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c May 2018
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Thought I’d share a favorite. Such a sweet poem. The story is even sweeter. William left this exact note on his refrigerator, addressed to his wife, just to say. He then got it published, as is, and it became a huge sensation. I think the lesson here is that everything is poetry, and that poetry doesn’t need to be constricted by rules.
c Apr 2018
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17

What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,

And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;

That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** *******,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.

Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****,
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.

Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.

The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’

I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******,
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.

If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,

My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
I love throwing out my fave poems here!

Brenna Twohy is a poet and performer from Portland, Oregon. She is a two-time Portland City Slam Champion and was the 2014 representative to the Individual World Poetry Slam. (taken from her Google page). She is a part of Button Poetry collective as well. Check out this poem and more on YouTube (just type in the poem title). It is muuuch more riveting of a write when she speaks it,
Brother Jimmy Mar 2018
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey

And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...

But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze

Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch

Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings

And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt

The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down

But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces

Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones

At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open

O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
traces of being Apr 2018
synergy in the mist
of creations' breath...
multitudes croaking so loudly
drowning in eventide dew,

all the wind's timbre
is hushed;

overcome
by earth’s
communing symphony,
creations’ living
pulsing thrum..

alone in a crowd
proclaiming
the glory of now...

whelmed,
and i wishing
i were a frog,
and unalone
in the throng

maybe
such evolution
   as this—
   is reversing...
    Ouroboros    

touched wondrously
by spoken wind,
urgently
i need to search
for an intimate kiss

metamorphosis,
another incarnation

that will turn me
   back into a frog—

a speck of stardust
in a sky full of stars
seems better than
feeling like stardrift
ashes

a burned out candle
muted
by the gypsy choir

the call of the wild
sung in the wind




wild is the wind
©  march ― 2016

Note:   From the 1st days of spring  2016;
listening — hearing,   somethings don't change
just came in from a windy evening walk,
with a whelming sense of Déjà vu

note:   The Ouroboros often symbolize self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things such as the phoenix which operate in cycles that begin anew as soon as they end
girl diffused Feb 2018
Just the frenzied need to get it out
Just the raw feeling
No anesthesia
No anesthesia
How I'm the rotting tooth you cut out of your mouth
How I'm the stinging paper cut that you slapped a Band-Aid on
How I'm blank paper
How I'm all blank slate
How it meant nothing
How I can't slip the shoes on now because it reminds me of wearing them around you
How I keep them in the closet
“You'll know I got them for you”
A “think of it as a memento, every time you look at it”
No hesitation

The beat-up heather gray Ellen DeGeneres shoes you bought for me
Unmarred and untouched
How the card still resides in the bedside drawer
Or didn't think about the card you got for me
But did that anyway
Bashfully admitted that you normally didn't do that
Twined your fingers around mine,
Or how you eventually held my hands,
Because you never did it
Or think about how you'd hold me after ***
Because you never said it,
How it was during an ******
On your tongue
Feel of it in your mouth,
And memorize it,
Or playfully say my name
Or write poetry about me
As I impressively recite your full name, down to your deceased mother's surname
As I say your name, more than my own
Or try to recall the sound of my voice
Or my smile
And never think once of me
And talk with your coworkers, all female
And flirt with your receptionist
And receive your paycheck
And go to work
And walk your dog
As you go about your day and pay your bills
Multiple meanings that you don't care to explore
The simplified “hey,” kind that's pithy and vague
Late-night message compositions
It's not, it's just not
Oh, **** me, it's not like last time at all
See that you don't follow me back
Send a friend request on Soundcloud
Tell myself that you won't say anything
Compose another message but leave it unsent

Lower and lower
The faint dark hairs trailing down the otherwise smooth navel
Sought my approval
Sought approval
How you asked me repeatedly, shyly, if I was okay with that
How you wanted to shed that weight
The barely-there protrusion
Memorizing the soft roundness of your stomach

Stupid little nicknames that I would **** for now
T-Money
T-Swift
Tay
Tay
Taylor
You playfully saying my name
Your lips moving,
When you coo to your Papillon
When you're talking to me over a bowl of quickly whipped up oatmeal
Encouraging me to touch myself in the ink-spilled darkness,
Murky, and blurred outline of your hand
Try to remember what your voice sounds like –when you're angrily yelling about Hearthstone

Gnash my teeth and don't realize it until ten minutes later
Get up and turn the fan so the stream of air blasts unforgiving onto my face
Toss and turn in bed—literally—throw the duvet off
Think of the shirt you were wearing in your last profile picture you had when we first started talking
The one with the dusky blue V-neck
Study your year-old profile picture that I told you looked good
Listen to music on Soundcloud
Look up jobs instead
Don't actually do it
Debate re-adding you
Look over your profile on Facebook, my secondary account
The “hey, I hope you're doing okay” kind
Late-night message compositions
Splintered and fractured
Bloodied veneer and strands of hair

Porcelain sink
We were so lonely and misunderstood
You were...
It's just a dream though, just a ******* dream
Read it forward and then once more backwards. A series of heartbreaking memories and moments in stream of consciousness. N/a.
Ashly Kocher Feb 2018
Run your tongue DOWN my chest
Hand slips DOWN below
Sending shivers DOWN my spine
My body SCREAMS from inside

You drive me CRAZY
You TEASE me so
I love it when you GO
Oh so very SLOW

You make me WET
You make me SCREAM
Making LOVE to you
Always feels like a DREAM

An out of BODY experience
Every time YOU touch me
Let’s get ***** together
As you SLIP it inside of ME...
Anyone else agree?
Henryi Fortuné Jan 2018
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.  
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,  
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,  
lists of vegetables, partial poems.  
Orange swirling flame of days,  
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,  
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.  
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,  
only the things I didn’t do  
crackle after the blazing dies.

- Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
(NOT MY POEM, JUST FOUND THIS LOVELY)
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