"fattening" poems
Yes, that is an abstraction of the landscape.
Yes, you have achieved some creative control.
Showcase your efforts! Open their minds!
Tear the ************* roof off!
Little God-man runnin' the cycles
To each his own script
His own prescription
Little God-man running the show
Master of Ceremonies
The human bridge
You must throw back each perch
and wait for the fattening;
You'll need that for the next act.....
Keep your strength up.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
7.3k
well...
she didn't want me...
because i didn't
want to do **** with her...
and because i cooked
better than her;
or as one homosexual said:
**** *** isn't really the norm
in homosexuality,
most **** *** takes place
between heterosexual couples;
maybe i just don't feel
like talking about curtains
and napkins growing
old in front of a television screen?
i think it's called companionship,
without the authority brigade to
get alimony and other stipends
for a degree designating milking-it...
as might require a woman shackling
a partner with a few witnesses,
like priest, lawyer... psychiatrist;
god they're scared... they don't even
fear murdering you,
and when they try to, they just
bellow out: 'my brother is dead!
my brother is dead!' no, he's alive,
he should have been dead 8 years ago,
but you miscalculated;
they're just scared of something
that doesn't resemble a cage,
as every housewife might tell you:
a duck in a cage kept for petting
rather than sloth for quickened
fattening and eating will
make the one eating it loose the plot...
the duck will just pretend to be stupid.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Alright,
you've convinced me.
Let's get ice cream
and eat it out of the tub
with two spoons.
Like the civilized pair we are.
We'll eat it in one sitting.
No,
maybe two.
I promise
this will be our favorite
part of the weekend.
You and me.
Munching on fattening, frozen dairy.
Enjoying every bite.
And each second
as we sit on the edge of the bed
together.
So, I'll get my shoes
you get your keys
and we'll make
one of our favorite memories.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
A poem by my friend Stan Blackberg (the total ******
There are flowers standing proudly, one for each whose loved ones mourn,
Speaking out so clear and loudly, for that fateful treacherous morn,
When the aircrafts bashed them up and all their flesh got burnt & torn!
Do we honour them with killing, taking up arms to spill more blood,
Or take lesson if we’re willing, a bitter pill for common good,
Or sit unbeguiled with our faces stuffed with fattening food?
There’s no god would take such action, justify such murderous deed,
Those insane within such factions, find posthumously they heed,
It's upon such wickedosity that our nostrils froth and bleed.
Hear the painful hard earned lesson, lest their names we desecrate,
Take not slaughter as your banner making killing escalate,
And by no means forget to have a mutual **********
Place our sentries all united, shed thee not another drop,
Silence now all angry gunfire, when’s the killing ever stop.
And the blood falls from above with a loudish plip and plop.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Every valley drinks,
Every dell and hollow:
Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks
Buds will burst their edges,
Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,
In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love
For birds to meet each other,
Weave a canopy above
Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain
We should have no flowers,
Never a bud or leaf again
But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird
In the rocking tree-tops,
Never indeed a flock or herd
To graze upon the lea-crops.
Lambs so woolly white,
Sheep the sun-bright leas on,
They could have no grass to bite
But for rain in season.
We should find no moss
In the shadiest places,
Find no waving meadow-grass
Pied with broad-eyed daisies;
But miles of barren sand,
With never a son or daughter,
Not a lily on the land,
Or lily on the water.
3.8k
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
You are like sweet pickles.
I prefer dill,
Always have and always will
And your taste will never be enough.
But I choose you
Because you are the
Only thing on the table
That looks familiar.
Your skin is just as
Pleasing as a dill pickle,
But this little similarity will only
Sour my smile,
And my disappointment in your taste
Will become quite apparent
As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my
Lips and eyes.
But I’ve passed up cheeses
And wines for you
(The cheeses are unfamiliar,
Smelly, and fattening; the
Wines turn me red
And stupid).
Yes, I have chosen you.
I hope your eyes dilate at that
And the growing and enveloping blackness
Takes over your vision and your will,
Rendering me invisible
But twice as lovely and
Four times as dangerous.
With you blinded now, sweet pickles,
Let me tie you up in my fingers
And **** you.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
fake interviews with fake people. the wording lures them from the fattening of babies who talk early. my silent uncle dying on a bed was asked if he had any first words. I was going to slice bread but pointed the knife at my ear hole, held it with my left, and slammed it in with my right. a man writes a song and sings it to the belly he thinks houses a son. his daughter stops a bullet from bruising his wife’s spine and is delivered unmolested but in high school begins to smell like gunpowder. she joins the KKK but doesn’t tell the KKK. I wake up behind the wheel of a car just in time to kiss the driver’s neck and the driver makes a fish face so horribly a child giggles in hell and pretty soon.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Saint Valentine didn't know me,
He had no idea about the future,
And now, blatant Valentine's lies,
Time & again and even yet again,
For love I wholeheartedly strive,
But all I get is fake, fake feelings.
Not blaming Valentine am I now,
He sure gave a reason to spend,
Both time as well as the silver dirt,
Indirectly popping employment,
Not just for few - even for me & you,
Don't we try working harder daily?
Just in hopes of finding a better day,
Of course we want more silver dust,
A good job & a fuller-heavier pocket,
Men try hard for earning enough,
Women try harder for respect,
Don't they all selfishly strive,
Do their wishes get fulfilled?
What do the MBA's always market?
Lingerie & diamonds for the lover,
Do they not try to sell love away,
Love stuffed into teddy bears,
Lust dripping from the multiflavoured condoms,
And what else do they want to sell,
Do the cakes not suffice with all that fattening cream,
Or the cream-filled chilled/hot doughnuts?
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Getting obsessive about your weight?
"Your disgusting." She said to the mirror.
I was tortured everyday by food.
Memories never die.
I'm not pretty.
Not only am i fat, i'm stupid too.
So i don't eat.
"Fat pig! Stop eating!"
Fattening.
Memories never die.
I cannot be "normal."
I truly hate myself.
"Eating makes me feel worse."
I just don't want to be fat anymore.
Thinner and Thinner.
Skin and Bones.
Feasting on hunger.
My sadness had returned.
Fat, fat, fat.
My thighs are also too big.
There's nothing left but to die...
Little parallel slashes.
Does my stomach stick out.?
Do my thighs jiggle.?
Cut,starve, cut, starve, cut.
******* cow! Greedy pig!"
The violent hatred of fat.
I'm tired of me.
Have you eaten?
Actively suicidal.
Eating disorders are addictive.
I'd rather starve.
I just don't feel like eating.
Silent tears.
I know i'm ugly, Don't look at me.
And i began to cry again.
"You look like a pig."
I have scars.
Eating less and less.
Don't let me get fat.
Mirrors can **** and talk.
"Who's the fat freak?"
Calories scare me.
"Stop stuffing your fat face."
I can't believe i'm so fat.
Loneliness, Depression, Anxiety.
"Thinner, it said. You need to get thinner."
Horrible dreams.
She killed herself deliberately.
It's a secret i plan to take to my grave.
Low self-esteem.
I feel so heavy.
I feel so huge and bloated.
Sad and Tired.
She cried about what she had just eaten.
"Your fat jiggles!"
Fat body.
Decrease my food intake.
I can't eat it.
She doesn't eat.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Dear Academia;
I took the adderall
because I thought
you wanted me
to be a machine. I didn't
understand that
amphetamine tasted
like candy once you
got used to the way
your jaw locked and your
ears rang. Dear
academia, did you
see my face when you
read my GPA, did
you see the way I stayed
up too late after my
after school activities
trained me to live with
anxieties? Dear academia,
why am I afraid of the mirror?
Why did you teach me how
to write a perfect paper but
never prepared me for
the look in his eye when he told
me he didn't love me either. Dear
academia, i'm ****** off and you're
swallowing me, does the sting
of your impulses feel better
when you know you're eating
my hard earned money?
Dear academia, why
do you give me empty promises? Why
should I spill my blood with
this diploma, list
my ethnicity and birthdate
next to the insignificance
of what you think makes me
worthy, do
these details feed your
impending due dates or
are you just getting off
to the idea that
only the educated few
know how to
think straight? Dear
academia,
I tried my hardest
to let you fool me, I
can feel your ego fattening
beside me as I watch your
children scramble for their
ideas of monetary
gluttony. You're increasing
our wage gaps, do my late night
tears fuel your addiction to epistemic
poverty? Dear academia, you
taught me to think critically. I am on fire
with the matches you forgot
you hatched within
me. Scorpions occasionally
eat their parents and I hate
to admit that this ****
has me hungry.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
The man who wants
To be left alone,
Bringing the hatred to
The forefront
The man grumpy and
Grouchy in a beer soaked
T-shirt
Waiting on the next
Delivery of angst
Writing his bad words
Pretentious in his outlook
Driven in his petulance
Greedy and needy
The man, ancient and aging
Fattening on the high fructose
Diet of beer and pastries
Keeping it all in and sharing nothing
But the fabrication
Never lives up to the hype
So the man crawls into his sack
Sleeping the day away,
Awaiting another night of tv,
Jerking off and sugary treats
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:43 AM UTC
Stop whining life's ironing you flat,
we're all getting pressed and
all getting that
it's what life tends to do to you,
ironing
flattening,fattening you up for the **** and
there's no flipping thrills to be found in that.
Ironing
ironing
ironing you flat.
but
creased, I could be unleashed to become so much than more,
something with life to show, like some thing I wore with patches and scratches and marks,
Marks I adore.
Creased,
the teasing and pleasing,the
easing into the wrinkles.
'Twinkle, twinkle little star' ironed flat I'm far away from life and life can't get into my day.
Say what?
the iron's hot and bound to burn, each ironing spends a little more of uncreased out minutes and so I turn again,creased,thrown to the floor among the garbage,out the door where people stop and stare at me, the unclean,
unironed,
anomaly.
No lines,
no lines it's times like this I want to kiss the day and say,
look at me
look at me, creased to buggery and I don't care
I don't want to wear a life that's ironed flat,
don't care that you think that it's wrong,
I will wear my creases and be strong ,while you're all folded up and folded always last so long.
I'll be free and you'll be in a drawer with socks and skirts and shirts and ladies underthings,
which upon a second thought brings me to the thought that,
that might not be so bad.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
the politicians down under
have just given themselves a wage increase
and the taxpayer would be far happier
if this kind of thing did cease
our members of parliament
are fattening up their pay packets
we the taxpayers are onto their
most unwarranted rackets
they tell us we must show restraint
in all of our pay rise requests
as the nation's finances cannot be held down
by these outlandish behests
yet they so love having the extra quids
put into their pay pots
while us taxpayers never get a single dollar
placed into our meager plots
the politicians are great at lining
their pockets with our hard earned cash
they have no conscience
when it comes to raiding the taxpayer's stash
next year those greedy politicians
will be crying poor mouth again
and us put upon taxpayer's
shall be feeling their wage rise pain
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
You've built me up
Then torn me down.
Secured my cuffs
To bricks
So that I'd drown.
I've never been me
Around you
Because my loyalties lie
Within this heart of mine.
Can't you see
The wicked little world
You've created?
The deluded fantasy
That keeps you
Fascinated?
You fascist pig.
Fattening yourself up
Off the brunt of my back,
Then kicking me out to
Wander,
Societal refuse with their
Burlap sack.
Drifting off
Losing life
One little drop of pain
At a time.
This blood in my veins
Maybe there because
You made me,
But it'll stay there
Because I decided
To save me
From the cold
Razor sharp
Lie that is
You.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
what are we really on about when we see breaking news
do i pity sad thoughts and wish away bad blues
it pains me to the bone how we are so brainwashed
to feel the hype of stardem is height that we should love
so what about the average folk that go about their lives
saving lots of others or cleaning to get by
why are we so focused on what the media say
when they just fill us up.. another brainwashed day
time we had a different way of feeding us with thoughts
maybe thats because we'd riot like they did before
20 months for t-shirt theft yet politicians walk
how can this be justified i really do deplore
change our ways and feel the free.. its time we took control
fight for freedom live the life ..its coming to the fore
or maybe we just fade away and cattle we become
chewing on the grass of life ..fattening so begins
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 12:32 AM UTC
i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
wherever the peppercorn blows
and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
Nothing gold can stay,
I'm a rigid mannequin with evolving feathers
Feather petals across my horizon
The earliest movements of heaven upon them
I'll never be able to waste away
But no one ever told me plastic decays.
Primped and primed
Who knows how I could come to be so divine?
I never loved but I have lost
My narcissism is on decline even while it is on the rise
Sunrise sunrise but what a surmise
Heaven comes to above but never flashes a light like a dove
My father is blessed be
I am a curse in a bundle of joy
I walk in contradictions and I puddle all day to cry
A lightning flash of a flutter of an eyelash
A millions a millions galore
I cannot live without a human heart
Despite the fact I sell all these shells I find on the raw shore.
Diamonds upon diamonds galore
My thirst set ablaze
My legs forever open
My heart a tiny cage
A precious girl
Unkempt hair and a messy soul
Walking in contradictions
Ablaze with fragmentation
Each pin ***** flattened and sewn
It may be a fragment but it is for sure
A dagger, the edged sword
I could be poison, I could be a *****
But in my brown eyes I am warm
A teddy bear but frightened
A lady but not by the shore
Tempted by spells
Burdened by lost promises and vindictive twirls
A pinch and a *****
Each day was a new month
Each spite was a new bite
Now I'm just a devil's delight.
I love the idea of a throne
But I sit on my own flesh
Decaying as I dig in
Vanity, eating my own cakes
Fattening my arteries
I truly am, if anything,
I am wholly gluttony.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
A mass pushing into me like a great lorry
The leather jacket, the smell of the dead
The skin so shiny like a glass filled with milk,
White and whole and fattening, filling you up
But not full yet, one final blow to come
And the covering of the legs like netting,
Rips apart, an opening to another world,
Begging me, asking for it, shaking with knowing
Had you not picked the fruit from that tree,
Tasting its seeking, desperate sweetness
Perhaps i would not feel your weight as I did
And you would fall down like an infantile bundle of feathers
The epidermis, the subcutaneous layer, the blood
Moving quickly then slowly then quickly
Are you still there? I shouldn’t care
A button falls from your breast, a trickle down your cheek
The eyes, the eyes! They follow me, the train,
Moves slower as it pulls into the station
And makes one final sound, a signal,
I’d rip their eyes out and let them bounce onto the tracks like marbles
So many stains of blood and war and toil
Lie across the carriages and out onto the moors,
I wouldn’t worry,
I’ll make it clean with disinfectant and run smooth again with oil
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC