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"mishandle" poems
I can remember that first encounter. He was a man in his early thirties, bright eyes but with a dark grin and was smoking your cigars wearing a black hat and he was also carrying a guitar. He was here to show me how to strum an few chords. I remember him distinctively saying... "Guitar playing I am about to teach you is really the same as love making you know?" I  laughed and blankly said "but how so?" " Well... (grinning) Each string has to be carefully plucked, and contains a different  sensation and vibe if you mishandle the strings that final note will sound awful. He was showing me how to re-tune and play a few chords which were C, D and G then pass me over the guitar back to me. "Its your turn dear, and be really gentle" While doing this and playing the first few chords of the guitar which was D I could feel him rub my shoulders and chest gently. "Don't worry you can trust me, I was just loosening you up we can't have you feeling tense" "Now, show me a G" I begin to play the chord G while doing that he then grasped firmly on my other hand : I can feel a surge of heat from his hands firing up my fingers. This heat was making its way to my chest. He now caressed and circled around the chest and then higher up to my ***** I can feel his breath and his tongue swirling and stretching out to **** on my ******* "Okay ... final note play me a C" I crouch down to the floor and begin to strum that final chord and can then feel him stretch his hands beneath my skirt I could feel the sensations further of his fingers strumming my ***** in the same rhythmic motions of his guitar previously. "See what I said? music playing really is the same as love making" "I nodded and said yeah I suppose" A bit shaken and uncertain how to respond but he kept whispering into my ear and repeating that same line: while kissing me on my cheeks, stroking me up and down in circular motions in which I could feel a tense feeling of release and then silence again Was that the final note?
0
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Short ****** Story
I can remember that first encounter. He was a man in his early thirties, bright eyes but with a dark grin and was smoking your cigars wearing a black hat and he was also carrying a guitar. He was here to show me how to strum an few chords. I remember him distinctively saying... "Guitar playing I am about to teach you is really the same as love making you know?" I  laughed and blankly said "but how so?" " Well... (grinning) Each string has to be carefully plucked, and contains a different  sensation and vibe if you mishandle the strings that final note will sound awful. He was showing me how to re-tune and play a few chords which were C, D and G then pass me over the guitar back to me. "Its your turn dear, and be really gentle" While doing this and playing the first few chords of the guitar which was D I could feel him rub my shoulders and chest gently. "Don't worry you can trust me, I was just loosening you up we can't have you feeling tense" "Now, show me a G" I begin to play the chord G while doing that he then grasped firmly on my other hand : I can feel a surge of heat from his hands firing up my fingers. This heat was making its way to my chest. He now caressed and circled around the chest and then higher up to my ***** I can feel his breath and his tongue swirling and stretching out to **** on my ******* "Okay ... final note play me a C" I crouch down to the floor and begin to strum that final chord and can then feel him stretch his hands beneath my skirt I could feel the sensations further of his fingers strumming my ***** in the same rhythmic motions of his guitar previously. "See what I said? music playing really is the same as love making" "I nodded and said yeah I suppose" A bit shaken and uncertain how to respond but he kept whispering into my ear and repeating that same line: while kissing me on my cheeks, stroking me up and down in circular motions in which I could feel a tense feeling of release and then silence again Was that the final note?
Continue reading...
19
Governors, Mayors, Policemen, Night keepers, Men folk and all of you On the crest of powers that be Don’t brutalize prostitutes, Nor mishandle ****** Or terrorize harlots, They were born natural Innocent and callow With plain white brains Not tainted with any miss-morals, Genuine in hearts And humane in the genesis, Until they grew up Beyond father and mother Clan and relatives, Into the realm of money civilizations, Where man and woman, Must sell to survive, Sell the wares of trade, Commodities and tools of work, Where men sell labour of their arms To those crafty buyers, And women sell smiles, And the ******** of their ***** To serve vice of man In the glory of warped thought, Prostitutes have no tribe, Neither class nor race, They have no permanent foe Nor permanent friend, They have no permanent memory, Their love is devoid of logic, They love most but fickle, Where they make no money And love least but with nostalgia where they make money, So don’t brutalize them, Only love them, Pay them, Kiss them fondly And sing to them, Lyrical songs of love, Sent them to lull and slumber With your sensuous ****** Of their ******** fountains, Both male and female ****** of your rendezvous.
0
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
DON’T BRUTALIZE PROSTITUTES
If you look closely You will see The cracks and fault lines That comprise me From the outside, to the unattuned eye I look like a normal vase, For the glue is now dry. Truth be told I was smashed Obliterated Pieces essential to my core Strewn haphazardly across the floor. But thanks to those that saw me, And a little internal conviction. My pieces have been collected My old form resurrected. Thanks to a little glue I appear to be almost brand new. But don't be deceived For what you perceive Should not be completely believed. For the vase is very fragile, Not to be toyed with. Not a player's game. Please don't mishandle me, And resurface days of misery.
0
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
The Vase
Grapes on a vine. Lilacs in a field. Purple is so divine. Purple is so real. Violet in her eyes. Lavender in a candle. Purple is a sweet surprise. It's hard to mishandle. Sea urchins in the sea. Sea shells on the shore. Purple is the color of royalty. Purple is so much more. Purple is in the pen that writes. Writing words so bright. Purple are the wings of a butterfly. Spreading its wings so high. Purple is the dress she wears. Purple is a color that cares. Purple is loyalty. Purple is what describes me.
0
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
Ode to Purple.
I have few mugs Porcelain mugs All alike, same in color I pick one and prepare coffee Cannot distinguish the one used before All were alike, same in color I wish to make one my favorite But any mark I make would be artificial How I wish? A natural mark would separate one Today I observed one with a slight difference A minor crack at the brim The mugs are washed A mishandle would have caused It is not ugly It is no less useful Naturally made, just a slight crack Now both useful and notable It is now my favorite mug
0
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 3:02 AM UTC
The Broken Mug
I ached for this small, wrapped heart almost completely crushed yet happy. It looks to me like some sort of baby, wiggling. Comes with a mother who's senseless. An anemic queen. The heart is tearing, it is crumbling. I have to nurse it in my chest but I cannot keep from touching it. All the blood is sick. I am too dizzy to walk. There is no transplant, no giving it away. I hold this heart in my fist. It is shivering, completely terrified, with its deaf hum. Backing into my palms. Bright red, deep maroon. How do I save you love? It's your death thats drawing me to you. That declining beat. Just like a sore rythm, along with my breathing. I wonder if you'll ever rest. So I stare inside its little hole. If I could throw you into the sea, the mermaid that will rescue you will open up your eyes. She may mishandle you, in your casket of silk freeze. I cannot, will not watch you. I know you were never that happy with me.
0
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
Brittle
Broken people are beautiful. Their shattered parts are clear. You can observe and see what's in their minds. And their rough, edgy sides... oh, the excitement to discover! Those large pieces of them -- you can probably hug the life out of it. The smaller portions can easily hide and wait for you to seek it. But take caution: Once you mishandle them, you'll get a cut.
0
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Untitled
I'm too tired to look up From my hands. On them I see pictures Like movies Playing scenes I know i've seen. My hands remind me of things That once entranced me But now seem like distant memories. Memories that don't even Belong to me. Now the silent films I watch on my palms Hold me hypnotized. Almost like the things I watch on my hands Which enamored me before. But now my eyes Have grown exceptionally heavy. I can't divert my gaze To any other projection Or distraction. My eyes are locked. Stuck watching me Mishandle myself without consideration For the life that burned in me. All i can do is wait for my eyes to close. hopefully soon
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Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
"out ****** spot"
The sun wept for the moon, but the moon did all but try. And come every noon, the sun would die. Her light burning out, like a candle. but the moon would glout, for him to mishandle such a beauty was a sight for sore eyes. The clouds would cover her light but her cries, could never be heard above her madness. Her face contorted, her eyes pools of vastness.
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May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
The Sun and The Moon
never quiet the proper arrangement, watching a cat miscarry his strengths of perfect balance on a fence deciding to structure his escapism further from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau, and i know this is not a crowd pleaser, no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile, but as amusements go: choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass and have fed you. so unless you think it’s cheap to state that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski... you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism parabola there’s no going back... you can have irritable bowel syndrome in the morning... diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick for the calmed metabolism... i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums... but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians... same **** different cover story all over again... and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat: metabolism & alcoholism; and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy... like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank... heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics, that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote): never come between a drinker and a newspaper or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
0
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
spinoza drank
never quiet the proper arrangement, watching a cat miscarry his strengths of perfect balance on a fence deciding to structure his escapism further from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau, and i know this is not a crowd pleaser, no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile, but as amusements go: choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass and have fed you. so unless you think it’s cheap to state that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski... you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism parabola there’s no going back... you can have irritable bowel syndrome in the morning... diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick for the calmed metabolism... i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums... but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians... same **** different cover story all over again... and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat: metabolism & alcoholism; and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy... like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank... heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics, that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote): never come between a drinker and a newspaper or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Continue reading...
32
Secrets kept Led to nights spent wept I could **** a person But somehow this is more personal to you than death How selfish of you But that message will never get through So I carry on bruised By social irrationality.. You ask for my story, you feel entitled to it all But I muffle it all with the misleading sentence "I'm hurt." You see it seems romantic.. You asking if I'm okay Wanting to know where I got my edge-- But the answer will be the death of us.. And you'll never fully understand.. And a jaded view of what I've been through will only taint my life's understanding I'm not ready to see that side of you.. The one that tells me you're not the exception to the rule A rule that shouldn't even exist. You aren't ready And I can't risk letting the foundation of my fears, this thing that has changed me, Be leaked into that society to become novel gossip and merits for scorn. Despite what we've learned from history about irrational opposition and shame, Our society still isn't mature enough to handle this with care. They will mishandle my substance Because what's a thousand pounds heavy to me Is paper airplanes to all of you Ready to be tossed around, crushed up, disposable.. But my heart will remain heavy ..And tired. So the only thing I can truly tell this story to Is my knees when I'm holding them in, trying to protect my chest from exploding; I can share this story with my cheeks And send tears down them like messengers; I can tell this story to the shower ground-- It catches me when I can't help but collapse where my cheeks, and my knees rush to my aid like the few friends I trust I am a liar. And I need to continue to be a liar, And I'm sorry to you, But sorry for me, And sorry for a society who hasn't given me much of a choice.
0
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
A Secret Kept
Secrets kept Led to nights spent wept I could **** a person But somehow this is more personal to you than death How selfish of you But that message will never get through So I carry on bruised By social irrationality.. You ask for my story, you feel entitled to it all But I muffle it all with the misleading sentence "I'm hurt." You see it seems romantic.. You asking if I'm okay Wanting to know where I got my edge-- But the answer will be the death of us.. And you'll never fully understand.. And a jaded view of what I've been through will only taint my life's understanding I'm not ready to see that side of you.. The one that tells me you're not the exception to the rule A rule that shouldn't even exist. You aren't ready And I can't risk letting the foundation of my fears, this thing that has changed me, Be leaked into that society to become novel gossip and merits for scorn. Despite what we've learned from history about irrational opposition and shame, Our society still isn't mature enough to handle this with care. They will mishandle my substance Because what's a thousand pounds heavy to me Is paper airplanes to all of you Ready to be tossed around, crushed up, disposable.. But my heart will remain heavy ..And tired. So the only thing I can truly tell this story to Is my knees when I'm holding them in, trying to protect my chest from exploding; I can share this story with my cheeks And send tears down them like messengers; I can tell this story to the shower ground-- It catches me when I can't help but collapse where my cheeks, and my knees rush to my aid like the few friends I trust I am a liar. And I need to continue to be a liar, And I'm sorry to you, But sorry for me, And sorry for a society who hasn't given me much of a choice.
Continue reading...
44
Taking my leave, I'll never return Laugh if you wish, despair or mourn Either if fine and either is moot I've broken the rules and dug out my roots My life was determined in absentee I'm trashing your world now, so that you see How dangerous it was to mishandle the Fire My abused wild mind is like a live wire Planning a ****** of everything known Lost seeds of patience you'd carefully sown Hijacking the towers of social abuse It went on for centuries as a delayed fuse I'm taking my leave now, I've nowhere to go – But anywhere's better Than this line toe to toe
0
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
scream
From myself Lost in the debts of my own mind Blessed with gifts mishandle Strangled by fear of failure Abducted by violence Saved by love , Kissed by lust killed my regrets, Left sadness for dead Emotions once split Blended until the lines blurred Unable to correctly detect which one to feel Attack by the swarm in my beehive UnImmune to the stings Swollen from the venom Drowned in the honey Life whizzes by Liked the wind When I’m high upon a swing Landed deep in a maze Sold my soul to false prophets Hoping to be saved Happiness can be addicting But am I willing To **** parts of myself Just to taste the feeling
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Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 12:40 PM UTC
Sometimes I think I need saving
You'd think I was a fool The way I mishandle myself and come to every name you'll call me. Blinded by the rules hoping I am worthy enough to be the same in which you saw me. To call myself happy i'm afraid is selling it far short. I'm rooted on your porch like ivy. To look at these rings we've made, spiral out and distort, Beam the importance of your place beside me. You could crush me into dust but I'd still crawl to your lips. If only to fight you one last war. You could collide with me just but when they brush off my ribs It’ll only leave me wanting more. I'm sewn into your storms by God's own shaky hand. I’m your own divinely made art. I’m in the spiral that forms Over the golden red band I live in the deep blue of your heart. I will love you more until the day I die Until my rings have no balance or grace. I will drown myself in that Crimson eye, Until there's nothing left to drown me but space.
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Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 10:43 PM UTC
Jupiter
circumstances, misunderstandings its these delicacies I mishandle. not much space to be my self. the water rushes in, my lungs fill. these pesky circumstances, wishing telepathics was our shared interest knowing the path of least reistance. it is clear and known. the ram within, her courage pulls to charge, born again, shifting of the stars. where these **** circumstances start. cause I know what they are, the objective sensed. senses need fine tunning. nervous system, tunning. feeling tuned in. the wind brings the faintest of messages, listening closely. zipping out Zs and As, connecting strings centuries in length. worlds deep, together receiving the sweetest melody. in that breeze, where the circumstances pause, briefly, as they sometimes do. sometimes you just misunderstand me. a lot of people do. and I know I just dont get you, either. circumstamces of the stars, the dance of the ages. minds infinite expansion. I just want to span it, crack my set of code. pay forward, encourage growth. so much to know, well for the moment you know it. after that its history, past, authenticated through your mind, your slice. oh what it is to be alive! to survive these circumstances
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Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
survival
Why can't I get angry at you? Because you are that part of a tree that can not be touch and can not be overlook too That part of the sun that can not be reach and can not be ignore That part of life that can not be removed and can not be mishandle That part that can not be followed and yet can not be removed from the map because of it true value How much more can I say that you are that friend that can not be sent off but yet can not be keep back. That the one word I was looking for that I still can't say, so any idea what the word is to why I can't vex with you?
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May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 6:26 PM UTC
You
*Was I your prize possession A trophy on yer mantle Or just a mule to be flogged on occasion , an ornery animal to abuse an mishandle The beaten do return to the whip Sorry was a slip of the lip No one knows where ya lie No marker with religious overtones No chronological award emblazoned in - marble No holiday flowers Your a memory drowned in a whiskey sour*
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Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
A Drink To the Past ...
So to my daughter, should any fool mishandle the wild geography of your body, How it rides a red-running current Like any good wolf or witch just bleed, Boo Give that blood a biblical name Something of stone and mortar Name it after Eve's first rebellion in that garden Name it after the last little girl to have her genitals mutilated in Kinshasa That was this morning . Give it as many syllables as there are unreported **** cases, Name the blood something holy, Something mighty Something unlanguangeable Something like the end of the world Name it for the roar between your legs and the women will not be nameless Hear,just bleed anyhow
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May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
let it bleed
# Seems that I mishandle patience, And seems I put mind over matter Sometimes, you just can't grasp The concept Of having nine lives Until you're on your tenth Seems apathy is the new homeopathy And wedding rings seem made of ice Sometimes, you don't realize You crave a second chance At something Until you're on your tenth #
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Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 10:08 AM UTC
Ten Lives