Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
💚
To Die
When I sign my body over
and the coffee shops are closed,
when the lights have left the sky
(I know I'll die by night)
you can savour me,
before our love was blind
and was lost
on a hazy dream
or the catch twenty-two
that fed me, dressed me
and laid me to rest.
You can savour our time,
though I don't know much of lust
or grief,
only the bed sheets we shared
and the secrets
between the lines
we held in.
When the black casket comes in,
in it's willow-like glory
and parts of me removed...
and the coffee shops are closed,
when the lights have left the sky
(I know I'll die by night)
you can savour me,
before our love was blind
and was lost
on a hazy dream
or the catch twenty-two
that fed me, dressed me
and laid me to rest.
You can savour our time,
though I don't know much of lust
or grief,
only the bed sheets we shared
and the secrets
between the lines
we held in.
When the black casket comes in,
in it's willow-like glory
and parts of me removed...
694 reads
2 Comments
Faceless (in style)
and gentle
like crumbs leading our path
my feet trailing
two steps behind
time
the paper planes fly
through amber wind
collecting the cargo
of our flaky
thoughts
and how i promised
your vacant face
i could figure out a Rubix cube
without your presence and without tweezers
this year
the dust never settles
as bark cracks and crumbles
from a struck tree we sat
beneath on a bowing bench in the half-light
burning stars
there like a gothic novel you made me convert to that ol' wicked smile...
like crumbs leading our path
my feet trailing
two steps behind
time
the paper planes fly
through amber wind
collecting the cargo
of our flaky
thoughts
and how i promised
your vacant face
i could figure out a Rubix cube
without your presence and without tweezers
this year
the dust never settles
as bark cracks and crumbles
from a struck tree we sat
beneath on a bowing bench in the half-light
burning stars
there like a gothic novel you made me convert to that ol' wicked smile...
659 reads
4 Comments
The Brain
I have exactly eight minutes
before an over-sized man
greets my TV
to berate his wife,
ignore, generally, the middle child
and act like a typical birdbrain
for comedic value.
It does make me laugh.
That's the audience.
My simple mind exists
when work ends at One
and there is driving lesson
at five past.
I put a five minute gap there
for the cigarette I want.
Sometimes I don't have one.
Sometimes I stand in the cold
and stare at...
before an over-sized man
greets my TV
to berate his wife,
ignore, generally, the middle child
and act like a typical birdbrain
for comedic value.
It does make me laugh.
That's the audience.
My simple mind exists
when work ends at One
and there is driving lesson
at five past.
I put a five minute gap there
for the cigarette I want.
Sometimes I don't have one.
Sometimes I stand in the cold
and stare at...
825 reads
7 Comments
Cold.
I am livid
with the Sun
and with the sky
and the perpetual madness
that aligns when
the two collide.
A catalyst of colour
blinds my eyes;
morning
from my south facing window.
You
and your presumptuous
manner quickly assume
my mood
is hindered
by you.
You are a cock,
I don't cluck.
Early rising
doesn't suit me.
So leave me
the ground
where the worms,
where the moles,
where the lice linger,
hide and survive.
We mingle...
with the Sun
and with the sky
and the perpetual madness
that aligns when
the two collide.
A catalyst of colour
blinds my eyes;
morning
from my south facing window.
You
and your presumptuous
manner quickly assume
my mood
is hindered
by you.
You are a cock,
I don't cluck.
Early rising
doesn't suit me.
So leave me
the ground
where the worms,
where the moles,
where the lice linger,
hide and survive.
We mingle...
1027 reads
12 Comments
Disease.
I am tired
of writing the same
sensible drivel you would happily
salt and pepper and lap up
as a late evening meal.
It's unacceptable
for my creative space
to have such pressure put
on the nature of a piece.
What if I wanted to talk about the concept of pills
and the idea that if you took fifteen Paracetamols daily
you could slowly induce liver damage,
therefore more likely to be declared as
"unintentional" rather than suicide?
Doesn't it seem kinder for
people, and you know me,
I'm one for...
of writing the same
sensible drivel you would happily
salt and pepper and lap up
as a late evening meal.
It's unacceptable
for my creative space
to have such pressure put
on the nature of a piece.
What if I wanted to talk about the concept of pills
and the idea that if you took fifteen Paracetamols daily
you could slowly induce liver damage,
therefore more likely to be declared as
"unintentional" rather than suicide?
Doesn't it seem kinder for
people, and you know me,
I'm one for...
977 reads
5 Comments
The strumpet and the toad.
Beneath the lilac underground
where lily pads survive,
on mould, you hold
the only thing worth holding,
the key.
You attempt to jump through the high reeds,
despite your weak back legs.
You swim through ponds too wide while
I confide in the Devil, in the madness
and the powers that destroy.
Steal my kiss
in the earliest hour when the Sun
doesn't know how to reach the sky.
For I die a little every moment
my eyes adjust and your eyes are orange
and your oozing flesh is not as elegantly built
as...
where lily pads survive,
on mould, you hold
the only thing worth holding,
the key.
You attempt to jump through the high reeds,
despite your weak back legs.
You swim through ponds too wide while
I confide in the Devil, in the madness
and the powers that destroy.
Steal my kiss
in the earliest hour when the Sun
doesn't know how to reach the sky.
For I die a little every moment
my eyes adjust and your eyes are orange
and your oozing flesh is not as elegantly built
as...
738 reads
5 Comments
Stranger.
Drape these curtains,
lay the crockery
and station our servers
- the banquet
breathes.
Quietly
under the hum of moist eyes
and ashamed sniffs,
skies tumble
from a hundred untampered glasses.
These bets on will.
Hard.
Rain pitter-patters on window
ledges,
bamboozles our brumal guests
and I smirk,
from a high-back chair
on the edge of infinity
staring at the jar
that holds the body
I once fucked
here
on this floor.
People
with thirty seconds to move,
before the psychosis takes...
lay the crockery
and station our servers
- the banquet
breathes.
Quietly
under the hum of moist eyes
and ashamed sniffs,
skies tumble
from a hundred untampered glasses.
These bets on will.
Hard.
Rain pitter-patters on window
ledges,
bamboozles our brumal guests
and I smirk,
from a high-back chair
on the edge of infinity
staring at the jar
that holds the body
I once fucked
here
on this floor.
People
with thirty seconds to move,
before the psychosis takes...
780 reads
7 Comments
Together
Debauchery
litters the door,
fucks the duck-shaped stop
stuffed with the beads
like the beads in the top drawer,
only smaller
and cleaned less
often.
Satire grinds at thread
in the patchwork
of our throw
and in our umbrage
it grows,
mould
on Cheddar.
Fetch me wine, we'll
nod,
continue to play beggars
and toys
before I commit to a spring
clean.
litters the door,
fucks the duck-shaped stop
stuffed with the beads
like the beads in the top drawer,
only smaller
and cleaned less
often.
Satire grinds at thread
in the patchwork
of our throw
and in our umbrage
it grows,
mould
on Cheddar.
Fetch me wine, we'll
nod,
continue to play beggars
and toys
before I commit to a spring
clean.
785 reads
4 Comments
She [WSATT Comp]
What a queer, whimsical mite,
mighty too with the delicacy
of a fly
across my needs-more-muscle flesh,
silently
she does it. She maintains
the precision of a prostitute, always
keeping her mind
separate.
mighty too with the delicacy
of a fly
across my needs-more-muscle flesh,
silently
she does it. She maintains
the precision of a prostitute, always
keeping her mind
separate.
700 reads
0 Comments
Invent.
This is bedlam
and here he is,
ossifying,
swigging
from bottles of
Chardonnay.
She addresses his consumption
with the same eyes
she plagues the hoary
and the
disconsolate.
The man's in a dank place,
again.
He is reticent.
Those impassive, yet desperate thoughts
stay close,
linger and build
and build
and burst
from the heart,
from the chest.
He is nothing. ...
and here he is,
ossifying,
swigging
from bottles of
Chardonnay.
She addresses his consumption
with the same eyes
she plagues the hoary
and the
disconsolate.
The man's in a dank place,
again.
He is reticent.
Those impassive, yet desperate thoughts
stay close,
linger and build
and build
and burst
from the heart,
from the chest.
He is nothing. ...
783 reads
8 Comments
Be quiet.
It's late,
ebony sacks 'neath my eyes
indicate a need
for sleep
though
the delicacy of my delay hints,
ticks for extra.
Oh, relief,
even for a brief moment.
Could someone lull me to sleep
or ask me how I am without
the intention
of gossiping
like banshees,
river-witches?
If I own the Nile,
you own the muck and bog and the arguable deceit.
I am tired now,
let me sleep
alone.
ebony sacks 'neath my eyes
indicate a need
for sleep
though
the delicacy of my delay hints,
ticks for extra.
Oh, relief,
even for a brief moment.
Could someone lull me to sleep
or ask me how I am without
the intention
of gossiping
like banshees,
river-witches?
If I own the Nile,
you own the muck and bog and the arguable deceit.
I am tired now,
let me sleep
alone.
761 reads
3 Comments
Nationwide.
I have more money than sense,
a personal state of profligacy
and occasionally, mostly, I'm left in a
state of anomie.
My balance has the anatomy
of animation, an unstable
delusion of what is there,
what is not
and how it drains like water
down the washbasin.
I have never been less careful
and more demanding of incredulous relations.
Time moves wearily while
the obsession still lives with hyperactive motives.
The nil sign arrives, I am quiet.
I step into the overdraft
not mentioning I might need help with
oniomania.
a personal state of profligacy
and occasionally, mostly, I'm left in a
state of anomie.
My balance has the anatomy
of animation, an unstable
delusion of what is there,
what is not
and how it drains like water
down the washbasin.
I have never been less careful
and more demanding of incredulous relations.
Time moves wearily while
the obsession still lives with hyperactive motives.
The nil sign arrives, I am quiet.
I step into the overdraft
not mentioning I might need help with
oniomania.
713 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)