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Al 1d
Green fatigue smothers the mind as purple smoke drifts in the breeze.  The earth comforts with shimmering grass, but these illusions never last.

Time begins its chaotic spin.  Voices call out.  Many languages and dialects I hear.  

A dragonfly hovers, my eyes become hers.

The green fatigue fades, the smoke fragments, the voices so far below.  Slowly we rise, leaving everything behind.

Freedom on a wingtip,
together we fly.
Johnny Noiπ Jul 19
imagine an underground network of rapists preying
on tourist & local girls; having an agreement w/
the pimps & cops [same]; the tourist guides
leading the ladies of all types, mostly young,
stupid & white - blonde is better; local girls
hitting puberty, getting dragged into the den
at twelve get a choice, if they live; the dens filled
w/ liquor & drugs; partying a little or just jumping
her, dragging her to the open floor;

she wakes up naked, thankfully not dead, her
purse nearby; she goes to meet her new Desi
bf at the bazaar where he introduces her
to his friends; that night the same thing
happens; it happens for a week then a month,
then she helps the gang get other girls into it;

it goes on all summer, & on into another summer,
the winter filled w/ hot springs & expensive dates
on the paved side of the street; Bollywood stars
in American cars paying her pimp who pays her
coyote who pays the cop to get her to Europe on a
tourist visa to work an exclusive Parisian Brothel
Clara O Aug 2017
Grådigt kaster DEN sig over søvnen,
Søvnen, der agerer flugt fra dens stramme greb om vitaliteten.
DEN overskygger, overdøver, overdriver.
Underminerer den fred,
som jeg først får lov til at smage på ved daggry.
Og når DEN har konsumeret søvnen,
så plyndrer DEN videre.

DEN stjæler, suger, skræller.
Plyndrer de resterende levn af pigen,
der engang var.
Hun skal leve mens hun er ung!
Men jeg lever ikke videre.
Kun i spinkle fantasier om en fremtid,
eller i de magre håb,
der er lige så tynde,
som mine håndled er blevet
eller som hofteskålene der stikker ud
og giver mig kvalme
og minder mig om det hele
eller snarere det halve.
For den har været på plyndringstogt,
og har konsumeret pigen, der engang var.
Mike Hauser Feb 2015
I've come to the conclusion
That my life's a wreak
Poetry strewn all about
My house the biggest mess

So here I am in the middle of the den
In a pile of poetry on the floor
A desperate man with phone in hand
Since I can't seem to find the door

I call up a Psychic
I call up my Shrink
I call up the local Priest
To ask them what they think

They say there is no hope for me
Through the static on the phone
Right before they all hang up
I hear...boy you're too far gone

So I grab a hold my bootstraps
Pick my own self up
Determined to have this problem licked
With prayers and major luck

Starting in on this poetic clean
One thing that I found
I wrote on just about anything
That I had laying around

There was poetry on party napkins
On Chinese take out meals
Tiny poetry on tiny matchbooks
Even on banana peals

Poetry on the chandelier
Poetry on my cat Floss
Poetry on dirty dishes
I wrote with spaghetti sauce

Poetry on the mirrors
Smiling back at me
Poetry on Seinfeld
Across my T.V. screen

Poetry on the kitchen tile
That's never seen a mop
On the doors going in and out
And places I dare not look

I started cramming it all in boxes
Lining them up and down the halls
Soon had them in every room
3 feet deep and 8 feet tall

I made 15 trips to storage
The biggest one that I could find
Feeling now it's nice and safe
All packed tight, warm and dry

When it all was over
Feeling relief from that major chore
Set down in my den, took out my pen
And started writing more...
Dark Jewel Apr 2015
It's time....
No care in the world.
Time to leave this den of lies...
Adasyev Jul 2017
Padal jsem podzemní přírodou
do mrznoucích niter
kde nikdo nebyl,

alejí rtuťových výbojek
spěchal jsem naproti
černému nebi.

"Zvířata zalezla dovnitř
a zvířata vylezla ven,
vsaje krev kámen dřív
než nůžky ohlásí den?"

Spěchal jsem podzimní přírodou
do města mlh
kde nikdo z vás nebyl,

zástupy jiter řinčely
po osmé
a po sté se skrývaly hřeby.

"Mumie zalezlá uvnitř,
mumie žene mě ven,
pomalí ptáci na kostkách
a mezitím tuhnoucí krém."

Hledal jsem pobřežní cestu
v inverzi jitra
kde jako bych nebyl,

s duší a bez duše
křižoval město
zdarma jak úplný debil.
trf 5d
Spinning round a windy ledge,
i kiss the cross around my neck,
these fever dreams replace the likes of you.

Grinning into space, alone and lost,
the dampened linens lie,
     as i wake up,
     covered in fake love.

In my den the china white,
embraced my blood and laced my night,
an amuse-bouche of courses left to come.

The past three years I can't recall,
coulda been fun, but was it worth it all,
i'm a coma patient lacking an excuse.

is hard to come by,
are a stranger in my,
collude disguise.
lost my balance blinded by the darker truth
Okay, wenn ich mich recht erinnere, hast du gesagt:
"Wenn ich nach drei Monaten immer noch keine Gefühle für sie hab',
wird sie wohl nicht die Richtige sein."
Wenn ich mich recht erinnere, hattest du es verneint:
"Es gibt tausend Unterschiede, die uns teiln'."

Hast du dich blind gestellt
oder konntest du nicht aufpassen?
Sie hat dich längst in ihr Herz geschlossen...

1.) ... und die Tür zugeknallt
Wie ihr lachend auf dem Rasen spielt
dein Lächeln ist eine Kurve, die alles wieder gerade biegt
2.) ... und den Riegel vorgeschoben
Wie ihr euch wissend gegenübersitzt
und wir zwei plötzlich wieder Fremde sind
3.) ... und den Schlüssel dreimal umgedreht
(ich bin cool damit)

Okay, du hältst mich weder für clever,
noch bin ich aus zuckersüßem Kaugummi,
aber wenn Anfassen so simpel sein soll
und Berühren eine Kunst;
um was wollen wir dann wetten, dass sie schwach wird,
wenn du deine Hände benutzt?
Also bleiben deine in den ihren,
so lange du sie dort lässt

4.) ...und Martin:
Der Deckel muss nichtmal genau passen,
wenn er all die Hitze hält
Paul Hansford Jul 2016
The gardener
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself.  The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged.  If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon.  I don’t know why I bother.

The blackbird
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago.  My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.

The wasps
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality.  We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better.  When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting?  If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care?  And if they do, we’ll sting ’em
Inspired by finding a completely hollow apple skin (with the core in place) under a tree in my garden, thoroughly cleaned out by wasps.
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