"humped" poems
Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves
Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,
Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.
Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week.
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.
What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.
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***Your home is still here, inviolate and certain.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the white blind light.
Jumped, ****** born to suffer.
Made to undress, in the wilderness.
Our love so found a safe niche
Where we can store up riches and talk to our fellows,
In the same premise of disaster.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the white blind light.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God,
wandering, wandering a hopeless night.
Moonshine night, mountain village insane in the woods,
in the deep trees, in the deep trees, in the deep trees.
Your home is still here, inviolate and certain.
Oh, I want to be there, I want us to be there,
oh I want to be there, beside the lake, beneath the moon,
Cool and swollen, dripping its hot liquor.
I want to be there.
Thank you, Lord, for the white blind light.
A city rises from the sea.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God,
Wandering, wandering a hopeless night.
Let me show you the maiden with wrought iron soul.
Out here in the perimeter, there are no stars.
Out here we're ******
Immaculate.***
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur--
There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;
And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are ****** high, ****** up,
You are ****** higher and higher, black as stone--
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.
2.8k
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small ****** bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
2.5k
a harp has been strummed
a banjo picked
a heart has been numbed
a ****** flicked
a page has been thumbed
a sharp ice pick
a mouth has been gummed
a desiduous tick
a cigarette has been bummed
a virginal stick
a town has been slummed
a slippery ****
a ***** has been ******
a little *****
a lonely man jumped
a fall and a click
a crowd has been pumped
a comedy shtick
a mind has been stumped
a clever trick
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
colin, was a camel
who liked to roam
a two ****** fella
sort of brownish yella
decidely cool and mellow
had an eye on the road
always moving forward
albeit at a somewhat leisurely pace
and always with a goofy
smile on his face.
never looked back
and that's a fact
often found straying
from the beaten track
never in lack
of a kind word or to
incredably pragmatic
in his point of view
when asked his opinion
on the world today
stated emphatically
ya just gotta hope
and pray....that
and stay outta
the big boys way.
colin the camel
who liked to roam
had eleven big brothers
who stayed at home
colin was wise
most were twiçe
his size
and the rest
had habits
that attracted flies.
so colin kept
more than one step ahead
cause if they caught up
with him
colin was dead....
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
It began with National
Geographic
and those pictures
of nearly naked
African women
as I lay on the floor
of the hall
and from there
it became
being ****** by a dog
in the bathroom
to twenty second ***
with a girl
who said I was impotent
to becoming
aware that my *****
was too small
to a statutory case
where I didn't
get caught
to a time in bed
with a girl
who said
"How much longer
is this going to go"
to a grandmother
who put me to work
and the **********
was just like that
some of the time
to a one-night stand
with an overweight girl
which was the best time
to me thinking
"I haven't done too well
with the ladies,
maybe I should try
the men"
and then doing so
and deciding I didn't
like it
to a few unforgettable
moments which were
forgettable
to an illicit affair
with a married woman
in motel rooms
to a woman who picked me up
and said, "Let's be friends"
and as she was going
up the stairs
she said, "OK, let's get
this over with"
and I ran outside
to get out of there
then to twenty-one years
of celibacy
when I realized
that my best ***
was with myself
and so I married him.
THE END
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 5:51 AM UTC
RINGS of iron gray smoke; a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking.
Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a taffy mass down the wind; layers of soot on the top deck; a taffrail ... and a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking.
Cliffs challenge ****** sudden arcs form on a gull's wing in the storm's vortex; miles of white horses plow through a stony beach; stars, clear sky, and everywhere free climbers calling; and a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking ...
1.7k
The young lady asked the Yeti
“What is your name…do you have one?” As the kissed.
While kissing, the Yeti said that he had no name. So the young lady
Massaging his chest gave him a name
Vajramrita… after the fierce deity
For he was a fierce lover.
He kissed her on the fore head.
Vajramrita and the young woman kissed
Their tounges me and dance erotically.
She sat on her lover while kisssing and rode him and rolled her hips.
He ****** with her ****** rhythms as they coupled.
Soon enough the Yeti got on top of his delecate lover.
He entered her and gently jumping
As if trying not to hurt her
The yeti thengot between her legs
She could feel his face bewteen her.
Then she felt his probing tounge.
He gently yet passionately kissed her womanhood
Again not to hurt her.
Even monsters need love and defection.
The young woman stroked his head and he looked at her.
She took him my the scruff and pulled his head closer to her
And kissed him. As they kissed monster and human explore eachother in an embrace
The young lady went down
And kissed and nipped at his member.
After she was done with his member
The kissed and they slept in each other’s arms
Body twisted and entwined together
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
Seven days straight, the sun rolls up,always from the same
side of town and just the same way it gives up and lays down
The same buses run on the same old routes.
No letup.
So dream a dream.
Next day,instant replay.
Know what ? I know the drill
Sunday.is like Halloween, Rubber faces and trick or treat with Reverend Ike.
Fire and brimstone. Please turn down ya cell phones.Pass the plate.
payola to heaven's gate.
Monday.Back on the grind, Blood,sweat and tears.
Grinding mental gears.Pop the clutch,Earn so little
Pay so much.
Tuesday.? just locked in. The Lotto is calling, cant win if ya dont play.
Teasin me bout easy street. Gimme my lump sum Then watch me fly.
Keep missin me with that later, greater noise.
Keep it real son.
Wednesday. Looking of into the sunset now.All ****** up
getting up for the down-stroke.Sweat of my brow. Feel me NOW ?
Take a deep breath blow out slow. If you dont tell it then the devil wont know.
Thursday. Gettin closer to shore,Go for your backstroke cause yer starting to
fade. In through the mouth and out through the nose focus your gaze on the
circling crows? Crows ?
Friday. Ah snap yer ends came up short. Tax man just waxin yer ***
Ghoulish?. Foolish. Some ends might not meet.
Sat-Day. Not so fat day. Pullin pocket lint by 6.PM.Chump changin.
is changin your mind. Gettin glimpses of stressin the old bump and grind On Moanday. ****
expletive deleted.
Stun-day. Hungday?
Rake your sh%@t in a pile day ?
No Doubt Assed out.
Hello... Monday.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
Travelin Man,
They call me Nomad.
Rolled into Kansas
and found there really is an OZ.
Didn't see Dorothy or Toto,
But both witches found me.
Found a painting,
Mona Lisa for real.
Then time jumped
The TinMan ******
And from the Belly of the Beast,
Grace prevailed.
27 days right off Main Street,
The address of the Yellow Brick Road
27 days sharing and caring.
Me and Mona Lisa rolling.
And she rose from the ashes,
Her red shoes tap tap tapping,
Mona Lisa came back to the world,
I heard the miracle
Her Spirit reborn.
Not even a chapter in a hero sage,
But a good first page
The Knight of a soaring heart,
More will be revealed.....
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Exalted eggs
sell lent egg salad
to eggshells.
Egg beaters
beat her
for the better
of the better
eggs.
Yokes of the yokel
yolks
choke the yolks
they’re meant to yoke.
Though runny and broken,
run he and broke in.
****** he,
dumped he,
leaving all the eggs
in eggshells.
These saddest fractions,
in shattered
silence, sigh “Let’s
decompose.
Let’s be compost.
Let’s become a flower.”
But on the wind
they twist,
they wind,
they rose.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
he ****** her on the hempen hill
the birds were singing
"haiku! haiku!!"
on the highway to heaven
he looked toward his lord
and said
"won't you help me save the world?
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
the ville was just women,
old men, young children--mostly gaunt ghosts
before my platoon arrived with our own dead
men walking
I gave the order to burn the village,
rout its dazed denizens and grease any
who offered resistance
only one woman did, clawing
at my boys like a crazed cat, going after Freddie
from Fresno with a bamboo stalk
I don't know who shot her
but I remember standing over her
with Freddie and Mickey from Milwaukee
who stepped on a mine within the hour
Freddie bought it too, but not until
that night, when small arms fire from the jungle
woke us from our dread dreams
the apparitions that haunted our heads
whenever we spilled the blood of innocents
or even the red devils' kin--perhaps
an equivalent sin
the next day we ****** back
to base camp, a twelve click hike;
as hours passed, and the earth dried,
our shadows became sharper, darkening
reminders we could run
but never hide
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
I walk down the street whisked by the fragrant aroma of a ***** floating above the clouds
Encased in venom but dismantled plumes of disembodied hair gave her a shroud
I saw in her minced reflection the swindled lust of a happy conclusion
To years of isolated rebarbative delusion
To serenade with penultimate swaggers as though I have been fully swooned
Too soon to aim my praise at an adoring moon
Tugging on mutual hearts entwined with the summer breeze
Trying to garner the summer heir and the summer flair
A panache to clothe every armed bear, disarmed by a propitiated care
A crisp lament crashes the party as a heckler gouging for blindness
I clinch a ****** anger as a riotous engine crafted from wineskins
Belonging to an ageless agelast scurried in dismay
I warp the warbled marble sleet a craven disarray
Then I clamber, risqué in fleeting moments a criminal repartee
I wallop the emerging consensus as the 16th hands me over dumped tea
And a ****** tree laughs as the whitewashed sanity of sanitarium ******
I swerve away from the indecency of a pepper enclosed in chosen wax
A gibbous shackle crumpled on a concrete semaphore
An erratic blithe minatory metaphor
Saturnine clout sweeps the dusty apron from the desuetude of homespun lethargy
Rampant clovers distilled from a dreamscape a raspy sea
Trespassing whisper surmounts the lambent alpenglow of a newborn sun
A sleek potter’s spell encumbered by a lapsed pun
Doors ajar and vats wed with an aimless spar
I finally see the fullness of majesty adorned as a breathing star.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
Spring sweeps over Canton
in slow moving waves of sun-
branches on the few carefully
planted trees begin to bud
beautiful white petals,
clean and spotless against
dirt tinted brick
and unwashed windows,
shedding blankets of soft
confetti on hybrid cars
and BMWs crowded into
spots on the street sides.
The warm weather brings bees,
mosquitoes, and morning joggers
who smile at each other as they pass,
their dogs running beside them.
They stop to smell
the patches of weeds that have
sneaked between cement panels
on the sidewalk, but are quickly
****** ahead as their owners’
heart rates begin to fall.
The jogging trail is tracked
in old houses ******
over like aging women.
They soak up the warmth
like a sponge, their seventy
year old walls continuing to peel
old asbestos speckled paint
beneath brand new wall paper
and paneling.
Bankers and law students,
doctors and nurses,
barflies and models
hunt them like injured
pray on a mountain top-
so few to feed on
that when one emerges,
hundreds dive for the ****
but only the ones with the
fattest wallets win,
and can sink their teeth into
the tender taste of
prime real estate,
a thin slice of Hip in
this burgeoning yuppie haven.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:39 AM UTC
I never fell for you.
I jumped!
I wore springy shoes.
That night we ******
I wanted more.
You gave a smile.
It got serious.
You ran a mile!
Another lost love.
A memory lingers.
The thing I miss most...
Your healing fingers!
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
Your stomach is so
Soft and just with
The perfect, miniscule layer of fat,
So warm but tender.
Your lips have
The epitomic rondure
Of a woman’s kiss.
Your legs
are smoother than silk,
and I lay my lips,
up and down the paths
that form them.
And I follow up
To the succulent rear
And I pour my hand onto,
To pull cloth away.
My fingers paint
Every thread of hair
That stems across
Your sweaty face,
To clear your eyes,
So I can see the
Absolutely idyllic libido
Pulse through you.
Your hands hold
Firmly onto my back,
Scratching lightly across,
But bring such bliss.
Your breaths fall
Faster and faster
Out of your lips,
Into my shoulder,
Where you kiss
Away every inch you can.
Let me pull away,
But I will coalesce again,
Just to see you,
Entire you, eternal you,
And watch your flesh
Shiver and shake
In my love and
In my passionate quake.
And I place my hand
Down onto the crevice
That folds into your
Eagerly-waiting *****
Feeling the short hair,
Covered in wet lust,
Pressing lightly enough
That I induce further joy,
As I feel me come in
And retreat out.
I bend over you,
Pull my arm behind you,
Lift you up into me,
With our lips colliding,
Your chest, with each breath,
Connecting with mine,
And you poise on top,
And take control,
But I’m too caught up
In your legs
Your arms
Your hair
Your stomach
Your chest
Your pleased moan,
Your grasping hands,
Your lascivious hips,
Your teeth biting your lip,
Your closed eyelids,
And the way you feel
When you shake so violent,
And I twist so vehement,
That, for a moment,
I’m almost scared
That we might die,
But I saw this light
Go off in my head,
As you grabbed my hand
And my side,
And ****** harder
And harder,
Until you finally did this
Sort-of-scream,
Sort-of-moan noise,
And I did, too,
And all I remember afterwards
Was the smell of your hair
And the smile you gave me.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
You do not
****** me,
high as hell,
give me a bunk apology,
and six months later
turn around and change the facts.
Cause they're ******* facts!
I was there,
with your unwelcomed touch.
He walked in to my rescue,
while you dry ******
fantasies
on my couch. (burn it)
You
are
dead
to
me.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
Man broke into a million peices destroying the world
and sizzling the faces that the God thought they made in
Grace
But there were many reasons and many treasons that said
They were destined to no longer
Have any season
Through the thick of the trees
Love snapped and grasped
The idea that man is merely an insect, a plague
A fire that started and hasn't stopped burning
Where were the angels when mistakes were made
And streets were not obeyed
And New York burned
And Love turned in on itself
Where phone calls became abolishments
And tears fell down the faces of a thousand ridicules
The in between became seen as all the while
Exhaustion ****** its way into oblivion
With welfare daring
And poor men sit staring
With faces that twirl in my sight
The after delight
Gun fire and marmadukes and flowers bleeding blood
All of the above
The formation of a million roses burning a soft hue of blue
Remembrances of what it used to mean
To be a child
Running around with no one caring if you lived or died
Or ever even tried
For they forgave your stupidity
Your naievty
And now we make mistakes of a illusions of grandeur
This is how we will die and this is how we will begin
Again
The scratching of the God's is upon us
And we don't even hear it
We don't even smell it
We don't even sense it
Because we have forgotten
We have forgotten
We have forgotten
Because we are all so
On top of it
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
Everybody is nobody
To somebody
A homebody
Aged female
Children gone
Wrinkled skin
Brown eyes
Rotten teeth
Holds tightly
To old memories
As they slip like mercury
Between her fingers
To be forgotten
Tired old veteran
****** back
Body sore
From the last fall
Hurts to breath
But at least
He is still alive
Holding down
The old folks town
The sidewalk ***
Hungry and lonely
Looking for nothing
Affection forgotten
Joys lost to the
Ravages of time
Little boy bruised
Abused
Miss-used
By angry adults
Tormented by other teens
Hazel eyes hold no light
Only finds hope in
Razor blade delights
The middle aged sage poet
Stumbling through life
Half awake
But more alert then others
Wrinkles of pain
Under his eyes
Those bags are full
And sag so deep
That they burn
Not movie stars
Or pop divas
Nobodies
Forgotten remembered
And lost again
Fragile beauty
Breaking with time
People who I claim
As mine
My brotherhood
We are all beautiful nobodies
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
We gathered, like we were in a huddle
Doing Yin and Yang movements in a circle...
A lighted candle was in the middle.
We closed our eyes, we were concentrating,
Slowly, internalizing...
Stillform Shibashi movements followed
While thanksgiving prayers were solemnly offered...
Out of nowhere,
Two furry, roundish creatures leapt from behind
On the red-yellow flame they almost landed...
Both stretched...and ****** and stretched,
As if they were doing the movements with us...
Suddenly, they were up and about...
One was raring to have fun, while
The other could not focus on cleaning its tiny snout.
On a gay mood, they went on rolling within our big circle
Not minding they could be burned by the gentle flame.
We, the quiet ones,with a bit of fear,
Were just watching,
Captured by their honest fun,
Exercises started fading...
Back and forth, the two creatures went romping
Hitting the feet of most everyone in the circle...
They were seizing their moment
Overflowing was their adrenaline
In the open air, they were reckless, uncaring..
Under the morning sun, they were shining brightly
I had silently asked, at first,
"Who would need one black and one white mittens?
"Who would have thought, with their tiny heads hidden,
They were two furry, purry playful kittens?
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Look what rises out of the sea
a land like a footprint filling with water
devoted sun circling into view, the mist-eater
scalds the coffee *** on the stove
hissing at its hot pedestal
and how much life is before you,
hidden in the bushes.
What are you that you are not changed?
A wet-eyed bird feeds its sharp beak
into the ground and comes up wanting.
The sea is full of chandeliers and sled dogs.
A girl walks, smiling, with an arm around
her dead grandmother, herself young,
and slyly kisses her cheek.
What are you that you are not changed?
All of the bees are dead.
All of the usury has been forgiven.
All eyes meet eyes across the room.
All we want is a mug of cocoa.
We all go on seeking.
What are you that you are not changed?
Joy comes from a bag, where you placed it.
The noise of paper drawn out and carefully flattened
reminds your fingers of their curious dryness.
If it comes from love it must have a source in you.
You are not a character. You are a pearl on a desk.
What are you that you are still here?
A train goes on through the dark,
between ****** old mountains,
foothills, really, and inside
every compartment is its own bowl of amber.
A rattle of track passes through any
foot flat on the ***** carpet.
A little chill. A little peace.
Every passenger reads a book,
and every passenger waits to sleep
with their doors an inch ajar.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 5:24 PM UTC
Can we talk about the daisies that lie in wait
as the little sister shouts
to her brother not too far,
that flowers aren’t only for girls
because one day he will have to bring them to the humped shape in the green grass
where she rests and the daisies have finally wilted,
store-bought ones
don’t have the same charm it enraptured his sister with
and didn’t create the same smile on his drying lips,
the watercolor red stains his eyes
and the veins become
the stems of a regret-filled life.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 1:06 PM UTC