"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?
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
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.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
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
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
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.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
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.
3.3k
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.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
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—
2.6k
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
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
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
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
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
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
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.
Oct 5, 2022
Oct 5, 2022 at 10:20 AM UTC
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?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
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.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
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
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
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.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
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?
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
~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
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
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
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
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.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
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.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
*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*
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
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 . . .
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
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.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
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
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 3:34 AM UTC