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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
"- Odds and sods -"
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
Continue reading...
michael reid rubenstein May 2010
tyrant
“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins
Continue reading...
K Balachandran Mar 2016
Dusk busies herself with usual art work
Dusk is busy with her daily bit of frenzied painting,
in the western horizon messed up by dark, fat, nimbus
with an intense wish to make it look strikingly different,
from that was in display yesterday and the day before.
The colors appear in fluorescent flashes and in the next
instance changed in to mixes of more  ruddier hues
suggesting a separation, an invasion of black  night long.

The beating blue waves of sea are all red with empathy
and the sun is pleased to come down for an ablution
in a sudden change of mind, swims to self immolation.
#sun #waves #swim #self-immolation #dusk
Continue reading...
Shannon Oct 2014
The Carnie
He sits on the carousel wheel,
her lover neglectful-
looks over the night as the neon illuminates the shiny people.
He sits on the carousel wheel
and loves to get stuck at the top
so he may contemplate jumping,
so to contemplate swinging with madness
from one
cart
to
another
and then
safely
to the
cart that
holds her. Hero, him.
He looks over the crowd as they swish around him-
sway around him
moving by him as if they were dancing to a song in his head
but he is not dancing.
He's looking for her.
He pops several balloons with a fiery dart
walks away from the girl with the silken stockings held to her
thigh by violet bow...a violent blow to his lustful ways, he looks firmly down
to the dirt on his boots, kicks rocks, kicks air.
Stops at the man who swallows fire from a stick,
"answer me, answer me"-
the man spits ember lies.
He's looking for her in each clown
pulling their make up down with his finger
and it looks like they're crying
so he can't really know
if it is her he has found?
Oh neglectful lover.
He busies himself by winning a prize
for his beloved, his lost
A prize- his reward for believing in true love.
He busies himself, knocks down milk bottles-
and punches the punching bags
insults the slow and disgusted carnie hags,
He moves from gate to gate
and it feels more like Hades
inside
where he's lost her
so he's been lost.
When he's lost her he's scared
that she will not feel, lost but found.
And he will not feel found-
but destroyed.
Teacups to twirl around
the dance he will swirl her around to
the day that he marries her,
if he can find her,
nay- when he can find her...
he'll put her in the teacup ride and
never let the spinning stop.
He'll fill her life with lights and sounds
and cotton candy
and he'll marry her he will
right on the tiptop
of the ferris wheel
where he sits looking round.

sahn 10/19/14
I like to think of this poor man, looking for his true love. I like to think during the search he realized how much he misses her. As always, thank you for sharing my work. I'm honored and humbled.
#desire #soulmate #endure #amwriting #loveforever #loveiswinter
Continue reading...
Revolute Jay Sep 2012
From The Riverbank
The water is too cold to consider moving forward.
Gazing across the water for so long, the sky prepares for dusk.
And from the river bank or the water, it seems to be enough
That it is the same sunset. The warm colors make calls.
But those were the words bouncing in my inner skull walls.

And still, because this view always beats the other horizon.
Keeping both eyes faced forward.
The west busies my eyes then.
The spaces between me and the water is where the pain lies in.

And sometimes from deep in my core.
I think I might hear a call from the opposite shore.
I just glance over, my body's too weak to explore.
But that was just a bird call, from the top of a tree.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Wondering when the sounds will be calling for me.

I watch her swim, on a side farthest from where I can see.
There's no current, but the water looks as if it's moving her this and that way.
The wind hasn't picked up, and she's floating away.
I want to stand up and yell, but what would I say?
I can only know this is as close as I can be today.

I recall the times you swam so close I could touch you.
You lost a feather this morning.
Who knew what I'd get myself into.
Holding on tight to the grassy land
Reaching out to grab your lost feather with a careful hand.

Your feathers haven't changed. The same white, edges so smooth.
Following the middle's solid groove.
From the other side you look at me.
But neither of us move.

I want nothing more than to touch you, when you swim past me I stay thinking.
Knowing my boat might have a hole, and I can't have you see me sinking.
So there I am, left to contemplate linking--
My hope with your chances, to the stars that are twinkling.

My spot on the river bank is clearly love stained.
I don't think it will ever be gone.
No matter how much it may rain.
I stay looking west, imagining a rip in the horizon's thinner part.
Then the earth and the sky would be peeling apart.

Maybe leaving nothing but the two of us left.
Oh, man, but it seems like such a mess.

I know it is simple. The water is too cold for me to be.
I wish to leave.
But can't unless I can take you with me.
I imagine us finding our way through the stars.
Forgetting all about the planes and the cars.
But I can't start thinking about all this.
I look across the water; you're still much too far.

Both changing, as we gazed, each of us half of one desire,

"Maybe tomorrow," I hope, as I find where to lay.
Just out of arm's reach you settle in,
and whisper--

"I missed you today."
Copyright © Jimena Zavaleta 2012
Continue reading...
Memphis Ghosts Nov 2015
Light
She's broken.
Her heart throbs at the losses she has obtained in her life.
She stresses over the future, the present, and the past.
She tries to hide away and snaps at people when they enter.

School has her preoccupied for hours until time to go to bed at 2am, only to be awaken by her thoughts and dark shadows.
Maybe she busies herself with school to get away from the reality.
May she busies herself because she is afraid of loosing the light that seeps within her.

There's a light inside the girl. So fragile and dull, once bright and shinning. What happened? She closed herself up. She hid away the light. It had once drawn so many people to her, making her feel pretty, happy, and something to someone. But her walls built up, sealing the light as everyone left her by death or by pure amusement. Leaving her the broken fragile being she is.

She misses being vibrant and strong, but how can she when she loses her faith? How can she when everything in her life seems to go wrong.

She depends upon doctors, counseling, pills, just so she can be happy again. Sometimes it works but after a while she realizes that it just masks everything, she tells the doctor and the pills change. There's never one happy pill, it just changes and changes until there is no more left to try.

She's forever ****** up in her own head. Her eyes growing darker, her soul growing duller as no one will brave the walls she built and the mountains of pills she takes to find her again.

If someone would just find her.. if someone would look for her through the darkness and shadow, to see that little sliver of light shinning through the seams. She wouldn't stress so much on school. She wouldn't be so worried of trying to get into a college. She wouldn't be so worried about her family and about love.

She wouldn't be afraid of losing the light. Of losing herself.
....


If someone had the courage to find her, she would be free.
#love #pills #depression #anxiety #sleep #stress #help #light #school #shinning
Continue reading...
Cassis Myrtille Aug 2013
Sestina
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

-Elizabeth Bishop
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Pradip Chattopadhyay Sep 2013
Occupation
A prolonged war with virus has worn her quite a bit
Back home though from hosp she is still far from fit
I don’t know how to cook can’t make a simple meal
She drained of strength has to gather all her will.
For she knows for all my rhymes I’m practically no good
Won’t budge from my ignorance to make for us some food
In the kitchen I tell her ‘show me how to make
A few basic dishes I’m tired of cornflake’.
She says ‘too late dear, know what I feel?
You lost thirty years to grow some culinary skill’
Then she busies herself while I get lost in rhyme
Her occupation is life saving, mine not worth a dime.
Continue reading...
Sarah Waters Jun 2012
The Flow
Frequently I find myself covered in soot
Looking down I ***** shackles tied to each foot
Above I see bolts of boring bold steel
Limiting the stretch of what my feelings can feel
Within the private gift we all have been deemed
I am vested in crisscrossed layers uncleaned
Hammering my head are your ticks and your tocks
Recalling my labors for horrid have nots
I must amuse the begotten bejeweled
Robotically remain a chaotic fool
Most of us have been trained to forget
But avail awaits harvest like a reserve in the mess
Special they are that save and revive
Recognize the saviors that make you alive
Ahh…
Safely deep is the desire, a vision of retreat
Infectious is the perfect picture which I have begun to see
Fussing forgone, and put down with glee
I've found the buzz that busies me
That awakens my long since lazy feet
And ends the feast that which my fears eat
The world has given my soul a rhyme
To which I flow and from which I rise
I confused my curse; I'll refuse no more
Its decidedly a gift that has settled my war
Continue reading...
Barton D Smock Aug 2013
report of fetal death
since being found, father busies himself helping mother locate her copy of the report of missing person.  if sister thinks hard enough about puberty she can pick a lock.  she treats her fingers as if they’ve fallen into the wrong hands.  paints her nails with white out.  

I clean only at night.  I scrub severely the bottoms of my feet in the event I start retracing my steps.  any thought I have lasts as long as any thought god has

on volunteering.  my one friend became my friend by feeling up the top half of a train tied mannequin I’ve come to believe has been falsifying evidence.
Continue reading...
Silvana Franco Mar 2016
The Magic of Night
When the sun sinks slowly out of sight on the horizon, taking with him all the buzz of daytime in a happy sigh, the moon begins her climb up into the sky and it’s in this moment that magic is nigh. With the sunlight now vanished from the heavens, the sleepy town is draped in a veil of grey. The stars twinkle in fixed constellations that have watched over the Earth since the beginning of time.

Darkness blankets the forests and hills where nocturnal activity begins to stir; a steady heart beating in the dead of the night, as creatures from the shadows begin to emerge. 

 The bats and owls, the scorpions and snakes, blink open sleepy eyes from a long day of rest. Pupils dilate, taking in the moonlight that helps their night vision as the hunt begins.  In the heart of the forest a drumming is heard and a soft hum of singing and laughter and fun. A closer look reveals faeries dancing in circles, bouncing atop mushrooms, flowers and stones. Ethereal bodies spellbound by the music move and flow freely to the pounding of drums. These glowing creatures sing songs of ancient lore; of Avalon mists and dragons of Old. Songs of witchcraft and magic forbidden to man, so unearthly and sweet beyond human conception. Their silvery voices in cadence and rhyme rise in child-like revelry to the firmament above.

Perched on an old oak, branches crooked with age, sits a lone raven in stoic contemplation. Its beady eyes shine with unnerving cunning and its back is hunched from the burden of knowing events that have not yet transpired. A sudden gust of wind ruffles its feathers, sending one flying up into the air. It twirls and dances in the gentle breeze, glistening a midnight blue under the pale moonlight. It glides silently, suspended above the ground as the raven caws the witching hour. The feather lands gingerly in a bubbling stream where a river nymph surfaces and fishes it out of the sparkling waters. She sits on a stone on the edge of the brook and weaves the black feather into her shimmering hair. Then after admiring her beauty in a pool of still water, she makes her sweet way back to the river. Wading into the currents she knows oh so well, she dreamily sings to herself as she immerses herself completely into the dark depths below.

In the distance a fire appears to be burning, below a large cauldron that is smoking and bubbling. Above it, a maiden in a black velvet cloak busies herself stirring and flipping through a large, dusty book. She stirs and she stirs and adds herbs here and there, making a brew of protection made more powerful by the waning moon. In rhyme she chants her incantation; weaving her magic of darkness and light. She invokes the elements and her Goddess and God, under whose proud gaze her spell has been cast. Removing her cloak, she prances around the fire, sky-clad and mirthful in the eyes of the Mother.

Nighttime is laden with magic and mystery for those who’ve retained their childlike wonder. The death of day gives rise to enchantment and the world becomes filled with wonder in the eyes of those who choose to see the incredible in the ordinary.
Continue reading...
Margo May Mar 2016
throw and catch
gray skies blanket a green field where
gray uniforms throw and catch
throw and catch
throw and catch

gentle breezes pass by cap covered faces
gentle breezes float up and reach inside an
old brick building
third floor
where she busies herself with
case studies, course selections, chord charts

while sitting in her favored window seat
perfect view of the evergreen turf
occupied by number four and his teammates
while sitting in her favored window seat
perfect view of number four
as calming peace meets obligation

resulting in relaxation
unknown for quite some time
resulting in slight longing
unknown to her own heart
Continue reading...
Kelsey Dec 2015
We Used to Share a Kitchen.
Mismatched socks and baggy t-shirts
we bumble down the stairs.
We sit Indian style in our chairs.
Mother busies herself between
the table and the stove.
We're having pancakes
shaped like Mickey Mouse.
And we're talking.
She asks about our dreams.
Little brother is four
and he dreamt about race-cars.
She smiles and listens
"What did you dream Garrett?"
The sun shines bright into the kitchen,
he blushes at the attention.
"I can't remember I'm too sleepy."
He' so beautiful,
its all so beautiful.
Then its my turn.
I talk fast and with purpose
I dreamt about trampolines.
Everyone listens
and then we eat pancakes.
Just an average Saturday morning,
family breakfast.
Because we were a family.
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Nov 2019
Only when yours truly busies himself...
Feigning to emulate NON GMO
garden variety English major oh just so
**-hum, this ousted son and cingular bro
biological byproduct of papa's yoyo

after mama taut Peppy how to grow
big and become vein, her issuing blow
by blow stroke, thence pecker
imitated fountainhead

unleashing at apropos
time outburst analogous when an arrow
loosed from archer's bow
shooting off about hip height mo'

than bajillion microscopic
one celled lil longfellow
(Oh Henry...! *** art thou doing?)
just hmm... giving mutual sin O

Job whelp... subsequently
little squirt begot
sole son this all because sticky clot
hit bullseye right on the dot

nope, no where near size of ergot
spore, yet radiating
burning temperature more hot than...,
liquified gold prior

bitta bing bitta bang forged into ingot,
now just little more about fertilized
ova, I wanna jot
potential pluperfect parasite (me)

acquired, cultivated, fashioned...
one after another deft bon mot
while in utero until umbilical cord
severed than christened newborn tot.

Now fast forward blaw blaw blaw
when I began to clamor and claw
nope, cuz I ne'er learned how to draw,
the least significant genetic flaw,
cue laugh track and prerecorded guffaw
similar to popular nineteen
seventies television hee haw

laughter muted upon meeting
battle axe mother in law
another story... genre mccaw braw,
she excelled spewing vitriol out her maw,
thence I slowly must heard,
mixed metaphors and mastered...pshaw

modesty keeps me from bragging
yea - boot as a non sequitur
non secretor, yukon call me
the word wrangler outlaw
lo never cussing out anybody,
I can more easily whip out pistol

if captive audience
critiques mein arcane saw
jeering (matt speak feeble attempt
at wordplay - i.e. soldiering)
receiving affirmative nod
courtesy none other
than quick draw mcgraw

now ye butter listen (er... read) up
and don't blather and beast not shtupp
to conquer, when ya hear bit ching pup
that maybe be yipping faux ruse
to empty pocket inner empty cup.
Continue reading...
Rochelle Foles Feb 2019
she walks in rain clouds
she walks in rain clouds




she walks in rain clouds
on bright crisp winter days



the night
                         and it’s terrors            still haunting


                                    the infantwomanchild


innocence          a foreign term
ravaged by.                               that which cannot be.
          
                  u .   t.   t.  e.    r.   e.   d.  



          __________


held captive

     in the horrors of darkness that plague her

      despite the rays that warm her face      her hands are icicles
                                                         ­                   protruding from appendages
                                                      ­                      blue and veiny
                                                           ­               

                                                ­                               nearly necro
                             in both body and soul

               as neither dawn nor day
                 hold solace       their strength sapped by the all too real battering

                    of the loathsome black hours that trap them
                      

          _______­_


consumed

        in the hangover
              of fear and remembrance
       she looses her way                 on a path she has trodden many many times
             but never left a crumb trail


         ___________


solitude frightens her
        as does silence            the demons that lie in wait there
        terrify her
                        to her core         she restlessly seeks out companionship

                                                    busies herself with distractions


           futile attempts to vanquish
                     the memories that plague the stillness



              __________


­
she walks in rain clouds
      on bright crisp winter days
        
            tenaciously holding on to her umbrella
rochelle foles
#poem #rain #metaphor #cumbrella #clouds #running #away #self #awareness #salvation
Continue reading...
Evan Stephens Oct 2019
Colosseum Image
The crowd
busies itself
selling lemons
and shoes,
but beneath
the sweeping
scrapes of wall,
a pyramid
of eyes
greeds for
a death.
Continue reading...
Ari Jan 2018
poet's block
my heart yearns to write
my emotions yearn to be expressed
my thoughts yearn to be free.

i would give anything to satisfy these pleas
but alas, i cannot.

my pen won't write,
my keyboard busies itself with essays and research, and
my creativity has gone mute.

it feels like my soul is stuck, frozen in time,
trying to force out the pretty words that produced so easily before.

the more i try, the harder it gets
the more i lie, the number it gets
the more i cry, the easier it gets.

perhaps i need to come from a different approach, like i have today
just stop bullying my feelings, just stop wringing my mind,

and be content just letting it flow.
writer'sblock
Continue reading...
Barton D Smock Aug 2014
imago
a non-person interacting with a baby I began.  I am bright
but want to be distance.

inspiring kindness
busies
the kind.

the photo captures nothing
that is not
aftermath.  you can keep

your

to god I tell my secrets.

to be my father
I fight his.
Continue reading...
Yenson Jan 2020
Aye, by the noo....
The shameless comes to blow their horns
and dud jocks in Brandy vapour extol hot air
lowlifes from highlands pulling putrid thorns
for thistles and barbs in drunken heads has no flair
running from the busies hiding in mainland by the noos
on burns night the soot will still hang high unfazed by lies
the black and tan and all know you all and whats in your lair
the shameless held in contempt has no draw and still lives in dire
An old shanty song by sailors and vagabond of old when they've had too much to drink and are missing home....
Continue reading...
Jeff Teasdale Nov 2017
Soft Silence
Heart stops to hear her breath
Starts on soft silence
AED, full Volts, clear!
Empty shadows hold now no fear

Soft silence busies away without a look
So easy in each other's arms
Mind & body duality
Returns as a singularity

Soft silence spreads its distractions
Pours fuel on warm embers
Bursts into something personal
let it burn, chain reaction, irreversible

Don't open up soft silence
Keep in our small locked box
Keep the key, I'll never turn & run
A tangled web that's never spun

Soft silence gathers up my whole
Smothers me gently so I can breath
Suffocation tells me we're not lonely
Drift into something real, closely

I don't climb into an empty bed
The silence is deafening
Continue reading...
Juhi Dec 2019
underwhelmed
At least under influence
The strained sky doesn’t rain
As much anymore, plaid shirts
Sticking to the empty walls
Sundry fabrics staining the
Disgustingly beige paint
And hands brought up
As if to faint? The struggle

To rip the shirts off the walls
And make the sundry fabrics
Less sundry; the struggle,
To watch the sun go down
And bring the sky with it -
It overcomes me, it fulfills me,

It gives me a purpose
That fits like a square block
In the absence of any holes
Busies my hands with new blood
The next ****** victim being my
Unrelinquished boredom
And the next pain I will relish in:
My endless hyper fixations.
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Feb 2021
The missus brings me high test coffee...
A cold wintry January 53rd, 2021
at Highland Manor apartments
picturesque snow covered landscape
safely ensconced within Unit B44,
we (yours truly and wife)
occupy bedroom and
television room respectively
comfortably numb and toasty warm
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
courtesy climate controlled environment.

I practice crafting poetry
(seeking posthumous fame)
while the spouse busies herself
channel surfing putting
down remote control
after espying satisfactory movie
(Fatal Attractions),
about which she knows
every single detail,
and can rattle offer personal tidbits
about cast of actors and actresses.

Aforementioned regular routine
predictable until
onset rites of spring,
where warm weather perfect balm
to allow, enable and provide
antidote to existential woes
coping with being quarantined,
though sensing optimism
regarding president Joe Biden
green lighting living social pursuits
possibly revisiting
following favorite pastime.

Recalling contra dancing
as palliative against bashfulness
life as high school wallflower served me
without any budding female friendships
until lo… agent tulle nudge, yes
my mother over mollycoddled
then uprooted me
mein kampf familiar
bedrock level road terrain,
which venue offered groundswell

to blossom forth into
golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise,
(an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle improvisational swinging motions
unchained from moors of formality
lit figurative saint elmo’s
Sesame Street Big Bird
winging fiery dance
allowing, enabling and

providing shy awkward self
during his young adulthood
to cast away four ever
self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzfeeding like yellow jacket
liberating spontaneity
that je ne sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward pollination
healthy packing heat overflowing

testosterone bin laden well nigh
erupting pistol (stay man)
toward opposite gender,
whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally
rooted rutting squeal!
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad May 20
aestuosi pedes: cf. poem "Q"
aestuosi pedes or perhaps pedes aestuosi:
whatever the order might be
it did bring me unto a rather favorite passage
of Cicero:

“He’s a slave.” But he may have the spirit of a free man. “He’s a slave.” But is that really to count against him? Show me a man who isn’t a slave; one is a slave to ***, another to money, another to ambition; all are slaves to hope or fear. I could show you a man who has been a Consul who is a slave to his “little old woman”, a millionaire who is the slave of a little girl in domestic service. I could show you some highly aristocratic young men who are utter slaves to stage artistes. And there’s no state of slavery more disgraceful than one which is self-imposed. So you needn’t allow yourself to be deterred by the snobbish people I’ve been talking about from showing good humour towards your slaves instead of adopting an attitude of arrogant superiority towards them. Have them respect you rather than fear you.

noted: for the sense of fluidity i discard
all above formality of Place or Name: sometimes
on a whim, yes, if prominent: either place or name -

and note that each new line is not bound to
paragraph (¶)
  pillow                             -                     crow

said to measure: expanse of - money, printable sap
of space of (a) page
                        and as such: a sobering ambition,
reflection, reminiscent of youth
and Nietzsche and: if anything equivalent to
Ecce **** can be printed
then this governed by the luxury of not printed...

on morality: as a prejudice?
that's not Nietzsche: not neat: cher:
chim-chimeney-chim-chimeney-chim-chimy-cherry
not him: me,

on morality: as prejudice...
since mortality is not ethics but an allusion
to ethics: morality is like fashion
is a sense of fashion
while ethics is simply the dignity of wearing
clothes or rather of wearing
protection
morality is how there is more to cloth
than simply keeping warm
the allusion to *** should summer come and
summer women...
who are not the women of winter
and how all that attire is exclusive
no, in summer a woman's attire becomes inclusive
or they say: it is warm enough
for the bees and the birds and
honey glazing of otherwise porcelain "anemic"...

larvae like see-through skin
you'd dare to look for a pulsating worm-like
structure resembling an *****.

or is there a subjective experience of having a heart?
i wonder
because the objectivity of heart on the basis
of pulse:
is there a subjective experience of the heart
like a heart is subjected to the clenching of the hand
to insinuated not so much
a fist to further insinuate violence but
a clenching of the hand to insinuate
a clenching of the heart a heart's pang of pain
not pain: real but pain metaphysical
                                                    ­  like love lost love loved
love as a chemistry, binding of two bodies
then unbinding like the need for two rings
of metal coupled...

                   quote:
"on this perfect day...
           i buried my four-and-fortieth year...
philosophy... hammers...
               now i'm going to tell myself
the story of my life"

                                  and that is curious,
or rather this is also how you experience a luxury
of writing should reading be exhausted
and by no far stretch of the imagination
this is a little vain a little sordid or at least there's
an aesthetic to the ascetic -
                                            which is hardly seen
but remains intact
                    perchance on the street outside
a train station three bums drinking wine basking
in the sunlight while everyone else busies
themselves (with themselves):

existential revisionist theory,
a soft beginning, inclined to the romance of Islam
maybe i've been working in the security
industry far too long with a multitude of
races, creeds and chocalatiers
since i believe i see that the future is biracial
at least a new Aztec Mecca
in the smoldering *** of hyped over hyped ***
i see the future as mixed-race
but i don't see the other necessary future
that is in me:

bilingual because it's not just enough
to break a few eggs
into the tease of horror-sexuality of the cis-woman
so much better than the early
sexuality of Bilie Eilish and now out for Lunch
bad guy bad guy
i'm finally making a girl cry
not the one crying not the broken idealist
of my years of 21 springs
now i finally found my wrecking ball
my Damian O
                        O the wheel and O i spin into
o o
o
o
o o
o o  o
o o
o o
             bubbles all not so like bubbles
but some sort of covert mathematics
like algebra but
not algebra because there are no hard-on
limp **** problems clearly defined
no this is more an algebra without letters
as letters or unknowns
with only 9/0 fold Truth
the avenue of awe while angels
stopped singing and instead started whispering
to me
the angels stopped singing
instead started whispering
into my mind's ear

if there is a mind's eye: i third party who and why

sobering thoughts burden me
when i drink two fire-milk whiskeys
and smoke a joint because
i microdose
i micro-dose
what i smoke if a sprinkle
in a giant bush of tobacco
rolled up rolled into a tight bun ***
oh the glutton over the intolerance
to the whey woah woe-ah like woe sulking
over a disco mummy dance
behind a mirror and all the ****
that's equivalent to the population
of octopii of the seas...

all she knew prior was no music
because she was collecting music
then sold the vinyl
melted it into linq:     liquidrice
liquorise... darker than spice
a bit like hash
Hashish Hasha...
         Ashar and the Bashar al-Qud

revel in the following telegraph:

CHRSTNTY XHSTD
exhausted
humanity
somehow
too much humanity
in a single man
existential revisionist
not secular dead end
all politics no myths
just newspapers
not fires and talk
and the one madman
Elijah to go into wilderness
for the voice of god
because humanity
somehow forgot and forgave
itself:
it started forgiving itself
for forgetting and making
upkeep a sort of last resort
of angles in the health
and safety rules at work

ergonomic sophistry
like i'm rhyming to the rhythm
of a song...
rhyme to rhythm of a song

RHYM' RHYTHM
i found the two gammas...
alpha male
beta male
and the gamma male
radioactive...
imitation of Rzeczpospolita
"too many consonants"
not enough vowel glue...

Riff - raff -Ryvm...
very velvet very not sleepy so borrowed
time on the touch of water
from behind a white glove...
no not helium filled surgical gloves
touching the waters of birth
waters of ***
waters of mouth
waters of oral
waters of constipated ***
and anti-birth
for the *** all pleasure
just gay dead ends no children
now my children not my children
all seem like children
and chills...
the waters of periods
moon skies and cycles
and buying plots of land
but not buying with words
like pennies by the simple math of
effort invested in, regardless of rewards
because

capitalism is anti-literacy with
the books it pushes all
autobiographies written by ghosts
of men
who excuse them reaching the heights
being dyslexic...
that's Muhammad the Prophet of WHWH
because is LLH to special for gay lord...

such is the extent of AI generated responses
it's like having a secret internet
that was not there prior
and that's me not even having dwelt among
the super cool gansta rot of the deep web
with all the human perversity
depravity and satan bound to happy-sad japan...

elsewhere the transition from Christianity
to Islam because the Hebrew cult is confusing
enough from how language is a study of the Torah
and how slang is not going to be anything
short of finishing that book
mind you currently on my list
of multi-tasking books
because i have taken the forbidden fruit
of an audiobook of the lord of the rings: the fellowship

but i'm gathering history in books
i can't just overlook, forget,
a labyrinth alley of forest dried and smoked
books, list:

knausgaard's vol 6 of mein kampf
frank herbert's dune
olson's the maximus poems
zhuangzi's writings
the master and margarita in german....

i have all these books started:
problem being
like someone i heard say
about Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
oh yes...
that's another book on my list...
like this person said
to entice...
the problem with the Pickwick Papers
as a book...
is to have finished reading it...

thus i pledged: start reading as many books
and leave them unread
or rather keep them...
eternity is going to be a long flight
of the citizens of nothing toward god
so it's going to be boring and painful
so i need reading material
and the forthcoming book on my list of books
started but not finished is...

mad enough to spend £47.55 for a book
of 420 pages...
meadows of gold and mines of germs
by al-Masudi...

just because he was an ummi (mommy's boy)
doesn't mean that in some trance
he started scribbling, Muhammad...
anyone can take complications of a man
and attire them to self then somehow
exfoliate counter to the narrative of the supposed
clues to cues for life...
but i will not transcript the answer of the AI
(chatGPT is like the internet as an app
since i predominantly used the internet
to search, regardless of music i want to listen to
best advertised
but search engine for answers
like skimreading like a skinny late
like a skinny girl no **** no ***
so i mean like Google 2.0 that's chatGPT):

see the poem Q.
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Jun 4
Mellstroy
1pm
not exactly but approx
circa
i.e. 12:45pm
and i'm kneeling again

to some distant prayer...

surely, if i were an aftternoon
******
if i were truly
a William Burroughs
admirer and
that would be me keeping
art alive
in Tangier
in some Arabian nightmare
some ****
fair enough
but also the thought
of an afternoon
listening to the children playing
in the playground
and life
life goes on

punitive measures
if i were an afternoon
******
oh
right
the reality
need the needle thread of music

just purged
had a chemistry experiment
in body
just purged
purged god i purged
i vomited the poison
out

a sobering purge
a sobering purge like
the purges from
food ******
of echo Rome

but i didn't eat i only
eat one meal a day
that i need to earn
and regardless whether
it's Christmas Lent
or Ramadan

it's the Bruce Springsteen year
in and out
and god i purged
didn't have enough time
to get to the toilet
instead spewed bile
onto the bedroom floor
then mopped it up
then spewed more bile into
the sink

then felt the body
like yesterday i felt
a sharp pain in my tooth
and thus felt the gravity
of bone
of flesh
of corruptibility
of morality
now i'm more sober and emotional
than discontent and
disillusioned half-enmotional
and high or drunk

i still need to buy onions
for the tomato sauce

those meatballs will need mixing
with breadcrumbs
and cumin
and coriander
and that sauce will need to be perfect

yeah
if i'm not tripping i should be tripping
but where did that old man with his
dog disappear to
the one that kept talking to the dog
like the dog could be a chair
because the man just
kept dictating SIT
SIT
I TOLD YOU TWICE
SIT
SIT
           woof! bark bark! woof bark!

then so clued up about being in a queue
that i forgot the thousands
of verbal cues in my head
instead i just heard: BLAH BLAH BLAH

the election cycle is on
in Britain and in America
and the world emerges with another
Russophobia
as if it were an Islamophobia
and who was that Russian
spy-op hacker
youtube influence-R

      the subjectivity of THE experience
with the objectivity of A experience
objective (indefinite) experience
subjective (definite) experience...

      these are my letter to Socrates
asking:
is this how the "problem" of universals
and particulars can be fashioned
to a suitable rubric of explanations
pedagogic?

                the logic of unraveling in and with
children...

       upon hearing my tongue
i heard that some Russian paid people
to storm the pitch
and pay them 30 million rubles
and within 20 seconds
a German or a Spaniard claimed
the pitch...

                   maybe some greater beloning
a me to i to you
and out through          to self and other...

      but i purged to sober
i purged to sober
because this day has been too good
although i'd never think to say

that i walked into a bank
like Neville Chamberlain
with a flimsy piece of paper
like from Munich
agreed upon toilets
and chimneys
i mean this Power of Attorney
that was just stamped
by a half-baked translator (in memorandum)
photograph and then printed
instead i needed a 16 page document
with all her crying
and whimpering
her late much late attended to for concern
of affection from a brother
now brain in the fish tank
and just because the word
euthanasia is
only
a word that came from my mind
i think of the ***** turmoil
of uncovering secrets in man
even this
supposed best friend and *** partner
Marius
who owes my uncle 300,000 zloty
and perhaps some land
should he forgo the debt
well but now fishbowl St Martin
is having a trip that i could only hope to once
venture into on a giant mushroom!

painless and likewise voidless
a peering black barnacle
with eyes and tongue
this unavoidable shapeshifter
and sieve-R of jurisprudence
this unavoidable date and time
and hopelessness vigor
that irritates the stomach
glazes the eyes
and fills all these rooms with a blank
evidence of emptiness

in a distance a Dalai Lama
who i don't know is Buddha
a cosmopolitan glob trotter or what
is that with St Peter
some inheritance tax
since the rest of us petty mortals
are living lives on loan
do these figures in the world
represent enforced reincarnation
thus these people
are paying the inheritance tax, Pope,
Dalai Lama...
Emir of Baghdad...
Sufiz of Damascus

      i petty mortal living a life
on a loan
this body
this brain this everything loaned
not something i can credit
with bad decision
without the debtor's sinking into
a wheel of money a chair
of money a lamp of money
a paracetamol of money
a book of money
a cushion a bed a house a money
in logical inflation from £100,000
to £0.01
                          the blood
and vitality of inanimate, dead objects,
that they get moved
sold
contested
abbreviated and joyed at

     hands that move chairs
and make chairs
hand each other pocket doses of
value and devalue
nothing mystical except the slow
realization
by purge so rewarding
by purge so electrifying
so illuminating
that one hour residing
in bed while the day busies itself
with its busiest selves

perhaps alternatively
on a Faroe Island
      and aging to some Scandinavian myth
with solitude and letters
not this champagne milkshake
of human emotions
this snot these tears
this phlegm and all the love juices
this ear wax this sinew
these tendons and shaking hands...

Mellstroy -
so my father wasn't bullshitting me...

"Three pitch invaders stormed the Wembley turf at the Champions League final after being promised £300,000 by a controversial Russian streamer, it has emerged. The troublemakers wore t-shirts promoting 'Mellstroy', a scandalous vlogger who offered the prize reward to anyone who would invade the pitch in his name."

      https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-13484263/Champions-League-final-pitch-invaders-Russian-streamer-Mellstory.­html

archiving websites...
that's actually an art in a way
well it is a bureaucratic art-form

/blog.pagefreezer.com/how-do-you-archive-website

$7.2 million USD
by some count of the casino
and i think of myself
and my use of bet365
and in general everything that i do
and my life
and i do think about my life
and if i were brain frozen
half my grey matter evaporated
in my frontal cortex
and that's Martin
two massive holes in his mind
and i can literally throw
anything in there
like Joyce threw Finnegans Wake
into his schizophrenic daughter
is that price
we pay to venture into writing
beyond what's offered in
the Bible
i just wonder how can we dare
to want so much
as to not speak
and instead write

the grey and metallic tinge
of Warsaw on a cloudy day
while very sunny in London
and Glasgow...

perhaps if half my brain evaporated
i would write some astounding
poems that
perhaps i could foresee
no better life than that on the page
like right now
because beyond what's available
there is no mojito under a palm tree
on a beach with the woman
i just might love

this life is brutal and how begging
we are to disbelieve that to be true.
Continue reading...

— The End —