Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jasmine Luna Apr 2014
who knew that in about
4 years time,
or maybe
10,000 years lost in
10,000 multi hued tears,
id be on the same trip-
dancing to the same
shimmering inner grove as before-
braiding fresh cut
delicate genital-hands, unfolding in prayer
into my subconscious mind
or perhaps into my hair-
saving colored prism fragments
of knowledge or nonsense-
digesting intoxicating
incense smoke into the
deep throated green streaked
laughter chasms
that are my lungs-
spinning vinyl, spun mind
unwinding, undulating
through string music-
contemplating the sunset's sweet
immaculate form, reoccuring
and balancing itself right outside my window-
dressing in shells, bones,
and beads; kaleidoscope fabric dripping from
the ******* like mother Kali in a Fellini
peeping out at heads slinking down
the ****** pavement streets-
my hairy angelic form grooving
intensely, spastic-
body flung, strung out in
hot patterns of
mirrored arms and legs-
brain brew bubbling; wicked, fantastic-
limbs waving and grabbing at
tangible tasty morsels,
smelling strongly of indigo
and patchouli-
the East smiling on me and
my intrepid journey to the ocean city-
head thrown back in
tranquil madness-
pipe smoke curling like
ancient hound howls from the corners
of my lips-
smiles spread like insanity, a wicked disease
lost in the forgotten finger painted
confounds of creamy
****** milk consciousness-
basking in lamplight
of the golden glistening
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb

Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,

The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,

Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles

These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,

Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,

Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,

Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting

Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.

O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,

The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks

Glittering and digesting

Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.

28 January 1963
Alex Hoffman Dec 2015
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation.

The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath.

Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-*** what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation. 

Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind.

This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial.

Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...

for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation

the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...

the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...

and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...

the square...

  Y                    H

            ⠁⠑              ­       read clockwise
                                      like English traffic
H                     W            on a roundabout.

which? denotes the father...
    if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
   the Latin answer is...
   to interpolate Braille into
their language...
  and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...

and it wasn't a propagandist
    how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached

the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
        they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
  or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
  or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
   to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!


  ⠽                   ⠓

              Æ                   ( read anti-clockwise)     
⠓                    ⠺

fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
    nuance, metaphor...
                   ars poetica!
The Dragon steals the waters of life,
The Dragon steals the waters of life,
  The Dragon steals the waters of life,

a Hydra eats those who lie.

This is the story of
                          Darr-en Gunn,
His life was a
                             short-en-ed one.
While hunting some snakes
                                           having no lucky breaks.
Found himself consumed by a
                                                               ­   gi-ant one.

Was warned of one snake,
                                           the seven-headed Drake.
Found himself consumed by a
                                                               ­  gi-ant one.
In Old Foggie swamps lies a place
                                                           ­      he haunts.
With a hunter digesting in a
                                                               ­ Dra-gon!

The Dragon steals the waters of life,
The Dragon steals the waters of life,
 The Dragon steals the waters of life,

a Hydra eats those who lie.

All children should learn  
                                                         ­                    of a swamp that churns.
In a place where they say
                                                                 the wa-ter burns!
Hy-dra is originally Sy-dra. 'Sy' meaning 'thief' and 'Dra' meaning water so the Hydra is a water-thief. IE: it burns up the waters of life. 'Dragon' in Proto-Indo-European(the first language) was spelled 'Dher Ghen.' So "Darren," is Dher Ghen with the 'G' silent.
zebra Aug 2017
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein

he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms

dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash

trouser trout fish,    
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos

sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
and melt men like steaming everglades

the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense  

witnessing visions
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Don Bouchard Jan 2012
It's not that I'm bored with this meeting,
It's just that the food was so good.
My body is busy digesting,
And my brain is fresh out of blood.

The dessert was so rich and so tasty
That the topic seems tasteless and bland;
Perhaps our start was too hasty,
Or maybe I have a bad gland....

So if you should hear me start snoring,
Or if my head's sinking low,
Please don't think that I think it's boring;
My blood sugar's probably low.
The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a whale with holes and holes, and bleed him white
Into salt seas.  Hercules had a simple time,
Rinsing those stables:  a baby's tears would do it.
But who'd volunteer to gulp the Laocoon,
The Dying Gaul and those innumerable pietas
Festering on the dim walls of Europe's chapels,
Museums and sepulchers?  You.
Who borrowed feathers for your feet, not lead,
Not nails, and a mirror to keep the snaky head
In safe perspective, could outface the gorgon-grimace
Of human agony:  a look to numb
Limbs:  not a basilisk-blink, nor a double whammy,
But all the accumulated last grunts, groans,
Cries and heroic couplets concluding the million
Enacted tragedies on these blood-soaked boards,
And every private twinge a hissing asp
To petrify your eyes, and every village
Catastrophe a writhing length of cobra,
And the decline of empires the thick coil of a vast
          Imagine:  the world
****** to a foetus head, ravined, seamed
With suffering from conception upwards, and there
You have it in hand.  Grit in the eye or a sore
Thumb can make anyone wince, but the whole globe
Expressive of grief turns gods, like kings, to rocks.
Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow
Ponderous and extend despair on earth's
Dark face.
           So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
All creation, were it not for a bigger belly
Still than swallows joy.
                         You enter now,
Armed with feathers to tickle as well as fly,
And a fun-house mirror that turns the tragic muse
To the beheaded head of a sullen doll, one braid,
A bedraggled snake, hanging limp as the absurd mouth
Hangs in its lugubious pout.  Where are
The classic limbs of stubborn Antigone?
The red, royal robes of Phedre?  The tear-dazzled
Sorrows of Malfi's gentle duchess?
In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles
And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic
Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds
Of an eternal sufferer.
                         To you
Perseus, the palm, and may you poise
And repoise until time stop, the celestial balance
Which weighs our madness with our sanity.
Phyllis T Halle Dec 2012
Caint Complain
                       By Phyllis T.  Halle  February 26, 2006
Growing up in a tiny coal mining town in the hills of Eastern Kentucky,
I frequently heard a response out of the lips of stooped, arthritic miners, toothless women, old before their time,
wretchedly poor widows with six children to feed.
It was just a common reply to the courteous, "How are you?" -
"Caint complain."
The high pitched voices of those descendents of English, Scottish, German, Irish pioneers still echo in my ears and I wonder always at the tenacity, strength and wisdom which resounded firmly in those two words,
                                          "Caint Complain."
Very few people had indoor plumbing, telephones, cars or two pair of shoes. Health insurance, retirement plans, paid sick days, furnaces, pizzas, air conditioners, jet planes, paid vacations, job security, career planning were all unheard of unknowns.
When someone became ill, the ‘‘kindly old general practitioner would come to the house and dispense his little pills and words of encouragement and instruction, knowing the limitations of his skill and ability to heal.
Mothers and fathers still buried their little children who died from diphtheria, pneumonia, whooping cough, measles, diarrhea, croup ( a disorder known in later years as asthma).
Husbands buried wives who died in childbirth, at an alarming rate. "Caint Complain," they'd say gently, with a soft 'almost' smile and deeply troubled eyes.
Sanitation was fought for, vigorously, by hard muscled women, who scrubbed and washed, and swept and mopped.
They'd boiled the family’s clothes which had been worn for a week, in pots in the back yard, "to get ‘em clean."  
Killing germs was not in their vocabulary, but that is what they'd were doing. Ask that little old gal who was out in the yard, stirring the clothes around in boiling water, over an open fire, "How are you doin’?"  
                            "Caint Complain, " she would invariably say.
WHY couldn't they'd complain? Where did their tenacity come from?
Where did that philosophy of not complaining come from?
Where did they find the resolve to place dire, critical deprivation, hard labor and malnourishment behind them and place a smile on their faces and say
                                Caint Complain?

I knew some of those people when they had grown very old and faced birthdays in their late nineties. Without exception, they had the sweetest dispositions, most grateful hearts, kindest words and calmest old ages of any among the many I have known who reached that age!
When the pressures of their life had faded and they had nothing remaining that had to be done except to live out the final part of their life, they did not have a habit of complaint.
Some recent phone calls I have received were what prompted me to think about this. One right after another, friends called and for the first ten minutes of each call, I listened to a long list of complaints about the trials and travails my dear friend was suffering.
Each friend has: no financial worries, a wonderful primary care doctor, prescriptions to keep their heart pumping, eyes seeing, brain focusing, stomach digesting and body sleeping, each night.
They are protected from financial ruin, by medicare and/or HMO, social security checks, pensions, savings and inherited wealth. They have loving, devoted sons, daughters, nieces and nephews who keep in touch and are there for them.
They each one have lovely heated and cooled homes, apartments or condos with every convenience known to Americans; cars or taxi/bus services to get them out and around. More than that, each has beautiful memories which they can call upon to bring a smile to their face at any moment of the day or night. But somehow we find plenty to complain about.
Why haven't we formed the habit of Caint Complain?
Maybe the philosophy of always seeking more comfort, more possessions, more money, more- more- more- of everything, has driven us to achieve, accumulate and accomplish but it required us to never know what the word contentment means.
Contentment doesn't mean having everything at one’s fingertips. It doesn't mean lacking nothing. It certainly doesn't mean every dream and desire fulfilled.

Yet there are many who have enough of everything except the common sense to know when they really "Caint Complain."
Happiness is a fleeting moment of joy. Contentment is finding peace in what you have, what you are and what you have accomplished.
Having the serenity to know which one brings lasting goodness into your life is wisdom.
Lots of love and hugs, Phyllis
****, why did you come to this dance
with a mask on? Why not the tin man
and his rainbow girl? Why not Racine,
his hair marcelled down to his chest?
Why not come as a stomach digesting
its worms? Why you little fellow
with your ears at attention and your
nose poking up like a microphone?
You whig emblem, you woman chaser,
who do you dance over the wide lawn tonight
clanging the garbage pail like great silver bells?
Glenn McCrary Apr 2014
"Striking the match across my thumbnail, it's too slow of an action to me. The sparks stay in the air for too long and I haven't taken a breath in what feels like hours. Snow White couldn't have done it better, she paved the way. You sleep with the enemy, you sleep with the rich, you tear your way in with a calming, sweet smile and they let you in, they always do. The match falls on the heap of limbs. 'Here comes the sun.' ~ Jade Day

DR. NIGHTMARE: Hello? Mr. Nino?

[Dr. Nightmare whistles and snaps his fingers twice]

DR. NIGHTMARE: Are you ready for the procedure?

DO: It’s not like I have a choice now do I?

DR. NIGHTMARE: You always have a choice Mr. Nino. Your very future lies within the consciousness of every decision you may or may not make. With that being said which choice do you think will effectively see that you are better off?

DO: Well neither you or I can predict the future so we might as well continue playing and see what happens.

[Dr. Nightmare chuckles]

DR. NIGHTMARE: Not bad for a young man such as yourself, Mr Nino.

DO: I try. Let us carry on with the procedure now shall we sir?

DR. NIGHTMARE: Oh, yes right. Please fill out these papers to ensure that we have your full consent to conduct any and/or all events of this procedure.

DO: How can I possibly fill out these papers if I am still restrained by this straight jacket?

DR. NIGHTMARE: Oh, how foolish of me to have forgotten.

[Dr. Nightmare then begins unbuckling Do’s straight jacket. He then removes the jacket and passes Do a check pad and a pen with multiple documents. Do then begins to sign them. Dr. Nightmare closely reviews the papers as Do is signing them]

DO: Okay, I’m done.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Great now if you’ll just initial here, here and here we will be ready to go.

[Do finishes initialing his papers and passes them back to Dr. Nightmare.]

DR. NIGHTMARE: Thank you Mr. Nino. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to relax while I run and grab my list of questions. You may talk to AnaÏs while she performs a brief blood test on you.

NURSE YUCKI: Thank you, Dr. Nightmare.

[AnaÏs blushes with a slight smile as she twists both of her knees inward. She then walks over to sit in the chair directly across from Do. She pulls out her first aid kit and opens it. She takes out a lancet, some sanitary wipes and some gauze.]

NURSE YUCKI: Hello, Mr. Nino. How are you doing today?

[Anaïs opens a pack of sanitary wipes and begins wiping Do’s right ring finger. She then ****** his finger with the lancet drawing forth small droplets of blood. Do slightly winces in pain. Anaïs then places a small test tube to the test site in which his finger was pricked in order to draw blood.]

DO: Please just call me Do. I’m doing alright I suppose. How about yourself?

NURSE YUCKI: Thank you, Do. I am doing okay though I am quite tired. I have been here since five this morning and it is now a quarter to one.

DO: I can understand how that may be ******* you. Not everyone is a morning person.

NURSE YUCKI: Yeah, you’re right. The pay is great here though so I suppose it is worth dealing with.

DO: Yeah but is that ever really enough? Is that truly all that you want?

NURSE YUCKI: No, of course not. I have dreams just like everybody else. This job exists as just an in the moment thing for me. It is a means to get me by or as most people say “a leg up” in the industry.

DO: Those times are always the most trying.

NURSE YUCKI: You can say that again.

[Anaïs eventually finishes drawing blood from Do’s finger and places a couple of pieces of gauze to it and wrapped a band-aid around it. She then pours the blood sample into a slightly bigger and wider test tube and then places a top over it placing it along with the lancet back into her first aid kit.]

DO: Those times are always the most trying.

[Anaïs laughs. Do slightly smiles in return.]

NURSE YUCKI: I didn’t mean literally silly ha ha.

DO: Hey a little humor never hurt anyone ha ha.

NURSE YUCKI: If that were the case this place would cease to be a business.

[Anaïs and Do both laughed.]

NURSE YUCKI: I don’t mean to be a creep but I think you have really pretty eyes.

[Do was an African-American man with short, curly black hair. He also had dark brown eyes with his skin being the shade of chocolate chip cookie brown. He had a goatee as well.]

DO: Thank you, Anaïs. You’re honestly a lot funnier than I thought plus you are very beautiful.

[Anaïs was a white British woman with long, jet black hair and winter blue eyes. She had fairly tan skin along with a nice figure. She also wore black lipstick and had various tattoos.

NURSE YUCKI: Thank you, Do. So do you ha—

[The door to Do’s padded cell abruptly opens.]

DR. NIGHTMARE: Okay, I’m back. Thank you for keeping my patient company Anaïs.

NURSE YUCKI: Oh, you’re welcome, Archie.

[Anaïs stomped very loudly as she walked away.]

DR. NIGHTMARE: I told that ***** I don’t like when people call me Archie in public.

DO: Well, that is your birth name is it not? Besides Anaïs is a really nice woman.

DR. NIGHTMARE: That’s like saying a ****** is a teething ring.

DO: So are you saying you have been sexless for six months or are you asexual?

DR. NIGHTMARE: Hey, who is the doctor here?

DO: I’m just saying. You may be inserting your tongue incorrectly.

[Dr. Nightmare ignores Do’s comments blushing out of embarrassment.]

DR. NIGHTMARE: Well, if you are done fooling around we can begin.

DO: Let’s do it.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Okay, Mr Nino. Your first name is Do, correct?

DO: Yes, sir.

DR. NIGHTMARE: We already know your last name so on to the next question. What is your date of birth?

DO: August 2, 1990

DR. NIGHTMARE: Ah, so you’re twenty-three years old eh?? I thought you were like sixteen.

DO: Ha ha nope but I get that a lot so it’s nothing I’m not used to.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Where are you from?

DO: Springfield, Illinois

DR. NIGHTMARE: Where were you currently living before you came here?

DO: Cordova, Tennessee

DR. NIGHTMARE: Did you like it there?

DO: No, not really. I actually hate it there and am desperate to get away from there and move to a bigger city.

DR NIGHTMARE: Oh? What for may I ask?

DO: To take advantage of more career opportunities to achieve my dreams.

DR. NIGHTMARE: I really like where your head is at kid. Who were you currently living with before you came here?

DO: My mother along with three of my siblings, niece and nephew.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Do you get along with them at all?

DO: When I want to but even then it is just a feigned interest.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Where were you working before you came to this institution?

DO: I was working as a dishwasher and prep cook at my local pancake joint and bakery. The name of the restaurant is Love 'N’ Lust.

DR. NIGHTMARE: That title sounds intriguing. What kind of food do they make there? Do they pay you well for your services?

DO: We make all kinds of foods in the shape and/or imagery of sexually provocative thought patterns. Basically we make cakes in the shapes of genitals, *******, ***, etc… We do this for breakfast, lunch and dinner around the clock. They pay me $7.25 an hour.

DR. NIGHTMARE: I got to take my girlfriend some time soon. You get paid more to do that here. I believe the maximum is $15 an hour in translation from Euro dollars to American dollars.

DO: You won’t regret it sir. There are actually some of restaurants located throughout France.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Thank you, Mr. Nino. I’ll keep that in mind.

DO: You’re welcome, sir.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Do you have any passions, Mr. Nino?

DO: Yes, I do. As a matter of fact I have two passions. They are poetry and disc jockeying.

DR. NIGHTMARE: How long have you been writing poetry and disc jockeying?

DO: I have been writing poetry since November of 2008. I am only just beginning within the disc jockeying field.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What were you like in school, Mr. Nino?

DO: I’ve been to many schools doctor. I require that you be more specific

DR. NIGHTMARE: What was life like for you in high school?

DO: Well, I never actively made the effort to socialize with anyone outside of school simply because I was disinterested. When people would take part in extracurricular activities I would just ignore them and go home. I never even went to my own prom.

DR. NIGHTMARE: And why didn’t you go to your prom?

DO: Because I never had a date nor did I have the courage to ask one of the girls out

DR. NIGHTMARE: Well, I would tell you that I understand but I have no idea what that is like. In my day I was a ****. Everybody knew me. All the girls wanted to talk to me.

DO: Yeah, you’re not helping.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Nino

DO: It’s alright, doctor.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Moving on, what was your life like as you were growing up?

DO: There was lots of domestic violence and unwanted sheriff visits because my mother would always feel the urge to call the police every time I voiced an opinion that she did not agree with. I have even been in physical fights with her, my father, brother, sister and grandmother. I even splashed orange juice in my grandmother's face one time because she was ******* me the *******. There was the occasional use and profiting of the most popular drug at the time by a parent because my father smoked and sold drugs. He hung out with the wrong people a lot of the times mostly people who desired to buy drugs from him. Day in and day out deep down I feel that there are still some grudges floating around. My family won’t let me move past them nor will they let me forget about them. They always like to bring them up every chance that they get. I was also expelled from middle school at the age of fourteen for tossing my gym shorts at the assistant principal when she told me to shut up while I was talking. I felt disrespected and it ****** me off. I didn’t know what else to do. I also took antidepressants at the age of sixteen for crying out loud and when I was twenty I was mugged only just one week shy of my twenty-first birthday. It was a late night and I was walking home.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Sounds like you have had a rather rough life

DO: Yeah, well my life is not as bad compared to others.

DR. NIGHTMARE: That doesn’t matter Mr. Nino. It still counts. What was the name of the antidepressant medication that you were taking for you depression?

DO: I honestly don’t remember. That was so long ago. I’m twenty-three now. I’ll be twenty-four in the summer so that was nearly eight years ago. I do remember my mother making me take medications such as Stratera and Adderall for Attention Deficit Hyper Disorder.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What is your relationship with your family like now?

DO: I only talk to them when I want or need something like most people, but other than that I steer clear of them to avoid confrontation and drama. Drama never falls short in the Nino family.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Why do you think that is, Mr. Nino?

DO: Well, it’s just that when me and my immediate family members are in the same room together I can feel a significant amount of tension, hatred and anger coursing throughout the room. It makes me feel very uncomfortable so I just leave.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What do you fear the most, Mr. Nino?

DO: Abandonment and death

DR. NIGHTMARE: All of which are very powerful and reasonable things to be in fear of. What is your attitude toward the opposite ***? What was it in childhood and later years?

DO: I always took notice of the hot girls and the unbearably **** girls. I just never made the effort to talk to them because most of them ignored me or were stuck up and thought they were higher and mightier than me. In later and considerably more recent years my patience for the opposite *** has lessened greatly with each passing day. It has gotten to the point where I hate romantic relationships leading me to believe that they are a complete waste of time. Marriages are pointless as well. I would operate just fine in a No Strings Attached, Friends With Benefits or a One Night Stand type of deal. At least with those types of relationships an emotional connection is not at all required. I like *****. End of story. I get enough emotional connection through bowel movements.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Are you ambitious, sensitive, inclined to outbursts of temper, domineering, shy, or impatient?

DO: Yes, sir. I am very ambitious. I’m a poet so there is no doubt that I am sensitive. Yes, I do tend to have short, mild outbursts concerning my temper. I get mad when people cut me off or talk over me when I am speaking. I hate when people ignore me and I hate when I try to join a conversation and everyone acts like I am not there. It’s like can’t they see that I am trying to be apart of the conversation. I mean even when I try to socialize and make friends they fail to realize it. It is all alright though. I have learned not to give a **** anymore. Honestly, it is the best way to avoid any drama in life.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What sort of people did you physically allow yourself to be around you prior to arriving at this institution? Were they impatient, bad-tempered, or affectionate?

DO: Affection was far from the equation, doctor. I was around a lot of impatient and bad-tempered people. When I speak of these people I speak mainly about my family, but also some of my co-workers as well. They drove me incredibly insane. I would often go home depressed and dreading the next work day.

DR. NIGHTMARE: How do you sleep?

DO: Most of the time I find it difficult to sleep. I frequently watch Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response or (ASMR) videos to aid in me that and so far it has worked exceedingly well.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What dreams do you have?

DO: I rarely have any happy dreams I’ll tell you that. Most of the dreams I have are of running down dark hallways, chasing shadows, jumping off of cliffs and being unexpectedly attacked by random strangers whether it be physically or verbally. I also tend to have a lot of dreams where I am screaming my head off at the people surrounding me in the dream. I even go so far as to push their heads back a little with the palm of my hand. I was really mad in those dreams. I have a lot of mildly terrifying as well as psychotically depressing dreams. I also tend to have dreams about abandonment.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What illnesses are there in your family background?

DO: Well both of my grandmas are diabetic however one of them has been deceased for six and a half years now. She was English plus she had struggled with breast cancer for years. One of my sisters has been diagnosed as bipolar. I believe I may be bipolar, but just undiagnosed. I am allergic to penicillin. Both of my little brothers have asthma. One of my brothers is allergic to peanut butter.That’s about it. My father has problems with digesting solid foods. I don’t really know all that much about the history of my family’s mental health. There was one time when my mom called the cops on me when I was sixteen. The cop although unlicensed said that he thinks I may be schizophrenic. I didn’t believe a word that he said back then, but eight years later I am now starting to realize the justness of what he said and even starting to believe it.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Have you ever had ***, Mr. Nino?

DO: No, sir. I have not. I do think about it very often though.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Do you watch any **** at all?

DO: Every night.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What kind of **** do you like to watch? Do you have any fetishes?

DO: I like to watch female bodybuilders workout in the ****, I also like to watch regular girls fool around in the **** as do most men. I also enjoy watching lesbian **** as well. My fetishes are women with muscle. I’m talking large muscle mass from the neck down. It just gets me so hot. Another fetish of mine and don’t tell anyone this, but I like to watch women take dumps in the toilet. I don’t however like actually seeing the feces. I only like to see them sitting on the toilet while doing it and hearing the sounds. I do not like seeing what is going on underneath. Other fetishes of mine include women with tattoos, tall women, and also slightly psychotic women though intelligent women.

DR. NIGHTMARE: What are you hoping to get out of these sessions and procedures?

DO: I just seek to be happy again. That is all I ask. That is all I want.

DR. NIGHTMARE: Well this concludes our interview, Mr. Nino. I will run to the lab and decipher you
Keiko Larrieux Jan 2010
I’m on a great journey
Trapped on a glorious road
I feel like running
Embedded with a code

Chewing myself
Swallowing one person
Digesting someone else

Plausible reminders
Allow the time

I prepare for the jaunt
In discovery of what I want

Chewing myself
Swallowing one person
Digesting someone else

I’m wrapped in a cordial dysfunction
Seared with an initial
An acronym of disjunction

I’m on a great journey
Trapped on a glorious road
I feel like running
Embedded with a code
mark Aug 2018
I often had dinner
with my ninety four year old father
at the nursing home,
who,  towards the end
had little to say.
what he said
was mostly incoherent
and softly spoken.
after one dinner,
where little was said,
we sat together,
he in his wheelchair,
I in a lounger,
in the lobby,
in front of the television,
he turned to me,
and said,

"I didn't think this would go on so long."
Sam Hamilton Jan 2014
I saw the smooth hands of children grow calloused,
sanded by the empty hopes
that the cold has whittled down and sharpened into crucifixion nails.  
Dragging their feet through broken glass and street waste, one shoe one sock,
I thought they were just urban children, or the ones
in malaria countries. But I see them stagger now, older, defeated
baring their bodies and chewing on their brains, teaching the little ones
how to polish shoes and hide in alleys that smell like **** and assault.
That one looks like me, his guardian about my size, so I pull my coat closer.
I recognize him from school in the smell of unwashed hair and the gurgle of
A self-digesting gut, nothing to soak up the acid that burns his throat.

I watched the world ******* them into hunched shoulders and boney legs
that have forgotten how to hug and run, trapping them in a constant state of shuffling
to the music of moans and cries for help. They come together in an urchin clan underneath bridges and on the exit ramps of highways.
Prophets of the future clutching at signs about war and veterans, the bad economy and the children they can’t feed.
Ten dollars to the one with the mut. Offer him a smoke.

Politicians act like clean-up crews, counting them like statistics;
This one is gone, the one on Brown street died,
We got rid of the one looking for cans in the student neighborhood.

Charity elevates them into a an opportunity—
A little money to the unfortunate is like bleach for your soul. Just enough
to get the smell of affair out of your hair, or to clean up the poison in your veins.
God helps the outcasts; five dollars ought to do it.

I shudder at our similarities. Brown hair, brown eyes, smart.
His sign ignores no rules of grammar and deserve credit for its precise calligraphy,
The dog at his side is ***** and worn like the stuffed toy
I covet from the nights in my crib—the same. He is a victim of people, I am a victim of people
Both someone’s child, both like dogs.
I watch as he turns into a younger man, and then an old man, and then a woman,
A child with no shoes and crucified hands, the boy in my class with eyes that devour.

I walk home, wondering what kind of charity will save me from myself.
And that is the problem.
Mara Siegel Feb 2015
i dont think about hold your hand
holding your hair back when you *****.
in progress
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.
Texting a bit, but taking it easy
As nobody wants to come across needy.
I left the phone ringing
To keep you in doubt.
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.

Be cool
Or I’ll break you.
I mean it.
If you go soft on me,
I’ll smash open your stupid little
Mix cassette
And strangle you with the tape.
I’ll set fire to your unopened love letter
And won’t even try
To read the smoke.

We were better than that.
I was blank
And you were blank
And together
We filled each other’s blanks
With what we wanted to see.
I invented you
And you invented me.

I was a bit of a **** to you
Because I knew it was a turn-on,
I was also a good listener
Because I knew
That was also
A turn-on.
I stared deep into your eyes
Like the internet says you should
And eight hours later
You were still wide awake,
Numb between the sheets
In dry sweat
As the morning sun stared
With disapproval
Through my window.

We were always told about how good we looked together
By people who are always saying real beauty
Is on the inside.

They were right about the first thing
Because in not too long
You stopped being
The you in my head.
It happened at that party
When you wanted to to go home early
And I didn’t;
When your madness I felt attracted to
Became the madness that wore me out;
When I caught you watching a programme
About celebrities cooking things
And enjoying it.

I can tell you feel the same.
Yes, you do.
Are you calling me paranoid?
I could swear you just did.
Anyway, don’t think I haven’t seen you with him
You’re giving him the look you used to give me
Before you turned off the lights.
Not him…
Him –
With his muddy footprints round the back door
And him –
Hiding in the closet when I’ve come home early
And him -
Living in the walls behind my favourite poster.

How can you be so selfish?
Has it not occurred to you
That there are other people
Who are selfish too?
For example?
Why are you thinking about yourself
When you should be thinking about me?
Is it because I’m just as far
From what I said I’d achieve
As I was when we met?
Because, if I am
That’s all your fault.

And here we are again
Tip-toeing barefoot
On a field of broken glass
Trying to salvage what we once had -
What we think
We once had.

We look happy in these pictures,
Happier than we are now,
Happier than we were
When they were taken.

Nostalgia is easy
If it’s for a time
That never existed.
Now that you’re gone
I can make you again
All inside my head.

Because there are no pictures of the time
You chose to break your nineteenth glass
Against my face

Or the time our television froze
And my whispers into your ear
Were as useless as spits of rain
On dry grass
As I pressed desperately
On the on-button
Of a remote control with dead batteries.

And I’m almost sure there are no pictures
Of the time you were having doubts
But chose to hide them
In someone else’s bed.

I don’t want you –
Just the you
That I’ve made in my head.

I know you feel the same.
You’ve been lonely
For days now.
So here we are again.
Staying late in the nearest bar
Sipping along to the serenade
Of a performer we both remember
From the last time -
Average on the guitar
But adept
On the belligeridoo.
He didn’t write those songs
But he plays them like he did.
Thank God
He’s given us something
To talk about.

I’m already lying again
Just to hold conversation -
Lying about where I’ve been since we last spoke.
You can’t know
That I’m still digesting
Pieces of my own pillow.
You tell me that’s what you’re still doing
And I know that’s half a lie.
Just don’t tell me
Whose pillow.

Never mind,
It was a bad idea.
This isn’t going to work
Because I know you too well.
If I want to dream,
Then you are nothing
But a splash of cold water.
I’ve met someone new -
Someone I know
Absolutely nothing about.
It’s not a date,
We’re just hanging out.
Kara Jean Apr 2016
Touch a rush
Floral green trim
A dress of deceit
Ferocious credibility
Strike, shock and distraught
Question her everything
A maddening cluttered up chest  
Red unprinted marking
She is a tempus tip toeing
Digesting hearts of many
Warned, they crawl
Enthralled, lurking for her gore
Her dress tore in natural beauty  
Cleaning syrup from her finger tips
Savio Mar 2013
Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
******* AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs

waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of the head's charge, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a straight, mornings woke and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed amongst individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to slice the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, digesting it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.
Poetic T Nov 2014
The dead see darkness only
Decomposing teeth taste stale air
Odours of parts decayed
The dead never die
They are inanimate, like a ornament
Peace forever frozen on their face
They sleep on a bed of maggots
Digesting them over time,
The screams never heard
But they reverberate through
Above saturated with their terror
Slowly dies,
The eyes closed shut,
Darkness is the keep sake,
That hides the horror in there still formed
eyes, but everything decays over time
Turns to dust, that which was there,
Still lives on in a vacant skull
The horror lives on energy
Of life, trapped in
A void,
A prison,
With no bars, never to be free
The dead don't die, the torture in death lives on inside..
kMargaret Oct 2012
My house is a silent house
But listen closely
And you'll hear the ever-turning scratch of the ceiling fan
The constant ticking of the grandfather clock
Passing cars and heavy wind vibrating the windows
Looking out, the trees are sighing
Every leaf panicking with each eager gust
What is nature seeing?
What does it hear?
Observing me as I observe it
My slow and steady silent sighs
My thumping heart's persistent slamming
Increasing with speed at passing thoughts
My gulping down of liquid memories
My bones creaking and aching with pangs of rejection
Overgrown nails scratching at the surface of my skin.
Digging to get rid of an unceasing itch.
Are the trees digesting that which my body refuses?
My teeth pressing themselves into the plush pillows of my lips
Keeping blood where my face has otherwise drained itself.
Pale as the undead.
Walking mindlessly.
Silent footsteps radiate this house's skeleton.
Rattling bones.
Climbing the ribcage,
Pulling up through the spaces
Sit for awhile. Watch the crimson muscle pump
The sound of my wandering eyes looking around for salvation.
The creak in my neck as I turn my head from its position of elongated staring.
Staring at nothing. Nothing is left.
Shifting uncomfortably in a chair too hard
Oceans built up against the dams behind my eyes waiting to be released into canals down my cheeks and neck
Settling into t-shirt stains that wont wash out
No one is left.
My house is a silent house.
Feel my rivers flowing.
Hold fast to them if you can and drown me.
And I will fall clamorously to sleep.
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
the smell of a stranger,
dawn coming up,
dark blue,
no stars,
the smell of a love,
warmer now
as authenic as soap,
wave after wave
of lightness
and the birds in their chains
going mad with throat noises,
the birds in their tracks
yelling into their cheeks like clowns,
lighter, lighter,
the stars gone,
the trees appearing in their green hoods,
the house appearing across the way,
the road and its sad macadam,
the rock walls losing their cotton,
lighter, lighter,
letting the dog out and seeing
fog lift by her legs,
a gauze dance,
lighter, lighter,
yellow, blue at the tops of trees,
more God, more God everywhere,
lighter, lighter,
more world everywhere,
sheets bent back for people,
the strange heads of love
and breakfast,
that sacrament,
lighter, yellower,
like the yolk of eggs,
the flies gathering at the windowpane,
the dog inside whining for good
and the day commencing,
not to die, not to die,
as in the last day breaking,
a final day digesting itself,
lighter, lighter,
the endless colors,
the same old trees stepping toward me,
the rock unpacking its crevices,
breakfast like a dream
and the whole day to live through,
steadfast, deep, interior.
After the death,
after the black of black,
the lightness,-
not to die, not to die-
that God begot.
Jordan Frances Feb 2014
Can I numb my body one last time?
You say you'll haunt me if
I overdose
I bleed out
I keep my food from digesting
I **** myself
Whether it is intentional or not.

Quitting cold turkey
Is a ***** and a half
But when you quit three things at once
When your life is still a living hell
You find yourself moody
And depressed
And angry.

How is it possible
That when I decide to stop cutting
Stop purging
Stop hurting my body
Stop denying myself
That I start to have those
Suicidal and foreboding thoughts
Enter my brain again?
Not that I'll act on them.

Obsessive thoughts
Lead to compulsive behaviors
I know this far too well.
The bleak practice of picking my skin
Will all but disappear from my routine.
But hey, at least it can't **** me.

Smoking some tobacco
As well as other assorted chemicals
Could send me to my grave.
It's a little bit of a longer flight, however.
And stress is a more direct route.
I guess you have to pick your battles.

People say they hate to be numbed
I guess that's why people abuse painkillers?
Sorry, I'm feeling distastefully sarcastic today.
But my point is
I don't mind it
Because take away the medicine
And you're forced to deal with whatever reality
Brought you to that point.
Might as well procrastinate while you can get away with it.
But it's a dangerous wire to dance on.
Eleanor Rigby Dec 2016
The sky like the palm of my hands
Is clear and faint
Holding stars and then slowly digesting them
Just like I do with magic pills.

Robert C Ellis Jul 2018
I halve the flesh for leaf
And regret and retreat
This is Divinity; seize
What words He gives
And you are a Soul
And will never cease
Milky Novae, a ****** reborn
when you end breathing
Genesis, Revelations
Endocrines endocrines.  
Or molecules that sin
Tithe the seed, breede; bleed
Hatred and war
From digesting protein
My body
For the remembrance of me
jonchius Sep 2015
forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news

opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw

enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse

distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign


interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip

encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?

experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations
the first week of June 2015
Poetic T Jul 2016
Well where do we start?
That answers a lot of questions before asked.
He was a vegan, kind of?

Never did he linger on thoughts of animal flesh,
vegan you could single him upon in certain words.
He would not linger on the animal nutritional formalities.

Could he linger on the repulsive tastes of pork, beef, lamb.
He would heave at mere thoughts of digesting these
peaceful recipients of the plant we delve all upon.

But even fish was out of his lingering taste buds.
He did how ever have a taste that differed from the
palettes of most, for it was of those he called friend.

He contorted on the repulsiveness of what his hunger
desired in wanting attention, but as those around waited
for there inevitable ending. He lingered on how they were savoured.

Bankruptcy of morals was his downfall, he saw others as
just meat sacks. Things that were as wanting in consumption
as those they fed upon, There screams were so inviting.

Have you heard an animal scream. No they don't, they
just look cynical in why your ending, their existence and stare.
Where we cry like lambs to the slaughter of our ending.

Emotion makes those that tear salt upon features
taste that much better than those unintelligent creatures
that just except there oblivion with eyes of so be it.

I have a sickness that thrives on the taste of you superficial
fear that I will not end you. No I will cease you light and
endeavour to feed on you lifeless carcass now silent.

*"Hi I'm Bob I'm a vegan struggling with the concept of
no meat in my diet, I don't eat animal, but I still linger
for the taste of meat inbetween of my moist lips and teeth.
Alan McClure Feb 2011
Crisp clear light of a not-quite spring
picks out the round black bin
quietly digesting the stuff of yesterday
Discreetly concealing
the thrumming, busy business of decay

The next act is approaching
in which we find
that nothing is lost or wasted
and the audience sighs with relief

that the mulch
of lost loves, discarded wishes
and broken beliefs
will prove as fertile
as the rich brown muck within
the round black bin.
- From Also Available Free
Jeff Raheb Aug 2014
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas

In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt

The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly

I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels

It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you

Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat

It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Elsbeth Poe Oct 2013
I am the turkey
You found with the palm of your hand

I am the pigeon
That fooled you for a dove

I am a weasel
I told you before-
My lungs are broken
Like his discarded wishbone

I am that word on the tip of your tongue
I missed my cue
When this cape got stuck to the dangly bit
It was shining
And smelled like "good morning"

I am abandoning my skeleton
I don't like the skin
That it put on today

I took a second helping of determination
Wake me in an hour-
I'll be resting
From digesting

Hold the phone-
Regret made my stomach eat itself to death

Don't Dilly Dally, Dear

I'm the rolling pen
That now lives
In your underwear drawer
I guess you'll never see me again

I'm retracting that statement
Like her claws from my Quacker Factory sweater
Sometimes we all need
A little extra support

Dearest Bones,
Without you I'm a jellyfish

I painted my face this morning
And now it's swimming inside my black tears
The proof is on the front of his shirt

I am your pillow that thinks it's a shrink
I told your hair
It needs to find a new direction in life

Don't believe me?
I'll lie back down

But give me a second-
I'm in the gutter right now
And need to clean myself off

Don't worry, Goose Darling-
A little Vitamin E oil
Will restore your immaturity
From the **** joke
That's giving you crows feet

Oh how I wish
My fossil was void of down feathers
But I frequently find
That I'm tickled inside
And how else would I fly in my dreams
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
(Jezebel drank the entire beverage.)
'It's good to feel better', said Jezebel, 'What is that?' 'It's a golden spindle.'
She took it. 'Pay attention to the candle flame, which the room can kindle.’
She began to spin the golden fleece as she had learned from that book.
She fainted after stabbing herself with the spindle, and to have a look

Surah approached her for a minute. ’She was his mother, I wanted to say!’
After that, she opened the window. ’I need fresh air to start this new day!’
She heard the demon laughing while climbing down the last two stairs.
‘Do you see that bird flying into the open window?’ ’Let’s go upstairs!’

Jezebel switched to a persistent vegetative state, in which breathing,  
Digesting and eliminating foods continued, although she was unwitting.
A nun will feed her using a feeding tube, and will take care of her body.
She will wash Jezebel, and she will dress her in clothes made of shoddy.

Frieda and Pauline entered the tower room and found her sleeping;
They heard strange sounds, and they thought that she was weeping.
She slowly breathed, so they tried to arouse her. It was a strange smell.
'Her eyes don't open, her body is flaccid,' said Frieda, and she started to yell.

Hearing the screams, the royal pair climbed up the stairs in a hurry.
''What happened?'' Anne was shocked. ''Your Majesty, it's a major worry!'
When Anne saw her, she had a whirling sensation and a tendency to fall.
A soft, ivory pallor shone in her face, she started to lean against the wall.

When the king saw her pallor, he took the goblet and gave her to drink.
Thinking that it's wine, he drank the rest of the potion, 'The goblets stink!'
He looked at Pauline, but losing his consciousness, he fell on the floor.
At that time, Mary arrived and remained speechless in front of the door.

'What happened?' 'They are ill. Look, the royal doctor is coming!’
The doctor examined them saying, 'I'm afraid they are succumbing!'
'It's very hard to keep them alive. I must invite here a great master.
I gave them medicine, but their condition will not improve any faster.’

Fred was riding his horse through the woods together with his guests.
He sang being accompanied by the male birds singing near their nests.
He was so happy thinking of those village people also coming to the castle.
He imagined his bride wearing her wedding gown, and being certainly gracile.

Jezebel fell into a coma from a drug overdose containing morphine.
It was extracted from Marijuana imported from Asia, when she was fifteen.
She couldn't respond to outside stimuli such as sounds, or temperature.
Many doctors came to treat Jezebel, and to study this illness structure.

Princess Jezebel started to dream resting on many time's wings.
She found a new Frederick in a forgotten world with seasonal swings.
In reality, she remained a beautiful rose bud in the tower's room.
She was as unaware and as sad as a departure of a flower’s bloom.

The monastery, which was sleeping in the daylight sun
Could hide both the demons and the prayers of a crying nun.
In time, that realm was forgotten and caressed by pearls of rain,
The life could go on, while the girl was sleeping in her doom's chain.
Stanley Wilkin Jul 2016
The surging water threw strange shapes,
Waiting crows with stabbing beaks
In the sky and in the drowned souls,
Festering in the swell.
The huge irrepressible waves
Spread wings flattening houses with a single downward swipe.
It was a sudden death,
They died screaming-avidly watched by millions nestling before TV sets
Unmoved if sympathetic.
They had watched enough CGI
Not to be bothered by such drama.

The girl quietly combed her hair,
Bitter black in the lamplight,
Watching the snarling fox shoot from its lair
Slathering with fright.
As she lifted her arm again
The salt spray struck her, flattening her face
The wave soothed where her smile had been
Her limbs acquiring a greater grace.

It ****** in cars and houses, gulping down
The unresistant landscape with unforgiving speed,
Turning the living green into regurgitated brown
Digesting  the landscape with ******* greed
It drew her little body back into the equalising sea
Just another bit of debris.
Ayaba Babe Aug 2013
A kiss on the neck, a nibble on the lobe, a midday *** text, by a promise of deep console.

The wholeness of my *******, where your fingertips rest
Your lips.
A quick dip into the abyss-
Flip positions.
Your wrists,
I want them bound.
I want you motionless as I kiss my expedition down...

Your deep abyss, I can give you my answer, in depth,  solely for your bliss, but let's go back to square one, your happiness starts with my tongue, subtle licks followed by the patter of my lips, no longer free are my ankles, as I submit to you my wrists, knowing all along what turns you on is the throbbing nature that has over taken my pen,-is it you its yearning for?

Two inches more
and I shall welcome you inside the entrance of my esophageal door
how impolite would I be without offering a tour?
Let us slip down the walls until we reach the pits of the floor of my
-you've been here before-
I want to flood the shores of your beaches before the swimmers reach their destiny
You get the best of me.
Long strokes
You invest in me.
If I unbind you, will you stay next to me?
The waves of lost control pulsating across your face...
you need me
I free you from your ties.
My thighs slide apart wider and wider...
I wade in the tides of your eyes...

Your thighs wider, as my lips come near, instead of my hips your grips around my ears, as I whisper sweet nothings to lips with no ears, but wait as I pause to give you no break, I slip ******* to let my tongue escape beyond boundaries unknown.
scratch, bite then slap. Now hush, as flip you over, to pull your hair exhilarating your sensations to come over and over. Now both dripping wet, will you invite me in, it's only chocolate, an aphrodisiac, or a nemphos best friend.

Come inside.
It's slippery,
Slip and slide when you dip in me
Every time I'm still surprised at just how fulfilling you are.
The ride is thrilling
Abiding the hills of my ******* to will their weight
-The sound of your shallow breath-
There is
A depth
At which which you'll drown
Submerging great lengths beneath the surface of my sea
You instill great strength
When you're lying beneath me


It feels like freedom.

To be inside you, and underneath, in control of your heart to my beat. Hands occupied, full grasped, stroking every inch of your fantass-tick tock, unwind your inner time clock with my ****, as I roll my hips, tightening is your handless grip, wet, don't slip, climatic joy as my tip finds your ****.

Your **** is the beast
That feasts
On my deceased beauty.
Really and Truly
I can not fully grip the grasp of the thought of my fantastic tick tock
Blown off the clock
-rock solid ****-
You won.
No man before has coerced me to come-
You have me at a loss to think
Sentences spilling in hologram ink
I blink.

It's such a quick motion, blink, rewet, now you have my full devotion, to divulge into your mind of the nature of what's been created by my subtle ****** notions, or a blunt hint, which allows me to explore more with deeper extent, long melodic notes, of your deep breaths that hum along my throat,
as I stroke,
take note,
I've physically exhausted you mentally by sensually exciting your frontal lobe.
highly sensual exotic ****** collaboration poem with the brilliantly talented Mr. Jason Brooks.
*side note* -we have never been intimate, never held any type of relations. It is the pure imagination of the mind that allows dreams and fantasies to come alive.
Enjoy :)
amanda martinez Apr 2014
I whispered this secret to the ocean, but it was rejected on the sand.
The pressure has become too thick for me to withstand.
The words have over heated, locked in the oven…well overdue.
The truth of this all may burn, but this needs to be heard by you.
An unquenched thirst in a drought…
My world has flipped around, completely inside out.

Before I could find the right words, I resorted to the dirt.
I buried this secret as the seconds ticked…only way to obliterate how much it hurt.
One day the clock stopped ticking, I thought it was well off buried; eminently suppressed.
Come to think of it, the ***** little secret was just compressed.

Constricting so tight I began digesting my lungs…
Nothing bothered me, because everything was numb.
So I replaced my eyes with reflectors from the sun,
My heart fell in lust with the concept of a dark place to run.

Grabbed my lucky charm and a parachute, with the intent to leave one at the ledge.
From the top of the cliff I jumped, just as I made my pledge.
If I were meant to fight this battle, I’d make it to the ground: free fall.
Lucky charm in hand, all dependent on fate’s call.

This is a tough war to face alone, but the last thing I want is sympathy.
Just asking if you’d have my back…if need be.
Pretty well off on my own, I don’t want any kind of hero,
But if you can handle it, meet me at ground zero.
June 5, 2012
Kris Jan 2010
Change tackles a broad spectrum of life.
You change your hair, you change your underwear, you change your shoes.
How the hell could someone change their Personalities in the blink of an eye.
Can some one so thoughtful and sensitive turn into such a **** with the turn of one sentence phrase and punctuation.
She storms in on her high horse ready to take the world by storm with her fury.
She may say im her world but what have i done to deserve such punishments.
I asked a Question.
The fatalities of words and sentence structures leave a gaping hole in the ego and sense of trust.
Sense of what is right and wrong cuz what is right by all does not apply to her.
Her mind twists and bends to form views and morals that not even a twisted fairy tale can concoct.
What she fights for doesnt fit the way of the world.
She believes in things that will never happen, that make no sense. She fights for views that will leave her fighting forever.
She is a non conformist but she conforms to stereotypes that go against her better thinking.
The way she used to think.
Stress has got her in a headlock, cutting off her brain's circulatory flow of intelligent words and clean blood.
She inhales.
Breathes in a mixture of smoke and unclean thoughts.
Yea, she can stop.
She's walking corruption.
Digesting poison in the pit of her stomach killing the butterflies she claim died.
Yea they died.
In a fiery pit of lies and hypocrisy that gets you nowhere.
She tells me her worst thoughts and wishes but her honesty doesnt justify the unjust actions that go against who she was.
Who is she becoming?
Someone who is dependent on drugs and drinks to make her happy Cuz she doesnt have the ***** to go against the grain and
Stick to her guns and stay clean and fresh,
Keeping her lungs pink and her brain free,
free to believe and grow with each intake of air not smoke.
I hate to see it happen but she is just like the others.
**** views take the form of rolled up paper.
Not an application but a temptation.
Non conformists need not apply.
DP Younginger Oct 2013
Here, I loaf,
Coffee in my left, a second wisdom in my right,
Shredding years off of "the plan" to pay the dues, society bills,
Thousands on thousands pile up in pre-season games,
Fingernails digesting in the stomach, slashing through the stream like a cross-saw paper-cut,
Here, my feet bounce,
Behind generationally equal minds, I peak over dandruff and hear nothing but dry lips,
Avoiding the eye, I dip into the ocean,
I wade, I pause, I sink,
My joints crunch and fingertips tap dance,
Here, the static fleshes out,
Every thought a raft, casted away, I play Tom Hanks,
Chalkboards accumulate fine powder, the particles tickle the sneeze,
Outside, the rain is still, falling through the ice,
Inside, my brain is still, falling to the vice,
Here, I watch those watching,
The wrapping on the box, present inside, today we learn tomorrow,
I sit on the bow,
Distraction by means of technology, we are all second-hand smoke detectors,
Together, we learn to strap our seat-belts on correctly,
Here, the window is foggy.
spysgrandson Mar 2014
trip flare  
and they are in a singing,
soprano sea of light
my heart thumping, baritone,  
my eyes digesting this metastasizing meal  
choking on it, until  
the guy beside me opens fire,  
emptying a magazine before I flip
from safety to rock ’n roll auto  
both of us now filling the killing
fields with tracers,
whizzing shouting shadows
in this sorrowful symphony…  
the light fades
in the newly darkened pit  
the crawling ebony clad shapes
the conductor, long gone  
to another stinking stage,  
while here, the blood dries black
and I have new mournful memoirs
of  the music of madness
Pen Lux Nov 2010
I need daylight to be over
so that the octupus leaves in my back yard can breathe
all the dogs left them swelling and burning for daily bread,
daily milk, and last calls to board the plane.
It's really **** hard to understand what the person on the intercom is saying when you've got stalks of corn growing out of your ears
imitating how rough and useless everything that comes in is
how it's just sprouting out and some people are going to get hit in the face if they don't realize that personal bubbles are more important than an inhaler, at least at this point.

The ball in my mouse has fallen out and now I can't seem to get anywhere, drinking bottles of cough syrup to try and feel the sickening sweetness of your kiss, when all you really wanted was to be someone else. The lion painted on my shirt tells me I'm wrong for paying attention to the little things, like the color of your sweater and if you made it or not.

I feel like I'm following a snow storm in a bathing suit,
which makes it awkward during interviews but my mom tells me I need to get a job and start thinking for myself and thinking about others because I only have one brother and he might **** himself soon.

Teachers don't seem to realize that my answers sound like my mouths full of peanut butter and they don't know that when I turned 9 I used to smear it on my skin and let my dog lick it off. I hope that doesn't ******* off as boring or twisted, but I've got enough cough syrup to know that my lungs will stay inside my body, even if they're all chewed up digesting in my stomach with the rest of the things I said that I wish I could take back, with the rest of the tongues that fumbled and mumbled phrases that made me look like a tobacco spitting uncle from Tennesse.

it's not that I don't want to see you anymore,
or that I want you to grow up and be something more,
but I'm not the same person I was before,
I'm starting to lose myself and I feel it seeping from the very core.

It's like a black hole or a star that burnt out,
it's scary and not as beautiful as it was when I was a kid.
People are getting better looking, growing into themselves like marijuana plants.
These women have vertigo and not enough time to walk where they need to be, so they asked me to go to the store and they paid me with dinner, I sat at the table in a rocking chair and wondered why they had so much hair on the floor.
it wasn't like we were having a bad time
but we sure didn't know how we got to talking about ******* and cranberry juice.
All the while I felt like saying something meaningful,
but I knew they wouldn't get my jokes and I knew that my sarcastic tendancies would get the best of me and we'd be in a grinder full of bugs and rocks and all of those things we avoid when we're afraid.

I could feel my teeth wanting to break as I chewed my food
and clenched my jaw at the conversation.
The woman to my left said I looked like someone she knew,
I said,
"You do know me."

the words came out like a siren of warning,
I had gone too far.

I looked at my hand that held their fancy spoon
my reflection stared back like it didn't know me
and I could see my eyes turn away and I could see my hand on the door ****
but what I couldn't see was the woman,
who followed me home.
the woman,
the one that knows me best.

— The End —