"bodied" poems
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.
"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.
You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.
You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.
You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.
You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.
You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.
You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
**** **** **** **** the ************
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.
You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.
You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.
You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.
You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.
You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.
You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.
You, my love, are allowed to have time.
You, my love, are allowed to understand.
You, my love, are allowed to love.
Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;
You, my love, are Rebellion."
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves.
There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder:
Domestic, and Mountain.
My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses
My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in.
My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer.
My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick)
My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent.
Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly.
There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder.
Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around.
My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln.
One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee.
My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs
The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans.
My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue.
My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity.
My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged.
My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions
My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws.
According to Zeus
As long as you leave it's bones whole,
My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
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I want to be intimate with you
Not bare bodied and touching
But a different sort
I want to see your soul as it is
Stripped down into nothing
Your demons in their raw existence
I want to hold each one on its own
Until I can understand how it feels to live them
I want to hear your voice scratchy and strained at 3am
And listen as words fall from your mouth into mine
Late night thoughts and questions
I want to learn your mind like it is the only book I will ever read
Memorize it top to bottom like it is my bible
You are enough religion for me to understand why we're here
I want to understand you
I want your dreams to come to me like I can make them real
Tell me your secrets like I am the journal you have been hoping to find
The empty pages you have been waiting to fill your whole life
I want to know it all
I want to know your fears
Your worries
Your happiness
And everything that keeps you up at night
I want to be the thing that keeps you up at night
I want to be the morning sun that you cannot wait to wake to
And when you do,
I will continue to get to know you better
I don't need your hands on me
Or your skin against mine
To be close to you
The best form of intimacy
Is loving someone without knowing how it feels
To touch them without clothes on
The best form of intimacy
Is realizing you can open yourself up completey without holding anything back
The best form of intimacy
Is laughing and not caring at all how you sound
The best form of intimacy
Is talking for minutes that turn into hours that turn into tomorrow
The best form of intimacy
Is time spent wasting
The best form of intimacy
Is moments
Is patience
Is devotion and commitment
With no guarantee of satisfaction
It is surrender
It is vulnerability
It is now
The best form of intimacy
Is quiescence
It is the purest method
Of affection.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
The naked is not dangerous.
Lust filling the eyes of young.
Full bodied stretching
yearning for what is to ***
or merely done
For the sake of comfort.
Not a foreign folly
But a jolly adventure
letting the wind and water
wash away the stress of the days.
Naked as the snakes
or the furless babies
breastfeeding at their mother’s breast.
**** and curved.
Fat or muscled.
Not dangerous, but beautiful
like Michelangelo’s David.
The **** does not destroy
neither does the ******
****** does not diminish our morality.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Compound eyes
Astonishing spectacles
Clairvoyant views from above
Wings glistening in the light of the sun
Buzzing long bodied mystical stories
Dragon's breath of spiritual eloquence
Releasing the bugs eating away at conscience
Skeletal spine of an egoless monk
whispering harmoniously the simple remedies
of cleansing thought
My snake doctor
Quick witted unmasker
your view 360 degrees
Focusing on the movement
and pesky mosquitos that feast
That leave us scratching our heads
I look on so enviously
at Lady Dragonfly
as she hovers angelically
In an eternal sky
It saddens me that the great one's lives are
always cut too short
but her legend lives on timelessly
Dating way back to Permian period
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
this is a letter to all of those
who stumbled upon my dull eyes
and poetic words
i apologize to those who participated in
whispered i love you's and dreams shared
for watching from afar as your cared for me
a half of a whole
you held my body, empty
my soul scooped out of myself
like an acorn squash during winter months
nothing left but the skin
and my soul out among the wildflowers
searching for the missing parts of me
searching for my home
i placed my body in your hands
letting you sip the wine that made up me
drizzling you in honey, in sweetness, and in light
for i knew you would protect me
scrawling poetry into the broken bits
the unfiltered bits
you would cause me to feel something on cold winter nights
i am sorry that when my soul stumbled home
bringing home the bits that were missing
that you were left alone
standing in the dark under streetlights
unsure of where you went wrong
broken promises and dreams in your hands
drowning in your own love
suffocating on your sunshine
cursing yourself for loving too hard
i am sorry for hurting you
but thank you for loving me
even when i left you lonely
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Left with traumas that are immensely heavy, too frail to keep dragging them along.
To flee is not an option
my woes have quick legs to chase me,
I fall to the ground in exasperation,
to wait for an able-bodied hero that will never come
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
I am ragged and
Dismembered
In velveteen splendour.
Assembled by a drunk,
Who couldn't remember
What loveliness
Looked like.
I'm too tall for my height.
You are pulpy and bright
Like today's magazines.
Your eyes are spotless like
Ironed jeans,
And they fold and crease
in smiles at me.
You find me funny.
I am sterile and naked
And aching with
Tension.
I'll bend into positions to
Get your attention.
I am fixed in the curb,
and you gather the nerve
to cope with my most
unnerving dimensions.
(I love you. I forget to mention.)
You've never indulged in
petty ***
You wrap my arms around
Your neck,
like I'm a scarf.
I make you laugh.
You've never been
out on the scene.
You've never found yourself
between two strangers
in a darkened room.
Bedroom theatre's not
for you.
Nor costume.
You've never smoked.
You've never drank so much
You've choked
on hot-bodied ***** and
collapsed in the road.
You had four pints of
beer
and I watched you explode.
From your skin I lick atoms of the sky and shampoo.
You are dripping with hygiene,
You are clear, you are blue.
In mirrors you stand and watch me watching you.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
bubble gum died Sunday of strokes at his home ,
The pink bubble gum ...
had a tiny comic strip
Little children wanted to read the comic.
in an adulterous liaison
and is born homely and with green skin.
under the hawkish gaze
in retro pastel uncool-they’re-cool-again cans,
a big splash with a peppy
emoji-like smiles on the side and some polka dots
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
consumers should felt free
... to be relentlessly
Has almost no bite.” “Full-bodied.
This tastes like a Twizzler...
“Sharper bubble feel.”
acrolein, acrylamide, acrylonitrile,
crotonaldehyde and propylene,
flavorturned into a huge mess like 'unicorn poop'
and bubble gum."
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
“All those teenagers was twerk,
take selfies and curse up a storm. …”
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
...turned into a huge mess
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
I am the embodiment of your sins.
I am your greed, gold in color and always asking for more.
I am your lust, swirling in amber with a slip of my tongue upon your flesh.
I am your wrath, rolling in a fit of redden anger.
I am your sloth, lounged in white, sleeping in between your sheets.
I am your gluttony, always craving more, more, more...
I am your pride, held purple in my state of royalty.
And
I am your envy, green with what never can fully be mine.
I am your sins. Full bodied. Anointed.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
For Leonard Baskin
To his house the bodiless
Come to barter endlessly
Vision, wisdom, for bodies
Palpable as his, and weighty.
Hands moving move priestlier
Than priest's hands, invoke no vain
Images of light and air
But sure stations in bronze, wood, stone.
Obdurate, in dense-grained wood,
A bald angel blocks and shapes
The flimsy light; arms folded
Watches his cumbrous world eclipse
Inane worlds of wind and cloud.
Bronze dead dominate the floor,
Resistive, ruddy-bodied,
Dwarfing us. Our bodies flicker
Toward extinction in those eyes
Which, without him, were beggared
Of place, time, and their bodies.
Emulous spirits make discord,
Try entry, enter nightmares
Until his chisel bequeaths
Them life livelier than ours,
A solider repose than death's.
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In the garden, a soft-bodied plant thrives,
through sun, wind and rain, it survives,
among asparagus ferns, it proudly lives,
contrasting its purple triangular leaves
against greens...its lightest of pink blossoms
waltz with the wind, in their fragile freedom,
almost white to blurry eyes
wavering...but, they never hide
raised high above the grass
like ladies proudly poised, with so much class...
a small white butterfly suddenly blends in,
deceivingly perched upon the pinks
but the sound of the camera's clicking
sends it immediately fleeing...
to and fro, the blossoms are swaying
reeling from the wind....wailing
over the sudden flight of their lover
waiting, for a new winged creature
on their purple bodies, to perch, to hover
alas,
....life is short...........never fair...
....and so are some...love affairs....
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 15, 2019
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Blood is the color red.
Evil and fire.
Love and lust.
Rebirth and Jesus.
Danger and anger.
Blood is the color of red of war.
For many who have lost their lives.
And shed blood for freedom.
Blood represents death.
Blood is the color of red running through our veins.
Blood shows no prejudice
Regardless of our skin color
All blood is still the same.
Blood is the color of red cloth.
The killing in the suberbs.
Shows your race.
The slang of gangs.
Blood is the color of red in red wine.
Our grapes of wrath.
Fermenting and full bodied.
The smell of wickedness.
Blood is the color of red in our love and our passion.
Of St. Valentine.
Of our hearts and our mind.
Days of remembrances.
Blood is the color of red in " blood red lipstick".
Attracts us humans through love and lust.
Steals our innocence.
Robs our purity.
Blood is the color of red of Jesus Blood.
It keeps the body of Christ alive.
Brings cleansing to the soul.
Is the rebirth and resurrection.
Blood is a primary color.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."
No, you don't.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
we brought home this puppy,
black fuzz with caramel spots -
he has german flowing through his
small bodied, big pawed liveliness.
he is already wise like a shepard,
he lives up to his breed.
the boy that i love, his affection has
bloomed for something so stealthy,
so strong;
all he needs is his dog.
i thought i was just irrationally thinking,
but,
he only grazed my skin, kissed my lips
a total of four times today.
maybe tomorrow, it will be five.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
--Hand serenity manually entered
The automatic response system
Alerts red light blind blinking
Her excited isotopes fly, entropy askew
The 'A' stands for ready, willing and Able-bodied
Feather boa leather boy and scarlet adultery
Tucked neatly in the back of her dresser
Under bloomers and pictures of young baby boomers
--A civil masterpiece--
"I would love to," she says with a careless car crash
And a shaking ****** serial slave smile
Blowtorch full of propane and limp-action lidocaine
She cuts chronic through a slice of Hollywood layer cake
--Serves it skintight
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
Blessed be the Bleak Black Skies
Where wintry winds wind far and wide
For fairest fairies heaven’s vault ignite
– My mind meandered whilst outside.
“Beware Beloved boy!” – Babushka bawled
“Lest your sleigh slides down the sleety lake
Come quick inside to escape the cold
Except my heart this Yule you yearn to ache”
Seven summers since have passed
And adamant as I always am,
Torpefied are my toes atop the tarn
Yet bare-bodied I be
Showcasing my shivering sheath
Red cheeks, red nose, and red feet
Keen to knuckle under Kári’s decree
So, I submerged myself swiftly
Below Boreas’s biting abode
Concealed in the coldest calmest of waters
Within Winter Wonderland’s whitest
For that freeze that forces you to fathom
that Corpses can’t feel the cold
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
Biro poetry doesn’t work
It does not flow or fill the page with easy thoughts
The pen is a bulky lover, rather than the finer bodied pencil
It gives no quarter in correction, and scribbling out is just a messy affair
So it is unsatisfactory, clumsy and clogging
Oh for my pencil, where have you gone, my love?
Your fine point skating the velum,
An extension of my mind
Allowing expression beyond such coarse biro
******
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
I am born again
this September morning as
each thorn on the rosebush
breaks pink with the sun
the hummingbird buzzes by,
echoes and springs in
the mist of chamomile flower—
a yellow-bodied bloom and
liquid-sugar disco running over
conscious body,
conscious mind
a chord is struck and
pecks the roof twice—
*tap…
tap…*
and I see god for what she is—
suddenly and always present as
two birds dance their wings
over a cradle of planted flowers
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
I am allowed, I am a poet
And what shall I say,
But convey and state
A right so many deny,
With sterns of cursed
Stone brains and stone hearts
Of stone bodied beings
Of a stone age.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
The bodied lilly fires in ashing haze
and from her amber embers I devolve,
into a weeping candle - churning maize;
an orb at night, alight to my absolve.
Remorse suffused with jasmine glazes woe
as moonlight trailings battle hue my grief
for left no infant child to mirror so -
my lover's petals, ceasing lines of leaf.
Nor have, I flare to scribe a marbled ode
that could so hymn or bear my love that shared
nor stone as cold as grey, be just; that owed
the flaming satin, fate had not so spared.
Then let this writ incense - her newly form
until my vigil dims; to death's reform.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
I am aware of red flags
and really aware of the possibility
that these lead to red rivers:
red running rivers
in which I am floating face up
have you forgotten:
I am able bodied?
and able bodied as I am
I am equally swollen with boredom weight
and the weight of boredom
and the perpetual presence
of the inability to see my toes
(if I lean back far enough)
and with this body
(and that body floating in the river)
I have filled a lake of tears
and blood
and ***** and oil
that you have fished in and taken from
in that river I am stained red and blue
and so are the towels I used
(we used
you used)
oh fisherman
retrieved my body
(if you get this message)
because I am calling for you from heaven
you are weeping and heaving
as you hoist my body from the river
it is too late, fisherman
it is no use to pump
red and blue
(purple) water
from my lungs
I have filled myself with it
in its airborne state
and I am watching you, fisherman
from the skies and the sea
in every carp you catch
and whether you eat me or spare me
fisherman
I am perpetually grateful
to your choosing of my choices
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
slowly carefully
as i might an ancient diary
still full of young dreams
and even perhaps
the salt of young love
it hurts
to carry adolescent obstacles
given my age
and all those hateful skeptics
it hurts how they gleefully profane
yet settled dust is yet dust
i sit willing to love
amid my dust
i sit in ever deeper vasts of love
in existential sacrum wag
kindled crown and fullness breath of all the scents of varied forms of love
lighthouse toes inspire seas ancestors swam
lyric feet to message myth of travels won
my calves and shins knees and thighs
crawling climbing walking running jumping kicking at the start
physiologies of courage ****** ahead
as future unmade moulds invite
caress the bodied length intent provides
singing fingers scale my world in chords of gliding love
tips of arcing sensate dawns
diverse as nightsky suns
my palms divine an ever giving gift
no futures could unveil--
the toucher's touching touched
aligning novel insights wordless as the womb of time:
perhaps a symbol flare could squint
and grant a vision of horizon's end--
another pleasure game
a bonsai love to soften age
another twisting meditation's emptiness in form
as motion stillness spaces words
to perfect pitches tempos sound
though all of which will never meet
and never meeting meet
as one
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
"I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed"
*her pale white arm,
back and forth,
flashes before my eyes face,
cutting my few blonde many grays,
she tumbles pieces of
now dead me,
to the floor,
in cut wet clumps
there, across her underarm,
placed there to be but
half-hid,
my Bostonian via Albania haircutter,
(I am a human explorer)
reveals a tattoo uttering
in Arabic
that cuts me
deeper
then any scissored blade
she metal possessed*
I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed
*revelations daily granted me,
this one,
incomprehensible,
as she cuts,
I imagine,
my mused blood superheated,
clotting this poem
oh the words are readily understood,
but unknown is
the inspiration,
the event
so formative
it was deserving of being
transcribed, inked,
permanence earned by,
recording pon human flesh,
exposed
yet hidden
and I dare not inquire...even I...
who among us dare say
that they have not
suffered?
yet, you,
say the word slow
suf-fer,
hiss it
in two parts,
then ask yourself again,
have you experienced
the unimaginable
as real?
and needy to record it upon thy own
human flesh?
I have walked
empty mirrored hallways unending,
stood by rivers imploring,
begging me to join their current,
sleepwalked for days without count,
punishing penance for
acts of commission,
acts of fearful cowardice
I learned
I changed
better
for the betterment
of my united untied
bodied bloodied soul
*where?
my tattoo?
readily visible!*
in every word I ever wrote
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC