"foundationed" poems - Hello Poetry

The disposable razor, judders across unshaven skin and sprouting hair is defeated, left to sink into the drain and far away from me. This I do for you. On goes the shampoo, the conditioner, the body lotion (with that sweet fresh smell), the liquids streaming off of me with a scent I know well. It's the scent of the night before. The day before you and I choose each other, once again to spread laughter and cure boredom. It is for this that I bear this small portion of self mutilation. The hair is then burnt, or brushed or bent, as I twist it round resisting bristles. All done in case you wish to nestle there. An outfit is chosen, discarded, then re-picked to a constant monologue: RedNOworethatonelasttime...OH GOD WHERE IS IT fuckbloodypooandAAAH, perhapssomepurpleTHATONEnodoesn'tgononoNoNONOONOO blahblahblah. (well, you get what I mean) (If not...damn. Just me then?) It's all for you. Colours smeared onto face, flowers pierced into skin, eyelashes lengthened, the trace of muscles etched into willing legs and abs... This I do for you. And it's worth it, though you'll never quite know the effort with which it takes, to replace a sleep deprived villain with a semi attractive teen. You'll never know, but it's worth it. "You look nice today" is enough to make me quietly preen for hours with joy. A look of appreciation as you nuzzle in can make the pain of straighteners and razors scorch into unyielding flesh. A kiss on the neck which has been foundationed and sculpted for your enjoyment enough to make me arch like a swan. It's enough. So, this I do for you.

0

Sep 27, 2013

Sep 27, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC

Lifesabeach

'Date Night' Rituals

The disposable razor, judders across unshaven skin and sprouting hair is defeated, left to sink into the drain and far away from me. This I do for you. On goes the shampoo, the conditioner, the body lotion (with that sweet fresh smell), the liquids streaming off of me with a scent I know well. It's the scent of the night before. The day before you and I choose each other, once again to spread laughter and cure boredom. It is for this that I bear this small portion of self mutilation. The hair is then burnt, or brushed or bent, as I twist it round resisting bristles. All done in case you wish to nestle there. An outfit is chosen, discarded, then re-picked to a constant monologue: RedNOworethatonelasttime...OH GOD WHERE IS IT fuckbloodypooandAAAH, perhapssomepurpleTHATONEnodoesn'tgononoNoNONOONOO blahblahblah. (well, you get what I mean) (If not...damn. Just me then?) It's all for you. Colours smeared onto face, flowers pierced into skin, eyelashes lengthened, the trace of muscles etched into willing legs and abs... This I do for you. And it's worth it, though you'll never quite know the effort with which it takes, to replace a sleep deprived villain with a semi attractive teen. You'll never know, but it's worth it. "You look nice today" is enough to make me quietly preen for hours with joy. A look of appreciation as you nuzzle in can make the pain of straighteners and razors scorch into unyielding flesh. A kiss on the neck which has been foundationed and sculpted for your enjoyment enough to make me arch like a swan. It's enough. So, this I do for you.

52

Good god son. Looking straight at feet never got no one no where in this world Son, can you imagine? What it’s like to be passed over for shoe leather? To have eyes, arms, legs, knees, all ignored? Ignored for an inanimate object with a pleasant scent but nothing more Salt water and leather. Or son. Can you begin to imagine what it’s like to melt? What it’s like to fold in a too large chair Staring straight ahead At a screen Flashing colors/lights Sliding into and out of semblances and meanings Hands searching and not finding. And son, your knees jutting out like jetties among the foam Crossing right over left over left over right Cool air lifting up hairs like shocks, but god son. You must look at them. And son could you ever imagine? How deep a chair can feel When you know the folding’s real And the water isn’t still for any lack of menace Oh god! How the screams will peal. But son, I hope you’ve guessed that from under the refracting and refracted water That cuts the light up so beautifully From under that water you’ll never see bottom. And son, my love, this is vital What they say about screams in space is true. I know you’re a child, kid, but think, really think on this one, How’s it got to taste? Fed nothing But expecting much Can you conceive of the empty imperial dry rot Upon which, believe this if anything, the sun never sets And child, it tastes like carrion. When the chair starts its own folding in. Holy Lord in Heaven, my beloved son, when the sea foam green monoliths roll in with the moon. They **** against the wood legs of the jetty The feet, and knees too, Those that are foundationed in the sand and bound up with the shoe leather That you, My ingrate son, Cannot seem to ignore

0

Oct 8, 2010

Oct 8, 2010 at 2:19 PM UTC

taylor-peters

Prayer

Good god son. Looking straight at feet never got no one no where in this world Son, can you imagine? What it’s like to be passed over for shoe leather? To have eyes, arms, legs, knees, all ignored? Ignored for an inanimate object with a pleasant scent but nothing more Salt water and leather. Or son. Can you begin to imagine what it’s like to melt? What it’s like to fold in a too large chair Staring straight ahead At a screen Flashing colors/lights Sliding into and out of semblances and meanings Hands searching and not finding. And son, your knees jutting out like jetties among the foam Crossing right over left over left over right Cool air lifting up hairs like shocks, but god son. You must look at them. And son could you ever imagine? How deep a chair can feel When you know the folding’s real And the water isn’t still for any lack of menace Oh god! How the screams will peal. But son, I hope you’ve guessed that from under the refracting and refracted water That cuts the light up so beautifully From under that water you’ll never see bottom. And son, my love, this is vital What they say about screams in space is true. I know you’re a child, kid, but think, really think on this one, How’s it got to taste? Fed nothing But expecting much Can you conceive of the empty imperial dry rot Upon which, believe this if anything, the sun never sets And child, it tastes like carrion. When the chair starts its own folding in. Holy Lord in Heaven, my beloved son, when the sea foam green monoliths roll in with the moon. They **** against the wood legs of the jetty The feet, and knees too, Those that are foundationed in the sand and bound up with the shoe leather That you, My ingrate son, Cannot seem to ignore

46

today is the day that Christ has given us a hope. everything we do is foundationed on His love that was expressed, triumphantly, in the greatest of glories today. He has beaten the only thing we thought was inevitable He has conquered the 'one fact of human life' He has shown us, we are unlimited, because our patron, our guiding hand, Our Father, is someone who is unlimited- and He has guided us all for His glory, that we may believe- no one but Christ would endure what He endured, only for me, and no one but Christ could rise from the grave.

0

Apr 20, 2014

Apr 20, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC

m-48

Easter

today is the day that Christ has given us a hope. everything we do is foundationed on His love that was expressed, triumphantly, in the greatest of glories today. He has beaten the only thing we thought was inevitable He has conquered the 'one fact of human life' He has shown us, we are unlimited, because our patron, our guiding hand, Our Father, is someone who is unlimited- and He has guided us all for His glory, that we may believe- no one but Christ would endure what He endured, only for me, and no one but Christ could rise from the grave.

20