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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
The Seven - The Mashup


In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night


#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.


#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?


#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
glenn martin May 2015
breath the air of spring time in
a robust chest swelling
hard knobs fingers glands
pressing into the sky
spreading and seeking
full of air a chest waits
to formalize titillation
the cushy  mounds
arouse bringing heat of spring time live
the season of expanding
citation of love modern nation
we hold this moment  
with palms of  hands
earth life giving
these  feelings to demand
we know such love of life
nurture and hold creation
for I am this creature of spring heat
of earth  blooming I see the living light
the snake eyes of mona lisa
the jerking of  hands
star in heart star of mind
whiling west ward seeking
crawling out of my skin
a peace debater a  living shadow
of intellect arises this truth
the rapture of the living
movements of spring
the growth of our destiny
whiling west teaching
                        gjmars 5/10/15
a love at least a portrayal of
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.

Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…

Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.

Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.

Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!

Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it

Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.

Love me.  Need me.  I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Check da grafix:  http://tinyurl.com/pxafq9s
Bardo Dec 2022
Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.

Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course,  that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **!"
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is **!**!**!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! **!**! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.

I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".

Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented.  What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song.  There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song

     She said she was a dove
     But she's my Octopus of Love
     A hundred hands in search of one thing
          only
     Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.

     When she whispers in my ear
     Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
           and into my back pocket  
      O! She's my Octopus of Love
      She"s not at all what I dreamed of.

     When I hold her in my arms
     She sets off all my alarms
     She tells these great big whopping lies
     Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.

    She said she loves me dearly
    Visiting the most expensive shops
    Buying the most expensive gear
    I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,

  O! She's got me in her grasp
   Her tentacles they hold me fast
   Then she asks what's all the fuss
   And she's so innocent looking
   Man! She's a lovely Octopus.

"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...  
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"

"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and  the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.

I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.

I go on 'Yknow  whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily  with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".

"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".

Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the  crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!
On another website I once wrote a funny story and then I wrote a small play or playlet about the story which was actually funnier than the story, and people wanted me to write another one. And this was to be the sequel. I thought I'd stick it up here, it's quite Christmas-zy, has jokes and verse and metaphors, a bit of everything, a bit of fun.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Mashup Part III


I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part III

Excerpts from my poems posted after July 16th, 2013,
about poets, poetry
and the process of composition.  
This time, in a disorder all their own,
for my own words,
Did not consult me.
-------------------

When inspiration is imprisoned,
insight,
a crime-of-no-passion victim,
strangled by codification,
clothed in a prison uniform,
where uniform be another word for a
poet's death sentence.
~
If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

~
Commandeer the words hidden within,
Sort them by rhyme and meter,
Answer the critics,
bend them over to your way,
Write your own poetry,
fearing no ones judgement,
Put your self out there,
I have so many times.
Death, betrayal, disillusionment,
Regular visitors in the upstate prison cell
of my head,
Are all greeted with
new poems of old words,
Sent packing,
but confident in their inevitable return,
I write defensively between their visits,
Best prepared,
a good offense is eloquent literacy.
~
The clouds were magnificent.
No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors.
Their shape shifting inexhaustible,
Mine eyes high on their creativity,
I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.

~
You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even,
on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one,
a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying
~
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****,
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.

Asking myself,
Which is greater?

The pain of
creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of  
wreck and ruin, destruction and death.

Homework Self-Assignment:
Compare and Contrast

Suddenly, I am expert.

Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.

~
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors
of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked,
from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears,
for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration,
within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
~
With deep regrets and promises solemn,
Adieu, Adieu my friends, bay and chair,
sunlight extraordinaire,
wait for me!
This poem but my R.S.V.P.
an oath of return sworn,
for I am man, placed here only
to sing the praises of my earthly delights,
my truest friends,
I sing of thy grace,
Grace Before A Meal

~
If not for you:

I would weep more.

I would weep less,
(so many tears of joy!).

My carousel, horse back riding days,
would be over, ended.

I would never make a bed unasked
(but it gives you so much pleasure).

I would live on Frosted Flakes
and microwaved hot dogs

I would die w/o ever seeing
someone weep
after reading my poetry.

For that alone...
~
Let us intimate a Poetic Competition,
Tween an Irish lass,
and a New York Jew,
I shall serve, and you,
You shall return

A contest:
Our tongues, our racquets.
Across the table,
The words, shall birdie fly,
Across the net,
Couplets and haikus
Shall smash and whistle

The winner will be the one
The God of Poetry
Accepts for permanent servitude

And the only lingua Franca
Shall be darts of poetry
In a language our own,
A collective work we will weave,
A blessed unity, a single tongue now,
Lilting, singing, bespoke

~
explicate and deconstruct
our unexamined lives,
help us to extend the boundaries,
record the voyages of our timepieces,
declare us all free and victors,
file away the chains of language
and declare us all poets
~
The reality of this composition
of kisses incessant,
of hugs galore,
tears and thoughts,
is for you, for us,
for now, for whenever,
for our forever, whatever that be,
but that too, limitless,
for this poem will be stored,
incised in our conjoined hearts
and in our genes

~
They say speak to her, she can hear you,
But the evidence is contradictory,
I am not convinced.
When no else is there,
I stroke her head and
whisper in her ear,
"It's ok, time to let go, my mother fair."

You think to yourself alone,
This is not poetry,
This is real,
This is an extraordinary
Daily occurrence,
Life or death warfare.
~
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment
of a new combination,
Be the titillation
of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching
at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak,
each letter a speck,
That gives and grants
clarification, sensational.

You,
afternoon quenching Coronas, wearing white T shirts,
Sun glazes
and later,
a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave-gazing on the reality
of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked,
washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook,
for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices,
skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly,
her noises your derring-do!
Broken
tear ducts,
the Off switch,
so busted,
write about
Real stuff.

~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam
née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  
Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat, her leading role, creator.      

A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
         linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the books, papers,
and poetry
              and the very being of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty, unflagging, for He did not    
forsake her in the time of her old age,
when her strength failed.

~
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
**So you may die well.
Amen.
The ~ and demarcates a stanza from a different poem
On the black canvas
Carve the thunders
Streaks of neon glow,
The drums the heaven beats
On their way to the earth
Rend the air apart,
The ground in ******* anticipation
Vibrates in a rediscovered titillation,
The soil waits holding its breath
In the last climactic lull
Before it’s released from the pain,
Unmindful, I open my umbrella
In the season’s first rain!
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Honeysuckle running deep in nostril's recollection
Wafting nectar dripping in air, please stop
Must stay present, no time for memory swap
Sneaking in, yellowed dreams, desirous confection
O purgatory, keep me still, deviate no such inflection

Causeway flash backing egg yolk, and lemon spectrum
Road lined in runners, speckling scintillation
This loose maddening of honeysuckle titillation
Reverse your tendril's twist, quivers an ungated septum
Covers, green to yellow transitions, honeysuckle bedlam

I cannot dance down this lane for fear of you
Your ringlets curl, clasp, coil me
On such road of alluvial soil I see
How can I? Must I, escape steer of dew?
You're honeysuckle memory of all I knew
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...

lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...

sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...

every story has a different
author, ending...

sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment

eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination

oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente

cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...

how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes  better,
sometimes different...

why
is a question needs no asking...

when

when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...

when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming

when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking

where

is when
the how and
the why
intersect

the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Joshua Dougan Jan 2017
Have some standards poets!
Your audience beckons you.
If you talk about genitalia...
Then think of what that says of you.
A supple blossom, coupled with utter elation,
It is not grabbing her breast: your udder titillation.
Write what you will, poetry is of the heart.
But don't force yourself on her and call it art!
Standards.
Saije Cook Aug 2014
Your determination puts me in anticipation as I'm patiently waiting for you to surpass my expectations.
Your aspiration gives me elations that keep me covered in perspiration from the constant titillation of good vibrations from you mental exhalations.
I swear my admiration can't fit in an equation to find the summation of my adoration plus your negation to be an imitation, hot **** your dedication is amazing.
I'm contemplating if you can be to me what the mighty sphinx was to the king Ramses.
If I'm out of line, please don't push back in, I'm going out of my mind like hair that needs relaxing.
Keep me on my toes and I hope that this feeling grows cause only God knows the ropes to keep us ever close.
Just don't say no when I go slow in my one woman show, to have your heart glow, go to and fro like my prose on the ocean flow.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying


Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...

Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:

Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
This poem~title, been on my "to write" list,
In a wine cellar of stored notion~nuances,
A smack-down list of ideas that require:
aging, awaiting, body and fleshing,
ruminating, brooding, masticating.

Challenges, lying, comfortably asleep in my iPad.

Sometime when bereft,
these well used empty Mason Jars
catch my glinting eyes.
Bell Jars ringing, finger wagging,
attention deficit needy,
to punctuate the season of bad timing.

Need pie-filling, plum jelly-canning,
crying out like a sad ole country song,
twanging, achy breaky, heart breaking sounds of
Write me write me write me!
So now you are done, to sit and stew, till ready for
Next year's pleasured tasting

The last of the poems inpired by the passing of my mother.  Tho I wrote only six in all, there is a good reason for that. I set myself a challenge before the funeral to complete this "collection." This last title was indeed sitting on my list of titles in need of a poem, when I tripped on it as the way to finish the task.
Poetoftheway Jan 2018
this one, this one poem,
this old birth, renascent,
is not in the file

the file place where the
half started, nearly done,
but never truly satisfactory
fester, marinate, awaiting confrontation,
some kind of contentment of a sort,
final solution of annihation or completion

many a bare-***** title,
that the lords of hosts of
itinerant peddlers seeded,
notions await coating, stroking,
full flesh embodiment,
awaiting perhaps peepholes
for a someday poem

but not this one

this one I possessed,
better said, better reflected,
it possessed me,
rooted so deep, thick limbed,  
it, larger than my life,
though of my life,
cut, diced, sliced amd muddled

no confession of the cheapside here,
this, more a rescission, breaking of a contract,
annulment of a reputation in ten thousand words earned,
now comes, the longest day apology

why now,why ever?
there was a trigger that flipped the lock,
to open and accursed,
keys that filled the keyholes,
opened them peepholes,
that prior asked to kindly be
left let to rust in peace

this one composed itself,
asking no permission,
in the sense that I am more
recorder of the disorder,
than author

don't beg to differ, do not countenance opposition to
what here exposed, as the only witness,
I yam the guilty poet party, the jury, the prosecutor,
the fool client, all one and the same
who must perforce defend himself,
for no counsel needed for one
who guilty pleads
to charges of high crimes and misdemeanors, that
he himself created, so numerous,
no ear could tolerate the hear,
the alphabet of sins committed against
man and God*

of course you want details,
you wish enablement, the *** of the
simple syrup of satisfaction of the
titillation of the knowing

pick a letter any letter
and I will supply the action, or worse,
the inaction


for the greatest pockmarks that Cain marked this man,
were the failure to be brave,
be there when needed,
the shaming of thinking
instead of instinct reacting,
tiny inconsequential fears
that work word whisper
why you? not you?  somebody else?
when so clearly you
were the anointed one,
but stayed behind as
the one who disappointed

each grass blade censures,
each water sun sparkle accuses,
our prior direct line connection,
now ******
the winds voice shocked unto summer stultifying stillness
and you, still here, still reading?


cheated lied even murdered,

told to crank away the cranky somber,
unmistakeable,
but this shaming don't know no quitting time,
having surfaced, it is
my burnishment, the polished gloss
of rubbing off the now vanished varnish


who knew truths so foul could gleam,
my side listing, so angular lengthy,
that I walk unrighted,
signed below as,
this is the poet of the way, the who l am
June 6, 2017
Julia kRu Feb 2012
i am tired greatly
of this haughty country;
of its unfamiliar weird ways;
here -
children must be raised
towards bright riches,
and directed t'wards
predictable set phrases...
they make friends real fast,
but never stay too long;
their whole "friendship" notion
is askew
(is askew and eerily contagious):
they smile widely, saying,
"hey, i love you!" - every day;
they smile widely and persuade you,
"hey! you're awesome!" -
but those feelings end
just as they leave those bosoms.

but that haughty country
sure knows how to make life better
and
Predictable -
for everyone involved...

spare me, save me,
and release me and
relieve me
from its harrowing, morose, humongous strains,
from the fascination for its glories!..
from its incandescent,
flashy stardom;
from the titillation
of its "havens"!!..

(c)kRu, 05.08.11-04.11.11
* remake of an old poem written in 1995.
My world imbued with luscious curves,
Of light swept thighs, and hips that climb,
I wonder on, in daily dream, as thoughts
Of her, and her,
Are seen.

A man, a being, of (supposed) mind,
Sentient, yet always blind,
Titillation occupies,
A thousand thoughts, which
few are mine.

In stark contrast the sun it swings
Through timeless place, its light
It sings. Awe-inspired my soul does yearn
To slip the grip of her and her.
An unrevised poem trying to capture my ******* of lust and yearning to rise above  such cravings and desires.
Sue Dunhym Nov 2010
To act upon coincidence is benign.
Friday the Thirteenth has come and alone.
Who knew that it would be a din?
Not I, as I was thoroughly blind.

Ambushed on the day by a con
And a priest. One asked for money
And the other spoke as I was his son,
Amongst rejection. It was not fun.

Followed by rudeness and tension,
My house was ablaze.
Siblings and parents considered with great revulsion.
Here it shows again, minute titillation.

Sunday, a shame, a fight with a friend.
Imbroglio and irate, words of our time.
A slip of the dead tongue brought our joke to an end.
Confused, angered, sad, love, it is all that it could send.

Here lies the superstition, a mere dry bone.
I would have laughed, but it brought no amusement.
Conclusion: depressed. Sent me into a craze
And all that was left was this mental, social, indifferent slime
copyright of  TP Flusk
onlylovepoetry Jun 2016
casual *** causal**

for the voyeurs and titillation-needy,
the only *** here
is the celestial gravitational
undivided divide begging to be
crossed over,
the pull of desire's
mutual assured destruction
between
Mars and Venus,
the war cause,
the Casus Belli,
of casual ***

and
that's it,
it's a wrap

a casual poem
about the non-causality,
the logic of the non-logicality
of
*** casual,
that breaks all the rules
of space, time and
the earnest gravitas
of anti-gravity,
succumbing to light bending dark matter
that resides where reason does not

and your wonder does this qualify
as only love poetry,
but you don't wonder for long...
Miss Masque May 2010
The drawn anticipation
tip-toeing on the tip of my tongue
I can taste scintillating titillation
of action
of resolve

Slipping slowly into this
vastly unorganized state
of solace and  servitude

Bound by the beautifully ironic
Brush of fate that has brought me
to you

The luscious laments you utter
so lovingly
lap at my conscience
like a lap dog in the life of luxury
oblivious to anyone else's needs
but its own
as I languish the morsels lain on the
cold, wet floor

Freezing as my heart flutters
feverishly to fight the frivolous
attempts to win back the love
that frightens me now

Never doubting,
Nor noticing the imperfections
that nag at the niceties performed
eloquently in your presence

Putting my progress
on hold, while I become
less and less patient
still trying to understand
why you're still with her...

and I'm still here.
Loving you.
Literary allusions: the curse of
Those who overdo—or, as some say--
Overdid the reading thing.
I speak of close associates,
Imaginary friends you’ve not met,
Let alone read (pronounced "RED") about.
Like this guy down at Moe’s Tavern,
An 8th Avenue writer’s bar I frequent.
Let's call him Paulie Muldoon,
A fat Irish slob who claims to be
Poetry Editor, "The New Yorker."
Paulie likes to give me tips on
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED!
Like me, he’s never
Been in print anywhere,
Other than his ***-encrusted laptop, &
A letter he once wrote to the editors of
"The National Kreplach Review,"
A radical Zionist quarterly
Funded by The Mel Brooks Foundation,
Harvey Weinstein & Condé Nast.
Nevertheless, Paulie seems to know
A lot about the publishing business,
Particularly after six stiff Jack & Cokes.
He says the thing is this:  
The best of the Ivy-League’s
English majors wind up in Manhattan,
Slaving away in cubicles,
Working for peanuts—literally,
The publishing industry has some sort of
Barter agreement with Planters.
(www.planterspeanuts.com)                                       ­            
They sit around on their ***** all day,
Getting their kishkes in a twist,
Eating peanuts, perusing manuscripts,
Like chimp Zoo valedictorians.
The manuscripts submitted by the hopeful
And--for the most part--delusional.
According to Paulie, these Yalie, Princeton,
Harvard, Columbiana WORDMEISTERS
Are more likely. . .
(Urban Dictionary: word-meister (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php? 1. Something yelled in place of a cuss word. 2. a rare species of humpback whales. 3. small children whose mother's name is Debbie.)
. . . More apt to be impressed with your scree
If you lay siege their psychic CPUs,
Pushing a few obscure,
Mnemonic function keys, remembrances
Of past Proustian peregrinations.
That's right, you get a much
Better shot at sidestepping that
First smug obstacle of arrogance,
If you slather them; go right
Ahead & flatter them with
Lotions, potions & emoluments,
Arcane passwords,
Vain secret satisfactions,
Tidbits of titillation,
Things that only some mook
That actually had read "The Crucible."
Or "The Scarlet Letter,"
Could possibly know,
Let alone, remember.
For a publisher’s water-boy,
A synaptic switch is keyed,
Tripping off an avalanche of
Marginally relevant,
Yet ultra-literate,
Cognitive highlights.
And, while we're on the subject,
Has anyone actually read Melville's "OMOO?"
the
******
takes
a
peek
at
the
half clad
ladies
in
news week
he
gets
a
little
excited
leafing
through
the
publications
for
all
that
he
sees
causes
some
titillation
the
viewing
experience
is
such
a
ball
for
him
especially
when
th­e
bedroom
light
is
dim
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis
of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!
ConnectHook Apr 2018
You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful ***-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.
y'all can call me
the one who was a poet
but thought Haiku ******
Diane Dec 2013
accidental
collisions in the dark
titillation held softly  
like warm tea
in a porcelain cup
the curve of my hip
ever arches towards you
cool skin and warm touch
are my delectation
Caroline Mar 2013
Day after day I stay here
Day after day I puzzle over life
Day after day I make no headway
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my soul
And the drum line in my chest has stopped it's beating
And the string quartet of my soul is exceptionally still
And I feel hopelessly alone
The trumpets that used to drive me forward have been muzzled
And even the titillation of my hope has died out, the keys have gone cold
So I float in the abyss
And hope that someone somewhere will see me as an island to dream of
But the soft recollections of symphonies past do nothing more than keep me a float
And the stillness of my orchestra stop me from rising any more
And so I wait
Tortured by uncertainty and confusion
For a note
However delicate and soft
To pull at the strings of my soul
To awaken the snares of my heart
To loose my trumpets
And move me forward once more
Jay G Jan 2015
Everything ends in weightless decay
A martyr so that the nebula continues
to tick away
Stones and sediment that give you
clues to immortality
The flesh will wither up but your
bones are here to stay
Drunk on stargazing and sweaty beaten trails
That demand your soles, itching for
unbeknownst horizons
Titillation deep in the canyons
on your forever soul
Etching out your ambitions on
the wind to carry them further
than you legs can go
Whittling down as burning sulfur, smog
induced lungs
Bright eyes on the stretching horizon somewhere
out there to call home
The days are getting younger, you
continue to gray and become what
once you never thought was possible;
old
Simon Leake Jun 2015
flat white light
a beacon against the world
reduces every colour to a neutral wash
against a background of
titillation for our twitter,
Facebook make-up, eye shadow,
no foundation required

moving all the time
on a sea of data
even when we are located
it results in the same,
nonsensical beyond time and place;
the moment is all and perhaps
in that lies the only real truth

ephemeral, we live or die in the euripus
of flesh and its needs
Aisha Khan Apr 2014
I feel *****, disgusting and tainted.
I’m not supposed to, but I also feel ugly.
I thought I was stronger than you, more powerful.
Better. This time.
I thought you couldn’t rattle me anymore, I had tried so hard to forget you.

But I thought the affection was real this time.
I let myself believe that I was worthy of genuine love.

Me.            Maybe that was my mistake.
If I had only known my place.

Quick fix. Hungry eyes.

When the closest moving thing will suffice.
By love, I thought you meant genuinely real emotion, And not some cheap titillation.
I know I’m worth more than this.
This. I know this.
I just can’t keep telling myself,
Because just as I was starting to believe my own words, you threw me on a sheet of perfectly broken shards.
And now I can’t cry.
The pain, its become a slow, numb sigh.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to, I want to cry, and scream and be angry, but all the rebellion has left tiresome.
Rebellion.
I now find my own fight to freedom some sort of a rebellion.
Like, I didn’t quite deserve it, I still don’t quite, but I think I can fight you, be free of you.

How foolish of me.
Mishty Oct 2014
In my insipid sojourn
I saw a blazed comrade in you.
How beautifully you lapse my absurdness,
yet know me to be incisive.

You usher me from the oblivious darkness.
And I from the irksome light,
Contrary yet complementary
That’s what makes us ‘WE’.

I can’t find a better opportune minute,
To express my titillation

For your presence in my life better than this.
Love you to the fullest onto death
Keep smiling, cause life is beautiful.
wichitarick Apr 2017
EMOTIONAL CONFETTI
Fluctuating feelings,endless raindrops flowing freely in our minds beginning with weeping...
Simple expressions smirking, smiling never beguiling picking up perceived perceptions...
Gradually graduating, waiting to be defined curiosity as a helper.
Adding to a emotional list,simple samples to leave us smiling, storing fledgling perceptions.
Growth of anonymous senses without pretenses layering in levels loosely stacked.
Unknown actions can create new consciousness clear paths rapidly become another titillation,unfocused, acquiring new knowledge of our senses.

Fables or cut & dried on a table, reminders of danger, more learning is required, to be careful, actions have reactions.
Middle aged resilience leans towards laziness , simple lessons idly waiting, rising or raging hormones...
Maybe now reverting back to to an open minded teenage mess.
Stop,think, forward with learned caution ,processing procedures or fall into flagrant mating.
The lessons learned thrown aside, spontaneity instead of logic, not reasoning for future distress.

Friendly, finicky, joyful, jovial, anxious, regressing, positive, become life shaping a personality.
Lessons falling from skies ,bubbling from underneath, like it or not always along the pathway
Absorbing through language, actions, maybe lineal, inherited...then sharpened to become more an internal part of our individuality.
In stages - never really understanding the gauges - a deeper spirit ,developing whit clamoring, climbing up a bit.
Finding feelings, new intensities, finding with more fervour, progressing with new sentimentality...

Fluctuating with a daily play, goodness with glee, sadness with wrath, passion with affection...
Sensibility - gifted through experiences - leading to instinct, forming, acquiring apathy.
Flowing like chad, ribbons of color, grandiose glitter - as if from an exploding pinata. A distraction or attraction...

Do we learn to love or live to love?
Left with only what we've lived...
The feeling; our only collection. R.C.
Maybe a little rough around the edges but is how my mind was feeling when I was putting those thoughts & feelings down.
  The mental mind game of reconstructing or re learning tastes,smells as they link to visual or audio sounds simple ,until we have a blank slate, what if BLUE were always HOT now? but fascinating how ready we are to adapt :) no excuses just take that step can be a great way to fix what ails you:) thanks for reading I appreciate any input.Rick
ooznozz Aug 2017
Th’ blackassboo smile comes easily off this way-out hardened jazznik, and with it a color palette collage of a cool cat stretching out when percolating his musician’s lips.

There’s nimbleness with a dash of a braggarts swagger…
Something that artists of the beat generation popularized.
Craving for some wall breaking, door busting,
And genre shaping daddy-o jazz poems of jocularity,
Titillation with wistful windblown musical notes for an ear massage.

Sounds come in colors between the chants of encore in the flickering space between these fantastical moments with me, Exhilaration urges adventure from the magic that follows.

Bop-soul imagery and a romantic assemblage of what is hip...
An impassioned audacity distinguishes itself in the rousing unapologetic antiestablishment zeal of me; reciting off -
Some cool verse.

Finger snapping with both crackle n pop madness for the new hot. (I need to) go, Go, GO, and explore this incarnation and birth of boplcity -The jazz man's skills aren’t influenced by vagaries of faith…

Dear JAZZ ANGELS on uploaded clouds of notes floating and changing shape. PERFECT. Unbelievable

Resonate the heavily infused bop MUSIC n POETRY molecule with a Lend Me Your Ear skin in the game, Arise relaxed tempos and lighter tones, a total higher consciousness where countless hours of the best jazz music 'round derives a perceived feeling from this **** mindfuck content. A blessing fer sure.

I’m not religious but this is god speaking through music.
There’s a thumbs up, with multiple stars flying out the tips.
Smiling, playing, simply slammin'
an intensity of full attention…

And with it comes a common pulse with a common purpose
what we have is a peeling off of flawlessness, carefree yet with a deep reverence for the musicality’s soul.

I communicate with the laid-back higher forces in this universe; I like the snap on it.

Dazzling intelligence and a force that transcends –
To deliver such a great sound full of love, emotion, and beyond.
Sounds crest into jammin’ hard driving improv,
which shapes th’ musical poetic on intertwined waves of the highest fidelity...

O bloated jazz blues and decibels dance t'ballyhoo'd be-bop flung,
While lighting up a music note, on th’ purest candle, & 'morrow's serendipity will help us see that heavenly ladders rung.

This quenches the thirsty, cleaning my atmosphere;
(A) Beautiful losers timelessness, coupled with an “I hear ya” manifesto sound trip o' crazy kewl elegance!

Music is the best!


by "ooznozz"
A packed house as she commence a teacher
in marking hearsay with her titillation of 1000 young minds
while little criminals that burden this structure with tax
and find her discriminating as a lawyer with vibes that well
as her gyroscope always suit with measure of twittering yet pair
of aces does her most thrifty a year again.  Alas!
Jessica S Aug 2017
The irrevocable emotion
I have about you has got this ocean
swaying back and forth on a motion
that can only be swayed by you.
The soft sound of your soothing voice
has got my head spinning
and other grinning
because it can only be saved by you.
But it scares me
how the words and phrases
that come out of your mouth
seem so flawless
like you always know what you’re talking about.
And it simply amazes me
that everything you do fazes me
and the days with you
always gazes me
into what I want our future to be.
Remembering the way you hold me
and the way the cold breeze
doesn’t seem cold when I’m with you.
The way you talk to me,
like I’m wearing your ring,
saying “baby I love you”.
But I’m always taken back
like I‘m suddenly off track
because those three simple words
carry so much meaning on their back.
And I don’t want to be one of those people
that say it without its meaning
because meaning it
means more than feinding it,
if you know what I mean.
I believe in love and romance,
not cheap titillation from cold hands.
I believe in flowers and cute notes,
not always coming over to rock the boat.
Sing to me,
play me a lullaby,
call me randomly
or just graze into my eyes.
I want you to look at me
and see who I am,
cuz baby I’m not perfect
but I’ll do the best I can.

— The End —