"aniseed" poems
I'm innocent
everything goes opposite
LiFe has no abashment
Problems are objects
Life is aberrant
shoots hard bullets
I'm innocent
Life is full of coincidences
Hope people understand
Life ? People abases
Its a painful wound
No more absolves
I'm innocent
I'm tired of myself
Sick of being the same
I feel like a werewolf
Me , I did defame
Myself is just a calf
I'm innocent
This what life wants
No more tolerate
Live in aborts
Small sins accumulate
Chokes me with ascots
I'm innocent
I don't want this
Live in aversion
It's only my bris
Love must accretion
Or live like the ******* nazis
I'm innocent
I NEED her back
Important in my life circle
keeps me on the track
Every word is a canticle
Wrack hack her lack clack
I'm innocent
She's the one i NEED
My life is She
Sweet, tasty like the aniseed
The most important strophe
Makes it shinny and adorned
I'm innocent
I don't want drugs
I hate to scab
Its not brags
It hurts like a stab
Drugs is crags
Edit by: Melanie on this fourteenth day of September, twenty thirteen
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
She stares into a pool reflecting midnight stars
A scrying glass of mystic mystery
A portal to dimensions where the brave may pass
Without a password or a golden key.
The shimmer of green oceans in the mind's third eye
Reflects a myriad of distant lands
A chalice raised; a sip that brings the lips to sigh
Wingbeating spirit hears and understands.
The trees are hung with lanterns giving amber light
The sky's festooned with stars in veils of cloud
Reflecting in her eyes. In decadent delight
She takes another sip and sighs aloud.
The light green potion lingers lightly on her tonge
Unfolding tastes of mint and aniseed
Promising deeper pleasure while the night is young
Where evening moths and fairies stop to feed.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
soft asphalt hills
breathe your way
in burgundy sleeves
frayed rusted shoefoil
of cobbled years
scatter your papers
march aniseed dreams
indent the sandstone wall
with your ha'penny smile
you, too, were a child of bones
upon the sea of bleached clay
ground saul and peter
breath of crimson lines
learning to crawl
through leather-bound walls
but getting caught
coiled on the grief
of noontide pebbles
the misery of whim
quiet dignity of nothing
gentle pride of the abyss
find cheap relief
in twelve chamber meals
lard and mushy peas in
tiled up garden rows
worn down by
the soft focus sun
passing by
call for your step daughter
sit her down
comb her hair
peel her clothes
like mandarin folds
a tar voyeurism
bored of lust
but locked in cruelty
out of old habit
admit it,
don't you want to
burn the beds
just to see whose sleeping?
to find your face,
among the retreating blisters?
a shallow water charlatan
slice off your wings
feed them to your pets,
laugh as they choke
on feathers and blood
just like
the gulls outside,
always humming the same **** tune
for generation after generation,
yet still
they go out to sea to die
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
sticky kisses for the missus just
to prove that i'm no wuss
and if it tastes good enough for you
it's good enough for me too.
don't you miss the blissful ignorance
chinese whispers and rumours
written on the tarmac in chalk
for the wind to pick up
and carry on to other schoolyards
eat lots of pineapple, it'll make you taste good.
did she eat ten a penny aniseed sweets for me?
she seeps liquid liquorice
that binds my teeth in a bittersweet grimace
stretching from ear to ear. she hates the taste
and i hate to share my just desserts.
innocence is a burden that burns
like empty lungs, and no breathing in
again until i get what i want,
bad enough to make the children
want to **** themselves. when they want
sticky kisses before bedtime.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 3:23 AM UTC
Gritty paths,
escorting
whispering creeks;
stirred orchards,
laying a blossom
in aniseed breath;
a house in ruins.
Home.
Hardly.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Staring in the mirror.
What's staring back at me.
A naked flower with falling petals.
Bare and exposed.
Clothed in streaks of green leaves.
Vine I believe.
Dolmades' with uncooked lamb.
More likely mutton alternatively.
Served up with ouzo.
Staggering about in aniseed dreams.
Feed your eyes.
On what you cannot see.
Fired from elastic catapult flying free.
Cupids arrow missed.
Guess he's always pi**ed.
At the bottom of his list.
In a filing cabinet somewhere.
Let the world forget.
No regrets.
(c)Livvi MMXV
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Sometimes all we have
are dreams like aniseed
a strange moment
we can't quite identify.
Or enjoy.
I breathe in stale air
sleep on sheets
rucked up beneath me
wake to lines imprinted
on slack skin.
I twist into them
sweet and bitter dreams
that go together
better than I sleep.
These are long nights.
Another bedtime,
slipping into darkness
or slipping away
who's to know the difference
in the light of day.
r.l.w
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
We laugh and quite hysterically
as they ****** me and by me
we
mean you.
Chrystallised calamity trapped in
amber permanently,
an eternity of diffused light.
And it's the cutting edge that cuts us clean,
the torso of the queen told well the story
wherein the demons dwell.
The modern mobsters.
They're selling people on the market stalls
with popcorn mix and aniseed *****
and dontya know
people sell very well as ornaments
to decorate the boardrooms of
bored business men.
Swift was wrong,
we're the midgets and the giants were with us all along
it's just we couldn't see them with our eyes
lashed to the treadmill.
By any stretch a longer stretch of my imagination
would get me two to ten
in the pen'
upstate,
but they clap me in irons and
throw away the key
and that screws me
for everything.
There's nothing quite like a memorial
to remind you we should all be thankful
for something.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
Ringing red lips, resounding around the room.
Aniseed accent, lingering for me to lick off long after.
Trembling taste.
And you smell blindingly bright.
While your pheromones take lightest flight on softest feathers.
And in a million more ways than I can convey.
You impress yourself upon me.
But I can’t say.
Because the words are wrong.
Not at all applicable.
No one knows what it means for eyes to chime.
Or how a song can spin.
I worry when the iceberg looks down and sees only the surface of the sea.
What it must think.
Wondering why it doesn’t sink.
And all I want to tell you is
You’re more.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC