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Tessellate Nov 2012
i had a thought.
i ran out of my room,
down the hallway,
and into the bathroom.

i wriggled out of my worn down, tie dye shirt.
hopping up and down as i pull off my
high-waisted jeans, pulling my pant leg with my foot as i
trample the dark denim to the ground.

i stand there naked, in front of the
harsh, full length mirror.
combing my fingers through my natural, wavy hair.
i contort my face in disgust, cocking
my head slightly to the side.

i close my eyes, and take one deep breath in.
when i open my eyes,
the reflection staring back at me is a thin, natural
beauty.

Her smooth ivory skin glows in the
silvery reflective glass.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
Her ******* lay on Her chest in perfect
proportion to the rest of her petite frame.

i run my fingers down the sides of my body.
my palms trailing along, dipping and
rising with the mounds beneath my skin.

i close my eyes and open them again,
this time taking my reflection for
what it really is.

i am fat.
my skin is pink and spotted with freckles the
colour of blood.

my stomach hangs low, covering the part
a man should see when i'm naked.

my ******* are big.
but not in the way you'd like them to be.
they lay there, sort of lop-sided.
hanging just above my ribs. Another place for
fat to take over.

the cuts on my thighs are hardly noticable
next to

all

that

fat

i can see tears in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me,
but i am numb.

i thought correctly. i am
fat. i am ugly.
Nobody in their right mind would want to
love me.
zebra Feb 2019
scarlet haught
queen of mirth
dog ****
drooling jewelry red splits
pulled by a chariot  
of six hundred million house cats
dissembling for freaky insertions
of scarlet bud flowers uterine tube

breath of spit
while ballet toes kiss fingers and tongues
glazing thickly tides sweat
bamming greased ****

Christ *****
"once upon a never more"
bi-sexed up
**** twitch glistening holes
drizzle fish
in red tents overturned
for fabulous *******
and angelic *****'s
flirty dance the come **** me  

her throat a never ending squealed gullet
sublime Madonna of Oor
bare thighed and pulpy spread
scissor strokes and stride
wagging tongue for rosy oleo sticks
and **** pastry rectums pulled tight
in lop sided temples of split flesh

another ambulance to the emergency **** ward
in a dreamland of leggy nurses

sacred fig of Freyja
Goddess to **** toys
and pretty pretty who go that way
hocus opus poke and stir
freckle face **** mouth
a lapping menagerie

i gird my ***** and follow her
into a cologned room; of dark rim box butter
***** yelping for
a slow grind in a belly of clams

red and velvet pageant
she nests in the heart
a midwife disturbia
to pregnant lust
being pushed down and worked up
till loosened in thick ****
and black whip afterbirth
like flowers of curves and blood

her banquet; a platter of wet orifice
trilling vibratos ******
and anxious kisses crawling through her mouth
like fallen angels flying
dire sister of knock out *******
pleading goth nuns for lesbian heated
Satan loving veiled Christian crotch
and a thousand delicious gaped
******* **** poundings
and mouth ***** **** plunge

crucifix of wrack and *****
****** and beaten senseless
instructions from the  book of night
of **** and spite
written by
Abrahams primitive nations
arms of the cross she is nailed to
sweet ***** waifs beaten dead
in a tillage of brokenness

mans club
shore of incinerated witches and tortured justice
shut up when your talkin to me
clan of honor
duo troupe
almanac of hell
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
Karissa Apr 2015
I'm not allowed to have my best pie
And for that, I think I shall cry.

For pumpkin is nice, and I do enjoy cherry,
But none will suffice for that scrumptious blueberry

Each cute berry makes a small pop
And as for whipped cream, please give me a lop

For lemon is nice but I simply can't wary
From delicious, and tasty, and precious blueberry.
Edward Alan Mar 2014
or "let's order takeout,"
or "small ineptitudes in the kitchen"


1.

butter
lop
it liberally
silver clinging

scrape it
pan side
sputters and hissing
smoky?

turn the heat
down
crimsoning
elemental

browning the
butter


2.

sizzling whites
diaphanous
stiffly whitened

bubbles surface
spatula stroking
poly—

tetrafluoroethylene
roll the egg
yolk

shattering
yellow


3.

****! the water
nothing—
evaporated

gasping
blue effluvium
windows
fanblades

blackened ***
the bite of a
char upon
it

tea for
tomorrow
Sapphic stanzas broken into free verse.
onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18
I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Written: October 2013.
Explanation: A poem in three parts written in my own time. I guess this is aimed primarily at young children - written mainly as a bit of fun. Although the language is fairly simple for a child to understand, some words will obviously be unfamiliar, but perhaps if read aloud a definition of the word could later be provided to the child. It is unlikely a child would use the word 'ziggurats' for example, but nevertheless, these more challenging words might be interesting to a child, simply because of the sound and unfamiliar nature of it.
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase  them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I'm the Black Spider
I **** all I desire
Nadeah May 2014
Hmm is the next word to mmmm
I have no feelings for drama
Neither do I play soccer
Have the heart like a lion
It aims to poison
I'm just running near the streams
My heart is racing ,so it seems
Like what is I was made to just stand
Made to lop down in the sand
I want just time to breathe
But time only deceives
My eyes are my lookout
Do I got you going hmmmmm yet


I bet ......
Welcome to my mind of thoughts
Once daddy decided to teach his son,
His favorite being politics,
He set to teach Civics..!!


He said,
Son let's begin from home,
If I be the head,
I become Prime Minister,
And your mother,
She becomes Home Minister,

At this point,
Mother who was listening
to all the commotion,
From her undisputed department,
The kitchen...!!
Came out and
Explained casually,

Your daddy is the Head,
And he becomes 'President'...
Who has to give formal approvals,
To what is sort from 'The Parliament',
He also gives approval for the budget presented,
And be guest of Honor at various public events,
He gets to speak few times a year,
And he is still the 'formal approver'...

I manage few portfolios,
Prime ministry and Home ministry,
At times I have Finance ministry too,
Defence ministry too mostly stays with me,
I am the 2/3 rd majority, I decide how to run 'The House'!!

And most times I have solid 'Opposition' too,
The leader of Opposition (LoP) is very strong,
She being your grand mother,
Is also the head of oldest party in the house.
Her party has now lost and so she is in opposition,
Disputing every new law I, the PM try to bring.
She is Old Monk with a Gin,
But with her experience and wisdom,
I the PM, is always trimmed !!

Your grand dad, is a gentle politician,
He keeps changing parties from government to opposition,
When he is with us, we give him portfolio,
We make him a minister for Agriculture, Food and Health.
In some houses he is the Retired Former President.
Living a comfortable life with benefits that come with retirement.

You dear son get to keep Games, Education and Tourism ministry.
Nothing more comes your way,
You are forced to believe you are our future,
And so your ministry always need to perform,
Because,
To brighten the future is supposed to be in your hands!!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
August 2018
This is a funny light humored comparison of Indian joint family set up with Indian political system.
We live in a family mostly where grand parents, parents and kids live together in one house.. In country we have President and Parliament headed by Prime Minister and also opposition headed by leader of opposition.
Echo Oct 2014
Night patterns shine on her reflection,
Tonight she is all alone.
The water deforms her face,
She killed the girl she use to be.
She stares in the ribbon of water,
The forest growing deathly still,
That type of haunted, ghostly forest,
That leaves you with a chill.
She can't seem to find my way back to Texas,
She wish somebody would point her to Tennessee.
But first, before she meets the one who is hers,
She must be able to meet herself.
She looks at this girl, yet she doesn't see me,
Her beauty shields who she inside.
She is so insecure and has to hide.
Yet she does not want to commit suicide.
Instead, she wants to live all alone.
In a dark, sick world.
The ones like in Coraline,
Or the night before Christmas,
Just a haunted, wicked world.
The one she loves is just so perfect,
She loves him more than anything.
She wants him to know it will be okay.
Her light comes from the ones she shines on his day.
She is just scared, not of him or if he'll love her,
For that is clear to see.
She's just scared of herself.
She murdered the girl she use to be.
The clouded night grows calmer still,
Demons rising with a deadly trill,
Angry eyes, all despise,
The question remains.
The terrifying question makes her heart this world,
This world of growing hate.
It is a simple question that has sent chains on her arms,
Bound her to her hell.
And she can't escape, there is no hope for her,
As he is not there to hold her hand.
Chase the demons away,
Or kiss her tonight.
She just wants to know one thing,
One thing that will set her free.
They, come, they take Rosie away,
She screams into the black night,
Kicking her legs against the other girl,
"Andy!" She calls out, but he is not there.
Her heart breaks, but this person is too strong,
Her heart grows cold as they take her away.
Rosie goes limp, dropping her letter,
Her love note to Andy.
It falls onto the muck on the ground,
The breeze lifts her hair.
The siren is heard from the land,
Dear Rosie is almost dead.
Her eyes turn wide and black,
Dark tears streaming from her once beautiful face.
Darkness, Evil and Terror fill
Her soul.
She is more scared than you could ever imagine.
She opens her eyes for the very last time,
Before she sees her love meet her eyes.
He smiles his famous lop-sided smile,
And takes a good look at her.
Because he's always, always, been there for her,
This story is that of a happy ending.
He chases her demons away by a simple wink,
She didn't have to go to Tennessee.
Because she remembers he is with her always,
A smile stretches on her face,
And immediately she hugs him,
Hoping the kiss she will give him is enough to repay him,
For all that he's done, all that he is,
She loves the Andy she knows.
She wouldn't change him for anything.
Andy, you have always been there for me,
I am so proud of you.
I hope my love can chase your demons away,
I love you.
Love, Rosie.
:')
Cristin H Apr 2013
I'm filling up
like a landfill
my heart is starting to feel
like an anvil
And I'm starting to think that maybe,

Maybe this world's not meant for me
or me for it
or us for each other like in a
"mutual" break up
which is an idiom,
because love is never quite

symmetrical.
See, love is like a heart drawn by a
fifth grader.
It's never quite the same
on either side
and if you ever told them they were wrong
for drawing it that way
you lied.
Because that:
lop sided
sloppy
hunched over heart,

that:
innocent
delicate
Beautiful heart,

Is exactly what love is.

When we're older,
we learn to draw straighter lines
to hide our shaking hands.

Don't let them know you're nervous.

We learn to whisper what we don't want heard,
To make silent our thoughts,
in public.
Fights were meant for closed doors and walls
that are never quite thick enough
to keep words that hard, from breaking them down.
Even the fights,
that you fought against someone
who looks much too like you.

When, then, can I open my mind like a book
for only them to read.
When can I open my chest like a puzzle box
for them to put together.
When can I apologize for having before,
what I only ever wanted with them?

I just didnt know it yet.

I am a fifth graders heart
that beats five times heavier
than healthy.
Being colored in
with too deep a red.

I'm filling up
like a landfill.
My heart has reached a
stand still.
And I'm starting to think that maybe,

Maybe a square peg can find comfort
in a round hole.
(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the ***** behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
Sophie Herzing Oct 2014
On a cafeteria table,
in the middle of February,
the kind where it gets dark at 5pm,
sat eight minature figurines made of shells—
brown, speckled, like a calico cat
with googly eyes on the middle of their heads,
one business man with a black derby,
one with a pretty pink bow,
or even one with blue suspenders,
and all their chubby bellies
rounding out over their pants. The woman

with her iridescent nails, bony fingers,
the skin pressed thin against her knuckles,
lines them up in a perfect row, tilting
their heads into one another as if
they are having a tiny conversation
admist the numbers being called—
B14! She stamps in red. B14!
A man pushes a cart around the tables,
like one mows grass around graves,
with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips
on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman
if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows
a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks
behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay.

G56! She touches the head of the figurine
with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count
of how many numbers I’ve missed,
but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh,
creeping, your fingers pushing
my cotton skirt up, up, and up—
O74!
We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers.
We’d like to win the lottery tickets,
maybe cash them in at the gas station
after we drink a couple iced teas and snack
on Mentos cause we ran out of money
two bottles ago.

The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil
that lies at the bottom of the eye,
lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend
that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t
the first time you’ve brought me here, G47!
instead of a real date. Or pretend
that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough,
and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls
or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly,
this way or that or

N44! She doesn’t have it. N44!
I don’t have it.
Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday,
she whispers, sideways from her mouth,
with your thumb making circles around my hipbones,
and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels
B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it.
I don’t have it.
I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.

A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.

They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.

I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.

He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.

One day they brought in a bundle
******* in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.

The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.

Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.

He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.

I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal *******,
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!

David Lewis Paget

(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))
Pauline Morris Aug 2016
I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I am the Black Spider
I **** all I desire
Devon Baker Aug 2011
Cut the wire words tethered to my tongue,
A resemblance of a schizophrenic’s,
If Death walked sullenly, could we run
Scream and scatter, cleave off limbs to lockets
The burdens and blood plump things that slow us,
What’s of organs to living always,
Ever existing to face away from
Shadow and sun, cut way the instruments
Of muscles congealed among movement
Fatty slabs and raw bones weighing our hold,
Just fleeing, blood draining to keep moving
Just a few more strides to flee unholy
Death near lingering ever encroaching,
Lop off all just to stray, till left is the
Soul on shoulders, welcoming judgment day
Lawrence Hall Jul 2017
The Happy Little Guillotine

Oh, happy guillotine, who blesses us
With your great gift of freedom, so that we
Will never again suffer the cruel torments
Of faith and friendship, air, love, light, and breath

Oh, do lop off our heads, and make us free
To gurgle hymns to The Revolution
By our hundreds free, nay, our thousands free,
To rot in the streets, gloriously free

Oh, holy guillotine, come to our aid
And make us one beneath your healing blade!
Though mine eyes do the beholding
In probing, scanning and reviewing:
Measuring quantity against quality;

And though the scales of mine eyes
Unsteady are, altering like weather,
As my sight's balances beauty rank
By the ratio of its carat to dross,
Which are counterpoising each other
Like Michael and Lucifer--the frank

And the false; yet put I the manipulation,
The entire enterprise of my intention

Upon my heart. For though these eyes
Fairness understand but are unwise
Still to fathom the depth of love
On those twain pans of duplicity.

