ardent-bowel
American
Check out my blog! Http://Ardentbowel.wordpress.com / twitter: @ardentbowel / If you haven’t guessed yet, Ardent Bowel isn’t my real name; it's a pseudonym of sorts, one that I think fits well with what I write about. Writing is a way of relieving myself of stress, amongst other things, and I hope that the things I write are likeable and relatable; although, if they aren’t that’s okay too, I simply want to put my poetry and stories “out there,” whatever that means. So if you enjoy them, give my page a like or follow it, maybe even thumb it up on Stumble Upon. Or don’t, I don’t really care either way. Generally I’ll post something every other day or every two days, and that’s about all I have to say.
Well, here I am.
This is what I wanted, right?
It was supposed to end so lovely and tranquilly,
It was supposed to feel soft,
It was supposed to be perfect;
It was supposed to go according to plan,
It was supposed to be productive and just what the TV said…
There was supposed to be ******* hearts and teddy bears singing hymns:
Because My imagination told me so!!
Twas wrong my imagination though.
So I'm sitting here slumping like a rock in the mud,
Smoking my love away out on the fire escape,
Wallowing in the falling snow waiting for an ambulance to take me to the hospital so someone can pull the plug,
But first let me drink myself into the next year.
−−−
It was just last year we were shaking and shivering,
Bundled under the covers in passionate joy like a couple of kids in a leaf pile,
Inflating our hearts with warmth and ecstasy…
But now your body is the pile of leaves,
And my fingers are fire;
And behold, the New Year is upon us my dear!
So fill yourself with our fallow love and make dead resolutions to fill the gaping holes,
And the big ball that drops will correct our mistakes!
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Would it make you feel better if we closed the blinds?
Would it make you feel fine and warm inside if we just closed our eyes?
Would it give you peace and love if we just ignored the cries?
Darling, we can close the blinds with one hand, and close our eyes and ears with none.
Yet going out and listening, going out and feeding and giving and being love personified is tough and hard and no fun.
So honey, would it make you feel better if we moved down the street,
Or just read a book aloud, or just went to sleep?
Would it give you pleasure and fulfillment if we did nothing but pleasure ourselves?
Would it make you feel better if we treated them lower?
Darling, we could give them funny names and pretend they aren’t even there.
We could ban them from the news and ban them from our hearts and ban them from our lips, so our banks and fridges can stay fattened,
And all that greasy money and greasy food can sit until it's spoiled and we can give it to them then because it doesn’t hurt.
So I ask, would it make you feel better, if we just stood here and stared?
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.
Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.
Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.
Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****
Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a pot-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.
Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.
Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.
Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.
Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.
Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.
Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.
Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.
Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Bubbling, sugars ignite and spit sweet white batter
then callous and cover
the thick cream that stews beneath.
Clouds pour snow and trees bequeath
blue spherical bliss
onto the wrinkled surface.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
I
C H A S E D
Her,
{{Intimately . }}
Until she Felt My presence -(softly)− and ↑↑↑↑
Opaque blankets covering s.c.a.r.s,
not cut
d p enough to hinder Our ∞ love ♥
ee
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
I k.i.s.s.e.d
Her body
Until,
It was
Liquid in my hands…
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Angelic
*Winter’s
Soul!
Leaps from tall buildings into snow,
(naked).
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
If Santa saw us now,
His copious joy might melt
And stain his white palace black.
Oh, if the jolly fat man saw us now,
Our black bells ringing scarlet,
The white snow-globe flakes flowing ******
And the consumerist *******
Selling love for slick green and silver;
Oh, if he saw these rabid dogs,
Chewing flesh and spitting bone
for an iPhone,
His joy would end right there.
If Santa came down off his throne,
And saw our minty venom saturating sacks
Staining toys meant for joy,
His steel boots rusty from snow;
Oh, with this glance he takes upon us,
Witnessing a competition of hate,
He’d scribble his two lists black,
And his red joviality would pierce homes,
With death,
And holiday.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Darkness gorges on lutescent light,
Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.
Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,
Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;
Fantasy collides and abolishes night.
Rough paper melts into bliss,
Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;
Passionate fingers flip,
Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,
And electrified mind lofts reality,
As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,
And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:39 AM UTC
Rain floods the sage canvas,
Saturating greenery to bring life,
And rot.
Thick, musty brown deals out death,
Next to brilliant lilac lilies and
Mazarine weeds.
Luminous sun scorches grass−now brown, and soil−
Springing seeds, gorged with life, loftily.
Human oils from fingers touch,
And pluck:
Ending life utterly,
Within stained glass and water.
Yet, this pastoral corpse produces beauty,
Love, and hope: healing hearts,
And mending stems of life through smell
And soft touch,
Until rusty leaves, unshackled, and withered aroma,
Plummet.
Thus our destruction, brings life,
And rot.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 1:39 AM UTC