"hymens" poems
There are women
Short skirts
Tight shirts
Leaning on counters
Popping gum
Smiling at every man that passes
Handing lollipops out to girls with braids
Ribbons
And ambitions.
Women who get undressed
Flip hair, don't care
Sliding into passenger seats
Standing on tip-toes to reach
Wear blue on a golden afternoon
Read books "far too complicated"
Eat messy food with unmanicured hands
Who don't belong to you.
There are women
Can't even begin to squeeze
into that tiny size 2 dress
Don't have the time to stress over
How many times a week
A month
A year they shower.
Women that don't even think about the color pink.
There are women
With babies
And menstrual cycles
With short hair
And Harley motorcycles
There are tough women
And strong women
With tattoos
Degrees
Febreze
Who love other women.
There are women that save lives
Who thrive on the idea of being free
"I don't want children"
"Don't need no man"
Who don't like to sing
Don't like to dance
There are women who are loud
Who take tokes
and laugh at jokes
Women with hymens still unbroken
Or reminded of it's absence every single day.
Women who have hair in more places than one.
And there are women who are sad
Who are broken
And angry.
But those same women can be glad
Can be put back together again.
There are women
Who don't know stereotypes
Or how to break them.
And there are women
Who have hips
And know how to shake them.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Her name is Tiffany.
We met when
our orbits collided
and crash landed,
on a wooden picnic table
in the dead of night.
I saw the world in her eyes—
and she had this spirit about her
that made me want to follow
her with an umbrella
the rest of my days
so she wouldn’t
even be
bothered
by the rain.
I swore, I’d make her believe in h u m a n i t y.
Conversation, spit-balled from her lips like a machine gun
trigger stuck—
we tore through topics
like bullets tear through skin,
I tried my best to keep up.
We dead ended on the subject of children.
She grew silent, pale.
“I should be the mother of twins” she stammered.
I’ve been told I have quite the poker face, but in that moment
I know she saw.
Turning her head as if to answer my unspoken question
“Miscarriage”
she breathed.
I spent the next however long soaking in her story, like a sponge.
I could tell,
she doesn’t do this often.
I have no respect for fathers who stain the honor of father
with a virgin's blood.
For boyfriends who can’t hear the word “No.”
over the sound of their
d e s i r e.
These men painted her the color of smashed hymens.
On her wedding night,
she won’t forget.
She can’t give what’s been stolen.
She finishes.
I exhale—breaking the silence first.
She looks at me, with all the innocence they must have stolen from her,
and i wonder
if she can
hear me
b r e a k
This, is the kind of story you read about.
I had no words to fix her— I couldn’t fix her.
All I knew was I wanted to sear my flesh and
m
e
l
t
into the crevices of her broken self
and convince her
It will be okay.
“I swear, I’ll make you believe in
h u m a n i t y.”
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
this is for the night
we burnt a church
and for the people
who road an airplane there
just to see it
for the moon
who burns
as bright as this pyre
and decided
to look quite
beautiful tonight
dressed in its best stars
and darkest clouds
we danced in that field
like dawn was a mystery
I blushed like six year old kid
asking you to dance
we waltz
in the wake of dreams
hatched schemes
with our finger tips
I held you like a bicycle
road you over the heavens
with my training wheels
because im still learning
how to love
and we danced in that field
with shaking spines
and wild flower hearts
stopping to watch
the churches
and moons
burn like children
burn like me
and draw figure eights
with your palm
across my back
sing with the crackling of hymens
take my hand
and we'll all take
the next moon home. . .
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 6:13 AM UTC
Black and white keys are beautifully stroked,
Under these tips, her true feel is cloaked.
The magic of the symphony, hymens her to play,
As music escapes her aching soul, the mind is left a sway.
For this is the only break from the madness, her only place for peace,
So her fingers wind wildly, as the emotions in the air increase..
Her get away to another home is found within the keys,
So she plays her dil, and the music goes still, freedom and happiness, finally at ease.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
Hark! These creatures of catacombs
Furrows and the weeping ribbons
Forsooth great beasts took a turn here
When the mind accustoms itself to violence
It bestows it….broken as the temple falling
The sword by Israel's cry!
Ghosts of the borderline!
Ghosts of the borderline!
Traumatic as hymens torn
By hands unclean by demons born
The ***** twas not consenting forlorn
Too many nights passing to the dawn
Allow when Yosef comes, his predator expression
For my milk drop flesh, he claims doth conquer
The chains of slavery he forged by Irish blood
Born from the veil of wedlock
Out of sullen sin, between husband and mistress
He took to which he hath none
Purple hues adorn the shoulder
Bare before the creases of blood
These years could not tamper the memories
So in night shade, among the ghouls
There is a hovering silver sheen
Groped by the tiny digits
I shall be its sheaf
Psychosis the cascade of reality
The distortion of time and space
An all hallows eve, the sabbath of subconscious monsters
The manic and depressive are the swinging of the pendulum
And the ****** of thy hand is the dawn of God
I fall, the intoxicating pearls down my throat
Reek in my blood, Jewish blood, Welsh blood, tainted blood
The dizzy fortitude to collapse
Will alter the reality and silence the darkness
Of faces disfigured, in death they have no stance
Thus my torment hath come to end
I give way, the sweep of the fall
Fall onto my sword…
Away from the worlds of disturb content
Away from the sacred flesh scarred and mangled
Away from the deep cavern of endless thought
To God and to my ancestors, who saw with no eyes fit to see
But see nethertheless my frail state of a tipping scale
I fall onto my sword, distressed as Saul
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
great tear colored shapes,
violent glass protrusions,
glisten in the distance,
defying wind and sky.
head lights
blink in the dead night
and race to the red light.
got no place to go
but they still go
only humans and horses
have hymens.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:23 AM UTC
I.
À qui donc le grand ciel sombre
Jette-t-il ses astres d'or ?
Pluie éclatante de l'ombre,
Ils tombent...? - Encor ! encor !
Encor ! - lueurs éloignées,
Feux purs, pâles orients,
Ils scintillent... - ô poignées
De diamant effrayants !
C'est de la splendeur qui rôde,
Ce sont des points univers,
La foudre dans l'émeraude !
Des bleuets dans des éclairs !
Réalités et chimères
Traversant nos soirs d'été !
Escarboucles éphémères
De l'obscure éternité !
De quelle main sortent-elles ?
Cieux, à qui donc jette-t-on
Ces tourbillons d'étincelles ?
Est-ce à l'âme de Platon ?
Est-ce à l'esprit de Virgile ?
Est-ce aux monts ? est-ce au flot vert ?
Est-ce à l'immense évangile
Que Jésus-Christ tient ouvert ?
Est-ce à la tiare énorme
De quelque Moïse enfant
Dont l'âme a déjà la forme
Du firmament triomphant ?
Ces feux-là vont-ils aux prières ?
À qui l'Inconnu profond
Ajoute-t-il ces lumières,
Vagues flammes de son front ?
Est-ce, dans l'azur superbe,
Aux religions que Dieu,
Pour accentuer son verbe,
Jette ces langues de feu ?
Est-ce au-dessus de la Bible
Que flamboie, éclate et luit
L'éparpillement terrible
Du sombre écrin de la nuit ?
Nos questions en vain pressent
Le ciel, fatal ou béni.
Qui peut dire à qui s'adressent
Ces envois de l'infini ?
Qu'est-ce que c'est que ces chutes
D'éclairs au ciel arrachés ?
Mystère ! Sont-ce des luttes ?
Sont-ce des hymens ? Cherchez.
Sont-ce les anges du soufre ?
Voyons-nous quelque essaim bleu
D'argyraspides du gouffre
Fuir sur des chevaux de feu ?
Est-ce le Dieu des désastres,
Le Sabaoth irrité,
Qui lapide avec des astres
Quelque soleil révolté ?
688
Words are echoing through
the sins of a heart,
but some are worth the guilt
of what may wash away on our reflections.
But with every fool there is a knight
that has fallen for the moment of love
that shines his armour brightly.
Somethings were meant to glisten on a heart.
Occasionally a heart cant but listen to the
hymens of what reverberates within
the echoes of every breath of love.
Sometimes emotions are a lifetime in a singular beat.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Grant me the opportunity to embellish a collection of my recollections
When we were all seraphs in the heavenly connection
Then the mirror we saw in one another gave no reflection
Soon it broke in shattered sections
A life constructed of broken hymens
First steps going somewhere new
Experiencing inaugural moments
Look back and say “the first time when”
Going through it *** backwards and having half-assed it
Playing parts and wearing masks with
Two faces one stone the other elastic
From cradle to casket
To concede and admit mistakes
And see things I start to the end
Let’s swim naked in the luminous lake
So we can say “do you remember when?”
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
When I venture eyes slightly glazed
at that ****** light permeating
my room like an unwanted guest
knocking at my door
at 8:00am in the shock treatment of my
awakening.
But still versing hymens of my woeful
acknowledgement.
Covering ones self like a concrete tomb.
covering light with plasters
of inconvenience, hiding the cuts of awakening.
I will slumber, entombed beneath shallow blankets.
Never arising
to the wants of another day.
Clinging to the beauty of darkness,
I awaken to the reality of another day.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
Et maintenant, aux Fesses !
Je veux que tu confesses,
Muse, ces miens trésors
Pour quels - et tu t'y fies -
Je donnerais cent vies
Et, riche, tous mes ors
Avec un tas d'encors.
Mais avant la cantate
Que mes âme et prostate
Et mon sang en arrêt
Vont dire à la louange
De son cher Cul que l'ange,
O déchu ! saluerait,
Puis il l'adorerait,
Posons de lentes lèvres
Sur les délices mièvres
Du dessous des genoux,
Souple papier de Chine,
Fins tendons, ligne fine
Des veines sans nul pouls
Sensible, il est si doux !
Et maintenant, aux Fesses !
Déesses de déesses,
Chair de chair, beau de beau.
Seul beau qui nous pénètre
Avec les seins, peut-être.
D'émoi toujours nouveau,
Pulpe dive, alme peau !
Elles sont presques ovales,
Presque rondes. Opales,
Ambres, roses (très peu)
S'y fondent, s'y confondent
En blanc mat que répondent
Les noirs, roses par jeu,
De la raie au milieu.
Déesses de déesses !
Du repos en liesses,
De la calme gaîté,
De malines fossettes
Ainsi que des risettes,
Quelque perversité
Dans que de majesté... !
Et quand l'heure est sonnée
D'unir ma destinée
A Son Destin fêté,
Je puis aller sans crainte
Et bien tenter l'étreinte
Devers l'autre côté :
Leur concours m'est prêté.
Je me dresse et je presse
Et l'une et l'autre fesse
Dans mes heureuses mains.
Toute leur ardeur donne,
Leur vigueur est la bonne
Pour aider aux hymens
Des soirs aux lendemains...
Ce sont les reins ensuite,
Amples, nerveux qu'invite
L'amour aux seuls élans
Qu'il faille dans ce monde,
C'est le dos gras et monde,
Satin tiède, éclairs blancs.
Ondulements troublants.
Et c'est enfin la nuque
Qu'il faudrait être eunuque
Pour n'avoir de frissons,
La nuque damnatrice,
Folle dominatrice
Aux frisons polissons
Que nous reconnaissons.
Ô nuque proxénète,
Vaguement déshonnête
Et chaste vaguement,
Frisons, joli symbole
Des voiles de l'Idole
De ce temple charmant,
Frisons chers doublement !
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