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I want to seep deep in your lungs
And breathe the air there
Clean my throat with your tongue
Lie underneath my body, all bare
Let me savour your mouth
So your oxygen can run in my blood
Bodies soaked in liquids
Nails carving the thin skins
An aroma for my desires and your sins
As we **** the essence from each other’s lips
You breathe words
That echo in my hollow bones
The ecstasy of fire slowly dying
With your ghostly moans
The hair pinching on the peels
As we pinch the pulp out of the fruits
Consume each other, nourish the souls
Listen to the creaking of the bed's woods
and from the woods, the crickets chirp
a brilliant union remains undisturbed
Trying so hard to make your daddy proud
You measure your **** with how loud you shout
Striving to be the in the centre of the crowd
You don’t have to prey on the weak
To prove that you are masculine
A man can softly speak
Bringing her up everytime
Bringing him down every night
Such a despicable sight

Yet still so desirable
Do I hate you because I want to be you? Or maybe I want you to be mine?
Mark Toney May 29
He awakens to a day of hope
after happy day of birth
attended by smiling parents proud
who know his priceless worth

He awakens to a day of hope
lying restless on his ***
after one move that surprises him
he ends up on his tum

He awakens to a day of hope
on his tum going nowhere fast
flailing arms and legs eventually push
now he's on all fours at last

He awakens to a day of hope
wobbling steadily as best he can
one hand forward followed by knee
then other knee and hand

He awakens to a day of hope
rising quickly on all fours
wide-eyed and giggling all the way
crawling fast across the floors

He awakens to a day of hope
finally standing on his own
weeks to months and months to years
now a family of his own




Mark Toney © 2021
Poetry form: Verse - Mark Toney © 2021
Just Alex May 27
Hot ****!
The Bluebird wants out again!
I am tough enough for it.
But only just.
He wants out, but can't.
Meanwhile, his beak tears a hole.

Sears into my flesh.
Bleeds a little, but thats OK.
It reminds me that I'm not.
It reminds me I gotta run.

Pump my legs out of this place!
To chase the dreams they sold me
"You'd be a leader, just you wait to get your degree.
BAM! ZAAM! KABLAAM!
Labs and companies will be groveling at your feet!"

What *******...
They spoon-fed me, like a child off the ****.
For FOUR. AND. A. HALF. YEARS!!!
I swallowed the lies like a baby lamb
With a glint on my eye, wasting my time
I believed they'd make me a man
No need to go and try, they'll take charge on that.

But the world is a cold, brick, wall.
And you crash into it as soon as you cross the door.
You break your nose, bleed a touch.
Now it's time to crack it back into form!

Ouch! Ow! It hurts! It smarts!
But it's good for ya kid!
It'll do ya right!
You can't look forward with that crooked thing blocking your sight!
So yank it straight! Get off off your **!

Dreams ain't something you'll find on a market stall.
You can't buy them, they ain't sold.
But you can make them on a workshop.
A table, a shed, behind garage doors.
Behind a computer, even a phone!
They are made with sweat and blood.
And time...


Better spend that chasing them
Than to waste it
listening to someone pump them into head.
The poem Bluebird by Charles Bukowski may be one of my absolute favorite pieces of writing I've ever read, and it is all I want to achieve in my writing. A worm that burrows in your brain that won't leave you and inspires you to do something.
The title is an allusion to Bukowski and his work "Notes from a ***** Old Man" published in 1969
Brett May 27
I sometimes think of growing up
Waking early and brewing cheap coffee
Pouring it in the same old half washed cup
Exchange a cold shower for a couple bucks
Trade happiness for a crooked smile
I could walk to work, but I think I will drive instead
Traffic is soothing
Job security
Misery becomes my amusement
Local radio 8am
Woman won a thousand medallions
Two burnt down houses
Stop short, *******
Now the coffee is on my trousers
Half past nine
Parking lot is packed
Six block walk and twenty minutes of life I will never get back
Hey look its Tim
Tim is divorced with two kids
Grown up stuff I guess
I’ll just follow him in
Ahmad Attr May 22
Often I find myself getting nearer to the sky
The gap between my feet and the mud
Seems to be increasing
My hair and clothes flutter in the wind
With my arms all up, I accept my fate
I feel peaceful, a Zen state

Like a helium balloon, I aim for the clouds
But something tethers me to the ground
My memories, the happy ones
They don’t let me leave

I begin to sink, slowly back to the land
As I think about, the silvery river water
Pushing my sandal off my feet
I run to grab it, trip over slippery moss
I begin to sink, slowly into the river
I wake up near the hearth
lying on the sofa,
my mother narrates me my favourite bedtime story
the soothing piano on radio, and whispers of fire
sending me to sleep
I begin to sink, slowly into my dream
Playing in the country land with my brothers
Catching ladybugs, and building their graves
Jumping in the plashes, roaring out loud
I begin to sink, slowly in their voices
The echoes of which still play in the background
As I run on fallen cherry petals
Caressed by the warmth of summer,
I chase butterflies in the streets
Suddenly a void opens underneath my feet
I begin to sink, slowly into the darkness
The dark is frightened away by the white hydrangeas
As I lay encompassed by hundreds of them

Such beautiful memories
Are they memories?
Or are they desires?
I keep sinking back to life, now contemplating
I land my feet back on the grass
My soles feel the moisture of the mud
The soft blades of the greens
I hope I stay here
Longer than the last time

Before I inevitably begin to float again
A poem about Memories and desires saving me from Suicide
Robin Görtz May 19
A pair of eyes collides
With one identical pair,
The first pair owner lowers
His head to bow as heir.
The second rises slowly,
Triumphant lifts his voice,
Commands, commands this brainless
Descendant of his choice.

But number One refuses
He negatively shrinks
And in the eyes of daddy
He stares and never blinks
A “NO” still echoes somewhere
The word becomes a sword
It riddles Second´s ticker
And One is without lord.

Pale but smiling number Two
Congratulates his son.
Reassuring number One
His loss means that he won.
Then Two drops dead
At least in part
And moves no inch of bone

One, alone, falls into pit.
Pit uncertainty.
One can´t think straight,
Brain so full that empty.
Two wore coat,
Two´s coat heavy.
One still wears it,
Legs are wobbly.

One
Take first own step
Alone
Ahmad Attr May 6
Such a pretty life this family has
Kids playing in the pool
I watch over them from the garden
I can see my darling too
Looking in the mirror
Will I be seen, if go a bit nearer?

Such a pretty life this family has
Drinking their lemonade
Wearing their summer shades
I watch over them from the garden
I can also see my darling
Drinking from the fancy glass
Will I be seen, if I land my feet on the grass?

Such a pretty life this family has
Sleeping in their pyjamas set
Intertwining in the bed
I can also see my darling
Underneath the tapestry
Will I be seen, If I throw a stone at the jalousie

Will I be seen, Will I be noticed
If I appear in their out of focus family photo
Will it be suspicious, If I knock at their door at night
Turn off their chandelier lights
Make them superstitious
Make them believe I’m a hex
Question their own heads
Banging on their windows
Burning their ebony doors
Blood on the gypsum floors

You once me called me fire
And maybe I am
I’ll burn your jewels, your fancy attires
I’ll forever stay here
I’ll forever haunt you
I’ll forever be your burden
Standing in the dark hallways
Hiding behind the curtains
And I’ll forever see you
With my feet levitating above the grass of your garden
They assemble in the form of wreaths and Valentine hearts
And they are so vibrant in color that they giggle and sing
Until the Gardener, herself comes out to them.

Some of these wonderful creatures begin to swoon,
But the Gardener gathers them up like children
Who want to be tossed in the air,

Just so they can come down
Like something even better!

-

They are reds that want to be pieces of orange and yellow
And pinks that want to be a prism of all the pastels!

Then I see that the guests are gathering near the Gardener
Because the roses are forming rings of various sizes -

And they look like Easter candy,
Glistening on the grass,
Yearning to be found,

And in open view of everyone!

And there is this marvelous choir
Of daisies and young tree crickets,
Singing like angels and looking sharp
In their tunics of gold and forest green;

And the trill of their rising voices causes the wildflowers
To spin like painted dreidels on the nearby hills,

Swerving and twirling in the jubilance and excellence of the day.

-

Then, every grinning face turns upward because
The air is filling with the hum of confetti bees
And the fluttering wings of butterflies:

-

The Scattering of the Blossoms has begun!

-

And it’s blowing my mind because
Every life that has ever been imagined
And every prayer that has ever been uttered

Is signified in the unique descent of each perfect blossom,
As it seeks a place in this gloriously unknowable universe!

But now the Gardener rises above the Book of Life
Like a big birthday balloon or the exuberant sun,
And all the pretty creatures beneath her
Are forming a great procession.

And they are shouting,

“The first love is the only love!
The first love is the only love!
The first love is the only love!”
The essence of a poet is
A regency of need

That cannot leave alone a thought
That other thoughts can breed

A mind that is mercurial
And thinks but for its sake;

The essence of a poet is
The thought that thought awakes

The essence of a poet is
The will to see and say

A theme that is transcendent
And a title for the day

A line that is no more than heart,
What form the musing takes;

The essence of a poet is
The poem the poet makes.
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