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onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
Lexander J Apr 2015
From within a blackened heart
spawns madnesses twisted Invictus,
a severed head sat atop a plinth, filled
with decaying thoughts of cyanide and citrus,

completely crazy, inverted, perverted,
infected with an insanity that dances from the eyes -
pouting lips tempestuous and alluring
from the tip of a tongue he sews insidious lies,

roosting upon the bleeding emotions of others
a vile disassociation sanity can't pertain,
charred lips from suckling the ******* of Hell
the back-broke miracle nature refuses to explain,

exhaling noxious fumes, a pyro-manic incense,
one soul re-arranged, deranged and blisteringly intense;

so much so, it disgusts me beyond words -

so kick the rotten apple,

watch the maggots writhe within thou sour curds.
bxtch Jan 2014
It's just a tease
It's just a joke
I'm sure that she
Can take much more

'Twas just the cat
'Twas just the diet
'Twas just the meds
That kept her quiet

Help her soul
Her soul is fine
But save her mind
From what's behind

Thunderstorms and razors
Linger in mind
"I'm fat , stupid and weird"
Is what's behind

So the purging came
Like a knight in shining armor
And the freeing of pain
Came running through her veins

And all she ever needed
From all of these madnesses
Was the thought of silence
Being only a cut away

Because It was just your tease
And It was just your joke
That made her think
*Happiness is just a hoax
Bullying isn't funny.
Martin Narrod Nov 2015
The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things.

I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing.

And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure.

I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists ******* across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love  unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.
Rife with hate, and ripe with disdain
Full of love, yet smelling of pain
Within my heart only thou shalt remain;
until t'is sun dies and it all starts raining again.

And betwixt me, in my white chamber
Only upon thy smile I canst heartily ponder
Ah, having seen thee not since cold Sunday
As if I didst recall thee not morn yesterday.

I knowest I should carest not for thee;
for I thought not of thou and I.
But to my heart I no more lie;
it is not thou and I but we.

Ah, but why hath thou disappeared again, my love?
I who is sure thou art my half,
and even in t'ese all guilty, ye' gullible miseries dwell-
like a blind and dumb nut in a proud shell.

What am I to thee, after all t'is sorrow?
And th' pertinent pain I'th put to stand out and glow
In th' mind t'at I would somehow becomest thy rose
and lighten thee aft'r thy breezy frost

But thou wert not, thou wert not t'ere!
I am someone who should not care
How canst then I shove 'way t'ese tears?
Oh, all t'ese feelings are here-painted grimly blue and weird,
just like yon scarlet gloom our anguish hath feared.
Ah! Wherefore art thou, wherefore art thou, my skylark?
Let it just be th' moon who is to shine and spark
Glow and be as mad in its circles dark
As I leanest 'gainst thee in yon west park,
thoughts free from all nearby childish hassles
and dream, dream into th' realms of our loving puzzles.

Oh, but thou wert t'ere not, thou careth for me not!
Now all my long sentences maketh but t'is poem's story short
Yet again, after all I've finally realised t'at I loveth thee,
and for thou knoweth-amongst all t'ese abrupt madnesses
'Tis thy voice I still hopelessly long for, and thy caresses
art but t'at I secretly yearn, and shalt forever die for.
Oh, my thee! And triumphs of mine shalt lie in thee;
for from death to death I shalt only celebrate victory,
as long as thou dwelleth in me, and I in thy story.

Ah! And stiffen my soul once more-with thy kisses,
whilst stare into me with t'ose thick golden lashes.
Hidest our longings behind th' bushes-
and t'is sacred gift of our love,
as rain falls and redness flashes.

Tempt me into thy votive spell;
and please no longer say goodbye.
Giveth my heart joy and please me well;
put thy lips on mine 'till I die.
Mikaila Feb 2014
The days pass
And the sunlight wheels along the wall
Spinning golden music through some days
And heaping cold white silence upon others
But always it comes
And always it goes
And always it changes everything.
What is a beautiful thought?
What does it take to have one and say it?
Must it rhyme, must it have a cadence
Or can it just fall free from the lips or the fingers
Or the eyelashes of someone whose days
Are stretching long like evening shadows
And whose nights are full of wishes on stars that are just far enough away
Not to recoil
From all that longing?

Tell me, what are dreams for?
The madnesses of a sleeping mind.
Why do they pierce so, what's behind them?
Tell me why the stars are just as far away when I'm asleep
As when I'm not?

I am a match that has been struck
But waits, frozen in that tiny space of time between
For years and years,
Defying physics and logic,
Yearning for a flame that is half finished gasping its first breath.
Someday it will leap upon me and I can feel its almost-heat,
But that day is not of my choosing,
And I have been struck
Struck many times
Without being incinerated.
I've been struck in every way-
Like a lone tree on a high hill
Like the dented head of a nail that, foolish, bent the wrong direction-
And I've always felt the heat
I've always felt the blows rain down
But I've never truly been on fire.

I want my bones to fill up with fever
I want every inch of me to be complete
None of these cold hollows and little nooks and edges
That let the wind whistle through- no
I have been struck more than enough times
And I'm begging life to let me burn.
Where are my days going?
I felt the thrill of flames in my heart
I felt hot metal in my veins- the stuff of stars-
And now I'm waiting
Slowing and stalling as it cools inside me
And the days are wheeling by on my walls
Like an ***** grinder's cart that pulls the sun along
And the only thing worse than being struck
Is being unable to ignite.
Mitchell Sep 2011
Residency rebellion for the ones afraid to breathe in
The crap in a boat thinking thoughts of the big win

Pure gold turns to fools gold neath' the river which is brimming
With millstones and mile stones ol' Redding screaming "Gimme Mercy!"

Flicking away at the muse to actually prove
One's worth in a Tombstone of Blues

Hacking away at a stone already carved'
The seas are still lo' your imagination there will be parted

Process of purity is not established neath' roof or comfort
But found bludgeoned in grass wet from God' s holiness

To please the masses is to please the mass of meager philanthropists
Squatting on an idea to sell to the absolute highest crippled bidder

Sell! Sell! Sell! Make sure you bring your glitter and your bells
Vegas is waiting with its scythes and its knives and the promise of a prize

Love does not matter there for Love is sold for you to be taught
Stare into the back holes of the 9th tiers and you will surely be bought

Smell the walls the engravings of past misery makers
Ink stained souls praising their own illusion of an individuals goal

Nothingness rains on the heads of the running wild pure
Go! Go! Go! belts out out the man holding a cat in full fur

Yet I am distinguished as I fish for the memories of mother and father
Hoping they will give me the fire for this next morning starter

Where are the bike rides lined with car fumes choking the healthiest soul?
Where are the lords who toss heads ******* tight on their heavy soup bowl?

In the wood, in the creaks, the voices of the former tell the present to beware
Though the heart is beating does not mean with knife it will stab and tear

Do you not see the softness we are heading toward with our flags blazing?
Writing for no one accept the check and the acceptance of their boredom?

Fire heat from hearths not of our world but of the other!
Bleeding fingers spread across the face in poverty stricken struggle!

Shower curtains browned from the dirt of the day
Toilet bowl gone from a weeks worth of decay

Now I relish in the hardiness of madnesses peckishness
Where spelling don't matter and everyone is mad as a hatter

Holes are not dug but swung from the clouds and hugs
Hate hates itself while horns blow their idea of ****

Not though here thought naked spent pitch a tent
I remember no childhood except for the window neath' my toes

Good night lo' good day
This thing was never meant to have its end
Gabriel burnS Jan 2017
your expressing sunshine
like unforgiving aspects
raising ******
camouflaging silver
meshing razor teeth
because back it up honey
lunacy is saccharine sweetness
  
your suppressing moonshine
chains of bitter freedom
rays are often hidden
beneath a skin of ashes
there is taste to savour
of warmth and promise
where madnesses collide
Collaboration featuring Glass
Emma Jan 2011
Our tongues know each other like old friends
And so do our eyes.
And they speak the same language.

Our heads seem to gravitate
to the same pocket of air and thoughts
and sadnesses and madnesses

You see me in every way I
wanted to be seen
but couldn't see myself
Light feels so good after being blind!

That night when the flame consumed me
and you held me and shared my burns
I looked up and the fire danced between our eyes
and you didn't look down
and you listened to my spitting rage
and told me with your eyes
"You are beautiful."

And I wasn't clenching my jaw because I
wanted
to hurt my teeth
even though I thought so, once

And I wasn't letting you anywhere
near close
enough
even though I thought so, once

It doesn't matter how or why
it only matters that it REALLY matters

I'm happy to be a child again
because a child knows how to learn
(feelings and things that hurt)

And I'm happy to be a child again
because a child knows what it wants
(without a reason)
and I want you.
Willing though I am
I am not the 'full shilling' of a man.
You can stuff me full of worms and watch which way the earthworks turn or burn me on the stake,take your shot,make your play,willing though I am
I haven't got all day.
It's time you see that captures me and ties up the dandelion clock and there's no **** a doodle ****** me to wake and set this old man free,All
I see are mad old hens with fountain pens scribbling in the sand and the farmers wife who never had a life to call her own, sits and hones the carving knife,willing though I am she won't be carving slices off this old piece of ham.
What's normal now may tomorrow be somehow sanitised by experts who'd then advertise me as the fresh young thing and bring me to some underling who'd work in order just to pay the madnesses to go away,but
I remain,
the stain you can't remove and I turn again into the groove,another disc reminds you that I am
not quite 'the shilling'
not quite the man.
When she wades into the water
spray flies through her,
The Devils daughter.
I should have gone to light the fire
to scare away the night within her
but
saddled with responsibility,
I couldn't see the way to go
I lost myself in thoughts of she,
handmaiden of my reverie.

The night became a friend to me
companion of my misery
she took it all away and then
with one stroke of a bladed pen,
emasculated with a smile,
she danced along the golden mile with
me in tow,
the friend of foe,
I would not want to see her go so
followed her into the black
and now I know that coming back
is an impossibility,
another friend of misery.

I get to know them all
I see the future rising up, before the morning
wakes me with a shot of coffee and my misery becomes
one more impossibility.

One day the cycle will outdistance all travails that I've been through and
chains will melt into one link, which will teeter on the edge,
the brink of madnesses possesss me,
another friend of all the misery,
but it's Christmastime,
so full of glee.
The grandchildren surrounding me
I think that I might wait and see
just
what tomorrow brings.
It is Henry,the horse, taking me but of course on the madnesses of the  white light,
out of sight and my mind and my eyes underlined with the redness of deadness,
I am ready to go,
In the ******* where girls rub their bodies up tight and bite on the hands that feed them,
I'm gone of course,riding the pale white horse,bucking the trend and wondering if, and if when it will end,
someone tends to the jailer who,on his horse looks much paler than me.
if this is free then I am chained and I have gained nothing at all,
watch me fall,watch me die,watch me breathe again and try to believe again.

Henry is always there
out in the background where
the devil sits high,
watching me try,
madness of course and Henry,
will be
the end or the
beginning of me.
jeffrey robin Sep 2015
.




all on a saturday morning

••

••


••


On the .... Long River

we  

In a tiny boat

On the river



We go      Down

We go further.           In

Into mysterious forces

Into other visions

Of reality



The Long  Boat

On the Swift  River

Thru dreams appearing

With love

///

All the man made gods who rule us

All the vast madnesses
Of

Hypocrisy

The naked daughters

Paedophilically playing

With the ***** of the MAN !




Creating the businessman is god

Mentality

Of the slave



We have forgotten

That

The Great RIVER

Flows toward an infinite Sea

//

Little puerile patriots

Painting by the numbers !

Visions of a dying society





I am still here !

//

I'm really not so hard to find
black crushed pupil tipping at its
  peak with a mild sheen
  discombobulating words
  to their own contained madnesses
  putting an apostrophe
  on everything
  it lays sight on

  a salvage of disrupted vision
  wrings true wind blowing through
  the white steel of dangerous contraption
  in the hand and takes to leaping
  of faith, a restless voyage:

  a volute image lightheaded
  still with the passing to and from—
  nomadic breath still splendidly
  penetrating through all sound
   and silence and words
    like fire wily without intent,
      the moon. only there. without a name.
S Smoothie Sep 2014
beautiful lyrics caress the heart of the broken one

trust is a scarce resource wraith like it floats above the fear

love is the drug that conjures these madnesses

the notes play upon heart dances in beats caught off guard

the thud is never beautiful.

lyrics take over

they speak my soul

they endure

as I endure

the long lost

caress of your innocent game

finding myself the victim

no longer able to play

the lyrics move over me

and I send them as

consolation of the broken one.
Brady Wright Oct 2018
I am D.D. of Forever
dually desired
In mansions made of crystal
I gesture gorgeously with
Fingers to lips and mouths
I am one of many
Beautiful
Bashful
Ghoulish
Garish
Flaring
Flaming
Life-savin­g magicians of endless forevers
Sunken inside my brain
Seeking to share shorn madnesses
So far away from here
Ryan Hoysan Jun 2017
When madnesses o'er takes me
I shall watch the world burn in the light of your eyes.
A little something that came to mind while I was on my way home from my summer class. Hope you enjoy it.
Wk kortas Feb 2017
So we have remained,
With the constancy of stubborn and vestigial elms,
Through any number of moons and Junes,
Equally as many improbable springtimes,
Madnesses of petunias and potholes,
But with a fidelity relatively unstrained, untested,
Our travails being minor things,
Trivial as opposed to titanic,
Our hithers and yons no more
Than the muted triumph of simply carrying on
And we could ask, one supposes
Have we truly loved, then?
Such questions are best left to poets and philosophers
(Grandiloquent fools with time and inclination
For such lines of inquiry)
And though the panorama of our time together
Will be an unprepossessing thing,
No strings heating up and crescendoing
As the camera pans wide in a sweeping crane shot
Of great craggy valleys, the zenith of white-capped peaks
(The lumpy moraines of our landscape,
Merely bits of sediment moved half-heartedly by the odd glacier,
Providing rather uninspiring visuals)
We suspect, no we know, know in such a way
That it is as unremarkable as blinking an eye
Or making some unconscious sound
Which annoys yet endears in the same moment,
That we would be all, give all,
Unreservedly and unhesitatingly immolating
Any thought or concept of self in service of the other,
And the notion that all of that occurs
Away from the watchful eye of director or camera
Does not diminish it in the least.
Kenj Aug 2020
Hi
I bit my tongue
The harshness hadn't gone.
Wondered if it was my drink
Or if it were the blue tears.
The bitternesses,
Which was keeping me drunk.
The madnesses,
Which was jamming me up.
But all I said was,
'Hi, you want some too?'
It is about my useless feeling in relationships
And the drink was coffee, i swear
Scorch'd Diana Feb 2021
Somberness, see it sanctuarily swearing
sword-tongue worded spellspeech secretly sunder a number
apart from another,
no ear so keen just to hear the equation
crackle into informal shatter.
No regrets nor bother
among preachers nor hypocrits,
so same as it's sad, their chatter
a masked creature
that fits this disordered scripture
of us.

Aware of a far-reaching freedom
each of them fathomless to their undone dares
to fail becoming one;
they,
all feature a familiar pattern
which matters even less to them
than a fantasy's thorn to their first thoughts, frankly;
they,
who share the same history they're enacting
their manifest destiny of a doom chosen
their fair share of despair
so spectacularily reflecting through
their fleet tranquil escaping
from those fear-forsakened frail bone-marrowed
branch brittles they've rosen
so fro as they are, frighteningly awake
fleeing those fractures so alive
in fashions gorgeous fractals alike
no grit, no wit capable of constructing such a lit, yet aesthetic scene of delight.

They,
each afraid of their boundaries beloved
to be breached apart so badly
only for captivity and nothing else
as they beg
counter-intuitive measurements taken
caught from under the counter countlessly
those captives, their algorithms split, entwined;
so better, better don't mind it;
undozens of them
all death-grasping frozen
from just a slightliest rattle
of the crispy pages bearing a poem
or a *** pinched by a laddle.

Falsely do they believe revolving
advancing their middle
however, with its Forever forgotten
prayer by prayer
for the sake of a splendid soil
oblivious to the seed that is rotten.

Oil-devouring tumoil tactically targets their entire toil
pouring visions filling each stare
for each one to chisel only another
effort-evaporating Escheresque stair
for ground and ground apart at the borderline
they are,
the sharp scraping of the air
gnashing winds under the ice of a somber sunshine.

These crystalline brimstones
spacelessy stranded;
vile ambers, yet of beauty unspoken
sparking like cider, from apples royalty-branded
perhaps even prickling, peach-flavoured honey wine
reminiscing silent lovers' moans
ones a satyr favours in folly
in gayness he eaves his hallowed shrine.

Without answers
a riddle is meant unbroken
shards of their failure, silkenly sanded
faintly, a filthless spirit's essence,
so fine.
Some insight may have been awoken
perhaps this and not another time.
Just the right questions
painfully born from the sublime.

In and on,
however a retrospect away
a new future rises from the ashes of fallen hells
mere memories of an old fiend
darkness encountered
for each delusion you slay
and eventually
even you, as well, will listen
listen to the bells from the yondersome elsewhere ringing, wailing
hailing their soul-crackling harmony
somewhere from above us all.

Cardinal numbers are breathless,
while we,
so proud to appraise prime numbers
so wishfully down to their core,
rather dream unparalyzed a dream
of an unclaimed nowhen
stuck in a less corrupt algebratic behaviour than before;
error-ridden operations so holdlessly scaffolded
our somberness
submerged and suffocated.
Down
down we swam to see sunken cities of sorcery;
suicidal endeavour, hive mind agony
our race means for the next galaxy
yet still a race meant for parsimony.

All in all, ****** in brickly rubble
what once was wall, popped much like a bubble;
crumbling, stars burst our skies apart
fates laughing the madnesses' mirth
no hand unscorched, suddenly so much to win.
They listen, scent, and see,
the ones they miss, and what they've lost;
gasping, gazing up ahead
wings spread, glare brightly
flame-feathered doves of rebirth
released, everyone's dignity
finally freed from the heart.

We're not, not mindlessly suffering a somewhere
but this time, facing this inquiry:
What else is there
reality or not
modality or possibility, probably an actuality;
as we learn to sincerely care and to feel
the current breath, the nation, the spot
they all are our responsibility
doubtlessly and definitely real.

Thus, secondary to me
each second that ***** my spirit dry
throughout a minute
anywhen
as we spire from hour to hour
honestly, far, far too often
and not from now and then.

Primary, however, is
my mistake which I'll hold me dire
I would rather not anymore, ever
divide zero by itself again.
What I learned like so many before
cannot count in this realm of some foreign heart
- now, for me -
anymore
which is indeed my problem
as I'm burning these pages I tore apart.
01011001
Butch Decatoria Jun 2020
We've gone mad
Going to madnesses
Carry on surviving
These new asphalt forests
With glass trees, mean streets
The birdsongs gone
Passed on to Extinction
Replaced by man's Machina
Armies' replicas

Inviting aliens with solid gold
The lushious abundant sounds
Pre-recorded,
"Hello what ever is out there, we are here! We welcome you to planet Earth."
HUNGRY?

We've lost our minds
Having lost our soul
We carry the madness
Like gongs from the Bell tower.
Carrying on surviving
Half alive
We're facsimiles of ourselves
In fat fake forests with
Coal-black rivers
Sand as the concrete sidewalks
Hard as war's urban jungle
Amidst viruses, flooding, wildfires.

We go to imaginings
The weight of bones
Of human quivers,
We go on to dream...
  I made not Had, upon
  A river's bight
We go to hoping
When we at last stand still,
That I have loved ones who wait
Behind the hill, taking me home
Away from the madnesses
those Gone surviving. Hope you are not alone.
Alas that is what madness exactly was,
Tomorrow, who knows?
Take a bridge of light precisely at the time
The clock of stones at sunrise,
No madness in the eye
It's at the foot of heaven where loved ones wait...

P.S. be careful not to lose it.
Your light inside is key. Yes way!

— The End —