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Seanathon Feb 12
It's a cocktail in which memory mixes with sensation and sound. To become even moreso drunk on you. In the remind of those moments once shared, in that certain, southern, American town.
Absolutely beautiful
Lady Ravenhill Dec 2018
Hundred year cypress
Paramour of Spanish moss
Cries in her teacup
© LadyRavenhill 2018
Haiku 68
Makayla Jordan Dec 2018
haaaay you???
you must got me some kind confused?
caused
i mean
did you think i was ever gonna love you,
trust YOU.
better gon'on find another little TRICK
to play cause i ain't no trick.
by gollie you better find you 'nother one.
High on'a farm,
make a needle biscuits
water-up sits creek
jostle potatoes,
pan-*** boiling
-with carrot cake.

Purple sky,
tractor runnin'
time of day,
sun low.

E'er body say,

"Why dou'a on'a farm?"

entered-dat du da future;
not Ford'ed fields.
Face it dou'a future,

"Dat future know it's place."

Sweet devils singin' to me,
sweetened tongue a' beautiful place. . .

"E'erthing set in place, ***** wit I say,

-dinner on-ma tray."

Harry Howard Oct 2018
When I wake before her
I set a *** of coffee
and let my ears catch gunshots

They say the old don’t sleep
that their lives sit too heavy in their heads
volumes full of names they’ve forgotten
and people outlived

At the edge of town hunters drag in doe
They are bulls towing a plow through ash
and bones

I am a boy at daggers with being
and I tell her I know nothing anymore

When she yawned it wasn’t sleep pulling at her
it was her dreams
serpentinium Sep 2018
i am a city full
of potholes, cracked pavement
bearing the scars of industrialization,
of the wilderness replaced with
brick outcroppings that
project towards the yellow-painted
sunset.

i am the shadow of oak trees
smothered by concrete, serpentine
roots upheaving the work of
men that light cigarettes in the rain
and eat po-boys with mud-stained
hands.

i am the shotgun houses,
the history of shattered glass and
rotting wood, the ghosts that stare
from the shade of front porches,
green and purple mardi gras beads
swaying in time with the sun-stroked
cicadas.

i am the mississipi river,
a fount churned by steam boats
and canoes, the flood that nourishes
and takes away, a muddy rebirth,
molding the land into a fertile
crescent, a christening by dirt-streaked
lips.
new orleans is an interesting place... i've never felt more immersed in a city before & i love it. it's gonna be a fun year.
fearfulpoet Aug 2018
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am  not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
**** could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
Frame your Sunday brunch as a childhood sweetbit,
manufacture after the capture with more redflags;
pour relations after kith and kin with feigned hit.

The brunch is done and so is our agreement.
The contract is as napkin math, undone and smeared
***** lipstick and cigaretted.

Forget about it, the millennium came and went and gone.
All we have now is a time eerily similar to another
without the escape of waking up and wiping face with yawn.

Cumbersome troubles on our sleeves tattoo'd for self-expression.
But what did you need so badly to tell us about yourself, what lesson
shall we learn through the sifting of eyefucks in Starbucks.
Through the popular apathy of shrugged shoulders when mentioned Sisyphusian boulder.
"**** happens."
What else could?
And in your gleaning of brilliant observation on the banality of complaints.
What did you muster as axiom within your world-view of constraints?
Did your unfinished novel and penchant for humanities,
remove you further from nature than consciousness,
remove you further from what makes us you and me?
The condition we live in, despite temporal and generational
bridges,
hinges on the livings of lives.
The thrives and thrivings of not,
cannot be captured nor caught
within the shallow swaip of a Sunday portrait turned to the side for landscape.
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Sometimes the day smiles
shows me its colour.
No, then the wild blue yonder
doesn’t look to be far
I feel like I got the wings to fly.

But who would sway away
when the rose under the nose
floating on a sea of colour?

The luminary punter too
drops down from the sky.
Paints the broad daylight
as it sails down on its silky way.

Ah, the southern breeze
bends with the rose of the day
peeps in the colour before my eyes.
I could only see missing my butterfly.
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