"hysterical" poems
when i have thought of you somewhat too
much and am become perfectly and
simply Lustful….sense a gradual stir
of beginning muscle,and what it will do
to me before shutting….understand
i love you….feel your suddenly body reach
for me with a speed of white speech
(the simple instant of perfect hunger
Yes)
how beautifully swims
the fooling world in my huge blood,
cracking brains A swiftlyenormous light
—and furiously puzzling through,prismatic,whims,
the chattering self perceives with hysterical fright
a comic tadpole wriggling in delicious mud
20.6k
it is a sea of leaves -- a deep, bottomless, sea of leaves.
you can get lost in there, you know.
lost like an abandoned child in a city of strangers
and lost
like when you drive and drive and drive
aimlessly, mad, senseless,
when your only intent is to get lost and be lost.
but
this sea of leaves
[yes, this vast ocean of leaves on leaves on leaves]
this is myself only on the best of days.
my mind cannot and will not ever find itself.
sanity had been abandoned years before
when i came to the realization that
nothing really matters
too much.
and now i am autumn when all of the leaves fall down --
unordered, hysterical,
all of the time changing
all of the time varying
never the same as a moment before.
beautiful, but knowing
that beauty is impermanent.
soon i will be like the tree branches
when the leaves have abandoned them.
stark, empty, cold.
naked, with all of my flaws displayed to the world
[with all of my life on the ground.]
and i will still be lost.
and so incredibly lost in my mind.
lost.
so let me dive into this deep sea of leaves,
'cause lord knows it is better than being found.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
we've been poisoned
with hopes and dreams
of "true love"
its hysterical
how naïve we are
we fell so hard
put ourselves on the line
for a poorly constructed ideology
you idiot
darling i'm such an idiot
to think there was good
in this world
to think there was a chance
that selfless love existed
ah, what a fool
to think marriage
was anything more
than a social norm
a convenience
that relationships
were actually based on anything
more than a false sense of
comfort and security
highschool kids
throwing away their future
bunch of immature children
tricked into thinking
that someone could make them whole
*"let's get married"
"let's run away"
"we're in loooove"*
we've poisoned our youth
love should be the last thing
on their mind
women giving up their dreams
men giving up their lives
for W H A T
the idea that
someone could keep them
from drowning
darling
oh darling
i wish that were true
but
w a k e u p
no one can save you
love is cursed.
we are cursed.
love,
in its own essence
does not exist
and i was such a fool
**such a ****** fool**
to think it lasts
i guess it just made me feel relaxed
to think that there was one part of my life
that could be just for me
i thought love was my escape
i'm holding up the world
i thought it would give me a break
rest my head
HAH
hysterical
i swear to God i'm in fits of laughter
believe in love?
ask the kid of messy divorce
ask the single mom with no idea where her baby daddy went
ask the girl with a broken heart
ask the boy who gives his all, in return for none
love
is
just
another
word
for
loss.
sorry to burst your bubble
but
your idea of "love"
doesn't exist
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
it's the management
here to inform you
your lust has been hacked
we know what your thinking
what you hide
we are all up in your business
like cyber terrorist's
don't ruin your life with to much self respect
we are all watching you **********
to mamma mia meets a hundred shades of crimson
and fight club blood ****
while you ***
screaming
ooooooooh god
licking
holes and poles
like a pig at a trough
praying to be handcuffed and on your knees
sweating and hysterical, a red moon struck **** face
high on drugs
in a dream better then this life has to offer
life is full of yogas
***** pony position
bouncy bouncy
i'm the light in your darkness
i know what you do
i want pieces of you, you wont show anyone else
your sickness, is my own
you are my love slave
turning me *********
who loves to hurt you
who's the *****
who's the switch
your flawless
now
cry me a river
move a little bit faster and to the left
your **** is a cartoon
**** grinning emoji
bleeding shrieking
fu fu fu fu *******
your brains running out of your eyes
gimmie all your venom
***** movie poem's
*** tongue and *****
your mouth like hemoglobin jewelry
saliva diamonds
kiss that
you'll never go back
squealing smooth heat
breathing winds of perfume
love and pain
united by
tragedy and desire
by
the grotesque and the beautiful
like thirst holds stones
stop crying
you know baby
you look your best on the toilet bowl
shameless
a delicious little *******
that holds me close to life
like a baby to the womb
please
stop banging on the door
i'm using this stall
Thank you
The Management
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
Everyone comes with scars,
But you can love them away.
I told you that I wasn't perfect,
You told me the same
'You don't get it, I-"
'Shh, I love you, imperfections and all',
You said
But a month later,
Everything changed
You looked at me with disgust-
Like I was **** on legs
'I'm breaking up with you',
You said
'Why', I asked
'You're not perfect, I don't love you'
Hysterical sobs, at the loss of-
What I thought was love
'But I love you!',
I screamed at the closed door,
For you walked out on me
Your previous words meant nothing
I'm not worth loving, why?
The cuts on my thighs?
My eyes full of hurt?
My mouth full of lies?
The pain you caused,
Hurt more than the fresh cuts-
I just made
These were dedicated to you
Etched into my skin,
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused
'I love you' it said,
Used my blood to make-
a small heart on my tear-stained cheek
Then I slashed both wrists
They were dedicated to you
I love you
Hours later, remembering something-
You left
Found me lying there,
With the note cut into my hand,
'I love you' it said
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
In the fragile shimmer of your tears lies tragedy.
The bone-white curve of the moon hooks onto the past.
The night has dragged on, endless, stilled to frost;
Who is it upstairs, lost in bone-chilling despair?
Rain plays light on the ruby-red windowsill.
All my years of life on paper, blown astray by the wind.
So distant are my dreams, they become mere threads of fragrance hanging in the air.
Drifting, wind-strung, into your likeness.
(CHORUS)
The chrysanthemum shattered, the floor is strewn with tragedy; your smile has already faded to yellow.
Petals land softly, breaking hearts; my matters of the heart lie in peace.
The northern wind is frenzied, the night is not yet spent; your shadow can't be cut away.
Leaving me, alone on the lake’s surface, to become two.
The flower already nears its dusk.
Once brilliant as the sun, it's fallen, dispersed.
Fate cannot bear the world's way of withering.
Worrying that the river will prove uncrossable, my autumn heart* tears in half.
Scared you won't reach land- a lifetime spent wavering.
Hear the horses charging hysterical on someone's landscape.
The great changes of the world only whistle past my unchanging martial attire.
It grows light out, just slightly. Gently, you sigh; a night spent in this cryptic melancholy.
(REPEAT CHORUS x2)
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
Man proposes,
Women proposes
Both proposes at the same time unexpectedly
Wait, what?
Talk about hysterical
I wonder if that's ever happened before.
Like gold that washed from a shore
Thoughts racing back and forth galore
The excitement has overtakened me
My imagination might not take any more
Get me a pen
This has got to be on paper.
I'm a poet but i'm also curious.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
A female tennis player might give
An umpire a piece of her mind
When she disagrees with him.
Consequently, she is fined
Or penalized in other ways.
However, if the player's a male,
He can spit, destroy his racket,
Yell, and viciously assail
The umpire at a tournament.
He could even resort to calling
The ump an "abortion," and little or nothing
Happens to him. Now THAT'S appalling!
A candid man might be considered
"Direct" or "outspoken." Isn't that rich?
But if you are an assertive women,
You are basically called a *****
A man who loudly demonstrates
At a Senate hearing in an angry fashion
Could be considered "aggressive" or even
Be called a man of "impetuous passion."
A woman, however, who interrupts
A Senate hearing with passion hears
Herself being called "hysterical" when
She's led away to Senators' sneers.
Sexism? Discrimination?
Inequality? Status quo?
It certainly appears that way.
The double standard has got to go!
-by Bob B (9-11-18)
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.
knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.
sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****
i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
The creature waits clenched.
It waits hunkered and steadfast
For the quintessential moment to
Dangle your pride and cut its
Throat where you can see it.
The creature waits fuming.
It waits - shadowed and drip-fed -
For the penny to drop from its height;
To pierce the soft body of calm
And let loose the mess.
The creature waits grinning.
It waits smug and hysterical
For the time and times before this
Where it beat down a smile by
Forcing the question:
What is wrong with me?
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
"Wingardium Leviosa!" that's your spell.
But it didn't work, I didn't float
I fell.
"Alohamora!" you said to my heart
and again "Accio!" to find its broken parts.
We can love each other forever and always
like Snape to Lily.
Be hysterical and weird
like Bellatrix crazy.
Let's run away and be free;
free as an elf like Dobby.
A sock makes him happy, little things count.
It's precious just like this love I found.
You know, you're not that different from Harry.
Without the scar, you're the boy who lived for me.
It's like the world vanishes when we're this close,
time feels both slow and fast,
our words echoes.
You're as keen as the Ravenclaw
seeing beauty hidden in every flaw.
Loveable like the mark of the badger,
got that trait of Slytherin clever.
I found what I was searching for.
You, my strong-heart lion of Gryffindor.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.
I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.
I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.
Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.
I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.
Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.
I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Its hard to not to forget
that they tortured our memory
motivated by pain
no
motivated by love
love for the living
we are trying to reach the living
those sensitive to nature still
not desensitized
by the construction of whiteness
trying to reach those uninterrupted
by the temporary dominance
desperation pretending to be evolution
hearts beating apathy to death
hysterical neglect of our trauma
native tint in our eyes
take our minds back
from the product
whose profits are imperialism
give them back to dancing
revolution starts in the movement of the hips
a cou de tat of sway
no one knows what you are
no matter how confident they seem
dance with your eyes closed
looking deep inside
do not get stuck in its reflection
the hysterical reflection
dance like every military just surrendered
into our hearts
the living are with you now
can you feel them in your sway
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC
Girls will be girls
they’ll sing and dance
so boys can’t help but grab
girls right in their underpants
Girls will be girls
they’ll flirt and sass
but they never ****
‘cause they aren’t crass
Girls will be girls
they’ll study hard
to ****** the boys
who’ll mow the yard
Girls will be girls
they’ll say no and stop
but we won’t believe them:
the boys are cops!
Girls will be girls
they’ll cook and clean
and raise the kids
but must stay lean
Girls will be girls
they’ll work all day
and take home just part
of what boys are paid
Girls will be girls
they’ll talk and chat
but then get hysterical
when boys call them fat
Girls will be girls
they’ll wear nice dresses
and never soil them
wiping up boys’ messes
Girls will be girls
they’ll run and vote
while boys drink beer
and win and gloat
Girls will be girls
and we know what that means:
they must always smile
and never scream
Girls will be girls
so let’s hope and pray
that girls are girls enough to save
this ****** up world
we boys have made.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
The first fight club was just Tyler and I
pounding on each other.
It used to be enough that when I came home angry
and knowing that my life wasn't toeing my five-year plan,
I could clean my condominium or detail my car.
Someday I'd be dead without a scar
and there would be a really nice condo and car.
Really, really nice,
until the dust settled
or the next owner.
Nothing is static.
Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
Since fight club, I can wiggle half the teeth in my jaw.
Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.
Tyler never knew his father.
Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
Tyler and I still go to fight club, together.
Fight club is in the basement of a bar, now,
after the bar closes on Saturday night,
and every week you go
there's more guys there.
Tyler gets under the one light
in the middle of the black concrete basement
and he can see that light flickering
back out of the dark
in a hundred pairs of eyes.
First thing Tyler yells is,
"The first rule about fight club
is you don't talk about fight club.
"The second rule about fight club,"
Tyler yells,
"is you don't talk about fight club."
Me,
I knew my dad for about six years,
but I don't remember anything.
My dad,
he starts a new family
in a new town
about every six years.
This isn't so much a family
as it's like he sets up a franchise.
What you see at fight club
is a generation of men
raised by women.
...
You aren't alive anywhere like you are at fight club.
When its you and one other guy
under that one light
in the middle of all those watching.
Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights.
Fight club isn't about words.
You see a guy come to fight club for the first time,
and his *** is a loaf of white bread.
You see the same guy here six months later,
and he looks carved out of wood.
This guy trusts himself to handle anything.
There's grunting and noise at fight club
like at the gym,
but fight club isn't about looking good.
There's hysterical shouting in tongues
like at church,
and when you wake up Sunday afternoon
you feel saved.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
You're thirteen, sorry fourteen this week
You think you know the world, have it figured out
You think you know yourself, without a doubt
Let me tell you some things I learned when I was about your age
I learned how to go from popular ***** to no good freak show
Nothing but an ipod every day at lunch, no friends, no food
I learned that I had addictions that I didn't know even existed
I learned how badly I wanted attention from his hands, his mouth
I learned what it like to be violated in the worse most degrading way
I learned how to get high
I learned that the intentional pain I'd always caused could be
A harnessed tool to cope by
I learned that if I stopped eating altogether no one cared
I learned what it was like to think you loved someone
I learned that I liked girls
I learned what girls could taste like, feel like -- what I could feel like
I learned that I didn't like girls
I learned what it's like to have people spread rumors about you
I learned what it's like to try to drown yourself then feel guilt
Guilt about your little brother who would have no idea why
You little ******* it wasn't long after that the violence between us started
You're big enough, strong enough to do damage on the family pet
I'm the family pet, you think you know but you don't
You've been calling me names for years
But you don't know how true they are
You think you love her -- you don't know love until you're nothing
When you're nothing and this skinny little kid everyone hates saves you
This annoying as hell kid who shows you that
The world isn't as dark as you thought it was
This kid who loves you not for *** not for bragging rights, but because
He sees this skinny little bird who lost her feathers and her wings
And is waiting to die and he thinks she could be beautiful
She thought she knew who she was before but he helped her find it
Soon you'll be fifteen
When I was fifteen I couldn't find my skinny little kid, he'd changed
Not for the worse but away from me
I fell into old habits
And new ones
Deadly ones
I changed back into the addict, not eating, not sleeping, sniffing, watching, cutting, stabbing, nothing
I covered myself in laughter, hysterical and crazy
I became quiet
I fell apart more because of guys, complete ********* guys
Like you're turning out to be
Don't think you know everything, that you're an angel
Because I was ****** up at six because of what they did
You were ****** up at four because of him
Both were accidents, but as you can see in me from six to seven
To nine to eleven
To when I was your age, all that happened was
I got ruined because of the secrets
The ones no one can know
The ones that when crossing paths with the world **** you inside
You can't see that yet
You aren't aware that you're broken
Now you're **** well old enough to
Wake Up
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
there was a sparkle in her eyes
I saw it
I saw it
no one else paid her any attention
and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands
unfulfilled
starving
hysterical
barren
barred
so she resorted to magic
the crazy stuff of existence
like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart
and when it found her not
despair shook the earth
around her sorrowful body
permeating disillusion
confusion
immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing
lonely lonely
and bottle caps launched from her fingernails
from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse
with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing
splitting her glowing veins
and sweetening her ever-kind
clueless
knowledgeable
brain brain brain
and where was the world?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
365Nectar #60 Devour Me
Fri. November 22, 2013 9:18 P.M.
Devour me...
A provocative passionate pouring
of pillaging and plundering...
A pleasing prowling
of a piercing plunderer...
A lovely, limp nymph
laid upon a sizzling alter...
Smoldering...
Awakening all the senses
a choking of lust
unleashes exhilarating
and
envelops you...
Effortlessly evoking ethereal...
a sinister seduction
seductively seduces
and hungry hips
breakdance with hysterical
Stimulating a surreal surge of a sweet seeping...
waiting...
impatiently...
For you to chisel
an unimaginable devouring...
S slow steady climb to the summit
of the ultimate ******
Time-
Time-
Time... a tool to employ flamboyantly...
immediately...
eargerly...
Expose my conquered heart
that leaks
of streams
of cream
of succulent sensation...
Expose my tamed moistness
that whispery whines
as you build a legacy
of torturous licking....
Seductively...
Slithering in spicy spirals
of stirring screams
from stormy shivers
of steamy anticipation
of your redefining touch...
Suddenly...
drowning in the sticky sensation
of all that is us...
A tender luscious love liquefying flesh
and penetrating souls...
We blend in blazing bliss
tapping taboo for titillating thrills
you rock a rowdy ravishing
inside me...
I whisper wet whimpers
and beg for bitten breast...
Our wrestling hips
hug, ***** and groan a hungry growling...
Pounded into saturated submission
I linger in lubricating dreams
for you-
to...
devour me.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
" I had toasted many in my life time.
Glasses of the most expensive wines, the
exclusive champagnes, and the cheapest of
beers.
Funny. Out of all, the beers were the most
enjoyable through my years.
I now ask myself why? It's because of the
laughter.
Sophistication was always troubling to me.
Don't get me wrong. To each is own i always
say.
Joke telling, and stories that seemed to be so
crazy, many wondered if they were true.
It was how the story was told, Some were hysterical
you had to hold you stomach with both hands
praying that it didn't split apart.
Others were so sad they brought tears to your eyes.
That's when i new i belonged, There is where i saw
love among friends.
The beer drinkers. Happy, Hardy. Without a trouble
in the world.
Where are they now?
A question that is not to be answered.
No more pat on the backs.
No more. " Hey don't forget tomorrow nights
card game at Tony's."
No more. "See ya latter's."
Just millions of us sitting at our computers, and
maybe drinking a beer.
To them i raise my mug with a toast.
"Happy to spend this time with you."
Michael....
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
Shadows creep over my skin
Like the empty touch of a lovers hand.
Slowly sliding, moving barely noticed
And yet felt.
One by one people disappear.
Left is the dark spot, the cold
Black hole where they stood.
The silence screams,
And bleeds my heart.
Four, three, two
Almost gone.
How long until none?
Quietly waiting for the last to leave.
Knowing, and yet knowing it cannot be prevented.
And yet hoping it won't happen...
What does one do alone?
I will cry.
Spotlighted on a lone stage.
Dread.
History always repeats itself.
And yet this time
There's nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide
And yet no music to face.
Where do I go?
Sit in Limbo, uncollected, forgotten trash.
Words written on my hand:
fat, ugly, stupid, ***** **** stubborn, mean, hateful,
jealous, ******* ***** hysterical, loser, selfish.
The ugly side of me.
I can't hide from it longer,
Because with no one here, there's just me.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 7:09 PM UTC
"After mysteries am I, mysterious men too"
together when we slipped away from others
she told me with a grin, evidently hysterical,
it gripped me, for some unknown reason.
"More in to mysteries than anything else"
I gently notified to her my intentions
"I've never been able to **** a male ****** ever"
She indicated the area of her present curiosity
but isn't it strange,that she sounded wistful?
If I heard her right,she mentioned repeatedly
about,"The Third Brest,"as if she has a mystery
for me in store.When buried deep around my *******
her teeth transmitted a hunger, and I felt it:
what exactly a mother feels suckling her baby
her heart beat went out of control,I could see
the pangs of child that has never been fed
from her mother's breast, or fondled by her
And the mysterious part of the game
she saved for me was finally unveiled,
my expectant eyes
saw a chest devoid of any kind of swell, except
the memories of the two full ones taken away
mercilessly by decease.I saw blood in her tears.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
At 5 I was convinced I was
a flower
whose vocation was imitating
their final hysterical
wail
once Winter awoke from its
anorexia.
I pleaded my case with
a botanist
whose seamstress wife consented to stitch
a tutu of Kadupul
flowers,
like a fairy godmother warning of their death at
dawn.
At 16 I finally danced
their goodbye,
petals whisked off as if molted
layers of skin
and only when at the end I stood naked
did the concept of death have
definition.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
I am afraid of speaking.
I am afraid of the texture of my voice, and the effect it will have on you.
I don't want to be pressed into the caricature of an angry woman; voice raised in what they call a hysterical display of emotion.
Calm down. Be rational.
Stop being
So
Dramatic.
Well let me tell you something:
I am an angry woman.
Because all I can see is my best friend’s blonde head, coming within an inch of becoming the crushed drywall beneath his fist.
All I can see is the false piety painted on his pastor’s face, asking, “well… did he hit you?”
I see her eyes closed in the darkness, fingers gripped in the sheets he tore off of her body to wake her. She has to hold on to something.
He says, “Show me you're enjoying it.”
Calm down. Be rational.
Like he wasn't gaining access INTO her BODY by FORCE. Like, of course it's her job to lay down and take it. Like it. Lick his lips for the taste of honey, because honey, he told you to.
but it's poison. It enters her bloodstream, weakening her will to resist it.
She looks at her phone, at a text she did not compose herself, or send,
“Hey hot stuff. When you see this, let's have ***
“If I pretend I didn't write this I'm just playing hard to get.”
Do you get it?
Yeah. I am an angry woman.
Stay calm, dear sister. Be rational.
Rationalize the gaslighting, because the big picture doesn't look beautiful when you hang it above the sofa; and her home was staged to look like a family so that when you look in the window, you don't see that she was a hostage.
You don't see that her son was asleep in the bed when he grabbed her face between his hands and crushed it,
And called it “gently redirecting her gaze.”
From the window, you can't see his body blocking the exit.
You can't see her baby, with his little fingers curled around her ******* begging for comfort.
I will not calm down. And in case you are so damaged by devotion to comfort that you can't see it, it is right to be angry.
It is righteous.
I am angry, and more rational than I have ever been in my entire life- rationally, righteously begging for justice to flow down like rivers.
I am an angry woman.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC