The Polkadodge Organization

#Poetry #Poem #Free verses #Youth

Burning flame on my waist;

like a prick on a fingertip you hurt,

like rivers of lava you burn,

like a rusty knife along the skin you cut,

the center of my youth…

And I hold out, I resist,

despite the punches twisting my hips

or the pills (which I detest) with it’s remiss.

I stand firm on my time, on my own life,

to keep the balance on the universe

and save the future sons of the Earth.

Jul 31, 20127 notes

I know a boy whom I cannot call by his name
but by a date that exists on calendars no longer.
He lit candles of atomic hysteria in my lungs, his
chrome soul a runaway singing broken love songs.

There is his mantra in the entrails of my stomach,
whirling a pool of cyan smoke of longing until the
sun rises like late night shooting stars, living in
the seconds and dying like millenniums, you know.

Happiness burned too quickly and he pushed me,
so I ran. I looked back and his eyes weren’t seeing.
The nightly monsters buried him and since then, I
carried two souls in my cracked skull until my mind
renamed his name and forgot the date.

I miss you is his name inked with a date I cannot name.

Jul 30, 201256 notes

My curves, they were sculpted,
sculpted with the best scenes from classic
films and you marveled, marveled with awed
smiles with freshly roasted coffee scents.

(I am no body, nobody without your soul.)

The sadly-scattered constellations in my eyes,
in my eyes, you were the farewell kiss I could
possibly never bestow on a lover’s lips, lover’s lips
held too much moonlight and I could watch it revel
in my reveries forever but I am no body, nobody
without your soul.

(I know no where, nowhere to go when I lose you.)

Yesterday’s cold front told me you were cold-hearted
who knew how to suck souls dry and hang them up in
the afternoon sun, but I dreamed of your laughter that
warmed up my eyes and glued the starry shards together
but I still know no where, nowhere to go when I lose you.

(You are no thing, nothing without my promises of love.)

I am sometimes forgetfully hopeless, full of forget and no hope.

Jul 29, 201280 notes

Do you know how to scream without a voice
until it shoots you in the throat, making you bleed
wind until the gust of its brevity knocks you off your feet?

i. If you take refined pebbles and make skip stones on your
past, just how many tragedies do you think will bounce until
your innocence sinks like it was never there, locking itself
to the bottom of an unknown sick feeling until there’s nothing
else left but to grieve without proper sadness nor a soul?

ii. Your wake up call put me to sleep that morning when I held
a pen in one hand and the other knocked off the inkwell off my
bedside table, cunningly buttering itself on my wrist as I fell
into slumber and the whole scene scared my mama - she
screamed and called a doctor out of practice for twenty-something
years with a disconnected telephone but if she got closer to me,
to inspect me, to whisper in my beautifully peaceful face if I was all right…

iii. I remember that dream quite well, it was psychedelic with a sane
twist and I woke up to tell you about it but instead I woke up to my
funeral and screamed without a voice until it shot me in the throat,
making me bleed wind until the gust of its desperation knocked me
off my feet; do you know how that feels?

Just how many lovers do you think I had to kiss goodbye
and write their names on my wall until it caved in and made
me an island to isolate myself, cage myself in its wholesome freedom?

Jul 29, 201244 notes

#Poetry #poem #creative writing #spilled ink #mhilbig

What if...

pedanticpersiflage:

What if God didn’t know
he was God
and was trapped inside
his own creation?

What if he walked into
the light
and saw the nature
of his true self?

Would he consider it
to be the beauty
of a sun setting
on a polluted river
through the smog,

or the sadism
of a mass murderer
in a movie theatre
pumping out rounds
into shadow figures?

What if he made it
by accident
by falling asleep
to a Sunday afternoon
golf game?

What if he didn’t know
how to pray
or answer?

What if he was just you
manifesting through imagination
the hologram
we call the world?

Jul 27, 2012204 notes

First love

I had manifold whispers

muttering poetry on my ears,

a pair of desperate sentiments

rolling under the weakness of the skin.

My chest was ligthly immobile

acting like a fool, breathing unbelievably,

knowing the obvious truth…

That my heart was beating loud

only because of you.

Note: Still trying to write poetry in English…

Jul 27, 20129 notes

#poetry

Poem for The Phantom Planet (1961) II: Space Logic

onehundreddollars:

killtheoldgods:

This angry fire person could kill us all.
Let’s lock him in a prison on our ship
and hope he doesn’t escape! The gravity

curtain is tied tight like a rainbow. When
it insists it is called a Solarite, I’m filled
with regret I’m forced to destroy something

I can’t even humanize. As soon as we’re
within range, I’ll receive the message all
those asteroid metaphors were about:

Living in constant danger is not worthy of us.
The music will swell as I wait for a kiss, but
to inflate the fire, I know I need to be better.

- C.N. Rife

Jul 26, 20125 notes

Poem for The Phantom Planet (1961)

onehundreddollars:

killtheoldgods:

I can tell this film is science fiction because
they thought democracy in space was possible.
They blame the ills on free time, chopping off
the idle hands of clocks, all the while the machines
they make are built for unemployment. I was pulled
into this, out of control, by some outside force.
I was merely born here, had a jury convict me
and free me at the same time. To float home is
all I desire but 2012 has taught me differently.
No one seems to trust science, let alone fiction.
This is not like some math equation where the two
cancel each other out. No trust plus lies does not
equal telling a truth. But does is matter when it is
said in a vacuum? When any words you say end up
as a dull thump into the void, or as hot breath steaming
up your helmet? I can laugh at a misplaced boom mic, or
an actor stepping on a line, because it’s easier to laugh
than admit that I think monarchs will rule the moon. I will
never tell my future children there are things I can’t explain.

- C.N. Rife

I’ve been reading a lot of Lawrence Raab and watching a lot of B-movies from the late 50s lately. Can you tell?

Jul 26, 20126 notes

#poem #poetry #nothing #Slaadrr #creative writing #spilled ink

Those were gunshots I heard again.

They remind me of shitty firecrackers

only sirens follow after, instead.

A lot follows after, instead.

They made sure both of the kid brothers died.

And so the news will tell us all about it:

and I imagine people crowded around the tv

only assuring their small opinions, their politics

that they are quite safe indeed.

Jul 26, 20124 notes

Jul 26, 20125 notes

#art #sketch #illustration #photoshop #outstanding hippo

I try to figure out what’s next in my life. But I feel it like wet gunpowder that cannot explode because of the water…

Sometimes its very frustrating. Others is just like the silence in the winter mornings, when nobody comes out. Not even the birds till the sun catches the sound of their squawks. I need more time than the daily “twenty four”, or the little one thousand four hundred forty seconds that I loose, and beheld, at the end of the night.

The hours are too short. I want to stop my remorse about everything, because it’s hard live with a mind that screams. I have to bear myself out of the den of my soul, because of the unutterable dread that I feel when I’m surrounded.

But there is still some hope for me, because I know something that everybody knows (or should). Suicide is inherent to every person, to every human… But so is life. Then, I choose to live not for the people that loves me but for me instead.

Jul 26, 20125 notes

#Prose

#poem #poetry #creative writing #Slaadrr #spilled ink

Closing in now on the heathen dark of this meadow.

Jim says that the farmer farms soybeans and

that’s not too profitable, but he’s got a shotgun

and he don’t like us sneaking about

when the field grows maudlin brown in Autumn.

Death by gutshot at 15.

I’m sure that I’ll end up being unloved and unkept

because one always empties into the other

as two pinches of glass worshiping all the same sand.

He’s shouting at me now.

Such empty self-worth, slowly filling:

Iron vermilion.

Jul 25, 20126 notes

Memories recognize all of us too clearly but
do you remember the disheveled and the neglected?

i. You told me to let the ache presume until ache
aches and runs in search for ache and measure ache
in the depth of its throbs inside your skull until all you
hear is the ripping of your memories and then leave to
be not left first because things aren’t imagined anymore.

ii. Broken promises are the epitome of unrequited memories
and we all know none was a dream but we walk with our eyes
half open, or are they half closed? Everything changes with
perspectives but some things, like broken promises and tainted
memories, unforgettable pasts do not slow themselves down for
deterioration and all I know is that it has always been us against
the nightly monsters but faith is so grim, transparently dark.

iii. What are you trying to pursue by volunteering to enter the
fray in the madness, where everything is blindfolded and we can
only shake hands with the horizon until happiness becomes a drug
nobody can ever smoke? The colors are too early and flowers wilt
in the sun and all the other side ever does is paint smoke in their
brains and shoot each other in the ears until promises are heard.

iv. Where are your memories? Do not run away from your REM cycle
no longer, for sleep of great depth is named after your anonymous
second self and it is ultimately you, who controls the ache for the
disheveled and the neglected of them all, the memories and the pain.

Jul 24, 201245 notes

#art #sketch #illustration #photoshop #eeko #soft creature

Jul 24, 20124 notes

Hopeful For Texas

#poem #poetry #creative writing #Slaadrr #spilled ink

(Angry despair)

Maintain, maintain-

we say to each other

two junkies, we lust

after the same vein

(the eventual bush of hermitry outside of Austin)

upon moon coated slick sheets

we sustain selfishness barely,

drunk debauched almost always.

We dream that

we’re evils arranged

like the numbers on daddy’s credit card:

Maligned. Foolhardy.

But he can still afford this.

Jul 24, 20123 notes

#Poetry #Free verses #Poem

I was seated on a bench,

so far from my head…

Just a dream invited me in.

I remember,

there was nothing but blackness;

and the darkness itself insisted

to pull me out of the light

with no bright moon over my head,

without nothing but myself

and her eyes.

I knew it was my time

because I felt the cold hand of the death

squeezing my time line,

like a big weight anchored on my back

pushing everything down,

burying my flesh under tons

and tons

of dirt.

I knew it was my time to die

but I was so alive,

even in the dreary mist of her,

that when a sight

of her empty eyes reached me,

the clock twisted its needles back

leaving me with more hope

than in the last day of my life.

Jul 23, 20127 notes

six word poem (7/22/12)

ericboydblog:

The

alcohol

couldn’t

kill it all.

Jul 23, 2012106 notes

#poem #poetry #six word poem #pretentious #personal #lit

Vanities

#Poetry #Poems #Writing #Creative Writing #Vanity #Death #Spilled Ink

Vanity is the
essence of our
harrying human
existence,

existentially
speaking, we
are from exits
borne, and

through an
entrance darkened,
wonton to depart

forever blowing,
not necessarily
growing, but
changing places,

contorting
faces in the
shifting sands
of inextricable
emotion,

tumult in
motion, the
wet, hot cascade
of a body
moving under
another,

the disease
of a lover who
is loving me
like an empty
room, wholly
consumed,

I will fight
this like a feral
thing that is dying,
a wooded animal
on fire, flesh
licked from bone,

I will fight the
affections of
those misguided
to want me, with
the blunted
edges of my
disinterest,

I will fight this
like a caged thing
that is living,
I will, for

the more futile
the effort, the
more furious
the struggle,

vanity, they say,
is the profuse
gorge of the
unknown,
mediocrity for
fuel, and the long
drive to nowhere

when we arrive,
we salute
nobody at all
and bid a bitter,
hungry goodbye.

Jul 22, 20122 notes

Annie

#Poetry #Poems #Writing #Creative Writing #St. Vincent #Annie Clark #Spilled Ink

The pearls of
the Earth
bleed mercy
strange.

A siren’s song
thrumming
and drumming
through
my veins.

Her fingers
howl
like a dog
in the rain.

Lilting soft
through the
darkest
corridors of
my brain.

Didn’t the
doctor
tell you?

The parting of
her lips
could kill you
alive.

She is
the place where
poetry goes
to die.

Jul 22, 201212 notes

Jul 22, 201273 notes

#poetry #samichan #spilled ink

I stand in this rain, this rain pouring down like how
time winded down upon our love precarious and I
squint my dry eyes, only to remember holding the
umbrella upside down so I could forever hold you up.

That is all I remember, swimming in constant whirlpools
of ink I bled on paper while you were asleep, dreaming
about your secret love for people I boasted about us to.

You wrote mindless physicality on nameless wrists while
I sat in our unlit bedroom, writing our names on our walls
with my tears and I carved apologies and confessions of
love eternal on the aortas of my cardiovascular cavity,
just hoping that when you came back, reeking of other’s
scents, you would hear my heartbeats whisper for you.

That is all I remember, my love for you burning like candles
whipped with the freshest oxygen from the most unpolluted
place on Earth but while I was out there finding a home for
us, you were packing my bags and left them on the front
steps of your place you told me was ours. You left me like
trash on the pouring rain and I looked up to see the sun shining
like it was nothing to stand drowning in the rain with my
umbrella upside down while the sky was clear with California sun.

That is all I remember. I remember you grew out of the greatest
love in our lifetime for the both but I remained rooted, waiting.
I never left and that is all I remember. What do you remember?

Jul 20, 2012109 notes

You told me, with somber eyes glowing bright yellow
in the stirring darkness - you told me that I was your
favorite thing to adore in the South.

Do you remember how my whimpering figure drowned
in my cardigan and you told me I looked like a cactus
because the green dominated me and I smiled with my
lips pursed and eyes half shut because my mind was
already at the bottom of the leftover heavy, drowsy sighs
from the night before that I still do not recall, to this day.

I told you that I wished I never met most people I met
because I have been a cruel person with borrowed conceit
and childish confidence that painted my smile dry and then
you grimaced, said that I was not a runaway taking refuge
in dreamscape because I am still here, enduring what life
thrust into the fractured parts of my bones. You reminded
me that I was your favorite thing about the South because
I was the palest girl in the sun and I resembled a cactus.

But now here we are. You still know nothing about what
changed me, the numbers and the dates and the buried
quotes and all but you remember all the smiles I coughed
just to keep you by my side. You told me you saw a cactus
in me - the one that stands the closest from the arid grounds
but is the freshest, brightest because I find shade in the harsh
heat and that touched you, the way I trembled with fear of the
crowd but my eyes stood their ground, reflected determination.

This is for you. I hope you remember the young in us:
the rainy fear, the wildflower laughter and sunny gleams.

Jul 20, 201254 notes

#poetry #poem #oh #right #eyes #real #I #i #idea

We can never see the sky

or at least reach the stars

because the lights of the city blind us.

.

We cannot feel the breeze

because the air conditionate is too cold,

too heavy, too much.

.

We can never hear the people around,

because we never really look at them

into their eyes.

.

We cannot reach the highest mountains

because we live with lifts, mechanical stairs

and all that.

.

What a society we have!

Full of nothing,

full of everything,

scared of silence,

black and white

and again

all that.

.

We can never leave the hours

behind a curtain, in the back.

They must be completed

with things, money and love.

.

And they are just

twenty-four

at last.

.

Why we cannot live without?

Jul 20, 20126 notes

#poetry #society

rosethegreat:

eye

an i d

an idea

and dio

an idio

a d.o.

i

do

dio

an ideology

an ideal

a deal

the ideal dio

the real deal

the real dio

el oido

el odio

oh, dio

the i

the eyes

el dia

el dio

and I

dio’s eyes

the I’s of dio

the ides

the id

the idiom

the upsidio

the upside of dio

upside down dio

dio, right side up

oh

the d

the i

the o

the -

|

.

Jul 20, 20123 notes

Jul 20, 20124 notes

#poetry #writing #spilled ink

Jul 19, 20122 notes

#art #illustration #sketch #photoshop #face

oh deluded silence, besmirched with noisy lips

sucking on these two slenderneck pieces, ebbing edges like fireengine fingernails, nails.

I come upon you jumping out the window @ the 7th floor,

where some girl, green eye’d, rummages about the shards of Saint Ides,

made martyr for tasting just too good

and shes stuffing the grainy glass into her mouth like some kind of last meal.

Suddenly the redden’d swill stitches a perfect bloody thread upon the gray concrete; she coughs, and just keeps on chewing. A minor fissure in her lower jaw spreads

and I realize

those bath salts are really kickin’ in.

Jul 19, 20121 note

#poetry #poem #nothing #creative writing #spilled ink #Slaadrr

Drowning in a Stream of Consciousness

pedanticpersiflage:

I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, sucked in by the current
events section of the daily paper
where the cover story will be continued
on A-10, and still is a continuation
of the same story we’ve been telling for eons.

It seems history is just a substitute sleeping
at the teacher’s desk
while the kids make paper airplanes
and conduct pencil fights.
It seems construction and destruction
are both born of Father Time
and Mother Boredom.
It seems that all the seams are fraying
and unraveling as I begin to struggle,
and pants will soon be pulled away.
Heckles will follow
if they don’t see me turning blue

or crossing the fine line between funny and tragic,
it’s magic though,
how every time I thought I found a quarter
on the floor, it was hidden in my palm
the whole time, and I was just wasting
precious seconds moments before death,
but it still hasn’t come yet,
no, I’m gasping for breath
trying to find my way to the bank
for a much needed soil deposit
on the bottoms of my wet shoes.

I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, but I’m not ready for the flash.

Not quite yet.

Jul 18, 201227 notes

#poetry #poem #creative writing #spilled ink #mhilbig

You insulted my mind with your insincerity,
hyperboles of pseudo temptations and unused
laughter and I have preserved my intelligence
all this time by figuring you out, letting you play
your game at your own pace but it has been nothing
else but a joke, not even a rigorous stimulation to
my mind and I do not love with my heart anymore
simply because it has been utterly discarded by fate
tortured not too long ago that seems to have taken
force of the way my heartbeats tremble at delicate kisses
and heavenly whispers of a love flowery and everlasting.

When a girl’s mind takes precedence over anything else,
she mocks the world with her meticulously clouded brilliance
but you never knew, just played right through me like I was
born to be a statistic to your disgustingly grand scheme and
this is me telling you that you have been played thoroughly;
I applaud you for your courageous efforts but this is as far as
your supposed nobility will guide you through because my mind knows
better to be seduced by your fake climaxes and hasty conclusions.

Your womanizer ways do not impress nor triumph the maneater in me.

Jul 17, 201247 notes

#art #sculpture #3d #cardboard #maison #house

Jul 17, 20125 notes

I'm Waiting for You to Listen, Shut Up, I'm Getting to the Good Part

I laid the girl under the desk and wrapped her thighs around the legs.

I am not infatuated with the idea of a woman

standing above

waiting for arsenic to pull her cheeks up over her eyes.

Honestly, I catch

between my lips and

the price drops.

Smiling at the pictures in the hallway? The south wall. She could

have been

something if I hadn’t come along.

In the early evening she washed her arms with lavender soap, the clocks backward the hands it goes, what are you doing standing the rain with your legs spread, come inside, you’ll catch your death.

Jul 17, 20121 note

Untitled Fragment (2)

#poem #poetry #Slaadrr #creative writing

Best naked thoughts

deserve blankets of silence

to let their bodies

shudder among another

ebbing noses

against each other;

Whispering into

deep slivers of mirror:

Who shall I belong to?

Jul 17, 20125 notes

Specious/Present

#Poetry #Poems #Writing #Creative Writing #Logic #Paradox #Self #Spilled Ink

I favor
myself a
specious
presence,

from the
logic
exempt I
am choking
smoking
the

paradox
that fills
my mouth

here
nor there
am I
neither

either but
somewhere,
in the
ether the
echo emitted

from the
beating of
a moth’s
wings, eons

off in the
foreground,
forewarned
for I am

terrible and
in a mirror
where I
see myself
only,
intangible
holy and

dripping
blood from
this heart-
felt sleeve.

Jul 16, 20124 notes

Bored of Directors

pedanticpersiflage:

Vegetable tray workdays
have no nutritional value like celery,
what’s up doc,
hadn’t seen you in a while,
guess it’s the apple intake,
the snake in the garden
took care of the worms,
they squirmed through the dissection.

Larry’s erection is hidden
below the conference table,
company fables spread like brie
on a water cracker,
it’s cooler if you save it for lunch,
we talk too much
and always run out of carrots first.

Dry mouths collect
speckled white in the corners
like the rims of Ranch dip containers,
keep pouring it on,
we’ll make healthy tasty,
and fuck hasty,
work harder and smarter
and faster too while you’re at it.

Hands need to be dirty,
fingers soiled by tuna overflow
from over-stuffed sandwiches,
there’s not enough jobs
to divide all these riches,
let’s make some more.

Snacking never works for most
of the hunger pains
and leaves the palate bitter
like a radish
like the last man standing
after a meeting

thinking what a gigantic waste of time
it all was,
how things will all be
back to normal
soon.

Jul 16, 201225 notes

#poetry #poem #creative writing #spilled ink #mhilbig

Jul 15, 20125 notes

#poetry #poem #poems #writing #creative writing #lit #literature #prose #prose poetry #joshua robert long #justin david koontz #mixtape books #the mixtape series #JDK & JRL: The Mixtape Series #joshuarobertlong.com

I screamed red light and cursed like a burning corpse
until there was nothing left but lies drenched in thunder
and you know, time flies without wings so why can’t smiles?

Have I been hallucinating people until they let reality
pass by like fight-or-flight? What are stress and motivation,
us multitasking them for survival? At the end of every night,
the rain rains nothing like rain and the moon kisses the sun
and stabs her in the eye until we know nothing else but to
concur with the darkness and walk around with our mind naked,
bumping our spines into doorknobs, trying to free ourselves.

I suppose that’s what my life looks like to the masses: getting
into a taxi without wheels, shouting my destination to a deaf
driver and tipping him with my entire life saving just because
my psychosis told me I couldn’t because I was born too normal.

I’m not good with my voice so I brush off words lingering
on my dry tongue until something has been inked on crumbled
paper and I know that you know imperfection is

what makes me perfect.

Jul 15, 201259 notes

Do you realize just how cheap words are?

They cost a little more than time and attention
and we spend them, vomit them like we’ve got
all the “one more time”s and “one more chance”s.

How do you count time and chances like they
were ever yours to begin with, scribbling promises
on my mind and I chewed on them until my tongue
memorized them and your lies are the prettiest I’ve
ever seen, so mindless and senseless.

I should know, I cheated time and ran away with its
hands tucked in the sleeves of my arteries and every
day, they cut the walls out until they see a way out but
they can’t escape because painless death is too merciful.
My face is spoiled and my voice is a wave of undeserving
arrogance but I’m trying, I’m testing my sincerity to devote
to eternity so please, give me one more chance this one time.

But time and chances are never given twice, are they?
All I see is a face that belongs to the undefined, mother
tongue gloriously ambiguous, void of transparency.

Jul 14, 201280 notes

Middle-Upper Crust

#Poetry #Poems #Writing #Creative Writing #Wealth #Yuppies #Society #Spilled Ink

How we aspire
to the middle-upper
crust of life,

the extravagance
and luxury of
do-nothing women,
fake tits and
magazine reading

chastising the
famous for their
multi-million
dollar divorces,

marriage’s
sanctimonious bane,
they complain,
whilst uninterested
husbands hide in
adjoining rooms

working hard, hardly
self-pleasuring
and self-loathing,

stroking themselves
furious and eager,
growing flaccid
at the thought
of wives, fake
bits and magazine
feeding,

paying other
people to put
the bullshit into
their mouths.

Jul 13, 20125 notes

Jul 13, 20128 notes

Scrapbook Elijah

The covenant of God is quid pro quo

I am in love with myself ten years from now

The danceway is tarred and smells like Lucifer shadow

The neighbors gamble with leathered gypsy kings.

The malleable serenity of a universe unwinding:

The dwindling inertia of letters and numbers

Consider suicide in a world without ledges

Consider the fantastical parabolas of adolescent love

The fogs gently overcast graybeards and their farces

Ten years from now I will be a gypsy and neighbors with god

The austerity of grey matter:

piecemeal invitations into wisdom

Music of memories wrinkle deep in the twilight

I know the best places for swimming in the puddles of joy

The city looms bold but is nothing more than wax prisms

Ten years from now dancing I will be in love with god.

Jul 12, 20122 notes

From Flesh From Flames