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mûre Mar 2012
photograph One:
i see you, and the first things i see are your dark eyes
you sit beside me with open hands and make me laugh over coffee.

photograph Two:
one night i notice your mouth. you haven't drank but i have.
still all i see are your eyes when you first lean in.
i'm aroused and utterly haunted.

photograph Three:
you're so pale i want to colour you in. i want to make you alive.
you're dancing so frenetically, my marionette man
and i can't tell who tugs the strings.

photograph Four:
It's after midnight and you've stormed from my house snarling
like a wolf waiting to die.
"i'm poison" you spit. "i'll poison you, too".
"you and me." i plead. "i won't run".

photograph Five:
it's a cloudy day. you tell me you love me without looking me in the eye.

photograph Six:
you're standing in the open doorway against winter wind
dragging a half-quit cigarette and i am hugging my knees on your couch
waiting for you to calm
our eyelashes smeared chilly with tears.

photograph Seven:
you are lying on the floor, heaving with sobs.
i am holding you as tight as i can because i don't know what to do
and i'm afraid if i let you go you will cremate in the heat of your darkness
already we are both husks.

photograph Eight:
we lie awake in your cold bed and we are strangers
you will not touch me and i feel naked.

photograph Nine:
i awoke at 4am from a dream of you that was a lie
many months after i fled from your ghost
and like an infected wound
it still throbs hotly that i could not save you
and that for so long i could not save myself from you
the dark-eyed boy with the angel tattoo
K Balachandran Jun 2012
After sunset
life gets hectic,
music sets fire to hearts,
**night dies till the dawn comes.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android.  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Belligerent barbarian berserker.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  It's graspy greedy on the stingy frugal aimed mingy minions.  Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's proximity parameter's perimeter peripherals.  Propinquity habitation's harbingers of harangued.  Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
Chaotic Melodic Aug 2010
Six giggling hours,
Spill ideas all over the floor.
Time tiptoes backwards
As the lights wear rainbow halos,
Spinning you round until you are nauseous,
Dizzy, and confused.
Where the boring and mundane
Shed their cloths and ******* all night.
The paradox
Interrupts cluster headaches
And memories come to life.
Dead family members **** your forehead
Turning up the gas of your emotions.
Opening your pupils
So they can swallow the unseen.
Intense feelings of wonder,
Like needles of insight,
Unraveling what you thought was true
And buzzing frenetically
Around your body
Throughout your bloodstream
And into your brain.
Where philosophical thoughts and giddy daydreams
Tickle each other into submission,
Swimming through fear and spiritual understanding,
Like waves crashing relentlessly throughout your cells.
Dancing in the day-glo thundershowers
Giving life to the dead ground.
The walls come alive,
Stroking your face
Like a long lost mother you thought you had forgotten.
© Cory  McQueen
Debra A Baugh Jul 2013
my ***** ache
as tongue trails
****** to ******
licking, *******
engulfing each
tender breast

squeeze of
buttocks, lifting
sweetness to my
lips; tongue parting
labials, diving deep
into her honey ***

savoring nature's
nectar like a bee
to flower casting
away her inhabitions
or doubts as flames
of passion licks with
intensity searing
us in ecstasy

branding her,
loving her flesh
with kisses and
sweat becomes
steam in the
afterglow of our
nakedness

touching, inhaling
scent of ***
tasting one
another
frenetically
in
abandoned
ache
K Balachandran Dec 2011
truth
could be
simply,  falsehood
in a different perspective!
' God particle'
particle physics is
frenetically
searching for
could equally be called
'******* particle'!
According to Standard Model of particle physics, Higgs boson,is a hypothetical massive elementary particle.Higgs boson particle is often reffered as 'God particle' in popular media, after the title of Leon Ledeman's book.' 'God particle, if the universe is the answer, what is the question'.Ledeman jokingly said that "******* particle" was a more appropriate title, given it's villainous nature and expense it causes, but the publisher of the book won't allow to call that.
Onoma Nov 2013
Sunlit water...angelic morse code--
non local, supercharged.
Where undulant ripple, at an angle,
sun at its angle, flashed sparks of
double exposure.
Frenetically shifting focal points,
suffusing an animated luminosity.
A one dimensional constellation
clustered en mass, optic tempo of
ebb and flow.
Sonogram of amorphous light,
whose: white, yellow, green, blue--
integrated auric stipple seemingly
pulled skyward.
Death neared whilst thee afoot...
at second attention the soul's
wrenched from the animal...
transmission complete.
Amy Perry Feb 2021
I chose you
Like the butterfly
Chose the sun.
Like the moth is
Nocturnally drawn
To the moon
And any other
Illuminated illusion.
Frenetically chasing
In a trance-like dance,
We wade through
Day and night
Like winged creatures.
Expressive messengers,
Speaking a language
In metaphor
Available to all
Who can hear
Symbols and scriptures
Written by an architect
Keen enough on details
To give day and night
Its doting darlings.
abp
K Balachandran Apr 2013
Formidable in flow and essence,
beauty is her power, cascading like her dark hair,
an invading army of one,
a natural seductress, at ease,
under the red banner of amour,
held out in front, she advances;
all impregnable forts willingly fall.
Her amatory machinations are
perfectly crafted.
                           She is a strategist,
when each of his senses advances,
towards her, she retreats,
when they frenetically chase her,
she stuns with her soft power,
the scent of this woman, makes him weak,
loose his bearing,
                            even when his senses are overpowered,
he poses like the victor of her passionate heart.
His every weakness she knows better than him,
but each  moment covers up to make him reassured.

She is a colonizer,
glib talk, kind acts, a heart glittering like gold.
Oh how well she reigns over his heart!
She essays divide and rule,
each of his senses has
their way of seeking gratification from her.
Once he is perfectly under her control,
she transforms in to a whirlwind of love,
lifts him like a leaf,
and send him flying in pursuit,
of the high point,
consciousness can reach at the present state-
that feels like death,  in a  miniature form.
Do I really have to completely and painfully forget about us, deeply and frenetically in love, passionately devouring each other?!
Must I abandon my sincere dream of being joyfully and profoundly yours?
How can I escape being so obsessed with all of you? I’m surprised by my own strength, acting as if none of the turmoil around us matters.
I can’t overcome this silence and emotionless moment, but I swear it’s all due to the melancholy inside me.
I’m depressed, yet you’re still the one and only who can drive me crazy.
zebra Nov 2017
after a week of dried paint chips
and plastic shoe laces
the starved little mouse
ate the dainty aqua blue food pellets
near the big red door
through spider webs
behind the refrigerator

finally full
his guts in a knot
he keeled over hemorrhaging
but at least he wasn't driven mad
with hunger anymore
although he was tormented
with writhing and choking up ****** tidbits
towards his final destination
a knotting rigor mortis

he could be seen
laying flat on his back
withered
frozen in a suspended flutter frenzy
his little limbs clawing frenetically
to the heavens

having dared the sin of gluttony
he paid his penitence
and last absolution
for living large
as a house mouse
in the cruel wilds
of a treacherous world
on the crucifix of the human kingdom
land of the roaming
Godzilla's
where solace and kindness has no quarter
for a starved hard lived little mouse
who died
as providence would have it
by Gods infinite wisdom and glory
like a rat
when we make a mistake its called a sin
when God makes a mistake its called nature
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android.  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
One day I was in the rural areas of Turkana County,
walking up and down perfidiously ,
in a style of  the devil when visiting
Job  the son of Amos in the land of Uz,
It was in fact in the Northern region of the County
near a town known as Small Spain,
it is bushy and full of wild animals,
i was  on assignment by a certain NGO,
to give food,*******,drugs and clothes
to the dwellers  of this desert region,
All over a sudden I pumbed into a riff-raff
of  peasants, wearing scrofulously lugubrious faces,
one of them , a young man was on the ground
reeling in pain from the snake-bite,
he had been biten by a deadly desert snake,
A yellow Mamba in fact, it left its fangs in his muscle,
it was pathetic and sorriest, as there was no clinic nearby,
the nearest hospital was one thousand miles away,
and  you know,there is no road,no vehicle nor bicycle,
no horses nor water boats, only Carmel,,donkey and goats,
were there plus few emaciated native cows,
Luckily enough a white man  who stayed nearby,
surfaced from nowhere, he also owns a small aero-plane,
He spoke Italian,Spanish,Swahili and Greek like a native,
so I don't knew which country of Europe he came from,
he picked the snake bite victim to his home,
he asked me to come along
we boarded his plane to Kitale,
where we have a government hospital,
We flew across the hills of Turkana land ,
thousand and thousands of miles,
it was i, the white man  and snake bitten man,
three strangers on one another in the aeroplane,
Bound strongly by human love beyond identity,
Our patient began getting worse and worse
In fact  he had began getting dull and motionless,
we landed in Kitale, the white man bought a taxi,
we rushed to the hospital, all us panting frenetically,
we got at the hospital found nurses having lunch,
they were slow and relaxed, as if death is their dish,
the African nurse who came was all but un-started,
she began asking  for the age and the  tribe,
The tribe of our snake bitten friend,
She also asked for where he works,
And where he often goes to clinic,
worst of  all, she asked where he goes to church
she again demanded for seven hundred shillings,
the white man gave her the money,I was broke as usual,
He gave her a bank note of  one thousand shillings
she declined , she instead  wanted loose money
she ordered us to look for her the  loose money
before  she could begin treating our friend,
before we got the loose money  our friend died
of heavy poisoning of the blood, snake bite
He roared like a bull in the slaughter house,
on his painfully preventable death,
the white man was very disappointed
the white man wept, he went back to his plane.
In a similar stretch with a case of  a referral hospital
in Eldoret, also another town in Kenya, it is big,
it is called Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital,
it has the largest cancer management unit,
in the whole of east and central Africa
from Congo to Seychelles is the only one,
it was build by tax payers money,
but local politics as influenced it otherwise,
workers and Nurses are substantially locals,
in fact from one clan, now they speak strangely,
patients from alien clan are never treated,
they must bribe to be treated,
if not you  go back sick and eat your tribe,
or if you are introduced by a local politician,
you be lucky to be treated your cervical cancer,
they charge medical fees exorbitantly,
but once you pay no doctor will come,
in fact patients who are admitted for in-patient,
rarely come out  alive, if they are one hundred,
eighty of them will die,twenty will go home,
only to come back after a while and then die,
out of this despair another white man from Germany,
has established a modern hospital , just nearby the referral,
it offers absolutely free cancer treatment services
as Africans keep on facilitating death of their own kin,
Blessed be the womb that gave birth to a European.
Aaron Wallis Feb 2014
A lowly wooden bench lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
He and the bench creak as he sits back; clutching at the satchel veiled among his dull drudged garb that bleeds into his pallid slack and cracked skin.
The wiry hairs bushed around his nostrils recoil to the deep inhale before the sigh, his yawning blue eyes sliding behind a milky glaze follow a bushy tailed rodent hurry into the confidence of a tree.
Through all nonchalance a pair of hobgoblin lugs under a brown woollen hat slides up the flanks of his head to outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity, an unseen clutch of kids filling the common’s spread with their foolish louting prances. Intimidating the preferred and performed with their innocuous idiocies; a mere asocial array of follies without the thought of good manner.
The thoughts of the old man are only briefly drawn; his ears leave the sounds of reckless recreation and back to the hushing song of the swaying grass, the rustling shake of the seasoned leaves on gorged and drooping branches. To his own wilted waning heart, the tremors, quiver and shivers within his own cage, his thoughts turned to his own temporal passage and to the re-joining of his love, of whom no longer lays her head on his shoulder, whom no longer wraps herself around his arm on the lowly park bench.
His lowest lip gives to an emotive tremble as he heaves himself over to the hem of the seat, his hands without any other part to play; frenetically tickle one another with frail kinked fingers.
With what little his body has left to give the eyes well to the upmost point of a tear, as he feels the weight of his wallet in his side trouser pocket against the rough of his skin. Where there within lays an image of a most loved face in a prized time, so that it may be remembered so it may fetch ease to a remittent floundering morsel of a man who could justly with the dead.
The photograph within his keeping need not be looked upon from under the shine of a laminated holding; it needs only to be there, only to be known that it is there.
The satchel was undid and fetched from within the clutter came an elderly notebook now held in his hands. A phlegmy husk of something said breeches his gummy chops, and he spits as he spat shouting out at the still of the garden.
“You should always write more than you do,” she would say, “you are better for it when you do and it lifts me as it does you, when you do.”
The old man reads from the notebook with a weak hate for the world.

“Am I for the worms yet? Am I to be from this rock?
Am I not yet too mad for this mad maddening world?
Four corners of an empty house, a homeless place of curling wallpaper and aloneness for company.
A room in a vagrant house with no light to fill it with a decrepit fool for a keeper
His stink stinks the walls for days as the blow flies form a speckled haze as they feast in filth of his unnoticed demise
With no manner of intention and for relation or friend, there is no cause and no mention for any to attend
He will rot with the house and his memory with it, with his memory does his love die and together they are ghosts in a world where ghosts do not exist.”

The old man pauses as he forcibly triggers one finger to his temple and ***** in his lips. His empty cries fall to a mumble as his hands tremble with his dear notebook in their grasp.

“Take me now cruel are the fates, take me now and rid me
The worms will welcome me, my flesh for an endless night
My life for a world without this life, for a life without his world
I would hold with a brim smile if it was not for my memory of her, if she was not to be lost at the close of this stint
I know not or want knowledge; I seek not of a design and not of meaning
Just a cure for this affliction for my must to her who brings me so much sorrow
Through blissful ages I can no longer hold, and can barely recall
We are all just people who will soon be once living, to be unlived and to forget is a conflict in myself
I have no answer as I have no question, you can have no answer to a question you do not seek nor ask
I dare not speak but I have no end for this, I have no solace and I have no end.”
The old man; the poor old man began to close his dear aged notebook and find the need to bring a smile, perhaps a moment of lunacy to calm the tightening knot beneath his breast.
He pulled a scratching cackle from the pit, wild and uncooked wiping the drool from the crook of his maw with the back of his blotched, mottled hand.
The old man found some seconds of a stoic amenity as his wild eyes grew gallant for those mere moments before the grey metal heft of his sullen vesture fell to his shoulders, he became heavy once more as the world retook him and cloaked again in the present - the light ebbed from him as swiftly as it came. The old man reproached his satchel to humbly return his dear old notebook.
There was a crack like a pick to ice with a hollow thud like a boot to wood as an immediately dissipating claret mist fizzed above his head. The make shift found-about cosh still swinging through the air and over his crown, the old man’s wilted body twisted and slumped to the floor face first. The concrete path before him tearing at the skin of his chin, his frail bones cracked as the meagre weight of his body forced itself into his neck. Laying perverse and unnatural the life was soaked up into his woollen hat and out across the concrete, to the grass – to the worms that writhed below the muck. His eyes were as lifeless as they were when he lived.
They did not wait for the gentle hiss of the spray or the bubbles that popped in the pool that surrounded the old man. They had snatched the satchel and ran off into the spread of the common until they were nothing but outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity.
Crazy old *******.
A lowly wooden bench has lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
I wanted to look at the people we never notice or avoid and there potential differences, whether it be an old crazy man on a bench or a group of youths in hoods. I wanted to follow the man though and his reason for him to be sitting in the bench a momentary peak into his life. I also tried to paint a scene with a little detail as I could. I only hope it all worked.
K Balachandran Feb 2016
FROM
this creek,
where the
once profuse
flow of water
dry up
every passing
minute,
the fish,
that once swam,
gleefully down stream
unsuspectingly,
slowly die
frenetically beating
their tail
on naked sand bed
TO
the acme of
the galaxy that
invites with the signals
of changing patterns of light,

there is much distance
if you measure the
intergalactic
space
but it's only an arm's length
if you travel by other means.
The neurons in human brain has tremendous ability to perform feats, one can't still imagine...we know very little about the wonder that is human being..
Do not be disturbed
If I lack the ability
To sugar-coat
The beautifully human
The tragically human
Or
If I refuse to try rewrite
The book of life

Do not be disturbed
By us
Mad mischief-makers
Us
Multi colored misfits
Who wander the market place
All dressed up
With nowhere to go
But here

Do not be disturbed
By us frenetically tainted
Us
Silly sprouted beings
Who speed the highways
On a wild goose chase
To wherever


Dearest do not be disturbed
If I regurgitate
Some heavenly-scented hairball
From some holy rap sheet
From some wasted wobbling wino
Do not be disturbed
If I smell a rat and show my teeth

Do not be disturbed
By the impending days ahead
When some grizzly goon
Some long-clawed nimbat
Some long-forgotten ghost
Coughs  up and spits in your face

Of course be disturbed if you must
But the days are short and the hour is nigh
The time for braggards and barbies
Monsters and missionaries
For mystery and myth
Will soon quietly pass away
And you wont be able
To hear a pin drop
Dearest
Do not be disturbed.
The futility of judgement, the unabashed nature of the joker who holds up a mirror .Written around Halloween when it's kosher to display our alter-egos and or disowned parts . The weight of putting up false fronts and then being confronted with the emotional ghosts and goons that hide in the unconscious. Finding my truth within the mayhem
Bri A Jan 2012
She tap, tap, tapped her cheap pen
on the yellowing paper.
The ****** paper stared back
a blank, unflinching glare.
Typical.
Frenetically, restlessly,
she set her own metronome faster
with the clicking of her pen
than the outdated clock sulking in the corner
could possibly keep up with.
Suddenly, decisively,
She pushed herself away from the desk.
The screech of the chair’s harsh legs
across a cold, unforgiving concrete floor
filled up the whole room with noise.
Noise was all around her,
empty noise,
invading her ears
her head
her brain.
Stop!
She needed them out.
The room was silent—
Save for her
and the sounds
of an old room
with a dying light
and a faded, ticking clock.
She closed her tired eyes and
drew deeply from the cigarette between her
thin, voiceless lips,
then smudged her little addiction out
leaving a burn stain at the top of her paper.
Might as well,
she figures,
not much good comin’ from this paper
anyways.
And anyways,
the flickering light
in this God-forsaken old office
wasn’t doing her any good, either.
She knew it was time to pack up,
head home,
but she needed this demon inside her
to work for her,
not against her.
‘Writers Anonymous’
that’s where she needed to be—
what she needed
to be a part of.
She had things to say.
And she couldn’t say them.
Flick, flick, bzzz.
The light sputtered,
limping dejectedly through it’s own current,
with a halfhearted commitment to shedding light.
Hanging over her head
just like the ideas
she couldn’t force her hand
to capture on paper.
They needed to be confined, here,
she knew.
These thoughts, buzzing around her head,
like the anxious flicking
and bzzing of the bulb dangling precariously above,
needed to be trapped in this paper,
immortalized externally,
a burden laid down
in incriminating ink before her.
That’s what she needed, she knew.
but no matter how often
or how hard
or how intense
she tap, tap, tapped her pen
on the rickety wooden desk
over the silent white paper
with the cigarette stain in the top corner—
those **** buzzing thoughts
cluttering up her brain
would keep sputtering through life.
Writers Anonymous.
That’s what she needed.
K Balachandran Mar 2016
Quickly he picked up
keenly examined
and seemed to admire
the handy penknife
with sharp blades,
quite functional,
she hurriedly pulled out
from the clutch she carries;
she was searching
frenetically for something
when it inadvertently
showed up, she deliberately
didn't pay attention
to his expressed curiosity,
yet her eyes adequately
answered his loud
unasked question.

In words he didn't ask WHY?
though it echoed in his eyes.
Atrocities against women are on the rise all over the world..
Andrew Rueter Mar 2022
I don't know if it's a deity
or the DMT
DMing me
that it's my enemy
and that it sent me this
feeling of emptiness
in blank fields with no flowers
or green grass
just concrete towers
and broken glass
digging into my feet
agony during delete
dragging me to a steep
cliffside leap
this gift I reap
and drift to sleep
until I can't leave
the unending sea
bending me
its entropy
entering
like a centipede
frenetically
slinking down my spine
like a vulpine down a vine
no wine
or ****
can slow down its speed
no way to impede
what makes me bleed
which makes me seethe
seething to believe
there's nothing underneath
my broken glass feet
just an ash heap
I'll see lastly
before passing.
The human being.

The doer of such good.
Also the doer of some of the darkest most
nefarious behavior ever witnessed on his planet.

The human being.
So imperfect.
So bi-polar.
So frenetically unbalanced.
Flawed.

The matter of factly cold blooded murderer
which doesn't bat an eye after its despicable
display of carnage .
Carnage that not even the creatures we call
"animals" are capable of.
Flawed.

You know the ones.
General Paul W. Tibbets, pilot of the Enola Gay.
The pilot that dropped "little boy" and murdered 140,000 people.
The pilot that was spared his own life to the age 92
while ending others before they even begun.
Flawed.

You know the ones.
The human "animals" such as...
the Charles Manson's.
The Saddam Hussein's and
the Adolf ******'s of his world.
The fallen angel Satan, cast out of the heavens
during a war in the heavens never to return.
Flawed.

The drunken drivers that **** the innocent everyday.
The texting drivers that **** the innocent everyday.
The complainers.
The annoying bi-polar human being that complains
it is too hot.
Only to complain a short time later,
they are too cold.
Flawed.

The annoying human being that complains that their
garden and grass is in desperate need of rain.
This is the same human being that I have to listen to
complain in a supermarket checkout about how
they will have to dodge the raindrops when leaving the store,
such an inconvenience for them,unreal.
Flawed.

The humans that promise,
only to be filled with empty promises.
We live in a world full of empty promises.
"I swear to God" they strongly avow!
Perhaps that is their biggest problem in life right there.
Flawed.

The animal abusers and murderers that will one day
have to answer for their heinous crimes upon
God's most tame creations.
The alleged animals.
Only, they aren't the true "animals" that roam
and destroy God's Earth, no ,not at all.
That title belongs to the irrevocably flawed human being.
The ones that they themselves have brought many of
God's creations to the brink of extinction by their sheer ignorance.

Just to think....
It all began so so long ago with a man named Adam,
and a woman named Eve,
and we as God's most flawed creation
have never recovered.
Simply looking around me everyday,
I now see that we never will.....
K Balachandran Dec 2018
Purple hue spilled by
Frenetically painting dawn,
Made the world reborn!
edwill makamu Mar 2016
I made her,
I made her fall for me
Likewise, I fed her with my poisoners words
likewise, she chew them; swallowed them

They diffused all over her body and soul
My vows driven her lunatic,
further so, she fell in love
She fell in love with me
She frenetically fallen for me

That's my drug, I poisoned her
I made her fall for me,
Further so, I'm momentarily confused
She's daft in idolatry with me

As a matter of fact
I'm momentarily confused
I shouldn't have made her
I was temporally,  
Further so, I lied.
That's when you made someone deeply fall for you with no intentions of catching them then you get confused when you don't know how to get away.
Onoma Jun 2015
Imagine the sun as a being

that reached into its chest

and began frenetically tearing

off excess layers...till The Heart

was reached, and every beam

became an arm of giving.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android.  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.  Sentience's evocative eventuation's inevitably irrefragable!  The thought of such infrangibly sublime surreal.
WoeBegone Jul 13
Sometimes, before the morrow comes,
I see blackness move on the mountain tops.
I see shadow ropes hanging
On the windows of my house,
And their dark blue lines move slowly,
Like the hands of a clock.
I hear owls singing blues and rock,
Leaves falling on the ground,
And other things I hear in the moonstruck.

Sometimes, before the morrow comes,
My feet, they tempt me out.
My soul begs me to shout,
Howl like a wolf,
Wait for others to howl back,
Howl all together at the same time.
Run, frenetically, till out of breath,
Rest on a tree,
And feel the silence
Breaking into us,
Beating in our veins,
As adrenaline fades away.

Sometimes,
I want to go out
And see for myself
The world beyond my house.
Amethyst Fyre Nov 2016
I wanted to see the moon last night
It was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing
But the house alarm was on, blinking its red light back at me
And I didn't want to bother anyone by sneaking out

Frenetically, I ran to all the windows
Searching, squishing my face against the glass
But the moon never showed itself to me
I reach the last window, my last hope
I crumble in front of it

Resigned to miss this once-in-a-lifetime

But while I'm looking out in despair
I realize that the sky is a brighter blue than I've seen it in a long time
And so, while everyone else saved tonight as a memory of the moon
I created my own moment to hold onto

Of the sky, its light and myself
Paul Horne Apr 2020
Just when you’ve squeezed
the last tiny bit back,
then sat on it, stood on it,
pleaded then kneed it, over-
-bursting the seams until belted and bound,
the time for no more, surely
a long push passed, then,
only then,
a vital cog, finally found
with odd shaped sides, the sterilising kit,
for the latest child

I sigh, with a hopeful look
other child, yawns, resigned,
his job, he states, “is just to drive’
and then, “remember?”
as if I could forget.
a row to rue.

Eyes to the ceiling,
a silent protest, ( ignored )
as start the unwrap
of cheapest, his purchase,
stuck sticky brown tape
an ever reluctant prise, (for a woman)
frenetically freed, and finally
ex-mummified case, ready
to refill again.

After hands and knees,
a numbing derrière
we’re packed again,
minus heels and a skirt
thoughtfully lined
with bits of a shirt,
his, he won’t miss
bursting through holes,
here and there, thinking,
please don’t drop this,
or leave in a puddle,
my sunny vacation,
spent on a rack, or balcony, drying

And just for a second, was there
staring at endless shores, and perhaps
( close your ears, little one )
enjoying an Italian?

Not sat on a floor
in rain soaked here,
with a grumpy Greek.
(neither defamation, nor blasphemy meant, sans Title)

Despite ingestion of
     anti anxiety medications
     ferocious hellish onslaught
     pummels me aback
finds resurgence of ghostly
     white implacable terror
inducing panic attack
cogs and wheels

of psyche frenetically
spinning alas and alack
swallowed in the un
avoid doubleheader maw
whale size amberjack
suctioned alive as dead ringer
     human master bait
     (feebly prate who GOD,

     somebody please HELP)
     doomed to die, "eye"
     doth entirely engulf me
     far worse than being slammed
     by malevolent forces
     loosed from hurricane
     classed as Category 5
on Saffir-Simpson Scale

     adrip with horrible gastric,
caustic, and acidic repulsive
bile alcoholic akin to applejack
and more rancid
than Q8 oily arrack
once again oft repeated phrase
     Death be not Proud, viz
     reincarnation of Moby ****

     (gone terribly awry)
on the attack after ME
with no way back
to house at Pooh Corner
     condemned to spin
willfully intestate,
while steeped in utter black
but....methinks

perhaps fetid blowback
equivalent to volcanic belch, would
     spit out "burnt offerings"
     formerly Matthew Scott Harris,
     whose steaming hot pipe dream
(Ahab) in mind can not
even get "LIVE" feedback,
and definite never

my Stradivarius fiddleback
(I rue...all the money
    momma's and pappa's...
scrimped and saved
     without giving
this sole sun any flack)...
ha...sardonic humor,
and wistful pointless flashback

equally frivolous hanker
ring for greenback,
legal tender, quid
     pro quo, et cetera,
NOW demise welcomed
     forever free from penury
small potatoes this measly mortal
even at dirt poor cheap

     expense courtesy
     Euthanasia travel agency
manned by HiJack,
where captain! My captain!

     Humungous humpback
clearly presented danger field,
     and only costs this one life
     as lil bitty chewy Whitman snack!
Love was a lonely Syllable
Embedded hypothetically  in the
syntax of the
Story of
You and
Me

We quoted ,
I love you
And you , sic [loved me]
But perhaps
this was
Your hyperbole

Parenthesis
you
kept
[Me] in,
Frenetically,
in case
our verbs
became nouns
No verisimilitude
Imbedded logically

The allusion
Came alive
Described
So
speciously
All too clear
Once I chose
To study
The
history

No,
The Plot discovered,
This was
My own soliloquy
Dear Apostrophe ,
you and I,
We are not
Like simile

Truth be told,
I only resemble
Footnotes
In the ledger
Of your
Poetry
When language may be the only way to talk about being broken by someone
Travis Green Feb 2023
Creamy, luminous stunner
Handsomely enchanting and taut prodigy
Irreplaceable brown-skinned sensation
Marvelously quaint and unrankable flame
His pristine supreme masculinity is
A mind-blowing vibe that delights my life force

He is unbeatable elite poetry I can taste on my ripe spicy lips
I wanna travel in his impassioned flames
Of mad fire hot machoness
Lost in the infinite intensity of ecstasy
Relishing his unprecedented quintessential excellency

My high-octane powerhouse mesmerizer
I savor the amazing nakedness of his inner space
Inhale the invigorating scent
Of his extreme stupendous dreaminess
As I become frenetically lovesick
Encased in his fragrant dreams
Of tender loving seduction

I whisper lush soft words in his ear
Massage his luscious muscled buns
Gaze into his warm, charming eyes
How they consume my presence
Make me sweat more and more
While I take him deeper into the impressive realms
Of immersive newsworthy rapture

Nibble on his thick, manly neck
Revel in the compellingness
Of his shining eyesome freshness
My enrapturing flirtatious Samson
He submerges me in his glamorous mantuary
Of gleamingly pleasing enchantment
in Pennsylvania will begin at 2:00 AM
on Sunday, March twelfth
and moost likely will impact
min-née-ute effect on me
a run of the mill on the Floss
amazingly gracefully aging
long haired pencil necked geek,
who welcomes increased photons.

Just moments ago, a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and then (when following poem written)
octogenarian widower father,
(me papa passed away
since date this poem written)
oh..no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot merely the revelation,
how fist bumping
dee clocks hour hand ahead
remembered by dat

dog gone refrain
spring ahead, and fall back,
this unemployed chap
doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian
schedule minimally affected
holed up here in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each fuzz beating insect
approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat

where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient
of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs
of living money spent
hence no need to arise
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
a freedom akin

to festive folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subject ranting
early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company
with night owls, who went
a hooting for all the world wide web

to hear, whence straw dawgs Bach,
the exact number of hours, yer oblivious
to the tight rigorous mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on bread winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters to scurry in the rat race,
lest tardiness could cost
more than ham iz zone whole paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hock

king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
courtesy strapping ****
wasting away in a jail cell
as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
yet devastatingly loud tick tock.
I'm riding my vasectomy to Mexico to speak Mexican with Mexicans; to out-chess-play and to out-grease and to dance frenetically around hat brims in Ol' Loredo with my best conchie-confrère & his cheeky chica...In my place, en México, I shall abide by the colorful laws what rain down from Distrito Federal. Pre-determinate factors and ultrasounding boards, alien to Canucks, flavor my spoilt dressings, menticidal mindlessness, jettisoned topsoil & localized scatterings.

SLAUGHTER NIGHT — The massacre in the Katyń Forest (Russia, 1940) & the Palm Sunday massacre at Ponce (Puerto Rico, 1937) eluded Madge Bellamy (June 30, 1899 – January 24, 1990) & Lewis Mumford (Oct. 19, 1895 – January 26, 1990)...I suspect that I am related to Margaret Philpott (better known by her stage name Madge Bellamy). I find no trace of the great Lewis Mumford about & around me. Lewis wasn't motherly strictly because he had mum in his name. I'm sure of my certainty. Running away is a running theme with me and not because homosexual-typesets demand privileges, not dissected, righteously-constricting ploys. A man has the right to wed a marriageable woman. Wed then bed is now bed don't wed. Normal people MUST STOP selling their babies to perverts (not only to homosexuals). Kentuckians have the fewest teeth and the highest concentration of sodium fluoride added to their drinking water. Things that weren't a long time ago are becoming a long time ago. My Nipponese plums are yellowing. If we get a sustained freeze now all is lost. This is the 3rd warm winter in a row. Like Lenny Bruce said: "Tell your husband nothing, even if he has pictures. Just say it was some *** hairdresser." Possums & beavers are nice but Jerry & Wally ****** aren't really brothers!
Travis Green Aug 2021
In another time, we could have got it on
To our favorite love song, sensuously serenade
Hear the angelic, romantic sounds as they flow
Around town, your affection so deep in my bones
Candy-coated diction on our lips as we delicately kiss
So much infinite longing for our bodies to interlock
Fulfilled, the finest feel of your hands pulling
Back the curtains to traverse through my territory

We could lay on the lush crimson carpet
Feel its elegant texture pressed against our flesh
Your arms like tree limbs blanketed around me
So remedying, so nurturing, feeling my flesh
Releasing itself to your dynasty, streaming
In the wings of your pleasantry, captivating cadences
Taking off into the lustrous, silver-toned wind
To soar with superb bluebirds as our worlds
Melt into each other, lying naked, hammered
Sizzling sensations spiraling frenetically
In the lively, arrestive air to fervently flamed galaxies
In 2024, daylight savings time will begin at two o'clock ante meridiem on Sunday, March tenth. That will mean losing an hour of precious sleep and moving the clocks (around your house, and sundry frequented places) forward one hour, though your cell phone, computer, and television plus other electronic devices will likely automatically adjust. The sun will appear to rise and set an hour later.

Father time evinces spectacular robustness despite weathering setback of countless finagling representation viz Chronos (/ˈkroʊnɒs, -oʊs/; Greek: Χρόνος, [kʰrónos], "time"), also spelled Khronos or Chronus, is a personification of time in pre-Socratic philosophy and later literature. Chronos. Personification of time. Time Clipping Cupid's Wings (1694), by Pierre Mignard. Symbol.

Though crafted a few years back
jet lag effect affects yours truly
twice each year when schedules
within body electric
such as circadian rhythm
dislocate psyche
analogous to seismic shift
NOT attributed to global warming,
nor aeronautically bound sky high,
but linkedin to hour hand
on analog clock
set ahead or behind one hour.

Just about a bajillion moments ago
(from date/time
I wrote these words),
a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and (initial commencement
of this poem) while
then octogenarian widower father,
lived at Normandy Farms
Senior Community

in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania
(he since passed away
October 7th, 2020)
oh... no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot
merely the revelation,
how fist bumping dee clocks
an hour hand ahead
remembered by dat
dog gone refrain
spring ahead, and fall back,

this unemployed chap
doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian rising
schedule minimally affected
holed up here
in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat,

where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient
of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent,
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs
of living money spent
hence no need to arise
bright tailed and bushy black eyed,
pea yon sought freedom akin

to folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subjected to ranting
courtesy early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company
with night owls, who went

a hooting for all the world wide web
to hear, whence dawgs Bach
the exact number of hours, yet oblivious
to the tight rigorous
tenon mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on Bread Winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters
to scurry in the rat race,

lest tardiness could cost
more than paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hoc
king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
wasting away in a jail cell

as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
rhyme without reasonable schlock
yet devastatingly loud tick tock
analogous to stir fries
noisily prepared in wok.

— The End —