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"don't come inside"
usually, in fact, almost always
I would pull out
with a split second to spare
and ******* all over her
turning her navel in to
some sort of overflow ***-gutter
proceed to roll over
panting like an old dog in the sun
roll a cigarette whilst she
wipes us both down with some nearby
toilet roll and suggest
we watch something on her laptop
this time was different though
I pulled out and she lays there
and starts tugging me off
entirely unnecessarily
as though both of our lives
depended on it
and I'm glad she did
I started spraying hot **** everywhere
and I think to myself
"I'm painting the ******* walls!"
it was nothing short of sensational
and it all seemed very Bukowskiesque
max Jan 17
if you happen to fall,
follow the stars,
i'll be there too,
i'll meet you at mars
3 Dec 2020
i am a beautiful bout of starts and sky
compiled into a confounded heart, left
reasonless in the dark so many times

hold me gently, like you promise now, when
we finally form a union, beautiful motion
scrubbing off the dirt and rinsing off my feet

hear me, my tired soul
hear me

forgiving the unkind parts of me
and respecting my needs,
recognizing the demon’s sins
seeing my ardent potential
chaining up my loose lead mind
promising a golden future for no one else
but me
12/21/2020 but written another time.
Soumya Inavilli Sep 2020
here you are
farther to my touch,
closer to my heart;
bridging gaps between
my heady desires and,
sanity and sensibility.

here I am
lost in your thoughts
and words,
dreaming about a hundred
springs and summers
that await us.

here you are
looking into my eyes
asking questions and
seeking answers; listening
intently to all the quiet
sighs and loud silences.

here I am
showing you the way
around and letting you
through the walls I've
built  without fears or
inhibitions of any sort.

here we are
brought together by
the distance but aren't
sure of treading the
paths we've never
been on before.

here we are
writing happy little
stories in sand until
the impending wave of
doom and despair crashes
into the castles of our future.

and here we will be
hiding behind
those tiniest of smiles
that keep lingering on
our lips which have always
reluctantly said goodbye.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
read his stuff

n.b. nowadays I write here only in praise of others,
as the rewards are far greater than any of the meager
stuff I got  laying around.

a poem for his summer soul-stice

self-confessed to the priest, we us, both, meeting
in the confess-******, wee needy for a solid projectile
purging, me, cause, I’m a plagiarist of inspiration

**** it every time a ce r tain poet writes,
its a sock to my multi faceted square sided~head,
discoloring my eye shadow, my maskara crazy running,
frustration, admiration, mortar and pestle pounded

into a white powder of unadulterated adultery with a
frothy topping of a jealousy muse laughing face, at me,
cappuccino made from bitter herbs and pink sea salt.

in eight lines the man accomplishes
what would take me eight, eight full
poems, even then, not coming close

still failing to retake his brevity skills,
his summer solstice way of seeing,
by keeping the dark away,
by inviting the dark in,
making it under duress,
spill the beans of his life’s
ironies, some hellish,
some not, all well kept,
in Georgia granite stoney face.

the softest steeling of words that irritates
me into a fine frenzy... what’s the use,
point made, in how he undresses
the eyes
into just outright gasping,

and that is the only
permissible comment emoji.



Her verse
I need to taste the salt
of her soliloquy
be drunk on the sobriety
of her verse
those words she writes
behind my eyelids
makes me want
to crawl inside her skin
and listen to her heartbeat.


as a poet, knee’d & head bent, asking you Lord,
would it have soiled a vast eternal plan,
to throw some kosher salt, on mes écrits,

let a soliloquy make my case, my summer
soul-on-ice, hangover from the drunken sobriety
that stays, retained, the sense of loss remains
long after he has left my screen, and I’m

wondering if he gets him poems from that
old yellow dog, if true, no fair, but o.k., I’ll
take it right, any way, I can, **** it. and you.
From dusk till dawn I loved hearing them birds’ chirp through the spring time night
Knowing I’m safe and sound with my two Shepard’s by my side
Starsky and chewy, ones the eye in the sky and both are down to bite
Watch the sky go from black to blue, you can catch purple at the perfect time
Listening to the creatures that roam it go in and out of their wood houses to meet the days dues
Always feeling like them because I can fly as high as I choose
Most the time more than others, I always leave it to them to bring me the news
All the times more than others I look to them anytime I get too confused
Our nighttime’s aren’t the same
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2020
love gripped light

~ for r, sleuth of life ~

you sleep with a metal detector,
unearthing dreamed artifacts,
that messenger many fates of many young,
belongings of dead men living again


of a living solitary man, a vision of him, envisioning,
dancing on a property line dividing
immortality dreams
and finality schemes

dead men living,
these different men, haunting and roaring, sighing pointlessly,
speaking to you alone, pithy commentaries, they, predecessor poets,
someone’s ancestors inhabiting a soil world familiar, awaiting we too

you whip yourself over life’s lost campaigns,
where strategy proved insufficient,
lost to men and materiel superior in numbers,
the hearts that were captured, imprisoned, stolen,
and worst, lost by grievous bad judgement human weak,
your dreams are you own artifacts, recovered

long after the battle smoke clears, you remain,
questioning not the how, where or when, only
was it worth it? and so sadly,
you answer yes.

you keep a record of your poems, losses,
each battlefield has no victors, only losses,
each poemfield has no victors, only losses,
it tires you so, to be guardian, the promise keeper,
you asked for burdens, you got just desserts awarded,
you share some, the ones under the pillow,
gripped lightly and tightly, simultaneously

with long distance lovers of your soul,
those you barely know, until met in red soil someday,
what matters it, they ken a kinship bond, and
love you oh so lightly

and they are

gripping you so lightly/tightly with the lightness/tightness
of words,
two book bound souls.
one shared spine...

100 Centre St.
NY Criminal Court
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