"backwash" poems
#
*paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession
color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation
with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath
plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious lust.
craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow
delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole
and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose*
#
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
I.
AM.
A.
Piece of ****
Here's how i roll.
I plop the excrement, directly in the pool.
I **** on chairs,
This is where i place stool.
Plip plob drop loads,
Crenated blood cells and lymphatic drool.
Hurt my kidneys in a fight with truth the other night.
7 brutal, flooring uppercuts to the Latisimus dorsi....
I am > "this girl"
That one that's taken more hits in the face than Tyson.
The one that makes Jenna and Sunni Leone look like pre-school dropouts of ****
Guys say.
"She"
"got the,"
"best head."
She has nothing in it though.
Her brain's finished by the time words leave her lips whole.
thats as far as it gets
the words pass her **** then she falls, grab her hips.
Prepare the sword for the stone.
The one with the baby whole in her dome.
She's not good, much else.
Her black hair and wisdom lines go bout as deep as her shirt.
Depending on the day.
Pervert.
Lets do ANOTHER line.
"Oh My GOD!" "We did so much *******
Coke in cans.
Filled with whiskey flask-hand.
"This night's gunna be one to remember",
if his member is inside, that's my gender,
Blend it with all the worst intentions,
Use the worst intentions.
Stab the heart of conviction.
Tear it to tethers with tension.
Rip the strings of friendship.
Tease the knots of frayed linen,
Like its the only thing ya got.
"I am so high right now."
I forgot what earth looks like.
Probably like my town.
Only place I've been.
I'm 17 ya see.
Its the only thing you got.
You don't deserve roses, flowers, Laurels.
No trees.
No dime bags, no speed, no crying hag.
I can sure **** 25 yearolds.
Saying your better never sounded more like a lie.
Worst thing is you have that prevarication internalized.
I have a god complex...
Wanna save em all...
Can't save a ******* one...
I did lie once...
It was...
When I told you that you weren't...
A piece of ****
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
They were dry tinder
Cautious of the passion on the cusp of friction
Back-stepping each possible spark
And ignition
To burn feverishly.
Their retreats only added kindle to their bodies' desire
Crying out for flaming tongues to lick
And flicker
And erupt in
A blazing inferno of utter combustion.
It was not the uncontrollable white heat they feared
But the fear of eventually running out of fuel
The backwash when nothing but
Char and ash remain
And the last embers snuffed out.
The yearning like smoke
Forever lost on the bellows of time
It was not the burning they dreaded
But being burnt.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Call me by another name.
Call me waspish,
or boyish,
or fountain-mouthed.
Prate about the crooked,
curved curls of my red-ribbon tongue.
Whisper myths down spidered-ice hallways
about the melted wax love games
fixed between dust-dressed candlesticks,
and the unfaithful rumors
of wine-stained table cloths.
Call me by another name.
Call me button-eyed,
and hollow,
and brittle-garden crucified;
Bind my face with burlap
and replace my spine with
a wood-splintering post;
dry my veins gold
so that my flannel fetters in
the tornado-dry breath
of fraying hay.
I'll fight off autumn winds and
the gossip of crows.
Don't fuse my footsteps to the echos
of Lightning Bearers and Stilt-legged Shadows;
Fasten my shoelaces to the
anchor dreams of drowning cannonballs
where I will only spell stories
with the sharp skin of coral reefs.
Call me by another name.
Call me typewriter-toothed,
or backwash,
or eight-legged.
Just prescribe me a name
that I can live up to.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
Moons ago I smoked till the filter,
Drank Johnny’s backwash
And slept hungry.
How can you know an empty stomach,
Without dancing in Tampa for a buck fifty?
What’s for breakfast?
“cowboy killers.”
lunch I asked,
“Kentucky deluxe.”
Dinner?
“A bent Porto Rican kitten.”
But people are seasons
And springtime had come.
Now it’s easy, but still stiff.
In the end of the day.
ehh.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
This morning a tough cookie showed up
I bit down
Treating it like all the others
It was harder than what vision enticed me to believe
Unchewable
I examined the edges
None
No angles, no cracks, no oozing treacle
No dreamy aftertaste
Just outer candy
Just yesterday's choices, hitting me today
Reality
And a pool of more of the same to tread water in
Forever
I want meaning
I want the dream
Before the too tired to care years
Blanket me in wrinkles
Someone: Meaning is sweat
The guru: Meaning is endurance
Me: Meaning is unavoidable
If you caress the pain
That comes along with it
Sweat uncovers joy
And joy brings meaning
The boy is not meaning
He is a figment past
He is real. But he is past
Keep him there
The girl is real.
She could be meaning
But she is a figment future
Leave her there
Like dancing dandelions on a late summer breeze
Aching to get home
Forgetting they left the attachment to ground
Years ago
The candy coated in a message
The message: Stay right where you are
What is...is more than I already have
My life...is the meaning
Treasure found
It was never lost (what was I thinking)
Yes... I've wasted my passion on a lost Buddha
Many times
Yes...I still backwash my pool on a sunny day craving more
But its meaning
Its NOW
And a call to rise above
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
You're risking naught, an annihilation of worth
Wasting and encouraging moments to rot. Decay.
Values friendship
Twisted morals dipped in deceit.
Not satisfied with boundaries
Chasing infected affection
swirling in the smooth crevasses of backwash around emptied wine bottles
Impressionable, emitting the most tenacious
of the F word
Fake
Fake and Selfish
It isn't narcissism when you drown yourself
in the pits
No permission, no inhibition
As lazy as the Greeks
who never made a move to climb the mountaintop
and defy their Gods face to face
Dependent and ******* support from Clans
because you're terrified of this world
At least I"m honest with my decanter of
harming thoughts.
obsessed and overbearing, flesh crawling
use my being as subject matter and
mold it into paperdoll play toys
like gold eye-liner
its a party trick
seek solice when grimacing down a bottle of brew
bumpers in the bowling alley
a Life Alert sort of living
You claim to haven no fear
but I see your throat clench
start living
admit the defeat
a proud coward
lilly livered, yellow belly
shift
shift between a fable and nerve
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
.....BOLDERDASH and Folly~they all exclaimed! ! There couldn't be anything that simple about it. *Backwash and Rusty Pipes they continued ! Something that complex, can't be that easy to get. Wondergas and flagsnarfs they Shouted with Knowledge ! From here to there has got to have a fine set of Rules . BARFUL-CUSPS, If thats true~what does this mean?=_____Seeing is Believing, What you see is what you get, I've Never seen anything like it, Wait til you see what I got, WOW, take a look at this, Look for the Silver lining, If they could only see me now, You can see seven states from lookout mountain, See the Amazing bearded Lady, See if you can do this, See if you like this one, See if you can find the Shiny dime in the bowl of pennies, Gee,__you look like a million bucks, See if you can't do a little better next time , That'll be the LAST TIME you'll see me in That Place ! Let's see "IF" you can make me move ! ! And they wonder why~~~friends don't last ___M.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 7:30 AM UTC
Your rose colored glasses make everything okay
Until the shades blend
and you're seeing red again
There will always be a point
where filters deliver their ***** backwash
and you're left with the mess the elephant made
in the corner of the room
and he's rubbing your nose in it
He's rubbing your nose in it
I know I am only beer goggle beautuful
A latex layer of desensitization
to try and make our crash last longer
And you see in hues
of rising shades of deadly
Miss my blushing
so you don't realize
how uncomfortable this is making me
But you're smelling roses
Feel the thorn's *****
but miss the blood on your hands
Wonder why the roses suddenly smell so coppery
Please let us learn how to peel back the layers
Flay me like a whale
on a boat-deck-cutting-board
Pull me out of my element
and peel back my skin
while I am still begging you not to
See me for who I am
while I am at my most vulnurable
writing poetry at 2 am
when I should be sleeping
A t-shirt over a lamp shade
because I am afraid to sleep alone in the dark
The door cracked so I can hear if my father falls again
Sometimes silence scares me
Sometimes it is all I want
Right now it is so quiet
There are no filters here
Your rose colored glasses make everything okay
Everything is not okay
Flay me
See me for who I am
without any filters
Then tell me you still love me
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 5:22 AM UTC
poetry composed in perfect silence
doesn't exist...
for there is no such thing,
perfect silence
there are no
noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from
hearing words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
unto the mind's constancy of enraging waters,
the highest definition of
mental disquiet,
the imperfect silence
frag grenades, IED's detonate,
all nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous,
unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the
seeming silent privacy
of my brain,
mine owned
internecine mental slaughterhouse
and yet,
what I write down,
mine to keep...
my home,
and my mind,
an isle,
an atom of Earth
and flesh cells,
split surrounded by a
broad freshwater river
*the isle of the mind
spits fingers of land and voices,
injecting themselves into
the two~sided, belly~soft riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty human devices*
my poor mind,
mind it well,
as this sailing craft called poetry,
now, but a tiny ketch
to keep me afloat upon the
river surround,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure,
enjoying the pretending-to-be-quiet
internal screams denouncing
the myth of perfect silence
but the imperfect
poetry
born amidst
imperfect sleep,
the residual,
mine to keep...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Today it rains like never before,
It wears grace and pain;
It feels like a woman.
The cruel abyss of my cavernous
Heart wears violent black flora
In the furrow of my deep grief.
On this day no one has asked for me,
I pray to God and ask forgiveness
For how little I have died.
This mortal crusade that fasts on emotion,
It wears me like a fleece of flesh
That weeps softly at the soliloquy of me.
I wish I could beat on all the doors
And find good behind anyone,
But I soak in a puddle of self pity.
Destiny has seen to my downfall,
The backwash of suffering welling
Into my soul, today it rains as never before.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
You left me like chocolate raindrops hitting a river of mud flowing through a Saint Valentine's Day wet dream.
You left me like the last surviving, half naked girl running through the forest, during a 1980's
Friday the 13th movie marathon.
You left me like the last piece of pizza, that no one eats, that remains in the open box, that sits on the coffee table all night, after a college kegger fest.
You left me like when your wife leaves her wedding ring on her nightstand, while she goes out to her best friend's Bachelorette party at a strip joint.
You left me like the only kid in your class that never got picked for a game of kickball during noon recess in elementary school.
You left me like the backwash in the bottom of soda can as you offer me a drink, knowing there were no more sodas left in the fridge.
You left me like you do all the crumbs you leave in a nearly empty, wrinkled bag of chips after you were playing World of Warcraft for 16 hours.
You left me like the last match in book of matches as we try to start a fire during a family camping trip, then it starts to rain.
You left me like you did your last boyfriend with a long text that was meant for me, but you actually sent it to my mom.
You left me like the last petal on a thorny rose bush that clinges onto it's last thread to the branch that holds it, during a severe thunderstorm.
You left me like ... one second.
(Scratching my head)
Pause, never mind.
Thank God, You are Gone!!
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
Classes clash and collapse in collective implosion
The lower estates plant their insignia
ostentatiously on heaps of men
after storming the Bastille
to make way for the malady of the mitrailleuse
and celebration of Entente supremacy.
Clemenceau rise in rank as the
bodies of Flers-Courcelette stank.
Villains of the Devil's backwash
Slap you lightly on the hand
before commanding your neck
to the narrow stand
of the Guillotine.
Blood alone drives
the infinite rolling barrage of atrocious folly.
Liberté, égalité, fraternité
**Keep calm
and
carry
on**
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
I had never seen the truth turning into a graveyard
until it passed through my tombstone teeth to
sit in your ear like a ghost
These aren't sweet nothings
my sweet nothing
And you deserve much more than the devil
living inside of my cheeks
This is the way truth sets us free
The same way a suckerpunch leaves us winded
I imagine that is how our souls leave us
But you try and explain that to a nurse
who is busy checking your mouth to be sure
you've taken all your medication
You know how you're supposed to live like you are going to die tomorrow
I say
How 'bout six months from tomorrow?
