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"intimates" poems
soiled. here there everywhere. regular like. verb and noun, he, both. soiled, soiled. verb, noun. ***** a stupid~sounding word. say ***** ***** ***** three times fast. what is a sound of ***** intimate. what is the color of ***** every color that leaves you, or even begins you, soiled, sullied, tainted. sweaty. the intimate man did not intimate. his stains were visible. no need for polite, needless the charade, of legitimizing intimacy, there for all to see. they were no longer intimate. he did not know why, after awhile, he didn't care. pretended intimacy, which was a ***** thing, a stainless steel cutlery kind of ***** a reflection visible only to the eye of the beholder. cutlery was never clean, soiled, after but one use, think. in the mouth, with the hands. such intimacy, that, they still shared. an easy pretense. terror. terror is intimate and ***** lived in terror. not constant which implies periodic spaces. no breaks. the terror soiled him, you did not need even be intimate with me. sweaty, see, smell it. taste it, even better! though the terror was deeply intimate, in the skin embedded, I told ya, easy visible. easy to avoid the intimacy of terror. clean, silky clean intimates, changed regular, changed nothing. intimacy was a Cain mark. his private, public. his public, privy. more? more. shame. shame is intimate. there are so many kinds too. the shame of soiled. the shame of disrespect, the shame behind closed doors. the shame of public humiliation. the shame, the stink, of failure. the shame we share in ways we wish not speak of. the shame of bad grammar, shame leaves you soiled, ***** terrified. shame on you for having read so far. but you can boast you knew me when, you knew me intimately, bad and well. you knew that you did not know anything about me, even though, we had been at least this one time, intimate. who is soiled now?
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Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
The Intimate MaN
soiled. here there everywhere. regular like. verb and noun, he, both. soiled, soiled. verb, noun. ***** a stupid~sounding word. say ***** ***** ***** three times fast. what is a sound of ***** intimate. what is the color of ***** every color that leaves you, or even begins you, soiled, sullied, tainted. sweaty. the intimate man did not intimate. his stains were visible. no need for polite, needless the charade, of legitimizing intimacy, there for all to see. they were no longer intimate. he did not know why, after awhile, he didn't care. pretended intimacy, which was a ***** thing, a stainless steel cutlery kind of ***** a reflection visible only to the eye of the beholder. cutlery was never clean, soiled, after but one use, think. in the mouth, with the hands. such intimacy, that, they still shared. an easy pretense. terror. terror is intimate and ***** lived in terror. not constant which implies periodic spaces. no breaks. the terror soiled him, you did not need even be intimate with me. sweaty, see, smell it. taste it, even better! though the terror was deeply intimate, in the skin embedded, I told ya, easy visible. easy to avoid the intimacy of terror. clean, silky clean intimates, changed regular, changed nothing. intimacy was a Cain mark. his private, public. his public, privy. more? more. shame. shame is intimate. there are so many kinds too. the shame of soiled. the shame of disrespect, the shame behind closed doors. the shame of public humiliation. the shame, the stink, of failure. the shame we share in ways we wish not speak of. the shame of bad grammar, shame leaves you soiled, ***** terrified. shame on you for having read so far. but you can boast you knew me when, you knew me intimately, bad and well. you knew that you did not know anything about me, even though, we had been at least this one time, intimate. who is soiled now?
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96
When each and every part of your body comes to in action mode, the eyes tell more than your lips, as rainy days clouds. My heart blooms as a garden in spring, and wonder for zero- gap intimates while ********** Like midnight moon, when you look at me with calm and cool, I try to touch and reach you with, heart and soul. The unconditional love has blessed us life with mirth, live life to the fullest, as superliving being on the earth.
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Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
The unconditional love
The Lost Bird In The Sky The Lost Bird In The Sky Somewhere there sits a lone man at a bar filled with lowlifes lost in his thoughts mad at the world and at her it's eight in the morning and dawn is long past and its eve's seat he'll now nurse across the bar room through the blinds, some sun peeks in over the seedy rug the sun drying the last cleansing of a patron's puke the musky smell the last of his worries his eyes take in the bar he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons and a meaningless nod indifferent to being friendly matching the terrain of the other lowlifes at the bar all on crutches, it seems on the wall hangs pictures of storm clouds black and ominous as his life the first of his worries him and his head always drooping or were those pictures in his imagination the music box plays a sad song smoke gets in your eye followed by lies another sad song stories of his life accentuated grabbing at him his worries her effect how poetic, he smiles him in effigy through the smoke in his eyes and more beer he can clearly see her with a voodoo doll in hand sticking needles in him maybe deservingly if only he could tell her a story he thinks better of his thoughts and a pending epilogue thirsting for sunshine instead his eyes glance up at the women bartender plain, plump, playful, pierced sunshine for the moment his lips, and tongue curl his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks her backside sticking up like a beehive and for a moment he wants to be a bee he plays with his beer bottle running his hands past it's neck caressing, taking a sip thinking of his past love the softness of her neck ***** her essence of how pleasing it would be to touch her her nest if only he could be a bird for a moment fly and be in flight with her together in the sky making baby birds their innocence and first tweets that would have been nice now ... landed at a hole in a wall his eyes and thoughts keep soring he grabs more beer more beer pausing to grab some honey with his eyes he keeps playing with his loose change spinning a quarter like watching her pirouette again and again she had that effect on him Logan Robertson 11/15/17
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Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
The Lost Bird In The Sky
The Lost Bird In The Sky The Lost Bird In The Sky Somewhere there sits a lone man at a bar filled with lowlifes lost in his thoughts mad at the world and at her it's eight in the morning and dawn is long past and its eve's seat he'll now nurse across the bar room through the blinds, some sun peeks in over the seedy rug the sun drying the last cleansing of a patron's puke the musky smell the last of his worries his eyes take in the bar he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons and a meaningless nod indifferent to being friendly matching the terrain of the other lowlifes at the bar all on crutches, it seems on the wall hangs pictures of storm clouds black and ominous as his life the first of his worries him and his head always drooping or were those pictures in his imagination the music box plays a sad song smoke gets in your eye followed by lies another sad song stories of his life accentuated grabbing at him his worries her effect how poetic, he smiles him in effigy through the smoke in his eyes and more beer he can clearly see her with a voodoo doll in hand sticking needles in him maybe deservingly if only he could tell her a story he thinks better of his thoughts and a pending epilogue thirsting for sunshine instead his eyes glance up at the women bartender plain, plump, playful, pierced sunshine for the moment his lips, and tongue curl his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks her backside sticking up like a beehive and for a moment he wants to be a bee he plays with his beer bottle running his hands past it's neck caressing, taking a sip thinking of his past love the softness of her neck ***** her essence of how pleasing it would be to touch her her nest if only he could be a bird for a moment fly and be in flight with her together in the sky making baby birds their innocence and first tweets that would have been nice now ... landed at a hole in a wall his eyes and thoughts keep soring he grabs more beer more beer pausing to grab some honey with his eyes he keeps playing with his loose change spinning a quarter like watching her pirouette again and again she had that effect on him Logan Robertson 11/15/17
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85
Hello Poetry Yearned. Ached. For so long, for a community, That values the ineffable wonder Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to Repair himself and the world with bullets of Verses. And here you are. Like/Dislike, matters not, So long as we value each others work, And the the heart echoes within What the eyes read and the mouth whispers. The array and disparity of your names, A delight, Each name a poem In its own right. So I resubmit a question for your consideration, The answer is now known, The answer is all of us. May 2013 --------------------------------------------------------- Who's Who In Poetry   T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to rabbled boors, imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, tastes his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, and becomes one who was, yet is, because of you, in poetry. --------------- Postscript (1/25/17) Even more true today, than four years ago. Thank You.
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May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
Hello Poetry! Who's Who In Poetry (May 2013)
Hello Poetry Yearned. Ached. For so long, for a community, That values the ineffable wonder Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to Repair himself and the world with bullets of Verses. And here you are. Like/Dislike, matters not, So long as we value each others work, And the the heart echoes within What the eyes read and the mouth whispers. The array and disparity of your names, A delight, Each name a poem In its own right. So I resubmit a question for your consideration, The answer is now known, The answer is all of us. May 2013 --------------------------------------------------------- Who's Who In Poetry   T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to rabbled boors, imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, tastes his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, and becomes one who was, yet is, because of you, in poetry. --------------- Postscript (1/25/17) Even more true today, than four years ago. Thank You.
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81
And the trees about me, Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks Groan with continual surges; and behind me Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches! Paint me a cavernous waste shore Cast in the unstilled Cyclades, Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas. Display me ****** above Reviewing the insurgent gales Which tangle Ariadne’s hair And swell with haste the perjured sails. Morning stirs the feet and hands (Nausicaa and Polypheme). Gesture of orang-outang Rises from the sheets in steam. This withered root of knots of hair Slitted below and gashed with eyes, This oval O cropped out with teeth: The sickle motion from the thighs Jackknifes upward at the knees Then straightens out from heel to hip Pushing the framework of the bed And clawing at the pillow slip. Sweeney addressed full length to shave Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, Knows the female temperament And wipes the suds around his face. (The lengthened shadow of a man Is history, said Emerson Who had not seen the silhouette Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.) Tests the razor on his leg Waiting until the shriek subsides. The epileptic on the bed Curves backward, clutching at her sides. The ladies of the corridor Find themselves involved, disgraced, Call witness to their principles And deprecate the lack of taste Observing that hysteria Might easily be misunderstood; Mrs. Turner intimates It does the house no sort of good. But Doris, towelled from the bath, Enters padding on broad feet, Bringing sal volatile And a glass of brandy neat.
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Sweeney *****
And the trees about me, Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks Groan with continual surges; and behind me Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches! Paint me a cavernous waste shore Cast in the unstilled Cyclades, Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas. Display me ****** above Reviewing the insurgent gales Which tangle Ariadne’s hair And swell with haste the perjured sails. Morning stirs the feet and hands (Nausicaa and Polypheme). Gesture of orang-outang Rises from the sheets in steam. This withered root of knots of hair Slitted below and gashed with eyes, This oval O cropped out with teeth: The sickle motion from the thighs Jackknifes upward at the knees Then straightens out from heel to hip Pushing the framework of the bed And clawing at the pillow slip. Sweeney addressed full length to shave Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, Knows the female temperament And wipes the suds around his face. (The lengthened shadow of a man Is history, said Emerson Who had not seen the silhouette Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.) Tests the razor on his leg Waiting until the shriek subsides. The epileptic on the bed Curves backward, clutching at her sides. The ladies of the corridor Find themselves involved, disgraced, Call witness to their principles And deprecate the lack of taste Observing that hysteria Might easily be misunderstood; Mrs. Turner intimates It does the house no sort of good. But Doris, towelled from the bath, Enters padding on broad feet, Bringing sal volatile And a glass of brandy neat.
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48
T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, these tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, in the army of orphans, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to the rabbled boors, the imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. *When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, taste his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, becoming one who was, yet still is, because of you,* because of poetry.
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Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
Orphans and Poets, Peddlers & Members
726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act— And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by— It intimates the finer want— Whose adequate supply Is that Great Water in the West— Termed Immortality—
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We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act
Losing you slowly..like a slow stream running drenching. Draining down to a slow finger tips run drip. It drips.. Before I can ever have even a sip. Emotions will rip.. We were almost there reaching by finger tips... Ahh the passionate intimates. In my silky girly short lingerie slips. The way its huggin at my hips. As I desire the taste of your lips. A romance may be gently dipped. A touch of yours I want it equipped. Touch me and whisper ever so low. Making my river follow..... Don't leave me with thirst.. I almost came undone the dream rehearsed. I painfully reached without you there. I must now proceed with care...Seek me where, My lonely places you aren't there. I know my not being there it isn't the way you prefer.. Try my wine..I can not ideally define...keep my scent within your mind. I'm that precious Rose you'll find. Sharday3 Rose
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Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
"Reaching Through Finger Tips"
Heart shaped pupils Warm pleasant feelings Words of forever Written on the ceilings Touch of the inseparable Desire of the poor Heart filled kisses Spilt on the floor Rejuvenated youth Romantic waterfalls Moon struck intimates Charity stone walls Enterprising passions Midnight tours Hot, steamy, secrets Air tight doors
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Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Completely Consumes You
Holding on so tight I can barely breathe I can see star lights flashing, flashing different colors of the **** bands' The hooks dug deeper into my skin Am I being nailed to this cross? Without the intimates that emphasize comfort? The subtle lift, the agony of the fabric, Bare necessities of the multiway bra
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Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
The Agony of the Fabric
You touched my soul The intimate of all intimates And burned away all the sorrow As well as the pain and misery. All emotions that ate away my delight of life Were replaced with the foundation of you It was like seeing in colour for the first time And feeling the wind run its fingers through my whole body It invaded my whole self As you enlightened all that I was.
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Oct 5, 2022
Oct 5, 2022 at 10:20 AM UTC
YOU.
i think about all the lessons i have been taught. i take them to heart. i think about how even when you want to urge "drop dead", the moment they tell you they would cut their throat if you didn't love them, the words burn up in your mouth. i love you will not roll off the tongue as easily. when i find myself throwing away everyone who excels in ways you never could. when someone invites me to walk besides them without words, when a stranger is just inches in front of my footsteps. crossing the street, passing them, being anywhere other than behind. how i can never walk besides someone in case they pretend like you did. when friendship was about grabbing a fist to pull your muddied self off the ground, when the hand that feeds you is the same to slap you. how you say you're sorry and when i say it doesn't matter, it means more than one thing. what happens to me when i don't speak my mind. what happens to me when i do. putting a name to the workings of my heart a funnily familiar word. it comes to me, where i've heard it before, that time i heard you spit it out when i was walking home. somehow it still doesn't come as easily as it did for you looking at the mirror wondering who in their right mind would, if your sick self hadn't wanted to. and what a pity for you that you coaxed me out of my shell but not quite these intimates. i wonder how i was too young to know better, and too old not to by anyone else's standards i don't patch myself up as much as i do try and build over, hibernate for winter in a coffin i picked out myself. do you think that if i had my hands in your chest like yours had mine, i'd finally be enough to make your stomach turn?
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Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
heartsick with stunted growth
i think about all the lessons i have been taught. i take them to heart. i think about how even when you want to urge "drop dead", the moment they tell you they would cut their throat if you didn't love them, the words burn up in your mouth. i love you will not roll off the tongue as easily. when i find myself throwing away everyone who excels in ways you never could. when someone invites me to walk besides them without words, when a stranger is just inches in front of my footsteps. crossing the street, passing them, being anywhere other than behind. how i can never walk besides someone in case they pretend like you did. when friendship was about grabbing a fist to pull your muddied self off the ground, when the hand that feeds you is the same to slap you. how you say you're sorry and when i say it doesn't matter, it means more than one thing. what happens to me when i don't speak my mind. what happens to me when i do. putting a name to the workings of my heart a funnily familiar word. it comes to me, where i've heard it before, that time i heard you spit it out when i was walking home. somehow it still doesn't come as easily as it did for you looking at the mirror wondering who in their right mind would, if your sick self hadn't wanted to. and what a pity for you that you coaxed me out of my shell but not quite these intimates. i wonder how i was too young to know better, and too old not to by anyone else's standards i don't patch myself up as much as i do try and build over, hibernate for winter in a coffin i picked out myself. do you think that if i had my hands in your chest like yours had mine, i'd finally be enough to make your stomach turn?
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14
She suffers from bouts of amenorrhea, She masticates as often as the day is black, You, her associates, claim to have no idea, The young ossein—aged with many a crack. The chassis appears, to you, to be gaunt, No fervor for coitus intimates strangeness, Her color looks like she is inclined to haunt, Her apparel— ill-fitting, not made to impress. When will you void your lack of knowledge? She needs someone to come to her aid, Take her hand and lead her from the edge, Instead of averting, trying to evade. Go and lead her in the right direction, And help desist her craving for perfection.
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Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
Perfection
Tonight is for reflection. Not the kind found in a mirror. Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine. Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical. One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus my new clothes. Let's see...reflection. While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur. Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash. Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller. A dinner party! For the intimates of intimates. Let me see. Who to invite? Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago. Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up. I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age. Hmm........ Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight. Looks like I will be dining out. ~Lord Kellington
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Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Diary Of Lord Kellington (9)
Tonight is for reflection. Not the kind found in a mirror. Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine. Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical. One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus my new clothes. Let's see...reflection. While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur. Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash. Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller. A dinner party! For the intimates of intimates. Let me see. Who to invite? Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago. Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up. I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age. Hmm........ Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight. Looks like I will be dining out. ~Lord Kellington
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21
My intimates made me A soldier, an unworthy god, and a stone. My friends have since made me A she, a songbird, and a candle flame. But only you Could make me A poet.
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Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Character
It's like I'm here and there's a road and up ahead there's a castle . Maybe a witch maybe a fairy -- Like here we are Like we're all in a movie One that's gonna end quite queerly // // // Bat **** presidents Images smidagens War dropping  intimates of Limited intelligence With pretentious dimensions Of child ****** penises Flung around hung around A public extraneous Except for their masterbatory obesity And the stupidity  claimed as a necessity Here a face there am **** The difference is limited To a **** eating people Whose outlook is riveted To the popcorn they eat at the theater Where they bring their children to die On the perimeter Of the reality In its obscurity And the life That used to be here ---- Up ahead A castle? Is it a witch or a fairy there?
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Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
Fantasticalized fantasy
~dedicated to Robert Lepage^, a master at remembering~ ~ we enumerated our days thusly, each one was commenced with skyward glance, eliciting an epithet, a blessing or a curse, none passed unremarked, the plainest even, acknowledged with an indecipherable glancing mmmm from the chest cut or purred, quick withdrawn and quietly shared thus recorded, our history disordered, who can recall if it rained or snowed on the last Sunday of July of 1998, or even the sunset fabulous that was its global signature signing of au revoir of course, agreed, we remember the great hurricanes as if they were births or deaths of our most intimates, but the vast attended, unto mounds collected, the ticket stubs of dead leaves, sunburns, rain showered soaked ruined silk blouses and pairs of good shoes, are not recycled, but forlorn forgotten condemned men in a life's imprisonment of an unmarked grave, with no epitaph possible for no one knows what here lies ~~ written on Sunday March 26th, 2017  9:08am
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Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
relics of a bygone sky
within a sonnet's lines, a world's contained the arbitrary form gives shape to Art expressing, through a medium constrained the metaphoric language of the heart through rhyme and meter building up effects that resonate within a reader's mind like dance that intimates the joy of *** or painting sunset's glory for the blind the poet can't know what his words evoke the reader's lexicon might be in Dutch interp'retting what's written, or was spoke the leap of faith required would seem too much a language fraught with ambiguity aspires to sketch what others' eyes will see
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Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
message in a bottle
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw (less concerned about being fair versus abominable, irrevocable, and execrable unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & ***** cabinet of high priests, sans spelling chieftains ready to claw your person to bits, and they presage remote clemency which decision told, when Jeff Sessions decides final punishment to draw now, (see excerpted lines visited with glaring flaw "Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh" where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks, and drawbacks, required a secret char),... intimates a "hee haw" and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches square at yar triangular jaw YES, on account misspelling, whence Grammarian Jude Law at the least aims (to topple a prospective title of eminence grise), banning access to such undeserved catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch laughing while ja plaintively call for maw **** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw can do, and hence paw mister trumpeting "FAKE" wordsmith raw flesh will turn into.... unreadable print until closing text that elaborates how holiness felt vexed. To ye (a freshly minted scalawag), these 20/20 eyes bulged agog while steaming with invective at what attempted to pass as sacred poetic blog when thee (Matthew Scott Harris), now pronounced, an illiterate, immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑ with a severe cerebral clog (meaning prefrontal lobotomy not out of the question), you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog (my humble apologies to canines), less deserving than being whipped near death's doorstep flog after henchmen (strongly resembling Alaskan BullWorms guarding this royal hutch, herein Cupertino, California.
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Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
Innocent Omission Of A Lower Case "m"!
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw (less concerned about being fair versus abominable, irrevocable, and execrable unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & ***** cabinet of high priests, sans spelling chieftains ready to claw your person to bits, and they presage remote clemency which decision told, when Jeff Sessions decides final punishment to draw now, (see excerpted lines visited with glaring flaw "Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh" where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks, and drawbacks, required a secret char),... intimates a "hee haw" and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches square at yar triangular jaw YES, on account misspelling, whence Grammarian Jude Law at the least aims (to topple a prospective title of eminence grise), banning access to such undeserved catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch laughing while ja plaintively call for maw **** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw can do, and hence paw mister trumpeting "FAKE" wordsmith raw flesh will turn into.... unreadable print until closing text that elaborates how holiness felt vexed. To ye (a freshly minted scalawag), these 20/20 eyes bulged agog while steaming with invective at what attempted to pass as sacred poetic blog when thee (Matthew Scott Harris), now pronounced, an illiterate, immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑ with a severe cerebral clog (meaning prefrontal lobotomy not out of the question), you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog (my humble apologies to canines), less deserving than being whipped near death's doorstep flog after henchmen (strongly resembling Alaskan BullWorms guarding this royal hutch, herein Cupertino, California.
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For Trey Remember the rabbits, The ones that I saved, The ones that I loved and fed and played-with, The ones that were meant to die-- That would have died were it not for me? I miss those rabbits. They were my childhood. And as the baby rabbits grew, I grew. As they turned old, I became older. And when they left the nest that I protected I crossed the threshold from innocence to experience. Remember the cat that crawled along the wall, The cat you did not want, The cat that had kittens, Those kittens I had to protect Because I was good and you were not? I played with that cat, and I saved her kittens, And when the cat died, and her kittens left To crawl along their own lives, I crossed the threshold from innocence to experience.   I did not become a man then, but I stopped being a child. I existed in that liminal space where the child will decide what he wants, Will choose how to make his voice heard Through secret moves And muted tones. I decided that I could not watch the rabbits die, That I could not chase the cat away, So I did what I could to save them. I found meaning in the little things that lived in the woods and in the shadows. I climbed trees and jumped streams to find my way to them. Because the big things that went to work and drove cars and bought groceries Tried to tear me from my love and to pin me to emptiness— An emptiness that was another’s dream, An emptiness that hurt, An emptiness that would transform me. Now I am here, with no rabbit and no cat. I only have my self and the human flesh that I have chosen to love, My flesh and the flesh of others, The flesh of friends and the flesh of intimates, The flesh I hug, the flesh I kiss, the flesh I feel. And I cannot do anything but protect that flesh Because, long ago, I moved a nest to safety, And, in so doing, crossed the threshold from innocence to experience.
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Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
The Rabbit's Nest
For Trey Remember the rabbits, The ones that I saved, The ones that I loved and fed and played-with, The ones that were meant to die-- That would have died were it not for me? I miss those rabbits. They were my childhood. And as the baby rabbits grew, I grew. As they turned old, I became older. And when they left the nest that I protected I crossed the threshold from innocence to experience. Remember the cat that crawled along the wall, The cat you did not want, The cat that had kittens, Those kittens I had to protect Because I was good and you were not? I played with that cat, and I saved her kittens, And when the cat died, and her kittens left To crawl along their own lives, I crossed the threshold from innocence to experience.   I did not become a man then, but I stopped being a child. I existed in that liminal space where the child will decide what he wants, Will choose how to make his voice heard Through secret moves And muted tones. I decided that I could not watch the rabbits die, That I could not chase the cat away, So I did what I could to save them. I found meaning in the little things that lived in the woods and in the shadows. I climbed trees and jumped streams to find my way to them. Because the big things that went to work and drove cars and bought groceries Tried to tear me from my love and to pin me to emptiness— An emptiness that was another’s dream, An emptiness that hurt, An emptiness that would transform me. Now I am here, with no rabbit and no cat. I only have my self and the human flesh that I have chosen to love, My flesh and the flesh of others, The flesh of friends and the flesh of intimates, The flesh I hug, the flesh I kiss, the flesh I feel. And I cannot do anything but protect that flesh Because, long ago, I moved a nest to safety, And, in so doing, crossed the threshold from innocence to experience.
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*the soul a collection of thoughts aptitudes weaknesses biases predilections a jumble of mind and what of free will and what of karma are there not fates pleasures and furies yogas of myriad heavens and hells we find our selves a short stay in zombie land are we not the living dead have we not the freedoms of the living dead to suffer innumerable casualties of mind and body short lived pleasures and repugnant destinies to be inducted into armies of labor and war no work no eat the mantra imperative even rest exists for exertions sake to fight with our intimates or if alone to fight with our selves about our desolation divided by the chatter of inner confusion reality distortions so pervasive we drink water from mirages palimpsests voices dubbed over lays voices over voices over voices a cacophony of whispers our version of free will driven by the  impulse to get get get and while we lose lose lose are we not manure for an acid soil destined for head stone city all the getters piled high and buried deep are we not  dim witted children of the blind impulse panicked reflexive doll mannequins in a world so muddled that we only know what we be LIE ve*
0
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
RANT
Dead or alive. How can I know the difference, either way, I've been "useful" all my life. No love from life nor life from love until it was taken away, by a man who's manipulation drove . . . Tears I took for my savior and joy from a dripping arm. Crimson for my delicacy, he claimed he didn't mean any harm. His carnal needs only shoved visions, a painful lance. I will gladly fall from love with a first and last glance. Please save me from the ungloved, forceful hands creeping down my intimates . . .
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Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
"Love" - All the Wrong Places
For you, the world. A blanket of time. A surge of dread. In your eyes. For you, the world. The pillars, the rubble. Welters of war, inner and visible. Science, politics, art. Leak light into the blossom of quiet. For you, the world intends, supposes, intimates. Gives collapse. Gives wait. Gives awake. For you, the world. Your bruise, the weakened heart. The trust lended. The breath spent. For you, the world. The mere thought already catastrophe. The blow blow blow The hot to the touch. The want of supper, The membrane of a promise. The objects of desire. The properties of fire. For you, the world. The hurry up! A panic call. The I’m better, The I’m nothing. Bless the touching you. Bless the fooling you. Bless the pick up, the not knowing What to do. For you, the world. We watch Then turn our heads To stare at the speed. I puncture. You puncture. You outlast. Pinch your throat and say Amen.
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Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
For You
One's lofty dreams, ambitious goals, what not; One's self-esteem, self-worth, self-praise and such: Delusions of a stumbling drunken sot! Esteemed values whose worth weighs not so much. One's intimates, loves, friends become a crutch; Of comforts, safety, food, concerns and care Held tightly, are released from one's own touch, When oxygen is scarce and breath is rare, Corona's taught us very well the worth of air! (C)2020, Christos Rigakos
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Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 3:34 AM UTC
Corona's Lesson