#buckle - Hello Poetry

rehearsing... in the mind he rehearses a sequence of blows lefts and rights uppercuts the jabbing low whilst dancing and skipping on spry feet insides... butterflies start to flutter around in his insides yet knowing the opponent must not see any nerves he's got to be cool and assertive the glove's punch deliveries being a bout winner dreaming... it's fight night at the Las Vegas Grand Garden Arena he'll slog it out for the welter weight title muscles poised his package ready to wear the crowning belt buckle

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC

ElizabethSquires

The Boxer

rehearsing... in the mind he rehearses a sequence of blows lefts and rights uppercuts the jabbing low whilst dancing and skipping on spry feet insides... butterflies start to flutter around in his insides yet knowing the opponent must not see any nerves he's got to be cool and assertive the glove's punch deliveries being a bout winner dreaming... it's fight night at the Las Vegas Grand Garden Arena he'll slog it out for the welter weight title muscles poised his package ready to wear the crowning belt buckle

36

Live inside the execution chamber a stocky warden poker-faced and middle-aged begins the medieval ritual with words of cold indifference addressed towards Ted's emotionally dead terrified head. A warder grim-faced stands to one side arms folded as two others begin to buckle thick leather straps around Bundy's ankles wrists and chest to the chair. No cold condolences the electrodes on top of his head a black mask covering his face until the signal is given a raised arm to the executioner hooded in black who pushes a lever. Bundy's body arches spasmodically convulses tensely straining paroxysms the neck taut head stretched back blood oozing from the nostrils then slumps and is pronounced dead. The warders remove the crown and mask unbuckle the straps as the chamber empties and the executioner doffs the black hood to reveal appropriately a beautiful woman.

0

Sep 11, 2014

Sep 11, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC

kenneth-walter-simpson

The Execution of Ted Bundy

Live inside the execution chamber a stocky warden poker-faced and middle-aged begins the medieval ritual with words of cold indifference addressed towards Ted's emotionally dead terrified head. A warder grim-faced stands to one side arms folded as two others begin to buckle thick leather straps around Bundy's ankles wrists and chest to the chair. No cold condolences the electrodes on top of his head a black mask covering his face until the signal is given a raised arm to the executioner hooded in black who pushes a lever. Bundy's body arches spasmodically convulses tensely straining paroxysms the neck taut head stretched back blood oozing from the nostrils then slumps and is pronounced dead. The warders remove the crown and mask unbuckle the straps as the chamber empties and the executioner doffs the black hood to reveal appropriately a beautiful woman.

50

we call these stars. white strips of clarity bursting through pinpricks spotlights through feather falling dandruff thunder buckles the plexiglass sheet with it's shoulder crackles little eggshell triangles past the dancing dandruff pale veins spread like ink in fabric thin burnt parchment holding back thudding pulses from the Amniotic sun We call this a sunrise when the Sun hurls the final flaming shoulder into day. Not the giggling gums of a baby faced Tele-tubby sun not the serenade of "goodnight moon, and goodnight you" My sunrise is A dragon-glass egg, pulsing to the drumbeat of a feathered heart A tea-light spider spinning webs into an inferno shoulder flexing flamesilk muscles through each pinprick star lamp posts hum a prismatic prayer Grassy fields catch light with their fireflies old country porch lights attract moths dust hung in stasis starts feather falling when light catches tubes of Mercury fashioned into bar-signs flicker as ghosts hum on the gas poets flick cigarette ashes call in stardust for the wind to carry up to Gatsby it up in the pin ****** there is nothing more beautiful and warm then stardust Dancing rich in the suns desperate pinpricks Watching the Debut of struggling birth throwing itself against confinement shedding light, on the tiniest flurry of dandruff before filling each vein of the broken sky with fire. I love to watch gasoline soaked parchment curl in on itself like an old handwritten letter. I call this the night sky. Catch the falling ashes on my tongue like snowflakes. If I swallow enough of them a tiny pheonix fire in my belly can hurl it's little shoulder against my rib cage. Pounding until it bursts out through all these pinpricks. I will call out to the mothsdust, dandruff and fireflies invite them to dance in the combustion. If I am anything like a starlit night. I will buckle before I burst Thunderclap an invitation Shatter the street lamps and mercury tubes with the winding bass drop. direct the audiences attention to dust hung gentle in a cold still sky. feather falling in silence A blossoming caged sun. No one expects a gentle sunrise

0

Jan 2, 2018

Jan 2, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC

GeekElement

Caged Sun

we call these stars. white strips of clarity bursting through pinpricks spotlights through feather falling dandruff thunder buckles the plexiglass sheet with it's shoulder crackles little eggshell triangles past the dancing dandruff pale veins spread like ink in fabric thin burnt parchment holding back thudding pulses from the Amniotic sun We call this a sunrise when the Sun hurls the final flaming shoulder into day. Not the giggling gums of a baby faced Tele-tubby sun not the serenade of "goodnight moon, and goodnight you" My sunrise is A dragon-glass egg, pulsing to the drumbeat of a feathered heart A tea-light spider spinning webs into an inferno shoulder flexing flamesilk muscles through each pinprick star lamp posts hum a prismatic prayer Grassy fields catch light with their fireflies old country porch lights attract moths dust hung in stasis starts feather falling when light catches tubes of Mercury fashioned into bar-signs flicker as ghosts hum on the gas poets flick cigarette ashes call in stardust for the wind to carry up to Gatsby it up in the pin ****** there is nothing more beautiful and warm then stardust Dancing rich in the suns desperate pinpricks Watching the Debut of struggling birth throwing itself against confinement shedding light, on the tiniest flurry of dandruff before filling each vein of the broken sky with fire. I love to watch gasoline soaked parchment curl in on itself like an old handwritten letter. I call this the night sky. Catch the falling ashes on my tongue like snowflakes. If I swallow enough of them a tiny pheonix fire in my belly can hurl it's little shoulder against my rib cage. Pounding until it bursts out through all these pinpricks. I will call out to the mothsdust, dandruff and fireflies invite them to dance in the combustion. If I am anything like a starlit night. I will buckle before I burst Thunderclap an invitation Shatter the street lamps and mercury tubes with the winding bass drop. direct the audiences attention to dust hung gentle in a cold still sky. feather falling in silence A blossoming caged sun. No one expects a gentle sunrise

51

i pull up my pants - leg, leg, zipper, buckle . the room heaves with me , a breath released and a mind unclear : . i don't know if he made me bleed, i don't know if he even would . . . the sky looks yellow as he walks me home, but it's not: it's blue and the wind stings my cheeks .

0

Nov 5, 2017

Nov 5, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC

unlovedprincess

you should have died with me

i pull up my pants - leg, leg, zipper, buckle . the room heaves with me , a breath released and a mind unclear : . i don't know if he made me bleed, i don't know if he even would . . . the sky looks yellow as he walks me home, but it's not: it's blue and the wind stings my cheeks .

23

And as my hands gripped the shining white porcelain My legs buckled and I fell Knees hitting the ground. The contents of my stomach Would‘ve sloshed by the force Had they not already been lying In the bucket next to my head.

0

Nov 19, 2018

Nov 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC

painfultruths

buckling legs

And as my hands gripped the shining white porcelain My legs buckled and I fell Knees hitting the ground. The contents of my stomach Would‘ve sloshed by the force Had they not already been lying In the bucket next to my head.

8