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Pierre Ray Mar 2012
I was told about this special book. I was told it was a magical book! Amazingly full of bright, light and insight. Allegedly one look and you were hooked and took! This great book of life baited, charted and crafted with will, quill feathers, leather and of weather. The great book of life highly and showily regarded the *******, the rife and strife.

Brilliant parts of art from heart! Boldly guarded by angel’s darts! Holding from different angles. Behold! The pages of this book mangled, spangled and tangled. Through the ages… the corners scorned, torn and worn. In theory the inseams very weary and old. Amazingly and appraisingly with thrill they still fold! Merrily told

and eagerly sold. The great book of life’s pages is of age, cages
and wages, stages and rages! The great book of life each a way to encourage or engage courage. The great book of life was inspired and transpired by a baby in a manger. Some pages spell and tell of a stranger danger! The great book of life is about the beloved also of

the unloved. Chapters in capture, scriptures in measure, rapture-
or torture. The great book of life listen to my envision with precision! The great book of life envisions death’s breath. Missions, those enclosed in prisons and visions! The many, many scenes serene and obscene. The in-betweens, the kings and queens! Dragons, drones

and many, many thrones! The antic, frantic and gigantic! Magic, satanic and tragic! blizzards or wizards! Ancient, distant chants and rants! The great book of life, a chance from a glance. Traces of many faces, places and races! The great book of life claimed to have named those bordered, cornered, loitered and murdered. The great book of

life is it! Amazingly it tells bits of it all! Basically about the small that brawl. The tall, including some that awesomely, eventually fall! The great book of life collects and reflects the surreal or unnatural. The frail and the pale. Actions hailed while eluding a whale! This great book of life will it prevail? Yes prevail! Amen! The great book of life amen, amen.
SailorAlice Dec 2014
A pocket of dreams
A locket of screams
A whole ******* feeling tattooed in inseams
A machine of emotion
Run on ******* and devotion
A potion of souls smoked up through bowls
Blasted through time and spines
Cranial cavities and eyes
Children's cries fuel the high
Seeping through femur bones and tailored suits
This suit isn't suited for those who weep,
Just those who keep up with underworld Joneses
Who revel in dark tones and
Worship the devil
Zulu Samperfas Jan 2013
He wore a onesie with hearts a floating on pajama day
Hearts all over his **** and hearts all up and down the length
of his lean body and in the inseams of the onesie
and right near his package and the girls
were taking pictures with him, these under age girls who could
now see the entire length of his entire lean body and see it is just a stick
with another potential stick pointing out in the middle
and no one said anything, none of the bosses and his friend
had on pajama bottoms too small with hearts right there and
a big looped piece of fabric to hold it on his trim twenty something body
and the old guys, the bosses said nothing as they admired
the length of the hard bodies
and the girls look and I wonder if one day one will reach out and touch.
and i don't remember it being like that in my high school
C S Cizek Jan 2015
I drew pants out of my backpack
like a well bucket brimming pennies.
Legs upon legs tied together
in a campfire circle and sitting
on moss'd rocks, listening to rock
music, drinking Rolling Rock,
and nothing else. I pulled up
on inseams to a single black
pocket liner sixteen cents richer,
but the fire. Oh, that fire, flames whipping
weaker than slave drivers weaker
than the wind bailing low-lying
lake water to the faux Dover beach
mound of sand by the mud shore
like the crayfish were drowning.
The sand was like trampled
"welcome" mats worn-in by sidestepping
horseshoe players setting down
their tin cans by the mound.
A pitching machine on the pitcher's mound.
Machines have made the big leagues.
I quit baseball when Coach Seth castrated
my half-friends with a robot.
Some took red stitches to the face,
the lucky ones. But the fire—if you could consider
a Bunsen burner-esque flame a fire—turned
our burnt sienna bottles into burning-out beacons,
tiki torches between pine trees, street lamps
kicking off in four hours, a box of matches,
and a lightning bug's ***.
absinthe Jan 2017
feeling burdened—it tends to happen
particularly when meddling impressions run rampant
swarm circles in my hefty head, ignore the next exit ramp, and
let devils' advocates covet the cove i donned my dome once upon never

although i know this may be chalked up to intelligence
and subsequent ignorant claims that swear it's heaven sent
i swear it’s not for me. so tell all the hell-bent docents to leave
and let live my cognizance dim—to do what i can’t. to let it be.

it is what it is
and what it is
is it’s
excessive

i don’t need no informants
playing mentee won’t mend me
i’m torn sufficiently
far as i can see, it seems

don’t mentor she who beseeches
by way of screams and screeches
me and my strings are beat
by ****** and needless needles’
stitches and ventures heedless

i’m piecing my torn fabric
it’s grown so thick
it’s a feat, recognition
when simple addition alters
fact into fabrication

like my elation
in inebriation
guards sorrow
from knocking at my door
knocks my guard down
and has me floored

it hits my inhibition too
and i’m home-free
no guilt signaling
and i pull singles
i switch with tickets
i use to ticket my skin

no appointment
nor disappointment
walking in walk-in clinics
and sketchy shops
flickering the light
it sheds on both
my faces. i can face them
only with this double vision

i watch mark
as his sketches mark me
like stretch marks,
remarkably

in hopes of realizing on the double
the vision i envision into reality
he lets me let him put his hands on me
seemingly steadily
and we feel as our arms stretch

he draws me in
fills me ink
and vibrant me pends
his vibrating steel
and sharp pens
as they liven
my limp existence
reincarnating me instantly  

after sweet sleep
i wake bitter for some reason
feel dull but also sharp-ied
peeping the nonsense i let seep steeply
into my skin last night when i was peaking

now i can reminisce
on the pain of squirming
wallow over it instead, and
not the overflown gore of streams

and catastrophic waterfalls
that break through my largest *****'s walls
they leave what makes me, me,
with breakthroughs of which it can only dream

if only i can fall like the tears asleep
that crash and wave and overshadow my role
in turn leaving without desire
to turn over no stone
nor use any for stepping on
like the ones more close to normal
do coax

i do it all wrong
like they did me
i walk on coal
though from here
it appears
as though i'm an anomaly
only my sole seethes

when on the rocks
my walker, he makes me so strong
he lets me drink him from dusk to dawn  
he says he’d **** for me from here on
i love how foreign i am to him like heron

not the bird though it’s true
us three often see hues blue
we soar blue skies when our hearts fume blue
and they feel too sore like brews do
when they're too soft to heal each bruise or
make room for pain to grow and strength to bloom
so i walk on water as walker

kills me
he’s to die for
imploring in notes low
that i not stop, so i hop on
and once it’s well thought over
he can tell
overthinking’s my problem

i stand alone in the corner,
my core knows
all my o’s and woes
can be all gone
once one o centerfolds corner
and in comes the
coroner

who walks and rear-ends me
and e-r lose hope and leave me
when he cores me from his soul
and i let my breath roam

but he sends me
soaring over the moon
soon as he shows how he listens
and soon we both know
blinding luminescence

my eyes when they glisten
make all my mourning go missing
like the overthinking overkill
i hit when morning rays missile

and he curtails them at curtains
blacker than the blacklist
my man drenched
my nemesis in
deep sleep
with the fishes  

eventually, however
again and against my will, i endeavor
on reading the biography i penned
block my own writing
and let writers block lock me in
i get stuck on the same page
thought no force impedes
the power i home in my palms
nor my thumb's ability to thumb
through the page
yet i somehow flip it
and become my own victim

i did it.
it tells the history of tears
now extinct due to me overbearing
leading to drainage that came as
the very last bead beat me
for forbidding fibs
and calling dibs on *******

still, ringing in my ears
leaks empathy
for crocodile tears
trickling
as they salivate
over their next meal,
me

i swallow my tongue
not realizing fully
i’d just had my last meal
because they consumed me
quietly
with quibbles
and plots of consuming me
openly

ignorance is less so whats lacks
and with no inkling of doubt
worse in terms of that
which the mind keeps
then refuses to release
when need be
hence: me

after i head over
obvious traps
i let flash
atop my head

like clouds overcast
i’m convinced i tripped
on my own heels
like thunder that strikes
one man down twice
out of spite

but in spite
of everything, now that i know,
my eyes and i are drained no more
see, we’ve ever since grown more so
and metamorphosed
beyond words morbid

like those i anticipate
my gravestone
will go on
to hold

this is the reality of being kept cold-cut as meat
that heads *******, idiots, dunces, cons, and so on
those who bring forth obstacles that spurt in growth
inch by inch quicker than their thickening skulls

each time
the sage i pick thinks
my life needs spicing up, either
my screams of agony are mistaken
and my inseams nipped at the bud

or my spirits appear uplifted
and mistaken are my sorrow-filled tears
with joy-plagued wails,
each time
deep-seated sage seeds **** my green

lord knows that while i understand—to some degree
the world can’t come close or know what brews
in the disorganized chaos that is me intrinsically
i don’t fib when i allege that my angle isn’t deceit

nor right, necessarily
just dense as these
basins, wrinkles and dents
my tense cortex insists on heaving  

it would be obtuse of me
to anticipate that anybody
would watch my back
if not mine and me

it's all only a tactic
and i may feign obliviousness
to support this spinelessness
and keep it all in tact

insects fester
i feel each tentacle
extend incessantly
like these rants

they all ax my lumbar
no one's barred from my club
lumberjacks and jack’s slumber
i only lust after the latter

and jack's not all bad
he’s why my caps rested
soon as he hands it to me,
expressing the extent to which

i impress him
granted
my hands-off approach
that manages
to get hard jobs done
better than jills before

he’s a mild nuisance
when one of us isn’t speaking
but he promotes my irritability
with his attempts at weaving
our fingers together

it offends me
and all i long for
is knocking him out
like him and my neck's heart

or my kneecaps’ kneepads
the cap that’s my hat
can at last roll fast,
though no one should ask

i can’t say if i’m ok
jack ko’d my voice box
and i feel highjacked
but i insist, they insist
on the charm of the third

one i get him
like the lights, off,
that’s when i go on to hop off
tip toe off his tip top to get off
on the silence my mind writes off

none of it matters to me
mankind ramps up my love for luxury
the ivory warmth Mr. Browns rain
all over my cold windshield
puts me where i love to be

without them,
antidepressants
would depress and hail on
but their chocolate depressants
elevate me and i hail mary
when they hail hope on me
and i'm newly merry

when it’s all over,
i seek refuge and rush down
and on to the one and only John
where rest can be found
he’s bold as kohl and cold
as his marble floors call for

it's he who keeps my thoughts snowed in
and spares my teeth cracks no dentures can fix
suppresses my urge to purge like Snowden honing in
on how not one man cares less for one careless node in
systems nor the cancerous danger of no protests nor dents

it’s tasteless, the rice that is humanity
so i dine solitarily
in solemn grief
seeing the uselessness we
as crumbs and morsels have come to be

individuals in division
invincible in coalescence
bound to form solid solidarity
likely as the moment

satan and saint agree
to raise their satin
black and white flags,
respectively

to enwrap
two into
one
fabric. silky, smooth, seamless
as is the cocoon
          i once was foolish enough to assume
    would secure the very same wholesome skin
                         it would later go on
to help me consume.

cannibalism.
Louisa Coller Feb 2018
Ambitious but ridiculous,
are the first words to think of,
heartfelt ridicule emerges in.

A phrase, a saying from the ones they admire,
A fight or a lie left clouding up their innocent mind.

"I need to protect" is the instinct as they hold on tighter,
but how can a child protect something that wasn't even dying?

Innocence is replaced with fragments of imagination,
but bliss can never be replicated after concealed and pain felt fates.

Lessons and quotations,
stick inside their brain,
moments of dedication, are in droplets of rain.

Find your dreams, write them down inseams,
yet if you miss one thread of the stitching you can't simply,
're-sew' everything there, it has to stay the same,
creating this imperfect game which tortures their brain.

An adult's mind adapts to suffering, pain, and gore.
A child's mind reacts and begs to see no more.
W A Marshall Apr 2014
by: William A. Marshall

I disrobe and survey
noiseless instruments so
austere rather dreary
colored walls that reflect
unemotional elements I
ask for another blanket
so sterile a fragrance
like nothingness fill my
nose eyes float disregarding
back to the strangeness of
time moving as sounds of
feet flap in the corridor
I wait then as a subdued
knock at the door my
immortal sketch filters this
time but I broaden with
unpredicted comfort receptions
you can only receive when people
are not well an agreeable scene
professional mollycoddling
no fussy clinging of inseams
that ruin atmospheres
I go head on into obscurity
as a nurse asked in a puzzled
way about my faith she
was confused by my notes
about Dostoyevsky
I provided in that portion
of the form she wanted
to know irrespective of what
the other staff told her
I shook my head with
acceptance responding with a
vague originality the back of my
mind thinking what if I don’t
return - a way that is disconcertingly
adequate and peaceful and quiet
I notice my garments stuffed
into a clear plastic bag
to be received by somebody
upon my possible reemergence
locating a theme in time
and a lack of difficulty with everything
not interfered with but
unexpectedness actually the minutes
move away knowing that I will
not remember spike introduced
to vein as they examine the
drips of dose inhalations mounted
in my face muffled voices
fade the syringe is plunged
I know the train is now
approaching down the
track but I am not uneasy for
some reason talking more
about nothing while people move
the morning flows mechanically
without me like water
in a brook never to be
seen again chatting melodically
then calmness where I had
gone that wintertime morning
I can’t remember all I was
content though on that cradle
I know it was suitable late the process
had taken and imagined into an abode
that I no longer recall smiling
knowing it was a delightful place
where people take you into
their care peeking slowly then
through the fog when I glanced at
my wife assured by the cup of coffee
that she offered
and recovery rinsed over me
a return to my existence like returning
from death
Toya Oct 2019
I am the puppet
See there is power in me
The master of the puppet
Turned 360 degrees
Fingers on strings
That bind thee
I use the same strings to bind he
The weight of my wonder
Forces their trance
While I do my wanderlust dance
The travel I desire is given to me
See there is power in the puppet
Encasement in she
The weight of my being
The stitch of my inseams
The movement of my hips
Through the fingertips
See, there is power over the puppeteer
Harris and Trump hit the stage
At stake is the next US president
The debate was filled with rage
The debate was filled with torment

It was like watching a tennis match
With each participant taking shots
Back and forth we watched the barbs hatch
Back and forth each tried to connect the dots

Harris let her racket do the talking
While Trump defended the ball in his courts
The participants were mocking and rocking
The participants built word forts and false reports

Harris wasn't perfect and neither was Trump
But you can see clearly which one looked the part
Both party's stars are looking to triumph
Both party's stars are pledging a fresh start

Time and time again we hear campaign dreams
So it comes down to which candidate you believe in
Which candidate has less Pinnochio inseams
Which candidate you want to win

On November 5th the votes will be cast
And of importance, our American welfare is at stake
So think it over and be true and steadfast
So think it over and make ... no mistake

Logan Robertson

9/11/24
Is the writer intimating that the current US landscape as in choppy seas or is the writer describing his observation of the demeanors of both candidates during the debate?
Charles Sturies Sep 2017
I liked professional wrestling at one time, but mainly because I thought the names Rick Flair and Andre the Giant has a nice ring.

I liked kickboxing when it first came out.
Home plastic, right?!

I just loved Treasure Island when I was reading it as a little boy and like either Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn, whichever was the easy one - at least for me - I think it was Tom Sawyer and I found Huck Finn hard when I started it - too hard for me so I stopped that chore, to me.

I hate to read, but yes, I think it's good mainly for just little old me I think I'm so (as a friend called it) im-po-tent.

I think it's east to like the Yankee in baseball, Brooms Brothers in Ivy League clothing, and Land Lubber and Britannia in jeans.
It is, isn't it?

I like barflys. They're loveable to be with to me and their base baby faces and a certain inseams, fake or not, I think.

I practically say in my writing that I like all underdogs irregardless but I've found at one time or another some Jews to be offensive, some blacks obnoxious, and some Latinos hateful.
That smacks of real hypocrisy, right?
Enough of this.
I'm just spouting off,
I guess.
Charles Sturies
isaac Jan 2021
the carpet just looks like dead grass now, brown and gray filling the sea floor of my room. the room in which i sob and scream and pout and combust into an open-warfare of emotions. you’re not in love anymore; how did it happen so quick? how did you walk out my door, dragging your feet against my molded carpet with the distinguishable smell of ***** and wine stuck on the inseams. maybe i’m supposed to forget, but it doesn’t feel right. i can’t bring myself to forgive you, but i can’t hate you either. you shut my door after you left. i haven’t opened it since. it’s felt like a hundred years with and without you. still i wait on this ill-filled sofa with the pillows you had gave me. sometimes i praise the footsteps that were imprinted onto the carpet when you walked out on me. i secretly hope you come back, although it’s a paradox.
this one hurts a lot to read even though it doesn’t even scratch how i feel on the surface right now

— The End —