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zebra Jul 2016
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped

as above so below

the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
******* below ...flesh woven

does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy

then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children


i build  temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****

do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes

the catechism
of the  solar ****

to know
to adore
to prostrate

to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth

to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries  

those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives
Does anyone remember when
Baseball fields were full
When you always saw a hundred kids
When you drove by every school
Pick-up games of baseball
On every field you'd pass
But now the only scrub that's there
Is just overgrown, clumpy grass

I drove on by a park today
One that I used to play baseball on
The backstop was all broken
And the dugouts, they were gone
The field was full of garbage
Weeds and echos of the past
I remembered times between the lines
With a long forgotten cast

"HEY MISTER...MOVE...WE'RE PLAYING HERE"
"CAN'T YOU MOVE SO WE CAN PLAY?"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, SWING NOW BATTER"
"YOU'LL NOT GET A HIT TODAY"

I'd crossed into a baseball game
One from many years before
The ghosts of players long deceased
Were still playing here some more

I crossed back to the dugouts
Stepped behind and they were gone
But, as I stepped back to the old coaches box
I could hear their haunting song

"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"

I sat there watching the game take place
On a field not worth a ****
At least not in the present time
Then a kid hit a grand slam

He touched them all as he ran by
I saw it plain as day
The only thing I wished was that
I could join them and play

"HEY MISTER, STAND ON  HOME PLATE"
"THEN COME WALK OUT TO THE MOUND"
"WE KNOW YOU WANT TO JOIN US"
"WE KNOW IT'S HALLOWED GROUND"

I did the tasks directed
I joined the players from ago
And as I ran up to the rubber
I went as fast as I could go

I could feel myself get younger
I didn't know if it was real
But, they say as you get older
You're just as young as you may feel

I pitched two good strong innings
Then the echoes chose to fade
I knew it was just imagination
Of long lost players I had made

"COME BACK AGAIN TOMORROW"
"YOU CAN THROW THAT PELLET KID!"
"WE'VE GOT TO GET ON HOME NOW"
and...go back...you know I did!
After passing by so  many old vacant soccer and baseball fields, left overgrown and unused, that I used to play. I just dreamed that the children who once played there over the years, left some form of energy there, like the ghosts in a James Lumbers painting. I crossed the lines and the game was on...I'll be back again tomorrow, I have to ice my arm now.
Lexander J Apr 2016
Age Of Apostasy

I was born with the sun shining upon my skin
I was born into a world saturated with sin
pestilence shone, through his void grinned
for the second I broke from the womb the sky above dimmed

birthed not from a mother but a sick man
my coming heralded an end, the age of apostasy began -
those I loved killed by the evil inside
cursed by a Devils backbone, there was no where to hide

[but inside their minds]

now I live with the beautiful people and their screeching cries
I avoid their clumpy fingers, their black empty eyes,
vying for flesh and choking upon lungs of rubber
floating with a ghastly gracefulness that makes the north wind shudder

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes -]

with the devil inside I know only fear
knowing nothing of love, my soul bedridden and queer -

[maggots and live thriving
between fleshy folds]

in the distance a woman cries, piercing the silence like a bell

surely that can't be -
surely that can't be the scent of *** I smell?

Alas 'twas only wishful thinking, my pretence playing unfair,
the beautiful people finally had prey and were stripping her bones bare -

ruthless, ecstatic, bodies twisted and vile
clutching strips of flesh only then did they laugh and smile.

The Beautiful People & The Mannequins Of Plague

I walk amongst the beautiful people
hide my face within the shadows around,
with lungs of rubber and skin that's latex
they drift about our world without a sound

[so deliciously dark
twisted and vile
they grin from faces ghastly
rotting and puerile]

formerly they were perfect humans
whose selfishness strived for more,
so they re-constructed their bodies and faces
using skin harvested from the dead and poor

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds]

organs replaced with mechanical components
immortality sewn together with surgical stitches,
greed and jealousy bloomed inside our narrow minds
thus we began practicing the work of witches

but the stolen skin rotted upon their ancient bodies
leaving their yellowing, pestilent, bones bare -
to defy death plastic and rubber were used as replacements
but of mortality they were now forever aware

[clumpy fingers, bloodshot eyes
midnight dreams plagued with their shrieking cries]

for upon the pursuit of immortal living
we lost the people we once used to be -

now I flee their hungry gazes and grabbing fingers
living only with empty shadows for bittersweet company.

The Beautiful People II*

I add insult to injury and bleed into the glass
they've starved this world and left me 'til last,
only through alcohol and drugs can I truly escape
but now I sit here knowing it's all too little, too late,

I tried curing them with injections of compassion and remorse
alas they only mocked me with smiles that were forced,
with greedy eyes that lingered upon my untainted flesh
'twas clear their resentment was caustic, broodingly fresh

hating their bodies and all that could be seen
so precociously perfect, but with souls disgustingly unclean
infected with an obsession mutating into disease
humanity swallowed by the cravings they strived to appease

they are the Beautiful People, yes I have spoken of them before,
but I must mention their ghastly existence once forever more,
for now I have been abandoned in this world barren and dead
my body digests itself as my nose and ears drip red

I'm not well, my skin has grown pallid and lumpy
my fingers twisted, knobbly and clumpy
they scream in the night, they scream in my head
my mind polluted with the paranoia the drugs have bred //--

[come with me, take my hand
I will lead you to the promised land]

wind howling, breathing heavy, lazy
visions of hope going increasing hazy //--

oh please-

please-

listen to me before my conscience fully dies

whatever you do //-


DON'T LOOK INTO THEIR EYES!
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven.
It is eight.
Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold —
a mash drowning raisins.
I pretend like I don’t see it.
But it calls my name as I start my day,
even though it looks repulsive
and I have avoided oatmeal since college.
I toast some bread.

She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention  —
a reflex from my childhood.

Because as a child, 
my parents said I had selective attention. —
sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t.
When they got divorced, it got worse.
I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow
and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me
separately,

What time I needed to leave?
and
If all my stuff was packed?

But all  I kept thinking was:

Is that all there is?

You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids.

The thought of swallowing this is repulsive.
like leftover oatmeal,  it stares me in the face.
I don't want it.
Most girls I know are raisins —
They already have their whole
wedding planned on Pinterest,
and their kids names picked out.
Everytime, I  see engagements on FB,
I can't help but forsee divorce
and I wonder why people run for a
partner, kids, and a mortgage,
when in college their
ambitions were more.
I wonder when their
mid-life crisis will be,
or when they'll wake up
and want more than
9 to 5 to fulfill a lie
patriarchy put forth.

So I spread peanut butter on  toast and
murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.”
My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee.
I eat my peanut butter sandwich.
I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question,
as she begins sentences like
"Once you get settled,
you'll want to look for someone..."
I tune out.
I don't have selective attention,
just the perception that
everyone is ignoring
this important question:

*Is that all there is?
Confessions of a jaded millennial
Kasey Park Mar 2017
She looks in the mirror fidgeting picking
Distraught, destroyed, disgusted
Her stomach curves out a bit and her arms a bit clumpy
Wishing, wanting, wailing

She looks perfectly fine but not in her eyes
To her she’s a sack of calories
Body fat sticks to her more than her mother’s positive words
Her reflection looks like a painting thrown out of a gallery

A part of her is done, fed up, and over with it all
“The media doesn’t affect me cuz I’m better than that”
But stretch marks crawls down the back of her thighs
And leaves her uttering the words “I’m fat”

At this point she says it to please her friends
They all say it actually; it’s normal conversation
But at night she knows they all go look in the mirror
And stare in horror with fear, and agitation
~~~~~
A few days’ go by as she sticks to
Her brand-new diet routine
Apples for the morning and Chicken in the night
But results aren’t as fast as she seems

She trembles at the sight of her
Cannot come out of her complete disgust
Of the way she is; why was she born like this?
Is it possible for a body to suddenly combust?

Her friends don’t say much or notice at all
Which is ok she guesses since they don’t need to care
But just sometimes, she wonders if they can see
The way her ribcage struggles to take in air

A few weeks go by as she stands in the mirror
Once again as she always did
Dropped two pant sizes, now size 8
Healthy looking but not that fit

Or at least not fit enough for her
So she continues to tighten the measuring tape
Stomach tightens and tears squeeze out
FAT FAT FAT is all she can contemplate

At this point she can’t see her body
She sees an ugly, disgusting garbage dump
Slim red lines scatter her thighs and arms
Hair is turning thin and comes out in clumps

Only after a few months do her parents see
How thin their precious daughter is becoming to be
But they become so happy and compliment her
For dieting well and looking so pretty

“My dear, you’re looking good!” they say
“You’re looking better than ever!” They all sigh
“How are you losing this much weight so quickly?”
She just smiles at them and lies

“I’m fine honestly and I never felt greater!
It feels so good to drop this much weight
I should have done this a lot sooner, I know,
But at least it’s never too late”

The skin around her flat stomach; its all fat
Her arm bulge and legs do too; she thinks it’s all so bad
Why can she just be skinny? Why is it so hard
If only she were thinner, she wouldn’t be so sad

Tears stroll down her cheeks, head feels like fire
Her weak limbs start to boil in anger
The girl she sees in the mirror, she hates hates hates
Can’t see the damage of her mind, the danger

The mirror cracks as she throws her fists
Against the reflection of the face she hates
Disgust and agony pour out of her eyes
Torturing herself as punishment; she won’t hesitate

The core of her mind is now corrupt
Everything that she sees becomes threat
The food at lunch? Her mothers dinner?
Just the thought of eating makes her upset

Because if she eats, she will get fat
And she won’t be skinny and pretty
And if she’s not pretty who will love her?
She just wants to be loved; is that too greedy?
J Dec 2020
it's raining again.
It's been raining a lot lately.
I rush outside with jars usually,
tonight I sit under
and I fill myself up.
my hair clings to my neck
my face
my soul.
I close my eyes,
dipping myself in and out of
the sky's tears
in hopes that she'll never recognize
the difference if I were
to be extracting tears of my own.
There will soon be no distinction
between me and the wet.
catching a breath, I peer up
I blink so much I'm surprised I can find the clouds
They shield Gaia from the cold
I count the stars, though I mistake
the majority of raindrops for the plasma.
So I tilt down,
face to Hell
my hair curtains around me
as if a cat had torn them into nothing but
clumpy pieces of string,
and recognize the puddle of a person,
through blurry sockets,
that I can no longer hide from.
I'm in a weird writing mood. I don't write many long things anymore, though, as we see
Cynthia Thompson May 2014
Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests

Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep

Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high

Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting

Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.
For my Grandma, Filomena Maria and my Auntie Stella Maria, sorely missed.
Ronald Jones Aug 2016
Today she wore curlers in her hair
looking like cannons staked out ready to blare

Her lipstick and powder
like bouillabaisse chowder

And when she demanded a goodbye "peck"
I said "No way!" to the wreck

Which made her rear back and bray
"Go home then and kiss a stingray!"

She cackled and cackled
raising my hackles

Thinks she is the second Joan Rivers
but she only gives me the shivers

Soon I was fearing another fight nearing
seeing her witch's eyes evilly peering

And when she rose in those clumpy army boots
I heard an arpeggio of loud flatulent *****

Forcing me out the door needing fresh air
and away from her threatening glare

But one day I'll be back
once I can align myself on the proper son-in-law track
Deserie Indigo Jun 2013
I dare you
I dare you my son
To take off that faulty mask
and show your true colors
For you are no special god
no special creature at all

You made me believe in
hope, destiney, love at first sight
But I guess believing
is not worth knowing
until that mask has been
torn upon your face;
Glowing below the moonlight
To show the world
your monstrous form

My heart has been shattered
into thousands of pieces
But you won't dare bother
to pick them up
To be that brave warrior
And clean up the horror
you have thrusted upon me

I used to look into your eyes
And see the heavens
shining from above
Giving hope to all
my weaknesses in life

But now all I see is a ***** mask
Filled with unwanted
critters and clumpy dirt

You may as well love me
But I certainly
do not love you back
Knowing that wonderous mask
appeals to your face

Silence has faded out now
Let go of my hand
And let my heart
****** to the ground
Watching me sink
in the hurricane of my wonders

Dont follow me
Don't try to come back
Because now I see your true colors;
Black and white
No life
Just a prison
Captivated by torn walls

I loved you
I will always love you
But as long as that mask
is thrown on your face
My heart will never come
ERR Jul 2013
Tonight I saw the fullest
Moon, there were no
Shadows or pock marks on her
Face, beauty lune
Streaming silvery ribbons
Through the clumpy clouds
Through the night
Through my path, and me
And I was
In that moment
Fleeting and electric
Lucid and apologetic
Empty lunged and
Satisfied
In that Pompeii moment
I was not dead, or dying, but
Preserved
In that mercury, I felt tomorrow
In that quicksilver, I told
God my plans, and
Together, we
Wept
Lexander J Aug 2015
I walk amongst the beautiful people
hide my face within the shadows around,
with lungs of rubber and skin that's latex
they drift about our world without a sound

[so deliciously dark
twisted and vile
they grin from faces ghastly
rotting and puerile]

formerly they were perfect humans
whose selfishness strived for more,
so they re-constructed their bodies and faces
using skin harvested from the dead and poor

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds]

organs replaced with mechanical components
immortality sewn together with surgical stitches,
greed and jealousy bloomed inside our narrow minds
thus we began practicing the work of witches

but the stolen skin rotted upon their ancient bodies
leaving their yellowing, pestilent, bones bare -
to defy death plastic and rubber were used as replacements
but of mortality they were now forever aware

[clumpy fingers, bloodshot eyes
midnight dreams plagued with their shrieking cries]

for upon the pursuit of immortal living
we lost the people we once used to be -

now I flee their hungry gazes and grabbing fingers
living only with empty shadows for bittersweet company.
judy smith Dec 2015
Having stormed the 2015 catwalks, the 1970s trend is now tilting its felt beret towards our make-up bags. Good news for the party season, when a red lip and a metallic wash on the lids are ideal for anyone who struggles beyond the realms of a slick of foundation, bronzer and mascara.

Because while the era's make-up is rich in glamour, colour and confidence, it's also easy to emulate. So channel Jerry Hall and Diana Ross, and let Alex Babsky, UK make-up ambassador for Lancôme, show you how to get the look with a contemporary update.

Take one (above)

"Choose one element of the glam look - a shimmery or emerald eyeshadow, for example - and temper it with a subtle approach to the rest of your make-up. Think a nod to the 1970s, not Studio 54 pastiche," advises Babsky.

Here, he layered powder over cream shadow, in just one colour, "for more oomph" - using Stargazer Eye Dust in 17 (£4) and Anthony Vaccarello for Lancôme Hypnôse Eyeshadow Palette in Green Fever (£38). The strong eyes are balanced by "soft, liquid bronzer fusing into light, illuminating foundation, with a non-clumpy mascara [Lancôme Hypnôse Volume-à-Porter, £22.50] and natural brow".

Glow show

"The basis for all these looks is a perfected, but barely powdered, slightly sheeny skin finish," says Babsky. Look for an illuminating foundation, such as Lancôme Miracle Cushion (£29.50), which Babsky used here, or apply liquid illuminator underneath your foundation; tryLaura Mercier Foundation Primer - Radiance (£29) or Lancôme La Base Pro Hydra Glow (£28.50). "Leaving your skin with a reflective, 'real' finish allows you to incorporate bold make-up accents without it becoming overdone," says Babsky.

Shining Star

The sticky gloss of the 1970s has been superseded by a new generation of high-shine lip lacquers. "They almost roll on for a super-glistening finish. You don't need to blot, and they are a lot more comfortable on the lips," explains Babsky, who here used Lancôme Rouge In Love lipstick in 185N (£22).

Lighten up

"These are all quite 'made up' party looks, with a shine reminiscent of the glossy 1970s, but with a new lightness," says Babsky. Where 1970s make-up textures were often thick and gloopy, the 2015 version is all about taking advantage of today's finer, more languid textures. "A real must is a cream or liquid bronzer to give winter skin a much-needed moisturising glow," he says.

Here, Babsky used Giorgio Armani Maestro Liquid Summer Bronzer(£39.50) with a fine layer of Lancôme Belle de Teint (£35) over the top.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne
Lexander J Mar 2016
Slowly burning it glazes my eyes
a sorrow so pitiful, quietly it cries
excitement subdued, older but not ready,
my mind exhausted as I go on twenty

I feel shattered, these past years I resent -
