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Scurry hurry
Shaking hands shaped by worry
tie the knot of plastic
A bubble home for the hard green cup
where brown and white
mixed lay married.

Wash rush
Dainty legs in dark blue denim
hasn't time to be romantic
A worn out sister played by hope
shuts the door panting.

  It clings to a robust tree
  head hidden under rosy pink    
  protective shield
  edged in yellow

  The fireflies

  
Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work
sit dead on the small bedside table
like the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers
and cards of capsules
47 I counted them
current and extras
They choke my sight
then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd
posing aside a grey rock looking yonder
into the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall.
  
  Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes,  
  many, breakdown and explode
  like little landmines
  A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a  
  dense night flashing brilliant
  to find a mate
  Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks
  Six slow seconds of unimaginable
  wordless dreamless dark.

  are bright.

  
I turn my head
The whole unsettling mass of reality
is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels,
then reassembled
as my eyes  
settle
on

Her

"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now
and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.
Please!"

NOTHING
Another sticky empty square
covered in thick black-strap molasses
slapped to the face of the fool
who likes sweet things.

BUT

What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?
"Go on Death" is what that means
"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time.
It's to test your faith.
Gods plan."
All slogans for the man
who believes and dies.
  Culture creates the fool
  Hope keeps the fool
  Belief kills the fool
Thanks for doing what all those boxes
and all the pictures
on all the walls of the world do

FOOL

Her face,
a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sight
a bad flavor
like a meal with no taste

Her mouth,
*****-lipped, framed by dry
delivers deadly blows to a heaving chest
that says; "Give me air"
yet lungs say no

Anguish,
is ****** from the pit of my cold stomach
then up through the spirit of a warm heart
I plaster the feeling in the shape of water.
My eyes puddle

I weep

It sticks

Love,

Falls

Fluttering as a twinkle
through soft beams of sunlight,
the drop glistens
plops
then dies
on the pink and blue checkered blanket.

All I have to offer are busky palms
to soothe this battered body
before you are torn apart by what
puts things like us together.

I swallow her frame

Her calf - bone

Squeeze and move

Her thigh,
my hand wraps completely
pinching a sausage sized piece of muscle
not big enough to walk
between plump thumb
and meaty middle

Squeeze and move

Her hip bone is angular
It fits flush in my hand
like the hard front peak of a cricket cap
when held above the grid

Squeeze and move

My chunky tentacles massage over
wire-thin barely blue throbless veins
that decorate her meatless paws
and twig-like fingers.

Squeeze and move
  
  It's after midnight
  Thick curds of desperation push
  again, through a splendid backside
  a special toosh
  slogging a dancing night-fever
  to beat the two-to-four,
  a beam as bright as a green day
  cuts through the black pitch of night

  

I hold her hand
A thin filling between two slices of mine
I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of  your heart, ripped head first through the narrow ***** of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows  between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;
"Don't turn away from this.
Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this too
will happen to you
Clap clap clap clap!
I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape,
I accept what will squash me
I Face it
I Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at me
A deep dagger stare
Two parts steel
meshed
until there is only steel
It melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I hold her hand,
patting the top as I warm the bottom
I smile for her, at me
I smile back, as me
  
  A skillful mimic
  Here I come
  I have light and breath
  I see yours
  I come at night
  Not for genes or ***
  I hunt and gut
  Hawking down I come as death

  
The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

Her eyes

They have changed

Open

But

Soul

   less

     Soulless

     Desolate

   Like

That dessert

And that place where


*The Fireflies Lose their Light
Savanna Paige Sep 2018
****** ink, pens out my pain
& rotten diaries hides away the causes.

I wish I was a talker,
Instead I’ve always been a tight-lipped writer.

Listening to my heart pound at the sound
Of loud thoughts banging on my ear drums, demanding to be heard.

Going against the urgency to blade a veined pathway for their eviction.

No longer can I live with the absence of spoken words.

My outcries are no longer content w/ morning debuts in overwhelmed notepads.

Constantly running wild trying to free the thoughts held hostage.

Because never have I ever..
Had the cords to voicalize my brokenness using my now blistered tongue.
I’ve only ever known to bite down.

Swallowing fiery bullets to shield my freezing flesh.

Thinking it was enough when I found an underground tunnel for my thoughts to car-pool through.

Letting my pained fingers be the ambassador for an inaudible uproar.

Leaving the words trapped inside a box of my mind like a faulty magic trick.

My brain has a way of fooling me,
As it shoots pain throughout my body to signal danger. 

While simultaneously conditioning me to mouthed the words “I’m Fine”

So it’s no surprise that not a single pair of eyes can see,
The way my silent tongue is beginning to smother me.
I’m fine until I’m not. Getting over this betrayal has been the hardest for me. I inspire to be like
people who can talk & verbalize their feelings , pains, & personal experiences. I’m so ready to grow from that dark chapter of my past. I’m just not sure how.. but then again how can I when I pretend it doesn’t exist??
zebra Feb 2017
all my life
ive only thought of one thing
YOU

you are why i got an education
why i tried so hard to make beautiful things with my hands
why i got dressed up
why i learned to sing
and dance

why i never stopped trying to make a living
why i always went to the gym
and worked out to be diamond hard
why i was polite or inconsolable
why i ran seven miles a day
why i tried to be charming
why i could never stop playing with myself
why i got through james joyce
why i learned
conversational hypnosis
neuro linguistics
magick
and
witch
craft

to invoke a spell
that would compel
YOU
to dance
the wiggle wiggle
*****
from hot rhythms
and slow melodic
sways
as i prayed
burning
blood red candles
during the darkest moon
for adorations
with endless masturbations
to your beautiful *** and feet
for tender red lipped mercies
kisses kisses kisses

because
you are beauty piqued
from your golden angelic head
soft silken hair
to your sweet pink arched feet
and twinkling painted toes
magnetized
to yank my eyes
**** boy *** toy
oh goddess glitter ****
queen of heaven
all paradise any man needs

BUT
sometimes i couldn't have
YOU

and
it velvet crushed me
taught me hopelessness
broke my will
gave me fear
made me cry
shivering inside
tore my heart to smithereens
and twisted my in-nerds
like jagged metal
melting
as i spiraled
down
into madness
veins on fire
until inferiority dragged deep
suffocating me
shuddery
like
winters
midnight freeze
and howling winds
through
hollow
marrow-less
bones
zebra Sep 2018
I posted filthy voluptuous poems you should never read
you love starved children of nauseating virtue

always thinking
are they good enough
am I good enough
are they good enough
am I good enough
so goody goody
putting your best foot forward
like empire of the sun
a wanna be picture perfect
of dancer **** love and flexed abs

have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to ****
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to **** criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their ***** and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Leigh May 2015
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.

Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.

Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.

Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop  
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.

I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.

At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;

The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.

This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ****, awkward blotch on a childhood.

Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.

The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
.


Some weird and wonderful memories of my teenage years.

100 points if you catch the Derek Mahon reference.


.
zebra Sep 2017
i'm sorry
but im going to devour you
like toast with butter and jam
let go to me
lose your self in the exaltation of suffering
albeit a difficult pleasure
feel me ruin you with every strike and ******
blister tear and pierce
a quandary of liberation bleeding
take more then whats dished
ill turn you into a gushing river of squeals
and filthy verse

i'm in love with your ****
colored almost purple
like a wild mouthed poem
make it kiss me
let it eat my face
its more beautiful then an Hawaiian sunset
more tender then a baby lamb
your sweet lipped *****
a buttery sticky bun
its drools liquid diamonds

i'm sorry
i hit your **** so hard
but they bounced and bounced
and it drove me near mad
so gorgeous bruised and bleeding
casaba torrents
all hot stings and sweet

you stand glorious
between beauty and annihilation

your mouth swollen from being slapped so hard
nose bleed and mucous
your eyes enormous wombs
like fingers touching me

oh baby
im sorry
your tears imploring
pleading and drunk
on hair pulling frenzies

curse my brutish rampage
of *** gone mad
turning your body
into clouds and red splash ribbons

don't be sorry
she said
with pursed lips
your rabid hunger my own
i am an abyss of dark desires
a savage wraith
i want to kiss you like a lecher
all ******* and cherries
with legs squandered wide
a Halloween grotesque
with a ponytail

are you going to eat me
like a communion wafer
okay
if it will save you
am i not a saint of ****

"There is no greater love
than to lay down one's life for one's friends"
john15:13

so have your fun at my expense
make me your house of horrors
greased
for the scalding of your whip

ill be good
please do your worst
and ill show you my best
promise me
pretty please
kisses and cries
rainbows and ash
blistering ecstatic
sadomasochism
zebra Oct 2018
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted

her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent

her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find

obedient!

yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs

she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement

always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
dark eroticism
****** horror
Wk kortas Nov 2017
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled  near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
When the moon shines bright I think of blues and different sides of you, I was thinking of you. When you were beautiful and smiling and not so cold. How I missed what we were what we should be. Wasn’t us together the key.

You’re blue, small, bold and looking old. losing your hair and losing your shares, when will you regain your enchanting glare...

I looked at you hanging over there with that guy smoking your light, when will you actually fight to stay right and bright? You remember when we were even a little younger and more like lovers.

You’re gone, so far the distance is long, I wish you would even run to your grandma. Run away they are wrong. Your addiction is the end of you, I’ve lost you.

I gained something new you’re alone and I’m at home with friends and great fun shown, I’m not alone. I’m me and your you. should you join to find your peace and stop the lease on me. Feel free to rejoin me.

Just stop the act you’re not a kid. You’ve grown up right with love, friends and you give it up for 10 years of peace at max, it’s not going to last.

You’re starting to be loose lipped and obviously not glad. Get help. Find yourself and love more than the so called “self help” you are hanging yourself with you own belt.
Don’t do serious drugs or anything like it if you can help it! It’s obviously bad for you and you look gross afterwards. **** helps with ptsd, even that makes you look less appealing and costs a lot.
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
Emma Ottinger Jun 2018
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.

Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.

Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.

Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.

But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.

But ****, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.

...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Dedicated to Elise, who, when faced with my tangled mouthful of flattery, somehow saw through to the part of me that’s actually worth a ****.
Graff1980 Nov 2018
You short haired
soft lipped,
round hips;

You shining eyes
of hopeful poetry
that beckons me
in nighttime
and daylight dreams,
wearing a white tee
without any brand promoting
icons on it.

You fellow snow white
pale skin,
blinding tint
that is matching
mine,
so reflective
that I see
all of time
in each crevice
and wrinkle.

You false hope,
heart of a
never was world
that never will
exist
only making more real
the pain I feel
in this aching loneliness.

Better I bang my head
against that
brown brick wall
till I fall
then let my heart break
with the fake
thoughts of you
who are
nothing but
an ill-conceived fantasy.
talia Sep 2018
humans are living fossils
the breaks and bones in their bodies
revealing a history
otherwise unknown to the world
my body and bones tell a story
that won't otherwise come from my mouth
my entire history
spelled out in the scars on my wrist
the still-red scratches on my thighs
brought to light in the darkness under my eyes
the weariness of my cracked-lipped smile
in my bony fingers and uneven nails
in the cuts that run up and down my legs
i wish this history of mine
were more appealing
"humans are living fossils—collections of mechanisms produced by prior selection pressures" david buss (1995)
-
this isn't even poetic i'm just sad and writing everything i feel
Mark Dec 2018
I write a grievance to the Reaper's will
who'll take me nether, just tho' it will be
yet **** is not my quarrel, ****'s my bill
it is the season which the staff reaps me.

O' leave me when the summer sun meets blue
whilst rays respect with sprightly rippled glare.
Nor when a Winter's cold had light out-blew
for out the snow had meadows been as bare.

O' Spring! Not when the floral blossoms dream
of rainbow petals lipped that nature's birth.
Then left is Autumn, fitting; passing leaves,
then Fall I'll die, into the realm I'm worth.

O' grant me soul-consumer; seasons bide!
Let Autumn be, the scene from which I died.
elle jaxsun Jul 2018
i escaped 2,226 miles away

in hopes of finding
what i've been missing

in hopes of escaping
your
deadpan
tight-lipped
cold stare

in hopes of
peace

what i've been missing
all along
is me

overshadowed by the
hatred of myself
built by you

overshadowed by the
thoughts of suicide

why would i want
to be me when
my own family doesn't
seem to want me

and i know i'm not
the only one with a
story like that but

knowing so doesn't really make
this much easier to handle

i will admit that
i've had a lot of help
and i'm beyond lucky
to have the family i chose

they teach me things like

just because you used to be
doesn't mean you have to be

and

patience and kindness can
tear down the tallest walls

the ones i’ve spent my whole
life building just so i didn't
have to feel all of that **** again

but i’ve been
getting better at getting better
at 2,226 miles away

i think i’ll stay
I moved a year and a month ago. I live with some of the best people I know. I'm so thankful to be here.
zebra Feb 3
her body a sack of tubes
open wounds
like wet braided mouths
muttering thunder tunnels

she watching Friday night frights
of a cruel image,
a man; with sledge hammer *******
looking at her through a shivered mirror

desire holds her transfixed
like a blink less eye staring
at a pinned butterfly

her hunger panged tongue
locomotes side to side
in fidget spirals
brewing red lipped bubbles
like gagged
weeping cuneiform tears
imagining
an immortal portrait of lusts tribe
while downy mists of dancing worms
eat scattered apples

with love that moves destiny
disobediently grinning
like a jeering peninsula
she imagined a coil of swollen barbs
a sea of *****
rapturous arched tongues
licking ******* urethra tornados
and flooding night music
like witches whistle through cat bones
Luz Hanaii Jan 14
The ancient snake befriends my friends,
priests, neighbors, teachers and presidents…
Casually speaking, maybe even me.

Those old days I thought I knew...
But tight-lipped and present is
-the hardest thing to be.

Words, words, words…
mantra shouts out of drum of the elite
repeating, walking as they're told
aimlessly set about daily routines
while lost dogs hunger in streets
caressing ****** wounds amongst the blind.
A drunken man lies asleep or dead?
yet nobody stops or seems to care
while I lose my mind and ask,
Where the **** am I?
First published on August 21, 2011
Obadiah Grey Nov 2018
Fully ambulatory with
onanist wrists,
neither whig,
nor tory,
nor communist,
he's loose lipped
loose hipped
quite well equipped,

he's bendy n trendy,
he's buff, n ripped.

not quite castrato
and gives good vibrato
to choirboys mulatto -
with belly button fluff.

Obi.
kB 2 Sep 2018
I missed you today.
At the coffee shop.
On the bus.
In my chair at the office.
I wanted to say
Yes I’m feeling on top.
There’s a seat here for both of us.
Doing well, uh oh, here come the bosses.

I sat there all day.
I looked up every minute.
Stirred hands across the keyboard
I wanted to be in it,
Involved in this life and the people
And plans.
But all I do is keep tight lipped
With tremors for hands.
Spider webs for brains
And an undisciplined bladder.
And when I get up to go, it didn’t seem
To matter.

We say fake goodbyes
And look down at our shoes
As if clues to these blues would just
Jump out in twos.
But not even two, not even one.
There are no clues
It’s in front of our faces.
The glow of a screen
Humanity erases.

I missed you today, at all of those places.
Because every single stranger had buried
Their faces.
Not one smile or hello or greeting.
And this is now how people are meeting.
You don’t know I’m having a rough time.
I could speak up.
but I see your headphone lines.
Eyes fixed ears shut.

I just wanted someone
To acknowledge me a short while.
But we’re so disconnected,
I can’t even get a smile.
~kb
zebra Jan 12
they danced in a dream
like a bending shadow
face down
a begging ***
hungry back door paradise

ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced like Ubangi night
with pin needle eyes

in bed
blood red neon's
cutting curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
swallowing mad ***** blossoms of **** candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese yellow paper slippers

gazing rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection

finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire chaise desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a *****
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood lanterns and spit

look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi  
burning needled skull

black eyed beauty hissing
while cord throated
rip tie
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets

*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills retrograde
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraph avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long ******
between cascading squeals

paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling mice
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip

babbling
**** spasms like a hot glue gun
soiling cherry clover
Sunshine and a Dixie Chick
Do not go hand in hand
Street walker, red lipped talker
Castles made of sand

How to show a dozen lives
When head counts only ten
Know what it is beforehand
Determined, let’s begin

Awake and sober now
Not ready for a cure
An almost famous person
Knocking at my door

“Hi, how are you doing?”
You’ve got to stay prepared
This is my last and only night of nights
Has me spooked, tired, and scared

It’s not for you or me to say
At what goes on in life
I leave the drama all up to you
Cut you with a knife

Not to make light of life
And I want to end it soon
Busy busy light to light
About to come unglued

Minding my own life to live,
You’ve got me misconstrued
I want to speak, take, and talk
And give only happy news

But sometimes I could just scream out-loud
Stuff to carry on
This Mother Nature after hearing the alarm.
Off the spoon with your smooth-ground peanut butter! I'm the sister
of a lean-cut brother. I will bear your brats in our queen-****'s color,
because the coal oil-broiled cur is mine, my slap-happy mutt seller!
I gather lather for shavers shaving with mayo & peanut-butter ooze,
because after you've lost a nose to frostbite you cannot snort *****.
Yawalapiti chicks are mongrel Mongols! They sleep until 2:45 like
I do. I don't know why they wring the hydrogen cyanide acid out of
raw mandioca, ½ chew viperfish or use slimy seaweed as shampoo.
Menstruating Emmanuella lived on little mountain Monticello with
Thomas Jefferson, the dead president fella. They had a lot of clean,
Jeffersonian fun each day & night, eatin' corn dogs, watching *****
fight. 1 day while Emmanuella was washing her ******* in a stream
the evil wraith of wormy Sally Hemings appeared like a bad dream.
School girl Isabella lived on little mountain Monticello with Mister
Thomas Jefferson, the ex-presidential fella. They enjoyed healthful
cholera vaccines, ****** feedings & blood-letting, kissing & petting.
One time, while Isabella was scrubbing her ***** in a filthy stream,
Negrita Sally Hemings rose up like skim milk minus its rich cream.
I'm weary of being a meat-bag for *** whale hunters who scarf ran-
cid squid & chicken, or any Mississippian ***** wanting to sink his
hick in. These ******* only stretch to my lower ribs, beyond that we
will need O.S.H.A.-approved, California-******-pink lobster bibs.
Maybe a higher high-grade frequency's needed to contend with new
vessels forming upon the bark where a cholesterol-deficit shrinks to
seize, a statin-toxin man with doctor Aloysius Alzheimer's disease?
I think so, after asking Vy's left-leaning toe. There ain't much and it
is plenty; enough to freeze the breeze & to knock gigantic monkeys
from trees with a sneezy, queasy wheeze. Please Joe Biden: Coax a
coke snort from the Man's Country men Barry Soetoro's been ridin.'
The bummed-out drunken doctor recommended that the very nervy
******-polyp patient eat 5 peanut & butterfish-belly sandwiches ev-
ery day for 6 years, & have his fangs waxed along with his jug ears.
Since you abandoned me, & our player piano moving business, I've
been herniating myself twice per day. To herniate myself less, I de-
cided to move lighter pianos and to I hire a criminal to ****** you.
You crashed my Russian helicopter into a parked helicopter when I
needed it most. You stole my toaster so I can't make toast. You kiss
strange women because you say it is thrilling, without a care in this
***** world about the murderous feelings that I'm normally feeling.
When it comes to ***, all that I have are my ******* memories. Let
me alone. I am going to the **** where real's real & no one pays an
**** bill. It's time to put up or shut up & to tuck in hot, curly fringe
that makes your ménage à trois ****-trio puke up phlegm & cringe.
Initially I could **** without laxatives while thinking of: P.J. Proby
with P.P. Arnold accompanied by B.J. Thomas over the complaints
of T.S. Eliot, H.P. Lovecraft, B.B. King, F.W. Woolworth plus J.C.
Penney, G.C. Murphy, B.F. Skinner, H.H. Holmes & D.W. Griffith
who is dead, deaf & dumb & off the toilet seat that dented his ***.
There is our moon this foggy night that's warty like a nice pickle &
hotter than a green cheese icicle. I will fake a trip there like masons
do, with duct tape, roofing felt, curtain rods & model airplane glue.
“You ******-lipped my stick” seems like an obscene observation to
make but it's not. It's a complicated dental procedure that has saved
the teeth of millions of *******. So, the next time someone exits the
dentist's treatment room crying, “That mother-******' quack dentist
just ******-lipped my stick!” you'll thank Lord Jesus on your knees.
I was drinking beer with a mentally-******* woman in a bar near a
garbage dump 3 years ago, 21 days after Valentine's Day in Ohio or
some other place when for no sane reason she handed me her purse
because she was going to become a man. I bought another beer and
punched her in the ****. “Why did you do that?!” She demanded to
know. “You know why!” I exclaimed. “Yeah” she responded sadly,
“soon my **** will be turned into a huge *****, larger than a school
bus.” Even though I didn't see her or her **** again I'll never forget
this mentally-******* woman whose **** I punched, 3 years ago in
a bar near a garbage dump, after Valentine's Day in Ohio, probably.
Here is a query from Negroidal Africa's Gold Coast: “Could a wild,
intra-****** hemorrhoid, under neo-C.I.A. remote control, free itself,
wriggle up to the pulsing throat unfelt & throttle its sleeping host?”
What is that? Let me taste it. It is not peanut butter and it's not dog-
****. I have a cat. Oh, then it must be cat-****. It's such a great joy to
solve a baffling mystery like Sherlock Holmes did when he was not
shacked up with crapped-out Graham Chapman. It was David Sher-
lock, not Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock Holmes was hitched to young
Shirley Temple before her ***-bags exploded & killed Buddy Epsen.
Jessica Dec 2018
After the plunging neckline
And the next red lipped smile
And then after that,
The Halloween costume
cat woman spandex
Highlighting her curves
(Like the shadows whispering to the
body of a Porsche)
He was a plain and ordinary
blue collar man
But with each swipe of his hand
He transformed into-
Steve McQueen
Riding the turns of the Hollywood Hills
At his disposal
The drowsy dreams of yesteryear
The illusions of marriage
to his **** star, movie star, super model wife
All thanks to this hazy laptop screen light
He can conquer his
nothingness
He can conquer her
Blue Orchid Aug 2018
Every so often I wake up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason and on the periphery of my vision, I see you seating on the edge of my bed. Your face seems to be dappled but I figure you always have that crooked smile you seem to favor. No matter how many times I’ve seen this it doesn’t fail to surprise me each time. My heart races until the force of my blood gashing through my veins is almost painful. I gasp and I blink, and when my eyes open your no longer there like you’re no longer in my life. I keep expecting to be content with that fact but that hasn’t happened yet and it worries me that it never will.

Grieving is such a strange thing, you know, crying for someone you’ll never see again. You’re supposed to mourn all the pain the loss has caused you so you’ll be better again, better to live your life, to love again, to see the world in a new light away from the shade that person had on you. But what if your life is the shade and that person was the only light in it, as if they were made from the brightest lanterns?


You once wrote to me in the middle of the night, “Make me feel something.” You said, “I’m so numb.” You said. And I pictured how you whispered it after, with your fingers shaking as they gripped the phone as though it was your life’s salvation. I held you close with arms that you could not see but felt and my words covered you like false temptation, beautiful and alluring, and just absolutely right.  Yet they were all just fragments in our memories because we made nothing veritable. I never really let you go after even though I thought I did. My soul imprinted on yours and it was as if that moment ripped part of my being and kept it with you.


I never really let you go even though you broke my bones as if that moment was when we first lipped from the tallest towers. We floated on broken wings and we told each other that all we had was fragments of each moment we spent together until one of us decided no more moment should be made.  It was never acknowledged, of course, because selfishness was in our veins, not matter how much we tried to live for one another, there was a silent clock ticking in both our heads, screaming to for us to stop; to just give up, to leap from the tower and to forget. I should have hurdled first so I would not have to see the remains of you shattered.
Just for you.
Liquid-lipped sun
drips pleasure
unto the sea-wet tangling of hips
licking drunk sweat tendrils
slinking behind ears.
We fall asleep,
Baring kiss
to the skin beside us
Bearing body
to the drool of afternoon.
Falling in love in Sinemorets

— The End —