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Man 5d
Hot ***** served up,
The rattlings and ramblings of lust.
Of poets helplessly in love,
Of writers ***** to ****.
What sad silences they can elapse to,
What pleasant rows they can get in
Feeling no need to record them
Free from needing any interpretation.
Quiet are the stanzas & verses
Of true lovers,
Their words now reserved for each other
Man 6d
Like a nereid,
Acutely aware of how to cause a flow.
But I was mistaken,
Sprawled across the ground as
Dianthus grows.
She thought herself a hunter.

I wish I were prey.
i fed on your gushy sunshine
i feed on the void black line   that centres all of your smiles
          and fall foreign in felty dreams   of extremities in distance
untravelling   a bursting sense of yelp   back across my lone moor of memory
                            for that  i am blue wound

there is love in life and liver in pâté
it's food and a crush in on me
squeezing out   my colours ruin with blame

                                                       - a discharge
neth jones May 16
   some are led              
      whilst others follow
   one in   one out        
      regurgitate   swallow
abi Apr 15
It is officially silly season
where there is no time for reason
and anyone can get away with treason
but even you can admit to falling to pieces

only seen from afar
you are like a shooting star
and if I get too close I'm left with a scar

I hope I'm not you're secret
but if I am would you keep it

so take my broken pieces and please make them cohesive
neth jones Apr 6
belly growling
go    c a n n i b a l i s t i c
on   victims     of   my   appetite
people flee me with their tidy routine
t r a u m a t i c a l l y    busted up
meat flowers    devoured
my glutton grows
rictameter style
Jeremy Betts Apr 1
Does a poem write itself?
Do they exist before created?
In essence, existing all around us
Absorbed into the psyche
Processed through the brain
Sent to a hand
Finished through the tip of a pen
Too then again
Be consumed by another human person
Producing a new translation
A different interpretation
But there's limits to randomization
Will we ever get to the point where every thought has been expressed?
Every possible sentence arrangement has been recorded and sent to the press?
Is there still the possibility that an original thought can be had?
It's a silly concept but maybe
One day writers block will be victorious
There's only so many different ways that these words can be organized into
Though, I can't imagine what that'll look like
When every thought has been thought through
When nothing's new
Will it still continue?

Hark and Come Hear Ye Here
Ye loyal subjects of the king
Reports from the borders of our principality
warn of a gruesome pestilence spreading unseen,
This devilish scourge of affliction is Coming!
Beware of the telltale signs of corruption
In the countenance of those under siege of this heretofore unknown malady.
It has been documented
by trusted physicians that certain aspects of one’s physiology
Will present themselves shortly
before the fever of madness and fear
Takes control.
Take Heed of thy neighbors
Behaviors and be wary of
Changes occurring in regards to
Their normal routine.
If boils or bleeding of orifices be
Witnessed report the citizen to the nearest authority
Once the outward expression of the putrification is upon them, it is but a fortnight until they succumb to the terrible fate of mortality. Those most beset by the pox of this plague are without exception in a state of aggravated nervous disorientation. Keep safe, keep your distance, and warn others around you of such individuals afflicted, lest ye contract the pox, for there is as yet no alchemical remedy

Be wary of these ghouls wandering the streets
Muttering manically, wreaking of decay, flailing and gnashing their teeth in a rage.
If one of the accursed creatures approaches, It is a mortal encroachment ye must evade.
Make right with the lord and keep the faith, our souls stand for judgment, ensure yours will be saved.

Take heed of these warnings here given this day.

They are not to be ignored if you wish to survive

For decades I’ve had this internal fantasy that I’m a bearer of the plague, not patient zero but on of the early infected, a vector of an unknown catastrophe. I got really sick. This was a fun thing. (Not being sick, writing a silly poem)
neth jones Mar 3
scupper the dawn
   with curtains   redrawn
a self made mourning
anti haiku
Nigel Finn Feb 21
"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."

The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.

There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.

I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.

So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.
"I feel an earnest and humble desire, and shall do till I die, to increase the stock of harmless cheerfulness." – Charles Dickens
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