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The chicken baulked, "Phaulk!"
Before Latin chose to roll around,
And the "Librarian's sound, it"
Has been through pursed lips
Oedipus was clapping cheeks,
Long before Middle English clapped any,
When lions and tigers and bares
Were the prime predators
Even in The Garden,
Snake said as,
As snakes say as,
Where the language of choice I know,
Not to be English.
And if your dainty, sky-locked eyes soul and mind,
Remain unfazed by kid killers, or rampant rapers,
But try to censor my ******* ****?
kat Jun 2014
black girl
burnt fingertips on blunts and radio knobs
singing along to the words
pretending to fall in love
black girl
stuck with scratches
ashes
burnt skin
a taste for
female friends that benefit
black girl
can't hide her DNA
as easily as her true colors
black girl best friend
back girl white for a black girl
black girl lives on the north side
has a side ******* the south
black girl plays blues
bumps Kings of Leon
and Future
wondering which of the two
will be her future
black girl
never cusses in front of her sister
even though all she says is
'**** it'
black girl white car
black girl no license
black girl speeds
black girl art school
black girl need scholarship
black girl raps
and forgets the words
black girl gossip girl
black girl breaks cigarettes
black girl never laughs at me when I think she will
black girl psh
black girl so much better
than who she thinks she is
black girl can't take a compliment
won't take credit
black girl so beautiful
black girl never pays for drugs
but gets high every night
black girl sometimes makes me jealous
sometimes I want to make
black girl jealous
ekaj revae Jan 2012
Bobo's kitchen

in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life

Jake Mahaffey

Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey
july hearne May 2017
there's a man inside of me
that forgets he isn't a girl
he cusses when he
wants the touch
and not the blow

he writes letters
to invisible people
in disappearing ink

here but not here
there but not there
you are going through something
like the atmosphere

i dress him up sometimes
in sunless tanners and jangling bracelets
i pierced his ears, not to hide him, not to doctor him up
but to make him more audible
because if he is going to keep on talking
he might as well be understood

there are problems
he probably likes the sweatstains
more than the bathrobes
(but no one else likes either one)
he is too concerned, but he cusses through it
as if no one will ever be on to him

i talk in his voice sometimes
just because it sticks around
sort of like how you can't shower off
the smell of last nights *****
come morning

not that i drink very often
but i talk just like him
i stink just like him
according to those
who are long ago and far away
and remembered as if they were ever close
because my other voice
just sounds fat and lazy and useless
mt Nov 2013
Sitting in class
In front of the blank white math test I was in the process of failing
That I had skipped first period to study for
And instead just smoked my final final cigarette
I had a grand realization
I'm an idiot
I don't know how I hadn't realized it before
Between breaking my new phone to try and prove to my friends it was unbreakable
And sitting on my roof cardboard wings duck taped to my arms
With plastic shopping bag parachutes strung about my neck
Or when I asked I girl I hardly knew to a dance I hardly wanted to go to
Or at the dance, when I ditched her to laugh at the kid barfing in a stall
From the *** cookie he had just eaten
Honest mistake, I did it my first time, too
Eating acid turned out fine, though
Mushrooms, almost made me **** downtown
But hey, Shiva's in the walls
I love an audience
And I know they love my cusses
Once I put my arm around the wrong date
No just kidding,

I don't date

On vacation, I got stabbed between my small toe and the next
With a pencil
Now I'm afraid of wearing flip flops
I biked over the same patch of broken glass in the street
Three days in a row before I finally got a flat
I put duct tape on the frame of my new bike,
It looked cool,
And cutting it off with a kitchen knife
I sliced my wrist and nicked a tendon
Shot myself in the thigh with a BB gun
To prove it didn't hurt to people that didn't care
Twice
Shot my neighbor, too
I told her parents it was an accident
Statistically plausible,
but not this time
Got in a fight with my best friend
And made a Facebook status about how boring it was being suspended
Broke a sprinkler when I was bored
Blamed it on raccoons
It didn't work, the neighbors had caught on to me
Love poems don't come easy
Which is weird,
They're always better when no one loves you back
So I have a surplus
And apparently they say,
Giving that stuff away for free
Is a bit of a crime
Like trying not to rip my already ripped pants
or
Putting a sticker on my cello I couldn't peel off
Climbing over barbed wire to get high
by the octopus tree
I should of checked the penal code
Hiking at night is a crime
Ranger D. Heimer wanted me to tell you
It's okay, he's an idiot, too
September is not the eighth month
The handwriting on the citation isn't half bad, though
In the last three months,
I've had four flats on my bike
I haven't learned yet
The wheel still sitting in the hallway
I lost the repair kit
You think it it would of sunk in before
I failed my fifth math test in a row
I went to a party,
And I didn't do blow
Because I was tripping too hard
The white line looked too weird,
And my nose was still burning from the last line.
I dropped my ipod in the toilet
Then I dropped my dad's, too
Talked to gutter punks
(that's not the stupid part)
And shared a pipe with the sickest of the trio
Yeah, I'm sick now
Got angry at my mom,
But of course, I'm an angsty teen,
Decided to bike to the top of the greatest little hill around
And gave up three fourths of the way there
At least I gave one of my friends the chance to see me in that state,
His house was on the way,
And they say that bliss comes in two ways,
In ignorance or in enlightenment
That's too many choices for me
So instead I elected myself martyr
And grew my hair out to look like Jesus Christ
But now I just look like Charles Manson
I was going to do no-shave November
But I started too early
And ended even earlier
And that was before I realized I couldn't grow a beard
Fool me once, shame on you
Fool me twice, shame on me
Fool me thrice, and the fourths for free,
I make my own omens,
Then happily misread them.
So it might be starting to sink in,
But I don't think it matters much
Being stupid is a **** good time
Next Saturday, you're all invited.
D Conors Jul 2010
"29 October 1888 -- this letter was sent to Dr. Openshaw, who performed the medical examination on the portion of kidney received by George Lusk in conjunction with the From Hell letter."
_____

Old boss
you was rite
it was the left kidny
i was goin to hoperate agin
close to you ospitle
just as i was going to
dror mi nife along of er bloomin throte
them cusses of coppers spoilt the game
but i guess i wil be on the jobn soon
and will send you another
bit of innerds

Jack the Ripper

O have you seen the devle with his mikerscope and scalpul a-lookin at a kidney with a slide cocked up.
_____
The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. Part the 5th
__
With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/
D. Conors
12 July 2010
Azalea Banks Jun 2013
Shuffle
Skip
Repeat

He played his usual game of pretending to consider the palatable array of music which graced his iPod before settling for an Arctic Monkeys song, as always, just in time for the 7AM school bus that revved up the road with a satisfying crunch of gravel. The morning had a deliciously crisp quality to it, with swirls of fog swathing the trees in mild ambiguity while the sun danced a waltz in a rose and custard sky, the colour of cakes sold in Pastéis de Belém, the best patisserie in Lisbon.

He realised he hadn't eaten breakfast just as he boarded the bus.
Ah, well. **** it.

The sun skipped between the spaces in the leaves, playing hopscotch with his imagination as he dazedly looked out the window, lost in his music. Although the people on his bus were nice, he didn't exactly like them. The boys wore low pants and branded caps, the girls caked on makeup and tittered vapidly at everything the boys said. A few others quietly occupied the back seats like him, engrossed in their own world. He felt a stronger connection with these people, although he'd barely spoken to them before.

He lapsed back into his reverie while looking out the bus window, lazily tracing patterns in the cracks of the broken walls of the empty restaurants and hotels that passed by. The economic crisis had rendered hollows of places previously choked with people, now haunted with the after image of busy commerce and make-believe vignettes of scenes occurred in these skeleton remains. They were darkly beautiful, modern bones of the city that held a history too close to his own.

He forcefully snapped out of his running internal monologue just as the bus pulled up the driveway outside school. The distance of a block stood between him and school, a block fraught with danger, for he'd been robbed on a previous occasion (not that his school bag had much else besides lunch money and books). At least they hadn't nicked his iPod. He'd be helpless without it.

Music was his poison. He drank it in like the alcoholics of the night drank scotch. Every drum beat was a ricochet echo of his own heart, every guitar string picked was a twanging of his veins.

And music got him through the day. The last bell had already rung and school was over. The kids rushing out the hall blurred into an exquisite pointillism of neon clothes and benevolent cusses at each other. He picked up his bag and walked to the bus, lost in the sleep deprived haze of his thoughts.

On the ride home, he wondered where he'd be in a few years. He wondered if he'd find a place in the cascading chaos of a society ruled by the anarchy of physics, and the fear of inevitable oblivion. He wondered if he would be remembered, if his footsteps would have an echo.

But for now, he thought, his microcosmic life in Lisbon would do. There were dark alleyways to explore and museums to visit and pastries to eat. Somewhere, a waiter put a tablecloth on a dinner table with a flourish, where two lovers would later dine. Somewhere, a boy ran down some abandoned train tracks with his dog, laughing at the summer sun. Somewhere, a girl with auburn hair picked seashells from a glimmering beach as the waves crashed around her fragile legs.

Somewhere, in his heart, a flicker of nostalgia coursed through his blood.

The next song on his iPod came up.

Shuffle.
Skip.
Repeat.
Angel Nettles Aug 2014
The iron fist
A name that should be capitalized
The name alone makes one shiver
Shiver like freezing water being thrown on you

Not like the ice challenge
Like your mother throwing gallons on you
While your in the tub
She makes you lay there

You beg for her to stop
She doesn't and grabs a switch instead
Not the small ones either
The ones that are extra thick

She pours
You begs
She stops and cusses
"Shut the **** up or I'll get more water"
You cry silently
Hoping she'll stop
She grabs the switch off the toilet
She whips your *******
Stomach
Arm
You turn
She whips your back
****
Even your feet

You scream for a god that's not there
"Shut the **** up!"
WHIP!
You cry silently

She goes away
You jump out of the tub
Run naked into your room
Lock the door

The iron fist knocks
"Open this **** door"
You weep"Go away mommy"

She kicks the door down
Punches you down
Chokes you
Gets up
Grabs her gun
Puts it in your mouth
Tells you stop crying or you die
"Mommy don't"
"Shut up! You think this is a game?"
"No mommy!"
She lifts you up
"Stop crying you *****! Or you'll be dying tonight"
You stop but still whimper
She drops you and leaves your room

No words were said for the rest of that night
CPM Mar 2018
i don't appreciate the stairs i walk on every single day. sometimes, i complain that point A to point B is too far for me to walk. i don't appreciate the rain that suddenly comes after many sunny days. the water wets my shoes and leaves my socks soaked. sometimes i walk around campus and wonder what i'm doing with my life. i always feel so lost. i look around and see unfamiliar faces. faces holding all types of emotions. i find that beautiful. i also find it beautiful that every bystander becomes part of your life, because for some reason, you and them are in the same place at the same time. it's even more beautiful when it happens in the most natural way. As if, it was meant to be. how crazy is it that two worlds can cross paths to become one? but there are worlds that keep on moving parallel to each other. I look around and see life. I see that i need to appreciate more. Appreciate the elevator that takes too long. The professor that cusses at 8 o'clock in the morning during class. Appreciate those who smile at you when walking through crowded hallways. Appreciate the idea that everyone is living so complex, just like me. Appreciate the hustle. Appreciate the process. Appreciate the unknown. Appreciate whats in store for me. Appreciate knowing and not knowing all at once. Appreciate the growth. Appreciate the balance that appears after the unbalance.  Appreciate me. Appreciate another day. Appreciate life.
cpm // im not so lost after all.
Sandra Feb 2015
Heart's been broken
The story ended
On how a misspoken
Word cannot be translated.

I couldn't say that I loved you first
Nor could I say that I loved you last
And now I'm planning things I shouldn't do
Like saying, that I hated you too?

So, just ignore the bad words here
My mind is already ****** up
The cusses were once holy too
But the people kept messing things up.

So I never had the time to say:
"I'm ******* in love with your demon soul"
I was craving for pleasure
Begging for blood, more specifically.
I said I was in pain! No, no. I am the pain

So just die in a hole
Let the worms eat you
Let me touch you
I wanna be alone
I want you to be here with me
I want you to die
I want you to kiss me
I want you to fall, hardly.

*I want you to stay.
I wasn't really rejected though, I chose to stay silent till the end of my ******* life.
Infamous one Mar 2013
Family hate that's just great
Aunt cusses out a persons morals
Not believing but full of it
Questioned actions because of th wrong
Turned into a feud like this battle meant to happen
Bros fighting not talking
Got physical before the wall of silence got built
Mother who instigates hates on others happiness
All perfection ruined by one pointed flaw
Sister talks big but cries her way out of trouble
Grandmothe verbal abuse generation to generation and the next cycle of crazy
Alcohol empowers the weak
Drugs to stimulate fake emotions
Sobriety stuck in the war doing good judge like evil coil do no wrong
Linus Rueegger Mar 2014
I am a result
Of not two people
I am a result of advertisements
Of politicians
Of company's
Of ideas drilled into my head, by constant repotion and threats from authority figures
I am a result of headlines that scream the words ****, death, racesim and terror.

I am a result of built up hopes.
The countless movies that show us heros that conqure the impossible, while slowly walking away form an explosion.
The comic books that boldly display abilitys we then dream of.
Expectations we are forced to have that someday we will save the world.
I am the result of reality hitting you full on like a world saving superman punch,
I am the result of relizing, that there is a 99.9999999999% chance I am not the "chosen one"

I am the result of an enviroment where I have to hold my breath to not let the toxins in
The overdose headlines
The children I see inhaling away there future and when I walk by blowing it in my face
I am the result of an overdose that ripped away my uncle
A world filled with misery and we find this the best way to "cure" it.

I am a result filled with images of diffrent family's breaking apart, leaving broken children behind.
A result witnessing the hurt, homeless and heartless walk on the same ground but don't awknoladge it
The veterans thrown to the streets
The gay pride rainbows coverd in the dark clouds of pregiduce this world is shadowed by
The sour taste of racesim lingering on individual tongues trying to break through a wall of common sense
The weaponising of wonderful wise wishful young children around the world to creat a fearful, fierce, fiery killing machine
I am a result of this world, the mistakes we all make, the suffering we all take, the lives these mistakes put at stake, these wounds that ache, the cusses that spin in children's head thanks to drake, these politicians people see as lying snakes, this earth that quakes, that brings us awake
I am a result, in a world of results
Of hope that one day we can push these fears away
I am a result of an army of dreamers
A horde of lovers
And a croud of carers
I am a result of two people who tried hard enough to make a difference
They are my sheild and my sword equipping me to fight this poisend world
We are what's left we are the dreamers the workers and the lovers and once were done fighting away the hurt, evil,terror and pain,
We can look out on this world and call it
Our result
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
first read
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/life-circles/#after-reading
After-reading
including the notes  and the  exchange in the comments section. Then begin to read the words below, for they are derivative thereof.
Also
ponder this quote from a play by Richard Greenberg.
''I speak when I have something to say. When I have nothing to say, I write.''


the contriving is all that remains,
so,
with a bow and a great flourish,
my hat, right-handed swooping,
grazing my knee,
I tender my amazement at what the
lives of all these contrivers,
bring me each day.

Long Live All Poets!

the contortionists, the evolutionists,
hard working smithies, risers with dawn,
selectors, all day long tasters,
all night long scene stealers,
of each word that parses their
five senses,
even the contrivers,
need, deserve,
get their day in court.

you know the real poets
by their every day
discourses,
for your subconscious
rhymes their every response,
even their *thank you's
and yes, please,
please all nearby,
like a thanksgiving prayer
spent, sent heavenwards ,
each word
lifted up skyward, alongside the hearts
that move to hop on, join their
poetic alephs and bets.

the haiku masters who
breath lifetimes into a moment,
the balladeers who ferment
tales unseen but conjure them
as forever keeps of yes! I was there,
the sonneteers, the lyricists,
so powerful these wizards place their
visions in our throats to hum when hearing
spoke a single one, a phrase, of their words

the contriving.
how I adore that word
as if the work was
the easy part,
and the insighting,
the feeling,
the noticing,
the tugging at the heart was
the easy art.

oh lord forgive me I write too much,
see beyond what I see,
hear the street snatches of conversation
and drip those reformatted words from mine eyes,

is that your blessing or your curse?

let me be just a contriver,
a poet who
follows form and function,
and gets an A from his English Lit. professor,
acknowledging expertise
at contriving
per poetic custom acceptable

whY did you insert this knowing,
this sensory malfunctioning that cusses
lest I not transform the everyday of the
everysay into verses and stanzas.

Reimer, Reimer, beloved scoundrel and schemer,
what have you undone to me!
he who never sleeps, just
weeps and weeps,
for you have contrived me yet gain
to see something I saw before,
always knew but never wrote,
in this exact format,
but all life long knew, and blubber anew
at words that I never knew existed in
this precise combination.

you can cannot contrive the spirit that
moves us to write, the words employed,
yes perhaps, but all
even the struggle for
le mot jus,
oft for naught^^
the repetitive, the uninventive,
glorify.

I survive,
I contrive.
but far more imposing,
is the knowing,
that tho the contriving still remains,
it is a cost so costly,
and I must include herein
that every verse
of every poem
ever writ,
every contrivation,
every submission,
even the worst simplest is a blessing,
even the simplest worst is a blessing.


all are:
"the fruit of promise,
a table replete,
hope restored,
a circle complete."^

Yet, t'is the fluid visionaries shall lead us
to our restful place
even if they cannot speak,
even if they cannot write,
just contrive.
___________________________________________
^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/life-circles/#after-reading


*It is in an instant, that life makes a poem in a man's mind, that will live longer than that that oak.
Nat*

*Reply
SE Reimer
i've reflected on your words, several times now, Nat, and find them to be such an accurate description of my experience with writing... though the words may move around a bit, once conceived, the contriving is all that remains.*

^^le mot juste
"the right word" in French. Coined by 19th-century novelist Gustave Flaubert, who often spent weeks looking for the right word to use.
Flaubert spent his life agonizing over "le mot juste." Now Madame Bovary is available in 20 different ****** english translations, so now it doesn't really make a **** bit of difference.
x a l Oct 2015
let me play with tongues
of sins and forgiveness
where words slip and lips utter
verses & cusses,
altogether!
and I am of heavy influence
pray then sin - and viceversa!
for the next ninety-nine days,
I am the holy angel but a mere devil
SøułSurvivør Mar 2017
Look, there goes the Alley cat
Hear her strangled meowing
It don't beguile, for it is vile
Much like a sewer flowing

Ladies of the evening
Women of the street
Would blush and be embarrassed
To hear such trick or treat!
I'm upset, cuz I don't get
How that foul mouth can EAT!

But there's a strange compulsion
Which comes like a deluge
Her smiles gay, but don't defray
The Battle of the BULGE

Like felines she vocalizes,
Is her life like that?
If she's raw, and long of claw,
Is she like a cat?

How far will she let you?
How far will she GO?
Perhaps she battles demons
No-one else can KNOW

Myself, I can't condemn her
She had substance abuse
But she's not free, cuz she can't see
That SCINO'S not the TRUTH!

And she's a Public Figure!
Little girls look up to her!
She doesn't seem to know this
Did it not occur?

She cusses like longshoremen
Refuses to see
That she's made a grave mistake
In Scientology.

Does she believe they're helping?
This Science of the Mind?
Lord above! If she does
Then she's completely BLIND!

You're responsible, my lady.
Do you know that you teach?
The modern young, and they become
The little slaves you PREACH!


Miscavige isn't awesome
Scientology's NOT "COOL".
It's wicked beyond belief!
You're being played the FOOL!

Whatcha gonna do, girl?
You're an ingenue no more.
Do you doubt? Gigs DO RUN OUT
Will you play the *****?

"Ah, NO!" You may be thinking
From my stance I shant tumult!
A cow, I'll graze, I'll be unfazed!
There's always the CULT!

But, dear, a storm's a'brewin
A tsunami of greatsize
They pamper you and praise you
But it's a web of LIES!

What will you do when flooded?
Will you weep and cower?
David's boat won't stay afloat!
It ain't no IVORY TOWER!

Baby, don't you get it?
Or are you just that THICK?
You will die, and then you'll FRY
A moth unto a WICK.

God has a sense of humor
Yep. He surely DOES!
AND YOU WON'T BE PROTECTED.
He don't help folks "just because...

My advice? For what it's worth?
I'll put in my two cents.
Leave that God forsaken CULT!
GET HUMBLE AND REPENT!!!

Sugar, whatcha stay there for?
Their ratings goin' SOUTH
Just believe and you'll receive...

Then, clean up your MOUTH!


Catherine Jarvis
aka SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/20/2017
Kirstie. I don't judge nor condemn you.
But there ARE a LOT of folks who think

YOU NEED TO CLEAN UP YOUR ACT.

You're promoting the most destructive Cult
IN HUMAN HISTORY. TAKE RESPONSIBILITY!

So. You're OT VII. SO WHAT?
How're you feeling INSIDE?

DON'T LISTEN TO THAT LITTLE MAGGOT.

YOU ARE ON THE WRONG SIDE!
bitter winds bite
a desperate heart

as early darkness
unsheathes winter's
slivering moon

the perfect
celestial sickle
threatens to thresh
exposed digits

wayward trundlers
heaving bulky
sacks of woe

scutter down
the city's
darkest
side streets

making haste
to the only
lighted room
that still
welcomes them

cots boast
lumpy clots
of errant springs
and jagged hooks

grappling the lodger
atop a mattress
in bumpy knots of
institutional green

coughs and snores
cusses and laughter
sighs and tears
all ceaseless
prayers

some mumbled
some shouted
some thought
some roared
some farted
some cried
some sung

speaking mutely of
the weighty day

resenting new
hard memories

hoping for a
dreamless sleep


Friends Shelter
NYC
12/31/08
jbm

Music Selection: Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers: Moanin
Del Maximo Apr 2010
panhandling daily
sympathy cards all used up
tired of all this
slashes his wrists then sits down
on the curb eating pizza

his blood dripping down
his mind is on the pizza
does not care to live
EMT's take him, fix him
72 hour hold

dude's a survivor
gets psyche evaluation
returned to the streets
proudly bragging about it
to anyone who listens

came to my office
asking my friend for some change
friend's a minister
rejected, the dude cusses
picture of humility

he doesn't ask me
he knows what my answer is
done enough for him
all I can do is just wait
then spray the air freshener
© March 14, 2009
Taylor May 2014
every good boy leaves because in the end, i
am not what they wanted at all.

they wanted white-picket-fence springtime girls, who wear dresses and smile like innocence and blush when you hold their hand in public, shy.

not me. not rose-thorn walls and ****** teeth. not a girl who cusses and fights and claws at anything that lashes out at her. not a girl who won't let them fight her battles and stands on her own, lacing her fingers with yours because you are hers and she will fight tooth-and-nail for you, and she wants everyone to see that.

they want someone they can settle down with and have a nice, cute house and a pretty cherry tree and pretty little kids and have homemade breakfasts and listen to the birds sing in the morning.

they do not want a girl who sleeps till noon and drags them off on wild adventures and wants to go everywhere. who hates the shrill chirping of birds and uses black curtains to hide from the sunlight daring to slide through her windows. Who can't cook to save her life and holds on far too tight.

no, i am not what you wanted. but i can't be anyone else.
Kush Oct 2015
It initiates its attack with a fiery assault to the chest
Showering the heart with acidic downpour
The disease spreads slowly into the victim’s bloodstream
Making it boil with envious hatred
The eyes become a permanent squint of mistrust and hostility
Skin begins to change with a bright, green spectacle
Canines are bared in horrible snarls
The person’s speech becomes bitter and low
Consisting mostly of cusses and speeches of negativity
Infectious jealousy runs rampant
And in no small part to that horrid sickness
The Emerald Virus
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Sectors of time

I walk this road each mile is a section is it me or is the timber changing to beams that strut up on both
Sides and close over the top my vision my reality now cube like I see the vistas beyond the crown of
The mountains they are contrary cusses to the sky poking making holes in the blue then they gather the
Clouds about in a mist of garland do I not hunger for your heights of wonder break out of this square
Feel and know the free liberation of exhilaration from drawing breath from clean boisterous air you
Have plenty to spare I would rise from the ashes as the phoenix to new life whatever it takes I must
Break free my blood burns with passion for new experiences I have accepted this square I have seen
Others in similar shapes the familiar the comfortable all too often becomes a trap when just beyond
Their limitations boundless borders exist your masterful game awaits your participation you hold the
Keys that can unlock doors that have been tightly shut a burgeoning knowing has been the cause of
Much restlessness a different and true angle of vision gives you the impetuous to strike out at your
Confinement the old saying comes to mind a square peg in a round hole the freeing the running
That never tires only brings you to the finest quality of life you have ever known it takes you to question
The norm draw truth by astuteness when it reveals itself even if it is just small glimpses this is the crack
That works unseen by each impulse and strain you have made the inner knowing never accepts second
Best you were a divine dream created in perfection then through small thinking lack of courage and faith
That wavered instead of pressing on you end up in a wilderness instead of your part of paradise its not
To late pick up the pieces now wiser place the pieces together from the joy they release take the stand
that will break the remaining restraints your ideal life awaits your choice will decide you have the proof
now win the test go out from all restrictions and fill the world with your particular freedom and blessing
so many are still enslaved they need your voice
So they cut
These words
Like the blade that sung your melody
As you cast it from your razor
Or your plethora of phrases
Come backs
Snarky remarks
And stainless steel
Like frost bitten angels we wail
And spit words like knives
If insults could sever arteries
We'd be less
Left
For dead
So we cut
With shaking hands and quivering jawlines
We cut with our moms good sewing scissors
And bitter cusses
And self defecating tunes
To save our souls from being cut by someone else
We are our own
Worst enemy
memineI Dec 2014
when I enter Baskin-Robbins in the hood
so many flavors of sin
none good
for the  health of Ben or Jerry.

Where I get cussed at by those
behind me in the line
because I tarry in deciding,
I grin, step back, and say, ummmmm,

Then I cause vanilla freezes and strawberry cheesecake and rocky roads to melt as a twelve year old behind me in line
cusses like a sailor.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
The Easter Bunny is a friend of mine
He used to lay his eggs in my back yard
But once I moved, it got to be too hard.
We’ve been buddies a long, long time.
It’s all my fault he visits me no more
He had to make it from Kansas to Nome.
That is far too long a trip for him
But, that is where I bought my home.

He was a pretty good old boy, indeed
For all his reproductive strangeness.
He was sort of like a football player
In a long lavender red carpet dress.
Harder to me, to accept whole cloth
Was what he had to do with Jesus.
But as a magic rabbit, for sure
He could lay eggs as he pleases.

So, every year during springtime
Here came my friend the bunny.
He’d **** out colored eggs, he did,
And nobody thought it’s a bit funny.
That he’s six feet tall, like Harvey,
Cusses like a sailor makes me laugh.
But that he is a Christian symbol is
Not really reasonable by about half.

Still, who am I to quibble about tradition?
It is fun for everyone at this time of year.
Along comes this unscientific miracle
And the kids smile from ear to ear.
They run around collect these eggs
That to me often looked rather scary
And do not question the bunny tale
Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
JL Dec 2011
I just want plain old you. I don't need no trappings. Simple plain jane.
I just want the you that wakes up in the morning
Having drooled on your pillow.
The you with morning, and coffee, and ciggarette breath
The you who puts her hair up when she doesn't feel like dealing with it
The you who sits next to me in sweats and one of my torn up t-shirts
Eating Ice Cream
and falling asleep on my shoulder
The you who doesn't always say goodnight or I love you
The you who gets mad and cusses and yells
I mean...who doesn't

I've just come to realize
That the plain old you
Is my favorite you
Nothing plain about you
You don't have to try to knock my socks off, good lookin'
Whether your walking to me or away...I like to watch your hips sway
Going to and fro
Ain't it a sight!
Lookin' in your eyes
Well, there's nothin plain about those eyes
Classified Apr 2014
I am not who I seem
I will never be that girl from your dream.

If you start to care
You'll see what isn't there
You will see past that girl who wears black and scowled at pink and dresses
Wants to be a rebel
Wants to be a badass
Wants to be cool
You will learn to see past that exterior
You will know I'm not all attitude and insults
You will realize that that girl who cusses and fights isn't all there is

Then maybe you'll see deeper.
There's another girl
One who wants to dress up
Feel pretty
Wants to be a princess
Someone who wants to be like the people she admires
A little girl who wants to be cute with a guy
Someone who wants to skip around and be one of those lead people in the movies
Someone who cares
Loves
Laughs
Appreciates beauty in butterflies
Tries to help her friends
Loves very easily and quickly
Deep down you'll see that I'm actually a fragile softie who cares too quickly
Gets hurt too easily
And apologizes too much.

Even below that is the person who is unhappy
The one who is self hate
Stupidity
Recklessness
Self-destruction
The little sad girl that slits her skin and cries herself to sleep

But maybe I you manage to survive all that without letting all my **** destroy you (like it has so many others)
Then maybe
Just maybe
You'll get to meet Them
The part of me that created the 5 minute death game
The part that looked up how to tie a noose
And the one that collects pills
The self torturous part
Not just the fel pitying part

And then maybe if you manage to get through all of that you will find my heart
Cut up
Shattered
Bruised
Scarred
Stitched
And infected
Chained to the walls I build around myself
Pulling me apart
The heart that has bullet holes and battle wounds
The one leaving blood stains on what was my soul
The black mass of hell that is at the center of my being.
An if you're stupid enough, you'll make me love you.
But to be honest , I don't know who the **** I am.
Mel Little Jul 2015
This place, with its cold white walls and it's sterile gray speckled floors.
The nurses take my mouth that cusses far too often as a sign I'm on some kind of drugs, I guess. When I answer the question about what kind of medicine I take they look at me with questions in their eyes when I say "none."
I know that the bruises on my body look bad. I'm malnourished, okay. I don't have time to eat. Need more potassium. I don't shoot up ****** or snort pills. I just take ibuprofen like a normal person.
My head is spinning. But not like normal. Like it's taking me twenty minutes to write this ******* poem. I feel like passing out.
And the doctor will see you now, at the cost of 1,000 dollars to sit in this dumb bed.
I hate our healthcare system.
Why do hospitals feel so much like your trapped in their walls? And so little like they're actually out to help you.
I'm all ****** up in the head.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Sectors of time

I walk this road each mile is a section is it me or is the timber changing to beams that strut up on both
Sides and close over the top my vision my reality now cube like I see the vistas beyond the crown of
The mountains they are contrary cusses to the sky poking making holes in the blue then they gather the
Clouds about in a mist of garland do I not hunger for your heights of wonder break out of this square
Feel and know the free liberation of exhilaration from drawing breath from clean boisterous air you
Have plenty to spare I would rise from the ashes as the phoenix to new life whatever it takes I must
Break free my blood burns with passion for new experiences I have accepted this square I have seen
Others in similar shapes the familiar the comfortable all too often becomes a trap when just beyond
Their limitations boundless borders exist your masterful game awaits your participation you hold the
Keys that can unlock doors that have been tightly shut a burgeoning knowing has been the cause of
Much restlessness a different and true angle of vision gives you the impetuous to strike out at your
Confinement the old saying comes to mind a square peg in a round hole the freeing the running
That never tires only brings you to the finest quality of life you have ever known it takes you to question
The norm draw truth by astuteness when it reveals itself even if it is just small glimpses this is the crack
That works unseen by each impulse and strain you have made the inner knowing never accepts second
Best you were a divine dream created in perfection then through small thinking lack of courage and faith
That wavered instead of pressing on you end up in a wilderness instead of your part of paradise its not
To late pick up the pieces now wiser place the pieces together from the joy they release take the stand
that will break the remaining restraints your ideal life awaits your choice will decide you have the proof
now win the test go out from all restrictions and fill the world with your particular freedom and blessing
so many are still enslaved they need your voice
wordvango Aug 2016
drinks and cusses like a sailor
holds her own with
spiders in the shower
makes her own breakfast
cleans the dishes she uses
spends her money at Dollar General
likes cats and dogs
drinks whiskey and smokes ***
so my beer and ******* are all mine
has a trimmed  heart above her *****
and only one tattoo
a heart on her left breast
no metal in her thing
a dad and mom that she still
talks to
an ex who pays child support
children who are almost
perfect little saints
who is not afraid to
put me in my place at times
likes Baseball
and once wrote a dissertation
for her PHD about the differences
between Socialism and liberalism
and drives a Vette.
A 1988 Chevette!
I knew her a
long time ago.
Cullen Donohue Mar 2015
The waiter grabs
another beer

brining it to
table 24.

They send him for
more
water.

He cusses as he walks
back
and forth

He brings
them
the water
the beer
is

gone.

They send him for
another.

I pour him one.

He brings it to the table.

But not before
asking me
if we plan
on getting ******* tonight.

I tell him:

"Yes. It's Amanda's
birthday.
Everyone is going out."

He brings the table another beer.

The fat man sitting there
laughs.
His laugh is
curdled with
an onset drunkenness.

I pour another beer
for a different waitress.
I am counting
the
clock.

She grabs the beer.
And smiles with
an honest
smile.  

She is new.

Unaware of the
distain
we all
hold tightly.

I pour another beer.
I count the clock.

Until we can
get

*******.
Graff1980 Dec 2014
She paints for peace
Not world wide
But something inside
Swirls the brushes
Smiles and cusses
As the paint touches the canvass
As her pain is transformed
Or at least temporarily muted
M Corless Feb 2015
This is it:
it’s the slow-fast conversion of my brain matrices in scaffold supporting
the connection between “good” and the scent of your sweat
the swift relay from my skin through my mind back to nerves
ending in your arms; the parts of me you colour rose
it’s the speed variation in the pump of your hips; bone connects bone
shock connects shock, spark connects spark, connects and cascades
the viscous strokes of my hands against your back as you, I
it’s sighing, strikingly loud
it’s enveloping the sound of you

stick and stuck, staring out loud, divine
measures taken to absorb the churning warmth of you
in and out: breathing and stroke
the wire compilation of your hair beneath my fingers
it’s
glazing your gaze until you’ve started falling forward to
capture my sighs/breaths/moans/cries inside your own
vehicle; it’s slow seconds scraping my thoughts while you crawl
the strong strokes you press into my memory
the cusses that slither slickly out my mouth to meet your ears, relay to your
nerves
it’s the excess breath I waste on passing my messages on to you
the feedback loop, in and out
the rhythmic species we become
the invisible lines we draw, remaining afterward for too little time
making love to the sight of you, the sounds of the stereo background
loosening your tension, uncoiling your starched landscapes
the magic of being ethereal in a concrete room
Avantika Singhal Jun 2015
The mistakes she made
Are like those toys she
Found in the attic. Totally
Forgotten and guilt
Ridden. As soon as she
Looks back at the terrible
Mistakes she made, she
Curses at her childhood.
She admittedly cusses
At her foolishness. She
Hates herself and forgets
It. And then one day
Again, she looks over
Her shoulder, and those
Mistakes made in the
Childhood stare back,
Bold and brazen.
Every folly she wrote
To others when she was
So innocent and naive,
Have come to haunt
Her in the form of
Lingering eyes and
hushed whispers. Oh!
Mistakes are terrible
To make but what she
Learns from them in
The end, is that she
Will never make them
Again, even though
Her chest will suffocate
With the guilt and folly.
Hello! Longest poem ever, I think? These days, spontaneity is my motto. I write poems in one go! It's stranger this poem is very personal so I won't be shocked if I don't get any likes on this one and if I do, then let's just say that you are a genius to figure it out. This poem expresses ME on so many levels and a humongous mistake I made in my childhood. Enjoy..or maybe not.
spysgrandson Jul 2017
dead doe on the baked prairie grass,
buzzards circling overhead

we're in lawn chairs, downing Buds,
waiting for the feeding to begin

but Donny is impatient, expecting
the birds to dine on his schedule

NOW, this very second, while they
are riding the currents above

watching, waiting to see if we move
closer to our ****

Donny curses them: **** dumb
birds, I shot that deer for you

he shoots at the kettle, but they continue
long loops, unperturbed

Donny again cusses the buzzards
and shoots the doe again

as if killing her twice will hasten
the descent of the birds

Donny complains sweat is stinging
his eyes

he pours the last of our water over
his head and removes his shirt

near sundown we are out of beer
and Donny is asleep

one by one the birds land, until the wake
is feasting before me

talons, beaks at work, tugging, tearing;
the eyes the appetizers it seems

I don't wake Donny, though I know he will be mad
for missing this meal

hungry as he was for a blood mass, but,
I'll let my brother sleep

while the shadows of skillful sculptors  
grow longer on the plain

and the fawn becomes a crimson work
of art Donny would never appreciate
katrinawillrich Feb 2015
This is a freedom write

Not close to those who ran

From moors 

And revenge seeking seer swell

1800 

2015

Earth mamma

Brother is ahead of me

Makes sure to write it so

Im safe

As he holds back cusses

With a face full of 

Windshield ice and snow
He doesnt freeze up

Listen

I cant drive" i tell him

And work wont let me call in

I gotta show up

(Just get us home)

didnt tell the clerk

I had two newspapers 

And karma 

Has a funny way of 

Making sure i reach freedom

Without owe.
There used to be a time when she couldn’t get enough of my touch
Now she would rather feel the embrace of a cactus
When did she stop loving me?
There used to be a time when she loved to read what I wrote
Now she makes excuses to why she doesn’t read my words at all
When did she stop loving me?
There was a time she used to love to cuddle in bed
Now she wants it all and I sleep on the floor
When did she stop loving me?
She used to listen to my concerns, and trust my feelings
Now she ignores how I feel and condemns my concerns
When did she stop loving me?
She used to be scared of losing me so I promised I would not leave
Now I feel that it will only take one bad day before she tells me to go
When did she stop loving me?
I used to give her unconditional love and it confused her
Now she gives me unconditional hate and it confuses me
When did she stop loving me?
She used to have days where she smiled at me
Now there are days where she cusses me
When did she stop loving me?
I’ve written her lovely poems before
But now I’ve written this one
When did she stop loving me?
Ottar Jul 2014
Doctor gave me the news, it was a good
time to buy new running shoes,

Feet slap and screech with each stride,
Biomechanic required to repair the ride,

Pounds shed I no longer dread pounding,
lightly on concrete or asphalt, grounding,

My turbulent times, no reason or rhyme,
To the day, my thoughts have plenty of time,

To play as I run away from home, smiling,
So pleased to be alone among the crowd, filing,

On and off busses, engines make noises like cusses,
Cars eating people, personalities seated in trusses,

For their own safety,

While heels kick back, legs move at the speed,
and pace where there is always sound and greed,

To be first to run the red-light but
On my heart right to that red line,

Hamstrings cry taute like strings,
My mind wanders to many things,

To some people, to a person,
Beckon me run, all that way

And I will.

How did I get here? at least a year in the making,
took on the job, it was a terrible mess of an undertaking,

If I can do it so can you,
Don't wait till your fifty four,
Start when your thirty nine,

Write down all that you eat,
You recognize each day the feat,

To stop eating, at the right point.

Get enough sleep,

Aerobic activity, found a
British study from, London see?

Muscular mobility, range of motion
under load agree, let me, ask you,

What did you do as a child, how did
you have physical fun, what did you
do in your youth, not to relive the pain,
and the strain of bad coaching or none.

Capture your life as first prize
in the only race that counts,
living to beat of the distant drum,
you run I will follow,
you set the pace, I will holler
your arrival, to set your rival,
Death on his heels,
we will chase him back the way,
he came, that will be your claim,
"Raced Death and Still Running"
I had some kind of blog with this title... "Fit over Fifty, Is It Possible"
Have not posted for a very long time there.
Inspiration tonight came from a 40 minute run along the Boulevard
Please understand I am not promoting running over walking or swimming or bike riding or...or....
3 years ago, I thought I would never run again. Overweight, tough physical jobs most of my life 72 year old knees in a 54 year old body,
time to make excuses not space for fitness uses.
Disclaimer, this is not to be construed as fitness or medical advice this is my story a positive story hoping that one or a hundred of you improve your fitness your way, consult your physician, not your astrologer, however if you want to send money in appreciation, no legal tender will be denied.
Sin
We are full of it ,
the stain of corrupt stained. flesh ,
that should haunt our every being .
It is what we live with ,
and feed until like an unwanted guest
stares at us from the corner of a room
and fixes its eyes  on us ,
helpless to its gaze .

     It cusses and dam s us ,
Corodes us  until its acid rain rust particles form .
It's. Rebellious   Angels drag us down
to the way of Cain  ,
Like The way of Kora we stand unflinching.
A spot on white gloss ,
like a muscle needs fibres  to tear ,
Blood to pump ,
Oxygen   to breath it is starved of such things .
A worm burrows through timber ,
as water seeps into wood ,
Is only fit for wood to be burnt ,
Set ablaze into the nights sky ,
and carbon fills the earth .

Like the toxins of cigarette smoke ,
Into lungs no longer fit to breath
It's like a ticking of a clock ,
Yet it bothers us not ,
Lot and Sodam understood it not ,
and death is its grim reaper ,
   An olive branch is cut off ,

Thrown into the flame ,
Yet one cup can cleanse a dying soul
Never to be thrown into the fire .
Sin .

— The End —