"jettisoning" poems
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.
Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.
The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.
The conspiracy lies in the abyss,
A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony silence,
Fairies of fire, winging their way home
On an unexpected breeze.
The bonfire a crackle, at once dangerous and comforting,
A furnace ablaze with light, livid and burning with raw energy,
Luring its annual admirers ever closer,
As moths to a flame.
The people, hatted and be-scarved, huddle, cluster,
Sparklers whirling before them, glitzy with extravagance,
Their wispy signatures hanging in the air, short-lived
And fading, fading into nothing.
And only now the fantasia of fireworks commences,
The artist experimenting with line, with colour, his audience captive,
And then at once, a dazzling fountain of jewelled light: ruby, jade, opal, sapphire,
A painting of shimmering castles in the sky.
And a middle-aged man with his son, glove to mitten; in his arms, a daughter,
Her bright gaze betraying the hands over her ears,
A snapshot of dizzy delight, breathless and enchanting,
A simple picture of rare beauty.
Later, with the remnants and debris of the evening lying discarded,
Dying, the brave bonfire, now petered out, sizzles and smoulders,
A scarlet and amber glow lingering on,
Still warm with the memories of youth.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.
Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.
Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
I am not a number
I am not a cypher.
I am a real live person
Not a hypothetical one.
I am part of a portion
Of the total population
Not an ignorable thing
Only fit for eliminating
If it suits a demographic,
Budgeted body politic;
Something looked upon
As something better gone.
By some venal banker,
Number crunching ******
I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?
I am not a figure, a jot.
A squiggle on a page, not
Some negotiable loss
Decided upon by a boss
Who wants a higher bonus
Jettisoning an onus
Foisted on him by liberals.
My problems are not literal,
They are real and due
To be looked through
For a way to be humane
In matters mundane,
And not as profitable.
Don’t be despicable.
I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?
Talk to your accountants
And see what the amount is
To do things for fiscal gain
Without causing people pain.
There has to be a way
We can all have our day;
Our place in the sun
Things good for one
That are also good for all
And don’t cause a fall
In the economy and health
For those without wealth.
If the rich lose big gains
They will still eat again,
But the poor just may not
With what little they’ve got.
I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
It's mine.
Observe
The way it careens light --
Taking, then
Jettisoning it --
Slickfastwhirrs stammer about its orbit.
And I
Try to capture it; it being, of course,
The thing illuminating
The space between eyes flitting,
Flipping through entire books of you
with one look --
And with a flick of the wrist
I produce
A pixel of muscle
over might
If I may.
It's silly, really
I know.
But it's mine, all mine.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Jettisoning off all
Wilting away all
Like an autumn memory
Like an instant tragedy
Crumbling away
Moldings of affection
In a nuclear winter
Without armageddon
I died
A soft shell annihilation
No dreams but nightmares
I died
A lovely execution
Nothing but emptiness
Eradicating away all
Except you, nothing at all
Like an autumn memory
Like everlasting banality
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Sitting in the sun
preparing the relic, for
future visitation.
The geranium bleeds
for the god particle, which
always eludes
the man.
A tiger would sleep
in my bed, jettisoning
the fish of your eyes.
The glass eye breaks,
enters the tomb of the orb
sheltering the darkness.
There was no clear answer―
from the mask, as if why
the tryst with stars failed.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
Submerged
in slumbering marshes of youth
soot riddled, benign mole
mermaids and Jupiter bathed in the
water of her soul
shape shifting contradictions
crumbs of a whole
Strewn
in the irony of thorned garlands
on eggshell whims, jettisoning off cliffs
She plunged headfirst
seeking his gnawed bristle lips
lattice tresses curving
along his finger tips
Scrambling
she held a chisel in one hand
the other groping a Jade shard
fledging yearnings
to make hay in the barnyard
As surly incense sticks turned to ashes
on a wedding card
Serendipity
experienced by intertwining fibers
of a coarse, unruly yarn
parables murmured to her torso
he laid sprawled in the barn
plucking leaves off petioles
in her threadbare farm
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
-
fine grains of desert air
stir into the tightening
manifestation of a
warrior slain in a charge
with such quickness—
he ran several paces before
jettisoning his weakened
vessel in order to continue
the assault...
s jones
2021
.
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
follow the river,
to reach the sea.
flow like a river
jettisoning every worry!
പിന്തുടരുക
കടലിലെത്തിച്ചേരാന്
നദിയുടെ പാത പിന്തുടരൂ.
എല്ലാ വിഷമവും ഒഴുക്കിക്കളഞ്ഞു
നദിപോല് ഒഴുകൂ.
(Malayalam translation by the author)
பின்செல்லவும்
கடலை அடைவதற்கு.
ஆற்றைபின்பற்று.
கவலைகளை மூழ்கடித்து
ஆற்றைப்போல் ஓடு.
(Tamil translation by the author)
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 5:10 PM UTC
Awesome,
Breaking,
Crashing,
Deafening,
Engulfing,
Flood,
Galloping Horses,
Insanely Jettisoning,
Killer Landslide,
Maniacally Nebulous Outpourings,
Perceptively Quizzical Rhetoric,
Slumbering Truth Under Veils,
Willfully Xenomorphic Yokeless Zen
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
softness flows over
rocks and rivulets, jettisoning
the clouding embraces of treetops,
holding the modulating fog on brushed canvases:
away, floating away, currents of love.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC