to a place below my ribs, finding a home in fat.
The lighter days are illuminated
by my unwilling temperament
to learn the art
of conformity.
And I switch the keys,
move to a place, where I disgrace
my original melancholy
in the empty space
I jot,
I scribble,...
830 reads
5 Comments
Fight or flight responses
Get back to me.
On a cordate table
a meal sits for one, going cold
under an orange lamp, once full of juju.
Head propped on hands, you're full of lethargy.
Once I believed in the benevolence of God, restlessly.
Your indolent heart and mercurial shadow
share
a half-cooked recipe gluttony
and loneliness served.
I peer inside
unabashed and still
bearing the glimmer
of the city's lustful men,
Junoesque.
You find me snooping,
catch my wrists, pin my hips, unsteadily breathe across my...
On a cordate table
a meal sits for one, going cold
under an orange lamp, once full of juju.
Head propped on hands, you're full of lethargy.
Once I believed in the benevolence of God, restlessly.
Your indolent heart and mercurial shadow
share
a half-cooked recipe gluttony
and loneliness served.
I peer inside
unabashed and still
bearing the glimmer
of the city's lustful men,
Junoesque.
You find me snooping,
catch my wrists, pin my hips, unsteadily breathe across my...
968 reads
10 Comments
High and dry.
In the Winter
the world took a bite
out of us.
My bones crack
and celebrate
on the filthy,
rolling stones
passing through
our little town.
I'm not cast
in short dresses or an evening of chaos
seen only through shaking glass,
I swear.
Distaste pours from your lasting looks
and your third glass of whiskey
paid for by grinding hips and sweat and glitter.
Three am lights are the holy grail
guiding me back to our clown house.
I remember
when we were glorious
and cut out only by the full-colour...
the world took a bite
out of us.
My bones crack
and celebrate
on the filthy,
rolling stones
passing through
our little town.
I'm not cast
in short dresses or an evening of chaos
seen only through shaking glass,
I swear.
Distaste pours from your lasting looks
and your third glass of whiskey
paid for by grinding hips and sweat and glitter.
Three am lights are the holy grail
guiding me back to our clown house.
I remember
when we were glorious
and cut out only by the full-colour...
754 reads
6 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)