a chance to live life, but in mundanity they were spent
'tis only now that I can see those wasted years
older and wiser and closer to my fears

my ego blames others, alas the fault lies with myself
insecure, selfish and obsessed with wealth,
serendipity being the most lethal disease
becoming the recluse I strived so hard to appease

at times I'm angry, the fury both caustic and draining
and if it's not my hygiene it's my love that is waning
blood black, clumpy and running thicker
soul cold-hearted, callous, self-centred and bitter

I care about nothing, no one, only about how it all could've been better
oh why should looking back make my heart heavier?

March 12th 1996, the day I started my graceless fall

this Saturday I'll be 20

but I simply don't want to be older at all.

20 years wasted.
Del Maximo May 2019
he saw razor wire atop perimeter walls
guards on walkways with rifles ready
“what have I gotten myself into”

early, early
driving out to the high desert
pulling over to check a map
I saw Easter sunrise in the Mojave
the rising dawn bending light’s spectrum
its pink brightness silhouetting
clumps of dark green sage brush
casting long spidery purple shadows
between streaks of golden light
as morning’******broke mountain’s peak

continuing on
I spied something moving in the distance
within a shroud of clouds
that was blanketing the ascending road
way high up ahead
tiny white angel wings came to mind
thought perhaps I was hallucinating
entertained the idea that I had crashed
and was going to heaven
as I got closer
driving through the warm mists
that strange movement proved to be
mundane yet fascinating
I’d never seen wind turbines before

I had never been to Tehachapi
got lost in the winding upper mountains
my friend told me to turn on valley road
but there was Bear Valley Road
Apple Valley Road
other valley roads
had to circle and back track through the greenery
but found my way

when I finally got to the prison
there was a long queue of cars
I passed them up to see what was happening
then drove back and got in line
a lot of visitors that day
to celebrate Easter in incarceration
but I was here for a pick up
I signed in and a guard called my name
Donnie came out
processed and ready
we shook hands and the guard let us leave
after I signed a release form

Don was always the get-away-driver
so as soon as we were away
from warden’s watchful eyes
I let him take the wheel
forgot to inquire if he had a valid license
he threw his gate money at me to hold
said, “that’s how much I trust you”
“I’d never let anyone else handle my money”

back downhill
driving through the desert
he heard a helicopter above
“they’re being VERY cool right now”
as he kept it at 70

approaching San Diego
we decided to take the scenic route
through the canyons
a treat for this city-boy
ascending once again on a lone highway
into dusky mountains

greenest hillsides were covered
with giant granite boulders
of all shapes and sizes
intelligently strewn in primordial design
an ancient herd of petrified buffaloes
frozen in time
foreshadowing the stampede of clumpy clouds
rampaging above in crisp cerulean

we happened upon a tickling town
people in period costumes
riding horse drawn coaches and carriages
selling jars of jams and jellies
too bad we didn’t stop and get out

back on the freeway
approaching the city
a cop car pulled up behind us
right up on my bumper
a uniform with a brown brim hat
probably a state trooper
intimidation tactics
hoping we would make a run for it
probably alerted to BOLO
for my friend
we froze at first
looking straight ahead
then I remembered to act natural
started talking to calm Don down
started pointing out the sights
along the freeway like a tourist
the cop gave up and backed off
I wondered if he thought
‘that must not be him’
or
‘these guys are good’
I’m sure he ran my license plate

I brought my friend home
met his mother and sister
bought some gas
(you don’t have to pay first)
and made the two hour drive home
just another day
in my boring life
©04/01/2019
alex Oct 2014
...
a few clumpy eye lashes glued by tears to a faded pillow
a book hanging halfway off of the dresser,
page 12
a water spotted wine glass with a faded purple stain
this is what heartbreak looks like
© Alexandrea Biggs
donia kashkooli Dec 2016
i had frizzy hair and braces and glasses but i still wanted to be liked.

i was eleven. i think i had just started middle school. my friends who just months ago were playing hopscotch during the last recess of the day had started experimenting with orange foundation and bleached strands of hair and clumpy mascara and even though i would get down on my knees every morning and beg my mama to let me wear makeup the answer was always the same,
"what are you, 35?"

i didn't tell her that just the day before the boy that was sitting in the seat in front of me on the bus put 2 pieces of scotch tape on my eyebrows because it would make me less ugly and everybody laughed so to avoid showing weakness i did too. the next morning another boy pulled my waist length hair in the hall when i was getting my books from my locker and when i turned around to see what he wanted he shoved me against it and told me that i would never be taken seriously if i didn't stop being a ***** hippie and cut my hair so that night i took a pair of scissors and chopped off a foot of the hair that had taken almost 2 years to grow. the next day i was tripped over a rock and called "osama's daughter" because i was middle eastern and the boy who did it had his friend record it on his sidekick. for the next 2 or 3 weeks i had a gnarly **** on my right knee that i tried my hardest to hide because i didn't want mood to know that his oldest kid couldn't ******* stand up for herself. the next day one of his friends broke my glasses that i couldn't see without because "they aren't making you any smarter. you're still failing all your classes, might as well be less hideous."
2 years later i received 1. then 2. then 3. then 4. then 5 anonymous messages sent to me on tumblr that listed everything that was wrong with me and why i should **** myself. i wonder if that person knows that i actually tried and i almost, almost, succeeded. i wonder if that person knows that my first boyfriend spent the entire time we were together trying to fix me.

then i grew up. and the same boys who tortured me as a child didn't hurt me anymore but instead complimented every single breath i took. and i wonder if they know that the reason why my need for male validation grew with every orbit around the sun was because of what they tattooed into that 11 year old girl's brain - "NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU. NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU," written in perfect cursive, in the brightest neon green ink that they could find.

*-z. vega
avalon Jul 2017
as i drive away from the cigarette town where my tattoo and blue mascara relatives stay i take off my yellow shades and sputter, blowing away the curry-clumpy feeling in my lungs that whispers you are all the same .
Caroline Roche Nov 2020
You were uncomfortable in the car. Mentally, and then physically. Your thoughts and stomach churning, your throat tight. Your body yearning to expel what you'd consumed. But nothing more than 30 minutes of discomfort, that's all. You laughed through it, comforted a friend. You sat with discomfort and then turned the page. Onto the next...

You smiled a lot. You bounded up boulders, sure of your footing. Or rather, never unsure of your footing. You moved in a pack and then alone on your own path. The rocks were beautiful up close, swirling and sparkling, embedded with coral and shells. The people around you made you happy and the sun made you happy, in that pool of warmth on top of the rocks. You wanted music, but when it was not there, the sound of silence was beautiful too. Or the sound of the desert, which is not exactly silent but something close.

The sight of the world kept hitting you in the chest. Literally breathtaking. And each time a new wave of gratitude would hit, but also some sadness. Why would you EVER give up your lucky existence in this beautiful place? What stupid, surface-level **** would make you want to do that?

Your friends needed you at one point, and you realized how much you meant to them and they to you. Ali crying broke your heart. You couldn't stand the thought of any one of them feeling alone. You thought and said, "We're all alone together," which is a cheesy line from a song that rang especially true. As scary as it is to be alone, we're all here together, separately, but to support one another.

You sat in a huddle on the edge of the world with people you loved so dearly and laughed and hugged and cried and realized the rest is just *******.

And you thought maybe all that matters is doing it all before you die and love, and maybe love is God.

Everyone reconvened and walked down a path in a big clumpy line through massive rocks and Dr. Seuss trees with music echoing through the canyon. We stopped and danced and took our shoes off in solidarity with Ruby. It was cold, but I don't think anyone was ready to leave, despite being 20 feet from the parking lot. So we danced barefoot till the sun disappeared.

Be grateful, love, and all the rest is *******.
Lexander J Aug 2015
I was born with the sun shining upon my skin
I was born into a world saturated with sin
pestilence shone, through his void grinned
for the second I broke from the womb the sky above dimmed

birthed not from a mother but a sick man
my coming heralded an end, the age of apostasy began -
those I loved killed by the evil inside
cursed by a Devils backbone, there was no where to hide

[but inside their minds]

now I live with the beautiful people and their screeching cries
I avoid their clumpy fingers, their black empty eyes,
vying for flesh and choking upon lungs of rubber
floating with a ghastly gracefulness that makes the north wind shudder

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes -]

with the devil inside I know only fear
knowing nothing of love, my soul bedridden and queer -

[maggots and live thriving
between fleshy folds]

in the distance a woman cries, piercing the silence like a bell

surely that can't be -
