"dogging" poems
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Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
We assignment felonies, who got no melody
It be a blessing to breathe but mans can't find the remedy.
School work got us incubated, well tubed in
Hospitalize for ages.
Penned in these cages
A constant grind on the daily.
Once a man emancipate
8 to 5 is gonna hit him with a straight.
From a frying pan to the fire
He's been stuck in a sticky state.
******* in a system that's meant for retire
That's what he gonna inspire.
Beware to those who tryna finesse the system
Life is gonna hit them with an intricate plot.
If you can't Euro-step them in quick time
It gonna be raps, just watch.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
raw ******* thumbs drawing open the canvas of cavities
hot stink, tangles of pink wrinkles, ground turkey and beef
pulse of the earth in the groan of the springs as the sequence of spirits inhabits a lopsided carpet of blood, cardiovascular, creation, crawling
pineapple sweat, ******* neck licking saliva stains, flesh slapping, teeth jousting, chins grinding
explosions, eruptions, screaming, biting, clutching the rim, apocalypse, APOCALYPSE, the guilty apocalypse
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Largo e mesto
Madam Life's a piece in bloom
Death goes ******* everywhere:
She's the tenant of the room,
He's the ruffian on the stair.
You shall see her as a friend,
You shall bilk him once or twice;
But he'll trap you in the end,
And he'll stick you for her price.
With his kneebones at your chest,
And his knuckles in your throat,
You would reason -- plead -- protest!
Clutching at her petticoat;
But she's heard it all before,
Well she knows you've had your fun,
Gingerly she gains the door,
And your little job is done.
2.7k
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws;—they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow ******* sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
2.4k
Each of you.
My individual singularities, Dad’s One Thing.
Conceived 1955.
Driven home, progeny, made man, unequivocal, indisputable.
Post-war night spirits undaunted ~ stop ******* me.
*** for you, stopped me.
Can’t make it the way you want. Please stop.
Backing off, I respect real you.
Don’t push me Me.
Don’t dream.
Will dream us.
Short sentence for guilt whisked way beyond what crime could be.
We combine beans and seeds and gourds.
That’s science! Culinary!
Botany, true, but I’m enaturated.
Human pod progressed.
If that’s a word, don’t dream it’s not.
Forget every word.
But make each and every word count.
Then add stash, socked away.
I concede.
Mi casa su casa.
Paint it.
Together.
Made mistake then fixed it.
Copasetic dovetails, my lady and me (not I).
We walk talk island jib.
I like the cut of your yar across the moonlit pool.
Go around with me to all haunts, snow globetrotting shaken not stirred
My déjà vu in futurum videre, I can’t believe.
Asunder goddesses should be together,
While Isis and Osiris boogie like Beatrice and Dante encircled,
Their own private imbroglio invaded
By Goth end time alchemists conjuring copyrights for gelt.
You tell me this short story.
I cringe.
My mind clouds men’s, and then conjures Morpheus.
My shadow child joins me in Paradise,
Deliria dancing in concert with Shakespearean intent.
My daughter’s got more guts in one pinky
Than all that fallen pilot on our island bargained for
In the games that decided who’s hungrier.
You could have been that gal.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.
I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
Eat tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The northern breeze there never dies.
I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
solicit the galling thoughts
those obscenities rigged gorily within
victim concepts taught distortion forbidden carcass
in the persisting sully of night
padded dreams pace ******* at a fed distance
it's all in sight and held racing back and forth out of reach
some sloven mystery
under a cower of skin
one day free of your agent cover
and you'll stand vacantly able under eye of the morgue creator
mating together life habits gracious goodness gratefully seeded
you could maintain a patient pattern
with practice you could go mainstream
-with practice
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
i let myself
slip away
get lost
in other people's
words
thoughts
i fell out
of my purse
or forgot myself
in the pocket
of my winter coat
a suspicious
feeling
something
(not sure what)
was missing
it's easy
to get trapped
in a screen
a mental box of
scrolling
mindlessly
drifting
away my weekends
so easy
to forget
meaning
is so often
simply found
in creating
it's been
hard lately
i've been coming
to terms with
my mental state
for ten years
and i'm still not
satisfied
in knowing i can't
change this
can't fix myself
and that maybe
the drugs don't
even work
*it's not
working*
this is not
working
"no drugs
no therapy
just raw-dogging
reality"
it's funny
until it's not
it's funny
until the darkness
starts creeping
its way behind
my ears and
muffling reality
it's funny
until i get drunk
funny til i
relapse
(i hate saying relapse
as if slicing open
my own skin to
calm down is
some kind of
addiction i can't break
because it's not
i don't have to do this)
it's funny until
it's not funny anymore
it's funny until i get
dragged under into
apathy by my
mental to-do list
message my doctor
about the meds
i stopped taking
two weeks ago
and call the other doctor
to get seen about that chronic
blood condition that almost
killed me that one time
call about the
iud
call about the
tattoo
call about the
driving lessons
call about the
rest of my life
i'm spiraling again
different time
different place
same looping
descent into
my own madness
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 8:12 PM UTC
And speaking to the western wind,
In the sped and turning time of the revolving sky
As a top unwinding like a dropped fable;
He dreams of taking leave, unraveling the coil
Upending his foil
Of listless sights as daylight creeps one more tread
And sweet belief breaks down once again:
Days that are ******* like a sad hunt
When the tracker is bent
On tragic orchestrations that only lead to a duel . . .
Undoing, Oh must it be, "Must we fit?"
Let us know and get on with it.
In his bed the women are only dreams
Phantoms, iridescent sirens.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Yes! I am not King Lir, nor could ever be;
Am a child cast out, transfigured, remote
Innocent, prey to the white flaming truth
The growing down, that clothes my name
Inconsequential, sheathed with shame,
Polite, capricious, calamitous;
Empty of all, it is unanimous
Nor even the memory of ripeness
Invisible, a drop in the pool.
I am weary . . . I am weary . . .
I shall whisper to the newborns when I am old.
Shall I build upon the strand? Have swordplay with the sea?
I shall tear my hair, mutter to the moon, bury my wounded knees
I have heard the Selkies singing, sailing with the breeze.
I do not think they will give their skin to me.
I have known them gliding beyond the ninth wave.
I still hear them sing so sweetly, weaving sorrows, on my back
Carving the blue waters as the waves are turning black.
We come and go in cycles with the moon, as tidal waves
Seep and seethe, foam and heave, lone captains setting sail,
In folly with a capsize brimming, before our boat has been bailed.
— after Elliot
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
I want to touch you
All of you
From the bend in your toes
To the crook in your nose
I crave the feeling of your not-quite-straight teeth
the underneath of your chin
Where your stubble begins
Your usually chapped lips
Pressed upon mine
The feeling of the bumps of your spine
Would probably give me chills
And thrills
To feel your fingers through my hair
I can't bare
To think of you away from me
Don't you see?
We're meant to be.
we fit perfectly together
And I'm sure we can weather
Any storm
I was born and bound
To love you
The hounds of Hell
Are ******* my heels
This feels like damnation
Not salvation
Being in love is not beautiful
Having shared love is
I'm in the business
Of having the first
But not the latter
This ladder that I climb
Is falling apart
And I'm falling down
Falling
Into the ground
So for awhile
I'll
Be bitter
But one day I'll be better
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Effaced, with myself removed from yesterday
I can think without unyielding pressures
******* my heels.
"It's always hardest the first time, the first day"
someone said. Maybe it's true?
I think repetition is getting to me,
so I must give liege to liberty.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
And speaking to the western wind,
In the sped and turning time of the revolving sky
As a top unwinding like a dropped fable;
He dreams of taking leave, unraveling the coil
Upending his foil
Of listless sights as daylight creeps one more tread
And sweet belief breaks down once again:
Days that are ******* like a sad hunt
When the tracker is bent
On tragic orchestrations that only lead to a duel . . .
Undoing, Oh must it be, "Must we fit?"
Let us know and get on with it.
