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"decisively" poems
The young maricones and the ***** muchachas, The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, The young wives thirty hours' pregnant, And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night, Like a collar of palpitating ****** oysters Surround my solitary home, Enemies of my soul, Conspirators in pajamas Who exchange deep kisses for passwords. Radiant summer brings out the lovers In melancholy regiments, Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon, There is a continual life of pants and ******* A hum from the fondling of silk stockings, And women's ******* that glisten like eyes. The salary man, after a while, After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night, Has decisively ****** his neighbor, And now takes her to the miserable movies, Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes. The night of the hunter and the night of the husband Come together like bed sheets and bury me, And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are ************ And the animals mount each other openly, And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, And cousins play strange games with cousins, And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient, And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought, Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast, And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly On beds big and tall as ships: So, eternally, This twisted and breathing forest crushes me With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth And black roots like fingernails and shoes.
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10k
Gentleman Alone
The young maricones and the ***** muchachas, The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, The young wives thirty hours' pregnant, And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night, Like a collar of palpitating ****** oysters Surround my solitary home, Enemies of my soul, Conspirators in pajamas Who exchange deep kisses for passwords. Radiant summer brings out the lovers In melancholy regiments, Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon, There is a continual life of pants and ******* A hum from the fondling of silk stockings, And women's ******* that glisten like eyes. The salary man, after a while, After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night, Has decisively ****** his neighbor, And now takes her to the miserable movies, Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes. The night of the hunter and the night of the husband Come together like bed sheets and bury me, And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are ************ And the animals mount each other openly, And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, And cousins play strange games with cousins, And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient, And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought, Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast, And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly On beds big and tall as ships: So, eternally, This twisted and breathing forest crushes me With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth And black roots like fingernails and shoes.
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38
Change... a word with a world within With the power to transform Visions into victories Opportunities into accomplishments Some fear it; some resist it But not us We are a breed apart We challenge the limits of action We dare to explore new dimensions And transform tomorrow With courage and absolute conviction We DREAM fearlessly, BELIEVE resolutely And ACT decisively And when the odds are against us We even it out by transforming all we have & becoming who we are. BE THE CHANGE
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Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Change
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/ Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/ Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/ Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/ Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/ Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/ Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/ Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/ You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/ An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/ Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/                 Not just a part of me but all of me/ I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/ It's just the opposite actually and factually/ I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/ I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/ Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/   Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/ One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/ I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/ And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/ So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/ With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/ Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/ Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/ Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/ Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/ To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/ ©2018
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Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
~•§•~ Verbal Abuse ~•§•~
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/ Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/ Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/ Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/ Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/ Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/ Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/ Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/ You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/ An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/ Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/                 Not just a part of me but all of me/ I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/ It's just the opposite actually and factually/ I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/ I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/ Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/   Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/ One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/ I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/ And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/ So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/ With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/ Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/ Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/ Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/ Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/ To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/ ©2018
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29
Karma is as karma does, don't ever wonder why Worry about what once was...until the day you die Wasting days and nights as life"s burdens worsen Commit before it is too late to be a better person Enjoy the feast but most of all appreciate the famine Indulge the beast but always look at life and examine Regret is a curse drastically never to be undone Numb and wash it over with momentary fun Only to return again just like a smoking gun Reminded when you eclipse me just like the sun Been Sleepwalking through my daily race to run Bittersweet life to leave, alive an then... You're done The globe will spin as time again whispers in your ear Deaths approaching all of us therefore you have no fear Grasp the wheel decisively and let your fate begin to steer But always analyze and learn from your rear view mirror The road is slick, and windows fogged as you begin to veer Traction comes as happy birthday drums bring another year No matter how severe the storm becomes it will soon be clear Jubilant exuberance from your eyes as they expel one last tear
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Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
Equilibrium
The foretold episode is ripe And the childless dawn is now flowering, The awesome parrots of Africa Have began swimming in the heavens And singing the verses of the paraded bees, For the warrior of South Africa Has ultimately impregnated the Godsbaa Without violating her divine virginity, The black star arouse from Ghana, Journeyed gorgeously through Zimbabwe And has decisively descended on South Africa, Bu this is just the divine seed Yet to grow into a full black African moon, For the black star of the black man Is the religious light yet to radiate on The colourless naivete of mankind, Ah, the premise behind this Exhibition makes a perfect sense, We did begin it all, Pilgrimage through it all And shall end it all, For the wreckage of Humanity flies with time And the megapower status Of the African is a fact of life, Today, a new voice has been Added to the joy of the black women, Causing the dry bamboo flutes to buzz With the pantaloons of the ancestors, Adorn our emerald embryonic pride with The ambrosial smiles charms of the sunrise, For he pelts of the peerless mid-night Has been remodeled with our dark gore. © PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI Email: [email protected]
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Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
THE BLACK STAR
“But my chief argument in defence of **** An-shih is that…            he retired from the Court decisively, ignored all recalls, and            took to the mountains to write poetry of no political            significance whatever.”               – David Warren on the poet-philosopher **** An-Shih Recusancy is not pious quietism; In silence it is a brave voice withdrawn From pompous Kratos’ halls of treachery From screaming Demos’ marketplace of noise And up into the silent hills to save Something of civilization, to sing Matins among the mountain mists, to write A page in praise of Creation, to live - Recusancy is not quietism at all; It is a firm rebuke to tyranny
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Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
"To Write Poetry of No Political Significance Whatever"
The chandelier still hangs high above the wooden ballroom floor; Its rusting branches, even though they're made of gold, wrap around the orange coils which lie dead amidst the night. The clock strikes midnight, yet no bells are to be heard; The carpet leading up the staircase to the podium in the room. Crimson, velvet, and scarlet covered with a thin layer of dust; even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives. The broken windows lend themselves to silver strings of moonlight, which slither through them; venomous beasts waiting to strike. Falling in straight rays, the delta of light's rivers crystalize the concrete walls, with a tapestry of the finest silk, intertwined with threads of fake gold. The stillness grows thick, Fog of dawn refuses to leave, lingering to see the spectacle unfold. A figure at the top of the staircase, the spotlight of moonshine leaking through the dome atop the room, caresses its curves, swims into crevasses highlights the bold edges, paints the skin silver, the gown royal red. In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white, fingers tighten slightly into a fist. In the other, a shard of broken glass one arm held up to the sky, to the heavens, reaching out to God Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago. The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down Driving the glass through the layers of skin slowly, rhythmically, decisively. A slow, small stream of red slithers down the arm, grows larger with every inch it moves; and the stream never stops. The stream grows to a river, The river to a sea, reaching the elbow below, now spewing red liquid faster and faster onto the marble floor. Another hand to the sky, now this one bare in all its beauty. Another blade driven through the artery, Another stream flows down the forearm. The figure in silence drops the shard folds its hands in front, and stands facing out to the world it will depart. The floor now a lake; the thick liquid doesn't stop, The figure caresses its chin, Slips the gown down to its hips Bathing in the moonlight one last time Before it closes its eyes Stares into the red Ballroom Now red of its own accord.
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May 17, 2021
May 17, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
Red Ballroom (** TW **)
The chandelier still hangs high above the wooden ballroom floor; Its rusting branches, even though they're made of gold, wrap around the orange coils which lie dead amidst the night. The clock strikes midnight, yet no bells are to be heard; The carpet leading up the staircase to the podium in the room. Crimson, velvet, and scarlet covered with a thin layer of dust; even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives. The broken windows lend themselves to silver strings of moonlight, which slither through them; venomous beasts waiting to strike. Falling in straight rays, the delta of light's rivers crystalize the concrete walls, with a tapestry of the finest silk, intertwined with threads of fake gold. The stillness grows thick, Fog of dawn refuses to leave, lingering to see the spectacle unfold. A figure at the top of the staircase, the spotlight of moonshine leaking through the dome atop the room, caresses its curves, swims into crevasses highlights the bold edges, paints the skin silver, the gown royal red. In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white, fingers tighten slightly into a fist. In the other, a shard of broken glass one arm held up to the sky, to the heavens, reaching out to God Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago. The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down Driving the glass through the layers of skin slowly, rhythmically, decisively. A slow, small stream of red slithers down the arm, grows larger with every inch it moves; and the stream never stops. The stream grows to a river, The river to a sea, reaching the elbow below, now spewing red liquid faster and faster onto the marble floor. Another hand to the sky, now this one bare in all its beauty. Another blade driven through the artery, Another stream flows down the forearm. The figure in silence drops the shard folds its hands in front, and stands facing out to the world it will depart. The floor now a lake; the thick liquid doesn't stop, The figure caresses its chin, Slips the gown down to its hips Bathing in the moonlight one last time Before it closes its eyes Stares into the red Ballroom Now red of its own accord.
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66
You-                         Lover of a thousand arms                         lift me high above myself, You-         strong enough to find the strength in a lowered gate; eternally holds lock and key inside of me. And it’s You-                keeper of mind;        teaching one to know better at no benefit of his own;                       how decisively deceptive of you/                      so open and juxtaposed in my sight              You, who calls my soul to love free; You- man of numbers;           placing them in the stars so they project on every clock;                                together ticking eternity;            man who thinks more of others than he does himself;                 carefully crafting out the finest versions of me/                  though think our thoughts are on opposition -                                                                    You. How dare you?         We have plotted forever without knowing it;                      this whole entire universe and                  You. Can you query your deep decadence?                     Healing my wounds from a far-             time nor space measures a soul so boundless                           You...carrier of divine grace It Is You-                        an auspicious gift from the Gods-                        how precious is the powers that Be.. Does it surprise You?                 Millennia’s have past /                                  circling back around,                         I have found-                who tastes like an eternal sweetness,                one who bears both dark and light                                                                             chooses only-                                              You;             give rise to the sun and nightfall to the moon                                   Keeper of dreams-                               are apart of every. sole. reason/                                                                       to wake up   and love …                                               You. ~Breanna Womble
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Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 2:52 PM UTC
soft forms
You-                         Lover of a thousand arms                         lift me high above myself, You-         strong enough to find the strength in a lowered gate; eternally holds lock and key inside of me. And it’s You-                keeper of mind;        teaching one to know better at no benefit of his own;                       how decisively deceptive of you/                      so open and juxtaposed in my sight              You, who calls my soul to love free; You- man of numbers;           placing them in the stars so they project on every clock;                                together ticking eternity;            man who thinks more of others than he does himself;                 carefully crafting out the finest versions of me/                  though think our thoughts are on opposition -                                                                    You. How dare you?         We have plotted forever without knowing it;                      this whole entire universe and                  You. Can you query your deep decadence?                     Healing my wounds from a far-             time nor space measures a soul so boundless                           You...carrier of divine grace It Is You-                        an auspicious gift from the Gods-                        how precious is the powers that Be.. Does it surprise You?                 Millennia’s have past /                                  circling back around,                         I have found-                who tastes like an eternal sweetness,                one who bears both dark and light                                                                             chooses only-                                              You;             give rise to the sun and nightfall to the moon                                   Keeper of dreams-                               are apart of every. sole. reason/                                                                       to wake up   and love …                                               You. ~Breanna Womble
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46
Looking out, I hear the croaky calls Of husky-throated birds and the Frothy licking of sea tongues. Purplish azure spreading widely, Timelessly, when once my Father told me The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of Big bright brown eyes Glowing up at him in belief and awe, Believing the secrets of the sea All the wonderful things he told me. Holding my hand, imprinting the sand With our shallow foot prints: big and small My chubby hand in his, the other Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons. Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly- Mountains, the ignorant people called them Only we knew underneath those folded wings Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its Golden eyes watching out for its children, The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves. Speeding on rapidly, diving under Out swimming the run of short brown legs Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells. When the sky was littered with stars Before I began dreaming I could hear The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded Their restless wings, the gentle splashing As their children twisted in and out of the water And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams, Arrived shortly thereafter. Yet today I search vainly for their younglings Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and Only behind closed eyes. The spikes on their powerful wings Have melded into dark shadows of trees The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes Could no longer burn bright with belief In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes That were identical to his: In both shape and color.
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Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
Daddy's Sea Dragons
Looking out, I hear the croaky calls Of husky-throated birds and the Frothy licking of sea tongues. Purplish azure spreading widely, Timelessly, when once my Father told me The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of Big bright brown eyes Glowing up at him in belief and awe, Believing the secrets of the sea All the wonderful things he told me. Holding my hand, imprinting the sand With our shallow foot prints: big and small My chubby hand in his, the other Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons. Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly- Mountains, the ignorant people called them Only we knew underneath those folded wings Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its Golden eyes watching out for its children, The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves. Speeding on rapidly, diving under Out swimming the run of short brown legs Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells. When the sky was littered with stars Before I began dreaming I could hear The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded Their restless wings, the gentle splashing As their children twisted in and out of the water And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams, Arrived shortly thereafter. Yet today I search vainly for their younglings Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and Only behind closed eyes. The spikes on their powerful wings Have melded into dark shadows of trees The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes Could no longer burn bright with belief In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes That were identical to his: In both shape and color.
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44
I lie in bed gazing at my bumpy popcorn ceiling I let my stare settle to follow my fan's revolution Focusing on one plates trip around its axle It is without fail and I find in my fan dependability It deserves its place up there It knows the right direction and spinning speed It has no temptations to stop or slow And rarely does it make a sound It refuses to fall, to let the pressure win It does not care its only painted to look like wood Or that its never dusted clean It does not complain about how the lights get more attention Or how central air is more popular It has purpose on the verge of personality I lie in bed for my purpose is not so clear And a personality not so worthy Yet I am the one with the freedom to choose Question: But what if my answers Not to be This fan seems to have proven a bitter point It has made a mockery out of my passive glares I fear its judgements, for it whispers disapproval I tear myself away from its patronizing winds And allow my eyes to float and find a mirror Making sense of looks and location And the human stare that beams back Smiles and agrees Decisively objective in its demeanor I must admit that my reflection is convincing But its light is late, and its fancy tricks deceive Tis a fools mistake to reduce verbs to stale states Question: To be alive or to live a life Or choose to gamble with one's talent to lie I lie; I lie in bed
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Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
That Is The Question
You and I are cut from the same stone. Diamond. The extreme pressure we face gives us our shape our sparkle our shine And our formation reduces the common denomination of things that can affect us. The things that do penetrate within us, permeate. Revolve around our universe, Dictating our hue. We may appear blue or red or yellow but deep down Our own imperfections define us, which is why we are Brown. While we have different varieties Only one thing can destroy us decisively. Diamond.
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Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Diamonds
you would want to peer myopically into the id-entity of any poet?. to stroll down his or her mnemonics lane shaded by white towers full of his or her worthless and shallow memories?. How can you expect to see with truthfulness when even the poets eyes are,like yours, are blinded by their version of "truth" and tapestried by the colours of wealth with its intellectual and aesthetic attendant triviality?. How can you exect to hear with truthfulness when even the poets ears are stuffed up with their version of "truth"and the oligarchy owned recorded sounds of counting houses and insincere celebrities babbling ?. How can you expect to speak truthfully when not even one poet alive cannot distinguish between the duality of yes and no and the non-duality of neither?. Whattya want?. Religious Enlightenment?. A Cathedral of Corruption. Gnosis?. Union with dead failed prophets. Buddhahood?. I will be your Bhudda tonite. Christhood?. Great View of Yerushalayim shel Zahav. Union with Allah?. Teach children to blow themselves to smithereens. All these have  been banned under Health and Safety rules. All decisively proved by history to lead to War. And ****** Chauvinism. And Alcohol/Tobacco/Opiate Drug Addictions. And Medicines whose side effects **** And Alcohol and Tobacco fuelled Violence and Psychosis. And Racism. And Poverty for the masses. And Adulthood. And TV Dinners. And Strictly come  dancing. among others. so tell me once more why you cant be a normal human being.
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Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
so tell me why
you would want to peer myopically into the id-entity of any poet?. to stroll down his or her mnemonics lane shaded by white towers full of his or her worthless and shallow memories?. How can you expect to see with truthfulness when even the poets eyes are,like yours, are blinded by their version of "truth" and tapestried by the colours of wealth with its intellectual and aesthetic attendant triviality?. How can you exect to hear with truthfulness when even the poets ears are stuffed up with their version of "truth"and the oligarchy owned recorded sounds of counting houses and insincere celebrities babbling ?. How can you expect to speak truthfully when not even one poet alive cannot distinguish between the duality of yes and no and the non-duality of neither?. Whattya want?. Religious Enlightenment?. A Cathedral of Corruption. Gnosis?. Union with dead failed prophets. Buddhahood?. I will be your Bhudda tonite. Christhood?. Great View of Yerushalayim shel Zahav. Union with Allah?. Teach children to blow themselves to smithereens. All these have  been banned under Health and Safety rules. All decisively proved by history to lead to War. And ****** Chauvinism. And Alcohol/Tobacco/Opiate Drug Addictions. And Medicines whose side effects **** And Alcohol and Tobacco fuelled Violence and Psychosis. And Racism. And Poverty for the masses. And Adulthood. And TV Dinners. And Strictly come  dancing. among others. so tell me once more why you cant be a normal human being.
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31
trapped beneath a fitted rubber sheet a lump in the mattress suffocating on rancid latex sweat and yesterday's dried fluids who were they the nameless in the dark this one smelled of popcorn that on howled in delight a collage of senseless noise scented by cats and Ajax leftovers always go bad Chuck-will's-widow in the tree by the window it must be after midnight though noon looks the same in this cage that gives just enough to torture with possibilities of breaking free freedom is overrated roses stain glass with the bloodletting of thorny mishaps blurred by smeared wounds ain't life grand when love ceases to be a goal how can one find what is utterly indefinable if it cannot be decisively named it cannot be concretely attained then again, love's fluidity is its charm no hard edges ebbing and flowing elusive and longing **** me latex blind unseen and used by those who never did mind a lumpy mattress
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Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Loveless, Sexless, Lifeless, and Free
She, voracious reader, nearly a book a day, she loves Rushdie, Ishiguro, E. Stout, and so many, many more, a daily add to an ever growing list of auteurs, all venerable and venerated, my little bits pale, don’t even qualify to compare, so what’s a poet to say, or feel, beside tears in his eyes, so hereby withdraws his awarded accolade, HGF, His Greatest Fan now that there is a vacancy, looking for fufillment, now that there is a hollowed hallow plus a clogged artery, side by side, both within, even an officialized fossilized a doctor declaration of “chronic heart failure” who knew docs still diagnosed love sickness? loss of love could manifest itself so decisively physically, and yet I blame her not, and thank her for the inspiration, for all the poems birthed in her presence, and what swill will /may follow will never be as good, for memories inevitable yellowing, discoloration infestation inevitable, earn my pallor palest poverty and like a used car, good enough for daily trips to the office, but not for cross country trips, and perhaps that means, only smaller,   somewhat used up, and  e v e n not only, only love poetry open to direction road trip to Sweet Sorrow Land
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Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
She loves the writings of others
Hauling hard together Sweat stream in the eyes, Sinews stretch like whipcord, Tongue saliva dries. Key man at the pivot point Reliant on a lead, To call the shots decisively Whilst calloused fingers bleed. Whites of eyes are bulging And stress climbs to a strain And the need for trust's reliance Tests the mettle in the pain. Dependable this long day through? Pedantic to a tee? When the crunch impacts upon him When the tensions fly for free? That's where the game is won or lost As each is forced to bend Then the last thing on your wishlist Is for a fair weather friend! Marshalg Victoria Park Tunnel Auckland NZ 2 February 2011
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Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
The Reliant
A torn mind with a bleeding heart exists at 3 A.M. Cigarettes and pens burning through his fingers. The sorrow of his tears melting through his cheeks. Her words on his mind, he felt sadness in his veins. He remembers the warmth in her eyes, the grace of her smile, and the comfort of her stare. He closes his eyes for a second, and he felt home. No sadness can bear what he did, No agony can compare his own deal, His sacrifices were all have been in vain. Now, his pen has broken him into pieces. The production of agony, the destruction of his heart, the remnants of love, have vanished decisively. But every letter that he writes is only spelled with her name, he figures. He may never see the light in her anymore, for she was the only light he ever saw.
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Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Late night Blues
If there was any such thing for humans, The elemental concept of true love would truely stand failed, Right is the saying 'love is blind'. We just like & dislike each other's habits, So love is mere straight-forwardness, modification and attachment, That together make up the concept of 'true love'. Just dream on & on till you finally plan, And get your love ultimately gaining their deepest of desires fulfilled, This way you can decisively prove yourself to none but you.
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May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
Love-Logic
the American people are tiring of Obama he isn't doing much for their karma they would like his head on a plate for he is no longer their mate America is falling into disrepair and Obama's administration seems not to care congress needs to act decisively and impeach his *** rather quickly
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Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
Tiring Of Obama
Love comes in like the hustle and bustle of the busy New York streets in the A.M. (It got lost in the shuffle) Love comes in swiftly and decisively because there is no time to waste in Los Angeles. (Sorry it's a little late) Love comes in as soon as the tides on the beaches of New Orleans recede back to their origins (Don't get swept away) Love comes in just as loud and equally as soft as a thunder cloud laying above Memphis. (No need to fear) Love comes in and slips away as quickly as it arrived from its final destination: The Heart Love came in and love left. It was always a traveler and could never stick around too long before yearning for a new city.
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Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Cities of Love
An arch captain now golden that hale decisively his boomerang in Meriweather with yet another season of fast that field his accomplishment with bent and pleasure his penultimate as his oracle pray with peace.
0
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
A Rant
Subtlety, and nonchalant Brace reality and confront What needs to be Arriving at decisions carefully Meditative & decisively, But knowing when to be abrupt Head held high, chin up, Shoulders squared,  Ready to face what's in front Dissected corpses of the past Left in the lab Behind the frontal lobe History is, Things that have come to pass And things still yet to unfold
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Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 3:01 PM UTC
Big Round Globe
There is no simple sin, even within an ignorant whim. You have an absence of forward thought, I treat this as if- it is an abnormality. Can you, for just a moment imagine yourself as you are, disingenuous and ordinary. Can you, for just a moment step outside your solidified perception of the continuum. You can, just for a moment look at the beauty inherent within the repetition of us. There is no behavior irregular to Love. Consume me in lust and anger, in soft embraces and memory. For in words is the only place I truly linger, so sate your simplistic nature now. There is no insult in simplicity, the world is already complex enough. You are swift in being decisively concise, delightfully constrained and unadorned.  There is nothing more then internally acquired happiness. There is nothing but self imposed purpose.
0
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 10:02 AM UTC
Experimental Repetition.
The stars who carry an old man's face in their bones stop to take a rest on an uneventful day, laying down their burdens for just long enough to make it count. His nose is the first to go, cracking decisively down the middle like a half-moon breaking at the seams of a teenager's whispered prayers. Next are his eyebrows, splitting at the roots into a forest which calls like the girls at a high school football game, just waiting for him to call back. Then come his cheekbones, splintering in one shuddering gasp like the mothers who have borne a child and still aren't prepared for the day he has to leave home. His lips are the next to go, crumbling into a dust that will never speak again, like the girl he should have told to stay, but who walked away before he could. He breaks in the silence while the stars still have their backs turned, ignorning the stories that escape, shimmering, into the cosmos from whence they came.
0
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
Lifelines