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Cadence Musick Jul 2012
I've got an ice pick
to remove the frosty caverns of my heart.
On my journey, I scavenged two twigs from a dying tree.
My deft fingers at the ready.
I knew they'd come in handy.
Once the cold has flown, heat would undoubtedly be needed
in its place.
So with these sticks I'll start a fire,
Right in the center,
So when it catches on,
It blubbers and gasps for more,
until its red greedy mouth
has emblazoned the whole ***** and things change.
And I'm not as I once was.
Facing your fear
makes you go all cold inside.
Intestines shrinking and suddenly
the floor looks pretty.

Facing an impossible act
makes you get butterflies.
The mouth blubbers meaningless phrases
Tries to gather courage and bravery.
Abstract poems: 2nd poem
Arnauld Jarvis Jun 2017
Let's have some coffee, shall not we?
Are you hungry?
No, why?
You have a playful deluge to propagate, do not you?
Your eyes blaze vividly like sky
And? The whole street's quivering by luxurious lights
The clouds strive to squeeze amongst each other
What's recrudescing?
Get up! thunders doodle  the sands
I got bored of coffee
With such clouds amidst the sun'll be discombobulated
Are my eyes still blazing?
Oh, stop chuckling
It's not me! listen! the wind blubbers and woes don't you wonder why,?
A blizzard's ambulating?
Observe those odd bolts!
Want to race?
You think you'll be rejuvenated?
By the inception sunshine, wasn't we to bloom blows?
How bizarre now! you forgot the cup of yours
I'll imbibe love without you! will you please, catch me?
If I don't want to scratch me!
Your kiss mangles me delicately
Look.. I believe I cannot inhale
The billows of zest, touchy how you are!
The sea becomes boring to behold
It's whether we play or hunt
Dull, warm lasting not night
Hold my hand
What? we'll in such transcendence, dance?
Increasingly
Let's demonstrate our demons
You are drunk bliss
Some coffee?
It's a pulchritudinous oblivion! no
You utilise love as toy
I just connect the tiles
It was not  only the sun who was discombobulated.Thanks for perusing it.
Grace Nottingham Feb 2014
"New Plymouth"  

I
I, as a young woman, stand still
Like a ghost column in a Mausoleum  
Adjacent to the New Plymouth spit.  

I breathe in the invisible sugars of salt
And the stubborn incoherences
Of the sea washing green over layette white.  

The rocks are blunt teeth,
Fat and round like an old Frisco seal,
A Cerberus jaw barring me off

From fatal self-destruction.
What a laugh!
These flippants, these peacekeepers  

Have no idea, nor do
The gargantuan ships,
Walking on water like Jesus' feet.  

The sky is so pure and clean  
it's sectile, no clouds  
nor disturbances to be inhaled.  

II  
  

I hang like a death wish on the hotel's lintel;  
Outside copse's foliage joggle
And I think cold.  
  

The air is sullen and austere,
It knows what it's doing to me.
The air that kills, kills, kills.  
  

The radio stubbornly blubbers
More sheepish than a baby,
Confabulating the local rugby.  
  

I collapse like a sack of black potatoes.
I feel weirder than Pluto.  

I am an alien, an alien to the bulbous women
  
And silver lined suited men.  
The grand annunciation
"I hope you enjoy your stay"  
  
Makes my organs twist and puffer.  
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
This place cries for my demise.  
  
III
It's a rural community.  
Mothers in ghastly flannel and baby spew
swallow gossip like Communion tablets.  

The precious circulate the carousel,
Scoffing hot dogs like prepubescent piglets,
Sausages sliding like fat worms

And burning like hearts in an oven.  
The sizzling steam disintegrates
Like clouds of Statismospores

Spreading positively into ether.  
The sun beats like a muscle
Burning, burning, burning

My laundry-washed white.
I’m vulnerable.  
I was once pure and sweet like an Aryan,  

Now I am dying, dying, dying
From fat smiles curled like a snail
With grey fatty hooks under my eyes.  




IV  


Tiny bluestocking girls like me  
All congregate in the Library .
At last I am by myself.  

I still don’t feel at peace.  
My thoughts are frightening
When I am at my writing.  

They are even worse,
In fact deathly,
If I do not write.  

This climate of strange spacemen,  
This culture of monstrous noses
Has driven many women mad,  

Not excluding a woman like me.  
I’m bored to death, literally.
Now, now, I say,  

Carrying my golden bags of poetry,
“I love what will destroy me,
And hate what will heal me”.  


October 5th 2013

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