"lactations" poems - Hello Poetry

I like slandering your makeshift forceps. I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s worth at least a small intestine, and you are worth whatever’s left over after night has upended itself, poured sideways out of its shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour. There are remnants of you in the park, some red stain by the baseball field where, if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name and am slapped in the head. The children cry when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor, even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding, my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to- swallow doses. I like you in my eggs. Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily, but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic meadows while I sleep. What can I say? I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub, which has a certain foul repute, and has grown heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere, just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so ********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes, kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress, speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so we have not been really looking all this time, have we, just blaring your name through the speakers, putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not quite, though, as the books say, you have honey in your stomach, and if you could but be ripped open we would taste and see.

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May 25, 2010

May 25, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC

timothy-essex

Sleep-deprived Birdcall (in the year in which the weather cancelled the subcommittee on the weather)

I like slandering your makeshift forceps. I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s worth at least a small intestine, and you are worth whatever’s left over after night has upended itself, poured sideways out of its shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour. There are remnants of you in the park, some red stain by the baseball field where, if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name and am slapped in the head. The children cry when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor, even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding, my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to- swallow doses. I like you in my eggs. Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily, but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic meadows while I sleep. What can I say? I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub, which has a certain foul repute, and has grown heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere, just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so ********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes, kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress, speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so we have not been really looking all this time, have we, just blaring your name through the speakers, putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not quite, though, as the books say, you have honey in your stomach, and if you could but be ripped open we would taste and see.

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In the face of persecution, one can drift away into dreamy fabrications of swishing and gorgeous hairstyles – jealous of the seagull as it dismounts the lofty perch of the streetlight and gracefully swoops away into the distance. The moment of self-loathing and raging sabotage is nothing more than a serial false loyalty. I validate your alphabet where there is simplicity within the intricate complexities, and where the yearling suckles the lactations of its mother. Trauma has pre-natal connections where silent screams ripple throughout eternity. Therefore, calmly observe the stiff upper lip of deluded professionalism, and describe the realistic mirage before you. Participation in laughter is not always rooted in sincerity.

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Nov 7, 2013

Nov 7, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC

david-barr

Painful Comedy

In the face of persecution, one can drift away into dreamy fabrications of swishing and gorgeous hairstyles – jealous of the seagull as it dismounts the lofty perch of the streetlight and gracefully swoops away into the distance. The moment of self-loathing and raging sabotage is nothing more than a serial false loyalty. I validate your alphabet where there is simplicity within the intricate complexities, and where the yearling suckles the lactations of its mother. Trauma has pre-natal connections where silent screams ripple throughout eternity. Therefore, calmly observe the stiff upper lip of deluded professionalism, and describe the realistic mirage before you. Participation in laughter is not always rooted in sincerity.

4

. As if The first time Mine eyes beheld on you I became clueless but in full hallows You won my soul And offered me that which seemed Like a religion to worship and swallow . ~ As if Ever since I called on the gods of courage To help me pour out The depths of my feelings and admirations You've awaken a new magic in me As I easily curls the fragile syllables into sweet poems of lactations . ~ As if I am homeless and melodramatic A wandering spirit cracked in delusions of nine For its still a wonder,of how I know The wheres to find you and think you're mine . ~ As if You make Me want the **** night To kiss the tender day early For each time,I steals your amber-vanilla smiles,and keeps With just a glance,and paints them in my sleeps It makes me feel my bed as roses and wine .~ So Hello! Spencer Silence is gold,but I can keep it no more Just teach me How to turn six as nine And you as mine as if ©Historian E.Lexano ™Recalcitration With Excellence

0

Mar 22, 2017

Mar 22, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC

The_Prince

As if.

. As if The first time Mine eyes beheld on you I became clueless but in full hallows You won my soul And offered me that which seemed Like a religion to worship and swallow . ~ As if Ever since I called on the gods of courage To help me pour out The depths of my feelings and admirations You've awaken a new magic in me As I easily curls the fragile syllables into sweet poems of lactations . ~ As if I am homeless and melodramatic A wandering spirit cracked in delusions of nine For its still a wonder,of how I know The wheres to find you and think you're mine . ~ As if You make Me want the **** night To kiss the tender day early For each time,I steals your amber-vanilla smiles,and keeps With just a glance,and paints them in my sleeps It makes me feel my bed as roses and wine .~ So Hello! Spencer Silence is gold,but I can keep it no more Just teach me How to turn six as nine And you as mine as if ©Historian E.Lexano ™Recalcitration With Excellence

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