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laura Mar 2018
fell into a hole of myself--
i know too much

a bag of cheetos in an ill-fitting suit
runs the country - made the mistake

of reading what it had to say
awhile ago

all in the stirring of a feather
my ego, my ignorance

smattering albiet aggressively in an annoying
aggregate, dog-bark bird-squacking

grating my effing ears
these 7am mornings
Spenser Bennett Jun 2016
Sand chokes my sea blue eyes
Heat like waves invite Delusion's rise
My wandering soles worn to pride
But I won't give up on paradise

'Cuz I know
There's an angel waiting
To welcome me to the oasis
And I know
I can make it to your cool shoreline and
I won't waste this, my new horizon

There's the ocean just overhead
I'm not dreaming, no, I'm not dead
I'm just hoping for a splash of rain
Some clouds to wash away Thirst's looming dread

I'm collapsing and it's not enough
I'll be buried before the sun is up
And you will never know if
I truly loved you or if this was all a bluff

'Cuz you know
I'm no angel gracing
St. Peter's golden grating
And you know
I don't know to give up my hallucination and
return to your old foundation

I may die with my bones
Exposed in blistered sunlight
But in my hand
there'll be an old photo
Of you and I
Valsa George May 2016
Like a toddler taking maiden steps
The narrow stream moves through the woods
Tripping and falling over pebbles and boulders
Chiming its silver anklets

Forcing itself in irrepressible flow
It thrusts and shoves its way down
Through thickets and a line of ferns
And the tangle of creepers and thorny brambles

Drowning the whisper of bamboo leaves
Its sweet murmur falls in my ears
As an eternal living melody
The cosmic song heard over eons

As the water sluices down the rocks
It becomes a frothing braided torrent
Producing a harsh grating roar
Like the crescendo of a tribal symphony

There it forms into a small pool
With its waves gently rippling
Where birds merrily come to take a dip
And sunning their feathers, fly back refreshed

Sometimes travelling unseen
It suddenly emerges into the open
Cutting its way through cracks and fissures
Never willing to surrender before hurdles

With a bearing immaculate in grace
It sends out waves of pure delight
What joy it is to watch the dilly dally
Of this sedate pilgrim moving to its destination
I am panic
Frenzied particles
Moving and shaping
Everything I seem to be
Inside of a
Concrete cage of consciousness
Inside of a
Dazzling dot and dye marked
Enigmatic epidermis
Here I am

I am ice cold
Frost bitten to the core
A bullet train made of sleet
Running on cyanotic cylinders
And the gritty grating salt
Beneath your cold, wet shoes
All at once
I dissolve and destroy myself
Yet I just keep
Coming back
Here I am

I am as satisfying as
The long winded palindrome
On the tip of your tongue
The redundant rhyme  
You chanted as children
And the hymn you harmonized
With haunted heathens
Here I am

I am the all encompassing embrace
Of all that you are
****** up futile flaws and
Autonomous awe inspiring anomalies
I will hold it all together
In the way no other has
My seams of love
Stitched and sewn
With intentions as pure as gold
And nothing else
Nothing more
Here I am

I am the writhing writer
Frantically feverish with
Fingernails like forceps
I pry these words from
My brain like a
Sickening surgical procedure
On a *****, disheveled mattress
As if they were
Ingenuities oozing with infection
Here I am

I am the ritual rebirth
Wrongfully righteous reincarnation
I tip and turn like the tides
Lurching at the shore
Time and time again
In an endless cycle I am
Looking for
Nautical nirvana
Here I am

I am the exceptional exchange
Of a daunting and diligent dialect
Only few can understand
And to those fluent
In my twisted and tiring tongue
I say
Here I am
Lesley Nov 2017
Dead Wood
Clear out the Dead Wood
Make a clean sweep
Cut to the cwic
Find the life, the green
Bend like the sapling
Sea oats in wind
Blue-grey sky against green
Clear the way for new growth,
new beginnings
Honey bees
The sweetest sting
This emergence of spring
Initiate the clean slate
Tabula Rasa
The clean brain
Empty heart waiting to be filled
Empty body, purified
Porcelain vessel
This lit house, strobe glow
Light departs & returns
Light Hope
The new, crisp, clean chapter
Leaf unfolds
Unload the dead weight
Remove the baggage
Discard despair;
Teary eyes & brooding faces
Heavy hearts & dark places
No more
Fight the pain, & rotten words, rotten jests
Grating on nerves
All darkness depart, darkness spent
Dry the river, pack the nest.
Clear the dead wood, shove aside
Kick of foot, kick up dust.
This is your new fresh breath.
This is your new fresh life.
Drop the rotten & decaying hues
Bruised azul, sick blue
Burn the wood, the rotten words
Let smoke banners furl & uncurl.
Tears wiped clean
Clearing ashen faces
Tears drying out
All sad traces.
Celebrate the gone & the gain
A new dawn day begins
Welcome in
Fresh new love
Sea foam or yellow-green,
The color of trust
The color of love
A grating key,
a yielding lock
a ticking clock.

A grating key,
a pensive look
a yielding lock
a proffered hand
a ticking clock
a smile of glee.

A pensive look
a proffered hand
a smile of glee.
Andrew Apr 2018
This is a torturous test
And I'm failing
In a state of unrest
So I'm flailing
And wailing
And bailing
On living
After constantly giving
And receiving nothing in return
Except extremely intense heartburn
To which there is no end I learn
So for peace my hopeless heart yearns

I want to sleep
In a streak
Of a week
For I'm meek
So I sink
Into drink
And drugs
Rolling on the rug
Looking for a plug
To stop my heart from leaking
And my eyes from peeking
At what I'm seeking
Because there lies only pain
That's a continuous rain
Growing like grain
Until I'm insane

Death is near
All my fears
What will happen before I die?
The question makes me cry
Will life be one big sigh?
I wonder why I even try
The waiting
Is grating
To deflating
So I become the nice guy
In the lonely night sky
Avoiding brutal daylight
For it's another day's fight
The most unsightly sight
Illuminated by the sun
Shooting rays like a gun
Until I see I'm the only one
I realize if I'm blind I can run
So I cut out my eyes
To ignore all the lies
And the carrion flies
In this giant pig sty

On an odyssey like Homer's
My mouth starts to foam over
Searching for a four-leaf clover
But only finding allergies
Which is this year's salary
In this dismal shooting gallery
Where I'll watch bullets fly
Until the day I die
Bard Dec 2018
It's not them, It's you
Your not like them, more like you
Like you to defend yourself
You sit on a shelf
haunted by ghosts
Gather dust, to spite yourself
In spite of what you want
You spit in spite at your want
Stunted your growth, always fall short
Don't change, don't grow, selling yourself short
Pathetic and sad a dying man feeling glad
Think you're tall, think you're small
Unstable, you don't grow you'll fall
Your not perfect, your not even great
Think your perfect, don't even try to be great

Great greatness gets greater  
It grates greatly the grating gratifier
Ego stroker a chronic masturbater
Losing sight when everyone will cater
Man of masks an avid actor
Nice in summer
Friend in fairweather
See you later
When the sky is clearer
Poems about friends
Amiènne Oct 28
Lightning turns all hours to daylight
and the river churns where nymphs dance,
blanketing with silken sweeps the turbulence
foaming mad above their shining heads,
these strangers to city lights'
feeble rebellion against unbroken night,
and to buffeting winds blustering breathless against the water.

Illusions glitter, the delusions of like minds on recognizing the other.
Be us brothers or no, I seek your caverns
inlaid not with gold, but deliberation —
Time, carving you from the hardened scales of the earth;
a Serpent, dragging its grating mass expertly through the uncharted scape of your hollowing.

Marked as only sufferers can be,
I hear them, my own petrified wounds,
echoing back from your labyrinth's desolation.

Resonating truths, they toll for us
dull harmonies revealed by a jilted heaven,
as fear transmutes to illumination in our eyes,
and words lose their meaning between our lips.

For reflections kiss in conflicting, they defy
description in their oneness, of which
there is no sanctuary from darkness or light within.

Coiled writhing, limb for limb bound
by horrific Beauty as legends do revere,
and as yet can only be lived,
suns rise and set over our dreams,
blessings of shadows waxing long and stars waning faint in the sky;
floating vision to vision at the border of oblivion,
while my father spake to me, singing
in the mother tongue of my origin long forgot;
while my face shifted in the mirrors of my recesses, changing,
into our Whole of my part.

All is confirmed as we gaze upon each other,
for the eons have changed nothing as,
tumbling through these Mysteries,
we discover and rediscover
our grey wealth.

Between the brokenness, between the Pain
sewn tightly into our cores,
our figments become fragments, become halves, reunited;
sutured, weeping rubies and lost moments,
they promise our return and redemption
as between them one face gazes back,
perfect and whole:
that of Hope, smiling for
and within us.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
Tumbling stones rumble unheard,
a slide that sends gravity shifting,
starting a new path through time,
the butterfly effect begins shifting.

The ancient track
is solid beneath her feet,
though she has walked
between the stars.
She knows not the place
but has been there before,
And the trail wends its way
through forest dense and dark
to a hags tooth mound
and the Tomb of Travellers,
upon the stone door
an inscription, a warning.
'Prepare to go everywhere.
Prepare to go nowhere'

“Let time take me wither it will,
be it fluid or be it still”.

The slow grating of stone on stone
as the door swings open,
light penetrating the gloom,
and the Tomb reveals its treasures.
She enters with reverence
and moves to a vacant plinth,
a marbled seat warm and empty,
her place for the connection ritual.

A mix of herbs into a secret potion,
preparing herself to swim Time's ocean,
clear cool water to bathe her skin,
awaiting the pendulum of life to swing.
The symbols in her third eye complete,
she eases so gently into her travel seat,
bringing the brew to her expectant lips,
a bitter taste as over her tongue it slips.

Oh gently rock her mind to sleep,
just one last barrier for her to leap,
through Times gate to other places,
as the drug through her mind races.

A small squat figure emerges
in a midnight blue hooded robe,
Grimly the Guardian of the Gate,
carrying careful an ancient globe.
And her eyes glow with wonder
as she receives the Seers Sphere,
cloudy with the hue of pearl,
its significance is so crystal clear.

She places it in a depression
in the arm of the marbled chair,
settles herself and closes her eyes,
letting her mind drift on the air.
The connection ritual reaching ******,
acceptance or rejection time is near.
Will the bond form betwixt them?
She places her hand on the Seers Sphere …

© Pagan Paul (30/09/18)
Poem 4 in Judderwitch series.
This, and part 2, is a small diversion from the nastiness and gore
to explain how she time travels, how the Seers Sphere is an
elemental force and sentient, but needs a 'vehicle' to work.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
Herb Apr 28
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          my fuse, it slowly sizzles
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          i can only hope, it fizzles
TICK,   TICK,   TICK           but the moments, pass away
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          just like, yesterday
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          my mainspring is wound too tight
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          relief is not in sight
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          i feel my emotions, grating
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          my senses, not operating
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          is this any way to live?
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          i've nothing left to give
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          i tip-toe along on a tightrope
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          hanging on with a grim hope
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          there's no one to catch my fall
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          and no one to hear my call
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          a voice in my head is speaking
TICK,   TICK,   TICK,          i pray i don't do what i'm thinking
Kids... Don't try this at home...  Also, don't call Homeland Security...  This is a poem, I repeat, This Is Only A Poem.
It was clear to me then, but it escapes me now. Infinity was condensed to a single moment, I don't know how I knew that, but I did.
I saw standing before me, a tomato, a swine and a human. They stood side by side. Their physical bodies were dissimilar, but their souls were all the same.

By cutting the tomato you cut yourself, and by killing the swine you **** yourself. They all may not look the same, but what they feel is the same. You are the tomato, you are the swine, and they are you too.

To you this is ******, but to me this is life.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we survive.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we stay alive.

Life to you rings a different tone. You claim that life is more than food, that to feed is to ******, but no one says a snake is a murderer when it kills a mouse.
You say no one needs to die in order for others to live. But death comes one way or another.

You say:
"Stop mashing that potato,
Stop cutting that tomoto,
Stop pealing those carrots,
Stop grating those onions.
Just because you can't hear them, does not mean they don't scream;
And just because they aren't people, doesn't mean they can't feel."

How you see the world is the only way to see it? But I saw infinity in the fraction of a second, yet it was an eternity. I saw that what we see, is what we want to see. And that what really is, is what we make it out to be.

I was laying in the dirt, then the dirt became me. I then fed a flower, then I became the flower. A doe ate the flower, then I became the doe. A wolf consumed the doe, then I became the wolf. A man skinned the wolf, then I became the man. The man lay in the dirt, then I became the dirt again.

Life bleeds into new life, It is how we stay alive.
Life bleeds into new life, It is how we survive.
Tommy Smartarse hated smart arses . Especially intelligent smart arses. More specifically he despised the smart arses on the payroll of Narcissist Corp.

He loved to hear the sound of his own voice over the intercom.
'Mr. Tommy Smartarse will commence this afternoons meeting at three o'clock'.

If you weren't paying attention then you didn't get a second chance.
He had formally announced his agenda. End of.

No one though could miss that horrible whiny, nasal, asinine inflected,grating tone of voice.

His demeanour was reminiscent of a disgruntled hangman who had been informed of the abolishment of capital punishment.
The chalk white of his teeth were razor sharp and the gates that held back the venomous bile that swirled from his voluminous bowls.
A real nasty *******.

A swagger in his **** portending the arrival of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His office was a cesspool of debauchery and smelled like the disinfected wing of a fever hospital.

His eyes gleaned with the glint of a thousand mad *******.
A small weedy specimen with a comb over from hell.
'Satan's representative on Earth' he liked to refer to himself.
Foul over-tanned wrinkled skin hung from his face.
A flaccid face like a rhinoceros' **** on a sick day.

Abandoned by his mother, it was rumoured, in the back streets of
Peckham; adjacent to 'Nancy's bordello'.

No one dared mention his parentage or the orphanage which spat him out at fifteen years of age.

Yes, Tommy Smartarse came up the hard way and his brain was all he had going for him.

A cunning, devious, three faced pile of ****. All five foot four of him. His vocabulary was borrowed from old footage of Winston  Churchill and he fancied the British Bull Dog was a secret relative.
Tommy Smartarse was a fantasist  to match the best of them.
Delusions of world ******* percolated in his grey matter and instilled a false sense of unbridled confidence in his own abilities.

Some said Tommy Smartarse was devoid of any decent qualities and this was evident in his deplorable character.
A bully amongst bullies. A prize swine amongst pigs.
The slurs and slanders that rolled off his reptilian-like tongue were legendary.

Today though Tommy Smartarse would meet his nemesis.
A new recruit would attend the meeting.
A suave young man with an Oxford education and the artillery of a thousand cerebral Einsteins. A brilliant young man named Martin Christopher Savant.

Tommy Smartarse's life was about to be dismembered.
Graff1980 Jul 9
The green light lit
a pool of dog ****,
as I barely missed
stepping in it,
but managed to hit
a puddle of human ****.

Still, this is better then
the messes I’ve been
stepping in
my entire life;

Belt, boot, broom handle,
righteous salvation
in the distorted visage
of a vicious parent.

Locker collisions
as schoolbooks were driven
from hands to the floor,
cruelty that dulls with
time and distance.

Packaged pill urges,
dull knife intentions,
barefoot winter behavior,
death, the hopeful savoir
who never flew in
to save me.

Teeth grating
I have been hating
everything I ever was



I can’t tell you why
cause now
I don’t feel like
the bad guy
who deserves to die.
Justin Feb 20
I heard a bicker,
a bark
a laugh,
infant mewlings,
a mothers crash,

it was then that i  noticed,
right next to the wall,
the biggest and fattest and fairest of all,
right to the left and not but a foot,
with sack o'er shelder and boots caked in soot,
stood a man so iconic i bother to say,
his name for his fame precedes him that way.

his voice was grating,
his logic twisted
as he brought of math
and then insisted,
it wasn't discovered,
but has always existed

ill tel you of numbers so big and so small,
that try as we might,
we can't count them all,
we tallied the tallies
and summed all the sums.
Matt Shaw Sep 18
Across the valley
Sitting in the cafe
Listening to you speak
I felt a loose piece of flesh,
Forming a hole in my definition

I'm hearing the howl of broken airlock,
Or entropy's grating nails on my skeleton,
As the lions of your life
Crash into my eye
They come out with your words

You are not a proud person,
But the universe is proud for you
Naturally, when you get up to take the day.

You can stay on that track
If you take this step by step,
If you're very careful with yourself.

(Down to the river to pray)

Strike a clear chord in my ear,
My theory's been pulverized.
Not by any blunt force but it twists and ignites and is generally unreliable
So take my twisting fingers in the palm of your voice
When I know what you are is good
Without a single doubt.
Amiènne Oct 18
These days of late
behind shades of fever,
simmering between faultlines' grating:
the drifting of hearts
shifting us slowly,
agonizingly apart.

I wish only to be let go gently,
feeling heavily the death of your living
as I tumble
beneath the weight of your lightness.

For the paths change direction, pretending, and
who knows if they'll cross ever again?

Thus spent, I withdraw,
forced into healing —
wounds red and raw
with winter's kisses, festering
where yours once rained
orange skies, blooming lushly.
"... stars aligned, life paths
crisscrossing over our palms
smeared with ancient grief.

A web of purple,
woven between warm fingers;
paths split, parting ways,

diverging in waves
of emptiness, aching through
the hands grasping still..."

Going through old notes on my phone, and found a poem I'd forgotten.

— The End —