The beckoning ***** to the heart
Must thus tilt the weight in reckoning
Affection that the lop-sided lips wooing
A gold precious of a great rate,
That bears the hallmark of a prized proof,
May win no bauble nor feigned fancy.
Ashwin Kumar Jan 2022
I have been yearning for true love
For years and years
For decades and decades
I have seen it in movies
I have read it in books
But to experience it in real life
Is a different feeling altogether
Of course, when you have lived
For as long as thirty two years
It is utterly impossible
Not to fall in love
At least once, or maybe even twice
And I am not even counting crushes
They are as ephemeral
As the life of a mayfly is
The love bug has bitten me twice
However, on both occasions
The love has been more lop-sided
Than the recent Men's Ashes
On the first occasion
I was slower than a snail
By the time I finally confessed my feelings
The girl was already engaged
On the second occasion
It was an arranged marriage
After two initial meetings
Followed by two months
Full of frequent phone calls
We had a rather simple engagement
Since then, it was apparent
That the going was smooth
Even if it was a long-distance relationship
However, just before the wedding
The pandemic chose to strike
The marriage had to be postponed
By five frigging months
Consequently, things were never the same again
Mind you, I was very much in love
But, as I mentioned earlier
It was a long-distance relationship
And I could sense
That slowly, but surely
The girl was beginning to fade away
And the marriage, when it eventually happened
Was an absolute trainwreck
Now, a year and a half later
I am single again
And the quest for true love continues
This time, I hope and pray
That when I do fall in love again
It will be duly reciprocated
And will be as long-lasting
As the love
That my family has for me
Colleen Lyons May 2015
Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves

between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon

hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and

swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.
Jennifer Marie Mar 2012
The day I turned nine, I hiked up
            my honeysuckle tutu, and raced
                        to find you –
            there, sprawled out on the hissing
asphalt driveway, with precise strokes of neon
            sidewalk chalk, you were writing the words
                        “I love you.”
            We dotted our names with lop-
                        sided stars and scribbled
stick-figured versions of ourselves years and years
            in the future. And when the first zig-
                        zagged bolt crossed the sky, we screamed
                                    and then laughed, loud
                        barking laughs at the heavy raindrops.

The night I turned twenty, I cried
            myself to sleep, and tucked the paper under
                        my crocheted blanket. With eyes
            closed, I counted the colors behind my lids –
                        three, four, a kaleidoscope.
Your name still appeared though
– inky, blurring into the foreground,
                        along with that childhood chalk.
© 2012, Jennifer Marie
betterdays Jun 2014
when you and i...
are apart, for a longer
length of time
i find....

i am a lop-sided,
mis-shapen thing.
stumbling along..
a straight and
narrow road.


simple things,
take more time
and difficult things,
are well... too...difficult.

it is not that,
i can't cope.
i do....
but life has,
become more
of a chore.
and less, of a game.

and it is the seperation.

i blame,
for the colours
becoming dull,
for the words
lacking purpose,
for the heart
beating  too slowly,
for the sun
losing it shine,
and food, it's taste.

and for me,
becoming a....
whinging, whining
waste of space!

lop-sidely,
stumble-grumbling,
along....
come home soon,
ya big lug....
i am drowning in self pity here..... lol.
C H Watson Jan 2015
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rampaging tiger, once gentle girl, spare us our lives!
Reduce us not to blood-spray with your lethal knives!
                   Lop                           not
                 our                              red                            
­               and                               raw                necks
             with your  wicked       and         brutal
            claws and glinting        wry   fangs!
          You                   are           kindly
        and               not a              bad
     monster      with a                sly
and         voracious                   gut!
                   Have                        for
                   our                           wet                        tears
              some                             wee                      pity!
        This                                      we beg, O rakshasa!
  Please,                                          remain vegetarian!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem is shaped like the Japanese character for death (死 ****) and is dedicated to my pal ShiftingTiger on AllPoetry.com! She happens to have been afflicted by some sort of teenage lycanthropy, so we try to give her moral support and vegetarian encouragement whenever possible.
TJ King Feb 2013
4 o'clock, saturday
Dread and Panic are holding hands in my chest:
An extraordinary case of the mean reds
watching the gray
from my kitchen window

the cars parked over cement fields
precisely 300 vehicles when full
the boy sitting on a gray bench waiting
with his baseball, shh! His gray father is shouting
at his gray phone, his gray wife finally called that number.
all gray.

      the sky here is almost always sleeping
a blanket of melting nimbus
the gulls slide inoffensively over the roofs
our courtyard grass trembles for them

the wind falls out of the bay
wind, the world traveler without a suitcase
I imagine it kicking up dust in exotic fields
only the rocks are gray there,
gray because they deserve to be.

the whole scene is quite extraordinary
A Run Of Wild Horses! Gall-lop-ing
gliding offensively, red and white and gold
shining sweaty and flying!
can you imagine?

--it's starting to rain and the boy is still sitting,
he's so gray now I can hardly see him
the wind still spills in from the bay down the road
where I can see them running from my window-

Mains whipping like flags of furious change
Hooves beating down the cement footpaths
The streetlamps are crumpling into heaps of flowers
Tails raging back and forth, metronomous passion chords

Fast, rapid gaining (Lover's Heartbeat)
-the boy is yet unaware
legs of inspiration fast approaching
-the cars twist into red willows over golden hope fields
Shh! His father, master of gray has been sacked! Tr-am-pled!
Now his body of flowers lay in the street!

Arrest. They have arrested.

Standing tall and silent like Liberty
they take the boy upon their shoulders,
an acrobatic wonder
and continue slowly across the grass
-it still trembles for them
and take flight, to the next courtyard
and then the next.

I'll never forget the grayness of his eyes
as he disappeared over the trees
who were once chimneys,
his mouth was stuffed
full of flowers.
Joseph Sinclair Mar 2015
[Therefore when you meet the unbelievers,
smite them at their necks.
Thus does Allah test you,
and, according to Qu’uran,
those that are slain in Allah’s way,
will never have their deeds forgotten.
]

They called him Jihadi John.
It was not his name.
Mohammed Emwazi was how he was really known.
Born in Kuwait;
brought up in Britain.
How are such monsters made?
They have special classes
associated with the mosque.
How to slay
in the name of Allah.
The mosque does not encourage them,
but the mosque is a useful hub
for recruitment
and good camouflage
for activities denounced by
the majority of the congregation.

We really cannot blame
the parents,
we, who have spawned our own share
of mad dogs.
“He was always such a good boy”,
we hear them cry.
“Charlie’s such a good boy, a good boy”
runs the Dia Frampton lyrics
“so compliant, quiet as a stepping stone”.
“You’re such an easy target,”Dia says,
“without a rebel bone”.

[Do you hear what I’m saying?]

But this is in the West,
where tolerance is synonymous with weakness.
Pinpointed as terrorists
by the enforcers of public order,
(perhaps better defined as errorists)
so hesitant to deny these miscreants
their legal rights,
these sickening abominations
(undeserving of the name of Man)
are able to perpetrate their outrages
and continue to abuse the State
that has nourished them.
All in the name of
political correctness.

An equal tolerance
has never yet been granted
to one suspected of a similar
disregard for the traditions
and beliefs and loyalties
prized within their own
Islamic State.

We also have to ask ourselves:
would Russia tolerate this situation?
And furthermore
why is that immense country
so free, apparently, from Jihadism
when it has been responsible
for far more Muslim slaying
than any other Western nation?
Is it perhaps that very fact:
that absence of such toleration
has rendered it immune
from such attacks?

[Do you hear what I’m saying?]


So if you really want to take a hostage
and satisfy your primitive desire
to lop off a head,
the road to take is spread out there
before you.
You need to move to
freedom-loving nations of the West.
Pronounce your aims
in non-equivocating terms
and tie them very closely
to doctrinal belief.
No matter how outrageous
they may seem.

Indeed, the more absurdly
barbarous and primitive
the ideology that you spout,
the more your hosts
will backward bend
and shower upon you all the
benefits of a beloved friend.
Indeed, in bending backward
they are making a symbolic
gesture:
baring and presenting you
a throat.

[Now do you hear what I’m saying?]
Dave Shaw Mar 2011
You remember getting out of the car.

You remember the stooped uphill walk, jacket in hand, across the driveway toward the door.

You remember the deliberate motion of your index finger attempting to jab the 4 digit code into your garage door opener, and the seeming disconnect between your visual perception and your index finger's physical place in reality.

You remember closing one eye and aiming slightly higher than the soft padded buttons on the opener, to compensate for their distorted visual placement.

You remember the deliberate 7 stooped steps you take toward the snowbank, after finally entering the proper 4 digit code and waiting for the large overhead garage door to complete its transition from closed to open.

You remember using your right hand, and scooping up a handful of fresh snow, and launching it in the direction of your mouth.

You remember the feeling of what felt like very cold sand compressed in the cavern formed by the impossibly dry roof of your mouth, and your impossibly dry tongue, slowly melting into liquid and affording you the small mercy of saliva to relax your lips from your teeth as you turn and take 7 very deliberate steps toward the now completely open garage door.

You don't remember pressing the large plastic button that closes the overhead door, nor setting your house alarm, nor the almost terrifying efficiency that you displayed in turning off the outside lights, locking the door, pouring yourself a glass of unfavourably luke-warm tap water and proceeding to down said glass of tap water, nor somehow miraculously keeping yourself upright up the 12 carpeted steps leading to your second floor.

You remember the walk down the hallway, toward your bedroom.

You remember closing the door softly behind you, and thinking to yourself that you really ought to get more water or something but elect instead to strip yourself naked and collapse into your bed.

You remember the blurred lop-sided flash of red that you could identify as your bedside clock.

You remember, in that flash of red, reading the time as 33:81 p.m. but you feel pretty positive in retrospect that this is false.

You remember wishing you could summon the motivation to turn on your record player, which is sitting on the table opposite your bed and well out of arm's reach.

You remember the infinite bulk of every part of your body as you lay in the complete darkness, staring in the presumed direction of your record player, as if you could glare it into operation.

You remember your internal nonsensical monologue that provided unrequested commentary on the quickly diminishing amount of sensory input at your disposal, which now included only the sound of your own breathing, and the impossibly bright flashing LED from your camera battery charger somewhere on the floor below you.

You remember the involuntary twitch of your leg that reminded you that you do, in fact, still have a leg, and are not, as you had somehow began to assume, a disembodied set of eyes, ears, and lungs.

You remember the girl with lip ring, your buddy's crude joke about the black belt, the new number added to your cellphone under the name Tessa, added by girl whom you recall being pretty sure was named Jessica. You estimate the chance that you will ever actually call this number at roughly Zero.

You remember contemplating a time that you could ever feel good about your night by the next day, as your eyelids scrape against the linen surface of your pillow, with a sensation that you could only liken to a very sparse broom being pulled across a concrete floor.

You remember wishing for anything at all to just happen.

And that is it. That is all you had.
Simon Soane May 2016
Being a weekend binge drinker I don’t really like Mondays
my poor fragile mind is in a alcohol daze,
my limbs are slow and heavy, each movement is a trial
I feel like I’ve ran a marathon after swimming the length of The Nile,
I lop around all zombiefied my legs are full of lead
my eyes are groaning loudly, like an extra from The Walking Dead,
I’m on the verge of snoozing, I do that sleepy involuntary ****,
I pinch myself real hard “Si you have to stay awake in work!”.
So I take a trip to the disabled toilet and have a nap on the ceramic floor,
hoping I’ll feel much better after this tad of a tiny snore,
I rouse after ten minutes and decide to control this ***** ridden strife,
I must get a grip soon, I want a grasp on this Monday life,
a light bulb pings out of nowhere to brighten my maudlin mood,
this sweet recovery will be engendered by lots scrumptious of food,
so I indulge in a savoury overload and gorge on toast and crisps;
Discos, Hula Hoops, Quavers and defo tons of Frisps,
on my dinner I scoff a Mac Donalds and then a Greg’s sausage roll,
this hungry Homer gluttony helps to sustain my whole,
the calorific sustenance does it’s job and my hangover starts to diminish,
I gaze at the computer’s clock and think “hey it’s time I finished!”.
I ponder “ohh I can glide home knowing my day is done
and if it stays sweet and bright I can enjoy a few hours in the sun,
after that I can watch Breaking Bad and catch up with Coronation Street
while busting out the texts and having more to eat,
yeah I’m see what Walter White’s up to while being really greedy,
wait a ******* minute, tonight’s when I’ve said I’d help the needy!
*******, **** **** **** ****, that’s my evening of chilling down the spout,
rather than a hammock night in I’ve got to venture out
and feed a load of ungrateful gits who don’t even clear their plates
and ask me if I’m a cross dresser while sniggering with their mates,
rather then see if Jesse gets caught by Hank and how the story unfolds
I’ll have to scrub those scrubbers dishes pristine while wearing marigolds,
as oppose to nodding off reading with a Rustlers under my front room lamp
I’ll have to put a load of cutlery away after making a 20 sugar brew for a *****!"
So I decide the Wellspring is off tonight as I really can’t be assed going
I’ll just graft extra hard for *** next week and keep the drinks a flowing,
so I’m just about to pick my phone up and call in with a excuse that’s pretty lamey
but then I realise if I don’t go I won’t get to see Amy!
Suddenly there is a spring in my step, my motion feels on point
I shower very quickly and post drying roll a joint,
I have a zip in my posture as I sail and blaze down the road
all my thoughts of staying in they instantly erode,
I think “Amy is ace and topper, in her company all is fun
she’d make a day of gloom resplendent with the sun,
her chirping silly noises are always brill in the air
she turns my giggles to def com one, I laugh without a care,
I mean I know I'm hilarious, I can feel my own strengths in my head and tummy
but when I'm with Amy I'm even more funny!  
She makes it all sunny!
Cos we can berate that gormless Declan who eats with the speed of a cheetah
say he's troffing all the time, like a professional eater,
we can spray a bit of water, have a lot of chat
teleport through nonsense with the free degree of claptrap,
chill around the washer where all the cool kids hang
kicking back like Gs, knowing all the slang,
flick a fleck of sausage then have a speaking swirl
flex the talking muscles with sweet balletic twirl.
I mean she's not perfect, she could improve her lot
she's pretty immodest, always going on about how she's so hot,
alright supermodel, calm down, yeah, okay you were blessed with good looks
be you know being arrogant really ******* *****.
And she don't like the ***** cats, her brain must have a feline blur
how can she not warm to their whiskers and their contented little purrs,
her eyes sometimes don't always work and she is optically infirm
and she steals pies from the scrotes, she don't know to wait her turn,
she'd stab you in the back for a go at the counter, she's always trying to grab the lead,
and added to all that she can't even ******* read!
(I'm surprised you can read this actually.)
But i'll overlook these foibles, her flaws aren't yet that drastic
she has to merge some yang in there to be so yin fantastic!
Ahh, in this life where what was can no longer leave a reflection
it's always super to feel the natural flow of connection;
glowing with simplicity
our joyous synchronicity!"
So i approach the door of The Wellspring and feel sweet and glad
and think, "you know for a Monday you aint turned out too bad!".
Tad of context, Wellspring is a homeless shelter place I work at, obvs I don't really think they are all tramps, just fun for the lols of the poem!
Alan S Bailey Jan 2016
I would that if you increased
The spoken statements on your mind,
Would be you used this tone with me,
I'd "lop off your head," for better words
Suit me fine, defended by a suit of armor, one
For my own well-minded ears hearing safety,
An armor I deserve for being your king,
Your master, you are my throne even,
I sit on you when I'm sad, and spit on you
When I'm mad. This is it, there's nothing
More to say, you wash your mouth out now,
My "honest perfection" grows day by day.
Socally Picter Apr 2013
Pacing pacing shifting left and right in a flurry.
Run to the bath to dry heave, which does nothing.
Lop it off and hide it away with a smirk.
Calmly walk up the steps and toward him.

We touch and the rush feels me but not us.  
You've been here before oh so many times.
Open up with a straight right to your face.
You dance away and hint at a smile.
You think that's all I've got.

This is our first go and I want to make you remember.
I eat fist after fist fear of the knockout lessens but doesn't go away.
Your fists don't hold the strength to maim.
Your heart holds a fear in it tightly, and then you hesitate.

My steps toward you leaves the fear in your heart and spreads to your face.
I saw lighting from one but not again,you realize this.
Three left hooks to my head I trade for one to your gut.
You know I mean to hurt and you slow down.
Not stopping but thinking just enough to **** your reflexes.

You found yourself in the corner and saw me smile.
You block the overhand left and squirm away.

The bell rings

I drop my hands and can't pick them up.
Completely exhausted, I find a nice little bliss.
I get out of the ring and just hope I helped you a little bit.
I am not the prodigy it is you with the speed and endurance.
Now show the world we're not people to mess with.
Kate Lion Jun 2015
there is a boa constrictor
wrapped around my ribcage

there is an old story lodged in my windpipe
and i wish Heimlich had been a composer
so i could write it out without turning blue

i am lop-sided
but, alas
there is no one to lean on

it is heavy
(i must sit down)
where is the floor?

i long to talk to strangers
and keep my house clean
and run my hands across my husband's beard
just one more time

all i feel is a loss of circulation
my words won't reach higher than my chest
struggling to escape,
to wriggle through a sealed-off space

i cannot tell if it is my love reaching through my chest
or if it's....
Pauline Morris Apr 2016
I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I am the Black Spider
I **** all I desire
Kaley Dec 2016
What's blue, an round,
an comes in different sizes?

what's grown an a product
sold in the stores?

.......Hidden Message......Answer......

Decode: look at the 1st letter of each word
if its just a letter(vowel) use the letter..

ex: Kop A Lop E Y ...... K a l e y (look at uppercase letters).

bop lop u e , bop e rop rop I e sop....
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
At the beggar's banquet
There are two kinds of worker bees
One in the blows of the breathless insects
With pollen for keeping, and the food they cannot respect
But, the honey lingers like the sweet
The lingering smell
Of the dew
Of a thousand years kept in a hidden hive
Imaginatively, the prey to the work was just canonical
And I worked really hard for my canines
And the square of that lines up with the 6 sides of a cell
Of nine lives
Like a cat curious enough to shake the hornet's nest, three times
b e mccomb Sep 2021
“well,” he always says
and he shrugs
“you know. it’s
pickup work.”

liquor store?
sling *****
around for a few
hours on the weekend?

pickup work.

flower shop?
haul buckets of water
huff some bleach
and lop some stems?

pickup work.

dog biscuits?
slam some dough
cut out even little
canine snacks?

pickup work.

i have a job
it could pay better
but i have a very
low standard of living

my life is better now that
i don’t come home
with the compulsion
to drink hard liquor

but things are slow
at my real job
so what do i
find myself doing?

pickup work.

i see him in my
minds eye
shrug again
as if it doesn’t matter

and it doesn’t
it’s just pickup work

but the problem with
pickup work is
what am i putting down
to pick it up?

i always thought it
was time
a few hours of sleep here
afternoon of free time there

but what about
my sanity?

what about my
mental health?

what am i
putting down
to pick
this up?

it sounds selfish
to say my peace of mind
and yet
if peace of mind
is something i want to find
it’s true

and some days i
hate this town
and i hate the way
it traps me
suffocates me
in who i used to be

when i was broke
and running

i never ran away from home
just worked 60 hours a week
so i would never
have to be there

that’s not me anymore
i like my life
i like my time
i like my quiet

and i don’t like
pickup work

especially when i think
about what i’m
putting down to
pick it up
copyright 9/10/21 by b. e. mccomb
My brain ticks with a different kind of vigor
My brain licks at time, tasting new flavor
My brain thirsts for what isn't mine, nor my neighbours
My brain bursts at the dreams by a prickly Jailor.

Hail her, she mounts the mountains in attempts to see thee.
Completely unphased by the fountains that writhe beneath me.
I turn my back in revenge, revenge that bleeds me,
Dry of my vigor, dry of my fire for I am clay. See?

Mould me she said, with eyes deeper than gold strewn caverns in the beyond.
They perplex me, so, oh, so greatly they vex me, they stress me of concern.
I burn, nay, I am clay, so I yearn for this. Fair lady may I ask for one last kiss?
In my stead she kissed a statue instead, and left a mark, a deep copper red.

Goodbye she said, and she left the statue be, till the earth caved in, and so did the sea.
I cannot tell you how, or even of when. Or of when, or even of how can I not tell you?
Wow, I can tell you I saw a sky blue.
Or black, after Jailor's attack. Halt!

Stop dreaming! Oh please, do stop it henceforth!
I am mightily weary, must make trip to the north.
Lonely I have been, for you have not been.
So wake up and walk with that lop-sided grin.
Oh, what a tiresome companion you are,
Since I have made haste to journey thus far,
With you left behind after I had begun,
So pick up those feet, and away wierdy one.

Off we went, with my dreams in tow.
Whether I will have chance to taste them, I do not know...
But I know one thing, a something so grand.
When I next feel weary and dreary of hand,
I shall await to journey, that dreamer's land.
I wrote this on February 23rd, of 2011.

Five years, eh?

Yeah... five years.
Somehow, I'm learning to be a poet all over again.
Jeez.

LOL
topaz oreilly Jul 2013
The offer of  exploration
is as clear as a dusted chalk board,
fading into oblivion.
This developmental poetry  course is
turning lop sided,
who wants to record a hushed whisper,
chasm five ways into  the inner self
or recount a  colour,
with an emotional resonance.
The ghosts of the past fail to impress.
They cannot compel.
Surely the now is more pressing
not some cultivated  co-dependency
L B Jun 2018
The air suffused
with warm sweat
traced in humors  
blood-stuffed vapor
at body temp
leaking, aching
engorged clouds
drop
lop
lap at back, my shoulders, neck
No wind, no thunder
drives them, harsh
Just sopped
they plop into cotton creases  
Pumped
out
into love's still hungry
art
– eries

Cover deck chairs
Reel in the line

Clothes stick to skin and wanting in
so filled and touching
everywhere
ever-so saturated

I want it sated

I want it raining

— The End —