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from a dry split pod,
a lot of winged seeds explode;
a future forest
Crystal Freda Apr 2018
Rising from the water
like a fragrant cupcake.
Seeds floating in the stream
increasing from the wake.

Blue and purple
blooms onto to the pads.
Roaming and roaming
across ripples in scads.

Growth so pretty
and basin so new.
Lily so delicate
and purely blue.

O' marshes!
Swallow up the gale
Which farthest I could hear,
Ne'er I belong such privilege
By myrtle over there.
Recollecting where the pod
To whom I left behind,
The continent,
The humble swamps,
Surpassing us again.

David Huggett Jan 2018
On Tuesday we all wound up at aunt Mary's house for a hearty fill of tea and crumpets and of course our favorite fill her delicious tide pod recipe.
Sinr Sep 2013
Your body is written in cursive
with those subtle curves.
I said I want to have a peaceful riot
with your body
I just want to **** **** up.
I wanted to take you somewhere
so quiet that all we can hear is our
heavy breaths.
Somewhere we can see every single
******* star
So that they get jealous while looking
down on us
Because they can never have a collision
Just like us.
Feedback is greatly appreciated.
Sinr Nov 2015
I'm a admire of art
loving you
was my masterpiece.
The brush strokes
I couldn't
a beautiful picture.
feedback is greatly appreciated. thank you
In poetry, I open the pod of my heart,
without fear,
I show who I am.
poetry has been a welcoming, warm space in times of depression and sadness.
Martin Narrod May 2014
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here

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