"epithets" poems
we explored one another,
similar to that of how the seven sins
would explore their vices,
corrupting their virtues.
but that's what made the garden blossom,
grow with intense passion that radiated
with a melancholy glimmer, with a dipped
and ragged vine of sweat and sheen
arousal and desire.
craving, begging, mewling, whining;
gluttony, craving for the excess
sloth, craving for moments of rest,
envy, craving for a bearing of arousal,
lust, craving for a touch, a sinful taste;
greed, craving the moans and swatches,
wrath, craving for sullen destruction,
pride, craving for the fall of a bereaved apology.
our garden;
a place of virtues, a place of our vices.
you showed me the deepest things,
darkest epithets of what was to be explored,
blossoming a crimson rose of pure desire
in the pit of my abdomen, vines of thorns
wrapped firmly around my hips
and the soft ashen flesh of my wrists
soon to be accompanied around
the thin circumference of my ankles.
the shark divots soon finding their
way around the swells of my breast,
and the tremble of my inner thighs;
body arching, lips quivering,
ecstacy of your words,
your seed planted garden that
became a part of me.
I found the cardinal sins in
the dropping countenance
of your words, of your demands, and of your wishes,
and i bathed in it,
soaked myself up in the lavender of
your scent, the scratchiness of your thorns.
our garden was the place to cast our sins,
delve into them, and it ruined me,
but oh how I solely craved it.
our encounters, our actions, our experiences
putting even the seven deadly sins to same,
forcing them to turn when catching a glimpse
of us. The swells of their cheeks blossoming
with that of a rose tinted hue.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
A volley of gunfire
A stream of offensive epithets.
An amazed girl
And an enraged boy.
After every volley of gunfire,
There was a respawning individual.
Steam could be seen emanating from his ears
Anger radiated off of him.
The girl watched carefully
Taking note of every action.
The sounds of battle could be heard
And the boy kept getting aggressive.
Innovative and anatomically impossible suggestions were made
Names were called and yelled out
And the game continued
“I effing stuck him” was repeatedly yelled.
Finally, after a long rant,
The boy jumped with ecstasy
In the heat of the final battle, he won.
Now he wouldn’t have to fling his controller
The girl applauded him, thankful for the blessed silence.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.
He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.
It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.
However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.
For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly in two.
He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.
I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.
In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ****** or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).
These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
A criticaster disaster, personified.
Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.
•
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
Lonely
I'm burning under your skin
I'm drowning in a tide of your blood
I love you with my fingers, with my teeth,
With coral hollows of my neck,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know
That I'm eating you
Like unwashed strawberries.
Quietly, I'm spreading you
Over my lips,
I'm melting you on my taste buds,
I feel you gliding down my throat,
And ruling down my bowel,
You are twitching of surprise with
My every bite.
Covered with coconut flour
You are resting on my thighs,
You do not read my mind because for that
It takes more than a touch
Something decorated with Baroque epithets,
Hidden in the meadow with dandelions,
Something that is not ours and should not ever be spoken.
I drink you like wine left in the sun,
I sleep in the corners of your moves,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
She counts down from a hundred to one,
Clutching her love like a crutch.
He fumbles,
Hunting for his hunger.
They blot out doubt
And muster up their trust
"I'm fine" she cries,
As a child dies.
He learns,
He spits in her gritted eyes.
She reminds him that they're dying,
Burning while they turn
Spinning in his sheets
Struggling to breathe
Smuggling their dreams
In apologetic sweat
And ***** epithets
The infant actors beg for ******
Whispering the wishes that are listed in the script
Quoting moans that catch on choking throats
Pleading for release
Reading of futility
And mutual defeat
Delivering a finish
In pillowed soliloquys
Adolescent in the stillness
Adolescent in the heat
Adolescent in the promise
Adolescent in belief
She stutters love in ****** butterflies
On his rasping chest
As he gasps for breath.
She grasps at death,
While he grabs a cigarette.
Cast away in brackish blanket seas
They wrap themselves in fallacies
And laugh at their realities:
The cult of love belongs to Morpheus
And adulthood is an orphanage
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
Life is a library, but
Too many of our pages are blank,
Our words transparent
Forced into dogeared corners.
Not spineless per se,
But visiting a chiropractor regularly.
Covering our selves in judgments
Worn with both shame and pride.
We tire of the climb and the thinning air
We bookmark the times we falter
And when we shield our eyes from the glare.
Our minds are marked by the epithets
Gifted unto us by others.
