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Jacob Hoyle May 2018
With every one of your smiles it was as if I was experiencing the big bang.

Life simply began.

With every message or phone call, the atmosphere would flip to a sensation of complete excitement. Weeks of curiosity for discovery, fear of getting hurt, but most of all a mysterious sense of profound trust that everything will be okay.

The human brain can only withstand such anticipation for so long. You turned me into a madman.

Here you are standing below me as I walk down the stairs, stopping two steps before for that perfect hug of height difference, forever making my day.

That night the devil’s water took advantage in unimaginable forms. Layer by layer torn off as new territory was discovered.

Exploration and fear transformed that night to something unimaginable, something neither of us had experienced before. Never did innocence and impurity mix so well.

The chill spring air blessed my arms with your hoodie. Your walls crashed from the moment our eyes met while mine, at first, remained strong and secure.

Endless days passed by and you of all people have done what has only happened once before, broke my barriers and exposed my deepest thoughts. Text after text only regret was felt, slowly feeling you slip through my fingers. Only chaos ruckesed through my brain as if my thoughts were at war.

I thought we both wanted the same thing… or at first we did. Few days passed by and toxicity influenced calls created blanks in my memory that had me utterly confused to what you said next.

“It’s either you don’t understand or simply don’t want to.” What happened to “I’m yours and only yours”? What happened to “I only want you.”? How does one go from complete inclusion to excommunication.

I told you I was weak for love. My security blanket disintegrated to shards of glass that slowly seeped through my bare skin as a reminder of reality, a reminder that love is a risk.

Minimal communication, one-sided embarrassment, double-sided extensive thinking. We are both terribly wrong yet impeccably perfect for eachother.

Was it so bad for people to find out?

So bad that your thoughts built up walls that I can only believe to be broken down when our mountain snow is under the fiercely intense sun.

Have I been left for trash? Am I just another cigarette-bud by the park? You must have smoked hundreds of me on those swings. To me you were the cigarette flipped upside down, the lucky last one. The one I’d smoke and make a wish. To you, I was just another thing to burn.

Constant jumps between close and distant, my brain’s a mess. I promised to be patient but you promised not to lie. Now I lay here in the dark waiting for that message, waiting for that phone call, waiting for the atmosphere to flip sensations.

I was in search of purity but you were the devil on my shoulder.

Life began with you, maybe it's only right it feels like it’s ending without you.
You know that one person that you can never say no to? No matter how badly they hurt you, you still take them back with open arms? He's the devil.... but he's my devil. I'm beginning to realize the important of actions over words.
zebra Jun 2017
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the sheer immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night

when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes

no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo

as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening  echo
through the sky

without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching

the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song

oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true

i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score

you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle

hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like only you could

tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet

a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows

her tender pink ****
a charred flower
like a
The Terry Tree Aug 2014
Hidden grace, no light for revelation
To pass such limits is to become ******
Like the dragon or a serpent monster
Your myth has become fixed in minds on earth

All the forces that disturb you demand
Darkness is your indetermination
Blazed in trails of blackness you command
Symbols of evil and demonic birth

In the Underworld you plot and saunter
Grotesque in cloven hooves or horns you stand
You are our fear the tormentor at hand
Stealing our only hope for self-love worth

You disturb and weaken every nation
Eliminating those who will prosper

You have a tool box filled with shapes galore
A choir of demons at your disposal
You wear the face of animals to prove
That you exist but will not show your face

Temptation is your favorite proposal
As you create ****** carnage and gore
Attacking innocents world wide; global
It is your goal to blacken and erase

It is unclear when you will make a move
Your starless magic uncontrollable
Your angry heart is inconsolable
In every mouth you leave an awful taste

The only thing that satisfies is war
Beelzebub to slaughter good it behooves

Clipping spiritual wings of all beings
Entering into those at their weakest
Supposition of your essence is sly
What you are has no particular shape

You've made a pact to stand against Jesus
Disintegrating all Saints from seeing
Wicked ways are in all ways the cheapest
To ingress means whole-purity escapes

Human life is interwoven freely
Free will allows the mind to go deepest
When we take the path we take the steepest
Secreted in your invisible cape

To return is without guaranteeing
With mastery disposing us to die

I believe that beneath us is a rug
One that you delight in pulling away
Much like this rug our minds become feeble
And we begin to believe everything

Our moral and metaphysical ways
Begin to end as our shoulders will shrug
Entire atmospheres are grey for days
To open up our mouths yet not to sing

What we decide can often be lethal
A personal domain of hellbent maze
As we lose sight our lives become a daze
Of which no hope or light can often bring

Our deception is your favorite drug
When we feel at our worst you are gleeful

The seeker of hidden knowledge must keep
A balance like the Hermit's inner peace
Otherwise the journey will fall victim
To flowing currents of hateful power

Like a wolf in sheep's clothing you have fleece
To hold on to our light is to succeed
Pull back the reigns of life commanding "Cease!"
Do not fall from your enlightened tower

Satan is a trickster sent to sicken
Our ability to wager disease
To believe that he exists is to please
Negative energy to devour

The best part of me is only asleep
Isolation has become addicted

Prince of Darkness, Antichrist, King of Hell
Appearing to the blind slave of instinct
You have no sovereignty be gone from me
I confront thee I am ready and still

Lucifer, Angel of Darkness extinct
You do not know my spirit guides that well
Distraction is what makes you so succinct
I have no desire to go downhill

Your downward spiral was a slide to see
How you manipulate what others think
Mephistopheles, Archfiend of distinct
Measures to tear others down you conceal

I dispel, I kiss forever farewell
Rest quietly in harmony dreaming

A lullaby for you I have written
On my heart as ancient as Egyptians
The Vedas and Sumerian temples
Will embrace you even in rejection

Your actions are despised in omission
I believe your bitter self was bitten
Release your broken spirit condition
Open your eyes and arms to affection

We can all be as one in one vessel
There are good folks and there is suspicion
Prayer of my song, a hymn of permission
Release thy tortured ways to connection

Evil drifts up, Listen, Listen, Listen
As our bodies fill with light and tremble


Poetic Form | Turco Bref Double
Cné May 2017
Clouds don't lie.  They tell the truth
wherever they may go.
Their shadows give relief
to creatures down below.

They change their forms and colors
the chameleons of the air.
Majestically, they soar above
to play with angels there.

They weep to nourish growing crops
and bring the snow and hail.
A crown of lightning lights their heads
before the coming gale.

Clouds can ride the jet stream
like a wrangler on his steed,
Then float serenely on the breeze
and other cloudlings breed.

They soak up sunset, changing hue,
vermilion, saffron, gold...
Then soar to higher atmospheres
to frolic in the cold.

Free to roam the open sky,
they mock the earth-bound horde
And blithely glide upon the wind,
no passengers aboard.

Oh, how I'd like to take a ride
upon a breaking dawn.
But clouds don't lie, and so deny,
a chance of getting on.

Unpretentious are the clouds.  
They care not for our awe.
They graze upon their crystals
and are quite above the law.

The mysteries the clouds have kept
since Mother Earth began...
Are kept behind the truth they tell,
as part of heaven's plan.
Inspired by Star BG a window view
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
As I watch the sun evaporate today
I'm sure you wished it luck
Awaiting its safe return
This is a strange sensation that I'm facing
Bittersweet memories of when you faded away

You've been gone for quite some time now
Leaving true intentions in open view
You only crossed the ocean upon first snowfall
But this transatlantic separation
Has only brought me closer to you

It reminds me that distance was our specialty
Our love cast out into distant atmospheres
Only vagabonds dared to see
And we examined every inch of stratos between us
Connecting all the constellations we perceived

But you cried out for home far too often
And I tried to climb through space far too soon
It seems my courage was only matched by your convenience
A collection of defenses sent out on hot air balloons
A contradiction floating freely to the moon

So while I hold onto every flickering excuse
As you journey through the unknown
I hope you realize how fitting this trip may seem
For the first time you left your worries at home
A step you always skipped with me
Luna Jul 2014
And you there rubbing the stardust out of your eyes that fell there upon a chance but has given you visions of worlds and skies far above
You are riddled with thoughts of far away worlds that you'll visit only in spirit and never in body
Where violescent atmospheres swirl above the dusty grounds and flicker behind your eyelids
But you'll be content even when others know you as the star-blinded child

         You'll be proud.
The sky is thick with the expelled breaths of broken hearts. The stars are sharp like teeth, cutting through the night so young lovers can inhale other atmospheres.

The sky is thick with the expelled breaths of broken hearts. The stars are sharp like teeth and cut through the night giving young lovers glimpses of other atmospheres.
Samuel Mar 2012
throb through my veins
free between atmospheres
music burrowed in much
too deep to ever
bleed out
Tom McCone Aug 2014
tonight, i stand still,
all but well and slain by your
widening grin, with hair casting
ill-sketched shadows across
your cheek, out in the street, under
these humming lamps. under
this enveloping front.

some moment my head reeled
reveries of pretext for. still,
here i blink,
so unprepared. stuffing my
belongings into a tramping
pack late at night. laid out
on the couch arm. nothing knows,
now, i'd rather see you than
anything. careful footprint
placements. we got time, yeah.
still, honey, i'd trade magnitudes
of it up, for just just just a
handful extra seconds
skirting your gaze.

honey, i'm atypically hopeful;
trembling here. i'm lit up
like you couldn't believe. i'm
on fire and kept warm,
throughout this meanwhile;
undertow miles away. grass
shooting up through the
soil in the back
tattered breath. your olivine eyes.
Emmy May 2014
Trusting steady for flower petals floating on moonlit beams.
Fractured cracks running into sewn seams of honey-colored threads.

Layering sunlight of emotions,
Rip-tide oceans hold your boulder heart open.
Velvety warm blankets shimmering with lavender energy,
Of a silence unspoken.

A roar within of a constant fiery flame.
A warrior armored with stars and an army of willowy trees.

Song buds upon lip, striking a symphonic flowery melody.
Eyes sparkling, you captivate with an alluring smile.

Flowers intertwined within your raven locks.
Summer night of fireflies and dancing bees,
Forgiveness never a weakling of knees.

Soft spoken heart beats.
Sun-fire but shaded with purpling blues.
Steadying hands even though your lips may frown.

Ever present is the sleepy shadow of a sugared temptation,
That only the befallen will know.
A darkness muddled into the after-hours of dawn.
Self-pity wars that your feet danced into nothing, no more.
You let the colors become vibrant yellows, even greens.

A warrior surrounded by atmospheres of light,
Tinged with the milky blue hue of night.
Oceans come and gone but forever in your heart is song.
For Alyssa
Catrina Sparrow Dec 2012
a light breeze stirs the tops of the trees into a tantric dance
in a section of the sky i've only ever dreamt of thriving in.
magic stirs the dust...
and it coats my eyelashes and the undersides of my finger-nails,
and falls from my skin softly-
the way stars descend through atmospheres.
there is sweetness in the air.
moon-beams basket-weave through night-sky hair
and tap-dance their way around my neck,
adorning me in their celestial secrets.
i create and name my own constellations
from the vantage point of a little girl beneath a big sky,
connecting distant points of light with nebulous-lassos flying from my fingertips.
i am golden.
in this moment,
i am beautiful...
if only i could remember.
preserve this feeling right now-
scoop it from the encroaching dusk,
and trap it in a glass bell jar like a firefly,
and feed on its light forever.
if i could remember that i do love myself-
maybe i'll survive...
perhaps even flourish.

rebellious song birds whisper through the night-
accompanying the melody of breaking waves-
a lullaby from the universe that only i will ever know.
i hum along in thoughtful bliss.
this ends the separation-
from myself,
from loving,
right now i feel everything.
and the courage necessary to finally acquire a sense of freedom that can never die.
i am living,
to the very best of the definition...
that's got to be enough for you-
for ALL of you-
because i finally see that it's enough for me...

and for the stars.
Katie Hill Oct 2010
Birds in cages are immortalized in poetry,
in wordy melancholy and round top cages beside
windows tauntingly open to the mountains, the
earthy smell of wheat and the breezy ocean air.
Hundreds of perturbed human eyes press close against brass,
mooning with open mouths and dry lips
cooing baby-talk bird-calls in hope of a
crying return, like a blessing,
or a soft forgiveness.

Lovebirds are doves and songbirds.
They commune with owls and storks
and perch on branches, all the better to coo
and cry to the loving, glowing moon.

Anger, jealousy, and fright are all stones. They are heavy
and they have no place in the bellies of skybirds.
Caged birds have jealousy and clipped wings,
brass bars bent into tiny atmospheres, but canaries
carry bile in their beaks, beady black eyes watching
changing seasons with singing spite.

I am and have always been a swallow,
all creamy white belly and a thousand
creeping kinds of brown.
I wish to stay up, up for a thousand hours
in the realm of thought. In your thoughts,
I wish to be the voice whispering stories to you
from inside your precious head, curved
lovingly above me like an unending sky.
I am wings and feathers and I am full of things
that I desire much much more than air.
David Barr Dec 2013
As autumn leaves fall, they chant a ceremony of resignation. Can you feel the beat?
Savour the acoustic romance and acknowledge that the lion is the king of the jungle.
We simply cannot surf the parameters of sanity without emitting a scent.
Rest assured that the folly of foliage is profound in its wisdom.
Trees are our spiritual forefathers who have borne witness to what is concealed from us.
It truly is a mystery. But understand that no ghost will be at peace until it moves on.
Savour the rich and eternal aroma of seasonal variance.
History has not released her grip from the present and demands recompense.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
given but only two algorithms of time, or trigonometric said in chemistry, vectors: para-, meta-, and ortho-, i'd be bored with merely mind two assertions of a beginning, one with that in this atmosphere, and one with all possible atmospheres... and a third missing? that wouldn't do! i'd need a third algorithm, to fluctuate between the atomic and the fully formed, clearly historical, ideally biased on humanism to the point of being scientifically fictional, or, to put it mildly, a Welshman in the Jurassic Period; forgetful about Freud's necessity of having allocated dreams a complexity of language necessarily worth deciphering: i want to know why the Welsh invested their lack of unconscious-imagination's (dreams) worth of the couch to digest dragons, as a much dated predisposition to unearth dinosaur skeletons, and feel absolutely no revealing remnant of collecting a people to the assimilated tongue, yet upon discovery disperse them, and abhor the nativity of the said tongue as futile when given the agility of a colonising tongue.*

what the difference between only my entombed heart
knows the difference to, write a poem as personal as this
one enables me to write one in the φarmacy (φ + θ = F...
nein veto) - politicians have lost the art of ρetoric - they simply
lost it... it's a sunken ship they try to revive while mending the sails...
we keep the Indian Summers and my hope that the
(a double definite, paradoxically accurate
given this) turnip fade-away
red becomes godly ivory when her cinnamon
choc auburn pleases her heart,
just then it might please, and i might
redeem myself, away from the Irish pub
and the aunts knitting a wedlock of
salient harmony for the churchyard
where the Sunday's best made the most
impression with the forthcoming grave
of a Kubrick marriage: redeemed with wearing
masks, later a damnation, of worn
lied attention, performed for a social status excuse:
x ambassadors: mainly Jews...
rage against the machine: mainly Black
converts to Islam...
where's the energy, with a skateboard of:
white cool everyone's happy,
or with: i'm angry... i'm angry...
                              martin Luther King was a renegade
without a hippy skateboard....
                       so it sold a million of toothbrushes
and a million fluoride attaches of rot...
cos the buck was necessary for the pristine example
of the founding father: Abram Lincoln -
got the appropriate shave, never got the congress
to suggest the kiss was a (fl)oral excuse for oral ***
upon the f.g.m. Eden minded when Egyptian
contra was suggested - yes, also called fluoride -
or Fl... then oral...  so the Frappuccino
and later the khaki chinos,
or ambrosia Mussolini and the 5 p.m. tea
catch phrase, so it just felt like dodging a meteorite
so the people could yawn when watching a movie
about Dinosaurs... or like i said:
just before earth was inhabitable, Mars was wheezing...
just before Earth gave us the sterile environment of
having landlords we had the masters of Mars...
they lived there, when Earth was inhabitable we had
Martians... compared to Earth Mars became the second moon...
but prior to the hospitable nature of earth
acquiring us, Mars was just as habitable...
this is the point where we acknowledge common sense
of the Chinese and the Welsh prescribing us Dinosaurs with
Dragons when digging up fossils and carbon dating....
this is where N.A.S.A. says... **** me... we just invested in *******...
between Darwinism and the microbe and a lot of blanks...
and the big bang... the best intermediate solution we
have is to say: before earth became habitable Mars was the first
project of divinity's expressing competence with failure
and revision.... when Mars was habitable
the sun was much smaller and much warmer...
this is the third route to seek origins,
you have route 1: from monkey came the rational man,
or the **** quasi sapiens... later the
**** deus pseudo sapiens...
2. the big bang and on the basis of nouns:
a real ****** way to say genesis...
or... 3. prior to earth Mars was the prime concern
of divine ingenuity...
through the times Mars became less volcanic and more Saharan,
just like earth at the beginning...
i mean Mars was the first earth... hence we inherited the
warring archetype...
or like philosophers: standing outside all of time and space
and a toilet blockage of imagination...
we're waiting for the third version... Venus turning
into earth... forget the monkey and man...
i itemise the sphere of the sun third time lucky...
as faked war we inherited, so too the fake love of those
to inherit our blunder... and thus the combination
of what's to be said in the first place, or anything at all...
Venusian love of the purified mammalian leveraging
simpleton onomatopoeia knock-knock... who's there?
woof! this is the alternative third route...
the one establishes us in the dynamical face of monkey
gene disparity economic, i.e. so similar... yet so different...
the other the big bang.. and then the third...
before earth became habitable, Mars was the suggested
preference... well, with the two obscene time-scales
this third alternative is in no way equally obscene.

Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel—
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As ’twere a travelling Mill—

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose—
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted—
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres—
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, ’twere we—
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity—

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye—
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!
Abbigail May 2014
I’ve never learned the way to be content
with scummy hard wood floors in studio apartments
and falling asleep to police sirens and the rush of cars over city bridges
and drug dealers outside my window whose business is only recognizable by night.

Boxes stay kept in the closet where I can’t be bothered by their stares
that beg me to loosen the layers of packing tape wrapped in every direction;
I can’t remember if I’m going to like what’s inside of them and I really,
really don’t want to not like it.

What makes a hundred stranger’s old homes become a home of yours?
Imagination is turning white walls that hold thousands of secrets
between each new layer of paint
into something that whispers familiar things to you before the lights go out.

There’s not enough bleach underneath the sink to wash away the stains of everyone who’s been here first,
no matter how much I scrub,
no matter how many bruises I’ll be willing to find on my knees tomorrow.
Ledges gathered dust of skin particles I hadn't been here to shed
And the bathtub is left with soap remnants rinsed from someone else's body.

My bed fits perfectly over the faded circle of wood in the corner,
and I’m sure theirs did too.
Tonight I’ll sleep to all things made here
and all things lost.

I’ll set my life up on the floor beneath two more
I'll memorize the routine of footstep patterns above me.

I never expected that a fresh start would feel so much more
like a lot of tangled endings.
Yogita Tahilram Jul 2017
I have fallen in love with
the mid-June evening skies, and
It's volatile shades of grey
Like a temperamental canvas of inky blacks
And blotted blues, lines of translucent paint drizzle down
From the canopy of clouds, marred and bruised.

Lovers separated by atmospheres and seasons,
A torrent of raindrops ravishes
It's earthen companion,
caressing the jagged scars across it's parched skin.
I have fallen in love with
The heady scent that permeates the humid air;
The love-child of storm and soil
Infused by the sweet, rich aromas
Of a 6pm cup of chai.

I have fallen in love with
The rivulets of rainwater that
Trail silver maps across the ridges and contours of bottle green fronds;
And the dewy droplets that adorn the Gulmohars and Cassias that are strewn beside my bare feet;
Like a bejewelled carpet of scarlet and gold.

We are words
Ricocheting off one another,
Relief, catharsis and a safe space after a long day.
We are the comfortable silences, the content sighs,
And the barefaced truth
Between mother and daughter.
I have fallen in love with
The tapestry of words that we weave.


I have fallen in love with
Coming home.
Ben Brinkburn Feb 2013
Stained asphalt
flickering sodium lights
pavement art
ambulance chasing
motorway drone
crushed cans and ripped pizza boxes
kebab debris
scared cats
gum scarred concrete
burnt out ******* bins congealed plastic
overflowing bottle banks
used condoms hung on a line
fox ****
streetscene collapse
bottles arranged along a wall one two three
one lone shoe
in the road
sealed up letter boxes one with a message
written in black felt pen on brown parcel tape
‘If you are bothering to read this
you a *******’
kicked in door
steel shuttered shops
burnt out wheelie bin one lump of plastic
very impressive
smoking employees behind the Co-op
one knows Barb thumbs up
I return the thumb
a woman shouting at a priest: ‘But all he wants to be is
a woman’
torn pages from a ***** mag ****** up arses
***** in mouths
piles of brochures newspapers flyers dumped in a doorway
a few quid scammed can’t get the delivery help
these days
someone parking a Audi nice and shiny
looks up and down the street
kids slumped smoking skunk outside the library
a derelict sat on a wall grinning *** in mouth
tells me I have a happy face and offers his bottle to me
I take it and have a slug
dog crapping in middle of wide clean pavement
someone walking past muttering
‘never in Peru’
I stand opposite my flat and think of bombs
and a cacophony of alternative universes
and small candles shaped like eggs
a bald headed postman drives up to the letter box
techno blasting from his little red van
Molly Upstairs shouts something unintelligible
before throwing a small package down
the postie watches it descend from the sky
and catches it
without a smile
these are the days of unwholesome atmospheres
but it’s all I have so I don’t mind
it’s better than being kept in a box
with the lid
sealed tight.
Cody Edwards May 2010
Up from the deep
Water breaks in diagonal sheets.

The skies careen off and away
Red arrays.

Universe of musculature
A foot in a sandy detour.

Indirect to purpose
Skin and flow.

Dries on the gilded bank
Wild hair set flat.

A thousand atmospheres taken
Into a single ozone breath.

After a time, stoops
By the multiform to look.

Stones heavy-
Light enough to carry.

To the mouth wide
And bitten dry.

The water wears everything
So the teeth can split.

A fortnight of spite
And the treacherous bite.
He returns to the sea
With a headful of light.
© Cody Edwards 2010
pat pakla Jun 2012
I was deep in the land of shadows
Halfway between the living and dead
In the awful silence of void
The atmospheres soft
And it’s people plastic
Mephistophelean and astute
When a band of ruffians stormed
The inferno beneath
With volcanic tremor
Sweeping down like a tidal wave
Of so terrific Tsunamic magnitude
Spurning all restraint
Slowed down my pace
By reciprocal math of wizardly
Substituting the direct proportion for inverse
I dragged and they almost flew
Corpsic  form and tattered cloth
Is all I see and
Gaping mouth oozing blood
Grotesque creatures tinting hell
After me and almost done
I should out loud voiceless
I reach for the nothingness
And there’s no thing
I stretch still to scale it down
Wishing I had wings
And take flight
Or superhuman like Superman
Hopping I possessed metaphysical force
Like the Matrix upgrade version
To disembody and dematerialize
And so vanish into stillness
To hang in space out of sight
By the trickery of magic
To cast spell like lady of the Voodoo
And freeze plant herbage and the human
Instantly and give a diabolic glean
Make a catwalk of villain trump
To the disgust of victim
And ultimate flown of the gods
That hardly smile anyway
But I am human and my powers feeble
My infinity lies bound within
Time and daylight
The parameters of finite
In a rat race so unfair
Distances too close and defeat too plain
I die out and awoke within
To brace another day with headache
Devil, I escaped Gehenna
That gives me surety I will outpace you
For what I saw when I slept
Hail Tartarus I am Morpheus
david jm Jul 2014
Dream is but a life,
Severed from congruence and chronology.
Did I imagine my memory?
The adolescent blizzard,
The tar pits of first love,
The prepubescent honeycomb,
The shedding of innocent skin,
The infant cobweb spun by genetics.
Death at the leg of my mate,
Birth among a thousand siblings.

Climbing to the ground
From the sky where i was buried,
Resting in rapid eye ether,
Transparent atmospheres solidify
With ruby whips of gravity.
My reflection in your fingernails,
My face askew in distortion,
Your hand's a house of mirrors,
Peeling at my silhouette.
I'm drinking fire,
As we cremate the sea.

Nirvana becomes panoramic,
The air ripples.
The topaz pillar i held becomes my body pillow,
And I wipe the sleep from my eye.

The dream unstitched,
We sew reality back up,
But the thread gets thin
At night.
lorilynn Nov 2010
roaring fiery flames
fill the empty void
inviting colors of ambers and golds ablaze
the room animates  
different atmospheres of coziness
sitting back in retrospection  
flickering fire entertains
with each crackling octave
creating peacefulness and calm.
whilst the flames aglow
playing Chopin
sipping cognac
burning scented candle of pine and rosemary
watching the felines and canine
congregating together harmoniously
mesmerized by flames
coruscating shadows on the walls
flames succumb catatonically   
embers retire for the night.~~lorilynn

copyright*lorilynn 2010
Valora Brave Nov 2014
We stole slate rocks from the mountain
and threw them into the sea
all along hoping, they'd become soft and smooth
or something else they were not meant to be

We whispered to the clusters of sand
that had grown to the rocks
and thought they'd hold the secrets
we could not understand

I stacked these rocks
and displayed them casually - like clocks
and I kept stealing slate rocks
but I was too far from the sea
and I knew it was still calling to me
but the mountains seem to absorb the yelling
and somehow seemed to be telling
but never felt a need to speak
or maybe at the time my ears were too weak

So I wanted to be strong.
Strong like the mountain
and impatiently I'd wait
because I thought I knew my own fate

Oh, how much I learned just watching how
the sun controls the mountain tides
as the moon will take care of the ocean's seasons
and how everything seems to wind
down to our own specific reasons
that we rest some place far from fear
some pace outside our little atmospheres
Someone’s white golf ball
lies, abandoned
between moist grass and
desolate wanderers through
municipal courses
during Evening on
Father’s Day. Holding my pin, my quill
Frantically stitching point de capitons
between myself and the calm, fair way
I walk with conviction
alone, among firing-
flies toward all fathers
tonight, as swathing sprinklers gush, displacing
***** in-utero, past fences protecting
femme fatales whose unknown aspects
hang off tree rows
protruding from shoulders
sand-like limbs, flexed, stringy biceps
connect to its plastic dimples
through sturdy, wooden
fingers burrowed under grass and
swaying, pink clouds within
my eyes. Beyond hole
nines, red markers markers and ladies’
tee boxes
unacknowledged from
the green.

Rippling blades cede to setting-
star’s sacrimony in
vacant son-rooms, the
porches left of center, gurgling
traffically enveloped by laughter,

For this sight I cut my hair
inside my cozy, beige apartment
complex with a blue shower
curtain-wearing green, graphic
printed by gray palm trees
swoops a hunting eagle, into the ebbing
stencil-tide of late day
orchestrated by man, this occurrence is
vagueary and seductive machinery
programmed by man
producing all, we are.

Waving tufts and leaves fall from
oaks wafting time past my nose with
rhythms out ciccadas, harmonies out
couples pulsating the sky,
ease pressure on vestigial nerves under
their atmospheres, droning vibrations, hollowed-
out and upholding
like arms do, Earth’s giant didgeridoo
We hum beside propulsive kangaroo
we’re becoming
taut on
empty bones holding-
birds with wings thrown desperately
toward others, panic
aloft in velvety
blue oxygen.

Picturing our streets’ concrete
burst asunder by
metesticized pipes watering formulaic
unearthing rock
and shrub
I passed the mangled corpses of adults
their kind, sighing.

I know it is as lifeless as his faint,
decomposing golf ball my dad
may have allowed me to
see. Our drowning star swoops
into the ocean
as eagles stamped on chests do,
unknown to time,
and loving shadows
untouched by yellow,
translucent lamp-
glare avoids the fallow structures
built with cement
inside the boudoir
of this day.
My recitation here:;

An explanation of the name:
My father and I have in common, among other things, a middle name.
Sleeves of golf ***** have three and they are numbered 1-2-3.
I don't know where the other two went, but the ball I found on my walk that night
was titled "1," and I am not the first child but rather between two sisters.
Every year, my older sister bought my dad pistachios or something and I would often buy him golf ***** while my younger sister usually bought him candy for this special occasion.
We all love my father deeply and he has been very supportive, but I sometimes ignore
the fact that we did not start from nowhere and there must be some solid foundation into
which fertilizer is diseminated.

There are sacred things and people to be respected. I love my parents and could not be alive
without them. So this is really a tribute to both of them.

Please bear with me as I indulge this incredibly personal sentiment for myself.
LJ Chaplin Jan 2016
If I ever owned a star
I wouldn't name it after you,
I'd name it after every soul
And all the lives that they lived through,
Watch the world turning and see all the sights,
Just like the satellites.

Punch holes through atmospheres,
Like when the air breaks from feathered wings,
We'd all explore the milky way
And tiptoe across Saturn's rings,
Run with the comets faster than the speed of sound
To places NASA never found.

We wander far away
Where gravity can't pull us down,
Further than Pluto's gaze,
Where toes will never touch the ground,
Creating a big bang that ignites a spark,
Burns out the fear and casts out the dark.
© L.J. Chaplin
sweet ridicule Apr 2015
take me to PuNe  baby
or I'll take you
in the back of my self-induced
naked hallucinations
as words *****
themselves from my gut
too impertinent to do
solely high off of your jargon
you don't know how
I am
sugar and spice and everything nice
covered in salt
dripping tar black salt
just like you
all humans hedonistic
but this is my joie de vivre
pUnE baby
race me to the finish line
pisces and scorpio
bleeding atmospheres
between them
maybe my skin is
too salty black tar
for sweet tongues
but you forget
I am relentless
and will not allow
a consignation to oblivion
I'll be in PuNe
once again we go around
Louise Ruen May 2017
There will be astronauts who will take your space.
Wanting no more space between you
Enveloping you in a sheet of stars and warm spheres
With the promise of your love living forever like stars
because you’re the only thing prettier than the milkyway
His love for you is bigger than all the galaxies combined
He’ll say
To heat up that heart of yours, till it collides with his like shooting stars
Two universes become one

But stars don’t live forever
In love as deep as space you can’t avoid black holes
That will consume all your love, all your strength, happiness until there is no more
Or him
Or love
Just to spit you out into lower atmospheres
And hey, Andromeda is kind of pretty too
You are no longer good enough to go to space
Mainly because they made you so

Earth feels like hell once you’ve been to heaven,
Trust me I know
I have been deprived of my fuel too
....just realized this poem is about falling in love with a *******. Oh, well.
I kneel to genuflect
which I suspect
is a waste of time

I take the time anyway
to kneel and pray


It's no use closing a door

I genuflect some more
and then I'm done.

If a God exists other than on Olympus
willing to protect us
able to contact us
I'd like to meet him or her or it and sit and chat a bit about things.

Thoughts random;

If a bird sings in the Amazon
does a glass menagerie shatter in Willesden?

Someone held me close through the endless day, the weeping night
it might have been God.

In time I'll know, but there's a nagging in my heart, a suggestion that the knowing's just the start of it
I think I'd like to sit a bit and chat with God a bit
about things.
Jackson Freeman May 2013
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.

                   It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Ayaba Babe Oct 2013
I'd die seven times if it took that many lives to be reincarnated with a destiny parallel to you.
Could get the best of me
Is it true that it could be, possibly-
That the entirety of the universe is versed to the melody of our hues and energies;
The strength and vitality needed for sustained activity,
A persons physical and mental powers,
Like electricity surging through cosmic showers...
Do you wish upon a star when you see one fly?
Have you ever flown high enough to gaze down at the sky?
The haze of the atmospheres often glares the heavens, but I'm prepared to take you there
I swear
We could frenzy through the air like acrobats
See, I've got wings on my back
Hold on.
I recognize the ring to this song
We've danced through the streams of my dreams
Amongst the pyramids at the first beam of the morning sun
The pyramids gleam
It seems the existence of life has begun
A King and a Queen and a universe to conquer and run.
The ice sifting in my glass
melts as the full moon sets
Another vice, constricting,
like a tightly wound corset
I can't be around so many people
in such familiar atmospheres
without a mixed drink and a cigarette
intervening through my beers

On her phone, at the table
She seems alone but not ashamed
I wonder if a single person here
could even guess her name
For a little liquid courage
I finish up my drink
I transfer to a closer chair
and ask on what she thinks

"I've got a past consumed by lovers
and a future filled with death
But the only thing I've ever wanted
was someone else inside my head
I want to hear somebody understand
that I don't always feel so fine"
I think I start to fall in love
as she pirouettes her glass of wine

She tells me how she grew up
on shattered hopes and dreams
Yet everything she's ever needed
has been well within her reach
The scars that she has
they paint a vivid history
A reminder of the past
A tour guide, makeshift, just for me

We talk a little longer
We joke and we sing
Halfway through her bottle
her ride informs us she's leaving
She says "I think I'm gunna miss you
when I'm alone laying in bed
Unless you want to take me there
and tuck me in instead"

We head out to the main street
where I hail us a taxi
She says she wants to split my headphones
and hear something relaxing
So we listen to Alcoa
Cab Rides & Cigarettes
I never knew that such a sad song
Could evoke such an affect

I dropped
her off
and left

But I'm glad
that we
had met
Martin Rombach Jan 2013
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells

I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself

I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow

I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances

Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of *******
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
Vivian Feb 2014
I am Atlantis, and you, the sea.
I am glorious and ethereal; you are tangible and serene.
you are rhythmic yet unpredictable, flowing into every crevice and crevasse of Me you can.
I am not nearly as impressive without you, the force of You bearing down and on me in every way, thirteen atmospheres of pressure holding me in this ideal shape.
one of these days, you're going to crush me.
one of these days, I'm going to let you.
So here I am,
Sitting on a Everhard Rock
Minding my own Personal Business
Riveting my Eyes to the vast, distant Grassland
And withered Trees shaking for liveliness.

The Wind, flowing free and gay
Rustling Leaves in every same way
Tornadoes of small sizes spin them round-and-round
Till every last Sheet of them is never found.

As my Sight continues to scan every Natural Being
The Sunlight's spectrum heats my forehead's gleaming.

Summer if you may say,
But I do not:
Breezy Atmospheres, Falling Leaves
Make it all Impossible
And Animals in terms of Dying Grounds
Begin to rot.

In all Sudden Time
I felt quite bored
Maybe if I raised my God-Given Hands
I could sing to your Praise, O Lord.

Then I stood,
Breathing in that precious Air
Filling my tender Lungs with Fresh Feelings
And my Brain with Shattered Flares.

Trot, walk, trot, walk,
There was a Time that I didn't stalk
My Progressive Mind began to accumulate Stoney Thoughts
Something...That involves my Nature
Without getting caught.

My Back felt that forceful Breeze
Thinking of me as one oppressed Stone
And pushed me towards the Lowlands
With its Frosty Whirls that made me freeze.

Herds of Cows mooing
And Cockrels ****
A Menagerie of Sounds
That I never tried to mock.

For in those Sounds
Symbolise Nature's way to auduce
Those Tenacious Vibes wiggle my Eardrums
Making my Restless Heart feel Joy.

My Humiliated Uncle
Always seeks Help
A Thank You is what I get
Whenst helping a Whelp.

Father, my Noble Roots
Dig-up for Space
For our Everyday Food
As we carry them as Loot.

Mother, my Beloved
Cooks for our Family's Meal
And calls us Everyday in Time
Reminding us that Supper...Is perfect Mead.

Cousins, Brothers, Sisters and Babes
Become my Best Companions
Never leave me alone in Misty Loneliness
So they asked me to Play; so I joined
And accept their Loving Tenderness.

These are all my Boons
Of the Mother's Greatest Gift;
Nature: For she is a Mother too
And Family - thank God - do I have one
Which I promised to bond with them like Flexi-Glue.

In this Still Day my Heart sings
The Beauties of our Lord's Greatest Creation
Including Me
In One, Holy Ring.

This Supple Mystery
I haven't known
Since the Final Preface of It
Hasn't shown.

I am content with what God has given Me
In all His Merciful, Holy Time
He made me what I am to be.

I Myself, in very frank Thoughts
I realised are Part to what God has given me
The Difference from Others is that I'm Immortal
Which makes me rich in Everlastiness.

Spitefully speaking
All Things, in Everyone's name must die
There is a Great Beginning and a Despairful End
One which a Soul cannot escape and lie.

We People, even I
Cannot be delivered from Death.
Our Bodies will soon find itself in Decaying Matter,
Leaving our Precocious, Material Wealth.

But Hope,
Will always last long.
Bodies may die in vain,
But our Souls will always be FREE.
Sadness may exist in Triumph
But Joy will still come in Glee.

Nature too, can be called to the Reaper's Scythe
Grass proudly swivering in the Wind cut-down,
Heaven and Earth can be called to Time
But God's loving Hope and Peace can never be called to Death.
Robyn Neymour Jul 2015
I know your name,
But do you know mine.
Everlasting features,
You will have,
Theres beauty in your sings.
You glisten in the dawn of lights.
Catastrophic Atmospheres,
Can only determine real beauty if you unwind.
I watch you from a distance,
At least when I ever I get a chance.
You know my name though,
You just don't know,
My heart for you is on demand.
So do you really know my name.
Secrets tell lies,
By the time it reaches it first recipient,
It already said its first cry.
Nothing underneath or between it,
No blank slates,
But no hieroglyphic signs,
To show you my heart.
My heart races against time,
To take a look upon your face,
Your beauty is only shown,
In the deepest part of memories grace.
I could only see you in my dreams I spew,
Counting down the moment,
When I wake only not to see you.
Do you know my name?
Words bolt out but no ears hear,
Bending vowels of drained attention.

She smiles in racing blossom intervals,
the atmospheres of bending bludgeons.

But still I am in love with her, fool me.
He who talks without lips moving.

See the juvenile mouth extrapolating
to judgements faulting into aching.

I wonder, well sometimes I do think,
what fashionable jungle I'm to be?

After all, she finds life too busy
to wonder long about such as me.

Immobile with soundless ambition,
the rocks grow but not in splendour.

So this is how it must convert to action,
that she succeeds where I blunder.

Oh well, so that is how it will coexist,
with words drained and solitary existing.

"Be robust" I murmur to myself, with
heart closed and cognizance brooding.

"Goodbye, my former fellow traveller!".
I am off to request novel occupations.

You your way, and I, unhappily waving.
Exhalations the only sound which cheapens.
r May 2018
We, lost Africans
left the savanna
to follow the stars
leaving the ground
to stride with arms
down by our sides
to inherit the earth
and dirt of other lands
following the caravan
of sacred elephants
taking off our black
helmets to discover
other atmospheres
learning to breathe
here as well as there
drinking and singing
like blood thirsty
tigers the dangerous
songs of maps drawn
and long forgotten.
David Barr Mar 2015
The figment of a naïve imagination is likened to a complex system of underground roots.
How elaborate are your projected destinations?
The pathway is not dissimilar to that of one where angels fear to tread.
I have borne witness to flourishing palm trees as they float on their desert islands across planetary divides where the blue whale ***** her powerful wings across the atmospheres of dreamy lunar memories, galloping towards the origins of infinity.
I am grateful that the ancient spectre resides within the deep seated split of our sophisticated inertia.
Can I now pollinate your petals, where witches cast their spells beyond the castle walls and where the mare wanders in the depths of the forest?

— The End —