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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
nothing-to-be-done-****-aggravation,
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
specialisms
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
Mike Essig Apr 2015
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce**

Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff  of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian  moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
   - mce
My most recently published work, by the folks who pronounced me dead.
Ted Scheck Jan 2014
I'm a Prisoner Trapped Inside a
Little Rectangular Marvel
Which knows, to six decimal ...'s,
My position on Earth

And the irony is that...
Electronically found,
I feel lost.

Way before we knew about
Jeep *** EssSs...
I lived 300 miles away,
In a little town called
Bettendorf, Iowa.

Few days after last
Christmas.
I made the journey
Back. To the
Former.
Place I existed, survived,
Lived, thrived (albeit briefly)

I took my family with me.
Or, I went with my family.
The four of us in the same vehicle,
Anyhow.
300 miles in December.
There was snow everywhere
Else. Not on the road, thank
You.

You leave bits and pieces of
Yourself in the place that is
The home for your feet, blistered
And toe-stubbing sidewalks and
Your hands grasping frozen Gym-
Door handles on Minus 10 Saturdays
When you bundle up and slog 1.3 miles
To play Dodgeball all Saturday afternoon.
(And returning it's twice as cold and dark is
Edging its fangs over the dim, muted horizon)

You sweat in the summer. Profusely,
Drops of the stuff watering brown
Grass. You bleed in the snow,
Stark red on even pastier
White, though it feels
Painful only in the abstract.
Sometimes numbness is better
Than painness.

You get blisters from raking leaves
In that season that seems
To have gone palavering somewhere
East of here.

These fringes of leavings, like
The tiny toenail clippings you spy
As you use a foreign bathroom, balefully
Eyeballing someone else's Medicine
Cabinet of Curiosities.

So we went to the place
Formerly known as home.

You can travel a linear or
Non-line-like distance back
To the place where you cut
Your teeth on life, and life cut
Its own bicuspids on you, but fading,
Fading,
Only the shimmering
Ephemeral memory of an
Equally diaphanous memory
Of those teethmarks exist.

Or, succinctly put:
The past is dead.
Long live the passed!
(But not the vaporous
Kind)

Still, we pine for the earlier
Times, younger and much,
Much more innocent, gull-
Able, even: When time had
Not yet painted and varnished
Us so much, the years piling on
Our faces deeply and thickly,
Lined canyons of worry criss-
Crossing our brows, the feet
Of those ****** crows nestling
Where our eyes end in points;
The sagging, the
Lowering of once springly,
Spritely flesh. 3 chins.
Since when do I need two
Extra chins?
**** you, Gravity!
**** you to Heck!

We travel back on new
Roads over the great
Old ones that used to be
Concave asphalt trips to
Anywhere and Nowhere
Special, they all were, even
The ones that led to hilarious
Dead ends.

Wow! There used to be a
(Insert memory here)
But hey! Lookit that!
A Yarn Barn. Hmm.

And oh! I lost my
(Insert memory here)
In that very back parking
Lots of Tots? What kinda name
Is that for a Pre-School!
Open on CHRISTMAS? Whaaaat?
My hometown has lost
Its mind.

And then silence, as the
future that passed us by
Reasserts itself so strongly-
It might as well be screaming
At us from useless billboards
Selling crap we don't need.

This place is a foreign
Country to me. I don't know
When it stopped being home
And now, I really don't care.
Let's do this thing, family, this
Familial obligation, and then kick
The stupid dust from this town
Off our tailpipes.
Go, Bettendorf!
Go, Bulldogs!
Go, next-town-over!
Go on with your bad
Selves.
Because, people of these
Towns, in 30, or 25, or 12, or
4 years, you'll blink, and find
That you no longer recognize
The place you can't call
Home any longer.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
jeffrey robin Aug 2013
She said:

He loves me !

He really does!

---

I said:

naw, he aint that stupid

--

She ran after me screaming:

You *******!

--


I said:

He's the one makin a ***** outta you
Pretending to love you
---
--

The next day I saw her in the cafeteria eyeballing me

Then she smiled

I nodded

--

We shall be together Prom Night

..

Takin a Long Walk thru the Woods
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Choked up wonderment
still tastes like regurgitation
but numbness comes with it

It is fear
encompassing unfinished things
lump in throat
blood dropping degrees
in temperature
Chronicling this cool
deliberate **** of senses
incessant soul questioning

Worth
feasible future
nevertheless struggle
after eternal struggle

Eyeballing transports of delight
amongst wrestled trauma
morality’s cusp of change
Sacrifice or sacrifices
self-destruction
abandonment to death

Senicide
walk into icy tundra
Inuit elder casting himself away
to frozen abyss
and crystalline corpse
for good of tribe

One less to feed
left on floating iceberg
Dark day’s sunrise
Senicide is the giving of oneself for the greater good of the group. Usually, an elderly or mamed individual who feels their worth to a community has diminished to point of burden.
Fay Jan 2021
I am sitting in the rain,
Awaiting the bus.

I want to go home.

But I am sitting in the rain,
Awaiting the bus.

The bus is here, but I don't want to get on.

So I am standing in the rain,
Considering the bus.

The driver opens the door, waiting for me to enter.

And I stay standing in the rain,
Eyeballing the bus.

"Ready to go?" I shake my head, but enter anyway.

I am sitting on the bus,
staring at the rain.
i still dont like the bus.
i've been a woman for nineteen and a few months years
and i've never looked at waitstaff
and asked
can i get that with a side of guilt?
but i should have
because it feels like that's what i
am ordering
instead of fries because
all the salt in the world
can't cover up the taste of guilt and self loathing i feel for eating sometimes
this is for all of the ladies i know who look at cookies
longingly, but tell themselves no
only to eat an entire box of them later
and cry
and most women will never admit to it
but i've been there
and cookies don't taste so good when
you're tossing them up
and this is for the ladies i have watched in the grocery store
eyeballing the candy bars like they are men in dark
allies or
snakes in the grass
because the magazines sitting right beside
them are watching you watching that candy bar watching you watching your weight watching those inches around your waist watching you
and telling you that you aren't good enough
a moment on the lips forever on
the- hold that ******* thought
because my lips and hips have two things in common-- they are big
and they want all this
******* to stop
every time a woman prattles off how many calories are in a drink
i can't help but correct her in my mind because
i know for a fact that there are five more calories in that than she told me
because i've been counting calories and playing games with my stomach since
second grade.
i may be **** at algebra, but i know intake out-take math like
i know the smell of my grandma's cigarettes.
eating meals with other women
is unbearable because i am tiered
of having to eat entire cinnamon buns
to myself because
my friends wont split them with me
and i'm tiered of watching women
talk about eating too much but
wanting to get
back
on
it
tomorrow like
feeding themselves is a crime
and so the next time i go to
cookout for a blueberry shake
i'll ask you to leave out the guilt
because it fills my throat up
like sand and my teeth
are brittle and tired from being
bared and ground
while i
battle with myself
over the baked goods at
a coffee shop
wondering if
i feel like hating myself
today
Wuji Sep 2012
Being here before the bible,
I have learned nothing has ever been planned.
Byproducts avoided bullets,
Because all the bandits all have lost an eye.  

Never can put my finger on it,
Newly **** imagines that I wish I knew,
Fogging up the nightmare's window.
Now evaporate back into your nimbus.

I can see past the eyes,
They all think they are invisible.
Like a heated igloo in a blizzard,
Imploding inevitable but still comforting to look at.  

Everywhere I sense the uneasiness,
That stampede of silent elephants.
Eyeballing the problem might just scare it off,
But everything equal can still tip a scale.
  
Pieces of this puzzle,
Are too interesting not to play with,
Making products through plagiarizing the ideas,
Given to us by our planet.  

But nothing is ever planned.
Rambling.
Willard May 2018
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tall buildings
perpendicular to highways,
penthouse balconies
thirty meter diving platforms.

whenever in San Fran,
i pancake my hands together
so i don't do impromptu Physics
eyeballing skyscrapers.

I want to be a crab cake
because I like tornado sirens
at two in the morning,
someone fetal position mouthwash drunk
in the bed next to me.

whenever in Birmingham,
i listen to my headphones;
tinnitus a siren wail
long after the flight home.

I want to be a crab cake
because I like bridge collapses;
infrastructure devastation
west of Florida,
killing all granola exports.

whenever in Portland,
i waitlist college signs
and estimate the weight limit
of a commuter bridge.

I want to be a crab cake
because the sunsets here
give me panic attacks.

it used to not,
but enough honey has built up
so bees swarm the bonnet
whenever there's a
blood orange tint.

I want to be a crab cake
because I don't like
the seafood here

or Sushi Pier discussions
of future trajectories
while rain pours on our
trout marinated in
Tahoe Tessie **** water.

I want to be a crab cake
because the mountains
bug me out.

i want flat land
where there are
blood prints on highways,
broken families in Tornado Valley,
and remains of promising bridges.

i want to be a crab cake
because i want the world
to eat me up.
um, yeah, poetry.
wcb Jan 2019
Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

“In marriage there’s no such thing as ****!”
“I make the money, if I want *** I’ll take it!”
“I’ll end your life if you try to escape.”
“I’ll cut off your money, you’ll never make it.”
“I’ve explained to your family you’re crazy as hell.”
“You have no friends left, no one to tell.”
“It’s always your fault you make me hit you.”
“Now tell the **** doctor you just tripped on a shoe.”
“Get yourself tested I brought home the clap.”
“You’re lucky to have me, I’m the real catch.”
“Keep eyeballing me, you’ll get a fresh slap.”
“Stop crying your eyes out, it’s just a rough patch.”
“I love you so much, why can’t you see?”
“This creature is something you force me to be!”
“NOW STOP YOUR WHINING AND MAKE A NEW DRINK!”
“ELSE IT’S YOUR HEAD, NOT MY GLASS, THAT SHATTERS THE SINK!”
“YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN, AND YOU WON’T GET AWAY.”
“YOUR NIGHTMARE IS HERE, AND HE’S GOING TO STAY.”
...
“Lock the door? I’ll kick it in!”
“Fight back? I call that a win.”
“The struggle is what turns me on!”

The terror carries through to next dawn.

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

Sprinklers water the grasses
The sobering monsters cover their *****
They put on a grin and dress in fine suits
Greet peers with **** salutes

Off to work he goes to make cash
The kids trudge glumly off to school
The night before? Just a bad dream
She’s buying clothes, spending's her fuel.

Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses
I've been wrestling with the experience of the most important person in my adult life, whose husband played the role of the honorable and even pious successful business owner with the Bentley and all the bling. Always was (is) able to convince people he's this great guy, when he was simply a wealthy man who felt like that meant he could do anything he wanted to anyone, without consequence. He has a long history of domestic violence and did things to her that cut me to my soul (though my piece speaks in general terms and is not necessarily literal in whole). This clumsy 'poem' just tries to approach the ugly underbelly of suburbia -- where everything is perfect on the outside, and catastrophically ****** behind closed doors.

Not something I enjoyed writing, not particularly comfortable posting it, and it didn't serve to substantially advance my voice in this medium -- but it needed to be purged.
NeroameeAlucard May 2016
I'd **** to be on the beach right now
No cares, no worries, sand gently blowing at my brow
Looking out at the clear blue sea
With an ice cold drink in the chair next to me
A tequila Sunrise would go well as the sun sets
Eyeballing the tanlines with slim to no regrets
Oh what I'd give to be on the beach right now
Gulls crowing overhead, the beauty of nature making me whisper quietly, wow.
FRITZ Feb 2020
creeping madness slicks black and manic

spider high up on the wall

eyeballing me nervously,                                       "who are you?

why are you stalling? whats come crawling back?

you know how this ends don't you?"





swift answers and an amniotic happiness installation.

                              speaking of stone, wired the lilies grow and the intrepid sank there was quite a stillness in the air.

sunken sand around my feet water cold and green.

     out to meet the entity

     her languorous form so ravenously tempting

     so utterly repulsive and unspeakable.

looking for lights offshore

          heretics of the unimaginable disciples of the moon

          chemical ooze gels burns in the stomach

lit on up and walked out over the water.





after his peak, went heat seeking to the east and he ceased his babble easily, stuffing his mouth with pennies and bits of charcoal. we called him land-lubber and left him for said.

there is no part to this.

there is no heart in this.

                                                    blistering and out of control the fever spins.

wandering tills the level.

                                 filtering cold and pushes me out into the yarns.
a crawling idiot madness
Rachel Dec 2013
Hey kid
Its a little bit
Better after
The devil leaves
His barber shop chair
Behind and walks
Into the liqor isle.
I m there looking
At red bread tags.
Your still with your
Parents.  Im not
Embarrassed
You feel the cold beer
Your father slid over your
Necks left side.  
The can was silver
Like the old lawn mower
In the dark shed.  
Im still with the moment
Of diverting the truth.
When he says
They havent fired him yet.
The new hair cut starts looking
Old again.  And our time in the
Store was breif to catch
One of the last busses.  
Look for me the last
Person in here I wanted to see.
I was eyeballing my favorite
Sky scraper a brown bottle
Of whiskey.  
I make up the party
And become the bussiest
Man or women walking past
The carts.  
I wish there were more years
To give me the store
And a house bigger
Then the hill side.
I remember how November began
too many late shifts for this old man
pulling up and over Pine Grove Mountain
in the early morning hours

mist and a frightening silence along the roads
were following me
I shivered half cold and half fear as I reached to add some heat  
and when I looked back
he was standing in my lane
beast of a buck
white as snow
majestic
broad shoulders to accommodate his massive rack
staring me down
head raised proudly in the second before I swerved
the second that cost me my life
as I was held transfixed in his beauty

I rose above the trees and viewed my crumpled jeep
on its head
tires still spinning
the beast still eyeballing me as I slid into the ether

It is December now
and I watch as my kids open their gifts for the first time without me
they are older and their hearts will heal before the coming of Spring
nick armbrister Apr 2018
On Camera

My life is like a movie

Seeing that replica Mustang roll in and crash at the airshow

My life is like a movie
Witnessing an ex dealer who'd just been shot in his home

My life is like a movie

Viewing Oldham riots on TV that were five minutes away

My life is like a movie

Gazing down upon Manila Bay at the enduring sunrise from Bataan

My life is like a movie

Observing different people and cultures in a dozen countries

My life is like a movie

Glancing at my thigh as the tattooist inks my goth girl tattoo

My life is like a movie

Noticing the Mancunian drunks fighting on the nightbus home

My life is like a movie

Gaping in desolation at the coffin that contains my mum

My life is like a movie

Watching the mad Irish man loop the Grumman Duck in Murphy's Law

My life is like a movie

Admiring the **** girls I've nailed in the big bakery

My life is like a movie

Scrutinizing the Asians to see if they'll try to assault me


My life is like a movie
Eyeballing my soon to be ex friend who's kissing my girlfriend
My life is like a movie
Focusing on the road ahead as I illegally race the other car
My life is like a movie
Staring at the men lying by the kerb wondering are they dead?
My life is like a movie
Studying the vertical cliff above me to find a way up
My life is like a movie
Peering into the sky to find my dad's ghost that's up there
My life is like a movie
Scanning at my wage slip to see if my pay will cover my beer and bills
My life is like a movie
Regarding my mate who just vomited up his kebab and chips
My life is like a movie
Glimpsing the chavs fighting the teenage couple over the river
My life is like a movie
Right till my last breath and final vision when my Goddess takes me home
Tamworth is the Country Music Capital
which is located in the state of New South Wales
and in the month of January
all of its streets fill with musical tales

Mr Kenny Rogers that American great
shall be featuring
he'll be singing ballads for the crowds
who of him are so adoring

those Nashville record producers
could find lots of talent down under
it is recommended they hop aboard a jet
to check out our Aussie thunder

this festival of twanging guitars
and fine singers must be seen
so we're inviting all devotees to gather
with us for an eyeballing glean

in January the city of Tamworth
plays open house for a fortnight  
all comers will heartily enjoy
the atmosphere of its tonal light

Keith Urban twas unearthed
by those in the recording industry
stetson wearing promoters caught onto
his bankable brand of country
Willard May 2019
City cops, either
all pigs or all fathers,
break cement curbs with rubber
as the shin of a warm body
brushes a front bumper;
warning sign clearer than headlights.

I stand arrested across the highway.
An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing
the Record Courier parking lot,
officers breaking cement
breaking kneecaps of a civilian.

Where he kisses the ground
I once analyzed the black of the sun,
diseasing slowly from time and the light.
I soaked the now with a present mind
and active heart, living for life

defined by want.
I recall Impressionist interpretations
of Carson Valley sitting on
the windowsill of the Courier,
a hand wrapped around my wrist

using its nails to pick off my skin
naively, so I’ll bleed out
through my scabs and my corpse
will be captured in that moment.
Handcuffed, legs pressed

between my shoulder blades,
but seconds still pass.
Divorced from a faded past,
I wait until three uniforms
shove a man into the backseat

and drive to the station.
We’re now shadows of
our former selves in
the lights of a cop car,
separated from when
our heartbeats were the loudest.
Del Maximo Jan 2016
elevator was full
when the bell 'dinged' and the doors opened
on the geriatric floor
mom was lost in the back
intimidated by the crowd
she held out her hand
for me to pull her through
some folks chuckled
with their haughtiness and sun glasses
such silly, ignorant people
I guess they thought I had an old girlfriend
from then on
whenever she needed to
she would hold out her hand
for me to help her

got to know her better
in her old age
learned to ignore her crankiness
and façade of always knowing better
just watching tv and joking with her
evoking a giddy laugh
or a toothless smile
drawing her bath
seeing to her needs and comfort
dealing with her doctors
eyeballing her meds and diet
comforting her tears

paramedics whisked her to ER
they found a tumor in her stomach
her children and grandchildren kissed her
on her cheek and forehead
en route to pathology's biopsy
when they rolled her bed past me
I gave her a thumbs up
hoping she would return it
instead, she held out her hand
she must have been scared
I held if for a moment's reassurance
but this time I couldn't pull her through
she survived the surgery
but never made it home
©11/29/15
Jonny Angel May 2014
I'm inflight watching
an old flic,
"The Matrix"
on the overhead screen.
There's a dude snoring
& some chick
eyeballing my lunch.
I have a hunch,
none of this is really happening.
Sam Temple Apr 2016
beginning like any other day I took my two feet and placed them on the cold floor
tongue and grove faux oak laid north to south in a diagonal house, pre-dawn quiet
flittering dust bunnies darted in every direction seeking the perfect hiding spot
a place with the ability to avoid the wild, free-range vacuum known for destroying whole families
toes stretched reaching for the opposite walls as if I might grow eight extra legs
and then I would really never know where I am going
the Pisces in me I suppose….
she slightly shifted her breathing patterns as my weight redistributed the mattress foam
inaudible mumbles and a soft sigh passed lips on the very edge of slumber’s embrace
the corners of my own turned up as hers is the voice my ears were destined to hear
straightening the comforter so as to snuggle her in tight until the snooze button
the blood within my veins seemed to speed up and flush my cheeks with rose
overcome with gratefulness and peace I cast watery eyes to the window
just in time to see a large red-headed woodpecker eyeballing our scene
hopping from post to post to seemingly get a better view, he cocked his head slightly
giving me a nod of approval….
at least that was my interpretation –
poetry month prompt #27
Jeffrey Robin Jul 2016
.




//// • ||
<>

###



she started eyeballing me at the party

She would also turn so I would be the only one

Behind her

And she would then left up the back of her dress

Revealing

The greatest *** ever known to be !

///

Then

She followed me to some empty bedroom

And lifted up the front of her dress

She grabbed the back of my head by the hair

And shoved her **** into my mouth

Muttering

EAT ME BOY EAT ME !

( which I did !!)

Ate until I almost passed out in lustful ecstacy )

//

Then she slammed my face into her knee

Screaming

*******  LUSTED BOYS  !!!!

""""
Breaking my nose and knocking out all my teeth !!

~~

And that's why I hate girls


.
Sam Temple Sep 2014
cold
hard
emotionless
drunken eyes
angrily follow
childlike bliss
waiting for the slightest infraction
coiled tiger eyeballing weaker prey
in an instant rage sweeps into the world
as innocence is replaced with howls of confusion
and suffering
dust smeared with tears
as fear envelopes rationality
and a dullness begins –
rounded edges
cushioned
fashioning a safety zone
for a stumbling protégé  
future man of the house
dependable rock on which the nuclear family is built
guilt wilts dreams
and the silt of mud caked pant legs
lays scattered across un-mopped floors –
angst
and crank calls
spotty face and misplaced hate
small kitten feels the brunt
nearly drowned
tail-flung around
rocks pound
no more sound…externally
reverse side is more complex
multitudes of individual voices
create the atmosphere of a theatre, pre-show
yet he stands alone
contemplating the conversations
and the remnants of a gifted kitten –
slowly watching the hands
dead fathers watch
fixated on the doors
breath bated
cold steel against his leg
flashes of pain and self-loathing
as the first children run out into the sun
all the spender of a recess on Friday
is replaced with horror
as lead shreds polyester blends
and the screams of the living
drown the ruckus in his head
is this what peace feels like –
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
"WEEPE SHEAPHERD WEEPEM, TO MAKE MY UNDER SONG"

I peeled myself
off the ceiling.

And somehow returned
to who I was.

This dying isn't as
easy as it looks.

It's too like
hard work.

And once again I began
floating upwards.

The ceiling and I
now old friends..

Looking down at myself
looking up.

The surgeons busy
at work.

A bead of sweat
caught in an eyebrow.

Me busy flat lining
just like in the movies.

I able to recall
it all.

The there and
not-there enthrals.

And as I floated ceiling-ward
for the third time.

Gravity let me down
and I fell back into place

fitted neatly
into my self.

Death and I
locked in a staring match.

Eyeballing one another
he more afraid than I.

Until lo and ****** behold
Death...

...blinked first.
An Elegy

SHE fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil’st yet her leaf was green, and fresh her rinde,
And whil’st her branch fair blossoms forth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kind.
For age to die is right, but youth is wrong;         5
She fell away like fruit blown down with wind.
Weep, Shepherd! weep, to make my undersong.

Yet fell she not as one enforc’d to die,
Ne died with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toil’d with travail down doth lie,
So lay she down, as if to sleep she went,
And closed her eyes with careless quietness;
The whiles soft death away her spirit sent,
And soul assoyld from sinful fleshliness.

Edmud Spenser( 1552?-1599 )

She said that all the time she was up and down to Ceiling Land this fragment of Spenser kept going through her head like a refrain.

"...an undersong of sense which none beside the poetic mind can comprehend.”

Landor.

She was the only person I actually knew who had this experience...I was fascinated by it...she just thought of it as "well there ya go" and was more intrigued by the fact that the Spencer lines kept going around in her head like a refrain and it bugged her that she couldn't remember where it was from....for her to know was more important than the actual dying.
do you think we could put aside the internal asides prattling past rapture gone rupture, table or under the table throw those scraps to the dog that's pawing in favor of what's under our noses, on the plate facing up at us smiling a reflection in a circle of ceramic glaze gazing past the imperfect ramifications crystallized in those times and bones that still do bind and also occasionally chafe when they chime, the fragmented fancies that danced behind eyelids then knocked back the whites taking unglued precedence while neurons sat back and just watched momentum pulse, so stunned to find where you stopped there I started, and the only push-pull was helixical orb tossed on linguistic winks kinking our forever-tied lines that plead underneath the jilted to stop slanty-eyeballing the looking glass crass, affixing shark fangs where one once only saw wings, though truth be told, I have both of those things, but drain you, I won't, and feed you, I will, leaving marked memoirs of my work, but it'll be your fault, really, evoking the majestic while summoning the animal that reminds me why I'm knees-grateful to be a woman

?
Caterina Correia Aug 2018
When my dreams turned into nightmares
When my nightmares finally came true;
I indulged a sudden shock to my body
I indulged what i should have prevented
I wanted to feel what everyone feared
I wanted to do what people dont do
I tried to force myself to be strong, but that strength was my mind over my heart
And my soul over my body
I learned to appear in front of a mirror; blinded from the person i saw
My fears werent leaving
My anxiety kept rising
My anger escalated
My depression had me dying
One day i turned & i snapped
I explored & i had to act
I wanted to change what changed me
I wanted to hurt what was slowly killing me
I ignored my hearts attention when i heard the knife calling
I welcomed my minds whispers when the razors had me eyeballing
I couldnt control
I couldnt turn back
My mind was in charge
I couldnt fight back
As i start to cry
It was time to end my innocence inside
The new thing i needed, was already planned
It was my last resort
It was my escape
It was the love of my mind
But the master to my heart
And i was behind invisible bars
Chained; locked inside my own body
I couldnt go on feeling unsatisfied
I couldnt go on feeling lonely
& so i made friends with a knife, a razor, and scissors
They taught me how to hurt
Taught me how to bleed
Taught me how to aim
And taught me it wouldnt be easy
It wasnt easy; they were right.
But what they meant;
It wouldnt be easy to turn back and fight.
It was an addiction
I loved the pain
The pain was gone
But there was darkness that still remained
Everyday i would continue
Self mutilation was the only answer
The red lines on my body never faded
I cut deep
I cut deep in the past;
& so i took the knife deep with me
I cut deep in my nightmares;
& so i took the razor deep with me
I cut deep at my problems;
& so i cut it all with the scissors
There was no more pain, but i was bleeding
I needed the pain, but i was blinded
I loved the pain, but i was confused
I always had the pain, because now im bruised.
Inside was who i truly saw
Inside was who i truly felt
I have been played with,
****** with,
Used
And im the only one to blame for hurting myself
Ruby Nemo Oct 2019
Eyeballing the past
I can see us, tripping into love
Flowers in my hair
Music in the air
Hunger in your eyes,
We're alive!
October 2019
kromwellfarkus Aug 2019
This demon is fuelled
Brimming with ability
Poised and capable
Of ******* everything and anything.

Always tensing
Just during conversation
Eyeballing, fist clenching
Unsure, correct, politely swearing.

This demon is pent up.



This man, in the backyard
He just sits, and smokes, and drinks
Tapping away at his phone
He comes inside to **** and eat.
He says hello, he says goodnight
He screams at us when we've not done right
He sleeps on the lounge
He is a ghost.



This demon I contain
Its talons obscure responsibility
And I sit, and I smoke and I drink
Outside, on my phone.
Useless, piece of fuckn ****
Just, be a part of it
Your family is right there
On the other side of that glass.

This demon has strength
Of which I cannot break
Its chains are worn and not rated
Its strength gathered has gone unchecked.

Until... I just talk
To her, and to them
Be the father they need
And the man she needs me to be.
Consistency matters
Everyday is a new opportunity
To be stronger
Than the demon within.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
"IT’S MY FRIEND!”

It’s Tilly’s first
football match.

She watches the ball
move amongst men

as if it had a life
of its own

and laughs at
the players chasing it.

At half time numb
fingers clasp a Bovril.

I ask her: “Well. . .
what do you make of it all?”

I see myself reflected
in her 3-year-old eyes.

She smiles and says”
“I like the way the grass is!”

“Oh. . !” I say
in my adult way.

She now
down on her belly

eyeballing the grass
at its own level.

Each blade
a green individual self.

“Daddy, how.  .  ?”
she enquires of me.

“. . .many blades of grass. . .”
“Eh, yeah. . ?” I encourage her.

“. . .are there
in a football pitch?”

I hazard a guess
“Oh, two million and. . .2!”

She likes
the exactness of the fact.

Happy with her
Daddy’s answer.

Trusts he’s right
down to the very last two.

“I like grass!”
she announces.

“It’s my friend!”
she smiles.
Tom Shields Apr 2021
The stone monolith of judgement

presiding over myopic movements

casting a glare of rage-red, bleeding

residing restfully, on an ivory balcony

wherever I seem to go I'm always leading

the shadow of your gavel ever over me,

like Damocles; I can't stand trial on broken knees


Ideate suicide and violence, stranglehold thoughts don't relent

choking reason, chasing down common sense, my time is spent

fear is a stronghold, you can hide in it, safe from an open view

it's a choice that's harder to make when only pleasantries are tunneled in front of you

I've lived with anxiety in control, giving my madness a voice was never a conversation piece

eyeballing me for burial in a pigeonhole, exploiting the pressure of this lonely sadness,

isolated, on the outside it's easier to justify peers' peering hatred, give it a rest, social police

I wouldn't raise a hand to you if you were my teacher, self-taught, classless, I've had this

streak of luckless love, always alienated, never exonerated


Never been interesting, patience testing

a patient, temperament foul and festering

not being all there might be the best thing

daydreams, Elysium reeds in the wind sing

home calls me, that empty lot looks a lot like a golden ring

free to decide on paradise, no longer lifting the weight of dawn

just to see the next day, conscience flowing, glowing outward on

trickling rainfall association, loose-connection, brainstormed concoction

grow and groom personal Yggdrasil, a bonsai tree, in this place

meditate on the realization of the vision, every clipping is a footfall towards grace

persecuted for the image, behavior, for the portrayal

conceived, thought, written and spoken

every effort to improve serves self-betrayal

a window into a moment that they look through and then call broken.
write
please read and enjoy
KV Srikanth Jun 2021
Honesty and oneness to an act
When is it considered to be in lack
Quality of work given a back seat or
Some one better at it completing it

Your best output can only be the best you can
Duplicating more successful personality is trash can
Better than you were yesterday
Measure of progress in the best way

A personality to follow
Guided by his principles and dedication
A guideline for action towards the destination
If unable to replicate the action
No harm in changing the traction

Trying to be limitless
Is easier said
Harness the thought process
Progress will lead to more progress

Unable to overcome limitations
By itself not a limitations
Work within your  limitations
End result will be beyond your limitations

Mathematically doesn't add up
The unknown factor comes up
The known and unknown sums up
Tye rewards your vibration throws up

Work till you become
One with the work
Work and you inseparable
Work is you and you are work

This done with your skill
Only your boundaries of skill
Knowledge added to the skill
Intelligence and experience adding to the skill

Comparison of ability
To judge its efficiency
Exposes despondency
Filled with inferiority

Requesting others to do your job
Hiding under a person or a pretext while executing your job
Running away being overwhelmed by the nature of the job
Afraid of humiliation and rejection on completion of the job

Cut past to the chase
Come face to face
It can be only your face
Face it eyeballing at the other faces

Nothing to take responsibility
You've done your best already
You did not do someone else's best the accusation
You can only be your integration
Dennis Willis Feb 2023
I know
that I've been tricked
into loving you
I knew
that I'd been tricked
into loving you
There must be something
arising from nothing
In this universe
arising to sauced
and looking about
stirred into idunno
how is this gulping
sensation this sure
eyeballing tom a row
ann a column ahm
accell you lar nature
spilt and grinning
post bawling 'gainst
the usual death
This title is for no one
No it's not meant to be about you
It could be for everyone
But that would never do

I'm wide awake as the witches are
Just a mere minute now past two
I'm always awake it seems
I've nothing better to do

I saw an overweight puff ball cat ,
a tabby orange and white
It was eyeballing me
up and down out by the glow of the light

I haven't seen the moon now in so many months of May
The trees are so thick around me it's hard to even see the day

There are no gorillaz near me
But there are orangutans driving their cars
They like to pull out in front of you
They look like they spent the night in a bar

The days are getting shorter
But it feels like summer time
I know that winter is coming
I saw them stringing up Christmas signs

Why do they call it Black Friday ?
I would think white would surely do
I'd say Tim Burton was responsible but if I did I'm afraid that he just might sue

I always want a drink by starlight
But the Liquor stores are closed
During the daytime I emphaticly refuse to buy
A split personality I suppose

Well the sun should be up by now
It's a quarter after ten
Yawn oh Yawn !
It's time to turn it in
Colleen Feb 23
i catch my breath
escaping out of my lungs
as if it were being chased
by friday night hooligans

i walk down the aisles
in search of what i’m looking for
surrounded by stickers
and meaningless numbers

this isn’t where i belong
without you by my side
and your confident strides
eyeballing every tool in sight

a heavy pressure builds in my chest
like a cat suffocating my rib cage
i can do this on my own
but that’s not the point
i wanted you to love me so hard
you’d beg to do it for me
just to see me smile

i place my items down
and shuffle out
empty-handed
i can’t bare to make small talk at the register

— The End —