Some arrows fly true to the bone
Others are way off the mark.
And when our final pages have been read,
The book loaned out or discarded
All that remains of us is said
In a line on granite epitaph
The truth of the dead forever guarded.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
If love is a fire,
this is a funeral pyre;
ashes falling
like nuclear winter.
Like a blowtorch,
*** had soldered us together--
I'm too paralyzed by fear
to hope for something more.
Only in the black of night do we see each other.
We barely speak
outside the foul-mouthed foreplay
and passionate epithets exchanged
in our sweat-soaked moments
of collective agony.
Like so much of my life,
this has to hurt to feel good.
A smack on the *** must suffice
when a kiss on the lips can **** you.
I don't dare look at her face.
There's so much I say
in spite of myself—
A litany of confessions
in my expressions.
Not that she would notice--
her eyes are outside,
aimed at a horizon I can't see.
We share this silence
because it's the only thing
either of us still cherishes.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
Do you love him more than me?
Is there something beautiful and indistinct
In him?
Can you bow like never before,
A prayer of spine?
Do you kiss him like an angel,
And dole out your lips to the stupid others?
Does ignorance call your name,
And hope drive the nail?
When I see her again,
She hugs me casually,
And the smell of her hair
Is an ink,
On my wife-beater.
It soils, and oils
And stains.
Beneath the darkness of her car,
The shadows become loam,
And in the cabin she squeezes out a waving hand,
By the time she pulls away
I am working hard
not to pound her hood,
And demand a return trip
To the factory of my heart,
Where she could be a foreman
And wish things of me all day,
Working a hot sheet of my skin
Into a pliable mass,
And the body of my sins
Into the image of God,
So much so,
That the mere dream of that forge would make her stop
Her car
In the middle of the street,
Hop out,
And walk up to me, repeating a sentence in this gist:
She doesn’t know anything anymore,
Not even how she feels about him.
Make me that God of your
Life
Once more,
Deliver me from evil
And the hands of wickedness that render my soul.
I must be a God in your midst,
a love of the mist.
I know my sins,
I only call you when I'm drunk,
hollering your name
in hurtful epithets.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:55 PM UTC
They say to avoid epithets when referring to a person in writing
But you are all adjectives
All honey-eyed,
bright-smiled,
lithe-bodied,
deft-handed,
warm-freckled,
soft-haired,
and most of all,
much-loved.
Jun 17, 2024
Jun 17, 2024 at 10:39 PM UTC
Nights spent with fingers crossed
make it hard to return texts
but the message I forgot?
Whilst occupied with shit-talk
and sliding 'cross these frosty sidewalks
was you won't be forgot
Coughing, choking down this spite I chew
I'm through with slowly dying here
and rotting out my youth.
I know this stream of epithets
pouring out my mouth
sometimes missed its mark
and unfairly wet you down
I'm letting this town down, now
But it always did the same,
and shame's the only lesson I have learnt.
So, with bridges burnt, I leave behind
these Dow and Main Street blues
Shoes worn through, I bid adieu
to Broadway and Alger
to the lumps in my throat
on the 5th Street bridge...
Forgive me my distractions,
dispositions and my scowls
I'll reposition my tongue, now
for milder words
But still...
This place will ******* **** me
if I don't leave, right now.
So plant one on my cheek,
or clasp my arm and see me out.
This ghostly whisp of smoke
has found its proper breeze
and punched its ticket
to touch nostrils in a new locale--
--Punched its ticket to say, **** it."
and pull a solid form
to cover all this ether in.
The granite sky's eroding
--finally!--
Rocky dust falls down, lithic snowflakes
But I'll shake it off my shoulders, now.
I'm sick of sighing, sick of shame.
Fed up with guilt, I settled my bill
with all I can't forget
Because,
"My kids will never scrap **** 'round here,
And I won't die crying in a pint of beer..." (McGowan)
I'll turn my back all fondly,
But sneer into the wind.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
He was a sad sort of man
And we let him exist
On the corner of our consciousness.
ignoring all his nastiness
And jokes calling women broads
And how he wanted to ******
And pinch them and stare
At them when they were naked.
We giggled at his ugliness
And displays of tacky wealth
And how he has so little
Of anything called class.
We called him an ***
And wrote him off in the seventies
As a silly arriviste fool
Who played around in school
And dodged the draft.
He was a joke fore and aft
But we underestimated
The danger of a snake
Slithering in the silence.
It can bite us just because
We were not looking at it.
And it is no help to ignore it.
No matter the excuses we make.
It is still a slithering snake.
We forgot to take into account
That some people like snakes
And take them as pets
Despite all the epithets
Of their neighbors and family.
They do so happily
Because there is something wrong
With people who handle snakes
And they usually shout about Jesus
Which I am sure he would hate.
But no problem, it seems of late
To them, Jesus was a bigot, a hater.
They must have read later
Some Bible we never saw
With a different set of laws
And advice. Really not nice.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
surges thru me,
when audibly communicating, enunciating,
and speaking English words
as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
(take as cheesy tong in cheek)
from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
asper myself, which purported nun
sense ink reese sees learn'n
den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
from eraser head could awk cord,
I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
type of survey monkey hook can huff ford
Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,
sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
tubby comb moored
flossed, milled, and taut
tubby trained for Operation Ready Date
by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),
part tickly ne'r the end
wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
and spiritually enlightened
By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Happiness is no protagonist
I'm a villain
I'm a liar
and apathy is a hero
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 3:30 AM UTC
and what if I download my emotions through poetry
that words are flowing through my veins
that my mind prints metaphors
and oil colors painted on walls
that my eyes reflect epithets in silver mirrors
that my heart beats in the iambic pentameter
that my lungs breathe lyrics
like oxygen in the air
that my palm is sweating ink
on sheets that appear empty,
but I see them written
that my ears vibrate only rhymes...
and what...
what if I'm a madman among the normal
I'm just an incomprehensible spectrum
in a world full of shadows
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 8:53 AM UTC
Glossed over pasts plus
Time tested epithets
That indubitably do define
The way you left me that's
Not to deny the truths that do lie
On the static sitting stone
Which are truths I refuse to uncover
Which tend to typify my own
Lack of anything resembling intelligence
I know if you missed me you would say it
Yet it remains categorically impossible
For me to even meagerly admit
That the starry eyed tongue tied
Deliciously delightful strikingly beautiful
Girl I fell in love with
is no more
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
Should you phone
When I'm home,
Don't assume I'm alone
Choosing epithets
For my stone.
If you phone
And hear a graon,
Don't assume I'm on the throne.
That's me practicing
Saxaphone.
When you phone
And hear me moan
In mellifulous polytone;
That's my slide
On a sweet trombone.
I'm the new age
Don Quixote,
Sitting in
My library.
I'm not dying,
I'm versifying,
Communing with
Life's mystery.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Constellations
A roadmap of our galaxy,
Intricately placed to create the Orion belt
introduces the --
Taurus and Draco.
Discovered: given
Names and epithets that act as
bandages of history and hope;
pillars of the past, broken and shattered;
not only good memories do the constellations hold.
A roadmap millenniums aged
and still cryptic, enigmatic.
There for the fall of the Roman Empire:
A witness of the fallen bodies and cracked glass
human hearts of Auschwitz.
Constellations: surrounded by onyx, stars doctoring the constellations,
creating stories -- undiscovered and renewed.
A galaxy of muted midnights, murky blues,
darkened purples, vibrancy and life present one day,
muted and cloaked in obsidian
The next.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 1:11 AM UTC
She lived in a cupboard under the stars
Crouched and curled, laid out like the twisting Milky Way
Twinkling and breathing and playfully sighing to herself
Her fingers drew clouds in the rotting wood
And knew all of their names
She passed the time by piercing holes in the sky
And seducing the moon with whispers, epithets and subtle gestures
She drew secrets from passing birds
Teasing them out like threadworms
Softly winding them around her hair
Putting them to her ear to listen
Before swallowing each morsel
Drawing her hands down on to her lap
Unpicking her scars
To find a hiding place
For 12 years she remained there
Until there came a voice at the door
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
Cigarette ashes
Dun smudges of nicotine
the jaundice bits of addiction
I place the pieces
folding echos into epithets
dog earred memories that curl
brittle around my fingers
squeeze another beat from my heart
an exhaled dirge
the rasp breath timbrel
above the roar of life in my ears
I pan for gold
sifting splintered bones
for moments lost with you
Searching my haggard face
for your spectred resonance
I've become that thing I loathe
folding echos into paper chains
capture only damp impressions
of tears wasted
Am I just an echo
of your terminal refrain?
TL Boehm
12/7/10
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
It always starts with the looking of bouquets of dying flowers in the grocery store
they're always by the entrance and they're always wrapped in cellophane
Moody lilies, doe-eyed star daffodils, ******* lace-leaves
My grandfather's name was Hyacinth
It's symbolic somewhere, somehow
My family's name is buried neck deep in floral epithets
not that you would notice or care
There's an attraction to be named after beautiful things
From the side of my shoulder I hear
count your hands, they might be missing fingers
I look abrasively counting in rotund continuity
one two three four five
one two three four five
when I look behind me the speaker blasts John Mayer and I go home feeling nauseous
manic begonias, sultry sweet-tooth hydrangeas
you pick a rose and it stabs your finger so you set it on fire and take a picture of it, you call it art and the leaves wither
when I sit at my dinner table eating salmon
I cannot stop thinking about mercury poisoning
I lick the table salt off my hands
I wait for cardiac arrest but while that happens
there is that friend of a foe, that voice tickling the back of my ear with it's summer tongue
telling me, beckoning that the tap water I'm drinking is laced with LSD by the government and that I'm going to have a bad trip that I won't be able to get out of. I'll be stuck in that endless loop like a record player that keeps getting scratched by the needle and won't play anything but static noise now.
I go to bed biting my nails until they're raw and touching skin making sure that my hands are still my own
Moonflowers bloom at night and marigolds remind me of the sun
In the morning I dream of driving out to sea in a car that doesn't belong to me and wait for the coral to overtake my brain
When I wake up I do 20 laps around my house instead
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC
just a naked light bulb
obsessed
with the swimming shadow i cast
slushy brained
with a ****** iota of a heart
driven by the loneness machine
that keeps me company
modernity grows black metal teeth
technology
nothing quite works anymore
except the inflexibility of algorithm's
they are my slave
and I do what they say
my upload is down loading
to a disappearing file
marked nervous breakdown
on a blinking screen of high velocity electrons
apocalypse of endless virtual hysteria
in a spectrum of LiteBrite
my wife screams vomitus epithets
at the computer
every ****** day
***** **** stupid ***
but
on the other hand
i dont need to navigate
the complexity of human relationship's
any more
i like my new virtual girlfriends
***** with long legs and ************
with her lesbian friends
playing in a barrel of lubed ******
and **** thingamajigs
preggo, and *****
having group ***
licking edible *** beads
with her best friends
Hypno girl
Kink Ya
LiL Red
Toxic Candy
Slutty Bunny
and
**** Bait Bon Bon
a cabal of delicate feminine monsters
Subs and Doms
like a garnish of pimentos
red fire kimchee ****
and sweet butter pickles
and if i lose a girl friend
the spiders will find me a new one
i'm just a man getting on with life
driven by the loneness machine
that keeps me company
i'm just a man getting on with life
driven by the loneness machine
that keeps me company
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 6:06 PM UTC
epithets ethnocentric, writ or summons, the birth
and beginning of pataphysics, dreary ideas set aside
and conditioned, concurrently indeterminable, evils betide
man, noises and bones ossified, the mirth
of cheated demons frequent places, papers roseate worth
reading seven times after millions of chancy exasperation, qualified
soldiers groping in darkness, towns allied
with veterans, read oceanic maps and maps of the earth
are complied, pious assumptions of diverted water, patchy
knowledge of metaphysics coupled with slaves'
science ravaged, rulers' sacrifice reduced and sacrificed
rulers mediocre, rusty straps of metallics hold stones, catchy
choruses are mere repetitions of no one craves
dignity, waives privileges highly priced
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
*when he spoke
his voice was the sound of tomorrow
and his words were sweet and enigmatic
taking you to the fields and the forests
to the sound of the go-away bird
and the apocalyptic ground horn-bill
when he spoke
he was not so small a boy
his was alive with things no one understood
and made you feel it would all go well
even as the storms gathered and there was a swell
of fervour, mysticism and gallant conviction
that sent the sons of mothers to their many deaths
his name was freedom
liberty today and tomorrow the moon!
the cry rang out everywhere with electric effect
and there was no need for the double-speak of diplomacy
or the hollow-sounding epithets of hair-splitting academics
freedom spoke for himself*
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
Divine.
He was so divine in my eyes,
but he controlled me in the eyes
of others.
His words were far too
harsh for the
epithets of my soul, yet
I listened and let them
label me.
His hold over me
was divine.
His words were
divine with a power
of control
I'd never fallen under before.
It's what I knew.
It's what I understood.
He was my culture,
his words were my cultivation,
and his abuse was my apology,
striving for that of which
I couldn't control,
striving for that of a false dream
that never would happen.
It couldn't,
not when the fiber of my being
offered up no escape.
Divinity was his, and
I was his divinity.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC