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We had wanted to leave our homes before six in the morning
but left late and lazy at ten or ten-thirty with hurried smirks
and heads turned to the road, West
driving out against the noonward horizon
and visions before us of the great up-and-over

and tired we were already of stiff-armed driving neurotics in Montreal
and monstrous foreheaded yellow bus drivers
ugly children with long middle fingers
and tired we were of breaking and being yelled at by beardless bums
but thought about the beards at home we loved
and gave a smile and a wave nonetheless

Who were sick and tired of driving by nine
but then had four more hours still
with half a tank
then a third of a tank
then a quarter of a tank
then no tank at all
except for the great artillery halt and discovery
of our tyre having only three quarters of its bolts

Saved by the local sobriety
and the mystic conscious kindness of the wise and the elderly
and the strangers: Autoshop Gale with her discount familiar kindness;
Hilda making ready supper and Ray like I’ve known you for years
that offered me tools whose functions I’ve never known
and a handshake goodbye

     and "yes we will say hello to your son in Alberta"
     and "yes we will continue safely"
     and "no you won’t see us in tomorrow’s paper"
     and tired I was of hearing about us in tomorrow’s paper

Who ended up on a road laughing deliverance
in Ralphton, a small town hunting lodge
full of flapjacks and a choir of chainsaws
with cheap tomato juice and eggs
but the four of us ended up paying for eight anyway

and these wooden alley cats were nothing but hounds
and the backwoods is where you’d find a cheap child's banjo
and cheap leather shoes and bear traps and rat traps
and the kinds of things you’d fall into face first

Who sauntered into a cafe in Massey
that just opened up two weeks previous
where the food was warm and made from home
and the owner who swore to high heaven
and piled her Sci-Fi collection to the ceiling
in forms of books and VHS

but Massey herself was drowned in a small town
where there was little history and heavy mist
and the museum was closed for renovations
and the stores were run by diplomats
or sleezebag no-cats
and there was one man who wouldn’t show us a room
because his baby sitter hadn’t come yet
but the babysitter showed up through the backdoor within seconds
though I hadn't seen another face

        and the room was a landfill
        and smelled of stale cat **** anyhow
        and the lobby stacked to the ceiling with empty beer box cans bottles
        and the taps ran cold yellow and hot black through spigots

but we would be staying down the street
at the inn of an East-Indian couple

who’s eyes were not dilated 
and the room smelled
lemon-scented

and kept on driving lovingly without a care in the world
but only one of us had his arms around a girl
and how lonely I felt driving with Jacob
in the fog of the Agawa pass;

following twin red eyes down a steep void mass
where the birch trees have no heads
and the marshes pool under the jagged foothills
that climb from the water above their necks

that form great behemoths
with great voices bellowing and faces chiselled hard looking down
and my own face turned upward toward the rain

Wheels turning on a black asphalt river running uphill around great Superior
that is the ocean that isn’t the ocean but is as big as the sea
and the cloud banks dig deep and terrible walls

and the sky ends five times before night truly falls
and the sun sets slower here than anywhere
but the sky was only two miles high and ten long anyway

The empty train tracks that seldom run
and some rails have been lifted out
with a handful of spikes that now lay dormant

and the hill sides start to resemble *******
or faces or the slow curving back of some great whale

-and those, who were finally stranded at four pumps
with none but the professional Jacob reading great biblical instructions at the nozzle
nowhere at midnight in a town surrounded

by moose roads
                             moose lanes
                                                     moose rivers
and everything mooses

ending up sleeping in the maw of a great white wolf inn
run by Julf or Wolf or John but was German nonetheless

and woke up with radios armed
and arms full
and coffee up to the teeth
with teeth chattering
and I swear to God I saw snowy peaks
but those came to me in waking dream:

"Mountains dressed in white canvas
gowns and me who placed
my hands upon their *******
that filled the sky"

Passing through a buffet of inns and motels
and spending our time unpacking and repacking
and talking about drinking and cheap sandwiches
but me not having a drink in eight days

and in one professional inn we received a professional scamming
and no we would not be staying here again
and what would a trip across the country be like
if there wasn’t one final royal scamming to be had

and dreams start to return to me from years of dreamless sleep:

and I dream of hers back home
and ribbons in a raven black lattice of hair
and Cassadaic exploits with soft but honest words

and being on time with the trains across the plains  
and the moon with a shower of prairie blonde
and one of my father with kind words
and my mother on a bicycle reassuring my every decision

Passing eventually through great plains of vast nothingness
but was disappointed in seeing that I could see
and that the rumours were false
and that nothingness really had a population
and that the great flat land has bumps and curves and etchings and textures too

beautiful bright golden yellow like sprawling fingers
white knuckled ablaze reaching up toward the sun
that in this world had only one sky that lasted a thousand years

and prairie driving lasts no more than a mountain peak
and points of ember that softly sigh with the one breath
of our cars windows that rushes by with gratitude for your smile

And who was caught up with the madness in the air
with big foaming cigarettes in mouths
who dragged and stuffed down those rolling fumes endlessly
while St. Jacob sang at the way stations and billboards and the radio
which was turned off

and me myself and I running our mouth like the coughing engine
chasing a highway babe known as the Lady Valkyrie out from Winnipeg
all the way to Saskatoon driving all day without ever slowing down
and eating up all our gas like pez and finally catching her;

      Valkyrie who taught me to drive fast
      and hovering 175 in slipstreams
      and flowing behind her like a great ghost Cassady ******* in dreamland Nebraska
      only 10 highway crossings counted from home.

Lady Valkyrie who took me West.
Lady Valkyrie who burst my wings into flame as I drew a close with the sun.
Lady Valkyrie who had me howl at slender moon;

     who formed as a snowflake
     in the light on the street
     and was gone by morning
     before I asked her name

and how are we?
and how many?

Even with old Tom devil singing stereo
and riding shotgun the entire trip from day one
singing about his pony, and his own personal flophouse circus,
and what was he building in there?

There is a fair amount of us here in these cars.
Finally at light’s end finding acquiescence in all things
and meeting with her eye one last time; flashed her a wink and there I was, gone.
Down the final highway crossing blowing wind and fancy and mouth puttering off
roaring laughter into the distance like some tremendous Phoenix.

Goodnight Lady Valkyrie.

The evening descends and turns into a sandwich hysteria
as we find ourselves riding between cities of transports
and that one mad man that passed us speeding crazy
and almost hit head-on with Him flowing East

and passed more and more until he was head of the line
but me driving mad lunacy followed his tail to the bumper
passing fifteen trucks total to find our other car
and felt the great turbine pull of acceleration that was not mine

mad-stacked behind two great beasts
and everyone thought us moon-crazy; Biblical Jake
and Mad Hair Me driving a thousand
eschewing great gusts of wind speed flying

Smashing into the great ephedrine sunset haze of Saskatoon
and hungry for food stuffed with the thoughts of bedsheets
off the highway immediately into the rotting liver of dark downtown
but was greeted by an open Hertz garage
with a five-piece fanfare brass barrage
William Tell and a Debussy Reverie
and found our way to bedsheets most comfortably

Driving out of Saskatoon feeling distance behind me.
Finding nothing but the dead and hollow corpses of roadside ventures;

more carcasses than cars
and one as big as a moose
and one as big as a bear
and no hairier

and driving out of sunshine plain reading comic book strip billboards
and trees start to build up momentum
and remembering our secret fungi in the glove compartment
that we drove three thousand kilometres without remembering

and we had a "Jesus Jacob, put it away brother"
and went screaming blinded by smoke and paranoia
and three swerves got us right
and we hugged the holy white line until twilight

And driving until the night again takes me foremast
and knows my secret fear in her *****
as the road turns into a lucid *** black and makes me dizzy
and every shadow is a moose and a wildcat and a billy goat
and some other car

and I find myself driving faster up this great slanderous waterfall until I meet eye
with another at a thousand feet horizontal

then two eyes

then a thousand wide-eyed peaks stretching faces upturned to the celestial black
with clouds laid flat as if some angel were sleeping ******* on a smokestack
and the mountains make themselves clear to me after waiting a lifetime for a glimpse
then they shy away behind some old lamppost and I don’t see them until tomorrow

and even tomorrow brings a greater distance with the sunlight dividing stone like 'The Ancient of Days'
and moving forward puts all into perspective

while false cabins give way
and the gas stations give way
and the last lamppost gives way
and its only distance now that will make you true
and make your peaks come alive

Like a bullrush, great grey slopes leap forth as if branded by fire
then the first peaks take me by surprise
and I’m told that these are nothing but children to their parents
and the roads curve into a gentle valley
and we’re in the feeding zone

behind the gates of some great geological zoo
watching these lumbering beasts
finishing up some great tribal *******
because tomorrow they will be shrunk
and tomorrow ever-after smaller

Nonetheless, breathless in turn I became
it began snowing and the pines took on a different shape
and the mountains became covered white
and great glaciers could be seen creeping
and tourists seen gawking at waterfalls and waterfowls
and fowl play between two stones a thousand miles high

climbing these Jasper slopes flying against wind and stone
and every creak lets out its gentle tone and soft moans
as these tyres rub flat against your back
your ancient skin your rock-hard bones

and this peak is that peak and it’s this one too
and that’s Temple, and that’s Whistler
and that’s Glasgow and that’s Whistler again
and those are the Three Sisters with ******* ablaze

and soft glowing haze your sun sets again among your peaks
and we wonder how all these caves formed
and marvelled at what the flood brought to your feet
as roads lay wasted by the roadside

in the epiphany of 3:00am realizing
that great Alta's straights and highway crossings
are formed in torturous mess from mines of 'Mt. Bleed'
and broken ribs and liver of crushed mountain passes
and the grey stones taxidermied and peeled off
and laid flat painted black and yellow;
the highways built from the insides
of the mountain shells

Who gave a “What now. New-Brunswick?”

and a “What now, Quebec, and Ontario, and Manitoba, and Saskatchewan";
**** fools clumsily dancing in the valleys; then the rolling hills; then the sea that was a lake
then the prairies and not yet the mountains;

running naked in formation with me at the lead
and running naked giving the finger to the moon
and the contrails, and every passing blur on the highway
dodging rocks, and sandbars
and the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Law
and holes dug-up by prairie dogs
and watching with no music
as the family caravans drove on by

but drove off laughing every time until two got anxious for bed and slowed behind
while the rambling Jacob and I had to wait in the half-moon spectacle
of a black-tongue asphalt side-road hacking darts and watching for grizzlies
for the other two to finish up with their birthday *** exploits
though it was nobodies birthday

and then a timezone was between us
 and they were in the distant future
and nobodies birthday was in an hour from now

then everything was good
and everyone was satiated
then everything was a different time again
and I was running on no sleep or a lot of it
leaping backward in time every so often
like gaining a new day but losing space on the surface of your eye

but I stared up through curtains of starlight to mother moon
and wondered if you also stared
and was dumbfounded by the majesty of it all

and only one Caribou was seen the entire trip
and only one live animal, and some forsaken deer
and only a snake or a lonesome caterpillar could be seen crossing such highway straights
but the water more refreshing and brighter than steel
and glittered as if it were hiding some celestial gem
and great ravines and valleys flowed between everything
and I saw in my own eye prehistoric beasts roaming catastrophe upon these plains
but the peaks grew ever higher and I left the ground behind
Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...



This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...



Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...



Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.



Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens
"It's how we communicate."
Amanda Blomquist Apr 2013
Dustin
     Amanda

Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...



This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...



Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...



Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
   
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.



Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens
This is a texting duet between me and Dustin at 3AM, its how we communicate.
Seth Keplinger Jul 2018
I keep pretending I'm alone.
Even after losing my seat
to her new prince.

it's spellbinding,  
enough to make the ole' dog wince.

I still love the sad songs
her puppy dog eyes dispense.
it was never her truth, per usual;
per his glimpse,
into the future of my demise.
I pretend to appreciate the gent in the white coat.
A self diagnosis wouldn't compromise
my vulnerability.  
Don't, she won't, undermine my competency
it lends itself to my daily routine,
I self prescribe- a precisely perplexing potency
abide, at least you tried
an unprecedented golden rule.
This wasn't premeditated,
nor an act of repetition.
We've been classically conditioned, so
I implore and drool.  

I keep pretending it's a new found happiness.
it's for the canaries,
the relievers
and deveivers.
I believe it's for the ignorant
the boring
those of you chasing an
American Dream-
the people with white picket fences
and golden retrievers.
Beware of the conformist
they who did well on geometry tests
their smile so luminous  
like diamonds between her *******.


I'm a brittle leaf in autumns first frost
hanging on the edge of winters righteous freeze.
the shackled, the .22,
let it be me.  
I'm a warning sign, Cuba 1963;

I can barely sleep as it is
from this dusty room
I garner for clues inauspiciously
the obtuse path back to the life i once lived,
obstructed by the 4 seasons, the 4 reasons, the 4 walls,
the 4 grains in this whiskey.

Life outside of her box is a bargain.
Before the flies, where my heart lies;
her highfalutin jargon.
Coping with this void gives me nightmares.
joe shakes my daydreams
they fall from my dilated pupils
and anxiously I begin to slur.
I wish he'd stop cutting his pen through the air,
reminds me of my geometry teacher,
lecturing vicariously through a sorcerer
maybe the boring one's preacher?
everyone in this coffee house likes to stare.
Hg Jul 2018
take me back
to the first high

to the first time
that she and i

sparked a bit
of indica

euphoria
dilated eyes

take more hits
to revisit

before we split
to separate lives

take me backwards
reverse time

to my first love
to my first high
©Hg
faa Jul 2018
Her lips constant at the utterance
Of sweet and serene words filled
With adoration, praising him,
He who made endless hearts
do cartwheels and somersaults
Of multiple, millions nigh and far
their hearts loving
As long as he’s living

Nonetheless, changing courses
Of history was what she excelled
One glance, one encounter turned

Her lips managing
to do none but stutter
To his shielded heart
no one managed to flutter

His deer like eyes observing
With admiration, eyes sparkling
every look, crook, nook
Of her smile that shook
The worlds and heavens
Devout in his heart and mind

His earth's plates shifting
His massive planets orbiting
He witnessed it all in one being

The gravity of the universe on her
Shoulders heavy from responsibility
The heavens challenging her capability
Her hardships conveyed as she blinked
their dilated orbs communicating
language barriers unstoppable
To what her eyes held

He understood his needs
To care, to cherish, to love,
Feeling his heart pumping blood
Faster, quicker than light
Travelling the dark domains
Undiscovered, just like her soul
That he felt the need to explore
As his heart finally fluttered
Sally A Bayan Dec 2016
On days, when time is going too fast,
I can't catch up, and there're things i can't get past,
I'd pull a chair at the verandah....just sit there
To witness, the gentler goings on in life...
See, how...why  all plants face towards the sun,
On a dimly lit corner, watch a spider patiently spin its web,
Underneath the gravel and green grass, somehow,
The earthworm, painstakingly, bravely emerges,
Finds its way out of the soil...to remind us,
"...soil is healthy....it's time to plant!"
:::::
I feel, the beetle knows me, as it inches on,
Carrying its own body, crawling down the pine tree,
I won't ever grasp it, nor tie a string on its body
To control its range of movement,
As we do to tethered beasts of burden...
:::::
While sitting there, i decide: by all means,
Towards the flower ***, i  lean
Take time to smell a rose, feel its rough leaf
Not just a quick touch and sniff
But hold its thorny body, without daring to blink
While deep within, i'd let its fragrance sink
:::::
Some early evenings
When the cicadas' music are echoing
And the moths have started flying
Circling round the light at the ceiling,
I am warned...soon, it will be raining
And.....when it starts to rain, i keep listening
Til i'm soothed by the sound of rain...falling,
From sky to treetops.....flowing...landing
Next to the leaves......cascading down
To the concrete ground
Spreading quickly, far and deep...and as fate,
As nature would have it....the soil, without fail, waits...
:::::
Long time ago, we were small,
Curious and brave, we tasted glory, and all,
Armed with a child's innocence
And an insatiable hunger for learning...
Our eyes, our minds dilated,
Our brains were like sponge...
Like the soil.....we absorbed
All, that we discovered...
:::::

Sally

Copyright December 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(Once in a while, we can be a child....right?)
Rose L Mar 2017
Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.
I tried to create a parallel in this between illness and ***. I hope it shows!
May 9, 2012, 7:01:02 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




The rivers of winter ice had melted with spring sunshine's awakening and the noises of the forest announced the awakening of the fauna. a young fox stretched her long legs and fluffed up her tail as she yawned awake. this winter had been a lonely one for her, as she did not have a mate. throughout the winter she had felt the tingling feelings of her ****** urges creep between her legs and she moaned slightly as she felt them creeping there again.  she stepped slowly out of her den and took a cool breath of the spring air, bringing her the scents of the amorous flowers and the frolicking prey. she watched two birds in courting flight above har and she sighed at her loneliness. the fox hung her head low and walked softly forward. at some point she closed her eyes and yet kept walking, a few tears of longing falling from her eyes. the tingling urges grew stronger and she fought to keep them at bay. she kept walking a bit, aimlessly, though. she cried out as she stumbled over a heavy rock.
She tumbled into the nearby brook and felt a sharp stone cut her right hind leg. she clambered on to the bank, shivering and soaking wet with the chilled water. she attempted to stand and felt a fiery sting to her leg. she looked and saw a shallow **** marring her orange fur. "ow... ow..." she whimpered as she walked on. as the sun peaked over her, she felt her stomach's pleading for sustenance and she groaned. she could faintly smell a rabbit nearby and crouched low, going over how to stalk her prey. she sniffed for it and it seemed to be close, on the other side of a group of trees. she flanked around as best she could and spotted the furball. she licked her lips hungrily and pounced. the rabbit was dead in an instant as she tore its throat out. she chomped at it once and then felt a feeling of dread. she gulped once and heard a wolf growl nearby. i'm wounded... i can't avoid it now.
.
she thought. she heard the wolf running toward her and was bowled over by it. when she stopped
Rolling she was on her back. looking up at the wolf, a young grey, white chested wolf, at the beginning of his manhood. he snarled at his prey as she whimpered beneath him. then to her surprise, he sniffed at her and tilted his head, the tenseness of the hunt gone from his yellow eyes. the wolf took a step back and looked her up and down, stopping as he saw something. he spoke softly, almost caringly, "you are female... and in heat... i apologize for interrupting your meal."
the fox looked at him curiously, "You...?"
he glanced at her and finished her thought. "...do not harm females. it is a code of honor i choose to live by."
she sniffed at him, "you have no mate, no lover."
his breath caught. "nor do you, young fox, lest he'd be satiating your body's desires, and his as well."
she felt the tingling between her legs again and attempted to say something, but was stopped. the wolf said, "nor do i wish to take advantage of females either."
The fox replied suggestively, "you spared my life, surely theres some way i could repay you, handsome wolf."
the wolf looked at her, eyes dilated and his breathing rough. he shook his head, "no.. i couldnt. its not my place."
she could feel the urges burning inside her, she wanted to release them, she wanted this wolf to release her. "chivalrous, i see. then, dear wolf, alleviate my longing, my pain, and i shall alleviate your own."
the wolf took a step closer, his own longing feeding his fire. "beautiful fox... your offer intigues me... you- you are wounded..." she looked and saw her leg still bleeding. "let me aide you, dear fox." he took a few steps and lay beside her, licking her wound. with each lick, the pain receded and was replaced by a wave of pleasant ache. the bleeding stopped and he stopped licking, for the moment. he sniffed her, his cold nose brushing the swollen flesh, and as it quivered between her legs, he knew she was ready for him. "my den is close by, young fox."
She nuzzled against his chest and felt his heart pounding. she took his paw and pressed it against her own chest, letting him feel her heart. "you know we cant wait that long, here.. in this group of trees." she gestured to the spot a few feet away. the wolf quickly walked into the tangle of trees, followed by the fox. the wolf had hardly stepped inside the treeline before the fox began nudging at the furry bulge between his legs. "you're not quite ready yet, dear wolf." the wolf whimpered a few times as she licked at it, taking his smooth member in her mouth and enticing it with her tongue. once it was throbbing in its full glory, she licked one last time and said, "now you're ready." and raised herself in preparation for him. he got into position on top of her and with one paw she guided him inside her. she gasped as he stretched her a little. she glanced over her shoulder and
realized that he wasnt that much bigger than her. he looked nervous and she realized something,
This is his first time... mine too... lets make this memorable.. she experimented with different positions, and after finding her favorite, set about making this wolf howl.
the wolf ****** slowly at first, drawing out the ecstasy. only when she began to whimper amorously did he begin to ****** harder, faster. she joined him, as he pulled back, she leaned forward, leaving only his tip inside her. when he ******, she leaned back on him with a wet squish. the wolf's tongue lolled and his eyes were glazed over in sweet agony. he howled softly at first, and as the ****** came, he howled again, echoing with the fox's cries as the ecstasy reached its ****** and rocked their bodies. the wolf staggered slightly at the passionate waves of ******. he pulled out his member and looked at his mate. "come with me to my den, so we can sleep, dear fox." the fox looked at him and nodded, grateful.
* * *
The fox and the wolf walked quietly to his den, set inside a secluded cluster of trees. the den itself was set in the ground, like a cavern, just large enough for the two of them to lie down comfortably. "its going to get cold tonight," said the wolf. "we should... share body heat." he had a faint twinkle in his eyes as he glanced nervously at her. when she tilted her head to him, the wolf looked down at his paws. the fox licked his muzzle and laid down next to him. the wolf's grey fur was thick, and she was  already beginning to feel warmer. she felt the wolf's heart beat a little faster, and he curled around her. his furry tail wrapped around the fox and she purred slightly as she nuzzled him and rested her head on his foreleg. for a moment they lay there, eyes closed, listening to the others' breathing, when he whispered to her, "i never did catch your name, young fox."
she grinned at him, "my name's Sasha, the only fox in this forest. and what be your name, dear wolf?"
The wolf opened one eye slightly to look at her, "my name is Ronan, i'm the last wolf of my pack."
she held him in her gaze a few beats and replied, "i haven't seen many wolves 'round these parts, where do you come from, Ronan?"
the grey sighed and said, "Farther north, over the mountains and into ice country. the food became scarce and the pack withered away, all but me. i treveled over the hills and mountains, through forests and grassland, and i kept going, finally stopping here. what of you? you said yourself you were the only fox in this forest."
Sasha swished her tail back and forth for a moment before, "i was separated from my family during a blizzard. i- i couldn't see anything, and i couldn't hear anything over the wind. i wandered aimlessly in the whiteout, tripping and stumbling until i bumped into something big. then again, i was just a kit and everything was big to me, but i looked up and saw a pair of eyes looking at me. i was so scared the snow beneath me turned yellow.
The monster bent over and picked me up by the scruff of my neck and carried me for a long time. i was so exhausted i fell asleep in its grip. when i woke up i was in a chilly den. i looked and realized that the monster had been a snow-white she-wolf. she sat at the enterance to the den and kept looking outside, waiting for something. when the snowstorm cleared out, she turned to me and said, 'little fox. have you a family?' i shook my head as i realized they were gone. from then on, the wolf raised me and taught me how to survive. then one day a few years ago... she was gone..."
Ronan was watching the fox as she told the story. "i'm sorry."
"don't be, ronan. ever since she left ive been alone. no fox to breed me, no one for a lover. until you came along..."
ronan licked her muzzle, "no need for loneliness now." sasha smiled and was soon asleep, warmed by her lover.
*
The sun rose and shone brightly into the entrance of the den the next morning, waking sasha from her slumber. she yawned and felt around for the grey. she felt nothing. she stood up and looked around the empty den. did he... leave me? a single tear fell when she imagined the possibility. "no.... please no..." she whimpered. her breath caught as she heard something rustling the grass outside the den. sasha shrank back and hid behind her tail, peeking over it slightly. she could hear her heartbeat in her ears and feel it rising in her throat as the rustling got closer and closer. she squeaked, "who... who's there?"
she flinched as a dark mass blocked the sunlight, its shadow stretching across the wall. the mass stepped slowly forward and sasha shut her eyes tight, fearing what might come next. "sasha?" it was ronan. "what's the matter?"
she gasped at him before rushing forward and burying her muzzle in his chest fur. "i thought you'd left me..."
with a paw, ronan stroked the fur on her back. "i'm a wolf, ***. loyalty and chivalry are the only things i know." she buried herself deeper in his fur and scolded herself for not realizing that. "i caught breakfast, i figured you'd be hungry after i interrupted your meal yesterday." she looked behind him and saw a small pile of ****** rabbits. sasha licked her lips hungrily. "its all yours, dear fox." she looked gratefully at Ronan before pouncing on the pile of carcasses, tearing into one and bloodying her maw. ronan watched her with pleasant  affection. the den was filled with the sounds of flesh being rendered from bone and the snapping of Sasha's teeth. she feasted upon the **** until she could eat no more, her belly now filled. two rabbits still lay uneaten, and ronan devoured them slowly, savoring the ****** meat as it slipped down his gullet. sasha lay nuzzled up against him while he ate, toying at his tail and
otherwise teasing at him. he gave her a look of amusement and somehow got into a game of tag with her.
He chased her around the den and she dodged his paw as he reached for her. when he did finally touch her, sasha dove between his legs and poked his furry belly. leaving him with a dumbfounded expression on his face. he then chased sasha outside and they continued their game within the cluster of trees around them. sasha laughed, a liquid smooth, crystal clear laugh. ronan watched her jump around him, the sun's rays catching her fine orange fur in such a way that it seemed almost like fire. he watched her a moment and loosed a soft howl. she's so beautiful... he thought.
* *
The "i"'s of this keyboard know me better than the eyes of anyone I know
This aloof computer has seen me ***** ugly thoughts while "in real life" I don't bat an eye
I am a wounded owl in the night
fearing- free of reason- the sudden dawn
You might be able to help me, but the scars reappear when you leave,
the only magic trick I believe in anymore
(knowledge spoils and sweetens)
don't pity me when I say I can never be loved
You only love one shell of many
Z May 2014
The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.

The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.

The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.

From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,

I am sorry.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Mashup

Part I

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.


My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.


Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.


You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.


This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.


You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...


All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.


Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.


Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.


Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.


Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.


Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.


I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp


Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.


And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words
Mashup Part II  Is now posted.

It appears that I write a lot on this topic.   Anyway all theses are indeed snippets from poems  I wrote  and have posted here.  Started with the oldest poems May 18 and working my way thru 'em
Lawrence Hall Nov 2016
Pupils Fixed and Dilated

He was not permitted to die in peace
The only mercy granted was release
From fear, and mortars falling from the sky
There was no possibility of saying goodbye
And the river water stank, as did the night
His end was as flickering as the light
Pale gaspings, a fluttering pulse, dead sweat
D5W, battle dressings, and yet
The only mercy was in his release
He was not permitted to die in peace
softcomponent Jan 2014
little drug fiend
described as the girl
who took shrooms
every weekend and
tried to find
herself

(but never could)
and concerns aren't warranted
Amanda Blomquist Apr 2013
Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...

     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...

     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...

     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.
my solo taken from texting session with Dustin
Äŧül Jan 2016
Licking the ***** off the small peaks,
Each dilated eye in ecstasy truly speaks.

The peaks are so natural button-like soft,
Conveying sans the speech the desire oft.

Whenever stiff & excited about to burst,
Titillating the sensuality be with trust.
My HP Poem #991
©Atul Kaushal
Pedro Tejada Jun 2010
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.

There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.

The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.

Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.

Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.

One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.

One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
DaSH the Hopeful Aug 2014
Every time I fall
You're there
With open arms
And neon veins
So I can see what it is
That makes you tick
With bleeding wrists so I can see the way
Straight to your heart
We're not perfect,
But we're art
And it never is
You would agree
Looking into my weighed down eyes
That you could always get to look up
You always saw the white in them
When others would see my dilated pupils
That seem to you like
Beautiful mirrors
Caught in arms of neon
That get cut in the process
To keep me from shattering
You say its worth it
Edna Sweetlove Sep 2015
Nobody loves a fairy when's he's fifty
Nobody likes a fairy, old and grey;
And no one loves a bumboy when he's sixty
Wanking in a toilet, fat and gay.

And when a fairy gets as old as seventy
He can't get rough trade any more
And if he finally makes it through to eighty
His dilated **** will be very sore.
Captain Trips May 2015
She nods and sighs
amongst the conifers.

Evergreen sap coats the
rug of needles beneath, and
the wind covers her skin
with rippling gooseflesh.

A little black balloon lies
beside a bindle of rigs.

The moon robs and blinds
her of sight, shining so
very brightly into her dilated
pupils and hidden irises.

A single rusted spoon glows and
A stolen church candle smoulders.

Her golden locks encircle
the crown of her cranium
in a halo worthy of stained-
glass windows.

Rubber tubing is tied off
above her collapsing veins.

The fallen leaves under her
protruding shoulder blades
stretch out for miles in a
pair of clipped wings.

With a final rattling cough
the light leaves her eyes,

and dissipates into
the punctured skies
as she quietly fades,
and dies.
SP Blackwell Mar 2013
I am sitting on a broken branch

under the drug addled canopy of insecurities and lies.

I am feeling the steady sway of an oxycontin daze.

Walking slowly through a ketamine daydream that pulls at my core

like a phantom puppet master controlling my limbs.

It crashes into my brain like the breaking waves on the shore.

Breathing in nicotine filtered filth as I wait to catch a breath of fresh air.

Lungs filled with recycled tar that prevents me from gasping.

In darkened corners where lies sleep and rumors are hidden,

I wait.

I dance on a tightrope between conscious and subconscious

that is held by reality and dreams.

Dark sunglasses on to avoid

the blinding stinging light of what is real.

Mirrored glasses are reflecting the reflections back at intruders.

Deflecting glances, shifty eyes, and dilated pupils

searching for a focus point of truth  

in a neon technicoloured blur of hypocrisy.

The background blaring horns blended with a steady bass line

mimics my heartbeat.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

The fading noises pass quickly,

highlighted with insults and curses of hate and gossip

that are forgotten before you can make them out.

Spun truths turned into lies

intermixed with resin

left from yesterday.

The litter paved streets break under my heels.

Click clack. Click clack.

Broken and cracked

like the false promises

And hopes

And dreams

of those who have walked here before.

The monotonous pace is repeated

only pausing to notice the gum under the stiletto

that fails to hold her in place

as she runs towards the wet cement that has replaced

another sheet of cracked concrete.

The wet cement that has covered another lie

in order to show the simplicity of fake appearances.

A reminder of how easy it is to replace and mask

the hate filled holes that get trampled on.

The flicker of hope is suddenly unseen

like the street light lined alley that is now dark.

The stench of garbage, decay, and rotting flesh

is mixed with expensive perfume, sweat, make-up, and spilled *****.

Garbage cans are filled with the leftovers of last night.

A *** stained dress with no owner draws no attention

as the sound of snapping latex is muffled

by the screams of ecstasy that rapidly fade

like the fleeting feeling of MDMA.

Thick white ****** fluid oozes out like human glue

in an attempt to mend the lack of connection.

Strangers intertwined in hasty conversations

waiting for human contact to forget

that they are in dark alleys.

To forget

that they live in dark places

where no one lays down wet cement.

The distorted reality of alleys deceive passer bys

into thinking that they are not menacing

has been weaved like a web by street sweepers and garbage men.

The pressing sense of the need to avoid the sweepers

is unsaid but felt.

They falsely clean what will always be *****.

The *** filled backstreets yearn for love

like the treacherous woman guarding its corner.

Daddy issue lined dresses are asking to be undone

just like her lost innocence that can never be mended.

The issues and clothing that can never be fixed

abandoned on top of garbage cans for someone else to pick up.

Patches of dead grass are left

untended, unwatered, and unwanted

waiting to be replaced by wet cement.

Wet cement that soon enough will crack and break

under the heavy heated pressure of the stomping heels

of lost Girls in a desolate city.

Blood trickled trails are left behind

that have dried into the cigarette lined streets that lead nowhere.

The injured egos of men are left to linger at back doors

that will never be opened.

******* induced insanity whirls around a flurry

of whispers and paranoia wanting to here the Truth

between the spewed anger and rage of the low toned hushed voices

that wish not to be heard.

Whiskey hinted murmurs pressing on the sidewalk cracks

knowing that they will never be heard.

Looking into the dark where

Truth will never be seen.

The constant beat of narcotic users searching

for salvation in pre-packed bags of white powder,

digging for redemption in empty bottles of multi-colored pills.

Screaming through the silence,

They are not heard.

The desperation can be heard through the whining moans

of the junkies that are tethered to addiction.

The over whelming sound of

Want and Need and Lust

move through the streets like the overflowing gutter water.

Heartbeats are replaced with the impatient pacing of

her stilettos waiting for her pain to cease.

Stilettos stomping on broken dreams

waiting to cross broken streets.

She gazes at the other side as if it is different.

Stilettos tapping on the street

waiting for the firm grasp of a sweaty hand to distract her from reality.

Waiting to be touched

And grabbed

And ******

                                              In hopes that love will arise from ****** ****** encounter with

strange men in uncomfortable places.

Clothes are feverishly removed with the promise of

flesh on flesh enveloped in a hazy cloud of body heat

that warns off the internal coldness.

Heavy breath and touch and kiss release chemicals

to replace the drug depleted emptiness.

The rhythmic sound of rubbing flesh mingles with

the moaning of the streets.

It fuses with the short lived pleasure laden moans of

lonely people and un-climatic *******.

Awkward silences are brief as the sound of her heels owns the street.

Click clack. Click clack.

The sound of stilettos on cement hurriedly walking away when there is

no longer a need for his body heat.

That unmistakable click clack click clack

on uneven, *****, dangerous streets.

Red lipstick smeared stains are the only trace of her that is.

That is the only trace of me that is left.

Click clack steady on the street.

Steady like mimicking bass line

Click clack heartbeat.

The crunch of broken glass under the stiletto

echoes her broken dreams.

Click clack.

Head held high never looking at the ground as she walks forward.

Click clack. Click clack.

Click clack.

The urban mud of

Wet cement goes

Squish!

under her stiletto.



V.Mata
Shannon Oct 2018
My baby.
You’re wondering about the type of women you want to be. It’s a sad and soggy Sunday and you sit by the railing while it’s raining and the wind sighs at your presence.
You long for love, and peace, and mystery and excitement and you long to be wanted for who you are not who you could be if you were small.

My baby.
Everything you want isn’t everything you see.
Damaged isn’t pretty, my baby and maybe it looks it but the pain, oh baby the pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt.
And maybe you crave the mystery, maybe you crave the smudges mascara and the hunger pains.
But honest to truth my baby
Being this ****** up ain’t cute
Being this ****** up isn’t safe.
Being this ****** up makes you wonder what in the world is.

My baby there is nothing like the ache of being empty,
The sad and solemn nothing, the pitiless void that seldom empties but when it does you put stars in his eyes for he is the only other person with the key.
And a lot of the time the key doesn’t fit your locks,
The walls you’ve put up are brick.
Solid.
And for every brick you stack he takes one away, eager to pull them down he tries and baby one day you might stop building.
Maybe it’ll be on a soft and sunny Saturday when both of you are laughing and you see it within him.
You’ll stop building and he’ll smile knowing that
Yes.
Finally.
Free.

My baby your walls are thick and strong,
Most of the time,
Sometimes they fall but you pick them up and rebuild don’t let anyone see the truth.
He knows.

My baby the boy you love will never quiet fill your cup and it’ll break you but it’s not his job to.
You have to try too.
Because baby I know you hurt and I know you just want out of the cruel ******* world but now no.
Now you have someone to love you.
To love you for who you are and not who you would be if you were small.
Someone who loves you so that to go would be to take a piece of him with you.
Maybe that piece is the spark you fell in love with.
Baby no now you have someone to live for.

My baby I know you think smudged mascara and running away is desirable and makes them want more but baby.
On the good days you feel like a well oiled machine, task after task focus, seem well act well everybody laughs, smooth machine yet still lack the basic humanity that should consume you.

My baby on the bad days, broken down, some days you manage to trudge your way out of bed and into the daytime, empty but there,
Worse, the days where you can’t get up. Where you open the window and stare out into the garden you’ve always seen and you let the sadness and elusive sleepiness win until you’re exhausted with sleep.
Days where blades help you feel and help the anger inside you escape when the blood bubbles through your torn skin.

My baby the overthinking will drive you crazy, where the concept of an ear is weird even when he whispers sweet nothings into them and tucks that little stray piece of hair behind them.
Where *** is a mechanism by which sounds so wrong but feels so right but baby do not use it to cure the sadness.
It will always win.  

My baby home is haunting.
The ghosts of who you used to be haunt you, taunt you, and the love you used to feel is gone. Home isn’t home. Home is a house in the hillside.
Home is the space between his arms where your head rests against his chest and he breathes in to smell the coconut in your hair, home is the way he stares at you and smiles, home is the way he plays video games with you in his lap, home is his dilated pupils, home is the weird way you hold hands on the train, home is short jokes and home is when he looks at you as if you
You
You my baby
Are just absolutely spectacular
Even when you feel like a fleck of dust on this pointless world.

My baby though he is home, mental illness and distress isn’t pretty.
Panic attacks and ugly crying in public isn’t pretty. The disability of breathing isn’t pretty. Being perched over a toilet bowl isn’t pretty. Not eating for days isn’t pretty. Pulling out clumps of hair isn’t pretty. Being clumsy because you are so anaemic isn’t pretty. Passing out isn’t pretty. Wrist scars and bloodstained sheets aren’t pretty.
Being sick isn’t pretty.

Baby I wish we’d stopped when we knew.

Baby I wish help meant something because though you’ve tried,
Nothing gets through.

Baby when it rains it pours, and through every storm I have you, my hand is there to hold.
So we’ll call Noah’s arc and we’ll start a new world.
I know you’re hurting.
But my baby I promise one day we’ll be safe.
No longer shipwrecked.
My baby one day
One day
We’ll be free.
“Peaceful piano” - Spotify
“For stormboy.”
Taking Flight
Soar Off The Ground
And We Were Lost To Be Found
Fly Above Commotion
Fueled By Emotion
Transition To The Ocean
An Abyss
Of Bliss
Because The Sky I Kissed
Let Me Drowned
There Was No Sound
Just A Geometric Playground
Dissipate Now
To Euphoric Dust
Empathy
And LSD
Ritually
Taken So Compassionately
Passionately
Lucid
Confused By This
Cosmic Dream
Tore From The Seams
Pathless
But I Let Go Of This
Let Go
Just To Flow
To Melodic Assumptions
Melody Had Me Elated
The Light Sensation
Liquid Creations
Creating Aquatic
Sounds Of The Sonic
Vibrations
Vibrating
Dilating
Pupils Dilated
And It Reflects Back To Me
Reflect The Patterns To My Moves
And I Move With The Motion
Loved And Infinite.
Sacrelicious Mar 2012
I had to write a process analysis paper for my adv. comp class Senior year.
My topic was an acid trip. Hope you enjoy.


Bored with the various street drugs that you take daily to achieve a mediocre high, you long for something new. You're striving to reach enlightenment, mental clarity, and an escape from your worldly woes. By chance or fate, you come across a man selling what he claims to be the best of all drugs: LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide-25, better known as acid. This appears to be the only way your mind and, in turn, your soul will experience the mysterious and desirable acid trip.
Upon impulse, you purchase the drug. This was saturated in a piece of newspaper. As you survey your ticket to mental bliss, you read the words on the small paper. The sentences of the article were cut to meet the spacial requirements of the acid. This made the paper difficult to read. Deep within the mess of incomplete thoughts and ideas, your eyes cross paths with the word peace. The simple but powerful word that was camouflaged in the unfinished article increased your desire to take the LSD. The "peace" was your chance to free your mind and consequently yourself.
Giving into impulse, you place the paper under your tongue. Like the words on the paper, the acid dissolves into your glands entering your body with aspirations of arriving upon your brain. Moments later, you feel nothing. You were expecting the drug to work immediately upon contact. This was far too big of an expectation. LSD like many other medications needs time before it comes to life. Disappointed, you retreat to your living room to watch a film on the television. As you sit in the dark, ruby red chair, your only thoughts are about acid.
An hour later you feel nauseous. Racing to the bathroom it starts to hit you. The porcelain toilet and clear water within is your muse. With each heave, you notice a minor change in your mind. When finished with vomiting, you realize your stomach is empty. You try to think of something to eat but your stomach has no desire to take anything.
The mirror catches your attention and there you stand staring at yourself. While gazing upon yourself, you notice your pupils have dilated. The large black circles that were once small now resemble the largest craters on the moon's surface. During this moment of time, your vision is misty. Every shape has a fog surrounding it.
When your hand reaches the forehead, the temperature of your skin burns it. As your hand rests there longer, your fingers are cooled by little drops of sweat that slowly flow down your forehead in an effort to cool your body. You conclude that the fever has created the sweat that is secreting from your body. The moisture from the evaporating liquid has created a misty air. This realization leads you to believe that the acid was beginning to take control.
An immense thirst has dried your throat and mouth. Like a desert they both need water. You have this newfound energy and possess the amount of adrenaline that can keep you up for days. You feel invulnerable and this is the healing hour for the body and soul. As the second hour of your experience comes to a close you have covered a lot of ground. You have gone from having control to no control. The acid has changed you. The man you were two hours ago was in a different dimension. In this dimension you are a new and different man.
The third hour has brought the acid to its maximum power. Your high is peaking. The visions you see and the sounds you hear paint beautiful hallucinations. They feel sensational and bring waves of shivers up and down your spine. The television screen looks like a portal to a new world, and the sounds it makes sound like greetings in a foreign language. Your eyes close and you open them immediately. Realizing this is not a dream, a state of confusion fogs your mind. Despite reality, every thought and action feels dreamlike.
Contemplating the situation, you ask yourself if this is normal. Cackling, you scream, “Normal does not exist. Normality is simply an impossible goal that has plagued society since the beginning of time." The once well known actions and thoughts that molded you were strange and unknown. This was the point of no return. You would never go back to the past. Normal process occurs no longer this far into an acid trip.
You feel groovy. Everything is fine. Your face is frozen in the shape of a smile. Nothing can take you down. The serotonin in your brain has been altered, making every moment feel good. Still staring at the screen, you see a tiny man waving at you. The physical greeting he gives you carries the sound of a hello. When he opens his mouth you see what he says. Each word is portrayed by a symbol in an unclear language. The symbols hypnotize you and give you comfort. The mind without acid would see nothing in the hypnotic symbols. But the symbols converse with you. Your sensations have now crossed over. Sights have turned to sounds, and sounds to sights.
Matter is glowing with a faint rainbow that lies on each objects surface. The fourth hour of your high is ending, the man in the television is becoming harder and harder to see. Like your high, the man is leaving. Over the next two hours, you slowly drift back to reality. The once sea bound boat is approaching land and, with each passing wave, you are coming closer to sobriety.
The loud song of the cuckoo clock has marked the sixth hour. LSD no longer controls you. You are a different man but in the same respect, the same. At your command you gave yourself to a higher power, one that intensified your emotions and took you back to man's primitive mind set. Drained from the crusade, you turn off the television to rest in the quiet. The sun is leaving with your energy. A cool breeze travels through the room which carries you to sleep.
Edna Sweetlove Sep 2015
Whilst walking down the street
I heard a thunderous tweet;
'Twas a straining little bird
Who couldn't pass a ****.

The little thing was constipated,
Its **** wide dilated;
Tweeting loudly in mid-bog,
Trying to eject a log.

I observed with sympathetic heart
As it trumpeted out a ****;
Straining, chirping loud and long,
Letting off a foul and noisome pong.

I watched for nigh an hour
Its display of **** power;
Then a final intestinal pump
Produced a huge great steaming lump:

A mighty ball of faeces
(a giant of its species,
and total bumhole splitter
which shattered its feathered *******).
Lili Mar 2013
Happiness forced down her throat
With just a little bit of water
Cosmic Love beckoned her eardrums
To a sandy beach in Guanaja
But not really
Waves of relaxation
As she swayed back and forth
With the wind she imagined
Blowing through her damaged hair
Lights
Lights
Lights
Her body was a serpent
Slithering like the music in her ears
Soul on fire
Eyes like the earth
She painted chaos
With just her fingertips
Alone in the dark
High as a cathedral ceiling
Wandering home
To thoughts of his lips
Butterflies
And ladybugs and fireflies
Smoke
Escaped cracked lips
Happy when she’s high
Happy when her mind
Wanders home
But for now
Levitating
Without her magician
By her side
Alone
Dazed
But happy
Home in just the blink
Of a dilated eye
The dark was all too familiar
And the calls came farther and farther apart
.
But just like that
She was home again
In the blink of a dilated eye
Ayesha Khan Oct 2014
She put down her book and
rolled over to his side,
Searching for sincerity
in his dilated eyes.
"Do you believe in dragons?"
A pause. A knowing smile.
"Yes."
Aaron Bee Aug 2014
Smiling,
blood in
teeth.
Eyes large and
crazed.
pupils dilated
like large black
holes
swallowing
images of
others acting the
same-
wild, intoxicated, and
sublime.
Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.
written on May 13th, 2017.
i miss that light

                       i might die

buzz that I used to have.

it wasn’t the amphetamine high--

it was the empty stomach

i don’t have to eat

high

every meal skipped was power

as if we were otherworldly creatures

whose stomachs would only contain naughty water and faerie food.

we were hollowing out
and i loved it.

the lightness of my bones, the way my cheek bones were shining through

and my ribs were getting

                               e                
                                 a              
                                    s    

                                   i
                                 e
                                r

to count.

& i miss that heart exploding dilated eyes

rush. not for the high

but for the simple matter that i was bird thin

empty.

not thin enough, but on my way.

i miss it, and it misses me.

i am strong enough…aren’t i?

i could do it again.

and this time—

                      i wont need the pills.

self loathing is fuel enough.

i want that power— every bite I don’t take is a boy who

told me i wasn’t good enough.

every skipped meal is a small triumph against myself.

i can do it.

it would be easy and no one would notice.

but i wont.
Maria Etre Dec 2015
You walked in
a pool of sharks
knowing where the good fish is
and the plankton floats

You were floating in
a great ocean of possibilities
some so foreign, your eyes dilated
some so familiar you felt elated

You slid next to great whales of knowledge
and shook the tentacles with wise octopi
with strands of experience

You got bitten by piranhas of isolation
and even bled internally from bumping shoulders
with beautiful heartless corals

Then one day you met a seashell and her friend
you marveled at the intricate art of nature
and became friends
this time you had the courage to knock

Not all hard exteriors
reflect tough
personalities

You just
had to
knock
Taru M Dec 2012
They call me present hedonistic
I don't let the crumbs of today's meals compile
I merely brush them to the floor
leftover chips aren't for bargaining wars
I go all in every night

Once shown a glimpse of my future
it was hazy
I guess I'm just near-sighted
see, my life is a roller coaster
like.every.body.else's
but full of ******* highs
the screams I've heard alone could make you ******

I understand that you live for tomorrow
but tomorrow is never promised
unbirthed daybreaks are a wishful dream
and abortion rates are high
deathsots ring through midnight

so yes...
I put all my eggs in the same basket
at least I can see here
I can see now

you idolize hope
but deal daily in dispair
my hope is in instants
instant gratification
mortification is unknown to me

I act before I think
because fear is a thought
and life life is meant to be lived
not procrastinated

They call me *****
I'm always thinking about tomorrow
I don't see life as obstacles or
hindrances to better life

life for premature babies, they call me mother
death at my feet
I pick up this bag of bones and begin to walk
kissing new life as if we were lovers
distant but familiar soulmates
tonguing down canals of new hope

they call me life
rewind back
I understand where my past was rooted
color diverged into verbal genocide
were we even supposed to be here?
eyes dilated from false substances
                  how do you differentiate
        how do you differentiate
                            how do you differentiate
                 false gods
                     or
          wishful thinking
clocks with forgotten time
take shackles off off your mind
allow time to heal worlds wounds
each day
is last breathe in battered corpse
taking chances is belief that God still exists

This is all just time
through dyslexic eyes
past footsteps
       swept
             by future winds
airy in the breeze
quick to sway from the unknown

let your present be concrete sandcastles
but know
there is always room for renovations
we build to be broken down
so we lay sturdy foundations
Past     Present     Future
this is all just time
*moments are what you make of them
This was co-written about a year ago by my sister, Breanna Walker, and I. First piece I ever performed.
M Harris Mar 2017
****** Escapades & Moonlight Serenades,
The Crystal Apparitions In Her Sanctified Masquerade,

Paper Trails Breathing Under Water,
Out From The Ember, Her Seductions Conquer,

Silhouettes Of Her Castle Clouds,
Injecting Primal Instincts Out Loud,

Eleven Summers In Her Pseudo Emotive Desires,
Holographic Afterlights & Freezing Fires.

Twilight Light Bulbs Under The Liquid Nights,
****** Openings Of Her Sensory Delights,
Unfettered Mythomania & Kaleidoscopic Highs.
****** Verses Scattering Light.

Divine Impulses & Rainbow Divinity,
Spellbound Chaos In Her Dilated Virginity,
Intimate Enigmas Veiled In Shades Of Insanity,
Makeshift Empathy Resonating Sympathy,

Animated Specters Reflecting Crimson Streams,
Oceans Tides Pulsating In Her Silent Screams,

Static Reveries Of Her Cryptic Demise,
Textured Amplifications Emanating Chronic Lies.

- 03:04AM -
JJ Hutton Sep 2010
my hands tightly clenched
the bathroom counter,
my mouth agape,
eyes rolling,
tossing hair to the side,
tighter,
tighter,
veins aching,
my vision sliding
to look into
my own eyes,
pupils dilated,
bags,
red,
my face covered in runny
black paint
on my chest
the word
"dead" written
with the tips of tense
fingers,
that way if the sirens
ever made their way
they wouldn't waste
their time trying to fix
me,
tighter,
tighter,
i was my own maker,
my own master,
my own destroyer,
i hated to say it,
but i hoped she was alone,
because i was alone,
i fell to the floor,
traced the word
on my skin,
lighter,
lighter,
my head began to fog
with dense advice,
everyone is right,
except me.
everyone knows all,
except me,
my hands tensed one
last time,
my mind faded to
black,
and i took my gamble.
Copyright Sept. 19, 2010
Zack Nov 2012
My Sunglasses

I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
#sunglasses #tucson #SLAMPOETRY #beetchez.
Liam Mar 2019
And just like that,
My heart locked in place.
But I just about managed to keep it showing on my face.

Is she studying my eyes because my pupils have dilated?
Or is she giving me the gaze that I have all too long awaited?

Does she at long last want to feel the way I feel?
Kaleigh Vaughn Apr 2013
I fill my lungs with lust
And fixate my dilated eyes on these light fixtures
The room has been spinning for hours
And I keep exhaling all of this seductive literature

Sometimes my tongue gets a little wicked
My fingers keep twitching
But that's only because the good lord knows how badly this love has me smitten
Amanda Blomquist Apr 2014
Standing, surrendering.        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.    My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me, show me, lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in the discomfort.

     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls  and self control

     Fill me. Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of my being
                                                  

     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my progress

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the sticky egos and messy misunderstandings.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried, Ill shine...

     Im lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            I fall away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 Fading in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.
     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me

— The End —