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honestly, just a good beat
and a breath of air
can sometimes mean the world
to a suffocating soul.
N Paul Jul 2015
I want to write it all; all of it. Every last word, sentence, phrase, poem, story, tale, feeling, joke, song, garbled hunk of nonsense streaming from my mouth hole like from a tap until the whole world drowns in just what I want to say; to let them know that expression is here, in my mind, in theirs, whispering in the trees outside, singing from every atom that can bump and grind and make things feel or see or sigh.

I want to sit within friends late in the night heads bobbing nod nod nodding as we agree or disagree or pedigree our intellect as we refine the phrases that make us sound like we know. Cos when you sound like you know, that's when you get heard, and if anyone's gonna get heard, ain't no one better nor worse than us. Cos nobody really knows; no Oxbridge don could ever write the wind, measure my kiss on my darlin’s skin, capture what the rosy points of her cheeks do to my brain, my body, my soul, my Attachment to this world.

So Hear me, O merry gentlemen! For I am alive and feeling and that is all the PhD I need.- If only you could see what’s dancing around in my skull... but you don’t have to! Use your own ivory mug! Really stop and think and you’ll see more than in a million poems roar within an eyeblink. Know it and feel it and see it all; the whole stupid shining racing roaring- untameable- restlessness of it all! Put down your pen and paper and rush out in the air and rejoice truly in the warm company of lovers and friends, in the sweet hum of guitar strings and in the savage itch of the insect's bite. In loneliness and mourning. In boredom and steady working with clever hands. And love, never stop loving, or hating, or appreciating, or caring, or crying, as long as you are feeling. For sometimes it seems we should always be in pain from one thing or another, yet mostly from the bubbling exasperation of positive go-get-em ***** for life.

For we read this clunky tongue of ours and say it’s what should be but there is more! For life through all its prisms can impress upon your vision a beauty neverending, yet to sense it quivering within a page is a spectacular sight indeed. So let’s leave the rigid, the impersonal, the stymied words behind and let's form a new expression, devoid of convention, one that cries joyous face-first directly into our souls!

So, Cry, onwards! And let's weave this tender tongue of ours, golden! Let's stack this world full of less-than-sane streams of speech tangled images driving shards of true experience into each other’s minds, until we drop dead deep in our bones from exuberant exhaustion. Let’s follow Kerouac to the grave; cheering, and keeling and full of tender feeling and find a meaning in words that can transcend into being. Let’s **** and watch and listen and do and learn and laugh and notice laughter and mark it for the concentrated joy that it is. Let’s sit quietly and attend to those things around us and ruminate without ever forgetting our surrounding- which include, of course, the ever flipping ever spinning and unwinding tapestry of our mind and others'.

Let’s find joy, or the maker, or whatever, same-meaning trap clap-trap of a name he (or she) has in your sticks, in what we can touch and feel and see, and inside those we know and those we don’t. Let’s make language a human thing that radiates warmth for all, and bridges us to those around us so that none may feel alone or scared unless they long to for glorious masochism, or curiousness, or any things they so do please. Let us travel, and dance, and loose hope, and find it, and live it.

And write tenderness into this world.
Livi Bowie Jun 2015
dear
1957,
*******
and take him with you.
Florence Maude Jun 2015
Isn't it so beautiful
To see something as simple as a heart beat
Come alive?

Not just the steady thumping
The thumping that keeps you alive
But something more

The quickening pace
As you heart enters this race
That occur as soon as you see your lover's face

The little flutters it emits
Right from your soul
Making those empty spots whole

Isn't it incredible how it goes to your smile
Your eyes
Your very mood

Oh don't you wish
With all your heart
That you can see it again soon
scar Jun 2015
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
scar Jun 2015
Lithium, light they write,
Like it’s right, white delight
Striking bright, better tight:
Fine and dandy.

Glamourised in our eyes
The surprise as you rise
****** heroised,
Bitter candy.

Pump the ***, dump the dot
******* it hot, spatter spot
Sing a lot, dream but not
Craving luncheon.

Skagging sweet sweaty meat
Blisters well under heat
Take a seat, come compete,
Beating truncheon.

Vie d’artiste, or at least
Rising yeast, bubbling beast
Trickling triste down your cheeks,
Ever daring.

Rising up, sup the cup,
Acid drop, fizzle pop,
Shoobie-doo-doobie-***,
Death to caring.
All my late night rendezvous
Have since been eclipsed
By stable days and nights with you.
You save me from the spiders in my shoes,
And when storm clouds start grumbling, I save you.

And I know that this sounds cheesy--
But I don't care. I don't care!
Because I happen to know you ******* love cheese.
And for you babe,
I'll be the best cheese.

I'll be thy holy Swiss cheese,
I'll be your buttered Brie.
And when we've aged 50 years?
Well then babe,
I'll be your ******* Gouda.

At least, that's what I want to be
If you'll let me.
I want to be the finest cheese your tongue has ever tasted.
So lay your wine-stained lips on me;
Let's see how we pair.
After finding my soulmate, my inspiration to write sort of dried up. I no longer had the heartache and pain that had fueled me for so many years. So this poem is dedicated to my love, who makes me feel safe, and at ease.
Music stars with Doe Rae Mi
~ But love ~
Starts *You and Me
Abdullah Ayyash Jun 2015
No cold and no heat
Can make my heart beats
Not the fire in my soul
Not the days I lived
Not the nights I waited
Would make me retreat
From claiming your love
And hoping for a glorious treat
© Copyrighted
Abdullah Ayyash
June 11th, 2015
Samuel Butcher Jun 2015
To begin: a poem entitled “Lines to Serve as an Introduction to the Show, Written for the Lowest Common Denominator; Hastily Amended to Address our Pale Horse Future”

There are no literary devices in this poem
no simile, no apostrophe-
there's no dissonance, no assonance,
no distancing my consonants,
in constellations of conversation,
an astronomic lack of conjugation-
there's no elevation in
the elongation of thoughts-
With this piece, my synaptocratic,
idiosyncratic oath I recants.
I'm just a guy quick-drawing
inspirado from the sky,
full clouds and dark wishes,
kisses from other's Mrs'
red wine and all that comes after.
The truth's in repetition,
the revolution of the wheel,
all art's born of friction.
Hell, God said
'Creation is lonely work,'
and on the eighth day,
hoping hands will hold flimsy dishes,
he filled us with desperate artist wishes-
Sad, bold lumps of clay rising
like Play-doe,
hell, ask Plato,
we're forms arriving at the real
manifest desk in a city,
where writers write dying,
praying for real forms arising,
just in time for the plying
of fact in layers peeled back,
while cracks in the truth
erode faith from way back-
Stopped dead in their tracks,
feel like thieves who steal moves,
but the ecstatic hack,
the stark raving yet pragmatic
hack will still muse;
muse for the muse
and on the grandest conquest
will invest, digress, come upon
an ingress and disappear into
a land beyond the beyond.
All in search of the mustang *****
who won't ever wear a saddle-

I've met the muse
She was the queen in the land of the blind
and what she lacked in depth perception
she exploded in all the truths of all the world
because to her all truth appeared equidistant
So I met her for a simile, but missing an I
all she could offer was a smile
but it was she who taught me
the demography of cool
“artists create from nothingness”
she told me
“and so when they begin it is with nothing,
so they live among Ginsberg's ***** streets
where the rents cheap and they chip away
at the void until where once nothing
now is something”.
“Remember,” she said, “creation is lonely work
but once created celebration demands a crowd;
so those with nothing are surrounded by those
who need something; something to fill the
emptiness they cannot fill themselves.
But the crowd ***** the creator dry
and like weeds temples to the boring
emerge on those once ***** streets
and the artists still have nothing and
now need something to stay – but with
nothing they are forced to move:
move on, move out, move away,
leaving behind those who only know
how to follow to lead”.

**** slick, you're sly, you heard my simile-
in a piece that promised no imagery,
and that wasn't the only one...
Do I contradict myself? Abso-simile-lutely
This realm is rife with ******* platitudes and
be sure, this poem here contains a multitude
We have many names on the list,
some you've forgotten, some you've missed:

I'm sorry Lawrence Ferlinghetti
we here ain't getting
any closer to a rebirth of wonder

I'm sorry Jack Kerouac
there ain't no going back
on the road when your directions
start with you are here
and here is a windowless room

I'm sorry Billy Burroughs
the algebra of need is thorough
but ours increases not geometric
but exponentially

We have many names on the list.
some you've forgotten, some  you've missed

Beat.
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