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CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Martin Heath Sep 2018
Lonesome Pine -

T'day I knelt by your Lonesome Pine
Stroked cold needles from your stone face
Lifelessly lying scattered 'las
Revealing shy eyes that still shine

Limbs 'bove shadow Heaven's staircase
Swaying gently amidst gold rays
Reflecting off worn weathered steps
Praying for a lasting embrace

Knees weak amongst wet wilted grass
Straining to shed a heartfelt tear
Glancing above when b'low I stared
Sand sifts thru our lost hourglass

T'day I knelt by your Lonesome Pine
Stroked Spanish Moss from your sweet hair
T'night tears pour thru these trembling hands
Alongside this our lonesome shrine
L B Nov 2017
Did I touch you as I left?
That night of beer and music
Almost tipsy,
laughing good-byes

Backing into blindly
I felt an arm... a moment
guide me
before I all but fall
against you
Knew that warmth
of mass was male

You exhale
I sense your being--
behind
Amused
By accidental intimacy
I come unglued
By your flirtatious
catch of eyes
in lowered light
By faint fragrance
of whatever it is
you've drunk or used
to put yourself together

Turning
guarded
Apologize
glancing down


Women always look, though
however briefly
Anyone ever been to this pub?  :D
“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^
march 31 2019 9:37am
^Definition of betweenness
: the quality or state of being between two others in an ordered mathematical set

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-
master/
Daan Vandelay Jan 2014
Six
The first meeting of eyes made me see
how cute a particular being can be.
I glanced at her glancing, stared at
her staring, kissed her cheek and saw

every single peek. Soon I knew what
was going on, it was impossible love
in its prettiest form. Not forbidden by law,
but frowned upon and disabled by social norm.

There were other girls, but not quite as
cute, like she was a snake and I played
the flute, but she loved her basket, straight
from the heart and I was just a new part

of a different puzzle, for a different day.
I wanted to love you, if only I may.
I am waiting for the day of love, 22 marching soldiers saluting your ways of being who you are.

I've grown up and stopped behaving like that, thankfully (2019 edit)
winter sakuras Aug 2018
Sometimes I get this sensation
as I take my bare feet
and place them
into tight enclosed shoes
to walk a cold grey
concrete path
still rigid to the shards of
   broken dreams
and promises
scattered along the middle,
the sounds of other people's footsteps
drown out my insecurities
and the
insignificance of
a person who feels small
as I try to grasp at merging
into the person full of
light and meaning
who has a spark in her eye,
     destined to do and make great changes
instead of falling into her own world
of isolation and despair
glancing around myself, wondering whether or not
I actually belong
I don't see my name on the board
with my peers
standing in the crowd,
waiting for the crosslight
to let me walk
walk with them to the other side, but
somewhere along the way
do I get lost
or am I just destined to walk
the wrong path
just so I could be with my peers
who are, of course,
the future
who will change the world
who will introduce a revelation that will change
the biased courses of humanity

but as for me

the deafening screams and words of
other people's
lives, moments, recollections
and livelihoods
cover up my hushed pathetic cries
and calls for help
as I question all that is taking place
in every which way I look
somewhere out there
a mom and her growing daughter
become closer
as my own mom falls apart on me
unknowingly ripping apart my right to establish
an identity of my own
somewhere out there
a dad can tell his children
about his life experiences
of the virtues and humility within that led to
their blessed ways of life now
as my own dad
who deserves, at least
everything the world has to give
works harder and harder every day
and every second
to continue our "blessed" ways of life now

but despite all of that

I am told No-- just focus on yourself
make sure you don't miss the crosswalk
make sure you make us proud--
but they don't see
they are what matters
when it comes to
a kid hoping to grow into a better person

there are colors;

some old and chipped
and falling apart,
on the frames of people's
subconscious
while fresh new colors shimmer
in the evening
starlight atop blue waters
just waiting to be discovered, like a
blind person experiencing sight for the first time

but how can I see the night stars
and fall in love with
the moon's beauty
when I'm too busy staring
at the sun
trying to make my way
up to the very top
running, taking jagged steps,
bent over all broken and
crawling

just hoping to be remembered

as a great sign of the times.
08/28/18

I'd be grateful if people lended me some warm words of kindness. I don't get enough to sustain me these days.
Rich Hues Jan 29
She's wearing glasses and sits behind glass,
    He's wearing gloves; blue eyes in a mask,
    The note: "I haz Gun?",  hastily written,
    Brown eyes meet blue eyes; the brown eyes are smitten.

    In the distance, The Sweeney, all tongs and hammer,
    She's fixing his spelling, correcting his grammar,
    He's expecting used fivers stuffed in a sack,
    But she writes down her number and slides the note back.

    Outside: The driver's impatiently waiting.
    Inside:  Wide open,  blue eyes dilating,
    Then he runs, glancing back, and he's out in the rain,
    From the display case, a sigh; she'll never see him again.

    But at the end of her shift and in less of a hurry,
    In a whistle with some flowers, he takes her out for a curry.
A sonnet set during a bank robbery.

The rhyming slang...  

The Sweeney =  Sweeney Todd  = Flying Squad  = the police
Whistle = whistle & flute = suit.
L B Mar 2018
I hear it
half in the bag of blankets
with an empty glass of wine
dumped
Between--
the furnace rumbling on
and the cat purring on my lap

"What the hell!"

That foreign sound!--

...of water in the winter
Far too cold for rain
more like a forest stream's refrain
I start to think of birds-- Then it occurs

I have a problem in the basement

Wading into the waters of Lake Laundry
Glancing warily for those snakes of wires
suspended from their rafter's limbs
about to spit and snag me
with their lightning strike

Slamming that ****
to make it go--
away--

Defeat
dripping off
jeans and unders
A clothes line pinned
with curses

Ah yes.
The smell of the Tide ...
going out
on another day
Anything can be a poem.
Robert G Page Mar 2013
by
rgpage


when i look around this place
its antiquated beds and halls,
and hearing sounds that old age brings
the sounds of sadness through the walls.

and glancing into weary eyes
which stare ahead in planted gaze.
i wonder what story there in lies
a story in which they lived their days.

now at last they're all alone
alone because they have no place
no place that they can call their own
no children now to show their love.

yes lives now spent and youth gone past
their silver hair and faces red,
this lonely life they live at last
and roam these halls until they're dead.

old and crippled a man now lies
a cruel way for life to end.
to stay this way until he dies
in dim lit room void of friends.

quietly now a woman sits
her spouse and children long since gone.
to do no more but wait her turn
of when her lonely life is done.

a sorrow touches felt by all
of knowing that the end is near,
there's those awaiting final call
a call to death which few do fear...
lilly Nov 2017
.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends
it always ends
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.


Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat
nine  years ago I wrote like this.
chrissy who Feb 2017
You coated your hands in hairspray and
Let the sand of my hourglass
Filter through them.
Glancing at it,
It seems only a hot minute has passed with you
While in reality
Four hours just flew.
Andrew Rueter Aug 2017
I don't blame people for hating me
I hate myself sometimes
I just hope they give me a chance
I give myself chances
Until I start giving glances
And move through playful prances
Others witness my glancing dances
And knock me out my ****** trances

I wonder what I am
My eyes look at my hands
The wise watch the sands
Of time that slowly count down
Until we're not tyranny bound
In this empire of circular hate
Trapped on this circular crate
It gets smaller as we push inward
When the solution is the inverse
These ideologies keep us from expansion
Like those that knock me out my trances
But please give humanity more chances

A murderer stands before his judge
The judge says:
Death...
Why do you weep?
It's just one word
My sympathy isn't reached
For I am the herd
The murderer responds:
Sorry I must weep
These tears I can't keep
When that word sums up my future and my past
It evokes memories and desires engraved in brass

As a society we're constantly filling ourselves
As a species we're constantly killing ourselves
When knowledge is a sphere
That needs to be maximized
We need to look in the mirror
And continue asking why
But we must start in the middle
To fill up the sphere
Until we can solve this riddle
And I can keep tears
And we can be peers
Who live on this sphere
With nothing to fear
wes parham Oct 2014
Pour one under the table for those who walk outside.  In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
    Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life.   Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light.  You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own.  You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life.  You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply.  Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination.  You wrote a book.  You played a minor role in a feature film.  Those were some of your destinations.  When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love.  Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us.  Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex.  You were merely observant during your journey,  and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
    I learned this January that life became unbearable for you.  If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early.  I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice.  I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours.  I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table.  You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly.  I only have one thing to say, really.  “Thanks, Spalding.  Thanks for sharing”.
Written after I learned of Spalding Grey's suicide in 2004.   His performances, full of a bare, self-deprecating and personal mania, touched me as they made me laugh.  They said, "I feel this ridiculous *******, too".  They said, "we get by anyway, despite the confusion, the fear, or the pain".  They inspired me to share some of my own self in personal narrative or poetry.  He wasn't any idol to me, I just felt his passing strongly since his own work had inspired me, personally, to live just a little bit more.  Life's a collaboration.
Eric Martin Mar 2017
I dream of tender lips against mine
I wish it would last till the end of time
Only a memory
But it feels so sublime

Glancing as our eyes align
Admiring their design
It tells more then words
I have never felt some thing so genuine

Thoughts so vivid and fine
I must get them out of my mind
Or else my heart will want some thing so divine
And It will consume my lonely confine
multi sumus Nov 2018
Please excuse the delinquency of this introduction

Our reluctance
             to the judgements
                        of the agents
                                   of destruction

We wanted to write a few prose so those who chose could be gathering from it

The assumption
              there is something
                               an insight
                                      or deduction

And while concidering the possible repercussions We might be facing

The presentation
        this present state in
                   which the statements
                               press mentation

We're sure to procure closure in the vulnerable over exposure

with exhorted
               supplications
                              by esoteric
         ­                                revelations
                               
In the beginning lets just start with a na-ame

                   Multi Sumus
                 "We Are Many"
          All of one and the sa-ame  

                environmental
                     incidental
       so there's no ONE to bla-ame

                  Amalgamated
                   Complicated
      yet We're feeling no sha-ame


   Cursed with this blessing by the charts of Our births

    Compounded by experience throughout the time on this earth

   Situation realization through extensive research

                  Ameliorating
                   Emendating
          till returned to the dirt


               So it's obvious
              there's lots of Us
                      Innocuous
                 We promise this
                 with confidence

influencingcongruent  
                          confluence
               of the congregants
              by this augmented
                           auspicious
                           cognizance

                           auspices
                             operable
    in Our neurological
                       acropolis

                        
 Okay, now that We have your um "unndivided" attention

The ****** descention intentional

With potential illicit material

Exotic content individuals

Unequivocal extreme of the
physical

Inciting the violence eventual

With depraved images into the temporal


  And just when you thought We couldnt exacerbate this already exasperating elaborate facade

  Now We have you fascinated thinking We're ******* to The Marque De Sade!

Post deliberation- Psychopathia Sexualis as bed time stories was kind of odd

But The Kama Sutras' pages had hastened degradation from where they'd been gnawed!

   There were a few more things we want to sit down and talk about

Like the fact that We're actually celibate
The distain for institutionalised education
and dropping out

Thats alot of intimate information
  "How could We ever let this happen?"

To be honest We're just honored to give some fodder for your defamation of character cannon!
 
  So before you begin your rapacious onslaught of malevolent inspection!

   We've already detected all the things that's presumed you've currently rejected!

   With proverbial red pen in hand you've commenced your conceited correcting!

   And your futile fervent attempt, in leaving Us feeling extremely dejected!

   your annoyance with the performance of deforming poetic normalcy

The convulsive compulsions of the expulsions of the compulsory

            Conclusions include:
                 Literal assault
                          and
                Literary battery

And cleaning from the cathodes This convoluted corrosion of conformity!


    Without trying to sound hostile
                          though it's possible
                                   that a hospital
        istheonlyinstitutionthatcan
                    ­                    jostle those
                                              illogical
   ­                    pre con ceived
               fossilisedmisconceptions

                       ­ All the while though

your just seeking attention for the aforementioned


Alright, Well We're not gonnna be a denying it

because We're constantly being reminded of

rhyming with defiant defining an

the metre maids retirement  

"She's been lying?!"
                    "Oh Geez!
                           She's fired then!"

cause its trying-trying to inspire realigning the tongue from relying on tying to find it!

        
      Gerunds are whoreable!

         /'speliNGz/ deplorable!

scriptioscripturascriptacontinua!...
"?"

(n)irony{8}>(adj)ironic+suffixally

(adv)       Ironically      {8}{3}­   (adj)         moral!          [3]|B2|
(adv)    Rhetorical­              [2a]
(adv)        ******!                   [1]

{dictionary.com}[merriamwebster]
|cambridge dictionary|

nunciatesinuateunctuateunciate!...
"There is no way We c"


   With atrocious verboseness
   who'd notice the odious?!

"We are not! gonna stan"

     01000001 01100100
        01110110 01010000!...

"Wait! i dont th"


   yllacitammarg cihpromanA
    tor/sion/ed          /vern/acular!

             ^                       ^
  CUL/t u r/AL PER/spect/IVE•

  <PECULIAR {2}  [] [] {}{}  L•VE>

"UughH!"¡"UughH!"¡"UughH!"
"STOP!
              STop!

(adj)[1:2a]    stop! Wha' what are you doing?!"
".."
"No no, you get offof there!"
-(motioning with finger)
"And you two! Mmf!"
-(shaking head upwards)
           "~" "~"
"Don't use that tone with me!"
                "="
"Alright then"        
-(stern nod)
-(salaci•us grin while smacking both bottoms as walking past ;)

(adj)[1]
"Now what do you think your doing?"
-(quickly turning towards other)
"……,…"
"Rreally?"
"……!.."
"And how is that helpful?"
-(crossing arms)
"….-¿lol"
"Did i ask you fo?"
"…..-~¿"
"And you are entitled" "¡" "to" "¡" "your" "¡" "•pinion."
"…!"
"i understand, yes"
"…;~
!"
"Yes"
"~#"
"YES!"
-(opening arms)
"just talk WITH Us about these issues."
-(hand on shoulder)

(n){8}{9}
"……"
"No fret, May We continue?"
"!"
"Go•d"
"!"
"Now, Would you be so kind?"
-(gesturing towards player)
".."
"thank you."
-(humble nod)
"…,……^?"
"They wouldn't be able hear it anyway"
"?"
-(shaking head downward closing eyes)

               "Because it is written"
                              

     (We now return you to the
    regularly scheduled program
            already in progress
)
                              

…attenuating circumstance by objectionable technical difficulties


  Continually conjugating with;        
intellectually
infectional
inflectional
abilities

    But these consensual;
contemptually
abjectionable
contextual
similes

   has Us postulating that with;
exceptionally
inceptional
correctional
humilities

   there's a deduction exponentially of;
potentially
subjectionable
conjectural
tendencies


  We're very much obliged that you would grace us with your presence
   in essence
   it's evident
you take precedence
being prevalent
   and the
relevance of your acceptance
to Our all exclusive
    intrusive collusion
is proving profusely
  that the astute
  can irrefutably
elude the obtuses'
       rebuking


And although We're not looking
                           for
                    justification
                just in case then
               the arrangement
             with it's placement
                   of degrading
                     statements
                        ajacent
                   ­       to the
                         blatent
                    and flagrant
                   abnormalities
                 with the falacies
                 of formalities in
                    a-all actuality
                     being valid
                         via the
                      vehement
                           and
                      venenated
                      vituper­ate
                       veracities

  And just so you know the list of pressumptions is deliberately
unexhaustive
At the cost of
your responses
involving constant devolving nonsense
in the comments
on the contents
full of copious despondent obstinance
But as optimists
Our only option is
hopes that it's the conglomerate
your being honest with

                 And please,
                     We ask,
         That you use your true profile when you begin your posting

  That we can ALL see the blood of a "real" poets muse
            flow from the pen

                  So in closing...

Next time you make the
           decision to visit them
             with your insolence

                 machiavellist
            hypercritical cynic,
               Remembering a

            six minute version
          "authority" usurption
               deserving by an

                              •

                    Uneducated
       Mental Fragmental Eunich
                   Eunoterpsian

          
           Filling your head with
     thoughts you wish to jetison
              by suggestions of

              ingestions with a
     taste of your own medicine!
        When you rest your head

          sugar plums won't be
    dancing, substantial chances
            you will be glancing

          a couple more times,
          We hear repetition is
             good for a growing

                             •

         Mind you that We left
         easter eggs to quantify
            attendance, intense

                attention on Us
      at least you will be leaving
               the others alone

             We just wanted to
           take this opportunity
                            to cast the first stone.
Donatien Alphonse François
  Marquis de Sade
1740-1814

Psychopathia Sexualis (Psychopathy of ***), by Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing, 1886

The Kama Sutra (/ˈkɑːmə ˈsuːtrə/; Sanskrit: कामसूत्र  is an ancient Indian Hindu writing by Vātsyāyana
400 BCE-200CE

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3099453/first-stone-ode-to-trolls-extrapolated-i/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3099476/first-stone-ode-to-trolls-extrapolated-ii/
CK Baker Jul 19
there’s a semblance
of order
in the pink eye
of the street man
that messianic soul
(caught deep
in the binary)
glancing on
with rose colored glass
and magical spoons
skimming whimsically
(and cocksure)
dancing on the
crab grass
with his
home grown *****
and cheroot

lost in a dialogue
(complete with
wink and jest)
embracing
the day with
spontaneity and cheer
grinning profoundly
(an incomprehensible grin)
covering a nicked
and scarred
ear to ear

summer drought
or winter rain
are indifferent
in this mind
culling on his own terms
(with a honed discretion)
pundits would say
that he spoke
in a broken crow
or nigerian slang
(but only he knows
that eloquence)

cloaked, and head steady
behind whispers
of tavener
(he had always
said they were enough)
he gets on
with the rosary ~
and finds
comfort lost
I want to wait, come and join me here until it becomes so
LATE
like a last moon of light in cloudy weather never burning bright
and disappears: never comes to its premier shield.  
Don’t be wandering
Wondering
Or in
Misbehaved shape. I want to be
LATE
till ...an event... destroys all fences
play the role of barriers between us.
Then
love bursts in spring reaction of a sudden blossom
and tears, non-stop
flowing on the land of juvenile since it is
LATE.  
we dance
On the spring rush of glancing love,
Gazing permanently
under the shadow of your silvery eyes,
where
No one has remained except you and us!
.
.
  To be a last singer, to be a last dancer…
in the scene of eternal love
wait...wait... to be
LATE!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade#
first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings


then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite


Friday, March 29 2019
Aroma olp musk balsamic paprika sea salt ***** martini olp
Kateasz Oct 2018
I just want someone to grab my *** and tell me I’m pretty.
Actual words I saw on instagram.
Let’s break that statement down.
Someone to grab my ***
And by that I mean
Someone to love me so much they can’t keep their hands off of me
And by that I mean
Someone to want me or at least tell me that they do
And by that I mean
Someone to make me believe that I am worth a *****
Even if that is all I am worth.
We break girls down into pretty girls and smart girls as if they are mutually exclusive.
Movies brandish the before and after of makeovers so much we can’t help
Glancing in the mirror and only ever seeing ourselves as a before.
So I will drag myself out of bed
Thirty minutes earlier
So I can paint concealer under my eyes (to hide the purple circles)
And onto my chin (to eliminate that red shine that makes it stick out)
And all over my nose (so I don’t look like rudolf when I scratch it and my sensitive skin acts up)
To coat my blonde lashes with layer after layer of ebony paint (to keep me from looking like a sick victorian child)
I will drag myself out of bed
Ten minutes earlier
To try on one outfit (But not that one, it makes my stomach look huge)
To try on two outfits (But not that one, it makes my ***** look smaller than they already are)
To try on three outfits (But not that one, six people told me it looks slutty)
To try on four outfits (Just throw on a hoodie, but that’s the only time you can wear it this week.)
And sometimes?
Three hours earlier
To cry over that assignment I can’t figure out
And to comb through the pages of my backbreaking book for an answer to a problem I’ll never need
To wonder if maybe gagging myself until bile rises in my throat
Until an empty stomach burns in my nose and the nausea hits me like a punch in the everywhere.
Would be easier than going to school
But no one sees that.
They only see me
Fixing my makeup up in bathroom mirror before lunch
And so they throw words as hard as they can
They aim for my heart, using every colorful hallway adjective they’ve heard
Or maybe the words the voice inside calls them
I’d be lying if I said that these words that didn’t haunt me
and follow me
And effect my every action
But I refuse to let them know that
I refuse to let them drag me down simply because they cannot fly
If I’m going to be an Icarus, ******* that’s a good way to go.
*******, that’s a way to be remembered.
Even if I’m a cautionary tale, at least I got to see the sun.
If  you call me a try hard I will say maybe you’re just not trying hard enough
If you call me high maintenance, I will say that it’s better than looking like you.
But when I express how much this hurts to my friend, he pulls a movie Ron Weasley and says
“Well, it’s kinda right.” and proceeds to make fun of me for doing my best
For those sleepless nights kept awake by the light of my laptop.
For shoving a toothbrush up my throat and hating myself for not being able to go through with it.
For raising my hand when the teacher holds up the tightrope I teetered along.
For trying.
I just want someone to tell me I’m pretty.
I just wish I didn’t need someone to tell me I’m pretty.
Along a path of flowers there lies,
a gleaming lake that mirrors the skies;
In gentle glow from the sun above,
which lights the lilting waters of love.

We sit and watch each portrait shine,
in the forest green of leaves divine;
While glancing azure in shadows cast,
each sparkling sign from seasons past.

Magnificent in its glorious stream,
the lake will wander like a dream;
In curious images' rise and fall,
which dance to heaven's saintly call.

And then enveloped by the night,
the lake provides a glittering sight;
With translucent sheen it wanders far,
leaving mirrored traces of the stars.
syd Nov 2015
I find my mind wandering towards the thought of you.
I can't stop it, i don't want to.
I remember how our bodies interlocked in your bed,
blue eyes and messy heads.
I can feel your hand sliding over my hips,
nothing feels more right than this.
In these small moments, you've taken a hold of me.

Inhaling slowly now, your exhales glancing over my neck.
Whisper into my ear, tell me what's next.
You press your lips hard against mine,
unwinding the time we've been apart
you have me unfolding in your hands,
effortlessly ******* my body and heart.

I'll want you like this forever.
god you look so ******* beautiful in my head
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