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when swimming with dolphins
lost phase, depth of oceans

recurrence of persuasion
the cavities erosion
a pragmatic extension, the neural hyper tension

grace the evening
split precision aching
remedies for aging

of the alkaline waste
nat Jan 30
she tears a hole in my heart
and gives me pretty cavities to hold onto
when she's gone
all my memories of her are fond
why is that?
it feels like without her i'd collapse
though she causes so much pain
i need her
sure she's the sickness
but she's also the cure
i need her
i don't even know her anymore
laura Nov 2017
bad boy, i got a weakness
i like the taste of blood licked from my
own hands from being reckless
tearing hearts out their intended
cavities and im afraid my mouth
is cold from being exposed

i guess i keep the charade
of getting mad at you
for not buying me cigarettes
or not telling me to quit them depending
if im interested in you

i go to the gym to heal
all of my mistakes instead of church
and its cuffing season
want you to tie me to your mast

and leave me there all season
then afterwards we'll never text each
other again because you're a bad boy
and you are no good for me
Claire Waters Aug 2013
so i sit here
with a hole in my foot
with a hole in my head
with a hole in this book
with the hole in her eyes
when she gave me that look
with the hole in my face
when i saw what he took
the hole in my heart
i still don't know the crook
paper is just too easy to tear
and you think i'm easy
when you see i've been shook
i think i need a hook

now there's a hole in my stomach
and it's feeling tight and queezy as she ties
me up in knots of my poor esophagus
her knuckles white from squeezing
i breathing like a snake trying to shed
the desert sun is hot so
please lift this mask up off my head
i try to offer a white flag
but she kills me instead
cause she doesn't like the things
that she can't understand

and so she holds her fists like
they have holes in them
holds me like there are holes in me
cavities of ample opportunity
for punishment and further tearing, no tears,
none of this teething willful jeer
i'll split and rewire, i don't need old fears

i am only tired at best
the pieces did not defy gravity
they fell right out of my ****** chest
but landing is a skill you see
tear me apart for free and be my guest
ripping down the wallpaper
wrestling with the messes of stresses
no one will unremember
looking for the emotions
you desperately want to render
but while i'm still soft
i'm no longer tender
so remember when you enter that
no matter what the temper of the sender
or persuasion of the vendor
i will not surrender
to all these social mind benders

there is a hole in my flag
my blood is an involuntary badge
no more flags, white stains
too easily
Ben Jones Feb 2013
There's a fella you've all heard of
From a sandy foreign place
He was sent down by his daddy
From somewhere in outer space
He died and he came back again
Then he hit the dusty road
Now he's there for me with a helping hand
When I've almost dropped my load

Jesus is my barman
I munch his salty nuts
He fills me up with lovin'
Till it rumbles in my guts
He's my one almighty Hoover
He ***** off all my sin
To all my tricky crevices
He bravely enters in

He eases through my tightest spots
He's always got my back
He lubricates my passage
Down the narrow winding track
He tinkers with my plumbing
Removes my stubborn stains
Then with his holy implement
He firmly rods my drains

Jesus is my bell-boy
In his elevatin' craft
He pushes on my button
Then he takes me up the shaft
He's my fire fighting saviour
When flames begin to roar
He grabs his mighty helmet
And he breaks in my back door

He's captain of my ******
Commander of my boats
Don't worry if you're sinkin' fast
Cos Jesus always floats
If you're cold and need to light a fire
The lord is right and good
There's one thing he's remembered for
It’s always having wood

Jesus is my dentist
He drills me with his bit
He fills up all my cavities
Then I gargle and I spit
And one day when it’s legal
We'll end our secret fling
With his ring on my finger
And his finger in my ring
A country/western style song about loving Jesus...
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children

one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just **** excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode

I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,

*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled

until the next nights dream
JL Mar 13
when the mind becomes numb

a skull can be dissected to show its cavities

cavities are the orbit of the eyes

an old Indian saying?

I noticed you really just want to annihilate me

not comfort you.

There is a blood meal in me
ready to explode  

a tombed implosion

an imprisoned ****.

