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Erin Joan Jan 2014
Why does my heart freeze up
when
 I read words you’ve written?

How is it that

I can read writing 

that makes my heart press hard to escape my ribs

But yours liquidates my blood
Until my fingers go numb?

It’s like this

You’ve got a canyon filled with knowledge

On how to hurt

You’ve got a library filled with textbooks

On how to make a heart drop 

You’ve got a sky filled with rain clouds 

That drop tears you’ve inspired
into the eyes of others.

Everything you touch
is sent into a whirlwind orbit. 

You’re important

You’re dangerous

You’re vital

You are never merely an effect.
You affect me. 

Never forget that.
palladia Oct 2013
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
...and it doesn't have to end there.
much of what i already know and learn is transmitted
sent to me through experiences i'd rather not relive
(until encouragement speaks)
but through the hardest circumstances
come the better attractions
although sometimes bad leads to worse,
(and i wish it hadn't).
gears turning

grinding

screaching

creating

a mechanical me



ingredients fold into a mixing bowl

a pinch

a dash

concocting a potion

poisonous to exposure



this liquidates in the basin of my mind

mixing with machinary

creating a technical malfunction



I will forget what I forgot to remember

I will try to explain

how I can't explain

why the static in my brain

has a constant refrain



but

all of this is hidden

under layers of flesh

disguising the deformity

under my skin.
We talked about you in the office
a while ago under the cold hum of the air-conditioner. Laughter spilled
like coffee on the table;
like a river of tears falling to a waterfall beneath my eyes—
yes, your name spilled along the cloth crusted walls
of the office and my tears fall along my dirt filled face;
but I know I’m laughing and just throwing sunshine
and marble smile along the table—
Of course they knew I was laughing but they wonder
if I was biting ******* my lip and mix blood and saliva
and spill… just spill…
Spill the day when the headline liquidates to a moist
in my head to cover my skull with molds and fogs I know will stay
like old rusts which no one knows how to clean.
It became a new joke that we’re trapped in and we would just laugh.
I even told them that I remember
how your lips damp wet
and the words that you would spill would just flow like rivers I know
should be down below but instead were floating
along the skyline and I’m trying
to think about rainbows for
every corner the sun’s rays would pass by is just
another crystal shard to burst out a million spectrum
I did not know exist.
I even told how you painted my world anew
when you took that flight and went off
with your everything—yes, along with the memories
we buried in that broken ceramic time capsule
in your backyard—yes, I know—I remember—I told
them. And yet, I know I should not be spilling laughter along
the table, making myself believe of one final joke—one final blow—
a punchline that God missed to hit me with.

Here I am—trying
to chew your name and the memories into tiny shards and making it
incoherent as possible—
trying to dismantle and melt
what’s left of you inside of my throat;
I want everything to spill like pop rocks in my mouth.
Because all I want to do is swallow
you whole like a candy gemstone
given to me on my fifth birthday,
but I knew my throat is so small
and I never knew it wasn’t a candy;
it was all glass and everything that splinters.
Now, I know, I shouldn’t be spilling blood along the table,
but even wounds take time to heal.
Rony Joseph Mar 2010
Weary of planning his next escape
an addict wants to outlive his condition.
But he is wary of moods not ruined
by expectations of danger on the horizon.

Bulletproof roses lay upon graves of the brave
providing the solace of better days.
But I remain motionless and weightless
Even as I swim through lakes of fire thinking the unthinkable.

As blacks arouse Anglo-Saxons to declare war on the blind
the idea that they could walk on water hand in hand
seems like the delirious incoherence of the presumed dead.
That's why I pray now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.

Among cliffs where a white eagle does pirouettes in the sky
There is a home for a lost boy
One who hears drumbeats announcing the next battle
One who sees tweed doing a sentimental war dance.

A red-faced son fights to leave his mother's womb
Cold air filtering through his lungs.
Things change lanes at the whisper of the sun
Blazing trails for my ink as my spirit sets sail.

I'm not afraid to fly my words to the moon.
It’s been a long time coming
this unveiling of my thoughts to the world.
Surely our hearts beat in the constancy of harmony.

With the prudence of solidarity
Living water liquidates my tribulations
as you rearrange the strings of my guitar.
No longer so worried about the path my fear is torn in half...


Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
Sandman Nov 2018
Taylored pockets fit for the poor.
Fit for helpless men wandering lonely and lost.
To shove away nostalgia.
Incompetent loose bodys trailing willfully into two worlds.
One remembered.
One forgotten.
Spitting dust at winter.
This is Deaths sunset.
But in the end even Death him self will perish.
Buried in bones.
Buried in blood as far as an eye can see.
Swimming in an ocean of ice
That liquidates into darkness.
To create a fallout ocean.
the dirty poet Dec 2018
imagination is my best drinking buddy
i’ll always pick up the check
on this prison planet, fantasy is the liberator
it pulls down every cloud
undresses the ladies
expunges adultery
pulverizes the patriarchy
obliterates mommy
flattens fatty tissue
bulldozes boredom
annihilates procrastination
decimates iron-poor literature
gobbles up poverty
overthrows the workplace
abolishes taxation
liquidates profit
exterminates capitalism
confuses the cops
torpedoes certainty
trashes common sense
wrecks mortality
exterminates the divine
fantasy, the one-stop shopping mall
of freedom
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2019
Time at sea has no meaning,
pendulums cannot survive
indecision of the waves.

Moons, no matter what their
size never line up with the
portholes of tipping vision.

An hour glass tilts, sand
flows backwards, grains
queue at the bottleneck.

Time is fluid, liquidates,
evaporates, flows anti-
clockwise at the equator.

Location by hemisphere is
all one needs to know whilst
being rocked, in a hammock.

— The End —