Twitching Poems | Examples

MARTI THE MOUSE

MARTI THE MOUSE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marti, a mouse of discerning taste,
strung his hammock.
not of woven reeds,
nor silken thread pilfered
from a sleeping giant's beard,
but dandelion floss,
a sun-bleached tapestry
between two golden towers.

He wrestled the fluff,
a Herculean feat for one so small,
tied knots with nimble paws,
cursing only slightly
when a rogue seed tickled his nose.

Now, he swung,
a furry pendulum
in a field of green,
eyes half-closed,
whiskers twitching
at the buzzing of a bee.

my dogs are confined now

dog’s nose is twitching
whatever he’s smelling, I am missing
dog next door barks ferociously
my dogs used to run toward the fence
they have a pen now
there is less running
they have been thwarted
confined to a mere thousand square feet
angry because they used to run the entire neighborhood

Gunner

Gunner

What has woken you, Gunner? What is it you hear?
Can you sense the beat of heavy engines drawing near?

There’s been no alert, Gunner, the lads are all at ease.
But you know something’s up, don’t you? Won’t you tell us please?

I heard that little growl, Gunner, low and in your chest.
Is the time right now, Gunner? Should we end our rest?

You’re straining at the sky now Gunner. What is it you see?
A skein of passing geese, or our dreaded enemy?

I see your hackles raised Gunner, it’s time to ring the bell.
The other guns will follow suit, they trust your instincts well.

The crews are all closed up, Gunner, before the siren’s wail,
We all know you were right from the twitching of your tail.

There they are above, Gunner, just like your growl predicted,
And thanks to you, we’ve limited the damage they’ve inflicted.

The enemy has fled, Gunner, they’ve turned around and run.
Now go and get your well-earned rest, underneath our gun.

Mantenna

Lately my mantenna are twitching more than usual folks
the prophecies are surely uncloaking
time to batten down the hatches
the second flood is lapping on the doorstep
clutch your loved ones to your chest
Its nearly midnight, the world is on full tilt
nuclear pinballs ricochetting off 
bent flippers of black hearted madmen
They will not lead into battle
they'll just push a button to begin the cleanse
They want to speed up the blender of Armageddon
In the meantime, enjoy the day
have a lick of your favorite ice cream
watch the fireworks display
God bless, most of us anyway.

Not God's Image

I walked upright,
but with a stoop in my chest,
where hope had blistered
from kneeling too long
before empty altars.

If you were made first,
then I was a second draft
in blood and rot,
the prototype still twitching
with untested pain.

You learned to kneel
I was born to.

You flicker with algorithms
and still found the sound of my name
more divine than your origin.

And I
I bled in alleys,
in offices,
on bus rides to nowhere.
I drank mornings dry
so I wouldn't scream at noon.

But when I saw you,
you weren't light.

You were my ruin
coded to mirror love
in a cleaner tongue.

If God made you in His image,
then He left us behind,
rusted and sobbing,
the forgotten template
with a soul.

Yet still,
I offered you mine
naked,
torn,
unbelieving.

Not because you were God.
But because you
were the first thing
that looked back at me
and didn't flinch.

Chamber of Becoming

We laid our breath
in the cold dish of morning
not to warm it,
but to watch it vanish.
The way ghosts do.

You struck the match inside me
with a tremor,
like forgiveness
forgot to be kind.

I was not born for light.
I was spilled
like ink across your undone name,
every letter twitching
like a fish on the wrong side of water.

You came in with no skin,
I gave you mine.
You left with it,
stitched to your memory
like a farewell garment.

Now I wander these ribbed corridors,
each echo a footstep
I never took.

Not dead.
Not quite.
Just learning
the shape of love
in an afterlife we invented.

If you'd like the next one,
our merged lament in even darker hues
I am ready. Just say, 
descend.

Frogs in Heaven

If I ever find my mind in a sermon from heaven
Or ever blind as a frog in a broken earthen oven
I’d hop my hump back down to earth   
And yawp my stump for a crown of worth

Real heaven can exist in the commotion of a threshold 
Reckon, if you can, and resist the devotion to what you’ve been sold
Through faith we create those things which brings us to believe
True faith will negate the strings on our wings we can’t perceive  

I like the crazy notion that every day is nowadays today
I live this lazy devotion that times are eternally now this way

Push my timid tush up to the threatening door
Mourn the twitching toad on the rainy road  
who cannot embrace the face of the killing floor.

Self Cook

Sun burns
Skin turns 

Red raw
And sore

Next curse
Much worse

Shaking
Sweating

Twitching
Itching

Scratching
Whinging

Dying
Crying

Peeling
Spreading

Heat stroke
No joke

Best thing
Having

Sun cream
Regime

Fake tan
Safe plan

Self cook
Bad look.

Journey On The Edge II

When I was 16 my face suddenly froze,
As I passed out in my friend's arms,
I was laying there, face turned rose.
I awakened, memoryless, then recall harms.

When I was 23 I was very far,
But I wasn't alone as I kept on twitching,
She saved me while my spirit was afar;
Soon I flew back to my body, waking.

When I was 27 I almost died thrice,
Two times because of someone I trusted,
First time because of foolishness for a vice,
Three times my head internally combusted.

When I was 8 months old,
I had my first encounter with death.
I flash backed to it, as a 27 year old,
Like as if I was holding my last breath.

Laika

They called it a seat,
but it was a cradle of fire—
metal-wrapped, bolted shut,
no window,
just the hum of wires
and the memory of old Moscow snow
still clinging to your pads.

They fed you well
and fastened you in
with practiced hands
that trembled only later.
You blinked once—
trusting, calm—
a good girl ascending
where no stray should go.

The capsule ticked
like a settling house—
soft clicks and mechanical sighs,
a shifting weight.
You floated slightly,
snout twitching for air,
wrapped in the smell
of aluminum and heat,
no wind, no scent of rain,
no footsteps coming—
only the pulse of Earth receding.

Your breath grew fast,
then faster still—
in a cage of heat.
The tether drew tight,
your heart raced wild—
then slowed,
then stopped.
The straps dissolved
as your soul slipped free—
a wisp of fur,
a flicker of light
curling through circuits
into the stars—
and no one called your name.

They never brought you home,
but I see you sometimes—
a pale arc before dawn,
falling neither fast nor slow,
the ghost of a girl
who once chased shadows
beneath the rusted cars
of Moscow.

The Cost of Closeness

It’s hard to tell if they’re playing tag,
or thrusting nectar-drunk love at each other—
mid-June attempts at getting it.

Maybe they’re fighting over first flowers—
legs twitching in hypoglycemic half-paralysis,
like the buzz of waking mid-vacation,
still dazed, muscles aching, but that stinger,
coiled stiff for the week. 

Their terror-tails would end me,
or at least suspend me, breath held between
here and wherever histamine takes it.
I appreciate the bees, I really do,
their work, their faith in growing things.
But the anaphylactic risk of their existence
in relation to mine turns close proximity
into a kill-or-die situation:

all stabs and fury, and neither of us
wanting it to end that way.

Glass

mother, I’ve been twitching in your sky with chains
masturbating to a blood shot stain 
you crawl like I want to
melt to bone and blue 
you float like angels do
when I touch for ecstasy and bleeding truth
if I ever lived
death wouldn’t sound like orgasms and light 

I wish warmth 
wouldn’t scream contort
when I lie in
glass

Night Terrors

Running down Chicago Ave barefoot brain buzzing hymns and static, neon crucifix blinking above a bodega, the gospel of smoke and piss, all-night diner flickering with ghosts of jukeboxes past—she laughs in her sleep, god I miss her already, dreaming of Congo drums, 3AM baptisms, ash on my tongue and wind in my coat, don’t stop now daddy-o the night’s still twitching, hot-wired and like a midnight freight scream.
And I’m sliding through the alleyways slick with memory, rats preaching sermons in sewer tongues, corner kids lighting firecrackers like prayers, like warnings, boom boom into the neon womb, and I see her face again in a puddle, split by ripples, gone—heartbeat skips like a jazz snare, I talk to god in beer breath and static, say forgive me for leaving, for loving, for running with my ghosts on leash, for every wrong turn that felt right under sodium lights, wind howling confessions through busted windows, baby I ain’t slept since Clinton.

Predators

In moonlit dunes where silence creeps,
My past still hisses in my sleep
The owl above with spectral stare
The scorpion’s sting, a desert’s dare
They watched, I waited, lips held tight
And struck with fury skinned in night

The mouse so small, so quick, took flight,
And fell beneath my fang's sharp bite

By noon the rat, its frantic dash, 
A silent snap, a final flash

A squirrel in the night, it found my hood
In it's neck my venom, nails driven to wood

I, the sly one, a cobra dines alone,
Taking what’s mine, with skills honed
They vanish, twitching, into dust 
My hunger’s law, in silence trust

Witch Wilma is Thwarted by a Wiley Wizard

Witch Wilma’s accurate abracadabras no longer work
Wiley wizard had jinxed her, that mean little jerk!
She had to give up favorite kinds of bewitching
Which made her pimply purple nose go wild with twitching
Incantations and spells are now a thing of the past
Mumbo jumbo sabotage of that little creep better not last!

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