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Aquamarine *****, another predawn start,
another day in a house
w/out adult education or my art.
A life w/out an internal life.
Sugar & screens, sugar & screens

screams Dolphine.
O unutterable folly
to fancy a morning
sans the psy-ops gavage,
3 hours of 'Ben & Holly'.

Next it's to the playground
w/ Dolphine in the doldrumming
mizzle, twice daily milling
about rainy, ****** Dogshit Island.
Tenderly I admonish her
not to mount the wiped ladder

of the still treacherous climbingframe.
Cue today's 3rd tantrum,
this 1 ploughing a woodchip angel,
wriggling supine amid the ******'s muesli.
It does not amuse me

when she scatters a fistful of woodchips
backwards straight down her pink shriekhole.
I carry my increasingly heavy lil' Calpol
Calpot home, woodchip flecks
l/ spiders w/ their legs pulled off,

bodyboarding out of her
tyrannical drool-grilled piercing pink
shriekhole. Awww,
my monotone soothes.
The woodchips & the dogshit,

the ravens & the daisies
I shall be revisiting way too soon.
Home. But home is not so homely
at the moment, no sanctuary
from the selfaccusatory dereliction of duty

in a parent's resentment.
It's taboo as correcting a transgender  
that the cuckoo's not in cupped areas, just in their
cupola; tacenda as decrying a LiKKKudnik
for a lying wolfcrying nogoodnik.

But less innocent than a baby
or the babyless, I'll say it:
toddlers are hell.
Yet to wish them gone or unbegotten is also
hell. To fail them, hell.

My jeans & tees are instantaneously
soiled by her food, her ****, her drool,
her playdough.I haven't slept more than
six hours a night or in the same bed as Dolphine's
mum for over 2 years (we're still together).

When my sugarrushing
insolent dependent,
Generalissima Dolphine,
my cherubic beast sleeps,
am I consoled

by a profound contentment
unknown to nonbreeders,
or is it just respite
from a daily dissimulation
once unnecessary hence unimagined,

but far, far more crucial
than the old juvenile game
of simply deceiving myself
or a senior figure at an institution?
Anybody get the number

of the bubba juggernaut,
pram jam in the hall of days
Papa Panther paces
l/ helicopter aces
overhovering struck down khaki crazies?

Every day l/ the 1st hour
of 'Kramer Vs. Kramer'.
must have been a genius to write
any poetry whatsoever

w/ 2 ankle vampires.
But she failed to master
Parenthood 101:
morbidity is strictly

Dolphine, Dolphine,
the world's most beautiful animal
cub, your Daddy's not a *******,
more of a snowflake greybeard dad, humbug
who loves you & wouldn't ever leave you

in the park. There's 1 set of footprints
in the woodchips to prove it.
When you've grown out of shulking out,
you're gonna have to watch out for the real *******:
the men behind the sugar, the men behind the screens.
Taboo topics
One fears to write
It doesn't seem
To be alright
The muses may
Get annoyed
Decent topics
Many write
Love, heartache
Memories, tragedies
Nature, sky
Fairies, ghosts
It's easy to write
Taboo topics often
Make you cringe
You find it
Difficult to hinge
For a fearless poet
Or writer
Nothing is taboo
If it's in the interest
Of youth and society
Obscene and indecent
Expressed with decency
Highlighting exigencies
***, religion
Politics and war
Many refrain to write
What others would
Think of them
This thought stops them
To pickup pen
They would be filled
With guilt
If their poetry
Or writings
On taboo topics are built
To free man
From their clutches
A fearless poet
Or writer
Always writes
For him
Nothing is taboo
Nothing is taboo!
Maple Buckets Jun 22
Of the tattle tellers tongue
Tenaciously Terse tales told
Tending to tea and tempting taboo
EA Jun 22
Don't blame yourself
No one is at fault but me
I did it, not you
Ken Pepiton Apr 9
The wild boars of Haifa, best news I heard today.
Cute pigs in Haifa,
where bacon is known
as too delicious to eat.

Built on the side of Mt. Carmel,
a secret garden with a magical side,
{In that neotenic frame of mind that allows cute pigs.}

Pigs can swim. Legion told me

NY Times, digest, chewitchewit
The wild boars of Haifa, best news I heard today.
NY Times digest human interest piece today. HAIFA, Israel — The wild pigs of Haifa might not fly, but they seem to do almost everything else.
Mia Mehnaz Nov 2020
Suicide; society tells me it’s a ***** word

Blackens your tongue and brands you an

Outsider to your beloved community;

Tarnishes your dazzling reputation and

Takes a beautiful, cherished, short-lived, soul.

But why did society not raise me like the

Painstakingly adored roses amongst

Its garden of thorns; why can’t I be

That happy girl. Why have I been

Doused in fertiliser, a wretched ****

Amongst a garden of beauty, growing

Faster than lightning, roots of gnarly

Agony and shoots of grey, blurred hatred for

Every atom of my being- screams for the ****

Killer to embrace me by the neck, apply a-

Seductive dose of love-dripping pressure

And set this crow free; unchain my bruised wings

And I promise I will leave you be, I will never

Bring misery or misfortune again.

But suicide; is a ***** word, a cheek

Burning, soul smouldering, darkening

Shadow on the pretty plastic cases over our,

Mechanical hearts. Not for the great pain of

Losing a barely, blossomed flower- took one

Heavy dose of white-pain sunlight and

Wilted away into the black, bottomless soil.

Not for the gaping loss of a singular

Fertile crop in an endless year of draught and

Famine. Suicide, is not a tear-wrenching,

Palm-sweating word for the, heavy and huge hole

It leaves in society’s newly plastered walls-

But it is an unspeakable word for the pure

Shame. The surly shadow of unspeakable

Shame that it leaves like a, stain of red wine

On the pretty, sensible woman’s white blouse

Like a ****** tattoo on the arm of an infant.

We do not grieve their death. We grieve our pride,

Our bruised and bleeding pride at not preventing

The stench of failure as a race of people, in the death

Of one melancholy drowned person, we practically

Placed the boulders in their pockets and said drown.

And I am holding my breath; tight roping this

Misery that smothers me at sunrise, see I am

Permitted a feigned slumber of peace in the dead

Hours of night yet I awake to the,

Asphyxiation of pain, eyes bulging in terror of

What awaits me when I run out of time, oxygen fast-

Fading and the orange, pink of dawn lights a

Fire in the honey pools of my eyes- small, mocking fires

That sneer at my desperation to cease, at my plea for peace-

Tight, burning stabs that tingle in my throat and

I’m running low on air, on time, almost there-

Deliria, ecstasy, glee dripping from my limbs

And- the noose I fabricated in my non-

Functioning, disabled mind slips away, faster

Than I can catch it and refasten, and I am, cold

In my bedsheets once more. Welcomed again,

To the now bellowing daylight of, depression

Another flightless, fruitless day of carefully,

Hand-stitched smiles and sinfully pre-tuned

Laughter. The world tells me to stand on the

Pinnacle of misery with one broken leg and

If I dare fall, I am a branded shame on the surface

Of the earth, I am the centre of all failure in the

Universe so I, valiantly ride into no-mans-land,

A knight in shining armour except, I have no steel

And no bronze to, protect my heart from the cannon fire

Of pain, I have no shield to shelter me from the

Poison gas of self-hatred. But I am perfectly okay being

Defenceless in the brazen gunfire; I am still breathing,

The titanium arrows of misery protruding neatly from

My mangled limbs and my broken heart.

And that word, sombre and dark as ever

Flashes once in my head and I swat it away with

Deep-rooted disgust, and a dire hunger for such a desire.


Society tells me it’s a ***** word.
Possibly the first time i've ever written explicitly about this particular, raw and deeply personal topic.I always seem to skim stones and step over pebbles when integrating this into my poetry. But at 5:12am today I said, **** it, the world needs to hear this.
Karen Thompson Oct 2020
I shut my eyes for a moment,
Listening closely to the rain drops against my window.
The louder splatters on the Zinc,
And the solem whispers from the cold wind.

Moments like these,
Ignite my subtle yet firery desires.
My hollow heart summons you,
Reminiscing on your gentle touch never felt,
The feel of our dangerous passion.
Though our lips are yet to touch.

©Karen Thompson 2020
This is roughly about female desires and wild mannerism. Years before now, it was seen as a taboo, female desires and pleasure.
If a young woman showed signed of wild mannerism of some sort, then she would have been seen as 'one who needs a leash'. I tried comparing that with how they treated rumored witches in the second stanza.
She doesn't just 'summon' anything. She summons the image of a mind in her mind. Basically daydreaming.
Trevor M Landers Sep 2020
Renounce the orders of a novitiate
break free of cloisters and other taboos
discover sensuality on the skin
like a herpetologist might
the claws against your unfondled, convented *******
scaly underbelly slithering across your stomach
new sensations, new desires, a new world opens up.
Dinesh Padisetti Jul 2020
Take me with you
where the women are free
Where *** is not a taboo
Where love is not a luxury

Where I can watch flowers bloom
Where I'm content & complete
Where life begins & death lives
O'Divine animal Friedrich
For the love of Nietzsche and his final book Ecce Homme 'To become who you're'
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