"interchangeable" poems
The new # 69 hoochi coochi smoochi
rubberized *** robot ****** sucker model 2.0
now available
****** off
feelin lonely
tired of spats
credit cards charged up from dates that don't put out
don't like the same restaurants
not ***** to your taste
cant stand the in-laws
you wana live costal, they like Kansas
or
tired of internet dating
and no time for a quickie
when the one you love tells you they aren't in the mood
well bunky
its a brave new world
take a spin in our new model
robot 69, 2.0
they talk
they walk
warm all ova inside and out
scented oiled perfumed *** optional
and flavored
to include
chocolate crunch, vanilla, strawberry
and
phooey
replete with an array of assorted interchangeable
***** pussy's and butts
extra sturdy for ware and tear
and those little irresistible spankies and whoopins
you just cant live without
plus any colors, or rainbow rubber chasse
gay straight or mix it up how eva
trans trans gender
buy out right
or rent ala cart
deluxe or standard
voice activated
advanced multi lingual
baby talk and hits the high notes
talks back software program
and
NO always means YES
plus
screams
cu cu cu cu cu cummmmming
cooes I love you
**** me now *****
shred me you ****** ******
and many others
in over 50 languages
Other optional features include
age play
ethnic fetish
banjee
blow jobs
tipping the velvet
**** to mouth
salad tossing
tea bagging
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
*******
mammary ***********
***** call
Netflix and chill
donkey punch
golden shower
brown bath
cream pie
*******
motor boating
and the shocker
two in the pink and one in the stink
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Lies are lies
they deny you the truth.
Truth is truth
it denies you the lie.
when examined closely both are exactly the same.
They are interchangeable.
People that tell the "truth" to you are denying you lies.
How boring and dangerous and malevolent are people full of truth.
Choose your religious truth---
Christian truth.
Islamic truth.
Judaic truth.
Vedic Hindoo truth.
Buddist truth.
Capitalist truth.
Socialist truth.
Free market truth.
Managed market truth.
Monarchist truth.
Democratic truth.
Militarist truth.
Liberal truth.
Fascist truth.
People that tell lies to you are denying you truthfulness.
How boring and dangerous and malevolent are people full of lies.
Choose your lies.
Christian lies.
Islamic lies.
Judaic lies.
Vedic Hindoo lies.
Buddist lies.
Capitalist lies.
Socialist lies.
Free market lies.
Managed market lies.
Monarchist lies.
Democratic lies.
Militarist lies.
Liberal lies.
Fascist lies.
Truthfulness is neither truth nor lies.
It exists on its own.
Truthfulness is free of the Duality of Truth and Lies..
The individual Isness exists in the state of Separate and Merged with the Isness of the Universe.
Permanent Mindlessness is unconditional love--just ask any Dog or Cat.
The Mind separates us from the Isness of the Universe.
The Mind creates Duality which is governed by Conditional Love.
The individual Isness creates Unconditional Love(Consciousness) which is outside Duality.
Mind cannot create Unconditional Love.
The individual Isness cannot create Conditional Love.
If you have Mind/Conditioned Identity in your head you cannot love Unconditionally.
If you do not have Mind/Conditioned Identity then you can only love Unconditionally.
If you have Mind and Conditioned Identity you cannot be Merged with the Isness of the Universe.
If you are Mindless and Conditioned Identityless you are merged with the Isness of the Universe.
Conditional Love says I love you on Condition I can hate you.
Unconditional Love says I will never stop loving you but I may dissapprove of your actions but I will never hate you because I cannot hate..
Conditional Love is selective--it only applies to Family and Friends and fellow GroupMind members.
Unconditional Love is not selective--it applies to every living being--human or otherwise.
Unconditional Love does not see people as Friends and Enemies.
Unconditional Love sees people as individual Isness incarnated in bodies.
Humans are deceived by the Mind into believing that the Conditioned Identity is their true Identity and deceived by the Mind into believing that they should leave the running of their brains and therefore their lives to the Mind.
The individual Isness is a small but equal individual independent,
nameless,formless,genderless,autonomous portion of the Isness of the Universe that people controlled by Mind are taught to call a Soul.
The Soul is just another Mind created Conditioned Identity.
The Atman is just another Mind created Conditioned Identity.
The individual Isness is formed from a small but equal portion of the essence of the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in a Human Body of either Gender-_male or female of any skin colour.
www.beyondenlightenment.co.uk
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
I'm creating a Lego alter-ego
Called Scarlet.
Her skin is flawless
Her face a fixed fierce determined smile
Her drawn on ******* will never sag
And she never has a hair out of place.
She has a pet monkey by her side
Poached from my brothers 1989 pirate set
After she duelled with Pegleg Pete
And made him walk the plastic plank.
She has lego lovers in high places
Batman has given her the code to his 6860 set batcave
And the white Knight from castle set 70404
Has lent her his trusty steed
And he drank from her cup.
She is fearless and has an interchangeable
Wipe clean wardrobe
She can be whatever she wants
She is **** yet robust
When placed on a high shelf
She may gather dust
But she is always ready
For fun and adventure
And she will never age or rust.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Unto Him I am glued
my King of Prussia.
oxytocin- dopamine dilated
his pupils inside his blue green
as I entered Him, eons ago,
and never came out
He left but returned to my abode
for me or his Tequila.
I wanted to fall down crying beg him to take me with him to his heaven
Saving me from the hellish existence
But pain was greater then tears to convince HIM.
~~
Into his song YESTERDAY I merged
and with one voice we often sing it
from that time on and on.
I became his song his moon and stars.
Although our fame sleeps
as beauty rested in a glass coffin;
with one leap across the gap
chaos that one butcher
with medical ignorant lies
opened up and three
of us got evaporated.
With one song each in heart
we bridged that chasm.
In his art we thrive yet for long.
To Him to his heart of gold
I slowly walk to, his ancient bride.
Into our holy temple of forever,
straight to his heart and open arms
United in one single thought.
Our own Taj Majal
to reign we did plan to build.
Into mine eye pupils, grasping
all of his substance in
his light projecting all was received
My intergalactic time traveler.
Interchangeable we are.
In me he finds more than wisdom
he finds truth a true artist.
Our true love bittersweet.
Before Him I Joyfully crumble kneeling
As he embraces my swollen
teary eyes and merging me
Into to his heart and arms
I surrender grace, charm
and complete trust.
There!
In confining solitude
In the darkest of mine nights
My brightest sunny days
it's him I hear, love and seek.
I understand, worship
and adore him forever more
He's my true love! Luna tell Him!
That I love him the most.
~~~~~~
Mr. And Mrs Andrew
And Karijinbba.
All rights reserved
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 4:10 PM UTC
If you want to impress me,
You have to surprise me.
You have to do
That last thing that I would ever expect you to do
And then keep doing that
Everyday.
You have to go against the norm.
You have to catch me off guard
And make me question everything I ever thought
To be true.
Yes, I might hate you for it,
But rest assured that I will be enthralled.
Hate and love are interchangeable,
Right?
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Words confuse me
What’s more correct; Presume or assume
I like to think that I’m clever
Or Witty
But I find myself looking at dictionaries
or thesauruses
More often than I like to admit
What words are interchangeable?
Trust and betrayal are interlocked in my mind
When I look at you, I wonder what I’d find
If I looked up Love in the dictionary
Surely you can’t be the closest I’ll get
To a father figure
Love and Hate
Pain and Joy
I find I can't tell the difference
Am I witty?
Am I clever?
Tell me, what’s more fitting; Uncle or Monster?
Words confuse me,
But you terrify me.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Blood is thicker than water.
I'm nine years old and my mother had sighed us both up for a dieting course.
At eighteen I still see how interchangeable fatness and ugliness are to her.
I still have to stop myself from thinking of skipping meals after I ate "too much".
Clinging to the fear of the slippery slope that serves as my only guard.
I see it in my friends too,
comforted by their opposition for what my mother had embraced like gospal for the helpless fools.
Blood is thicker than water.
I like the hairs on my body.
The short and soft strands that cover my legs, blonde and black and all too
natural.
Removing them leaves my legs red and prick-prick- pickling for days but-
My sister laughs through a wrinkled nose,
My cousin tells stories, horrified, of women like me,
Mother says it's unhygienic and would not let me leave the house like this.
I haven't worn shorts in years.
But my friends' confident 'fuck you' to everyone who isn't them,
who dares control their bodies and shame them into pain or hiding,
makes me feel like one day I might wear them again.
Blood is thicker than water,
I find it hard to talk to people.
The thought of discussing anything more than trivial matters makes my lunges heavy in my chest.
Talking to my parents- a heavy led filling what seem less and less like lungs with every passing second.
Talking to my friends- the heaviness doesn't always go away, but the weight doesn't get harder to bear.
I heard my mother tell a friend how her kids talk to her about everything.
A bitter laugh never tasted so much as the sea.
Blood is thicker than water,
Since I can remember myself, I never wanted kids.
Took me years so unveil why.
The dismissal cut deep when Mother assumed she knew me better than I do, a cruel arrogance for what she must only consider her property.
'You'll change your mind and give me grandchildren'
A payment for my life-
"Interest" she calls it.
Blood is thicker than water,
When I came out to you, dear parents, you once again ignored me
as if I hadn't tortured myself enough,
as if it hadn't taken me years trying to accept myself before you turned your back on me with cruel dismissal.
As if I don't still struggle.
All I have left is to fall back on my friends' support again,
being caught in their loving embrace without ever asking to.
They say you can't choose your family but-
the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 2:29 PM UTC
A Trochee Christmas and its Several Interchangeable Anapests
Brought to You in Some Desperation
By Your Local Chamber of Commerce
(Second Trailer Past the Stoplight)
Christmas in the Park
Christmas on the Main
Christmas on the Lake
Christmas on the Strand
Christmas on the Square
Christmas on the Farm
Christmas on the Beach
Christmas on the Mall
Christmas in the Mall
Christmas on the Block
Christmas on the Coast
Christmas on the Gulf
Christmas on the Hill
Christmas in the Keys
Christmas on the Quay
Christmas on the Quad
Christmas on the Range
Christmas on the Ranch
Christmas in the Vale
And this year, Christmas at the 'Gras!
But no Christmas without anapests, ‘kay?
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
The rock slept
Genghis Khan clamped fingers
Over the edge of a land mass
And peeled freedom away from the East
The rock slept
The mob beheaded a woman who aided the American Revolution
Americans denied it later
But every town called Marietta is named after her
The rock slept
A vegetarian who didn’t drink and smoke
Commandeered information technology and chemical engineering
To commit the biggest murder-robbery
In the history of daylight and star-shine
The rock slept
The vegetarian cowered from justice
Committed suicide like the milksop/milquetoast he was
The rock slept
A fourteen-year-old boy clamped his fingers
Around it
Aimed it at High Strength Lexan riot shields
Protecting flesh, blood, and bone minimally paid
Protecting shields of numbers, theories, interchangeable office holders
Until he realized the futility of it
Dropped the rock
Turned south (or maybe north)
And walked away
The rock slept
Snoring unheard through the next spurt of tyranny
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
An entrenchment of truths
That hold forth a funeral table
For gracious hospitality
Of gentle nostalgia
In indulgence of murderous affection
Which manifest adequate
Yet uncomprehending grieving
Ambiguities of advocacy
In their extreams of moralizing warnings
In fleeting appearances who tell bold lies
In the mosaics of enclosed palaces
Presenting bouquet upon bouquet
Of black flowers on this weighted table
Truths that have been deprived of their vein stone
Truths owned to identity of embodiment
Surreal and interchangeable
That resonate in timely dissorder
Like the noise of migrating birds
Flying to the edge of the world
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
The Hawker Hurricane is a British fighter design from the 1930s. Some 14,000 Hurricane and Sea Hurricane fighters and fighter-bombers were built by the end of 1944。 August 1940 brought what has become the Hurricane's shining moment in history: The Battle of Britain. RAF Hurricanes accounted for more enemy aircraft kills than all other defenses combined, including all aircraft and ground defenses. Later in the war, the Hurricane served admirably in North Africa, Burma, Malta, and nearly every other theater in which the RAF participated. The Hurricane underwent many modifications during its life, resulting in many major variants, including the Mk IA, with interchangeable wings housing eight 7.7mm (0.303in) guns;the Mk IIC, with a Merlin ** engine; the Mk IID, a tankbuster with two 40mm anti-tank guns plus two 7.7mm guns. During the war, Hurricanes were sold to Egypt, Finland, India, the Irish， Persia, Turkey and the USSR Air Corps.More in http://www.rangorango.com/124-series-c-1_5.html
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
lesbians will want to write about your hands
the way they wrap around warm cups of tea
and clench and unclench with rage and pride
she'll notice the delicate length of your fingers
how they feel pressing and bruising into soft flesh
the art they make, the stories they create
the blood sprouted from knuckles in societal protest
their kindness, their firmness, their warmth
lesbians memorize every mark and line of them
how they never strike her
how they settle in her own, how they feel inside her
how you use them to clasp your bra and pin up your hair
the way you draw them together, how they fold into you
when they touch to your lips, when they touch to hers
how they pass through her barriers, sneak under shirts
wake her from sleep, lull her to rest, appear in her dreams
lesbians will take them in her own
hold them to her mouth, her breast, her heart
wonder what they are doing at any time of the day
feature them in fantasies and daydreams
claim them as her own, as if they were hers
love them when they shake and when they are steady
she'll want your hands to be her hands and hers to be yours
interchangeable, familiar, worshiped
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
I said no.
I know I said stop.
But I haven’t met a guy yet who understood that.
Yes
and No
are not interchangeable
And stop
never means go.
And it’s not her fault
for looking like that
And it’s not her fault
that all he wants is some ***
But he won’t stop,
and his weight is crushing her
He won’t stop
and he’s forcing her.
The feeling of a man pulling at the back of your hair
isn't a great feeling ever
after you've been there
in her position
unable to control any of it
Unable to push him off
or away
because he’s holding your hands with a wild grip
and with a force that overpowers every ounce of your strength.
After that, the touch of a man will rarely make you swoon or sway.
And you won’t understand
the feeling of guilt that never quite goes away
That feeling that you are weak
and worthless
because all you could do was pray and take it.
Because society has taught her she did something wrong:
That she asked for it
that she invited it.
And maybe she was asking for something,
but that sure as hell wasn't it.
She didn't ask to be treated like she was worthless.
And PSA:
no woman is.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
I entered the display case
of people educators
subsidizing snobs
the multirich and companies
among tourists and inhabitants
who want to be seen
in the museum café and
with sophisticated pastry lard
the conversation with careless clauses
they quote from an authority
whom nobody has to understand
to get the intention
of the praised artists
The shop was crowded
Spotlights on show-pieces
fancy coffee table books
and chic presents
for the season and the next holidays
Especially the past
is on sale, postcards
of the attractions
and sights of the city
interchangeable
like the collections
which graduated stylists
cast in international moulds
to magnets for visitors
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
Maybe I'm not sick enough
Of sad, beautiful girls.
They wear misery so well.
Like pouty lips,
And blushy cheeks.
Swollen eyes,
And little mouth noises-
A siren's call.
**I'm a ******* ********* at heart.**
It's pretty sick
Of her
To humor me like this.
To let me be the joke.
Doesn't she know
That I would sabotage myself
Just to hear her laugh?
Just to feel wanted?
Just to feel worthy?
Just to make my skin feel bearable?
Doesn't she know
She's the movie screen
I project my affections
Onto?
Sniveling silver.
Doesn't she know
She's my one chance
At feeling normal?
At feeling anything at all?
Doesn't she know
I'm tired?
I don't want to wait anymore.
I'm pretty sick
Of myself.
I need her laughter
To drown out the silence.
I'm so uneasy alone.
Their wet eyes are interchangeable.
A series of lips,
Cooling cheeks.
Blue mouths-
And their captivating sounds.
I laugh.
I'm pretty foolish.
She's pretty sick.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Even amongst purple walls
adorned in maudlin posters and prints,
drawings and postcards of exhibitions,
I see your glint in the corner of my room.
Inactive grey body with a head of rubber,
waiting to be powerfully silver,
but innocent, you persist.
You tell me my back is sore again-
and all you wish to do is relieve it.
Persistent innocence.
I'm working on a final essay, and you are knocking,
at my limbs and everywhere but where you want to
really go.
Innocence, you persist.
Dark and threaded to the outlet, you are ready
to apply the pressure needed for tension release.
Mocking, teasing, tempting.
*That essay isn't going to do itself,
but I know someone who will.*
Writing this ode,
is my act of rebellion against you,
but you know I long for the shaking
the rapture,
the center of my pleasure
encapsulated in your interchangeable
concentration.
But I have to unplug you.
Life is too impatient.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Laying here alone in my bed,
writing angsty teen poetry in my head
Because my words are generally misunderstood
and I want to spread,
a more positive message
but I feel like I'm missing something
Now I open my individuality to the world
by writing interchangeable verses
left open to interpretation
trying to impress her with my vague themes,
quick wit, and fascination with things
most would find less than semi-interesting
and so what if my self-confidence is tattered,
or if I only have an average sized ego,
contrary to what I'll tell other people
and even if it never makes any difference,
or if I never realize my potential
My chances with women with steadily decline
until I'm rendered undateable
I'll continue to seek solace in drugs
because I've never been partial to things like girls
and the act of reproduction
I embrace inadequacy
Its all the rage;
I'm the ******* cliche
And I lack social grace
All aboard the bandwaggon,
Because all my friends and I
have the same hair
and general outlook on life
Some people have real problems and some have lives,
I don't think I fit into either of those percentages
I'm bound to live without meaning
for the rest of my days
because I've ****** up everything
I've ever felt meant anything
you can see it in my face,
behind this facade I put on
Smile :)
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
I often wonder if there are ghosts
that watch me
as I reach out to the other side of the bed,
laugh,
and whisper things,
pretending you're still there
Sometimes I play a game in my head
where I hit the play button on my life
and you have no choice but to watch from wherever you are
as I surround myself with things
I know would make you miss me
Do you ever think that when you dream of someone,
they can feel it
and maybe they wake up remembering you somehow?
I doubt you could stand waking up
with my name in your mouth each morning
Not when you've earned the right to forget it
Love and hate are independent sentiments
but somehow with you they're interchangeable
I've read somewhere about the science behind our memories,
how they paint a pretty picture
of a person we can no longer have,
but underneath all the layers of thick paint are the realities;
the uncertainty,
the mean streaks,
the resentment,
all in ***** splashes of muddy brown and red
The problem is that
I've been scrubbing at your painting in my head
until my hands go numb
and I still only see all my favorite colors
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
Boyfriend number 1
Moody, tall & grumpy
Heard he's got 8 kids
****** glad he dumped me.
Boyfriend 2 & 3
Interchangeable, doing battle
Fighting for my affections
****** tittle tattle.
Boyfriend 4 heartbreaker
Mastering his art
Olympic flirt, lothario
2 timing man **** ****
Boyfriend 5 flash Harry
A ladies man, so he reckoned
Metallic Ford Capri
He was gone in 60 seconds.
Boyfriend 6 & 7, Hammer Horror
How the **** did these begin
Beer goggles and cocktails
UGH! Just let me catch me skin.
Boyfriend 8 from Down Under
Bit angry, bit thick
James dean Lookey likey
Married him too quick.
Boyfriend 9, pious
Quiet nature boy
Once married grumpy ****
Terminated contract, lack of joy.
Boyfriend 10 professional
Public Sector, comprehensible
Politically correct lifestyle
He thought I wasn't sensible.
Boyfriend 11 is The Man
Mild mannered rampant ram
Sizzling hot attraction
He accepts me as I am.
Now the chase is over
Got him, Bingo, I've won
Hellfire he's got 5 kids
******* glad I've been done.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I really have a soft spot for winter weather
It’s sweater time
It’s scarf time
It’s cuddle time…or a-little-more-than-cuddling time
And it’s sweaters and scarves indoors time because people seem determined to hide the aftermath of mouths that have overstayed their welcome
In the corners of shoulders and collarbones
Tracing tracheas to chests and lingering just out of reach of lips
And because I’ve been taught to hide these marks, I do
But if I could, I would accessorize with necklaces of purple and blue
Passionate hues that grow from teeth and tongues
Can you paint with all the colors of the
Winding veins that spindle into spirals around blood and bones and vitals
Can you decorate the blank canvas of my neck
With Rorschach tests that I’ll spend the next few days
Analyzing and decoding
Finding new shapes just for fun
And then we’ll start again with stripes and spots and splotches
Remembering that the fireworks we call cliché are interchangeable with capillaries
Bursting under layers of skin
To later be concealed under layers of cloth
And people will blush when the consistency in their color is questioned
And they’ll tug their collars higher
But I’ll always have a love for the fact that these are bruises that come from beauty
That these bodies end up damaged in the most gentle of ways
And please don’t put a negative spin on damage
Because I know of people that will spend all kinds of money for outfits that look like they’ve been through hell and back
Because distress is a style and the aesthetic is stunning
And even though people joke as they will
I’m secretly proud to wear a badge of black and blue
On the corner of my collar claiming
You Were Here
And I’ll pin one to your neckline
Signed and dated
I Was Here
And the blood that we’ve drawn to the insides of each other’s skin
Only mirrors the blush that appears on my face when I smile and think
I really am lucky to have you
And it’s sweater weather outside so these bruises will stay confined
Under the snowy scarves we’re told to keep
But I’ll admire this art as it fades through the week
Tracing over physical proof of nights that fall into the past
And scrutinizing the speed at which they do
Adoring the marks that no one else seems to
Because aftermaths confirm realities
And I could never disdain the colors that tell the world who we are to each other
And how we stay warm in the winter
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
JPC-
My true love you threw your magnetic pebbles your magical out worldly rocks
on my lap
you called my small momma your portal to heaven star seed.
I called your small Daddy
the bridge to heaven
and we whispered to each other
the titles; Mama and Papa.
I guess we lived many lifetimes as man and wife as twin souls interchangeable twin flames before.
In almost every book ever written where love is lost or found and in every lifetime we found each other I'm never alone, we remain glued
just one thought away.
I notice your waves right here on HP they fall on my writ pond and mine fall on yours my beloved.
You might just as well call me Delene where both of us meetings in some mystic time travel space ship.
In love with your poetic waves revealing secrets;
true love always takes chances on Earth and up in some exotic E.T. mother ship.
~~~~~~~~~
Mr and Mrs Andrews
with Karijinbba.
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 7:20 PM UTC
Balance;
Balance is what we want
Balance is what we believe we want
Balance is what I believe we want because
Balance is what sows what we call imbalance
Imbalance is what we believe we hate
Imbalance is what we need though;
Balance is the writing
Imbalance is the highlighter
One can exist without the other
While the other’s reliance is desperate and sporadic;
Balance in its own right is imbalance
Imbalance is bred from balance
Imbalance is bred because we realize:
Imbalance is what we want
Balance is what we need
Both are interchangeable
Both create the never ending cycle that we call life;
Without imbalance, balance would be boring. And without balance, imbalance would cease to exist.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
leave me
to precious illusions
moments of bliss
love imaged
momentarily eases the thirst
the dreaded melancholy
until
i am awaken
re-remembering the gnawing thirst
even at busy intervals
never a stranger
how i wish providence to come
and quite me of melancholy
impatient i am
resentful, for unwanted experience
that lacerated deep
weak and regretful
but always interchangeable
never constant
she has alluded me in youth
i wonder
in age
have i
atoned enough
will she finally find me worthy
uncertain of my fate
i drift
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC