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I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i

When I
was young
I listened to
Billy the Kid

I galloped
across the
living room floor
giddy upping
in an ecstatic
square dance
with my beloved

in youthful
reveries to
heroic prairie

a precocious
kinder beaming  
moved and illumined
by the broiling fanfare
of trilling trumpets

to uphold the promise
I pledged allegiance
to diligent  work
galloping onward
on ponies of
reverent faith
respectful duty
playful engagement
and guardianship


never fell short
of resounding

the sweep of
a nation’s
self evident

our democratic
vista stirred
and steeped

a nation of
wagon trains
to traverse
stratified latitudes
with sturdy ladders
erected with common
sense sensibility
of hands to work
and hearts to God

dancing in
wheat fields
threshing sheaves
of prosperity
their exertions
a glorious chorus,
a peeling crescendo
of horns of plenty
splayed across
landscapes of
an ennobled
placing fruits
of labor upon
alters to
to receive
the anointing
of abundance

the lighted grace
of infinite possibilities
shines for a grueling
world listening to the
clamouring drumbeats
sounding in the hearts
of all grace anointed


No lullabies
no quiet moonlit nights
we ardently
dance on keys
boasting soul
filled dexterity
the quick self
jazz tapping
across bold
hidden rondos
squarely set
in the minds eye
of unbroken resolve
our cool countenance
an unassailable
righteous destination

spare sweeping
plaintive introspection
lends space to
with the individual
unum to e pluribus

solitary dancers
incorporated into
fully enfranchised

the gyrations
the rhythms and steps
of individuated melodies
join to form a harmonious whole
a beautifully woven consensus

this democratic symphony
perfected in an intelligent
choreography of
separate people
a mutually
shared destiny

aspirational desires
call forth generations
of spirits boldly engaging
the challenges upholding
the rights and privilege
of all citizens
the celebratory harvest
of a new nations
natural law


As a man
I cruise
Main Street
in a joyless
joy ride
gliding by
moldering schools
defunct governments

surveying the
demolished ruins
of cities,
the decrepit
wrecking ball
of history
is busy,
rolling through
not worthy
of cast iron
forged in
foreign kilns

we built palaces
to democracy
in the tiniest hamlets
dotting the granges
wholly assimilated
into a national congress
of freemen

today our
is scattered
dialog seeking
resolution is considered
betrayal to holy

selfish insistence
masquerades as
high ideals

of obstinance
is a grotesque
of virtue

we have
the peoples

to a battlefield
for tribes…..

once freemen
now captives….

soulless ghosts
wandering lost
inside grand

by murals
and inert
granite statuary
expiration dates
of timeless

the trail of tears
drinking from bowls
of anguish

our only
the silent
ruins we
find impossible
to leave

fear fills our bellies
rust stains our hearts
abiding acrimony
ain’t easily brushed
from dust laden cloths

the deconstruction
of dead cities, mark
expired civilizations
centuries in the making
hammered by the blows
of the mightiest blacksmiths
with precision and deft craft


the spareness of
Martha Graham's set
frame black shadows
of fortitude

it always starts
with the individual

then surely
sure footedness
measured footsteps
boldly dance about
the lily pads
of the keyboard
a resounding ballet
the arms wave
like swaying stalks of wheat
but hurry to respond
opportunity knocks
conditions change
the group awaits
to be joined

my pirouette
remains my solitary mark
on the weaving spindles
crafting the mosaic
of a complex American

the possibility
the promise
laid before us
wheat fields
of democracy
tilled planted

the wondrous yields of
an Appalachian Spring
the promise
hectare of grace
apportioned to all

the promise
harvest of liberty
of opportunity
all anointed
conferred an
amazing grace

civil discourse
was once spoken
we can learn the
lost languages again
sitting on the porch
with neighbors
sipping ice tea
sharing thoughts on
hot summer evenings
caring too care

but scoundrels
became heroes
we fetishized
of insisted

we ******
the whole by
exalting the part

we dare not condemn them
lest we condemn ourselves


the west was once woolly wild
I hear the sweeping sound
of my youth rustle again
the dramatic symphony
of a brilliant people
filled with courage
undeterred optimism
claiming a continent
manifesting a new
Pax Americana
a century
of immigrants  

coming to integrate
coming to assimilate
coming to believe in the promise
coming to make a new promise

I came to hear Copland
when I was young

when America was young
when promises were made
and sworn by a brilliant
fanfare of trumpets

when America was young
Copland composed
when America was young
a promise was made

come forth brothers
come forth sisters
come claim
the promise
of a simple gift

Aaron Copland:
Billy The Kid

Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down

Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty

Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew

A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him

Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying

No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother,  the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.
Zulu Samperfas May 2013
Left to die, unable to survive on your own
a child thinks this. It is the greatest fear
Doesn't last long, but makes a big impression
A bigger fear than being abused
But today, it means, can mean, freedom
from abuse mistreatment, your insults
their disdain, being his personal punching bag
the scapegoat for his broiling troubles
your neglect, and preference for under age girls
Abandonment is a respite
a place of renewal
a silence that terrifies, but then rejuvenates
as I can think on my own
let my thoughts be my guide, for a better me
Run Jul 2013
Itch Itch Itch Itch

Hate broiling
Speeding up the

Itch Itch Itch Itch

Uncertainty sloshing
Getting nervous

Itch Itch Itch Itch

Like a leaf
Getting eaten
By a caterpillar

Itch Itch Itch Itch

Muscles tensing
Breath quickening

Itch Itch Itch Itch

To do but

Itch Itch Itch Itch

Can't reach it
Can't suppress it
Can't fill it
Can't anything

Itch Itch Itch Itch
All for nothing.
Well can't I at least scratch it?
DJ Goodwin Jul 2012
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her

head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she    

sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
             voices only talk to me.’

And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she

sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.

Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
copyright 2012, David J. Goodwin
Jul 13, 2012
We sat aloft a dune
   peering over the ocean,
waves mesmerizing
  our inner turmoil,
grainy surf dimensions
    cut into psyche,
voices turned hazy
midst broiling sun
  washed back with
   salt water tears,
there was no lighthouse
  to guide the way
  nor save disparate crests  
no words reverberated the sound,
    just the floundering of
      gritty restless emotions
that once were blissed horizons
   before moon lost its balance
     to relentless torrential currents
      of neglectful destruction,
   drowning in ambiguous undertows
The full moon took effect.
Alicia Harger Nov 2011
Sometimes I dream of that night.
I think if it wasn't summer, everything would have been different.
But it was just so hot.
In my dreams,
the world is an oven.
I'm baking, roasting, broiling.
It was 108 degrees that day,
80% humidity.
Someone was once acquitted on the ******* defense.
Isn't the heat defense just as good?
If it wasn't so hot,
I wouldn't have done it.
But it was.
And I did.
And secret number two,
I'm not sorry.
Jacky Xiang Aug 2010
I aimlessly drifted in teenage years,
From subtle scion to zaftig plebe.
Seen phony glory, vanquished fears,
And the stench of a wicked glebe.

From below, saw the stars up high,
Igniting horizons with callow wonder.
Beheld colossal beauty with mine inner eye,
Begged for chained thoughts asunder.

Amidst the serene flock to be slain,
Oft' a titan, seldom a vacant savant.
Known sorrow, elation, gain, vain, pain,
This mortal hour, hear joyful lament.

How quick we are to bid farewell,
How slow for friendship to pierce the cloth.
The rhythmic ache of that darkened knell,
The sobbing whimpers for a lover's warmth.

Nix for reciprocated amity, yet!
My seat of affection thrives in twilight.
Herein discipline is adamantly set,
Whence shall this ****** ire take flight?

Into the night that covers my soul,
Unleash that verdant star I see.
The divine abyss have taken its toll,
I pray the shadow is only me.

Note the ease to neglect one's clan,
Yet savored glee of reunions by blood.
Fury cease my elder ties, an infant plan,
By filial ardor, I still kneel in mud.

Star-shine ablaze onto vivid blooms,
Arise the stench of broiling debris.
Beauteous summer-tide metronomes,
The sinking scythe follow gales of peace.

Labor come sweat yield sweet fruition,
Tis annual come the bronze harvest.
Wrongful vengeance seek humble redemption,
Autumn under siege of well-fed zest.

Stormy vista rime graying meadows,
Entrench the sepsis by the ice age.
Taste weeping woe of guilty widows,
Lest their beloved hunger in cage.

Arise young lilac out of barren frosts,
Touch the vital aura to begin anew.
Altruists gladly pay auric costs,
To stalk vile leviathan into dew.

May stones bear indistinct distinction,
So my stride shall stumble and falter.
Peace paint heroes of sluggish fiction,
Chaos rouse prodigies from quiet slumber.
Hereby alive at that phantasmal junction betwixt effort and lax. I'm quite impressed with this one. :) Now I have this nagging fear that I may one day exhaust my eloquence or lack thereof. :D
Dakota Jul 2018
I turned the engine over and drove to my place. Not my house, my place: MY place, where I can listen to albums and stare out across the city.

I climbed up through the sunroof to get out in the raw air, it’s a broiling 95 degrees but so much better than being inside. Cars move on I-80, stopping and going. The sun hides behind the west mountains and leaves ribbons of brilliant burning orange in the sky and reflected in the great salt lake. I can see for miles in every direction.

This moment is so cliché
and stupid
and fantastic
and freeing.

I wonder how I’ll survive this heat. One day at a time, just like everything else.
Joe Cole Jun 2015
You know most of us overlook the simple things in life
My hotel room here inMalta overlooks one of the swimming pools
Below I see a seething mass of over oiled humanity broiling  in the sun
Same time same place but they won't experience the things that I have
Because for the next week their whole world will be
The bar and the confines of THE POOL
Me, quite simple. I have 22 acres of beautiful gardens to explore
Every flower an art form in glorious colour
What normal person would shun such things
All around my  balcony I see sparrows
Drab little birds  seen the world over
When they perch on my fingers and peck breadcrumbs from the palm of my hand
A totally different perspective is revealed
Then the sparrow becomes beautiful
The delicate little claws tickling my fingers
Little sparkling black eyes searching out every tiny morsel
Simple things, simple pleasures
But these simple things will be
The treasured memories of my holiday
Simple things
Sweet fragrant offbeat smells and sounds
accost us as we wake in the oversized bed.
Sheets have been crumpled and creased
thrown to floor in a white pure heap.
Your warmth next to me is almost too
much to endure, I can see the sheen of sweat
coming from your very pores.
Sweat created by the Spanish sun and our Spanish fun.

I look around the suite, and sweet memories flood
through me, the heat of the night as we arrived,
dishevelled yet ready to concede with our pleading
bodies. We cannot retreat just surrender to the crisp
white sheets, inviting us in.
How we tried to be discrete, but it was too sweet
we tried to contain our passion, but it was a lost cause.
This was a country used to the rhythm of repeated pleas.

I run my nails down your sweat covered torso
here we are complete, we are one in this, the Spanish sun.
You turn lazily to look at me,I see the fire is still burning
I know I'll get another treat, Latino fiery ness has emboldened us
In this anonymous suite we compete with each other's affections
Like a matador and a bull we display, and play with each other.
Broiling in the sweat covered sheets we concede defeat,
we fall asleep not by the moonlight, but by the blaze of the sun.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Rolling of a broiling and boiled red sea
swift sticky sick twisted greenery
netting licking at our heels
at pillars of strength O' mighty Achilles
pulling for bronzed treasure
but the marble temple stands
and our idols fall crafting a crown of sin
but who is the idol of the sea?

The compass
the stars
the moon

The sailor prays to his Women
the captain for his Men

Heaving and **'ing
of storms brewing since long before the Men knew the Women and the captain knew his god
How heaven unloads a thunderous sigh
belching a quelling force

Sheets shape figures in the dark
tip louder, louder, darker, darker
colder than wet
clutch yourselves close because you're all that's left
open your eyes and see
the real god

You are not a Man
there is no Woman
You are flotsam
I am eternal.
Deepsha Aug 2012
It's centuries of deterioration
not just by black era defined
humanity to blame
whatever place and time

In the grime if someone
you discover despite
unaffected by the world's deadly spite
broiling in his sorrow
yet happy inside
stop and cherish
for he defines
a lotus's ilk
ascending from the dirt
but remaining pure
defying its birth

Trust if there is one
there might be more
but forever wary
of impending extinction
so if you honor them
behold the few left
before the lotus ousts
and they mold into the
                                                        ­                                           rest.
martin challis Aug 2011
There were painter’s clouds that day;
broiling, tumbling,
moving inner silence across an easel.

Beneath them
a concrete mind mixed and etched
one long brush-stroke:
the tarmac before us.

Excited engines carried us along
and carried by us
an air befriended...
with the convertible top thrown down
your hair streamed
olympic colour; a spectrum of extraordinary.
You threw back a sunrise laugh,
the wind and all else
belonged to exhilaration.

The horizon captured another sky,
a mist-green hail filled sea; a quiet litany.

A pallet knife scratched its lightening
and the danger of no potential
that kept us moving on.
Martin Challis © 2011
Mary Mar 2013
Hold tight to your half of the sky.
Wrap it in pretty charms if you like.
Give it lipstick and an 18’’ waist,
if you choose.
Leave hollows of neglect and pools of ancient shellac
in its heart.
It’s your half of the sky.
It probably deserves it.
Leave pearly clouds hanging
From its foggy lobes.
Fashion a lapis lazuli corset
And whisper sweet nothings.
Kiss her puddled neck.

Stepping out into the hot breath of night,
Is broiling clarity.
I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust,
terror in dusty eyes.
You call her the hyacinth girl,
But she’s the hanged man, sheltered in the shadows
Exchanging joy for a sip from the well of liquid eyeliner.
Half the sky
Is half too little.
Pearson Bolt Apr 2015
twenty-three trips around the sun
just another insignificant planet
crowding a broiling ball of
hydrogen gas in one
of some hundred
billion galaxies

it's hard
not to wilt
by comparison
not even a quarter of a
century and for all i know i could
very well be dead tomorrow buried
three days hence never to walk the earth again

i am an amalgam of every person i meet
each event in this tumultuous tragedy
modifies me just as i alter the
universe with ripple effects
expanding ever onward
out into the cosmic
embrace of the

out like paste
stretched like string
theory across parchment
paper—thin and fragile as i
hope in vain for some semblance
of significance to be lent to me on loan
if i want it i'll have to make it all on my own

but i'm growing older with every passing
moment and i'm not so certain this is
the route i've chosen anymore
i'll still carve my name into
this Earth but not for me
i'll lay down my life not
for my legacy but
for my neighbor
for all those i'll
never get to

not out
of some youthful
idealism or ardent
child-like naiveté but
for an idea that's bigger
and brighter and better than
myself: universal brotherhood
peace and love goodwill towards
all lifeforms with whom we share this
tiny blue dot that we call planet Earth

and while i know i will hardly make a
difference in the grand scheme
of things at least i can say i
died a lion never living
on my knees

i tried to live
my life so *******
brilliantly that even
Death feared to take
me into the nothingness

twenty-three trips around the sun
almost a quarter of a century
i won't let them steal my
hope from me i refuse
to bow to apathy i
stand strong on
my own feet
and say i'm
Having a birthday on Earth Day gets one thinking about the planet and its insignificance in the cosmos. If such a gigantic floating rock has no meaning, then our lives pale in comparison. Yet, however inevitable intelligent life may be in a universe with some 100 billion galaxies, each with hundreds of millions of stars, I like to think that there is still merit in choosing to treasure this moment. The entire universe has distilled infinite uniqueness in every organism on Earth. We are all star stuff.
He sits under that apple tree
on gnarly knoll beside the glade.
He thinking, haven't I done well
with the decisions he had made.

The first I heard that male voice
just droning on about his Rib.
The thing is though if I complain
his face exudes a lamented jib.

He calls me Woe-Man just for fun
and reckons now his troubles start.
Thinks I have got it all my own
when all he does is Moan and ****.

God told him I was called Woman
this name provides him with a joke
at my expense amusements aim.
Its aim to hurt and cause provoke.

His rib he gave with good intent,
perhaps he should of dwelt upon
the reasons for such hankerings.
I do believe a selfish one.

This man whom needed company,
so afraid of being alone
wanted something to rule upon.
Something to order and to own.

In his mind there was no doubt.
Sharing his home with such a one.
This Paradise that he calls home
will be so different when I’m done.

Expected handmaid I shall not
if he thinks this is what I be
a shock is coming so immense.
The man is blind but soon shall see.

Paradise they call this place.
I had no choice in coming here.
But now I am I make the most.
And certainly wont live in fear.

He’s quite attractive to the eye.
He makes his creator a good son.
There are many things I can improve
like make him put some trousers on.

I only ask him for one thing.
The smallest favour is all I ask.
In his deluded simple mind
he turns this into such a task.

That apple hanging true and bright
gleaming in the mid-day sun.
I yearn to taste a little bite
but he says No! and thinks he’s won.

He plies me with every other crop
but mind is set on other fruit
he tells me this is God’s demand
but in my mind I’m resolute.

I only have one friend in life.
Charming serpent of my acquaint.
Such an helpful companion
but evil is what my man must paint.

My serpent friend is always ready
to help me gain my aims in life.
Reminds me that my husband should
show some allegiance to his wife.

I wonder how, if I withdraw
with certain charms that I do hold.
This will change his manly mind
and leave him feeling that I'm cold.

I swoon around in tender pose,
temptation broiling in his mind.
Portraying naked silhouette
with glistening breast and smooth behind.

Positioned touch in private place
his temperature wont take much more,
he’ll soon pay with forbidden fruit.
The price he pays to bed his *****.

Resolve is lessening by the hour,
too make sweet love will surely sway.
He’ll promise anything for this
a price that he shall dearly pay.

Eventually my way is won,
the fruit positioned at my feet.
I got my way his will undone
but apple tastes so far from sweet.

I know not where my friend has gone.
To lose a friend is far from good
then God turns up so far from pleased
and chases us from gardens wood.

Cast from Eden is our fate
our goods and home suddenly gone.
Evicted we pathetic pair
just us to walk this world alone.

Why didn’t I listen to that man
instead of taking serpents phrase.
Perhaps I may of listened more
if only he had shed some praise.

Is there a moral I can say
to help others if I can.
If only I had remained a rib
there'd never be another man.
A satirical view from the female point of view to the poem "Woman. The Wo in Man.
28th October 2011
Mickala M Dec 2014
The taste of blood in mouth,
Beads of sweat, shaking breaths.
Delivered from the womb,

The world quaking inside.
Eyelids that flicker, cold shivers-
Aching bellies, belligerent

Body consumes, rotting gut
With foul, fermenting stench.
Siphoned out and shot up-

Tie a ribbon around tight,
Pale skin, veins protruding;
Lukewarm, opaque skin

Covering blue aqueducts.
Tape mouth shut, singe
The hairs that raise in gooseflesh.

Bite down, the tongue writhes
In the white chains, blood draws-
A breath exhales, exhales.

Fingers softly guide slender
Metallic forms to soft, fertile
Groves , the crook of an arm.

Eyelids close, fish swimming up,
Up, upstream to breed and die.
Numbness descends, the rattling

Of the world halts a moment-
Inhalation, the broiling gullet quiets.
Then a jarring , bottled through bottleneck,

Back into the womb; an odd
Artificial jar. Suspended in viscous
Liquid, reeking of the dead-

unnatural in pallor, wax
Figurines which lay motionless.
Now, taken to the shelf. The lid

Is ******* on tightly, sealed shut.
Oddities placed upon display,
Hidden away for night fascinators,

Those witches and witch doctors.
Floating limply in sickly yellow,
Skin looks stained with iodine.

Exhale, exhale again until empty,
Lungs collapse and gasp for oxygen.
Resist with fervor, deny deny deny-

The power is not in wispy fingers with
Dirt embedded nails-chipped away and
Chewed upon. Nature's coursing chemicals-

Instinctual will to live, for what?
Brain deprived, Senseless to survive,
inhale the ammonia and ***** of serpents-

Artificial cultivating of embryos,
Only to be born into dirt, onto the
sides of trash strewn streets,

Dampened with spit and rat ****.
The zygote will transform, before birth-
Rigidly imposed changes prevail.

Inhale, inhale, inhale. Taste the
Putrid regret, the rot gut intensifies
(it takes more now than before).

Acrid lungs and rust colored blood-
Coagulated, dried in the mouth.
***** blackened chunks onto

Oak wood porch of elderly lovebirds
Who will curse and pray and curse
And pray, yet shrivel and die naturally,

Shrinking into their flaccid skin
At the approach of the jars contents,
At the infant of chemical wombs.

A sign out front reads "A child is god's gift".
Infanticide predestined, premeditated,
More than Amelia, more, more.

Shaking hands, shoot up again,
Who was that who hollowed out
Your skin? Once gleaming eyes burn out,

Burn out, are ugly ashes in the wind.
Is this what you wanted?
Little pock marks bleed again.
JL Dec 2012
Go on, leap gallantly through the flames
The ring of fire threatens to sear your skin
It taunts you, the faces in the conflagration contorted
Fiery tongues outstretched, broiling cheeks pulled back in mockery
Flaming fingers quivering, laughing at your hesitation
Oh, how very tempted you are to leap through the flames!

In time, Honor outranks common sense
And as you pace in thought, Dignity outranks precaution
And then you fly through the ring, a determined little engine (who thought he could)
to a very toasty, elegant death (but in this case, you miserably failed).
Chris Byng Dec 2014
She rushed through the door, soot covered her body from her crown down to her feet. Hands bloodied, fingernails eroded from the coal mines. The momentum from her abrupt entrance into the log cabin threw her to the floor. Her eyes brimmed with with tears of hate and desperation. She was so broiling hot that the prespiration dripping down her face could melt dry ice.

Her husband,  a grizzly bear of a man, was sitting in his bronzed shaded chair next to a stone fire place. He could feel the fire crackle, as if it was a person emoting undeniable anticipation. The flames seemed much louder now that he saw his wife covered in soot, the same by product he became so accustomed to. He was as solid as the stone mantel he sat by. Motionless, quiet, he was a stone  and just like a stone acted with the same sentiment. In his left a he wielded a glass cup with etchings of all the animals he had dominated outside his man made log cabin. Inside this sentimental possession was  some Johnny walker, neat.  Unlike his wife this grizzly bear was clean, his clothes resembled that of a lumberjack. Plagued with emotions he longed to wash all the negativity away, but the strategy did nothing to aid his discomfort.  His garments stitched by hand, his boots appear to have just been cleaned. Underneath this calm vessels exterior, under this emotionaless shell, doubt and self pity was brewing. He was so sure of himself when he was in the act, so convinced it was the reasonable thing to do. "I love her. I have to do it. I have to set her free..." he thought hours ago while he clenched a small maroon blanket in his right palm and a pick axe in the other. He was convinced, driven by the pressure and insecurity that he couldn't provide.  He worked in the mine since blemishes started to occupy his visage. And still after so many years of hard work, found it to be an extreme complication to accommodate his family.

His wife, in a panic, got up and ran to a crib made with expert carpentry. She lunged inside and clutched Dojo. A stuffed animal that no longer had a keeper. She couldn't hear anything.  Not the fire, not the wildlife outside the wooden walls. She fell deaf. It was as if her ears perceived the aftermath of an explosion. The ringing in her ears were almost unbearable next to the crying which left her lungs to struggle like a child's respiratory system when crying for their pacifier. Like a baby suffocating under the coal that her husband worked with constantly.

"We could have found a way!" She exclaimed while her black stained hands dug into the hand made stitching of the zebra. The kind gentle hands that once nurtured a child and created things of use and delight, now basks in a haze of blood, tears and soot.

"I'm selfish, I... But I did it for... For her.." The lumberjack clothed man thought. "There ain't no way she would have been something..." he explained under his breath. The grizzly bear hurled his possession bearing his dear friend  Johnny walker into the flames. The ignition singed off some hair from his untamed beard. He then sat still. Just as still when his wife barged in.  "No way she would have lived... It was the right thing to do!... It felt right.. It felt so right for her grave to be where I practically lived for that last forty years!" Self hate and rage engulfed his soul so deeply that he acquired goose bumps.  The husband attempted to reassure himself with wrongly ambitious speech. He knew only two degrees of volume at this point. Booming language and silence.

More crying developed. The soot stained woman slid down to her knees, then slumped down in a fetal position cuddling with Dojo. A pool of tears appeared quickly around her. The radiance of hate was still spreading and building within her. Her skin acted as a proficient barrier.  Heat from her violent life force alone would have brought the puddle of sorrow surrounding her to a boil.

"****!!!!" The grizzly bear yelled while clasping his dome in between his monstrous hands, he leaned forward in his bronzed shaded chair. At this point no tears were produced by this man, only more self pity.

Either way, the keeper had no chance to live.
Chris Weallans May 2015
So when can I see you again
and when can I see you?
When can I ruffle your vague skirts
into a turmoil of waves
on the flustered reach of your thighs?
When can I lean my breath
against your ear to brush those drums
with my feathering voice?

When again can I kiss
the flagrant mischief of your mouth
or fever my fingers
in the dark arches of your form
I want to be alone with you
in your revelation
and falter at the flesh revealed

Can I undo your clothes and leave
Strewn puddles of patterns
like islands in the carpet seas?
Shall I take you naked
Into the broiling avalanche
Storming down your senses
to feel the brightening rapture
of your thunderous cries?

In a dance of few steps
shall I press my weight against you
and trace your pulsing blood
to find the riot in your nerves
beneath the careful veils
of your long attended beauty?

I seek subversive grace
and dream of your disheveled hair

Or if you would prefer
I could take you to the movies
mark john junor Dec 2015
far out to sea
deep in wild woods
in the crisp dawn on the high desert
there are still places it can be heard
but it takes a heart to hear
it takes a labor of love

countless miles hand to the tiller
to find that brief moment
on the crest of a twenty foot breaking wave
as a nor'easter wilds the sea
when you glimpse it
in the stillness between heaven and earth

under the bewitching stars
in the anvil of desolation's wasteland
of high desert
on the cusp of the suns imminent rise
you can see it in the broiling fire
as the edge of the world itself burns
brandon nagley Aug 2015
Saurian Jovian's and Martian's clasp me to catastrophe rubble,
Dusty airpocket's, with blue sky bubble's, I tryeth to reacheth. Whilst their hobnail's art click cackling, mine suffocation is intensified by magnitude; longitude and latitude, distance is cleverly missing, mine red flow rushes, mine heartbeat nudge's; Harmonious harp playing angelic one, Gale's her hail assail into the impenetrable. She's Immortal and invincible; on forearm's, nose to her garb, her bouquet fragrance I canst telleth a lie; got me broiling in mammal wild primal heat.......

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Hannah Kollef Apr 2010

Do you remember?
You had dreams once,
When time lived forever
And phosphorescent burning trees
Carried you
Through landscapes floating beyond
The places you called Home

You jumped, entwined
And broiling
While suns died
In the livid sky-
Followed the wavering form
That called to heart strings
And shifted the inner tides

Dearest, do you remember?

The beating bright
Left burning, dim,
In the dark spaces you forgot
Waiting in the back
Of your mind

The music
That strains wild
Across eons and
Spaces and pages of notebooks you used to keep
When thoughts were thought
Worth the saving

It brightened the hazy edge
Of every waking desire

And oh,
The Colors-
Jewel tone wings
tipped birds cast in
Gold and crystal-
Green veins
Opened, oozed sweet and
Waxy and clean-
Blues dripped from the sky into
Bleeding fires, molten lights-
Broke you down and
Filled you up
With flames

They had texture,
The colors you have no name for

Nothing is so brilliant anymore

Do not forget,

The blinding light,
The final song;
The fire in your blood
That roars against the quiet
Moments of the day

Your light is fading now
Empty is filling you up.

So cling-
To tangled passions
And wicked dreams,
The heaving cacophony
Exploding immortal
At the edges of bliss-

Cling, cling, cling-

Before reality is all you have to hold
Against the dimming candle that
Lights your world
Copyright Hannah Kollef 2010
Piper Johnson Jun 2011
You can take it all away from me
Unknot the stress
Carefully pulling apart the ribbon
That binds the destruction.
And then you tie it back up
Twisting and furling
Raveling into a broiling stew
A turmoil of contradictions
And we are back where we started.
Nothing ever is solved,
just thrown off the axis
but gravity will always come back to haunt us
magnetic orbs of chaos
stability only ever a fragile illusion
patiently waiting to implode.
We will try and float on
For how much longer?
Jack Singer Oct 2011
She was birthed
Roaring into the world
From the smoldering
Clouds and debris
Of a solar supernova.

The Solar System
Wailed with the effort
Of her labor,
Crying and moaning
Of toxic ashes
As her surfaces
Slowly coagulated.

At first
The molten lava plains
Of her magma
And shifted,
And stewed.

Turning already
On her axis,
Her cooling crust began to
Take shape,
At first

The fusing skull
Of a budding

And her bright
Flesh cooled,
No more,
By black scabs
Of brutal scarring.

Of acidic poison
Raged in her skies,
Gaseous clouds broiling up
From openings
On her scorched
And pockmarked

Oceans flowed
And they washed
Over her skin,
Cleansing her,
Elevating her to salvation.
Waves crashed
Like powerful titans
Capable of bringing
Our little world to its knees.
They rescued
Her warped form.

Groaning she rose up
With the act
Of greeting
The Sun.
The new and white
Star gazed lovingly
Over her child’s horizon,
And the infant,
Wiped freshly clean
Of her burning mother’s
Cosmic afterbirth,
Opened her baby blue eye
And smiled back.

--Jack Singer
Geno Cattouse Nov 2012
Standing barefoot in the broiling sun
Sitting by the rivers edge
kneeling at the alter
Humming a tune at the precipice.
wondering aloud  at the crossroads.
Thinking of the days gone by.
Never to return.
America what lies in store for you now.

The sun will surely rise.
But will you.Will you acclimate to the brutality to come.
Fitfully you will sleep and regret will haunt your dreams.

Will you know the cause of your demise, The wolf will stalk and grin.
Your fortitude will falter as strength becomes a commodity.
How far to the bottom,and then.

The fall is not painful but the sudden stop is brutal.

The wind will surely blow
Your thread-worn garments will flap and flutter in the wind
You see comfort has departed. Take care America.
Reckless Rome.
Alexa Coble Mar 2019
I sat down in the cold hard seat,
My heart slamming into a concrete wall,
Splattering everywhere,
While 3 pairs of pupils,
Penetrate my soul.
You could tell the commotion,
Was broiling underneath the surface.
Silence was my best friend,
We sat there together for what seemed like a lifetime,
Until the timer was up to start the saga,
Of my never ending rendition,
Of the same **** story.
My head was spinning,
Unaware if I shall pass out or ***** first.
“You have a choice.”
My nails dug into the rough leather,
Resisting the urge to scream.
Thoughts scrambled my brain.
Yes I do have a choice,
It’s either I throw myself off a cliff,
Or I let you push me.
cameran Jun 2014
vendors shouting prices for the goods they can't afford,
birds singing painful tunes in tribute to the sun,
mothers yelling at their restless children,
still tired from fighting with dad last night,
steam blowing from cracks in the old brick buildings,
stoners taking hits and sharing pipes with kicks,
shooting poison in their veins
and killing their chances of waking up in the morning,
food sizzling and boiling, grilling, cooking , and even broiling,
smells from old shoes, garbage, day-old chinese take out,
dwelling helplessly in the dark abyss also known as the alleyway,
high class women walking proudly in heels,
with cellphones to their ears,
partygoers stumbling in huddles down the street,
reminiscing about last nights rave,
alcohol still in their veins
the sun hasn't yet come up,
but the city never sleeps,
and neither should we
"big city blues."
JL Smith Jun 2018
A fire burns within
Each flame igniting desires
For a passion I must pursue
Broiling my blood, searing every fiber

I once questioned why it chose me
Tried to fend it off for good,
But birth dealt me as a dreamer
Persistent imagination into adulthood

These words consist of power
Its control bestowed upon the unique
The responsibility of my talent
To share what others sincerely seek

Commitment and dedication
Discipline and sleepless nights
Believing in something bigger
Triumphant against all plights

As strength endures heartache
And my will to succeed prevails
My words shield me from naysayers
Because not everyone understand what my path entails

© JL Smith
Obadiah Grey Jul 2013
She blew in as a broiling wind
chocka with sharp sanded beauty
and scythed the jelly of the eyes.
Jessie Dec 2015
Distilled sunlight and a steel breeze
Emphasizes the anxiety steadily
Burning, broiling, bubbling within me
The events of a tumultuous life takes my mind for a tumble.
Clench and release, ready to unleash--
The pains of day to day.
Even my ******* heart won't stop beating long enough for the sun to extinguish it's blazing hard stare.
All that's left is numbing gums.
JΛM Feb 2016
So, a Grecian alchemist and his apprentice were trying to make gold.

     The tenured teacher and ambitious student toiled in their lab for many days, mixing all manner of heavenly substance and earthen metal with no success. It ******, any one successful solution produced hardly a glimmer, and the cost for spoils was a draining demand on their cosmological rate of alchemical exchange, sure. The Magi grew weary, tired and hopeless. So they searched for higher knowledge, why not. Hermes Traelderstus looked toward the stars for sensible wisdom, and Ostanes Zoyoang'nshper worked through charms for potent magic, vowing to steer clear of power the master fears ("ain't that **** cliche?").

     Upon one worn out night, after a bit of stargazing, Traelders falls asleep in his observatory. Under a full moon his mind soon begins to drift through stars, life, death, broiling quazars, those elements and all their combinations. In time, deeper meaning begins to blossom into understanding... Little does he know, Zoyoang'nshper, eager to impress, keeps toiling and is boiling in forbidden brews.

     "Voodoo, yeah. That'll work on this chemistry test. Some beech leaf strands, cherry bark as a base, beats, and career advice from Eru Iluvatar. People'll love it. magna opera. A great work!" This yong'n drops dank and dusty ingredients into a ***, chuckling, "My great work..." I swear, kid's got good intentions, just trying to make the grade. So half-baked conclusions mixing in half-brained solutions fission, lab ceilings echo with a BANG and a CRASH. Traelders rifles into reality, zoyoa risen over him, holding something glitter prone.

     "MY GODS! Have we made THE stone?! Is that gold?!"

     "I think I'VE done it! It FEELS so!" Zoyoang'nshper declares with delight.

     Traelders snatches an orbiting glitter-stone from his student's hand and feels it in his own. It is a rough marble turning there, each revolution staining his palm and tips with a grassy aqua-green film fringed in oily illness.

     "You broke my dream... for THIS?!" He scolds! Casting his stone into the ****** fool's liver.


and irony..."
i don't get it, could you help me out
Viseract Jun 2016
It's an impulse you can't control,
An action you wanna take back
But let's face facts
You can't delay it
The pain waits patiently,
Tapping away at your consciousness
Regardless of the consequence
And I'll be honest with this
It's almost impossible to stop


The key word I hang onto with every breath
This is not just a test of strength
But of reality,
Making short work of your sanity
You try to stop it
But it won't have any

I see the kids with mocking laughter
Not knowing that my body awaits disaster
Trying not to cause drama
To kick up a fuss
To set off the bus
Drive it down main street and yell
"Hey look mum no hands".

There's a reason rumour rhymes with tumour
Malignant and fast
If not careful you'll breathe your last
One misplaced cut and your veins start spewing
On the gums with nervousness inside your mouth you start chewing
And deep inside your anger is brewing

Coiling around your throat
Just to choke you out

That's what my impulse is like
That's what my impulse is about
And sometimes it's hard to resist
When my subconscious persists
That little voice in my head telling me
"You ain't ****!"
"Just another mother-******* chopping board
And dicing
The Sunday specials you had stored"

I'm better than this
Experience defines who you are
And I'd rather not be a peeling bandaid,
A walking, talking, bleeding scar
That won't heal!

That stays, never gives up for the wrong reasons!
Searches and lives a life without meaning!

I'd rather just be myself
Not the trash can everyone dumps their **** into
Even when it's full

I want to be safe
Can you say the same?
another slam poem.
Dana C Aug 2013
Cast from hand
to unrelenting surge, impassioned:
Violent, broiling, lost.
Up from east,
air from sand,
lungs burning from salt-stung skin.
My pieces found
& lost again,
thrown at Triton's feet.
August 23, 2013. Rialto Poolroom, Portland, OR.
david badgerow Jul 2020
meanwhile it's my lunch hour --
the sun burns the cinderblocks pink
12:40 on a thursday with sawdust in my hair
and a piece of lead pinched between
forefinger and thumb fighting the
sudden onset feeling of vivid panic
i'm obliterated by the sense of being alone and
lost outside the plexus of purpose

my docile body is being stretched open
i am churning unsexed and weak
weeping on the steel edge of hysteria
half gouged and puttering beneath
this burden of butterflies in my chest
the girl is a great distance away but
maybe she'll notice my plumage rising
and receding like a brittle sail on a
dark green sea or hear
my cells test the very limits of elasticity
diverging terribly into flamboyant aqueducts
and humming on the wind like
the plow tractor trumpeting in a far-away field

she is a fawn lying on a summer picnic blanket
sprawled on the rolling meadow as if it were a beach
a genuine beauty in the white of the sun's light
wearing a pair of reflective sunglasses holding
her face puckered up expecting a kiss
and a delicate fire surges through me
my eyes are blinded by the green grass
radiant all around her
and my pulse thunders inside my ears
longing to be immersed with her in safety
ripped up by a lust to be accepted and free
and folded together softly against the hard world

i am being hollowed out into electric rivulets
by the painful consciousness of my isolation
by the broiling heatwave of july against
the longest winter of my life
my heart aches in my front shirt pocket
waiting on my phone to light up or ring
and so i fill my ***** glistening torso
with what i hope is a lethal dose
of papaya-coconut water

— The End —