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"froths" poems
By David John Mowers Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon, Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths. Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked, Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips, Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave, Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world. Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased, Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl, In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast, Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves, Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin? What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do? One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage, Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion. Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas, Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire, All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times, Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era, Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir. Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept, He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair. Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon! . . .and your Sea of Fates!
0
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
david-john-mowers
Po-se-dawon-e (Powerful Waters/Waters of Power)
By David John Mowers Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon, Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths. Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked, Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips, Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave, Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world. Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased, Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl, In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast, Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves, Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin? What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do? One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage, Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion. Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas, Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire, All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times, Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era, Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir. Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept, He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair. Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon! . . .and your Sea of Fates!
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24
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day? Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father's kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, I watch his lambs that browse and leap. There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, While I perish hungry and bare. Rich and blessed those servants, rather Than I who see not my Father's face! I will arise and go to my Father:-- "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
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8.1k
Christina Rossetti
A Prodigal Son
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day? Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father's kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, I watch his lambs that browse and leap. There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, While I perish hungry and bare. Rich and blessed those servants, rather Than I who see not my Father's face! I will arise and go to my Father:-- "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
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20
**here we are the water glows the river froths bubbles and flows here we are apocalypse here we are in ash and dust we see the world in blood and rust here we are apocalypse I feel it in the air as buildings crash and claxions blare welcome to the new age to the new age welcome to the new age to the new age woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe radioactive radioactive here we are the dragon's eggs we have to crawl we have to beg here we are the dragon's spawn our father's killed with molten fire they are gone they have expired here we are but they are gone I feel it in the air outside the dragon's lair welcome to the new age to the new age welcome to the new age to the new age I'm radioactive radioactive woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe radioactive** SoulSurvivor based on song "Radioactive" written by Alex Da Kid and Ben Linke for Imagine Dragons
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Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
SoulSurvivor
dragon's eggs
**here we are the water glows the river froths bubbles and flows here we are apocalypse here we are in ash and dust we see the world in blood and rust here we are apocalypse I feel it in the air as buildings crash and claxions blare welcome to the new age to the new age welcome to the new age to the new age woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe radioactive radioactive here we are the dragon's eggs we have to crawl we have to beg here we are the dragon's spawn our father's killed with molten fire they are gone they have expired here we are but they are gone I feel it in the air outside the dragon's lair welcome to the new age to the new age welcome to the new age to the new age I'm radioactive radioactive woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe woe radioactive** SoulSurvivor based on song "Radioactive" written by Alex Da Kid and Ben Linke for Imagine Dragons
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52
Steam spilling, white froths licking Marble mantle pieces, stone white Opaque ghosts swirling conspicuously, Silently naught with disturbance and gloat Humble in nature, the steam spills From the open pours, Streaming running water spring, a delightful swing slight melodies of sulfuric and mountain flirting lavishly , emitting heat an early morning bathe, bright sunshine invades sleeping shadows tinted cold a chilling sensation humming with that of the pool’s lip --fluttering autumn leaves— --cascading crystal flakes— --rustling green trees— --tickling cool rain— The surface of the spring’s pool remains It stirs with the slightest breath Occupying stark bodies Gleaming baby red Washing away, cleansing a new day As sunlight sparkles on the Mirror surface
0
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
decem
hot spring
Steam spilling, white froths licking Marble mantle pieces, stone white Opaque ghosts swirling conspicuously, Silently naught with disturbance and gloat Humble in nature, the steam spills From the open pours, Streaming running water spring, a delightful swing slight melodies of sulfuric and mountain flirting lavishly , emitting heat an early morning bathe, bright sunshine invades sleeping shadows tinted cold a chilling sensation humming with that of the pool’s lip --fluttering autumn leaves— --cascading crystal flakes— --rustling green trees— --tickling cool rain— The surface of the spring’s pool remains It stirs with the slightest breath Occupying stark bodies Gleaming baby red Washing away, cleansing a new day As sunlight sparkles on the Mirror surface
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26
I hadn't expected someone there already before me. Only lonely men come here I heard him through my heavy breath lonely with nothing and everything. Down there was the sea rumbling faintly with the froths painting themselves on the shore like a sketch in a child's drawing book. Height does amazing tricks, the man continued, *makes you feel invincible stimulates you to be ****** into gravity to fall as light as the feather.* The dusk was wrapping up the light when I remembered having promised her not to be late to descend. There's a man up there, I told the gateman, Nope, he said, you were the only guest this evening.
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Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
pradip-chattopadhyay
Feather of Galileo
I hadn't expected someone there already before me. Only lonely men come here I heard him through my heavy breath lonely with nothing and everything. Down there was the sea rumbling faintly with the froths painting themselves on the shore like a sketch in a child's drawing book. Height does amazing tricks, the man continued, *makes you feel invincible stimulates you to be ****** into gravity to fall as light as the feather.* The dusk was wrapping up the light when I remembered having promised her not to be late to descend. There's a man up there, I told the gateman, Nope, he said, you were the only guest this evening.
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18
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues. I wondered. If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand. There was a breeze. Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
0
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
andrew-chau
Something in the Sparkle of Reflection
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues. I wondered. If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand. There was a breeze. Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
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5
these faces on the wall that have no eyes, the young children with blood escaping from their hands as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses. these battered men in parks searching for light and my woman is no longer with me. it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance, these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations. opening the yellow gates to death as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl. we are children peering through glass cases as death laughs at his hopeless clientele, sad, desolate progenies in working-classes, in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola, or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan, there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes. death the changing of the gatekeeper. death the telling machine. death the dentist. death my next door neighbor. death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil. death, my loud and loutish muse, death the truant, death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd. death, in my hands through darkness and light, death through troves of enigma, death through undisputed clearings, death the long line of red beads in EDSA, death the gates of Plaridel, it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure, i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing. through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam, the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations, and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire, sound silence.
0
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
Anthem
these faces on the wall that have no eyes, the young children with blood escaping from their hands as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses. these battered men in parks searching for light and my woman is no longer with me. it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance, these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations. opening the yellow gates to death as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl. we are children peering through glass cases as death laughs at his hopeless clientele, sad, desolate progenies in working-classes, in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola, or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan, there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes. death the changing of the gatekeeper. death the telling machine. death the dentist. death my next door neighbor. death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil. death, my loud and loutish muse, death the truant, death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd. death, in my hands through darkness and light, death through troves of enigma, death through undisputed clearings, death the long line of red beads in EDSA, death the gates of Plaridel, it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure, i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing. through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam, the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations, and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire, sound silence.
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43
Water whispers, froths and bubbles. Tiny bodies swim in doubles, Schooling along the edge of their world Where the fish tank ends. A panting tongue creates a mist; Soft golden fur, tail in a twist, Barking at the outside world Where the window ends. Poised and tense, smooth muscles coil Whiskers twitch with internal turmoil To track a leaf beyond her world Where the sliding door ends. Dreary shivers, dark and damp, God's distant voice my only lamp. I can only gape at the mad, mad world Where my glass cage ends.
0
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 1:52 AM UTC
Seadrin
Glass
Water whispers, froths and bubbles. Tiny bodies swim in doubles, Schooling along the edge of their world Where the fish tank ends. A panting tongue creates a mist; Soft golden fur, tail in a twist, Barking at the outside world Where the window ends. Poised and tense, smooth muscles coil Whiskers twitch with internal turmoil To track a leaf beyond her world Where the sliding door ends. Dreary shivers, dark and damp, God's distant voice my only lamp. I can only gape at the mad, mad world Where my glass cage ends.
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16
froths in lichen: gushing on its bark, it looks like pollen was smeared on in yellow gouache, ulcers spread to lick on to each branch. I let it take over in the way you spread your arms over bed and torso, in the way your kiss through the mornings paint my cheeks red.
0
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
conor-letham
A tree out back
froths in lichen: gushing on its bark, it looks like pollen was smeared on in yellow gouache, ulcers spread to lick on to each branch. I let it take over in the way you spread your arms over bed and torso, in the way your kiss through the mornings paint my cheeks red.
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14
Streaming sunlight and horse tails lightly swaying in the breeze, flicked lazily at gadflies. Hoarse dove cries echo hauntingly as I wander across lush grass, towards the murky pond. Dry, splintery boards of the rickety grey dock creak under my feet. Stone still, opaque brown-green water lies beneath. I close my eyes, resting my hands on the railing, letting the euphonious melody of rasping doves, cheeky robins, and other chirping birds blend with the bubbling sound of running water in the distance, and wash over me. The water bubbles and froths, it has a foamy sound, not as clear and ringing as streams and fountains back home. Carefree. Bullfrogs splish and dart into the silty pondweed. It’s all as if this little world requires no purpose, it’s enough that it simply... is. If only I could find peace in simply existing. Freedom to just be.
0
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
artem
Morning Ponderings
Streaming sunlight and horse tails lightly swaying in the breeze, flicked lazily at gadflies. Hoarse dove cries echo hauntingly as I wander across lush grass, towards the murky pond. Dry, splintery boards of the rickety grey dock creak under my feet. Stone still, opaque brown-green water lies beneath. I close my eyes, resting my hands on the railing, letting the euphonious melody of rasping doves, cheeky robins, and other chirping birds blend with the bubbling sound of running water in the distance, and wash over me. The water bubbles and froths, it has a foamy sound, not as clear and ringing as streams and fountains back home. Carefree. Bullfrogs splish and dart into the silty pondweed. It’s all as if this little world requires no purpose, it’s enough that it simply... is. If only I could find peace in simply existing. Freedom to just be.
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7
Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just sits there as the tide Comes surging forward And the clouds tumble Over one another in the sky. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just pulls out the tile In her pocket as dull black Water sizzles and froths In a torrent all around her. No, she Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just stares at the engraved N and the sub 1 On the game-piece’s face While the water drags her in. Even when she loses her footing, she Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just clasps her hand Into a tight fist before The icy water Swallows her whole And thinks: Where are you now, Ocean Eyes? Where are you now, When I really am drowning, And not just in every word you say, Not just in every thing you do? The force of the tide Is not very strong, Yet she does not fight it. She is limp, Now part of the water Just as she was once part of him. Where are you now, Ocean Eyes? Where are you now, When everything is just too hard, When I really do need To disappear inside something bigger than me? Seagulls scream overhead. The sky is a black oil rag, The lake a dark, Rippling curtain, The wind a shrill lamentation, The girl a hollow husk. After a time and with crunching, Crushing force. Her ragdoll body collides with a rock. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t grab hold. Doesn’t climb on. No, she Doesn’t run, Doesn’t even curse. She floats facedown, Almost as if to look after the tile that falls from her hand.
0
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
verisi-militude
Scrabble
Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just sits there as the tide Comes surging forward And the clouds tumble Over one another in the sky. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just pulls out the tile In her pocket as dull black Water sizzles and froths In a torrent all around her. No, she Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just stares at the engraved N and the sub 1 On the game-piece’s face While the water drags her in. Even when she loses her footing, she Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even curse. Just clasps her hand Into a tight fist before The icy water Swallows her whole And thinks: Where are you now, Ocean Eyes? Where are you now, When I really am drowning, And not just in every word you say, Not just in every thing you do? The force of the tide Is not very strong, Yet she does not fight it. She is limp, Now part of the water Just as she was once part of him. Where are you now, Ocean Eyes? Where are you now, When everything is just too hard, When I really do need To disappear inside something bigger than me? Seagulls scream overhead. The sky is a black oil rag, The lake a dark, Rippling curtain, The wind a shrill lamentation, The girl a hollow husk. After a time and with crunching, Crushing force. Her ragdoll body collides with a rock. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t grab hold. Doesn’t climb on. No, she Doesn’t run, Doesn’t even curse. She floats facedown, Almost as if to look after the tile that falls from her hand.
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64
pasty white ghosts haunt the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa whispering wisps of smoke shimmering shadows of the past setting the pace for the rat race that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election senators billionaires doctors frauds liars fools campaigning for selection in an archaic and outdated form of governance witness the spectacle the orgastic worship of solipsistic oligarchs bloated by their own sycophantic rhetoric it's just another form of all-American entertainment each orator's charismatic adage froths forth from a throat like a grave pragmatism throttles hope as we stoke the fires of self-indulgence and neglect the fact that we acquiesced as another deceiver stole votes we're choking on placebo pills every ballot cast is another act of apathy escapism pleading vainly for a savior to rescue our sick society but these hands didn't evolve so we could collect a representative to lead us blindly into one fiasco after another these fingers penned   humanity's symphonies and these calloused palms have toiled for years under an apathetic sun we learned to make love using our fingertips and with these fists we could chart a new path but only if we raise them in defiance our only chance is leaderless resistance
0
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
pearsonbolt
caucus
pasty white ghosts haunt the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa whispering wisps of smoke shimmering shadows of the past setting the pace for the rat race that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election senators billionaires doctors frauds liars fools campaigning for selection in an archaic and outdated form of governance witness the spectacle the orgastic worship of solipsistic oligarchs bloated by their own sycophantic rhetoric it's just another form of all-American entertainment each orator's charismatic adage froths forth from a throat like a grave pragmatism throttles hope as we stoke the fires of self-indulgence and neglect the fact that we acquiesced as another deceiver stole votes we're choking on placebo pills every ballot cast is another act of apathy escapism pleading vainly for a savior to rescue our sick society but these hands didn't evolve so we could collect a representative to lead us blindly into one fiasco after another these fingers penned   humanity's symphonies and these calloused palms have toiled for years under an apathetic sun we learned to make love using our fingertips and with these fists we could chart a new path but only if we raise them in defiance our only chance is leaderless resistance
Continue reading...
45
*I don't like him He is a nuisance I don't like him I'd fond his death I don't like him I'd share nothing with him I don't like him I would like to gouge his eyes out Until they pop. Until blood-tears scream down His ******* face I form mucous to Spit in his ******* snake face I want to see bits of his skull torn out I do not like him I want to squeeze through my hands in the decapitated Head and grab out his ******* brain, Bits of his skull I would like that. Gone he'd be I would like that I would like to hurt him I don't like him I want to see all his ******* blood Pour majestically out of every ******* opening, every hole I see of his, I want his greedy black heart Suffocated with cyanide I want his poisoned soul ******* Burned until I smell His burning, searing flesh That screams with help I would to do all of this and laugh and laugh I wish he would realize how much he has gained Then, I will excrete on his ugly ******* red car. I dream morbid, I dream morbid lovely thoughts to leave his Lifeless whore-self in the ugly ******* red car For him to rot he shall as a male-slag A **** of degenerate foolery Unjust as unwise, he froths degradation A form of devolution, As treacherous cliffs weakened from sun and water Treachery engrossed with black thoughts As he falls he will bring all, who he can find to fall with him Drenched with whoreness A ******* thought enriches degenerate I would dream to castrate him Destroy his club, **** the ******* worm Turn unto **** **Turn unto **** Turn unto platter of wet sponges Turn him into a casket of bleeding organs I do, I do not like him, No I do not. Filthy Male-Whore, **** His corpse shall forever mold with self-hatred Disgusting waste of gluttonous entity. Biological waste universal waste I do not like him Blood chunks pool over out of his skull I do not like him, All his filth-blood Dried out, I do not like him Tongue pulled out, neck snapped Brain matter scooped out, the ******* worm Thief, Cheat, Male-Whore. I do not like him But I do not hate him.*
0
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
jp-mantler
Distaste of the Iniquitous
*I don't like him He is a nuisance I don't like him I'd fond his death I don't like him I'd share nothing with him I don't like him I would like to gouge his eyes out Until they pop. Until blood-tears scream down His ******* face I form mucous to Spit in his ******* snake face I want to see bits of his skull torn out I do not like him I want to squeeze through my hands in the decapitated Head and grab out his ******* brain, Bits of his skull I would like that. Gone he'd be I would like that I would like to hurt him I don't like him I want to see all his ******* blood Pour majestically out of every ******* opening, every hole I see of his, I want his greedy black heart Suffocated with cyanide I want his poisoned soul ******* Burned until I smell His burning, searing flesh That screams with help I would to do all of this and laugh and laugh I wish he would realize how much he has gained Then, I will excrete on his ugly ******* red car. I dream morbid, I dream morbid lovely thoughts to leave his Lifeless whore-self in the ugly ******* red car For him to rot he shall as a male-slag A **** of degenerate foolery Unjust as unwise, he froths degradation A form of devolution, As treacherous cliffs weakened from sun and water Treachery engrossed with black thoughts As he falls he will bring all, who he can find to fall with him Drenched with whoreness A ******* thought enriches degenerate I would dream to castrate him Destroy his club, **** the ******* worm Turn unto **** **Turn unto **** Turn unto platter of wet sponges Turn him into a casket of bleeding organs I do, I do not like him, No I do not. Filthy Male-Whore, **** His corpse shall forever mold with self-hatred Disgusting waste of gluttonous entity. Biological waste universal waste I do not like him Blood chunks pool over out of his skull I do not like him, All his filth-blood Dried out, I do not like him Tongue pulled out, neck snapped Brain matter scooped out, the ******* worm Thief, Cheat, Male-Whore. I do not like him But I do not hate him.*
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70
the lean stammer of long balking *** froths diligently on my lady's bones and it plastics a largeness heading southern sea to lake and fire perpendicular unraveling senses. a mire of spitted tongues or saliva all a laminating her magic gaggle of crumbling... ***** and notch; twin ecstatic jumbled notes in discorded unity of tentative lips... mymy mym y my my mymym y my yoke, my egg, my scorpion. ***** me quickly venom i'll a sprung!