In his bed the women are only dreams
Phantoms, iridescent sirens.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Yes! I am not King Lir, nor could ever be;
Am a child cast out, transfigured, remote
Innocent, prey to the white flaming truth
The growing down, that clothes my name
Inconsequential, sheathed with shame,
Polite, capricious, calamitous;
Empty of all, it is unanimous
Nor even the memory of ripeness
Invisible, a drop in the pool.
I am weary . . . I am weary . . .
I shall whisper to the newborns when I am old.
Shall I build upon the strand? Have swordplay with the sea?
I shall tear my hair, mutter to the moon, bury my wounded knees
I have heard the Selkies singing, sailing with the breeze.
I do not think they will give their skin to me.
I have known them gliding beyond the seventh wave.
I still hear them sing so sweetly, weaving sorrows, on my back
Carving the blue waters as the waves are turning black.
We come and go in cycles with the moon, as tidal waves
Seep and seethe, foam and heave, lone captains setting sail,
In folly with a capsize brimming, before our boat has been bailed.
— after Elliot
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
f e b r u a r y
the month we all went mad
in parallel to the month of august
when we all pledged
right hand up, against our hearts, our chests
we are sane and strong and good
we all pledged
to stay well
six
months
later,
we toast to those people
those people who are unrecognizable, now, in the fog of the glass
they draw x’s and o’s with their polished nails
and blow desperate, sticky kisses
so we know that they were us
if only for a minute
our saints of the past
won’t cease ******* us demons,
when february has passed
they will be back
then we’ll blow fairy dust off our fingertips
& wake up
with ******* on the carpet.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
And speaking to the western wind,
In the sped and turning time of the revolving sky
As a top unwinding like a dropped fable;
He dreams of taking leave, unraveling the coil
Upending his foil
Of listless sights as daylight creeps one more tread
And sweet belief breaks down once again:
Days that are ******* like a sad hunt
When the tracker is bent
On tragic orchestrations that only lead to a duel . . .
Undoing, Oh must it be, "Must we fit?"
Let us know and get on with it.
In his bed the women are only dreams
Phantoms, iridescent sirens.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Yes! I am not King Lir, nor could ever be;
Am a child cast out, transfigured, remote
Innocent, prey to the white flaming truth
The growing down, that clothes my name
Inconsequential, sheathed with shame,
Polite, capricious, calamitous;
Empty of all, it is unanimous
Nor even the memory of ripeness
Invisible, a drop in the pool.
I am weary . . . I am weary . . .
I shall whisper to the newborns when I am old.
Shall I build upon the strand? Have swordplay with the sea?
I shall tear my hair, mutter to the moon, bury my wounded knees
I have heard the Selkies singing, sailing with the breeze.
I do not think they will give their skin to me.
I have known them gliding beyond the ninth wave.
I still hear them sing so sweetly, weaving sorrows, on my back
Carving the blue waters as the waves are turning black.
We come and go in cycles with the moon, as tidal waves
Seep and seethe, foam and heave, lone captains setting sail,
In folly with a capsize brimming, before our boat has been bailed.
— after Eliot
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
I do not trust a happy day
My mind recalls past patterns
And each time hope has come my way
Peeking past life’s parted veil
Singing songs of sweet tomorrows
The weeks that come are always hell
As are the all the years that follow
I do not trust a lover’s promise
For they can be given so easily
I have seen certain hearts shattered
When loving to carefree and happily
I know one cannot pledge eternity
Anything can be broken even the best family
I do not trust a possessor’s passion
Cause in pursuing owner’s pleasures
I have found all things are only passing
For the taking, to give, in the asking
We all tire of the new toy
Sweet things can rot away
Adding one more item to your pile
Won’t save you from your final fate
There is a far darker day ******* me
The shadows tight on my trail
Night will fall sooner than expected
So even when I smile, I do not trust myself
Moods will change, ebbing and flowing
With the winds that keep my armor
Flapping up and down so my scars are showing
The good is just a phase
Then again I could say the same thing
About the bad days coming
Neither are permanent
Only one thing is inevitable
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
about
a year ago the doctors ordered me to return,
put down the tablet, cease driving, stay seated,
you a skinny hair from dying, the drop dead
unkindly kind, come back to the city, there’s
an operating table Resy~reserved just for you,
the menu we will decide, two or three courses,
but for
the summering on your sheltering isle, where the
lapping waves sounds of the sound, the greenery
calming befuddles your senses is ended, the congress
of animals too have ordered your dispatch back to
the hubbub of pizza parlors, nail salons & bodegas,
and
we will slice and dice, drawn up plans to redirect
the arteries and veins that you’ve spent good money,
lazy years clogging & ******* sending you back after
you’re in fighting trim, and and recommence dialogus
with
the sun, sky, animals, the water and the waves, and
write of peace of mind, knowing that your body, too,
is
at peace, but not at rest, and let the writing begin
again, with a refreshed perspective, and re-greet
old friends, Hafiz and Whitman, who were left
behind in a hasty departure, your retreat is ended
and now, a new re-treating of the soul, to match a
newly refreshed body
postscript:
*where is shelter? why, within and without…both needed,
in happy juxtaposition*…
May 19, 2024
May 19, 2024 at 5:00 PM UTC
Ecstatic in the sea breeze,
a magnanimous moment of
interloper pride ******* the day.
Uncoil—my heart, my chin,
my unglamorous abstinence
enforced by fear.
This is no lapse, but fury
and fortitude forging me
in the crucible of love.
Yet again I am up against it—
the stage of floating eyes and
overcooked feelings pawing
at my attention like
squids in a pool.
Ink and jelly in a room temperature soup
swirling and sloshing under
the authority of a rented room.
By gods, this time I’ll make it work—
plant leaves and blunderbusses
leaning against teal paint,
the sun really is on a fishhook.
Stand apart from me then and
judge the waters for what they are—
a storm too small to surface
in a sky too big to swallow.
I’m sweating in it
and the alarm clock is going off.
*bleet
bleet
bleet*
Too deep to turn back.
Too tired to go on.
This is where the end begins,
in the middle of it
with no ground at all.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
The moon shattered over the eastern sky
Turned into a cloud burst
Rain fall softly on a lifeless body
Walking along the empty beach
-Feeling
-Thinking
-Wondering
Where has all the pain gone?
The sacred solitude spread
Under the dark clouded night
Shimmering, in wet silver sands
Of time
- Deadly
- Fascinating
‘If this is being dead,
Then its welcome too’.
Come, be within my empty feelings,
Fill my empty soul,
Come, sit besides me
In my desert spaces
And watch with me, the play of our loneliness
Souls, fluttering on the clothesline
Strung between the stars
‘Take one, if you need some change?’
One step after another
Becomes effortless
-When there is no place to go
- When you are nothing else, but dead
No desires to keep you alive; awake
No sun, No moon,
No shadow ******* your steps
Sooner or later, every thing stills, lying etched upon past
You know, living is easy
Moments just pass
In slow motion of
Lightening flash backs
Of memories littered, one the way; en-mass
Foot prints left on silver sand
Now, I remember
Where all the pain has gone
You know, being dead is easy too
You just need lot of life, un-lived
______________________
Om Namah Shivaya
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 7:53 AM UTC
Confusing it is
that taste between
passion fruit or **** ant
My mind is boggled
which way this is leaning
Your unsavory parts
are being completely outweighed
presently
by a tangy **** yet sweet delivery
It's just I always am bird-dogging
but coming up with the wrong duck
not noticing I've brought home
the wooden decoy
until I'm already sopping wet
wearing stink of the marsh
Why am I wired this way?
Got to get out of this yard
but the lessons are hard learned
So I keep climbing the fence
and now it's you on the other side
Waggin' that **** tang!
Lordy, the chase is on.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
Occasionally one may feel fear's fast grip
But let us not be governed by its restrictive embrace
So the fear of death may not control our actions
May the fear of living never penetrate our minds,
And depart from whoever's in which it resides
Let the fear of our temporary state scare us not
Let the fear of the uncertainty of our tomorrow govern us not
Rather, let it's constant ******* at our heel motivate us
Motivate us to believe in the abilities we have,
And to learn new ones as well
Motivate us to reach heights inconceivable to those whose minds and hearts have not been freed
Heights which only a man freed may attain
A man freed of the darkness that inhabits everyone's soul
Freed of the fear of the unknowable nature of our futures that consumes us all
Embracing that fear so he can transcend death,
And be remembered beyond the many years he will grace this earth
Remembered for the heights he reached
Remembered for the people he chose to lead up to join him
Because he did not succumb to the malice of condescension
But was a Sherpa to the uninitiated
Giving these freed minds a new perspective
That they may soar to unimagined places
To which they will lead him and us in train
Perpetuating the chain of incredible events
Till we can finally reach our Elysian dreams
Started, not by a people of untold knowledge and wealth,
But by the one who decided to live without fear
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
My big sisters made every mistake in the book
A big book
I know
because it was like a manuel that I received at birth
Slid under our doorways
They gave out copies
They reprinted chapters
They drew out maps
They sketched out the details
We flipped through the pages
Turning each lesson
******* earing the good ones
Like the time my sisters got so mad they kicked in the door
Or the time my sister tried a creaky houses old pipes
Leaning over
"It won't flush"
Swoosh a wave of water
Or the lesson about heartbreak
Reminding my brother Joel and I
to look with our eyes closed
But hearts open
Because they said that's how you know the difference
And don't settle down to quickly
They whispered between hallways and bed sheets
Because marriage is forever
And people aren't gaurenteed
My sisters authored pages and pages
Roads leading to roads to new roads
And the book grew older
The book came out!
This time celebrating parenting
Remember to lock the front door
Because that toddler with the wild red hair will
try to
Houdini escape everytime
Or sometimes softer
Remember that this life is yours
And you are steered by your choices
Said the sister with the bright blue
Eyes
And midnight colored hair
And she said sometimes
You will have to trade in your ballet slippers
For bare feet
Just so you can truly have your feet on the ground
And listen said the other
Sometimes resolving and letting go
Is easier than holding onto tightly
As she shows us her bruises.
And be yourself Lael
And don't try to hard Joel
Because the boy with broken heart can't be fixed
And the girls with the wild sides can't be tamed
And make sure you both stand tall
But not looking down
Look straight ahead at the horizon
Because we've already done it like that
And the sun will always guide you back to blue skies.
And I if it doesn't they said
We sure as hell will.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
.
And speaking to the western wind,
In the sped and turning time of the revolving sky
As a top unwinding like a dropped fable;
He dreams of taking leave, unraveling the coil
Upending his foil
Of listless sights as daylight creeps one more tread
And sweet belief breaks down once again:
Days that are ******* like a sad hunt
When the tracker is bent
On tragic orchestrations that only lead to a duel . . .
Undoing, Oh must it be, "Must we fit?"
Let us know and get on with it.
In his bed the women are only dreams
Phantoms, iridescent sirens.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Yes! I am not King Lir, nor could ever be;
Am a child cast out, transfigured, remote
Innocent, prey to the white flaming truth
The growing down, that clothes my name
Inconsequential, sheathed with shame,
Polite, capricious, calamitous;
Empty of all, it is unanimous
Nor even the memory of ripeness
Invisible, a drop in the pool.
I am weary . . . I am weary . . .
I shall whisper to the newborns when I am old.
Shall I build upon the strand? Have swordplay with the sea?
I shall tear my hair, mutter to the moon, bury my wounded knees
I have heard the Selkies singing, sailing with the breeze.
I do not think they will give their skin to me.
I have known them gliding beyond the ninth wave.
I still hear them sing so sweetly, weaving sorrows, on my back
Carving the blue waters as the waves are turning black.
We come and go in cycles with the moon, as tidal waves
Seep and seethe, foam and heave, lone captains setting sail,
In folly with a capsize brimming, before our boat has been bailed.
— after Eliot
.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC