"elicited" poems
Summer heat summer sweet
With a wealthy nature, rich pheromones erupt
Birds n tha bees escape the trees
Please don't plant your seeds
But throw the leaves
Up n up
To get down and drop
Where the dirt pops
Ken keseys ashes
Edible umbrellas turn rainy days on their head spinning pupils wide void of discontentment
Fairies fly off clouds and stars fall at day
Impossible, feelings are blown in and out of proportion to fit a screen thats too small
Tough love
Tough life
Slick surface don't let me fall off the boat as it rocks
Swisher wraps over the curves
Got me feelin lucky like a charm
Cheef all day got me smellin dank as a Rastafarian Only stoppin to sip my Captain Morgans moonshine
Till we hit the caribbean
Then Jack's got me headin for tides end
Early
Flush the bile outta your system
And spiral out of controls iron hand
**** responsibility, Apathy rules all.
Paper crane ******* get all superficial but yellow bones make my brain go fuzzy in smokey ***
In n out, fast n slow
Nicotine dominates
My senses are lost at Molly
That ***** finger ****** my life
Made me *** every time
This unhealthy relation in action doesn't phase me yet, I'm too young to think that far
I mean
What do you expect?
A Teens crowded perceptions can be judged like a bums intentions.
Peace my brotha
Dandy danny says theres a way out
-side with the rap culture
Shots of rebellion pour through the cracks we each fill
The glass
Is too cracked to be see-through
West coast vibes kick back lax attitude I carry on my shoulders
Forever green is my state
Wash that **** off your lawn crack *** haters I'll spray paint your ***
Equality's the goal
**** race
**** sexuality
I see soul
Open up
Show me your beat
I'll count bars as we spit elicited slurs drizzled to drops leaving the cops to stop us
Quit
Obeyin the brand
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
There is a chaos in my beats,
A sound of some sin keeps calling me
The elicited filth is blurring my vision
The guilt of my iniquitous deeds keeps visiting me!
A conflict is there, between my soul and body,
I am pulling away from myself to myself!
This pain in my heart keeps withering my poor soul!
In search of love, I left no stone unturned!
My toes are bruised while walking barefoot up to hills,
I've seen the thorns stuck in my skin and flesh!
O death! Come take me away from myself!!
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 3:02 AM UTC
love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two
this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly
unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:
next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:
You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant
she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying*
“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes
take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely
I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”*
and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing
*I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,*
even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
My birthday is today
Seventeen years since another Sunday at 9 AM
On top of a mountain called Ozark
In a land that reminded me of Harry Potter
Called Pettigrew like Peter
It's forests elicited sprites and daddy long legs
Made of me a changeling then spit me back out
I learned what real ice tea was at the age of three
It was my birthday
Doing Pirouettes on my aunts Patio
Again, under Arkansas stars
With faery lights leading my way
I ascended to the brush behind the house
Got lost in the greens and browns of paradise's supply
Returned with flesh painted the colour of love
In an apartment overlooking crab apple trees
Fresh Canadian foliage fostering a well concealed creek
On a 90 degree angle over a dark chocolate cake
My ninth birthday
I drank pickle juice because Vinny said it was limonade
I wore dresses that year
And coveted baskets filled to brim with blossoms
Baked the crab apples into a pie
But preferred mama's banana cream
I wore bandages on my arms
and grass stains on my knees
My tears washed away like Crayola markers
And my biggest inner questions had to do
With what was for breakfast
And the lifespan of a temporary tattoos
14 came with a big black bow
Done up gaudily in greys with a sad little smile
Three years marked with pink splotches and lines
A subject to hormones and arsenic tones
My birthday
A celebration of decay
And mama still sang, and baked, and kissed my face
And didn't wake when I placed cotton ***** in her ears
Because I was a happy girl
Today is my birthday
And mama exclaims
"No more babies! All four of you are so grown!"
But the mirror still illustrates an odd little show
With a baby face
A girls chest
And a womans hips
An ordinary freak all stitched up
Awkward and too much of everything
But not enough all the same
And inside I know
Is a sea of paradoxical Samanthas
Some stubborn and loud
Some shy and reserved
All with changes to make
Books to read
And places to go
And only few that are quite wanting yet
To be 17
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
You are an artiste
painting with words
shading with wit
coloring with vocabulary
and adding texture with subtle metaphor
There is melody in the emotion
elicited between the words
between the very letters
that you weave into the heart
into my heart.
3D pictures forged in the mind's eye
tacked to the soul
with each line
with each word
with each letter
You are an artiste
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
The fire sparkled a watery light
As the moon soothed time into oblivion
And a faint recollection of yesterday lay dizzy at their feet
Her afterthought was inconclusive
As to whether the cup in her hand
Had elicited an exuberance
Sufficiently encouraging to make her face the dawn
On their playground of broken bottles and burned out branches
The chords of melancholia clung heavy to the night
The sweet sounds of memories they had relived
And strung together into an utterly unruly melody,
Seemed to push the sunrise back
Under the horizon lying looming out of reach
Smoke rising up from the last of their dampened pine branches
Laid a murky gloom over the glaring view of an inescapable morn
The clouds rolling in ****** them back into darkness
Hiding an unwanted future from sight
Allowing an indulging as sweet as the drink
That still lingered on the lips that spoke of never wanting to go back
The rain-burst covered their world with a wafer-thin film of glistening protection
Every thunder bolt momentously holding off dawn
But the fire that had fuelled their careless lazy limbo
Hissed under the abundantly extinguishing streams coming down
The spark that had lasted them all through the night
Melted into a shocking sense of reality
Quenching her parched desire
To dance in the rain
And run towards the sunrise with arms wide open
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
In the last quarter of the twentieth century, much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur. Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths. To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers." In whatever esteem one might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes. Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore
Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 typewriter elicited this response: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question in life is whether to **** yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to **** yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.
-La Dispute, One
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
I finally knew what you taste like—a certain liquor and acid mixed.
After the last pour of ***** that I
licked along the cup,
wasted are the nights
and I still wonder how
your lips are, like if it’s
soft and numb enough.
Waiting till midnight had made me
own what’s left in that bottle as you were
now caught dead along the bar stool—
dead from all the laughter and alcohol
elicited in your throat, like
rough rocks spilled along your stomach.
Hummed the winds are songs that made you fall asleep—
overly sang by the empty stereo,
waning along the caves of our ears.
Sour notes all around us, like
overtaking cars screeching, like
faintly noise we cannot stop becoming like
turmoil in the air.
You cannot bear anymore to stand and go
outside and drive; your soul is too much
under the hum of broken lullabies,
rotting along the night as it stepped one second further.
Lifeless as you were, my eyes rove around
inviting lights, and I’m about to
pass out as well—
sleep is just one kiss away from the cup of *****
After this night,
righteousness will step in and we’ll ask
each other, of what miracles happened that night.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
I caught my eyes in the gold-flecked mirror
And paused to trace the diameters.
What should have appeared nearer
Developed its own parameters.
I paused to trace the diameters,
And discovered the golden flakes
Developed their own parameters
And coalesced opaque.
Upon discovery, the golden flakes
Formed a cloud inside my iris
And coalesced opaque,
A golden plague or virus.
A cloud formed inside my iris
And obstructed the view of the sun.
A golden plague or virus
Traipsing like a legion.
Clouds obstructed my view of the sun
So night seemed to stretch beyond
Traipsing across the horizon like a legion
And elicited in me a muted response.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 1:31 PM UTC
we are
living
breathing
poetry
in
motion
We are the muses that haunt others
Late in their silent nights
That are comprised of a
Pencil or pen
Paper
And lingering mind
We are the strangers
That elicited a thought within another
That manifested into a poem
We are the vessels
Of poems written
And poems to come
we are
living
breathing
poetry
in
motion
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 7:37 PM UTC
Seconds drag like years. Stuck in a silent mist.
My mind like a “For Sale” sign, tethered
Constrained. An occasional sway in a breeze,
Resulting in an unoccupied state of mind.
An unbearable feeling of uselessness
Stemming from a grimy background
From which no answers can be elicited
The Blackboard has been erased forever
Locked doors and high walls mean,
Therapy is only good for the Therapist!
That; that was once ingrained, is lost
Danger lies ahead, lurking in the shadows
Waiting for the right moment to strike.
A silent killer.
This; that gnaws at my brain, is without
Doubt, slowly killing me. Extruding life.
My head hurts. My soul is broken.
I have forgotten how to laugh
I have forgotten how to whistle
I don’t want this death!
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
A quivered sigh lingers upon her
soft lips; she glimpses beggary
bestirred sweetly in my misty eyes,
my fingers dawdle at her dewy fissure;
waiting in trembled anticipation, a want
to taste her delicacy with a kiss of breath
caught up in licks of consumption, I'm
beguiled by femininities passion; elicited
sultry moans dance across my *****
making my heart race and soul shutter
losing control
her tongue tip traces each vein pulsing,
awaiting warmth to engulf its entirety, slick
and wet tip to pearls she rocks my world
morning noon and night
in out of wetness I scream in delight, suckling
each mound wet and light in nibbled bites; ****
this woman fits me just right, can't keep my eyes
hands off her as she clenches firmness *******
me deeper in her abyss wet and tight
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:32 AM UTC
Holding the poetic sword
Started reflecting on the much-divided heart
Into a brain storming question
Should responses be elicited
Or simply succumb to a passive slavery
Heart unleashed into two divided answers
One to confront with strong resolution
And the other to run away in steady flights
Duty towards society beckoning
Fear of being judged resisting
Mind unfurled its reasoning and logic
Voice it on one side and no you will be nailed on the other
Emotions played its music on
Be a humanitarian it sung its song
No you will get entangled into a web of trouble echoed logic self
Confused the body stood still
And then performed its decision
Interrogating such a response
The heart and mind stood in reconciliation.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
She stands elicited with fear
She holds a heart in her hands
So fragile, so loving
It's glorious
It's the most delicate thing she will ever hold.
He trusted her with it.
He handed it to her and said
/keep it safe/
So she did
She held her own heart in her left hand
And with her right
She took his heart and put it where hers used to be
He had his hands out for hers
But she was still holding onto it.
Holding on like you would
In the middle of a hurricane.
Holding on like death was at your door
And you were trying to sneak out the back
Holding on because
She was frightened
But she looked in those eyes
A sky full of blue
Full of hope and something she didn't know
And she held out her heart
But she was still frightened, still scared.
Afraid, afraid he'd throw it...
But,
He didn't.
He took it as careful as possible and put it where his used to be.
They had one another's hearts.
And for once,
Neither one of them were shattered.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
The tendons strained as muscles tensed
Hind legs wobbled in impatient anticipation
The prey grazed slowly upon springs bounty
A twig snapped sounding natures alarm
Crows called cooing caws as they took wing
A ****** predicting the coming violence
The die having been cast elicited a roar
Potential energy unleashed sprang an ambush
Teeth and claws punctured and lacerated flesh
Jaws clenched throat choking life from limb
Latent spasms birthed pleasurable moans
The irony of blood tasted copper coins
As stipes became lost in red matted fur
The **** draining the thrill of the hunt
While the tiger ate his fill
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 9:48 AM UTC
I cannot fathom how any pleasure is elicited from puzzles and arithmetic, it only offers me pabulum and disdain.
my brain is constantly harrowing me with effrontery begging me to solve the mystery and puzzle buried within the pooling eyes of people front of me and gnawing at the foundation beneath me.
Why should I concern myself with what x equals when I can examine the wrinkles upon the curbings of society, the brimming confusion consuming me. People are the equation of reality, the flesh ridden manifestation of the most perplexing algorithm.
I would rather torture myself with the infinitesimal existence of humans than the numbers created by them.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
think of an utterance elicited somewhere far off
a language of lies
things announced, but never taken
by the senses of your peers
imagine the sound of a collapsing planet
fire and ice and crystal dust
core grinding,
ground scraping,
forms lost as it falls apart
the roar of a dying star
like an angry beast in the dark
its long reach takes with it its legacy
existences sustained
comets which streak by
frigid tails that catch the eye
an aurora in its blinding light
a show best visible at night
unseen collisions
yet always acknowledged
confirmed - for sure - by expensive machines
watching as they go
from our house and down the road
they pass an unseen boundary
crossing to the other side
their noises,
a symphony
the beginnings and ends of life
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Electric taste
sensation elicited
stimulating tongue
currently this phenomenon … nomenon enon nony
cannot convey information classified
humans cannot perceive with their tongue
Methods involve
changing
taste foods
and drinks
by using electric taste
We propose a system
drink beverages using straws
connected to an electric circuit
We propose a system
eat foods using a fork or chopsticks
connected to an electric circuit
We propose a system
Discussing augmented gustation
using various sensory
Please do not care who you disappoint
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
there's a sense of peace
that wends its way through
the folds of my diastoles
elicited by the dreamy murmurs
of your voice when it sings my name
and I cling to that lullaby like
marsupial infant
till our souls stand melded
in adoration's fire…
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Hearts beat
Breath quickens
The light it blinds, the dark, it thickens.
The pounding in the chest and skull.
Explosions threatening in mind, to tongue.
Pain to release pain,
Loss is the only thing we gain.
Say- im you're only one.
Pay- what I do when you depart again-
One final time.
Not with Benjamin's, penny's And dimes.
I payed for my crimes- deep Crimson blood and my fragile, darkened soul.
Gone they are from my body now, empty as it is.
It's a wonder how my heart still beats through my chest when you approach with your candor in tow.
It's a wonder how my breath quickens when you kiss me so.
But the insistent pounding in my skull and chest shall continue;
This allergic reaction to feelings I should not be experiencing, due to my soulless-ness.
My unfixable mess, but you have elicited this.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
She is a good butcher
The knife steady in her hand,
Although she’s never quite gotten the knack
For hacking in one swing.
Tried once and hit bone – elicited screams.
Prefers instead to slice carefully
Weighs each cut of the knife
Watches the blood well up
Saliva pooling in response.
His pretty little ears she nibbles on
Followed by his lips she samples at every moment
Even his nose she presses kisses to.
There’s so little fat to him
Just how she likes.
When she gets too hungry to wait
Sinks her teeth into the definition of his pectoral
Rips away the muscle chewing gleefully.
He is a rich source of protein
Her body has been craving.
Finds what is so often boasted between the legs of men
no delicacy at all as some treat it.
Loves to lap at his iliac crests
Wear down to his bones and crack them between her teeth
**** the slick, nutritious marrow.
Finds a certain contentment
In the consuming focus
The preoccupation of her hands, mind, and mouth.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 1:59 AM UTC
Thorns. It was all thorns, this thing of a hand, making its way,
swirling across the small of my back. We are here again. In this
working of the way, trying to make some sense out of our
elicited absurdity; Names. We are both made of them.
Some take a toll in our bodies and mostly turn themselves,
a parting wave, or a hinge that does not work – closes all stalls,
the thumping on the walls, and then some indifferent silence
penetrates the two of us: aberration. We are here again, trapped
inside this console. Our tabulated quotients do not rear the best
of our equations. Now there is distance in such short space that could
hold no less than a matchflame, or a little hummingbird, prying open,
the leaf that turns with us in the ground. The rapture of freedom
does not enclose me. Like a shuddering blade of grass bowing down
to the perpetrating rain, I am within arm’s reach with the stones that
refuse to give out answers. We have burned the bramble. Our buds,
of no use. The wind blows, and that is it. No solace. Taking time
to sojourn deep into something we both know as a standstill,
a petrified tree at the bend of the road, or this undeniable thing
that asks for a different name: love, something torn.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
Your truths fogged up my smoky pores
Tears rain but the roses remain in their ****** beds
Fair roses do not grow thorns in their seeds
And it did not wrinkle smooth skin
But your tears
Elicited a new spring blooming from my skin
You are the pied piper to the love I stuffed down
Fertilizer in the poems I know but you do not
Poems which lie nestled in the petals of our roses
Even they love you
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC