"insinuated" poems
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
as they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of vivacious
zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
thirsty skin
needles too
**** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left puddled on a thigh
the ****** burps Pans milkshake
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
and a Tsingtao
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
~
Sitting on my rhinestone lotus pond floating around in my oceanic bedroom
The haunting begins its sinister buzzing with a silent ‘vroom’
Wooden door opening by itself
My jeweled heartbeat falls from a bone frame shelf
Demons hanging like poisoned vines from the painted ceiling sky
Gods then pours their breath inside my empty soul, drowning all insinuated lies
Butterfly piano keys fluttering their enchanted melodies
The notes dripping pearls of discarded lullabies into my hidden pleas
Lost dreams entangled in my seashell hair
As I sit cradling broken memories in my emerald iris, the ones I’ve forgotten to share
Dead skin peeling from my fingertips as I turn a dusty page in my notebook
Loose frays of secrets coming apart, falling away in my Underland outlook
I remember the day I recreated my being, as I drew Self into a mermaid rose
Piercing my revolving face with a jagged pen,
**** fairytales bleeding from my lips, a new world I chose
My dress of ivory seaweed has caught onto a sharp end
I sink into the onyx murky depths of my rhinestone lotus pond, wishing for a friend
Discarded
Bombarded
Licking death, seeing the dead
My attire drifts in the sulphide air, swirling with the essence of dread
I now leave my surreal sanctuary
As rhinestones melt, the pond drains, the lotus folds its metal origami
I’m back from the world I created
Back to reality where a sententious poet is constantly hated
Back to a butterfly wallpapered bedroom where hallucination spend
Yea I’m back, but not for long, not until inspiration comes and I swallow my pen
And into my notebook realm I will be back in my own world again…
~
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
*White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.*
Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.
But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;
no.
A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prologue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
**law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.**
I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?
It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.
I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.
I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.
We are meant to be read.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.
Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.
Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
When I found out
about your little game.
I laughed.
First in anger,
then in spite.
It was so very petty after all.
Your big persona
clothed in a bespangled mantle
of hypocrisy and loyalty
came apart
just like you did
when things began to crack.
Your hands
capable of spinning rifles
and commanding cadets
failed to handle me
in all my complexities.
I do not fault you for that
after all it takes a strong man
to be with a strong woman
but i do fault you
for the veiled hypocrisy
you showed at every turn.
You questioned my loyalty
insinuated at flirtations
flaunted your jealousy
Yet behind my back
all the while
showed honeyed intentions
to the girls in your tracks.
You gave me up
like an unhousebroken puppy,
that had bitten
your tremendous ego.
Citing your love for me
and your good intentions
while all you wished for
was to roam free.
When I figured out your little game
I laughed
first in anger,
then in spite.
But now,
when I think of your game,
I do neither
because the games of small men
no longer interest me,
and neither do you.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
Her love
You know the sort
That makes you lay your head against the hardwood floor
Questioning yourself
Or no one in particular
Where did she come from?
Do you remember eagerly awaiting an answer
From beneath the crevices pushing against your jaw line
As the silence gnawed on your bones
Because I bet when she touched her fingertips to yours
Both of your souls response insinuated a path of many colors
Did her laughter warm your frost bitten lungs?
While her stare burnt bright behind your irises?
She probably tenderly confided in you a thousand silent words
Day after day
Until the depths of her beauty lit that fire inside
Igniting it with a smile that threw your heart into the wind
Every time
She was that commercial love , Right?
Misty meadows and crashing waves with summer salt
She was that drown in her kiss and leave you gasping for air, love
That lay your head on the hardwood and wonder where it all went love
Am I right?
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
A parking spot is a location
A mug is just a cup
Why am I fixating
On things that don't mean that much
A shirt is not a statement
But these things are adding up
And I am captivated by
Someone who doesn't give a ****
I think I'm losing my mind
It's all up in the air
Our days were numbered from the start
And I don't know why I care
You're still driving me crazy
You insinuated things you wouldn't dare
You crossed every line I drew
Making me fall in love was never fair
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
a faded picture
consumed by hopes
softly entrusted
to the wind
a music
far and slight
played by a record
scratched by dust
and time
as the weight of your naked body
over mine
it is now the oppression on my chest
for the lack of who
should touch it
as the beating of your heart
under my face
rubbed on your skin
rough and hot
it is now the arid ticking
of a clock
that relentlessly articulates
the minutes of our us
without you
as your scent
harsh and intense in my coilings
in my flesh
it is now the salty smell of my tears
impregnated into a pillow
cold and crushed
by the weight of my desolation
as the strength of your back
who supported my weakness
it is hard today
the regrets wall against which I slam
to escape from the fog
as your sweet whispers
slipped on my skin
in my hair
it is now icy and lonely
the breath of the night
that invests me with its petty hissing
as your soft caresses
that insinuated into my expectations
burned by your touch
it is now violent the hassle
of a crumpled sheet
that brushes me
wilted and warm
of an unknown heat
my eyes closed
I meander
lost and exiled
in thoughts imprisoned
in the pages of a diary
tattooed on my skin
until the penultimate page
and then again from the first
in a circle
vicious and delicious
of passion and love and obsession
who lives and relives
until the dawn of a sunset
that should never get
until a last page
deleted
don’t read the end
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
while they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
like thirsty skin
needles; **** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left on a thigh
the ****** burps
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 4:15 PM UTC
poetry
a blue snake
stretches from one to the other
it breaks the shop window
it coils insiduously
around those driven
from the street into the house
it binds hands and learns to cry
the utterance at the service of power
don't throw the mantle of clouds
off my shoulders
remember
in the beginning was the word
in the last night
distorted
eventually
there remains poetry insinuated
like a blue snake
into the cup full of tears
Carmen Firan
translated by Andrei Bantas
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
She's getting older.
I always knew she was old.
The dry lips
Can't just be a family trait
The wrinkles
Can't all just be smile-lines.
The fact that she was my father;s mother insinuated the fact.
But I didn't realize she was old.
She's never been old in
The feeble way
Hunched over while walking
Not noticing everything around her.
But now she hunches
And she doesn't notice
And her voice doesn't take
That cutesy tone when talking to me.
She doesn't use her silly sayings
And doesn't scout the store
For shirts I might like.
She's old.
And when you get old,
You leave.
Forever.
But she can't leave.
I love her
And I need her to be around.
I need both of them to be around.
Forever.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
missing stupid
little things
room for two
comfortable
familiar
I find myself
missing
the littlest
things
not
empty words,
****** favors,
tally marks
of headaches
instigated &
insinuated-
i dream of
willingness to
sit in silence
loving a stranger
who feels every
day like new
kindred spirit
eyes wander
eyes erupt
emaciate
& emancipate
soul from body
the gentle
presence
blanketing
my hands
kisses across
collar bones
blissful negligence
I miss it more
than I could ever anticipate
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
we
have
sensuously fondled
the soul of each other's mentals
with
creative wordplay
prosed verbs and nouns
and emphasized the importance
of the vowels
U and I
we
have
bathed in the
ocean of our imaginations
almost to the extreme of obsession
and composed thoughts of
double digits
like
60nine along with
other numbers and letters
and rhymes with reasons that
b l e w our minds
m a n y
times
we
have
metaphorically
foreplayed to set our bodies aFLAME
and playfully insinuated which vowel was to blame
U or I?
count l e s s times
we
have
f
a
l
l
e
n
into
the depths of
our verses and have been
s w e p t away by
the intensity of our poetic liaisons
e v e r y
s i n g l e
t i m e
©2002cj
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
*a seven year nebuchadnezzarª psychosis will do
that to you, waking up from such a dream
can be bewildering, esp. when taking up a pen,
remembering cohort conventions of clearly
insinuated arguments, in essays of wide ranging
historical interests.*
but, but i haven’t aged...
ha ha (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha)
also called a magpie cackle; in reverse
dentistry's a, i.e. aħ, i.e. 'open wide, now say a'.
i never wished for a cage for a voice to wish
either, i liked free limbs to try to swim
rather than attempt paparazzi sinking for a fret
once dubbed swimming.
ªand as nebuchadnezzar's dream second interpreter
after daniel, it really doesn't matter who you ascribe
the feet of iron and clay to, all all preceding
portions of the statue, the gold (babylon), the silver
(persia), the brass (greece) and the iron (rome),
they all fall, because empires like the men who
found them, reach a zenith, and then tumbleweed
into the nadir, the abyss of papyrus, bookworms,
silent concert halls of reading, dust and yawning,
for both men and their empires are but clay / iron
(well, you have to remember the iron in haemoglobin).
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
I can't leave aside the latitude of your eye
where roads and memories reside
my dreams
more than my shadow crash into you
my lips conjure your scent
my insinuated hand does not hold
does not hold anything tangible
words are wounds, the meanings flow
angles intersect and lines converge
to the proof or woof of your existence
in this poem the words laugh
at the fragile calculus of tears
as if they would celebrate the question mark
in an unfinished sentence
I wonder where your touch begin, how far
the eye can stretch into the camera obscura of flesh
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 9:10 AM UTC
I dont know if it was because of the book you were reading
Or if it was because the curvature of your sloped spine
insinuated you were tired
Or maybe it was because you just looked lonely
But, you looked like you could write poetry
it could’ve been the pen marks on your fingers
Or the tan lines across your neck
But eyes like that don’t just sit down
Eyes like that start fires in my cheeks
And picket signs in my chest
And **** off legislators
But more importantly they make me want to write
I don’t know if it was the way your jaw clenched you
Or the way your tongue bit your teeth
But you looked like you could recite poetry
And even worse, I wanted to listen
I wanted to be your commitee, outreach, moral support
I wanted to be your pen, paper, microphone, clothes on your back
I wanted to be anything that touched your skin, touching me
You’re least favorite feeling is when your holding back tears and your face is about to explode
There’s reasons why the clouds look so heavy before falling
God can hold so much in
You said you don’t believe in luck, but you’re a firm believer in hope
That three leaf clovers weren’t done growing when they were plucked
That when a lady bug didn’t land on your hand,
A premature baby somewhere is using his grasp his mother’s finger
For the first time
I want to hear the poetry that you’ll write about the
spaces between your fingers
It will be the closest i’ll ever get to holding them
you were born an angry baby.
with tears in your eyes
But i use to poetry to say they weren’t angry.
just eyes dancing.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Simon was a straight A who made the grade,
But crippling news hit him like Brook's *****
He fell into to some beastly vices and adrift was his mind,
Stumbled back up the path less traveled and down the path of the blind.
You see Simon spent his caged days in **** houses,
He was the dirt on the walls as well as the blood on the floor.
I'm sure the filth was bursting with dreary happiness and memories of Farmhouses,
Splendid days were they; when Simon had control of the Devils door.
Simon's offering his all to get clean - but it's impossible when you gawk at the TV,
A Prince marrying to a straight A Yankee, he insinuated "A happiness that seems so far from me".
That's all I can seem to recollect from my parley with Simon,
I'm sure he sundered into a rabbit hole of despair because of the Nirvana he'll never live in.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
on the drive home i
spotted an absurd billboard broadcasting
a benign worldview an asinine
sign espousing a single word meant
to inspire endless iterations of hope and
worship in one bisyllabic phrase
believe.
it had a period
at the conclusion
as if this was
the end all and be all
a sycophantic
intonation that insinuated
pseudo-religious proclamations
independent of rational
thought and evidence
a foregone preclusion
to excluding others
on the condition that
they didn't share the
exact same faith
ironically
the billboard advertised a
multi-million dollar company
Morgan & Morgan
a law firm masquerading
beneath the pretentious
pretense of their slogan
For The People
as if they were god's gift
to the city of Orlando
but if they were truly devoted
to the precepts of Jesus i dare say
they'd spend less time gloating
and more time defending the poor
'cause when you're making thousands
of dollars an hour on someone else's
pain and misfortune i somehow wager
the radical rabbi who entered Jerusalem on a
donkey would have a thing or two to say
what would the world
look like if the people
who call themselves Christ-followers
quit spewing sermons on billboards
and focused instead
on their savior's
greatest commandment
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
I am starting to recognize myself again
You know, the me that you tried to suffocate
The real me
The woman that laughs out loud at ***** jokes
The woman that didn't want to bite her tongue in front of your judgemental family
I am starting to look in the mirror and like myself again
You know, the me that you always insinuated needed to lose weight
The woman who likes to cook things because they taste good, not simply because "Angela, the body needs only nutrients"
The woman that didn't want to disintegrate into broken pieces for you
I am starting to remember what my voice sounds like standing up for myself
I am beginning to recall what the tv shows and movies I love sound like
I am finally starting to love myself again
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
She bounded into the room brim full,
Buoyant and bubbling; bouncing
With bonhomie.
Like an ever expanding balloon, she filled the space and flattened other Guests
Against the wall.
Filling their mouths with her rubbery taste.
She swelled again
And they shrank.
Conversation shrivelled,
Guests snivelled.
'Was it something I said?'
She oozed herself between chatting pairs
And insinuated herself into private conversations
Offering unsolicited advice.
She broke the spell of lovers' eyes and blocked the path of their gaze.
Two glasses of wine and the volume soared.
Three and the tone soured.
Bored, she wandered into the night.
She sighed.
The house sighed.
The hostess sighed.
Her friends sighed
And all for different reasons.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Just as lime
As the soil
Integrates
Sinew and bone
Tastes
All that made man
Into a lad
Just a breeze
Insinuated
Weakness in sight of
An oak trees majesty
Or a
Steeple
Browned eyes askew
Down tween everlast
And yesterday
Came
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
I wish I could delete everything I’ve ever posted on the internet,
make myself disappear,
untraceable, unavailable, please try again another time,
I want to hit return and erase every text I’ve ever sent,
being invisible is safe, anonymity is freedom,
I want to fall out of cyberspace and into a black hole of pre recorded memories,
of times before we were attached to cords for validation,
so many perceptions of who I am create Frankenstein versions of me insinuated in the minds of others,
am I who I think I am or who you think I am?
manipulating wires became plugged into our brains and we forgot what we looked like in the mirror,
I want to know what I really think of me,
not what I was groomed into seeing
from years of comparisons that will never be enough,
I want to log myself out from the internet and act like I just logged in,
to what life would’ve been without it
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 8:36 AM UTC
And now I need a moment of silence to collect my thoughts as well as free my mind. When I catch myself starting to drift of to you my body responds only seen internally. As goodbumps rise and warms washes over me I know iv found someone good to stay around. Maybe not
Forever.
But that's always the gamble.
I would
Hate to give up being able to look into
Your eyes and decipher your mind. To
Have hou hold
My hand softly and whisper sweet tempting nothings in public occasions. This feeling of you in my bed is most as exciting as the fact it's insinuated I can now sleep and clear my head.
You have a dark aura but not that of pain but mystery. Burning crimson and causes pleasures in undiscovered places and unexplainable syncracy under covers. And as opposite as the shapes of of our hearts are, our desires for each others bodies through affection is yearning and we coincide frequently understanding how to fit together our personalities puzzle pieces.
They say opposites attract and baby let me say they do. I seem to always think what it is you can see when you seem not to have anything In common with me. But maybe we can trade stories and learn how each others personas we're made. I haven't felt that look of lust in a while and it's killing me to be restricted from you.
I'm more ways then one.
As each day moves on my lips want to get closer to that forbibbem fruit and damnyself into selfless trust once again. I think of my torso your body and feeling your skin hot and sweaty. Your eyes roll back in a kind of certanty only lovers should feel because love being made in a concept kept away. But if I imagined what it could be like that's what I'd think of any day. And scratching your back as though to show how much pleas my souls can take.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC