"consumable" poems
Oh
to be the girl in those adverts ,
Light,
skinny,
beautiful
A tragic line
to every gentle rib
I fetishise her fragile fingers
A monstrous beast reflected in the mirror, the worst possibility.
Tis poetic, there she stares
Says her lines; remaining fair,
Into my face, My acting is heavy handed and awkward
She’s a consumable reality,
She’s easy on the eyes
The fragile female,
salvageable.
We are a tragedy of ages, her Juliet, I Faustus
They silently boo while I slop onto the stage
A lazy slob,The **** of society, just don’t eat you fat **** men like curvy girls We don’t want to see you, You’re so brave! You’re the problem, it’s not hard hide your mass from view, unkempt, repulsive, vile. hide yourself it offends my sharp eyes.
I open my drooling mouth to speak, but there are chins smothering my mouth
My eyes clouded by greasy cellulite
I don’t want to exist like this.
So just stop eating.
I’d give an arm and a leg,
my pale teeth,
my parasitic possibility
my child
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
i have a nosebleed
and i breathe steam
seamlessly from this black hole,
******* life-air away
from those who actually
deserve
to live.
why this blood-red mud
frightens my friends
i'll never know-
it's me! so real!
me, the drinkable.
me, so easily consumable.
me, in a manipulative form.
my clay brain, melted,
sliding through my nose,
it brings the *****
little piece
of **** that i am
out into the light
where everyone can see it.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
Nothingness is without claim to a product. That product, being a flesh-eating desire of nothingness. How does that truly define what nothingness with a claim is about? Simple. It eats the nothingness from right out of your very claims. Tempting you to feel the flesh-eating desire of nothingness claims take variety in its own product. Giving you the desire to take effect against the primate that localizes themselves against the nothingness with a claim. A product to fashion itself full of thirsty varieties. A deep contemplating resolution to how one gently caresses there very essence into the nothingness. Claiming there very rights to its own product. How does two rights to a claim, maximize a product? The flesh-eating product of nothingness becomes dreadfully thirsty for those varieties belonging to the primate stepping into unknown territory. The flesh-eating nothingness begins to dissolve the essence of that primate altogether. Going easy as not to strain its own consumption. Or is it just desiring the inevitability of a never-ending claim to thirsty varieties? The primate’s essence filled to the brim with its product, is equalizing the claim of itself into the nothingness’s claim of flesh-eating symptoms. What happens when it’s had its fill? It’s a flesh-eating nothingness, right? What do you think it’s going to do…? Paint pictures of wanting to do something, even thou it could very well strain its own focus in the moment of doubt. No! It’s far older than some primate losing itself one consumable bite at any given time. Losing yourself one focal point at a time. Never knowing what the claim of nothingness could really amount to! Or what the product of flesh-eating gives when consuming you whole!
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC
my intention is
to create this
uncomfortably wonderful
unsterilized environment
get high off the light
of seventy small fires
fall in love with the kind
that could **** for hire
get a job buy ****
keep it quiet then expire
nil in its entirety
fluid in its movement.
this is textual ambiguity
the rest is inaffectual
doses of good old
uhmerican ingenuity
like conceptual moses
roaming thru the
******* desert for
forty years
leave him alone
he doin his thang.
he's tryna find his consciousness
truant from the ensuing madness
nothing here is as it seems still
I promise you there
ain't **** to fear.
the people want
consumable truth
available for daily use;
they like being choked
& smoking the cracks
in the broken mirrors
also know as home.
a single empty room
& it doubles as a tomb.
how queer.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
portals,
boundaries,
encased snapshots,
an edit.
a consumable fragment,
a glimpse,
palatable.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?
Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?
I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.
I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"
I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!
But ****
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).
Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
You are why men build monuments
The real things
The beautiful things
They are simple; they are temporary
Will your jagged photon flash strike twice, impossible?
The sands of time spilled from the hour glass
Long to be struck on their beach, melted to window
To be transparent at last in your return
In a shipwreck near the shore men swim to
Supposed safety, and almost make it but lose
Strength, and
Die in your violence too soon
They swam but now they float, the sky lit like celebration in the tempest
The complexity of a mindseed ends in day form
Expand and react, ebb and flow the empty
Bottle captain stagnant he sails nowhere from
An observable exhibit, he goes down with the lady
And drowns in consumable liquid could spare but she quit
Drinking, the none empty bottle captain crashes
Parched on the grains
She isn't
Coming back
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
effigy sties the silence
of serene solitude.
Once surrounded, hinged on hungers and thirst,
consumable's care tenders gluttony envy lust & ******
devouring each hour inside the flowers.
alien anticipation answers to force.
masses accelerate ; inertia inches inert.
contempt of control contains
Contamination.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
Welcome to my mystery
Shrouded full of lies and deceit.
Antagonizing and oh so manipulative,
That’s right,
Welcome to my world.
There’s no cotton candy here,
No softly spoken comforters.
My world is full of truth.
So rich, bold, and beautiful.
So agonizingly gorgeous, that I’m stuck here
Crying myself to sleep.
Consistent days of loneliness,
Never-ending unhappiness,
Is there anything else that can go wrong?
“Talk to me”, I scream
"LISTEN to me”, I plead
But in a world so full of untruth, who is there left to hear me?
Who is traveling through the muck and slime,
Still trying to make their way through,
This consumable hell.
The light of falsehood, shines brightly above my head.
Where’s the honesty?
Where’s the truth?
In this lost and abandoned world of mine….
Where is the life?
Covered by such a unrecognizable darkness,
Forever hidden beneath the clouds,
Are the desires of truth that we seek.
So breathe,
And just inhale it.
For there is no alternative solution,
Whilst dining in such a hell.
© 2012 SparksLC
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Spending it to make it?
Now that’s money
Consumable and hoardable
folly’s quest yet necessary evil
How much is enough?
Too little?
Too great?
Does anyone deserve it
can you earn it and be happy
or is it all together absurd?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
For the passing day,
the day mends,
the day follows the unison movement,
of your silhouette,
this consumable force you ****** in me,
are you my amorous joy,
a gliding dew that tickles the corner of my lips,
or the steady architecture of the anthill,
in its demarcation to defy the limits of love,
to bring the spirit of solitude,
the transcendence of our youth,
can it be for a moment or eternity,
that I am totally dissolved,
transforming your pain,
into red and yellow flowers,
the colorful penumbra of the rainbow,
and what does it give you: all of me.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 9:31 PM UTC
The ground is my friend
Which marks today as my end
Looking down feels like home
Everyone knows i'm alone
Neck no longer strain from the pain
Because i prefer fear over gain
Cautiousness is a thing of the past
Meanwhile my feet are a giant ****
Clothes consume the smell of failure
And my long journeys consist of torture
Money and luxuries are no longer consumable preferences
Because a man with no morals like me has nothing to reference
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
all i hear when i look in the mirror is the frivolous, ignorant sentence you uttered in bed one morning
after making love to me (should i call it that?)
"i wish your **** was a little bigger."
it echos in my head when you hold me
when you kiss me, your hand down my pants
when you're on top of me, biting my neck
when you hug my abdomen from your chair.
it's like it's written in my skin now
in the pathways of my neuro-system
after everything i have done to be beautiful in one ******* morning
one ******* night
23 ******* years of standing on the curved backs of billions of other women
struggling to have better anything, better everything
so that you can have more fun while ******* them
after all that
you voice your dissatisfaction with the fact that i am not photoshopped
or surgically altered
as i lay naked in your bed
after you've
"made love to me."
is this a sickness that is nature made?
were you born to be dissatisfied with perfection?
never satiated?
i believed that at least my *** was perfect,
despite chubby arms and a fat stomach.
the one thing i believed desirable
you destroyed
with one sentence.
i hope it is not natural.
i hope the internet
****
reddit
instagram
video games
whatever the **** you look at that makes you treat me like a consumable, customizatable option
taught you this
because i pray that my future son
will never even think to do
what you have done.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
There is a paradox of space for the individual in this sea of voices
An amorphous body of metaphorical sound that we avoid and ignore with our sense of selfishness and superiority
And yet we burn our civility to ashes for the sake of making sure that stranger knows we don't ******* agree with them
Here in this valley of poets, what is trending and popular, what is held dear is similar explorations of pain and adversity
Experiences of love, life, loss
And as I try and to distinguish myself by expressing my own uniqueness
I am a self indulgent hypocrit, who wants the same things as the idiots and disagreeables I try and hold myself superior to
At least here, on this little page away from the flow of superfluous information I can speak to a void of similar voices, where more come to speak than to hear, forgive me for saying
I am here to speak too
I'm no better
My voice may be different or distinct, I try to play with vocabulary and the conceptual
But you probably do the same
And art comes from pain so...
In the end, I'm still a weak ***** who holds onto to old images of love
Wishing the naked ****** friendships that took so long to build in the past will fall out of my phone when I wipe my thumb across it
And hoping the efforts to create something basic and tangible, and the efforts to create an identity worthy of societal admiration
Will deem me worthy to experience love again, part of me feels
But I'm not deluded by that. I've given up looking for something that comes when you aren't looking
The lost keys that turn up when you've looked everywhere and finally give up
Instead I am driven by the craft that I want to define me
And the satisfaction that the work gives me
It makes me happy amongst this mess of information overload and malnourishment I experience socially
By my own fault
Probably
As I let go of the catharsis of self expression now, petering out to a conclusion that has hopefully, a decent punch line
I know that I probably won't be heard, will be skipped over for stories of bitter broken hearts or tangible stories of adversity defeated
Skipped over in greater terms for the latest bag of shallow consumable ***** in the unhealthy social media world that I know you reader, hate as much as I do
The greater ocean of self expression that washes into a noisy murmur, the internet echoing the street
Who knows
You've read this haven't you
Maybe I'll get over my narcissism long enough to hear you too
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
The casual observer
and innocent bystander
sharing a bottle of transparency
down at Cafe Apathy
Putting their two cents in
the neon jukebox
they blare the latest hit
from the high profile band
Vox Populi
Well dressed media pundits
converge on the scene
to conduct yet another
well choreographed focus group
to tell us what it all means
An evening of cliche laden
conversation they will spend
leading the random sample sheep
to conclusions that meet the desired end
The well coiffed prop messiah
in the tailored suit
will be spoon fed this data eventually
in the spirit of self fulfilling prophesies
Which will validate the legitimacy
of his devoted apostles
who spread the word
of the second coming
to the disinterested patrons
of Club Apocalypse
who are too busy
achieving perfect numbness
to buy in to the consumable product
that passes for modern absolute truth
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
#What’s in a #?
#“What's in a #? That which we call a #
By any other # would smell as #...”
-#Shakespeare?
You are, by the Grace of God, as you speak;
You are not a #; you are not an @
You are not a consumable to be
Tagged, twitted, labeled, renamed, and recycled
Honor the languages of your ancestors
Who gave to you, through work and dignity,
The Muses Nine of civilization
And not vague scratchings in the muck of now
Write nobly, not in # @ noises weak -
You are, by the Grace of God, as you speak
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Your Eyes Reveal What Your
Face Always Tries To Hide
Which Is The Pain
I'm Afraid For You
The Inhale Exhale
Routine Isn't Made
For You
You Go Days Without
A Laugh & Weeks Without
A Smile
You Even Wake Up Screaming
Without Fully Being Asleep
You're Losing Control
Your Anxiety Seems To Be Higher
Then All Consumable Drugs Put Together
What Hurts The Most, I Been There
I Been Lost Without Wanting To Be Found
I Became Addicted To Abusing Drugs
I Been Left When I Needed To Be With
Somebody At That Time Of My Life
The Most
What Do I Have To Do For You To Let
Me In? Scream It, I'm Not Sure That Would
Be Enough So What Is More Then Enough
To Balance Out Not Enough At All?
What Do I Have To Do For You To Let Me
In? Physical I'm Here! Emotionally I'm Here
If Your Eyes Can't See It I'll Pay A Visit To
The House Of God And Ask Him To Allow
Your Heart To See What Your Eyes Cant
I'm Here
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
Even though you were straight
I thought it would be great if you were gay
I longed to see the sparkle in your heart
The magically spectacular rainbow in your soul
I wanted to dance in lovingly lavender gardens
Throughout the day and night
Smell your precious, refreshing fragrance
Let our lips meet in unison
Erupting seduction eminent
Swathed in the solidness of your masculineness
Feeling your immaculate bare body against mine
Your hands on my chest
Giving them the best massage
Lock me in your arms tighter
Be awed by my beauty like a dazzling star
Make me feel collected in your incredibleness
I adore your tallness
Your thugalicious swagger
Your consumable, creamy, and velvety chocolate body
Taste my gayness
Tantalize my spine with your tongue
Let your mouth mesh with the back of my neck
I want a ********** love with you
Holding on to your body
I cherish your treasure
The contours of your face are gorgeous
Your body is a warm place always to stay
To collapse into your attractiveness
Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 7:47 PM UTC
There’s a lot of superficial nonsense
in some of my writing
just surface-level
cliché
regurgitation
of things I’ve probably heard in
movies
or read in
love stories
it’s hard to reach your hands in there
and dig deeper
to the guts of the inspiration
it seems like these complex emotions
are processed
and neatly packaged
in recognizable phrasing
but really
it’s a bit messier than that
it’s confusion
discomfort
incomplete meanings
reality details
that can’t be replicated by most
consumable forms of expression
& when I sit and try to harness them
I can only write
one word
at a
time.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
I miss walking in
the fire of your
Irrecoverable, inconceivable, consumable
Love
Jul 29, 2022
Jul 29, 2022 at 12:13 PM UTC
I’m getting carried away again,
or am I letting myself?
The river runs deep and reaps what leeches sow
blood in the mud but the mood is on buds
beaches of cheap seats to a preaching of Mother’s own
muting the boots of cubic shooting suits
The currents pull is incredibly strong;
but I might just be pushing too hard.
Blessed by a crest that’d test a jest-besting guest
watch ‘em swamped n’ stomped by a real wallop of a wave
a new craze of cadence encased in layers of nets
left bereft guessing at the message in a maze
It’s draining me of strength:
and filling me with calm
A new time as old as one that few knew
but it cues a new attitude: a shoe in for blues
refuses to stew on intrusions of youth
infusing a juice of consumable roots
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
I have nothing left to say...
My words have been unwritten.
Depression consumes me to the last bits of my insanity.
I live pretentiously like it doesn’t bother me, like it doesn’t hurt, or mean anything.
I live in pain, everyday.
It’s become apart of who I am, of who I am meant to be. Like living without this pain, would be worthless.
I let it consume me, control me.
My anxiety rushes through my veins and the voices and conversation won’t stop.
My mind never stops.
And when I’m alone, which is constantly, the thoughts eat me up alive like a rotting corpse is writhing inside of me.
I’ve learnt to get used to it, living with such intense feelings and a consumable mind never gets better, it only gets worse.
I’ve let the pain become me.
The person I hide.
It’s the only love I let myself embrace.
Pure madness.
I was born to be alone, living in lonesome misery for eternity.
Thoughts get dark, things get deep, and since I’m alone everyday, it gets even darker.
I hate people.
Stupid, fake, and you can’t trust any of them.
But sadly, I need them for mere distractions.
That’s all they are, temporary distractions.
They never stay, I don’t either.
I’ve learnt to keep my emotional distance.
Staying detached keeps you from getting hurt.
But what I long for, I will never find.
Born to be misunderstood and to die alone I shall....
This misery will be the death of me.
So it be.
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 5:36 PM UTC