"incises" poems - Hello Poetry

Once upon a time, a long time ago There was a little boy with a grimy flow I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday And this is what I heard him say……. He say **** like, he be like…. Ah! and I'm a *********** biter The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva I go so hard when I'm flowing So cold my flows frozen I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion But dam, those explosions are so slow motion So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates I damage this establishment They enacted bans on urban camping If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is Happily on mattresses

0

Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC

kingBacon

The Tale of Bacon

Once upon a time, a long time ago There was a little boy with a grimy flow I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday And this is what I heard him say……. He say **** like, he be like…. Ah! and I'm a *********** biter The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva I go so hard when I'm flowing So cold my flows frozen I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion But dam, those explosions are so slow motion So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates I damage this establishment They enacted bans on urban camping If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is Happily on mattresses

27

i nearly called her last night to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book about a poet who hated poetry that doesn't spill out over boundaries into ashes of desire and obfuscates that we are weapons like boiling pots and empty cups no one can drink from using each other against each other desperate which is why i am afraid to love why i don't have smooth charm why i cant make sense suddenly while her wit incises me like grapefruit i became her pathetic expectation a self-destructive idiot useless fumbling with matches setting myself on fire with every word like a good poet until i was burnt earth

0

Jul 6, 2018

Jul 6, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC

zebrablack

Burnt Earth

i nearly called her last night to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book about a poet who hated poetry that doesn't spill out over boundaries into ashes of desire and obfuscates that we are weapons like boiling pots and empty cups no one can drink from using each other against each other desperate which is why i am afraid to love why i don't have smooth charm why i cant make sense suddenly while her wit incises me like grapefruit i became her pathetic expectation a self-destructive idiot useless fumbling with matches setting myself on fire with every word like a good poet until i was burnt earth

27

Your promises are like roses Your hands are like knives A drug I'll take in small doses knowing it took many lives A promise with a wounding thorn Coax me 'cause your caress incises An ecstasy was born in a human form and I'm consumed by its noxiousness

0

Oct 7, 2024

Oct 7, 2024 at 3:31 AM UTC

klenarchi

Poisoned Roses

Your promises are like roses Your hands are like knives A drug I'll take in small doses knowing it took many lives A promise with a wounding thorn Coax me 'cause your caress incises An ecstasy was born in a human form and I'm consumed by its noxiousness

8

this deep devotion in abstract tends to break loose reclining in air. it may be even that the face is water and the eyes, basins. should the heart endure dank seasons, there will be new skin thereafter. the favorable light sways outside the house, stilled settings of rife adjustments, the objects are in study: the fluent is stone. the trees automaton. demand for sought after thrills, the plenary hall of moon. wider than any light, drunkenly, frothing by the gutter of this body. sometimes when solemnity incises there is image of death in mirrors. yours is diffident surrender over the haze of hastily contending moments and such truth is that the escape is yearned for by a body – stiffening to become so rigorously false. listening to the infinitesimal sound of body take this music to the trees, their lignified arms akimbo yellowing, grandiloquent from the seizure of old fevers, the maddened, thorough tune mistakes your anatomy as cartography. if your deepening, secret parts are known, we will assume all conditions and give variables for metaphors. Sometimes escape is coveted by the body, its indistinct signs neglected as beacons, there are other things happening, say, a hand meeting a face, or the feet converging in trembling altitudes. A limit is set here.

0

Apr 3, 2016

Apr 3, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

A limit is set here

this deep devotion in abstract tends to break loose reclining in air. it may be even that the face is water and the eyes, basins. should the heart endure dank seasons, there will be new skin thereafter. the favorable light sways outside the house, stilled settings of rife adjustments, the objects are in study: the fluent is stone. the trees automaton. demand for sought after thrills, the plenary hall of moon. wider than any light, drunkenly, frothing by the gutter of this body. sometimes when solemnity incises there is image of death in mirrors. yours is diffident surrender over the haze of hastily contending moments and such truth is that the escape is yearned for by a body – stiffening to become so rigorously false. listening to the infinitesimal sound of body take this music to the trees, their lignified arms akimbo yellowing, grandiloquent from the seizure of old fevers, the maddened, thorough tune mistakes your anatomy as cartography. if your deepening, secret parts are known, we will assume all conditions and give variables for metaphors. Sometimes escape is coveted by the body, its indistinct signs neglected as beacons, there are other things happening, say, a hand meeting a face, or the feet converging in trembling altitudes. A limit is set here.

26

On a back street in Mexico City meal sellers tend their stalls, dark faced men feed from ceramic bowls, menus are simple in black-board and chalk everything is flavoured with chilli and huddled shoulders reveal little small-talk. Street lamps throw more shadow than light and gas leaking from somewhere feeds the air with an acrid scent. I stop for a bowl of chilli-beans, beside me and one over at the bar a young man with matted hair and heavy eyes unwraps a stained cloth, takes a shard from a broken bottle and neatly incises a small vein in his wrist. He lets the blood drip evenly into a saucer beside him and in the other hand holds what seems to be a quill made from an eagle feather or some large winged bird. Dipping the quill in the gathering blood he begins to write in a leather bound book on tawn-coloured hand made paper. I watch every move. No-one seems to care or notice that he does this. He writes on and on, scratches a word, dips again - the blood flows more slowly; what has gathered seems sufficient, he spits in the saucer takes a shot of clear liquid (probably tequilla) and adds it to the mixture, I assume this is to stop it coagulating. My meal and appetite have gone cold watching this process. When the blood-ink is all but used he folds the book away, wraps his wrist in a stained cloth and walks into the street of shadow and meal sellers steam. The stall holder notices me and approaches: “Si signor this is Miguel the poet of the people. He is coming many times to write this way.” He smiles at me. I pay for the unfinished meal and he says, “The poetry for the people is in his veins amigo, is this not so in your country, are you also having such a poet?” I leave him. Return to my hotel room. Take out portable type writer and clean white paper And begin to write in blood blacker than ink. MChallis © 2015

0

Jan 12, 2015

Jan 12, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC

martin-challis

In the Gathering Blood

On a back street in Mexico City meal sellers tend their stalls, dark faced men feed from ceramic bowls, menus are simple in black-board and chalk everything is flavoured with chilli and huddled shoulders reveal little small-talk. Street lamps throw more shadow than light and gas leaking from somewhere feeds the air with an acrid scent. I stop for a bowl of chilli-beans, beside me and one over at the bar a young man with matted hair and heavy eyes unwraps a stained cloth, takes a shard from a broken bottle and neatly incises a small vein in his wrist. He lets the blood drip evenly into a saucer beside him and in the other hand holds what seems to be a quill made from an eagle feather or some large winged bird. Dipping the quill in the gathering blood he begins to write in a leather bound book on tawn-coloured hand made paper. I watch every move. No-one seems to care or notice that he does this. He writes on and on, scratches a word, dips again - the blood flows more slowly; what has gathered seems sufficient, he spits in the saucer takes a shot of clear liquid (probably tequilla) and adds it to the mixture, I assume this is to stop it coagulating. My meal and appetite have gone cold watching this process. When the blood-ink is all but used he folds the book away, wraps his wrist in a stained cloth and walks into the street of shadow and meal sellers steam. The stall holder notices me and approaches: “Si signor this is Miguel the poet of the people. He is coming many times to write this way.” He smiles at me. I pay for the unfinished meal and he says, “The poetry for the people is in his veins amigo, is this not so in your country, are you also having such a poet?” I leave him. Return to my hotel room. Take out portable type writer and clean white paper And begin to write in blood blacker than ink. MChallis © 2015

42

Let me lift If even for a fraction of The time fall Spine wall Marrow traveling in septum Stretched along in spectrum Existing within The confines of flesh Better yet, What if I could help? Clenched poundings Always sounding Stop when svelte Lies you by side Incises your guise If eyes alone could be felt What if I could help? Better yet, You.

0

Nov 20, 2017

Nov 20, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC

jackharkinsjr

You.

Let me lift If even for a fraction of The time fall Spine wall Marrow traveling in septum Stretched along in spectrum Existing within The confines of flesh Better yet, What if I could help? Clenched poundings Always sounding Stop when svelte Lies you by side Incises your guise If eyes alone could be felt What if I could help? Better yet, You.

19