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harlon rivers Feb 2018
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening  a  familiar  silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining  a  runaway  Pullman
flew away off the rails,    airborne
on the winged wind headed north

Winter  pausing  for a moment
in  the  shadows  of  familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an  echoless  surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
        to feel whole again

There  is  no  absolving  voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
        Death  has  no  mercy  ―  
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity

The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
        breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water

Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that  passed  too  soon  to  grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch

There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the  winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
        through the windshield
    of countless miles and miles

And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was  how I got here in this now,.. yesterday

only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling  slightly stained pages,
spilling  a  bitter  sweet  dream ...


        harlon rivers ... February 2018


///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
1st night back home:  the end of a 2400 mile road-trip

I know I can't catch up here, all anyone can do is start again..

I've heard it said: "starting with the ending is the best place to begin."

Thanks for reading !!!
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.

Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.

Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.

I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny ***** and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Words' Worth Aug 2019
Strange that I think of you when I peer into my typewriter, I'd love you to the end of time on the stretches of Brooklyn bridge, well I've remembered two years in her reaction where's the two hours now, faraway and cries on the Sun in false yet true splendor in Ontario suffering from prima-donna stage fright and sickness
Go into the gentle madness, shadows are rising on the silver lining, never knowing who showed them the point of life

You don't even exist in my mind, only when I drink beer behind my darkness, in what's and what's wild?
I ask for the meaning of the light, shines on us all with the same shine, tamed by the consciousness finding itself with a will to remember your mirrored faucet, the tumescent towers
And your body is mine, and so are the pulsating melons boughs filled with the heights of the soul
Spontaneous overflowing with poetry, have ye heard
Asked what does it mean, tatterdemalion women with Utah that can put wheat blankets on New York streets, hanging by the city lights
The limelight is the best fall under, under the material Sun
Go into the madness with a gaily gentle touch, feel like my soulless eyes that turn into tender footed steel

I can still remember those Amish legs, it's common knowledge
I'm in the river hell, comparatively too late to think of some compelling excuse to remember this, too distressed to say the rife brought out the Agamemnon wishing for the book in his loveless eyes
From his dead-end streets, often I'm marching on dawned said Sun


For some music from the speaking silent Zephyr poet handing you the cheap attractions, now diamonds straddling on the starry sky
Have you caught them yet in the pools of joy, and Marxist radio adulation

With its peace and understanding, feeding the hungry souls with foolish eyes, fear death by water
Dealing with slaves with hands that wave the ether
Murmurs, rushes, travel is life, and the road makes the honest difference if taken with a naked mind
Forgetting his drawings in his lunchbox, absent-mindedly abseiling in the speaker's of Parliamentarian cops

Looking for milder weather, when the time stops ticking alive
With conviction in his sails, ready to find his body within the conscious nation
Elysian isles dreamt up beautiful ceilings with smells ready for his father to flee from Troy, smelling the freedom

In the afterlife, concocting darling buds of May in the rarest happiness
We are in awe of your silence unseen
Thee heaven, in deathless glances in thine light, let's stretch out the strollin' midnight in a sheet of the smokestack darkness with the cusp of cutting lives amenable
Short and alone in the lonely places without souls of desolate traces in the days of darkness, not light or darkness, in the heart cannot grow fonder of the bliss, ignorant of the ramifications of woe and the strains of purple haze, Moroccan hashish on the locked heaven for wrathful souls staying in Rabat, waiting for the train to Tangiers
I'm on the shore with my drugs, with my friendly sidekick telling us not to do 'em

He looks the other way and says you have a soul that remembers the ashcans on madness, counting the times you lost your breath writing about a genius with a touch of madness that blesses us with hope

With a touch of dignity and common sense, they call me Mr. Common, drinking his juices up and passionate thoroughly intense
With the pusherman's gaze on Virgil's vigilante asylum in Spiritus Mundi, Looking for sadness realizing there were kind memories analyzing the studied smile often ignoring the crime of what was the bloodied-dimmed by the mascara, make-up
No razors allowed in the hairy meager, merger agreed that they shouldn't cut their dreadlocks with ****** eyes, and dimmed pace

You've mimicked life and found that you couldn't reject the sadness
Now, then and what?
Are we gonna change our faces for your confused state of mind that slow when we talk about Buddhism?
In Hell's Kitchens, what's going on in starry Heaven's dynamo nature, intermixed by the same idea of fairness, all that jealousy as is

Cannibal dynamo, adding to the interest of the Zen, really ******
Some people never go crazy, I wonder lives follow what kind of blue, so sheltered from the Watt's storm
Going into the gentle madness, the storm was left when we were reserved, resolved to set the desolating emptiness ploughing on the secret garden
If we recognize each other, I wonder kind lives do the secret lotuses of the squall of mud, on the run from the solid road

If we are kind to each other, are we friends first, recognizing our love in the latter, the pensive ones solitarily reaping
Nothingness in the new honor of chaotic houses on cheerful streets keeping the men happy with cats on train tracks leading us
Through the depths of kindness, where we find the invisible love forgiving us from the ****** in Narcissus, toiling in the invincible summer
With a dedication, immense and immeasurable as the lost souls in the free outsiders, keeping the outsider with us in good spirits, dreaming of Sisyphus happy, on the stormy
Watching on the watchtower for the island of the gentle darkness, shining the light towards your way back home, changing the weather for sailors

Nowadays, speeches keep us here with the difficult women before the speechless enter underworld lines, kissing them before we leave behind the journeys
We define ourselves, in questions we ask
To be behind, slightly away, maybe slightly to the right, ascending heaven with hats of invoking spirits in the dawn that meets the light of the home, likewise dark is completely tramped
You're writing like a rolling stone rocking the cradle, vamped on pumped highways around yesterday
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, tied through the worn-out years torn by second-dimension souls
In a third-dimension soul, now in the afterlife

Just like the flowers you left her in some tomorrow around midnight
With weeds and broken stems, in a-getting napes of silken sunset kisses, scrummaging through back pages

Looking for milder weather, under the drapes winning it for the dazed closeted people

Should we order, should we dream of better minds losing themselves to the best of souls behind the Iron hand, curtain clasp
Saying I don't drug, some drugs with chains that turn with wide-eyed gyre opened the women, like a flat tire
A ***** went loose while traveling road under the stars
Gyroscope takes you home, recovering your rocking trains from the platform of D-day, hanging at the mirror or what holds behind
Some cheap things aren't that an expensive dream or you just want the remaining man in the shock of psychotherapy and hydrotherapy
Go into the gentle madness, flying on battery acid and ambition now

Consumerism of socialist wind, and obscene love, in the looks of noble regrets respecting every part of her closed eyes, with the platform train waiting for D-Day
Stealing looks from the bare cup, the cup has always been full of mercy
Suffused with the glances in the silhouetted distances drowning in summer's sadness, finding happiness in a warm gun

Ruminations on the contemplated clouds of highest mountains with a year, the seconds of the blind ash, and I'm selling eternal gazes in black Utah, being spent nonetheless worse for being away from Kansas or being here with the wild hanging over wayward tombs
Looking for self-portraits in white, gray areas shine brighter in the darkness like worthy saviors
Freed in thy name, going into the madness gently, waiting for the song
The song danced once, and there's no way
The dance sang like it were the skirmishes of our youthful daydream nation, ultrasonic cars on sonic and crooked pavements
The worthless machine is the worst, and the world I'm flying on, pools of despair and joy, holding myself in savage stillness
Whispering familiar sounds across the universe, summers lack all conviction, things fall apart
The passion intensity was once there, to be better to the best minds who have an option but sit and stare in the dead of winter
Go into the gentle madness of the midnight blue bloom, coldest distance with the tea for the warmest wordsmiths talking of the apparition of faces
We look into the life of things, through the ups and downs
Although, the saving gentle madness, stares in the long black cold

Looking for milder weather, in tempestuous strong men in declasse purgatory, churning out handlooms out never ran out on Normandy's blue beach wailed, but, the flowers in the grave grew in the impasse of gentle madness of the grave
That doesn't feel like the Eastern silence, hear the rolling thunderous noise, liberalism in the good night of ones in scorn
Contemporary critics resound in working-class galloping horse-rides, do not go into that gentle goodnight,
To the shore washed by noisy waves, chariots of fire
Wired woodwind instruments, for working ire of winnowing maize and corn, to be earnest I'm on a corn cob looking like a starry-eyed soul, marrying the riches with my egalitarian erogenous works, turning and turning
Having no limitation, as a limitation on a dead-eyed love maker
If you call my father, the straw hat pirate that left before I was born in adolescence, a dreamer

Looking avariciously for titillating tides in the mantra that washed over
Sleeping with words that never come out, and the handles the midnight spoon with gentle madness from scorn
Horns blowing on benzedrine, Eli Eli sabachtani cry from those living in the past, foreign to the timeline, crying for better love
Accepting, nothing at all, except my own confusion, better born of

Indignant of a falcon that flies for hatred of callow words
Second Coming! Epiphanies Shining dynamo! shards of childhood recovered by the genius behind the windowpane
He said, "The ocean looks the same."
I realized this with some silent vanity and silent pain, what does it mean, though?
Adonais or vacillating minds focused on the cheap attraction of phantom operas of Russia in Kaddish bowing to others in the other poems, sketches of Spain lay like acts, bowling the drunk-alley to the ******* before the cowards

Vultures in the ceiling of hunting obliterated cows in granite megalithic
Mummified in the tampering tapes of washing sins of our brother
I've got it bad tonight, can you hear me knocking?
I've come with a gentle madness and starry midriff, strengthened by the turning and turning

I'm tightening like a winding clock on winding road, speedometer, odometer baptized, I'm running on the tabula rasa
Mars is a soundless instrument if you play the music of D-day on the heart that knows the days of the adage, dramatically Dr. Manhattan now
Going into the gentle madness, common sense is common sense
Even in the sibilant rocketships, honesty hasn't lost its meaning in the thoughts of the common man

Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg met in Berkley Halls, in abeyance, nature with a check and original energetic frenetic ecstasy dreaming up Aeneas and Satryrichon, surely
About my life in my mind, not a soul looking for honesty, mind on my life wrote high on science fiction touting history at school surely positivity dreams for you a surging death
In sudden compare, death can do life and fleeing mother, the divorcee goes round and round, sometimes in the top of 4th Street
Still dreaming of yesterday, let it be I let you down

Parents the same, and from parents that remain the same in that song of fooling us, I might survive if I'm a mirror-clad, tad wise in this robot apartment where the soul stares at the natural affinity, you must get lonely in your reflection, or where it remains are behind, seeing me paralyzed
Where's your head at, in the heartaches and embrace, on the road of health clinics, looking for an angry stream of fixes
If I was buried
Yet, I am deep in this summer and sadness, nothingness or stealing glances from the light that dances
I'll steal your position, and put you in your place
Inner moonlight in ungodly attire, hide the madness around your fleeing prophet, the ceiling of madness dreams of debates
Debates aren't the tool of fool looking for the slander, looking to be outlandish
Going into the gentle madness, the generation of beatniks immolating on funeral pyres, and finding their Bolshevik pamphlet, and getting ***** with the bloodlust with the lustrous
The soul doesn't want, I bet it doesn't see the golden compass
Going into the midnight spoon, I've given up on the gentle madness of somber scalding souls balding it all
She stills walks into the bars, and my hairs turn into wires keep her away
Beyond the false compare, of time going by in the bar, looking for trustees in the flickering hallways

Mad generation in the taped scandalous laughter, of the running streams and stock, thus thinned like Macron's talk of the dull bits of drama cut out
Dramatic clicking of the typewriter, where are we gonna take these memories of suspicion unencumbered
In the name of milder weather for angel-hipsters, my mind cries silver saxophones undulating
Going into the gentle madness, will we have zero summers this year, no winters for seconds, winter waits unperturbed

I want you're to light to turn into heat, you can ask for the money instead of mewling about the life cycle in Pub-side buses with a steadfast old man who is fixed on the highway riders rambling on on composed sordid meets to their fathers, volitional emetics
On the hilts of iron balustrades, behind the curtained ceiling

The lizard can do anything, although he never leaves the highway summers for the search of eternal darkness
Moloch, he is lost in the road, beginning and end, trading paths and treading walks of life from trenches, carrying on the show misconstrued, tarrying it out

Dreaming up Arkansas and carrying out Dadaism in Greenwich village walking past the love in his mind
Dancing on the starry murders, we have to sit and stare at its jazz to talk of it, served by you
Living, undead, unbeing and is telling it me what I liked to be
Or changing us and telling us to like it is, with bated breath that understands
We cry tears in the  cottage stopping leaks with wattles, vines, and forlorn rags to stuff the gazebos, chained to the boat leading the blind
In the darkest lives, the brilliance of justice slips away from hands, then the hand that fed hit me with rulers and lessons
The didact stopped knocking on your door, going into the gentle madness of incredible seductive Seraphim
At what roundabout hour as this rough beast come to last, not taking no for an answer

In frugal free-prose that reads itself, balanced and splendid confusing us all, we could consult with our inner tumult as the life get's colder, warming to the last falconer crying on the Big Sur, in the desolate darkness
She saved sensitive ******* dreams, but, it's you that fortifies my solitude, why am I in this robotic apartment running on oil and simplicity
Electic shock, addiction to water-boarding, I have a wet towel around my waist
There is no was

When I could create man after man in this hospital clock, and the sorrows will never end
****** Suicides! Virgil cries! You now belong on the radio!

Aeneas reign in darkness and remember the time when we were stabbed in a time beyond false compare games of funeral rituals, burying

Anchises later wilts about losing fame in the flames of Troy, loser shows fool's glory and sows seeds and seeks gold in Empyrean isles built on Phyrgian scales writing light in the scaled heights of souls, working for self-made princesses of virginity so fair, that hath my honesty behest, dreaming up soup for *** in the breakfast mornings near yet so far from the golf clubs
The good walk is spoiled, with your few aphorisms
We will goodbye today, and speak of tomorrow later

A night in your head, and I'll find your daughter and write a whole culture, storming at the surfeited sea
To contradict ourselves is the constant chill of the given right of tragedy or it's a beautiful thing of corsets and eyes in the look for spectral rides in the rabble-rousing backends, gold heads in bookends is the tragedy of the righteous and hopeless
Nothingness, free-prose of peaches, in thy emperor is it the gift of tragedy often nectarines with skinned shapes and pear-shaped eyes on the valley
Closing on the style of Joan of Arc, John The Baptist, doing it dangerously
I'm burning in the recesses of my mind, tolling out to sea

Knowing power, character demands respect! And work demands fruition
We want our world, back without the words dreaming up the invisible humor with the eternal image of the circadian cry
Where you laugh at this Moloch madcap, cries under stairways of the fifth floor stocked by the barrels, lost and out of touch with their olfactory sensations lose their scent of success
They  have become bad, and the losers have evil
The good, bad, and the search for pyrite in suicides and painless

Locked out of heaven, until they can design the freedom of the people losing marbles in their sojourning each desireable day, sensed the
Guiding thine light in the darkest sound of silent screams from the duets in the sky

Asking what they do, sunflower of integrity
Surely some revelation is at hand
Asking what they doth speak, lasso in the muddied waters
Surely some invention is for the factotum instead
Asking what and I cannot relate and interpret industrialization, with pigs in animal cries from preventing utopia from getting a bad name looking over the live wire
All we need is prayers for the valley, I believe true love waits beyond the hysterical happiness below the herons, one-footed avian following the Roman city of Thugga
Hear the hair of your head, as the time goes by I grow balder
But, she still walks in the moonlight, taller with her head touching us with her free life following the gray cloud
Another year, I left N.Y., on West Coast in Berkeley halls caught up in gazebos and lacunae, selling us education by saddest dollars, under the quiet summers' hands

Dreamed of her electric soul, that, thriving with life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond compunction in convivial jovial East Coast vials keep the invisible humor that tells us the heart understands the gestures of good books and good friends, open books and broken hearts
Unsere Stadt meer und der Liebe Hirsch
The day he reckons and the day of sordid affairs, in morbid decayed despair

She tells him to ready this stony ******* on a granite ****?
We look for the earth, laying in the obscura haggis on the star-spangled banner of twelfth notes and two years from now
The summer from the Dubrovnik, Slovak in their tongue
Hungary was amid the sadness of sorrowful seeds of Tangiersmen

There is no looking for blue eyes in the hallucinations of dreaming up Kansas and Losing Denver, sending their kisses to ecstasy
Lost in thoughts in a dream as the sun beats me to wit, shining on our pleasures in America's songs of the Harlem ghettos following the pact with suffering

Changing the minds of the mad generation
Never found in magic in Greenwich Village
The walks of life, are spoiled under the cloudless migrant sky, bebop doesn't stop and rock the patient under the magical esters of aestivated imagination

Ain't it dull streets, lying on our stabbed backs and the night's right
When you are so quiet?
Isn't that wrong, I think it's cold that you are so warm with something I love
Beyond a summer's night compare thee falsely, to thy will
Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly. Snow-white and angel-headed looking for heaven in nameless streets

She lies in the saucy bedlam of the questions that affect all of the parasites in his legs without velleity
Preparing him for his chair, rising with the morning, May is the month living in the secrets of the stars
Living or undead, preparing for his chair
You can't stare at much, can you?
Staring at the ceiling with a sight for distant shell-shock
Staring here, I do live in the heart of darkness

Pushing it away, all from my wheelchair in the life of defeat
Defeat is a state of mind; no one is defeated until they left the might out to dry, clothing themselves in sin
Talk of light, do we have no supreme love for the losers
Greatness must be caught by the moon and left for the star-crossed lovers gathering for the intertwinein thine light
Go into the gentle madness, before your flesh goes before the bone

There are people who cannot tarry or aren't getting the attraction of madcap, he had stopped singing with forked lighting
Household objects which ones he didn't say, listing out the neon streets on Groundhog Day, Moloch horridus, you have taken my days now you have my ****** fluids too
I'm you or a promiscuous friend, without the madness, going into the gentle night smoking up marijuana war rooms
Smoking in the cino-smoking zones, carrying barrels for the handlooms, I see no smokestack wind carrying us on barren thoughts aft' wry comments

Rising with the dull roots that fight the gravity or whatever is down there with a raft, we're unfurling winds at last impatient
Waiting for the sun, in the constant chill of the sea
An old man in the honest idea of expressing himself, might not see
Ambitious wings and conviction in his sails too lost for the lively road and lost in them
Going into the gentle madness, America out of my mind
Changed my mind, I can either hate it or learn from the love and let it grow
Second coming talking of indignation in a brass cottage of tears, where fears are exchanged for the company of cold night
Some the fear the water, and hear the hydrogen jukebox in raging drunkardly in cannibal elder's delightful dance
Dancing on the yesterdays, swirling Saturdays, reasonable the shops will be closed on the Sundays waiting for Mr. Common woven

Birdie stickin' out of the sorrel shrub, and I'm in the burning tree poking the pinenuts too
The talk of weather in a wise man in cultivated in cultured and controlled by the plans of talk of intelligent heros in Dog day afternoon
Hymn of the lost summer, war makes maladies or a bad cold, nevertheless, there remains no need to sleep after dinner
With a song that remains the same, with the someone that he loves
Accepting the gentle hand, that touched his wax wings watered by lilies
Greedy flame blazing in my head, the knowledge speaks when wisdom silences others in innocent cognizance
Going into the gentle madness, reaching us in scarred Burroughs stares, becoming a fool in the books of many faceless contents
We keep them in a lunchbox, hurling the bells where the rock tolls for us
Going into the gentle madness, unfurling the epiphanies
Epiphanies! Do not be gay and blind, like a meteorite in the morning
Twenty years of solitude, in once an upon time dreamed dinner sleep

Going ahead without conviction is looking for doubt and not forgiveness
Asking for milder weather in lonesome drugs and forgiveness in breathless protagonists mulling over ancient time
Asking for forgiveness, from a friend on the harbored sky in the old and new bougainvillea of booked streets by stores and they're welcoming empty breezes in redemption, seeking where her hair endeth
Ages in likeness to the guilds of Eastern sages, whites of their eyes sharing the light of the ones guiding us through the bibulous black
In the barren wind of desolate angels blessing their wounds with bleeding howls, souped-up bowls, strapped ancestors to rocketmen searching beyond the jazzmen who once played the blues instead of forsaking their meaning, asking thy will

Her hand wasn't fair anymore, in thine light searching for a dalliance in radiance, while handling the teapot
Had a bad cold, nevertheless, but, a king of my heart dealing wicked cards like a friend knowing of true freedom and open stores of pop-culture creating open looks

Nonetheless, her nosegay was rife with two people looking for faults in the frozen wallflower, on his wheelchair
One-eyed merchant keeping his on the grass of life, making peace with wants he owns, kitsch photos of the Visions of the Lord

With a patch of wrath and a touch of madness, go into the gentle madness with the children playing with their swings, in the heat of the night
Nonetheless, these passionflowers call to me over, motionless center pop, when love whistles strangely in whispering song
Where music listens, and knowledge speaks of guiding the listeners look for love on the radio
Environmental collectivism in the laissez-faire fire that started the burning communist captain harboring the blocs, and they never found Lenin until March dawned on, shining! Government! ****** suicides! Virgil cries! Love! Mercy! Robot apartment! Where you drink the tea of the ******* of the spinsters of Utica! Blessed be she who brings death to us all, in the name of thy father
Ayeshah Apr 2013
It's getting late.
We've ran around
all day and he knew from
the time
I called him
early this morning,
how much I wanted to be with him,
I
doubt he took me serious
when
I
told him after
I
get out of class we would
head back to his place...
I
called him on my break
and
told him
I
would be seeing him soon,
he sort of giggled like yeah right
"
Brooklyn"....
I
worked on my assignments
but
my mind was else where.
As
I
typed on my school PC,
I
thought of how good
he'd
feel inside of me
and
I
began to feel myself heating up,
getting a bit wet
between my thighs...
As soon as I could;
I
rushed out of my seat,
down the steps
and
to my car,
doing my best to keep my speed
about
80 mphs.
I
picked him up
just as he got off
the city bus.
He jumps in my car
--
kisses me
on my cheek,
I
couldn't think
my mind was wishing
he'd
kiss me everywhere.
Hi
I
said breathlessly,
he stares at me
with
them beautiful eyes
and
says hey babygirl...
I
love when he calls me that.
We
rush to finish all we had to do
and
once at his place
he cooks
trying to do his best
to
feeds everyone.
While
he's attending to dinner,
I
rush in and out the shower.
I
run to his room
and
wait
--
I'm
ready, heated
and
prepared...
I
lie naked on my back watching out his window
I can feel him enter the room as I'm
staring at a dusky yellowish setting sun.
I
can feel him in the doorway,
his eyes are glazing
over my body...
For a split second
I
feel vulnerable,
weak even.
This
deep
longing
takes over
and
like a she-wolf
I
leap up as if by magic
off his bed.
He's ready for me,
He giggles
knowingly,
and
pushed me down,
He holds me there
as
he lifts my legs up around his shoulders.
He
barres his face in between my thighs.
*******, licking
I
moan so loud,
I
think the neighbors can hear me...
Oh well
he doesn't stop,
only moans out
I LOVE YOU
while his tongue dances
in & out of me,
then
around
my *******.
He's teasing me
--
it's building up...
He
knows
I'm about to burst
--
he's ready for me,
as soon as
I
cry out
he lifts
his head up,
I
arch my pelvis
up to meet his
hard, long, thick,
solid ****,
he slows me down
--
literally
picks me up off
the bed...
In one swift motion,
he's deep inside of me,
I'm airborne,
lifted into
his protective strong arms,
his muscle aren't even taunt
as
he allows me to grind
while he moves
in & out of me,
along with me,
like we're racing
--
trying to beat each other
but somehow we match stroke for stroke...
as my ****** breaks
he's
moving deeper.
I'm ready to burst again.
He watches me
as
he leans over my abdomen;
he caresses my *******,
He takes off his wire frame
glasses.
He looks at me with them eyes
that can melt your soul.
I
feel the warm vapor
of his breath nestling on
my neck..
He licks
in
between
the hollows of my neck,
leaving trails
of his wondrous kisses
down the valley of my cleavage,
******* one
breast
then the other,
moving onward to my *******,
all
the while hes pumping
in and out of me..

"
Oh OOOoo mmm Ahhhh ooOoOo "
I cry out
--
as
his **** becomes ramrod.
I
close my eyes
feeling him stretch me
his rough treatment
turns me on even more,
I
can feel my ***** becoming wetter,
Feeling his **** penetrate deeper than before,
I'm so wet I feel myself over-flowing.
My ***** aching for him to stop but I'm not ready to give up..
We
pause,
then wait for a few seconds...
Our
breathings so hard,
we're gulping for air..
whilst his ***** nestles inside
my quivering ***** ,
my *****
tighten around his ****,
as
I'm listening to
him breathe.
We share a look
--
I'm ready just as he is...
his muscle become taunt
as
he
rigorously
&
vigorously
lifts me like weights
up & down,
while he moves
in and out of me
--
slamming into me
I
feel myself
swells as he fills me up
so completely
with his hard ramrod shaft..
so deep is he
--
I
can't talk, moan or breath,
only whimpers of moans
rant
the sunset evening sky...
softly at first; then
I
finally call out
his name
and
scream: *
yes yes yes O'Yessss
He grunts
and
moans watch
so
I
look down at his priapic ****,
as
I
watch
--
my mind plays a little trick on me
and
I
imagine it entering me
at a magnificent speed,
I'm turned on even more
while watching
this assault on my *****,
while
he continuously thrusting fast,
deep
and
so **** hard
I
can barely
take anymore.
I
watch
and
imagine it entering with
the force of the
explosion.

TO BE CONTINUED.......
maybe another day like;
"April's Fools"
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®
Tallulah Nov 2013
There’s nothing I’d rather do
Than watch TV with you on my lap
Sleeping the afternoon through
As the raindrops continually tap-tap

There’s nothing I’d rather kiss
Than that hollow of your throat
When your breathings gone amiss
Cuddling under a cashmere coat

There’s nowhere I’d rather be
Than sitting on the roof at midnight
With you and a cup of pepper tea
Carefully tracing dawn’s first light

There’s no other I’d rather
Than you right now, right here
Even when we lose hold of together
I’ll love you long after We disappear
mathea  Oct 2018
Eponine
mathea Oct 2018
I used to be one of the brightest reds
but now I've turned grey
forced to be numb
grown familiar with the pain
"Is this right or is it wrong?"
I ask myself everyday
while you are unaware of these conversations in my head
that I am caught up in this fray

if you could only see the way the way
you tell me endless stories about her
like the gleam in your eyes and
how your smile grows wider
every time you mention her name
inimical to your happiness
there is an ache in my chest
yet I do not blame you for my heart’s distress

how could you be so oblivious?
why can’t you realize? why can’t you see?
why won’t you pay me enough attention
and look at me properly?
you leave me with no choice
but to stop myself from jumping off the cliff
only to fall into nothing but misery

as I fill this paper with the
breathings of my heart
tears blur my vision and they fall drop by drop
I’m all by myself again, nothing new
with a question left in my mind:
am I in love with you?
The collateral coaxes of God on Man,
Bring forth the froth of Goth on sand.

When existence means meaningless breathings,
Why do we try and see the reasoning’s of dreams.

Because the faces inside of these traces;
Memories of the outcast on the plains of the membrane.

Taking to the stars in a ship of bars,
Withholding the pain from exploding, while somewhere my mother is tokin’

And it goes faster and faster than fast, and these lines take on the attack,
Of a thousand gazelles in flight to tomorrow’s past fright.

There is no truth just perspective and respectively speaking I’m speaking about respect.
Abhor me as you adore me; please me as you use me, take me as you break me.

I am the ocean as I am the sky, blue crashing on white, trying to live my life,
But I’m failing at every turn and it burns and there is no learn only do and do not.

This life is a series of failures entwined in a not so heavenly knot,
And its okay as long as I’m dead, I say sir let’s travel to the bay, and maybe by the end of the day…

I’ll find my one true love in a tub of emotional regret and without worry or fret,
I’ll take her in my hands and kiss her with my face, just givin’ her a taste…

Of a man wondering if painkillers can take away the heartache.
Those breathings of the softest hours turn
On golden leaves that fall away
Your kisses upon my neck will still burn
When heaven’s stars meet
The light of day

Half-awake, I still stand a breath apart
Remembering a budding flower
Lovely angel wings flutter in my heart
Recalling those sweet
Love filled hours

Among the things moving the waves along
Are my tender visions of your hands
A gentle grace with moves so strong
My ebb and flow
At your command

A dove’s wings sweep across this flaming blush
Spreading like the rising sun
Upon a chest of happiness a burst of rush
Softly hints of an eternity
Of two becoming one
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
Corey J Grace  Apr 2012
Told Me
Corey J Grace Apr 2012
They told me.
Told me this is right.
I never thought to disagree.
Until we began falling from this lofty height.
I don't know how we got here.
Or where to go.
I can't tell you why my pulse is racing.
While my breathings slow.
I think this has been some sort of accident.
The kind you drive by really slow.
Never has the air between us been less passionate.
You smile, but all I see is the anger just below.
I've watched this love wax.
I don't think I can stand it to wane.
I try to hold harder the more this retracts.
Stuck in this whirring profoundness I can't explain.
I want to stop, but again and again it's all deja vu.
We are surrounded by moutains and molehills.
Perpetually waiting for the other to come through.
Held to some truth that constantly self fufills.
Yet, I just can't bring myself to leave us behind.
I cling, I fight, I pray, I hope, I wail.
because love is patient, love is kind...
They told me love will never fail.
Alan S Bailey Apr 2015
Some people wish for a myriad
of things, music on a record
their own personal rock band
a mansion, a pool, being the chief
inspector.
Making money, a yacht, dream of a
big family, nights at an inn. Lots
of clothes and shoes and their own
marriage, a wife who will never
leave him.
*If I could have just one wish, I'd
want to be in any room, just one
place, you holding me with your
arm, and a fan on in the background
so I can hear your breathings
pace...

— The End —