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Death-throws Mar 2015
I lack inspiration, when sound does not riddle the causeways of my mind
when echos bounce less around my cranium and more from my lips i find..
solace,
solace in the fact that no longer am i directed from indirect communications but more from the sound i make,
i learnt to grasp the steering wheel in both hands and turn sharp in the corners,
i learnt that without sound echoing through my ears my eyes work with pinpoint accuracy..
i never noticed the way the grass grows over old cobbles..
i never noticed the way my heart beats
the way it skips, and bleats,
i learnt not to be a sheep, but a profit,
a guider to the blind,
don't tell them I'm blind as-well
because it doesn't matter if i can see or i cant
it does not matter if what i say is truth or lies
but if the fiction of my antiquity compels you to lift your heart up
brings joy from the desolation of your mind but to the fore front of the battle field that is your life i have achieved something incredible, I've achieved peace
peace through happiness, joy through inspiration so read on!
read on young soldier,
your broken mind and battle ready battle wounds are bound too tightly by your compassion to conform
take of your bandages and read on! read forwards and on wards and strive to learn, why
why young soldier i know you've never been trained
and i know your mind is ill with discontent and i know your shoes are whittled to your socks and i know
i know how hard it is to stand with two broken legs and only the solace of that barren bare cranium to lean on
but in my antiquity young soldier
i have learnt that we are all warriors
fighters along a broken line standing our ground against greater odds then you could ever conceive of battling...
i know young solider that many will fall and die
and many will perish to broken minds and hearts and souls,
but the ones who make it through this perishable existence, the ones who fight beyond any compassion  beyond any reason,
god I've met boys who will tear out each others throats with their teeth I've learnt that men are shells of creatures that have never been fully understood,
my existence has been about 
nothing but fighting
and now i have reached an age where i can lay down the rifle of my words, i can leave my blunted knives to rust in a back closet i realized young soldier
the agony of your existence may seem like the end, but its just the start.
and when your reach a  point in your life where you can rest,
savor it,
do not let someone tell you how to exist without your consent , do not fight a battle you do not want to fight,
stand your ground young soldier
re-reinforcements are on the way
*L.G
for a friend whose struggling... chin up bub x
Paul Butters Feb 2016
The ogre that I am, I sit in my man-cave.
It’s bathed in light from my TV and laptop.
Each is a portal to our ugly world.
Regulated crystal-city skyscrapers
Form Giant’s Causeways.
Aircraft eagle overhead
Reminding me of vultures
And 9\11.

Cars beetling about the suburbs,
Some Beetles, Ha Ha.
River highways cascading cars.
Ants rush everywhere,
A seething nest.

So many an ant,
Holding a conch to the ear,
Or staring mesmerised at that tiny screen.
Yoda fingers his phone…

And me I sit here,
Metamorphosing metaphors
For a while
Before I visit Facebook Land
Once again.

Paul Butters
No more "Moon in June" for me...
My heart's ablaze
I'm so amazed
cluttered in clichés
in a daze
I'm dismayed
too many long driveways
Life's fortes
as we graze
upon the gaze
in a haze of haze
trapped inside this maze
our voices phase
into the next of days
Oh did we raise
with utter rephrase
glancing sideways
into stairways
how I hate your ways
as much as I hate causeways
too much decay
along the edgeways
inside the hallways
roadways
screenplays
my heart strays
on into Sundays
and Tuesdays
I hate the weekdays
they're gateways
into other days.
© 2012 Christina Jackson
Pardon this poem for not making much sense, practicing wordplay. I chose a particular word, such as the one used here, "days", and use any word that rhymes hereafter. You can choose to continue until you can rhyme no more, or add in another word and keep it rolling. Like I said, it's only for practice. I highly recommend using this website http://www.rhymer.com/index.html when you do these exercises.
st64 Feb 2014
Whatever the cost I pay up at the minnow pools.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.

Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.

It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.

Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.

Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
Ray Amorosi is the author of three books of poems, including In Praise (Lost Horse Press, 2009).




sub-entry: Wizard (Ray Amorosi)

All this havoc
just means I’m a poor wizard.

Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke,
from miles away,
into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine.

As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune.
But not without aches of my own.

Did the sack of no echoes fail me?

Now, on such a mild curse—
boils, sewn eyes, a shrew
in the **** my ankle reddens up and eyes me
with disdain. Toenails fall off.

How far will this go?

Poor wizard. Poorly done in.
These pangs are power are power as both
knees lock up
ashamed to move under me.
Pisceanesque Jul 2015
I watch in retort
as you blunder
over causeways
of stammering lies,
hurtling weathered blows
from your
mournfully
tarnished
mouth.

The sound alone
asphyxiates me
and I would rather it hurry
than disable my
regal silence
with the screeching noise
of your
thunderously
garbled
deception.
© Tamara Natividad
www.pisceanesque.com
Written 20 September, 2014
-
Breast-ache woman, you beautify
behind redden scars
and befriend those who are
free from languid storm-hair.

I see you rate the raw breast-worship
of frantic whistles which collide against the
callus freckles of a moon-sea.

You ask, "Can you see the satellites that sate
lights of the city...Creating
causeways or ways to cause
the first chill of dirt in a Martini?"

I take a drink.
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
Subatomic
Silver smoky sauntering lovelessness
Spots on arms, purple and green
Sickness and sleepless
Wow-like, wicked witchcraft catching

Tones humming zzz'ing
Screaming across elbows
Tucked into the ****
Concrete carnivalesque berserk wildness

Ferally and virily.

U U U THANK U...............Rice Krispie
ANNDD BEATS LEAP CURIOUSLY HIDING
UNDER THE SHEETS

Perfervid fervency.

Idling- white crisps
Blinding silences
Sticky fingertips and lurid looks
Tape after tape of binded irises in the pupil symposium,
Where side-by-side the seams mend together

Innards scissor sideways
Upways downways
Exteriors in rhythmic sync

Tastes like lolli-pop rocks
Watermelon- dazzling gold
Front-step excited eyes binding.
See-cells intertwined and idling-pupils
Dance and discover
Wild hypnotic trysts of skins
Twisting in cotton scenes
Hours of comfortable comforts of living
Women and men handling
Fun funds 'n' bon-bons; investing in the bond.
And going back for seconds.

The head riffs over riptides and causeways, lip-lies and kisses on Broad Way.
Two cadavers, hog-tied. Kissing longways and long ways.
Perogative oxytocin. American Express massages scented oils and lotions.
Persons of interest abetted in sweating. Heaving torsos.
Throwing legs, arms, and sparklers. Redonkulous nectars are microscopic.
Sweet flavors on taste buds or lit by recessed black light optics.
Massaging the rhinoceros husk in this 21st century sarcophagus,
Whiles of Wilders' words were spoken
Nickels of wood soaking in splintered tubs
Thumbs under surveillance. Sneaking inches of suspicion
Leaves treated with lacquer, fables beaten within inches of their lines;

Live its Friday night!
Deviled veterans draped in moon-hide rise
Defiling puerile twenty-something lives.

These wild highs in debts of purs'd thighs
Vexed by personal lies. Hexed in white-out lines.
Riled midnight rides inside this pyre of redolent pie- stroke six and nine
Intertwine in one human form supine
While quaffing nectar wine from the vine
Rancor drives the crime and anoints bold creature types to dine
At the interstice of Sublime.
*** Poem Boy Girl Sublime Love **** Crazy Insanity Madness Hypnotic tryst victim antsy hatred smoking smoke crisp sticky come scissor *** sideways eat ******* ******* ****** erotica literotica eroticliterature writing chicago chicagopoets poetboys **** ******* sadism sade ******* pain brutalpain brutal brutality humiliation 21 oldyoung eroticpoetry Puerile Lurid Nectar Wine Vine Time Dine Supine Fire Pyre Lollipop Candy Drop upways down up left right screwedup **** ****** up NSFW
Don Bouchard Sep 2016
If I may presume to summarize the concept,
"Eminent Domain,"
The Big P People own the Right of Way
And the little p people
Have temporary possession of the  opportunity
To get out of the Way,
Or to be smashed under the wheels
Of Big P Progress.

Appropriate compensation will be paid,
Of Course,
And living spaces provided
To the little p people,
While the Big P People thunder by on their new highways,
Overpasses, airports, causeways, and thoroughfares.

Reclamation will be done over the torn earth
To re-bury the unearthed little p people's dead,
To restore damaged aquifers,
To "replace" trees and grasses "just as before,"
Never mind the pipelines,
The concrete roadways,
The railroads,
And the power lines....

Eminent Domain...
Rhymes with Capitalist Gain,  
And little p people's pain....
Thinking about misuse of eminent domain....
B Young Jul 2015
where did all the dreams go.
once soaring
over river sea desert arctic ocean
roots and veins
deserted glistening ringing
over yellow red and purple
poppy fields temptatious shimmering  
now I am souring
I ate the forbidden fruit
and rather than being sweet
it was sour.

where did all the dreaming go.
I recall transversing convoluted causeways
unconscious
uncontrollably wandering then falling
toothless
standing amidst the spider king
I ask if I can bring a date to the wedding
the king replies, 'No, and I hath stolen the ring!
you must sing for me, lest be spun and forever left undone.'
and rather than being sweet,
it was sour.  

where did all the dreams go.
I recall traveling charging at the one
the one was forever in my view.
I challenged the one
cross-eyed concupiscent cyclopian nightmare,  
the siren song always draws me in
and rather than being sweet.
It is sour.

*I wake up and think rather than say,
are we all not just elegant decay?
Perig3e Jan 2011
This is a quick note
informing you that I
have enrolled
in "your geography 101."
I look forward to exploring
you from sea to shining sea,
your fruited plains,
your mountain tops,
your golden fields of sunlit grain,
your divided highways, causeways,
and often spread a luscious lunch upon the apron of your back roads.
For extra credit
I plan a thesis on your deltas,
spelunk your caves for glistening jewels,
swim your lachrimal lakes,
and pray that you keep me after school.
James Brian Ker Feb 2013
To take a stroll,
Down the alleyways
Down the causeways
And brain waves
Of my ever burning mind

Is to sink 60 feet into snow
And to ask yourself
Just how deep can this possibly go?
Tony Luxton Aug 2015
Some say we are all islands
solitary lonely shadow lands.
Some claim a community.
Is there a sum of humanity?

Poems - causeways between castaways
constructing insights into language
link lives, as well as brains can contrive,
summoning minds to share and thrive.
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
THE COURSE CHOSEN   06-29-10 (In Memory of Rachael Ruinard 08-02-74 – 06-29-00)

I must finally, completely convey to you
There is not one whit that you can do
To stop the course of whatever I choose
Don't worry, there's nothing
that you have to loose

It’s your new beginning, a life without pain
You shudder and quiver; you shake off the pain
You  let all of it go; you sail away to live again

My clowded eyes soon become
insufficient resevoirs,
Drops of heavy salt escape
and weigh heavy on my awkwardly bent  
lower lashes, causing a pain, aching and dull
At long last, the tears slide from my eyes,
followed by untold more
They etch acid rivulets down my  chalky cheeks  

unwsavering watchiung your departures
watching all of my efforts form a pool at my feet
It will soon be as if I have never been
Heavy with tears they remain unblinking It is time to exit, to quit hurting others
I’ll set my schedule after seeing my mother
She’s the only one I don’t always bother
Quick breath, I pull back in time to see.
I’ve led her to the brink of my insanity.

I tell her goodbye once more to soothe her
I spare her the knowledge, my agony wounds her
There really is no need to tell her
that none too soon, I'll be six feet under

I have no more will with which to conspire
A certain something is now required
A trickle of strength from those I’ve inspired
I’m tired, tired, just deadfully tired

My path is written in a fat wide ink
A river unwritten, of which I can’t speak
I agreed with you on an indivisible pact
It is broken now, by your unspeakable act

I try to drive off the causeways sometimes
But I live another day, which is no surprise
I think back to the moment of my demise

At that very last moment, at the end of my life.
After  convincing myself be to numb and blind.
Some sort of enigma rearranges my mind

Instead of watching my certain fall to death
I wake up to the smell of my acrid sweat.
In the nick of time, a blink of an eye.
I pull myself back from the electric fence.

I’m too scared to let go, please do me a favor
When I near the fence, push me into the wire
There I will leave towards my destiny, higher.

I’ll have gone with peace, not just one desired.
Soon I will be pulled from the eclectic wires
and tossed into licking pits of their fire
Or the dogs may eat me when they so desire

You build false conventions; you massage your convictions
I’m not just a patient with all sorts of addictions
I am your social condition with all its afflictions
I am hurt. I am real. I am not your fiction
Leave if you want, my path is clear
your trepidation is ugly, I sense your fear
You have no experience of what you see here
I do. I react to the evil that’s near.
You gave me up, you turned me out.
You did not know what my life was about
I believed you cared; I felt your concern
Only I decide, now, which way to turn.
You had to let go, my hand slipped out of yours
My life was quick, my thoughts endless hours
It is right for me, I don’t feel God’s ire
I will sleep better, I am not a liar

Above the gloom, doom, and my own deception
my unknown spirit is once again woken
Your eyes try to say something unspoken
But its not really you, you’re a humble God’s token
I will never again bow beneath myself
To gain the acceptance of someone else
I do what I do, I take my chances or else
Mother will bury me under an Oak’s dark shelf.

Once you held on, but your hands became wet
You haven’t learned the real lesson yet
The blame is a claim I own and regret.
by sjhunt-bloodworth 06-29-10 - A Day that will live in infamy.
Travis Dixon Jul 2011
new sphere--you knew
it was here all along,
hung on the tip of every brain,
heart & tongue, but held back
by our capricious lungs
& blanched knuckles
clutching the nous fear
like clumps of salt tossed
across left shoulders of causeways
long since sheered into the sea;
the carrier of all songs sung
by souls all sizes, both old
& young--we knew.
A W Bullen Aug 2016
What is it she whispers?
Outside..
The brittle bleach decor rustles shy applause
Inside….
half encumbered slumber wins
The aching World to part made play
Arcadian chapels hover in folds
That form in the fields of gathering grey

and still she whispers.

Damp calico dales murmur and shift
in the twist of a tremor.
A cold palm press upon temples that pulse
for the touch of another that passes
high over the way…

What is it, she whispers?

Witch-fingers lift at the filigree latches,
saltwater patches salivate free…..
..lasciviously.
beneath the list of chalking blinds
rim- shot eyes scour windswept causeways

Always searching,

Always waiting,
For some unknown.

And still she whispers...
Gabriel Dec 2013
We turn pages like the hands of a clock,
merely waiting for the pain to stop.

The hurt that is everlasting,
and full of creeping doubt.

Where lacking of beliefs is in an action so dire,
blood is often required.

The causeways of life's sour disposition,
housed in simmering veins.

These lines of a most terrible descent,
locked in a loving embrace of time.

The countless seconds of infinite measures,
left in a crumbling heart, forever.

New beginnings can come from broken things,
if we only tend to the marionette stings of our heart.
Miles Cottingham Aug 2016
A heart is a war, a heart is a shutter
One stream of light is allowed to escape
Far into your chambers a ceiling is painted
Mosaic by name, but truer to form:
An electrical storm we ourselves engineered to
Perpetuate evils eluded before
In the grimness of what lies behind the mind's door
When we met as two fangs in the jaw of a serpent
And you were the flares arcing up towards the sky
And I was the lens overawed by your light
Yes, I was what bent you with colors diffracted
Now I am that glass which your mildew begrimes
Color me flyblown, or color me blind
Marred are the edges around this old glass
The ink inundates and the horn is all hollow
Latched is our gate when the causeways collapse
Besieged now in my ocean of ink
Scanning the night sky for sign of a flare
No whisper, no shutter, no lingering there
PJ Poesy May 2016
Nothing makes sense anymore
And unnerving of universe agrees
It just said to me, “Stop, give up, adore
Oh do I implore, you to freeze”

Causeways to galactic fracturing
Gnats swarming my eyes for tears
Saving their own life-risked spattering
Been tattering away for years

Finding winced **** gall to ingest
An antidote regarded too unreliable
Shooting up clouds with rocket tests
Only in jest, sounding viable

Criminal patterns keep moving
Through time, history, and now stars
All you can do, to keep on grooving
No snoozing will get you this far

Continued survival has cause
Find it, but with no outer influence
For you have been given no flaws
Find awe in your own existence

A crack in the sky has formed
Rain down solid answers to actuality
Hence, life and why we were born
Unworn from concepts of reality
Concoctions of morning Blackstrap Molasses , Apple blossom honey
Afternoon Sugar Cane treat Sundays
Catfish feeder pond thrills
Stirring Bobwhite Quail wood line hideaways
Plentiful , native green grass runways
Kerosene lanterns , john boats o'er -
Black Crappie midnight waters
A thousand new songs rippled the moonlight -
causeways
Lakes melting into night
The warm , thick air of first light
Mockingbird chirrup , Killdeer call
August morning star convocations of -
Crape Myrtle with butterfly epiphanies
Copyright August 22 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)

Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition

generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid

for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets

to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to ******
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
page number two:

fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,

via unspoken mandate, and
thence subsequently, when receiving
presents galore, tis incumbent to craft
sincere polite thank you note
(written in calligraphy if possibly)
to evince real or feigned gratitude
despite The Battle of Life travails
and, whenever possibly necessarily
over spending monetary reserves
setting stage for Bleak House
after festivities subside,

whence welcoming return to employ
ment to garner green legal tender
to stave off Hard Times glad to
cease hearing annoying renditions
qua A Christmas Carol, and visiting
countless theaters enduring
legions of young actors and or
actresses portray the saga of Oliver Twist
a disadvantaged indigent boy
(given up by his mum),

and grudgingly accepted in an
Almshouse, where his early existence
mirrored unfair cruelty, whereat
Master of the deprived ladelled
thin gruel only one ration, a worse
perdition than death, this measly diet
lacked minimal nutrition, The Battle of Life.

This American Notes a disproportionate
concentration to reach out to those less fortunate
particularly Thanksgiving and Xmas
which effort laudable, yet a diminution
for succor such as: triumph over adversity
sustenance, accommodations seems
to muffle The Chimes remaining
three hundred and some odd or even days.
My first mutant friend clean his right hand bugler, to sail the massif of thousands of mountains like thousands of sheets to be pasted into the largest history huge book. The one on the left, is like palm Nosferaticus bone, moving the curtain of his prodigious window of a freeze morning, my good friend wistfully, his hand trembling before taking his belongings before leaving ... :, feel as if it were something as the head of zen in an Islamic republication would be a zen  serious little temperance that preys with braveness the editor slumbering in his bed -. warrior earth, a stripling warrior , who lost his gang which still hung in trees as if they were over a hundred thousand crows on all the trees near the horcondising.


In the midst of them, trying to finish my last project of life and spirit, he was in the financial phase, trying to finish points balance, like the mesh to receive my body in freefall after traveling so far trying to measure the radius of the universe personally.,., but my comrades forgot the fruits of measurement.

When I speak of them I speak of their contracted forms, their hands clear arteries and hydrogenated hands, green as the strain of a vineyard in hectares of saturn energies. When one day I thought naively go up there to the Saturnian vintage

For my ship that looked like a scorpion stings had stoked hydrogen, of forces that were, forces were ...

My Cosmonaut scorpion the right hand, I said to rescind my project my ramadanic project, my upheavel voyage prior saturn born again infected with stars collided in her autopsied heart center.

beam having me horcondisis, beam receive me then bathe your transacted valoric object, I have to go through the orthogonal morning, then be under the sun with his best face before deal thousand legions of spiritualistic forms of adhering spirits in my vitrubio’s arms, equations mastics, typical of souls migrating souls of spears never embraced by some vegetarian cell bodies.

We are at home horcondisis appear hordes armed licking contrails snails bees in their hive little more than their laborious phases snail suicides honeycomb.

He went up its slopes, thousands of hidrogens green lights, souls light years pouring their breaths through the peaks of horcondising, where misery is empire gold empire abundance of thousands of millions of prayers sent millions of years by lovers wise to be heard by the mountains and not the hommo sapiens, is mucus in the handkerchief northern gambler ..

Since crying infant, infant biological matter and not moved, the hommo sapiens rages as a detergent drapeability torn flood of destruction.

Horcondising is the Olympic platform scene securities by deal catafalques free vision to beat the triviality. - the three roads.

The three causeways to be more invisible all guilt, no stranger to inherit anything, nor himself only what gives me a fleeting morning light of my love for you lord of light,

The sun transpire, almost obese up the last few steps to fall like a diamond to the orbital of the earth's solstice, almost like a intimidating rappel on stage to see how to get to land, after climbing son long or so much mind.


My lord solstice never thought it was so chilling rub your back when I fall upon you. And the littoral, scabby and stellar explosions, constellation Orion and others, who will dress the unclothed souls, headwaters of the new sun.

By the greatest oath that is written and promulgated human voice, I outline the hiperdisis galactic start the breadbox to distribute, as the true summit of summits where true souls will be traded, that cost will have expansive roles on the globe that both we appropriate . Unduly, almost as violating the energies that move the improper world.

When I get near the pace of the sun in its solstice, I go to horcondising almost like a star, anxious to wait for the balance to dethrone all vanities and improper grace of owning myself.

To around me desperate ran sapiens hommo throwing her back the last pieces of lost opportunities, their quick clothes were in quick gestures of conformity, before reaching the ellipse, on all heights in the world because they could not be less so, degrees difficulty, degraded fringes of understanding ....

Goes up, and those who come from my lords aside from around the world, are fanned to heaven passing their monetary leftovers others who never had by body that will fit, but now a spirit that only shines in her eyes, gold pocket which houses coins manure mud.


When Late afternoon in an ever lived time, run by terror hills water are forms of veils falling by  manorial sleeping earth, many whys ... for so many hours of feverish centuries of few transit hours of nascent lives disrupted in sleeping lives. When my last minute delay in releasing the penny soothes my wound, perhaps it hurts twice the beggar who want to cure your wound, tilling day, to love their steps infant who was one day, almost as needing a new  smack on her buttocks bone more than anything if it is not hidden the day as a poisoned shrew.


The barriers of the day, as night to jump higher thousands of souls who aspired to reach the plateau drains the water that washes break every lost soul. Each with its little faith to have his good deeds, only better debt for unconfined failures and hold for a second to reach the sun shining light that dwells alone for seven days in Horcondising to save our souls dilapidated. Decades of years lived, scrubbing my conscience to be better than a being who can not live without your tired lifeless body ,. a beautiful autumn day tells me a flower starting step of men who have defected from this immense mansion that pours joy shouting to the winds that run from joy to joy.


And stan the groans of those who rise from his bed with his head, not thinking but because they lack arms as levers huge cranes to say; I stand to play with all the walking endlessly until the arms of the Lord who made me, but it took me all the decades I wanted to improve the days that I could not, because the door was bolted he saw shine off the sun but the door said no one opened it because it was the minute arrive also close to others who ask because I also ask, receive me on top I look like a boy pursing his face to seek help from others get flexible the chain to continue day out full of hope and quiet after warning others more direct link between two sets divided souls, the tender embrace that carpet the land germinating happiness reigns on the esplanade never get tired of this duality, blessed the day of the ritual God made the sun strongly embrace the earth when dawns, even when it rains; because then whales water paths in ding **** sound, looking cheerful participate fantastic zig zag Pilgrim universe smiling suns on the ground that heals his wounds as a mask molten blood.

My multi machine wound weapon that fires projectiles caliber of egos, get tired because they leave rows driven, and traces his fallen weightless  ego and super ego without body. It comes my time to be measured by what never before lived and not lived in for good measure.
TRANSMIGRATED POEM, FEELING A SOUND BEYOND . THE CONSCIENCE FROM THE UTTER ALL ( UNDER EDITION )
Adam Mott Jul 2015
Here is a song to you
Written on the cover of red, white, blue
Midnight and it's dream rights
The places where I wait for you
Quickly fading in the rear-view
Heading towards my lucky few

Meet you at the home of us
Touch you in the realm of trust
Stretching throughout the causeways
Have to do all this living
Choose to do it with you

We are the lost, holding hands
The only sanity in a realm of descent
We are the old souls
Waiting for the world to mend
To Liv
bouquets of flowers below street lamps
smeared with gas and smoke
still giving out their ghosts
stars lighting causeways beleaguered clouds
sparkling glass bare intestines
beaded eyes the orbs divined
a man with golden glows pocketed
heart coved in a trough wed
by lice through floods of blood
****** by the dreaming that sleeping does
lived in a lantern extinguished white mud
painted on in the rivers + washed away with the flood
Willard Wells Dec 2015
Traveling down
highways, byways,
causeways and boulevards.

I find in reality,
this place,
my mind is a
never-ending maze.

Of spinning wheels
of little boxes,
compartments all.
Stacked quite high.

Well above my eyes,
I look up and see
the flashing light,
reflected off
the cold dark wings.

I envision them to save
some time,
the monkey flight,
on Dorothy's night.

I pay them no mind
like they are bats
after fleas.
To clear the air.

They can be such pest.
Interrupting,
some beautiful thoughts.
As they think of their real intent.

It's time to get in
their face
and make something
quite clear.

When they came here,
it was not my choice,
but I gave in
at first in fear.

Time was short
and I observed
their fate if
I refuse to care.

So in the end,
I give them their due
in a limited space.
And share that space.

As I chase these words.
But if they get in the way
no matter the condition I'm in.
Just kick'im aside.

Cause they only thrive on fear!
What a ride. Where did all that come from.
Robert Gretczko Aug 2016
there is but one
precise precision

coming when not known
or in glancing
past mirrors

eternal cry
smacked into the middle of it all
all
  ready
steamy
    unknown

soothed by
a warmed wrapped universe

stand you there now
you  
   a man of men
a progenitor of your time to be a sympathetic highly
regarded dully appointed

soon more gesturing
world commanding demanding
expanding
  
steady to the heed and call
of realms and vibrations of
  expectations
and grounding on anchored sea bottoms

tethered to the darkest of
nights causeways
   in finger tipped grasps
and tip-toed acquaintances

all shine to cheers afloat on the seas joyously
released then found, then gone

arrived here now
   dad I’m home
Carlos Oct 2017
I carry a casual carapace,
A character trapped in ambience.
Amble the alleyways and ascertain an avid state in acid rain,  
The product a revision of charisma corrected conditions,
How I've come to envision a victim or a villain.
Attach the cataracts to collapse to a tone of grey,
We're all the same under the sages, same as saints.
Geared to the gutters, I greet in mustered mutters,
I mumble through humble structures,
The tongue erupting ruptures.
                
I'm sure they see me as a background actor,
In the shadows of a flagship,
The character on mute behind a selective scene of laughter.
Is this disembodiment, or an echo of the cage?
The skin, bones and flesh under the semblance of a face.
Amazed by the growth of atrophy,
A passenger passing passively,
Impactfully passing passages,
Just practicing for a classic scene.
Fit in, camouflage, play ******* chameleon,
The inner truth a Gilles suit, where this mere meat is measured in a meager mediums.

I'm certainly a circus of surplus circuitry,
I could be less of a mesh of flesh,  with a sense of urgency.
Here a golem strung by the clockworks of a blueprint,
Chiseled in with details and a little bit of hubris.
Pistons Positioned to pivot, pin, - all inclusive,
Grinding on the causeways of abusive truths in future,
Joints cracking, hinges at their thresholds,
Attention to the details, a trend to tend to tenfold.
#self #introspection #WhoAmI #alive #people #appearance #perception
Graff1980 Apr 2017
Do not let them
press your pain
against the fence,
scraping your
thin skin veins
against its sharp
metal parts.

Do not let them
mutilate your heart.
It is not their part
to play an
integral roll
in how you grow.
You will rise
despite them.

Do not let go;
Know that though
you are only
passing familiars
that tread
the creeping causeways
driving in, around,
and eventually
all the way out
of this living town,
I love you all.
zebra Oct 2019
when i am huddled
in glooms dark corner
there is a human beauty
in being devastated by ****** impulses

Other's, those objects of desire
are like fiends of an uncertain music
that turn the heart into a stammering blush

I sniff the scent of flesh labyrinths and causeways
glitter toes and derrières
pom pom pie and brazen limbs

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
I want to **** them all
Christian Bixler Jan 2020
Listen, now my friends, for I
shall let, the thought that like
an illness threads, laced through
all the causeways of my veins,
that in the moment, threatening
decay, boils, and begs relief;
that all men, and women living,
made in the plan of this wide
and tangled tapestry, seek and
humor themselves to be, each
woven separate, unique in form
and station, and about them hung
the universe, dependent for its
character on their sight, which
itself by their hearts temperament is due.
Life, the lives of others, serve the
merest backdrop, the stage that
is the foundation of our act, and
our struggles, illumined by
measure of their intimacy, seem
in their importance to swallow the
world, and cast all that does not
pertain in a veil of contempt, disinterest.
Yet the world, as in untrammeled
thought we realize, does not sway
according to ourselves, move
whether sweet or bitter, along the
course of our presumption. But in its
step it moves to the tune of its creation;
wholly nothing, never fair nor foul alone;
a pool, in which like ripples man's every
thought and action begins, grows, dies,
and is reborn. Seen now, free of leaning
and imprint, the brush's work broad,
shallow, a truth is opened, that wiser now
perforce we clutch to our *******; that of
the living, who suffer, there are those
who suffer more, or less than ourselves,
and to the former in the halls of memory we
can do naught but weep, so shut our eyes
and turn, pretending the point less sharp,
the dose less bitter, that our minds may fall
again to the pattern, and our eyes again look
outward. Walled so, is it a wonder that these lives,
these men and women, shaped as they are through
pain are found forgot, abandoned in the memory
of their minds, their hearts? But memory is the
root of empathy, sympathy; so remember, and in
whoso you meet light their memory also; for it
is only when record fails that man's erasure is
complete; nor will ever his life lose its meaning
while there is one alive to remember.
Inspired by the episode Tywysog Cymru, The Crown, season three.
There is a certain beauty in it.

The spider-web bridges across
a watery milk chocolate gateway,
churning rust water, as steel ships
glide through the slick like drones.

The metallic twists and turns of
silver pipes crisscross across
roadways and itself, creating
apocalyptic silver castles and causeways
of itself.

The fog and clouds caress
every visual body, a seductive clinging,
like a cheating spouse's tongue.

The hum and clang of forgotten
promises rumble the earth.
And we are afraid.

Perhaps it's not beauty,
maybe, an aesthetic:

Apocalyptic Industrialization
Sean Fitzpatrick Nov 2023
Streetlights glide past on a Tuesday night,
so alone, and the air,
cold wet.
Your faces form a phase like
a string of pearls,
occurrences distributed in space,
Watching mournful over the
deserted pedestrian causeways
eliciting sonderous ghosts,
Leaving voicemails
for romances that never happened.
And selfishly, I presume
a perspective,
Or really, I dream up of a
place to meet you,
like an alleyway (I am a **** in this instance),
Or the leftovers of a wedding
eagerly awaiting the clean-up crew.

— The End —