0
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 11:46 AM UTC
patrick-wakefield-1
the lean stammer of long balking ***
the lean stammer of long balking *** froths diligently on my lady's bones and it plastics a largeness heading southern sea to lake and fire perpendicular unraveling senses. a mire of spitted tongues or saliva all a laminating her magic gaggle of crumbling... ***** and notch; twin ecstatic jumbled notes in discorded unity of tentative lips... mymy mym y my my mymym y my yoke, my egg, my scorpion. ***** me quickly venom i'll a sprung!
Continue reading...
16
The potency froths the glass in ghostly embers. Rectifying a suppressed kiss. Liquid's juicy lubrication sweats as the icy voice asks, refill my void. Fingernails cling like thorns to skin. Waterlogged and fogged, my footsteps fall, sloppy little domino. Mindful thoughts yank at drunk appendages. One too many benders, far too many hands. Awake, the memory kaleidoscopes. Pieces unmatched. Strange images fade, meshed in sheets. evidence stains.
0
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
Lahkeesha
Ashes of Last Night
The potency froths the glass in ghostly embers. Rectifying a suppressed kiss. Liquid's juicy lubrication sweats as the icy voice asks, refill my void. Fingernails cling like thorns to skin. Waterlogged and fogged, my footsteps fall, sloppy little domino. Mindful thoughts yank at drunk appendages. One too many benders, far too many hands. Awake, the memory kaleidoscopes. Pieces unmatched. Strange images fade, meshed in sheets. evidence stains.
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17
She perches on the chair, clink of ice croons in her ear; a slippery gloss of memory froths her lips. Here on dark waters float glimmers of chance while hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams slides near. She raises her glass, a spirited salute-- when the lights come on he swims clear. Washed up, she spits, and tugs her drink, swallows scorn in one long gulp: that bitter brine, end of the line, a barb, stuck in her throat.
0
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
BruisedOrange
Hooked
She perches on the chair, clink of ice croons in her ear; a slippery gloss of memory froths her lips. Here on dark waters float glimmers of chance while hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams slides near. She raises her glass, a spirited salute-- when the lights come on he swims clear. Washed up, she spits, and tugs her drink, swallows scorn in one long gulp: that bitter brine, end of the line, a barb, stuck in her throat.
Continue reading...
18
The passage is dark and deep Forever going in the darkest dreams The rooms all different All bathed in the half light As I'm dragged along Twisting and contorting To see it all before I'm gone A room with knives And one solitary chair Where I would sit and loving stare It leads to a room of headless snakes A twirling kaleidoscope Of red and green Tinged in death Maddening dreams The room in which I was locked The door is stuck I am weak There is no way to escape these walls the endless passages of haunting halls Leading down the hall again Leads us to a room in which Indian movies music played The screen danced and flicked while your body flicked along, foam crawling out your mouth eyes rolling back In this boys dream a mother screams And I can do nothing, yet again Of youth and age and memories Another door yet to open of sickness repression Of warmth and senses Smell taste touch The heat burns of this childish lust The wolf froths and growls Its teeth glisten And I scream A dream within a dream We climb up the stairs as they curve and crack splinters of this dream ever more it will seem never real to me of a room within a room the tiniest doors for tiny hands and tiny dreams I but ever small The room has shrunken and I will ever crawl ever more too big to find that tiny door
0
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
mb-2
The passage is dark and deep
The passage is dark and deep Forever going in the darkest dreams The rooms all different All bathed in the half light As I'm dragged along Twisting and contorting To see it all before I'm gone A room with knives And one solitary chair Where I would sit and loving stare It leads to a room of headless snakes A twirling kaleidoscope Of red and green Tinged in death Maddening dreams The room in which I was locked The door is stuck I am weak There is no way to escape these walls the endless passages of haunting halls Leading down the hall again Leads us to a room in which Indian movies music played The screen danced and flicked while your body flicked along, foam crawling out your mouth eyes rolling back In this boys dream a mother screams And I can do nothing, yet again Of youth and age and memories Another door yet to open of sickness repression Of warmth and senses Smell taste touch The heat burns of this childish lust The wolf froths and growls Its teeth glisten And I scream A dream within a dream We climb up the stairs as they curve and crack splinters of this dream ever more it will seem never real to me of a room within a room the tiniest doors for tiny hands and tiny dreams I but ever small The room has shrunken and I will ever crawl ever more too big to find that tiny door
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62
The poison stings as it hurls and flings its sharp jagged wings against my throat. I am not hesitant as I press the firm lips of the bottle against mine for a long cold kiss, knowing it only gets easier after the first pull, knowing that it will probably all be gone before tomorrow. They call me weak. They say I'm addicted, I've lost control, that I'm a wreck. I'm a wreck, and they watch me weep, week after week, until my reputation reeks of this recreation and they call it weakness. But to me, this liquid is strength, The rush radiates in me a threatening power, engulfing every ounce of my fragility. Is it weak to seek out strength? The liquid burns as it froths and churns and settles into the cistern that is my chest. This liquid fire scorches through my body, leaving me to stagger, and lean, and eventually capsize, like a tiny ship swallowed up by a ravenous sea. But as my body breaks down into bits that scatter across your living room floor, my mind has managed to put itself back together. No longer afraid to admit to myself that I felt like I belonged here somehow, No longer afraid to spit the words out, To stop holding it hidden inside and just let you know. Here. I hand you my heart on a silver platter. It's so easy to do right now. Alcohol is my cover, it is my security blanket, it lets me say what I need to say without taking responsibility, it lets me reveal myself without the risk of rejection. Because, "Hey, I was drunk. I didn't mean it." And let's be honest, You probably thought, "She's not herself right now." That those weren't my words, or my thoughts, or my feelings. You probably thought it was 'just the ***** talking,' and honestly, that's probably what I was hoping for. So yeah, call me weak. It's true, it's easy to see. But as for protecting myself from you, until you've proven you're not deserving of my being wary, cautious, conserving, don't you dare ******* judge me.
0
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
meghan-marie
It Wasn't Just the Champagne Talking
The poison stings as it hurls and flings its sharp jagged wings against my throat. I am not hesitant as I press the firm lips of the bottle against mine for a long cold kiss, knowing it only gets easier after the first pull, knowing that it will probably all be gone before tomorrow. They call me weak. They say I'm addicted, I've lost control, that I'm a wreck. I'm a wreck, and they watch me weep, week after week, until my reputation reeks of this recreation and they call it weakness. But to me, this liquid is strength, The rush radiates in me a threatening power, engulfing every ounce of my fragility. Is it weak to seek out strength? The liquid burns as it froths and churns and settles into the cistern that is my chest. This liquid fire scorches through my body, leaving me to stagger, and lean, and eventually capsize, like a tiny ship swallowed up by a ravenous sea. But as my body breaks down into bits that scatter across your living room floor, my mind has managed to put itself back together. No longer afraid to admit to myself that I felt like I belonged here somehow, No longer afraid to spit the words out, To stop holding it hidden inside and just let you know. Here. I hand you my heart on a silver platter. It's so easy to do right now. Alcohol is my cover, it is my security blanket, it lets me say what I need to say without taking responsibility, it lets me reveal myself without the risk of rejection. Because, "Hey, I was drunk. I didn't mean it." And let's be honest, You probably thought, "She's not herself right now." That those weren't my words, or my thoughts, or my feelings. You probably thought it was 'just the ***** talking,' and honestly, that's probably what I was hoping for. So yeah, call me weak. It's true, it's easy to see. But as for protecting myself from you, until you've proven you're not deserving of my being wary, cautious, conserving, don't you dare ******* judge me.
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44
I wonder while perusing a pile of personas at why I don't write love poems of a wistful and musky air that froths, overflowing with emotive schema towards some ****** yet tragic end. I suppose I actually do. But they're much different than the usual fair, less dramatic at least. Sort of like wine you've let sit for a while in a barrel before you let it out again. Mellow.
0
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
asa-d-bruss
Age-ing process
I wonder while perusing a pile of personas at why I don't write love poems of a wistful and musky air that froths, overflowing with emotive schema towards some ****** yet tragic end. I suppose I actually do. But they're much different than the usual fair, less dramatic at least. Sort of like wine you've let sit for a while in a barrel before you let it out again. Mellow.
Continue reading...
13
On wet sand my own hand lethargically drags index nail into unplanned pierced hearts The deep blue babble froths disparaging echoes spume in unison moon lumen proffers effulgent glints of my own frame Imprecise recollections Intone lackadaisical exhalations Plunging my fist into the dune I seek shells to listen to mottled heart None found I drop my curls onto the punctured heart Listening to the ocean’s instead
0
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
meagan-moore
Shell Pulse: She'll Pulse
On wet sand my own hand lethargically drags index nail into unplanned pierced hearts The deep blue babble froths disparaging echoes spume in unison moon lumen proffers effulgent glints of my own frame Imprecise recollections Intone lackadaisical exhalations Plunging my fist into the dune I seek shells to listen to mottled heart None found I drop my curls onto the punctured heart Listening to the ocean’s instead
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13
Breath froths thick from my lips Like cotton, Drawn out into the thin autumn air Forming gusty halos, Wreaths of white, Cheeks and nose pinken From the crystal kisses Placed gently like angel wings Tingling with magic In frosty air
0
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
msamendable
Autumn halos
Breath froths thick from my lips Like cotton, Drawn out into the thin autumn air Forming gusty halos, Wreaths of white, Cheeks and nose pinken From the crystal kisses Placed gently like angel wings Tingling with magic In frosty air
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10
it seems easy to believe, in you and me when the promise of the light in your eyes, seeps through my indecision. my fingertips sliding across the palate of your every inch. the spaces i have touched painting, colors tracing my every outline, intertwining between all the small details that define us. red, like fire, conviction, spreading across my chest with blinding heat. echos of animosity, as the lingering flames crawl across the embers they once drew upon. blue, breaking against waves of progress, aches washing away with each pull of the moon. White froths of inspiration. the sun lay just above, you see? forrest green, branching through my veins. spinning life through my every corner. your skin like spring, leaves falling to my feet as you pull away once more. grey, inhibitions. tears, wrong way signs, fails and falters, dancing themselves into a web, tangling me into your response. deep rust, connection. iron lending to our foundation. a place to plot the seeds of what could be. a place to rest our old souls, once our bodies can longer be seen.
0
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
sienna-burroughs
The lovers spectrum of color
it seems easy to believe, in you and me when the promise of the light in your eyes, seeps through my indecision. my fingertips sliding across the palate of your every inch. the spaces i have touched painting, colors tracing my every outline, intertwining between all the small details that define us. red, like fire, conviction, spreading across my chest with blinding heat. echos of animosity, as the lingering flames crawl across the embers they once drew upon. blue, breaking against waves of progress, aches washing away with each pull of the moon. White froths of inspiration. the sun lay just above, you see? forrest green, branching through my veins. spinning life through my every corner. your skin like spring, leaves falling to my feet as you pull away once more. grey, inhibitions. tears, wrong way signs, fails and falters, dancing themselves into a web, tangling me into your response. deep rust, connection. iron lending to our foundation. a place to plot the seeds of what could be. a place to rest our old souls, once our bodies can longer be seen.
Continue reading...
27
8AM strikes like a ***** And romping the losing street - The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are. The soldiered army, oozing molten pride, Spike me in the side with their knees Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin The cold, dead breath bullies like a child Never been taught, never have they ought; I give them pity like spit, the drool reared. The glands of my sodden state are nucleic They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say They say them in spite Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes I do despise, I do despise, The heartless range of those hunter-deers, The wet pathos that criminals invoke And then, I woke, the rage, the rage! A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin You wished I were dead so you could be thin. And when I am not hot, Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning, I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes The slight disgust, the frozen musk Awns over me, little fist tight of pink Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale And then, you are there-- Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me A spoken longing and then all we know wilts A running red cloak of tartan regrets Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist The torture device you call your words is broken out I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it To the solars like I am owed. Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed-- Give me strength, for the thoughts The thoughts, that blow through me Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh Do not upturn the limped greyed grass And blow through, a harmless storm, With nothing to say about how I carry my day. Move on to your homeward-bound, your Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners Like your words, your cold ******* words. You slimy ******* you **** I have spoken, one million syllables, For your satisfaction. You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas -- I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
0
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
abigail-maddem
Forsooth to Evil
8AM strikes like a ***** And romping the losing street - The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are. The soldiered army, oozing molten pride, Spike me in the side with their knees Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin The cold, dead breath bullies like a child Never been taught, never have they ought; I give them pity like spit, the drool reared. The glands of my sodden state are nucleic They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say They say them in spite Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes I do despise, I do despise, The heartless range of those hunter-deers, The wet pathos that criminals invoke And then, I woke, the rage, the rage! A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin You wished I were dead so you could be thin. And when I am not hot, Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning, I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes The slight disgust, the frozen musk Awns over me, little fist tight of pink Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale And then, you are there-- Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me A spoken longing and then all we know wilts A running red cloak of tartan regrets Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist The torture device you call your words is broken out I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it To the solars like I am owed. Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed-- Give me strength, for the thoughts The thoughts, that blow through me Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh Do not upturn the limped greyed grass And blow through, a harmless storm, With nothing to say about how I carry my day. Move on to your homeward-bound, your Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners Like your words, your cold ******* words. You slimy ******* you **** I have spoken, one million syllables, For your satisfaction. You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas -- I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
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51
Some call it weakness. But to me, it is all strength, The rush motivates in me A threatening power engulfing Every ounce of fragility. Like dancing on shards of broken glass, Like prancing across hot coals and flames, A simple game of who can outlast, Yet dangerous, this playing with fire and pain. The poison stings As it hurls and flings Its sharp jagged wings Against my throat. Some call it weakness. But to me, it is pure energy, Pouring into every pore on my body, Filling my orifices, filling my cavities, Exciting every nerve ending. Lightening shoots from my eyes As I glance indifferently at the world around, It's always like this at first, everything disappears I'm just waiting to be filled with the thunder and storm clouds. The liquid burns As it froths and churns And settles into the cistern That is my chest. Some call it weakness. But to me, it's a release, With my judgment altered I forget not to care, Suddenly I possess all these liberated emotions That nobody knew were there. Maniacal laughter as I'm screaming inside, Filled to the brim with this fluid fervor, Everything is honey, finally feeling something, Participating in living life, not just an observer. The spirit flows And the feeling grows And it only goes to show That sometimes those Who seem predisposed To glow... Are froze.
0
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 11:50 AM UTC
meghan-marie
Liquor-Vice
Some call it weakness. But to me, it is all strength, The rush motivates in me A threatening power engulfing Every ounce of fragility. Like dancing on shards of broken glass, Like prancing across hot coals and flames, A simple game of who can outlast, Yet dangerous, this playing with fire and pain. The poison stings As it hurls and flings Its sharp jagged wings Against my throat. Some call it weakness. But to me, it is pure energy, Pouring into every pore on my body, Filling my orifices, filling my cavities, Exciting every nerve ending. Lightening shoots from my eyes As I glance indifferently at the world around, It's always like this at first, everything disappears I'm just waiting to be filled with the thunder and storm clouds. The liquid burns As it froths and churns And settles into the cistern That is my chest. Some call it weakness. But to me, it's a release, With my judgment altered I forget not to care, Suddenly I possess all these liberated emotions That nobody knew were there. Maniacal laughter as I'm screaming inside, Filled to the brim with this fluid fervor, Everything is honey, finally feeling something, Participating in living life, not just an observer. The spirit flows And the feeling grows And it only goes to show That sometimes those Who seem predisposed To glow... Are froze.
Continue reading...
42