the bed is nestled in disarray puffed and creased and folded
all off kilter mattresses scratched up air pad
nightstand bruised by rings of white where water collected
laptop pushing yellow light weakly through the red currant smoke
its warm and inviting your face is tingling and a soft smile lurks.

the trip and walking in the storm

          in the rain neither wet nor dry
               skin neither hot nor cold but feeling

                    something smooth and searing pushing on the brain

               fierce winds and acute awareness

          a new phase an evolution a transformation
     it flings you up but pulls you down

to that sleepy groove in the shade.

dead leaves on the windowsill and the silhouette of leaves
cast on the fading white wood and the wind
flaps the torn up mesh a broken insect screen slashed up
stuck with my head in the blur and the sizzling haze
there's still sound in the skies.
vera 2d
Sun warriors from above,
With your mustangs and corvettes,
Your shiny new Air jordans.

What will you do with this girl,
with dry breasts,
Powdered white milk

She seems lonely,
I, she corrects,
I am lonely.

i, on tan skin,
I have conquerer blood
And the face of the conquered.

She is sterile,
or I/i am?
We are not sure.

But God/ Gods/ All of you,
Sun Warriors
Give me baby.
hell is an echo chamber.

among the retrospective haze, i remember
yowling - shrieking until it felt as though
razors had been taken to my vocal cords -
until i was too tired to be angry.

you'd think the Beast would snarl: she merely wields a mirror.
i stare into vacant eye-holes of a girl who once bore my shape;
flesh dried, decayed, rotten and grey.
(it had to happen at some point.)

cruelty... behind all of this,
beyond the level i favoured in my waking days
-- i wish i could sleep. the creator must live in fear:
it takes cowardice to be this callous.

hell is an echo chamber.
in an area of solitary confinement, i am my own cellmate
and she is gouging at the walls. i goad her on;
let her wear herself out so she can leave me in peace.
only one of us can breathe at a time.

in our own sins we trusted,
in their essence and their nature.
hell was never an inferno:

it is an echo chamber.
hesitant experimental poem. i was rightfully warned away from prose-y poetry when beginning to write, and it was only upon incorporating structure that my poems began to improve. i'm satisfied with this, though - there's multiple contexts it could apply to.
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --

i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.

thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).

i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.

as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.

i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.

watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.

i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
(feel free to leave some interesting tidbits of your own life in the comments. you all seem fun enough.)
you can't make metaphors out of this stuff if you bother to write about it: they're just facts that are true. so let's chuck them all into a draft and call it a list poem. or free verse. or an experiment. hey, if 'anything can be poetry', so can this!
clock in,

and skyscrapers loom over us like gods,
her sweaty hair mixes in with my own,
these hard hands are on my cold cheeks
burning hollows with their brazing heat.

she will never rest inside my heart.
i cannot shell out that privilege.

rain is threatening to pour outside,
ashen like my eyes threatening to burst
in the moments before a mouth finds mine,
and i start making poetry out of her kisses.

the opening line:

she tells me, quietly, that we’re just having fun,
but this isn’t fun.
this is my life’s work:
i am already making poetry out of her kisses.

and the body verses:

i, the poet in the corner of the room,
making words out of scratched skin and late night tears.
her, the girl unlucky enough to meet me,
giving me my poetry wrapped in her caress.

this isn’t fun.
at least i am making poetry out of her kisses.

whatever song is playing is unknown to me,
as much a stranger as her kisses are,
and i don’t want to know either.

but this is how i get my poetry:
from her touch.

she winds down from the drinks,
and i wind down from the smoke.

the ending,
soft and impactful:

she kisses me and i kiss her,
both for very different reasons,
and i write the ending the moment we begin:
i will make poetry out of her kisses,
and she will forget my name,

clock out.
Jesse Earle Apr 4
Just disappearing
isn't possible
when it takes
so long for
a rock wall
to erode away
  The wind
is the only one
that sees you,
and its silence
grinds down
a mountain
too high to climb
from the inside out

  It's hard to forget
swelling words
spoken under the breath
of the voice of silence,
when your hands
are lined with all
that they ever have;
still bearing
every latent piece
that breaks off
tryin' to keep
from the sight
of another
tempest storm gale
moving mountains

  So I'm going
way outside
the edge of the inside;
crossing over
way outside the lines
covered by gathered
windblown life fractals 
  Though I may not
get back in again,
way outside the lines,
or I might not
even want to ...
you can’t go back
the same way
you came,
everything changes
while you're gone
even if you DO notice

  Gravity pulls
with the strength
of a turning tide:
you can try
and fight it,
but you can't stop
its running downhill
looking behind
your eyes, trying
to take you back
the same way you
went way outside
  the lines ...

   Jesse Earle
  04 April 2018; 4 of 10
Fuck, OK let's do this one more time, if this goes wrong again then we'll just have to go with what we've got

Alright let's go.
I think you should bring the boom in just a bit closer. Yeah no that's too close, it's in frame - oh. Yeah that's it. OK, sound
Camera, rolling.
Uh, scene 74, take 21


So kid, I uh heard you wanna be a rockstar. You know it's a tough profession, you're gonna have to deal with these thousands of people wanting to be close to you, and you're gonna have to make sure you choose the right people to come close. Oh and the talent you need to be a true rockstar, you sure you got it?


Atta boy.
is this even poetry?
Dr YumnaKay Mar 31
and what if
among the rubble of half vomitted maybe's
erupts a cyclone of leftover, half dreamed tomorrows

and what if
it hits just below the surface,
enough to make you fall, enough to make you cry out

and what if
among the remains of time,
your music flows, awakened yet half dead ...

But oh, my clandestine lover,
I will have prepared for the night, my lips stained purple,
I shall puke into the realms of thunder, unearthed ...
Experimental. Just a touch dramatic ;)
FRITZ Mar 29
black and fuzzy and walking through a vivid nightmare of things moved around and skewed. rushing and a sharp zephyr that grazes your skin and rustles your hair. its incredible. there is bright light. burning my retinas and pushing on my brain.

i walked around again last night. pulsing in the temples and sniffing e+++rs or whatever you call them now. the urge to binge boils in the pit of my stomach.

infinite visions of infinite timelines of infinite versions of me and myself and everyone around me. my bougainvillea froze and slowly obliterated my memory. the page turns and the blur comes to wipe out the color from my eyes, shut now, fractals danced and the phosphenes came. then stuttering im coming out of it. what?

is this? what is this? another shallow poem that considers itself? low art on the internet begging to go viral? an avant garde approach at a genre begging for something new? just a puff of smoke?

the yellow is nice it takes the sterility of my surroundings the color of it all drained and depleted. at night I choose the sterility and let the colors sharpen and blast.

the smell of earth. that dirt and wind smell from the rain and the loamy soil. the imagery and lucidity glows in the background. feeding on my periphery. come and whisper with me.
walking and waking and woke now shut them and be still and calm.
a song from 2007
i haven’t seen you around today
weekend homework

is lunch soon
do you hate me

doodling faces on paper
the cinema scene in donnie darko
why am i like this

early poetry draft
i will think less this week
me making you laugh

i hope i feel happy soon
nursery rhyme
he marched them up to the top o' the hill and he marched them down again

tv static you you you you you
jealousy contemplation hate
biting bitter sting my fault

oh whoops i’m still here
what are we studying
can you shut up for 5 minutes thanks
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