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William A Poppen Aug 2015
Like swimming in molasses
trying to ascend
hoping to begin
to get where I want to be

Swimming in molasses,
can’t get there from here
as a robot in first gear
trying to go with the flow

Swimming in molasses
waiting for the gooey
mass to warm
for me to find my way

Swimming in molasses,
Grandma’s Gold Standard all natural kind
dark, black-brown viscid glue
that holds and restricts

I’m swimming in molasses
deliberate, lethargic,
lagging, leaden, swirling toward
the promise that awaits me
depression, blues
tumelo mogomotsi Dec 2016
melanin molasses, the sweetest courtship attracts the ones who have never glittered
white bullets love to kiss black skin
black on black crucificton, a gospel orchestrated by the higher powers
****** puddles lay with the concrete during the darkest hours
night bullets play white doves during the matrimony of the bottom barrels life and its fast stint.
honeymoon candles lit by the masters matches, africans seek this artificial light in times where heavens white lights could greet them with a smile and roses that are wilted.

- t.m
Scurry hurry
Shaking hands shaped by worry
tie the knot of plastic
A bubble home for the hard green cup
where brown and white
mixed lay married.

Wash rush
Dainty legs in dark blue denim
hasn't time to be romantic
A worn out sister played by hope
shuts the door panting.

  It clings to a robust tree
  head hidden under rosy pink    
  protective shield
  edged in yellow

  The fireflies

Sticky webs of empty lies packaged in boxes of deception by the wizard that doesn't work
sit dead on the small bedside table
like the results they provide.

Boxes and boxes of cozy containers
and cards of capsules
47 I counted them
current and extras
They choke my sight
then I am groped by the smooth blue robes worn by the youthful shepherd
posing aside a grey rock looking yonder
into the distance as insta-natural as possible in a pastel painted picture framed in wood against the wall.
  Unstable molecules in tiny airtubes,  
  many, breakdown and explode
  like little landmines
  A bio-luminescent lit ***** assaults a  
  dense night flashing brilliant
  to find a mate
  Six strong neon-green throbbing blinks
  Six slow seconds of unimaginable
  wordless dreamless dark.

  are bright.

I turn my head
The whole unsettling mass of reality
is torn apart into vibrant colorful morsels,
then reassembled
as my eyes  


"Oh God, if you're here, heal her now
and you'll have me. Show me what those confident tongues so eagerly confess.

Another sticky empty square
covered in thick black-strap molasses
slapped to the face of the fool
who likes sweet things.


What happened to the omni-this, omni-that CEO of God enterprises?
"Go on Death" is what that means
"Go on Death do your job" is what it does

"It's your time.
It's to test your faith.
Gods plan."
All slogans for the man
who believes and dies.
  Culture creates the fool
  Hope keeps the fool
  Belief kills the fool
Thanks for doing what all those boxes
and all the pictures
on all the walls of the world do


Her face,
a gaunt kind of skin-to-bone sight
a bad flavor
like a meal with no taste

Her mouth,
crack-lipped, framed by dry
delivers deadly blows to a heaving chest
that says; "Give me air"
yet lungs say no

is ****** from the pit of my cold stomach
then up through the spirit of a warm heart
I plaster the feeling in the shape of water.
My eyes puddle

I weep

It sticks



Fluttering as a twinkle
through soft beams of sunlight,
the drop glistens
then dies
on the pink and blue checkered blanket.

All I have to offer are busky palms
to soothe this battered body
before you are torn apart by what
puts things like us together.

I swallow her frame

Her calf - bone

Squeeze and move

Her thigh,
my hand wraps completely
pinching a sausage sized piece of muscle
not big enough to walk
between plump thumb
and meaty middle

Squeeze and move

Her hip bone is angular
It fits flush in my hand
like the hard front peak of a cricket cap
when held above the grid

Squeeze and move

My chunky tentacles massage over
wire-thin barely blue throbless veins
that decorate her meatless paws
and twig-like fingers.

Squeeze and move
  It's after midnight
  Thick curds of desperation push
  again, through a splendid backside
  a special toosh
  slogging a dancing night-fever
  to beat the two-to-four,
  a beam as bright as a green day
  cuts through the black pitch of night


I hold her hand
A thin filling between two slices of mine
I look at her eyes and turn away

Have you ever been pulled from the center of  your heart, ripped head first through the narrow crack of your own chest, tossed aside like a skin-sheet onto a concrete glass-covered floor then squashed beneath the majesty of a billion dancing floor-clapping feet attached to a shapeless void shapeshifting as slideshows  between all things gone, here, and still to come, stopping on the body of a small blue boy that sings in ghostly echo;
"Don't turn away from this.
Look till you see me through the eyes of another because this too
will happen to you
Clap clap clap clap!
I'm coming for you.

Trapped in a square tunnel made of brick, walls wide enough for one bus no brakes to speed through, no escape,
I accept what will squash me
I Face it
I Stand before it

I stare at her eyes staring back at me
A deep dagger stare
Two parts steel
until there is only steel
It melts

I simmer the room in soft whisper;
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I hold her hand,
patting the top as I warm the bottom
I smile for her, at me
I smile back, as me
  A skillful mimic
  Here I come
  I have light and breath
  I see yours
  I come at night
  Not for genes or ***
  I hunt and gut
  Hawking down I come as death

The gaps between her labored breaths become bigger and for a second I drift at the sight reappearing on the sandy dunes of an empty dessert space pushed by a dying wind I can barely feel.

A sharp salty tang toils the tip of my tongue and brings me back to her.

Her eyes

They have changed








That dessert

And that place where

*The Fireflies Lose their Light
SøułSurvivør Sep 2015

I've done some research
On cancer's cause
Western medicine, Dr Oz.

They don't have answers, I'm afraid.
And the cure is in what GOD made.

Cancer's vector? A simple virus.
A parasite and a fungus.

Candida overgrowth.
Radiation. Stress.
We all face this in the West.

So are there answers? Well. Let's see.
Tell me if you don't agree.

Sodas should go down the drain
They have sugar or aspertame.

Sugar feeds cancer. Cut it out!
I KNOW that this will make you pout
But you can find nuts a tasty treat
Find some that you like to eat!

Say NO to coffee. All caffeine.
Eat kale and other leafy greens.

If you want nutrition saved
Cut the cord on your microwave!
They watered plants
with water nuked
They died. Nutrition down the tubes.
So no TV dinners. Processed foods.

No fruits or veggies grown GMOs.
WHEAT is bad! And on it goes.

So it may cost a little more?
Shop your local health food store!

What does it matter?
What's cancer's cost?
And your life will not be lost!

If you tire of reading this
There may be important
things you miss... READ ON!


Blackstrap molasses. 1 tablespoon
Baking soda. 1 teaspoon
Mix with a glass of water and drink.
(Baking soda should be found at
a health food store)
Blackstrap molasses can also be used
topically for skin cancer.

Tincture of the husk of the
Black walnut nut. 2 drops
Tincture of clove. 2 drops
Tincture of wormwood. 2 drops
Mix in a glass of water and drink. Add lemon and honey.
It'll taste better.

Get distilled water and add
Minerals in liquid form.
Your health food store will have this.

There are many herbs and spices
Which help.
There's iodine in common kelp.

Soursop tea. Green tea sans caffeine
Fresh vegetables of the rainbow...
Colors are viamins!

Vitamin supplements
Especially B-17

If you can't find these in your
Health food store ask them to order.
Or go on Amazon and order.
I spent a lot of time researching this.
If you have any questions please contact me via the site message system.

I know that there are some who
Can use this information.

There is a Talkshoe program that
Discusses natural remedies.
724 444 7444
Wednesday 9pm eastern time
43503#  1#
Host: BadBaby
grace Dec 2017
you* *should sleep.

i can't. are you   tired?

no, i wanna talk to you.

sunlight streaming through windows,
       soft skin,
             a dream with warm brown eyes,
a sleepy snowfall of kisses and snowflakes stuck to eyelashes,
   honey spilling over the floor,
              love spilling through lips,
sleep stuck under fingernails and pulling mouths into long drawn out yawns,
              the night leaving its soft bruises under eyes,
hearts beating slow as the sun creeps its way up through the sky,
              time dripping like molasses



i love you

*i  love you too
Shawn Jan 2011
smother me in your molasses,
pour yourself all over me
so that I can no longer breathe,
no longer inhaling,
but not suffocating,
only getting another taste
of that sweet, sweet molasses,
better than air.

thick, brown, beautiful,
the process, slow,
only heightens expectations,
what will the future hold,
when I'm fully immersed?

hoping you will never harden,
like those halloween candies
that no one eats,
instead, be the one,
who stays smooth,
and covers me,
in sweetness.
Copyright SMK 2004
Holly Salvatore Dec 2012
Molasses is
The most red
The most gold
The most vibrant
Least cold
Fall of my life
And it’s a new ****
Maybe he wears a trucker hat
Or maybe he wears bibs
Maybe he’ll be some dark horse
New candidate
I don’t know yet
He could be one of these
Over mountain men
Filtering through the woods
Appearing in the hills
Ghosts of Hatfields past
Fur on their faces
Instead of skin
Strong and sturdy
Growing up from the ground
Like the cane we’re cutting
And it ain’t about money
Out here in God’s country
We’re just willing and
Enjoying the rich soil
And machetes
Carving calluses
While the sugar’s pressing
Staining, straining
Green and sweet
Skimming, boiling, browning
Finally draining
Into glistening mason jars
The day is going dark
Sail away ladies
Sail away
And say darling say
Playing banjo
In a moonshine-induced
Till all the bread is gone
The molasses gets carted off
And now it’s full dark
The spooks come out
All the wicked witches
Spitting hairballs
At their victims
That thing making noise
Moving in the bushes
Might be Matt Kinneman
Tells me I’m a good woman
I’m a human wall
And my pigtails make good handholds
When someone needs to reach his knife
The mountains grow
Apart at night
And the hollers pull us in
Molasses tastes like being
Home again
For Lou
Audrey Jul 2014
I breathe in this silence that is not
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Be patient.

I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
Oh God.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity

White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.

White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.

Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Based on the play "The Yellow Boat" by David Saar
James Jun 2015
The smells of caramel, citric fruit and bread being licked by flames,
The colour. Black. Deep and rich. As if it was oil taken from the ground,
The taste is different, bitter, and earthy, contrasted by molasses, and sweet almonds,
This is how my day begins.
Terry Collett Apr 2012
Jimmy opened his suitcase in the room
at Lourdes and said Oh no there’s molasses
all over the clothes and shoes and I’ve got

a whole week here and he sat down in a chair
his head in his hands saying What have I done?
What am I going to do for clothes now? you

went over and looked in and sure enough
the molasses were over his clothes and shoes.
What am I going to do? he said and you said

Leave it to me Jim I'll sort it and you went through
the clothes taking out the items untouched
by the molasses and set them aside on the bed

and then carried the suitcase of black sticky items
Into the washroom and there one by one you carefully
washed them through with soap and water until

they were clean and smelt of soap and fresh air
and all the while 94 year old Jim sat in a chair
watching with his eyes watery and jaw hung loose

seeing the black water run down the wide plughole
and once it was done you wrung the clothes out
like your mother used to do when you were a kid

and hung them out on the balcony on the small
clothesline and placed the washed out black shoes
by the outside wall to dry out in the hot afternoon

sun and Jimmy came over and stood on the balcony
with one hand on the rail and the other on his stick
looking over at the Pyrenees in the distance and he

said That was real good of you. I owe you big time
and you stood next to him feeling the hot afternoon
sun on your face and arms and felt good and you

said You owe me nothing Jim I just did what some
good guy would and his watery eyes swept over you
matching the French sky’s watery afternoon blue.
Restivo Jun 2010
it’s inky water
flowing behind me
trying to nip at my heels.

it’s dulled now,
by the intoxicating liquid
burning down my throat.

it’s molasses

i step in its sticky puddle,
and it’s carried up my leg.
disgusted, i reach down to wipe it off.

it only clings to my fingers
and oozes up my arm
and leaves my hand covered
in the thick

i am frightened now

i freeze.

dread fills my features
i know it will not stop
and on and on it goes

i am immaculately sticky
shining and

it’s panic epitomized.

it surges up my neck.
i hold my head high
although i know it won’t help;
it’s just instinct.

i scream.

it flows down my throat.
into my stomach, into my lungs
into my core, into my being.
my eyes are flashing
it’s all over

i drown

in more ways than one

and the inky substance
exudes from my body
and seeps into the ground
and is gone
leaving the residue
of me.
- 2003
TC May 2013
makeup messily blurs the outline
of your face, the one the sun is
beating sandpaper ciphers across--
translated they reflect the cesspit
of the first smile I have meant
in months--please just caress
the entropy of this water-winged sunset,
you cannot swallow your shyness
by intimidating everyone into not
speaking to you and by god
I don’t want to hurt you but
I can feel a hot one.

if those who’ve known hell
never talk about it
and nothing much bothers them
after that
why do we talk circles
around each moonrise, exhale
leaden stories like smoke
and charred vapor
everyone tastes like brimstone
so why are you so afraid of
being beautiful, why am I
so afraid of my ligaments eroding,
and we are so *******
tragic ****-it
we’re ******* tragic
time blurs you
whipped the insomnia into
a frenzy
the way you kiss me
when the sun lurks backstage
waiting for her que makes it
okay for now not numb
so much because ******* was I
knife-fight numb. I can talk
about the hell with you the
other girl, not so much, the
tricky-***** was that she
made it go away but it
never really does does it?
just blurs the time so
it can fast-pitch the happy
out of your lungs, like
my me is still here, so maybe
we can rub selves
while the sun bears down
from behind her curtain
of starless sky.
jane taylor May 2016
i fight to peel each moment
of pure stagnation
off of me

a tinnitus cacophony whines in my ears
as my dilapidated fan
keeps slow rhythm to the faucet drip

minutes drag like molasses
handcuffed to the daily lag
groundhog day

i escape into the forest
running, the breeze caresses my face
wildlife pries open my desperate eyes

a spider’s web bends and sways in the wind
fine strands of silver silk flow
soaring they meld in crescent waves

a butterfly glides gently by
befriending gusts of air
softly breathing in another tomorrow

the conductor of the symphony
with sculptor’s hands i cannot see
whispers ever graciously

life is not your enemy
drink it in and let it seep
drop your sword i’m molding thee

We went through the motions
Until all went motionless

(The otter frollicked turning everything
into a game of joy to being alive)

Touch became accidental at best to our ways
Once we could touch but now nothing more

(The otter nipped at the turtle
flipped about as it played)

Words dripped from our tongues
Heavy like molasses as the intent fades away

(Down the grass the otter slides into the river
Over and over like a little child)

Reason lost to accusations , accusations took it's toll .
Accusations took our time , creating false crime

(I watch as the otter swims on it's way
Dipping , diving to where I can't say)

Now I sit in the darkness with full moon fever
Wondering how could something turn so wrong that once was so right
Brad R Apr 2014
A little promiscuous thought.
Bubbling to the surface of your mind
like molten rock from earths core,
It rises
until it reaches the brim
Then without any warning
It erupts, and destroys everything.
The ashy residue comes raining down
cloaking the once green valley with blackness
the melted rock moving like molasses down the hill
turning everything that once was
into nothingness.
After the disaster seems over,
Things will regrow from the madness
Just waiting for the next eruption.
Just need some way
to control my volcano.
His ***** tongue infuses every phrase
She glazes, spreads like honeyed butter
into the words.

Trickling slowly
Oh, so slowly
Through each stanza

This is her molasses moment
She is ready for his pen
to catch her syrup drips, to stop this slick
Becoming a pool.
Please read 'Write ****** Read', I'm experimenting with different points of view.
The mist hung heavy in the air
Touching lightly on marsh grasses
It was almost like a London fog
And as thick as cold molasses

Beneath the mist in hiding
Decomposing in the night
Were the results of one more battle
Awaiting dawns early light

The Union and The Rebels
Fighting for what they believe
And soon, these victims kin folk
Will learn their fate and will then grieve

Cannon, gun and bayonet
Were the weapons for the ****
You couldn't see the bodies
Through the mist from on the hill

Amongst the dead one soldier
Died from a shot that came behind
His head was gaping open
He was shot by his own kind

The armies both died facing
The direction of attack
Except for this one soldier
Who was taken from the back

A coward's lot is hellfire
And so it will be for Will May
He was shot by his own brother
As he turned and ran away

The mist hung heavy in the air
Touching lightly on marsh grasses
It was almost like a London fog
And as thick as cold molasses
Ann Beaver Mar 2014
I imagine the wave
of your hand
your hair
standing on end
at the sight of me
not the me I know
the me you somehow see
through a distorted glass vase
encase me in molasses love
slow my heart down from above
my face facing yours
it was the last time I took a breath
Penelope Winter Apr 2017
You're a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Your sour heart is unsettling on my tongue
But I lick my lips.
You excite me.
You're addictive.

You're the black density that envelops me.
I sink deeper into your warm embrace.
The scream for help never leaving my lungs.
You entrance me.
You're hypnotic.

I know that you're no good for me.
But I mistake your sweet words for honey.
Thick in the air but I can't get enough.
You speak slowly.
It's seductive.

But when I stop caressng you
I feel myself letting you
Slip through my fingers.
Part of me is glad you will be gone
But the memories left behind stick to my skin.
I ignore them

You say I won't live without you.
You say you're as natural as water.
But in reality
You are

- p. winter
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.

Perhaps I should be.

I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.

If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would

I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
and am greeted by
no one.  
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
R E Sadowski Feb 2013
My elbows feel damp today like they’ve been sitting in
Small pails of oil and someone forgot to tell me.
They feel drenched
Where if someone tried their very hardest to pinch the skin
I would feel no pain.
My only moment of invincibility.

My elbows are boney-
From my mothers side of the family
Like my toes are shaped like my fathers
And no amount of brightly colored nail polish will distract from that fact.
My hair is all my own and my eyes, a cinnamon mix
Caught between browns, yellows, and
Gluey waves of molasses.

But my elbows feel damp today
Even though its fall and skin likes to crack and break and shutter in the wind’s blue outrages.
But skin is only skin
And I didn’t die from scraping my knee on that branch hidden in the big vulnerable pile of leaves…

It’s fall. And leaves are caught struggling with
Conformity and peer pressure.
Their newly painted toenails scream out insecurity;  
Caught between greens, yellows, and
Cinnamon mixes.
Like gluey waves of molasses.

I bet some of those leaves have damp elbows too…
Danny M Jun 2018
Is slow.
I feel
Like I'm
Inch by inch
A goal
Is swimming
Far away
Than I ever
murari sinha Sep 2010
in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death

managing and arranging  my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin θ of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned

then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire

and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves

the cause of spreading over of the fragrance
from our secret myrobalan to every side of the pillows
is not only such that in the morning
an empty ink-*** says to the rain-water
you are beautiful

it is also remarkable that
coming to our half-articulated  travelling
the writings carved on the granite stone
become very much ashamed also

and  taking the busy market-price of the sun-glass
in the fold of the **** cloth tied at the waist
my both hands are also marked very much
in the omnibus of the dancing-bar

such is just because it is the art and science of navigation
that pastes some earth-wave
having no number-plate
with the public
rolling down  on the mat of the summer

it is impossible
to memorise the history of  those
so much contended-hunger
so much contended-sleep

it is all right that the staff-members
of our vibgyr university are all alive  
but they are the existence of some
bio-data only

arrangement of so much smiles and tears
in the nomenclature of banana-bed of mrs sofia
is not to tell the directionlessness of her fishery products
but if the culture of the wild trees assuming figure
then there remains no separate entity of the rbcs
inside or inside-up of the veins and arteries

all are the world of cosmetic-surgery
all are the arena of displaced national integrity
that is the only way to get admitted
into the still water of the horse-race

so the making of this self-portrait of the tip-cat game
by own-hand
so is the fancy of the engagement ring of the bursar

as a result of the headache in the au fait knee-joint
all the rats on the rice-*** of margaret  
become very angry
and when they make their performance  
you can’t catch them by extending your hands

so there is this sky-blue printed sari of desdemona
now take refuge under her perfumed disaster
and it is feared that there may be the drops of sweat
on the lobes of her nose extremely devoted
that the trees become to reside in

how much confusing is that cascade
in each of whose earings the dark fortnight
and whose eden garden is so large
that all those  people with crevasses dwell there

they stay in a group of nine
neither eight nor ten
just n for 9
n is also meant for the nancy
and the narcissus
and the sensational appearance of the

once again we rub green-chilly after pouring water
in the parched-rice on the ancient plate made of brass
it is right that the peak is separated down from the temple
but it does not hurt the priest

by the right of our walks strewed outside
we too when hiding ourselves in the regime of fire
with our intention and activities
with our standpoint
with our conduct and  behaviour
or any instant rule or direction
or our deeds
that compel the rotation of the deodorant

thus after the eye-operation
the love between you and me is now
seeing more week-ends than before
to her knee has been submitted many caws
painted in water-colour

in every corner and every hole of the body
that pulls the rickshaw the wind enters
and in every root-cause of the sufferings
the ripple of annihilation of love

from the shop of dip-swimming now
you can also purchase soundlessness  
to feel  the spirit of  chrysoberyl

now you need the work for 100 days
to gain the power you need to keep pace
with the graph of the terracotta
that may also be a long day of fasting  

then on the back of that hungry conch-shell
a globe shouts
the other’s world puts its office-water
in the fountain of cactus the roaring of which
pours so many telephone-calls into the ears

then in our market the ear-bursting sound of the generator
then in our forest-land
the bullet-fight between maoist and the joint-force

then with the enlarging and waning of our moon
are the bright fortnight the dark fortnight and the leaves of wood-apple

you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too

then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point  

but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright

then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled

the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum

to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears

then the light of the social moon  is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up

it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean  

it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too

some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair

but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses  
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan

in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera
Deneka Raquel Jun 2014
Black oil,
Tarnished the white sands of a paradise that is,
No longer a paradise,
Because no matter how much you try to clean it up,
It will always be a shade darker than it used to be.
Not fully regaining its color.
The thick molasses no longer holds it together,
Africa, seems broken beyond repair.

Diamonds don't shine as bright as Rihanna suggested.
Instead they glow red,
With the blood stains of the innocents,
Slaughtered for wedding rings.

Cutting into the flesh of my ancestors,
Like those very diamond cutting into glass,
Because what is life compared to,
A piece of rock?

There is a pseudo-melodramatic darkness that,
Echoes off of every piece of light they reflect.
Sitting only on the fingers and necks
Of the people who can afford them,
As fingers and necks were chopped and severed for them.
I am unable to identify with the cries that still manage to,
Resonate within the wind,
I am the only one that can hear it.
This is just a poem about something that doesn't sit well with me. No amount of time can pass that it will.
Sugar, satin, and spices
Every girl has her vices
Words slip out like sweet molasses
Time slows down as each one passes
Take me captive in your arms
Each breath you take calms and warms
Let this moment never pass
Love me now, like no one has.
Hank Roberts Jun 2011
Just in case you didn’t know
My mind is low,
You’re reading these scribbles now

This boring man, talks and talks
About government
It’s really not a godsend

This boring man gives his back
And too much slack
This country is on ******* crack

I’m done takinf pointless notes
That I won’t look at
This boring man is very fat

I want to leave and **** ****,
A lovely deed,
This boring man; monotone

Boring man is trying to be cool
He’s a ******* fool
He needs to be in a box, he’s a tool

This boring man, always boring
To my left I hear snoring
Boring man, walk out the door!
Time as of now is molasses
Minutes are hours
**** government and their powers

Democrat, republican, libertarian
You’re all wrong
Hey, pass me that ****.

Boring man cannot teach
I just wish,
I was at the sunny beach

Hell, I’d be anywhere
Not here but there
I don’t care, this guy has no flare

25 minutes, oh my lord,
I’m so bored
Not as much as the boring man

This is getting out of hand
Against government
Let’s all get up and stand!
JJ Hutton Sep 2013
I'm running 7:25 splits. Eight miles in. I haven't got stuck at an intersection. Not that I ever do. Runners got the right-of-way. And like my buddy Randy Run 'N Gun would say, I'm zen. Very ******* zen. Used to be a walker. Not no more. Not after the heart attack. No, siree, I'm a runner. A good runner. Lost 45 pounds. I did. I did. I stick to the left side of the road. So I can see the guilt in the drivers' eyes as they pass by. They're thinking, there's an old man out there taking care of hisself. I should be taking care of myself.

And they should. They really should.

But what's exercise to the people in this town? A walk down the block to Loaf 'N Jug for a Snickers, that's what. Or if you're a rich *****, it's twenty minutes on a Stairmaster three times a week. And I have to wonder if they're really doing it for them, you know?

I'm on the way back to the house. I peel off 30th, cutting across four lanes of traffic. Head into Garden of the Gods park. I do this so people get the right idea of the city. When I was a tourist here, I thought to myself, why's everybody all lumpy-assed and tied to children. Made a promise to myself. Told myself, when you move out there, you're going to be the trophy. So, I run through the red rocks and insert myself, mid-stride, into all those family photos. That way, when they get home, they'll point at their pictures and say, everyone in Colorado is so fit.

Now I'm getting close to the spot. It happened about a mile--mile and a half into the Snake Trail over by that 30-foot tall rock that looks a bit like Lyndon Johnson. I was a tourist and a walker then. Not no more. Not ever again.

There's a stretch of blacktop that cuts Snake Trail in two. I can't remember the name of the road. I think it's named after some preacher who got cholera, lost his faith, regained his faith in the end. One of those touching trajectories. Those stories always sound like a lot of fluffy *******, if you ask me.

Cars are backed up on Wishy-Washy Preacher Road. There's a crowd of people gathered in the middle. I look at my running watch. I don't like this. This is the kind of unplanned circumstance that skews your splits. Then your run time makes you feel like a lumpy-***, and that ain't me. Not no more.

I start pushing through the crowd. There's a lot of whispering and a lot of little kids all snotty and teary-eyed. And it's all just frustrating, because I feel like I'm cutting through molasses. I look at my running watch. I reach the center of the crowd.

A mule deer had been runover--well, halfway. The stupid beast still uses his front legs, dragging his crumpled and ****** backside along in a mad circle. A screechy whimper comes out in intervals like beeping hospital machinery. He's so scared, some middle-aged woman with a kid to each hip, says. A longbeard, beergut hippie starts into a prayer,

Gods of the natural world, gods of the sweet animal kingdom,
we ask that you wrap this wounded beacon of your light
into your warm embrace. May you replace his great pain
with the great comfort of your cool breezes, with the great
comfort of your warm sun, with the great comfort of fresh water.

I unzip my running belt. It's not a ***** pack. I pull out my NAA Guardian .32 automatic. It's not a woman's weapon. See, Randy Run 'N Gun, got his name because he invented this kind of running. I respect him for it. Got nothing but respect for that man. See, a fella has to be prepared at all times. There are mountain lions. There are bears. And perhaps worst of all are all these ******* mule deers. They ain't even scared of people. They stop and wait for you to feed them, blocking the sidewalk when I run, skewing my splits.

These hippies ain't going to do ****. They're taking photos with their cellulars and saying theologically vague prayers. And all these tourists are watching. So I walk right up to the mule deer. Someone behind me breathes in so hard, it's like she vacuumed all the sound. Pop. Pop. The beast stops its beeping. Legs twitch. Legs stop twitching. I'm the only one with courage enough to grant a mercy ****.

It's all about doing. Right? That's what the heart attack taught me. Before the heart attack, I thought about being a runner. The rhythm of it, the mechanical discipline appealed to me. Liked the idea of doing a marathon or the sound of it.  I was walking in Garden of the Gods. Noticed the LBJ rock, said to myself, Holy hell that looks like Lyndon Johnson. I heard these quick steps coming from behind me. I thought some potstentch, beergut hippie was going stab me. Felt like the gears at the center of me came off their handle. The right side of me just wasn't there anymore. As I fell I saw it was only a runner.

I reach the Lyndon Johnson rock. I'm eleven miles in. My splits have averaged to 7:43. ******* deer. The ground is lower at the spot where I had the heart attack. Why? Because I dug a hole there, that's why. The old me, the walking me, the tourist me lies dead in that hole. As I pass by, I spit it the ditch as I always do. Good riddance. Yep. Yep.

The trail finally turns downward. A little more oxygen in Ute Valley. Randy Run 'N Gun he calls moments like this, Runner's Reward. And I like that. Nature's okay. The cedars, the meadows, rivers -- all that **** -- is just fine. But what I like about running is the metaphor. See all the hippies, all the tourists they live their lives in a constant state of reward. They think, I'm alive, so I'll smoke this ***. They think, I'm alive, so I'll take ******* pictures of everything. But runners, runners know that you don't deserve life. It's a gift to be earned. So you work your *** off. Mile after mile. A reward for me is a valley. The reward doesn't last long, just long enough for me to catch my breath, you know?

I exit the valley. I pick up the pace. Try to make up for earlier delay. I cross Flying W Ranch Road. I hear metal-scraping-metal. And I'm hit.

I'm in the air. I'm sliding. I'm bouncing. My knees and elbows are hot. I blink.

A woman in a bright pink tank top and yoga pants stands over me. Stay in the car, Jacob, she shouts. Oh my god, oh my god.

I tell her runners have the right-of-way. But she doesn't respond. I say, Lady help me up, you're ******* up my splits. But she doesn't respond to that. She repeats over and over, You're going to be okay. Your'e going to be okay. Just keep looking at me.

I turn my head. The display on my watch is cracked. I can't read my splits average. My head is a ton of bricks. My elbows and knees are hot.

Jacob, stop, the woman says.

Her boy stands over me, taking pictures with his cellular.
Samir Sep 2012
seductive effective cutlass sadistic
serendipity and la la la
licorice liquor lick her and plastic
roses rise relentless resentment
time mime rhyme desire
sentiment sincerely aspire admire
anonymous synonymous simultaneous symmetry
molasses disastrous syntactic mirrorly
Samir sincere severe severe
la la la love na na na never
samirly this way
suicide sinister cynical silence
stop and stare
care and share
love with or without violence
sloppy seconds menace a menace
minus a life structure dependence
relevance relevance irrelevance
sense tense and meaninglessness
sincerely samirly
synthetic systemic sense
cents cents
sense sense
rook Sep 2014
my veins pump molasses

my dry heart belongs to the desert sands and i


i cough up my childhood

memories scattering through the air like

d                   s

         u                      t

i have been parched since birth, since the beginning of this journey

that never ends

i measure my height in sunspots and in the time it takes to forget where i'm from

beached without an ocean

dry and cracking like the desert soil, no hope of rain and no sign

of life

empty and hot and alone

my dry heart hides behind my bleached desert bones and i


in the sand
hello, welcome to the desert,
Natalie Allen Feb 2011
I numbly watch a foreign man
on the train.
He talks across the car to some
New Yorkers who half listen to him
whilst simultaneously eavesdropping
on two Amazonian Jews having an argument:
one claims injustice.
The train crawls on its old, screeching belly.
Molasses moves faster in January,
but it is January and I feel like molasses
I guess the city reflects my thoughts...

The Amazons are now passive aggressive,
I duck my head so they don't know I've listened to the laundry list
of a tell tale sign of exhaustion.

Fatigued, I memorize the line of the page of my empty journal.
Them to fill with a lively recognizable speed of change.
Vidya Oct 2012
corundum puppies and you begin to wonder if
they’ll ever move again not
much escapes your midas touch

you used to organgrind your teeth and
nails at the dusty mayhem floors
(it’s suppertime baby let’s
**** some airtime by eating the fish right off the
hardwood as they gasp for air so we
gasp for blood)

seashell lakeshore pumpkinpatch painting of
bugjuice spattered on the back windshield;
you’re not afraid of
a little fog.

not enough
sodium in the air (not enough
salt in your wounds) and
you begin to choke on the potassium of our
bananasplit ages ago;
if you’re eating
your own molasses words
please make sure you spit them back
out again where the children can have them

they wouldn’t say no to
something sweet
With thanks to Joel M Frye--because of whom two of my poems have finally come together right. :)
Kagami Sep 2013
I am dressed in iron. Layers of it.
Sweat and blood mingling with tears.

And it rusts.

And erodes.

And crumbles.

And soon, my strong persona
Will be gone.
Or maybe it already is?
I've tried so hard to care for my armor,
But everything decays after a while.

I am exposed.

My fragile body is bare now,
And this glass figurine is crying.

She wants to be wrapped in steel this time. Titanium.
That way, she won't break as easily.
And her tears will no longer clatter on the floor,
Shattering into bright little stars.

They don't deserve to be stars.
They are dull.
She may hurt, but her tears are empty.
She has no tears left.

She gave those away too long ago, and they were lost.

And they were bright.

And she wants to be covered in molasses.
Maybe then, when she finds her tears again,
They will stick to her, and never leave.
Maybe she could use them again.

Reduce Reuse Recycle.
She could save her world, and allow
Other pains
To sleep there.
Absorb them from the creatures
She talks to daily.
Hiding them in her iron.

Anything is better than

— The End —