"instinctually" poems
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
The world is too big
And I, too small
So I rely on my God
To understand it all
My mind can't seem to comprehend
the things that aim, the world to end
or bring the knees of an African to bend
or millions of jews to the fire send
my neurons a gatling gun , my eyes ascend
my fist I raise, with the heavens contend
God I trust you, all good all powerful, but me You won't defend?
Am i a fool to love you till my end?
I can't understand it all,
all this hate, to a bullet or a noose will I fall?
but still instinctually all I do is call
Call on a good God
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
Written August 31, 2012 (the day after my birthday!)
It actually baffles me, how the human heart works. As a species, us humans enjoy believing we're the best species, we're far more advanced than any other animal, we're so much smarter, we have technology... and opposable thumbs! But in reality, though our inventions and creations are the most advanced, really we're just like animals in the wild. In the end, it all comes down to instinct. Recently, I found this fact in myself to be remarkably true. We have someone in our lives we care about, for example. Instinctually, we want to protect them, so when they do something bad, naturally we want to defend them, especially after seeing them going through hard times. Your defensive instinct skyrockets and you make excuses for them and defend their right to make mistakes after what they've been through but there comes a point when your instinct to protect yourself overpowers your instinct to protect someone else separate from yourself. Especially after finding out you had been defending them for nothing and all this changes in a couple days.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act
It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
"No,"
I sing
A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance
"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."
The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.
I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.
I want to submerge you in a realm of ******** gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…
I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I want to give you complete and total satisfaction.
I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.
I want to show you that I can…
I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.
I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.
I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.
I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.
I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.
I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.
I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.
I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…
I want you to come into my life.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
I'm looking out my window watching the sun dip beneath the sea ever so slowly, the pinks, oranges, and yellows melting together reminding me of my favorite sherbet dessert.
It is scenes like this that ease the pain of reality and worry, something I like to playfully call "worrality" in my own creative chaotic mind.
Everything is questionable, dubious, subject to change is what I have come to find. There are no rules written in the Earth telling us the proper or right way to live, and that is something that we tend to miss. Overlook. Misunderstand.
The sun instinctually and purposefully rises and sets every morning and night to give us another chance to make these precious, subtle, but vital, realizations. And even though we do not see its yellow circle on stormy rainy days, the earth continues to glow and so do we.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
I breathe words
into the
Atmosphere
I inhale rhymes
With solitude
And prejudice
I instinctually
Write every emotion
With no cares
And no worries
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.
He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
This is the point I get to time and time again
My fingers pulsate
My breathing quickens
My heart tightens
because we just can't let our cynicism go
You see, everyone leaves
It's a fact
And just like the leaves on the deciduous trees
I was never meant to stay
And the more fond I grow of your company
The closer we get to that breaking conclusion
And instinctually
And hopelessly
I hold on for dear life
Because why must things be this way
Why can't our days consist of shy smiles
And matching coffee drinks
And hands held lightly
With your gaze being my favorite morning memory
I crave you
But timing is everything
And no one really gets what they want
It's not like we'll make it out alive, anyway
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
there is a universe inside your chest
infinitely expanding
though infinitesimally slow
at times
boundaries stretch, breathe
though confusing at times
destruction feeds growth,
dichotomous paradox forms whole,
stars implode, give way to supernovas,
give way to planets filled with lava and snow
there, inside, a universe
constantly churning,
the incessant spin of all burning
that births light and shadow
here I stand on the precipice.
here, in an amorphous dusk and dawn,
unclear if day or night
is about to kiss the horizon
unsure if I should call to moon or sun
or neither,
or you.
here in limbo, arching my spine to
sneak under the guardrail of loving
here, instinctually shoving myself
into bottlenecks and genie lamps
oh, how my gypsy soul wants to run,
yet feels so enchanted it stays, here
on the precipice,
itching to gain entrance
into the universe brimming
inside of you
there
there, inside your chest
there I said it. and I'll say it again,
and I'll say it even louder:
I confess! I'm enchanted!
I'm enamored, enthralled, enraptured,
I want my heart
to know your heart,
I want to dive chest-first into your outer space galaxy nest
an astronaut without a helmet,
I want to explore, awestruck
never trying to label, box, or understand - simply experience
your universe
there, I finally said it
I'm finally starting
to write the poems I'm afraid of,
the ones I don't want to say out loud
I'm starting to write out shadows and solar flares and floods,
starting to let my heart bleed out of my pen, cause
what the hell am I hiding from?
what are we all so scared of?
we were ****** into this strange world
blind and wet,
groping in the darkness for heaven
meant to rip ourselves open again, again
meant to feel with the depth and tempest of oceans
meant to risk and be fools and fall to meet rose-hued ends
I just want to make love with the light
of a thousand candles, a million stars, and the moon turned on
and panting
silver dripping from her tongue,
dizzy with the heat of solar undulations,
stripping down to the heart of the matter
down to the simple truth of it all:
I was born to feel,
and my god, you...
you make me feel universes
you make me feel thunder and lightning and bedroom churches and power surges
you make me feel sunrise stillness
and it makes me fall silent.
so here I am, writing the poems I'm afraid of
and sending them out, messages
in bottles, adrift
in the endless oceans of your universe
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
Lemons fall into the grass
In late December.
Seeing them outside my window, I instinctually remember
Sensual spring and how it gives one tunnel-vision,
How it turns each fleeting thought to an unchangeable decision.
But Time repeatedly brings what seems gargantuan to pass.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
running from the bulls
a stampede of innocent bystanders
enraged at that ruby color
sweetheart red
passion red
blood red
mixed together,
one and the same,
no distinction.
off the cliff like lemmings
scurrying subconsciously
instinctually
fascinated by that edge
enchanted into oblivion.
the praying mantis
tracking her mate
plotting, planning his demise
a smile oozing with sweetness one moment,
then the heartless attack,
out to ****
smacking her lips,
knowing full well of his fate.
all I learned
I learned from you.
like mother like daughter
Mommy Dearest
you truly are
the cruelest teacher of them all.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:32 PM UTC
Every month
I am reminded of my fertility.
And while I feel physical pain,
I realize that of my emotions is
In the same vicinity.
I want my unborn child to know
That this life... Is like a funny show.
That while I'm unsure of what
She'll look like or he'll look like,
They come automatically into
A world that beyond their control
Will feel warlike.
That their future friends who bear
A darker skin complexion
Unfairly face the utmost rejection.
That their future friends
Who love the same gender
Get judged on their decisions
On who they love and if they happen
To be transgender.
But I want my child to know,
That this judgement and hate
Will always be up for debate
That when she finds her voice
Or when he finds her voice
It's to be shared with those
Without one because of personal choice.
I want my child to know that their pride
Is to be extended, wide, and
As far is it can go.
That when they witness injustice
They'll be expected to instinctually say no.
That these differences America
Still can't accept
Are the differences that
Bring beauty in every corner
And every aspect.
My children will know of the people
Who have bloomed in the midst
Of hatred and doom,
That the grass is not always greener
And that just when they thought they've Seen it all,
There will always be people who are meaner.
But I want my children to know of love,
Unconditional love,
Of acceptance,
Of hope,
Of being anti-weapon.
I want my children to bloom,
Because as their mother was expected to,
She faced the challenge of doing so,
In a world that depicted doom.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.
The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.
Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
I have all the pieces in front of me
all within plane sight
yet it's all hidden
from the conscious mind
I seek it out in the dead of night
when the DMT connects me with everything
and navigate primality
instinctually I sense it in the day
we have the sixth sense
and it's just waiting to be awakened
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
The night gave off an uneasiness
There was a static storm looming
I closed my eyelids in eagerness
Hoping for sleep to consume the feeling
I saw him walking beside me
A memory endlessly creeping in
Once again his step falls behind me
Filling me with pain and panic
I turn almost instinctually
Grasping a blade tightly in hand
Striking him with unnerving velocity
A reoccurring dream of killing him
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
songs, senses pleasing themselves, beat, of silence, song, of ************ of lubrication, beat, of the time in a shift in conversation, expression, in the birds, who do it instinctually, to people, who do it as sponges, yes. we are all spongbob, hurting and dancing and blowing bubbles, ready, ready, ready
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Lost and confused,
are the people.
Where is your purpose to be seen?
You all seem purposeless; Lost.
Too many mind.
You are lost in thought...
Unable to listen to the voice of your nature.
Silent voice that shows you the way.
Like the ants,
Who live and serve their purpose.
Who have no mind, no thought.
Who are instinctually guided from within.
We humans have a purpose to serve.
A very important purpose here on Earth.
Like the white cells in our body,
We stand for the harmony of the planet.
There is harmony in our nature; There is peace.
And this peace we must express to the world.
The mind is an important and powerful tool;
But humans have come to believe " we are the mind"
We go far beyond the mind
To a level the mind cannot understand.
The universe is a huge organism;
Moved by the same force that moves us.
There is nothing the mind says that we "must" do.
We are not here to do anything.
We are here to simply Be.
There is already a divine intelligence taking care of everything.
Humans are the leaders and supreme protectors of the planet.
To live a human experience is a gift.
Our purpose is to live in a state of peace.
Fully aware that we are all connected.
Fully aware that it is in our nature to love.
That the only thing we must do is to live in the present moment;
Following that silent voice from within that tells us:
Be happy, Be peace, Be love --- Just Be.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
This marks the birthing of monumental proportions
turning a black and white world to one of perpetual
variegated sunrises. You are the furthest thing from
an accident. You continue to cultivate one step at a
time breathing new life into each set of hungry eyes
waiting to confront the trojan line that produces the
battles in the brain. What to write next is under the
surface, patient and dormant, for the future paints
you in the adrenaline of other colors. Instinctually,
I look to you and surrender to the abrupt, arresting
grip of the ghost of a thought that’s just out of reach.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
If there was a such this as
perfect
it would be found in the
simple
A child’s smile
a mother’s love
a father’s protection
if perfect
could be theorized philosophically
placed into linguistic terms
there could be no words
no label grand enough
no construction simple enough
save only laughter
if perfect
could be understood mathematically
it would be either be a 1 or a 0
no other representations yields the same
universal and instant ease of understanding
that children instinctually grasp the idea
yet
the same children
when grown
could spend their life exploring the complexities
If perfect
could be known on a spiritual level
it would be that moment one realizes there is a god
ascending to level of worship and devotion
others mistake them for the god they serve
or
it would be that moment when one rejects all divinity
professing that all in creation is not of creation
but of nature and nurture
the only guiding force is the will to survive
If perfect
could be expressed in dance or music
there would only be
one motion
one note
maybe none
stillness
silence
If perfect
could be expressed on canvas or in stone
it would be such that the work would
never be started
untouched
maybe never completed
unfinished
Perfect
is as simple as knowing that one can never see one’s own face
what one knows as one’s one image
is only a reflection
what’s more is that a person is the only person that can never see ones own image
yet all they encounter sees them exactly as they are
exactly as they never can
Perfect perfection
is realization
not thought
not contemplation
Perfection is everything labeled imperfect
The only imperfect thing
is the word its self
© Christopher F. Brown 2013
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
A stream bubbles light.
Soda pop life.
Dappled leaves on thin silver trees.
Pegs in the ground,
we weave we weave we weave,
The strings of our reality,
Laughter. Laughing laughing
lafter lafter, after,
getting dafter.
Splash,
soaked in the stream,
the bubbles bubble bubble,
just a dream.
My dad says if you get wet you should take off your clothes,
'Cos clothes is what caused the aboriginals to sneeze and cough,
And die,
That far off word.
So shivering,
As a breeze sneaks in from the edge,
We wait for mum to collect a naked boy.
He's crouched in his nakedness.
Instinctually hoarding warmth.
As the echoes of laughter
Are less sure of themselves,
Then mum comes to find the absurd.
A visit from another world.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
when he comes back to life
his first thought
is his first
and when
while sitting beside the bathroom sink
instinctually shaking a pregnancy stick
he hears from an air vent what I would call
a frangible keening
he stands on the toilet
and chokes himself, his creamy hands
playing gentle theatrics
on his baby fat
neck
where I see a mark
as if he's been strangled
by the ghost of a snake
that when still
a snake
slithered
from the ashes
of a tree
the tree
it was made to love
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC