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 Jun 2015
Mike Hauser
This girl...
Counts the seconds using minutes
As far as the day is long
She's never been an artist
But still can draw a crowd

She likes pink and purple paisley
Because it goes with everything
Has a bird that speaks Pig Latin
And another one that sings

She bathes out in the moonlight
For an even nightly glow
She never steps on sidewalk cracks
Cause she loves her mother so

She shows up late to parties
So she can greet those first to leave
Takes advice from Sir Paul the knight
Knowing when to Let it be

Her bed is filled with China dolls
Not a one of them the same
She calls them all Sweet Lucy
As she knows no other name

This Girl...
Starts out in the middle
So she's closer to the end
Knowing that when she reaches it
She can start all over again
 Jun 2015
wordvango
I saw you reading Emerson,
I felt cheated.
Maybe I thought Whitman and me were the only love
you sought, my heart fell from a height of belief
into a cellar closed darkly
i fought the reality
of rarer words softly lit prisons
thinking
cheating is two sided.
As I read another Bukowski poem raw
so revealing.
 Jun 2015
niamh
A day so thick
With heat
The air shimmers.
Tongues teasing,
Tantalising images.
Near ****** sounds
Of satisfaction.
Wide eyes filled
With illusive innocence.
You know the picture you paint.
Based on a comment my brother in law made about girls eating ice cream :)
 Jun 2015
Graff1980
I put him in my pocket
Off to the side
In dreams late at night
In memories
And fantasies
Cause I had work you see

I put him away
In the corners of my mind
For some better time
Cause there were adult things to do

And I forgot the sword fights
The dragon flights
White furry funny friends

I forgot the wonder and curiosity
And that all that was lost to me
Could be regained

But still I stuffed it away
For dull adult things
For pale redundant dreams
Until I was too tired
And that part had expired
From all the forgetting

And if that child
Could see me now
That little boy
Oh boy would he be ****** at me
sings a bird in the open
sings too a caged bird

one to forget the pain
the other to make its freedom heard.
 Jun 2015
chimaera
Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.

Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.

The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?

A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,

a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.

Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover

and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.

15.5.2015
prompt: cosmos [my entry in the poetry contest 2015, in LegendFire.com]
 Jun 2015
Jason Cole
the static quo must go
nothing beneath, or behind the sounds
deaf tones bones strewn all around

long words, all cheap
dumb lines, all neat

coughed-up cadence and routine cream
cartoon choruses and tricked-out seams

hooky fakes and bookend breaks
easy gaits
minimum stakes

no sharp edge, no hidden fold
no golden age spirit, no new age soul
no color streaks, or manic peaks
no blind side streets, or bipolar beats

disconnect my wires, or else cut it off
put out my fire, or else cut it off

nothing sticks
nothing clicks
**** me quick
poem poetry random music radio sound **** mind thoughts truth
 Jun 2015
Jason Cole
His shadowy brim tipped down and in
No face to place, no trace of chin
Revolver cradled loose and low
Cylinder whirs, chambers roll

Trench coat long, dark, and lean
Black boots gleam with choicest sheen
Right hand rested 'round bony grips
Left hand fans and never slips

Who are you?
What do you want from me?
Why are you here?

Your purpose is hidden
Your message unclear

Never a word muttered
Not even a sound
It's always the same
When you come around

Got to find my keys
Get out of this place
I'm weak in the knees
My heart's losing pace

Jump in the car
Pedal meets metal
Check my rear-view
For signs of that devil

At the stoplight
A peripheral glance
A sideways glint
A figure askance

Shotgun rider
A figment with a plan
The devil may care
But my mind made the man

©Jason Cole
 Jun 2015
SøułSurvivør
---

On February 15
a congressman
went out for to ski
never did return that day
he died "hitting a tree"

There was much
blunt force trauma
to the front of his head
elect of California legislature
now Sonny Bono's DEAD


- CHORUS -
Who murdered Sonny Bono?
How did that man die?
Was it all a "ski accident"
or is that just a lie?

Did he have information
of government high ups?
Laundering money for
drugs and guns
doin' things corrupt?

There is an old story
and you know it's true
The Kennedy's were
conspired against
and now Sonny, too.

---

Blunt force trauma
to the skull
but no broken ribs or knees
and no counter coup
to the brain
you don't need an MD

No coroner to tell you
somethin's fishy there
and the back of Sonny's jacket
had a tell tale tear

- CHORUS -

You won't see this on TV
It won't be in the news
all the links have been shut down
They have too much to loose

There's only one who's
brave enough
to convey this, you see
and he has had
attempts on his life
for telling you and me

- CHORUS -
I talked to Bob Fletcher
The man who gave Sonny Bono
all the evidence he needed
to create a scandal that would
make Iran/Contra look
like a mosquito bite.

For the whole story go to
http://www.dcdave.com/article 5/080406.htm

Congressman Sonny Bono
1935 - 1998
May he rest in peace
 Jun 2015
Dust Bowl
I'm 13 the first time a boy in my class tells a **** joke.
I'm only 13, but it's been 2 years since I learned the seriousness of the thing him and his friends are now laughing at.
2 years since I had my favorite night shirt ripped from my back.
2 years since nails carved scars in my thighs my mother still thinks are from self harm.
2 months since I started blocking it out.

I'm 13 when a girl takes my backpack while I m putting my books in my locker,
Playfully yells over her shoulder,
"***** you".
I laugh.
I don't dare tell her what it's like to remake your bed at 4 in the morning,
Or what it's like to fight back tears when you ask your grandmother for new sheets for Christmas.
To only ever associate the summer heat with what it felt like that night between your legs.

About a year ago I watched the chronicles of Narnia for the first time with my dad.
It was one of my favorites growing up.
He says, "someone should **** that *****" when the witch kills Aslan,
And I stop myself from screaming at him that he had "the talk" with me a little too late,
That I lost my virginity to a man his age when there were still stuffed animals on my bed.
I don't tell him that I still shake when i have to be alone with him even though I know he would never hurt me,
Or that sometimes I still think I deserved it.

I sweat through my shirt everytime I try to write about it.
My best friend says she doesn't care who her first time is, that she just wants to lose it already,
But I wish I could make that choice.
I have lost control of my hands from the shaking when boys have asked me if I was a ****** over text message,
And have locked myself in bathrooms to sob because my sister said boys don't love girls who aren't pure.
I have heard girls called ***** who haven't gone as far as me,
And it feels like arsenic is in my veins everytime someone asks me how I know so much about *** if I haven't had it yet.
Or how my best friend told me she wants to hear about my first time because people still assume that triggers are only on guns,
And that every ******* romance movie is the perfect depiction of what losing your virginity is like.

We don't all get the soft music and the whispered names.
Sometimes you get hands over your mouth and years of ptsd,
Sometimes the I love yous get replaced with "don't wake your parents".
Sometimes I still feel like no boy should ever have to subject themselves to touching me,
For fear they might leave with their hands tainted.

You will never understand fear until you're looking at the boy across the room and thinking about what he'd look like without his clothes on,
Never understand depression until the tile of the bathroom floor is warmer than your thoughts.

I was 13 the first time I heard a **** joke,
And 18 the first time I told someone it wasn't funny.
Because for every second you laugh, I have spent years picking up the shattered pieces of my innocence.
Because it took me 7 years to realize that 20 minutes of not having control will never destroy the 3,681,641 minutes I have spent taking care of myself since it happened.
That the only person who will ever own this body is me.
That no amount of cheap laughs can undo the progress I have made.
So keep laughing.
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