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The hunger awoke
And i took you to my room
And the rest was ancient history
Or perhaps religion
We are sacred lovers
Undone by our own parental figures
Elbows are transparent
For whenever we are divergent
Our old hereditary clothing
Has more than likely been outgrown
Obstinate and obfuscated
We triturate our toenails
Micturate on the furniture
Burning is our covenant
Our overture is here and now
There are no random dealings
With any of our Mothers
Gone are the plumbers
And brothers
Who steal your instruments
We establish madness
Like crazed sailors
Establish mutiny
Our minds are just lightbulbs
Blinking on and off again
And now I like to go to bed
Without any dinner
We are all pediatricians
Here for the people
Who don't know any better
Vaccines are inarticulate measures
To produce outcomes
That are suspicious
And circumspect at best
I protect my right to freedom
You can bleed me
If you need to
I am unperturbed
By your perfuse fusions
Of infinite allusions
Our accents accented
Our innocence deflected
We ended up alone
Still our burning
Has a purpose
Long past the final warning
I heard you laughing
And chose not
To take you to task
On your failures
High intensity is not likely,
to cause any serious problems,
But a lack of integrity, definitely will.
Desperately in need of a cigarette
Instead you puff on a carrot
Pull off your shirt
I see your hurt lungs are struggling
You are juggling too much
Put everything down for awhile
And learn to cope with the worst of it
Youth is bursting with liquid
Fit it all into a cup and drink
Frothy steam and lust
Struggles to remain furnished
Bandage the sore bruises
With rolls of reusable toilet paper
Garbage and waste baskets
Sound is our currency
Undress the equivalency
Inequality imperceptibly
Communicates that
Every hand is a doorway
Every heart is a universe
Perverse or natural
Lack of the artificial
Sans particles or clothing
You articulate your elbows
I dance with fireflies
Illuminated by candles
Are we radicals
Or just extra vulnerable
Isolated mono-crops can’t control our hunger.
Monkeys with guns shoot at their lovers.
Punish them with lightning.
Turn them into upside down ice-cream cones.
A conversation with hundreds of overtones.
Harmonics are fire, night-time is a liar,
and we already gave you
everything you desired.
Hungry for your legs
Lips and teeth tethered to my heart
Jumper cables may be required to get it started
Once we begin there is no telling where it will end
If we start we may never stop
For Lust is hungry
And Trust is grumpy
So let’s just move along
Before dawn returns with our check
Correct me if i'm wrong  
You are the owner of this cigarette
And a handful of tunes
Remorse is the course you've taken
Sitting beside a lake of fire
Or is it a side of fries that you're after
Lines on the table and cold soup in your eyes
What a waste of space and time
Lying is grotesque
Either we are complex characters
Or I was dreaming of someone else
My heart is broken apart at the seams
My insides spill onto everything
I see myself in nothingness
No more identity, no more intensity
Only time left for rest stops and hi-fidelity
Lead graphs require #2 pencils
These fingers were made for tracing your soul
Give up control and collapse on your way home
As red-headed stepchildren unfold their own
Grief grows strong
Long ago we mourned for this moment
Destiny is a song returning
Remembering our strength
We engage with ferocious obscurity
A lot of living is at the cost of curiosity
We know that the world is full of atrocity
But if you buyout your own grave
And franchise some slaves
Then perhaps you will get the chance
To deepen your stakes in this life
It doesn't always have to be a sunset
Sometimes the sun just needs to come down

It doesn't always have to be chemical desire
Sometimes it's just two deaf, blind bodies

Colliding in the dark with no conclusion
It doesn't have to be logical

Sometimes you've gotta aim at the sun
With a steady finger on the trigger of the water gun

And pull

It's not always about success
In fact, it's never about success

They lit a million candles
Over the crash site of Icarus

And every good man has a corner of his heart
Devoted to the Sylvia's of this world

It doesn't always have to be a holiday
Sometimes screaming is enough

It doesn't always have to be an island retreat
Sometimes it's just an empty train carriage

To sit and read with trembling hands
Over an easy magazine

It doesn't always have to be difficult
Sometimes love feels like dying in your sleep

At others, it's your window reflection
In a strange new town

It doesn't always have to be a sunset
Sometimes colour is rinsed by cloud

It doesn't have to be poignant, or fair -
Sometimes the sun just needs to

Come down
C
it
takes
a lot to
achieve
the very
difficult task
of boiling the ocean but if you
self-actualize your aspirations
in the grasps of your fingers
like a feather in the cap then you
will execute plans of success
and it's easy enough to fail
but for those who've never
tried hard enough or at all,
there's always someone out
there wanting to employ you
so they can accomplish theirs.

and when you get there,
they'll have you work
in the sweltering heat
without air conditioning

and next to people with an
intelligence level further
below par than ever imaginable

and for an under-qualified
supervisor with soft hands,
who never did the dirt with
no prior experience in the
managerial field, they
just "know people"
and haven't a clue or any
knowledge to your job duties,
yet they could effortlessly,
write you up for neglecting
the daily tasks

and at the end of every
two demeaning weeks of  
having the knife held to my throat
and being fed cookies with no milk,
they've prodded a piece of my mind
mentally,
they've violated a piece of my body
physically,
they've robbed a piece of my soul
spiritually
and in return,
I've recieved a piece of their feeble paycheck
insufficiently.

it may not be much
but it's worthy enough to be
retrieveable, especially when
you've been walking around
without any heads or tails in
your pockets for some time
from this pitiful low-wage job
and after feeling like they've
******* me too many times
like a hate **** on a blistering
hot summers night,
I've felt like ******* off the cap
of this bottle and it will be the only
******* I'll be doing as I settle up
my accounts with all the words that
end in the letter K
while I'm dreaming of delusions
that somewhere out there
there's another
golden opportunity
waiting for me
at some other
low-wage pitiful job
that I know
I'm surely
missing out on
and you might be working there,
feeling just the same and ashamed
as I and wondering the same thing
about my job and maybe,
we as compatriots
of the common cloth,
who never had a chance,
made pliable in the wind
amongst the stiffened trees,
will one day, cross each other's paths

but my aphorisms tell me that...

I shouldn't kiss a pair of ****
after they've been *******
on by someone else.
Apr 28
Hi all !

Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy, incoherent  and gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the editorial literary-elite. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit MA degrees.
P.S: send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!
                                                       Love,
                                                     ­     Rita Dove’s Bookshelf
PROMPT:   draft a prose poem
in the form/style of a postcard
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