"insertion" poems
Think of nothing but this night.
The blooded stars, blue leaves and red trees...
Think of nothing...
Nothing but tonightt.
Close your eyes,
Relax your mind...
Unfold my lies
And everything'll be fine
My **** begins to rise
As my moist lips drag along your neck
My hand slides up your sides...
Contemplating left, right or back down to your thighs
Bite me
Force on the aggression
Grab me
**** just simple persuasion.
The night just confides
As I pull your legs apart.
Squeezing your sides
Lifting you up on my hard ****
Biting your neck
As you moan aloud
Squeezing your *******
As you gasp, with each insertion
Aggression but pure passion,
I throw you down.
And force my **** in your tight, warm *****
Hearing you scream aloud, I **** you deeply.
Open your grey eyes...
Realize it's just a poem.
Unfold my demise
And know this night will come.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity
Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach
Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...
There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.
they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,
or so the tale goes...
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
In the air, floating just next to the window
solidly constructed
as sure as the golden highway
stretching from Frisco across the Bay
looking square
as the acres of boxcars
north on the interstate
on the south side of Chicago,
it's all atoms...
This morning my son postulated to me a so-far unrealized condition
relating to matter transmitters and, probably, hyperspace. "What
would happen, " he asked, "if some guy transported himself inside a big rock?"
Indeed.
Putting on my ears, I considered the situation. Would the hypothetical solid mass of rock give way, shudder just enough to allow the insertion of a soft, squishy human being? Or would the spaces in their respective atoms--rock's and human's--intermesh neatly with each other? Molecular integration? But such a challenge to the atomic bonds holding the things together might result in a nasty atomic accident. Would that leave a human-shaped void inside the solid rock, a mold exact down to the finest details of skin texture and even eyelashes? Imagine the crystal-filled waters seeping down to find such a hole--Behold!! Geode Man.
Holding my silver pen extended
like a rapier before me,
I dissect the wispy chunks
of smoke. The balance of air
that gave them form
is destroyed. They are
no more.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
an early morning insertion,
says writes a love poem of
necessity, no formal request,
but as I am quiet bound to
her chest rhyming rising, falling,
she, caught between eyes closed,
but ears open, in pretense of deep
sleeping,
leaves me treading words,
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
borrowed for reuse, as waves
that have been here moments ago,
but only now just splashing me
to a place of inspiration, I look
up at the jambalaya of verses,
and declare myself satisfied,
both in love and wish this:
a completed poem that satisfies a
noisy urging~surging to tell her I
love her without disturbing her
peaceful state of drowsy and
permitting me too
(thinking pause)
to
taste a piece
of peace, so
well completed
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 8:57 AM UTC
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
I stop;
Reflect upon what just happened,
When a complexity of a girl
Asks a simple guy
What he thinks about her.
She asks me “what do you like about me?”
I’ll tell you what I hate;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like round circles we used to make
With our dancing bodies
In preschool playgrounds.
I don’t,
Hate your lips;
They could be traced
From a million miles
And they curve so beautifully.
I don’t hate your smile,
The semi grins you keep
Before the flashes,
Before the posts;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like bullets entering the soul
With an insertion of dopamine.
She asks me “do you really think I am worth your troubles?”
You are not.
You deserve my delight;
You deserve my green days and blooming flowers,
You deserve my watering mouth
Nourishing the vines underneath your tongue,
You deserve the sunrises in my playlists
And sunsets in the warmth of my jackets;
You are not worthy of my troubles
I am not worthy of my troubles.
She pushes me away,
The walls are too tight
And the stares,
They scrape on our throats.
The girl is lonely,
Her social circle spreads wide enough
To leave a gap;
Her friends walk next to her
And not on her side;
Her smiles-
Electronic cigarettes that look genuine,
But the smoke never rests
On the teeth,
Just a vapor that fades away.
She’s anchored to her reality
Her ships are not meant to sail
Just yet.
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
You’re a concept;
You’re a fusion of vivid elements
Wired with secret buttons
Hidden in your desires.
You’re an emotional rollercoaster
That we ride
You and I,
When I think of you
You’re just a white canvas
That whispers into my soul
The true meaning of art.
She asks me “is this your real answer?”
She ask me “is this your real answer?”
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Sensual Spaces
the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...
half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...
be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...
yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
[^]
<|>
+-+
%
t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
In the depths of my dark side
Their is another me that worships you.
Mad priest, in black and ****** robes
Devotee of ****** satisfaction
Legate of the armies of conquest of the flesh.
This touch will paralyze your will,
If applied inside, you will see soon you,
Slowly you slip down in surrender,
And render yourself unto me,
So I can see how long I can hold my breath
Between your thighs, inhaling the perfume of you,
Unwilling to exhale.
Sacrifices are made to your majesty
In the temple of your body,
On the alter of your creations
The black and white blood is spilt from my soul,
I lose all control, in a head on collision
Of ****** perversions,
Limitless position and orifice combinations,
My balance overthrow in a coup of your moans
I descend into your dark side,
And liberate the screams hidden inside you.
Saliva slick lips spread spit, that mixes with sweat
Muscles taught, working in time with each motion,
Each withdrawal and insertion,
Tender ***** throbbing, pulsing, clenching,
Moving at multiple angles,
pressing the right buttons,
To start the crescendo,
Of scratching, maddening ******
In the presence of a hoard of revelers
Sharing *** with strange people
On a strange stage.
Your bust displayed,
And ten thousand fanatics slit their own throats
In tribute to your infinite ways
Of delivering pleasures through the pleasures I wish to deliver unto you
Incessantly.
Unlocking chakra with tantric secrets uncovered
In the forbidden texts of ****** servitude to you.
I would service you endlessly,
With fanatic glee, but that me I set free to purge my desire,
Fades away an is replaced with the bland, but no less passionate
Love I feel for you.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
An excerpt from An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot. a poem by the False Poets
Between the idea no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion. a divisive notion caught between
And the act composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm *the blurted ****** of spurted letters born*
Between the potency. in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm the latency uncovered,
Between the potency the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence the birth fluid of of existence
Between the essence the formulation of the human essence
And the descent from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow. Falls All the Shadows
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
please don’t worry
please don’t worry
it isn’t very much at all
except:
i’m blue-
faced with apologies
and choked-up girl pathology
"i think i’m gonna hurl"
i scream, and taste
another “sorry”,
pressed like flowers,
blossomed in my throat.
speak softer, beg forgiveness,
my voice is not my business:
cut my tongue out,
make me kissable,
more easily dismissible
an echoing abyss for you to fill
with hot air, coffee breath
and sound bites
i don’t **** around,
i bite
and scratch and pound and shriek —
you will be sorry when i speak
you’re gonna look pathetic,
you’re emetic, here’s your drinks back
down your suit
i feel frenetic
i will puke, i ******* swear it,
if you call me unapologetic
like a compliment again.
not apologising
for myself
is women’s studies 101,
and i am done
with what a sorry state
you left my sisters in.
paternalistic praises
of our struggle for assertion
and insertion of your ego
into conversations
you were not invited to
is not the way to ladies’ hearts, though
we know how to get to yours:
open ribs, second ***** to the left
and straight on til morning
some things aren’t about you, little boy,
put up, grow up, shut up:
get your tongue out of my mouth.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our “nation’s foes” lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir’d in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur’d his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “war not with the dead:”
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber’d in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending “’neath the weight”
Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear’d,
Who for a time the ruin’d fabric rear’d:
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain’s loss supplied,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe’s far-extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;”
Yet, let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—
Fox! shall, in Britain’s future annals, shine,
Nor e’en to PITT, the patriot’s ‘palm’ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar’d to ask.
1.2k
earbuds buzz,
indic of incoming friendly fire,
another love song,
hardly differing,
what’s the big deal?
uh oh, oh no,
only transformered into an ****** boy soon
to be out loud squealing
for that’s not the way a poet’s brain operates,
a surgical insertion of a poetic inquiry brings a repetitive inquisition's painful honesty
and a new commitment commission now inescapably upfront~facing
even for the
low priestly devotee of
only
love
poetry!
Has anyone ever said to you
I want to hold you forever?
Have you ever told anyone
I want to hold you forever?
oh my god!
*the brain is racked, a fav torture of the self-
inquisitors, more awful than version physical,
my balance disturbed, my soul perturbed,
which the greater, my enabled loss or
my failure?*
*for a detailed search of history personnelle
(of course! it is a feminine noun)
registers no results, given or received,
the hurt of the how, can it be, OLP never
uttered this most greatest
declaration of love?*
and then/there, by the River East, a most public place, old man is seen uncontrollably
weeping, a non-gendered English verb,
reported the New York Post
tabloid newspaper
small thanks, photo had my back bent,
my face remained hidden, but revealed agony
of the twisted prostrate figure leaning over
the railing as he rails like an exile
or a hostage
*and there’s no answer forthcoming, no coverup, just an existential howling in
recognition that the opportunity has likely
disappeared, and the sky answers not
when begged*
***why me, why me, for the silence
is answer enough, never was I willing to
raise the gate protective, high enough to
stand before another, unclothed and
impurities revealed
surrender myself to accept or
give out or give in to
that most
wonderful risk***
and the weeping
doesn’t cease,
it is doesn’t soothe
or ease,
for the division’s remainder
remains less than a
whole integer
how can I call myself,
only a love poet?
and I answer
my self
with a teary silence
of an unanswered
curse
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 7:28 AM UTC
oh man,
do i remember.
[if it's water you drink it]
*i remember. i have so much time to remember.
(at work i tame dragons i drink
from canteen stunted growth)
it takes some doing.
i remember. we are
made of time. whole year spent practicing
insertion (under nylon sky)
it rained all ways,
it rained with flood lore in mind.
it molded me.*
i was always thirsty:
the rain was constant.
i can still smell it
against the sides of a ***** tent-
mixing with sweat on ***** skin.
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
Standing proud
Standing tall
Standing empty
Were you sweet, salty, sour or bitter
as you touched the tip of her tongue?
Insertion of jagged knife
Above my navel
Below my xyphoid
An area as delectable and soft
As the elixir you contained.
Your neck has been
Played with
Fumbled with
Her lipstick smears on your jaw
Traces of sweet notes
Leading the way
Down, down
All the way
To your base
You are deafeningly silent
But I hear what happened -
so loud -
Yet I say nothing
Because if I crack your delicate crystal
You'll only be worthless to me
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 11:35 AM UTC
DO YOU WANT THIS
THE INN AND OUT DRIVE THROUGH
PLUNGE INTO STARS –MY STARS
ME- DIPPING UPON YOUR NORTH POLE
TO EXCITE AN EXIT OF YOUR MILKY WAY
I’M YOUR VENUS
YOU ARE MARZ HITTEN ME LIKE -SHOOTING STARS
SEND THESE CLOUDS BELOW A HIGH 9
MAKE THE SUN STAY QUIET
……..
SHHHHHH
SHE IS SLEEPING
LEAVING THE FIRE BURNING IN HER SLEEP
AS WE WARM UP TO ANOTHER LEVEL OF OUR –STAR CLUSTER
AND WE ARE GALAXIES SCREAMING
TO A UNIVERSAL SOUL INSERTION
STRAIGHT INTO MY GALACTIC STARS
YOU –MARZ
THE KING OF ALL PLANETS –REVOLVING –CRASH
INTO HEAVENLY LOVE
WE CAN MAKE ANGULAR MOMENTUM
AS MANY AS YOU LIKE
YOUR HEAVAN IS COSMIC RAYS UPON MY SMILY SPACE
YOU ARE MY ABUNDANT HYDROGEN EMBRACING YOUR GIFTS
AND THE HEAVENS SMILE
CANDID BUT WILD
AND NOW-
THE SUN AWAKES
SHE AWAKES SWOONING TO OUR COMBUSTIONS
HER HEART RACES –WATCHING…..
SHHHH –BLUSH
AND WE'ER RUNNING WITH
SHOOTING STARS
SHOOTING UP STAR-WARS
SHOOTING INTO ME
SHOOTING UP UNIVERSAL ******
(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish Rebel of Eden
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Diagonal insertion of myself into this room we call the present moment
its never gonna go to collections baby, obviously checked it in for a week
we found static in the interruption caused by your radio towers and traps
and what you say, is not true- i see whose driving the hearse, shotgun
appeal to the old me. satisfy my hungering for those other things please
and tho i told you not to bother to call her, you did and just to say you did
don't blame you because you are a good time, perforated into tiny fragments
its not legal but this pedestal fits me like a glove, too much for the initiation
but our doubts, are all left in yesterday. how i follow you home after ever show
come help me hack off the vines and roots after every night of this spilling myself
skips on the record, please don't forget me, i won't forget you, how could i
youre just a missed cherry ash falling on my leg, burning me holes through
saying what you want to say, sorry that i don't reply, see me in the morning
shuddering on my favorite words, while screaming death to the secretion !
first we go spinning out then go smashing painted stained glass !
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the
exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics
within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel
jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance,
draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability
sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of
neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click,
**** temptation, flavoured Russian, *** Asian. first though
herbal, fruitful, extension. such friendship investment, one
clit-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan,
iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or
more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked
badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac,
quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those
ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie
and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching
eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed
hush-pushed niche.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
The frame has blurred away \ Fever death arising like burst glass || mangled spines \ This is the age of fact | where the violent insertion of cancer cells into animals is applauded by scientists across the globe \ Objectivity is the new face of barbarism | death god // sublimating existence for truth \ Raw data filters from the rot of deformed limbs | tweezers crush the heads living fish // guts spill | formaldehyde fixes the flesh of squirming insects | spliced genes splay the spines of mewling mice \ There’s no doubt || biology is the practice of death \ Animals without niches \ Organs without bodies \ Cells without hosts \ An aperture maw | red // yellow // black // white | leaking nervous tissue over an absent whole \ Reality has been atomised // brutalised // banalised \ Objective knowledge replacing all critical thought << [[Muscle // nerve // fat // blood // bone \]] Experience nothing \ [[The germ cell cycles every 28 days \]] Know nothing \ [[The average lifespan of a lab rat is three years \]] Feel nothing \ [[Over one hundred million are killed yearly \]] Science saves \ Biospace severed // prescription drugs fall // epistemic // into clean white bottles \
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets
every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,
from September to September inclusive
but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!
“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents
wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running
it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes
we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that
cannot cure nor disinfect
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 11:55 AM UTC
The Yellow River
Disoriented by Vietnamese beer,
I enter the hot zone
Approximately four inches
South of my intended
Insertion point,
And am repelled
By an aggressive
Guerilla resistance.
War is hell.
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
i'm dead serious about conceptualising a su doku...
i'm on the basis of fractions...
praxis 9
/ 4
optical coordination of stressors of furthered insertion
for some reason i cited:
9 x 6 = 51
and then 9 x 9 = 81...
**** 1 is such a difficult number to muster /
master in a goemetric class...
1 isn't exactly geometrically "sound" -
hello φoνoς -
alternatively, when you're doing a really hard su doku,
quote this quasi-copernican interpretation,
i.e. doing the puzzle "lying down"...
i dunno(h)... when complexity arises
numbers "lying down" makes perfect sense...
su doku?
it's like onomatopoeia in terms of arrangement...
81? and it's still a perfect square?!
o.k. o.k. (leo getz style),
ω
3 ß
m
what the **** was alternative to the said?
u p
d
o
w
n p
u
d o w n
by now you're ****** kidding...
M
3 Σ
W my name's matthew,
so you can imagine why i get all hot and bothered
about this variation.
now for some dead etymology (i,e,
i don't give a **** where the words came from,
i just like the way they sound) -
poligon,
okop.
all, if any, emotional intelligence equates
itself toward an intensity status...
i.e. the more you feel, the more
your emotional competence...
for sure... apathy is the "placebo" guarantee
cure for any type of pathos -
or the λoγoς of guaranteed explanations.
to be honest?
λoγoς has been reduced to a suffix status
with that basic "accomplishment" of -ology.
another "funny" word... by was of saying:
it's actually a city...
Płock -
Łódz*,
alternatively? let's juggle
ò (grave) & ó (acute)....
now i see the funny side of the tetragrammaton
concept... it really is omnipresent...
between ò & ó
you want the sort of incisor that's basically |
straight...
something that really might **** off god
once and for all...
with nietzsche it didn't really happen...
i mean an |
o
that would get rid of god in
the classical roman sense of: oh...
and return to the omicron basis
for having revealed a phonetic encoding
that's simply O... and that means doing away with
the god's portion of a hammer (H) -
or the second syllable of the name:
η - weh...
eta weh...
i'd start translation phonetic encoding if i were you...
that variant stated? eta?
it's also called: a short e....
the opposite like loki to thor?
epsilon... and it's called the long e...
in greek it's ε, in latin it's the basis for avoiding
diacritical confrontation / application...
i.e. ee in the word keep, e.g.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
”in tears, may make other organs weep”
HenryMaudsley, 19th-century English psychiatrist”
<>
make no mistake,
the essaence of
Sorrow
is everywhere:
within the blood streaming,
in each celled nucleus
it etched, microscopic,
to the tear ducts directly connected,
a microbiome insertion everything
so when love torn,
deserted,
merely mentally homeless,
no direction selected,
the weeping originates in
every limb and *****
though no pain sensation need be present
or available to be nominated or accounted,
the tears can’t be closed off,
the torrential hurricane unceasing,
and through it comes with a wisp of a
smile attached,
for the flooding in a mirror
now gleaming reflected
and at longingly last,
a true portrait
saved,
*for a sorrow vented
is a sorrow
freed
and
a profile
completed
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 12:23 PM UTC
Quantum grave robbery corpse bride stood up
acting as a grotesque sign post warning but
that tragic sideways glance splits seconds and
intersections spatters concrete bodies
Pathological investigation and morbid dissection
bears the heaviest weight
of horrifying and paralyzing eternal return
when time loops breaks you upon wheels
Tethered in bad faith
reminiscent of clamped surgical invasive insertion
Ouroboros chasing the dragon only to find the dragon is itself
taking shape as endless mass fed media distraction
Nativity naivety engaged in misstep
of evolution smolders like oaths broken from
talking heads revealed
as trumpeting propaganda warlocks
and even in an infinite period of time
they are still liars
No longer concerned with if it curves
oscillates
stays flat
explodes
is empty
Only want to know
when it all ends.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
My spine is crooked.
I take off my shirt
and it looks like my
body is swollen on
one side.
There's a hole on
my chest; some
insect insertion,
living between
strands of hair.
A scab is on the
back of my head
and it hasn't healed
in years. I'm afraid
to fix it because I
may make it worse.
I'm terrified of what
wounds may breed.
Surgery is probably
the answer or something
like it. I hope they don't
miss and cut something
on my spine. God forbid,
I become as paralyzed as
I feel.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'
an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend
Sunday-in-bed-celebration
the messenger, me,
recommends le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping
"I don't like wet bread"
she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...
*what other dark secrets doth this ***** harbor?*
march 26 2017 10:11 am
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC