#sensation
Under the surface,
Strands of hair floating,
my body - weightless,
small air bubbles gasping.
At first it was hard to drown,
but just when my lungs began
to fill up, full and hard,
I was gravitating towards the bottom.
If there even was an end.
I was gently smacked
against the plastic tiles,
a small thud, which only I hear.
I open my eyes, unable to care,
my hand reaches up to that light,
the one I see before me,
the last thing I will see.
The soothing sound of the waves,
the water travelling through me,
It kisses every inch of my skin,
before letting me go, like a lover.
I almost fought back,
tried to live. almost.
Fighting against water,
was never a battle
a human could win.
It strips me off my life,
and while others may cry,
I left as the happiest girl,
Water filling my mouth as I smiled.
I was still holding my hand up,
not to reach the light of the surface,
but to hold the hand I felt dearest,
while it wasn't a physical human,
it was mine.
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 3:09 PM UTC
the sensation of going too far
the feeling when you know you
said too much
showed too much
the fear of your silence
because it says so much more
than words.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 12:00 PM UTC
Not winter cause its depressed.
Need to be warmly dressed.
How its cold can creep up like a pest.
Trapped in my house like a baby bird in its nest.
Not autumn because it makes us fall.
A reminder of winters sadness and a remainder of summers glory.
Autumn is a bit boring.
A murderes season for what ever reason
Not spring because its unprepared.
The flowers have not yet put on make up or perfume.
Leaves are still immature
And mothers still need to nurture
Spring is almost there.
Summer
Ohh summer
I love her
So mature
J'adore
Although u come every year your presence is nostalgic.
Your name is associated with joy.
In winter I dream of your happiness.
In autumn I cry about your downfall.
And in spring I pray for your wisdom.
There is really nothing quite like you.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
I have pasta trauma
That’s the joke I tell
But it isn’t funny
It’s shorthand for the sickness
That never leaves
It’s why hunger feels safer than indulgence
Why I can starve myself with ease
But stumble over a plate of something rich
I am fluent in the language of deprivation
Fullness has always felt like arrogance
Nobody talks about the way shame
Ferments in the stomach
How it sits heavier than food ever could
Shame teaches you to apologize for existing
Before you even open your mouth
Shame teaches you to rehearse obedience
Until it becomes instinct
Hunger became my first addiction
The only sensation I could control
I didn’t know then that choosing not to eat
Was the closest thing to rebellion I had
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 10:09 AM UTC
Sento il respiro denso,
Avido cerca aria.
Sento i Pensieri
Frenetici e convulsi,
Eccitare il mio ansito
Sento la mente fluttuare,
Dispoticamente velocizza
I miei fragili pensieri,
Quali come delicato vetro,
Cadono,
Frantumandosi,
Sento la luce
cercare spazio tra l’oscurità,
Raccoglie con ponderazione,
I cocci frantumati
del mio essere.
Sento il mio io egemone,
Concedermi la forza,
Frantumare con calma,
la mia malattia,
Riattare la mia essenza,
di essere Umana.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 4:46 PM UTC
Golly, fellas!
Gee, ladies!
These folks.
Am I right, person(s)?
They say it's no fair!
Hey, if you didn't already know it-
I'm hoping you get the best.
Usually, that's by lesson.
And, wouldn't you know it,
You're quite the students!
I just noticed you were struggling learning.
So, I reduced it down to the basics!
You've just got to get to studying.
Of course, not that it's always obvious,
What field even peaks your interest?
Perhaps it's walking.
Perhaps it's gawking.
Perhaps it's trying.
But to what do they compare?
Perhaps it's sensation.
Perhaps it's thinking.
But who's to say
What that even corresponds to?
Who's to say
What those even correspond to?
The only you with say
Is the same to make the decision.
What I mean is;
A lot of things are going to get in your way,
Don't be your own obstacle.
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 10:01 PM UTC
Bound
By a way
A way to owning a stay
That has a coughing, a stink, and a sound
Drums and guitars
Finish me with a borrowed smile
Giving you hell, is what were here for
Weight ... and the singing comes for a while
Two
Hunt and **** rhyming
Proud, in the name of who
Sincerely, the lips of avarice, are shining
Out of the way
Many more, many more for once and none
Silver comes into view, with it to say
When I see you, I keep a heat, from...
Silver wounds...
Liberty in motion, life to a tale
Of a person; Character gives what it looms
Country's with adding few, look lover, secrets know doom
Dread meeting's, with continue...
Life to a wish, whispering in the wind
Same thumb, same finger of luck, around
Meaning the curious, high wishes, and a mercy
Music for the masses
**** you, suicide...
For the wind, is a hungry kiss's
Ready to live in the shadow of a night...
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:01 AM UTC
These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud...
Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
***
Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The impassive river carried me downstream
as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats,
then nailed them, naked, to their former posts,
while I observed all idly, in a dream.
What did I care about the slaughtered crew,
the Flemish barley or the English freight?
The river had taught me how to navigate,
but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.”
***
Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble!
Oh, rack of splendid enchantments!
Huzzah for the virginal!
Huzzah for the immaculate work!
For the marvelous body!
It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end.
This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides,
when we return to our former discord.
May we, so deserving of these agonies,
may we now recreate ourselves
after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise—
that promise, that madness!
Elegance, senescence, violence!
They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil—
to deport despotic respectability
so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love.
It began with hellish disgust but ended
—because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately—
in a panicked riot of perfumes.
Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins,
loathsome temporal faces and objects—
all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil!
Although it began with loutish boorishness,
behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame.
My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed!
My little lost eve of drunkenness!
Praise for the mask you provided us!
Method, we affirm you!
Let us never forget that yesterday
you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages.
We have faith in your poison.
We give you our lives completely, every day.
Behold, the assassin's hour!
***
L'Eternité (“ Eternity”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.
Implacable Sentinel,
murmuring the soul’s confessions
of night’s barrenness
and days ablaze.
Inhuman votary!
Free of human impulses
and penitence,
you flee accordingly.
Since the beginning of time
you have stood alone,
amid shimmering embers,
exuding voicelessly:
“There is no hope,
no logical orientation,
no future revelation of patient science,
only the inhuman torture.”
Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.
***
Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
II.
The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers.
Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides.
The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones!
Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears.
IV.
I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea.
I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters.
I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise.
I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley.
The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead.
***
Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies.
I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always.
I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions!
It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises!
***
Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths,
Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass;
Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet,
Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete.
I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all,
Yet boundless love will surge within my soul.
And I will wander far away, like a gypsy,
As happy with Nature as any woman’s company.
***
Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg.
***
Song of the Highest Tower
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
I’ve endured so long
That I’d even forgotten
The pain and the terror.
I’ve visited heaven,
And yet a morbid thirst
Still darkens my veins.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
Thus the neglected meadow
Given over to oblivion
Flowered, overgrown
With weeds and incense
As hordes of filthy flies
Buzzed nearby.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
***
Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage
With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable,
snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses.
You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass,
The evening’s shadows leering.
Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium
of black demons and black wolves.
Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck...
And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back,
and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature,
the way it gets around...
***
Dawn
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I embraced the august dawn.
Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths.
I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly.
My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name.
I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess.
One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the ****
Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her.
Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood.
When I awoke, it was noon.
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 7:11 AM UTC
genuine
so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy
had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written
truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point
but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken
but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,
but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
FEEL THE VIBE,
feeling ALIVE,
as I Slip and slide,
and go on and glide!!
Be SMOOTH with it,
Go on and STRUT,
Keep on Stepping
You can't get enough
Feel the GROOVE!!
Feel the SENSATION,
get up and move,
Musical sounds of CREATION!!
the SOUNDS OF MUSIC
That helps to soothe
They say Music
soothe the
SAVAGE BEAST,
So, Jam along with us,
GET WITH THE BEAT
You don't have
NO RHYTHM
You can't find
your GROOVE
Just let the music
flow through you....
NOW, get up and MOVE!!!
B.R.
Date: 03/3/2023
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 12:54 PM UTC
some dream of warmth
some dream of flying
some spend mornings lying
balancing on the edge
between sleep and awake
half dreamt images
of dancing flames
closeness
heat warming their face
or lingering sensations
of falling
remembering soaring
through the sky
meeting someone
share the dream
such a rarity
find and be found
instead of searching
the reason we search
few words needed
when minds mere touch
feel like home
to know already
the smile in your voice
to words not said
the touch of your hand
in mine
without holding
few words needed
none allowed
to share a dream
is unspoken
there had been signs to indicate
you too hid matches in your coat
if one were to find them now
others not to be ignored
remember
tasting on your skin
a silent longing for
someone to share your skies
nothing now in your eyes
but squinting back to see
attempts at finding
wordless answers
some do not remember dreams
they have but half dreamt images
lingering sensations
if you had but asked
if only I had shared
I never wanted flying
I dream of fires
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 1:08 PM UTC
my fingers are laced in a chalice
of drugs that **** my sensations.
i used to resist them as a loner—
until the white coat angel
ignited my fouls with
radio-knob tweaking.
now i sprawl in expiring
fictions that come anew
and reprint their additives;
making me a king
of numbers, of colours,
of game.
until my world is all
mold and brain.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 10:51 PM UTC
Call: Where are you?
Answer:... (Collecting Flowers)
I'm here and there
I'm every where beside you.
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 6:44 AM UTC
Amo sorridere,
Voglio volare,
Spingere, spingere fuori,
Andare, andare, andare
Fissarti il colore degli occhi e basta oppure guardare e fantasticare
Vorrei vibrare, vibrare
Come foglie al vento
Come un albero secolare
Movimenti in ogni direzione
Sento il mio cuore che segue il tamburo che segue il rumore che sento rombare
Esplorare il verde, il verde
Chiusi gli occhi al vento e al sole
Pelle morta che si libera nell'aria
Voglio odore, odore, odore
Sentirti un profumo inebriante come un esplosione che saturi tutto tra naso e sapore
Voglio andare piano o veloce
Costruirmi, costruire, costruire
Le braccia tese all'infuori,
e stringersi a sé stessi
Voglio abbracciare con il petto e con le mani ed incendiare e bruciare le vene e il cuore
Voglio creare,
fare cazzate,
Gioire, soffrire, amare,
Capire, vivere, baciare,
Voglio annegare e gustare le mucose e la bocca ed il silenzio e l'immenso
e come un cotone galleggiare
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
I step in the shower
It feels like it's been hours
Since I turned the faucet on
but the transition makes me pause
I push the curtain to either side,
Making sure it lines the walls,
Spills are something I avoid
Then I can face the waterfall
It surrounds my every fiber
I start to feel like it's a part of me
I connect with my body,
Closing my eyes and remembering
But a loud noise startles me
I hate the anger I feel,
Every sound, crash, clang that's made
It rattles through me
And suddenly I have to face reality,
Reminding myself of who I am
I'm no longer seven or twelve,
I'm an adult in a safe house
The water covers me as I realize I sat down
Sometimes it's easier to find comfort on the ground
I get up and am covered in bubbles
It's nice to zone out and forget my troubles
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 9:47 PM UTC
tongues tied inside our mouths
eyes closed to the endorphin rush
from sensations of feel and touch
as we explore the possibilities
of just how far we want to go
tongues tied inside our mouths
from intimacy to strangers now
separated by fear and trust
the spell is broken magic dispelled
what's been seen can't be forgotten
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
Lately I have had a feeling of a sense of deep foreboding in the air,
every time I stop to pause, to think, I can feel it just lurking there.
An all pervasive feeling that all things are not as they should be,
and I get an anxious sensation that it's effects are not just on me.
Colours of nature seem all faded and the air seems different too,
the sky is somehow much more ominous and appears a paler blue.
Even the birds I see upon their wing seem more skittish everyday,
and I wonder if they feel it too, does a dark fear halt their play?
I sense a tension in the natural order of these once normal things,
and my heart and mind are fearful of what message this all brings.
Like some silent siren wailing or invisible flashing hazard light,
my mind is filled with deepest dread and senses things aren't right.
Far too much time caught up thinking upon the portents that I see,
with each terrifying thought I pray for all, to hope that its just me.
Jul 24, 2022
Jul 24, 2022 at 9:45 PM UTC
Our senses fashion effigies
Of a dead past, useless as guides
Where strict finality resides.
Mute phantoms drowned in icy seas.
But halved funereal diptychs show
Reflections of the things to be.
The not yet displayed in symmetry,
A future mirrored long ago.
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 1:14 PM UTC
Not unlike lights turning off abruptly
the rumble of the earth underneath
the waves of the sea rushing
unfamiliar faces passing
dark grey clouds gathering
blood tinting the river
and a lifeless corpse falling
Dread clutches my throat
and drags me into the abyss
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 1:14 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, have a great July!
goodness is virtue
rage is essence when realization is new
hearts entrenched
them those called sensations melted a bench
memories tainted in dark
reminiscent somewhere in the background park
violins ached for the winter sky
on a hope it would just snow the ghosted July
their flesh burnt
mercurial whispers churned a hurt
dilapidates already fallen
feels of away returned from the stolen
wise in me I confess
to not believe a belong is a bless
visions confuse
perplexed deprived of a twinkle muse
my pen writes
then paper welcomes once and thrice
orchestra chimes
in time to spill the wine
------ravenfeels
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 10:31 AM UTC
SENSATIONAL HEALING
If I were you I'd be healed hearing your voice because your beautiful lilt of voice scares illness away, think of you all day, glee all the way. Can't believe I'm fallen again, and your love ****** my pain. Happy for me to have you with me. My love. Good morning honey !
#C9_fm
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 6:26 PM UTC
Perhaps we
are both addicted
to the sensation,
the euphoria,
the madness,
of loving from afar.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 6:04 AM UTC
ELECTRONIC SENSATION
Somewhat astonishing, sort beauty, pride of humanity. Fresh and fly.
Electronic sensation, 'gaped' That posture, exclusive structure.
Oh! I been driven by attraction. Sublime perfect killing legs, and tantalizing stares.
Beauty springs from within her
like well. It
doesn't runs dry.
Felt it teeming
down her mind.
****** beauty is
a sign of a
gleeful soul.
Every styles
of hers may
make a poet
exhausts his
inks.
#c9_fm
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 5:57 AM UTC