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Tucker Dobson Apr 18
See me hitch, retching, and spit
An awful glob of blackened, steaming bile
A bug writhes, dying slow in the poison
Like a man whose back is pierced with a blade
I fear this is no disease in my guts
Rather waste from my pustulating self

I am clawing at my self
Cracking open a stomach full of spit
My fingers stained with the soot from my guts
And corroded through in the pitch black bile
Using my teeth like a serrated blade
My tongue stings, awash in the dark poison

It maddens me, this poison
How it managed to fester in my self
Slowly it formed like a thousand fold blade
It mingled and covered my teeth like spit
Ate away at something, this awful bile
And made its home, coating my writhing guts

As I sit scrying my guts
I must not hide the proof in this poison
I manufactured this brackish, black bile
Allowed it to well up within my self
To weaponize, to defensively spit
A subtler offense than any crude blade

In the ground I ****** the blade
Preparing to spill the rest of my guts
And I see others, smiles leaking spit
Slurries and suspensions of the poison
The byproduct of our worship of self
This self-absolving, all-filling black bile

I cannot remove the bile
Someone else and better must wield the blade
I must submit all control over self
Submit to the pain of purging my guts
The sound of my head landing in poison
My hair with the bugs in puddles of spit

As it stands, the bile still leaks from my guts
I've met the blade yet not kicked the poison
And my self, I keep a mouth full of spit
A poem about selfishness, emptying yourself, and yielding your authority over your own life.
Zack Mar 6
“Listen here!” lulled the prophet.
“You have the power to see
your future! You only need to widen your pupils
and absorb that which is possible.
Obey my words, and I'll set you free.”
Turning his back on the crowd, he left.

His words hung dryly in the air and left
anvils dangling over the legitimacy of the prophet,
and if the cost of his lessons were truly free.
Swiftly, zealots jumped into the crowd; prying eyes open to see
that which only the prophet could make possible,
and his message spread like wild fires ignited by his pupils.

Flames of disillusion reflected in the deep black pupils
of those few teflon reactionaries left.
Fighting against the binary of what he deemed possible,
they disavowed the prophet
because they could see
what he was teaching, was not free.

Hiding behind closed doors, he was free
from the chaos brought on by his pupils.
Prescience painted its electric vision, begging him to see
if he kept on this currents path, there’d be nothing left
of the people who listened so faithfully to their prophet.
Despite the omen, he continued down the path he preached possible.

Rebels against his vision took the only possible
actions available to set themselves free.
Casting aside the teachings of the prophet;
They sunk blades into their pupils,
knowing that in blindness, all that would be left
was their freedom to see.

Wrestling with his vision, he could not see
that fate had already chosen which path was possible.
There was only one thing left
to do if he wanted to be free.
Engulfed in darkness behind his locked door, his pupils
readjusted and rejected the reality that he was not a prophet.

He could not see that what he was doing wasn't considered free.

The only possible freedom is in the mind's eye, locked behind sight soaked pupils.

All that's left holding us back from awakening, are the lies of this false prophet.
Sestina
In twilight's hush, where our sighs softly fade,
Beneath your gaze, my lonely world begins to shift.
Your lips on mine, my shy resolve will melt,
As fragile walls of fear begin decay.
With every breath, our trembling bodies transform,
A silent vow to love — endure.

Through stormy nights, our passion will endure,
As the fog of past silence start to fade.
Your hands on my thighs, my spirit starts, transform,
Unfurling petals as my defenses shift.
In the heat of us, like hail, inhibitions decay,
Like sun-kissed snow, slowly, we melt.

Dawn breathes, and into each other we deeply melt,
Our roots, explore, a stronger love to endure.
What once was fear, now honeyed sweetness, decay,
As shadows of old hurts begin to fade.
With every challenge faced, our love learns to shift,
In full bloom, as seasons gently transform.

Years pass, and still our joined hearts transform,
Time's trials make us bend but never melt.
Life's rivers carve new paths, yet we still shift,
Together, building new havens to endure.
Though youthful bloom on skin may softly fade,
Our passion feeds on rich and fertile decay.

From this rich soil of necessary decay,
We nurture love, watch it grow and transform.
The first spark of desire refuses to fade,
Into each other’s depths, we willingly melt.
Our bond, forged in fire, destined to endure,
As steadfast as the stars that nightly shift.

Like tides that breathe and sway, our moods may shift,
But our deep core of love resists all decay.
This flame between us, constant, will endure,
Each touch, each glance, continues to transform.
Two souls, forever destined to softly melt,
A whispered union nothing to ever fade.

Though time may swiftly shift, and surface beauty fade,
Love's gentle decay helps us deeply endure.
We transform, melt, forever as one.
Renee Jan 31
The TV hums, a vigil of static.
Its blue glow licks the sheets of my bed.
She is already here, and she says siéntate.
The room thickens, swallowing silence.
I close my eyes, recite my prayer,
but God does not come to take me away.

At seven, I thought He could take me away.
But He never saw past the static.
Never answered, no matter the prayer.
No angels gathered around the bed.
Only her voice, gentle, precise—
as if it was mine to refuse. Silence.

Somewhere, my mother believes in silence,
believes I am safe while she is away.
The house echoes—siéntate,
and I obey. The TV crackles, static
spitting nonsense, flickering across the bed.
The remote is in reach, but not my prayer.

I hold the words in my teeth—a prayer,
a plea I never speak into silence.
She smooths my hair, straightens the bed,
but the folds still hold what she took away.
The air stays dense with the static.
Her hands do not hesitate—no te muevas.

I do not move when she says siéntate.
Seven years old, I am not a prayer,
only a body sinking into static.
I have learned there is mercy in silence.
I have learned to go far, far away.
But I always wake up in the bed.

And the bed is always the bed.
The sheets whisper what she said—siéntate.
She is gone, but she is never away.
God never came; maybe I was the prayer.
Maybe the only answer is silence,
the weight of it, heavier than static.

The static stays. The bed does not forget.
No prayer unmakes what was done—siéntate.
Even in silence, I cannot get away.
7
larry mintz Jan 6
The Angel oak boughs  lovely to behold
This horary tree so blest a grand tree.
Old  trees to behold are  the huge Redwoods,
Clear cutting woods they made me quite angry.
Lay me down to rest ;my soul feels not old
Those who **** ancient forests go to Hell.

Ancient forests wrecked I'm angry as Hell,
Angraboda tree the Angel oak - behold    
Other beatific trees are the Redwoods,
The  red oak rusty brown bark a grand tree.
Cutting these trees down-I'm ****** angry,
And pols are vermin their plans way to old

Trees like a skyscraper th epic  redwoods
And hike thru these woods when I was not old
I sat at rest beneath a cedar tree.
Those who destroy them are stupid as Hell
Old growth forests a biome  please behold  
Lay waist to old growth woods I am angry,

Most of the old growth gone makes me angry
I wonder what critters live in Redwoods.
The hair of Jord visit it and behold
I walked thru the green when I was not old
The forest were bare of old trees,oh hell
Old growth Cedars are one hell of a tree,  

What type of vibe could I get from that tree?
Logging roads in BC  grave ,I'm angry,
To lazy to help these pols belong in hell,
Love to muse beneath a  pair of Redwoods.
Protest clear cutting this method not old
Clear  cutting woods -a plain shock to behold..

Envoi:
I am wheelchair bound my protest days to old
Time to stop logging Redwoods ,no,oh Hell,
An Angel oak tree I want to behold.
Ryan Nov 2024
Can you hear the music inside you, the instruments of pure passion?  

I can see it in your heart  

Beams overhead singing deeply, warming and glowing  

You are merely the product of my dreams  

I hang sweeping this fog alone and icy  

Swallowing these purple and red words, pale and invisible  



And my chest opens to you, but to you my heart is invisible

I can feel my soul trembling, can you sing to it with passion

Can you hold my heart in your fingertips, cold and icy

smelling the goats and strong and mature bark, dancing with my heart

How can I forget you, when all the time I spend with you is in my dreams.

Load this gun and place your passion in the chamber and watch me fade; glowing.



Can you feel my heart glowing?

Do your eyes penetrate my soul, or am I invisible?

Can you trap my thoughts and steal away my dreams?

Can you share your light and spend some of it on me, enlighten me with your passion

Take my heart

Can you sing to it, can you defrost it, it is icy.



Be like a thief and steal me away, take my heart, and the shadows that are icy

Your bag of hearts you have stolen, deadly and glowing

These souls tormented by you also, you hang their heart

And still, I remain invisible?

I scratch at this cage, haunted by what – your passion

Let me lay here still and die in my dreams.







Why do I continue to hope, why can I only have dreams?

This aisle is deadly, gridlocked and icy

Submissive to the heights of your words in passion

Take my feet here and steal, your footprints are glowing

Mine are – to you- invisible

But they lay down structures for my heart



And so, I beg you, don’t steal my heart

Let me rest and hope in my dreams

Make yourself invisible

Cold and icy

Leave the shadows glowing

And leave me alone, struck by passion



Just let me go, you have struck this chord and left me with passion

You have left my heart glowing

And now I shall sleep again, cold and icy.
Evan Stephens Apr 2024
Look at them, the rain-spotted Lovers:
hand in hand under lathered moon
as the bars flood out at cold close.
The night grass is April swaying
as they bluely stroll down the road,
unaware of anyone, anything else -

there could never be anything else -
isn't that the rule of all new lovers?
No care for a bright-cheeked road,
no anxious looks at a dartboard moon,
just two pairs of shoulders swaying
closer, closer, closer...

Yet now that the bars are closed,
they must join to something else:
a long laughing file beerily swaying,
a newly louched breed of lovers
under foam-headed moon,
carried down a water-hearted road.

Perhaps they sweeten the sotted road,
these two who veer so close
& share this last garnish of moon,
carpaccio of stars and space and something else.
Cars throw dapples across the Lovers,
shy white coins in spotted sway.

We drunks of course are also swaying
vaguely down the rained road,
but how different our rhythm is; these Lovers
tie spring breath tight as twine, and close
their fingers like mating snakes - no one else
seems tide-locked like earth and stubborn moon:

since this frozen-faced scrap of moon
refuses all requests, it's we who must sway
with them, at least until we find something else
on this cloud-tented tar-sown road
to hold us oh-so-close;
they're home, these Lovers,

& so someone else must follow the lolling moon
to become the newest Lovers who will sway
on wetted road as night closes off behind.
Sestina:
1 2 3 4 5 6
6 1 5 2 4 3
3 6 4 1 2 5
5 3 2 6 1 4
4 5 1 3 6 2
2 4 6 5 3 1
(6 2) (1 4) (5 3)

I thought it would be easier to write a sestina with "broad" end words like moon or road, but it was the opposite - it was surprisingly difficult to create a new context for each repeated word. Which, I guess, is the whole deal with the sestina.
jrae Mar 2021
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
"A Sestina is a French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

          1 2 3 4 5 6
          6 1 5 2 4 3
          3 6 4 1 2 5
          5 3 2 6 1 4
          4 5 1 3 6 2
          2 4 6 5 3 1
          (6 2) (1 4) (5 3) "
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