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Bryce Jul 2018
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.

When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.

Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,

and should not be the end of the penman.

When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth

It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;

whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall

Descriptive yet lies

Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ******* of thought, that leftover dream of God

That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
This yellow saree she wore
Just once in her life had wrapped
A coy twenty-year-old bride
Tentatively setting her dainty foot
Into the hesitant bridal home .

Somewhere in the backwoods
Several industrious silkworms
Had spun miles of salivary yarn
In the foliage of the mulberry tree
To make this golden yellow saree .

The rustle of her silk drowned
The wails of the boiling cocoons
The worms died that beauty would live
In their plaintive cries lay bridal hopes .

My mother, the bride of yesteryears,
Is now as non-existent as the worms
That had ceased to exist spinning
The smooth silk for her bridal finery .

Her bridal fragrance lives on among
The delicate folds of these gossamer silks
That the worms had died weaving.
Death is so fragrant , so memorable.
Travis Hornsby Sep 2014
I am your platter
Of sterling silver
Serving up a pig
Of visible bones
Naked and dying
Suffocating on
A poisoned apple
A poisoned gag-ball
Regurgitating
Salivary screams
And my heart is set
In loveless resin
Resonating love
But never beating
Again until you
Peel away my chest
Peel away my heart
And **** out the love
Through your proboscis
Until I am just
Gag-ball, resin, bone
Bryce Aug 2018
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree

walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate

And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state

humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.

And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.

Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers

We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life

Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air

Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss

When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!

A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!

I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!

She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!

Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!
Lora Lee Jul 2017
applying his
              lingual buds
   to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
         as a lava lake,
          no stone skipped            
                          just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
   pounding thunder
        in consonants of
             taut skin drum
                nuances in vowels
         uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
              fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
        before time
              now ready
              to be filled by the
           essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
      to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
                     any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
            glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
      eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
            and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
         apart
   heart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuObGsB0No
Hus J Jan 2022
Do you fancy
A lollipop feast
Salivary glands over productive

Just one day of sweetness
Wouldn’t ruin much perhaps

After party was tasteful
Lingering longer than it should

Picking up a lollipop after some time
Unwrapping took forever
Hesitated to shove right into
The colour appear rather surreal
Was it used to be?

Second thoughts always ****
Stood still with a unwrapped lollipop
Thinking if We should
spysgrandson Dec 2012
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout  
my salivary will weep  
in effortless anticipation  
of jubilant mastication  
of the flora and fauna  
of my own culinary killing fields  
that allow me
a few more waltzes  
in this soundless song of air
my last poem, the woman on the bus, was timed with the 150th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation and the topic was our legacy of discrimination against those of color--this poem, the repast, was inspired by...broccoli
Onoma Dec 2014
Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding - heel steady
tottering
navy lace snags
upon brick dipped in night
save for - street lamps poignantly
establishing form to
lips seeking
to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving - salivary essence about mine

my curls remember being dragged
across,
- then –
pressed firmly against the brick
snagging
on vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone
ground deep – pressurized
into dust against my own

Serotonin, oxytocin fuse
Blown -  
Neural patina – thick
Pompeii to Vesuvius
Diffuse
Carbon filament lattice
Clings - to
ancient couple
cuddling
in ashen grave

Compressed densely

Perchance time will compress this grit
creating friction under sole.
(original)
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding my heel steady
tottering
i snag the back of the navy lace and reinforced zipper against the brick dipped in night
save for what the street lamp would poignantly establish form to
lips seeking to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving your salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged across, and then pressed firmly against the brick
snagging on their vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone ground deep - pressurized into dust against my own
seratonin and oxytocin blew as if from my palm like a handful of pixie stick dust
every acceptable neural region coated thick as if Pompeii were subdued again
the couple cuddling in the ashen grave nestles about my conscious
the delicate filaments of carbon clinging about their frame compressed densely
time perchance will compress this grit creating friction under sole
Amaya Bhavya Oct 2016
We just have a few months to go
a few more juvenile fights to handle
a few more days of sneaking out of the class
and for the first time
I don't want the bell to ring early

As each second passes
the dress seems to crease
the dust settles
layer by layer
fighting its way through
it's the last time I'd wear my favorite clothes

The pencils start to shorten
erasers still get stolen
those notebooks still have our chats
the green board carries your creativity
benches would be my favorite mini bed
I promised myself
as I lay my hands on it

My hippocampus reached near to full
lacrimal glands prepare itself
tongue waiting to utter words I never spoke
one last time
salivary glands would miss it recess job
coming from the ground
after playing in the sun
sudoriferous glands loved those strokes of light

I could hear the radiating, chirpy , & shuddering voices
coming from the corridor
happy faces, sad faces, frowned faces,crying faces
promising each other to stay in touch -
half lies
the emotional fools who believed it

I remember crying on my first day
as soon as I stepped
I felt like running away
who knew this would become my favorite destination?
Butch Decatoria Sep 2016
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings

A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?

Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs

Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth

I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...

His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.

If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"  

**** chicken heads again?
*Same ole same old dope...
09192009
SH Jun 2012
Confessedly, I try to read you
like a poem. The vowels your
lips hug, how your teeth
bite the consonants, the
salivary slips of the tongue:
Flashed. On the surgeon's
table for inspection, diagnosis.
But how your syntax spurts
across, your rhythm irregular
unlike heartbeat. Your stream
of consciousness running,
unceasingly as blood. Your
diction as numb as anaesthetics
(as alarming as a sudden
awakening mid-surgery.)

Even if I could dissect your speech,
your mind remains a mystery.
In the ill-lit room singed with ovens’ heat
Swift hands deftly turn wheat ***** sweet
The air exudes a smell of pulpy soft taste
Blended with the odd fragrance of sweat!
Here reigns under the tin shed eternal night
As if by some design is forbidden daylight
Roll out confectionaries crisp and light
To fill the mouths with salivary delight!
Bread, cake, cookie and cherry bun
Kneading them in the heat is no fun
The bakers’ faces glow warm and red
Faster they must go before they rest their head!
The delicious stuff are relished by kids and grownups
They savor the flavor with their hot morning cups
Do they ever pause or give it a thought
How those laboring bodies in the heat rot!
What I saw at a Bakery
The Fire Burns Nov 2016
Honeyed sweet lust
drips a trail
I long to travel
tongue travail

Pert and round
ripe, ready to pick
my mouth waters
as I long to lick

Anticipation pains me
I want to dig in
my body readies
for original sin

Salivary sensations
toppings galore
this time its honey
no need for more
Chris Saitta Dec 2019
Corded muscles of the neck ferry the voice of sky,
Charon of words adrift in a salivary dislocated sine,
A fracture of breath, the stenciled rowing of a sigh.
Psychopomps of moonlight, past-throated vultures,  
Carrion of clouds even if stripped clean in vulpicide,
Even if our scorched and coining tongues tip at stars.
In Greek myth, Charon ferried the dead across the river Styx and Acheron in Hades.  A coin was placed in the mouth of the dead to pay for passage.

Pyschopomps are figures who guide the dead to the afterlife, in myth and some religions.

Vulpicide is the killing of a fox.
Meagan Moore Feb 2014
Island in gathered
Lavender sheets
Lilliputian dregs congeal
- Missed shots in the dark

Slack-mouth “no”
Echoes in peeling paint

Globules of restrained ***
Hollow my form

I touch my own lips
Not consenting to their last
Tryst.

Marlboro reds cling to
Salivary memory
Turning in my tongue –
Tucked along the
Cusp of my teeth

Pressing
Trying to expel the taste
I spit

Flecks spatter amidst
His-release…
This was written from a prompt in class. We were instructed to write from "the shadow," or the darkness within. I was given the words "****** *******." I went into the shadow, and I am not certain if I like what came out, but I will not ignore what did surface.
the god I love
doesnt hate me for anything
nor do i need to ask his forgiveness ever
sometimes he shakes his fist because i do things
burn my speeding ticket, "on accident"
its only ironic when youre on trial

ive got heads where fingers belong
ive got sharks that swim in salivary glands
ive got a whole world inside my head
weve both got five points to our fists

the world i love is bright enough for this life
heavens an un-necesity and a  compartment for the beggars
my blood bleeds downstream
my **** is the dankest around
i know when my deaths close
the more the world welcomes me the further i get from my home
ive spent a couple centuries trying to find an angel

one day i looked down and saw the shadow of it
and i started wishing i wasnt afraid of heights
Roberta Day Apr 2021
You maniacal clown
Disguise your desires
with a ****-serving brow
and a ****-eating grin
Thicken your tongue
with salivary persuasions
tingling with malintent
Shredding my mouth
so it hurts to speak
Infiltrate my neurons
until they’re rewired
and I have no more desires
I'm jumping in late but better late than never.
this feeling bubbles up,
from the cauldron below,
the hot smoke pushes through,
my organs that were once snow.

salivary glands seep,
and mouth becomes too big,
as this gripping pain,
dig, dig, digs.

the spew of my tangled thoughts,
this my coping mechanism,
exposes all the evil,
as if my own exorcism.
Laurel Leaves Nov 2017
in love with
linoleum pressing into the side of my face
the familiarity
lapsing reminders
to sleep
eat to
give into ritualistic habits of
living

exchanged the need
desire
with the pulsing sensations
of a beating heart
drying salivary glands  

is this existence
once your brain cells have all lined up
two decades in
the never ending string
pulling through your throat
repeating the same
anxious anecdotes
of

no one could possibly
relate to this
narrowing pit
that we're not going to
make it out of this alive
no one ever has
Wrote this mid panic attack
wichitarick May 2016
The seduction of our Salivary  glands began with masses of often overlapping flavors
  Tingling  leap start ,wide eyed but also an abrupt whoa,terrible to terrific
Oblivious ,willing to try ,why not ,blending in the beginning  learning tastes as translators
Breathing in and licking the lips ,wiggling and giggling ,is it? is it? OH the dog.

   Sensory sensations occurring regardless of our inhibitions or wants or needs ,occurring around ,mild or profound
   Youthfully gullible , playing a new game ,scents & smells starting to form deeper wells
  Blush with a rush ,warming into oranges the pinks more profound when arising into the reds ,leaping circling around
Begging for release from the beginning ,but unknown excitement rising edges ,wider wedges ,calmer pastels

Flexing ,fluctuating far out feelings ,far flung excitement all gathered into one instant nervous burst
Staying back,trying to adjust ,mildness is objected to when the rest of the time is only described with bright adjectives
Then we laugh because we have it hidden ,but never quite knowing the blur still an unknown abyss,but always first
Open minded children begin the journey into finding nameless noises,shadowy flavors or tastes moving,directing like detectives


   Burning RED, drops of BLUE, Icy WHITE, now fixed in the mind ,time lost in odors ,blinking color palates poised
  Wanton wisps centered onto extreme extracts ,visualized often sensationalized into auditory overload
Simple as it has begun ,left with nowhere to run, taking it in stride it can never be put aside ,permanence never destroyed
Excreted excitement now being assessed is a far flung idea ,unless you live it, Raising and rising into an endless plateau .R.C.
ATL Sep 2019
I am unborn,
clawing through clutter
and encouraging my salivary
glands to push moisture
through the will of hypotensive
medication.  

Laying next to my betters,
begging to die of a heart attack
while I *******.

It’s nothing like falling asleep next to someone.

I am nothing
but half-breaths lent as largesse to
a hypothetical togetherness
hurriedly collected in the night
and burnt into reels of film.

I ascend ladders,
my favorite has its base resting
in my spine,
I climb it up,
always up-

only to find lacerations  
in the fibers comprising my thigh,
and a lovely image of
a love that is not.
Leydis Jun 2017
I do not write about you because I am obsessed.
I do not write about you because I am depressed.
I do not write about you because I am transfixed.
Nor Am I stuck on a moment.
Nor Am I quixotic.
Nor Am I holding on to the impossible,
The intangible,
The unrealistic,
The superficial,
Nor Am I, in a starry eyed Ivory Tower!

I write about you because you are real.
I write about you, because my love is unbinding.
And that love that I gave you so freely,
binds itself to the parts of you,
to the parts of me,
to the parts of we
to that parts of us
to the parts of love.....
To those parts I feel for you.

For the poet writes about his muse!
The prose speaks to the fiction and non-fiction.
Yet my ink composes to the kiss,
to the tongue,
to the salivary glands that once moistened the corners of my soul,
that were,
that are
.............still in love with you!

Does Fall not write about foliage?
Does winter not have snow to sprinkle its nakedness?
Does June not come with April showers?
Doesn’t divorce look at marriage with derision?
Does hope only come in green?
Can a poet write without a muse?

So yes!
I am stuck on a moment.
I am quixotic.
I am holding on to the impossible,
The intangible,
The unrealistic,
The symbolic,
I do live in a starry eyed Ivory Tower.
Because that is where,
-------------------------------- I hold all the parts of you,
which are now---
the parts of me.
That’s why I write about you!!!!

LeydisProse
5/16/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Roberto Green Jan 2018
My beard defines me
Upstages and belies me
Warms and hides me
Comforts and cools
Collects food and drools
In salivary pools
And it itches when dry
Catching tears when I cry

It’s brown streaked with grey
A mottled face display
Ive heard it described as untidy by my peers
An it makes me look older than my 46 years
What could be your reason for growing that thing?
People say with a sarcastic sting
Are you just lazy?
Trying to be hip?
Sensitive skin?
Or an ill defined chin?

I ruffle my stubble
Craft and shape it
And reply that those reasons
Fall short and dont fit
It’s a beard of protest
And the rest let them guess
It’s one of the finest things a man can possess.
robin Sep 2020
trying to figure out precisely where, on the road map that is your face
home is,
is harder then you think
when you are a gypsy soul
and my feet are rooted in concrete.
all i need is some sweet sustenance to fall right back in
your arms
sugar coated words filling up my head with what ifs and what could be's, humoring me. logic sweetly dripping down from my brain into my salivary glands like fresh wildflower honey..
after all isn't that love?
reckless abandon  
i find myself in a scurry as i plaster my brain in yellow post it notes of the nice things you've said to try to remind myself that it will be okay, the sun will still shine tomorrow
but then a hurricane comes and all those post it notes get swept away and i am left wind chapped,
breathless battered and bruised. 


you
are
this
hurricane
.


         and
every time you come home to me, my love
i don't know which version of you will walk through that door
my skeleton reaches out through my skin to embrace you
but my heart hides deep within my chest and painfully pangs against my rib cage as words fall off your tongue
you are an inconsistency
like the ever changing tide
rolling, thrashing
then somehow still and peaceful.
i often lay awake at night feeling the aftermath of the waves and wondering how you can be both things at once
but neither entirely.
kbww Oct 2018
Today, I heard a woman
speak about indifference.
In my mind, a large charged clock was
laid out on the floor.
This wasn’t some small instance
causing minor turmoil.
It was every group represented
on the face of that clock.

And time’s, running out.

They spat at one another
leaving salivary freckles on the glass
face of this ticking time bomb.
And no one seemed to notice.
Hate met with hate causes rapid
explosions
of entitlement and lies,
brushing away honesty with a nice new
contour kit, make it look nothing of
itself.
Take mouths to baby birds
and spew in hatred and lies
with thin thighs and a new juice cleanse.
Raising people just like them.
They come back to the clock
and stand their places,
fragile looks on frail faces.
Swept away by the struggle
but still standing around,
standing their ground
And the clock winds down.
The suffering of humans can’t be
just left at the door.
And I imagine alarm sounds,
as I know, not in time,
not one will politely step down.

~kb

— The End —