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"gelatinous" poems
we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.
0
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
jj-hutton
#nsfw
we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.
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59
Cosmic kraken, gelatinous tentacles that choke the ventricles.. air tainted by its pungent pores... daylight darkens, its presence hearkens, for the light to shine no more... Heart is hardened vestigial veins with not blood but pain... wrinkled cartilage writhes at lore.. of the divine despair I now come to bear, graces this unworthy ***** "I beg I pardon! spare me the road to your celestial abode!"... whispered screams that scrape throat raw... silence snares... at my futile affairs... with the sadistic nexus between doors... "Oh I cannot fathom creature with unworldly features... and blade fashioned from nebulous ore... what terrors await... and to permeate.... my flesh forevermore!"
0
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 11:39 AM UTC
PoeticPerennials
Bloodborne
Cosmic kraken, gelatinous tentacles that choke the ventricles.. air tainted by its pungent pores... daylight darkens, its presence hearkens, for the light to shine no more... Heart is hardened vestigial veins with not blood but pain... wrinkled cartilage writhes at lore.. of the divine despair I now come to bear, graces this unworthy ***** "I beg I pardon! spare me the road to your celestial abode!"... whispered screams that scrape throat raw... silence snares... at my futile affairs... with the sadistic nexus between doors... "Oh I cannot fathom creature with unworldly features... and blade fashioned from nebulous ore... what terrors await... and to permeate.... my flesh forevermore!"
Continue reading...
24
You at least went. so that meant the party could finally be awkward. that's homeroom at your personal Harvard your low self esteem was the head dean [ claimed you had promise ] then promptly vomits but you promised to maim your lollipops with hot topic's most goth night-shade of hemlock iron-on, henna tattoos for your thin lips. like two gates to a birdcage where you keep ravens... pecking the tip of your tongue where your brave words die for lack of oxygen... pecking the flesh off the skeleton key to the heart of your insightful comment,... stymied - a black raven savors the succulent eyes of your hurricanes, so braille maps for blind rage fly off the shelves... fly like led zeppelins to fresh hell. you lose your window seat on the wing of a prayer to Charles Bukowski. now you're scowling a gilded smile at all the Ed Hardlys'... good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe each with a sugar box lodged in supermax insecurity prisms... fey emeralds. monochrome rubicons you pop when cross. like wainscoting the panic room that came with a deejay who thinks you're a boy who got lost.
0
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
third-eye-candy
When Shrinking Violets Shrink To Misfit In Doc Martins
You at least went. so that meant the party could finally be awkward. that's homeroom at your personal Harvard your low self esteem was the head dean [ claimed you had promise ] then promptly vomits but you promised to maim your lollipops with hot topic's most goth night-shade of hemlock iron-on, henna tattoos for your thin lips. like two gates to a birdcage where you keep ravens... pecking the tip of your tongue where your brave words die for lack of oxygen... pecking the flesh off the skeleton key to the heart of your insightful comment,... stymied - a black raven savors the succulent eyes of your hurricanes, so braille maps for blind rage fly off the shelves... fly like led zeppelins to fresh hell. you lose your window seat on the wing of a prayer to Charles Bukowski. now you're scowling a gilded smile at all the Ed Hardlys'... good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe each with a sugar box lodged in supermax insecurity prisms... fey emeralds. monochrome rubicons you pop when cross. like wainscoting the panic room that came with a deejay who thinks you're a boy who got lost.
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47
I lay down your creamy expanse unto the marble surface, as if milk made love with the stars in the galaxies. I write you out as pleasant simmer of pulverized charcoal and bloated glycerine. I splatter and spread fine dusts of Carica in temperate motion to touch the sleek edges of the vanilla branches on your person. I hold and dip my feathery digit amongst rose water to grasp the flowers that frames your face, like light morganites that hail from the west. I cast you off as the blue sea engulfs the life from the waters where life swims with stable beginnings and whirlwinds of stories. I finish you by letting molten pearls lither your dark onyx orbs, surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond, like shooting comets finding rest on land, as lightning's faint and close but never quite touch. I made you with intrinsic detail and rawness to give you the life that you may never have.
0
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
crystallineflowers
Canvas
I lay down your creamy expanse unto the marble surface, as if milk made love with the stars in the galaxies. I write you out as pleasant simmer of pulverized charcoal and bloated glycerine. I splatter and spread fine dusts of Carica in temperate motion to touch the sleek edges of the vanilla branches on your person. I hold and dip my feathery digit amongst rose water to grasp the flowers that frames your face, like light morganites that hail from the west. I cast you off as the blue sea engulfs the life from the waters where life swims with stable beginnings and whirlwinds of stories. I finish you by letting molten pearls lither your dark onyx orbs, surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond, like shooting comets finding rest on land, as lightning's faint and close but never quite touch. I made you with intrinsic detail and rawness to give you the life that you may never have.
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40
Miami melts in its own heat. It is, as Robert Frost writes, "Riding on its own melting." The grubby politicians no one votes for package the melted, gelatinous reality-space in salami tubes. (America, this is where your “mystery meat” originates.) And like Frost’s poetry, this palm tree city is a modern achievement, gross in the undertaking. It is a lead coffin, kept afloat on the Atlantic Coast by feat of the imagination alone.
0
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
miguel-m-castro
Sandwich Meat: Miami
Miami melts in its own heat. It is, as Robert Frost writes, "Riding on its own melting." The grubby politicians no one votes for package the melted, gelatinous reality-space in salami tubes. (America, this is where your “mystery meat” originates.) And like Frost’s poetry, this palm tree city is a modern achievement, gross in the undertaking. It is a lead coffin, kept afloat on the Atlantic Coast by feat of the imagination alone.
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18
My eyes are bags of mucus hanging by cellophane membranes to my skull which is now structured like a wet sponge. My tummy protrudes out from the rest of my abdomen, a gelatinous layer hiding away a chiseled core which may be deteriorating into oblivion at this moment. The skin rests and hangs a little over the top of my leather belt which somehow manages to fit three loops in from the first hole. My neck hangs heavy like the ears of a sad elephant.
0
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
jed-1
Thought Down a Portrait
My eyes are bags of mucus hanging by cellophane membranes to my skull which is now structured like a wet sponge. My tummy protrudes out from the rest of my abdomen, a gelatinous layer hiding away a chiseled core which may be deteriorating into oblivion at this moment. The skin rests and hangs a little over the top of my leather belt which somehow manages to fit three loops in from the first hole. My neck hangs heavy like the ears of a sad elephant.
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9
I dropped more today. From the gelatinous 180 last August To my blubbery 156 I thought this would go faster. She told me it would. Emily is like this corpse, you see… How they’re always on your mind, haunting. Her ***** stained face, flashes, like a memory “This is where you’ll end up. Just ******* wait.” I’m not scared. I promise. But I don’t trust her pretty. Not completely. UPDATE: I tried to ignore the urge to throw up. But now that I gained all of my weight back, I'm throwing caution to the wind, going to college and starving this fat away. I pledge 177 to plunge to 140 by Thanksgiving.
0
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
wisp
Get The Skinny On Me
I dropped more today. From the gelatinous 180 last August To my blubbery 156 I thought this would go faster. She told me it would. Emily is like this corpse, you see… How they’re always on your mind, haunting. Her ***** stained face, flashes, like a memory “This is where you’ll end up. Just ******* wait.” I’m not scared. I promise. But I don’t trust her pretty. Not completely. UPDATE: I tried to ignore the urge to throw up. But now that I gained all of my weight back, I'm throwing caution to the wind, going to college and starving this fat away. I pledge 177 to plunge to 140 by Thanksgiving.
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19
I'm roaring towards the sun, in an aluminum bubble. My spirit, lacks wings, to fly but there's a spoiler, fitted, to the silvery minivan's frame. So, we drive down the day... coldly harmonious, as it glitters back, in mild flashes. Memory, is stagnant; flecks of it shine, back, at me-- capsules, of captured thought, suspended movement... the world, itself, becomes gelatinous. The park, where I almost-- the long-absent faces, of growing boys, and girls, concealing toothy monsters. Unsung heroes, and wandering bards... Freezing sidewalks, slanting homes... places I knew, so well; they stand, still, and appear to register no change, and no difference. Christ, with his pale, pinned arms, and pain-stricken face, gazes down, on all these sins a placid totem, on his marbled cross... an overgrown snowdrop, crying mildly, into polluted grasses, below. A sweet song, emits from surrounding speakers and it becomes tangled, in its own chords. It breaks, in my throat, like tinted glass... and suddenly, my eyes, are full, of flooding, unshed tears. Their sorrow, needles at sore, spent cheeks. The rain, which pinks, soft clay is hard, and salted, and as it beats down, onto my skin, I can feel the sunlight working its gentle, tumble-dry magic, and finessing them clean, again. I turn my face, away to stare out, silent, through the unbroken window. I'm sobbing, harder, now, and I have no idea, how I started... or why, it won't stop... but still, the rain, rolls down shaky gutters; unrepentant, and unrepressed. The wild weeds, of the garden, are well-fed, indeed yet overwatered, beneath leaky clouds, and graying seams.
0
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
disastrophe
[Roaring towards the sun]
I'm roaring towards the sun, in an aluminum bubble. My spirit, lacks wings, to fly but there's a spoiler, fitted, to the silvery minivan's frame. So, we drive down the day... coldly harmonious, as it glitters back, in mild flashes. Memory, is stagnant; flecks of it shine, back, at me-- capsules, of captured thought, suspended movement... the world, itself, becomes gelatinous. The park, where I almost-- the long-absent faces, of growing boys, and girls, concealing toothy monsters. Unsung heroes, and wandering bards... Freezing sidewalks, slanting homes... places I knew, so well; they stand, still, and appear to register no change, and no difference. Christ, with his pale, pinned arms, and pain-stricken face, gazes down, on all these sins a placid totem, on his marbled cross... an overgrown snowdrop, crying mildly, into polluted grasses, below. A sweet song, emits from surrounding speakers and it becomes tangled, in its own chords. It breaks, in my throat, like tinted glass... and suddenly, my eyes, are full, of flooding, unshed tears. Their sorrow, needles at sore, spent cheeks. The rain, which pinks, soft clay is hard, and salted, and as it beats down, onto my skin, I can feel the sunlight working its gentle, tumble-dry magic, and finessing them clean, again. I turn my face, away to stare out, silent, through the unbroken window. I'm sobbing, harder, now, and I have no idea, how I started... or why, it won't stop... but still, the rain, rolls down shaky gutters; unrepentant, and unrepressed. The wild weeds, of the garden, are well-fed, indeed yet overwatered, beneath leaky clouds, and graying seams.
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69
Who’s to say how He might come back for a second inhumanely heaped-up helping, if we grant that immensity of our assumption He did come kingly first into this inside- out size from a do-you-miss-me- yet’s mirthfully mythical realm I have seen Him lurking in a particle-board fine finish on the thin outer membranes of our estranged and better faces; He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent, but far too theoretical for our broadly practical, turned- away gazes to rediscover There He is now rising in the favela’s gap- toothed grins with fabulously naughty corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists using cur jests his ***** charges imagine as flightless quarrels grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle were they over-stuffed on golden grain And there again on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid as dainty fingers crawl in toward a gelatinous glob still clinging to the powerful pretense it’s meat And there once more, conceding oms, He restless flickers at the margins of blocky beige Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks circumnavigate the darkling smooth patches and spit-spark a few conscious drips to squiggle out from the babble of noxious red seas Emerged, this welp won’t toddle off to dribble-stain the dressy linens of a made-up nanny’s well-mannered and ornate evil; it will curl up instead, a swaddled yawn with no yearn to suckle under His real mother’s gaping wide and grungy bloused best
0
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
francis-scudellari
In the minute coming of His second, all hours turn to dusk
Who’s to say how He might come back for a second inhumanely heaped-up helping, if we grant that immensity of our assumption He did come kingly first into this inside- out size from a do-you-miss-me- yet’s mirthfully mythical realm I have seen Him lurking in a particle-board fine finish on the thin outer membranes of our estranged and better faces; He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent, but far too theoretical for our broadly practical, turned- away gazes to rediscover There He is now rising in the favela’s gap- toothed grins with fabulously naughty corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists using cur jests his ***** charges imagine as flightless quarrels grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle were they over-stuffed on golden grain And there again on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid as dainty fingers crawl in toward a gelatinous glob still clinging to the powerful pretense it’s meat And there once more, conceding oms, He restless flickers at the margins of blocky beige Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks circumnavigate the darkling smooth patches and spit-spark a few conscious drips to squiggle out from the babble of noxious red seas Emerged, this welp won’t toddle off to dribble-stain the dressy linens of a made-up nanny’s well-mannered and ornate evil; it will curl up instead, a swaddled yawn with no yearn to suckle under His real mother’s gaping wide and grungy bloused best
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48
sparks of you            lie within me                not dormant but             silently active a volcano on hold          embers in the haze             of intensity's throb                   and glow my heartflames supposedly on low your bones are almost molten melding with my own and my cells are tiny brush fires craving a certain water but not just                     any kind I need liquids fresh from the spring                  icy seas to cool my heat of soul, of **** and gelatinous nomenclature that clings to my tongue I need my loops of wild light to be egged on in the right fluorescence yet calmed as I spin into your sphere Quiet, now. Just hush up Put your hand on my chest           feel the beats    calm my frenzied wires drench my parched lingual        expressions with your               aqua pura the salty sweetness of deep desires quenched I need soil of the right kind I am not a desert flower but I have thrived in the dry cracked barren lands        sunstreaks in my hair               blooms have burst forth from           the sucked-in parchment of my skin making it smooth and dewy and despite themselves, festoons of flowers decorate the pain. belly deep fill the milky white of ******* with colors releasing the constant, strict tightening pressing on my chest and if given the right conditions this volcano will       so deliciously erupt
0
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
lora-lee
embers
sparks of you            lie within me                not dormant but             silently active a volcano on hold          embers in the haze             of intensity's throb                   and glow my heartflames supposedly on low your bones are almost molten melding with my own and my cells are tiny brush fires craving a certain water but not just                     any kind I need liquids fresh from the spring                  icy seas to cool my heat of soul, of **** and gelatinous nomenclature that clings to my tongue I need my loops of wild light to be egged on in the right fluorescence yet calmed as I spin into your sphere Quiet, now. Just hush up Put your hand on my chest           feel the beats    calm my frenzied wires drench my parched lingual        expressions with your               aqua pura the salty sweetness of deep desires quenched I need soil of the right kind I am not a desert flower but I have thrived in the dry cracked barren lands        sunstreaks in my hair               blooms have burst forth from           the sucked-in parchment of my skin making it smooth and dewy and despite themselves, festoons of flowers decorate the pain. belly deep fill the milky white of ******* with colors releasing the constant, strict tightening pressing on my chest and if given the right conditions this volcano will       so deliciously erupt
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64
Everything's frozen in sweet repose, intensity buried beneath the snows. I freeze the silent scream and although it longs to be free, I stow the key deep inside. I suppose that scream might grow and rise against the tranquil cold, if it were not so utterly frozen below the surface of my soul. The ice blanket wrapped close slows the cogs and gears, replacing the clicks and snaps with smooth rolls and flows. All machinery calmed, movement removed. It is much too cold to complain with my mind reduced to a gelatinous ooze. Everything's frozen in sweet repose, freeze the highs, bury the lows.
0
Aug 26, 2011
Aug 26, 2011 at 1:49 AM UTC
james-wisp
Sweet Sleet Sleep
Everything's frozen in sweet repose, intensity buried beneath the snows. I freeze the silent scream and although it longs to be free, I stow the key deep inside. I suppose that scream might grow and rise against the tranquil cold, if it were not so utterly frozen below the surface of my soul. The ice blanket wrapped close slows the cogs and gears, replacing the clicks and snaps with smooth rolls and flows. All machinery calmed, movement removed. It is much too cold to complain with my mind reduced to a gelatinous ooze. Everything's frozen in sweet repose, freeze the highs, bury the lows.
Continue reading...
18
We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives renouncing the living breathing beating heart in exchange for another photo of craft ale and home-cooked food with a foot note description as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger. We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine. We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens the spineless automatons of digitized free love the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been. We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power we unite to save bees and coral reefs and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour and be one of the thousand voices saying: NO. We won't take this any more! We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations. We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other. A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be, my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.
0
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
DBeard
Dark Wave Tsunami
We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives renouncing the living breathing beating heart in exchange for another photo of craft ale and home-cooked food with a foot note description as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger. We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine. We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens the spineless automatons of digitized free love the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been. We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power we unite to save bees and coral reefs and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour and be one of the thousand voices saying: NO. We won't take this any more! We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations. We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other. A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be, my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.
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32
Moments notice, temporal  sign posts, shifted meanings and twigs of broken memories all standing stark, as white lights of embers glow, slow to realize the masses continue to wonder. Eyes blazing in the giggling realizations uncanny calling out, of the in between, as many of us glean and glimpse. Have you oh wondering soul heard? have you oh simple soul seen? If so what is it you have grasped of this altered edge of oblivion? fair the a well spring of signs to set your heart and mind free? Or only to cast your gullet into eternal slavery, under the cutting reality of a cemented view? Flowing edge of the swells this temporal cascading do cause the light do play in the reflections truth of stability abound in focus and vibratory standards , counted and measured only in the minds eye and the hearts manifestations of excepted adherence to a collective? Or have you , or I , us sad and amazingly fickle souls found the true sound of sound doctrine? One of truth , love and understanding? For seems this dear hearted friend, is far from the end, though not the beginning unless the glimpse of it has been felt and rendered assured in your own heart, least we get ****** again from the very, very distant pasts start. So, it is asked yet again, where do we stand in this torrent and gelatinous time of man? Or shall we start all over again and wonder how tech can strip and manipulate the core and essence of a man and his absolute grasp of what is changeable in our entire past? Or is it merely and simply just that we are all on the very edge of our dreams in this construct of a thing?
0
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
ricci-moon-scott-crow-moon
Edge
Moments notice, temporal  sign posts, shifted meanings and twigs of broken memories all standing stark, as white lights of embers glow, slow to realize the masses continue to wonder. Eyes blazing in the giggling realizations uncanny calling out, of the in between, as many of us glean and glimpse. Have you oh wondering soul heard? have you oh simple soul seen? If so what is it you have grasped of this altered edge of oblivion? fair the a well spring of signs to set your heart and mind free? Or only to cast your gullet into eternal slavery, under the cutting reality of a cemented view? Flowing edge of the swells this temporal cascading do cause the light do play in the reflections truth of stability abound in focus and vibratory standards , counted and measured only in the minds eye and the hearts manifestations of excepted adherence to a collective? Or have you , or I , us sad and amazingly fickle souls found the true sound of sound doctrine? One of truth , love and understanding? For seems this dear hearted friend, is far from the end, though not the beginning unless the glimpse of it has been felt and rendered assured in your own heart, least we get ****** again from the very, very distant pasts start. So, it is asked yet again, where do we stand in this torrent and gelatinous time of man? Or shall we start all over again and wonder how tech can strip and manipulate the core and essence of a man and his absolute grasp of what is changeable in our entire past? Or is it merely and simply just that we are all on the very edge of our dreams in this construct of a thing?
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13
Blue streaks shew across the sky. Manic days and semper fi. Red dawn smashes out the sea. Honor is all I claim to be. Though I love and feel like saintly. I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty. But I have no respect for you! Till we are in court, tried and true It was the world, the world of defeat. I planted my flag on a daisy and creek. On a light dominion of my summerhouse place. There sit, the lovely Welterman case. Weltermans family gathered in boon. Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon. I killed her. There. I said it okay? But don't blame me, she was just in my way. On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night. Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright. Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me. Leaving behind her unfinished dreams But lo and behold, an undertaker. Ruinous desire, I decided to take her. My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota. So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia. Down the throat and across the sea. Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony. I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion. Ophelia and her love is a tainted ********** I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly. She only deserved death, that ***** old filly. No more would Welterman reek of my sin. To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
0
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
Shiyahumi
Tims confession.
Blue streaks shew across the sky. Manic days and semper fi. Red dawn smashes out the sea. Honor is all I claim to be. Though I love and feel like saintly. I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty. But I have no respect for you! Till we are in court, tried and true It was the world, the world of defeat. I planted my flag on a daisy and creek. On a light dominion of my summerhouse place. There sit, the lovely Welterman case. Weltermans family gathered in boon. Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon. I killed her. There. I said it okay? But don't blame me, she was just in my way. On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night. Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright. Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me. Leaving behind her unfinished dreams But lo and behold, an undertaker. Ruinous desire, I decided to take her. My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota. So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia. Down the throat and across the sea. Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony. I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion. Ophelia and her love is a tainted ********** I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly. She only deserved death, that ***** old filly. No more would Welterman reek of my sin. To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
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32
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
0
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
salil-panvalkar
Weekly ranting and ravings of an unbalanced mind
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
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12
My lunchtime consists of either not eating or stuffing my face till the words "fat *** crawl out of my friends mouth. The words sting me like a bee or a metaphor that's been overused like...being stung by a bee. Let's think about this for a minute though, think about whether or not I should feel guilty for my pleasures. I started starving myself sophomore year, the words breakfast lunch and dinner made me want to puke out the hatred I have for a body whose done nothing to me. At one point I tried to love myself, tried to show that food isn't the enemy it's just the voices in my head that tell me it is. "You should lose weight." "You're out of shape" "Fat *** these count for each stretch mark I have on my body that crept up slowly and silently on me like a murderer to his victim. One was from my dad, two was from my friends, three was from my mom cause she said I was so handsome, four cause I don't deserve to eat, five cause I want to be pretty. Six because guys like me don't get to be pretty.    It doesn't end easily or quickly. I've gone from overweight to underweight to a healthy weight to a weight where I pull back the flabs of skin so I can count my ribs one by one again. I've even gotten to the point where if somebody tells me I look good all I can think is that they're lying. I see a difference between fat and fat, the words itself form the gelatinous image you imagine when thinking of them, sounding sour as it comes off my tongue. You don't have to be a girl to have an eating disorder, a ****** up concept that society hasn't quite grasped yet.
0
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
paul-phillip-elliott
My (eating disorder) lunchtime.
My lunchtime consists of either not eating or stuffing my face till the words "fat *** crawl out of my friends mouth. The words sting me like a bee or a metaphor that's been overused like...being stung by a bee. Let's think about this for a minute though, think about whether or not I should feel guilty for my pleasures. I started starving myself sophomore year, the words breakfast lunch and dinner made me want to puke out the hatred I have for a body whose done nothing to me. At one point I tried to love myself, tried to show that food isn't the enemy it's just the voices in my head that tell me it is. "You should lose weight." "You're out of shape" "Fat *** these count for each stretch mark I have on my body that crept up slowly and silently on me like a murderer to his victim. One was from my dad, two was from my friends, three was from my mom cause she said I was so handsome, four cause I don't deserve to eat, five cause I want to be pretty. Six because guys like me don't get to be pretty.    It doesn't end easily or quickly. I've gone from overweight to underweight to a healthy weight to a weight where I pull back the flabs of skin so I can count my ribs one by one again. I've even gotten to the point where if somebody tells me I look good all I can think is that they're lying. I see a difference between fat and fat, the words itself form the gelatinous image you imagine when thinking of them, sounding sour as it comes off my tongue. You don't have to be a girl to have an eating disorder, a ****** up concept that society hasn't quite grasped yet.
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2
If you only knew, I'd stare in the mirror Then stare a bit harder "I look fine, don't worry" those words were my armor. Because when im alone, Its just me. No one around To call me ugly. But kids are cruel, I thought to myself And in my situation I was left on the shelf. Hate shows acknowledgment, and i was not hated. They were okay to my face, But i was being tolerated. Being shown pity made me confused. What did they see? Was it my hair or my shoes? I looked in the mirror, Again i looked "fine" But then another thought Crossed through my mind. "Maybe they see, Something else? Maybe I'm not supposed, To like my self?" This started it all, Now I saw me. With the mirror upside down, Came the negativity. I would look at myself, With confusion and disgust. I would curse at the world That I would no longer trust. I would sit on the floor. Until I'm blue in the face From fighting my demons That I could not erase. Gelatinous bulges, Consumed my body, Restricting my looks,m my hidden personality. I felt embarrassed, I felt felt upset. I would start to scream, I was filled with regret. Id pray every night For a little change, And that my future would not Forever stay the same. And those prayers were answered, But it took years to recover, So much pain and hurt, That no one would uncover. So i was broken, And now released from the cult, I can express myself, And take some control. Those years are gone, But i still hurt. I have to look back in time, So see I'm no longer "her". So when they are confused, Why im a little defensive, I will direct them to this poem, To see my perspective. But these is just words, Strung in a pattern, The hell that Iwent through, Doesn't really matter. Because the words are past tense, And others are suffering, And its not those who post it, On social networking. Its the quiet girl, You won't expect Because she wants to look normal, Not perfect.
0
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
a-19
What it is to be Insecure.
If you only knew, I'd stare in the mirror Then stare a bit harder "I look fine, don't worry" those words were my armor. Because when im alone, Its just me. No one around To call me ugly. But kids are cruel, I thought to myself And in my situation I was left on the shelf. Hate shows acknowledgment, and i was not hated. They were okay to my face, But i was being tolerated. Being shown pity made me confused. What did they see? Was it my hair or my shoes? I looked in the mirror, Again i looked "fine" But then another thought Crossed through my mind. "Maybe they see, Something else? Maybe I'm not supposed, To like my self?" This started it all, Now I saw me. With the mirror upside down, Came the negativity. I would look at myself, With confusion and disgust. I would curse at the world That I would no longer trust. I would sit on the floor. Until I'm blue in the face From fighting my demons That I could not erase. Gelatinous bulges, Consumed my body, Restricting my looks,m my hidden personality. I felt embarrassed, I felt felt upset. I would start to scream, I was filled with regret. Id pray every night For a little change, And that my future would not Forever stay the same. And those prayers were answered, But it took years to recover, So much pain and hurt, That no one would uncover. So i was broken, And now released from the cult, I can express myself, And take some control. Those years are gone, But i still hurt. I have to look back in time, So see I'm no longer "her". So when they are confused, Why im a little defensive, I will direct them to this poem, To see my perspective. But these is just words, Strung in a pattern, The hell that Iwent through, Doesn't really matter. Because the words are past tense, And others are suffering, And its not those who post it, On social networking. Its the quiet girl, You won't expect Because she wants to look normal, Not perfect.
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81
i made me some writer friends, mistook the mistake, tore the gate, ate a ghost, ************ a ****** slaughtered a village to gain your attention, when you wouldn't look, i painted myself black, when you wouldn't look, i told you i was a shepherd, you were sheep, and you were going to get eaten by some gelatinous being with very fine teeth. all my writer friends, they're all at my throat. all my writer friends, they sink claws, scream in my ears, shove, shove, tell me i need to love god above. i made me some writer friends, tricked the truth, bent my back with compliments, strung my neck with friendly kisses, wrote all my writer friends a eulogy, wrote a fuck-all note to my mom and dad, but i didn't buy the right stamp, smoked a bowl, baked a cake, called the goat an ******* poured a shot for a 15-year-old girl, tickled the ivories until they stopped laughing at me, discovered that all red-headed girls bite lips, thanked danny elfman for scoring my bedroom scene, continued working on an epic poem that rips ginsberg off. all my writer friends, tell me to stop distorting reality, stop drinking, stop dominoes of summer girls, all my writer friends, they are handing me bibles and pistols, and i give them a nod, a blanket, a cup of coffee, positive reinforcement, and set myself on fire every night to hear myself howl.
0
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:41 PM UTC
jj-hutton
enemy is me
i made me some writer friends, mistook the mistake, tore the gate, ate a ghost, ************ a ****** slaughtered a village to gain your attention, when you wouldn't look, i painted myself black, when you wouldn't look, i told you i was a shepherd, you were sheep, and you were going to get eaten by some gelatinous being with very fine teeth. all my writer friends, they're all at my throat. all my writer friends, they sink claws, scream in my ears, shove, shove, tell me i need to love god above. i made me some writer friends, tricked the truth, bent my back with compliments, strung my neck with friendly kisses, wrote all my writer friends a eulogy, wrote a fuck-all note to my mom and dad, but i didn't buy the right stamp, smoked a bowl, baked a cake, called the goat an ******* poured a shot for a 15-year-old girl, tickled the ivories until they stopped laughing at me, discovered that all red-headed girls bite lips, thanked danny elfman for scoring my bedroom scene, continued working on an epic poem that rips ginsberg off. all my writer friends, tell me to stop distorting reality, stop drinking, stop dominoes of summer girls, all my writer friends, they are handing me bibles and pistols, and i give them a nod, a blanket, a cup of coffee, positive reinforcement, and set myself on fire every night to hear myself howl.
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47
i used to buy astronaut candy when i was twelve. in case you're wondering what astronaut candy is, it's gelatinous goo that you squeeze from a tube. the particular brand that we always bought had a special tube. it was dome shaped on top with a hole in its concave center. the point was, you squeezed the tube, out comes the goo, and you lick it off; most of us just ****** it out. three varieties: blue raspberry, orange, and everyones favorite, white cherry. in hindsight, i guess that explains why so many of my friends turned out to be so "fabulous". maybe we should've opted for the candy cigarettes. nah. ****** pleasuring a plastic tube: so much more fun.
0
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
victor-thorn
fabulous
i used to buy astronaut candy when i was twelve. in case you're wondering what astronaut candy is, it's gelatinous goo that you squeeze from a tube. the particular brand that we always bought had a special tube. it was dome shaped on top with a hole in its concave center. the point was, you squeezed the tube, out comes the goo, and you lick it off; most of us just ****** it out. three varieties: blue raspberry, orange, and everyones favorite, white cherry. in hindsight, i guess that explains why so many of my friends turned out to be so "fabulous". maybe we should've opted for the candy cigarettes. nah. ****** pleasuring a plastic tube: so much more fun.
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26
There is a word that expresses all the ways in which you have disappointed me and driven me to tears of frustration; I could not enumerate them without displacing my mind in the process, I can only seethe in the chagrin that you have left behind you, a thick gelatinous mess you spread with each movement of your sluggish body and with each breath you take you augment my resentment for you until it boils over into one expression, one word that encompasses this empirically justifiable vexation, uttered with the sarcastic malice that could drive it into your dense English skull; cheers.
0
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
a-n-h
My Most Profound Gratitude
There is a word that expresses all the ways in which you have disappointed me and driven me to tears of frustration; I could not enumerate them without displacing my mind in the process, I can only seethe in the chagrin that you have left behind you, a thick gelatinous mess you spread with each movement of your sluggish body and with each breath you take you augment my resentment for you until it boils over into one expression, one word that encompasses this empirically justifiable vexation, uttered with the sarcastic malice that could drive it into your dense English skull; cheers.
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17
on this Gothic Sunday, rain's in citywide confession. deep ears listen... some of these raindrops explode midair, or never hit the ground. as on shadowy snuffs of street, crows lay on their back. wings enfolded like hands in an open coffin...feet stretched out. beak deformedly agape, drinking...gelatinous eyes beating beneath their lids.
0
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
Onoma
Gothic Sunday
on this Gothic Sunday, rain's in citywide confession. deep ears listen... some of these raindrops explode midair, or never hit the ground. as on shadowy snuffs of street, crows lay on their back. wings enfolded like hands in an open coffin...feet stretched out. beak deformedly agape, drinking...gelatinous eyes beating beneath their lids.
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16
I. The Fireflies There was once a time when the fireflies had made a home out of me. One evening, long after the sun had surrendered itself to the hazed horizon and the pregnant moon, they had come to my window, golden freckles of light twinkling playfully in the dimness. What exactly prompted their gravitation towards me, I will never be entirely certain of, though I have my theories. Maybe it was the warm glass of milk sitting on my bedside table. Or maybe they had simply mistaken the peppers of stardust laced atop my eyelashes for their own kin. Or perhaps– and most likely– it had been the murmur of poetry on my lips: …watch how they dart about the trees in whimsical harmony, how they rise up towards the dark sky in the hopes that, someday, they too will become one with the constellations that blink so brilliantly in the blackness. Yes, Perhaps this what had captivated them so– a homage to the fireflies themselves. Perhaps this is why they had drifted towards me, as if in some fanciful trance, weightless as paper lanterns. And how sweet they were as they twirled about the ringlets in my hair and nuzzled their small frames against my cheek and fingertips. How sweet they were– that is, until the bees came. II. The Bees They made lightning bugs of my fireflies, whose soft luminescence was replaced with a violent stream of sparks, one resembling something close to the bursting of a fluorescent bulb And so came the lightning, the firefly’s only defence against the approaching swarm, their only ammunition in the impending battle: fireflies versus bees, both in want of my nectared marrow. But the lightning was no reasonable match for the bees, with their large, gelatinous figures and the persistence of their stabbings; annihilated were the fireflies, carcasses crumbling to soot, their innards, still glowing, smeared across my collarbone like war paint. Victorious and humming menacingly, the bees then crawled into my ears and my mouth where they proceeded to feast on their spoils and plunders: the honey, that they so cruelly stole from me. And once the honey was gone, so were the bees, bellies full, antennae sticky, their use for me fulfilled and therefore discarded. III. The Spiders The final hosts were drawn to what the bees had left behind: the inconsolable emptiness of my being, They marked their territory with cobwebs– spun carelessly into my arteries and windpipe. Breath dwindling and heartbeat diminishing I tried to remember the fireflies– the light– as the arachnophobia threatened to devour me.
0
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
VinylPoetry
Infestation
I. The Fireflies There was once a time when the fireflies had made a home out of me. One evening, long after the sun had surrendered itself to the hazed horizon and the pregnant moon, they had come to my window, golden freckles of light twinkling playfully in the dimness. What exactly prompted their gravitation towards me, I will never be entirely certain of, though I have my theories. Maybe it was the warm glass of milk sitting on my bedside table. Or maybe they had simply mistaken the peppers of stardust laced atop my eyelashes for their own kin. Or perhaps– and most likely– it had been the murmur of poetry on my lips: …watch how they dart about the trees in whimsical harmony, how they rise up towards the dark sky in the hopes that, someday, they too will become one with the constellations that blink so brilliantly in the blackness. Yes, Perhaps this what had captivated them so– a homage to the fireflies themselves. Perhaps this is why they had drifted towards me, as if in some fanciful trance, weightless as paper lanterns. And how sweet they were as they twirled about the ringlets in my hair and nuzzled their small frames against my cheek and fingertips. How sweet they were– that is, until the bees came. II. The Bees They made lightning bugs of my fireflies, whose soft luminescence was replaced with a violent stream of sparks, one resembling something close to the bursting of a fluorescent bulb And so came the lightning, the firefly’s only defence against the approaching swarm, their only ammunition in the impending battle: fireflies versus bees, both in want of my nectared marrow. But the lightning was no reasonable match for the bees, with their large, gelatinous figures and the persistence of their stabbings; annihilated were the fireflies, carcasses crumbling to soot, their innards, still glowing, smeared across my collarbone like war paint. Victorious and humming menacingly, the bees then crawled into my ears and my mouth where they proceeded to feast on their spoils and plunders: the honey, that they so cruelly stole from me. And once the honey was gone, so were the bees, bellies full, antennae sticky, their use for me fulfilled and therefore discarded. III. The Spiders The final hosts were drawn to what the bees had left behind: the inconsolable emptiness of my being, They marked their territory with cobwebs– spun carelessly into my arteries and windpipe. Breath dwindling and heartbeat diminishing I tried to remember the fireflies– the light– as the arachnophobia threatened to devour me.
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118
Surrounded by obscurity without gloom: the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink. Yet, every molecule breathes with ease. It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall. A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk; sound is silent here. Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob thick with gelatinous mucus, vast, however jailing: closed and unknown to the living universe. The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge, even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching loaded with electric friction. And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence now holding for just more than a whim. An explosion. Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past; they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon. Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning. The vacuum is an overpopulated city of which the blind could never take census and the ignorant believe to be mute. Visual speech fills the void of sound. It is the starlight of a body.
0
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
flamedreamer
Bioluminescence
Surrounded by obscurity without gloom: the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink. Yet, every molecule breathes with ease. It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall. A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk; sound is silent here. Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob thick with gelatinous mucus, vast, however jailing: closed and unknown to the living universe. The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge, even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching loaded with electric friction. And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence now holding for just more than a whim. An explosion. Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past; they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon. Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning. The vacuum is an overpopulated city of which the blind could never take census and the ignorant believe to be mute. Visual speech fills the void of sound. It is the starlight of a body.
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24
we mortgage the unspeakable. we fit small bowls into big ones and speak on misdeeds that rhyme with chrysanthemum without the letter ' M '. from an upside-down star weaving cauldrons of unguarded hope jiggling in the gelatinous yammering of a misguided baby god's night terrors and you still gotta go to work in the morning. and for sleep. what's that ?
0
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
third-eye-candy
Adele Will Sing You To Death In Your Face
we mortgage the unspeakable. we fit small bowls into big ones and speak on misdeeds that rhyme with chrysanthemum without the letter ' M '. from an upside-down star weaving cauldrons of unguarded hope jiggling in the gelatinous yammering of a misguided baby god's night terrors and you still gotta go to work in the morning. and for sleep. what's that ?
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8