Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Brooke Oct 2013
you always told me the littlest things
that you loved about me,
wether it was the spark in my eye
or the way i smiled in between
our make out sessions.
usually we'd sit and talk for hours,
trying to understand half
of the things you said.

you told me you loved
most of the things that i couldn't
figure out. it was like solving a jigsaw puzzle.
you loved the way
the sun kissed my face, so you'd reach out and touch it in the most
un expectable way.
you loved the way i teased you
before you leaned in to kiss me,
we both laughed because you
ran out of words to say.

so i told you all of the things i loved
about you.
as i told you, you tried hard
to make it clear that you were listening
and that i had your full attention.
i told you i wasn't good with words
and explaining my self.
but you understood anyway,
you still listened.
i couldn't find a way to
tell you
that i'm in love with you and everything
that you do.

maybe it was in the way
that you put your hand on my face
or the back of my neck,
when you leaned in to kiss me.
but i know that i wouldn't change it
for anything in the world.

-b.m
Dante Nov 2011
I’ve got a lock and key, what you got? You got a door,
                                      a shrapnel embedded cupboard
      Curiously covered up that there is, do you want go out?
      No I got a boyfriend, but I do have a few contraceptives
Or I could show you my funny parts and we could plateau on the platonic
Abstinence is on par with networking
                           Oh shipwrecks of relationships, your waters never looked safe, your shoreline so rocky,
                      but your sail, if you see what I’m saying. ******* that wind a high-inducing pitch of a stank
                                                                          You took me to the foreign lands and never brought me back,
                                                                          a souvenir got emailed. Which I have just picked up, it’s actually           rather beautiful,
especially if we picked it out together
It is a bullet and that is rather cliché in the expectable in this sense of the world,
but the copper lining is exquisite, insert random bit about consumerism
                                     Then spin a bit around voyeurism, then mention the outcome of the movies,
                                                                                  the moving bits. The back & forth where it all starts
But like I said, you want a contraceptive? Or maybe just a sock? How about a **** addiction?
This really isn’t a discussion we should be having,
                              I don’t like arguing about these things and I’m a transvestite and rather think they don’t apply
                                                See the bit you said was babies and the bit I said was from the bible
Jesus and Black Moses, walking down the street
Preaching for the freaks
Then the bit you said was more like, I don’t know what I’m saying, I mumble and moan
And think about *** and college and loans and the bit that really stuck out was
  
                                   “Babies, they really just freak me out.”
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
the nausea of wine is to say: one cannot drink it without eating, even after a meal, and a few slices of watermelon, the nausea from drinking it alone and not in the celebrated way with food... beer and whiskey are better compatriots to fuse a feeling upon feeling on an empty stomach, that spawn no nausea, but only reward at the limits an irresistible hunger that ends the ritual, unlike wine.*

sober composition is oh so unsatisfying,
so predictable, so afraid of the world so un-daring,
not patted by subtle sarcasm or some other Dionysian
muse: so rigid so accountable for strictness and base
facts...
      almost nothing heartfelt...
and so long winding it would seem,
without a clever feel for impromptu...
so time consuming and space
filling...
                           ...never again,
for this face it too recognisable,
to analogous to everything
else, so "with the times" or
by whatever definition
                        undemanding,
strained by the expectable,
never the unexpected even
in form of a nonsensical whim,
this sober use of language for
me the opposite of the poets
of the 20th century...
who invested in composition
in tiers higher even than drinking
beer...
          to me soberness is like
the higher tier of writing with
and within a certain intoxication
no intoxication at all...
a hefty sum of all elements,
all organs... where abstracting
the brain in the mind and allowing
a dis-joining of it:
to feed a placebo question
of fear relieved by actual fear
rather than its appreciation is no more,
or if nothing more, a bit like
awaiting caveman hunts reduced to shopping
in aisles of markets... deadened and therefore
predictable... afraid twice over with the loss
of familial tribalism of closet connectivity...
reducing us to a monetary interchange
or: broken roof, someone fixes it,
broken toilet, someone fixes it...
banking failure... suddenly we all congregate?!
i hate writing sober... it means i get to notice
i don't like my poetry, and poetry per se,
because i just don't want to voice it,
i just want to narrate, pure and simple...
a narration without characters akin to fiction,
or characters without third person narration
to ascribe a narcotic feeling of presence...
it's a drug that's hardly one worthy an ascription
of a psychoactive ingredient, it's a platonic cave drug,
a shadow you can touch and disappear...
i'm not like a writer of fiction,
i'm trying to reconcile poetry with philosophy,
i spend most of my times thinking, losing thought,
trailing with the unthinkable or simply thinking,
but i never see the book, that's why i'm sad
in terms of composition,
like the last wish of bukowski, to have written
a semi-pure fiction of the novel pulp,
to discard semi if not full autobiography...
true psychiatry is of the living
to read nuances into the once lived out leaving
notations... more to take care of the dead
than just through mantra or prayer...
if analysis leaves us without third party acquisitions
of thought away from the dualism of egos
as one sick and the other ascribing a status of healthy;
you see, it's a harsh case of not having
a narrators' complexity, not spending time
typing to excess, but the time spent
thinking about other people's units of thought:
also known as ideas... and with so many
decimals of measure a lifetime of individuals,
it is hard to narrate...
since the productive side aligns to dis-joined
expression of productivity,
and the economic side aligns to a linear fluid
expression of non-productivity....
it's hard to create a narrator let alone a narrative
of one's self without a loss of one's self to
the existential notation of a "self",
the inverse reminder of what writing fiction was
about: a concrete narrator...
there's no concrete narrator here,
no craft of character formulation...
instead we have an unstable narrator
that cannot truly narrate,
and the only character formulation
from the unease of the once eased narration
of existential fiction is a self lost among selves /
existential notation of a self as a "self" /
with loss of an anti-chiral hegelian approach
i.e. i am i... forgot the unearthing of a pluralism
of narrator that could not fathom a required
imagination for a raskolnikov,
                               marmeladov,
                               petrovich,
                               razumihkin... etc.
kfaye Jan 2017
the new milk stains her blouse. ruining it for the evening
we push legitimacy at it like a warm bath

the wires outside dangling from dead trees
and under the ground, are
    bringing
    things
    places


we make a pact to explore the transhumanist desire of language to escape    now-space
our
less than opaque skin will hurt itself trying to be                                                    more

unu­sed, falling from what passes for grace,
it will be expectable but idiosyncratic to the
                                  genre.

she is a force of nature
you mistake her for ****-doll. but you will be corrected

her lips are shining like rug burn☆
and the typos become art.

the favors search, inching upwards, laughing as we find the best parts

the whites of her eyes are old masking tape yet
my
teeth are grinding like wet bark on the car door.
leaving paint behind to mark off where we have been_
in a gesture that says
we existed.

— The End —