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I sit by the window
In absent mindedness
Speaker of the so-called
grey crested emotions.
No more wine?
No more dead birds?
as happy as the outer space
as poor as my manhood.

I sit by the window
and
I touch you in the night
Like the hero of your dream
Prosecuted and paralyzed
by the hallowed love
I touch you cold,
tell me,
how close is this to a lipless grin? .

- Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

    .  .   .   .  .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
Kara Rose Trojan May 2015
Au(Or)al Tune
When (O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity knocks –
            Ah, pour that tune into me
               n(O)t
just write or speak
            but
                        /zIg:zAg/
            gut--
                        --teral mut--
            --ter yarns
                        With
Mouth-churn--
--ing-beat-lick--          
                        --ings.


Half-grown seedling ([her]bal:e(X)ssen(10)ces)
                                    into sm(O)ke
adolescent (O)re worn from being p(o)(o)r—
                      it was nE(X)CESSary for:
battles
birds
beats
b(O)(O)ks
bottles
bucks
b(O)nes
boys
bei­ng(bad)


sm(O)ke-rings w(ear)y with surr(end)er      
      stripped
            v(O)wel
                    for
                       v(O)wel
thr(OU)gh the yawn: (O)nly
            “(O)h.”

             (O)h
              … foll(O)ws

                        the
You’re w(or)th-knowing-ONLY-(O)nce
            type of l(i)ke.
VERSE/VERSUS: the
You’re-w(or)th-knowing-AT:LEAST-(O)nce
            type of l(i)ke
VERSE/VERSUS:
                        for (u)s

it’s the worst type of verse
                        when it’s
            them:VERSUS:us
                     (verses)

likewise -- (O)r worse --
it should really be about//
      a bad in (u)s: Y(O)U:ME


(O)h after a
                        kn(O)ck
(O)h after a
                        t(u)ne:://
(end)-verse
for worse – it’s an
(end)-versus-us
                        type of verse.


(O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity
            pouring
            ringing e(X)cesses
like
                     ear-worms to
                     hear words to
                     heat hearts.

Ah::rest that mouth-verse onto me.
            (restful//fluster)
Ah::rest that mouth
            (silent//listen)
soulless gall(O)w r(u)ng
lipless v(O)wel sl(u)ng
            like
ARTS::between::STARS
            then
VOICES RANT ON::into::CONVERSATION
            then
PAYMENT RECEIVED::yet::EVERY CENT       PAID ME

worst-verse:
           Y(O)u//like hanging
                        your dipTH(O)NGS
on (O)pportun(e)ity’s d(O)(O)r
            like
                        sm(O)ke-rings
            like
                        being(bad)
            like
                        Y(O)U:ME
            like
                        (O)h. n(O).

(end)-verse:
worst-verse:
            L(I)ttle.Kn(O)wn.V(O)wel::
            n(O)(O)se big for (u)s

            ALL.
TC Apr 2013
The way you said my name,
like it was heavy in your mouth
yet worth its weight in vibrancy,
worth the strain a single syllable
caused an undulating tongue
such as yours, that rippling
pink squid beating a solid
leather drum to carve me
into existence, explode the
air into a sweltering thrum,
like you had licked the naked
off my skin and melded  
negative space and clammy
saliva onto scaffolding
lining the roof of your mouth,
carved an arc of sound
only I could fit through,
you said my name  
like you meant it,
like you loved me,
you knew what it meant
and cherished it no less
and because of that,
so did I.
Onoma Apr 2018
bruised by rainbows
that bang the ends
of time--
abstracted to coursing
freedom.
cut off by rote--
your tethers whistle.
a melody that's
shame to the stranglehold
of ears--
the sounds of paths
never crossed.
the length of life's lipless
kiss,
soft as leaves trained
on the naked eye
of a tree.
how frictive, enter &
exit, so bright i forgot
to see.
only felt for the
precipitating steps
of feeling.
you wear a saint's
combustive head--
sending rare flowers
to hang from the
edge of the earth.
Cedric McClester Jun 2018
By: Cedric McClester

Corey Lewandowski is your average
Lipless colorless savage
Who’s out to make some cabbage
Like that old familiar adage
As long as his contract is renewed
He doesn’t care who gets *******
Whether it’s an austistic six year old
I’m telling you that man is cold

And he’s so far up the ****
Of his mentor Donald Trump
That even on the campaign stump
All Trump had to say is jump
For him to never question why?
All he asked is, “Boss how high?”
And when Trump told him, ‘You’re fired!”
Even then he never tired

Now he’s on the TV screen
To be succinct, he’s obscene
Though Trump thinks he’s peachy keen
Even though he has no spleen
He’ll say whatever Trump finds pleasing
In or out of the campaign season
And he never has to have a reason
To double down on those he’s teasing

He has the public misdirected
With talk about who infected
The unfair system that he erected
The same one most of us rejected
See Lewandowski goes along
With no concept of right or wrong
Like a quisling
Caught up In the throng








Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
Eli Nash Apr 2014
Morbid hallways swathed in death,
smeared with blood soaked discontent,
wrought with cacophonic lament;
this is my asylum.

Eyeless gazes pierce the veil
that separates my mind from Hell.
Though, thin's the shroud that shan't prevail;
this is my asylum.

Lipless, toothless, ear to ear;
these wretched grins sinewed with fear.
Putrefaction rots their sneers;
this is my asylum.

This is where the dead don't die;
this hellion mire's where they abide
with fleshless hands stretched toward the sky;
this is my asylum.

Asphyxiation, let me breathe,
lest I join these mortuous fiends.
Purge my soul; I shall bequeath
myself to my asylum.
Delilah Mar 2016
I hate my wandering lips and all of the people they have kissed
I hate all the times my mouth has calmed the nerves of someone else
To heal their wounds while simultaneously hurting myself
I hate the lack of love and the soul ******* power one unfamiliar kiss has on me
I hate the next morning and the empty dull ache in my head
And the smell of my breath like some wilting flowers
Growing hot and moldy in the sun
I hate kissing without love
I thought I would grow numb but instead
I am the only one with feelings left
My emotions will rush me to my death
James Gable Jun 2016
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war,
death after life does greatly please.”
—Edmund Spense

|PART ONE|
CUL DE SAC
Courtesy is informing
The gardener he shall not
Be needed next week
As sometime before then
You will fall suddenly dead


Like a blanket...
Yes, like a blanket
Or a shawl if you’ll have it—
A sheet that whispers a weight
Upon your shoulders that rise and fall
And rise and roll and once more rise
And collapse inevitable as relapse or vice,
We arrived as the sun is
Saying its final goodnights

Life spends some empty
Second inside your lungs
And continues on its way, moving on
Perhaps to resuscitate a
Fading gunshot victim
Or shake the hand of a minute

As time ticks furiously by,
A dog licks its teeth
A few sorry times, tastes a residual piece
Of something tasty he earned
In his attempts to learn fully
To roll over,
He rolls over now and then for fun,
In the disapproving face of the sun

But it’s a different thing to roll
Over at the command of your Master—
He who is looking disapprovingly at the world,
Disapproves of all of it
But through a very small window
He had not seen before
About the size of an envelope
It must have sneaked up on him

Most of all he is bored,
With packets of cigarettes,
Lighting themselves each night in
Spectacular repeats bright and brilliant
Pyrotechnics of white-hot potential,
You must shield your eyes, Master,
Heed the warnings of the doctor when he says
You are doing yourself no favours,
Tempting yourself by leaving them
Laying around in plain sight

And...now and then, just now, and
Just then he finished a whole one,
Packet of twenty, and his reflection,
Unshaven and puffy-faced in the
Deep ocean of the bathroom mirror,
Can’t look at him until morning,
And morning is a long time away

Meanwhile time is
Blackening the dog’s sorry gums,
It painted such dark spots on his Master's lungs                                              
That he now coughs impatiently,
The paint grips like superglue to
The walls and though a full exhale could
Betray their function for one,
Deform their shape for two,
Lungs so rarely tenderly embrace
And now his face goes blue,
And blue with many shades of blue,
And a touch of the colour of the just-rising moon


Nothing comes up...
His diaphragm, taut, it stalls,
Struck, retching,
Everything slows
Everything

slows

— stretches of sounds
And moans echoing
The sinister intent of
Turpentine visions.
Each bloodless
Indecision


You can see him doubled over
By the window, even from here,
And you’d think this bird will
Succeed in catching his worm,
Each slowed in turn, nothing changed,
Bird was swooping long before the slowness came,
Whatever happens, whatever happens...
The dog sleeps whilst his ticking legs kick,
But slower —  

A fly is caught between
The unaffected forefinger and
Opportunist thumb
Of a young girl who is well known,
(She once squeezed a cat
So tight that its insides
Got all twisted and burst),
She would not hurt a fly though
Especially not this one
It’s so lethargic, she thinks,

How she blinks at normal speed—
Immune somehow

Other kids are told to keep away from her
By their respective mothers
Who’ve no respect for others
you’ll see them goose-stepping down
streets in stop-motion synchronicity
These mums communicate by phone
Hogging the lines and spitting malicious
Rumours into the telephone wires,
Such poison is said to excite cables
Causing electrical fires and the
Firemen here have been called out
several times to find the same boy
Of about ten, crying *“Help! Pariah Dog!”

He’s shouting it now, calling the emergency
Services on a credit card phone
And his pennies won’t take
—So slow it’s hard to watch

The bow that fastens the little
Girl’s hair keeps falling down,
She kicks it down the sleepy evening streets,
Rumours cruelly spread of shadows
Calling her to where the street sweepers are known
Not ever to sweep

Everything is slow, as before but
Slightly more so,
The Master’s contractions
In such slow motion rhythm,
You couldn’t recognise patterns or
Repetitions with short-term memory
but they’re rhythms of threes and fours
but also nine over eight and
Four-four straight, the
Tempo is so slow it doesn’t register...
Listen closely for a while though:
Jazz is on the radio!

The dog’s legs still kick as it sleeps
As it dreams of jumping the garden gate,
Even slower now,
And life is longer now,
In ways
Of course we do not notice
But the little girl,
Returning home just before dark
How will this affect her future?
Time’s arrow
The tragedy of its trajectory
Leaves us in a state
That is not worse off,
But there is no help in this!
Positivity does not come
From the things which are simply
Not negative

And the worm
In a slow motion crawl,
Indignant, as the bird’s wings
Cast long finger-like shadows
That are shifting, flickering,
Twitching near crisis point,
Those last hundred-yards of the race
Where lactic-acid-spasms
Makes a mess of the atoms
And slow-twitch fibres made of
Matter once constituting
A percentage of the mass
Of a sabre-toothed tiger,
Cowering in the cold,
Feeling the pull of extinction
Weighted eyelids,
Mischievous hands tugging
On the ears
And polishing the fangs in museums
It was ashamed, the atoms told us this
But refused to declare a name for itself
Or the beast

Slinking and curling like a
Shoe sole that bunches up
The shoehorn is no good,
Not a help, but to borrow
Just one word of that line
And introduce the trumpet,
In its considerations of brass
And blues
It blows lipless fanfares for the
Invertebrate class

The worm, with frantic intent,
In search of his hole in the ground,
Profound effort,
See the slinky worm speeding
Across the lawn at the speed of a gravestone,
The bird getting closer,
In it’s time,
It’s a fizz of radio waves
With a fuzzy static outline,
Popping grains and throbbing like
Power surging through the telephone line,
Where voices can be heard warning of high pressure
With a fatalist sigh, and poor weather,
A voice with a regional accent
Sounding authoritative and wise
Intensity in the eyes somehow I imagine,
How we paint pictures of faces and people,
The voices are so telling at times,
You can hear whiskey-burns in the throat
Saying things of the colour
Of a nose, and sweet childlike lisps
Suggest dungarees and freckles,
And a gap between the front teeth,
Why these? What prejudices
Have slipped out weedily from
An imagination that is surely
Out-valued by its frame
Of gold with wooden panels

*“PARIAH DOG!”.....
Part Nine (1) of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
eL Jul 2011
Sleeping lifeless under an old juniper tree
Lipless and unable to taste
Blind to the world and its surroundings
Vultures don't let it lay in peace
A calf has no milk to drink, no mother to love
Me, saddened and disturbed by the look on its motionless face
Why now, why this place?
Anthony Perry Feb 2016
I heard Peter Piper picked a pricey pepper, the same day I heard he got chased down by a hungry mob of less than lovely lepers, now Peter Piper and his picked pepper are prodded by hot pokers while a village of now happy, hairless, horrifyingly lipless lepers salivate in anticipation of poor Peter Piper's soon to be pickled body.

The Masses chant and cheer to sounds of Peter's screams that seem to season his sizzling skin as children scrape scolding scraps peeling from his searing kneecaps.

Veins build up pressure, veins then rupture, veins open and spray onto the crowd and moisturize all the rough textures, soaked faces gain weight and fall off exposing maggots that festered, excited crowds jump and cheer as their knees buckle and bodies fracture.

The elder ***** picks a peck of pickled Peter Piper, now the elder ***** enjoys a pepper with a peck of old Peter Piper.
The Jolteon Dec 2014
Follow the heart
Wherever it takes you
It is yours
It knows what it wants
It beats for you and only you
Others will spit lies
With callous tongues
To drag you away
Far from your beating heart
Until it is so lonely it stops
Trust your heart
Don’t abandon it
It beats for you
Title taken from a song by the same title by The Shins
J. Walter Braman Feb 2010
The shovel hits the dirt in softened thunks

I hope you come up whole, and not in chunks

You’re buried deep, at six feet down

Was she buried in jeans or in a gown?

I hope to be your Romeo from a thousand romance plays

Nevermind, I think you know what dead girls can’t say

Nilsen gave me some sage advice

Don’t ever go to the same yard twice

And don’t toss the old ones in the sink

That’s one good way to get tossed in the clink

Six feet of dirt now to my side

You’re coming with me, you’re taking a ride

You thought the hearse was the last of your life

Don’t be daft, honey, you’ll soon be my wife!

Your coffin smells, my dear it’s true

It is no matter, I love your blue

Skin, your thinning hair

Into your fading eyes I stare

As I caress

That cold dead spot

Beneath your dress

I hope, my dear, you don’t mind the trunk

My head is swimming; am I in love or just drunk?

Oh, if you look upon my trunk with dread

Would help to think of it as a marital bed?

Maybe some wine to get in the mood, with you by side

Just the moonlight a pint of the Wild I

I know some look upon me strange

And some would call my love deranged

They don’t understand, they’re far too ******

This isn’t a curse, just a hobby

If they saw me like this I know they’d panic

But I’m not crazed, on drugs or manic

I feel peace when I see your lipless smile

I know I’m just a harmless necrophile.
Candace Nov 2011
My lipless
silver teeth, icicles,
a hundred tiny razors
on a hungry blade
biting away
at my fleshy meal;
playing a
grotesque form
of tic-tac-toe;
with whom?
Does it matter?
Not really; only for
this bite, I live;
the copper
complements
my own metallic flavor;
the accidental
slip, or not
so much...
A wince. I mark
my final X,
two jagged
red lines;
in triumph, I drink
my sweet
merlot; a toast,
to my opponent,
my partner;
we have both won.
Connor Reid Mar 2015
Breaking waves, folding in river bends (meandering)
with an effortless grace
Cupids mouth, foaming to return -
broken and filling up the landscape.
Cracked horseshoes
waltzing across a vibrating brain,
all the worlds night
quartz, cutting drunk into
your Green city.

Banishing a sense of self
uprooting positivity, displacing our discontempt -
boil out the water from the soup of human condition.
Boredoms grace.

We're rotting, lizards tongues
wearing the past, skin deep
Imbued.
a morbid relocation of entrance
authority, a fee
Reflecting light off your face
always leading back,
back towards a tabletop nausea.

Caked in powder,
i make my way over -
licking my finger and rubbing away
at the cracks formed years ago
wandering in and out of Escher's *******,
hoping to settle mind and body
numbed and lethargic,
medicine doesn't help.

An open patio door,
grooming in the whisped brown dawn -

7.34am

God's rags, crisp
displacing particles against the mountain lip
red light brewing in the observers mind.
Cubes of water
pushing through into tomorrows wake
all unwrapping like 1,000 words
diluted into one second.

I'm tired
appetite gone
graven, knowledge of the inside of my mouth
encyclopedic and (almost) boring.
It's closed again
at the crux of abandon,
the skies youthful,
built from wood, holding up the trees.
Excess - child's play for Atlas.

Rogue, electric Blue.
Mollusc in hand
living, lipless
just outside the geopolitical borders
heading back towards maturity.
Nihil,
projects objectivity, sycamore due, borders
as happiness combed our soft necks.

A situation is only what you make of it,
we're all in on this
living together in leaves -
by roadsides
making homes where we sleep.
The sky is on fire
exploding into fruition
as hot chlorine licks against unwashed belly buttons and hair
going blind and stripping back
it breaks you.
Colt Sep 2018
When monsters fall in love, do they leave their ways behind them?
or terrorize towns hand in hand?
Do they still open tops of buildings like giant jars of jam
with giddy smiles striking fear for miles around them?
Will they still pick planes from the sky? Or just the crust from their lover's cloudy eyes?
Do their mangled hearts become manicured?
With razor claws brushing wretched jaws,
will children hear them making out in closets?
Will they huff and puff at armies, or yell sweet nothings to pass the time?
Their passion would be fascinating, making love while making masses fear their wrath.
And maybe if we're lucky, we'll see two monsters in the park--
with lipless mouths and fighting tongues--
showing us a love so stark, it would be a first to be given hope
by such vile a folk.
For there's a chance for all of us, if even monsters fall in love.
Pen Lux Sep 2010
I wouldn't mind kissing your chapped lips
or touching elbows late at night.

We could spin the world away
and sing about the lipless.

I'd vaccum my room to get rid of the smell
and then we could lay there until our thoughts settle,
or I could make you tea, promising not to spit in the cup.
I don't know if you like sugar or not,
but I do, so I'll put it in anyway.

I know you don't like apples,
oranges, babies, hairy legs,
stair cases, dark tunnels,
neon colors, highlighted hair,
leftovers, or gapped teeth.

I know you like milk,
dark hair, movies (almost any),
games, poetry, dancing,
singing, my hands (touching yours),
and eye contact.

I only have 6 dollars,
3 pills,  4 cigarettes,
5 fingers (on each hand),
2 eyes, and 1 interest.
PK Wakefield May 2010
didst
thy ever faceless father
   denote the plateau
whereupon the dream drugged
        childs of Morpheus
wander? so well did this traveler
                                      make
           a cough of starry
  conquered nights i begged his name
afore he maketh for another
   lipless realm of abstract clouds
disheveled leaves kissing scattered
       drops of light;
"patron of articulate fantasies, love not the skin of others slumber"

                              "be patient
                        son of dusky flesh,
                                   anon
                              i shall be again
                          another supreme dusty
   sleep. so lay thy head well and make merry my return"
Amanda Newby Dec 2016
The thought of you makes me sick.
Knowing that you're still here,
It feels like you're always at my back.
Like there's whiskey breath down my neck.

I mistake other girls for you.
Wavy dark hair,
Heavy-handed makeup,
I wonder if they regret their faces
Like I do.

In the pit
Of my stomach,
I am empty.
Feasting on whatever
Sweet nothings I can gather.

After you left me,
Hungry.
I am slow to eat,
To sleep...
With a girl
Would be to
Replace you...

I wish

I had never met you.
Every day
I am betrayed
By want.

I lust for
The best of you
And I hate
The rest.

Part of me still loves you.
And that's the part I hate.
I try to abandon her,
But she is relentless.

I reach for lipless faces
And my kisses fall, tasteless.

I look for eyes across a room,
And find my sight
Fades to black.

The crook in my nose
Cracks open.
All I smell is rust.

I cannot face you.

My face goes numb.
My skin is see-through.
People are asking me
If I'm sick.
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
A.

afore the blush of placid cheeks is A
proffered crop of luscious fancies
limpid groves of silken corpses (mingle
deftly apathetic death) maligned posies
stinking of bloodless roses; their amorphous skin
blotting dusty shelves pages tumble
briefly sleeping verses profess loving tongues
rasping effigies unlike the clamour truly divine
milk of feminine ambrosia

grotesque the statued poses, a love writ tawny
embers litter blossoms strongly and indolent
they sparingly divided, ample thighs crossed,
leak no pleasure (but taunting accurate plush
). so to luna breathe in the excellent pools of
lipless fantasies piled in ardent devotion about
roots deeply sensual aphorisms. and metastasize a
plaguing remedy breeding steadily in residence
my cracking synaptic core. every thought enamored
to her cause

2.

a symposium of muscle more perfect never did
reside in flesh as well so as this splinter static
in repose sighing hues unsightly, a rainbow of burning
sin blisters the empty air between our pumping
artifices;  CHAOS: a tumble of dry nothing spits
from an oral sanctum in ownership of I and numbly
splitting vocal cracks i dare pray to evoke your
crass symptom of beauty, in every hillock it doth lash
your frame, to reside on me its angles.

cHEW the gristle of my fatty words, if be the flavor
to the liking of your buds may i lay into your
frame the vestige of mine will and blossom about your pearl, hid
in denim armor, my mouth in every effort of its loyalty
to the sanctuary of thy splendid yoke. and yoked to thy
the chain of my hips. weaving dainty clouds of "yes"
from the soft cavern of your prim voice?

*

Froth, the sea, my lady in waves of festering verbs
a shore, mine, they do land in manifolds of colour
loving every cut of these sharp enunciations; some claret,
i do well from the clefts. cells reticent of the screams brewing
in their nuclei, it's an ideal clove shod in scents somnambulant.
a territory of my libations to your flexing presence,
may always be you by the side of i

but waits the coldest sleep and the heaps of soil
generous on our boxes; so shall i make to you an offer
of my life. in hope, thou shalt accept its filigree and
decree it upon your soul as have i so we may be
in eternal blessed sickness of our amorous lace
bands fingers circling, do denote the promise of
my hands.


                 TO THEE. TO THY. me
midnight prague Nov 2010
strapped
lipless
torn in between my own blood

hallow in the willow I feel when
the winds speak
like tormented children
my soul leaks
like inky fluid blotting my shaded arena of eyes

manifested
burried
alive
in between all the pretty winter, lies
mEb Dec 2010
Nth of everything I am

Newfangled and abnormal I stand

I eat my arid lips that peel away from stress

Must I assure myself over and over that I am fine

Deeply enticed, I wish no one knew this address

Does one or more espy on me I wonder

My heteromorphic way plundered

Salvage my derange

Rummage through my space

I am outré and weird here

Don't espy on my lipless face
PK Wakefield Dec 2011
Fall
       U
           1 somnambulant princess
              from
              heaven dearly
              creaking
              hushed
              tumults
                                  U
                                    leaking flashes
                                    in Paris
                                    U have a wry lipless smile
                                    struck leaning
                                    against a church playground
                                    smothered
                                                        in you child dying
                                                        Ur a playful
                                                        hair seriously
                                                        sets the dirt on edge
                                                        and all trees
                                                                             inU
                                                                                   are nudest
                                                                                         by bell ringing
                                                                                                                  in a church yard
                                                                                                                                             leans the fair
                                                                                                                                                                  mushy
                                                                                                                                                           uglywonderful
                                                                                                                                                         body of
                                                                                                                                                         U
                                                                                                                                                          Fall
PK Wakefield Mar 2011
or
well the
last time we were
which was also like
it was like 2 hot kittens
with button eyes trembling
against their sockets an unimaginable
tear and ladybugs and it smelled so pretty
when the stormy dream of your fuzz blundered
into the small summer of sturdy knees and sore ankles
and rickety sounding sunsets caving with silence, their
prosey colours dullling with a fast time over the bulbous
hearth of gods lemon drop wrists that have large merry hands
smiling with dew flecked cheeks rambling open rough lipless pockets
of deep poppies singing in the right little garden in the front yard of yesterda

                                                                                                                                      y
PK Wakefield Oct 2012
there was how shall i say green the city consumed the meek and tender brilliant
all rose in slenderest gardening blossoms root 'pon root in earth univocal (it's
shoulders, feel fresh, smoothly revolt into unchaste Autumn)


                                                                      whose lipless grotesque

                                                                      smiling parts

                                                                      between all

                                                                      ivory leans

                                                                      October

                                                                      her
                                                                     smell
                                                                    is wet
                                                                   curious
                                                                  Cinnamon
                                                                 chamomile
                                                                  citrus tingles
                                                                 against
                                                                the wide
                                                               plate of unhairing
                                                                  FALL(s
                                                              from a broad leaf
                                                              russet tranquil
                                                             blue
                                                        ,        flat and cool        ,
                                                                peels with tenderest
                                                     coming


                                                                         eve


                                                               flickers




                                                                                                big




                                                                   with



                                                                                      frailing




                                                                             sun


                                                                       collapses

                                                                         intooneenormity:

                                                                         ORAnge
PK Wakefield May 2011
beginning closed, opened fragile hardy meadows outward from the tumult
of absolute stillness. a skull in every smile smiles quick wry lipless grins
in every skull it smiles amongst the bodies, youth soaked dripping carnal uncarnal, it smiles whenever the voices, **** and vividly, couple and
uncouple the twains of hips(& between them it's grinning, in their pumping
force & even in the ****** of the sudden exploding creation)"it's grinning right there, and someday when you lay in last and final you will say 'hello, FOREVER'",
PK Wakefield Dec 2010
the hours 4 and 20 past
when lays my skull in cotton glass
and lipless maws gasp and laugh
fleshless poesy of ice and gas
in erring billows frothing mass


            scowl(
Keith Ren Nov 2013
drink to this, lipless,
"'rotten' isn't what you think",
you tarry the borders in white.

you glisten like factory,
you tremble like gold,
you're edging the ready to fight.

your countenance silver,
your wrangle-send wet,
my finger, your jawline, the light.

I miss what you were.
  You forget who you are.

        Euclidean.
                          
               Forgiven.

  And right.
Arjun Tyagi Sep 2014
Transgression of the poppy field,
An unseen divide.
A step into his forest, was taken,
The Baron's precious garden, his pride.

Hounds, carrion birds,
Three days since released.
Tamed to pursue his game,
Escape to the prey would not be a relief.

Gradient of the path,
Can only lead to the mire.
Mammoth or Moth regardless,
Eaten by the murky pyre.

Hand in hand,
They, the Baron's past time;
Ran three days from the manor
Blind, in stillborn moonlight.

Scraping, stumbling, falling.
Roots drink their blood.
Prey and prisoners of the night,
In the forest of the evergreen flood.

Groping through the dark,
Evidence of fear in torn faces.
Vines their shackles,
Their stench leaving traces.

The baying of the Shamans,
Ullulating in alien tongues,
Became songs singing
Of lives in the forest undone.

The Forest, never once
Did it disappoint its master.
Earthly bane, poison sap,
Nurtured by her, the mother gardener.

She emerged from the swamp,
Naked, a lipless face.
Devoid of two limbs
Bearing the Cyclop's curse with grace.

Hopping faster than sense permitted,
One legged she bustled.
Towards the six hundred sixty seventh and sixty eighth.
She, a mass of bone and muscle.

As her Master would have it,
All life must be extinguished.
The Child, with rope she suspended.
High at the treetops the form diminished.

Before the Man could look,
The Child's head was no more.
An inverted fountain of blood erupted,
And drizzled upon his nose.


Frenzied he ran, tears stillborn,
Drove himself straight into an iron stake.
Dead eyes looked even as the Baron's champion said;
"A Hunter always knows his Master's estate."
This is a complimentary poem to The Baron's Ballroom.
glass can May 2013
All the boys and girls I had ever kissed were screaming together in a chorus, lipless, with open mouths, sharp little red teeth, gnashing.

In my head
In my head

And then I went to the green woods
For solitude and silence, and shame

And there, under the green boughs
I pulled the curtains of membranes
under their tongues, and my own,

over their heads, with thread
I needled, sewing up mouths

then I kisssd their faces like their mother, "goodnight"

and then they were mute,
and only could whimper

and then I left, feeling, yes
Poetic T May 2016
Her cremated hands held the cherub
of her ingrained expression on lipless
holdings. In basins of white did she
linger sight beyond hers, showing all
the creation of depraved meetings.

The child was silent, motionless in
Its satin sinews that covered all but
its unadorned features, yet weeping
was expelled as dark shades wept
Charcoal tears upon nothingness.

Her hair tightly held back, obsidian
in nature like a tomb stone of neatness.
A mothers love, of that which is an
aversion of ill conceived conception.
Purgatory welcomes its inception
Youdont Needthis Jan 2017
Bornless
Ageless
Virtue
Spent

Crescent
Eye
******
Head

Ribs
Cou­ntless
Form
Dread

Scentless
Empty
Russet
Dress

Toast
Ashes
Blac­k
Dust

Flesh
Jam
Butter
Crunch

Auburn
Locks
Callous
Laugh

Lure­d
Bound
Body
Thrashed

Spirits
Furious
Corpse
Dragged

Fluids
Bot­tled
Sweetest
Drank

Eyeless
Lipless
Songs
Sang

Puppet
Strings
B­ody
Hangs
Darrel Weeks Jun 2016
Byn
A lipless Crimson clothed kiss matters
A Dead dance with dark disclosure
What will be uncovered in perspective
Basic material removed
Hope in dead smiles
For byn has come
Lonk May 2014
Fleshy skeletons wander into busy intersections
looking for a force fierce enough to beat some feeling into them
(like the freshly waxed hood of a Lamborghini)

Between hollow eye sockets and rotting teeth there is a boy who thought he went crazy every night as he dangled his feet on the cliff of sleep
and a dark angel who smiled like ivory tusks
and blinded everyone in its wake.

Among the talk of weekend plans and long car rides and lazy smoke rings that fog up dreams
a girl floats, caught in the undertow of the afternoon breeze.
she is taken by the pink-painted sky reflected in the windows.

Insecurity drips from the lipless,
throats rubbed raw on a long drive
on a road that winds out into no where.
Seventeen and screaming fear into the dark,
hoping the linen-skinned boys will hear

Silent and sleepless
we dance to songs we'll write when we're old,
we sip death in modest doses
(some faster than others)
we read sad things and we laugh and we kiss and then
we somersault out of our skins,
just as we began.
Poetic T Sep 2014
They arose from the grave
Some not in tune
Giving a fist,
Then a finger,
And went back to eternal slumber.
Others were after it
They needed to feel it,
Beat,
Rhythm,
Life,
They craved it from the grave
Arise,
Arise,
Search, those who crave the beat
To bring you life,
They roamed
A few slower, as they'd  lost there feet,
But they would crawl on
Stomach,
Hands,
Knees,
To feel the beat of life within,
They glared in the air
It was unmistakable,
The beat of life.
As they entered
Screams,
Horror,
Curiosity,
As the dead meant no harm,
They stood in formation
This isn't no thriller,
This is the life they heard from afar.
Beats of music,
They danced in unison
The crowd went wild
Music,
Beat,
Rhythm,
Life,
They were dancing
The night away,
A few screams did follow,
As moves not meant for the dead
Limbs flew far in to the crowd
Politely
Handed,
Footed,
Fingered
Back once again,
But time was not on there side
Time was beating past,
So a grunt,
A lipless smile,
And they made there way back
They had for one night felt the
Beat
Rhythm,
Life,
Of the party
Its funny how a full moon
Can awaken feeling even in the dead..
Connor Nov 2016
The furniture of complacency comes burdened with
Eyeshadow & Mercurial past-idlings/
I have no theatrics to share with you dear
Eccept the sidewalk for all its smoke,
Accept my heart for all its dust

Nervous flames of a violet under close inspection
Deemed too upset for office countertops!
(I will avail you of the screaming that goes on here)

Machinery of white sleep
Surrounded by freckles & laughing
That makes the headboard shake/there is drunken quarrel on the street
There is pacifying the horror of someone's misgivings ! Everything in its place like a jewelled
Skylight or the hallway aroma of stale cake

& a hundred starving dogs quiver at the sight of you
(the sea decides that it doesn't want to **** anyone again
            my shoes are starting to wear down
       The ******* mouth of the sea is sorry
       Is so sorry for all those it drowned
        The lion cloaked in laurel caged at the center of the sea
      Is growing old
      & sick with innocence)

     Bloodied flowers crown her hair and shy roots remember the wars of her thickened heart
     The softness behind her ears like spots of April honey
    
     (A veteran of what we are capable of inflicting on each other!)
    
I know the stench of the sidewalk,
Mirrors do translate the language of thoughts/
                     Remedies are concocted under invisible snow
                     (mist & directionless droplets make clear the sky and
                     The whole temporary palace of
                     Picketed clouds,
                     A visual hurdy gurdy)

In darkroom tone-
We, resigned to another daybreak
In seeking the holy flowerbed-
     Do smear our kissing words to
     Lipless leaves
     & mournful faces

— The End —