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Kinara  Apr 2014
Boyband
Kinara Apr 2014
"thats what the want you to know"
"they're just a boyband"
"you really think the give a **** about you?"
"your crazy"*
these are a few thing my friends tell me when i talk about my boys
but they dont know
they dont know about our relationship
even tho my boys dont know me i know that my boys love me
they dont know about my fandom and our powers
they dont know how sweet my boys are
or how better they make me
all they see is their stereotypes
they only know what they hear on the radio
or what they see on the t.v.
they only know the hit songs
and none of the other hidden tracks
they dont know how strong this fandom is
they dont know how many lives the boys have changed
when i say "my boys" i am talking about the members of my favorite boyband.
pam  Jan 2015
I hate fangirls
pam Jan 2015
“I would never be like those girls, they’re crazy.”  
Thats what I told myself when I saw every girl fan girling over some boyband.
I always wonder why they have to cry even though their idols just tweeted a picture or releases a new song; music video.
I always wonder why they have to waste their time to vote.
It annoys me when they try their best to get their idols attention by spamming them.
Fangirls get to my nerves, but I stayed quiet.
I hated it.
I hated them because they’re dedicating their life to someone who doesn’t even know they exist.
I mean I like some bands, but I never ever did those stuff.
"I would never ever.”
I told myself.
But one day, I woke up…

"Hi, we’re 5 Seconds Of Summer."
Then everything started to change.

  —
*And then and there
I knew… Im such an hypocrite.
dont judge my music taste because I wont care.
Denisse May 2014
I'll ride in a unicorn if I had a chance
Go visit the hidden garden and take a glance
I'll go drop and make a dance in the moon
Through the magic carpet and massive balloon.

I'll watch the star from falling
Tie a hanky and keep myself wishing
I'll fly with the help of the birds
Make a big conversation with the clouds.

I'll submerge in the sea to play with Ariel
Dance under water and collect shell
I'll travel to visit Alice in the Wonderland
Not minding the dirt in the sand.

I'll ride on the plane and go to Paris
Tour myself in the city of poetry
I'll go to Eiffel Tower to have my dream come true
I don't care if I will go alone, atleast I have my happiness upto my bone.

Paris will be an amazing trip, but it isn't enough
I want to go visit the Queen
In the place where my favorite boyband has been
The place called London, the land I wish I was on.

It's always an amazing thing to imagine
And there is no other place for this, only in this piece.
When you write poem, you can go where you want, you can do whatever you want, you can act without limits. That's an awesome thing in a poem. YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT.
Westley Barnes Jun 2015
So the lads decided to head down the town one day
(it bein' a great stretch of sun, especially for here,
and playin' Fifa tournaments and
actin' smart were losin' their charm)
Anyway,
Miles had his eye on this young one, and Giro and Hooper
bein' the friends they were riled him up no end about
what he was goin' to do once he got his chance with her, y'know, the usual stupid teenage macho lad crap.
But sure, poor auld Miles, as he was back then, was a sensitive sort
and although he was the handsomest of the chaps at that stage
-with the boyband cheekbones and
the butter-wouldn't melt bring-me-home-to-your-mammy-she'll-think-I'm-Lovely exterior-
he was just a bit too shy to get taking to her in the square that day,
the two of 'em were both awkwardly just sat on opposite benches
with their eyelashes flutterin' in the wind.
And sure didn't the boys make a holy show o'the chap by shoutin' "D'YOU WANT TO SHIFT HIS FRIENDS" at the young one's mates, and them visibly horrified,
with the precious stuck-up Loreto girls' mouths dropped in mortification.

They were somethin' else back then, alright.

But here's the thing,
He's marrying that girl next weekend. (-The same one?) (-Hardly?!)
Swear on me Granny's grave, got sent the invitation on Facebook and all!
Meself and Tracy are goin' to it, obviously, but I barely seen the chap since he moved up to Dublin that time, but the girl is friend's with Tracy's cousin.
Danielle is her name, she works as a graphic designer.

(-She designs games?) (-No, ads, posters and stuff, you ****)
(-Well, I extend my heartfelt apologies
to Mr. CAO himself over here)
(-G'way you, the last time you heard tell of the CAO
was when  you used it as a farewell greeting to
the sub-teacher you fancied when you
handed in your pass maths exam.)
(-What's he doin' again?) (-He works in KPMG)
(-...Sorry I asked)

Apparently they had lost track of each other, but then randomly met out one night and rekindled the old flame. (-what, the old premature pubescent horn?)
My point is, doucher, that you cant keep a good man down...not the greatest choice of words given the context, but, y'know,
fair ******' play to him anyway.

On the other hand, I saw Giro in Mooney's there last weekend,
back from Canada after only six months over there.
Hated it apparently, plasterin' walls in a city that was
only bein' built up for the first time, nothin' to do on the weekend
but drink **** beer and go fishin'.  I told him he should have gone
to Vancouver but he wanted to head where Hooper was goin'
-Those two were always the same, they'd manage to waste each others time if they got to the moon.

There Giro was, all he got to show for himself for goin' to Canada
was a flannel shirt, a snapback hat and a beard like one of those
grizzly lads from gay ****. (-What would you know about gay ****?) (It's an metaphor, genius, I don't need to know anythin' about it in order to make the connection.)
(-Sounds like the only expert piece of information you've given it all night) (-Here, your Da hates ya, go home)

But I suppose, at least a lad like Giro, totally directionless, still has the ability to laugh about himself.
He'd say worse things about himself that I would and laugh away at it, no bother.
But that's it, isn't it? Being able to laugh at the lads and at yourself when you deserve it, to own up to your flaws and forgive them.
That's what it's all about.
Fifa=Official Computer Game of the world Football association,
Giro=Bank giro, often synonymous with social welfare benefits in Ireland.
Shift=Irish slang to kiss passionately, in the casual sense. See also British Snog, US Necking.
Loreto=Loreto Convent, a network of Roman Catholic single-*** Girls' schools in Ireland founded by Loreto nuns. Regarded as instilling a high level of social propriety in their students.
CAO=College Application Form. Official form of entry into Irish Colleges and Universities, mirrors slightly the US SAT and British A-Level methods.
Once upon a time
There was a girl
She was no different than any other
And if your life moved to fast
Like the rest of the world
You would miss it
Because you have to understand...
This girl had a secret
A dark secret
One she kept hidden away because
She knew if she let it out
It would comeback to haunt her
Like it did

This girl wasn't the prettiest
Or the skinniest
Funniest
Or most popular
And every time she looked in the mirror
She felt like crying
Because the reflection she got
Isn't the one she wanted

This girl
She was to afraid to use the razor
Because she wanted to believe
There was another way
Somehow, someway
That she could let go of her pain
Open up
And let it all go

But she couldn't do that
Couldn't let them see her weak side
They would'nt care anyway
So she had to push it away
Paint that fake smile on every time she walked into that building
That stupid building
With the sign that read:
We are glad to report this is a bully free zone
*******
It's all *******
Because if its not bullying
To crush a girls hopes and dreams every time she opens her mouth...
Then what the hell is it
And if its not bullying
To call a girl
Fat
Ugly
Stupid
Following it up with just kidding
Then what is
Has the definition changed?
Because if it has then tell me
I want to know
So I can tell that girl
That she's fine and needs to get over herself
Just like everyone else
Just like everyone else

So she did
She pushed away her pain
And acted like it was all
"Ok"
But it wasn't
It wasn't ok
And every day of her life
All she wanted was to fit in
To be considered cool
To have one guy look at her and say
She's beautiful
But why would they?
Why should they?
How can any guy love her when she can't even love herself

And so life went on
And she continued to go to the place she feared most
A place where she was judged on something as simple as
The music she listens too
And when she try's to save herself
From there torture
Everyone seems to suddenly disappear
Those people who told her they love her
Aren't there to help her
So she fights her battles alone
But you see
One person can only fight for so long
Before they give up
And it's just a matter of time before
Those words they promise are about that boyband she likes
Those words
Gay
Stupid
Ugly
Retarted
***
Loser
And worthless
They slowly begin to be about her
And they tell her
We like you
You're funny
And yet
When she stands in the line for lunch
And they think she can't hear them
That she's to focused on the food in front of her
The food she's trying to decide to keep down
She can hear them
And it hurts
It ******* I N G hurts
Because its then when she realizes
It's all a joke to them
It's not about the music
No
It's a joke to see who can break her first
But the jokes on them because
She beat you to it
If it was a game
She won
Because the thing is
She's already broken herself
Because its not so much what they say to her
It's what she says to herself
It's the fact that
Every time she looks in a mirror
She see's a worthless *******
A ******* trying to fit in
With works of art
And she can't do it
But she try's it anyway
Wasting her life on people
People who could care less about her
Wasting her life on people who judge her for the music she listens too
Not who she is

But they don't understand
That every time this girl goes home
Every time this girl decides its worth it
To live another day
Its because of that "gay band"
And that "gay band"
That she doesn't even know
Make her feel more loved
Than any person she has ever met in her life
Because when she started to slip
5 pars of hands caught her
5 hero's saved her

So go ahead
Tell her how pathetic that is
I know you want to
But just know
She's walking on thin ice
And anyone of you could be the deciding factor for her
So do it
Test your luck
It's all a game to you
And in all games there's a winner
So
You lose
She lives
You win
You push her over the edge and
She dies

That's twisted and sick you say?
Well that's life
And maybe you should of thought of that
Before you tore her down
All her dreams
Hopes
Everything she is
Its all gone
Because of *you
emily c marshman Oct 2018
10:13 am. A text from you: what time are we leaving for Cornell? I’m embarrassed by your apparent lack of enthusiasm so I overcompensate with emojis, enough for you and I both. Three hours later I pick you up from your driveway, turn my music down, and hope to God you don’t hear which boyband I had been listening to. You get in and immediately fill up the entire passenger seat. You grow and grow and fold your right leg over your left until it’s encroaching upon my personal space and you turn the music up a little and then reach to roll down the window (to grow some more, I guess) and I have to tell you that my window won’t roll back up if rolled down and you acknowledge this but grow even more anyway, regardless of the fact that there’s nowhere else for you to go.
We’re awkward for a few minutes. This was to be expected considering our first few interactions had been drunken arm touches and Snapchats asking where are you? on nights we wanted to find each other even though we had no right to know where the other was. Then you break the silence, and we talk about where we’re from and where we want to go, and suddenly it’s not so awkward anymore. This is a conversation I feel like I’ve had before. I can envision conversations with you for miles to come. This is a conversation that makes a forty-five-minute car ride feel like five.
When we finally make it to Cornell, it’s 2:17pm and we decide to walk around a bit, together, to help you get your bearings. You can hardly contain your excitement when you see the baseball field – it’s endearing. We split up once we’ve finished our tour of Lincoln Hall, which is, appropriately, the music building. I leave you and walk around campus before finally settling in Goldwin Smith to journal for the fifty minutes before it’s time to meet back up. I’ve lied to you – you don’t know that the only reason I’m in Ithaca with you is to be with you, but I think it’s better that you don’t know.
2:46pm. I’m having fun with Peter. He’s cool. My journal tells a story I’d never be able to say to your face – I enjoy the time I’ve spent with you, though it’s limited and I know I’ll never have time like this with you again. This connection that I seem to have made has pushed my anxiety down into a part of me that it hasn’t seen it a while. Being here for today has been good for my soul … I feel good right now. These are words my journal hasn’t heard from me since at least April. Today has been a lot less awkward than I thought it would be I thought it would be a lot harder to just hang out, one on one, yet here we are. It’s really hard to be uncomfortable/an anxious mess around him.
I think about the stop sign that I almost ran in front of the admissions building, on our way to park at the Schoellkopf garage. I think about seeing my ex-boyfriend in front of the philosophy building. I think about the dance class I interrupted when I was trying to write poetry in the science building.
You text me and we meet in front of the statue of Ezra Cornell. I hardly recognize you, in your flannel, your legs crossed, on a bench, and I realize that I’ve never seen you sitting down. You make a phone call and I pretend not to eavesdrop but I can’t help it. I’m admiring the professional tone you adopt, watching people go by, wondering if they think we’re a couple, but we’re not sitting close enough for anyone to think that.
3:47 pm. We walk from the Arts Quad to Collegetown Bagels and I think that maybe you’ll offer to pay for my meal – I don’t know why I think this – but you don’t. You follow my lead, walking up to the counter to order your bagel. You decide to try the Big Sur because that’s what I tell you is my favorite on the menu, and I feel a warmth radiate outward from the center of my body until I’m sure I must be leaking happiness from my fingertips. I know then that this day won’t have been a waste of time in any way.
You ask questions and I respond, my mouth full of apples and honey and cheese, and I’m grateful that you don’t think any less of me for talking with my mouth full. I ask questions and you respond, bashfully, blissfully unaware of how intrigued I am by your every answer. I drink my Hubert’s Lemonade – mango flavored – and you drink yours, a brand called Nantucket’s Nature. The cap has a fact about whales on it, something about how hundreds of them live in the waters surrounding Nantucket, and you get excited, cleaning it off, gushing about how you’d like to give this to a certain Moby ****-obsessed professor.
4:31pm. The Ithaca Commons during Apple Fest is more hectic than I’m used to, but we make it all the way down to Taste of Thai and then back to the playground before deciding on a destination. As we meander you ask me if I’ve ever dated a boy shorter than me. I blush knowing my negating answer will make me seem vain. I catch your grin with my own and we walk into Autumn Leaves, a used bookstore.
We talk about The Hobbit and David Sedaris and my favorite poets and poems and I buy Dracula, because it’s four dollars and because I’m so intoxicated with adrenaline that I can’t not. I learn that your favorite movie is Fever Pitch because, honestly, why wouldn’t it be. We leave the bookstore, my backpack a little heavier and my heart a little lighter. We should be holding hands, I think, and immediately I’m terrified you can read my mind but I know there’s no way that’s possible.
As it’s Apple Fest, you claim it’s only appropriate that we eat an apple each, even though I’m pretty sure I’m allergic and I’ve had more than enough apples already that day. You offer up two dollars in quarters to the man behind the stand and ask what he’d recommend. He turns our attention to the resident apple expert, who asks what our favorite apples are, and you tell her that mine is Fuji. I don’t remember telling you this about myself. We are told to try an apple called ***’s Orange Pippin, and we’re intrigued until we find the basket – it’s full of ugly apples. The apples we do eat are too sweet, too big, and we can’t finish them. We laugh together – what if those apples, the ugly ones, the ones too ugly for us to eat, were the best apples of the bunch? We tell each other that we’re *******. We’re *******. We just stereotyped those apples! How could we do that?
We duet “Africa” by Toto as we leave Ithaca, the sun warming my face, your laugh filling the car. On the ride home we talk, more than we did on the drive down to Ithaca. You ask if I’ve watched Doctor Who and I smile because there’s no way you can’t read my mind, at this point. I tell you about the T.A.R.D.I.S. shirt I saw on the Commons and how I almost asked, but I didn’t, in your words, want to sound like a ******* nerd. We talk music and I find out you’re a Beatles fan who’s never seen Across the Universe so I ask you to play “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” and as we sing along it dawns on me how this would seem if we were in a romantic comedy. I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we’ve just met.
7:41pm. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date, I tell myself as we pull back onto school property. You’ll be getting out of my car soon, my car you just helped me name, and you’ll be heading back to your apartment to catch up on Saturday night drinking, and I’ll be scaling the hill to the athletic center to watch my friends kick each other’s ***** in a game of unprofessional basketball. We’ll go back to our lives that probably will never intertwine again – and maybe they weren’t meant to in the first place. As I walk back to my room, I’m hit by how exhausted I am. I’m hit by how hard I must have been working without even realizing to seem like a normal human being, one whose brain isn’t constantly trying to keep them from going outside. I’m a firm believer in having to work for what you want, and I worked for you, but maybe I didn’t work hard enough. Or maybe I’m working for the wrong person.
This is an essay I wrote for my beginner creative nonfiction course in undergrad. It is most definitely about a boy I had a crush on at the time. If he ever finds this, I will be thoroughly mortified, but I'm also too proud of it to hide it forever. I changed his name, of course.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.come to think of it... a fillet of meat never implores me to think about what's about to be eaten... nor does a whole chicken implore me to think about what's about to be eaten... but whenever i see my fellow man... esp. when my fellow man is begging to not be taken seriously... i do... tend to... in the back of my mind... attempt to bypass thinking about a butchers' cut... of what... looks pristine when walking or running... parcles of the "excess" of limbs... given a dead chicken... it's all readily available... but... working from a genesis of movement toward the study of both coffin and stone; and wind? i would most certainly understand ******... but then again... not all that ******... end up eating their intentions... which makes me make phantoms of nostalgia... ****'s sake... even the sharks these days will bite: but spit our flesh out... because... well: why **** something that you will not eat? because... there's a... Hadrian's wall counter-impetus?! but it's welcoming to think about ****** as... also a bit of a hunt... i guess that's what keeps me off a streak of tartare "justice": before i start gagging and imitation regurgitation... such a foul beast from an ownership of a tongue alone... forget that shambo of the mind... no wonder... man kills man without intentions to eat him... i'd sooner eat cat-****-and-puke... then again... unless it was the brain, the heart, the liver... those ackward limbs and muscles... i could somehow imagine eating the tender bits... never those... ostrich extensions of reimagining animate agilities of a kama sutra: study.

stupendous...

   i will hold a stone in one hand
and imagine a mountain...

i will hold a glass in the other...
and imagine the sea:

not from the brain...
but from the tips of my fingers...

stupendous... quiet so...

               otherwise less impressive:
most thoroughly...

then i will hold some ice in one hand...
and some black earth in the other...

i will scrunch some paper into a ball...
rather than fold it...
   then i'll lick a knife...
            then...
          
                if there's any more "quo vadis"
sensibility to go through with...
i'll remember: ask the anaesthetician
that question: quo vadis...

as he distracts you with the jab
before... that sort of "sleep"...

            i would like to feel the texture
of thought...
        perhaps even sniff it out
into a bottle - out from my head...
this perpetual (th)ought i...

had it been only a moral quest
rather than... picking
up stray lines that otherwise made-up
a concern for narrative...

                                yes: "or" this insomnia
narrative... all these bothersome
daydreams and counter-measures...

it's not merely enough to play
out monkey-dough roles...
tongue of a serpent...
body still functioning at best
in imitation...
inconveniences of noble feats
acquired from watching widow swans
in that term: monogamy...

or in a circus of a harem of walruses...
this chimera this man...
the loan animal and his loan
words: schnitzel puppy flip flip...

        unless it's pure history of dates...
it's... a mongrel of archeology
and etymology...
           to find the oldest word...
that has been translated: diffused...

beside og, da, i, am... om, to...
         w...      z...
           w tym: in this...
          z tego: from this...

a letter that can act like a conjunction...
i: "e"... and...
         or a pronoun...

wood does not have a chemical formula...
water does: inorganic matter does...
stones do...

air does...
            oxygen by whatever %... nitrogen by
whatever %..
i studied chemistry...
but the question only comes now...

what is the chemical formula for... wood?
well... wood doesn't have a chemical formula...
truly... even i'm astounded...

even Alain de Lille looks stupified...
i know... they have a list of formulas
for... ****'s sake... even the ozone!
O₃... which is "impossible" since oxygen
is doubly-binding...

shortcuts to god... i can't call them anything
but just that...
why doesn't wood have a chemical
formula?!

i will hold a book in one hand...
and a feather in another...

    you can have a chemical formula
for... stibnite...
    orthorhombic... Sb₂S₃...
of sure... you can have that...
you can have a chemical formula for:

millerite (NiS)
  zwieselite... olivenite...
          adamine Zn2(AsO4)(OH) -
   autunite Cu(UO2)2(PO4)2 · 12H2O...
benitoite...
                  
all these formulas...
these aquariums of inorganic matter...
but still... no chemical formula for...
wood!

lignin is only part of the equation...
what can be accounted for photosynthesis:
C₅₅H₇₂O₅N₄Mg (chlorophyll)...
      
you'd think water would be more
complicated...
    
beryl?
            hollandite?
         ­ tremolite...       so that's "earth"
all covered; no?

but where's that formula for wood?

good-luck looking for that holy graille...
either the cup or the cross...
cubanite... no problem...
   benitoite...
              goethite...

               am i drinking? oh right... that's me
waking up to a reality of not being
in a boyband...

all these chemical names coming and
going...
  glass...
trinitite,
made by the trinity nuclear-weapon test...
the libyan desert glass...
volcanic obsidian glass...

otherwise glass is:
silicon dioxide +
SiO2
calcium carbonate +
CaCO3
sodium carbonate
Na2CO3

             what's the chemical formula
for wood?!
any luck with paper?
a mixture... primer: cellulose (C6H10O5)n...

approx. 50% carbon, 42% oxygen,
6% hydrogen, 1% nitrogen, and 1%
other elements
(calcium, potassium, sodium,
     magnesium, iron, and manganese)

i guess it's one of those social media
relationship statuses: "it's... complicated"...
my bad...
   cellulose... polyose... and lignin...

something spectacular was supposed to
happen: there was an avenue of pristine
love waiting: i never managed
to wait for it... in the end...
run-of-the-mill stuff...
           there was this "this"...
and there was this "that"...
     pointers in braille...
      limintless echoes of uncaressed
agonies... splendours upon the attire
table of dead-meat: quasi...
     when inspected by the more eloquent
butchers of surgery...

            but the whiskey or the *****...
flowed like... it possessed the knowledge
of... gomme syrup...
of all the detailed memories
of: these people have lived...
the alchemists:
   - zosimos of panopolis
   - ge hong
- jean baptista van helmont...
    
  why is leonardo da vinci's mona lisa
so... forced upon us?
ever look at... Perronneau's
  madame de sorquainville?

i always "mistake"... albrecht Düre
with gustave Doré...
i implore you...
don't make me buy chocolates
or flowers... it's not one of thoese
dementia riddled "misnomer" takes
on Monet and Édouard Manet

here's my quadratic:
   albrecht Düre            Claude Monet



       Édouard Manet                     gustave Doré

very much a rhombus...
besides the fact that when i do pop the cork
"pop"... and "cork"...
the libido does rampage...
and i'm imagining myself in a brothel...
and i am the brothel...
and all that's love is about the basic
need for what's easil given
to a petter dog...
down my view no alley with
a grandma and a leash to look / feel
suspect... repetition of the times...
or some sort of allure for repenting
the deeds of youth...

              ****: to hell with stochholm cyborgs
and all that anemic clues...
those autistic plots and "twists"...
        
am i to suddenly come out begging
for my democratic right?
writing as an extension of thinking...
i hardly think it's an invitation
to speak...

              less... "inclined" to counter this freedom?
esp. now?
esp. now?
       now of all times... come... let's dictate
the future together...
let's start sharpening the meat-grinder!
let's keep up with the chisel for a tooth
of the grand earthworm:
wursecker... for the bone to become marror
to become: all but the plaster-work
of pâté!

         smear that **** all over...
                    oh right... what's being "debated"?
the self-employed being given
slave status or otherwise...
those given employee stature...
to be somehow above?
in england there are 5.5 MILLION self-employed
sub-contractors...

the bus driver gets a day off...
unions and what not...
  ******* kind and fellow examples of
non-replica me...
             unions, what unions?
here's to... what?
fizzying out the expandables?
      good lock and chain and "luck"...
no one came when i was i need...
no one came but they still had to ridicule me...

i am enjoying this... whatever "this" is...
i like to think of it...
what the darwinism ideologues
    have been spewing
all along...
recycling primer...
        getting rid of a tootache...
just enough to be... the sensible
english gentleman...
but not... a weimar **** in waiting ******...
sieve it...

we'd be lost in hope...
when all hope is but a blistering
bargain...
when most of us don't have
landlord credentials...

             pokey porky pie-yo!
i like this currency of a carboot sale...
happening...
i quiet like the clearance...
the easily available sale of death...
the darwinism that darwinism
doesn't exactly "like"...

hell... shove the weakest under the bus...
under the hittite slash and draw...
i'm trying to remain bothered...
so says the drunk...

or at least... when the government says:
curfew... no more than 2
in a public space congregation...
i start thinking about how pork torsos
are hanged in a slaughterhause...
then i start to imagine...
that meat-hook... plucked in under
the chin... that excess of a bonus tooth
for where the uvula and the tonsil
should be...

   oh look... it glides! it hangs!
to be crucified is such an obscure...
such an out-of-date symbolism...
how about hanging from a meat-hook?
for piercing those n.h.s. ambulances tires?!
or coughing in the faces of old people?
how about... being impregnated
by a pike inserted in a quasi-sodomite
pristine ****... reaching the ****** of
both pelvis and coccyx...
how's that?

   n'ah... i rather like re-imagining
the curcifixion dangling on your neck...
with a meat-hook and subsequent dangling
on the treadmill of minced...
right under the chin... where the tongue
begins... and ends... to lick
and slobber that last and lost retention
of vowels in oyster juices...
    from the concrete constructs
                                of consonants...
        
a hot-dog hard-on on for...
                                     for the benefits of
sigma humanity;
   i'll try to retain remaining obscure...
****... if i don't i'll probably have to beg
for the image replication of trimmed eyebrows!
Camila  Sep 2014
Untitled
Camila Sep 2014
Before you my future was a blurry extension of me that I failed to complete.
I imagined myself getting married to someone, having a daughter, taking her to ballet and giving her advice for college cause she would be a doctor like me.
I imagined myself wrapping presents for Christmas, going to my parents house for the Holidays and celebrating mothers day.
And she would have my smile and be boyband crazy like me and she would grow up with The Beatles and I saw myself teaching her to ride a bike.
But after you (and for the first time ever) my dreams changed and now I can´t see myself getting married if it isn´t with you. I don´t think about the wedding anymore, instead I think about the crazy mornings running around the house, trying to get our kids ready and making coffee for both of us, because I know you are lazy in the mornings and I have a tendency to let time slip by when I´m watching you sleep.
That daughter I dreamt about now has a little brother, because I want somebody to look exactly like you, and play football like you.
I still see myself wrapping Christmas presents but now I see you next to me trying to fit into a Santa costume.
And we would have Christmas at my place but New Year´s at yours.
And maybe she doesn´t like medicine but architecture and I will not only buy her Operation but also tons of Legos.
I can still teach them to ride a bike, but it will be your job to teach them sports. I´ll take care of Biology and English, but Math will be all yours.
The beatles are still the music they´d hear growing up but I promise they will watch every NFL season wearing tiny red jerseys on the sofa next to you.
For the first time my imagination of my future doesn´t stop five years from now, it not only covers my career.
Meeting you gave me a perspective and showed me all those invisible parts I didn´t know I wanted.
RM.
I really didn´t know how to structure this one. It´s kind of messy but is exactly how my imagination goes when he is around.

*up date* feb 1/2015 he started this conversación, and it was the first time i ever told anyone about why and how i wanted kids, ley alone tell someone that i wanted him to be the dad ir be told they wanted me to be the mom.
Paul Gilhooley May 2016
A daughter is a gift of innocence and charm,
As she lays quite delicate in the curve of your arm,
Her hopes and her dreams you hold safe in your palm,
As she squeezes you tight, you promise no harm.

Pushing her gently on the swings in the park,
Your constant concern as she stays out in the dark,
Fiery and moody, but bright as a spark,
But a place in your heart, she will soon make her mark.

A young daughters first love is always her dad,
Those boyfriends she brings home, just another wild fad,
You look on beyond them, thinking intentions are bad,
But as long as she’s happy, you know you’ll be glad.

To tantrums and tears over the weirdest of things,
The joy and the love with the happiness she brings,
The noise from her room, with the boyband she sings,
Her bedroom all messy with the clothes that she flings.

Your emotions and fears will be dragged through the mill,
At times with her stories, she’ll leave you quite ill,
The time it will come when you mention the pill,
But no matter what, you’ll love her still.

So this daughter that lies safely asleep in her cot,
Will make life’s sad stresses and woes matter not,
Her smiles and her giggles will leave your stomach a knot,
But a daughter’s sweet love, means you have the whole lot.

© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2013

— The End —