"bulges" poems
Selfies,
I can smell the desperation,
from here.
odors of worry;
rippling anxities of uncertainity.
two dimensional,
instantaneous impressions,
pixelated presentations,
and
Teenage frustrations.
up tilted camera.
held against the light,
Illuminating eyes ,
and eradicating spots.
that looks like a good one.
Vicarious representation;
of how good
one could look,
fallible and hopeful.
big bosomed dame
showcasing blessed cleavage,
pulsating the adolescent
bulges.
delivered to
metal passenger,
thereafter shown
among peers.
networked to unknown.
Friends who'd never
met eye,
or
touched skin,
or
even spoke.
self conscious
cropping of images.
fat and fearful.
wasted hours,
dying for love.
False dream of
captivating the messes with her selfie.
The very ugliness
of impressions.
Oh, how shallow we've became.
The denial
of the impact of aesthetics.
laughable,
torrents of judgement
Skinny,
fat,
ugly,
behold their desperate eyes behind the selfie.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
they can't see, they can't see
that it coats my bones, bulges against my skin;
those little yellow bubbles
that make me want to give in.
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 11:53 AM UTC
Right. Listen to this:
Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown,
and things seem hard or tough,
and people are stupid, obnoxious or daft
and you feel that you've had quite enough!
Just remember that you're standing
on a planet that's evolving
and revolving at nine hundred miles an hour!
It's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned,
a Sun that it the source of all our power.
The Sun, and you and me,
and all the stars that we can see
are moving at a Million miles a day
in an outer spiral arm at forty thousand miles an hour
of the Galaxy we call the Milky Way.
Our Galaxy, itself,
contains a hundred Billion stars.
It's a hundred thousand light-years side to side.
It bulges in the middle sixteen thousand light-years thick,
but out by us it's just three thousand light-years wide.
We're thirty thousand light-years
from Galactic Central Point,
we go round every two hundred Million years!
And our Galaxy is only one of Millions of Billions
in this amazing and expanding Universe!
The Universe, itself,
keeps on expanding and expanding
in all of the directions it can ****
As fast as it can go,
the speed of Light, you know
twelve Million miles a minute,
and that's the fastest speed there is!
So, remember when you're feeling
very small and insecure,
how amazingly unlikely is your birth!
And prey that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space
because there's ****** all down here on Earth!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Why I Always Carry Tissues
To My Children:
I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.
There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.
When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.
Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.
It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.
Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.
But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.
These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.
No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.
**When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.**
These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.
That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.
The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...
Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.
If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...
2008
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
I know from my past, gym class
From locker rooms, I learned fast
That lots of guys have winners
But my sausage is from Vienna.
I got a little bump, a tiny little lump,
Like a hamster has taken a dump.
Nothing bulges my shorts at the crotch.
Not much there for anyone to watch.
But our society puts the emphasis
On just how big your business is.
If you have a tiny peter, my friend
Many kinds of applause will end.
Go read the writing on the walls,
Because you will inherit the catcalls
And no matter how much you moan
They come through no fault of your own.
Regarded as less than a man; sick
Or perverted to have a small ****
As too often I have been told
Since as a kid and not very old
Amid laughter and cruel jests
I have learned a big **** is best.
No matter it’s something I can’t change,
Apparently a small ***** is strange.
In time I left behind those taunts
As I left behind adolescent haunts.
The pain has become only a taint;
The scars of bullies with no restraint,
But I am sure I never will fully be
Free of their thoughtless bigotry
As I reach the age of an old codger
Dealing with life with a not so jolly roger.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
I went for an X-Ray the other day. My name was called
and after the expected delay, I heard a nurse say
Right knee? I said Yep! She said “Come this way…
Can you get your trouser leg up to your thigh"?
I said “No… these skinny jeans don’t go that high”.
“In that case” she said looking me up & down... with a frown
Pop in that cubicle… and put on this gown!
For a start…it took me ages to get these trousers off…
and force the rest of my stuff into the carrier bag supplied
and then, when I saw the gown, I very nearly died!
It would have fitted me just fine if I’d been 18 again
but the gaps and bulges in the thing were a farce...
and allowed everyone in the corridor to see my fat 71 year old ****
I said out loud when I sat down again in the queue
“You know…I had an inferiority complex before I met any of you.
But this has definitely taken me down a notch. And I apologise about the view”.
However, inside the X-Ray room with all the techie kit and Radiographer Rob,
I felt better… The pain in my knee had almost gone apart from a distant throb.
Then he said “You’re completely safe, just lie back calm, quite still…serene”.
Whilst he clicked the shutter from the other side of his lead lined screen. (So he was alright then!)
Well, I’m home again now, hobbling about… It’s bearable (not like childbirth ladies) but not great.
I’m sitting here with my leg up waiting for the letter that will let me know my fate.
Ah yes… men and pain! There is a well know fact about the differences between the sexes.
It’s proven that, with men, colds become flu…and ailments:- epidemics… (No really!)
So, here’s the letter… Now...will it be Ointment? Physio, to transform a permanent slouch?
Or a keyhole flush with a catheter? Or - Oh no!…
For me - it’s a titanium replacement knee!… Ouch!
Somebody pass me that gown!!!
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night,
****** up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
2.8k
Inside of my body
Amidst death and poison
a virus lurks
in every
puddle,
pumping
blood that flushes
my tired heart
like
the river
Styx
Amidst this
battlezone
that is my
failing being
lies
a secret, sleeping
The cells swim by
They are
rarer
now like precious gems
the factories of my
fighting body
produced like
diamonds
born amidst feverish
forges within
a toxic mine
The gems,
they call them T-cells,
are now suicide bombers
converted daily
by the
whisper of
necromancy
They call
this
hex ***
a war against
your own
treasures
Yet my T-cells
are more,
runes blazing
mystic and
glowing,
antigen sorcery
that wards against
failing
Amidst
the 300,000 +sleeper
cells
that abandoned
my cause
Insurgence
bulges with
nightmare
The cells
clamour
growing with the whispers
of past victims
now roped into the
mystic chains, the wizards
call it RNA,
that bind us
An ironic family
of ghosts
who live
in each other
"junk DNA"
My body
is no junk;
instead a treasure
- what do they say
one man's trash?
My body
an
amalgamation
30 years
magic growing
twisted
like thorny vines
that must consume
their
helpless host
My
T-cells
inception
Worlds within me
the "JUNK"
of
lovers past
becomes entangled
in archives
carved in my bones.
Amidst recipes
of a poison
I cannot trace,
I am
ironically
linked
into
a
family of
ancestors
whose cries
beat in
my still
working heart
The drum
of the long fallen
crying for justice
...My blood
Our blood.
chains enmeshing
....ghosts I
will never know
Now parts of me
that lie sleeping in
Trojan horses,
all my own.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Before last night, I'd only seen the forbidden-fruit curves and
ripples
rendering my skin unbeautiful.
But in the fluorescent indifference of a drugstore
I caught sight of my legs through eyes not my own,
new tapers and bulges swathed in black spandex
even too flimsy for the $15 price tag,
and wondered why words like "small" and "gap"
were heaven to my ears,
while "quadriceps" and "endurance"
have their own quaint ring,
a lovely taste on the tip of a tongue
which has spent too much time
wallowing in self-hatred.
Strength isn't a virtue in women,
we who learn from birth to take up
as little space as possible.
Our shapes always need shaping,
guiding,
sometimes our own voices telling ourselves
we deserve the pain of fatigue
after one mile too long spent running
up the avenue,
forcing ourselves to faint
for a glimpse of thinner thighs,
we deserve to be dehumanized
if we don't inch our way into
the body laid out for us by
Mother Society.
Where is the place for the girl who
hobbles home, skin bruised purple
but flushed with the accomplishment of stopping
every single shot in practice?
Or for the boy whose gentle hands provide
the perfect perch for a butterfly to land upon?
My strength is not an imperfection.
There is beauty in it, and discipline.
These legs can take me for miles if I
take off the iron vest that keeps me
anchored to a Hollywood version
of myself.
Without it, I can fly.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
So many conflicting images
society tells us exactly how we should look
but I’m still supposed to love myself exactly as I am.
Supermodel tall and athletic
but still petite enough that no man feels intimidated.
No extra rolls or bulges anywhere in sight
but not skinny enough to appear sickly.
Never cover yourself up too much as to appear prudish
but showing too much skin equates with promiscuity.
Don’t be too in touch with your sexuality else you should be labeled a *****
but don’t deny too many men else you should be labeled a tease.
Never not be aware of your surroundings as danger lurks in every shadow at night
but don’t seem too hyper vigilant unless you should appear paranoid.
Don’t dare wear too much makeup
but never let them see your flaws.
Beauty comes before all else, including pain
but never let them see how you achieve your beauty in danger of being labeled vain or sick.
Girls should be driven to excel
but only in activities deemed suitably feminine.
Society’s views dictate from birth how we should act, feel, and look as women,
but the molds they attempt to force us into are not designed to contained all the magnificence we are born with.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
I'm putting on my flowing cape
to contrast against these
skin tight words,
delivering truth, freedom,
beauty, hope,
love, joy, *** war
hate, passion,
and emotional genocide
I'm flaunting my anatomy
in mis-measured feet,
peculiar textual bulges
with evidence of discrepancies,
and wondering why
the mayor won't call me back.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
If you only knew,
I'd stare in the mirror
Then stare a bit harder
"I look fine, don't worry"
those words were my armor.
Because when im alone,
Its just me.
No one around
To call me ugly.
But kids are cruel,
I thought to myself
And in my situation
I was left on the shelf.
Hate shows acknowledgment,
and i was not hated.
They were okay to my face,
But i was being tolerated.
Being shown pity
made me confused.
What did they see?
Was it my hair or my shoes?
I looked in the mirror,
Again i looked "fine"
But then another thought
Crossed through my mind.
"Maybe they see,
Something else?
Maybe I'm not supposed,
To like my self?"
This started it all,
Now I saw me.
With the mirror upside down,
Came the negativity.
I would look at myself,
With confusion and disgust.
I would curse at the world
That I would no longer trust.
I would sit on the floor.
Until I'm blue in the face
From fighting my demons
That I could not erase.
Gelatinous bulges,
Consumed my body,
Restricting my looks,m
my hidden personality.
I felt embarrassed,
I felt felt upset.
I would start to scream,
I was filled with regret.
Id pray every night
For a little change,
And that my future would not
Forever stay the same.
And those prayers were answered,
But it took years to recover,
So much pain and hurt,
That no one would uncover.
So i was broken,
And now released from the cult,
I can express myself,
And take some control.
Those years are gone,
But i still hurt.
I have to look back in time,
So see I'm no longer "her".
So when they are confused,
Why im a little defensive,
I will direct them to this poem,
To see my perspective.
But these is just words,
Strung in a pattern,
The hell that Iwent through,
Doesn't really matter.
Because the words are past tense,
And others are suffering,
And its not those who post it,
On social networking.
Its the quiet girl,
You won't expect
Because she wants to look normal,
Not perfect.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Light steps sound from the basement stairs.
A case of home brewed liquor in his father’s hands.
Bizarre, cancerous bulges from cap to bottom.
Plastic explosives from corrosive neglect from stow-away rooms
in white neighborhoods.
His father with a bronze idea, all of them with a destructive mind
A twenty-two saloon rifle bottled up too,
like a maniac gone off his reds and blues,
ready to fire out
with remorseless recoil.
High octane, high explosive, high art.
Cartridge clicks into the chamber.
Son like father, his aim is true.
Like twelve year olds with cherry bombs
we blast a hole right through.
******* boom! Rancid swill rain
staining the biting bright snow
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
They must not hear of
things that have gone on,
under this roof,
during these hours,
they would scream at the top of their lungs,
You do not want to know,
pressing intentions
why his waist bulges over his belt,
why his face is so red,
a murky sky,
eyes slits in ebony stone.
she is gone,
someone must know why,
others are left to guess and to gossip,
hens clucking,
you must not know,
what they whisper with thickened tongues,
There is a kind of pride,
in being the one that sees and knows,
nervous,
menaced by petty stimulants,
Events become like a sepsis,
webbed,
sickness multiplying,
years kind pass like temporary paralysis,
fear is a currency,
sometimes.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
A leviathan i'm beneath my skin:swimming
bulges veiny skeleton rippling dusted morsels
of
muscular innovations
infinite minute orbs bustling scarlet oxygen
my limbs
w,Re'tHe my copper hugeness
i'm so tiny, in your heat, innumerable witless drips of
sweaty hours drawn long nights groaning
in your skinny monument
i'm hip and teeths and fist and gnashing
thigh purple delicate spiderweb of bloodshot
moans
hey
VENUS and cupid a cushion for his pins
in your nudeness. i'm skin just crumbling to your fingers
in the finite naked cells of your palm
i love you
darling
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
I buy the cheapest cigarettes
that I can find
sometimes subsisting solely
on my own fears
too busy counting
and alphabetizing
all of my past traumas
to get to work on time
I’m too young to
feel this old
I’m tired of being
so tired
I’m still waiting
for my life to start—
I’m dreaming of a day
that I can feel young—
as young as these
bones that creak under me
and this flesh that bulges and
sags
as young as these eyes
that do nothing but stretch
and dilate
I’m always so afraid
but I don’t see ghosts anymore
it’s trite to say that what I fear is myself
but I know, I know how evil I can be
and I’m afraid of everything
how do I keep going under
the weight of myself?
why do I try when all I do
is waste so rapidly away?
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC
There is a face
That lingered
So constantly
Her name
was Cindy
I thought at first
She wanted to help
But now I see
That she hates me
‘Purge it!’
She screamed
Standing over me
I obeyed
Since it was all
I was capable of
She told me
She loved me
When I looked
In the mirror
She revealed
My hideous flabs
Bulges and bumps
And was encouraging
When I tried
To banish them
But then
After a time
I realized
That face
In the mirror
Was only me.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
We are a subway.
We ride encroaching on our own spaces.
We bundle and fold each other
into outer significant dimensions.
Our arms harden to tree trunks
while our blood begs to flow freely under the elevated pressure,
grounding our Earthly existence.
This track beats on without destination,
regardless of bumps and bulges in the pathways,
our starting point forgotten light years before.
We try sharpening the images melting under this velocity,
and our eyes flicker back and forth attempting to follow these quickening pictures.
But we ride on,
crushed by the pressures of the Earth,
decaying the love we housed in storage,
now rationed up our stabilizing arms,
holding us averagely comfortable in this close proximity.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.
The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***
And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.
Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****
Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.
A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.
So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
with military precision
is always careful
At every bridge she
breaks step
to avoid foolish
oscillations a peeking midriff jog
pounding shoes
on asphalt pavement
hard could these send infatuated
hopes to destructive swing
Who knows what chasm
fantasized are crossed
Who knows what war
wages and what broken
battle of bulges lost
Why burn another Leader
ego living in some
Downfall Bunker
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
in boots bare run faster
than legged strut
Every night she comes
through a backroom window
protected by a silver
Spoon at best
and every morning she
survives as golden tongue
poetry written on
our wired cages
There is a Soldier I know
Her name is Eden
and her hands are hot
with Dante's inferno
Her adolescent face is cool
and on each ear
a ring of Blue Herons
Every day her short cadence
brings rouge life
to our clay complexion
and every night
her milky whey
lips wonder lost
in our King Lear
kabuki song
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Spaceships flying eternally, beauty lost within our sleep's breadth. Never room, out in to night. With you, machine glow diving
Searchlights clean the monsters. This is a light shower. Man is kind, mankind. Indigo stained glass cathedral dreamscape, lovely.
The girl is trembling by your side what we should not know calmness asked by those whose light shines beyond the cold dark rocks, deeper still, bells toll underwater, asking, begging
Mastodons in the distance? Year zero. Year zilch. Yearly the funds caress my alpine ******* as the budget increases. We dream of drains and hairy ones at that. Massive ketamine high bulges footsteps in the distance.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC