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Lynn Greyling Dec 2014
Breakers in a misty grey sea-storm,
Spray-foam rising and tossing,
Plunging me into seasick momentum.

I ****** out white stretched palms
And throw back my head,
The salt air stings my throat.

It burns within my chest
While hanging feetless
In the storm driven billows.

I fix my eyes on the
pearly black cloudless night
and beg the stars to anchor me.
Staccato-***. Can you feel the damnation in the
    trickling water of minutes?  This fragment considers
   revising but in the next act, I will turn you into a miracle:
        a cloud of a sigh into rarefied air, and that is all.
   The ******* of women hang in trees. Consider this statement
     a ruthless compunction. Flesh in the market, I haggle prices
         with the butcher. I’ll take one in exchange for a love
   christened with portent, I gave it no unction – fresh as a fruit’s glaze
      in spring, or the crunch of dew somewhere along Baguio in the morning,
            intestinal roads frothing with excess of fog. Consider trees
   in akimbo past your sweltering window – the panes in feverish heat,
        what are you to do but splash water? Bathe. *****. Sully.
            We have no inertia in this feetless adagio. Wind is sandpaper.
  Pain is tactile. I am a ******, paving the way, crucified on no longitude-latitude.
wordvango Feb 2016
be a feetless floating
gill fin laden underwater
poet, My mouth would still gulp
I would recite and still stutter
all the words in fish languages
and possibly mate
with my father's daughter.
or my brother's mother.
I do love you sexless
I do love you bodyless
I do love you handless, armless, feetless, thighless
I do love you dressless
I do love you necklace
I do love you faceless
I do love you eyeless, earless, hairless
I do love you senseless, timeless, placeless
I do love you nonetheless.
Jamison Bell Oct 2022
My pen is a wee bit cold, so I don’t think that I have long.
And since I can’t write you a poem,
I thought you might fancy a song.

It’s about a girl born with no hands and the boy she couldn’t hold.
The boy was deaf and blind, it’s just how the story’s told.

She’d wrap her arms around him, and thump his back with her stubs.
He’d screech in terror and find a way to run into some shrubs.

Sometimes you’d see him feeding her at the ice cream shoppe.
Just jabbing her face with a spoon while she cried and screamed “just stop”.

For Christmas he bought her gloves and she got him a dog.
It fell asleep around the fire and he mistook it for a log.

What baffled a lot of folks, is that their names were Betty and Stan.
For the love a soft and supple goat, Betty was the man.

Word has it they got married, and Stan well she said their vows.
And Betty he just stood there, spouting random howls.

They live out in the woods now, their feetless kids play there in the mud.
When you try to talk to them, they just stare out into space and chew on their cud.

— The End —