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Amy Perry Jun 2020
Caressing the void
With honeyed fingertips
So that when it
Swallows me whole
It does so gently.
Nik Bland Oct 2018
Stand still

I feel myself sinking
And inside I’m thinking
That each movement I’m making
Is pulling me deeper

Stand still

Focus on what you say
Always be sure to convey
Emotional and fervency, there’s no time to waste
Our lives are at stake

Stand still

I can feel every breath
Pulse thumping closer to death
Wondering where we went wrong in the right
And if your lovely eyes will again see the sunlight

Stand still

Capture this moment please
Sinking beyond the knees
Torso receding as I hold close to you
Wondering when the sinking will be through

Stand still

Take the deepest of breaths
I can see you’re scared to death
Hold closer to me as we are swallowed whole
And may God rest our soul

Forever standing
Gale L Mccoy Jul 2018
i'm sorry, I say
i swallowed myself whole
late last night
when no one was looking
when I hid myself away

i ate myself
down past the bone
up to the neck
made wings of my thoughts
and made my getaway

my body is gone
i never missed it
but for when the absence of it
ached so hard I remembered
these wings made from
the flesh and feather of thought
can't carry the weight
of my head forever
Poetic T Feb 2018
Un-enlightenment  was the trading
of collected ignorance that was sewn
on the eyes of so many individuals,
collecting in a mentality of blind illiteracy.

Detachment from the realities that were
shown before, but spectacles of onyx
kept them from seeing reality and all they
responded to was the illusion of there hearing.

Contagions were ingested within the falsity
of words collecting in mirages of there own.
But every consultation was a verse in reversed
wording collecting the meaning in other manners.
Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm

precipitously crooked pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked

via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber
One among their number
included a misanthrope

who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******

Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds

mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons,
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne

also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House

Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety a plenti

Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Shelley-May Jul 2017
I, harbor danger.
Forever attempting to befriend the beast within
My grip, white knuckles, too weak,
She burns sharp as acid through the cracks in my fist,
Poison trickles through veins, taught.
A Grasp of desperation,
on the edge with no choice but to balance
on the tips of broken glass.
A thing of beauty,
pride or disgust.
it must be
everything at once.
Terror swallowed in the dark
Lady Bird Nov 2016
I didn't start the food fight
yet I got hit in the head with a can soda
I'm just glad it was a soft drink
it flew at me like an owl hunting its pray
I now realize that toucan play at this game
I also swallowed some food coloring
I'm OK, but I feel like I've dyed a little inside
Nelize Jun 2016
River of life, river of love
watery veins move through the world
as the clouds above are twirled
we take falling blessing from above

I wink reflections thanking the sun
for giving life to my moving gun:
amphibians as friends I won't be alone
my body finds rest over cobblestone

Colours turn from blue to greens
as my waters are swallowed by leafy strings
patience allows my powered nodes
to beat time as my movement corrodes
away at the rock
away at the clock
James Gable Jun 2016

Courtesy is not making fuss
Swallowing the disatisfaction
That grows as you
Realise this is the end
Quickly think up some wise words
To sign off with

A man marching in honey:
A birdwatcher with a foot-long prime
on his single-reflex camera,
Also, enter with pages stuffed in your pockets,
On which are shown pictures of birds to identify,
Explaining where they nest and
The altitude at which they fly with
A detailed history of their forest-call-cry

He left in a rush,
A cup of tea (milk, no sugar, weak, hard water)
Was left untouched cooling,
But not at the speed that he sped down the road,
Spotting a thrush and releasing the wheel,
Fumbling for binoculars with excited hands,
Faith until death or heaven!

Even when he’s identified the bird, still
No one is steering his burgundy rover, still,
His hands are busied
By the focus wheel,
Won’t look away,
In focus, out again,
In once more,
Look at him! Show off!

His shutter snaps shut and alarm spreads
Amongst the birds and they dart away in groups
Fast as watercolour, laboured
And blurring in mid-flight

It takes a second or two for the echoe to die
Echoes find places to rest
Amongst the blades of grass
Humming in wait of a second coming

A matchstick structure, sublime
In its intricacy and *******
Of classical architectural traditions
Starts to collapse, later,
In good time, wait, and see
The matchsticks hit the surface,
Almost in reverse, it rattles
The table with fine-rain
Levels of cymbal crashes and violence,
If an ear was to listen
It would register the tinnitus that
We hear in our denial of pure silence.

Our denial of mortality
In its entirety, we laugh at those who
See ghosts on the west country coasts,
Those who dare catch a glimpse
Of long-departed lovers
On the boats that return from
Here or there,
Or solemnly sink
With conviction, miles from land
And there will be those who will
Want to understand

This woman we now see,
Was once married to a captain of ships
That sailed in the formation
Of an arrow, long and narrow,
He sank them all, bequeathed
His fleet to the icy grips of
That body of water famous
For having strong arms and
Snatching hands. She will never
Know if it was part of his plan.

He wrote her once to explain,
But the postman was caught
In the rain of springtime,
That time which is known to be
The season of showers,
And, attached to the grim mornings
Are the cruellest of hours
That postmen share with no one else,
But the letters, have so much life sealed inside,
Sealed by a human tongue
With traces of every kiss

In his pride, the postman did not give the
Soggy letter to the captain’s bride,
It ended up floating from here to there
Unintelligible for sure, the ink
Ran carelessly into puddles and drains,
When the ships all sank
They said nothing remained
The envelope was sealed by a kiss
By now it has found its way back to the sea
By way of rivers, tributaries,
Carried by wind and leaves,
On the feet of hikers that rest
On their backs under a canopy of trees,
It ran down the hills and salted
Ever so slightly more the sea
Where her captain’s body is found
And if he opens his eyes he’ll
See how his letter was returned.

If he opens his eyes.

She is running towards the house
Love, restless as the wind that determinedly
Keeps us all awake, it makes dull noises in its
Late night reflections on an unfulfilled existence,
It rubs its snout on rocks and stretches
Itself around their base to release frustrated energy,
They start to come loose and tumble into the sea,
Splashing the coastline with the tears of
Shipwreck tragedies,
The fallout of her uncertainty
In the ways of love,
Feeling so high up above her captain and unable to touch
His memories
That in fact never set foot on land

Her skirt is up above her knees,
Both feet off the ground,
The jangling sound of her keys are
Like thunder in this slowed down world
Where the worm is still journeying
To his hole and the bird
Is like a badly tuned channel
Where you can’t make out a single word

She runs towards the front door
Her moist eyes, familiar with
These skies that describe ominous clouds
And rain that hammers the floor
Again and once more and soon
She feels she will be buried in ice
With both of her husbands,
She sees him doubled over by the window
Panic in slow motion is like
A ship slowly upturning
In the drama of desolate sea stretches
That have swallowed so many
She moves, fast as a fastened shadow

Like life, reflected on the back of a spoon,
And the sun, finally, swallowed the moon
Part Nine (2) of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
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