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you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...


dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why


jes kiddin’ a leetle
if you don’t follow
you’re an idiot, one of the best on this site says O.N.
sourced from:
Lora Lee
You have imprinted
My heart
Like a fine tattoo
And the ink
has stained it
black and blue
like an intricate
in swirls and whorls
a complicated design
in flowers and laurels
every move with
the brush
is fine
It enters
my skin
like a vine
goes into the bloodstream
to my heart
and mixes up
the beats
tears them apart
I need to heal
And let it dry
But instead
I find that
The needle
Is too sweet
(though it makes me cry)
Yet I want more
Of this art
This sleek decoration
I want it all
In glorious, colorful
Tattoo me, my love
And make me yours
For you have colored
My soul
For forevermore
Sam Clemens
It struck me tonight
How impressive it is
The deftness of your tongue
Coaxing life
Out of shy, windless nights
I still remember
Sitting by your side
As your laughter floated westward
The bashful heavens made to blush
And you
Conducting an orchestra
Of sweet vivid flowers
Wet petals falling from your lips
Kissing me gently on the cheek
Painting cursive
On the sky's horizon
My words will never be so
They are stiff; they are tired
They are made to roam abandoned alleys
And grow old in the open hands
Of a book
So speak to me
Drip your honeyed breath onto my chest
With shallow sighs
Wrap the fingers of your conversation
Around my hand
And don't let go
Beautifully Broken
She is

she sleeps
on silken sheets
with the wolfs
she keeps

they howl
at the moon
she hears them
and knows why
BM Green
Life never stopped,
No matter what happened.
Life never stopped moving forward.
It didn’t care that I missed you.
It didn’t matter
That “my plans” were ruined
So I moved on.
I fought,
When all I thought I was capable of
Was falling to pieces.
I fought.
Life kicks you when you’re down
You kick back
I lost some days
I lost some weeks
but I never once gave up.
Life doesn’t stop.
So neither did I.
It never allowed me to stop,
I never thought I would get here
But I’m thankful
For both the grief and the grace.
Nikki nashon
Locked behind rusted armor
Dangling from a treadbare string
Lamps light diminishing
Dr Peter Lim
Be empty
that's the plenty
Shi Em
you weren't mine to keep,
but you were mine to miss
jeffrey conyers
To you.
To me.
And in between.
There are many reasons to love.

To me.
To you.
And in between.
If you're religious.
God will always be guiding us.

And that's a blessing.
The me that loves you
and the you that loves me
are part of me
and part of you

the me that loves you
and the you that loves me
is the me that I see
when I see you in me

the good in me
is the good in you
the learning of me
is the teaching of you

the you that loves me
built the me that is you
and the me that is you
is the best of me.
James Floss
The tired spider
More than retired
Is now expired

Three days in shower stall
Stalking the white wall
No way out, none at all

Twenty-seven in spider years?
Lifetime tumbling fears?
Multiple eyes filled with tears?

Wait! Spatula rampart!
Put there with heart
By Lady Ann; smart!

Freedom! No: checkmate!
Alas, too little too late
Tragic arachnid fate
Syd Hafner
I broke
my knee

with a hammer
to scream

truant next week

because these kids
are kinda

The empty sky at night
Reminds me of you
That I may have rid myself of you
Empty like the sky this night
But it was when I had you
That my life was full and beautiful
Like the stars at night.
You are irreplaceable....
I want to write
To see this room
Dumbfounded and quiet
When I project a song
So sad but blooms
In blues of rows
On people looming
With woolen hearts
On hard wooden pews
Softened by the sound
Of new sincerity.
Muluuta Mugagga
Do you see in me
what is see in you?
simple question
sa oras na sa kasiyahan ay gipit
hahawakan ang pluma
na ang kapit
ay mas mahigpit sa bigti
patty m
Earthbound pantomime
purloining longing
I once had an ******
driving in my car
so vivid was it in my mind
I slammed into
the bumper of the car in front of me

Never ****** heading down
an off ramp,
eyes halved as a millions
flutters clutch. I
came uncorked in
champagne bubbles of light
a reeling song
that knows no brake
but hits the gas to fly
open lipped into ecstasy's kiss
Then the present snaps
into focus.

An old piece of crap car
with a dent that matched
a multitude of others,
but with my shade of red.

He names his price
we haggle, and I wonder
was it worth it?

I pay the guy fifty bucks to make him go away.

Stooping to ****
a cool drink through its straw
I wash down lust and dust
as I migrate slowly into traffic,
                  chasing the dream I paid for.
The one who left you in storms
can never give you rainbows
and sunshine.
this is
where i

i never
for you
i was
in love
with the
idea of


keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­ l                  is to what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.
"keep your eyes closed love. sometimes all you have to listen is to what the sound of the waves tells you to do"

When I was much younger, beaches were my second favorite places. I still love watching waves as they go by, crashing against each other and the whole process repeating all over again.
Am deeply drowned in my own thoughts.
Slowly running out of air to breathe.
Father, stretch my hands.
I ain't no Han, I won't make it solo.
July 16, 2019 - 01:12

Butch Decatoria
Rainbows raked in ripened rays

Evening is for sleeping nightcrawler you

Voluminous Imagination runaway train

Ever brighter dreams in eyes away, per say…

Ricochet rinds of zest and streaking memories

Is this a face, a life, a mom could love ?

Stories Simon says simply

Task your mind to understanding, light the dark...
beth stclair
there are no ghosts
in the sky,

my tabby cat wears the moon,
curled into the corner
like a sleepy fog,

the dreamscape is made
of silver and gold,

you (like always)try to get my
attention and i (like always) ignore
you, trying to write
my poem…
loriann capra
it takes me two times longer to fall asleep,
when you’re not on the phone,
                              on my pillow,
                              next to me;
i count the seconds.

city of flips
for the ladies who liquid lunch


the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palette,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!


your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
your very own brand of
loving tears

it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing

I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me

so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy

impossible to eat just one

p.s. you tease me mean,

bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting


back for more already?

Our windows are weird
they are one way.
It's too dark in my room
and too bright outside.
So I can see outside.
You are sitting outside.
Maybe you're crying.
Maybe we couldn't stomach
yet another conversation.
I just hope you 'stomach-ed' your dinner.
I sit down on my bed right in front of you.
You can't see me.
It almost feels like we're having a conversation.
We're silent.
This means it's finally a conversation
we can stomach.
I'm too upset to edit or make this rhyme.
To and fro I travel
Yet I find no place to rest
The hardened heart
Grows colder
Bleeding less and less

Yet as I lay here
Upon this hard ground
There's a lack of comfort
In the love I have found

And so my restless spirit
And hungry heart
Beckons me to worlds afar...
Traveler Tim
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems too *******.
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Nat Lipstadt
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**

I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013

* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
You dug today
Some mud and clay
With two-year-old hands
And a giant *****.
You dug today
A new place to play
Filthy, muddy wonderlands;
Just the place for an escapade!
You make me want to tell stories.

With such fluidity,
such grace,
my words are dancers
spinning in space.
They're airy
and light
floating on by.
No weight to them
at all.
Follow the path
I lead you on
and don't ever stray.
My words are
you from pain.

You make me want to tell stories.
my patience is melting like an ice cube in the heat
Pour your torment on the page and let the sound leak out of you

Your music bleeds out of your veins and it’s so personal, so emotional, how could people keep from resonating with it?

So now, you get to perform the same recurring nightmare every night. Reopening the wound you couldn’t heal.
melissa rose
She invites me in with a therapist smile
as I step through her door
observes me with that deep blue gaze
leaving me longing for more
begs me to follow
as she moves across the floor
she lingers slightly with her touch
as she gently squeezes my hand
but it’s the warmth of her hug
that I wonder where does she begin and I end?

Truth is bitter with her scent so sweet
she doesn’t love me out loud
in this lifetime it’s just not meant to be
her love isn’t real
all images in my mind
of what I long to feel
we’re not lovers
and we’ll never be friends
but I’ll love her in breathless whispers
as the depth of my love for her has no end
7/12/19 cliche
The Lone Rager
Poets sometimes experience a temporary
inability to translate subconscious impulses into art.
This self-communication  breakdown is typically called:
"writer's block." As for Muses, they're first-cousins    
to the Easter Bunny.
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