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Pong Panugao Dec 2013
I am shallow pond to the sea of love
Seeing an Oasis in the mirage of sand
Creating waves that are nowhere but none
Within the slopes of loam I try to run

You filled me up with drops of rain
I soak up all that my body can contain
Pouring like heavens of water to a dessert dry
You pushed deeper into the depths of lime

I let you in, In into my whole
But when you are about to reach my core
The surface calls you back into the world
Leaving this pond into a crater, a pit of endless mourn

With the absence of rain, I thirst for snow
Quenching this urge with remnants of your cold
Waiting for the sun, to dry me up with its scorch
Vanishing like an illusion of water into a drought of summertime
Arati Apr 2018
bla bla bleep bloop.
bleep bloop...
bleep bloop... bleep bloop blop?

blee blee blee bloo...
blee bloo blee bloo bloo.

bla bla bla blee:
bla bla bleep bloop
bla bla bleep bloop
bla bla bleep bloop.

blee bloo bla?
This poem means a lot to me...
Erin Schenke Nov 2010
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones

I feel the scratch
of the itchy cotton gown
on the narrows of my back
as it climbs up and down

Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel
It seers into the crevices of my bones
I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real
I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones

Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace
poke and **** & tap and touch my face
and then proceed to leave without a trace
with no hint of knowledge of my medical case

Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones

I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl
I begin to chant in a simple rhythm
as small as a ball I begin to curl
I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism

The dead silence creeps inside my brain
I want to scream to fill the deadly gap
but the cold thick air of silence brings pain
I comfort myself and say it will be ok

My breathing begins to quicken
my eyes dart around the room
only comfort is the fear which I am stricken
my sight goes bleary as darkness looms

Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones

Tears sting the corner of my eyes
I want someone to hold my hand
Oh God how I want to cry
but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band

The test begins with the thickness of barium
It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus
It tastes like chalk and pandemonium
they want me to suffocate I guess

I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped
x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back
Drink more Drink more They tell me to do
Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you

Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones

Even more poking and prodding ensues
but of my stomach, ribs and *******
I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch
I grow weary of this tiresome rues

The tests are done
and the coast is clear
I am left alone
to dress myself in fear

Dismissed and discharged to walk away
they file my chart with a robotic smile
now for the wait of endless days
I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile

Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones

Pins & Needles Pins & Needles
I wait for the results
Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both??
In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
Bergen Franklin May 2015
Bloop went the raisins as the fell one by one into the buttery goodness.
The liquid fat burning on the heated metal like so many soiled babies locked in a room together; with nothing to eat but each other;
jumping off the bridge of life one by one to keep the others alive;
leaving just one massively obese baby
(well not a baby anymore, but a child.
As it would take several years for them to all eat each other until only this one morbidly,
massively disgusting creature remained.
After all his were brothers gone, calling for food
only to be found by some kind soul
who later donates his body to send the child to a state mental institution.
As the man is found partially eaton and the child goes free on the basis of insanity.
however the mans family never forgets him though his wife eventually remarries.
She is as ill fated as her husband; less fortunate as they never found her body
(she was ground up and fed to her pigs).

And through her spirit the pigs became sentient;
and though her body was never found.
The pigs went to the police and told them about the ******-
but when the officer tried to arrest the ex-husband there was not enough evidence;
and the insistence that talking pigs had told him about the ******;

landed the officer in the same institution as the child;
in adjoining cells.
Where they conversed my smashing their heads into wall speaking morse code.
Through the child the officer learned how to become immortal
(as the child was in fact a genius having absorbed the intelligence of an entire room of babies prior to being locked in his cell)
The officer also learned how to teleport ,
but the pigs had told him how to do that; not the child.

After escaping their cells, the officer and the child went to go find the pigs.
But were sad to learn they had built a rocket and flown to mars;
and would return in several thousand years when mankind was more tolerant.
A local mongoose had revealed all this too them.
Only later did they learn from a cross breed of a hawk and a pidgin that the rocket had crashed.
And none of the pigs had survived.
heart broken the officer and the child mourned for many years-
their tears forming what is now the great lakes.

Where the child and officer still live to this day in an underwater lab,
conducting experiments on rocks from mars (their rocket did not crash).
As the world moved on the two continued to do research-
until they had a break through. Cloning the life that had originally built the canals on mars.
Emerging with the little creature stunning the scientific world
and giving the two instant world wide fame.
As the founders of the great lakes and the bellwethers to the third scientific revolution,
but unfortunately they both perished when their lab flooded.
they were greatly missed.
and in the afterlife they had endless parties with their friends; the pigs.
Though the kind farmer never forgave the child for eating his brain over buttered raisin bread.
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
Clicketyclick —

sickly screens,
per second

Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our

riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts

the resultant
retinal scarring

Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels

triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal

every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,

Am I a server,
or am I a servant?

Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin

I'm waiting for my fix

Here comes the dopamine! —

Meenakshi Iyer Nov 2012
Rush to the brink of it all and bloop!

They who went first nod along knowing the same the same song
before it went dark and light combust, on the shore there was a shadow standing thus.

Hurry to the buoy and rippttt!

Frosty whirls consume like cream over coffee beans
when it the only the sweet crystals that remain at the bottom of the mug.

One two three and freeeee!

Now see that treasure chest folded in ivy and barnacles
*still green in stench but precious for it is now hollow and willing to be full.
Experimental; trying out different styles.
Ozzie Smith, Yazstremski,

Dave Stieb and Robin Yount

these men were of a special group

It's one I'm proud to count

There's players who achieve a goal

While others just achieve

They set a standard for the rest

In their heart they just believe

The game is full of heroes

Men depended on each game

They all have certain attributes

And we all know them by name

Kaline, Ripken, and Wade Boggs

The Carters, Joe and Gary

They're men who inspire us

They have a reputation tough to carry

To be a man of character

You must be better than the rest

You have to be a leader

If you ***** up, you must confess

Baseball doesn't make you one

For character's within

You just learn how to channel it

Bring it out from where it's been

Now, Cobb, Ruth and McLain

Were characters as well

But, not the kind of characters

That we are here to tell

They had a reputation

One that is not lost upon the game

But, to say that they had character

Then you would not speak their names

Tom Seaver and Clemente

Thurmon Munson, Sparky too

Were men who set examples

Of exactly what to do

To build a reputation

One that shows character and heart

Is something time consuming

It's built of many parts

To do the right thing once

Is not the thing I want to see

But to do it right consistently

That defines character to me

There are so many examples

Of players in this group

But there are ten times as many

Who miss the homer with a bloop

Baseball brings it out in you

It doesn't put it there

You show what you are made of

By be fair

Williams, Maris, Dimaggio

Robinsons, Jackie and Frank

They played with an integrity

You could take it to the bank

If you want to be a winner

Please do this if you can

Be a man of character

Not a character of a man.
Silhouettes in moonlit mazes
your tears are complex superstructures.
Superclusters wrinkle I, negative energy,
tunneling through chasms forbidden;
you and I float.

Comes  a sound, depth charged sleeper cell,
a bloop, a mystery, an unsweep,
a whistle, a Julia, a train, a slow down.
Heard by 350,000 zombies.
You and I sleep.

A child derails a train, safe to say,
that the world has its trapdoors.
Its a mystery, they say, but what do they know?
About us and our death.
You and I disorient.

Your two ******* hide a heart,
A mother board center of circulation.
Your body’s iterative delusion
Graces mine. And dissolves me.
You and I disintegrate.

We need to hack the heart,
With absurdity and farce and slipstream:
Into subspecies, we, simians,
We are grateful, gratified.
You and I evaporate
Mya Mar 2018
Soup soup soup you make my heart go bloop
bloop bloop bloop drop a ******* in my soup
Nevermore May 2014
Reading about the paranormal,
The unknown,
Hearing of ghosts and spirits --
It hurts.

The otherworldly
Stirs up the painful memories
Of you.
I'd rather feel
Horror and fear
Anything else but this.

The demonic
The satanic
Can do little else to me
That you haven't already done.

Ghostly visitations,
UFOs and their merry little abductions --
They all remind me of you
Still lurking my nights

When people trade stories
About aswang and demonic possession,
Cattle mutilations in the middle of nowhere,
I get chills
Thinking of you.

You are as inscrutable
As the Works of the Old Men
As the Nazca Lines
As the Coseck Circle.
Deciphering the Voynich Manuscript
Is nothing compared to the puzzle of you.

Listening to UVB-76
Max Headroom
The Bloop
Rebecca Black
Makes more sense than listening to you.

Unmask Jack the Ripper
Explain the Toynbee Tiles
Solve the Taman Shud Case
And I can solve you.

It's far less taxing, really
And more merciful on my limited cognitive faculties.

Bring me the Mongolian death worm
And Spring-heeled Jack
The Wandering Jew
The Dover Demon
And the Am Fear Liath Mòr
Before I decide
That sympathy and love
Are more that mere legends
Roaming the windswept wastes
Of your icy, shriveled heart,
Closer to reality than cryptozoology.

Abandoned cities and colonies
Only remind me of how abruptly and senselessly you left,
Leaving me a decrepit mystery of ruins

You believed in Atlantis
I said it was Plato's illustration --
His Republic,
Like Augustine's City of God.

Perhaps this was why our Atlantis
Sank to the ocean floor --
We were just good on paper.
Or maybe we started slaughtering
Noble half-breeds and changelings wholesale
Out of a misplaced sense of pride,

Or our union was unholy
And rankled the senses of the Sovereign
Who deemed it an offense
And thus condemned it,

Or perhaps this was an act of mercy
The equivalent of what Lovecraft said
The most merciful thing
Is the inability of the human mind
To correlate all the ******* he encounters
And has to deal with
On a daily ******* basis.

That the solid waves of mindfuck,
Pushing and heaving like tides,
Emanating from little ole you,
Would have finished off
Whatever was left of my mind.

You believed in ******* everything
But us.
Lost continents
Fox spirits
The ******* occult
No problem
All that which science cannot quantify nor qualify
You embraced
Yet you ran from me
And into the arms of another.

You claimed to be an empath
So tell me
How do I feel
After what you did to me?

You tell me.

And isn't empathy
Supposed to make people more compassionate?

The **** is this, then?

These stories
Of yetis and apparitions
Poltergeists and precognition
Used to intrigue and thrill me as a child.
When I grew up
I started ignoring them.
You put meaning back into the whole thing,
However insipid.

I was a skeptic.
You walked the line
Between the physical and supernatural
At least
If what you said is to be believed.

You were nothing but a specter,
Luring another hapless soul
Out into the barren wastelands
With a *** of stew,
Just beyond reach,
To its doom.

You're nothing but a ghost
Of an angry girl
Murdered by the cruelty
Of your parents and the church
And now I'm one of your victims.

Now as I start to see
Faint vistas of the supernatural,
They start to run
With memories of you
Until I can no longer
Distinguish one from the other.

So I'll ignore the glimpses
Of lurid phantasmagorias
And lock myself in
My world of letters and literature
Of armlocks and flying elbows
Of video games and liquor
I will pretend your world never existed.

Please, please keep out of mine.
Joshua Haines Apr 2016
A radio perches on a mahogany end-table,
singing like a mechanical bird:
bellowing fuzzy jazz, reaching my ear.

Its sides are rounded
like the curves of a classic car.
The antenna is *****
like the arm of an eager child
I've had swinging in-between
phantom-bytes and sonic slush:
my mind: inexcusable and mush.

A deck of cards shrugs it's shoulders
before it climbs on top of the radio;
it's rigid joints straightening and angling.
It tucks the tab back into it's head,
concluding before singing along to
'Somewhere beyond the sea.'

The voice of the deck rattled and squeaked,
like a caged mouse doing a capella.
Shot spit of it's mouth,
like a translucent spaghetti noodle. Bloop.

- I stormed outside, inaudible to all,
unmoved by few, chosen by none -

Today I sat across from a girl --
across the room, not across a table
or across the universe --
Her hair dangled like a carrot's wig,
a carrot's impersonation of a blonde girl.

Of course, her skin was closer to orange than pale --
but I like that stuff. I want it rubbed off on me,
physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally.
Old-oxidized-green-coins invaded her eyes
and settled in the center of eggshell-white buffer.

Pants were as denim as a brush of shale
or the picture-pose of a flannel-clad beard,
holding a pick-ax and a dusty journal.
A journal of my thoughts, timeless
in their irrelevancy, until discovered
and claimed by someone else,
someone with a beard, a daughter, a smile;
See: Things I will never have.

What could I mean to this person?
How could I be desirable to her?
What am I but an alien,
coasting a galactic sea,
unable to relate to what I see?

- And what was your prize,
in this life? To be loved?
Or to be conquered? -

The deck of cards disappeared.
And I, I without consequence,
rummage through dust blanketed boxes,
hoping to cut my hand on something
I have mistaken as dull.

I have been told that my mother inhabits this box,
somewhere, sometime, somewhere, sometime.
A framed image, a polka dot cloth, a forever
unprecedented by a sunny-day funeral,
where I am the tail of the dying snake
that is my family: last to perish, last to wait:
a corrosive ingestion of unadulterated isolation.

My beige fingers wrap meat and bone,
but also a cheap-golden frame of my mother and us.
Our glasses are all too big, but we were all too poor.
My mother is wearing her wedding ring,
but I don't know why.

So young and vulnerable,
held by a freckled, strawberry blonde.
I don't even know her, any more.

The deck of cards reappears.

- But I've been alone for too long.
Even the winds have stopped whispering.
I have become a witness to my own death. -
alebastard jones Mar 2014
Why is Boredom real?
Why do humans feel?
What's the meaning of life?
"We live just to die.."
Oh ' Enthusiasm
endless driven passion.
take me away...
I'm not afraid.
I've been ready.
nice and steady...
its been real,
Its been fun,
but I'm done.
i can't feel
Whatever empathy implores.
out the door
**** you oxygen!
let me be free
**** me...
pull the plug
haha not funny.
yawn snore
close my door
mow the lawn
Are you mad at me?
I'm not mad why would i be?
Because i gave you my seed while u sleep.
g clair Nov 2013
Zzz the day
Let's let this one get away
it's okay,
gave our best to yesterday
never was my cup of tea
yet they squeeze
press the very best of me
piling on the sugar now
promising the moon and now
complaining drains
life's pleasure out of me
gimmee Z.

Skim the soup
otherwise we'll get too fat
trim the sails
and I'm off to where you're at
winter winds
sting my chin and mess my hair
better stay
wrapped in cozy blankets here
icy patches forming
on the windows
we lay warming
under covers, unaware
nothing bothers, not a care
let the phone ring
when in doubt
never mind,
I'm calling out

Stay up late
watching oldies on TV
lick the plate
leave it on the floor for me
it's okay,
make another can of soup
take a bath
and then shower off the bloop
wasting water, wasting time
waste not want not
never mind
let the toilet run and find
everything will
wait for you
you'll see~
catch your z
wait for me.

one more day to go around
nothings lost
but somethings found
the buzzing fan's
a welcome sound
draw the blinds
cause no one's gonna call
after all.
Edgar E Tobias Aug 2015
Flick* bic


                 bubble   sizzle   POP!

drop   ...bloop  splatter  --- hot.

                           insert   slurp   tink! tink! , prepped...
Lighthearted take on IV drug prep, style inspired by "Youth in Revolt".
Silas T Williams Apr 2014
A multitude of Cerebral Blips
Brought to closure by a
High Priority

This was written while I was listening to Horse The Band

Rip n' cut n' though the gut GOES THE KNIFE
Lovely suds in the blood
Of course I am talking about my mind
Torn to pieces
But that is oh so common
Torn to pieces
Be you insane? I think otherwise
Be you insane? I think otherwise
Are you weird, surely you're not
When you say so I say you're so dumb
Of course I've been called weird but I prefer to refer to myself as strange
Unusual in my interests at times or what leads to what
Ere the di un
Add to category number-twenty
Never mind the numbers and math
Synthesizer star saturates the bar with MILKY love
Beautiful scream of hate is therefore silent
Leave this unhindered by sentimentality and null feeling seal the reeling sta-sta-stutter into the vast!
Rouge rogue go southward toward the boardwalk crutch hallowed by APOCALYPSE!
Southern mess of strangulation stress stuffing the throat with dairy-wine
Bleep bloop beep slop soup ****
Peeling the head said me or was that an alternate personality?
Can't remember now what was said between us as people or dream
Q D Malcolm May 2016
Red river run
Sand bar island
Green mossy tree
Hang over me

Blue sky clear
Sweet rot breeze
Peeper frog chorus
Lying in the forest

Soft lichen touch
Purple petal peak
Fuzzy bee bumbles
Distant bridge rumbles

Bloop and blip
Sounds abound
Chirps and yips
And coffee sips

It's nice to be alone
To hear the sounds
See the sights
Avoid the fights

Muskrat Hollow
Coyote Creek
Hanging Tree
The place to be.
Nolan Bucsis Oct 2017
I yearn for irrelevant.
Something fun.


I just blissfully drift.
Into my idea.
My abstraction.

Independent of reality.
Lora Lee Dec 2015
opens the fridge

goes the shell
a gentle
of milk
A fork,
to stir it well
African beats
take over
and I could
sway my hips
of butter
in the pan
a bubbling hissss
as it flips
Yellow and white
meld together
sliding over
the plate
and shake
of salt, then pepper
to taste
I can barely wait!
Here it sits,
on my dish ---
a perfect
circle of sun,
bright even
on cloudy days
and mmmm
on the tongue.
Darkly Jul 2016
A circle of salt and a smug expression.

"Not today bro!"


"Necromance if you want to, you can bring your friends to life!"

Who needs a healer when you can raise the dead?
g clair Nov 2015
Zzz the day
Let's let this one get away
it's okay,
gave our best to yesterday
never was my cup of tea
yet they squeeze
press the very best of me
piling on the sugar now
promising the moon and now
complaining drains
life's pleasure out of me
gimmee Z.

Skim the soup
otherwise we'll get too fat
trim the sails
and I'm off to where you're at
winter winds
sting my chin and mess my hair
better stay
wrapped in cozy blankets here
icy patches forming
on the windows
we lay warming
under covers, unaware
nothing bothers, not a care
let the phone ring
when in doubt
never mind,
I'm calling out

Stay up late
watching oldies on TV
lick the plate
leave it on the floor for me
it's okay,
make another can of soup
take a bath
and then shower off the bloop
wasting water, wasting time
waste not want not
never mind
let the toilet run and find
everything will
wait for you
you'll see~
catch your z
wait for me.

one more day to go around
nothings lost
but somethings found
the buzzing fan's
a welcome sound
draw the blinds
cause no one's gonna call
after all.
drip drape
the bloop bapay
the ezerbujny
I didn’t want to.
He’d just got in from work
and flung the keys
into the bowl
so the clatter rattled
into the kitchen
where I was taking out
the chocolate fingers
from the Sainsbury’s bag
and I still hadn’t shut
the fridge door
so my right arm
was going cold.

He came up behind me
and groaned
and I assumed it meant
he’d had a long day
except everybody’s day
is the same length
but he put his arms around
my chest
subtracted the bottle
of Gordon’s gin
from the bag
and said we’ll be drinking
some of that tonight
I could do with it.

Then it came.
He asked if I’d called.
I said no because
what am I supposed to say
it’s too far to drive
on a Friday night
and they’ve got roadworks
on that roundabout still
but he butted in
like a cough in a quiet room
and said fish
and chips for tea then
been a while.

Picked up the phone
offered it to me
as though a pig’s ear
to a Labrador
and I thought stuff it
as he shut the fridge
so I reluctantly poked
at the numbers
and heard the bloop
again and again
and said to my mother
how’s this evening.

Sorry yes sorry
what yeah OK
no better right I see
yeah my fault I know
that long right yeah
so half seven
yep OK half seven.

It’s just I don’t like
the idea of monitors
and plastic-y tubes
and doctors with PhD’s
spurting words
buried in a dictionary’s depths
but he put his hands
around my chest again
and we said nothing
for a moment or two
until he said
I’m going for a shower babe
Written: May 2017.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page. Note: Sainsbury's is a British supermarket chain.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
S I N Dec 2019
In a posture of a Thinker i do
Sit; my head perched on a fist which is
Attached to an arm which concludes
In an elbow which rests on my knee; the
Tile is aquamarine; the door is ajar for
There is some problem with some hinges;
Not enough-ajar to see but sufficient
Enough to notice some discontent on
The visage; the pipe is running through
My place; beginning and ending though
Beyond my sight; so the rest of it does not
Exist; and so my head is proped up and in
My bowels the strife not for life but for
Death cannot come to the conclusion;
No truce is possible i presume; as if
Someone wrings my intestines both large
And small; the wamble or a growl crumbles
My entrails and shakes them trying to
Displace then; all exertions are to no
Good ******* right was Tolstoy as
Always that there is only two truly
Important plights: good health and clear
Conscious; ******* the old man was
Right all along; though when I imagine him
In his loo of the 19th century doubling up
On his throne holding perhaps to the walls
In the moment of the endeavor to push to
Push to push O God to push forward O
Man that connotés to you something
But doesn’t change the fact that you are
Still in that tiled room with no means of
Escape but to fight and push your way
Through Oh there it goes like in the
Hospital they say to you Don’t go to
The white light but go now you must it
Is your time my man come on we’ve been
Through so much so come on go and be
And throes are in the way but that is okay
For This is the Way **** let it be and ohhhh
Bloop; Friction; Flush; off we go and may
Our paths shall never cross
There was a young lass named Thea
who loved onomatopoeia
sprinkle drip drizzle
bloop splash squirt sizzle
spewing forth like mouth diarrhea
Chelsea Rae Feb 2019
Oh how the lightless deep entices me.
The cool chill that you feel as you
Gradually sink down
Into the abyss.

It sings to me, my siren.
Seducing my ears with elegant music
Instead of the never ending chatter
I deal with.
Whether in my mind
Or in my life
Doesn't matter.
It all becomes muffled
As water fills my ears.

I just crave the song and silence.
She calls me deeper still.
Washing away all my fears.
Hoping to be completely swallowed
By the blackest blanketed shadow.
I am a slave against her will.

I hope I go under, and all you hear is
A single drop of water,
As the ripples stretch on farther
The melody suddenly stops
All I heard was
I need silence.

— The End —