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Audrey Lipps Nov 2014
Her hand grazed my knee first;
black nail polished fingers
filled with golden rings and solitude

Her hand slid up past my knee next,
A chilling whisper of a husky voice,
"I'm bisexual, whatever, who cares?"
A tone so sleek, so ****,
Uncaring and unrelenting

Her hand moved inward this time,
her warm breath pressed to my neck,
questions of sexuality and culture
in her ******* rasp and
I melted that way, I ******* melted that day

A level booming below,
A band of drummers,
Drumming of ambition and heartbreak,
A base-dropping attitude from Athens

She leaned in first, her smoky green eyes
******* mine and I looked up,
with a feeling of hot temperance on my tongue,
She kissed me,
sweet and bold and the evening was full
of firsts because she grabbed me,
so fast and forward and
dimmed the mood and began her journey
into transcendental fluidity

We swayed to the beat of casuality,
a beat unfamiliar in my world of seriousness,
and she grabbed my hand and pulled her lips
closer, closer
and whispered "I'll get us a taxi"

Beautiful women make my heart flutter,
and beautiful women with smoky green eyes
and blonde dreadlocks make my speech stutter
but I followed her into the abyss of wonder
holding her hand onto the grassy concrete,
our breath white and our spirits hazy

The taxi home reminded me of New York streets,
and it made me forget of Oxford priorities and
senseless irony and she kissed me twice,
her **** fingers searching for answers
in the 2:30am moonlight

She kissed me in the elevator,
A familiar scent of the haunted ancients and
her sly character left me breathless, an
adventurous eighteen-year-old searching for
wisdom and a twenty-something searching for
a definition, we collided

Her dorm, lined with yellow lights and
colorful elephants, a comforting essence of
security and warmth

She grabbed my waist and
turned me around,
I lost my breath in her
seductive sway,
She kissed me hard and pushed me fast,
onto her pillows of a cool fragrance

She screamed once and I screamed twice,
A fantastic pain muffled by the sound
of old heat lamps

"You'll forget this," I said
"Please," she said, "I'm practically sober."

We continued for hours, her spirit quick,
unceasing,
persistent
She smiled exquisitely,
with slanted eyes, she licked her lips

We slept soundlessly,
Her hand where it started, above my knee
and below my waist,
Black nail polished fingers held
my hand until morning,
a soft kiss on the shoulder blade
and I awoke to the chirping of morning

And I left with a sense of softness,
not accomplishment and
I'll see the smoky-eyed,
yellow-dread girl once more,
And I hope it's when I don't know
what
for
SG Rose Aug 2018
Let’s make up
in the messiest of ways
and have a battle rage between our
tongues and finger tips as we claw the
forgiveness out of each other.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
F5
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
See!
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.

Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'
windowsills.

And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Sometimes you need to
K Balachandran Feb 2019
Every night keeps within it's protective cupped palms
At least this much; few bright moments of calm.
But she was a night so perfectly wedded to the dense dark,
Even in love, doing diabolic best, as if nothing else'd work
Never occured no other,in her thoughts or deeds ever.
But he seemed to be not  aware of his eye sight's fatal error,
Always read all her printer's devil just as if all of it's  right,
Her many decisive acts finely co ordinated,  finished him quite,
Love the first casuality, gave an impetus, then followed the rest.
He who fell head over the heals for her, slumped face down in the pit
Isabela Aragon Aug 2021
If I could be brutally honest, here’s what I’d tell you. I’m tired of your mind games — the same ones you deny you do. You establish something casual but then you go on to saying and doing things that make me believe otherwise. You tell me you want me but you don’t act like it. You say you miss me but you go days without ever messaging me.  You make me feel so replaceable. Disposable. You’re hot then you’re cold. You’re sweet enough to keep me around but you don’t put in the work for anything more. It scares me how you could change your mind in the blink of a second, or bat your eyes elsewhere the minute I’m gone. What makes it worse is that I know you do. You have no ******* idea how ****** it is to be outright told you’ve been ******* around with somebody else. It hurts me to know that you think you could fool me into believing all of the things you say. You don’t say it because you mean it — you say it because it’s what I want to hear. You say it because you know you have this hold over me. You say it because you know I’d cave. You don’t make me feel like I’m worth it, and you definitely don’t make me love myself more. With you, it’s just messy. Cheap thrills. Lies on top of lies. Sweet nothings whispered to my ear. ***** little secrets. Emptiness. I never expected anything from you. You give me slight doses, enough to keep me around, but never enough to assure me that this is all worth it. Don’t play with my feelings just because you’re unsure of your own. I’m not a gamble. I always thought that messing around with someone older meant that I wouldn’t be playing these games anymore but clearly you’re not mature enough to know what you want. I’m done settling for whatever this is. Get drunk, or stay sober — just keep your **** mess away from me.
a personal piece
alexis hill Feb 2016
wake the **** up
as if apathy is
more than half of me
casually this takes lives

and I'm another common casuality
"the poor me" type of tragedy

no you're sleeping
yeah you wish you were just dreamin
sittin on cloud 9
passin time with time

I'm trying to find the type of
"showin up for life"
kind of mentality
I want to exchange these flames for a halo

no you're not sleeping
wake the **** up
yeah you wish you were dreamin
I'm running out of patience
wake the **** up

next year I might be 23
not much to show for all of it
dually noted- I want to make a difference
so I'll have no regrets when I'm lying
on that bed losing consciousness and dyin

but I'm alive now right?
I must have meaning
but feels like
where ever I am
sunshine or snow

all the seasons go
I guess I was in it
- into some *******, for all the
wrong reasons

it's always the reasons
and reasons
are just masked excuses
I don't understand your language
HUH?

speak the **** up
and stop it
get the **** up
stop drowning is self doubt
just stop it
pick yourself the **** up
stop this

no you're not sleeping
wake the **** up
yeah you wish you were dreamin
I'm running out of patience
wake the **** up
I admit that
you've stripped me
of all I once was,
tearing away
each layer I
so carefully created
and clung to
with such brazen
irreverence and zeal,
but though I stand before you
naked and weak
I feel no shame
for that one
small victory
shall be mine
to own and embrace
lest it be
my sole possession,
for this time
you shall not win
and tear my heart
from my body,
a gruesome trophy
to place upon your mantle
with all the molded metal
and feigned smiles,
for from the ruin
you have left
in the wake of your
obscenity, like
the phoenix
from the ashes
I shall rise
with wings of flame.
A creature unknown
to this wanton world
in which I fail to exist
or to any other,
destined to become
just another
casuality on the
hands of the world.
touka Oct 2018
mist stretches along the tops of trees, bosoming coldly over the brush
like the bodies of lost souls

like the words that hang from the page
withering, wilting ghosts
that threaten to slither from their place
wobbling wraiths I'd traced;
my heart's yearn to spit its hopeless thought -
reduced to something like child scribbles,
like nonsense I'd etched with my non-dominant hand
with blithering, faltering pen

I swing like the moon between two phases
sure, unsure
how long will I sit here?
a few lunations scramble past my head
words on words on words
blend together in sequences of lines
that I no longer recognize
as anything close to cognizant

I read the lines again
dismantle, disassemble them
eyeful work;
like science sates its spirit
by prodding at the seams of the earth
no fear that it may unfix
the stars that string like stanchions in the sky
heaven's performance toppling

my words collapse before me
nothing more than a brief hiccup
before their quiet, noon oblivion
miscalculated blots that do nothing but spoil the purity of the page
I crinkle it, toss it behind me
grab a new sliver of square
uncrinkled, uninked
I stare into the ceaseless white
brinking, unblinking alabaster
immaculate - the center of nonexistence
so foreigning; a burgeoning sense of casuality within me

I remind myself that it is a piece of paper

but do I dare soil it?
ebony tweens from the pen as I press
callous deflowering;
assaulting the page with senseless drivel I will realise
five to ten seconds after I write it that I hate
what
Cameron Banowsky Apr 2018
Quit acting out
Stop running your mouth
This isn't the place
You don't have the crowd

So what to do now?
Deaf ears are, by nature, not tuned to hear.
Skip the line and do what you stepped out to find

Paint over me
Replace the image with something nice
Like a bowl of fruit or a cup of rice.
But make sure to fully apply
You can cover me up
But my voice doesn't die

Spread my name and sprinkle in lies.
Make me look like this bad guy.
It's all good now, and I honestly have given up on how.
So erase those memories.  
The ones you share with the one smashing these keys.
You gotta get out the paint,
roll up your jeans and start to paint over me

But like with any period of time
There is always some type of find
Discovery comes when you allow yourself to be kind

Paint over me
I don't wish to be
Another follower turned casuality
I'll walk away for free
Just make sure that when I leave
You paint over me
When the urge to reach out hits
Remember that wounds heal bit by bit
And if you could just please
Let me be
Paint over me
Tyler Dec 2021
i would take centuries to understand
the woman in you,
the woman in me.

would you take a day to understand the man in me?
the man in you?


the silence of it.


a torrental battle.
this highest casuality.


atleast the dead could rest.
i tire of these demands
from some one I can't
quite point to.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
I can only find two sensible reasons
behind poetry...
   well, more like three...
the aspect of voyeurism,
              but there's no real thrill
in that...
      the odd chance of seeing
language in free-fall...
                disintegrating,
     then the reintegration in a
comment section...
                      or what is best
depicted as an escape from
    the dormatory of social formality,
the sort of conventionality
that strangers allow themselves...
and less about the one howling
wolf in a pack of mutes...
   more like the in-between pacts
and settled grievances,
   slyly passing enigmas and...
     lit candles...
                  thirdly though...
the casuality of the whole "business"...
2 months!
   a book of this sort of stature
I could digest within a forgetable month
of listlessness...
     but at least with poems
there is no sense of achievement...
    zilch...
                    and that's a formidable
gesture of appreciation...
   perhaps a novel is this that and
the other... yet the persistent sense
of relief, upon completing it...
no more than a brick,
     amounting to a feeling of having
erected a mountain...
   hovering above it, a halo of:
well done... a heaving sigh of relief...
a pat on th shoulder and...
for some inexplicable reason...
   a sense of initiation into a cult
of John the Baptist...
                    why this sense of:
having accomplished something?
     it's almost unbearable to have to
strip down a novel
   in order to see the bare, minimum,
or rather, memorable enough
to be granted a scenographic
         translation...
                since when is reading these
bulging gluttonous texts,
not akin to reading X R A Y S?
               a poem a view
  a novel some absurd finalé...
    which becomes nothing more than
a miserable sigh of relief...
    funny that,
  a poem allows me to not
accomplish any major feat,
leaving me neither satisfied,
    nor unsatisfied...
         but certainly not relieved
akin to a novel, which,
        in its monarchical
    bulk sometimes nibbles at me
to express...
               saying that,
I wouldn't pay the sort of homage
that some poems receive
(esp. those using the rhyming aid)
    in being memorised...
odd, this medium,
      of perpetual motion...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
i'm almost glad that casuality
has been replaced by
                         casualness...
       ******* well attired?
  better dress that mouth in
an iron grip...
                          grit the matter,
as long as ***** throws
d'em ******* wanna'bees...
      hell's fine me all
                       turning into
journo-trash...
                             safer to mind:
                                          tabloid.
came a carpenter and said:
this table looks crooked...
                     mind you the carpenter
didn't get "anywhere" in life...
i once met a homelessman
and you know what he said to me:
my mother told me to never lie...
i'm on the same ******* path...
   that's why i sat with him
   and exchanged a cigarette with him...
the supposed deplored
are the one who also said:
                  well, i can't exactly lie
to get a Giggs attire...
                  i love that Barbara
girl who said:
          laws are for leprechauns,
aren't they?
                           when the spice girls
come back together,
  i wonder which one will claim
to be the sinéad o'connor;
any one of them, minus the ginger *****...
i'm ha ha ready
                for a party...
it's not even out of jealous
neglect...
                 we're about to be
taught one simple lesson:
                          we are prone to break;
the "perfect" grey ones,
                              never do;
i'm actually in love with
             what actual cohesiveness actually
means...
    me, being the cheap'oh,
         trying to bypass North Korean
propaganda as a: loon-bin
stipend of making it as a tourist;
all because of a ******* harem...
    big deal... slam dunking
       with Rodger... rodger...
             ****** inked with an
aztec laughing death mask!
  you know 'im...
                  sure as **** Kim
Yoong Karate Chop knows him...
      the one who bleached huis afro...
called it curly-vanilla...
           or was that fried-vanilla?
           dunked a sputnik and said:
me, on a moon.
            rednick! you sure?
regrave!
        n'ah, can't be right...
           noah loan-v!
                               huh?
           neo-punk?
                     joakim noah simply
implies: and if jeremiah had
                  a stomach: i'd call it a whale...
23, 23, 23... manchester 7....
         google search:
chicago shaman in north korea...
prior to the algorithm result...
     dennis, *******, rodman!  
boom!
  face recognition...
a bit like me watching homeland
season 7...
   spotting
a cheap'oh alex jones version
of: where was that guy from?
who?
      jake weber!
   oh... meet joe black...
        **** knows why i was
once compared to brad pitt...
or rather: achilles...
  it seems the lasting hairline
can be really annoying...
             well... someone managed
to turn easter into
a piñata bashing christmas
party.
Signs them signs every where you look there's signs inside my mind
outside my window taking you places you need to take a hold of don't you see
like renting a car down by the nearby bar when you had far too much to drink
places that you need to grow fond of beide the lavender hue beside the sea

Draw close to me this minute we both can fondly agree come sit next to me
the drawn out smoke from the make believe begun the fence where grass is green
Temptress came clean by the parting fenced forth machine in the land of make believe
The castle so far away has suddenly been drawn forth near having shed a tear

barricades of rainbows cascadig onto putting space in the wallowing chance to....
there can be danger up ahead the frequent fall out from the dead ring the bell from head
chemistry mix mash make believe fallen soldiers eating ice cream let out a scream
can you picture this dig if you will a courtyard oceans of violets of blue

mark the one who is willing to explore from the case onto so much more
pure Lenox tapestry much nice for two in dinner you see;
casuality across the ancient catastrophe

through fingers both willing to achieve,
through the chord of Page & Plant...
is it out of pure coicidence,
shower to lay a hold of the sign

Signs, signs & everywhere is signs...
taste the Nectar as it grows
Hearken onto remote control people all around
pray tell help me in cosmic make believe
KV Srikanth Apr 2022
Time already spent
On the universe
Antecedent only purpose
Can be traced for value
Clubbed together called
Experience
Comes in handy if used with sense
Let it remain
As a cluster
Fills the void called ignorance
Filter and balance it
It merges the subconscious with
The field from which we pick our daily  drill
Becomes a poison
If permanently retained
Biggest casuality the Present
Will go unnoticed can't be regained
Mixes with thoughts and feelings
Colored vision at everything
Anger and frustration integrated
Like the remains of a fortress
That used to be a fortress
Even nostalgia which brings with it
Only the pleasant of the past
Wanting us to relive it
Unable to forget it
Is a path that the mind travels fast
A small trigger enough
Like the bullet out of a barrel
Towards its target
Nostalgia too is an obstacle
For being in the present
Let it remain in the sub conscious
Recline  on that as an intermission
Past is Poison
If the filter is broken
Lessons to learnt
Is why that happened
Lessons missed because the teacher was not equipped
Does not make the subject invalid
Throw the book Learn the lesson Store the crux
Forget the teacher Move on to the next
Repeat the process
KV Srikanth Feb 2022
Achievement by destruction
In the midst of ruins laying foundation
Death and destruction as equity
Blood and hate as collateral security
Bruised egos closely knit
Balm for ego in showing might
Humanity  the casuality
Humans bartered for harmony
Division in Construction
Despair in Growth
Bullets fired aimlessly
Nothing aimed with more clarity
The bullet doesn't ****
Blaming it still
Winning  never conquers
Conquerors never win

— The End —