Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Two girls there are : within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.

In her dark wainscoted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time

As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meager frame.

Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,

She sees how their red silk flare
Of petaled blood
Burns open to the sun's blade.
On that green alter

Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labor's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter

And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry ****** to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2010
Blondes illuminate
The dizzy world of men,
Confident and forthright
And simply, oozing acumen.
So sensually brazen
In a silly sort of way
Yet intuitively capable
Of leading all of them astray.

Blondes are irresistible
When they catch the errant eyes,
When their pearly, sky blue peepers
Irradiate and mesmerize.
When they catch him glancing
At a nicely rounded ***,
When rosebud lip's apouting
Leave him breathless, limp and numb.

Blondes move in a manner
Which defies all things right,
It's a sweet undulation
Which turns day, straight into night.
It's suggestion incarnate
And quite breathlessly so.
Causing pulses to race
And his expectations to grow.

Blondes think in straight lines
Periferals are lost,
And woe betide myopics
Who underestimate at their cost.
Golden locks breed pushiness
The will to have her way,
And the man who calls a challenge
Won't survive another day.

Blondes are soft and fluffy
Dimpled cheeks and curve of thigh,
And are specialists in the art
Of come hither to the guy.
But just beneath the garnish
Is a mind that calculates
And a passion for success
And a taste for wealth that rates.

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
19 January 2010
mark john junor Jan 2014
shuffled into the hallway
the laughing ignorance
stews in its bathrobe and cigar
at the edge of its own manicured lawn
with a pale eye it it calculates
with a thin cold lip it ponders
he makes his lazy way to his bed among the spilled leaves
makes his way to the comforts of eyes closed visions

the laughing ignorance proverbial
fool in ragged cloth dancing a jig
on a spring moon's grave
flowers in hand and wreaths of holly adorning
his head like a crown of soft thorns
his skilful laugh echoes across the barren field
littered with the passing of days
strewn with the formulations of nights bitter embrace
no mere words can delay or
mislead the way that darkness creeps into the mind
when alone with its own devices

done with his jig
he sits on the springs moons grave
and sips at the christmas wine
savoring its crisp life on his tongue
the laughing ignorance still wearing
the dancing fools leather shoe
is a hobbled prisoner of his laughing jest
no other time or place has room for his kind
for his pantomime of long lost victory's
on beachheads of distant sandy shore

his rancid eye calculates me
in all my rumoured mistakes
and he speaks to that dream not to me
so i will leave him here
standing in manicured existence
of his own sour pain
the fall will find him sleeping sweetly
on the spring moon's grave
and it will renew him
leaves swirling down as the world steals the crown
of the tree above
he will be a young man once again
renewed by the promise of maidens dancing
and the dance of winterlight on snowbound fields
Ellen Joyce Aug 2014
I was recently asked “What am I going to do about this baby weight?”

Now I am a woman who feels the burdens of my sisters worldwide
And one might suppose I write to raise up the spirit of earthly femininity,
to wax lyrically of the greatest beauty being on the inside
But this is not a shout out to heal the hurts of the body shamed
This is a poem aimed like the flat of a palm to the face of a woman trying to erase her child’s history

For every whining ungrateful ***** too focused on stretch marks and thighs to see the miracle before her eyes
The gift feeding in her arms while she calculates the calories her child is burning for her
Counting minutes in treadmill steps as nourishment wastes through the holes in what might bind love tighter.
And she traces her stretch marks like runs in ruined tights
Places her hand beneath that pooch and wiggles it in front of the mirror
Clasps her hand across her mouth to stifle a cry of 8lbs left to lose

I am prostrate on my living room floor offering up my body as a living sacrifice - praying
God give me a shark bite scarred stomach in pinkish hue mapping out another dream come true
When the time comes let my stomach deflate to the sag of a post party balloon
I’ll take the varicose veins and wear them like Pretty Polly satin sheen
Every wound along the way, every scar I will frame in honour ribbons and tie my low hanging ******* in a bow
Because this is a gift for which I would give up every distraction in my life,
For which I would sell every object I possess,
Give away every penny I have and spend my life working to pay unending debt
For which I would cut off body parts as an offering of thanks
just to have the chance to feel my baby's weight upon my breast.

Ask me again
“What am I going to do about this baby weight?”
Love him.
The ascender
struggled to the dais
stopping to rub
his sore calves
still filled with lactic acid…

“I forsook the post
workout massage
to deliver this eulogy.

Thats how
important it is
to me…”

His voice began
to trial off but
he regained his
composure and
began to speak
with command...

“He gave his life for me.
Is there no greater love
than to offer a life
in service
to me?

My Sherpa
was moved
and motivated
by economic
compulsion.

I offered him
the only wage
paying job
he ever had.

He ran with it,
taking up my
cause as if
it belonged
to him;
performing
his job
as if engaged
in a heroic
mission.

At times it
he seemed
consumed by
the largess of
my pursuit;
and his death
will bring
economic
calamity
to his family.

This further
confirms
the nobility
of my
mission.

The price
of intrepidness
is dear and
made clear,
its value
fully fleshed
out in the
sacrifice of
my Sherpa.

You may ask,
“why do I do it?”

It is no longer
disputed, if it
can be done.

Sir Edmund
and his Sherpa
answered that
question over half
a century ago.

The only
question
remaining,
"can the mountain
be conquered by me?"

I'll risk sacred fortune,
limb, life, family and
Sherpa to discover
the answer to this...

I must guard
against the
inflation of
my desire to
summit at
any cost.

I'm aware
of the
dangers
presented
by the
expanding
circumference
of my pride,
just a
meager
centimeter or
two can spell
disaster for
me.

Yet testing
its tensility,
tempting
the tipping point
of temerity,
managing the
permeability,
of risk factors
and psychical
rewards to
sift through
the membrane
that calculates
the odds to
successfully
arbitrage the
resolution of
gaming
winners and
losers,
achieving
a perfect balance
manifested in
the mettle
of me.

My
determination
shines
in pursuit
of a
golden fleece.

In my
solitary
quest
I don a
holy halo
crowning me
and fellow
climbers
stricken
with a like
obsession,
sets us apart,
anointing us
the royalty
of high stakes
X Games,
bellying
up 70 grand
to claim our
place in an
extreme
leisure class,
gifted
with time
and treasure
to turn this
unforgiving peak
into a graveyard,
a dump heap,
an open latrine…

The glaciers bleed
my **** into the tributaries
of the Holy Ganges...

My virtues
made plain
in the indelible
mark I leave
upon the mountain...

My life dedicated
to the unselfish pursuit
of a magnanimous me
quick to forgive
and forget the
failures of the
lesser who
lack the ability
and conviction
of self
to conquer
the highest peaks
meeting challenge
and opportunity
with relish and
fortitude

I'm like a
strip miner
singlemindedly
tearing the roof
of the world open
so I can fill it
with the purpose
of me.

That is the
deeper significance
of the death of my
Sherpa.

When Edmund Hillary
and his Sherpa scaled
Everest 60 years ago,
it took decades
to remember that
Tenzing Norgay
guided the beknighted
Hillery, while schlepping
his baggage and
holding the ladder
lifting the
great man
in a great
endeavor;
whose strength
and valiance
turns history’s
creaky wheel.

Sir Hillary did it
because it was
never done before;
with stoutheartedness
and national vigor
Sir Hillary conquered
the last pinnacle
in Britannia's majestic
range of storied
achievements.

As climate change
turns glaciers
into slush,
my time
grows short
to scratch my
initials alongside
the greats who
ascended this mount
before me.

So it is
with well
considered
trepidation that
I send my Sherpa
out onto the
hanging peaks,
to set the ladders
and clear the
path for
the assent
of me.

Every morning
I look into
the mirror
glimpsing
a fleeting
notion of
greatness
that is only
affirmed by
triumph of
the will.

At such a cost
my legend is born
my burden
grows greater,
weighted by
the death of
my Sherpa.

Yet my resolve
grows, eclipsing
the size of
Warren Buffett’s
fortune.

As the world warms
urgency grows,
the alarm sounds!

Onward Sherpas!

Lay the ladder
portage my baggage
the labors of Sisyphus
will find reward
of a goodly outcome!

I press the coin
of the realm into
your hand

The prayer flags
fill with determination
that I succeed,
giving your life meaning
as divine compensation
for the cost of your life.

The prayer flag’s flap
with the mountain squalls
popping, snapping
our hosannas
of victory

Onward Sherpas!

Ever Onward
may the good
Buddha
embrace
you as you
climb toward
your next
destination...

Onward Sherpas!

Music Selection
Sherpa Dance Music

Poem dedicated to the 13 Sherpa climbers
who lost their lives this week on Mount Everest.
May they find peace in heaven
may their families find peace and
sustenance here on earth.

Oakland
4/23/14
jbm
this is a satirical poem, it is not meant to denigrate Sherpas, nor slight the enormity of the the loss of 13 Sherpa Guides on the mountain this week... its a piece that targets the destructive egocentric tourism of the climbers and its impact on the people and ecology of Mt. Everest... my best thoughts and prayers go out to the families and friends who were lost.... may we examine our motivations and impact the pursuit of personal goals has on the lives of others and the natural environment in which we live....
CH Gorrie Aug 2012
I
The stars are double-weighted tonight.
bulging, beating, they sink
from their proper lurches.
One by one across the murky
evening they sputter out.
What natural light remains
seeps from that subtly gaudy
bauble of a moon.

II
Peeled eucalyptus, ice-plant, new-mown summer grass,
dandelion, sloping hill, carved stone bench,
the view, the reflected city-light off the bay water,
white-washed near-tenements.

I am firmly locked up, chained in a bone cage
of chemically manipulated cranial plates;
serotonin, synapses, dopamine, dendrite
create a web like seaweed constricting the sea;
this computer of a head calculates, oscillates,
and processes the sensory.

III
My body is a tattered jib sail
flowing in the light sprinkling rain:
the simmer of the gale:
a hollow cathedral abandoned
by the believers:
a vessel for my marrow:
an imaginary catalyst for profundity:
an incarceration: a hull of particles
arrested: some part of an experience.
tread Oct 2011
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...

Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"

Truly
care
to know...

If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.

What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,

"Are we there yet?"

"Are we there yet?"

And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.

Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"

The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."

And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;


What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?

The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
*Expect resistance.
Harsh Nov 2015
Do you remember your first one night stand? The very first?
It's funny how in all the wrong ways it's very much like in the movies,
but in some it's not, which often leaves you properly ****** up,
many days after the actual *******.
It always starts with *****.
***** you absolute poisonous ambrosia, tell me how can you resemble
love so very well?
From the exaggerated self-confidence, delusional happiness to the shame and atrociously bitter after taste, not to mention the ****** of a hangover,
you my friend might well be love's virtuous twin.
What does 'a one night stand kind of girl' look like?
I used to think 'definitely not like me',
but tonight the discoloured mirror in my bathroom begs to differ.
She looks remarkably like me. She is me.
Perhaps there's an equation with variables of age, time and the amount of one night stands which calculates how well one fits into the model,
irrespective of the math somehow she looks strikingly similar to me.
Ability to dance topped with confident is my kryptonite.
So after dancing so **** fine, when he looked me dead straight in the eyes, and said "I want to take you home, kiss you and *******",
like hell I couldn't resist.
Everything was just like in the movies right down to the clothes
scattered all over the floor, leaving without getting his number, and
the infamous walk of shame.
But,
he was gentle.
He asked "is this really what you want" even at the very last moment,
when his naked body was lying on top of mine,
fractions of an inch away from entering me,
which made me think of my unborn son and how I will teach him about self control, respect and the vitality of consent.
How this is what a true gentleman behaves like, even when the beast within him was roaring to be unleashed.
He held me tight all night long.
He buried his face in my neck and wrapped his arms so tightly around me, I could feel his heart beat through my veins.
His cologne ran all night long and into the morning reminding me how much I used to get turned on by men's aftershave, one of my favourite scents in the world,
right amongst freshly baked cookies, rain on dry grass and wall paint.
This was not like in the movies.
As I bid him goodbye and locked his fancy apartment door behind me,
I felt rudely shaken awake from the day dream, I felt something in me drop.
It wasn't because I knew I would never see him again,
but rather 'cause I knew later tonight I'd remember last night and miss the sensation over and over again.
The phenomenon of feeling desired, the warmth that accompanies hours of drunken ***, the sweaty stickiness, the giddiness, the passion that accompany a one night stand.
Not being alone.  
A warm bed.
I knew I will miss all that. I miss all that.
I forgot my wristwatch on his bedside table.
Made me think of the time I lost.
The time I lost calculating the significant impact a one night stand would have on my dignity.
The time I am loosing thinking about the past, though so very raw and fresh, which remains unattainable.
I also forgot my earrings on the floor next to his bedside table, when I removed them in  hurry in the heat of the moment, in fear of accidentally scraping him.
Us girls, we do that a lot.
We remove pieces of ourselves to avoid hurting the fugitive men who walk in and out of our lives, and leave those pieces behind,
without realizing that with every encounter we were becoming less and less like our true-selves.
Both pieces were cheap gifts from someone in the family that I held to for many years.
They made up in sentiment what they lacked in price.
Very much like virginity.
You realize after sometime like religion, race and nationality its a socially constructed concept.
It is only as valuable and important as you want it to be.
Virginity should not define anyone.
"Virginity should not define you", I said to the girl in the mirror.
For a one night stand kind of girl, her eyes were so judgmental.
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 15/11/2015]
bkmackenzie Dec 2010
the feminine bleeds
not always red, not always white
seldom enough
for words - she inters herself, crouched
chambered, begs for
cleansing, hand held cupped

round- her curves
familiar to self, unknowable;
unselfish giving - she bleeds, not enough
mutilated even by her own kindness, cradled
without righteousness, coddled by an unnamed
nebula .....she curses her own image, and likeness
slivers it, cuts it raw, for dead left - visible
a world denies
knowledge with sacred
alibi - scribed hieroglyphs, scrolled - she bleeds
white, and a

desert conceals her face
calculates her dance - her movements
mythical, she cries inside
out

tears of salt river-ed, rested
underground, a birthing place securing
her masculine seed coming to
light -  Madonna paints her
face black, "Oh Czestochowa, pray for us
Oh Mother - we beseech thee"
....

She bleeds - red,  the
world turns with season - she re-seeds our flesh
feeds us with her *****, prior
to the sacrifice -"Witch, it is, Witch....burn it," conceal
in alabaster stones
lone, unmarked - her womb

tomb it only in site
of an unflinching god - hold him, birth him
in sorrow grieve and give him,  his blood shed
"take it ,drink it" - red,  she bleeds - seldom enough
as the masculine prepares for HIS resurrection
feminine for trial

He is reborn - she never dies
she is Wisdom (Sophia) eternal
He - Godhead
she - Feminine
denied....
bkmackenzie

copyrighted  December  2010
Miss Masque Apr 2010
Can't sleep
These dizzy thoughts
spinning ceaslessly
relentless
in a cup

Half empty,
Half full?

Who knows,
But in the end
the mad hatter will
still wish you had
never been born--
A very Merry Unbirthday to you
to me?

Indeed

Round and Round
they go
mixing colors, textures
emotions, thought
into this smear of humanity

A stain on the background of my mind
as it clicks and whirs and calculates
the options, the weighted possibilities
the electrical impulses zipping past
the smear of confused, muttled anguish

through it, around it,
but the shock cannot
seperate the colors
the textures, the emotions,
the thoughts

The colors melt into grey
various shades of unvarying
reluctant gestures

As the cheshire cat
smiles and laughs like
the cookie crisp mascot
cukoo for coooookie crisp
I hear its laughter

Chuckling madly
at the mad hatter and myself
the mad hatter sipping
out of the cup of grey
as he sings about my unborn nature

Unborn into the world of reality
of sensibility, of responsibility

WAKE UP

I snap back
I look around
and do not recognize
anything at all
Written: December 12, 2009
a m a n d a May 2013
the miles between point a
   and b are too many
but as always, the race is on

...and oh, yes
  i am in a race
of my own creation

brain calculates and recalculates
eyes darting
vehicles
    sunlight
road
    mirror
(is that an officer of the law?)

i practice the smoothest curves
   fluid motions
but at the same time
      sweet sassy maggy
follow the rules

don't forget the coffee for the love of god
    make it to the one gas station by 7
for ****'s sake, get around the blue car
   the black car
the raggedy old truck
        before the exit or you know
you. are. *******. for. miles.

for christ's sake, use all your ******* skill
   to get a around a stupid slow truck
farm equipment
      or a semi
before thou shall not pass
  or you know your rage will be uncontrollable

things are going well
   you feel confident...you will be on time
you are flying and no one can touch you
   your driving is flawless
       that crazy sun is shining
          and the bass is vibrating your bones

and then t i m e    s   l   o   w  s
    as William H. Macy, you see it
it's that ******* Kia Sportage

adrenaline shoots into my veins
  muscles tense
and i slam into manual
4....3
     take that!
       woman cruising like you're on a lazy sunday drive
          smoking a cigarette like it's 1950.
        
don't you know that i'm in a race,
     and you are my nemesis?
Tyler Park Jun 2016
His Grindr profile is a pictureless profile
He is 20 years old
5’ 10”
He is looking to experiment
This scientist
Questioning, questioning, questioning
I convince myself to volunteer for this experimental group
To be affected by the variable he is to control
I send him a ****

I drive to his house
And the scientist leads me to his laboratory
His room decorated with sports players and female swimsuit models
I sit on his bed, the examination table
He says he’s never done this before
Yet I know he’s still the one in control
He says he’s always been into ***** stuff as he caresses my knee
And I can’t help but take this all as a compliment
So I let my lips thank his
Holding his secret with gentle care between our faces
He is now my master

He’s rough
As if he’s battling a beast
He no longer speaks for the remainder of the experiment
He is silent
Silently observing my every move, my every expression, my every reaction
I am used to this
Years of ***** looks stabbing ****** into my skin
Feels bandaged in the arms of my master
I feel the history of gay men solidify in my throat
Centuries of experimenting on us, homosexuals
Has prepared me for this
I feel accepted

His lips
Like suction cup electrodes on my skin
His nails
like surgical scalpels digging into my flesh
His hands pinning down my wrists
Like binds to restrain my animalistic reflexes
The scientist
Dissecting every inch of my being
Transforming “making love” to “constructing lust”
Turning dehumanization into a beautiful art form
Elevating this gay man to “almost a person”
And I can’t help but feel thankful

The experiment is over
He sits there and calculates his results
He says we should do this again some time
And I can’t ******* help but take this straight boy scientist’s kink
As a compliment
As a medal, as an award
Made from masculine hands that once beat me up in the locker room
And I watch the monster creep back into the closet
And the scientist just stares
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
nearly



"with close kinship, interest, or connection; intimately"


~~~

it's n-early for natty,
dressed for gym penance in his
dress blue
sweats

but instead of working out,

he's working out
a gymnastic, mental, laboring problem,
that the muse mistress musters him out
to out,
and to attend to
the birthing of t-his
composition

a re-erupting volcano that
has gone and got him good,
now he's a man intimately
possessed,
with completing, recording,
an unabbreviated log of
oh so long ago's,
a list of the
oh so many

nearly

line items in his
life's lineage

nearly

went a whole life lessened by being
love less,
which always calculates as
a life lived
forever insufficient

nearly

was intimate
only
with tears self-shed,
on a single pillowcase in
a double bed,
that was unfulfilled,
no intersecting
humanity

nearly

permanentized
kin
ship
as a
dictionary definition official
for a
sunken vessel,
a drowning one man scull,
racing toward a finish line
that had no visible
finish

nearly

lost both sons, lost years, lost friends
lazy living in the slow, low heat
of a burning hell
of zero connections,
thinking the proper cost/benefit solution
was always,
never to be
greater than,
always
less than one

nearly

packed it in,
while overlooking a temptress river,
calling me out swiftly from the
slow lane of loneliness,
offering a

nearly

certain final outlet sale,
a mark-down event,
for clearing the heavy, overladen shelf
of over-weighty
al-one-ness,
a sale of singular single
cell marks upon human flesh

nearly

died a miserable man,
and still may,
from who knows what
pestilence consumption

but

never

from never knowing,
for the lacking of,
the unadulterated love
of a good woman
*

and that is
more than,
greater than,
>
all the unknowable
nearlys

and more
than any other
nearly,*
life may yet
deny me,
or
curse me by


~~~
6:45am
Jan. 18, 2016
NYC
for Steve (Sjr1000) whose nearly always,
inspired comments
reminded me that
nearly
too,
can be
flawless,
in its own right
I am kissing you again.
And ******* into jars again.
My deft eye calculates.
And the lazy one sleeps.

Goodbye.
My sweet little muse.

Was it not enough?
Or too much?
Tragedy.
Where is the sound
            That once gave meaning
To my name.
It seems lost in the echoes
                    The sound of a
Crying shame.

                     I try to pinpoint the time
Channels I was
Passing through
                    When I could interpret pre-echo
When each syllable
Rang true

                   When my offspring was purer
Relative to
Innate impurities.
                    Girl, boy vastly interrupted.
So much for blood
As a surety.

Belly fire lessens with years.
                     Caution blows back
In the wind.
Flirting with status quo delusions.
                    Slogans & logos
Slowly rescind.

                 Pure thought tainted with church & state.
Leftist & Right Wing views
Scientifically spliced.
                  This new world creation seldom takes sides.
Calculates the outcome & always
Dresses nice.

I’m halfway there, queasy still
                    Rhetorical views beginning to
Make sense.
Cautious malaise on either side.
                       Starch chaffing neck  
Outcome offense.

                       I occasionally hear my voice
That blew with caution
In the wind.
                    Volcano dormant still pushes the crust.
Delusions sicken me back
To the fringe.
©2017 Daniel Irwin Tucker
Wormwood Jun 2010
Behind green eyes a retinal flash
subdues a gentle sense of knowing
with a half worn smile
she calculates line and speed
though unimpressed with detail
she's alert to every possibility
and snatches a glance there
her widening gaze settled
followed by a measured blink
of pure satisfaction
a buzz of a wasp
and a flick of an ear
all is well with her world.
© wormwood / lmc 2010
Posted : 9 June 2010
claire May 2016
Man thinks he knows what we are.  
He examines us. He calculates us.
[A WOMAN IS A STARLESS NIGHT, A WOMAN IS SPACE TO BE FILLED, A WOMAN IS VOID, WAITING, GRASPING. SHE IS MEANT FOR SILENCE, SHE IS MEANT TO KNEEL]

Man puts himself inside our body without asking if we want him there, his breath like an infant’s rattle. He thinks we are soulless flesh to be punished, yanking our hair back as if it were reigns.  He leaves us raw.
[A WOMAN IS SOMETHING TO PASS THROUGH. A WOMAN IS A TUNNEL.  PENETRATE HER. DESERT HER]

Man pinches the fat on our bellies and thighs, and tells us to shrink. He is a net pulling us into the deep, relentless.
[A WOMAN IS WASTE, A WOMAN IS NOTHINGNESS THAT ASKS FOR AIR.  SUFFOCATE HER]

What man does not know is that we are sun, we are mountain, we are the resurrection no one believed in, the one man thought he could suppress, the revolt he tried to defeat. What man doesn’t know is that when we spit, we spit starlight, our mouths holy with rage and crescendo. Our kneecaps are not meant for dirt. Our bodies are not his soft earth to plunge into. What man doesn’t know will hurt him. He thinks he is God, but God is two women in love. He thinks he knows what we are, but we are beyond him. Ultraviolet beams glistening at the edge of the spectrum, too glorious for his naked eye.

We know the truth.
[A WOMAN IS A KNIFE. A WOMAN IS A MOVING FIST.
A WOMAN IS 90 MILLION MILES OF LIGHT]

Man will never know us.
NuurSeraph Feb 2015
The human mind is running
the latest software upload
of this paradigm shifting program~
that calculates genetic algorithms
into vast patterns of random regularity
birthing the seeds of intelligent transformation
by out-solving itself
upon a flowering field~
of continuously evolving functions
displaying fractal solutions of subtle nuance~
braced in between a boundary of infinitely opposed edges.

...the Universal Mind does this in every dimension for an eternity.

I simply cannot complain about the aches in my brain
out of a shear respect for the absolute profundity of the situation.
I've started reading quite a stimulating book called, "The Singularity is Near", by Ray Kurzweil.  
I haven't made it to pg. 100 yet but was inspired to attempt to summarize the main idea in the verses above...Enjoy:-)
mark john junor Nov 2013
the pause in his lips gives her
opportunity to place her own point of view on
the cold still air
pencil in her mindset before he can resume
she glosses over the facts and
rushes headlong into the tantrum
but it is cooled by the time passed and
she can no longer sustain it
bland face
and dulled kiss
its shouting in her heart has ceased
now woven into the fabric of their relationship
she must live with it rearing its head
from time to time
its ugly features a sinister mocking
of her feelings
and that brings tears
she doesn't want to cry
that's too girly
she comforts herself once more wrapped in his arms
and with the concepts of her plans
wedding careerer children future
he stands with his arms round her nuzzling form
and stares out the window
into the depths of the world
but sees only the inevitable approaching
the certainty of its arrival is not cloaked to him
as it is to her
without even thinking he calculates the meanings
and gauges the cost
he only winces inwardly
at her murmurings of reassurance
better that this beast of romance
has departed with the tides
better that the arguments tear this
summer fling apart than face
the barren fruitless seed
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
new year notes to self at 4:30am

too cynical
to pseudo-resolve stuff
just because
an arbitrary mark
the calendar affords.

nonetheless,
the mind endlessly calculates,
then recalculates,
rinse and repeats,
responsibility, "success,"
middle class living death

pretend erase the slate,
as if this prologue was not
a sequel,
but the..

the squeeze of guttural noises
stuck in my throat
prevent raucous breathing,
stifle noisy disbelieving,
lest I awake all the babes
sleeping cozy nearby,
trusting in me,
so I communicate
to the others
who are awake
at 4:30am,
offering them but
a plain white lamentation,
cry with me,
"I know, I know."

Jan 3, 2013

.
Sometimes I think the situation's wrong
To then severe the blame from myself
Almost as though it were a part of me,
Thinking absolving oneself is a crime in itself,
All the while.
I discover a retrospected, yet un-inspected wrong-doing
And tug the blanket of blame over me,
And that's when another blame game
Conspires to defeat me as it calculates
The next mortal embrace
I shall make at the count of fear.
There are times when we grant forgiveness to ourselves, and on some occasions, one ends up giving blame to oneself, as if the so called 'acceptance' will purge all. Blaming oneself every now and then can be compared to self-flagellation with no growth resulting out of it. We assume we know we're in the wrong in a particular situation, not remembering that the only guide of the situation here is your opinion/interpretation of the incident, the incident which is infinite in itself. And then one starts to fear and get used to having guilt hover around. Eventually, everything around gets shaded into the vicious cycle of anticipated or retrospected wrong-doing.
WickedHope Apr 2015
Who is she
What is she like
She is dark
They call her consumer of hearts
She lives like a chess game
She doesn't mean to
But every move she makes
She cruelly calculates
She loves the games she plays
But I think it's because
That's the only way she knows
How to trust
How to not get hurt
She pulls on heart strings
And she tugs at synapses
Biting free connections

She sinks her teeth into their souls
She watches what color they bleed
Delightedly she tears them apart

Her heart is gone
She can't remember if it was taken
Or if it was simply one of her own victims
I deserve to die.
K Balachandran Dec 2011
his mind she quickly reads,
calculates exactly when
he will fall for her charm,
he sees all on her face.
My mind and heart wage eternal war
over which control my actions,
my heart resembles an open door
and my mind calculates in fractions.
My heart makes a decision
unbound by the restraints of before,
but my mind is full of suspicion
and banishes the thought forevermore.
This endless battle blinds my sight
confusion, saint or sinner?
Neither going down without a fight
and neither one a winner.
In the end I decide who wins the exchanges
because war, she never changes.
I wrote this based off of Shakespeare's Sonnet 46
loisa fenichell Mar 2015
My flesh is freshly skinned, because of my father’s
nails. My father is brushing out the tangles in my

hair. He is used to the brushing, he says, because he
used to have a sister. I don’t think to ask him where

his sister is now, although I picture her with hair
perfectly tangled, like an extended family, like ancestry.

My family tree is knotted and webbed, but every member
has a place, and if you’re lucky, a purpose. My mother’s

purpose is to cook soup for the Passover Seder. I picture
Passover as ****** as when the planets forget to flash

across the sky. This happens. I have seen it the way I’ve
seen a boy look at me from across a wooden table.

The boy feels like my cousin, even though he is not my
cousin. He just happens to have a gaze that calculates,

like the gazes of the old men that sit together in my town,
on the corner of the two streets whose names I can never

remember. When I walk by them I make sure to shuffle my
feet even quicker than I usually do, because I want to forget

about my body. I don’t look in mirrors anymore. I don’t even
look into my favorite lake anymore. The way it wrinkles together

hurts as much as my father’s nails do: my father’s nails against
my scalp and against my skin. My father picking me up out of the bath.

I am still wearing my organs. I don’t think I’m three years old anymore,
but I’m not quite sure. I can never remember what it is like to age.
Terry Collett Feb 2015
There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road

Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light

her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket

what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday

she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it

she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go

I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still

but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing

she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out

her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking

she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room

what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge

Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest

does he now
and what
did you say?

Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls

said I'd ask you
Helen replies

did you now
well now you've asked

Helen waits
unsure of the answer

how much is it
to the cinema then?

Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)

don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says

can I go?

her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge

ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money

Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip

get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says

and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.
A GIRL AND HER MUM IN LONDON IN 1956
Aubrey Dec 2014
Vs.
I'm listening to opposition.
Is there anything else?
The bird perched on the winter branch
cursing itself?
I've got two hands filled with empty,
like distance relates to envy.
And in the quiet stillness of this Midwest winter night
my shoulders become heavy.
My heart flirts with steady.  
My head calculates ready.
You wipe tears from my cheek and nose.
You're telling me to let them flow.
"Don't wipe them away."
I have nothing to say but that I am
afraid.
And I can't even say it.
The words are a bayonet at the end of the gun I hold to my head.
Is there requiem here?
The forest trees made clear in the fog of my disillusion?
The clever twist of fate that thickens my confusion?
Sometimes I doubt if I were made for this life.
I doubt the strings that fate has wound around our hearts
and save for my frown, my face seems to show the world
nothing.
Who or what am I becoming?
No longer the grouch, the fastidious mouse, or the the hermit.
I can not be the addict or the martyr in the skirmish.
And I am not in search of identity. I know me.
But I don't know this place inside of all the waste that has been this life.
I have only two things that are worth anything: their lives.
The courts are waiting, but the jury's still out on the verdict.
Not "Do I deserve them," but, "Do they deserve it?"
I've never been precocious
But Predication brought felicity
and intelligence has no relevance
like being benevolent for duplicity

remaining as reigning viciously
until my enemies show complicity
my boss wont know i was late, he
died in a car crash, what serendipity

no nihilism repair its ******* me
so im **** that it remains real
indigenous is my attitude cuz i feel
ruminative when immigrants steal

my land, and in my hand I am
holding the world so miraculous
but to live autonomous my abacus
calculates death comes to a pacifist

so goodbye i give the mass a kiss
and then give them my *** to kiss
while i ******* then after state
i am not a *******

So why I'm cantankerous
Or why I cauterize is convoluted and hard
To defend or guard but i cant ******
the shine of a star til i blow up like a petard

propensity relentlessly
Is pressing me til effusive
I talk trying to remain exclusive
to sanity But my whole life is elusive

So my proclivity limits me
and my ability cause being stupid
Is hard when ur insipid and predicted
the afflicted money addicted will get ruthless

while the medias news is
bias and newsless
but for so lomg now we new this
like stephen harper their useless
Anna Jones Dec 2015
I am the sky
That's forever falling
I am the plant
My seeds are sprouting
Basking in her summer sun
Taking in her splendour
Oh, how she comes undone

I see the day
Twinkling at the night
Feeling her endless distance
A constant companion
Urging her to shine so bright

Starlings
Bury and swoop
Upon the horizons
Making meaning
For the senses
Sea licking salt;
She yearns for that
No pretenses

There will come a time
When she no longer questions
Or calculates good intentions
Her arms grasping out
To nurture earth
From up above
A heavenly birth
Will fall and rain
A billion drops
Of inspiration

Smiles
Tiny shards of light
Radiating her true reflection
Like simple words on a page
Reaching a familiar end
Scribbling
Screaming for release.
The writing comes in waves.
*Hello, old friend...
Emily Miller Feb 2018
Under the cover of night,
A savagery blossoms in everyone,
Thriving in the privacy of darkened corners
And behind locked doors.
Inhibitions are lost,
And veils removed,
And the arching,
Writhing,
Wild things emerge.
There is one exception,
A predator that sinks into the shadows
And observes.
One who calculates every movement,
And plans,
Meticulously,
How to create the perfect night.
As the moon inches closer to the horizon,
And the purple of the dawn
Begins to rise,
The predator manipulates her prey into the necessary positions,
Guiding them into the right movements,
To say the right things,
Punishing,
And rewarding,
For following her rules.
“Sometimes I wish that I were like the other
Animaux de noir
So that I could release myself,
Instead of cinch
And draw in
Defensively.
But meticulousness is all I know
And to design
Carefully
Methodically
Does not keep one warm.
I must plot every second,
Every reaction,
And list the rules for my prey.
Take away their sight
Their speech
Their movement,
And once they know the isolation of the sensation of touch
Without control,
Without authority,
They may earn them back,
One by one,
Until they can give me a definitive answer.
What is it that you want?
What do you need the most?
What do you want to do first?
And what will you do last?
Predictably,
They plead to give me what I already knew they would give,
To do the things that all before them have done,
Because they are puppets,
They’re easy,
They’re all ****** to be the same,
And I,
Night after night,
Will remain
Just as meticulous.”
Hasan Maruf Sep 2017
The Architect of designated Life
Calculates the gravitational pull
Against the leverage of resonance
To a precise second of entrance.
Our plotted trajectory course is
Determined by our final blueprint;
The diaphanous mystery of choice
Is balanced between past and present:
We remember who we were before
Time allotted this experience, and
Recognize who we are
Despite our current existence
After all
"A bond between souls is ancient –
Older than the planet."
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
No, we certainly shall not.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVII)


O Wordsworth!  La, but how his spirit's hale
Pride sifts anon twixt every stanza, whence
My soul congeals, as left like bones from hence
To dry and bleach in heavn's bald eye; joys fail
Whileas he waxes eloquent, to hail
Aught note of twinkling life with that cold sense
Which calculates the breath out of all thence
Caught in his lines, til I can't breathe t'avail.
He takes up passion like's unknown as twere,
Despite the fact he is just that, yet to
A fault upon a bloodless scale, who'd stir
The whitened ashes of aught fire to do
It up as if's a specimen:  dead.  Poor
As all that, he extolled much...sans life's dew.

10Jul17a
Weel, he did wax subtly eloquent in that rude number to some Scottich peasant cottage.
Amethyst Fyre Nov 2016
I rule my life by my voice of reason

It whispers things like
You're going to die sooner than later
Other people matter more than you
You need to act happy

And when my toddler emotions dare to question why
Reason preys on fear, their weakness
Because otherwise everyone will know the truth

Would that really be so bad?

Always the experimentalist, it calculates
It wouldn't take very long to fall off the window sill
What if we just didn't get up?
The voice of reason whispers
Death, death, death, death

For a voice of reason, it's not very reasonable
It is more a voice of cold, detached apathy
Speaking in lies and flawed logic
I know it is not to be trusted

So then why do I still listen to it?

— The End —