surely that can't be the scent of *** I smell?

Alas 'twas only wishful thinking, my pretence playing unfair,
the beautiful people finally had prey and were stripping her bones bare -

ruthless, ecstatic, bodies twisted and vile
clutching strips of flesh only then did they laugh and smile.
Sam Temple Jun 2014
overgrown logging road
clumpy grass hiding gravel pathways
and crushed rock culverts
soft mosses in shady patches
allow momentary peace
for worn shoes and blistered feet
hiking to the summit
seeking serenity –
silent horizon sits to the left
mocking the dust
as the evening sun dips
in a steady display of grandiose
color melding
splashing across the western Oregon skies –
pattering of fluffy rabbits in the underbrush
followed by the far off whistle of a bull elk
chickadee’s flutter and sing
as I quietly experience the forest
in all is undisturbed glory –
flash catches my eye
drawing me back to the present moment
four-point in velvet sizes me up
snorting unease
showing interest
as ears twitch
matching a wet black nose
lifetimes pass as we
caught in each other’s gaze
contemplate the moment
one with nature achieved –
in an instant
muscles coil and legs spring forth
majesty crashes
through ferns and yearling maples
covered by a canopy of hundred year old fir trees
wiping sweat from my brow
and a tear from my eye
I continue down the old mountain road
wondering who will share my space next –
Sam Temple Apr 2015
breaking out of a broken home
misery makes for interesting bedfellows
the project blocks shrink in the distance
while he makes his way for parts unknown
     thinkin about being full grown

odd jobs fill the lonely days
and hunger pains give the night hours life
looking out from a tattered box
understanding all his dreams are blown
     wishing he was really full grown

on an oil crew just outside of Gnome
spring in Alaska so nice and mellow
attempting to make a living wage, meeting resistance
feeling like he is all alone
     knowing he is not full grown

on his knees he sits and prays
to grant him happiness, to take a wife
without a key, he picks the locks
like a mighty bird already flown
     he waits and waits to be full grown

through his matted hair he pulls a comb
the tangles cause him to scream and bellow
but he doesn’t give up relaying on his persistence
never realizing he is completely owned
     which is the year he becomes full grown

on the soft grass he stares and lays
looking back on the years of strife
imagining himself free like the Fox
escaping his lips, a defeated moan
     I may not live long enough to be full grown

in a nice wool suit sitting by the phone
looking out at the daffodils blooming yellow
a flash of realization hits him in an instance
all I do is **** and groan
    waiting to be told that I am full grown

peace surrounds him and the feeling stays
rest finds him, granting and end to his life
buried now under clumpy dirt and rocks
he died as he lived without ever getting the bone
    not really knowing he was always full grown
Lexander J Sep 2015
I add insult to injury and bleed into the glass
they've starved this world and left me 'til last,
only through alcohol and drugs can I truly escape
but now I sit here knowing it's all too little, too late,

I tried curing them with injections of compassion and remorse
alas they only mocked me with smiles that were forced,
with greedy eyes that lingered upon my untainted flesh
'twas clear their resentment was caustic, broodingly fresh

hating their bodies and all that could be seen
so precociously perfect, but with souls disgustingly unclean
infected with an obsession mutating into disease
humanity swallowed by the cravings they strived to appease

they are the Beautiful People, yes I have spoken of them before,
but I must mention their ghastly existence once forever more,
for now I have been abandoned in this world barren and dead
my body digests itself as my nose and ears drip red

I'm not well, my skin has grown pallid and lumpy
my fingers twisted, knobbly and clumpy
they scream in the night, they scream in my head
my mind polluted with the paranoia the drugs have bred //--

[come with me, take my hand
I will lead you to the promised land]


wind howling, breathing heavy, lazy
visions of hope going increasing hazy //--

oh please-

please-

listen to me before my conscience fully dies

whatever you do //-


DON'T LOOK INTO THEIR EYES!
hannah way Jul 2018
Suddenly, I find myself collecting my past in fist-fulls
wondering why it was all so easy to forget;
how all these memories
managed to burrow beneath
my clumpy brain and remain there,
unharmed yet harmful.
I envy you
silly boy, and your consistent emptiness--
How is it that you are free from your past
while mine begs for forgiveness?
h.w.
Peyton L Jun 2020
When I close my eyes
press the heels of my palms into
the sockets, push them into my skull
ever so slightly,
the phosphine images dance
even in utter darkness.
Sometimes the colors are cold-
purples splashes like deep buckling
bruises on skinned knees,
heart blue of a stormy sea,
gray ash covering a consumed funeral pyre.
Sometimes they are warm-
crimson reds flash with dull orange,
a yellow hue to soften the background,
a golden brown like the sun
beaming on slick mud.

The lids closed over my crater eyes
lips parted as I just experience
the sensation of being
nothing and everything all at once.
And when I remove my hands,
open my eyes,
I feel infinitely different
but the same.
Everything and nothing has changed
a fundamental feeling inside has gone
away but only just emerged.

I look at myself in the mirror
and do not recognize who stares back,
but have never imagined her differently.
My face doesn't quite look like mine,
like there used to be some other
consciousness inhabiting
the expanse of my skull
like a different heart
beat inside my pericardial cavity.
My fingers look too short,
my hair too long,
my nose not squishy enough
but I remember feeling the locks
of my hair between my
too short fingers,
remember scrunching my
not squishy enough nose
at smells not satisfying
I remember feeling every inch of my skin
even if it seems too warm or too bumpy
I recall placing my hands on my hips
when displeased
sticking my too wide tongue out
batting my too clumpy eyelashes.

Running my tongue over my teeth
the smooth pearl-like bone
feeling the jagged points of my canines
and fainty remembering
moving a salty, chalky pebble around my mouth
twisting it with the tip of my tongue
slightly biting on the surface
the friction of stone on teeth jarring
and I spat it out
the saliva covered pebble
striking the ground
leaving my spit to absorb into the Earth
a little peace offering
to Mother Nature.

I have always been of this universe
the material of stars coursing through
my tiny veins and capillaries.
My nerve endings
like nebula just beginning to take form
my eyes like swimming in
a galaxy of green and yellow and gray
my stomach acid like the uninhabited
surfaces of lifeless planets
outside of our solar system.
The thoughts in my head
like the ever-expansive space
us humans peer into when we
stargaze, our wonder at the falling stars
how we find the depthless dark
of infinity beautiful and terrifying.

I have watched many things burn
stared at books disappear into dust
observed as bonfires
go up in flame and smoke
but nothing will burn quite as bright
as intensely white-hot
as the hunger in my eyes.
this is also posted on my Instagram, @poetrypeyton
Justo Yanez Oct 2019
Out of the window,
They fall like slush
White and clumpy.

They are bonded by their freezed-wet flesh.
They gather and fall
Gather and fall.

The buildings loom in winter fog
That rises and stalls
And like my mood,
I am foreboding.

I wish it could come and go
This winter-ous fog
This smog of doom
The stale flesh, the memory that
Broods.

And in my head, it a beehive,
That drills holes in two.
And like the other day,
I decided to do

The very act I did
At fourteen
Perched on my tongue
Two by two

The same time the german elder
Told the same joke of the train
That stops at the station
Two and to.

If I could die, I would have done it
Swiftly and true.
But I cower and I cower and I cower.

And like the snow out the window,
I disappear in twirling crystalline cotton
That falls into the same
abyssal, black hue.
Bethy Dec 2018
I wake with the sun
In hopes of meeting you.
thick with pasteurization,
you have the probiotics I crave.
Chilled from your Frigidaire home,
all you need is a stir.
lumpy and unsatisfying,
homogenization is the goal.
I mix tirelessly until nightfall,
praying for your smooth texture
At last,
it is mixed.
or so I thought.
your betrayal,
clumpy.
It leaves me hurt,
and hungry
I must mix again.
Antony Glaser Jan 2022
Struggling clumpy hydrangeas
unkept by design
Daffodils, appearing like clockwork
verte, emergent storks by decree
sandra wyllie Feb 2021
at the bottom
of the *******

Jack box. After wading
through rocks of sugar-
coated clumpy munchies

you end up with a scrunchy
that snaps as you
have it hold your pony.  Not

real, a phony covered in
thin paper. Thin as a wafer. If
you savored the edible trip

you could have lapped
the journey of cardboard
that pulled all the chords of

your red velvet harp. But no! You’ve
a tummy-ache and a rubber snake
for your woes!
Antony Glaser Dec 2021
Winter comes like a thwarted bride,
dispensing her sullen wares
snow sunken ha ha's languishing,
meet Jack Russell midtone,
iced cold hubris of the fallen leaves,
with shadowed pavements
cloudy oval Moon,
stripped trees like painted black pylons
unyielding hard clumpy soil.
Stark Raven searching scavenged food,
no velvet fields
evading the princely capture
of a starry night.
open your eyes
you won't travel while they're closed
or will you?
reality or not
is the current
predicament
is it even your decision?
crisp clumpy clouds
carry you away
but you might want to stand
on your own two feet
or you might need to
you deserve the reality you wish to see
all you need to do
is escape your own imagination
and find what you are imagining
june Jun 2018
surrounded by the broken egg shells
surrounded by spilled milk
the cottage cheese is clumpy as it runs down the freezer door

but im reaching anyway
because my failures surround me
but this noosa yogurt is top shelf
how expensive are you?

— The End —