But it's too late for that

time is personal

and lately, voices

I fear the indecipherable is now decipherable

I see in Moriah, Jonah, Tyler incredible nations
Cree, why didn't you listen to me?

can you ******* saliva?
get over it!

you know

the skull was dissected to show the cavities of the orbit of the suns.
Madisen Kuhn May 3
the truth is

i cannot be contained like that

i cannot be taught to like water 
more than cranberry juice

i cannot pretend for decades upon decades

(years like soft footprints and malnourished
buzzards circling who i really am;
the whimsical part of me
decaying like neglected cavities)

that i enjoy self-discipline and growing muscle

i cannot cook healthy dinners 
and go to sleep at reasonable hours

i will not wake up one morning
and be everything that you hoped for me to be

i tried holding myself very still for a while
i tried to like doing what i’m supposed to

and maybe i will someday

but it won’t be because i loved you
Grace Ann Sep 2018
If I told you what I really thought of you
And insults were like cavities
I wouldn't have any teeth left
Felix Sladal Apr 2017
Yawning mouth of the city beckons
Glittering jagged teeth tearing into
Passing souls
Walking on slick black tounges
Sand beaten breath fogs windowed eyes
The beast we come to love
Even as we live incased in it's cavities
The plaque in the grime of eroding gums

When did you last brush your teeth
Your buildings, starting to turn gray
Your tongue a tad flavorless
Do you grow old, fat, and tired?
Or is that just us?

Changes float on the breeze so subtle
You'd never see them unless you left
People slowly turning to dust
Blowing away
But everything still stands
As if nothing ever happened
We live our lives in nooks and crannies
Ghosts pressed between the glass
Tiptoeing enamel streets

Plush gold chairs and minty fresh
Oh peppermint fresh
Rain trickled saliva slips over your
swinging silk face
Breath, taunting tints of lavender
Your back is straight
Stressed crowsfeet pupils shine
Wake up tomorrow to find today
Your eyes are brown but green
Your mouth is wide but tight
Your grin not as cheap as the others

Everyone starts to bleed together
All traits the same
So very different
You weren't drinking mint
Nor lavender
Freeze frame in memory
Pick and choose what we see today
Who to be yesterday
Next week pickle plum I'll jump through a fire just to feel me, feel you

We're running from something
Day to day
Feels like time, might be ourselves
Your shoulders are curved, the slightest of slouches
Your eyes are oh so green and teeth so straight
Thin lips and a long face
Once opon a time I almost knew you
But not today not ever
Self chained straining towards freedom
But happiness wrinkles you cheeks
Self imprisonment won't bruise the will
Don't listen to me, your far more free than I'll ever be
Whistle to the stars
Shrug your shoulder at life's questions
Look it in the eyes with your peridot irises, tell it you've got this
I wish I know what you were drinking
Rainwater and honey

Your eyes are weary brown
Rosy cheeks blush on bronze
Hair shifts to straw spun gold
You haven't aged but I feel so old
Going places while I stand still
Doesn't feel the reverse though that's the truth, if only in theory
You paint life, I paint paper
I maybe younger but I'm wilting faster.
Is it wrong that I wanted to kiss you
For a millisecond and no more
Atune to a time warp lost in free space

Green eyes Brown
Rigged lines graceful limbs
I'm a overcooked noodle
With a halfcooked plot
And everyone seem so put together
I'll poor the pesto on myself and call
me done.
Eugene OR some time near me birthday 2016
there is no blood in my veins,
only air.
little cells, little storms,
little words that echo in the cavities that are my chest,
my heart,
my lungs.
my head is not in the clouds,
it is the clouds,
and it rains, it is cold,
it is full of dust and heavy, heavy atmosphere.

any other day I’d hide from the storm
but today I stand with arms outstretched
and head tilted towards the sky,
catching tears that I can’t make
wishing for lighting to strike
to fill my
persephone Oct 2018
he is half my soul
as the poets say -
what *******

i am a whole soul
old soil
and you are the roots
that take hold in me
shifting and growing and
digging ancient cavities
in my chest

do you think
if i had met you
just a little later
waited a little longer

would we have lasted
instead of falling apart
in the way we did -


like blowing out a candle
written on a water-stained sticky note marking a section in a textbook, labeled “marx”
Darling dying dad & ½-drunk mama can't we never go to "The Saint
Jude Children's Hospital Cancer Torture Horror Show"? I saved 34
cavities in my mouth, so turn at the mortuary & speed 1 mile south.
Jaycub J Apr 30
Winged sculptures
crash in a glass
of fleeting muse.

Splintered cavities
bleed shadows
into patched auras.
A cloaked Christ
plaster cast
rides shotgun
on the spinning wheel.

conquered gravity
haunts crusaders
of crushed diamonds
crazy shining
in zig zag lines
of cocaines finest.

Bridge over bitter
waters roll
into broken buckets
down river
falls frozen,

Catapult snaps
in half setting sun
wild spring rains
sent to asylum.
Home on the range.
Eno Feb 14
I’m thirsty
For a Life that throws obstacles at me.
When I shall dig out the courage
To dodge and conquer them
In the name of progress,
For some kind of benevolence
That I’m not quite sure of yet.

I propel forwards
Only for my eyes to meet,
For my nose
to graze-A ladder
Between me and my next step.

Who I Am


Who I need to be.

Up and down I go,
Over the edge,
My feet barely touch
the groun
d.When a phantom wheelbarrow
Careers it’s way into the back
Of my knees. And I must fight gravity -
Jump up and out the side!

Oh, but
In this way
Both thrills and stilts;
Exhausts the very foundations
Mighty seeds of ambition were sown on,
Till there are no nutrients left
In the body
For a common ****
Even to bloom
Tir - - - ed

I rest here for a while
It gives me time
To really look around.
The man to my right
Just runs around the same 400m track
Every day.
Every month,
Into years.
He seems happy
But he doesn’t seem to really go anywhere New

Curiosity and discovery
May lead to misery
Beckon the shadowy places
To spread like cancer inside of me
And scoop hope
Like a melon baller
Out of my cavities.
But the man to the right of me
Never knows.

So I tell myself
Maybe he doesn’t have the capacity;
Does that mean
That he does not feast on the senses
Of each fruitful experience
As I ?
Dissecting every moment
Searching for beauty and cruelty
That I might consume its knowledge
And be led somewhere
Higher up
To a room brimming
With sisters and brothers
And as I open the gold embossed doors
Solid Oak
I will rejoice
Because I have found my people
And we will fight
The good fight
ohellobeautiful Nov 2018
You do not have to pick
from gardens outside
of the forest that is
already thriving
w i t h i n
Y o u
for if you do
your head will fill
with leaves that fall
when You need spring
winter will come in june
and soon You won't have
sight of the moon
(or You)
b e c a u s e
You lost yourself
inside somebody else's
fire and the only way out
is to find Love in the smoke
of your own two tired eyes
like You could before
You jumped ship
f e a r i n g
the possibility
of finding out that
your pieces may not
ever fit together in
the same way
a g a i n
but what is life
if we always float
where the water is
c a l m ?
i don't know about You
but i prefer the rapid descent
of water falls and milky way skies
that can only be achieved through
the most demanding environments
that leave you filled with
P u r e L i g h t

you are enough energy alone

Your Light is what will
always lead you back hOMe
to your own field of wildfires
where your broken heart's eye
can see Your vessel A l o n e
holds enough Light to fuel
all the stars in the sky,
to warm the
hearts of
m i l l o i o n s
and as you breathe
You can feel the Love of
countless stars who all
exploded to fill your
body cavities with
all the strength
You'll ever
next time
you feel alone
put your hand to
you heart and feel the
rhythm of the YOUniverse
listen to nature sing to you
melodies of the T r u t h
that you’re not a "me"
but are woven into
the cosmos as an
integral part of
“we" & every
thing you
see. . .
older poem~couldn’t remember if i shared :-)
Sketcher Dec 2018
Anxiety ******* tearing up inside of me. ***** ******* **** with some *** stained cavities and now shes coming onto me entirely. I should be like finally, but instead the anxious brain of mine avoids the blankets and gravitates towards the rhyme cause reality... what the **** is reality? My extended ****** up morality, apprehending the shortness of mortality or all these sexualities?
He, she, they, them.
See me hock phlegm.
Maybe stock them.
Lay low till' ten.
And then when,
They stop,
My pen cap,
Pops off,
Stabs lead into the head of the said ***, already wishing they were dead, but the use of a mag would cause attention, so I'm carrying a handbag full of pens. This is my pencil pushing, pen pushing straight into the *** neck, rushing to **** the wreck of a man and get paid through bills or a check again.

From my anxiety to killing ****, cause I'm willing to get lost in my ways of letting my mind wander, even though I kind of wonder why the **** were on my mind. The ***** that broke my heart was bi, but that's fine. I got nothing against you, unless you hurt me or the ones I love. You get two feet up your *** at once if you harm or speak bad about any of us.
Coping with heartbreak and for some reason I'm in an angry stage. For two months it was nothing but sadness and then one day, BAM!, anger burst through and I'm **** ******.
sandra wyllie Nov 2018
I Want to be Your Treat, Pete.
Not just any éclair or sweet.
Something much more than you ever had before.

Ice-cream goes down pretty smooth.
But you need a spoon.
Honey require bees that sting.
I would never do such a thing!
Molasses passes too slowly.
Chocolate melts at high temperatures.
Cake you need to bake.
And you need a fork and plate.
You’re too busy for something complicated.
A soufflé falls flat.
You need something more that.
Pudding can be lumpy.
All Jello is, is colored water.
Why bother?

I want to be your treat, Pete.
I hold my shape easily.
I’m smooth.
And you won’t need a spoon.
I don’t melt.
And I’ll never fall flat.
I’m sweet.
I won’t give you cavities.
I don’t require baking or refrigerating.
All I want is love making.
I think that’s something you can do.
What do you say? Me and you?
**** scrap metal! It is fundamental to judge your crazy **** mental
in the throes of passion atop the gum-line of blackened cavities that
are structurally dental. Never blame me for the under-salting of ***-
anese fries, as I am more receptive to sobs of pity than distant cries.
Alyssa Gaul Nov 2018
and Hallelujah
the sugar burns my teeth cavities
like I knew it would
and I laugh at the bottle label
because 270 calories
for one small drink
is a joke-
a trick I should've seen coming

the caffeine isn't even worth it
#1 of 30
Hanna Mar 18

love runs cold
and fills my cavities
in a relative heat
that i mistake for warmth

love runs cold
and rattles my bones
in a conscious effort
that i mistake for movement

love runs cold
and gives watery oxygen
to my lungs
that i think i can breathe

love runs cold
and floods the air
in such a way
that i think my tears are part of it

your grip is hot in mine,
your pulse weak

and i mistake you for human .

Ken Pepiton Apr 30
krause asu
AN accident.

That's how, but why?
Many universes, many realities, imaginable


how long must one live in a cardboard box
to confess the experienced
altered next from then to now.

Copenhagen Calvinist or Lutherin or Anabaptist

holier than I, as was I, as the Hermit hidden
in the fool on the hill,
telling secret meanings to nowhere man, now

touching a time when knowing out paced known
knowables, imaginables were

imagined, not evil, but fine tuned to approach
per fection in effect

what more can I ask? All my debts are paid.

Accidental debt accrual demands accidental debt relief.

Political-lic, that's where my party stands.

Jubilee, nowhere has the ver been
a time like

now. We being at all, as mere words, heard only once,
never uttered

utter non sensed tone tuned to augmented minds

-- bio logic circuit
-- try a spark

Gleam in grandpa's eye, try umph, boy. Better up.

Swing and there is the ***** of the bat

never heard, a clap

just now, you are on the ball, and this is
what that always means,

Okeh. Like safe. No war. Okeh. Mark to follow, someday.

biologic circuitry is so unbelievable,

to whom? All who see the supsumpsystems and the info resources,
re re re, every, meaning as if ever were in
finite, every things reasonable countable and measured,

AN ark is a box. Rectangular, most oft.
A box. Hermits live in boxes, some times,

with a coven-ante-cipitate, tincture
of this and that, with a drop o' Paracelsus fave,
Hermetic hermenuetic magishit.
Mercury, liquid conducter, okeh.

You axt a reason for the faith in the wrong *******
autodidactic augmented and medicated old man.

I hapt to save a dammercury switch from an old thermostat,
with a bi-metal coil we could
into action and launch afacethefact face that fact face of fact
tap. Twist it, there, balance, level, spirit levels bubble
hermetic form flow act
ioncat ion quest

spark-- the idea imagicish dealybob- gleam

the feeling of gleam. Toothpaste imparts
*** appeal, I pana imparts diligence, pepsodent is perfect
for explosive types averse to yellow,
oh my god,
game changer. Hidden persuaders never saw us,

by stripe are we healed and made bright white and loveable,
said the tooth from the future, we learned, in school, to love
each night, with a brisk brush before our
prayer for no cavities could be answered.

tap right there.

Gem quality. The meaning of life, I magine, is more.
a simple, as they say, muse. A little think on being the ball.
Mortecai Null Nov 2018
Lines of scar tissue trace from the edge of your lips back to the end of your teeth. You run your tongue from one corner to the other. Right to left. You can’t be the only one to have this. Your desire to probe another’s orifices has close to overwhelmed you in the desire to relate to other people. Was this normal? When the fan runs wind over your skin it crawls to create peaks and divots. As they fade, one patch remains on the outside of your forearm. You pick at every little one until the whole population turns red to purple to green. Was this normal? Your teeth poke holes into each other. A corner of a molar no longer holds up a roof and with your tongue’s help you can just barely make out the inner cavity. It felt like porous webbing. It reminds you of the animal skulls you looked at in your biology class and their delicate nasal cavities. Looking at those cavities used to make you very sad. Was this normal? You once had a hangnail on your hallux. They had to numb your foot to break under your skin and pull the left section of it out. It took twice the amount of anesthetic for you to not feel it. It felt good to know you were being mutilated.  Was this normal? You always felt a dip in the upper back of your head. You once heard that newborn babies had a soft spot in that area of their skull, but that the hole closes as they get older. Pressing on yours incites headache. Was this normal? You once formed a cyst on your thigh. It did not want to be drained like its smaller companions that littered your back and face. You are determined to remove the blemish. You dig around the outsides and press inward to find the source. It seems deeper than you thought. You continue to scratch away at the layers of skin as you start to bleed. It doesn’t really hurt. You just want to find the cyst. After about thirty minutes you give up. You’re not really sure why you couldn’t find it. You must have took at least an inch into your leg. Was this normal? For weeks you slipped in and out of lucid dreams. You only got up to use the bathroom, check the news, and take your medicine. Some of the dreams were enjoyable and others less so. You almost started to forget which world was more real, but it all started to become unsettling. Even when you didn’t care where you were, every state felt as if it were decaying around you. And when you did care, the panic caused you to start to shake. In quiet, disabling anxiety, you spun counterclockwise to the world around you. You grabbed the razer from your shower. You gently rubbed the blades against your forearm. Erratic slices cut through the outermost dermal. There was no blood, just redness. It was only to make sure you were still there. But it wasn’t quite right. Your arm was there, but maybe the rest of you wasn’t. You had to make sure. Was this normal? You raced the blades up your arms, over your chest, down your torso, down and down. Certain curvatures ran strange and caused blood to pearl to the surface. Others barely upset the dead layer. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You always felt like your face didn’t look quite right. And right now, it was the face of some sort of estranged family member. Was this normal? You gently glide the razor sideways across your face. It’s the most sensitive yet. You remember some random piece of trivia about the temples on a human head. You start to slide the hand razor to the right side of your temple. It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. You experiment with more and more pressure until blood starts to arise. The little bit of it running down the side of your face made you feel the most comfortable in your skin for a long time. You start to rotate from your forearms and your temples and your stomach and again. You’ve forgotten about the dreams. You’ve forgotten about the world. You’ve forgotten about the trivial division between reality and non-. You’ve forgotten about normalcy. You feel good. Was this normal?
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