"masticating" poems
not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____________
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
People build their own prisons,
she said, build up their own walls.
He said nothing, knowing not
what to say. He liked just that
she spoke, her voice, the tone
and timbre of it. As she spoke he
watched her lips move, the way
her tongue danced inside her mouth,
upon teeth. Mental wards are full
of people who have totally entombed
themselves, she added, placing one
of the sandwiches she’d bought
inside her mouth, while she spoke.
The park bench was hard, there
was a smell of spring in the air,
he watched her chew, now silent,
her mouth closed, masticating.
Her silence drew his attention to
the way she sat, one leg crossed over
the other, the black shoe and foot
dangling. The lower length of stockinged
leg, showing, the dark skirt just over
the knee, nothing else to see. He lifted
his gaze to her cloth hidden thighs,
the way they disappeared into her
waist, slim, drawn in. Ones I used to
see on my tour of the wards had drooling
mouths and cross eyes, she said,
swallowing the small sandwich bits.
He moved his eyes from her waist to
her impressive **** let his eyes settle,
rested them there, as if they were weary
travellers after a long journey. And the
smell, she added, reeked of ***** everywhere
one put one’s nose. He wanted to lay his
head between or upon or even beneath
those beautiful ******* She jawed on, he
wasn’t listening anymore, he was engrossed
in a different story, an actor in a different play.
She took another sandwich and was silent
again, staring at him, taking his measure,
unaware, no doubt, of his silent pleasure.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
To the simple minded man
This day would have been like the rest
Would have been an overdone steak dinner
Alone
But he plays a broken bone remix
Of ex-lover’s gritted teeth
It is the click in his jaw over steak
That reminds him of the gnashing
He nurses a beer
In between helpings
But there’s always the click
A painful metronome
For past music
When he was capable of lapping the language out of her mouth
Days when he was all noise
Like a hallway echo
Or a fist through drywall
Or a nightmare gasp
But now all he needs is the cotton he eats
To soak up the sound
So he won’t have to listen to himself keep sayin’
There used to be this growl my gut made
For your bitter music
When we choreographed a collision
Of bone
And breath
And teeth that touched when I still thought I wasn’t pressing hard enough
The masticating click
Reminds him of her smile
It hurts his jaw
And his memory
But he continues making her painful sound
Like it might actually bring her back
And it does a little
Just for today
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow is too far away
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
Stimulated by Neva's lovely verse "Layers of Faces"
Phasing from the pockmarked scowl
Of urchin from the pauper's keep,
To fresh complexioned beauty
As she prepares herself for sleep.
Plunging to absurd
Amidst a paroxysm of mirth
With heaving breath and yellow teeth
Atop substantial girth.
A vacancy of shock
Within two eyes of palest blue
Who witnessed a young fledgling killed
By the cat who lives with you.
Dribbles from a masticating jaw
begin to dry
And a sudden bark of anger
causes feeding birds to fly.
A smile as warm as sunshine
Brings the pherimones to bear
And the young and the beautiful
Both magnetically stare.
There's a fan dance of faces
Stretched across the prosaic
And the layers within layers
Etch it all a rich mosaic.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
22 February 2011
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
what,s beauty?shorn and tousled follicles.a b
-owlfilled with hushed buzzing electric teeth
masticating her hair fleetly. a soft waste deposited
in porcelain silent whiteness; a crevice kindly hard
to pertain the sheering
and rough gently her bobble i clutch and rub
its skein
the jostle gritty stubble rumbles contended
under my hands
but remains an onyx shock twaining sweetly
you
i love you
my little valkyrie; scream
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
Do you see me?
I’ve been devouring poetry,
by the line,
by the page,
by the book.
No poem has been overlooked.
I’ve been feasting
on free verse,
blank verse,
perverse
cascades
of stanzas and rhymes,
a banquet of words
on which to dine.
I’ve been swallowing ad nauseam,
scarfing down similes,
masticating metaphors,
gormandizing poems aplenty.
Rhyming couplets,
I’ve contained them.
Sonnets and epics,
ingested.
Lyrical odes,
digested.
A thousand lines
to make you swoon.
I’ve tasted them all—
the potent and
the picayune.
Villanelles, check.
Sestinas too.
I even hiccupped
my own haiku:
Icicles melt on glazed gutters.
Water drips, prolific, bits of sunlit seeds
promising lilacs below the eaves.
Do you see me?
I hate to ask, but I’m afraid
something poetic has happened.
my head is a tureen
brimming with stars
my arms are utensils
in a darkened drawer
my chest, a room of last resort
my feet are stressed, in short
Such prosody is blinding.
Can you tell me why
my eyes are bleak?
Or why I no longer
blink?
I sense the sear of fluent tears
composing on my cheek:
endless drops, black beads,
consumptive stains of ink.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
musing on pondering,
cogitating on ruminating,
postulating on speculating,
considering multiple theories,
deeming the discrepancies deniable
positing the petty presumptions,
theorizing multiple condsiderations,
apraising the mediations,
digesting the deliberations,
allowing for freefall meditation,
envisioning the expectations,
presuming the pontifications,
anticipating the asumptions,
comprehending the conclusion,
accrediting the rationalizations,
concluding the comprehesion,
spinning synaptic wheels,
hypothesizing the conjecture,
recollecting of the reminiscence,
adumbrating the prognostigcation,
concocting of the subliminate,
masticating on the cereberal machinations,
of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,
reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,
there is... just too much time,
to think....
and far too little time to write....
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
she wakes to an empty bed
he's left in the early morning
to work, she shivers with regret
He calls at 9am and they exchange
pleasantries. He sighs as the phone
disconnects while she hangs up
hesitantly. Was there more to be said?
He sits in a morose world on the
internet in the afternoons where
he waits for her to come home from
work. He's all alone with his memories
and he dreams of scenarios that
might possibly become reality
if he can convince her that he's
sincere. But shes not there...
Evening meals are a lesson in silence
in the awkwardness of masticating
images that could be dreams or
nightmares, she doesn't care, he
is there...
********** in the dark, in stealth
making sure the rustle of clothing
leaving the body is no indication
of an invitation they awkwardly
brush against each other, creating
friction, gauging reaction, not really
ever wanting to engage in carnality
just basically giving each other
the time of day and the illusion
of Love and a Yes please but
No thanks, not tonight
just another day...
The coffee is cold as it sits acting
like a looking glass for a stare
deep inside the darkness might
be someone who cares but over
the breakfast table on a weekend
morning, the divide is yawning
and there is a weakness to the
futilely uttered
"Good Morning"
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
Certain sounds used to bother me.
Human noises like people breathing drove me crazy – it didn’t have to be a wheeze, a rasp or a rattle. It remained a battle to ignore the everyday sound of normal breathing, indecipherable, barely a decibel.
Another peeve, of course, was people eating, the cacophony of masticating – I flinched as I heard them chomp, crunch, chew, and munch. I recoiled in distaste as they audibly swallowed their lunch.
I didn’t understand why I found the innocent sound of a faucet dripping so irritating. I felt like a monster because I couldn’t control the flash of anger when I heard someone drumming their fingers, tapping their feet.
One word saved me from the lunacy of self-loathing – misophonia – a name for my malady.
I don’t know what it is about labels that turns your torments into traits. Labels are the leash you use to control your troubles. Ever since I discovered I am misophonic, mundane sounds, while still annoying, no longer overwhelm me.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 11:29 AM UTC
He is munching on nuts,
vigorously,
Utilising the muscles he has.
He has wonderful eyes,
Hawk eyes,
Wide set and is,
Now eating a banana with a plastic spoon.
We both have motioned for a waiter.
He is masticating on a blob of Almond paste that he,
Has scooped from the glass jar in the,
Center of the table, by the ash tray
With his middle finger,
Nibbling like a squirrel,
And there is something askew,
As he rushes,
To the aid of a woman carrying,
Four heavy bags.
He leaves his own where it is,
Unattended.
I wonder if he’s on drugs, or
Just a tourist,
High on Africa,
A white man free to do as he pleases,
But I am a black man preparing to fly, and
Have been informed about bags,
Left unattended.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
You chase me with a word
like a bratty brother
chases a little sister
with a cricket
holding the legs of intimidation
near my ear
taunting
as you have done
many times before -
sometimes with a cricket of inferiority
or a cricket of slavery
but always a cricket of judgement.
You portend to have the power
to put it on me
until the tear in my eye
becomes enough....
My teeth gnash
wrapping around the finger that dangled
the last cricket of taunting,
a pest of manipulation,
held with your insect-filled arrogance
and I chew defiantly
masticating your ability
to ever chase me again.
Choose it now
swallow or spit
it's irrelevant -
your threats are dead.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
musing on pondering,
cogitating on ruminating,
postulating on speculating,
considering multiple theories,
deeming the discrepancies deniable
positing the petty presumptions,
theorizing multiple condsiderations,
apraising the mediations,
digesting the deliberation,
allowing for freefall meditation,
envisioning the expectations,
presuming the pontifications,
anticipating the asumptions,
comprehending the conclusion,
accrediting the rationalizations,
concluding the comprehesion,
spinning synaptic wheels,
hypothesizing the conjecture,
recollecting of the reminiscence,
adumbrating the prognostigcation,
concocting of the subliminate,
masticating on the cereberal machinations, of the ocillations,
in the agitatation, apparent in insomniac's maniacal brain,
reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,
i have way too much time
to think...
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
The voices in my head
chewing up my brain
consuming what is me
and driving me insane
The predators pursue me
I run to stay away
but eventually they catch me
I'm their favorite prey
My own worst enemy
is always deep inside
self doubt and deprecation
masticating on my pride
I have no more self esteem
it's like I have been ******
pounded, tenderizing me
nothing left but bones
Simply a skeleton left
of my former self
I have destroyed all of me
through the loss of mental health
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
Either I
Or the day
Came crinkle cut
More
Surface
Area
Than
Smooth
Cut
I digress
Into those
Crispy crevices
Catchers
Of salt
And seasoning
Do you mix
Well
Do you
A crunchy
Verticy
Submits
Masticating
To great
Satisfaction
This
Fryn'
Day
Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 9:38 PM UTC
a humanoid figure
solemnly sits
shiny skin
shimmerin'
breathing
through slits
clad all in leather they
engulf creaky chairs
'pon which they slobber
exploding in laughter
viscous shrapnel splatters
all four corners of my headspace
deep space dead head exploded and teeth tumbling
masticating time
stumbling
emaciated efforts
the frail skeleton saunters
as bones of driftwood sing
essences of the ocean
slimy skin once taught
now slips like time as
feet of crow and bodies
reach for the earth
a pocket watch screams to a stop
black lace veils drape all the faces of the mourning universe
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Heed tetchy static, roving around McArthur.
I can feel the steady impulse breed flaxen flumine.
Songs tumble notes as ladies sing blunt-mouthed tune.
You croon with them, mindless of the force that tries
to break free past the console. Your voice is analogous
to reticence. I hear nothing, feel everything underneath the lazy glow
of the sign that says Yield plastered to a decrepit signage past the
posh city buoys of Jupiter. Everything comes to a halt
in the remote red light district. Somewhere behind those thick walls
that enshroud the fumes of tantric body heat, I can feel the ground
stop in that disconsolate delineation: morose and encumbered,
outnumbered by the cognoscenti that filled the streets unwilling
to give us directions to whereabouts we rarely have knowledge of.
cigarettes rammed deep within their mouths, masticating the cloud
of nicotine as though it were tender meat, I hear the radio go
ballistic past the sign now that reads Exit.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Says the soldier to his love,
When he holds her handful of fantasy
That itself recalls holy wine and bread,
The blood seeps into his own hands is all.
Says the soldier to his love when he crawls
To impotence of mud and stone sediments
That augur not a fleshen but a fossil birth,
Like the bone of the once-masticating jaw.
Said the soldier to his love, when he fell face first
Into the nuptials of lily, delphinium, and dark earth,
I only wish to be the petals for your wedding, my love...
Jun 4, 2020
Jun 4, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
air on my limbs
as a i reach out to
clean my windows
i cried,
masticating is coping for me.
i felt like i didn't
deserve your touch
or kindness
grateful yet bewildered,
content yet upset.
you saw through
my windows, the massive
buildings take up space and time as
my transparency became
known to you
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 11:20 AM UTC
It’s hard to be taken away by thought
A predecessor heir to life chapters
embracing facts all at once
Facing the enormous glutton
masticating a heart
like a licorice treat
Wasting away
Wasting away
Wasting away
The madness is gone yet
I felt like I haven’t
been here before
the times went
from good to
bad
It seems we are all
like arms; weary
of holding still
in front of
the never
ending
slog
We kiss and we hug
until we’re
tempted to
bite one
another
We wished for an adventure
from the howling of the
cold rainy wind inside
a tavern where we
thought all will
be cozy until
everything
comes
back
to
normal
to almost succumbing to the heaviest
darkness that we ever felt deep
inside our heaviest breaths
like it’s a couple of our
last ones
You are a warrior, capable
of thinking above as you
see through many and I
will tell you the secret
that was there for a
very long time:
Never lose your grip for
the best people who
ever walked the
preliminaries
of hell all fell
down to
hell.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
I'm sick of all the wanting, waiting
Of this life,its frustrating
Thoughts of death,self masticating
Emotions I shall be castrating
Have no form of self worth
To myself I am furth
Where is choice to unbirth?
Leave behind wretched earth
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
Kindred transformation
correlates experience
to my canidae companion
life is a pit bull husky mix
loyal roamer fierce friend
running through thorn bushes
in the hushed hilly countryside
unaware of speeding cars
and demonic dog catchers
populating the arachnid cityscape.
I chase a rabbit to said city
keeping my dog head with me
so I can only see in black and white
a transformative color palette
allowing an allowance for my breed
to take the maximum instead of its needs.
A dastardly deal is done in daylight
for spiders to be dogs
and dogs, spiders
splitting spoils
of both species syndicating society
by painfully punishing unfamiliar families.
Four legged frenzy in my feet fortifies me
from eight legged monsters in the street
slinging webs of concrete—
a wanderer's kennel terrifying terrarium
trapping wasps and butterflies
masticating maliciously
reproducing rapidly
trap door spiders create black widows
and envelope stray dogs in white cloaks.
My vigilance guides serpentine movement
strafing from treacherous entanglement
of the tarantula treaty offering silk
cocoons claimed to be for safety
at the price of my mobility.
I must return to the warm
glow that helps me see
even if that means
crawling through the sewers
and eating from the trash
to emerge from the thorn bushes
that tear off my jackal costume
as the sun cleanses my wounds
uncovering cloud counting capability
accumulating cumulus compatriots
and oak marchers waving green flags
showing they can prosper with tranquility
but these flags draw insects that eat contentedly
until there's enough ingesting in sects to draw spiders.
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 11:23 PM UTC
The you and I
In my future bides time
For my dreams to combine
And put you before my gray eyes.
Beautiful light clashes with my ugly darkness
Eradicating the masticating thoughts of rejection
Smile at me please
Maybe my frozen stone heart will unfreeze
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC