"bypasses" poems
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
Despicability is the foundation to their life
For them it is intrinsic
Genetically encoded
Simplistic
Poetically eroded
Reprehensible at best
**Unscrupulously callous
Secrets and facts, they conveniently
ingest
Distorted byproducts, they release to the
masses
To aid their campaign; a forked tongue
fest**
Pathetic and unapologetic
A beast armed to the teeth
Imported bypasses to increase the flow of police
A weakness and an act,
They so vehemently attest
**Harvesting greens off the branches of
the people
Pockets engorged with wads and folds
Crushing blue collars at the lower levels
As they sit atop their pyramids of gold**
Today they sip champagne
To celebrate their reign
Tonight we'll skip being humane
To feed them excruciating pain
**You've incited this coup with ill-thought
deterrents
Now herald the arrival of the scourge
Down with lopsided governments
Tonight... All we would topple! Tonight we purge!**
Justin G
ryn**
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Village rain that floods the aqueduct
bypasses the dam
and reaches all
of the town
houses.
Village
fire springs
from the soul
burns the people
and ultimately cleanses skin of sin.
Village residents, husbands and spouses.
Village residents, tiny little children.
Should they Drown or Crisp.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
We just can't make them
like this anymore.
The skill and craftsmanship
have been sacrificed
on the altar of accuracy
and machines and computers
have sterilised
the smell of hard work and love.
To make such a map
with no satellites, no certainty
meant wallowing in the mystery of the world.
In the space between knowing and supposing
there was a beauty
we may now miss, or deem unimportant.
However,
if I want to get from my house
to your grave, to pay my respects -
through the shopping malls
and bypasses,
the glass and steel towers
you could never have imagined,
I will use my sat-nav
and be grateful for it.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 7:24 AM UTC
My friend tells me that each morning
she awakens with suicide and coffee
on her mind, then she has a smoke.
I want to tell her how my mind
entirely bypasses the coffee -
how suicide is the first thought,
second thought, all day and night thought.
I want to tell her that if I must stay,
a simple razor blade will do...
criss-crossing over old scars, gashes
just deep enough to bleed out the pain,
or awaken the senses and escape numbness.
I want to see my blood trickling down, down, down
my thighs or arms like red rivers creating their own pathway
through my white valleys of flesh.
But instead, I sit silently, coffee in hand,
swallowing her pain as I stifle my own.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
falling into subterranean sleep, I notice such blackness
bypasses a pinprick of light; dreams are avenues
to enigmas presenting themselves as someone forgotten.
sleep laves labyrinths with incandescent sequins.
everybody is strange here, interlocutor commune,
still yet nothing I can understand – better be braille, or
contrapuntal dance, but still you uttered nothing;
your locutionary silence seeks no contentment.
i have never heard such riot
of laughter toss me out of sleep. perhaps it was our undoing,
our deepest, secretive entrails unloosen us in such fashion
worth depicting as obscenely courageous, the width
of arm-span the size of outstretched islands, and stepping into
that particular wideness, are my small feet traipsing
swiftly throbbing in the heat of choosing:
to go or to stay – cyclic spectacle that eschews
dailiness that I know I may have forgotten you in faces
of lampposts, the pared skin of onion, the gleaming washlines,
the white feral on the rooftops, a blank piece of paper,
a munificent Bulacan sky, or any sky at that since
they are all bleached and they arrive not with wind but
with lashes: the color of white that flagellates, that blinds,
that oscillates in space which is then reduced to the
back of my hand: I know this. I know all of this.
we were not naked, yet something
buried in the skin reveals itself disarmed, mumbling
an earnest palaver of questions I have no answers for.
what happened? where are we? should we just – die?
an echoing reverb, or simply a song – a metronomic
carousal of swan-song I have heard before persists
and maybe all this time,
we have been awake, in separate cities.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
long, long fingers
I want to touch the screen and meet you where you can't feel me prodding,
can't feel me remembering
or read into my thoughts
I don't even know the implications of my thoughts,
if you are the shape in the clouds,
or you are the shape of my feelings,
or I'm stuck in the clouds and have no ground.
The feelings are there, but I'm thinking too hard
too hard to speak
but it was also that way then, in the night,
easier to touch your fingers than to look you in the eye
easier to talk about the clouds than about the feelings
Somehow I think the comfort of touch bypasses the fear of rejection, given its time
I wonder what you think of time and space
but maybe your ability to not think about everything is what makes you beautiful to me
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
the crow
the fine print
of nowhere.
the bomb shelter
the rumored locale
of a mother’s
laundry room.
the bare cross
the teething
toy
a baby
bypasses
for the neck
of the woman
waiting
for her junk
to fall.
the mare
the anxious
bike.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Plastic really, actually,
It pumps and Hemo flows.
The doctors placed it
beneath my breast
How long will it beat?
None knows.
I’m undersized for seventeen,
Brown eyes and auburn tresses
A year behind to graduate
with my friends in their prom dresses
Back when my heart was still my own
before my failed bypasses.
I was like many High school girls,
I slept through history classes.
.Back then there was a boy I loved
We’d spend hours on the phone.
His smile made my heart skip a beat
when it didn’t on its own.
Then I fainted in my science class,
my complexion turning blue
Mister Sullivan saved my life
by knowing what to do.
Now can I give my heart away,
a heart that’s not my own?
Can I feel as I used to feel
when its just us two alone?
Was my soul within the heart
that died when we untwined?
Is that spirit an illusion,
just a construct of the mind?
Will this heart race in your embrace?
Will your kisses taste divine?
Or am I just the Tin girl
feeling hollow all the time?
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 4:31 PM UTC
A lioness with crystals around her neck,
Dances for the world to see.
She’s worth all of the rain in the atmosphere,
She bypasses the stars and gives the galaxy chills.
The sky aches and mourns in her absence,
While she resides in the tundra.
It’s no wonder she hasn’t combusted,
Cracking like thunder.
Bubbling like molten rock,
Still sweeter than lava cake.
She only aches for the quaking sunrise
And unfair, animated compromise.
She stopped breathing years ago,
When the ground became stable
She lives externally and deliberately
Flying through colours agelessly.
She’ll consume you, she’ll ruin me!
The sooner the better.
I've been craving her thunder
I'm yours to **** Feed my culture.
Enjoying this choking feeling,
Wrapped in silk in an auto-mobile
Filled with pillows,
So we can drive faster than ever.
She likes the taste of epinephrine,
and I like the taste of her alone
She drinks up the world’s drought
And giggles while we sleep, parched and shivering.
...
But god ****** I’d give my only breath to her.
Transparent like a demon; simply human perfection.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
She’s small but beautiful.
She wears four-inch black heels that should hurt her,
but only encourage the confidence that leaks from her so readily.
Her hair is black and cropped short to frame her heart-shaped face,
and a few strands touch her red, red lips tenderly.
Her dress is as black as her shoes,
cropped shorter than her hair and does not even touch her fingertips.
Her confidence is flattened under the pure *** appeal
that shines through her like spotlight.
She walks carefully, but not because of her shoes;
she surveys the room and thinks them beneath her,
though when she closes her eyes she knows she desires their attention.
Everybody around her wants her to stop being beautiful,
and everybody who is fortunate enough to catch her in a moment of uneasy
want to love her.
When she walks, men line up in hopes to take her hand
and guide her to her destination;
they wait at the bottom of stairs and around corners
in hopes to earn her hand with their generosity.
But she walks slower to ensure her confidence won’t falter,
and she bypasses their hands and hearts, even though she knows she needs them.
She is the keeper of love and loneliness and a siren who needs no song.
Her soul is as black as her heart and her shoes, and she is lonely.
But she is beautiful.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
**it would seem
that the sufferer engaged in suffering
might process her suffering
through one of three gates..
gate 1: the sufferer becomes the suffering
and attempts to wiggle free..finding temporary
relief..or perhaps an unsought intensification..
gate 2: the sufferer enters into the pain..looks for
boundaries..finding none she notices that in which
the pain resides..and comes home..
gate 3: the sufferer bypasses the suffering to
immediately arrive home..then returning to
the suffering..she saturates it with the infinite
peace of her home...
and we note..suffering stimulates a search
for any gate yielding relief and peace...
our culture seems to rely on gate 1..with ongoing
search for those other gates...**
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
. a month spent listening to (a) grandfather's medley of memories, an eroded imagination, an inversion of a figurative- something of other... a month spent with the breath of Shiva... dementia... no wonder my use, subsequently, does not represent the vitality of a springbok... less a torrent of a waterfall... and more... heavily reliant on: perpendicular and subserviently cryptic.
what came first:
the vowel,
or the consonant...
| standing ground...
figments
of the imagination -
vowels
and the rigid
arches of
huddling
consonants...
unkept lockets
of birches
woven
in pine forests...
dead to humor
English oak:
numbed
a'pathos
vater...
vague wounds
caressed
by the winds...
in beast: siamese -
no differential,
unto a blast from
a sputnik's
starry baron knead
of the knee
third letter:
surd...
what the eye
and the aye does
see...
but the: hushed
agreement bypasses...
to 'now
is no sentiment of
a nauw...
Cymry:
piquant,
the difference
between
(k)now
and n A w
no... 'now...
brigadier is
not (a) /
no trumpet-tier /
player...
-teer...
a vowel,
a consonant,
a surd...
and if...
VII were again,
and 7 far from F...
tickling e. e. cummings...
translation?
missing...
the obscurity
of the concept of flesh
when wearing
a pair of gloves,
the Sait Paul & Peters...
flesh disintegrates,
what remains is...
the mediating
numb between gloves
and the "abstract"
of skeleton...
what came first...
the "vowel", or "the" consonant?
past the moral "question":
the glaring contort...
a letter - L, 90°...
that gave birth to
the Girth of Delta?
360° and the "missing" 5...
Kant: negation = 0,
reply...
Λ = sanction.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
have self-published a new full-length collection, 115 pages, title of Misreckon, in three parts: god had an earache / wrong about my brother / misreckon. book preview on site is the book entire.
it is, here:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/misreckon/paperback/product-21954246.html
sample poems
site
I lasso the calf just before it makes the ocean.
overhead, a helicopter
from my past
spins.
my son says
to himself
this isn’t
your father’s
sandcastle.
luck is the stone
that marks
the dream. dream
the stone
that marks
the dead.
how the still recall the poor
when saying her name, mother would insist the curse words were silent. for swallowing secrets, father had his throat professionally cut. I remember wiping my nose with a shirt darker than blood. instead of good washrags, we had words brought about by having company. mother ran wild through my sentences while father bent to kiss a pillow for sleeping with my stomach. apocalypse came and came. the act was the act’s debut.
men hermetic
the crow
the fine print
of nowhere.
the bomb shelter
the rumored locale
of a mother’s
laundry room.
the bare cross
the teething
toy
a baby
bypasses
for the neck
of the woman
waiting
for her junk
to fall.
the mare
the anxious
bike.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
#
*Pain.. when left alone to just be pain;
and trying to heal from that place, without giving hope to others
the way that you do so beautifully when you write the way you do..
It all becomes such a loneliness, when unshared.
And your opening up in that beautiful and gorgeous way that you do--
it is a wonderful example (both to, and for) so many who are still
tightly bound within the pain of it all, never knowing that the
reaching for hope is so very worthy of their time and energy:
both, desperately needed
in order to become able to press through the shame;
in order to just be able to hold on.
Never more gorgeous and **** you are to men like me--
when you glow that way..
as a beacon of light to those who were ones bound so very tightly,
within the injustice of all that was so unfairly laid upon them--
just as it also was with you.
And,
your healing and perseverance, in your movement towards strength,
again, is opening doors for many--
there is no doubt in my mind, of that very truth:
Something deep and beautiful happens inside of me, and those like me
when I see ones like you do that beautiful thing that you do out there.
Wild thoughts come to the surface-- of mouth, pressed to mouth,
and gentle (and the not so overly gentle) removing of clothes-- in a
not so very un-fast pace.. in the deep need to so very quickly know,
between brightly-glowing bodies;
that wonderful feeling of skin on skin. Really. xo
And, though innocent in your use of it, and unbeknownst to you,
there is a conniving and scheming within it that bypasses all of the
filters of my heart, and enters directly into desire's unbridled
and untamed world--
the one that always is brewing within me, subsurface.
Leave it to the gorgeous wild-ones such as yourself to bring that
part of me out into the light of day-- where I can barely manage it.
The thought of ever being alone with ones like you at night, brings
about such a wonderful,
exploding eruption of warm, lava flow..
even within itself.
True story, babe.* xo
#
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 9:06 PM UTC
its so appreciative that you're outstanding
That your looks corn the mamaids
No eye bypasses without intension
Everyone tall and wide.
Some jubileet for having market
just like grapes planted by the roadside
in the struggle of each person
to have some
your life stretches in misery
over who to please.
in the end she regrets to having
been cursed with beauty
when humans slotter one another
to have a share of the ripe grapes
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Oxytocin
She stayed with me the other night.
She slept in my bed
And I held her close.
The comfort of another
Little spoon.
Such sweetness.
I lay there half asleep
In case I fall asleep completely
And awake from a dream
That was never real.
She lights up my mind
And I’m afraid of losing that.
The terror of solitude.
Enough is enough isn’t it?
Wanting more is selfish.
But I do sometimes.
Body bypasses brain.
Broken. Bewildered. Bemused.
Addicted to a feeling?
A chemical process?
Action. Reaction. Repeat.
I just want to laugh and live.
I’m alive and dead inside.
She likes me enough.
But does she love me?
And what do I love?
The comfort of a feeling?
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 4:03 AM UTC
To stop the thoughts that run,
Through our minds like a freight train,
Breaking any barrier they may face.
The train that uses our veins,
As railroad tracks.
Turning. Winding. Ceaselessly.
Through our body that winces,
At every acceleration or sharp turn.
The train that runs over the flowers,
That have been blooming between the rails.
The train that bypasses stations,
Where weary passengers wish to ascend,
Without halting.
It continues with complete disregard for its surroundings,
Running its course, over. And over. And over.
Until our bodies know to predict,
Every turn and change of pace,
So that it winces prematurely,
Knowing what awaits.
To stop this train is a difficult task.
The more obstacles one puts in its way,
The more creative it becomes in avoiding them.
The only hope is to wait,
Until it has burned all its coal,
Until it has nothing left to run on.
But when this train runs on itself,
From what we have within us,
When it runs on the blood that runs alongside it,
Through our veins, pumped by our heart.
Ah, well, then.
All that can be done is to wait,
Wait until our own heart diverts the blood it pumps,
To a different route.
To stop the thoughts that run,
When we wish they would not,
We wait. Patiently.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Clear sky returns
to the land of winter
the field of silence
begins to breathe
vigorous breaths
the forest greening
venerably
the outline of mountains
clean gentle and deep
in the sky
the setting sun bypasses trees
over the hillside
and slowly the sky turns orange
the most peaceful
pure twilight
the sight
of the brightest star
in a deep sleep
is a surprise
a gift
starlets climb
onto the quiet inky village
like an ancient fairy tale
let us collect
every sunny day
then we will become
as affluent
as nature.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC