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Tie Nicks May 2014
Your middle name?
How long has it been since you wore a diaper?
How old were you when you first noticed you had feet?
How tall lying down?
A glowing thing or a burning dark,
Pick one.
How many needles will fit between my eyelids?
How big was your first?
Your last?
This last light switch do I flick it?
Can you handle candles?
What’s it like to wear no skirt?
How many bras have you sniffed?
Define addiction.
Define a lover’s hip.
How many languages are enough?
How can you free yourself without getting committed?
And what’s it like inside yourself?
And I see your feet are like freaky small
And your hair smells like flies
And feels like fishes eyes
And you have three nostrils.
And the third one is for ****.
And that your eyelashes are made
From spider legs
And they move by themselves when you’re angry
Or turned on.
Can you believe me when I say
Your scent steams beautiful?
Did I stutter?
Did I stutter?
I don’t know, did i?
How many lines ago was that
Can you count the orange sticks
In the fridge honey and know that I’ll always want more?
What do you see from eyes so blue? Can you see that mine are glass?
Can you tell that they aren’t windows?
Can you quantify exactly more or less all you’d want my eyes to be?
Also, You have grass eye brows.
And one, two, too many tails
And your tendons are made of twizzlers
And you only drink Windex orange blue orange juice
And your hands are made of pancakes with lifelines
And your bellybutton has an eyeball in it
But we’re not supposed to ask who’s.
And your earlobes have lips and sometimes they
Whisper sweet nothings to the pigeons on the park benches while
You stroke your fingertips across various things,
Like pigeons,
Like me.
Like me?
Well, I broke up with my boyfriend and then spent the night,
And my roommate’s mom thinks we just need more hangers
And I start all my sentences with oh, well, look
And I ran through my apartment,
counted all my pairs of tights
And I noticed not a single
Tear looked like him
And I heard that song that he reminds me of
And it was the birds screaming the earth back awake
So I drank a whole bottle of V8 and went to sleep
And I broke up with that boyfriend and then spent the night
And my roommates convinced I can
Just go back tomorrow
and I dropped my sisters black vintage gloves in the mud.
I dropped my physics class and told everyone I’m a pyro
And I’m still not quite done with that last
Guy I spent the night with
And I’ll never be as high with anyone else
As I was with dell but I didn’t call him dell
When we were together
But I never understood people when they said they could remember a touch
Until I felt his thick palms four days after he left
And when he said he wasn’t coming
I ate a strawberry
And tasted nothing
And I haven’t eaten fruit since
And I haven’t made sense 10 days before he left
Now I’m way past losing track of who left last
And now I wear lipstick
With a disclaimer
when I dropped him,
I shattered.
Translation, no mans pleased me since.
But I’d like to watch you try.
So, your last name?
Do you have any pets?
Can you be with a woman you’ll never be able to please?
Even the scene I was making was making a scene:
I've been freed by friendlessness, so why do old pals
embitter w/ velleity a reunion can still rouse?
It's just I'm so swizzed by reading trueselfbydates.
Shawl, who is also called Pall; runagate who is also prostrate.
To the bull's eye, the hawkeye is palpable, tangible, felt
To the hawkeye, the bull's eye is palpable, tangible, felt.
Phone went. Atonement? Opponent. Alone meant
renewal of the same old selfentering entertainment.
Narcissistic conception: a privately bred clone
'tis my duty to bully, torture earnestly. One does one's own.
British Ionists don't even understand Zirony.
But I wish I was as simple as just contradictory.
Tragready? Incipit tragoedia: travesties hurt.
Like seeing my Riot Grrl swiothrrt in a 'Travis' tshirt.
Trillions killed during filming, fastforwarded orchids.
Cast of inexpendable heart oscitation deleted.
To einsof soft life on the air, we're lost. In the sour feast,
50 years' service is a ****** on the mantlepiece.
*******, mon semblance! Goose scry to the scaly
Torygraph; Presidented Gein; masSACREDad (God's Mochrie).
It takes CITV & CBBC & pre-DWP DSS & pre-DSS
DHSS to raise a child, not a Doubting Momus.
Dreamflounder, dreamfloater, dreambounder in a dreamboater.
English country Capgras bros. of a stranger in  an oater.
Nil admirari, ennui, omnui, zennui, nitchevo.
Yet buckaroo Love's hopingpong lives out my spermself's FOMO.
I foamed at the month, Lysember, annually,
for flavour of the mouth should be Oxyjanuary.
Sandwich artists, stationary bloggers & ancient astronaut
theorists all walked Jackonoryology in school reports.
'Sweirdly emasculating, like a tall grandmother,
how I cannot poetsplain the future or its lovers.
1,000 albino bishybarnabees rorschach the tragic
lantern: swarm th'only pattern of fatback TV static.
Negress of the World dreams of unio Mr.Car
in the cave of charades that's shrine to an umbra.
Afflatic calculus of tragic trajectories, romantic ratios:
lyricalgebra. Show my working: Statement of Aesthetics, Rothko.
Song of alien vitalism, Neanderthal Jesse Garon.
Prosody fit for Methuselated muse, Struldbrugg paean.
How clean is your dream disqualidayhome celebrikitchen
bug in **** conscience, Carol Vorderline? Pigpen's plugin.
Jack of Shapes, Jack of Ages, Jack of Doors, Jack of Cues.
Best of all possible Lords to follow? Serendipitous debuts.
The Devil writhes a kiddiefiddlin' schtick.
The Devil is a devout Catholic.
Pincered zen selfsparta builtsitting in what it's from:
cogito keeping its damnable cheek above fatsam & fleshsam.
I feel it so intensely: irony of ironies when I don't care.
Selffulfulling jelly w/ nothing to fear but fears nothing hears.
Experienshit, differenshit, definitely still ****, diffranchiser
of scheisser. Choken record: wist zither, aubade nebuliser.
You pick up. Seashellsussurus of a radioed purlieu.
Your crepitant crelp, monastic by virtue of ***** flu.
Bellybutton ash/blue & green dahlia: inner & outer bull
of bull's eye anthropocentrism. Both can & can't be too careful.
Hawkeye Bennu or other siderolite's solipsism
cuts short my nut cutlet nuncheon: absurdissimum prism.
Jenna Vaitkunas Apr 2016
He does not think he is beautiful
He does not speak when my hands travel the mapwork of his body under mine.
I mark my favorite places with my lips, several times to be sure theyre real.
Again and again I want to show him he is loved
But he does not believe me
He does not believe me because
They are telling him no
Dont look in the mirror yet
But this morning you look beautiful
But you look so sad
So i try to kiss my favorite parts of you
But youre not here
Nothing but air.
ahmo Feb 2015
Depression? Sure, that's tough.
But honestly,
all I ever wanted was to be enough.

Each moment recalled.
Each late night, computer-installed,
with stunning fireworks,
and a missed train, stalled.
She was just always so

And when I do recall,
some stupid trip to the mall
or the seventieth missed call,
I just can't think
of anything else
but how I hate
your vicious attempt to assimilate,
your inevitable success,
and that honeybee yellow dress.

How I lost all of those years
wiping away all of her livid tears.

A knife,
or just another unwashed dish.
The leftover fish
had her looking more
like a side dish.

And watching me
slowly disappear
with a conscious clear.

Even the malicious robins will find rest
as the kindest worms hope for the best.
But to be eaten up and tossed back down,
leaves any earthworm broken,
anxiously wishing to drown.
mark john junor Mar 2014
heavy traffic
so we stash ourselves in the publix parking lot
and watch the flashes of the departing thunderstorm
she lays out on the buicks hood in a bikini top
a bead of sweat kisses her bellybutton
her thick dreadlocks spread like ropes
i pick one up and stick it in her ear
shes not happy with that

afternoon is all sunshine and watered down sodas
isles of plastic goodies and elevator musics
the old woman pushing her empty cart while dragging a bag
she goes to get her nails done
i push pebbles into parking lot puddles
and watch the sky drift in the reflection

she is half my age
she sticks her tongue in my ear
i dont mind
there are palm trees and lizzards everywhere
and pebbles in puddles
im a pebble and shes my puddle
shes all wet
im hard

we laugh in the forever summer sunshine
we dance in the parking lot puddles
of the fiveashes publix lot
and daydream the stars above
this is no ordinary love
this is passion's fire in the hearts eyes
shes my jezebel
im her poet
(alternate title "heavy traffic)
Jillian Aug 2018
am I you
what am I without you
its not your fault
don’t cry for me
don’t confuse me
I love you
don’t leave me
don’t have *** like it's
don’t look at her naked body
with the same eyes that you
looked upon mine
don’t let me breathe a life saving breath
while you’re


let me wallow in saturated agony
let me be in pain
let me feel the extent of my own emotions
and eventually
for a bee that carries three times its weight isn’t meant to last
let me go into that valley of death
that idyll
that probable hell
where I may but suffer the more,
take me there.

give me a smallest crumb more
let me lick your fingers
I must see if I could still summon that sweet syrup love
that burns as it exits
my bellybutton

let it then lapse away
so I may forget
and when he finds his way
back to my dirt trail I'll never stop walking
I will pick him up and nourish his soul with my own
so his stomach fills
and he is more whole

and I am more hole
Wrote this with a chaotic mind
michelle reicks Jun 2011
men write poems about ******* women
and vaginas and ****
and glorious juices and getting drunk after

and I can’t
because I have a ******
and ****
and I get uncomfortable if they want to drink after.

and if I wanna write about how I really like it
when he climbs on top of me
and puts his **** into my warm hot love-cave,

it’s just ****** poetry.
by a woman
and it doesn’t mean anything
but if I was a “****”
a “*****”
and I said “no”
and wrote a poem about “****”
it would make women love me as a feminist

but I’m not a feminist
I just like it when he ***** me
and his chest hair falls out
and covers my ******* and goes into my bellybutton

I don’t mind having to
lint roll
the sheets
Murphy Mar 2015
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -

I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,

To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.

I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,

On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,

There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****,
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Terry Collett Jun 2013
Martha was shown
into a parlour
inside the front door
of the mother house

by a plump nun
in black and white
who looked like a penguin
out for a stroll

wait in there
she said
will fetch you

in time
so Martha looked around
the room at the plain
white walls

the heavy curtains
at the windows
the huge crucifix
on the wall opposite

whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines

and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands

were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails

holding them in place
she moved nearer
and reached up a hand
so that her fingers

could touch the feet
of Christ and run
them over the toes
and feel the nail

going through the feet
she rubbed her fingers there
she used to rub the crucifix
in her grandmother's house

the big one over
the double bed
and if she stood
on the bed

she could reach right up
to touch the face
and beard
and see if she could

hear Him breathe
or if she reached
really high
she could feel His nose

which on her grandmother's
Christ the nose seemed broken
and her grandmother said
that was where

her grandfather
had thrown a shoe in temper
and crack the plaster nose
will he go to Hell?

she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said

not just for that
and she was pleased
because she liked her grandfather
and his simple ways

and hard toffees
she felt each toe in turn
moving a finger
over the plaster

and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum

into the bellybutton
of the plaster Christ
in the cloister
of the convent school

back in the 1960s
and when Sister Bede
saw it she had to gently
chiselled it out

with a screwdriver
threatening severe punishment
to the girl responsible
but no one told

and even when she left years
after the bellybutton
of the Christ still had
the scar where Sister Bede

had chiselled too hard
there was a cough behind her
and Martha turned
and there was a nun

standing by the door
her eyes dark like berries
and her thin mouth
slowly opened

and she said
are you the girl
who wants to be a nun?
Martha nodded her head

and the nun told her
to follow her and she
went down a dim lit

the nun in front
pacing slow
each footstep measured
her hands tucked

out of sight
with only the sound
of her heels going
clip clop clip clop

on the flagstones
and the black habit
swaying very gracefully
as she walked

no more words
no questions
no answers
because no one talked.
michelle reicks Jun 2011
can’t get my mind off of

lying eyes
fruitful decadent lips
sharp neck
hips (round and hard like a rising cliff--
heaving and sliding)
and then
comes the places where I feel at home
where you like to burrow
make love to me

before the sun goes down again
Katy Laurel Sep 2013
I once met a man who read my bellybutton.
He told me that the two horizontal lines
meant I have internal and external insecurities.
I scoffed at the idea that those things
could disappear from mortal souls.
He then pointed to the bottom vertical line,
the most noticeable,
and told me
that meant
my biggest insecurity was my reproductive organs.

I smiled small.
Should I tell him about the dead baby
or instead of the riley women who have male dependency.
I chose the latter,
for Im not sure if the kid is still dead.
I could hear her screams in late night alleys for two years after.
She haunts my horror dreams,
singing we could have lived happily ever after.

Instead, Ill chose the story of my stepfather
who called me a *****
and cried to my mother
that I was trying to ****** him with training bras and black eye liner.

'Did he hurt you?'
'of course,
but so did my mother-
and I've learned to forgive those
who chose life over freedom.'

It's more than I've done.
Obadiah Grey Nov 2011
Dear Gawd......I wanna be Pope..

I never ride backwards
on train or bus,
I never profane,
blaspheme or cuss,
I'm limpid,
riven of diaphanous stuff
never been given,
to a female ****.
I'm penitent, contrite –
shriven of sin,
compliant, reliant,
I'm bendy n thin.
not quite castrato,
gives good vibrato
to choirboys mullato
with bellybutton fluff.
Theresa M Rose Oct 2018
A time in hand-cuffs;
… This was in 83’, I remember when because I left for Boston just shortly after Rose and I watched Thorn Birds together on the television in the basement; she allowed me to help her do a spring cleaning and ready everything for Easter Company. We cleared out the pantry closet upstairs putting new paper on all the shelves; we cleared out the kitchen-cabinets and fold and organized the all the linings in the hutch and best of all we enjoyed watching the mini-series together. I love spending my time with her; funny how I see so much of my relationship within the structure of this movies theme.  
We, Lisa, Denise and myself, we’re coming home after a grueling four week gig up at The famous Pussycat Lounge in Boston’s Combat Zone; I was the last on stage that night and after getting off I threw on an old-lady dusty over my costume  and began to rush about packing-up all my costumes. We run out to the van; and after tossing all of the bags and me into the back we start our long drive home;
My Agent, Lisa, with her broken leg in a cast, has out the road-map, her wig’s in her lap and she had a nylon *****’s on her head  she’s in the passenger seat; Headliner Denise (AKA The Luscious Lady double D’s Dynamite) the driver is dripping of the make-up remover on her face… she’s in nothing more but her bra and *******?! … Least I threw on my dusty. I’m on the floor in the back with a flashlight digging through the bags trying to see if I have all my new costumes I won at last night’s Show; we worked a big Jell-O Wrestling Tournament up in Cambridge... Hey, I win four costumes and I want to make sure they weren’t left behind! So, here I am all over the floor in the darkness with my little beam of light as a good hour and forty minutes go by…  I’m still going through the bags. Suddenly, I realize this intense quite?!  I pop up my head; there’s nothing out there; nothing but darkness, no highway, no streetlights just this long silent single narrow road we’re on. I climb up grabbing a hold of the bearskin spread pull myself onto the platform-bed back here and I look through the portholes on each side of the van to see the view… the view could only be described as Sod-Farms as far as the eyes could see; with this misty darkness looms above. It seems to gently illuminate over a kind of rippling sea of blackness stretching out from both sides of the van. I crawl back down onto the floor. I look forward out the front window as far as my eyes see… we’re on a road, small dots roll beneath the van but ahead nothing… our headlight lights diminish into blackness it seems darkness is gobbling up all things beyond us and we are on our way…
“Lisa?” Saying this hesitantly; …, couldn’t help myself there wasn’t a single set of vehicle lights anywhere and where we are being as dark as pitch?!
“Where are we…?”

Lisa turns in this growling tone,“ Someone did not want to go through Connecticut!”

Denise giggles,” Oh, come-on?!  I’ve been this way before… it’s faster taking Rhode Island! It’s an easier drive! ”

So, we go; yeah, down this road three gals’ in this converted van which looks like the red-light-district on wheels; driving somewhere in the middle of No-man’s Land, Rhode Island… At 2 O’clock in morning.

“Oh, ok.” I went back with my flashlight counting up and pairing off shoes.

All of a sudden out of darkness comes… in complete silence, flashing lights!
Denise begins popping brakes; bags dart about … as she sets the van to the side of the road.

Lisa, starts yelling at Nissie , “ You had to…; Had to take us through Rhode Island?!
Two, ******* Black //////////s and a little white cotton-ball lying over luggage in the back! You know… You know we’re all in jail tonight!!! You take us into the only northern state that thinks they’re south of the Mason Dixie “

While Lisa yells, (Huge bags Denise uses at high-end private parties falls from hooks and falls open contents toppling over me.)
Lisa turns to see how the van looks… Here I am; on my *** on the floor with boas dangling off me and an yard-long two header rubber buddy as ‘slap‘ hits down into my arms. There I am bellybutton high in whips, chains and the rest of Nissie’s extensive selection of ******* gear and every kind of Joy-toy which has ever brandished a battery and…

“Jesus!!!” Lisa yells, “Look at …! We look like a Traveling *******! Janice, don’t just sit there! Put that thing down…. Hide all that **** before that cop…”
Bang, bang, bang; suddenly, a cop’s metal flashlight s rapping and taps up the side of the van; the cop stands side of Denise’s door for what feels
He flickers his light into her face.

Lisa yells, “Open your window, Nessie!!!”

Remember… in nothing but a bra and *******!? As dainty as you please, “What’s wrong officer?”
She is saying this while the window handle’s giving her a hard time and she’s trying to wipe make-up Schmitz from her face.
“Why are you stopping us?”

Lisa leans …”Yeah! We’re just trying to get back to New York?!

The officer shines the light right into Lisa’s face then towards me in the back.
“Can I see your license and registration?”
And, I need the Id of everyone-else in this vehicle? Please.”
I call out, “I know mine is in one of these bags; this will take a minute please.

I am freaking and in a yelling whisper, “…, Oh Crap?”
Thinking, ‘There’s easily more than fifteen bags back here on the floor alone??? Half these… open and half empty all over?!
“Crap, crap, crap!” I start pulling at all the bags rummaging through everything.” Crap?!”

I hear the cop say, “Did you realize that you were speeding?”

Lisa and Nissie , “What ? Speeding? It’s the middle of the night?!  What the hell are you….”

‘Holy Hell; they’re fighting a policeman?! Their arguing with a cop about, what time of day it is… And, I can’t find my id???’ I’m pushing and shoving things into piles… All of a sudden…The side door flies open!
“Please; Step out of the vehicle.”
Like some startled meerkat my head pops up, eyes wide, from the piles surrounding me.
“What???” I crawl out.
Now; standing out by the side of the van with Lisa and Denise: And…,
I look down. My dusty snaps burst open.
Here we are! It’s the middle of the night and we’re on the side of the road;
Three women; One, the driver, standing barefoot in her everyday bra and *******; One, Talent- Agent, resting up on the van with crutches and cast on her leg to the upper thigh; And,… me…  I’m standing there in my freshly ripped dusty, revealing a pearly pink sequins bra-n- G string set, black fishnets and matching pearly-pink 5in. Stilettos.

The police-officer looks at me,” Did you find Id?”

“ Sir, no?!  No, not yet Sir. I was looking when you told me to get out … But?!”  I try to head-back into the van,” Let me find it…”

The cop grabs me by my arm and pulls me away from the door; he places me in hand-cuffs?!

“When you can find someone to bring you your Id we will release you to them.”

“ But sir…Please I have Id!? If you would just?!  Please, please allow me back in there?!  I’ll find it?! Please sir, please!”

Lisa and Denise, “Well, we have ours! Let us go!”
Lisa,” Keep her if you want but let us the hell out of here.”
Both of them; “We want to get back to the city!”

Lisa waves at me saying,” Stop by the office when you get back. I’ll store your stuff until you get yourself out of this…”

“Sir, please?! I have to get back home for my kids? I don’t have anybody able to come here and get me. I know, I have my I…”
I yell out, “I remember where it is!” homeward bound   “I know where it is!!!”
I begin pulling myself and the officer towards the front of van;” Lisa, Lisa you have it! Lisa has it! It is in there under her seat! My bag… My bag…?! It’s underneath her seat! Sir, look, Look it’s under there… Lisa! Remember, I gave you it before so you could get our pay from the owner at the Club?!  You said you’d put it there?!

“ Oh yeah; that’s right.” Lisa reaches under the seat and tugs my little bag free.
” Oops…; I forgot all about you giving this to me.”
“ Here you go her Id; could she now leave with us?”

The cop unclasped the cuffs and says, “I don’t want to have to see any of you here again; Drive carefully mind your speed.”
Back on the road and on our way home Lisa screams over and over; “Never in Rhode Island! Never again…!”
I sat there thinking, the two of them were going to leave me back there?  I’d be back there…. without a penny; no money; not even a way home.
Whelp, not the worst night of my life.

Please, I know this to be a short story  but could I ask for opinions?
This is a small segment of the book I've been working on.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A
, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
Brent Kincaid Oct 2016
I like to play with your belly button
'Cause it makes me giggle and laugh
I'll let you play with my bellybutton
I bet it makes you giggle and laugh
Exactly as it does with me
It makes me laugh hysterically
I know it might seem rather silly
But I love to do it *****-nilly.

Sometimes I like to blow on your belly
And make that almost obscene sound
It's worth it to hear you laugh, really
Then both of us roll around on the ground.
We laugh and play like a couple of kids
And make no excuses for silly things we did.
Others make love your way and we ours.
We tickle and blubber on each other
And have our kind of fun for hours.

I really like the way you wrinkle your nose
It makes me laugh hard and not for nothing
It tickles me a lot that you wiggle your toes
When you let me play with your belly button.
I'm very happy to be able to testify
Some things in life are meant just for fun.
Belly button tomfoolery, I promise
Is one of the very best kinds of fun.
Richard Matheson Nov 2011
Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.

Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.

Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.

Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.

Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.

Fingers into ****,
pulling out the ******.

Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.

My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****.
Circa 1994 Nov 2013
I hate and love my bellybutton at the same time.
It's half inny, half outy -
as if playiNg coy.

I'm down to my socks and knickers.
I'd describe them, bUt you don't care.

I choose a flattering filter on my webcam
and strike a pose
as the countDown begins:
Three - two -
They say a picture is worth 1,000 words,
but only one comes to my mind.
Richard j Heby Sep 2013
The city sits above your eyes,
in dark mascara strokes.
Your soft pink lips are chapped and tried
unglossed, and un-baroque.

The flowers of a garden’s growth
are painted on each iris.
The laughter and the sadness, both
are on your cheeks that i kiss.

Your body sparkles, freckles brushed
are baked in your warm skin.
A bellybutton slightly pushed
by God’s last touch, thumb pin.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the world according, to a star-studded journalist -
writing the magazine Saturday column, a she, mind you,
all learned about seeing the world: well, only New York -
she's hip! she's funny! she's downright a prop'ah scumbag -
and i say: the iron curtain should have turned into an iron skirt...
but then Pope Jean-Claude von ****, the second, opened up
the brothel... i too would have liked a ****...
but hell, it was always going  to be a bony **** at best...
raise a family? REJECT! they think their post-colonialism is an
affair of scented parchments of hope, what they did in Africa,
they're suddenly doing in Europe... shush-bags of wisdom,
let's get the house in order: i'm a perverted snail, i **** toads for
practice, i ***** out salty ***** on the rotunda circuit of cries:
justice! justice! well, if ever i spotted a deaf ear, it'd be now.
so there she is lazing about with a column on Saturday,
and she drops the New-Irish words: and M & S, buying swimwear,
hoping for a Burkini... the lighting and the flooring gave the place
an unhappy, postwar, eastern European (a new continent, mind you)
vibe. i half-expected a forklift truck to drive past me,
delivering potatoes to some far corner's "thursday potato display -
sprouted ones half price." out of the blue a leprechaun jumps out,
a real ventriloquist by trade, and does a rendition of that famous
song: we all eat potatoes here, nothing but *** *** potatoes!
tra lala la. this fetish in western society, potatoes: the famous mash
and chips... cabbage... and the famous coleslaw...
eastern Europe: land of landfill sites and mountains
of potato... which magically turn into lakes of *****...
and cabbage... i got to know more about the world by being
half the tourist i was supposed to be... and half of what integrating /
assimilating into a host culture allowed: St. George can
hang a ****** on the washing line, and Lizzy can shave her head...
     i'm a patriot of language,
simple as, a patriot of language,
not a patriot of the culture that incubated the language...
first of all check-out North Korean propaganda films,
second of all ask why you received the Marshall Plan
funds, inc. Sweden, which was neutral during the war...
then bewilder yourself as to why you're selling us
a farmer's stereotype, but as the grand observation
of the bellybutton suggests: they're the ones stuffing
crisps into buns and eating it with cheese and ham
at every lunch-break... farmer here, farmer there,
******* potato fetishist anywhere...
and you wonder why i retain a patriotism to the language
rather than to the people that speak it...
they didn't make it easy, and they're certainly not
making it any easier... Leprechaun Irish -
potaytoe - potaytoe - potaytoe -
so the expectation is... i'm a slave, you're the master,
i get to visit the opposite of Auschwitz in the cotton
colony? well, at least the existential answer is simple
in Auschwitz - our german brood will do the job more
effectively... we don't need you, off to God you go...
in a cotton colony? our people are superior,
we need slaves to do the work that our people are not fit
to do... and this is diabolical logic, i don't deny it,
but i'd rather be told to die than be told to live and work
for someone's amusement and benefit...
simple... p'ahtaytoe!
                                    it seems that whenever they
came to Poland they only came to Auschwitz, now,
all of a sudden, i'm the collaborating ****,
the stain on Polish soil, as already noted:
Egypt has its pyramids, Poland has German chimneys...
******* choo choo and Thomas the tank engine rolled into town...
how can you ever attempt a full discrete and competent
assimilation / integration when you have to end up
a solitary form of ethnic cleansing, where bilingualism
is treated as a mental illness, and you have to, in effect,
spit at your parents to embrace an English wife,
with an English household, with 42.3% chance of divorce?
what's the ******* point of that? at least in my
culture monogamy had a sense, not here, among
the brutal brats: who rather than having learned to care
for children, after petting an animal, just leave them
like stray wild dogs, not free to roam in forests and
fields, but in angst ridden kennels...
                                       well, Japan is selling me euthanasia,
cos reaching old age was going to be such an achievement,
that everyone started begging for the living standards
akin to Sudan: dead at 40, dead at 40 and nimble.
Alec Verse Sep 2016
Mother threw me away
****** me in and spit me out
The pavement still tastes like your thighs
Like bubble gum underneath the chemistry table

Where I first held hands with
Some other girl I loved
Not knowing her reaction but
We burned flowers cut with kitchen knives.

I woke up to ashes lining my breakfast
Tongue thick with Amaryllis
Thinking if God asks you my name
Say serpent,

Say hello —
A disaster of two elements
You and me
If we combined

Our neon wrists.
Does Ares care about
How I touch you, with the lights off
You tell me the walls

Already know
What I do with my wolf teeth
And your caffeinated bellybutton,
They find you in three nights.

Rebirth is not as kind
To my combusting spine, replace
Ghost sin with your birth right
Jacob’s carnage

I paid for with eyelashes,
Long glances — my dignity
Wrapped in ****** white, and impotent boy skin
Becomes a coffin.
Vienna Sickness is a working title, it will probably change, I'm really bad with titles. If you can think of any titles, please comment them. I am really free to suggestions.
Shane Carmichael Oct 2012
“Blame it on my ADD baby...”
My fingers graze from the brim of your jeans and drag from the crevice
between your upper thigh and stomach to your batman bellybutton ring and pull
your skin between your cleavage to the base of your neck while my teeth
drag along your bare chest, laid out before me.

“Learn to take your **** with a big-*** smile...”
I’m shooing the dogs out so you can get ready for work and I can stand back
like I always to do take in every inch of you while I can.  The smoothness of your
flawless skin, your beautiful back that seems to greet me more often now, that
adorable smile, and most of all the eyes that made the world stop.  Well, mine hasn’t
started back since.

“I’m half the man that you think that I have been...”
Driving.  More.  You’re telling me a story about this band that you like and
I listen like a little child because your stories, no matter the subject, always capture
my full attention.

****, I need to get some sleep before I never sleep again, because I’m thinking
of everything I love about you.
Mikaila Jan 2015
This year has been... So hard. It's been so ******* hard. There were times when I didn't know if I would make it. Times when I didn't think I had it in me to keep going and going after what I want and what I need, when they're always such long shots. Such dreams. Such ambitious dreams... I wanted to quit so many times. When **** left, I wanted to quit. I wanted to crawl under the blankets and stop being. I spent 3 days on Angela's couch after that night. I can never sleep in my own bed when I am truly broken down. I lose my home when I am raw inside. Couches, empty rooms, it doesn't matter where I hide but it can't be where I live. I wonder why that is. She couldn't have picked a worse time to tell me she loved me as much as I loved her and that it didn't matter. And then you... you were off in another world, off in another country finding yourself and your footing and everyone but me. You stopped answering my How Are You's. You didn't tell me happy birthday. Neither did ****. That was the first time I realized why holidays are the hardest for people who are sad. If you love someone and you are waiting for them to forgive you for being who you are, birthdays, Christmases, every holiday becomes a ticking clock: She has to say something. Will she say something? Will she really ignore me TODAY? Today, when the person who hated me most in high school said "Happy Birthday!! :D" on my wall on facebook? Today, when even my neighbor who grumbles about us being too loud grumbled a Merry Christmas? It becomes an agony when you realize that the answer is yes long before the day is over. Then you have to watch the hours tick by, trying not to hope, and by the end of it you just want it to be over, you don't even care anymore- you just want her not to have a reason to speak to you again, so that it won't mean QUITE so much that she is silent.
I had a lot of special days like that this year.
I wanted to quit when they told me I was small. When they told me I was quiet and bland, like vanilla icecream. The beast that lives behind my ribcage shook the bars that day and howled. (I spent a lot of time with it this year. We still hate each other, but we have uneasily realized that we are all we have.) That was the day I truly broke. **** was gone. You were gone. And the only thing I had to truly count on was suddenly in question. It was now or never, it was be better than your best, and I was barely hanging on. It was be a hundred and ten percent, when the past few months had whittled me down to a shadow of a person who barely remembered what it was to be fifty. It was push harder than you've ever pushed at the moment you are about to collapse and you thought you were going to be able to rest.
Those days made me. I hate that they made me. I hate that the biggest parts of me come from the days that eviscerated me, but they do.
I wanted to quit when **** came back and saw what I'd become. "You're wearing fake eyelashes?" she said, because she always did notice any weakness. She didn't say she saw my sunken cheeks, and the fire behind my eyes that meant I was afraid to die. "PROMISE ME you'll stay this time." I said, and I grabbed her shoulders. "But only if you mean it."
"I promise." she said.
She didn't mean it.
I knew, though. Somehow I knew that the girl I loved had left her behind, a changeling, a stranger. I tried to believe, but when she left the shock was only surface: I was too tired to be rocked to the core.
Then came the days when I truly didn't have a plan. I spent a few weeks on the couch. Anyone who reads this will not have seen me with ***** hair, in week old clothes, skinny and sleeping all the time. I make sure they never see. But for a few weeks, I had no one to pretend for and no reason to pretend and no reason to live. I only knew I WANTED to. Even then, from the couch, with my show babbling in the background, I thought, "There's gotta be something. A reason will come. I just have to wait." And a reason did come. It wasn't a very good reason, but it didn't have to be: Reasons to live are not really the reasons we live. The truth is that if you want to live, you will FIND a reason, every time. You will create one. My reason didn't mean a thing in the details. All it meant was that I was ready to rejoin the world, and live again.
I spent a lot of the in between months living on the surface of myself, just getting my feet wet. I went to work. They didn't know me there. Didn't ask. I liked that, it was simple. I waited tables, I cleaned up, and if I quietly did what I did, nobody bothered me. The biggest thing I could **** up was somebody's lunch. It was comforting. I chatted with customers as if I wasn't who I was. I was their smiling waitress with her hand on her hip, a hot *** of coffee, and a clever quip. That was a part of learning to live again, too. It was hard to stand there all day and listen to the radio. Memories would hit me and I would be unable to run away from them the way I could elsewhere. I learned to breathe through the pain, and discovered that it became muscle memory to endure it. It was almost easy by the end. The only deep thing I did with this time was to read Girl, Interrupted. As with most life changing books, I hadn't thought much of picking it up. I hadn't expected it to change me. But reading it, I could have wrote it myself. I knew how she felt, every moment, and the things she said stuck with me, stuck to me- the raw wounds that were still healing  inside me scarred around her words.
Then came the reckless stage. I was waking up. I began to listen to music again. I began to drive without knowing where I was going. I began to make choices just to see if they'd jar me enough to snap me back to my old self. They didn't. I didn't find myself again until just before school started.
Poor Giles (my car, the car that saved my life) was the cost of it. A rainy night, a loud song, and too much grief. Things really do slow down when you crash, you know. I thought they just did that in movies to be dramatic, but they don't, it's real. When I went off the road I knew I'd lost control. My mind was way ahead of me. My body wasn't in the place I thought it should be, and I remember distinctly but calmly wondering why it wouldn't listen to me and do what I wanted (it was, in fact, being thrown around by the force of the crash, and the signals from my brain saying "Move your arm!" couldn't compete with whiplash.) I woke up with the car crunched against a tree, on the driver's side, and the frame 6 inches from my face.
I didn't feel anything.
My body cried and shook as they strapped me to a stretcher, but inside I wasn't in control. I was sitting back quizzically. The moment they got me out of the car I knew I was unhurt. They cut off my clothes. My favorite bra was another casualty of that day. Cut right in half- the leopard bra I wore in the first scene I ever did in front of the UConn faculty for midterms last year. While they were wheeling me from test to test, I wondered if that was somehow symbolic. Flash forward to being in bed in a tiny room, a doctor giving me back my bellybutton ring, me asking where the pentagram necklace that **** gave me the night we met was, getting it back, putting it on. The IV in my arm was cold. I hate IVs. My mom cried, and I cried, but I still wasn't scared or sad. I cried because tears came out. It was a surreal experience, crying like that.
I didn't wake up fully from my brokenness until the nurse came in and said, "I'm so sorry, but we need your room. I'm going to have to put you in the hall." I shrugged, and they stuck me in the hall just outside. I watched them wheel a bedraggled looking man in. He was muttering. He reminded me of my uncle, the alcoholic, the one who had died the previous fall. I had a hunch that they probably had a lot in common. Interest piqued, I eavesdropped as they bustled around and talked to him. He had tried to **** himself.
That was when I woke up. I didn't really know it, but that was the moment. It was the first moment in months that I remembered my real reason. I asked my mother for a piece of paper to draw on, and she dug in her purse to find it. Ten minutes later I faked having to go to the bathroom so they'd unhook me from my tubes. I had a feeling my mother would think it improper if I told the truth. Before she could object, I slipped into his room, and handed him the paper. I said, "I made this for you. I hope you feel better." I wish I remembered exactly what I'd written. It was a simple little note and a doodle of a rose, and it said that he mattered, and that I cared about him. I got back in bed, sheepish, and my mom was as nervous about my infringement on someone else's life as I'd guessed she'd be. Five minutes later, though, the nurse came over with a piece of torn paper. He had written back to me. His handwriting was shaky and simple, like a child. I have that note hung up in my bedroom at home. He said, "You have touched my heart. Thank you! I will keep your rose in my heart. This is a life changing moment for me... Thank you!" I wondered if there was a plan, then. I wondered if all of that, the sadness, the crash, everything, had led me to be in that hospital and say something to that man that changed his life. And maybe it didn't change at all, I don't know. But I know that that moment changed me.
Back at school, I had a few blissful moments with you. A few nights of hand holding, a few beautiful kisses. I slowly taught myself not to run from you when I felt the gravity of my love separate me by the molecule. I found that I did have the courage it took to be in your arms, and that is when you lost the courage to hold me. Still, I'd take all of my grief and more for one moment with you, and I'll keep you in my heart till the day I die, whether or not you stick around.
In class, I was the first to break. To cry. Over months, I cracked open and a lot of the tears that fell were very old, and scalding. I hadn't known I was suffering until the cracks in me were widened and focused on. One day after a particularly raw moment, I walked across the street to the tattoo parlor. I didn't stop, I didn't think, and I got a tattoo that very moment. My butterfly, on my shoulder, to remind me that changing hurts, growing hurts. I loved how much it hurt. (Nobody said I was recovered fully.)
Suddenly then there was a choice before me. An opportunity and a challenge. Do something to make them remember why they chose you. Fight. Win. I dug deep. I thought, what can I say that I mutter to myself in the shower when I am not thinking about anything? What words have stuck to me? I dug, and I found Susanna Kaysen again. At 3 in the morning I sat in a chair, in the dark, in the center of the bare rehearsal studio and tore myself open.
I found the girl who, this past summer, in the thick of everything, had called McClean and tried to get a bed. Who for a week had begged to be somebody else's problem. I called a hotline. I wasn't suicidal, but only because I don't have it in me, no matter how bad I feel. I called and got a voicemail. Desperate, I called UMASS Memorial. I remember they told me that if I wasn't a physical danger to myself or others they couldn't help me, and I remember this phrase tumbling out of my mouth before I could filter it, "Should I just go slit my wrists and call you right back, then?"
I had asked for help, and the answer, resoundingly, was no. And so I spent those weeks on the couch, and then I got up and dealt with the fallout. There was no other way.
I found her and I invited her to say something. And what came out was... The biggest ******* to the things that had beaten me down those past months. I kept the lights off. I put on Bleed Like Me and danced without looking where I was going. I held myself to the chair and tried to escape. I screamed into a pillow until no sound came out. And I found Susanna Kaysen. And I freed the part of me that wanted to talk with all those wiser than thou gods who toyed with the thread of my fate, teasing it with blades- I found **** this. **** being hurt. **** being broken. **** being judged. **** anyone who looked at me and thought they knew what was inside, because Susanna was inside, no, someone different, even, than her- someone, something, angry and wild and powerful and dangerous, and she laughed, and I laughed, and we began to plan just how to say "**** this."
I spent a night with you, during that time. You held my hands. You said they were beautiful. You told me about yourself. You kissed me. You wrote, "Galaxies" on my thumb. I didn't write it on my ribs until I was sure that I'd want it there whether or not I was mad at you. I didn't have long to wait- you ran away again, and I tried to love you anyway, and I succeeded. I still try. I still succeed. It's not getting much easier, but if I know one thing it's that if I
SOMETHING will happen. Something will come to me. If I know one thing it's that I can keep going even when I have no reason to, even when I have no fuel, even when I am utterly empty. If I just take the next step, and the next, one by one, I will end up SOMEWHERE new, and I will find SOMETHING to love. That is what I learned this year. By all accounts.... this year kind of ******. Although I had scattered moments of utter joy, I had long, smudged months of misery. But having gone through it, I am almost nostalgic. Because it proved to me, even more, that I am not fragile. I'm emotional, I'm intense, I'm unstable, but ******, I am NOT fragile. Like iron being smited, I went through the fire, I was hit over and over in my weakest places, but... in the end I have emerged, and I am not gone. And I am not fragile. Welcome, 2015.
This is technically more of a short story than a poem, but oh well.
david badgerow Feb 2016
maybe you were right: i never brought
home flowers or chocolate
cleverly arranged in the
shape of a heart and
i couldn't afford a day at the spa
but i'd always sit with my bare ***
on the cold bathroom tile for hours and
feed you toasted bits of cheese on ritz crackers
while you cried in the bathtub i'd
braid your hair as you
let your fingers wrinkle until
the water cooled off too much your
******* got hard and bubbles
stuck to the cut of your shoulders

because you were there when
my mom's little car died on a backroad
under the old black tree
that scratched up the sky
you pulled your pants up
over ruby knees and asked
me to fix your bra
smoked a cigarette lying upside down
across my damp chest
facing my feet and
made me make a promise
while i traced music notes into
the soft flesh of your back with
my ***** fingernails and found
the cracks in your porcelain ankles
with my tongue

you said my love for you is
something that will never make sense
and you never know what to do
with your hands when i'm kissing you
but you moaned the chorus while
i sang verses into your bellybutton
and tied a couple fingers to the
soft web of hair behind your ears
we were like two locusts
fighting in a gossamer heap

two weeks later you were dancing
in my kitchen like a daffodil drunk
on robotussin wearing only striped
peppermint legwarmers and
authentic dreamcatcher earrings
so i bought a theremin from
your favorite pawn shop
and taught you how to tickle it
and as the wind picked up
whipped your hair into a
crucial comet's tail and rustled
the caterpillar from the windowpane
back to it's home in the wormy grass
i could hear the warm whistle
it made when you played with it
alone in the bedroom

i am crying now while
driving down highway one
recalling how your nose crinkled
when you smoked crushed roaches
or the way your hair tasted in the morning
and how you used to spit a
little bit when you laughed
and i can still hear that haunted echo
even as the saltwater swells
and splashes past the rocks

that sun machine is just
a distant memory now
but it left burn marks on my skin
and the floor where we tumbled
and fought the first time
i called you beautiful
michelle reicks Sep 2011
communication is always a plus.

late at night when i finally tell you
that i don't know you.

and i want to.

and you respond in the perfect way;
you just talk to me

about the **** that matters, for once

not about our plans for the day or the monotonous "i miss you, do youmissme?"

but about the inside of your soul

you take it out of your bellybutton
turn it inside out
and show me,

i needed this

to make sense of myself.
bobby burns Jun 2013
black & blue
as the scissor handles
on a hospital desk
outside the x-ray room
where a scared boy
waits for his best friend
to emerge safely

six sickly pink
as the sutures
outlining her kneecap
and the pale
as anesthesia
filling up her irises

black & blue
as the waterfall
  of markings
cascading down
sheer breastbone
to pool in my bellybutton

as the split blue moon
on ice, and darker as
the curls still unable
to rival the vehemence
     of your stare

black & blue
as the smeared ink
of broken contracts
bound to my skin
in sheets

as the morning after
and the murmured reminder
to forget all about it
seeping from your pores,
as tainted honey
from bees beaten
blue & black
into blindness
junebabe Jul 2013
whenever i lay on my back
i look at my tummy,
my ribs slightly pop out
and the center of my stomach caves in a little
you can see
little tiny
heart beat
just right above the bellybutton
and it just bumps up and down up and down
and this seems to make me happy

so i
press down on that little beating belly
i feel
weird stuff inside
a thump, a beat, a pulse
it feels so good
against my cold fingertips
DAEJR Apr 2012
I want to rip my bellybutton open
(tear through the ****** mess of fibers,
the knots of lies I’ve woven,
and the constricting seams that stitch me up)
because I tore off a piece of my soul
buried it deep down inside
and left it to suffocate in the cotton filling,
screaming and shouting
beneath the padding
till it’s voice began to fray—
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
The aura around her
is hotter than sunspots,
she permeates pure-woman,
allows me private indiscretions.

I can twist her,
bend her in half,
partake in her heavenly assets.
She lets me take her to different universes,
I kiss her everywhere,  
my tongue trickles
from her bellybutton south
where my mouth
lips her magic,
that’s a place I like to be.

There’s only one thing
I like better than this,
& it ain’t a cold Heineken.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
you really need spectacles to read this, zone-in like a humming bird, given all the see-through gaps on the page - reading the Latin alphabet is like looking at x-rays - it's what happens when phonetic encoding borders on geometry that you get problems, or a joke of the gods (erase gods from poetry and you can erase Chernobyl from the history of Ukraine or chlorophyll from the study of biology.*

mother with a                         u...
like the tips of a parabola enjoining to make a double-o?
i.e. moother / μωθηρ? no wonder
the umlaut given specification against the omicron....
this is why greek shouldn't attract diacritical usage,
necessarily borrowed via the Ω-square:

u                            oo

ω                  ­           ü                                       ¨

              (term it as a parabolic union of two dots
          and the twin omega kissing the sky, a limit of
                linear rubric, sentencing
                                            ­                           and 6ft1 tall)...

or sigma, or castrato sigma M wonky...
who the **** is reading this compass, drunk?
it's all over the place! west... matter... σouth
Σorph...                 ρita pread... the ****?!
this is turning out to be a right Bermuda Δ:
cockney humour, please, we have children present!
i'm teaching them to count matchsticks in a pine forest!
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): give me a jaw,
i can't laugh without it.
skeleton (b) says to skeleton (a): conjure up
a diaθragm for me.
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): you mean a diaφragm?
skeleton (b) to skeleton (a): any squiggly line will do right now.

b                                                            ­                            q


and you thought you needed an acid trip.
the above is a hall of mirrors, it's not a compass or
a Kabbalistic magic square... it's a hall of mirrors.
please excuse the Greek gentlemen for applying
diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet -
that left Brits still standing stark naked in Eden...
                                                                ­ we're waiting;
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. hello?!
you'd sooner shove an armadillo into an aardvark's ***
than expect the "masters of the universe"
to put on some lipstick to their gobs:
it's not even about being pretentious as it's about being
donkey stubborn; budge *******! budge up!
i need a can of sardines from you, it won't work unless
you turn into custard or fudge!
you have to forgive my friend, he still thinks he's
part of an empire - which he squandered for politically
correct speech like those Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
noblemen who squandered in three partitions
while ******* on their ancestral grave... the last remnant
of the empire, nortern ireland saved by black market cigarettes
than the good friday agreement; hong kong ping pong
is still going on between Mr. Chi and Forest Gump,
sit down street protests, hippy protests in asia not fuelled
by marijuana... he is a bit deaf: SHOW'S OVER!
OF H.M.S. BELFAST... ****** doesn't hear me... ******...
well, keeping an empire is like keeping an *******,
doesn't last forever, better chisel out a ******* emblem
and pray to it while knee bending at Stonehenge come
the summer solstice. Mr. Bellybutton pimps it gluttonous
in pomp at the Greenwich meridian: clocking up an ancient
0, although not slicing apart A.D. from B.C., just the time
difference: London 9p.m. is Moscow's 12a.m,
hence the 24h news reels.
betterdays Dec 2014
on this day
when the sky
resembles god's bellybutton
filled with fuzzy
only he knows
where it comes from lint

and the ground, sodden
and squelchingly muddy
and puddles abound

on this day....we look to
each other and find old
board games and puzzles to
play...kerplunk, unbarrelled
monkeys...snakes and ladders.....and jenga
all we play
just us three....

(for nanna there is cricket
and napping)

now it is mid afternoon
and we are tumble together
like monkeys on the couch
tod...sleeping thumb in mouth...and us wrapped together....beginning the slow forplay that will
come to fruition tonight...
we have stolen this day...
and are doing so
Nikki Longmuir Jul 2013
Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me my hair is as flawless as a
Newborn’s cheeks, soft as air,
That the color is a gifted blend
Of delightful giggles
Tell me my nose is a vision of loveliness,
Tell me when you look into my eyes, you
Are parasailing over elated bodies of water,
Say that the sound of my voice carries
You from your mind’s darkest places

Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me you love the crescent shape of
My lips, that you grow a second heart
When they call out your name,
Tell me how my savory neck locks
Perfectly into your milky grasp,
How you would run your hospitable
Fingers up and down like a gentle whisper

Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me your cupped palms are crowns for
My adored *******, say they fill
Your throat with heart shaped glass
And make your knees heavy with liquid love,
Tell me that my hands are a never ending
Fireplace, that my fingers are sweet
Marshmallows you dream of tasting

Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me that my stomach, as flat
As can be, drenches your lips with
Melodious thoughts, including my
Bellybutton, your sacred chocolate strawberry,
Tell me the bones in my hips doesn’t turn
You off, but ignites an explosion of confetti
Inside, when grazed by your sensual mouth

Tell me I’m pretty
That my thighs are illustrious thrones
For my bottom, which is nothing short
Of perfectly sculpted royalty,
Tell me when you look at them, you
See a million tiny balloons of iridescent colors,
Soaring towards a celestial vault of clouds, and
That not a chair in this universe deserves me

Tell me I’m pretty
That you can see my soul in
My calves and the luminosity with
Every stride I take,
Tell me my feet aren’t just holding
Me up, but you as well
Say you want to take each toe,
And sing them each a different
Song, as you trace the lines on their
Bottoms, like they’re maps
To my hidden secretes

I am bound by my own eagerness,
Chained with hopeless thoughts,
That one day, however long it takes
In this infinite universe, maybe,
You will finally tell me I’m pretty.
Kelly Zhang Oct 2010
she was a bird, kind of. The kind that was easy to free, you know those ones you hear outside your window on a late spring afternoon, when the sky isn’t quite yet pink but you know it will be soon, and it’s kind of a sad time.

She’s that kind of bird – the little plain brown ones that wait on the trees and suddenly you look out and it’s staring at you, giving you this sort of look that goes, “I know what you are doing and I can see you, deep inside you.” It’s sort of chilling,

but it gives you a warm feeling too, until the tips of your toenails, and you feel very stuffy.

She was that kind of bird. She would often just sit there next to you while you were drawing something, with her hand under her chin, legs crossed, leaning forward. And you would lose all focus of what you were drawing and realize that whatever it was, she would be twenty times more interesting to draw.

So you would casually flick your notebook to a new page and contemplate a few sketch marks, outlining her jaw – and what a jaw. And you would just stare at that jaw and the curve you drew on your paper, and they would look nothing alike. But you hate erasing, but you hate what’s on the paper, and you just can’t take it and you get all frustrated and all the while she’s just sitting there with her hand under her chin, legs crossed, leaning forward, and you mean to jump a little and stand up and stare at her directly in the face,

but you realize that wouldn’t be so nice. And you realize you’re acting slightly stupid, so you keep your poise and take off your shoes and socks, and it’s so nice by the fountain so you dip your toes in a little bit.

Then she turns her head a little too quickly toward you when she notices your toes in the water, and you turn toward her, surprised. She searches your face, your eyelashes, your hands, sighs and leans backward and lies down on the cement, her shirt stretching up a centimeter or two above the waistband of her pants, exposing a white thin cookie piece of her belly.

And then you want to draw her belly, except you can’t see her bellybutton which is the main part, and you get more frustrated, and all the while she’s just lying there staring up at the sky, with her legs uncrossed and her arms splayed out to either side of her, and all the while her blue and brown jacket is – oh no, she’s taking it off, oh no, and now you want to draw her arms except you can’t because you’ve pretty much just proven to yourself within the last few minutes that you can’t draw her at all. It’s so impossible, so you just don’t even open your mouth, and the water is making the bottoms of your toes wrinkly and it’s actually a little cold, so you look at her hair.

So you look at her hair rolled out clumsily on the cement and it’s beautiful, and it’s so unfair what she is, and you don’t even know what to do with yourself.
more of a short story that I ranted out the other day.
title suggestions? thanks :)

— The End —