deepundergroundpoetry.com

that kitchen drawer with all the crap in that one swears will be useful later

(just all my NaPo entries that I would like to re-everything)                
                      
White bread, spread to the edges                      
                     
Its enough to startle us,                      
  confiscated, put away,                      
reserved for a later date.                      
passages of time and eloquence, your darling love                      
embraced and remembered,                      
dispel the wanton wish                      
caught in  polaroids                      
fermented in back of library                      
floating in mighties gold effervescent overlay.                      
Prepare for the playground attendant                      
To be hunted and strained for his polite killing colander,                      
This small mind predicted this fate.                      
Sorry, no god today.                      
                   until death do us start.                      
                     
                     
                     
                     
latent images in the emulsion                      
                     
Moisture drawing on the pain,                      
smoke the hurt to ease my cigarette chain.                      
What broke my equine                      
breath                      
and  foals leaping from their depth,                      
for an all-in bet                      
 a color not on the table                      
 tallow rendered                      
for coats and techni-wandering                      
 gliding canter,                      
and slaughtered in                      
slender breaks                      
in breathe-pauses                      
the bridle broken.                      
                     
It collapsed, it collapsed on the mountain                      
the crash of heavens spotlight, its louvres                      
angling this alchemy of the hearts palm splayed                      
its alchemy within each footstep                      
cos one traveled all the way                      
flutes of the candles flicker                      
some game of fate forced to play                      
and its all I can do philosophize myself out of the skin and mess                      
and stitch the pieces together to resemble                      
some familiar doorstep slab                      
 on which to step onward                      
and some doors seem forever locked                      
only owned by the definer                      
hit it against a rock                      
Breathing out the musk’s sweat of a fight                      
as touch wrest its perspective from genuine touch                      
to a land I didn’t know I cared for                      
I will only care for the earth when it blossoms.                      
                     
                     
                     
dresses for men                      
                     
I still dream,                      
though a deceitful mind works threateningly                      
 beads of grimy sweat, distilled in the head                      
on block and shovel, barrow and empty                      
looking to worm                      
sleep out the eyes,                      
entrained among the chains                      
with your name emblazoned , scarred,                      
 in a shotgun full of emerald, bold glory.                      
                     
Gore the host, toast the introspective                      
wildly clapping in the front seat                      
at the tale of  mermaid men waiting for birth.                      
Whoever has an objective in life                      
whomsoever s numbskull opposing force                      
could drink to drink, to ogle from the boat.                      
overblown balloons underneath my breathe.                      
Like the value of my act is measured                      
through these coincidences.                      
                     
                     
                     
                     
                       
Volcano repair                      
                     
Left the eye to fallow,                      
sky-light instincts harrowing                      
gull-white boy-blue under the foil moon.                      
                     
Within its spell and upon its teeth lies                      
the everafter over-touched,                      
underquoted response.                      
                     
Please give back my surroundings                      
against all these odds.                      
heartening and extra embellished                      
for the hard of reckoning.                      
                     
For if it is different                      
it will be left alone                      
                     
like the liseron binding                      
the morning glass to the garden,                      
                     
like saliva golden in the inkwell,                      
                     
like the light footed assurity                      
on which every particle supports                      
the phantasm gaze,                      
                     
like water jars in sunlight morning moonlight ways.                      
                     
like when the current exploded every nerve cell                      
                     
like these things would ever become problematic.                      
                 
                 
                 
                 
The fingered flea                  
                 
You solstice on the blood,                  
on the crane’s bill,                  
If I could just let its veins wander,                  
let them jar between the jamb and the head.                  
                 
Setting  snow on fire,                  
in a june-bugged assassination,                  
moon-drugged,                  
caught in the syrup around the lash.                  
                 
Was a dirty child once,                  
was someone’s reason,                  
 nudge,  wink and  whistle;                  
what was desired,                  
what was expected turned into a lifetime.                  
                 
this self-attachment being the first sign of madness                  
flinging to keep rhythm                  
with the counter beat                  
of god’s clicking yellowed finger.                  
                 
                          
               
resign today...phone in dead              
               
realizing some things              
in an unbecoming pose.              
I can't stop looking              
in the hairdresser's eyes.              
               
just once, this one time,              
I might respect someone enough              
to leave them alone.              
               
a desire,              
a wire to the kick,              
a switch to the nerve.              
treasuring the beautiful in halo past.              
and a lawn needs mowing.              
               
passing Tao notes to a TV addict,              
having been handed down the famished              
sweaty livery :              
needle-stuck,              
thread bared,              
freeze dried              
pissant              
-  "you respond well to provocation",              
"you really need to die again"              
no g        
uarantees.              
             
             
in winged blur              
             
Large looms the necessity              
 for an input of grandeur,              
a roar of mirth and a startling brush              
 to light up these hide eyes.              
             
Bristling starlings wary              
and from their lungs,              
the accidental sighs              
could match the tide.              
               
to swim with dusky air to foreigners              
their swagger of composing a dream              
envisaging lands              
far more irridaceous than this,              
rained on , seducing the rivers              
in the vein.              
             
meet me there, metre me              
in every clinging shallow moment,              
today,              
on this our flying anniversary.              
             
                 
             
The lisps and jabbers in mornings arbitrary converse            
             
I was flustered, a fish dismembered            
and ocean drunk in the bottom of a chair,            
gutting the flannel,            
cutting up the dregs of reason            
whilst practicing eternity in the mirror            
safe from reflective harm            
some fresh thought of Camelot            
infused into the morning drill            
gladdening for my next space to filled,            
to full, to be swapped for,            
topmost; finding a life lost in living            
nothing they say can infect me            
This torso is constantly on trial            
 it’s a twisted way to be free.            
           
           
           
genre osti de calice            
           
This moment in its little syllabic            
tinctured            
limousine grope            
for a deeper diamond mined            
purer throat,            
just as it holds onto  groans in  its echoes            
           
and the pyjama string            
wrapping around the parts            
that are wet and wringing with sparkling water            
           
a ballroom dance conspiring in a parlor            
exploring the nature of the waves in the sea            
           
Judging from the bubbles yo-yoing along            
the ridge and might, pull back the skin,            
aware that this could last forever,            
placed in files in a cabinet            
crumpled under the stairs.            
             
             
             
dreaming in acetone        
         
Whisper-up, drown it out        
blotting the weeping        
out of a feathering dress.        
in relief from the delicate press        
         
of bad cooking wine running over        
the edges of the plate        
in an attempt to skirt again        
its boundaries bleeding edge.        
         
the presence of the gall and bark,        
proverbial in the bitterness        
of an acidic handkerchief        
dabbing        
the crusting corners of the mouth        
and the end of a long table conversation.        
         
the astringent boon,        
in persons drunk on premise        
ballasted in the image of some union ring.        
and the common loon        
was a posy within its engraving.          
                 
         
O kn ow where iy ;au        
       
Know if the love of auto-didactic is proper,        
and if its arena to performs needs care,        
and if it sees the walls infested        
or corrupt, it has to know on what land it is invested.        
Only this land, with its correspondence of tributaries        
and vital breathes in between, at all risk, need know sure the …        
       
the inner grab of hair        
whose golden charms        
adorned the mustard; finger-stroke        
stain the linings and trigger        
the re-shot re-fire re-load        
curtailing myself behind shades of a curtains fold.        
why stop? When you stop the heart stops        
it stops spinning        
it stops watching the cracks in the performance.        
       
       
either he goes or I stay      
       
I lapped at the medicine, saw it glue itself        
round the bottom of the bowl      
as its pool lies in flittering ripples slow as shivers        
swimming their way down the spine.      
       
dive off the ledge, under the boathouse        
hit the bottom of the bottle,      
lake and escape; to a moment        
where I did not dislocate a shoulder      
the water ‘s clear and pure      
a precursor to the precondition      
to an (un)prescient nurturing pool      
where I wanted to ask, but I just stared      
hitting a chorus high-note and was scared.      
     
     
3:22am… ‘you are star wars’      
     
jam the palette paling      
round the tuft of bristle sprig,      
and paint you light grained      
 so it picks up the dust-mites      
 speckling after the death      
of a glacier.      
     
these thumbnails have me confused      
and fall off the table in a tentative draft,      
it was all an outline; it was that all could be designed.      
     
all a child’s mistake mooring  the red air      
     
to exchanges in the glance-filled      
rough of a fragrant notebook      
with the cleft-palate jostling,      
jinxing the patently obvious.      
     
this conscience replying in letter form      
had looked like one sentence      
once looked like a succulent dream.      
     
  table teak    
     
I've seen you jittering,    
lithe as slight slicing up the butter,    
     
a mice intestine rivers    
in the lather in the swallow.    
fingering it all out.    
untangling it in the fat ibid    
of the  throat.    
     
in the margin, the sicknote    
comb binded with the  brindle,    
flaked in milked snow,    
in pots  left    
for uninvited guests    
fresh unsour at the table    
     
a sidenote offering    
something some sense lucky,    
cornered with the unsure    
scribbles curlicued    
     
into an envelope placed under  a poacher's door.      
     
     
hitching up a trouser leg – one over the other.    
     
Ripped from open scent, to investigate    
a momentary lapse in pathway garden,    
cabbage white flown  from the south,    
wrong-footed by gliders,    
flipping and torn open in the air.    
     
causing streams to charge    
the river’s edge from my eyes.    
Long oh so long the flurry of tantrums and violent love.    
Got charged, got arrested, got bitten in the calf    
by gargoyles randomly placed by god,    
tossed tails side up.    
     
Grown gargantuan spider, on my lap,    
On my mind, in my head, under the trees    
and swallowing, swallowing all your hair,    
in treacle drawn in your eye    
that summon chestnuts    
and oak pullovers,    
satin-boothed in your lips meeting cove.      
   
   
steamed and withered from cherubic jars    
   
Last in spirit, long in song    
sung in tumultuous rapid flow.    
   
was we coming to this by being    
dragged out of  a tinned, repeating palindrome    
so letting the mansion fall;  
  
must be a rainbow digging up the horizon,    
can be stapled down and filed away    
to be said again, reread by others.    
   
Man confessor, long times boy,    
drink it all up, lap-dance your head further.    
The suckle light ball, steamed in there way-laid back    
the avenue rays for full horizon and truthful atrocities,    
So bend down and welch, drooling, confessing,    
cooing to write a better resting place.    
                
                     
 
nomoth
Written by nomoth
Published | Edited 2nd May 2020
Author's Note
just everything written for NaPo that I am not great with and would like to edit and revise or jettison after this thing of a month.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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summultima _shadoe_ Ahavati calamitygin Layla Quietus
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