"funneling" poems
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Engineering to the Bridge:
"Time passed, but without us. A bit like Kepler's third, I suppose."
Express your "law" another way. Throw rocks at the moon. Stone the satellite because of your own despicable sins.
I see demise in your face. There's something strange about the through lines of your crew, the yellow journalism of their spacewalk.
Posters of the wild frontier, staggered and torn, said nothing will go wrong. That sometimes death is merely the devil changing colors.
"I think not, Captain. You laugh when you should cry. You tear to pieces the pictures of the overtaken. You run from the lie detectors. Otherwise, your narrative falls apart and all you're left with is your withered mind funneling down a ****** abyss..."
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 5:44 PM UTC
There's a serpent around me,
Coils me close.
Rough skin scratching,
Holes in my coat.
It's rolling like waves of sand paper,
Tearing the life outta me.
But the closeness,
Reminds me of a time of peace.
Funneling poison down my own throat,
Grind my flesh on jagged rocks and roads.
Walking on hot stones to the motivate my step,
Putting on my anaconda scarf to keep warm from the daft.
If I am hurting,
Then how can you hurt me more?
Can't be drowning,
If I'm beached at shore.
My snake protects me with pain,
Chokes the hopes outta me.
I'm turning from blue to purple,
But let me drown in my own sea.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
Existential exercise
--In & Out--
Eternal ebb and flow, the
Catalyst of the ages
Revolving and funneling
Precipitating and materializing
Quarks and photons into
Histories and futures and
Laughs and lies
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Can peanuts breathe within their shell?
When they’re eaten, might they go to hell?
Or are they, truly, lifeless nuts
No sadness, madness, or stagnant ruts
Perhaps the peanut has a king
A mighty ruler that makes the law
Or perhaps the peanut has a queen
A tender mother without flaw
Who knows, the peanut could be grand
With magical tales of Peanut land
Castles, Wizards and Warrior hunts
Pursuing their foes, Macadamia Nuts!
Galloping upon their steeds
Peanut’s charge! Peanuts Breathe!
Screams so loud the birds doth fall
Pulverizing the enemy’s wall
Now the Peanuts have an “in”
They focus their gaze upon the ****
Hoarding together & funneling thru
Macadamia nuts receiving a chill
Piercing shells for 3 long days
Injured Peanuts in gruesome ways
Mournful moans of agony
Numbers declined, so tragically
Is this the end of Peanut land?
Why couldn’t the Peanut still be grand?
“Get up I say and finish your quest!”
The Peanuts did and fought their best
Above the smoke, white flags flew
The Peanuts emerged victorious!
Striding thru familiar front gates
Returning home, so glorious!
Perhaps, in fact, this story is true
That Peanuts breathe like me and you
But one might wonder of Peanut land…
How Peanuts ride with no hands
And if you truly wish to know
How Peanuts talk and Peanuts grow
Open your ears and do come hither
“Duh! The Peanuts have a Wizard!”
Oh, the tales and jokes they tell
One day, they’ll be on TV
Perhaps in films known by all
Like, “Harry Peanut,” aired by BBC
Or, maybe they are just meant for our bars
And smashed and spread upon your bread…
But next time you eat this salt sprinkled treat,
Ponder, “am I sure this Peanut is dead?”
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
I used to swim across the channel to rattlesnake island when I lived
in Florida . We all knew the sharks loved
the funneling action of the channel to the bay . And we were always aware that there were sharks near by . We saw them every day . Yet the allure of the island just a scant one hundred yards away was to much for a 10 year old to pass up . So I would swim across holding a rod and reel high so it would not soak in sea water . I admit there was apprehension evident in my strokes and kicks but I made it across . On the other side there were no rattlesnakes anywhere .
Just gorgeous unclaimed white beaches and aqua clear water . Needle fish scooted across the surface and schools of mullet jumping were all I could see . I did little or no fishing , just running and jumping into the surf . What an afternoon it was . But the sun slid down and we knew we had to leave soon as the big sharks move in at dusk to feed into the night . So we stepped into the swirling waters of the channel and then plunged in and swam . Sharks have all black eyes . Cold black eyes and an expressionless grin that is all business sporting a mouth full of jagged dagger teeth . They are cautious up to a point but no one knows where that point is . Once that point is reached . . . well you don't want to see that point while your in the water . So about half way across the channel we see a dark shadow swim by in front of us between us and the beach . We know it's a shark , a big one . Perhaps more than fifteen feet long . We can't stay where we are at , but we fear to move on . So taking a deep breath we swim on slow and steady . Finely the beach is at hand , our feet touch sand and we run up on the beach and collapse . Then with heaving chests of fear we look back only to see the shark swim by . Needless to say that was my last visit to rattlesnake island .
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)
none can fly, all can fly
except in words, in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn those who believe turn
lead into gold, golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles. deeds of salvation solutions.
Yet unbeknownst for many. known to all
its jiggling all the quarks, the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that within all of our protein protons
affect many, effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden. where all was hidden, now visible
the message that isn't let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted, realized,
holds no power, yet it a time for action
remains a black screen for each message, now an action
in the catacombs in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there, no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces each action a deed
when finally viewed the summation total
grows gargantuan
funneling radiation
from the sun.
Climbing roofs, to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes knocking to open all doors
to the street, filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you, no laggards, all in attendence
**they will come,
poet after poet,
spreading the word,
words to deeds, each of us
a messenger and a conductor,
orchestrating the symphony
of revelation.**
Patty m. Nat
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
There once was who a Man who fell into a Cave,
and although it was dark, he tried to be brave.
With no light which to guide him, and fear right beside him,
he tried to get out but his hopes were in vain.
Further into darkness this man would then wonder;
no knowledge that all of his efforts would plunder.
As the passage grew tighter, he wished to retire,
but brought forth all the courage his heart could then muster.
A roaring of rapids he heard up ahead;
still fighting the fight yet succumbing to dread.
Then the tunnel grew wider, his worry seemed lighter,
as he dreamed that he'd one day return to his bed.
As he climbed from the end of this funneling hole,
and stepped further in darkness he fell to below.
What felt like forever, was the length of a feather,
now this man had to wade in a water so cold.
He swam although blind, first left and then right,
then down and back up he tried with his might.
He felt trapped in a world, with no diamonds, nor pearls
till he scoured the wall and found a pinhole of light.
This man of great strength then took one last dive,
and low-and-behold a new passage did find.
He followed it through, away from this pool,
and came up in another yet barely alive.
He was freezing, and shaking, his head it was aching
from fright and unknown during this undertaking.
Yet this brand new room, was filled with a jewel;
a jewel of which this man had no mistaking.
It was filled with light of the same glorious day,
a hole in this cavern overhead did lay.
He tried climbing the wall, only down did he fall,
but this did not stop him or keep him at bay.
He tried once again to still make it out;
climbing and jumping, and thrusting, about.
Till he reached the top, but still did not stop,
until he lay on the grass, no longer with doubt.
The warmth of the sun encircled his body.
His soul intact, yet his head was still foggy.
Exhausted, befuddled, arrested, and muddled;
he began to walk back yet fell into a copy.
Of the same devilish cave he had once been,
and it was up to him, only him, to climb back out again.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
reoccurring fascism
boiling over in my head
led by not only the bureaucracy
to which we sacrifice our
god given rights to
but by the
oppressing society
that force feeds us
elated lies
funneling us into
specific life paths
but I did not ask
to be born into
a fascist society
ruled by
a democracy, which is
more of a
soft spoken dictatorship.
So excuse me if
I would rather
practice my own
beliefs, instead of
shoving money up
my *** crack
while i sit behind
a desk for the majority
of my life.
Not to mention
the 18+ years of
a mandatory education
that only taught
me how to pass
a state standarized test
put together by the same
******* idiots
who are too
brainwashed by the generations
before them to realize
that the state
is their new God-
but refuse to believe
that America,
the land of the free,
is a theocracy.
Instead of involving
myself in that obvious
grueling cycle
I think
I would rather
separate myself
from the state,
society,
and the false belief
of legal freedom
that was drilled
into all of our
heads
(I do not need a government
to tell me I am free,
just by them saying that
expresses that I am only free
merely because
they let me be.)
I am free
because I am human
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
The Grand Canyon
Was once a shallow river bed
Until the water wore away the earth
So far down that when you look over the edge
Many have the urge to jump
When you leave this planet
As you rise
You’ll see
Waterfalls are really mountains
Weeping your departure
Tears enough to make oceans
The thought of your ghost
Quakes the earth in shivers
At the imbalanced caused
By your missing weight
You are that important
Tornadoes are just the sky’s
Way of funneling your soul back down
To the ground where you belong
But we both know
You’ll never stay
If the earth is not strong enough to keep you here
Can’t imagine there is any way
I ever could
I could never mourn
As loud as thunder
I don’t have lightning defribillators
And
I don’t sleep at night
Because I am used to sinking to the left
Your weight is that significant
And yeah
Sometimes the earth wins
Tidal waves
And earthquakes
Even tornadoes claim people
But not you
Not when you leave on your own accord
Not when you have the urge to jump
Making mountains weep
And the sky mourn thunder
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 12:38 AM UTC
He wants none of it
The unrelenting fame
Paparazzi's lights
Never out of sight
The crushing weight
Of a well-known name
He wants none of it
The life-sucking fame
Endless demands
From legions of fans
Happiness funneling
Right down the drain
He wants none of it
The soul-deadening fame
Prestige a cruel mistress
All joys turned to business
Dousing his spirit
To extinguish its flame
No, he craves anonymity
For stardom to cease
To be happy with less
Freed from the stress
True glory found
In a life lived in peace
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC
If the echoes in my head subside
When the train finally halts
And I look all around
Wonder if you will be there
Will my heart still yearn for you
My mind flying high in your sky
Will it ever stop
When it finally descends
Moving forward, but moving on?
Can we derail, decelerate the pace of a loving heart
Some weaker, semblance of fuel, my engine's funneling
Will I ever fly the same without your gravitational pull
When the train finally halts
And I look all around
Wonder if you will be there
Will my heart sill call your name
Dirt and debris hitting the surface
You were the cleanse keeping **** out
Will anyone else give me your wonderful phrases
Keeping me lighter like I would amount
Healing my wings, always keeping them fearless
I never knew I needed you to fly
Now I wonder if my heart can start
When your no longer there
Keeping my engine safe and strong for war
The new ware of my flight
Will it ever resemble the speed or freedom your sky gave
When I'm no longer holstered up by the tracks of your love
Will your traces really fade away
When the train finally halts
And I look all around
Wonder if you will be there
Will my hearts still holler your name
Will it hold on in vain
Even if I'm in my grave
Will it move on, see you, and manage
Knowing our love could be gone
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?
Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?
April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?
The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?
Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?
Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 6:18 PM UTC
It's silly all the thought that goes into writing poetry.
The poems that count are the ones which require no thought at all.
when you asked me to write you a poem, gave me a deadline
I knew I would fail. Had failed.
Now.
The words on this paper will not bring you back
they won't wage wars in the name of God or love
won't rise up off the paper when all that's needed is an embrace.
These words are no more than lead on paper
strained attempts at funneling thoughts
distilled down to something somewhat legible
no more tangible then words spoken aloud.
dust on the wind so to speak,
fully capable of bringing tear to eye despite their inanimate position.
I need a drink, the burn of fire water to cleanse my soul
Poor me another, cause I can still see the floor
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
The big bang was your conception.
The expansion of nutritive gases and stars
filled the womb of your pregnant mother.
As barely an earthed fetus, you seemed an animal.
As a newborn, you grew primitively, slowly rose.
Enlightenment when you came of age
to discover yourself human.
Now, in your Twenty-First, the century
of drugged science, you live like a half-god
in ever-questioning evolved reversion,
in a contradictory asylum of paralyzing speed,
rising steep to its ringed peak funneling fumes
that revive the smell of your instincts, primal and fiery.
Then, in one final breath, in the outpour
on volcano’s point, melting and bursting
in radial gasps once again, will come your death
in a matter of ours, the eschaton, a new bang
desired and conceived anew, so that in rebirth
will be your survival, in rebirth our continuity.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.
I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.
Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.
Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,
I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,
Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Observation of the white void,
in the wrinkle of an ocean wave
unfocused mechanics of consciousness,
chaos funneling into the foreground of an intangible idea,
measuring brainwaves with fact versus fiction
love is the conductor of reality
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
The other night I spent at a barn party,
A hole mess of disgruntled youth,
Each writhing like mystics caught in a trance.
Each with their own glow-stick crowns,
Funneling through their brains ,
Comatose limbs and lashing tongues.
Goodbye my sweet children,
As I watch them sputter down the drain,
An entire generation lost to the Euphoria
Of crazed spin doctor hypnotists.
Each running for a new glass of punch,
Loud electro-pulsing angst fills the air,
How dare he blow his smoke at me.
***** lines and failed acrobats,
Wild youth and ****** veterans.
Each morning, wake up,
Teacher tells you you’re wrong,
Go home, get in bed,
Wait for dreams to come like waves
Crashing down overhead on your sweet pillow.
Never has the true disgust come out,
Drunken women throwing themselves at me,
Twisting and jeering to the rabid pulsation,
I cannot find him.
Fighting through an endless sea of ecstasy,
Brief Nostalgia takes hold.
It is gone, gone like the wind blows,
Through tunnels, over oceans.
Will I see the light of day again?
Maybe,
Just one more glimpse of the sun.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
***** fingernails and ***** talk
Scratch my back until it bleeds
I hit the ground and then I found
that I’ve walked past what I’ve been looking for so long
There hasn’t been a single vice
that I haven’t enjoyed so much
But when your throat burns from drips and drags
It’s time to start funneling your liquid brain back in your empty heart
An empty head but a fulfilled soul
Is almost worse than anything
Having so much love you want to give
Is hard to have when no one wants it
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
i found
her alone
seated amid
sumptuous shelter
crafted of a most clement
terracotta watching
as those chaotic
worldspun towers
whirled around, piercing
through vehement welkin
then stretching down
to ground level.
they went
weaving through the coils
of an ethereal copper jungle
and gifting her skin
with bruises
as they
fled—
each one,
the sputum
of a septic recess
that was ceaseless
in its diction
of ruses
in her
head.
some
people
called her
the dark passenger,
yet she talked herself idyllic
using only stolen words.
*only
twenty
years old*?
what a mess!
several life events
had her under
duress
that augural
September day.
she was depressed
yet she was
pressing
answers
from the void
beneath the drop—
a top-to-bottom
nonsensical
blessing;
funneling logic
behind such curtains
had her stressing out daily.
she grew arrogant and twisted
with the shifting of seasons;
she grew humbled
and wary
for the worst
of reasons.
her life
had become
a shell in every sense,
but it made sense
in the utmost
of naïve and
senseless
respects
...
then
I opened
my mouth
to speak
again.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
Huffing demigod, a scarf of your hair is around my neck
and it nicks my clavicles. Pin a rose between thighs –
that is how it feels, like thorn-blood your love.
I am the emptiest thing you
have touched the toes of.
When you ****** my pulse,
I became a coffee drink, now funneling the
tentacles who suffocate my hair strings &
you cannot know how subtle I am not. Finger my teeth.
Purposely, I do not bite.
As Pacific as an ink ocean, you are deep
between what I swallow and ***** and keep inside.
Where fish once swam you took. I can only drain for you.
I know you empty me deliberately,
the final ache and void.
Love for me to stay the emptiest woman you have ******
until I do not need a house for my soul. No,
not more than I need your cut.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
Making Love Like Water
It starts with
so much beauty. In a drop
of sweat down your body…
a feeling of liquid—of
empathy into entropy.
Then it’s
My head against the bed,
face down into fluff.
All of the things float away;
the things are just stuff…
You are really here. I can feel
your warmth, though my kiss is blue—
It’s chilling as ice, but it’s true.
Still we’re
funneling energy
from one’s soul into the others’.
Electrical charges, our body’s ties.
I could die, I could smother,
and as I did I would smile.
Now I’m
melting beneath you, kindled by your fire,
cause what’s between us in this moment is pure and it’s sweet.
You taste salty like the ocean and I sense
the motion of the tides, against your skin, now I’m feeling the heat
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 5:53 PM UTC