part eaten it was laced with her saliva
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Apr 3      Apr 3

At one corner of the subconscious
she waits to land on my dream

this morn too she came

offering my hungry mouth
a piece of guava
part eaten it was laced with her saliva

stoked my lust from the first bite
she never ages a bit
wished she came to me on each night
bringing youth endlessly sweet!

Travis McCullers
Travis McCullers
Dec 8, 2011

Vlad the Impaler ate human flesh in a room choked with corpses
Whilst Ivan the Terrible liked to cook them up in frying pans
And in much the same way—I am in thrall to your tastes
To be devoured by your sycophantic lusts
To savor every kneading second
Til I am licked off of your fingers.

When he sits for supper,
silver spoon in hand,
carving out craters from the space
between his thighs, and the concavity
of his hips, and the fragility
of his torso, and the plateau
of his tummy all satiate his
mind -but martyr his soul.

The black jelly is slurped down with gusto,
but -from the craters he has created-
others will now see his incompleteness.

They call him the cannibal.
CC BY-ND
#sad   #pain   #teen   #thoughts   #mind   #soul   #martyr   #incomplete   #cannibal   #gusto  
Hayley Neininger
Hayley Neininger
Mar 18, 2013

How smart we were to eat pieces of one another
To keep small portions of each other
Hidden cleverly inside us
The little bits of you secretly tickling
The inside of my stomach
They don’t feel like butterflies
More like birds of prey
Dancing with angels
Their wings brushing up against me
When the joy of their movements
Allow them to forget themselves
And spread their wings full.

I need to stop writing about movies.

Just writing for precedent, or so I keep writing later if precedent works there.
Thinking about metre and it's slow going because all I want to do has already been here or so far off thinking about it gives me a thousand yard stare.

Trapped in myself has become my event horizon. Building cities for my heart out of poop and hair to keep it turned on.

Thinking about old people i know who stopped doing their compulsive creative medium at some point in their lives.
I imagine what stopped them was ease and some contract in blood they signed for their eager calling from about 50 years down the line and a crawling mammal which has hold of their mind.

Then that puts my tiny light in perspective and i forget after tapping my wrist to remember.
One day of that that mystified group of adults given to their fearful balmy impulses and I'll be a member.
I think this on my weaker days.
It makes me more friendly in some ways.
When have i wanted to be that when it comes down to it.
When this meager neglect sentiment ignorant of relative need well aware of the rifts of spirit between those
with and without means. It starts to pick up the toys from floors
while he's sleeping.

it's this weird sense of
hatred
toward myself
that's started to eat at my
sense of enthusiasm lately.
it's as if everything i do is for
naught.
there's not even an identifiable cause -
it's just there.
this overwhelming consumption
of every smile i've ever smiled and this
mind-boggling urge to just melt away
to melt away to disappear to be devoured in any sort of
flame or destructive force so i don't have to see
the light of day so i don't have to
wake up again so i can just
have been so i can be a
would have been so i can just
be gone.

i hate it.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
Poet B Lee
May 5, 2010

I am a half eaten sandwich,
Good enough to sustain you, but with only a part of myself.

I am a half eaten sandwich in America,
like the country, you too are wasteful.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
the likes of which are too large for you to consume.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
that has grown cold as it is forgotten.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
but someone, somewhere, would eat me.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
your belly so full of yourself.

I am a half eaten sandwich,
that will nourish the one that is starving--

For  I am not to be wasted.

Queen Poetess B  © Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved
in moth-eaten coats.
Richard
Apr 5, 2013

we are all drop-dead wire hanger children
who still cling to mama’s skirt when she tells us to go free
because we have lost the wings that kept us grounded;
on gray skies and blue-black, bruised blood we flew
before the flood came down and washed away the meat
leaving only metal skeletons of our universal selves, our
heartbeats pressed inside paper envelopes, stored away
in moth-eaten coats.

Krista Marie Mac
Krista Marie Mac
Feb 10, 2013

an insecure first
a demon
a whore
a fire
a straight girl
a bird
an enigma

Austin Sessoms
Apr 27, 2012

silence in the skies
plumage floats in little tufts
great cat stalks away

 
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