Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Styles May 2017
silently we basked in our silence
naked we inhaled each others presence
exhausted we lay resting
in the pools of our sweat
the sheets clinching to our tired bodies
dripping wet juices
saturated we are
satisfied
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way...

exploring the last remains of thought -
well then... suit and boot me up for some "thinking"
as i extend it into writing...

if i were of the native stock... "elsewhere":
most probably h'america or australia... even in italy
having tea with mussolini i'd be:
an expat... as an outsider among outsiders
but among my sameness-namesakes of surnames
akin to jones and smith:

i will never be an "immigrant" among...
it's not even a voice of cocern, this little voice of
mine...
an englishman who decides to move
to h'america is an expatriate for the native
englishman who stayed behind...
he's never an immigrant...

perhaps other nations view the people that left
them in such a positive light?
where else to emigrate to that doesn't
speak basic english with a tinge of
a "welcoming" plethora of accents?

proudly having expatriated...
or having to have had to humbly emigrated...
bark bite and tail in tow...
my the luck of being an expatriate...
readily prepared with a francophile basis...
e.g., or some other: less frost-bitten
idealism as the work ethic of:
work work work...

we know the english immigrants
as expatriates... but i doubt that people
from where i from would call me...
an expatriate... they'd call me...
eh... hangman noose... a deserter...
god forbid the fact that i somehow managed
to integrate... but then found myself wondering...

have, have integrated into... "what"?!
today i was truly astounded...
after all... Romford, Essex... England...
can boast about a few things...
notably? it's the past place you can buy vinyl
without amazon.co.uk...
you can actually play the buyer and the person
that loiters with his shadow...
flicking through a dictionary of sorts...
finding a record...

i actually left the house for ulterior motives...
but i succumbed to the allure...
and as i walked the January 2nd 2020 highstreet
in Romford...
i heard english... as a spoken language...
twice in the pedestrian commute...
and of course when it came to a lingua franca
scenario of buying or selling something...
otherwise:

perhaps i retained my primitive instincts
and the tongue and should have left it with a ghost
of me back in the clarifying vicinity of
an airport 50 miles from Warsaw...
i have bigger things to worry about though:
how i should start learning Romanian...
even though: i thought bilingualism was a good
idea?
it's not?

not among the natives could i ever be
an expatriate...
an ever: never... like any more thesaurus
sharpening would do the trick to balance
the optics of "perspective"...

if it wasn't a mistake...
it has still been a purchase:
freddie hubbard on the trumpet,
jackie mclean on the alto sax,
kenny drew on piano,
doug watkins on bass
and pete la roca on drums...

the only reason as to why i bought
a gramaphone was to buy the only cheap vinyl
there is... jazz...
to escape the earphones...
to find the complete volume of space
that would later be deemed:
confined to a room... cell... or some alternative
variation: but... oh jeez...
how wrong it was of me...

make a note: alto sax jazz is not for you...
remember: alto sax jazz is not for you...

a sensation of being a foreigner in
an already double-dutch foreign sense of land...
anything that drops from clinching
to the London transport system
with the trains and the tubes and buses
is: england...
the england of my youth where i remained
like that... dunce in the ****** tunes cartoons
interlude...

and what of my citizenship on paper?
wave a passport around
like a benchmark or an otherwise easy
accent-identifier?
perhaps i don't even know:
Bristolian - my best guess with this acquired
tongue...

but at least buying jazz is getting easier...
freddie hubbard a known name...
but... no... alto sax jazz is not for me...
now it figures...
i can get away on a whim when
a trumpet solos... but not when an alto sax
solos... i really can't stomach it...
will i give this Bluesnik record back?
no, i need a testament -
i have bought something
but the self-reflection is free...

there's only so much classical music escapism
you can try -
before long you realise that the people
listening to classical music...
mostly... when they make requests...
want "something soothing"...
want "something jovial"...
or usually it's a piece of music that has
been attached to a movie...
classical music - apparently doesn't feed
people a subtle stream of images...
and it's obvious: those requests are not phoned
in on by blind people...

imagine... the ****** of F... when you have ⠋
to work with...
what is an sunrise... a sunset but a dash
of colour... a spring of the heavens
an autumn of the heavens...
but my my... in this inverted listening of jazz...
⠙⠑⠑⠏
⠃⠇⠥ ⠑    DEEP BLUE...

if i were blind: and came to the pearly gates...
i'd ask for letters: primo pronto!
later i'd worry about colours and shapes...
as i'd probably stick to my first passion
and hearing this fathomless shapeless
sounds that... abide to no lineage with a recant
of a triangle's use of 90°...

otherwise... what if you've been fed
the: classical music when listened to when a child
will increase your i.q. -
but what are the chances that you will:
"regress" from listening to classical
music and take to jazz?
perhaps because jazz has to be felt,
it has to be heard, first,
rather than... the silence and scribbles
of a composer at his desk -
where a classical music composition
is very much like writing:
that whole a prior shabang!
none of the a posteriori zigzagging
of impromptu and jazz?

one thing is certain... i'm not going to
be a fan of alto sax jazz...
sonny clark on piano - yes...
art blakey on drums - yes...
kenny burrell on guitar - yes...
alto sax no... ah... but give me tenor sax
and... no please no big bang jazz
equivalent to thelonious monk...
at least jazz gives you pedestrian tastes
and whims...
nothing akin to bowing at the altar
of a Beethoven: or talking lightly of
the man - "the man"...

and who the hell said that being
objectivity "works all the time"
that objectivity "runs the marathon"...
alto sax jazz is pedestrian music...
don't get me wrong...
you want to walk down a busy street
and you want to drown the sounds
of progress: no horses sneezing,
no horses' hooves playing tic-tac-toe
chess on cobweb stones...
alto sax jazz is your take-out
walk-through...
but when you're hunched in a chair
and pecking at a keyboard with
ten good beaks of the tips of your fingers...

again: how do the hands rest before
the keyboard?
the right hand:
index middle, pinky and thumb...
the ring finger is used for the: delete button...
a revision - the pinky does the enter -
and the cascade follows...
the left hand?

primarily the index and *******...
the thumb is always attached to space...
shared with the right hand's *******
to space,
i can't remember if i ever used my ring
or pinky finger of my left arm...

so much for inverted chiromancy...
the polacks will never give me the wings
to be an expatriate...
i will be forever: he who abandoned
that land running with milk and honey...
but... look at how they stand behind those
from england that decided to go "elsewhere"...
they are not immigrants...
they are... expatriates...
have nothing filthy them it comes to
the connotation...
it's not sad it's not funny it's: somewhere
"in between"...

because we know that the only russians
that ever make it out of russia
are the oligarchs... and by that standard
of "sentiment": they're always welcome...
who wouldn't welcome the pharaohs without
giza pyramid ambitions of construction?!
passing chalk as cheese -
and passing... ink for blood...
perhaps i haven't sweated enough to be allowed
to write but as little as this...

there's always this sense of alienation
among the germanic tribes of "israel":
europe... even if they are the scots or the welsh
suckling at the teats of romulus & remus' lupa...
as the old saying goes among the slavic people
when "integrating" into a germanic-esque society -
by the time you have integrated...
there's this dog-**** pile of Babylon left...
and the germans are: "nowhere"!

the saying goes via:
if you go among the crows...
you must croak their croak...

here's to flying high as an imitation seagull!
brazen: into this arable land...
that's being teased by the Thames estuary...

passing through a Warsaw train station
i noticed the immigrants / the expatriates
on the eastern front...
mostly mongols...
notably the ukrainians...
but now in england i'm starting to think
in concrete terms... better start learning
Romanians...
and on the street: you can't see a focus of
who's here and who isn't here...
back east the Roma people stood out
like a sore thumb or a voodoo plum and...
that didn't bother the locals since they were
meshed like glue...
but, here, in england?
everyone's a sore thumb a voodoo plum...
because the natives,
the blessed idiosyncratic professional
eccentrics have left and...
i'm not going to be the first chasing them down...

London the only and last bastion is
overrun with the whole lot of us...
well: the "us" vs. "them" mentality...
don't get me wrong... i'll still listen to the concerns
of the peripheries... in this cest pool
of immigrants, degenerates...
old people who "forgot" to move...
the lunatics the in-betweeners and the old guard
clinging on...
perhaps, after all... english was a very
accomodating language...
it wouldn't take a genius to learn it from scratch
being thrown into the deep end of the pool
aged 8...
who was mute aged 8 going to school
being moved from "east" europe to this island
with... no prior to linguistic connection?
moi...

and now look at me... i'm teasing myself
with... sordid welsh as if i were ever the posterboy
for welsh nationalism...
scottish nationalism? eh... if they were to retain
their gaellic roots...

expansion:
the longing for those who have left:
in the anglo-sphere - expatriate...
the abhoring sense of those who arrive -
immigrant...
otherwise... the english are always
and everywhere: welcome...
hence the expatriate status of those
who have left their native land...
even in h'america: a shared language:
to be an immigrant... while speaking
the same language?! how preposterous!

the difference between eastern style
comedy presentation and western style
comedy presentation: on stage...

the eastern folk prefer cabaret: theatre dialogue
montages...
the western folk prefer stand-up:
monologue samuel beckett esque
performances...
'woe i... stand alone in this infinite
space and... find others to laugh with...'

- perhaps we're not being less funny because
we're lowering our "i.q.": yes, the we are...
we are... lowering...
i find lee evans to be funny...
a laurel and hardy weren't exactly funny
by modern comedy standards that:
it's only funny if it's intelligent...
if there's a crossword puzzle at the end of "it"...

perhaps pride is the shackle...
and ham... what ever happened to self-depreciating
humor that managed to somehow
elevate you as also having a sense
of humor:
do intelligent men even laugh
at something that isn't a word-play or
a corset of wit?
perhaps we're experiencing a drying of wip...
perhaps the jokes are only supposed
to come: days after as a form of
reflection on the sigma canvas:
the joke has to exist outside the performer
and the stage... it needs to be: a live-experience...
it has to take on DASEIN qualities?
it has to be internalised?

that: oh yeah... that's funny...
perhaps the same thing has to be observed
and it can't be retold in an impromptu
fashion shackled to a stage?
the stage is the new camp-fire?
i thought so too... about the television...

as: here's to slagging off everything that's
being published online bypassing
the editorial process of selection...
well... if it weren't for all the seriousness
surrounding internet banking...
and internet shopping...
pen to paper...
******* clinching a ripped roll
of cushioning paper
and a pseudo-***** imitation
for a wipe while massaging my prostate
over the enlightened prospect
of dropping the blitzkrieg plump-dump-plum
into an echoing lake in the ceramic basin...
otherwise...

a seanse with that moment of realisation:
"something is happening to us
collectively"... it's as if: we're under a spell...
oh i was under a spell today...
watching alec guinness in the fall of the roman
empire...
and as coming from a people
that were never conquered by rome?
on this fine fine island that was...
well... my hopes were also high for
the conquests of the mongol empire...
and the remains of it in the form of the tatars
in crimea...

here are my tattoos... it's hard to break from them,
it's hard to wash them away...
but at least i can attest:
my brain might be all fat and sponge and
electricity... but there's some skull and skin
to be had of it...
otherwise... why would the year 1066
be important for me... why would the magna carta
be important for me?
i too have my years in tattoos on this big brian
of mine...

otherwise there's that copernico-darwinian
surge of: journalistic science...
i still find it staggering that darwinism continues
to capture the imagination of people...
"of people"... only in Wittgenstein was left
alone in finding that Copernicus did something
astounding... this surge of "awakening"
via darwinism: this statistical bombardment
like it was some tabloid journalism:
throwing a pebble at a mountain while
also ushering in a mantra: grow by
a poppy's seed added height! grow!

perhaps i'm just jealous...
among the polacks i will never be an expatriate...
what a jealous people...
an englishman who moves to france...
comes 20 year later...
he will have never experienced
the mark of cain: immigration "humphrey bogart"...
he or she moved to france...
perhaps to italy...
i remember being in greece and...
i was nothing when i said i was ******:
but with british citizenship! to add...
so what?
well... so what greece...
i latched onto some north africans
and went to **** away the night
in some strip-bar where i had
two strippers either head o' mine...
and it was constellations galore...
grandmother Etna said:
rest here, among the smooches poor child...

i borrowed Etna from when Aeneas
"left off"...
****'s sake... this is the Meditarrean
and not the Baltic? where is the amber
the whiskey and the leverage of gratations
of time?!

i will agree. Macedonia come night traffic
of quicksilver tinging?
if the metal is cheap and you douse it in some gold?
a mountain dripping fresh from some quicksilver
from the moon peering at it?
objectivity what?

the finite plateau of snow-riddled Serbia...
and perhaps that's because these people
speak their own language...
and have so... and i'm just the next
"english" tourist...
a jack kerouac americanism and:
oh sure! sure!
spectacular fly-over country tourism!
everything's so so different!
and yet all so oh so much the same!

darwinism was going to run the 5000 meter
race... it's currently running the 10000 meter
race... god help it in running the marathon
of still pretending: old news is new news...
i can't distinguish between darwinism
and copernican discovery...
only in the english-speaking world
would this discovery not escape a criticism
from ancient greece and some, some predecesor!

wouldn't anyone just bore of darwinism
if they were told: over and over again:
the copernican "reality"?
a scientific fact is... akin to a religious dogma...
until... it becomes regurgitated with
enough time, with enough journalism and...
tabloid wind... and after a while...
it's only worthwhile to be spoken to
amnesia peoples of the world: unite!
it's hardly "stupid" or "intelligent"...
more or less overlooked...
because a pebble thrown at a mountain:
is... no added mountain to behold...
conventional wisdom is the only wisdom
that there ever was made to be made:
available...

nonetheless, the circumstance stands...
unless from the slavic hemisphere
of europe...
unlike any other circumstance: other than
the one given, among islanders...
among continent builders akin
to australia and h'america...
the post-racial societies of post-colonial
spain in south america?
ever wonder why the brazillians don't
look for inspiration from the portugese
when it comes to football?
you'd think: those yanks better have
the best football team in the world...
they haven't exactly looked back...
back at "us": oh god... tea afternoon and cricket...
baseball wha'?
basketball? "football"?
why are "we" looking forward and "they're"
looking back?
perhaps i should learn some spanish and
get some insinuation about:
the argentinian sense of lack when looking
back into spain...

or what else is there to be had?
move to Greenland... admire Denmark...
**** it: do the whole stretch and find
some locals on the Faroe Islands...
perhaps i too will find a tomorrow...
but tomorrow i will find: sobering up
and having to deal with: everything beside jazz...

mmm... "delayed gratification" prospects...
seven kings: canon palmer catholic school...
when boys are educated alongside girls...
what if i went to Ilford County High?
what if i were born to immigrant parents
and wasn't an 8 year old immigrant?
what if i went to the Ilford Ursulines?
the all-girls school... the former, Ilford County High?
what chances of me being an intellectual
******?

what, oh the chances!
perhaps praying: segregated... is a tad extreme?
but perhaps ******-exclusion policies:
teaching boys throughout their puberty
as segregated from girls in the same hormonal
development "range" is...
well! how else! you take a boy and girl
and you put them into the hormonal cocktail!
just because it's in a shared educational
environment... why these teenage pregnacies
you ask?
i wouldn't ask such blunt questions...
not since the genius of Copernicus
couldn't attract these...
psychological left-over intelligenstia clingers...
that darwinism has allowed...
what it darwinism and journalism?
everything! the ant as the ego
inside the mind of an ape...
the dormant tapeworm embryo
inside the mind of an ant:
with siesmic consequence of a disturbance
of the collective hive network...

borrow too much from an ape...
borrowing from an ape is one thing...
it's the borrowing from all other
animals: with the ape as the backdrop
that's truly bothersome!
at least religious spew the same facts
over and over again...
scientific dogma? who keeps track?
tomorrow might be the next:
butter vs. margarine controversy!
what sort of "religion" is science
(it's not a religion... if it's not...
why does it have to cohabit a bed
with journalism then, to spew "new",
"improved" facts, then?!)
when... it's so ******* finicky!

look via the ape long enough:
it won't matter whether it's a geocentric
of a heliocentric system that
reigns above your head, no torso,
a pickled spine...
legs and arms floating about like:
an octopus experiencing spasms
pickled in brine...

perhaps these are the zenith years of
darwinistic popularity...
perhaps like the copernican popularity...
there will come a time of:
fatalism... that somehow all of this
is... inevitable...

i see one answer: this cage of grammar
this cage of whatever this god made human
pressures me into complying to...
to the last typo! i will stand against it!
without caging me into a use of emoji or
some other hieroglyphic purse of:
shortened "thinking"...

the "seven silences" might have passed
around my presence that i dare not
call it: in concrete - figure...
and still my eigth silence to unmask
nothing more than a mask...

who are these immigrants, these tight brewed
broods, these furrow brows
representing the native pensive "squint":
of anything beside the eyes and a thought
of h. p. lovecraft?
perhaps inside of europe:
but as ever... without a russian passport...
without a russophobia that's
a tickling hard-on... the "in-between-land"...
perhaps the balkans...
who are we... to these germans and quasi-germans?

we use their tongue, their zunge...
their everything they will otherwise allow themselves
to deny: perhaps this is not Dublin,
this is not Glasgow this is not Cardiff...
perhaps this is not Italy,
this is not France...
perhaps this is "europe" as long as
Scandinavia is involved...

woe a we unto us: the viking Rus...
or some lent word of lost vogue...
last time i heard:
these northern ******* are in no favour
of treating the Spaniards or the Greeks
as their equals...
as long as they have rich arab pimps
race their lamborghini brute ******
down... knightsbridge...

then! and only then! iz ist europa "reconquista"!
"reconquista"... i'll defend these poor polacks
that didn't think it...
"necessary" to only learn english in order
to comply to the global dictum of neu-communist
internationalism...
- what, they didn't teach you you stupid
**** that it only took to learn from english?!
- last time i heard... not teachings polish
to a canape of anything beside the french,
the spanish... also worked!

english as a language is oh so accomodating...
the people will react like antibiotics,
naturally... enough of darwinism and you'll
be found, bound, to having to reference it...
past a de facto menu:
and more like a subjectivity...
there's only so much truth that can be stated...
before fiction has to reply...
because... how many regurgitated facts
can be regurgitated...
before the desert of fiction and...
there's only the fact of a bottle of water...
that remains...
and there's not impetus to walk toward
an oasis...
a fata morgana is hardly a scientific experience...
when experienced...
it's something associated with
a desert and within the desert must either:
live... or die...

what if etymology was to become the new
standard for journalism...
what if one were to escape this contant
bombardment of darwinism...
like it wasn't the next new vogue akin
to the copernican "revolution"?

is that even possible?
whenever i return to Poland...
esp. in Warsaw... i'm a deserter...
i'm not an expatriate...
the native english call those who left
with a sense of longing...
somehow: or at least that's the leftover...
the expatriates from the inside-out
perspective... never the immigrants...

i'm an immigrant and...
a paper citizenship is: no citizenship at all...
a passport is only worth a passport
at a border crossing...
in between the everyday daily affairs?
'where are you from?'
****... 'Bristol?!'...
i'm hardly going to speak
the cockney cockers or an essex schlang...
am i? ***!
all but ******* plumbers and church pulpit
mongers... and some over-ripe
riddle fruits: if not simply left
bottles of wine for the bears...

the first part though, bothers me...

someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way... in mere thinking...
and a dog barking...

the natives will only have a freedom of speech...
what if an immigrant becomes a citizen?
just asking...
what if an immigrant is granted a citizen
status?
well then... i am your humble example
of a civic nationalist...
such a confusing term...
it must be: for the natives...

oh ****... what language am i using?
the language of the... natives!
rubric civitas!
civic nationalism is reserved for:
those that came from abroad...
i guess the ethno-nationalists never made
this distinction clear:
watching their contemporaries leave their
native pit of woe...
and they would never call them:
deserters... only... only... expatriates...
after all... aren't we in the postmortem of ancient Rome?!
isn't this the time when the remnant
english come out and glorify being
the conquered people of this: lettering?

what is civic nationalism?
what is learnt, integrated nationalism...
this is civic nationalism...
how about the english forget about something,
like solving crosswords...
esp. among the middle-classes...
and let's envision their globalist dream!
let them learn a second language
and let us all become bilingual!
oh no... not polyglots... just bilingual!

i can't be an ethno-nationalist...
em... because (a) (b) and (c)?
aren't the post-colonial commonwealth
remnants of the empire the sort
civic-nationalists there's talk of?
what language am i writing in?
hebrew?! mandarin?!

ethno-natioanlism and its tribalism...
civic-nationalism and its state...
where does the church fit into all of this?
it's like not being an amuptee but
nonetheless being prescribed a "missing limb"...
the **** would i need a third arm for?
wilt the third leg allow me to run faster?!

i guess the term ethno-nationalist is
conflated with civic-nationalist in the ethno-nationalist
realm of "debate"...
a civic-nationalist is your casual parlance
h'american patriot...
patriotism in h'america: nationalism (still)...
in europe...
if we have to: hello, my name is: bob
do it all over again with the squares
and dictum assertions and what not attached...
between the ethno-nationalists and
the civic-nationalists...
the inter-nationalists...

i'm a civic-nationalist because:
i fear people need concrete examples...
i will not move back to Poland...
except on the holidays...
to visit my grandparents...
which is why i have retained the labour
of a native tongue... and "identity"...
i will remain in England...
until England becomes: Alle-Land...
and even when all these
ethno-nationalists ******* to Australia...
and become civic-nationalists over there...
well: over there good luck!

why would anyone ask an ethno-nationalist
the question: are you a civic-nationalist or?
civic- implies:
i'm a Brit from a grand "beyond":
circa 3000km away...
civic is a bewildering prefix for the nationalist
of a ethno- persuasion...
it really is... esp. when this ethno-nationalist
doesn't believe in the existence of
expatriates... that he would remain... "stuck"...
and that somehow... ethno-kin could come
and replace... those kin that left: "in good faith"...

savvy?!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.
ALamar Feb 2017
Tell me every one of your issues
Lay them next to mine
I'll be your warmth for this cold world
I've got the medicine for your mind
All you have to do is yield your guard for a moment
and give in to the climb
Pressed up against you I'm getting hard
I
Can hear your heart beating see the sweat beading
Your tender knees trembling
In consent  I slip
My hands down your pants
Your head
leans back with your slightly opened eyes appearing closed almost
Your soft moaning only turns me onward commencing
Touching and teasing
Muscles clinching
Firm gripping I'm
Massaging and rubbing your ****
Circularly succulently ******* the taste of your juices off everyone of my fingertips
This is what's typically done
After a mental ****** and the ****** attraction of foreplay
It. Makes. You. ***.

... Selah ...

Sipping sweet melanin
Dripping off the lips of your *****
Bursting with ignition
The taste of your black...berry
Licking the overflow off your body
******* 'til spirits nod
'NAO' emanating from the iPod
Augmenting
Bending syncing your body with a mind despondent of time
No restrictions don't constrict
Just grab my **** and maneuver it like a guided ship
With the lights off find the throbbing swollen slit and put the head in
And dip the tip of my **** inside your ***** far afield
Only yield after you've had enough
But not until I'm deep enough...To Fill You Up
JJ Hutton Jan 2011
It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.
Copyright 1/11/2011 by J.J. Hutton
NitaAnn Nov 2014
I am miserable
Both physically and emotionally
My head is pounding
My jaw aches from clinching it
My chest hurts from crying
Red eyes blotchy skin
I am a mess

Tired of playing games
Wondering if you care
Do you really love me
Your words say one thing
But your actions are the opposite

I cannot keep doing this
I refuse to play
I fold
I quit
I am done

I have played your games for too long
You can keep your "love"
I do not want it anymore
I am better than this
I am worth more

I am walking away
No looking back
Please just let me go
ZacharyBaca Jun 2017
I'm alone and I'm feeling stuck I feel the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest and  the pressure is unbearable. I'm in a different place but I feel like I see the same faces. I feel like somebody is after me and wants to **** me but I feel like that person lives inside of me. My stomach hurts because the pressure is building so I let out a yell from the very bottom of it. I can feel a hot rush to my eyeballs as my brain decompresses. I can feel the pressure agai Yelling is the only thing that helps. Still, I grab the first thing that I see and I throw it, it just happened to be a backpack through a windshield with a laptop in it. I want to hurt everyone who's ever hurt me and then I realize it was me hurting myself this whole time so I inflict another wound upon myself.



How did I wake up in prison again today when in last nights dream I got so far away. I love running away in my dreams because though I know I should be tired I never run out of breath so I'm able to cover quite a bit of ground when I run away from this place in my dreams. I also like to  breathe underwater. Right before I went to prison I was still flying freely in my dreams I could literally run and jump and fly from place to place but after three years in, I can't seem to get off of the ground. I'm wondering if it's some subconscious thing going on.



The guards yells "stand by for chow!" With elongated syllables and his voice travels down the run with purpose. This old prison has the classic looking Steele prison bars you see in cartoons and movies growing up, it's actually quite eerie. I throw my sheet over my bed and tuck the blanket into the edges so it sits tightly around the mattress and fits snugly in the 6 foot steel soap container type mattress frame that is attached to the wall in a way that you can for this frame up and ******* to make your 6' x 9' space a little bit bigger . I only do this after I put my books in a stack at the end of it because they were spread out with no organization like sub group of war refugees. I turn off the TV, click the desk lamp,  press stop on my tape player, but I let the fan still run. I fold up the drawing I was working on into my dictionary of symbols along with a couple of the poems that were simultaneously being worked on - it's like I have to work on 10 different things at a time to keep my mind occupied. I'm stuck in the cell 23-24 hours a day with ADHD and I was the type of kid to wonder the city for 16 hours on my bike.  I like it because I feel like I'm getting good at 10 different things at once and though I know i it's pretty much impossible to focus on more than one thing at a time I set aside small focuses for each thing in bits and pieces and then go to the next thing, it's quite refreshing to be honest.



I throw some water on my face brush my teeth and I comb my hair back  after I put on a fresh T-shirt, some new pants and my new shoes . Even though I'm wearing all orange I want to look the best I can because it makes me feel good. On the walk to the chow hall we have to go down the stairs and central unit in Florence, Arizona. We all squeeze shoulder to shoulder on the tight run of cells and have to walk Down five flights of stairs and everybody is in a rush but still acting like there just walking casual it's pretty funny to see people do casual speed walks. Everybody's cracking jokes and excited because   Tonight we get pizza and we only get it a couple times every six weeks for they have the menu on a six week schedule. It might taste a little bit cardboardy but who cares it's been years since we've actually had a real slice.  And if you bring some salsa with a little bit of your own cheese you can actually fix the pizza up to where it's quite delectable.  



We pass through the old metal doors and you could fill the air blow from above where the door fan is. As I walk into the chow hall, I can feel tension among the other inmates - it feels like when the lowest frequency on a sound scale with a bass comes in really deep at the bottom of your stomach and a high pitch of the top of your ear that is out of tune and doesn't sit well. You can always tell when something is about to happen because everybody gets quiet and you can feel it in your stomach it's almost like the same feeling of fear and anxiety because the guy who's going to get gotten never knows it's him. I give the guard my last name and I get in line to get my pizza. The food trays come out of the hole in the wall  pretty fast -  inmates that work inside of the kitchen have this down to a science and their muscle memory and pattern recognition is that of an expert sous chef.   Pizza corn jello and a cup for the potent artificially sweetened juice they give us. I'm going to sit down in the middle tables because they have the tables sectioned off for people of different color the white boys sit with them white boys the black people sit with the black people usually closest to the door. The paisas (Mexican national)  sit with each other, the Chiefs have their own tables among  the Mexican Americans. I never sit closest to the wall because if you sit at the back table closest to the wall that means you're striving to have prison political ties and that is something that never interested me because though I am doing five years that is still a temporary stay and I did not want to join a prison gang. But when you're on the higher yards like central unit everybody is pretty much down for the cause so sometimes I will sit back there with homies. Once seated I grab my squeeze cheese from my right pocket, bite a  small piece of the corner off the packet and and squeeze it onto my pizza. I  also apply  some hot sauce and I get o have my friends pizza because he owed me from last nights 49ers game with a bet he lost. This story was probably believable up until the point I said the 49ers won.



while all this is happening in the back of my mind I know something is about to pop off because I could feel it in my stomach. once you know you're good then you're good as far as not being the one about to get stabbed or stomped on but there is always a lingering thought in the back of my head like I hope it's not me that they're about to get. I know it wasn't going to be a prison riot because we all would have known we all would've been prepared with knives ready.



I started eating. Yup cardboardy. Now a little bit faster because my gut told me something was about to pop off and about 3/4 through my second piece of pizza I heard it.



Attacks are usually really quiet in prison usually you hear the stomping of feet, grunting and groaning or slamming against walls so you can feel the wall shake. unless the person that is getting attacked by anywhere from 1 to 4 people starts screaming for his life and begging the guards for help.



This particular attack started with hoofbeats feet on the ground and punches landing and struggling breathing heavy and grunting. You never really want to look directly at what's going down because you don't want to draw attention to the situation or yourself if the guards aren't  paying attention. Attacks like this committed in the middle of a chow hall typically indicate that the person being attacked has to go and is no longer allowed to stay in the general population with us.



I'm Going to say which particular race or who was attacking who because specifics can get a little bit sticky if you are journaling your experience I would hate to offend any particular race or be considered a snitch. three men were stopping another man and it happened really quick. I didn't realize that they had knocked him unconscious and he was breathing really heavy and snoring as if he were dreaming of a beautiful place and had a stuffy nose at the same time.



In what seems like is forever or at least a really long time only just a few seconds have gone by before you hear the guards rushing in. four now eight now twelve guards with fire extinguisher sizes Mace cans, Spraying the men on the face both attackers and victim.



It's crazy because when you're in a room and they use those mace canisters on one person in the whole entire room gets clouded with Mace or Pepper spray  and everybody goes down on the ground and  starts clinching their throats and gasping for breath. some men cannot bear it,  though they typically don't die it seems like they're right on the edge of their last ****** breath.



I just felt bad for the person who didn't get their pizza in time because they're  going to be hungry while we're  all locked down until  the situation re-centers itself. then again the other part of me was a bit jealous because I'm sure the Mace served as a hot sauce and they got to enjoy a little bit of that.  



As I lay dying, I put my face in the ground in my arms and take the smallest breaths possible because it feels like I can survive these breaths and when you breathe deep it stings so bad that you can't help but to gasp for air and cough and perpetuate the struggle.



  I drift off to the beach... Here I am with my feet in the sand at the ocean. I hear seagulls flying above overhead and their calls are panning from left to right like the cleanest headphones you've ever heard. I can hear the waves crashing in and I can feel the sea breeze on my face.  it's one of those days when it's not too hot out but you feel good in the sun with the cool wind on your skin just enough to add A balance. Kind a like a sweet and salty sensation. I love this.



I'm really thankful because last time they maced the whole group it was inside of our living space and we had to sit there for 2 hours and cough but it was only the first 45 minutes or so that felt unbearable. The first time I got maced or actually experienced mace in a really bad way it was when they maced my neighbor inside of the shower because he didn't want to get out of the shower and I thought I could be tough and not feel the effects that much and I was eating crackers while I could smell the mace entering my nostrils. A few seconds later I was on the ground holding my throat because I felt like I was going to die and I couldn't even swallow the crackers I was gasping for air and hating God for this pains existence.



Now again we rise  up on our feet moving back to the run  where our cells are located and I can tell that a lot of the people who have been in prison for a long time who are not in the political movement Are really upset by this because they just want to do the rest of their life inside of these bars at peace.
Abel Araya Aug 2013
The carpenter sits in his rocking chair as he thinks,
as the sun drowns itself into the dark clouds, he waits.
Waiting for something to tell him that he is no longer a boy anymore,
that his maturity and humility have been masqueraded
Into a body that resembles him.
Every night, when he eats, he sits alone
His plate as round as the moon,
He lights one candle on his dinner table.

Most nights, when he is drinking heavily,
he walks to the back of his house,
sits in front of an old wooden bench,
gazing across the lake and he picks up a book,
construing ideas and proposals that he fails to recollect the morning after.
He reads poems to himself, poems from books.
Poems about the nature and history of the human condition,
about the muscles and the tendons in our bodies
that bend and crumble and shiver at our disposal.
Bottle in his left hand, book in his right.
And sometimes he switches hands to highlight his drunken dexterity.
Clinching his book of poems as if they were his children,
too afraid to go out into the soft fear of the electric night,
and he was the wild one to present to this world.

He feels abandoned, dismayed,
and he no longer sees a light at the end this tunnel,
like someone or something is closing it,
leaving a crevice wide enough just to test and to tease
his willing and purpose to escape from it.
He feels a burning in his chest
as he trickles down the last drip of scotch onto his lips,
tasting death like it was tapwater.

It's midnight and he has to wake up in six hours,
wake up to a routine where his work becomes unnoticed
because he doesn't have the ***** to stand up for himself.
So, he sits and he waits for something to happen,
something fantastic or supernatural to help him grow wings
so he could relieve the tension on his shoulders,
his bones realigned to fit the being of gods.
He closes the book, walks back to his house
and blows his one candle at the dinner table,
blackening the room to fit the clouds of the night.
He lies in his bed as he engulfs his body with his comforter,
hoping to never wake up in a world that will not hesitate to laugh in his face.
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
’Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
Sethnicity Jun 2015
All Along this chain link fence
pulsing incessant down ground-ward decent

Bone paved side cracked and twisting this winding road
No street lights rest stops my nerve twitch eyes closed

swelling and curving no stretch in shoulder
Wheels rub the hot spot as ripples get louder

Sliding highways you know that fun
till happy turns hazard drinking redrum

tumblingdown head first
shatteringhigh star burst
scatteringmy focus
splatteringlike bone crush
scaffoldingdo not touch!

Another brick in the wall of fame
extra activity considered the game

Now Excel at macro Alt Shift and paste
spreadsheet my back line the facts on my face  

"Say Boy!, your speedy." from there I can trace
That needle-nosed issue in tissue displaced

bend over run forward turn left then cough
so perfect small packages get checked in then lost

Like milli tary or leaves when it out lived the need
***** the life from under shelter asteamed

Sleeping pins needle in terminal sensation
clinching and grasping to my spinal decoration

twisting and turning will bring no release
this physical chain from my **** cyst to neck leash

when typing or driving the pleasure is lost
when numbness takes over attention to high a cost

I'm broken together
one round at a time
yet the cords are in place
to ring in tune as it grinds.
cervical
Thoratic
Lumbar
coccyx
A long slow deliberate pulse of painful memories stored in the body...
K Balachandran Jan 2016
When she saunters
in a two piece bikini,
without making
any  pug marks
even on soft sand,
"Which one color
adds more firepower
to her allure
enhanced figure?"
is a question
never heard aloud,
all the same,there
hovers in the thick air,
quite tangibly.
Even with all the intimate
knowledge on her at hand,
it is still too difficult
to suggest, as she moves
with the deadly confidence
of a sleek armored car,
every one that appears on
the line of fire along
the  180 degree curve
sure would go down,
that's a daily occurrence.

But if on a  bikini in white
she would be seen on the beach
absolutely mysterious she looks
the decision on this is unanimous!
how does one  know this?
     -a stunned silence every time
       happens is the clinching proof.
Whisperings of a morbid night foretell
Of a humble visitor that the velvet shall grace
Hope sears through the indolent air
Mutterings of a sweet dream it lays.

And its wispy arms, it spreads
Turned crystal white with its eternal age
With clandestine diligency it works around
A heavenly glow kindling from its face

It leaps across with its companion
On amethyst streams, through its sprays
The curved drops of life falling with a time-less reflection
Vivifying the wind in the boundless chase

And it blankets the forests in its spell
It plummets meticulously into the dark
Veering down the crevices unwelcome
Effacing the veneer of darkness, on a journey it embarks

It's gentle in its temperament
But of sturdy shoulders it boasts
With an unfaltering expression it entails
With a vivacious drive, all, it endures

Somewhere across a strewn landscape
An irrational vindictiveness comes to work
A carpet of bullets laid across
Sprays the emblazoning red across in its mirth

Fulfilling a painter's dream
The lewd red glistens on the grass
A town awakened to a carnage of dreams
The stars flicker, frightened, the night they grasp

And a clarion mingled with the mud beside
A crestfallen spectacle it boasts
This verbose only euphemising the sight
Knitting the strands of malice, the blood flows

Cries of agony and pain resound through the stench
Corpses of infants clinching their mother's
And the face of a young girl clinging to a pole
Whimpering at the face, numbness inside, it bursts

And this despondent night, the visitor visits
Sweeps across the blown landscape, dispassionate
Stops beside the girl and in its soothing elegy
Tells tales of the battles of happiness lost in time's chase

And Hope, it lingers on
With ardent belief and patience to reap
And the girl weeping with blank, black eyes
The memories that shall never be cast, the mother she shall never see

The young ones of a bird remain
Stranded in their nest, their stomachs inviting
Squeaking and gnawing with their tiny beaks
Oblivious, their mother shall never appear, suffice in this cold, biting

A mother in a furtive torment
Fruits of whose shall have been sweet
A life that may have spawned, laughing with clenched fists
Unknowing, what the vicissitudes shall entail, what fate it shall meet

A boy with a kite in his hand
And a euphoric smile on his face
With dreams of racing with the wind
And mists of clouds that he shall chase

Hope casts an omnipresent shadow, moves along
With a passive effect binding them all together
Harbringing life, sweeps off the tears
Lifts them up to the zenith in its calm, dependent clutches

Kingdoms fall and statues wither away
The tide of time takes its toll on all, in the unduelled race
But Hope suffices, clings on to the little crevices
Gives little flocks of dreams for the girl to chase
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
21–40 of 11462 Poems
«1234»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by  
Faith
BY MICHAEL *******br>When I cannot believe,
The brown herds still move across green fields
Into the tufty hills, and I was born . . .
Teusaquillo, 1989
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
Flowering sietecueros trees:
How easily we married ourselves
to the idea of that bruised light . . .
Bright Pittsburgh Morning
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
This must happen just after I die: At sunrise
I bend over my grandparents' empty house in Hazelwood
and pull it out of the soft cindered earth by the Mon River. . . .
Hanukkah
BY HILDA MORLEY
This season for us, the Jews—
a season of candles,
                                      one more . . .
Winter Solstice
BY HILDA MORLEY
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears . . .
And I in My Bed Again
BY HILDA MORLEY
Last night
                     tossed in
my bed . . .
alternate names for black boys
BY DANEZ SMITH
1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil . . .
Listen
Attenuate the Loss and Find
BY ANNE WALDMAN
name appears
everywhere and in dream
body armor removed . . .
From “Citizen”
BY CLAUDIA RANKINE
/ 

You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there. . . .
Listen
History Will Decide
BY ANNE WALDMAN
All writing around the sides the persons a galaxy all writing resounds a hot history. All writing is in fact cut-ups history will decide games heated and heated economic behavior. To rise up scene all sounds of Tahrir and inside supply side threatened. A long delineation. Longer than I would . . .
ICC Kenya Trials: Witness
BY SHAILJA PATEL
was it so I could
never say
across a courtroom . . .
Mosaic
BY TIM SEIBLES
A carpet of light, the
ocean alive < half a moon
muting the stars. . . .
sideshow
BY DANEZ SMITH
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands? . . .
The Last Son of China
BY **** PING
.......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the . . .
The Skin of Sleep
BY MYRA SKLAREW
The skin of sleep
is thin. It will not hold.
Its contents stumble out. . . .
What Could Have Happened
BY SHAILJA PATEL
Wa
gal
la . . .
Everybody Has a Heartache: A Blues
BY JOY HARJO
In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon
The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights
Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going . . .
Good Friday
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
Jesus, I want my sins back.
My prattle, pride, and private prices — 
climbing, clinching, clocking —  . . .
ICE Agents Storm My Porch
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
The Indiscriminate Citizenry of Earth
are out to arrest my sense of being a misfit.
“Open up!” they bellow,
hands quiet before my door
that’s only wind and juniper needles, anyway.

You can’t do it, I squeak from inside.
You can’t make me feel at home here
in this time of siege for me . . .
Tablets
BY DUNYA MIKHAIL
1


She pressed her ear against the shell: . . .
«1234»
Dark n Beautiful Feb 2019
I don't know If I’m Having a Feeling
I don't have any emotions anymore
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Is my mind exploring my feelings?

While seeking happiness in this 18 degree weather?
Baking a melodrama cake,
Pounding away my headaches,
Clearing the path, making way for better
Eggs, butter, flour, sugar and raisins

Raising the bar, with the baking powder
Of transferring my feeling into logic,
As it blend into a smooth non stanza
Poetic form of puppy love, clinching

and all that rises, rise in due degree
And is in everything we see and do.
Tentacles twist breaking bow and mast.
Clinging and clinching to the once mighty vessel.
A ship once prized by the Navy
Now prized as a partner for the sea beast.
Each serpentine tentacle tightens,
Around wooden board, and cast iron fastener.
Creaking and cracking the boat dances as the beast leads.
Waves crazed as they are whipped to frenzy,
Matching the mammoth's rhythms.
They struggle to keep the beast contained.
White caps covering the beasts murderous desire.
The ship is his, and as dances do,
This one ends in a flourish.
Cracking crosstrees and foremast,
Collapsing the gangways,
Sails still whipping as the dancer's dress is ravaged.
And as quickly as it began
It stops.
The monster sinks back from where his strike began.
The tired vessel following quickly after.
The water forgets its rhythm and steps.
Inspired by a *** commercial? Who knew?
Brianna Heins Jun 2012
I was in the car with the mama of the girl I babysit,
her brown deep eyes like whittled wood flicked over mine,
and she asked me what I had learned at school today.

I don’t know, but I think it’s this spring fever
that seems to have burned a hole through my head
letting my brain bounce up into the blue abode
but the blame is not solely on the season

Everything I learn that keeps me living,
lives in the trains of thought,
thought by others.

The mothers I meet with the babies who greet the failure
at the first knock on their wobbly knees
compel me to contemplate further,
because with each waking breath
they are reminded that to live, you learn.

So I tell this fragile woman that today my teachers taught,
but the thought of their subjects
subjects negative connotations,

I want real lessons without plans to hand you wisdom, courage, and consideration

I get to learning in the jaw clinching, artery pinching, eyebrow flinching
awe of the way that woman can sing.
I’ve learned the color of my best friends teeth
because some days she smiles.
Learning to heal is hard enough, but to deal with a scab left raw
is something I will always need improvement on.

With, or without school I’m going to learn.

I’m going to learn cold beverage condensation rings,
percolating dreams,
my little sisters shy smiled wings
and societies racist, sexist, sizeist, ageist, ableist, tightly sewn seams.

Im rattling off my bare brisk list of ambitions,  
of pleading for a voluminous scholarshipped tuition,
as I sit next to this woman waiting for a robust reply
I’m learning, that the whittled wood gap in her eyes
are round with sticky sap.
She will teach her daughter academically, never letting her size our common ground;
The skies.

I want her baby to experience,
and as if on cue,
her yawn brings in the tides of the oceans in her eyes,
something she’s learning to cope with,
she’s grasping my soft word’s
“This too, shall pass,
make sure you look to learn with your eyes not your brain,
dear baby girl, choose water over wood,
and when your mama tells you to pack that school bag,
make sure its zipper barely closes over
tightly stuffed open mindedness, and a few colored pencils.”
Modern Serenity Mar 2015
Broken and defeated
front seat of incompetence depleted
Sleep deprived and laid to rest
beating and pounding in my chest

Evident thoughts run through my mind
time seems to be falling behind
Speak a word and i shall provoke
clinching fists and i have broke

Everything turns to an outbreak of rage
no more emotion could be bottled up and caged
I fall to the floor and I burst out crying
all I feel is me slowly dying
Hannah Mary Feb 2015
how is one supposed
to aver their thoughts and emotions
with nowhere to pour their words
and nowhere to place their heart for safe keeping?

one has tried locking their heart inside of a chest
where forests of anxiety filled skies and thorny vines await predators eyeing the treasure: a pulsing heart, torn in two, clinching onto the safety of benevolence.

but somehow, the heart is always gaining scars...
scars that have stories,
stories intangible of the human mind to even comprehend.

when flooding season arrives,
those feelings
those emotions
float up stream and settle onto the banks
where a human sits,
eyes overflowing with the truth of life: nothing can be hidden from our world,
from ourselves.
hiding how you feel is not easy. especially when those feelings eat you from the inside out. it's hard...
DaRk IcE Jan 2016
Much like roots of a tree sprout
love molds into what it desires, clinching the one
it desperatley seeks
everything that makes it
whole
one who can finish sentences before they are spoke
and understand unspoken words
never blind to pain nor needs
magic hands that soothe the wildest fires within a
troubled
soul
loving no matter how bad the storm is, or how you both shall
deteriorate
never venturing from one another, or falling into an empty
temptation
knowing the cost of such foolshness
love knows no boundaries, it shines in the darkest of days
and grows in the worst of storms
Pauline Morris Jun 2016
With my clothes in tatters, I stomp through the flood
Of demon and villagers body parts and blood

A steady straight line I trudged, my mother witch never taking my demon red eyes off
This was her only time to explain, her one shot

All the while vision flashed before my eyes
I watched my horrific child hood in my vision fly

I seen her hand me over, telling them to brand the symbols, do their worse
She wanted this girl child to hate, to feel that evil, and of all men curse

My mothers plan faild because of one tender hearted man
Who did put a brand a symbol of light, this she couldn't stand

So she cursed me, and with every good deed
The evil sunk in to plant the seeds

By the time the visions are through I was standing it front of her and the knight
Hissing the words through my teeth, "why did you want me on the side of the Evil Ones fight"

I stood there waiting, eyes glowing, teeth wrenching
Hands turning white from the fierce clinching

"My dear child I knew this day would come when the Dark Lord would be banished
And I as the leader would potrol the night with you by my side, oh the wonderful things on you I will lavish"

With that the sphere collapsed in on my kight and ****** out his life
There was a small twinge of pain, I flew at my mother, on was the fight
Killing him should of been my RIGHT

I committed the greatest evil,I wrapped my hands around my mother's neck and laced my fingers
She put up a hell of a fight, but I was younger and stronger in magic and strength, I choked her till no life lingered

And with that horrific evil act, the last brand sunk in to my skin
For it was the symbol of light, since the act was pure evil it was driven in

I was thrown and suspended into mid air
Pure white light shot out of my eyes, mouth and finger tips,raven black was now white hair

Transformation now complete
I gently touched down on my feet

I ran to my love, I flung myself on him
I cried and I tried every spell, I pleaded to the Gods, all of them
All to no end

So I gathered my self now a white headed witch with ink tattooed symbols covering my body
Evil still resides inside me but the light reigns, tho both are embodied


LEANA with a rush of air and a great flap of wings flew down by my side
I climbed upon her, she spirited me back to my woods so I could hide

My knights legend would live on in his deed
And in my womb he had planted his seed

He was now with his son in the netherworld, I'm sure he is watch over me and his daughter
He will see her with the love and magic of a white witch and his bravery she will have I will surly have his greatest
imprimatur
sean rozario Feb 2010
In this chapter of life,
I decipher decisions with my knife,
resting under a tree,
staying out of the light,
i know i must stay alive,
resting my hand on the hilt of my sword,
standing for battle once more,
I lower my mask,
to show my evil core,
a wondering ronin bent on settling a score,

I fight for family,
and poverish,
and anyones who's suffered,
my katana will strike for you,
pride of the samurai,
fire falls from the sky,
let the gods cry tonight,
tonight, tonight,

Using my thumb,
I release my zanpakuto from its sheath,
I'm ready to strike at any time,
but first i think of the ones i love,
for if it wasn't for them,
I wouldn't be standing today,
glancing down to see the three skulls hanging from my waist, residing next to my knife,
the man whom taught me to fight,
the day he died,
he lied in my arms,
i love.....
never getting to say who,
might have been the first time my father cried,
the same king hath slain dad in my eye,
was the same man,
to burn my son alive,
only proceeding to **** and **** my wife,
she ceased to cry,
I never shed a tear,
just held their screaming heads for all to hear,
i started to walk,

I fight for family,
and poverish,
and anyones whos suffered,
my katana will strike for you,
pride of the samurai,
fire falls from the sky,
let the gods cry tonight,
tonight, tonight,

With every clinching strike,
I **** the demons underlings,
slicing and hacking,
I remember each and every soul,
I'll pray for them,
not to be ***** in hell,
standing before the demon king,
grabbing my sword I don't even need,
I could **** this man with one bare hand,
he'll cower in fear as my kin never did,
I cut him once across his chest,
splitting his cage of once were ribs,
his organs spill to the ground,
finger through the blood,
lower down to grab his heart,
palmed his head in my bare fist,
raising my sword to his neck,
you think this is pain?
try hell,
with that said,
I split his head from his neck,
tying his hair to my belt,
a fourth skull i must hold.
copyrigth 2010 s.Rozario
Jessica Fisher Aug 2016
Under the flowering moon
Your naked body lies
Bound to the lunars tendrils
Tethering to your skins ambiance
Fingeringly scalinging the motions of your body
Following your soulful extractions

Silver lights incarnate driven passion

O' woman, woman of the moon
Of the night, of darkness
Dance with me
Dance the dance of love,
Of the heart, of passion,
Of Desires stowed deep within the mind

Beneath the woven fabric of a feral night
Entwined within the stitches silver aura
These stars our only witness
As the darkness spreads it's clinching grasp
Plunging our passions into carnal chaos

Watching the heavy rise and fall of your chest
The echoes of your hearts breath in my mind
The chemical passion of our physical bodies
Consumes the desires of our flesh

Shadows contouring to the night
The sweet nectar of your lips
An everlasting enticement to mine
Darkly decadent sensations pressing on
Only as creatures within can conjure

Elegantly crafting and artistically formulated
These darkest nights memoirs
Sated with our own designs
Unrelenting and intoxicating
Addicting and compounding
Anthony Williams Jul 2014
Can you know how much I want you in the parking lot
to be strung out like meter maids in a fiddle
against my cheek and hard shoulder relayed
avoiding no string explanations but easy riding
stretched out beyond once at a Beyoncé concert
just to see your halo tyres screech echoes
aglow in the ccs of my tiny mind
as it wrestles with your personal youi toy issues
like a playful puppy with a soft-fix-rated wish list
to bite a whole lotta wish bits of open road can you
bare to test how serrated tongues kiss in tune

it's a don't miss love once thought I can fixate on
sense passion peach scent parking zone zany catch
pitching selfies of us two so perfecto we're in pinches
clinching made-up rows with post-cuticular itch scratch
u-turn buff out delecto smiley multi-teethy smooches
a no blame game mile after mile lost in the now
distracted in your put me through mobile beeps
full on not coping in the full brunt of my own alone bed
we motel back to hands off places
into back-out but no back-off welcomes

like a newly opened up sink whole from car to sofa
we click an unbuckle so well whenever choice strapped
telling goofed dippy love yous in nuggets kilo unlocked
staking times to care unextractable from distractions
wacky made from all your spills of tickle-tacky flesh
not wondering if its drive away thrills will go to waste
it's great transferring the apricot dream deposit as soon as
we dessert amuse each other after another amazing inference
goodnight speak for can I never come down from this highway

more and more under the covers of darkness accepting
without a hundred replica 'oh... don't' thanks
about who amongst our friends we can invite due to starving
for a combination of something they think we might be cooking
because we hate surprising add-in too except samfaina sauce
the spice of safe healthier for the solar farm morning recovery
your orange sunjuice extras converting tact without put downs
into staying cool out of the fridge and try not wanting to be set
in ways runny over your chin causing poaching without a permit

I know how it looks but I can't face not facing you
that wrinkle in your nose when it twitches to say
I see where you're going with this enroute idea
and pull me into the fast lane for the unbelievable
believed fully in you for a lie moment
needing you flat on your face and up front indecent
with the café latté grounds for chatting late
you gave me such a let's revisit French roast stare
you melted the café glacé I saw inside with a party intuition

the cheer me sense you uptake and bring to any cold space
by star walk in **** roles enough to water any dry as dust pan
slowly across with room for all eyes following
and brush aside arguments
so I can stay here tonight?
OK I'll drop my things in the got it all together
now on a successful detour
hearing your exalted exam declaration arrive "yes" in the mail
a result with female passes so nicely played on a level field

stepping up so mall boutique professionally to a border crossing
you were in a graphic position to stay
in shape in a way not relaxing
but with visa entries for multiple tourism
volumizing my eyes with an apply now unzipped boo-boo
uploaded in youtube to dual carber eater in full HD biker
rolling in hard drive definition a bluray inexhaustible backfire
shining out between leather studs your patch
“I live to ride”
and for the rest of the world's club it stops there
how not frustrating is that heart's topper for me
by Anthony Williams
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
With my clothes in tatters, I stomp through the flood
Of demon and villagers body parts and blood

A steady straight line I trudged, my mother witch never taking my demon red eyes off
This was her only time to explain, her one shot

All the while vision flashed before my eyes
I watched my horrific child hood in my vision fly

I seen her hand me over, telling them to brand the symbols, do their worse
She wanted this girl child to hate, to feel that evil, and of all men curse

My mothers plan faild because of one tender hearted man
Who did put a brand a symbol of light, this she couldn't stand

So she cursed me, and with every good deed
The evil sunk in to plant the seeds

By the time the visions are through I was standing it front of her and the knight
Hissing the words through my teeth, "why did you want me on the side of the Evil Ones fight"

I stood there waiting, eyes glowing, teeth wrenching
Hands turning white from the fierce clinching

"My dear child I knew this day would come when the Dark Lord would be banished
And I as the leader would potrol the night with you by my side, oh the wonderful things on you I will lavish"

With that the sphere collapsed in on my kight and ****** out his life
There was a small twinge of pain, I flew at my mother, on was the fight
Killing him should of been my RIGHT

I committed the greatest evil,I wrapped my hands around my mother's neck and laced my fingers
She put up a hell of a fight, but I was younger and stronger in magic and strength, I choked her till no life lingered

And with that horrific evil act, the last brand sunk in to my skin
For it was the symbol of light, since the act was pure evil it was driven in

I was thrown and suspended into mid air
Pure white light shot out of my eyes, mouth and finger tips,raven black was now white hair

Transformation now complete
I gently touched down on my feet

I ran to my love, I flung myself on him
I cried and I tried every spell, I pleaded to the Gods, all of them
All to no end

So I gathered my self now a white headed witch with ink tattooed symbols covering my body
Evil still resides inside me but the light reigns, tho both are embodied


LEANA with a rush of air and a great flap of wings flew down by my side
I climbed upon her, she spirited me back to my woods so I could hide

My knights legend would live on in his deed
And in my womb he had planted his seed

He was now with his son in the netherworld, I'm sure he is watch over me and his daughter
He will see her with the love and magic of a white witch and his bravery she will have I will surly have his greatest
imprimatur
Michael Chandler Dec 2012
I woke up in your eyes
found myself on your skin
with each of my finger tips
I softly touch your red lips
admiring  them like rubies

Anxiety have u lying on my carpet
I grab the gold bracelets on your wrist
Stretching your arms to their peak
whisper in your ear a love
that can keep you warm at night
Satisfied in the morning

The sun rays beam through my windows
natural  heat touching our moist skin
You tossed your red boots,
to place your bare feet in
a comfortable place
i  feel your lasso
tied around my waist
I'm  giving you the truth

I lick your navel
spread your legs
Your eyes closed, heart racing
I recognize you
from the star on your  tiara,
to your  jet black hair,
to your American flag  hips
kisses on a superheroine's ****
My hands gripping your thighs
Your strong back arch ,
fingers clinching my carpet.
moaning to the ceiling
biting your lips; soft
legs tied around my neck

Sooner or later you'll leave
To the save the world
I could encourage you to stay
But I know love with Wonder Woman
Can't be real, that's the emotion
I only see in comic books
So I wipe my mouth
Helped you into your chariot
watch you fly into the sky
Dr Strange Oct 2016
Hiya gramps,

It's been a long time since I said hello
Not that I forgot about you though
It's just that things have been going kind of slow
I miss you, you just don't know
Honestly wish you never had to go
Life would have been so much easier wouldn't you say so
These tears wouldn't be flying like rain drops in the sky
Wouldn't be clinching this string so tight
Struggling not to say forget it all and just die
Belive me it's rather tempting but I could never bring myself to do it 
Always thought about that deathly frown you'd give me
And that judgemental shake of the head
Followed by the famous "I love you, but you got to try again"
Well anyways I just wanted to say hi I'm doing fine
You'd be so proud of me if you were still alive
For you and I I'll survive
Rest in peace grandpa I love you so much
ANUSHKA PANDEY May 2020
new, unused; you picked me up
from quite a few parched with dust over them
excited you were so was I to be selected after all.

picture of me clicked, lights on and a perfect setup,
you and me only with a cup of chai and not so bright lights.

love thrill and excitement,
the first chapter had it all,
you read it and loved it,
like never before.

with the passing chapters the story slowed down,
so did your reading speed,
started forcing yourself, with tired face and sleepy eyes
struggled just to move forward,a bit more, a page more, a chapter more. maybe you should have Let me go at that moment,
but decided to hold.
never did you forget to take out time for me,
I have seen you crying smiling clinching to your pillow like a kid,
also while reading when that pink blush slid. soon the story paced up again, there were ups Lows and heartbreaks,
and you were sailing through them all,
along with me.

I was about to get over,
we were about to end,
you wanted me to be longer but the plot didn’t allow,
you finished reading,
you competed with me and you freed me,
that was how I wanted it to end.

now I am free I promise to be with you,
through your lows and highs and smiles and cries,
that’s why it’s always said,
it all starts with a good book.
Savoir Jul 2013
Walls cover the grass.
Break them down, slide them to the side.
Tornadoes ripping on the lawn. Gently brushing by, making the sprinklers go off. Breaking the windows… kissing the doors
Volcanoes on my breakfast table, breaking the morning fast with a splash of lava squirting out.
A disaster; burning the village, breaking the bed… Leaving wrinkled sheets after it leaves.
She’s unbalanced and in need of a protector. But the laws are unbreakable. Fire breathing and constantly erupting the volcano is nearing destruction.
Violently coming over and over…
Burning everything in it’s way clinching to the ground for salvation. Still in unrest she falls asleep trembling…
Tammy Cusick Nov 2013
Try to be somber yet releasing that clinching sound,
up around her head peering through the clouds,
she'll call into command central listening to your voice yet apprehensible.
but to you I'm still invisible.

So call to ground and land your tired feet in the dirt,
either way you're going to get hurt,
you'll always end up with the lipstick on your collar,
a tare in your fine silk skirt,
but, either way you're going to be a bother.

Give her the longitude and latitude of where I will be,
she'll stretch around her arms and swim out to sea,
to push my bobbing head down into the drowning mass,
you yourself knew it wouldn't last.

Set out the sails call and search,
drop the anchor and set into sea,
call onto the cracken her heart angry distinguished and exhausted,
in the soil under the sea is a chest with a heart,
whatever we had,
we lost it.

You dive down deep in this ocean of a reluctant bind,
as for me the anchor I proceed to subside and reside onto you,
in everything you do.

I'll kiss your face to smile onto you,
I'll wave when the night calls and come back up when you set sail,
cause darling without you this world would be hell.

So call to ground and land your tired feet in the dirt,
either way you're going to get hurt,
you'll always end up with the lipstick on your collar,
a tare in your fine silk skirt,
but, either way you're going to be a bother.
Andrew Klein Sep 2010
It smells of soco in the air.
She gave up her body to preserve her dignity
But in the end, she lost that too.
There is nothing dominant in dominance.
Only preservation
And perpetuation of a dying era.
Unless dominance is dominance.
In which case, bring your pipes.
Pipes, pipes, pipes, pipes, pipes,
A thousand and three pipes
And not a single one of them on key.
You say it doesn't make much sense,
But frankly “*******.”
No one's got a gun to your temple
Praising the ivory role of the natural order.
That theory died out with hanging paper clips
Clinching yellowed notepads in their skinny fists
Shouting praises to Everclear to the heavens.
Just ask Salinger what it means to be expected
And I'll tell you my opinion on life.
I don't remember when this poem was written exactly, but it was never written to be presented in front of a crowd.  Something feels like it may be lost in translation from the pen to the open floor.  I do, however, hope you enjoy it.
Angela Sep 2010
In the darkness I have stayed
while in the sunlight the children play
I keep my distance from the light
clinching my hands and my eyes closed tight
Afraid of the sun beaming bright
so vibrant and energetic and powerful against the night

And when the sun finally goes down
then I can be silly and  act like a clown
dancing in the livingroom
Singing in the rain
The moon and stars enchant me
their soft white light enhance me
I feel I am free
I guess I am just a creature of the night
Welcoming it's mystery until the morning light
Clinching to the one thing I know,
an elegance that was sewn,
with the other side now more unknown.

Bulging droplets of wealth drench us favored few,
our worry of adversity quickly evolves into voodoo.

Lessons can be taught to those who are ignorant,
but we can't be fair, or fix every situation.

Harsh times can be seen in advance,
but only by those who aren't caught in trance.

So I will let you know,
from the balcony of my chateau,
when the world will get rid of those below.
It's the type of loneliness that weighs on your chest
Clinching your lungs
Draining your heart
Stuffing your brain
Freeing wasps in your stomach

Where you love your family but you'd be fine without them
You like your friends but chose to reject any contact
You long for complete isolation
And avoid any chance of human interactions

Where you feel so, so alone, you create imaginary friends like a child
Just to preserve your sanity
Trust me, when you lose them
You lose yourself

Its when you feel so afraid and confused and sad and in pain
Because if it's just you
You know you will fail
Fear of the hopeless
Confusion of the actions
Sadness of the loss
Pain of the emptiness, being the castaway no one really wants
Never really wanted

The crying is the worst part
Everything that makes you cry is in your head
Silent and exaggerated
For your lungs fail to function correctly
The tears keep falling and your nose keeps running
Mind races and you curl up in a ball
In your closet
With no light
Blind
Because sometimes its hard to open your eyes to life
It hurts to see all it's evil and so little good

Its the closest thing to that place between being awake and falling asleep
Or maybe between this world and eternity

Loneliness makes you want to be more alone
Its tricky like that
All you need is one person
I have around ten
But you can't see them
And I still feel the deepest kind of lonely
Just one person could save you
Someone to comfort me
To share the load
To laugh with
To love me
To care

But that is *******
Nobody could want to be that for me
Because I'm a broken, unfixable, pathetic, and hopeless person
And they know, as well as I do,
There is no future for such a young, destroyed person

It's the type of loneliness where you see no future
No hope
And no reasons
To keep on going
Sean Banks May 2014
The baseline throbbed
And the chorus echoed
With liquid confidence
And a substance filled mind
As I approached from behind

I put my right hand on her hip
My left hand clinching my pabst
She turn around and said,
“I thought you were going grab my ***”

I spoke no words, just grinned
She smiled
I hadn’t had this much confidence
in a long while.
She whipped her hair and my heart went wild

“Do you want do dance with me?”
She whispered in my ear
I placed my other hand on her hip
My beer hit the floor
I whispered back
“That and so much more”

“I want to move
And make time stand still
I want you to whimper at my will
And rise to my roar”


“I want to show you how good I am with
My words
And my hands
And my tongue
And my lungs”


“I want to show you the world
I want to paint portraits of mountains
Before climbing them
And from mountain tops I want to
Draw the sky
I want our eyes
To gaze at the stars within us”


“I want to learn everything about you
As I show you everything I am”


“I want to dance for you
As you dance for me”


We danced all evening

And due to my success on this night
It was the highest I had ever been.
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2016
Her door was the sanctuary to inner peace; a sudden enlightenment
Engaging the candle of lit eyes.
Mindful to the calm hush; Disappearing in self.
Body, Mind, Soul.
Beside her door there was a lake wide awake with open ears.
I stood there Absorbing her wisdom.
A depth of kindness with each interchanging current.
I learned to speak without words. Connecting thine eyes with hers.
All else was swallowed; Exhaling, then breathing again.
Fingers extinguishing all else that threatened a light shone from her.
Her Eyes.
She'd shone me courage, grasping my hand. Entwining her path with mine.
I bowed to her and her alone in guided mediation.
At that moment there was no need for mirrors, realizing that she was my reflection.
My spirit animal, my refugee.
She taught me the language of her heart, being shown in silence.
I journeyed a place ears would have no use, my tongue becoming a stranger.
A total embodiment to the gift of her and her alone.
A beautiful lesson in poverty; Clinching my hands in prayer.
                                                         ­     Blessed in her presence
Dark n Beautiful Sep 2018
Poetry is one of the *** position that most of us
Is afraid of trying, we squirm to the ideas of
Giving it a go: the *** in poetry goes …..
from the low pitch, to the high volume
Of ecstasy, it doesn’t always have to
Be after dark, it was said that the gay men

And women enjoy *** more than the straight men
Implicit and boldly imaginative: hashtag
the straight men and women

Sugar level is low, while the gay men and women
Level is high on excitement; it’s all about the enjoyment
Poetry is *** to new ideas of acceptance,

A lady in the street, but a freak under the sheets,
Shyness in the voice, to a loud thunderous conclusion
Of mumbling words: asking for help from the almighty

Tomorrow, someone is going to look into their baby’s face
And called him or her Poetry, after a night of ***,
The toes curling *******, to face images of Satanism
While clinching on for dear life: Poetry is life
Staying alive, be not afraid of poetry…..


*What *** is, we don't know, but it must be some sort of fire. For it always communicates a sense of warmth, of glow. And when the glow becomes a pure shine, then we feel the sense of beauty." -- D. H. LAWRENCE
Sourodeep Jun 2015
I so hoped the time passed a bit quicker
waiting for your call, for your reassuring voice
each passing second so long, I could
even count the tube light flicker.

             moments like these makes me ponder
             memories come & go, anxiously I  wonder

That day of my mother's operation
at the hospital, or hell on earth as I recall
on the other side of the door, praying, waiting for the call
those two hours felt like a generation
      
              moments like these makes me ponder
              memories come & go, anxiously I wonder

As a kid at the railway station, waiting
for my dad to return from the counter
the crowd growing big, our train about to leave
those few minutes of desperation, relentless searching

moments like these makes me ponder
memories come & go, anxiously I wonder
clinching our fists, we crave for something
how lively would life be
if we had it our way in the end
how gloomy would life be
if something else happened, which we cant amend
To all those times I spent desperately waiting for someone or something which made me a more matured  and patient person I am now.

— The End —