"dike" poems
Who gives a rats ***
If you prefer a **** in your ***
Or your **** rubbing against another
When did sexuality matter
I've seen the red of their veins
Pour out just as quickly as mine
I've watched as they understood love
Fat better than I could ever hope to achieve
Yet she can't marry her
Or he can't be seen with him
Holding hands an kissing
Hell I'll hug a gay man quicker than my brother
I'll flirt with a lesbian
Even though we both know
I'm going nowhere
It was never about who they dated
Who they decided to fall in love with
The only thing that mattered to me
An will ever matter
Is how they can show me what love is
What holding someone important to them
Really looks like
What everybody else thinks
Is just a matter of opinion
I don't give a ****
I can call a gay guy queer
I can call a lesbian a ****
And they'll smile with pride
They know who they are
What they are
And we're the aliens in the community
Thinking we know everything
When dd sexuality matter
I'll smoke a blunt with my gay homie
Drink tequila with my lesbian friend
Flirt with them both
Simply because I'm the one
Who's going home alone
I love them
Not because their gay
But because they can make me laugh
A hell of a lot better than my straight friends
Sexuality shouldn't matter
Personality is what gets me
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
*** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *****
The man said "Go away you filthy perv."
"Cocktails is all I've ever served!"
"Why don't you take a hike?"
The Cuck said "Go ***** a ****
The he strutted away! [struttin' struttin']
He gotta get paid! [by the hour]
Gotta go to work! [at Trump Tower]
... 'Til the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he slapped his **** onto the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *******
The man balled his fists and said...
"Why don't you go get a pocket toy and ***** that you filthy pervert who can't get laid so he comes and bothers the cocktail man because he has no game!
How about you go to another bar and stop acting LAME!"
The Cuck said "Your sister wasn't lame."
Then he zipped up his pants [waddle waddle]
as he strutted away [got the zipper stuck]
but that's all okay [showing off the package]
Till the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any ******
The man got ****** then he started to smile.
"Come on, fellow! I bet you haven't had ***** in a while."
Then they strutted away [my **** itches]
but that's okay [they don't care they're *******
watch out for snitches [shut yo **** mouth]
'Till they arrived at the trap house
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
"Here you go sir, she'll make your **** stir
She's even got a sister you can **** next to her!"
The Cuck's mind began to go....
"How about.... no!"
"But I like this place...
It makes my heart race...
and it would bring me joy....
it would make my day...
do you think we could...
do you THINK we could...
double team your wife so you don't have to pay?!"
Then he scrambled away! [zipping up his pants]
The man was angry in a trance! [hope he tied his shoes]
He even left the ***** [why'd you do that]
Instead he ******* the Cat.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
I stare, intently. He glances momentarily.
With its big calf eyes,
the skin peeling away from its lids
and its hides.
They float by, I gaze quickly at their popped peepers
which are skinned like white grapes,
and they go about their day.
I love them, them and their color palate,
their unique selection.
Bloated and baggy, bubbling up,
it looks so goofy that I cannot stand it.
My mouth gapes at the dazzling gold bands,
the alternating tan lines, the glow-in-the-dark marks,
the cool blues and the light blues alike.
They seem startled and pouty. But what to do about the ****
They cannot leap the glass and twirl with us,
dance with me, fly past the current ripping by.
Poor things…how they wish they were wild,
undomesticated and free. They want to be near us.
I see it in the gestures of their prehensile *****
that smear the glass as they press in,
trying to chart our turbulent patterns.
I wonder in my head how they breathe so easily,
flopping about their blue-tinted box,
drinking deep the LOx
fed in through a tube somewhere
as the world morphs and vibrates between us.
It is full of grey energy. Like a cloud in a lightning storm. Ever changing.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
All the More Human, for Eve Pandora
by Michael R. Burch
a lullaby for the first human Clone
God provide the soul, and let her sleep
be natural as ours, unplagued by dreams
of being someone else, lost in the deep
wild swells of losing all that "human" means ...
and do not let her come to doubt herself—
that she is as we are, so much alike
in frailty, in the books that line the shelf
that tell us who we are—a rickety ****
against the flood of doubt—that we are more
than cells and chance, that love, perhaps, exists
because of someone else who would endure
such pain because some part of her persists
in us, and calls us blesséd by her bed,
become a saint at last, in whose frail arms
we see ourselves—the gray won out of red,
the ash of blonde—till love is safe from harm
and all that "human" means is that we live
in doubt, and die in doubt, and only love
the more because we only know to strive
against an end we loathe and fear. What of?—
we cannot say, imagining the Night
as some weird darkened structure caving in
to cold enormous pressure. Lacking sight,
we lie unbreathing, thinking breath a sin ...
and that is to be human. You are us—
true mortal, child of doubt, hopeful and curious.
Keywords/Tags: Eve, Pandora, human, clone, humanity, human being, human condition, evolution, birth, death, life and death, soul, soulmate, saint, youth
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 7:51 AM UTC
rip my hair and skin
scalp me down to my river mind,
innards of rot and process
take your hollow **** of words
bury them in my very own
valley of salt and waste
let's say,
"words are words,"
with purpose and shallow bravery
they
mean this or that
and that is that
of course!
this is this and the other thing
what a lovely ring
sure to rhyme
break the lines
here and there
a bold poet
with a neautered tongue and pen
a cold box, where chaotic sloppy life
should tumble forth with joyful hot moans,
explosions of spit fury finger breaking body snatching war hunger defeat suffocating three ton wool blanket thrown over our mouthes stifling the bitter gut gargling screams of drone death baby mother buried way down under by the son father stalking blind with tears and rage and poverty
skin not black but brown, religious garb for the crown
hypocrisy will be sure to follow him about
Yet, here we are, a small empty hall, short not grand
Yet, even here an echo back of our dim shallow fancies
words that skip on the surface of meaning and power
mothers grieve shouting at the earth, holding their
******* to the moon, while fathers eat the dry bleached
sand we've left behind in valleys of salt and waste
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
I remove my glasses
and couldn't give a ****
if I ever saw
a thing again,
you ******* *****
ya nice word
civ, ****
queer boy
Your love is your
insanity, go and go
and go and get away,
away go get away, away
go get away you're
gay, go get away
You don't know
whether to write, talk,
laugh, cry, bawl,
rust and I'm here in this
and I'll be gone on that
Found mad, and for
my madness I cannot
be because I know it's not me,
choke gasp
release and on and
on and on, again go
get away, away
just go away, away
you're gay,and invading the space I haven't even
found.
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:36 AM UTC
we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...
we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.
we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...
both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the barb
of our bee stung
innocence
we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....
besides.
we wrath glide the plum
then have at Life.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
Fat, skinny, anorexic, depressed
Emo, fake, two-faced
******** brainiac, crazy,
Tall, short, giraff, mouse
Gay, straight, **** ***
Bipolar, white, black
Christian, Jew,
Anger creates labels
Insecurity creates labels.
Labels
Destroy us.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Can you feel the power coursing through you,
disguised as adrenaline,
when you swing your arm and before the blow even hits,
you feel all your anger and frustration fade, so now all you want is to fight?
You wanna kick and pitch a fit,
till your old ****** arms
are covered up by new scars,
but nothing like that matters because you're the last man standing.
Maybe the other boy, curled up on the ground now
with his arms thrown over his head,
broke your nose and made it even more crooked than before,
but you're the little freak who no one thought could win.
But you entered in
from a world where everyone called you ****
to be the freak who everyone only saw as a ****
thin-shouldered and quieter than the boys he fought.
Maybe your quietness and meek, weak, malnourished look fooled you and all of them,
for look into your eyes in the mirror and see the gold and brown fighting through the green sheen,
the fire for everything you hate, all the things you're hitting and spitting on when you're through with them,
and when you stare into your own eyes you might recognize yourself.
Don't be fooled, boy, you're weak and you're sick,
your arms aren't thick
which muscle and dark hair,
and nothing about you is real,
with fabricated reactions and premeditated sentences,
all programmed into your brain, which fights itself in its confusion,
screaming, and smoking from the fight with itself, about what should be happening with your emptiness and with your bony chest.
Boy, you're hardly that,
just a *** who stares after the other guys,
but you're not sure if you're gay, because you really just want to be just like them.
Boy, at least you fall for pretty girls,
shorter and daintier than you, with more mellow hearts but stronger emotions,
and passions for poetry (not the kind you possess, rooted in your inability for expressions)
and always with love for another boy, a real boy to grow into a man.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 11:49 PM UTC
She was everything I wanted to be
No wonder I questioned my sexuality
But to find she might be into me?
My heart couldn't help but skip a beat
I was set on being her everything
Four years I batted my eyes
And watched as she fell for others
As she let them between her thighs
As young people will do
I fell for others to
But she was always there in my heart
My feelings always true
Lover apon lover
Cracked and broke me down
Slowly I lost myself
Slowly I began to drown
But I still loved them
Just as I loved her
But how could I love both
And for that I was unsure
Finally one day
I got my chance
After so long in denial
She had given me a second glance
I showed her what I could do
And she fell before me
She fell FOR ME
But it wasn't what I hoped it would be
For once in so long
I found that I didn't want her
And finally my life
Wasn't such a blur
Because I wanted him
And only him
I wanted him so much
That my love for her actually grew dim
I realized that day
That it wasn't about what you were
It was about who you were
Yes finally I was sure
So many people
talk about what they like
But I found that I like whos not whats
I'm not straight I'm not ****
I am who I am
And I'm everything I want to be
And she helped me realize that
She helped me find me
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.
But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous ****
he sought to buttress.
His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.
His savage dogs,
hungry for meat,
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.
His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
******
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking *****
back onto his face.
The weight of history
moves with the just.
Untruth,
arch rival of justice,
is blown away,
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.
Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.
He stands on
the other side of the river.
He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the *****
of Abraham.
Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.
Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.
A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.
Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water
MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
Perverse it is that I will party in december
and squeeze gifts from nine *******
when what I long for is to go deep
running my hands along smooth dark cavern walls
perhaps pausing
my finger in the ****
dreaming to hold back
the torrent of all that is emerging
in these final days of year
when I Earth Centered Pagan Pray
to be delivered from longest night.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 7:23 AM UTC
Your Damnation slumbers not, in Hell you're going to burn
EVERY Queerass ****** CONDEMNATION you did earn
-
So while your still alive, skip along your merry way
Soon you'll be in Hell, God your soul will slay
-
Pretend it isn't so, deny the Word of God
When you finally burn in Hell, then I will applaud
-
Tisk-tisk oh ****** Fruitcake, my poem you don't like?
Read it to your buddy, and every single ****
-
Read it ****** Fruitcake! Read the part where you will BURN
Read it Fruitcake Queer! Your DAMNITION you did earn
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
I want to run, but here I stand.
I began to fall, but on my feet I land.
I stand my ground.
Look around.
Here they scream out loud.
The names they shout out.
*** loner, weak.
Friendless, **** meek.
Dead, ****
Never to be liked.
Should I listen
Possibly dismiss them.
The words may burn.
At night I may toss and turn.
Sleepless
Empty and dreamless.
I never want to be called a victim.
Maybe just a symptom.
One of being me.
So judgemental they have to be.
Why do they have to hurt me til I die?
Why do they spit their words til I cry.
I don't have to care.
I can pretend they aren't there.
That's what my mom says to do.
I told her I am me not you.
It's not the easiest thing.
Hearing other human beings.
Beating you down.
When everyone's around.
Watching your best friend.
Say our love was all pretend.
Well it's alright.
I'm okay for atleast another long hate filled day.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
There I sat with a cast and black eye
Just got small children down for the night
Tim decided to take tots for a swim
"Over my dead body", I yelled at him
We discussed our views in loud voices
Continued to fight, made bad choices
Very soon Westminsters finest pulled up
Domestic situation, cops abrupt
Got both sides of story, mine in jest
Smart *** me, I was soon under arrest
Handcuffed, shoved into waiting squad car
Was pissed-cussed at my treatment so far
"I want your badge number", I threatened the cop
Ill sue for false arrest, and no I won't stop
Assault and battery on who, on Tim?
Refused to put out cig, didn't touch him
Got booked, printed and a soggy sack lunch
Wore old lady ****** rode up in a bunch
In population still in cast with black eye
The word spread around that I battered a guy
I crutched my way across shiny jail floor
Eyes following me as if to implore
Came up on a woman, looked like a ****
Then she asked, **** girl what's he look like?"
Got released next day, had court appearance
Plead not guilty with no interference
Set date for jury trial of my peers
Never been in court in all of my years
With public defender at defendants table
Jury looked at me as if I were unable
To batter, assault a serious offense
I was so small, this did not make much sense
I bravely testified on my own behalf
Brought up Tims prior abuse, hid a laugh
OBJECTION YOUR HONOR, spouted DA
Too late, the jury heard what I had to say
They filed out to deliberation space
Came back in fifteen, looked Tim in the face
The judge read the verdict, not guilty at all I was a free woman and skipped down the hall
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
You can search far and wide for a beauty that matches hers.
Only Gaia can hint at the beauty she possesses.
Her eyes are a soft green,
A gentle aquamarine like that of the sea;
They captivate and tranquilize you.
Only Helen's smile is a pale example of hers,
Which leaves you with the desire to see it again;
Nothing in nature surpasses her smile.
The right words will reveal her laugh,
Only the Nightingale's charming melodies can come close;
It is a siren's call that you follow repeatedly to hear again.
She radiates warmth when she holds you,
Like a gentle touch of glow of Apollo on your cheek;
A natural peace can be found when her arms are wrapped around you tight.
Her dark hair is as soft as a cloud,
Yet it runs through your fingers like wild silk;
She is a dark-haired version of Aphrodite when her hair is left down.
You can travel across the world in search of a beauty like hers,
But nothing can match it.
It is not restricted to the mortal body.
You have to look inside her heart to discover its origin.
She is kindness personified,
Her scruples displayed in her actions;
Maybe she is **** reborn into the modern world.
She holds conversations with all,
But she befriends only a select few;
Her exclusive circle open only to those she cherish.
I can wonder how blessed they are to be in her presence,
I only wish to be in her arms;
Yet she has carefully let me in with open arms,
While protecting the parts she is not ready for me to glimpse.
My patience and support she will eternally have,
As a friend, companion, or more;
Her happiness is my ever reaching ambition.
Not even Gaia can compete against this dark-haired mortal goddess,
Whose strength I forever admire.
She will always remain a compelling presence in my life,
No matter the Fates' intentions for our lives.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 5:11 PM UTC
Sometimes Silence is a Lie.
it drains the lake, it does... it siphons the symphonies.
it bleaks the speech, unbridled
from a long mute, to a mutiny. the mute in me ~
would rather, but we'd rather knot.
null reprisals, highly prize super nova
in the Scotia of our scathing
plight.
no other might. but...
we'll do what the light won't
in the dark night.
we'll trouble the cube. each of us, the rube
in tomorrow's ****
the Thumb
in the oyster of an ill quiet
where the Lord of Prayers
Errs the attempt
to split Heirs.
We inherit the wind
and a breeze.
And a breeze will ****
a Windmill
straight fair.
but not for the lack of peace.
but the fog of war.
at the very least.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
At night, full trains standing still
between the erigeron
The grass **** wobbles a bit
The water sighs
little waves over the railway
Geese splash around
Bye Atlantis
Bye floating gardens
Thank you, all the best
We're flying out
the earth is open
Where to, where to?
Rombom, the sun will come
Zirconium sparkles, colours
expectation everywhere
It paints our desire
promises us love and happiness
- a fabulastic home
Apr 4, 2023
Apr 4, 2023 at 3:33 AM UTC
After the **** breach,
somewhere in the water, still --
a howling siren.
Mar 1, 2024
Mar 1, 2024 at 2:13 AM UTC
I once ****** a girl on a bike;
And when she asked me if I would like
To do her dear mother
Or her gay little brother
I knew that she must be a ****
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I think of the waves
Crashing into the ****
The rocks are sturdy there
In west port washington.
And on the rocks
A shorebird got closer
To where
I stood proud
On the unmovable
Pile of boulders.
I could tell you
This was it.
But a star fish
Exposed the air I breath
In a moment of beauty.
The waves flicker like lite bulbs.
The split seconds are eons
With out times way of saying
Got ya now.
You know
How the you
And ocean.
Meet in the shores
And die in the earth.
How can the spirit of mythology
Tell me the rocks where once human.
And the boy told his mother you swollowed
A pebble.
He returned to free his uncles.
They called him the stone boy.
if I stand here for four days
Ill break down like gravel in the grange.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
You said, "How do you react when **** hits the fan? When you're under stress?
Do you go to work,
or hit the dirt?"
The truth is
I am transformed by the glory of battle
into shining metal
into this beast of action
that's not bad... it just is.
I remember my Dad telling me to "Be prepared.
Be aware.
Stay calm.
Don't be scared."
(He also taught me how to take a hit
and return the favor.)
You said to me,
"Maybe,
you are not afraid.
Maybe,
you are excited.
Maybe,
when you feel that feeling you call fear
your spirit is responding
with acceptance....
Maybe, you were made for it."
It may not be fear today...
or excitement...
Today I am the villain.
I am taking them away from him.
I am breaking at least two hearts...
and pouring salt inside of mine
for endurance
for preservation...
I am the hard stone for flint to strike.
I am the rushing floods and the strong ****
I am the hot concrete and the melting tar.
I am the engine and the speeding car.
I am adrenaline in the soldiers veins.
(Long since wasted and drained
from too many fights.)
I am the candle's burning, flickering light.
I am present, and aware.
But I am not scared.
I am ready.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Got off on the wrong foot,
What would it be like if it was cut off,
We dip . drop. Roll. Stop,
Watch the flower grow a little then spit swap,
I swear I'll wait for you on longest journeys,
I swear I'll wait for you on your worst days too,
But on your good ones,
You love the right one,
But he went left,
He was different than the **** ones,
Bisexual beauty sitting in a croptop,
We dip . drop. Roll. Stop,
Watch the flower grow a little then spit swap,
Pretty as you are,
You know I want you baby,
The silence ain't a thing,
Elevated and Slightly fit with rabies,
Foaming out and finding things to lick,
Petals covered in you saliva,
And sweat under you arm pits,
You were an angel in disguise,
A troublesome full of lies,
Only tied to things you can't deny,
Unless your memories are bought,
We dip . drop. Roll. Stop,
Watch the flower grow a little then spit swap,
Let's start over,
My names Arcassin,
Nice to meet you in this disaster,
Its souly a situation,
Your smile brings me to tears,
I'm so weirdly mistaken,
The raspyness in your voice,
Sure knows how to leave a guy shaken,
Pretty dresses swishing over flower beds,
****** stare as we sing the Beatles,
Nails in my back like pins and needles,
Im just starting over but ill do what ever it takes to get those feels,
But as soon as you thought I forgot,
We dip . drop. Roll. Stop,
Watch the flower grow a little then spit swap.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Northfield, Minnesota,
a flood warning issued at 3 a.m. comes too late for her.
Caught on the wrong side of the river,
alone, unhappy on high ground
she lays down her book The Sixth Extinction,
its glittering story of glittering skeletons
has become too prophetic in this deluge.
All around, people on high ground
fine tune satellite dishes
to catch the latest pictures
of their neighbors stunned faces
as yet another **** gives way,
one more street goes dark,
another dead dog washes up on the lawn.
As the river reclaims its ancient banks,
renews its title to the land
she goes down to bathe in its soft brown hands.
She can remember the morning.
She can remember the evening.
She can remember her neighbor’s dog barking.
She is too young to remember the dry days
of high spring when birds on scarlet wings
flew low under a terrible blaze of stars.
She is old enough to understand the river’s life,
its single unrelenting purpose – return to the sea;
to understand we cannot live like a river.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC