Why?
The interrogation of my terrain remains united with the departure of my illicit rout.
Unanswered;
It remains unanswered.
Every neglected weep of desolation seems to surrender into a twisted sense of homecoming.
As if I sought for it.
As if I craved for it.
As if I was such a deceiving fool to find comfort in the con of my own coiled hatred.
Every huff of laughter blooms in the scored rage of my cruel consciousness.
Every wretched scald for logic cuts through my stripped armour of malice.
Every beseeched gouge for a way out ignites the contamination of my polluted isolation.
Why?
The secluded sagacity of my sadistic void fades with the shaves of my skin.
As if an answer would demolish the fences of my enclosure.
As if an answer would kiss my wreckage back together.
As if an answer would dim the conceited lights of a blinded stage; a theatre dedicated to the amusement of my liberated decay.
I ask you a question.
Yet perhaps, all this time…
The answer has been inked onto the rot of my revolting ruin.
I am my own void.
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
He hones his purpose on a stone whet of spite,
Edge kissed to gleam in the dead of night.
Relentless is the echo tuned to hindsight.
Endless in the knowing his cause is right.
His grip is firm, his whetstone flat.
His purpose honed to revenge in tit-for-tat.
The axe grinder, can't ever get over that.
Old grudges are ground in, with spittle spat.
The sparks fly from grinding wheel.
Spun to remove the scars in steel.
Caught in armor on the leg and heel,
Of the foe that stood up from their kneel.
Sharper minds cut cleaner truer lines,
In wood chips, slivers, shaves and fines,
Cut deeper deeper in, to find the quick that binds,
The grinder to the hurt and pain he mines.
He primps that dome like it’s his crown,
A shiny orb, the talk of town.
Shaves that bowling ball twice a day,
No rogue hairs dare to stay.
Refined olive oil, scentless, slick—
His scalp’s own secret, glossy trick.
Then Axe spray rains, a scented storm,
Because the ladies find that charm.
Post-shower, towel wraps so neat,
Humidity’s spa for his heat.
Pores open wide, like welcome mats,
While he admires himself in flats.
Mirrors lurk in every nook,
Catching every shiny look.
Not married yet? “I’m picky,” he grins,
Waiting for love to roll right in.
On his dresser, a brush sits proud—
No bristles live, it’s just a shroud.
A hairbrush purely for show,
To tease the girls who don’t quite know.
No follicles, but full of flair,
Hair-care metaphors everywhere.
A follicle-free knight of sheen,
The baldest king you’ve ever seen.
Oh me, oh my,
How time keeps tick-tocking by!
Each year shaves pounds of days off the next
Unburdened, it races on, faster and faster yet.
We say, "Wasn't it yesterday or maybe just last week?"
Or "where'd the time go?! Damn the thief!"
Summer break was the Tortoise in our youth,
but then we understood the stories moral and truth…
That slow and steady… each minute is gone
Until, in not so very long, the race is won.
At the finish line, where loved ones wait…out of time…
The Clock will stop, inevitable and sure,
when the hare-swift Tic, is Toking no more.
There is a lady named Sherry
Who’s laugh is a blast quite merry
When asked if she shaves
She says no right away
Her cats prefer her legs hairy
Corruption
I like winter evenings in Portugal
lit wood fire
my wife prepares the evening meal
On my way home one evening
a police officer stopped me
something about my headlight
I thought of offering him a bribe
but had no idea how to go about it
Police officers are not well-paid
and Christmas was coming up
I'm not a regular Don Corleone
The officer looked disappointed
the traffic fine is sent by post
I told my wife about this episode
the hairdresser in the village
had told her the officer shaves
his pubic hairs fortnightly
I don't think this has got anything
to do with the fine
You are my soul, you express rhymes
In every verse, songs of lovers
You have flowed like bright blue in the desert of my heart
The heart is closed by your love and your love shaves my life
You repeat your sadness on me
You tie invisible hands to Sera
My heart groans from exhaustion
Our sleepless nights do not rest
Don't sit in the hearts of heroes
Don't take the desire of my intellect to your door
Don't fall asleep until I come to you
Rest my life in you love
Dusty elegance
the grandfather clock has failed
hypnotic and slow
Where did the time go?
memory which brought your voice
Last tick and last tock ?
Gold-plated numbers
the sound as cradle to rock
shaves minutes and hours
In your life's long book
blessings in bliss and wonder
... his treasure and pride
In the last chapter
you broke your solemn promise
... maelstrom of despair
Immortality -
regularly beating heart
a clock with a soul
The days comes fluttering back
As the weather chooses its flavour for the hour,
Stubble-ended wood shaves itself on the layers of unseen ground.
Synthetic puke seeps through pores seeking to devour
Every tiny, curled hair floating in the murk around and around.
Pool party skies reside a millimeter higher than the tallest fingertip:
Leftovers infect this mass of last meals passed on.
A spindle of cloth runs out with time enough to graze my lip
And still no locks of winter-lived years could sink a single talon
Into the darkest dark of fleeting moments taken from a fork.
Shall this be all that has come from years after that first unscrewed cork?
But a brush and a touch, one parting more.
Delilah, Moon-girl, you stole my strong light.
I, your Sun-boy, am shorn having blackout,
but remember my close shaves, the honey
and dead days, my foes jaw-struck,
as the long-winded she-ass brays in my ear.
With influence silverish, drowning golden locks,
the egg-eating fish-god wins for a period
till dawn's yellow meets me at the next round.
I shake gold pillars in Dagon's stone temple
where uncut spectators are dying to taunt me
but what do I care for I know you await me,
At noon I burn for you,
at nightfall I sigh for you, O Delilah.
Sounds of the ocean
Waves in your mind
Rounds of lost emotion
Raves that cuts and bind
Bounds of the blue ocean
Shaves your deep mind
Mounds of tranquil notion
Saves your lost mind
Ocean in you
Mind in the wilderness
Ark of the deep sea
Fathom at its vastness
Ocean in you
Sails in the Neverworld
Depths of you
Fairyland of the unending world
one more thing the guy said
she has no hair
herman was stunned.
what?
she doesn’t believe in it.
she thinks it makes women vain.
she shaves her off. Okay, Herman says.
not wanting to meet her at all.
wishing he had not agreed to a blind date
until he sees her eyes.
kindest hazel he has ever seen.
POSITIVELY THROUGH HELL
They say: Nothing's new on this surface of mother earth.
The mouth that speaks life must have tasted death.
The eyes that sees optimism must have seen dead-ends.
The smiles that accentuates must have been puffs of sighs.
The life you see is the survival of close shaves of death.
We're masters of suppression of pain beneath.
Positive peeps are not just positive enough
because they skated through tempest of life.
They're positive cause they've got stories to tell,
scales to shell-off as they've been through hell
and decided not to live there anymore.
Positive peeps are eliminators of a terrible life sore,
They are the hell survivors of a great War.
Vick Manuel Poetry
{VMP}
COPYRIGHT© 11TH NOVEMBER, 2022.
I am just
A little pencil
Made from
Wood and lead
My head is
Long and pointed
My body
Smooth and red
I write happily
Only when I’m led
I was once
Tall and handsome
But now
The days I dread!
You see
My little master
He treats me
Very badly
And often
Shaves my head
And when
He is thinking
He puts my tail end
In his mouth
Chewing till he thinks
Things through
Now I am
But half myself
An old stump, discarded
Bald and chewed!
Why the other day
He picked me up
Happy was I
To move ahead
But as he neither could
Shave or chew
He just threw me down
Thinking I was dead!
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