"ferments" poems
Devilish torment -- her body is my lament.
She crawls beneath the cracks and finds
The dark cellar, where my "worst" ferments.
She feeds it as it rots,
Just to make its wine more bitter . . .
Squeezed from the finest lies,
Designed to make an addict from a quitter.
Like a dark and tempting vacuum
That my soul cannot escape,
Attractive in its repulsion,
It's a part of me that loves the way it hates.
Masturbatory and selfish,
With a thirst that can't be quenched . . .
She finds the spots within me,
That make even deities flinch.
Their knees crack and crumble,
At its all-consuming "nothing". . .
I never knew my zero could be so wholly unbecoming.
She, or it, will surely be my undoing.
Yet, somehow, that keeps me moving.
So uncomfortably I'll admit . . .
It's the brutal nature of it all,
That I find so disturbingly soothing.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.
She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.
Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.
It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.
It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
13.4k
Your living water
ferments my soul.
Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir
for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.
(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)
For our hangovers:
Your living water
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
Be Lost In The Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: Oh prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an *** my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ***
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
Parsley and thyme
Comb the earth with your fertile fingers
You tell me that you want to bloom
And fruit like the plants do
As grapes turn to wine
The idea ferments with the seasons
Lain on the willow boughs
Nothing but our breathing and the starlight
I'm gonna take you to the whisky springs
Barefoot walk in the summer
You whisper the sweetest things
This child will have water for its father
and earth as its mother
Plant me inside of you
We'll do it twice if you're eager
I love to hear you sing out my name
Feeling hotter than a fever in the night
https://soundcloud.com/dorian-m/whisky-springs
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
I'm glad you're my friend
A shoulder to lean
A crutch to stand
A dwelling of respite
And the dawn's first break of light
I hope to give as much as I take
Laugh with you and cherish
To face what comes side by side
To be silent comfortably on those long car rides
I can never be angry at you
No matter my efforts
A smile from you is all it takes
A cure to my recurrent mental aches
In an unfulfilled life, your company is contentful
But
Like a poisonous nightshade blossoms
The fruit of friendship ferments
Forms into an intoxicating sweet wine
Drunk from it, my mind is realigned
I don't want to be friends with you
"Friend" is such an evil word
It brings so much yet restricts all I care for
A false comfort when one longs for more
So perhaps I must go
To some distant desolate escape
To myself, I must be true
I have to save myself from my love for you
I hate that you're my friend
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 12:10 PM UTC
It's apples and oranges. They are both fruit, and variety is the salt of the earth. We love dividing people like fruit though. We are rotten. At least fruit ferments. We decay
You are the apple of my eye. I will watch you rot, then i will throw the core away. What do I need seeds for? A bad apple in my eye now. *******
Orange you gonna hit like? I accept good apples too.
Oct 12, 2021
Oct 12, 2021 at 1:24 PM UTC
He pulls the grapes of imagination
And he ferments them in the caverns of his mind
And only when it's at its peak
Does he share with her his wine
Every drop that is in his words
Transcends and shows in her life
The girl he'd wait a lifetime for
His living paradise
He watches a drop as it trickles down her lip
And he leans in to kiss it away
He tastes the love inside her and the wine
And it is rich and sweet today
How lovely it is to share the setting sun
As well as the fruits of his inner self
Lying and growing potent for what seemed eternity
Until it was finally taken from the shelf
She lives in the richness, she traces each taste
She savors the texture of rich red
He inspires words she wants to live out
He puts dreams in her lovely head
Not a drop will go to waste, not one
Just like the sunset's beams
He looks at her in the hue of the moment
Dissecting her with his eyes, it seems
She lies on him and feels his heartbeat
In sync with her heart in time
And he looks at her and places a kiss on her lips
Then pours another glass of wine
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
Tail wagging
His tails wagging is no barking
Balking at wind, at passing car
Just body friends of wet sniffing
Two pant legs to be followed
Only to be shaken off in a vile
Basement of dark shadows
And sleeping cars in their veils.
Pant legs have no steel in them
And a soft bite is afraid of pain
By four ****** just below navel
Here love ferments but festers.
Lame dogs
Plenty of action is in the street
A dog leg is gone to child's pleasure
By a boy's stone at its whelping
But three legged dogs still bark
At passing cars, their shadows.
You cannot straighten his tail
His tail is like a crescent moon
Its flies like stars buzzing around
Or like a scythe the farmer uses
To bring his crop under control
And cannot be straightened ever
Like a crescent moon or a scythe.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.
No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.
"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"
I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.
And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?
God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.
"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."
"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."
Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!
"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."
Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.
Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.
The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--
Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.
Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
12:45
The sun has gone black,
the world is asleep.
In the family room,
the television clicks on by itself.
It illuminates my father,
half-naked,
covered in processed cheese dust.
The channel changes to Cinemax,
******** ***********
My mother walks in
without her glasses,
and for a moment
her screams of disgust
are indistinguishable
from the throes of passion
broadcast on the cheap
Acer dad bought at Costco.
Elsewhere,
in South America,
a volcano has erupted.
It sprays debris
and detritus
over a small village
with a long name.
Postmodern Vesuvians **** ash,
frozen not with fear
but rigor mortis.
The CNN report plays for three hours.
The world moves on.
Later,
a man explodes in a convenience store.
Guts rocket outward,
onto wine coolers
and travel packages of Chex,
and the clerk just shrugs.
If you go there today,
all that’s left is the smell of ammonia
and a dark stain on the ceiling.
At the same moment,
a toddler steps off a cliff,
spiraling into the abyss,
but never stops falling.
He’s been going for days,
months,
years.
He has kept his audience updated
through a Bluetooth that we tossed down after him.
He’s had windburn since he fell,
but the ointment we sent
hasn’t reached him yet.
His parents are now expecting.
He just yawns.
In my family room,
the woman on Cinemax is climaxing,
screaming,
pulling her hair out
while a greased-up middle aged
pizza deliveryman autoerotically asphyxiates
himself with a hair tie.
As she wails for the last time,
the TV screen shatters,
glass ejected,
blazing through the air
like Flight 93
seconds before impact.
Sparks salivate from the exposed wires,
then cackle down
into a signed black.
And as this happens,
the children on Exeter St
stop crying.
The alcohol in a small town liquor store in Wyoming
un-ferments,
and the world, for a moment,
ceases to turn.
But only for a blink.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
I have pasta trauma
That’s the joke I tell
But it isn’t funny
It’s shorthand for the sickness
That never leaves
It’s why hunger feels safer than indulgence
Why I can starve myself with ease
But stumble over a plate of something rich
I am fluent in the language of deprivation
Fullness has always felt like arrogance
Nobody talks about the way shame
Ferments in the stomach
How it sits heavier than food ever could
Shame teaches you to apologize for existing
Before you even open your mouth
Shame teaches you to rehearse obedience
Until it becomes instinct
Hunger became my first addiction
The only sensation I could control
I didn’t know then that choosing not to eat
Was the closest thing to rebellion I had
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 10:09 AM UTC
The floodgates
have opened
deluge rushing in
all the shellfish
are writhing
deep under my skin
******* out my juices
my heart bleeding
thick
my heart on the platform
in textures that tick
like time in a bomb
inside a box
in my painted ribcage
just waiting to blow
like a self-contained rage
and I can no longer hold it
as implosion ferments
my insides are bursting
in iridescent
s l o w motion
every one of my cells
a chaotic torment
As my body shudders and
shakes and splits
in the blast
I know that my mind
is free at last
my essence climbs
this final ascent
questions form into peace
as tissue is rent
I glance at the *****
on the sacrificial dais,
once inside this silken chest
It beats as it takes it,
as my soul rides the crest
It accepts the heavy,
on that stage,
stuck through on a spike
the world looking
through us
as transparency strikes
and I am no longer a body
just a traveling soul
a companion
of the timeless
going back to my fold
And suddenly, there,
peering in
through the tender
stained glass panes
an aura flashing its signals
in blood pumping veins
Its silence is fragrant
and wild
in fluorescent
screaming hues
voices that sway me
in deep strokes of blue
and as I willingly
splay myself
upon the vaults
securely fastened
to my own demise
my eyeless vision
grazing the glowing black
in swirls of
slashed ancient
language
I see now
so clearly
that the dark one arrived
the one here
to take my soul
with the ember
mystic eyes
melting what is left
of my lava tripped bones
lifting my abyss
to spheres above
yes that one over there
is actually
Love
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
I put myself through scratchy throats
And eye drying crimson nights
For a promise
But I'm not doing what I love
I'm loading pressure on my
Weak spots constantly and
Hoping with wandering glances
That I'll catch gold in the wind
With my lashes beant down
With my lips curled into half hearted sneers I wish this
Hollow mask would fade slowly
To reveal
Walking on all fours with
My mouth open to catch your spit
Fun nights of tickling to the last
Dying breath, I'd
Slide two fingers to hush your words
And drink up your gasps I would
Rip my tongue on your
Flypaper if you laid it open
If you wished it, your dreams could
Enslave me so
I'd bend back until my spine felt dizzy
But you wouldn't know that
My laughter would be biting back
My blood from its boiling point
I would wait, and in goosebumps pray for
Release
I feel
Every bodies pain
Through the way the hold their mortal dolls
Closed tightly from the world
Their words, as sweaters to contain
Their misery it ferments slowly
The wishes that they left unkempt and growing wild from
Dead innocence, their seeds
Crawling blossoms from the dirt
Catch my fingers sliced open
As they linger to prune
I'd flounder for the night your
Fireflies would glow
Dimly from tired eyes
That peeled the day back
From lovers you watched
Spitting as if to
Bleed yourself back into the ground
I'll wait
As widows to the wind
I'd call and hope for the stars to answer in your name
For you wandered through millennia
To face this
Time of quivering fevers breaking
sweat storms
Of pouring glasses full of
Last years abandoned daydreams
That curdle as we hesitate
To drink them
For a moment where our lives seemed
Less real
And we hunger
For a glance that would wash clear
The smog of our confusion
And tie the tattered ploys of our
Restless youth to the stars
I'd steer them so you could sleep
If only you needed me to
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
suddenly all of the pens i own
are either gone,
empty,
broken,
or left alone
no amount of penniless pettiness
came from my mouth,
no mutters,
sobs,
nor silence left
to give,
forgive the narratives,
which lingers
inching
the tip
of thy fingers,
that holds restless
itching
to scab and release
what remains
in scars
the pus which ferments
on hatred and
the scent
burning cocoa beans and smoke
that knocks on my eyes
a blurry vision
despite
rose-tainted glasses,
the taste
of bitterness
in farewell.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
“The hottest love has the coldest end.”
-Socrates
You were there. Like stardust ever dancing in the light as if infinity swirls to you. Your existence declines my being. You waived all presences, defying the mnemonics of what qualifies existence.
You were there—not now.
Before, we were strangers looking at some abyss. After, we are strangers excited of what the future holds for both of us. In between, we are still strangers cursing all pains stinging our hearts.
Time inflicts its greatest wound: recollection. Malt ferments. Soul dies. Mind breaks down. Bubbles in beers imploded to every motion of the hand swaying, wishing it never touched you. Dreams stitched to rags given to wipe dusts and rusts. Time betrayed us, then and again. You were there but not now. Time cursed the being. Time stabbed us causing my heart to burn.
If only I can love you without time minding us all.
Atoms fall. They swerve a little, says Epicurus. Repulsion with others creates the world. That repulsion is a lasting encounter.
What holds that philosophy to be true is antimony. What holds us after all is just an illusion.
When I stumble upon old things finding some boxes, I remember you. When I see your picture in an old frame, forgetting becomes a sickness.
Is there a pill that can selectively erase your fading silhouette in my memory? Confession: I took that pill long ago. My mind fabricates immunity.
You were there in the horizon standing, holding an umbrella, ready to swerve from the rain that once made our love so cold and true.
I was there.
That night, the rain substituted to a poet’s tears.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
For the "you"
not the one you wear to work
but the one that looks lovely
at first morning sight
For the "you"
not the one you cover so immensely
with scarves and jackets
but the one that dances in their underwear
on a lazy Saturday
For the "you"
not the one that wears the glasses
of work ethics
but the one whose fire
is wild enough, it makes wildfires dim in jealousy
For the "you"
not the one that ferments in silence
but the one that screams sultry verbatim
now and then that surprises
all those around
For the "you"
not the one that nestles in sobriety
from 9 to 5
but the one that ******* to the first taste of alcohol
For the "you"
not the one that's under construction
under the umbrella of perfection
but the one
that flaunts those flaws
on that runway
so seductively
it makes
perfection
curl in
envy
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
Deep within my soul
Some mysterious force on the loose
Pushing me to put all my weaknesses into use
Though I got my own burdens
But I see people overloaded
I shed tears but a lot of people bring them down like showers
Because of fear
Fear of the unknown
Listen carefully and you will hear them when they mourn
Hearts turned cold
Same ignorant folks, same negative attitude
From the young and old
Things our fore fathers foretold
Things you will never understand till you grow old
I got to ask myself, Sit here and watch this drama unfold?
I can’t wait till my anger ferments
These are my own feelings I challenge
Because I got a soul to protect
To save a sister and a brother
Give them power
Love like no other
Break them mentally free
Like that bird on the tree
Raise my self esteem
Sip some wine change my state of mind
End all my mental fights
Embrace for something right
Something that we all going to like
-End-
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Some days are gone before they leave...
that taste in my mouth
Why do I care?
What is this air?
going in by itself?
I should drink coffee black
take chocolate bitter
My wine turned to vinegar
Acerbic
so next to
spit-
out
the ferments of rage
There are words
there is nothing
there are words
there is nothing
there are words
there is nothing
as abandoned
as a vacant page
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Jack ladies radio true lover
Alchemy witch drooping banana tree Goddess!
Stripper, a woman, sweat of thy face
Now ferments in cider
****** flames
Let's dance gold
Watch band kiss looking for glory
Einstein's story until they reached his book
pure enough to temples allowance
Bob light of a queen
other; the monster
The dog slumber tomato
According to the state corner
the spirit of the developers with the intermediate body,
The angel of death shore table
long lives have taught the nature of the propaganda of the mountain,
nourishing the body thin
or tail against the dream
Thirty-two years looking for a bigger wave
the image of the city of the sun, a way leading to his evil way,
Kneel wide pool Asian center
In making Italian exchange
the income of the ***** were a genus; Version: cut
developer point mad
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
Lights lie flashing their sirens with the opening of the dawn;
In the sun streaked streets the artists mix their
Painted faces with oiled pigments;
The dusts of the streets, the dust of the leaves that burn with
The cold and rust with the heat disperse with
The knotted storms that rope the
Blazing frosted earth that lies there forever escaping into air.
Luminous yellow and flamed coloured red are streaming like
The moon and sun reversing and crossing each
Other in a street of luminous people
Where the warmth of great passion hangs in perfumed bottles,
Where people are beautiful in their young
Youth, people arranged like flowers
Burning with ripened love, soft and delicate in innocence.
The Eiffel Tower, the pinpoint of our dreams lies open as a free
Flamed metallic torch that ferments with its iron
Emotions; an almost Romanesque
Renaissance coloured with the Millennium stars that rocket into
The sky then stay for a while turning into dust
And becoming our ashes as we
Summon on again to the fires of our morning lovers we had left.
©Jack Aylward
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Pour me a case of it,
a jug's not enough if it
don't anaesthetise.
Steeping deeper in the frosted glass I watch the world and time pass by,
I drink a case and still I'm dry,
bring me up a barrel do.
It's true what they say that an apple a day ferments in its own way,
You
can think that if you wish, but my wish to be is to sit under the tree with Isaac, my eyes on the fruit, my tongue hanging out, my thought fermentation, thus this is my situation.
Gravity can't bother me under the tree, that's Newton's law, note the apostrophe and to put or to not really did bother me.
1 Like
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Noggin ferments the senses in mire
Ruby-wrapped in friendship or desire
Nurtures Dutch courage, kisses and amour
Furtive affairs distant, fading more
At the wheel, oh, he’s in control
He’s a mate, a real card, a party soul
His friends ahead had one for the road
They’ll be safe; they walked as told
Windscreen shatters, crimson-smeared
Carved mosaics of friends without tears
Tanked up on noggin and that extra jar
Crimson-wrapped denial in a twisted car
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC