slow, longish puffs of air @bloppenheim-blog - Tumblr Blog

From "character and things, some of which are wearing scarves"

lonely alpaca boy

Places people can get locked out of

Their heads Other people’s heads Houses/cars/buildings etc. Places they should be but never places they shouldn’t be

-blopp

observations while sitting outside terrible teriyaki places

* People can wriggle their entire body in a way that is unbeknownst to them tantalizingly sexual and simultaneously animalistic. Be aware of this if you zone out while leaning against a table near an open window.

* People can become so obsessed with another person that they look at each passing car with keen eyes and attribute significance to the ones that are the same make, model, and color as the one that the obsessee drives.

* Those people who give me that knowing smile and subsequent miniature head shake when they see me writing by streetlight in the frosty and still frosting night piss me off to no end. ‘Look at that. A real practicing artist!’ they might think. Fuck you man, I’m just here for the light. And yeah, I can’t afford a cup of coffee right now and the warmth that comes with it. But that’s because of people like you. I’m just doing my job here. You wouldn’t knowingly shake your head at a bus driver. If I told you this, you’d probably say ‘Well go somewhere else then. When you’re on the sidewalk sitting against your backpack for support with your multiple hoods draped over your hat and your hands shaking despite the gloves, I’m going to notice. I’m going to think it’s fascinating. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’ But believe me, man, I’ve tried. All the usual places (we all have these) have been overrun by either people smoking or kids blowing out puffs of hot air. Both images look exactly the same. And there’s a vibrancy outside this teriyaki place. There’s a vibrancy anywhere that people decide to walk when it’s almost, at, or below freezing. Because I can watch you and judge you just as you’re judging me. Dick.

-blopp

#poetry #bloppenheim #observation

rain droppy

It’s not just kids who enjoy watching rain drops race down windows Leaving trails, leaving streaks To let you know the path they take It’s not just kids who like to see a race Where new contenders join in Every few seconds With blatant disrespect for whatever rules are arbitrarily in place It’s not just kids who sit inside when it’s windy and rainy, When surfaces gain strange, untraceable patterns that undulate and twist and drip and drop, And think ‘Why is there a window separating me from the outside right now? Why am I conditioned to believe that the grey sky is something to be pushed away and viewed only from behind a pane of protection?’

It’s not just kids who enjoy many things It’s adults, too Lonely and sad adults. Kids just show it best.

(because they’re innocent or stupid or both) -Blopp

#poetry #bloppenheim

songs

Songs played at night become dreams and part of the embrace you share with the body beside you Songs played at night become the words you don’t know how to express with language Songs played at night find their way into the skin we share and the flesh we bite at Not just sounds but movement; a dance in the dark in beds -- in arms

#poetry

we think we touched

we think we touched but it was just that our sweaters were similar in color so when we sat by each other people thought we were one being but that couldn’t be further from the truth you slap my hands away whenever they find their way inside your sweater even though it’s cold out here and way warmer in there you wouldn’t do that if we were the same person

#poetry

Shadows forming a kind of mountain range

In the times of night when shadows come out to play, sometimes little hills form on the covers of scattered books. Throughout the late hours of the night, the hills stretch taut and fat into mountain ranges.

When I drink, it’s clear that these mountain ranges form homes for shadow creatures, things that only exist in the far reaches of night, things that stretch & pull along with the homes they live on, things that fade by morning and return by night In a cycle much like wandering around a country for months until you end up back where you started.

#poetry #shadows

bugs full of booze

tipsy and tottering they walk down the rain slick city street feet wet and gum sticky Lights glimmer gold in the night, zap each falling raindrop into individual existence Each bit of gold not just enticing but magnetic They both have to hold each other back as they slip along clicking and buzzing but mostly just laughing

They look up at one point and see a big white hovering orb, see things that are much taller and much bigger than they would ever be They realize in that drunken state finally how small they really are.

#poetry #bugs

#dog #lazer

Ink stains. Woops. "Guy who believes lakes are only as good as their reflections"

#poetry #bloppenheim

delete it all

Ever have that time When you write a thing, Look back at it And think: What the fuck? So away it goes, with no remains, No more wire basket To remind you of your failures And turn them into productivity Because now these things are just Gone Faded Less trace than if you had burned them Until they were nothing more Than grey specks Like dead freckles. But of course thoughts have this way Of worming their way back Even when they’re not welcome As poetry They’ll come back as ghosts Or a phrase from a friend Or just a distant memory Either way, delete it all Even with no trace You’ll never get rid of it. -blopp

#poetry #blopp

i’m giving the waiter a napkin

And the napkin has my number on it Because I think the waiter is beautiful I want him to reach down And scoop up not just my plates but my sadness And bundle them all together like a baby Warm them in the steamy dish rooms That we could share if he called me

#poetry #waiter

Chest Caves II: Alternate Take

Chest caves revolves around a woman who harbors a secret beneath her bosom. There’s a cavernous space inside of her upper body, so close to the stomach that the acid tries to splash into it, and there are creatures that she harbors there. Well, unknowingly, of course -- they’ve just found their way in there and they’ve set up camp, so to speak. But the only resources available are part of the woman’s body, so they just use that for food and fuel and so too do they shit where they sleep. When the woman found out that there was a cave in her chest where wild things lived, her daughter called them faeries and danced around with a branch turned wand via imagination. The woman called the things by very different names. But they never heard her or even attempted to listen. Home was comfy, cozy, and so well heated The child’s faeries never grew fangs, but they sure were hungry.

#poetry #chest #faeries

Melancholic Goop

filled with melancholy? of course but I don't pay it any mind I just whistle/ use its own energies to propel up into a melted crayon sky

high enough to see the trees become spaghetti thin & the lines of smoke from passing planes begin to sound like violin plucks

drag a highlighter across the reel of my lifespan and place a bottle opener next to the last year

blow some bubbles to celebrate the times that life forgets to be lackluster

and tack yourself, voodoo skin - with pinches that renounce joy then pull them out one by precious one pound it into a wall instead

the crayon wax is melted but has a tendency to harden even a single errant finger can get caught and the rest of you will melt inside as your organs petrify

a hard expressionless face filled with the goop of melancholy

so bounce up on a trampoline with metal bells stuck on the edges loosen the wax & dance dance real hard till life becomes not just bearable but actually pretty fun

#poetry #melancholy #goop

Stuck People 1: old people

They have the same wrinkles as when I was young They’re growing now as much as these crinkled plants are The news stories they watch are beginning to repeat themselves The game show contestants all are the same Each soap opera plot twist runs into the next Each speck of dust, each push-pin hole is exactly where it’s been for all time all the time

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slow, longish puffs of air