Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
zebra Jan 2019
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise

ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in Ubangi nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers

gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection

finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood lanterns and spit

look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi  
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull

black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets

*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals

paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip

babbling accordion gullet
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats **** soiling cherry clover
I wish I was in France right now
with that soft accordion singing in the background.
An oil canvas of the town
a slight warm breeze with a magenta and violet sky.
People.
walking around everywhere.
soft tones of everyone's voices from all around are swirling around me like an array of beautiful colors
I want to sit on one of those patios with the great view with you.
Sip our tea, talk for hours.
As long as it was with you.
I paint the love we share in my head like Picasso.
Its beautiful.
I wanna do everything with you.
I wish to stay at that apartment in Paris during the summer one day.
I could see myself with you, living.
I can picture it vividly like a photograph
clean, white, warm, open, and bright.
flawless
Everything is perfect with you.
Im in love with you
I need to be

with you.
written in thoughts of you
zebra Dec 2019
hungry mouth
where thighs conjoin
like bells and finger cymbals

coiled spit snake shatters
and i swallow her ***, whole
up though accordion throat
kneeling slave in a smash face footopia

my spine bends
pushing
****** rings
*****'s gate
sublime fem Christ of ***
giving birth to ecstasy
a wreathe of tongues
like a thousand needles of heroine

her god a glistening cyclops
**** of immortality
ball ******* licking burglar
and mine this ****** wet oyster
drool tongue  
stained viper
a slithering felicity

animals devouring animals devouring animals
in a puddle of scarlet wounds
sublime *****
hungry for another ensanguining stab
gut punch puke ****
her ****** a crying torrent
***** trap
of wild hollow eyes
moon struck bomb
a blurred curve of desire
convulse sput patters
lunatic of lust
on the giddy brink
all tears and sweat

i erase myself  
release
for pom pom derrière
throat clutch gag
my tongue unwinds her
and the world drops dead
CautiousRain Jun 2019
Wasteful breaths,
a hyperventilating accordion of pressure,
my heart compressed
like extra pixels in an image, a squeezed lemon,
but unfortunately no lemonade,
only hazy vision.

I can’t move.
Moving only makes me
step closer to death,
or so I imagine,
as my heart spikes thorns inward,
every dagger ever stuck in my back
shoots down my throat
and returns to the heart it aimed for
originally.

I’m so broken.

Clammy palms, cracked nails,
dilated eyes all a mess,
and the shakes,
oh, the shakes,
an earthquake from within
brings much devastation again,
and just like every weak building does,
I collapse to my knees,
barely gripping onto the counter,
praying that if God pities me enough,
he’d let me go.
theme was describe a panic attack
The trinket gurgled
heading to the stream
that babbled
I dabbled a toe or two
in as young boys do

summer flew,
outspread wings and
the north brings winter

I always knew it would end
this way with
ice on the window panes
indoor parlour games
and Gran on the accordion.
Trinket may be an Irish word for a very small stream, I heard it first over thirty years ago in County Cavan, Southern Ireland and even then it struck me as a beautiful word to use.  an afterthought, I could google Wikipedia to find out, but I remember, 'if you look to closely at the magic it disappears'
etiolated shell
ball bearings for knuckles
crimson branches
that shudder in the albumen
of the eyes

palms riddled with skinny rivers
navy straws
wrist fissures
roots of calcium
punctured silver

carrier-bag lungs
interior accordion
sack of cherry fluid
limited edition
throbbing blob

in the mirror
yourself not quite
yourself
unchosen blueprint
modified mainframe

filled with tea
and slabs of cheese
envelope of bones
cauldron brewing
on and again on
Written: April 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escapril challenge. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
V Mar 2019
His
Her scent was subtle like the amber candle
I sometimes lighted up on solitary
She wasn’t that simple but secure,
well-rounded one could say

———

Where I was,
well I was a lopsided renegade
A somewhat lost cause —lost to myself that is and not to others
Those around me still had faith in me but I never quite got beyond the futility of it all
For even those who convert upon their deathbed have ‘faith’ for a second before they fall or perhaps fly into the anonymity of death
But isn’t this the most futile of epochs, one lingering whisper towards an anonymous deity and all is forgotten, I think not

I suppose then the reason I give those who seem to have faith in me such a hard time is because I sense them as seeking to affirm some element of themselves within my own absurdity
This in turn merely multiplies the absurdity of such a faith until we find ourselves sacrificing our nearest and dearest

I suppose then that it is most absurd of me to smile as she greets me in our first met
She moves closer, a big accordion smile juts out of my seams
Rather bashfully I tip my hat
A tune springs forth signaling my surrender
We converse, I laugh a lot
She never stops seeing my eyes, while I ******* my cigarette

I suppose then that her enchanting complexities security now becomes perforated by my own absurd faith

What a contradiction

She takes my hand. For now, I forget.
Muhammad Usama Feb 2019
Gentle winter sun,
Peeking through the hazy window,
Fiddling with your hair as your head rested on my shoulder,
While, to Florence we journeyed,
Away from the Sicilian soil,
Whose Olives kept us captives for so long.

Oh! And remember how-
The Florentine pavements answered our footsteps,
And picturesque italian figures smiled at our liberty,
And how-
The sound of mandolin, and of accordion;
The carefree ramblings,the mindless tangos in the Italian streets,
And the sheer aura of it all,
Moved me-
And how it moved you!

But it was later in Vatican,
Ah! it was then,
When God became Michelangelo for me,
And you,the ceiling of Sistine Chapel.
Whit Howland Sep 2019
A phonograph
or
an object

more poetic
say
a Victrola

a metronome
accordion
a Dictaphone

whatever the device
you're in there
pulling wires

plunking keys
blowing wolf tones
anything to skunk up the works

and if I were smart
I'd brace myself
for your ghostly visit

your
attempt to cramp
my style

to drag me clawing
gnashing
to the junkyard of naked language

to make me face
the paint and music
like you always did

but there's a problem
it's small
but very significant

I don't believe in ghosts
nor do I think you
to be one

and if you do come
it won't to by the light
of a beastly moon

nor will you be bathed
in spooky green
glowing paint

but
with a presence
better than the one I knew you by

one with
even more depth
and perception

and you will
bear
just a soft

new brush
fresh cans
of paint

simple
nothing more
nothing less

© Whit Howland 2019
Meh! It was important to write this in my own style and my own words so it was not an homage to Robert Creeley.
epitaph smug rage
council doubt
starch accordion mail
Ivyanna Jan 2019
It's in that woman's smile
It's in that child's laughter
It's in that man's gentle word
It's in that dog's jolly run
It's in that sound of beggar's accordion
It's in that street singer's voice
It's in that baby's sky blue eyes
It's in the touch of your hand
It's in the honest "thank you"
and in the sincere "please"

- that's where I find hope,
  that's where I find peace

— The End —