I really have tried everythin
including ******* down the backwash of a sunday baptism
It only tasted like fear
The kind of fear I don't need right now
We bought a casket
Plotted a plot
I got a tattoo of an expiration date on the bottom of my foot
No day or month
just this year
And you've been brave
saying
You are saving your tears for when I am not here anymore
And I honestly never saw how the truth could turn into a graveyard
Til we both started talking to each other
Like ghosts whispering all the things we never got to say in life
No matter how you look at it
I tell her
The truth always feels like it's arrived too late
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
The dance of Amphitrite
I used to see
When I lived by the sea
Which in turn saw me
With her ever azure eyes
Below clouds, camphor-white
Her tides used to rise
With the coming of the night
And descend slowly
With the advent of light
I was welcomed everyday
By her king's white horses
Who galloped by her bay
I used to watch with wonder
The seagulls by her quay
Zephyrus, the west wind
Caressed her wavy locks,
Composing mellifluous harmonies
(The songs of the sea).
He brought with himself,
Ships, salts, sand
And faraway lands'
Numerous stories
The swash and backwash
Were like the ballet of nature
Performed by the sea
Which I used to see
As the sea saw me
With her ever azure eyes
As her tides used to rise
Sometimes low, sometimes high
In the Amphitheater of Amphitrite
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 6:46 AM UTC
Eyes opening in the morning twilight
Nautical dispersion, sounds of high tide
Rough spun cotton cocooning naked bodies
The taste of ***** on your tongue
Eyes in the morning
like hammocks on Culebra, swaying in breeze
Eyes in the evening
Like cut rope belts, simple & kind
The sand in our toes a microcosm within a macrocosm
The wind in your hair like notes of music to my ears
Embrace me, my love
my heart flys away
like sparrows
in the morning
Somehow found each other, our other half
Shells in the sand to a passerby
Patterns in a cloud like eyes staring towards blind stars
Feel of graphite disintegrating into words on paper
Backwash of proletariat diaspora, like my corazon
Emptiness suddenly filled with affection
Can a dead soul absorb such life?
Like the ocean you touch all my shores
Like waves, mingle my soil with your salt
Three words: I love you.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
It must be nice not to eat dinner in silence (or alone),
not to see her crying as she adds honey to oats,
waiting for that spoon to be knocked out of her hands
then hear she butters bread on the wrong side.
Have conversation like stringed balloons, waving,
instead of wrists shaking on counter-tops, spite flaming
on black gas hobs, that clutch with their hot prongs.
Not to gargle sympathies while packing, catching the backwash
of that drink- it’s foul- choked, swallowed too quickly.
Ignore her strong, sombre hints of “stay, bear it with me”,
cradling her elbows. Say: not today, places to go.
And shudder on brass hinges. Grasping at the rail
to support my skidding feet at the ice rink one mild day.
But I’ve got my own life coming,
my own sorrows to plunder.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 9:22 AM UTC
Kiss me with your serpent's tongue
Wash that poison down my throat
On a wave of thick saliva
Until I'm spitting your lies
Back out into you face
Then ask how I can be so cold
Like it's not the backwash
From your frozen soul
**** me with your perfect smile
Across your face
With icy hands around my throat
Choke off everything I am
My headlight eyes
Wide with surprise
High beams flicker out.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Arrived late to the early bird special for the heavens of my mind
I'm a hard boiled egg in a soft shell crab waiting to be swallowed by a ***** swamp filled with ugly crocodiles in the same vein at the same time
Looking for a broader spectrum of potential unknowing whispers
whispered a sweet something about a whole lot of maybes in my ear lobe.
Caterpillars sing songs to September
slowly crawling back in time encouraging a butterfly of memories
where two left winged hearts collided making supper with our doubts
about unconcious recollections where we are mapping out the signs of new breakfast and bedrooms.
Investigate the vacancies of hearts you wish to keep with an open ended pitch of the other ones who seek you out.
Heart's for rent here
Who's the last tenant that moved out? Blur kaleidoscope of old addresses with similar layouts
Because you're looking for French bathtubs in old Victorians
And with the right selling line
It's just a vintage room lined with dusty curtains and a sunroof with penetrated ceilings
A character of wills you say,
blueprint of rented feelings.
Stir a cocktail of shock waves
from stone cold realizations
while i mull steadily on my unsure
recollection of what you meant when you said I'm the best thing
you've found in a long time.
But that's just a new line
you've heard wiser men say
So you say it without hesitation and
make earlier reservations.
God, this could take an hour
Or a second if your patient
Adapt to different payments
Unusual affective statements
Encase it in sarcastic shell
crack it by the cases
Sew it at the seams make sure
I seem real sure of your supposed
intentions.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
How's the view from the bottom of that bottle?
Like a kaleidoscope of your life swirling in backwash.
Don't blame me for all you've missed!
They've grown so big, and smart too, you don't deserve to see...
A selfish man you are, take another swallow.
Drown your self in pity, make life a blur.
What was I thinking, becoming your wife?!
What a shame they bear your name...
They are bigger than that, they see who you are.
Disgusting, pitiful, ugly.
Keep looking for the answer at the bottom of that bottle.
Keep missing what you have created.
Walk with you head hung low, take another swallow.
Fall harder, keep drowning....
I see what you don't get to.
I love them like you can't.
I'm the reason they are....
They are strong, they walk with pride.
Go on look for the answer in your bottle.
Do you see?
Go on one more swallow.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
They tell us,
About a great future.
They tell us it is coming,
Not today but tomorrow.
Our dear Nigeria,
A safari for its rulers,
Stealing our freedom,
Yet showing a victorious future.
Our leaders,
They keep on telling us,
Democracy,
Of the people,
By the people,
For the people.
They come as bearers,
Bearing freedom,
Removing slavery's chains and rods,
Yet trampling on our humanity.
Our leader's democracy,
A temple built with words,
Yet plastering it with,
Power and constant deceit.
They bribe our conscience
They fail to discharge their duties,
Yet singing victorious praises of their democracy,
Telling the world of vague achievements.
They play their drama,
Displaying it in public,
Showing a cock-a-doodle-doo of theatre,
Narrating nothing significant.
They claim to hear our cries,
Yet they are blind spectators of beauty,
Having no eat for our mass cries.
Democracy,
Their ideology of power.
Their way of life
A culture so dear to them
Democracy,
A backwash from future's deep
A begraggle of corrupt leaders
A pointer to Me, My Belly and I
They claim we have rights,
Yet they keep us in chains.
Their democracy,
An emblem of an immoral compass.
I look out my balcony window,
Waiting for change.
I stand at my front door,
Hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
My father waited
My mother hoped
I in turn prayed
Our children echoed
I dream of a great democracy
I dream of liberation
I put down my pen,
It is tired of being,
Mightier than the sword.
Oh democracy
I raise my hand up in your honour
Nigeria's democracy,
Our leaders' famous slogan.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 8:40 AM UTC
Candy floss and a visit to the arcade:
That's all it took to bring things back an hour
to the moment before a missed step.
Panic, pandemonium, a parallel universe
is what I came to; Landed, rag-dolled on a weather-worn,
rice field imitation rock. What I would give to see myself
From the edge. To see the angles my body chose
while I was away bringing my dearest to my side.
First I collected my sister with a scream that belongs
Only in stories that deal with grief: Guttural.
Come to think of it, that acrid ancestral call didn't belong to me.
I wasn't the one who pricked her from her periwinkles
And guided her over the barnacles to become a silhouette.
It wasn't me who dragged the adrenaline-fueled arms and legs
of an undressed, distressed father from his bed, through the
Haze of his own thoughts: a descent he wont soon forget.
I wasn't there. The things I describe are born of a situation
I have spent fifteen years rebuilding; I'm ashamed to say
I missed it. I never felt the chaotic shift of the wind and was never
able to expect the worst because I was too enthralled with her face.
It was my sole focus as I lay down.
I watched intently - in slow motion - distortion explode into
her cheeks, tearing her mouth to the seams; scared eyes
enveloping lids and unwavering, taking me all in.
I have no doubt she remembers the moment as well as i do,
Probably more so, for she experienced the backwash.
She was certainly shown the quickest way down.
I remember that it was beautiful that day:
A real Irish-sunburn peak in Liscannor Bay.
I also remember walking down the garden
To the cliff stenciled on the back of my hand
with the cheerful arrogance only an eight year old
can get away with.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC