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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 -
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Songs of Oregon  No. 4
L O Jun 2013
I do not want love;
I want escapades.
Don’t need warm milk;
I want hard lemonades.
Please no shared sheets;
Just a sleeping bag for one.
And no tiny feet;
I’ll be mother to the rising sun.
No blue skies;
I want green lightening and glittering stars.
No diamond things;
I only want rings from hot cider and skidding cars.
Zy Marquiez Jan 2011
Baby, come close to me…
I will hold you tight, and I wont let go…
Baby, can your eyes now see…
The endless Love for you that I always show…?

Baby you are my fantasy…
My ecstasy…
You are the only one I ever wanted this much…
My sweetest wildest dream…
Always a new extreme…
Every single time both of our bodies touch…

Baby have you thought of…
Both of us running the beach hand in hand?
Have you ever wondered…
How we both would feel making love on white sands?

I keep thinking of all the times
All the times we shared
They caught us unprepared
And as we danced the night away both of our souls blared
I want you…
I need you…
I crave you…
But more than anything…
I love you…

Baby you are my fantasy…
You are my ecstasy…
Our hearts shall unite in sweet escapades…
You really are my wildest dream…
Always a new extreme…
We both shall taste our sinful cascades…

You’re my wildest fantasy…
Baby you’ll always be my sweetest sin…
The root of all my endless ecstasy…
You unlock desires that I hold within…
I want you more than anything…
You really do not know the passions you bring…

You are my sweetest ecstasy…
You are my wildest fantasy…
Baby you are the one that has set me free…
LDuler Dec 2012
You tell me that I am young
That life has merely licked me, not stung
That I do not understand, that I have not yet lived
Enough to grasp the substance

I have known disease
Slow tears, muted pleas
Pain that nothing could appease
I have known the smell of hospitals for summers
The beeping and slurping of machine in massive numbers

I have spoken to voiceless loved ones,
Loved ones with teethless mouths and twisted tongues
Distorted jaws and wheezing lungs.
We have spoken with little green charts
And broken hearts
From the inability to connect the mouth to the thoughts in the head
And I left without understanding,
What they had said
Because I eventually had to let it go
(I still don't know)

I have spent countless summer nights
In nature’s garb, floating silently in a river
So warm that my limbs, skimming the surface, didn't shiver
Under a clear sky, the stars like paradisiac lights
Without anyone ever finding out
About these wild and primal escapades

I've drank, I've smoked
I have burned my throat
With coarse lemon gin
Until I could no longer feel my skin.

I have been frightened
Yes I have felt fear, like a noose around my throat being tightened
Like a gruesome black crow, perched on my shoulder
I have often awoken affright at night,
Longing, praying, for the morning light
I have felt fear, wild, fierce and turbulent fear
More than anyone will everyone will ever know
By men, by life, by myself
Desolate under the sheets, like a forsaken toy
All by myself

I have seen Paris in the rain
Traveled the French countryside by train
I've woken up to New York window views
And seen New Orleans afternoons, filled with heat and blues.
I've swam the Mexican Baja waters, turquoise and clear
With snakes as sharp as spears

I have known humiliation
Causing my cheeks to turn carnation
A spoon, emptying my insides out
Like a gourd

I have loved
I have known the aching pain of a swelled heart
And the way it can tear you apart
I have gushed torrents upon my pillows and sleeves
Tears running down my chin like guilty thieves
From a lit-up house

I have known death, and grief
The meaning of "never"
Whimpering in the school bathroom
And cold, lonely nights

I have seen the works of Van Gogh, Mondrian, and Miro,
Modigliani, Cezanne, and Frida Kahlo
Of Monet, Gauguin, Matisse, Magritte, and Picasso
I have wandered through hallways of masterpieces
Holding tight to my grandmother's hand
And I have wept shamelessly for joy
Before Degas's La classe de danse

I have been diagnosed
I have undergone computer programs designed to shift my brain, to better it
To get me to be normal, to submit
I have had brain-altering medicine shoved down my throat,
Like stuffing a goose,
To make my brain run a little less loose
And I have submitted and gotten use to my brain being altered.

I have had kisses that were mere trifles
Frivolous, yet fierce and acute like shots from a rifle
Lips of mere flesh, not sweet godly nectar
And gazes that meant everything
That seemed to connect with an invisible yet indestructible string
Iris like distant galaxies and pupils twinkling like black jewels
Eyes that seemed enkindled by some ethereal fuel
Speaking of emotions far too secluded, cryptic and cluttered
To be worded and uttered

I know the way in which violence resides
Not in commotion, brusqueness, nor physical harm
But in silence
In the time that covers pain and secrets
In the slow impossibility of trust
In the way that some secrets become inconceivable to tell, time has so covered them in rust
In that dull, dismal ache
In all that is doomed to remain forever opaque.

I have read, for pleasure,
The works of Balzac, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Voltaire
Of Bobin, Gaude, and Baudelaire
Of Flaubert, Hemingway
and good old Bradbury, Ray
Émile Zola,  Primo Levi
Moliere, Rousseau, and Bukowski
I have read, and loved, and understood

I have known insomnia
The way a beach knows the tides
Sleepless nights of convulsive, feverish panic, of clutching my sides,
Of silent hysteria and salty terror.
I know what happens at night, when sweet slumber seems so far away
The worries and woes seem to multiply and swell in hopeless disarray
My lips grow pale, my eye grow sunken
As a time ticks by, tomorrow darkens

I have witnessed horror
In the form of a blue body bag
Being rolled out with a squeaking drag
By two yellow-vested men
With apologetic eyes
That seemed to say "Oh god
We're so sorry you had to see that
Please, please
Go home
And try to forget

But you are right
I am still just a child
Naive, innocent, and pure
I have known nothing dark or obscure
I have not yet lived.
I remember when we on that sunny afternoon
grabbed a Hanson to the Lyons tearooms
we were rather jolly and full of mischief
when in there you dropped your silk gloves
I bent down to pick them up, slowly you did lift your skirt
your legs did part, with a naughty devilish smile pert

We drank Earl Grey by the *** full
strawberry cream cakes with filling cool
laughing how extraordinary it was to find each other
both spirits of freedoms never forgotten
you pushed a cream cake in my face
and I got the cream down your blouse of lace

Then we started kissing and wanting more
that's when the staff showed us the door
and as we ran down the muddy cobbled road
you grabbed my arm and said let's stop I'm cold
pulling me in with eyes of wanton lust
you had your way with me at last

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Everyone a Sailor

Sept. 2010

Everyone a sailor,
everyone a waiter,
everyone a planner,
everyone an executive chef,
charting courses for grownuphood,
planning meals, banquets.

foolishness, selecting the ingredients for
an award winning recipe of life ,
marking stars,
sextant in hand,
make meetings,
scheduling a conference call,
practice risk taking,
serving, while multitasking

serendipity is mine to
make and behold

marry this one,
add a little cumin,
travel seven seas and
have seven sons,
the eighth I'll discover and
name it after me,
Son of Mine Own Stolen Days

Lighting or storm,
illness and thunder,
ne'er will be disturbances,
on my voyages

But we forget,
we err,
the danger of being becalmed is the one we ignore,
the slowest leakage,
drowned by seepage,
the small risk that transforms us from
sailors to one who
alone on a lost isle,
with nothing of substance on which to survive,
we slow starve to death on a
diet of our own
mixed metaphors

There was a time,
when I did not value time,
discarded days like seeds
random scattered in garden,
more curious than hopeful
what might appear, and uncaring if
they were all winded away

Who spent days like cash,
thinking I had plenty and
more to make,
gave away in haste
what had no redeemable value,
thinking time was refuse and waste

what need for chances,
daily escapades,
gave twenty years of mine
away to the undeserving, punished by God, cancer stricken
*****, who made me so miserable for so long,
in one grand gesture,
signed it away,
and asked the devil
for nothing in return

Did not drink,
Did not take pills,
Did not smoke,
But life disdained,
I try to **** myself
By eating TV dinners
six times daily

Do not laugh,
it nearly worked
and my obit
would have been the lead
side splitting ar-tickle in the
New York Times
Science Section!

But here I am
a survivor,
and I have formed
an association of one;
The Society of Explorers, Planners and Plotters
And Those Who Serve By Waiting

We meet once every day
for the rest of my life,
call the meeting to order,
Consult Robert's Rules,
Quorum of one present?
No new business?
Meeting adjourned!

Meeting Summary:
You may plan with good
You may buy or you may
You may be bereft or
You may plan or just
**but if you let a day pass
without recording one
poetical truth
in your own manner,
of your own choosing,
then you have failed
do not wait,
set sail!
This is one of them...
FYI. I stumbled
On a bunch of poems 2~3 years old.   Very different style.   Hohoho Merry Chanukah to me,   Most very long, will fire at will;  long so not suitable for the 10W crowd....sigh. Oh yeah, one more thing, I wrote them on my cell phone, usually in the bathtub, yes, I went thru a lot of  corporate phones...
daniel f Aug 2013
On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.

By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.
my ipad was running out of battery so I had to wrap it up
(Yes I am acutely aware of how terrible that makes me sound)
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
I'm a Man -
I can spit information
Out there, in any way,
Shape and form I wish;
And I do - spooging
Quanta all over the shop.
However, for all my
Brave endeavours -
My escapades and victories -
I can't create a Universe;
All I can do is document
And record and report
My various experiences.
She has the upper hand,
But She chooses a light
Touch; a guiding principal;
A mistress-led, masterful
Deception of InGenderMent
For the real --> OtherWise.
Enough is Enough, 7 of 9 (Night)
Overwhelmed May 2011
they carried guns
and bottles of beer and
boxes full of expensive
china and glass

their feet spilled
out in front of them
and their goods
out to the

the sirens
whined somewhere
they were
lost in the

these men would never
be more alive again
Bryce Aug 2018
It is early.

and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,

An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.

Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre

Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
**** of birth

Good Day, Sweet mother earth.

Squeezed through the valleys
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.

And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Cara D Nov 2013
I come to a bulwark
of quiet flesh, beating
to a hum of worldly
duress.  And cling, bare-handed,
to stiff ledges, bone tablets as steps.
And look upon irradiated, insular eyes,
bathing blue-bleached  irises
in wasteful drowned drops,
and find light-toothed ducts
emitting serrated levitations
of a tender sort of might.

There are women who stride
along on spherical streets,
and men who talk
to a range of idle watchers
and lonely listeners in a
dreamlike commotion

Spurred whistles flow through
lunar clipped doors, and curtains are
drawn closely to naked blades
and are grafted as reborn skin
and contort into a breathless maze.

And the blaze blows wispy ash plumes
that tremble down my legs.
And scald the rest, my bare, bare form, pressed
inward, into another,

into fast entwining, shaking hips.

To tongue-bound kisses from red tile lips.
euphony Apr 2014
baby boomers' education was creative
back then everyone was so imaginative
considering the economy was inactive
our perspective isn't the perceptive.

we were made from the earth's clay
from our mother's conception day
into the world we millennials came
treated by parents like we are so lame.

our technology is more advanced
millennials are so very benevolent
i guess it is such a bad expectation
s/o to my ***** Richard Dawkins.

they say back then we called friends
we say today we text friends
they say gas was worth 35¢ a gallon
we say gas is worth $3.35¢ a gallon.

they say we had black and white tvs
we say ****** we got colored tvs
but there is a paradigm masterpiece
it just makes you stand to your feet.

considering our generation escapades
theirs created the existence of AIDS
now we millennials are not to blame
that is what made their time so lame.
(: hope this makes sense to the millennials out there on :)
Luna Jay Aug 2015
Never trust a Florida boy,
In that muggy, humid heat.
I'm telling you, little girl,
Your heart will soon taste defeat.
Them deep fried southern marshes,
Raising mosquitoes and deceit.
The greatest place on earth can keep its ******* receipt.

The air as thick as my blood was,
When I met your eyes.
And yours met hers,
And your monster claw,
Tore her smooth skinned thigh.

I felt that painful scream.
Boiling up. Melting my chest inside.
What's the point of being still while my mind is feeling fried?

So I packed my heavy load of anxiety,
And headed for the coast.

I watched the orange sunset,
As I brought up a salty toast,
From my eyes.
Solemnly, spilling into the sea.
And I felt the spirit of an old friend.
Leaning rigidly against me.
So I turned on heel and didn't speak a sound.
As I turned to leave the now known ghost town.

And I gave one last grim look back out at the sea.
As I write these tattered goodbyes,
To where my feet have rambled me,
And I let my tongue wrap around the ribbons of goodbye,
Escaping my parched lips.
And I shutter as I listen to the sound of my heart as it rips,
An angered storm of sea,
Flooding down my eyes.
Knowing this is where the memories of escapades in our days, lays down and dies.

I feel the faint.
Bleak pain, blanketing us,
Weak and weary.
And I know our story has a melancholy mood of dreary.
And this is where I end it.
And cast it all out to sea.
And I leave the tragic bays of what I once called Rosemary.
Sometimes its best to walk on.
Left Foot Poet Oct 2015
my diet of ideas
is without carbs
that convert to saccharine;
a life filed by the pauses of milky hot coffee sips,
these are the protein compositional periods,
in my otherwise,
stuttering life

when they come to me,
these escapades of poems~moments
'tis the only nutrition this man needs
October 26, 2015

for Steve Reimer
With Dot in the Hospital
2 reputed mini strokes.
A fevered delirium then emerges,
whispers of witchcraft are rife in the ward;
words sunken as rafters
rasping to strike again,
attempted barefoot  escapes
escapades as sure as her once hero
Charlton goalie  Sam Bartram
to be that sprightly girl again
her perseverance draws.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Running with my pals
No thought of going home.
Anything is better than
Being there all alone.
Nobody cares back there
But with friends I’m someone.
We laugh and talk together
Nobody ranks on anyone.

We get a little bit drunk
Or ****** when we can
But mostly we just visit
And look out for the man.
The cops like to hassle us
Because we look like kids.
Not because of what we are
Or from something bad we did.

We sit around empty houses
Where people moved away
And party in growing numbers
Some have guitars to play.
We sing songs we all know
And some original tunes.
But if the weather is good enough
I like to walk under the moon.

The street can be a scary place
Or it can be an amusement park
If you are careful about things
And not afraid of the dark.
And, of course, when I go home
They never notice I was gone.
It won’t be too much longer
And I’ll be permanently moving on.
Bergen Franklin May 2015
what is the point of all this?
why do humans bother with such useless games
bother with pointless escapades
all we are is glorified beasts
******* between every feast

th­e food is rotten to those who hear
the buzzing of flies in rotting flesh
the stench of deep regrets
is sweet to those who forget

what is the point of all this?
why do humans bother with such useless games
bother with pointless escapades
all we are is glorified beasts
half asleep

illusions of grandeur filling our brains
dreams as sweet as the buzzing of flies
why bother?

dreams are fantasy.
nothing more.
what we want,
what would make hearts soar.
waiting for a window or door,
what pleases us to our very core
dreaming too long simply gives you bed sores.

what is the point of all this?
why do humans bother with such useless games
bother with pointless escapades
all we are is glorified beasts

we exist for one simple thing.
again, again, and again.
All we are is gilded beasts
writhing in a lustful heap
niamh May 2015
Bodies grinding together
On a grubby hormone-filled dancefloor.
Cheap drinks
And cheaper perfume.
A taxi ride shared
Through grubby streets,
Bodies lying together
On sweaty sheets.
She lies beside him
And plans a future.
He lies beside her
And plans an escape.
AJL Oct 2013
Mental debates of moving on and
Leaving the past, she dreams
Of working things out to make
Them last, she’s all too familiar
With solitude, its wonders,
Its dedication to her companionship

They walk hand in hand
Looking, staring at silhouettes, still vivid
and bright as the day that she first opened
Her eyes to Dalia smirks, truly hurt
She watches in awe
As he carefully places
The pieces to the puzzle of
A black and white field

Strategies flow easily from behind
The dam that is a set of porcelain eyes
Sworn to secrecy only for self fulfillment
Along the checkered floor she explored
Boundaries she had never encountered
He leads her as his pawn of choice

Through torturous escapades against
Rookie creatures and staggering Horsemen
They wane on her chances of successfully
Obtaining the crown of glory
He pushes her forward with a touch
Soft and soothing, no reason
To doubt his reasoning

She gives up the greatest of gifts, trust
In his hands she quietly moves
With no complaints, forward
Out toward a troublesome mine field

With every space she’s placed in
She’s laced with waste traced with her Demise,
he plays the creator,
How humorous it seems
The slightest sense of secure attachment
Provides a false sense of security
The way he touches her persuades
Her he’ll never let her fall

In his embrace she doesn’t see
The smirk of disgust as his face
Twisted, wretched and gruesome
Grins at the only pleasure she provides him
Empty bliss he can only wish to fill
His grasp, once tender and warm
Clenches down on her with splintering pain

With silent screams of despair
She comes closer to her peril
Glimmering crown, in the scope of her sight
The only sense of hope left in her mind
The next move can be her last
With only hopes of a clear road
As he once again guides her

Calm and steady with the kindness
He once displayed when she
Naïvely dreamt of how her life
Truly should become
Her struggles slowly ease away
From the pain she once felt

Never showed it even in the
Biggest battles he lead her through
Now she lay motionless alongside her
Fallen obstacles in complete darkness

Six cold silent walls surround
Her in her slumber until another
Cruel puppeteer falls across
The coffin of demise and despair
kirk Nov 2018
I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an ugly *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !
What can I say about Annette Tidy, as you may or may not know, I discovered writings concerning Miss Tidy's shall we say carnal activities in February 2016, there we're further details of her misdemeanours 2 years later. Both sightings inspired me to write a poem the first of which is titled " Oh Annette Tidy" .
After the second sighting I then wrote " Oh Annette Tidy's Back Again " I thought I was done with our Annette until I began writing this new poem, so you might say the Annette Tidy saga has now become a trilogy of **** escapades, I hope you enjoy it and I wonder if this will be the last we will hear from Annette Tidy ?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
me and my drinking? no... in the next sandpit with christ saving all the retards so heath ledger can **** himself, because the best defence people have against their ****** escapades are a bunch of retards limbless, a crucifix, and the modern trend of premature depression with nothing accomplished and the torture of the immobile christ only trying to provide moloch babies ****** herders: while the rich worry about lip-gloss and gucci spectacles of torn shirts that cost a mammon's tonne but were lighter than an autumnal leaf: yeah, blame the retards on sane people's *** mistakes for saint ******. your choices obstruct my will: fated loathing is my compromise; and by god i hate to be a moraliser.*

i drink to excess when a populist
wants to speak,
and poetry becomes just
another art of the privileged
and i become simply ***,
god give me a life where i don't want
to write, a night without national socialism
and global capitalism:
where's the next competition, mars?!
i used to like playing silverchair's shade
with my guitar, my guitar became an acoustic
5 string rhythm which was hardly a bass...
so i stopped playing...
it's talk about moral darwinism when
a tsunami or a tornado has no darwinism involved:
force of nature, some theories had to fail.
i'm more accepting a retired drunk footballer in me
or an alex hurricane higgins in me that
i wish to delve into poetics:
when the next informal figure of speech
to buy an iron or a jumper? when? oh, never...
never?! ****.
***** acting killed off *** of the usual people,
i knew on the basis of numbering fake *******
that switched sides....
they call objectivity superior to subjectivity...
but in relation subjectivity comes from having
a talk about it, not automatons disposing it...
have talk about ******* and all you can think
of in your little nerd brain is the foreseeable pay-rise
of garbage men... hence?
subjectivity comes from overbearing certain objects
for rhetorical purposes...
and leaving other objects automatically based
like sewage...
objectivity says: this many objects exist
but i don't talk about most of them...
subjectivity says: this many subjects exist
but i dare not see most of them as related to
a specified object for argument that's nonetheless there:
acronym tangle of being relevant, otherwise not...
politics... in rhetorical terms there's a superiority of
one against the other...
i see a fern... can i explore it subjectively? no.
can i explore the fern objectively? yes....
there's a tree next to it...
how does that make feel? it makes me feel like:
i exist, i think, therefore i philosophise by faked doubting
like a woman faking ******... mind that:
men are more nautically optical when it comes to pleasure,
women close their eyes when *******,
they internalise what's otherwise exposed masculine
genitalia forced like a beauty hernia -
male eroticism is optic, female eroticism zeniths are
internalised for the bred fact of being both vaginal
and womb, so scary the eroticism dies when
the foetus replaces the post-virginity fancy of the phallus;
but still the ****** actresses that destroy marriages,
but none can destroy the joke:
lips got the treatment of balloon augmentation
and clitoral lips got islam: the former puffed up
and the latter got the snip-factor for less oral ***.
now will you please play me the arabic trombone?!
JJ Hutton Jul 2014
The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.
I've been going right on, page by page,
since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage,
two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out,
double-crossing out lives with doubt,
leaving us separate now, fogy with rage.

But then I've told my readers what I think
and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink,
have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed,
have pasted a black wing over my left breast,
have washed the white out of the moon at my sink,

have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore,
indeed, have loved that eggless man once more,
have placed my own head in the kettle because
in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias,
because this errand we're on goes to one store.

That shopkeeper may put up barricades,
and he may advertise cognac and razor blades,
he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries,
he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy,
he may let such as we flaunt our escapades,

swallow down our portion of whisky and dex,
salvage the day with some soup or some ***,
juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall,
let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital,
lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks,

let us be folk of the literary set,
let us deceive with words the critics regret,
let us dog down the streets for each invitation,
typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation,
letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet

they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly,
given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly,
exploding with blood in this errand called life,
dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife,
tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly,

tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises,
wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes,
and unties our bone and is finished with the case,
and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face
or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs
like moth wings for a short while in a small place.
M Nov 2014
Seaside escapades
Up and down beaches,
High tide and sun rise-
Where my heart chose to stay.

Evergreens and dirt ground
Trekking trails, running down hills
Jumping off rocks into the lake-
This is where my happiness was found.

Pass time outside,
Where time ceases to exist
And all my worries fade away-
I continually wish this is where I woke, where I reside.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
because of the appreciation built in
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me
thinking I like celery better than carrots, and the rest you just read...
Silent murmurs escape broken lips.
It is done.
The deed is through.
As I sit in the moonlight,
Accomplishment washes over my pale form.
I finally picked apart your facade,
Revealing every hidden sinew within.
You yearn for solace,
But there simply isn't any.
Everything you ever wanted
Now lies broken at my feet.
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
I did read a first chapter of my sister's book published in a newspaper many years ago; thinking it was a well written review,   when I discovered the true author's identity, my family teased me mercilessly
11-29-17 13:18 est

^ sometimes I read an oldie and think not bad, which  makes laugh when I say out loud,  
did I write that?
Magical silence of Midnight..
as we ponder moments of life.
Solemn  thoughts at tranquility..
Virtues guiding our pursuit..
Images of distant loves..blurr our waning thoughts..
Envisaged You through virtual reality
of thirty years or some more
so ago,
I haven't encroach Thy heart
to no one but You.
A rare bloom floret to my sight!
Beauty Ahah!,,I cant resist this thorn in my Rose Garden.
"And tempted by the charming fragrance of
the blooming gardener".- whom He divulged:
                "Purple bloom reflects a purple heart that expresses love unsurpassed,,,I am writing these words  with my crimson blood ,, to equal thy charm the glow of your love"
He recounted to me over.
Then I know I behold to keep it in my
cognizant jeweled mind, oh so dear.
With my long blondish brown hair
swaying softly cool but warm.
Truly though agitated by the
earthly abating absence-
of Your tangible touch.
Unsurpassed by my astral dream
with much ado!
Gladly remembering You,
in my fervent thoughts.
Thereby cherishing you
on times when things make sense
to me-
out of distress,
to madness so unlikely permeates.
When I am down in anguish, I couldn't weather!
                      "Let the beauty of the woven words ,,
                        guide Your day into fruitfulness, so deary,
                        "Let the rhythm and cadence gives You music in Your restlessness."
  Sir I said, ' I love You" withal affirms..
                       "Let the laughter of my jokes, '
                         lighten Your burden, ease Your yoke,
                       "Let the fire of fiery words be Your armor n silent sword!"
Woe to me as I heed to hearken and thirst for more!
                       "Let d spell of Your poignant smile,,
                         fills my cup instead of wine,,so that I may lie in deep slumber
                         as I gulp Your sweet nectar so divine!"
                         T'is lady  Rose ( scientific name liigaiea vellenoeva) is the best
                         of them all,,
                       I wanna pick her!'
He likewise and inadvertently  told thine.
Along came my sweet behold, I so to keep.
Love such a splendor, undeniably volatile,
in total intimacy desperately onto
Yodeling and Yonder fire churning escapades,
To someday crossed our paths
should not perish, So afar!
I beseech thee, make me a swell great day!
Even though  fuming flowers and bees so abounds!
In a ROSE  minted heartland
truly endowed.
Thy thorn so stuck amidst for
You and me
For every storm to grasp its thrushes,
Be res-assured nifty and dandy
For you my daddy
to come Home to,
and hangout together.
That pokes and pukes
Lingered though day in day out,
From jive to logic.
From sane to insanity.
Only one soldered Thorn sojourns!
David Barr Nov 2013
Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.
megan Apr 2016
When I first heard of the concept of self harm, in sixth or seventh grade, I didn’t believe it could be addictive. I didn’t understand how people tore apart their skin just for the sake of tearing things apart.

That changed real quick when I had my first panic attack at 14 and used a dull pair of scissors to scratch a line down my arm. It barely even bled, but it was the beginning of something. It was a temporary peace, a comfort in the moment and a monster in the next.

And so it began. I bought men’s razors, carried them home in my pockets and hit them against dressers and with books until they broke apart. I hid the blades in a small cardboard box behind the books on my shelves, hid bandages and antiseptic and a long, dull razor blade (the kind you use to cut glass and paint) that I’d stolen from my dad’s tool bench. Just in case I needed to escalate.

I wore long sleeves and jeans to cover my misdeeds, the long, thin scratches lined up neatly along my thighs. Monthly became weekly became every other day as I lost control of myself, lost myself in the glint of blades and the pools of red and the feeling of pure, unadulterated relief. I was 14 acting like my life was coming to an end (I was convinced it was). I wrote poetry in the empty pages of my French workbook and scratched panicked lines down my forearms in Geometry. I became a shell of myself, a shell pockmarked with fading scars, little white lines that screamed at me whenever I dared to look.

I liked them. I wanted more scars, I wanted them everywhere, I wanted physical, permanent records of my failings and my abysmal self-worth. I wanted a reminder that I could still feel something.

Sometimes I stopped. Six months after I started I decided I needed to quit, so I drew butterflies on my arms and labeled them with the names of people I loved. I stayed off the drug for something like three months, leaving my blades untouched in their hiding place. When my grandpa died, it became too much and the blades came out, crashed into my shaking hands as I heaved with loss and the revelation that I felt nothing.

One weekend I came home from a lake trip with my dad and my best friends to find that my blade box, hastily shoved under a pillow, was gone. After searching under the bed for a good twenty minutes I determined that my mom had found it. So I waited for the next few weeks to be approached, for her to ask what the deal was, for her to say anything. And she never did. That was when I lost faith in the adults in my life and that was also when I bought new razors to keep in a new box in a new hiding place. I carved my resentment into my arms now, instead of on my legs where I’d already mapped out months of self-torture. On my arms they were visible.

I sometimes rolled my sleeves up in class, past my hidden Band-Aids and sometimes up past my scabbed cuts, to see if anyone would notice. No one did. I wasn’t cutting for attention, but I was lost and looking for help.

My best friend taught me how to sanitize my blades, walked with me to Target to buy razors and bandages. It was surreal how normal it was to us. We were talking each other out of suicide every other week because we didn’t want to be alone but we didn’t want to be alive, either. I was so, so scared that I would wake up one morning to find her dead.

My cuts went from panicked, messy, urgent to carefully executed, perfectly straight lines. I had it down to a science, sometimes going months in between but always thinking about the next fix. A year passed. I thought about it less.

There was never a moment that I decided to stop, but somehow I did, between my first job and my driver’s license and my transition into adulthood. I traced the scars on my arms but didn’t really feel like making new ones -- I was still sad, constantly, but I had started teaching myself to be happy, to find love for myself and beauty in life. As I write this, I’ve been clean for over six months.  

The urge fades over time. Sometimes, in the midst of a 3 a.m. surge-of-panic, I’m tempted to take the few blades I still have out of the iPhone box in the top drawer of my dresser. But then I remember that cutting didn’t solve anything, and it never will. My escapades in self-harm taught me to be kind to myself. And it’s so, so hard every single day. I still wish for more scars, more representation of the suffering I lived through, but I’m still breathing and I’m slowly clawing myself out of the mouth of this beast. I’m alive.

Because at the end of the day, all you can do is survive.
Darkin Aug 2010
What have I known, what do I know?
Smiles make me stop and stare.
Those moments.
oh -
Those perfect moments.
I have to stare a little longer.
Linger on your motions.
Your eyes catch mine.
We both have to look away, it is to much
for sight                    for words                    for sounds.
These feelings.
I can reminisce about us.

I remember when I was happy.
I could hold God in my hands.

I am so happy that

And I.


It is because of all of you.

I barely make it through the day when I see you.
You see my heart skips a beat...
and then another.

Sometimes I pretend we photographed the escapades of light.
Sometimes I remember the tents on the ocean.
Sometimes I pretend we have seen sun rises.
Sometimes I pretend that we go places no one dares to go.
Sometimes I remember the brevity of our moments.

But don't you remember?
Those are memories.

I don't believe it.
I love you.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,


omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -


but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
Valerie Shvetz Oct 2011
she was a dancer , her name never known ,
even to her lovers she was a mystery to societies curiosity
her actions were known throughout the world
her escapades publicized in the most provocative ways
her passions flowing , no one could fill one could reach beyond the surface
No one knew her outrageous thoughts, no one seeked out her pain
her words failing to the comparisons of her skin
her opinions drowned out by her flowing hair and glistening eyes
her love unsuspected due to her ***
she was a woman of no woman
the way she spoke shot shivers down one's spine
her walk was one that could stop disasters
she was free , but oh so captured,
all they could see was someone they could use
her frail thoughts
her discontent life , her restrictions
restrictions no man could see
she gave herself to all
but no one
she was an angry one not knowing why she was born herself
why she was alone , and why she couldn't help it with all
the physical , skin on skin , caressing
her soul was empty
her mind was full
no one would fill her , no one would reach beyond the surface
reach through her chest...
of her blood
the pumping vessels
no one could see the little sad girl
all they could see is the carnal urge
exploit  it for their own pleasure
someone that would unimaginably cater to their every need
she was a woman , of no woman
she was a misty memory of their days
not a lasting impression ,
just undeniably beautiful
she constantly wondered if she could live through the day
if anyone would see..
if anyone could be the one to save her ,
if anyone could just reach through her chest and rip out her beating heart
just to prove it had been there in the first place.
quite often she would lie in bed ,
dreaming of her prince
he had been a dark man ,
always in her thoughts,
he had brought her more insecurities then she could ever dream of
but for one reason or another she had wanted him
she had wanted his thoughts,
his breath ,
his words ,
his tone ,
she'd dream of it all down to the freckle,
she had imagined a man so unbelievably unrealistic...the one for her,
the only one she could think that could save her
she needed to be saved ,
she'd been overpowered by her imagination and fluid thoughts her entire life,
they had never come true, and this , this man , she knew wouldn't be any different .
she'd often think of herself , her big light brown eyes , her flowing long hair, her unchanged smile , her brilliant skin tone ,
and slit her self through and through ,
she would open her flesh and think ,
there had to be something more to her than just skin and bones.
but no matter how far she'd look
she could never find
what she was looking for ,
could not be found by her painful injections
her constant smoking ,
her bathing in pure water , she couldn't seem to find anything at all ,
and that's when she decided to stop
to end it all
with one fair day
one sunny day
she knew the day and looked for it in everyday there was
but it hadn't come yet.
but she was waiting.. patience my darling she kept saying
it will be over soon .
He was a man of no man
he was the one everyone looked to for anything at all
he was spiraling out of control
in his own excuses for his ceasing life
his own tormenting thoughts
he was a lonely boy since childhood
he was surrounded by people with their doubts and angst
teaching others to live ,
but had never lived a day in his life
he had sandy brown hair that any woman sweetly touched with ease,
he had light green eyes that any woman would be bewildered by ,
dark flawless skin that any woman would be glad to touch
the only thing a woman lacked for him ,
the one thing that he had longed for his entire life was forgiveness ,
forgiveness for his actions ,
forgiveness for his thoughts ,
forgiveness for his grief
understanding of that would make any woman the one for him ,
except that this quality was lost on the world
hard to find ,
he knew
he searched for years
and one day he gave up
gave up to find forgiveness
gave up looking for one that would grant him his everlasting wish
he had given up his life in all
there were no more excuses
he had decided
a gloomy day he thought to fit the occasion
shot gun to the head seemed plausible
and defiantly permanent.
he searched for that day in everyday he lived.
both crossed paths ,
she never knew this but he had seen her from long away
she was beautiful
she had the quality he knew it
sitting in the coffee shop he approached her
she smiled just like with any man
but he saw right through that smile of hers
he sat her with her speaking , laughing , drinking and he knew ,
she was the one to forgive him and he knew she needed this too
this exact connection they had
she saw him as just any other man ,
playing the field trying to taste her sweetness
but she also saw something odd about the way her looked at her
almost as if he was actually looking inside of her
trying to get to know her insides.
this was impossible she thought..
he took her contact,
told her he would call
she thought he was just trying to be polite
he went home with a big smile on his face .
the world was singing to him
the divine was giving him another chance at life
she was a gift, a gift that would fill his emptiness
he came home and called her straight away.
she answered and they planned another gathering.
he was on cloud nine , shooting for the moon
he set off the next morning to meet her ,
he had imagined the way she spoke the whole way
the way she looked ,
although he couldn't quite remember ,
but her essence stayed with him , her smell her softness,
he felt at bliss , utter happiness
when she woke up that morning , she saw an oddly sunny day
she knew this was the day , taking her own life wasn't hard ,
she threaded the noose around the shower rod ,
fit her head perfectly through the hole
stood on her tippy toes on the edge of the bath
let loose
her neck snapped instantly
she did not shed a tear ,
one thought hung in her mind right before she let go ..
what if he had been her prince...the one she was waiting for.
he sat in the coffee shop for hours waiting for her ,
minute by minute he saw people walking in and out of the building
excitement struck at almost every sighting ,
then followed by shear disappointment .
the afternoon turned dark ,
clouds hung around the city
rain poured down
the gloomy day he's been expecting had come ,
he had felt emptier than he'd ever felt before.
he walked home in the violent rain
stepped in the door of his home for the last time soaking wet
took the gun from his bedside table ,
placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger
within the second
his last flailing thought was ..
why hadn't she saved me. ..
two lovers that would have been
died within their emptiness and doubt that day ,
never knowing why,
one hadn't saved the other
true love.
A fairy tale.
This story(poem) is very important to me and i'd like some notes because I'm submitting it for a writing contest.
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
for I work by day, but live by night*

not an axiom, a formula, for success and wealth,
not a suggestion, not seeking a reaction,
it is a plain as night
still don't recommend it as a way of life

but if the shoe/life fits
wear it,
even as no sleeps. speeds up your arrival
at the Grand Central Terminal

in black eyed circles, endless pointless future worrying,
in bad poems writ after midnight after midnight
when the quiet
keeps you company - a friend that asks for nothing

(but an occasional mention in one of the poems born
in the delivery room of the dark)

but through the nighttime writing escapades
I am more than renewed,
a born again human
with a covenant, armed to the teeth,
drinking his dis-owned fluids and juices,,
spilling out as staccato words,
splitting his infinitudes

if you had foreseen this as my future fate,
a lonely human up all night,
with the night and words making his
holy triumvirate, I may have thought
there are worse ways to prepare
for the silence that comes after
the no more arrives
and we depart

Sara L Russell Apr 2010
(aka Pinky Andrexa)
4/4/10  02.09am

I am walking in a daydream under skies forever grey,
Lying always in the shadow of ambitions all foregone;
I'm going through the motions of another working day,
Feeling permanently static, as the world is moving on.

And you're forever shining like some distant blazing sun,
You're gleaming as I'm dreaming, making all who see you smile;
The wings upon your heels still elevate you as you run,
So many want to be you, or would emulate your style.

From distance I behold you, as a cat beholds a king,
All doors open before you, in successions of success;
Your flame's forever burning, while my own is dwindling,
I could not be further away, or love you any less.

While you, you dice with danger, dancing on the precipice,
Leaving admirers breathless at your daring escapades;
And all your leading ladies ever burn to taste your kiss,
Your destiny speeds to you riding jet-powered rollerblades.

Yet two unlikely paths have crossed and subtle friendship blooms,
And many dreams take flight between the gutter and the stars;
Making the span of distance shrink into adjoining rooms
Opening secret passageways, where chosen dreamers pass.
(For you dear friend; the nicest person I never met. x x)

NOTE: The second line of the last stanza "And many dreams take flight beneath the gutter and the stars;" refers to Oscar Wilde's famous quote "We are all of us in the gutter; but some of us are looking at the stars."
Sam Temple Jul 2014
elegant escapades
everglade excursion
elevating emotions
enchanted evenings
egrets and ermine –
elated elephants encircle
entering estrus –
evangelical elders
each embedded
even the entrenched
earn ecstatic event entrees
eat and expand
experience –
explorers explode
expanding energy
eloquently –

— The End —