"mons" poems
•
i've
witness-
ed the others
fall over several
sets•leaving you alone
shivering on a spindly twig
•the winds of autumn had whis-
pered their threats...•to sweep you
off your perch into the world so big
•the season had almost gone to make
way for another•answering the sum-
mons of winter's call•had anticipated
the coming of your departure•...i had
sworn to myself to catch you as you'd
fall•for a brief moment, i had turned
away•to tend to commitments that
came with dawn...•i returned to
stay and wait another day...•
but the wind had come
while i was
**g
o
n
e•**
.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
My daughter will not crawl from crib to tanning bed.
She will learn
the terms “unnattainable beauty standards” before she learns the alphabet.
She will never compare herself
to anyone.
She will never compare herself to Britney, Christina, Selena.
She will never compare herself to Cinderella, Ariel, Belle,
Hell. No.
She will never aspire to be the sultry *** kitten taking seductive showers in shampoo commercials.
No.
My daughter will be named Venus.
The goddess of love, beauty, fertility,
The most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She is plump, fullfigured barebreasted wide hipped with curly hair covered mons
Goddess.
My daughter will grow up to be ****** poisonously beautiful
With long locks of goldenrodred hair, like her mother.
Greyblueblack eyes and shoulder freckles, like her father.
And if I can never become pregnant,
my sisters daughters will be my daughters
skin the color of cinnamon or chocolate, or vanilla ice cream
and just as sweet.
Men, women, boys, girls will pine over her, fall in love with her radiating skin
that will never look photoshopped, but always real.
As if the sun came down from the sky to give her the glow of all the light in the universe.
She will love her body the way that my mother taught me to love mine.
I will show her pictures of Whoopi Goldberg and America Ferrera and Margaret Cho and Marilyn Monroe
And she will know that beauty
is not a synonym
for skinny.
Beauty
is not a synonym for
****
Beauty is not defined by size
or color
or texture, no.
It is defined by how she distributes
her love
and light
to everyone she meets.
no exceptions.
and she will never doubt that she is lovely.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC
In the orange cream dying sun's half light
swaddled by blankets wrapped in ***** clothes
I open my lips wanting your taste
eye to eye, mons ***** warm fragrance
To offer myself and soul over completely
When we were young did you ever think
we'd drown in the ocean of flesh between legs?
She smiled brightly, made noises
overjoyed much more than confused,
though that's not the story now, is it?
In an instant passion rises up with steam
gone again before I wipe the mirror and
brush my teeth, and once again I see
blackened debris, they're rotting out
from misspoke verbs
All that's sweet now is the imagining
of diabetic what once was
Two closed eyes reach back with a breathy sigh
withheld truths and well meant half lies,
cannot inspire lift again that left me,
but that doesn't stop the faithful
Has the tide this whole time been sending
waves of false hope, on which I'm floating?
Daydreaming, heating oil, she wants dinner,
and I hunger for satisfaction in new pictures
A hand for a finger, a tongue from both mouths
comforting by grabbing hungrily
until heads get thrown back, abs tighten
when pressed to relax, on the rack
stretched but both floating
Why does she want to drink my blood?
I don't ask just imbibe in return
Those days are long gone
Times when the worst thoughts could not undo
whatever flicker remains in the waning brazier's ember
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
Why can't we all just get along?
Maybe if we all just hit a ****
Bhatiboys, bald heads, reggae mons too
Open your minds, and see what JAH can do
Rioters and looters fighting with cops
Roll up some ****** and the violence stops
Terrorist blowing up the middle east
Some Afghan kush would bring them all peace
If Escobar sold **** not ***** cocaina
Then the whole world would be a lot greena
We are all JAH's children, so lets all get along
Maybe we could, if we all ripped a ****
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
My feet shift oceans
When I wade.
My fingers poked craters
In the moon when I tripped
Over the Shatsky Rise
Under a stroll to Oceania from
Eurasia. I eat from
Tectonic plates;
Glaciers are my
Popsicles.
I shake fallen stars from my
Shoulders and walk on,
Earthquake by earthquake.
Interstellar breezes soothe the
Blisters from when I
Burned my head on the sun.
My arms can reach Mars, look:
Red bits of Olympus Mons and
Nereidum under my
Fingernails.
I leap lightyears.
I cry tsunamies over the fact that
You can't see me.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
**Because the beauty of your ****** is not a sin.**
I saw you in the twilight
Disrobed in the state of nature
And I gaped and gasped in awesome delight
Spellbound and elated in rapture
As I beheld your voluptuous features
As I gazed upon your priceless treasures
From peak of the mountain
I went down to the fountain
In the valley of your mons veneris
And holding on to your alluring pillars
I have been transfixed at the altar of your estuary
The estuary of your conjugal sanctuary.
I saw the falconer trading his falcon
With the bounty hunter for his gun
Lost in their lust for your connubial offerings
Spellbound by the allures of your charms
And I came in the fleeting mist of the fleeing night
To behold you even before the Aurora Borealis
And saw you embracing the heavenly light
As Father Heaven kissed Mother Earth
And you were enchanted in heavenly mirth
Oblivious of my winking mortal eyes
Hypnotized in the ether of celestial bliss.
At the unveiling of the beloved daughter of Eve
Made perfect in the bowels of boundless love.
Let the fire be kindled in my heart
The eternal flame of my spirit
The breath of eternity
The ether of life formed in purity
Born bare and born free
As my enchanted eyes can now see
Freed from the chains of pains
The pains of natal travails
Oh! Woman! Thou art the vessel of motherhood.
And in thy mammary gourds abound our first food
How much every man in bound to thy *****
For from the canal every man is born
Through the third eye of Eve where love flows
From the seed sown the fruit is grown
The sweetest fruit of love is found in the ******
To behold your naked beauty is not a sin.
~~ Orikinla Oosinachi, 2006.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
I try to convince myself that there’s no struggle;
That these are just war games.
I wear long sleeves and the word
Fine
Like kevlar.
I search for second player, when,
Real
ly, I need a commander.
I gather treasures, battle strategies in
Journals;
I tell myself that they're just easter eggs,
Useless
Use
less.
I philosophize
That reality is, really, a hollow
Hologram,
A video game, not real, not wrong, not
True, useless;
A projection,
Protection.
There's no war, no battle,
It's my d mons that speak dark things, when really, there's a
a
e
One lett r difference.
I tell myself that the game's over, try
Again, try again.
Failure stabs, I say
That it was my own doing,
It's just war games.
I need to take a walk,
Run, run away
I tell myself,
It'll do me good.
I come back for another
Try, try again.
I was retreating, my armour could
Not protect me from the claws, the scratches from
Within.
It's nothing, I say,
It's all in your head;
It's all in my head.
I try to tell myself that there's no battle to be won, to
Be a man.
Men don't play video games;
Men be me n.
They defend, they protect,
They forgive.
But I don't feel forgiven,
I say I'm forgiven.
I'm fine, and
These are just war games.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
A no-strings-attached thing is easy to arrange
It sounds exciting too, seems very straightforward
But sometimes you get caught up in things you don’t expect
Before you know it, you start caring
You develop feelings
You learn things about the other person
Her middle name, her favourite music, food
Her pet peeves, ambitions
You learn her innermost thoughts
Her insecurities, her ****** proclivities,
The little birthmark just above her mons *****
The one that she says looks like a map of the Dominican Republic
You lie in bed with her all day
She teaches you how to swear in Farsi.
You **** her every day.
One day she sees you making out with this random ****** and she flips
You say, but we said no strings attached or did we not?
It’s not as simple as that though, it never is
But this girl, she believes in you
She’s a paragon of patience
She sits you down and tells you to listen to her carefully
She explains to you that now you are sleeping with her on the regular
Your body is somehow her body too, partly, and vice versa
Says she understands that you are not together officially
But intimacy usually comes with an implied exclusiveness.
You say, Ok, I've heard you. And I understand where you’re coming from.
Then you tell her to **** off.
Time passes
You begin to miss her.
But you’re pride won’t let you call her.
You have *** three times with two different girls in one weekend
One of those girls has a boyfriend, you **** her in a night club restroom.
The other one on the beach a day after
Then a few hours later in her bedroom.
In the morning her room is all sandy,
Going home you begin reflecting on things
You've learnt one thing for sure:
However much top-shelf ***** you get, it doesn't compare to the love of a good girl
So it doesn't matter how many lovers you have in this world
If none of them give you the world.
You swallow your pride and call her
She can’t make it, she says.
But she comes the next day in the evening.
You explain everything,
How it felt like she was tethering you to her
How you took it all too lightly.
You’re not too good at it, talking about your feelings
You say that what she’d told you that day had gone through one ear, out the other
So you had to learn it all by yourself, you had to go through it
Finally, you apologise.
You’re very sincere.
She asks you, so is this closure?
You don’t want it to be, but you don’t know if you actually deserve her
**** you don’t know if she’d even take you back.
If she does, you've still got a lot to prove.
You’ll be in luck, but you’ll be starting on nothing.
If she doesn't then you knew and blew a good thing.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
1.
Princely I am, as Michigan loam,
as carefully turned mud,
as old, old dust––
my breaths are still and unresolved
and don’t dissolve in alcohol
like snakes or dead, bloated fish––
I am nothing monumental.
2.
Stuttered breaths lie in limp open circles around our feet,
hanging by threads of unmade promises––
symmetry was never my forte.
The bent nose,
the crooked lips,
the slow-ballooning wen where nitrogen bubbles––
my flesh is like untilled soil,
all raw and swollen with possibility.
3.
You asked me if it was probable
to find life on Mars
where the iron-leeched sand
crumbles like dried hemoglobin.
I don’t know about amino acids or genesis
or the first man of Dust,
much less mysteries of lovesickness, respiration,
really good ***
We’re barren in different ways;
your dust comes from dreams, from heaven,
crimson and majestic
and dead as Olympus Mons
while I am like moon dust,
just as cold as your bone-dry lakes of carbon dioxide,
but paler, heavier,
and more remote.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
"What a little ******* *****
He’ll never come cross a chick,
That will wanna **** his ****
So why the hell does he think,
My mouth gonna be his kink,
Imma let him drown and sink,
In his vast tide of loneliness,
**** his wavy-haired holiness,
Just there to steal his coziness,
Nah ***** **** the harmonious,
And **** humans, they’re odious,
Leave em’ rotting in moldiness,
Let em’ express their emotions,
And question all of their notions,
Cause they’re all losers and broken,
Why not speak, you’re all unspoken,
But let’s not cause a commotion,
Cause I think now we’re approaching,
The part where I tell you something,
When music had the bass bumping,
And mons push and our lips touching,
And to your **** blood was rushing,
I was high, think you’re disgusting,
**** you ***** please become nothing."
Although the things that I said are probably not true,
I'm just seeing the worst outcome from her point of view,
Now I'm going off with my old friends and my new crew,
Starting a rap group called Dugtrio, gonna make our debut.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
She had a fading tattoo
on her thigh
which caught my eye.
Winnie asked me
to help her
bath Florence
as she was alone
and I wasn't busy.
You don't mind
if Benny helps me
bath you
do you Florence?
Winnie said.
Me?
no make my day
for a young feller
to see my tattoo again
first time
in many years
I can tell you
Florence said.
Used to be
a dancer
back in
the early days
danced on stage
up in London
and sometimes
when we toured
we went all
over the place.
Once Winnie
had helped
Florence undress
I saw the tattoo clearer
it was in blue and pink
and was of a dancer
doing the can-can.
Is that what
you did Florence
the can-can?
Winnie said.
Yes that
and other dancing too
did more than
dancing too
other times
she laughed.
I smiled.
She had her
grey hair long now
as Winnie
had unpinned
the hair to wash it.
Had a young feller
who wanted
to marry me
but he got himself
killed at Mons
and that was that.
Another one came
back blinded
and although
I could have
married him
I wasn't keen
on marrying
a blind bloke
you know what
with me dancing
and touring
and having to
help him
I couldn't do it.
I think he married
some other girl.
Florence went quiet
had my chances
but never did marry.
Bet you were a looker
when you were young
Winnie said.
Got a photo
in my drawer
when I was a dancer
one of those sepia jobs
faded a bit like me
but you can see me
as I was then.
We eased Florence
down in the bath.
I wondered how many
other men had seen her
like I did
but didn't ask or say.
Once in the bath
Winnie did her back
and Florence talked on
all about once upon.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
There we stood, resplendent, in our articles of war
daring for a moment to forget the matters core--
that death and dying looming, like mountains in the night,
would be the grim reward for those who'd dared to fight.
The British expedition, in that humid august air,
would hoist the recognition of mankind's new despair;
the wave of Schlieffen's reckoning had broken us that day
and the yeoman of Agincourt had come and gone away.
We fought and bled and fought and died a day or two at Mons,
but soon retreat was sounded, a melody to pawns.
French soil stained in English blood and washed in English tears
then tilled by German cannons for four more ********* years
was less the blessing we first conceived, that bitter, deafening fall,
so late in 1914, when the Great War came to call.
The salient crumbled, frailly; a grave portent it seemed,
soon would come the Somme, Verdun, and horrors never dreamed.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
Every time she undresses,
**I see flames on her mons *****
the mystery flabbergasts;
a figment of my amorous imagination?
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Time is the biggest
Word of All.
It lamely, gamely
Tries to act like
Olympus Mons,
That Great Mars Mountain,
Thunder-towering three times
Mightier and Grander than
Our Nepalise Everest.
(Or so the
Philosophers hope)
Time seems so looming,
So enlongated, stretching
Summer-like, back when
Summer was more than six
Measly weeks long;
Time is measured, and sweet,
Like sugar,
Being with the one we love
When time seems to slow,
To languish, like the non-
Breezy lassitude winds
That the sails of ships
Hate most of all.
But when the one we
Love, like, tolerate;
Are indifferent toward,
And absence does not make
The bitter water leaking
Out of our eyes,
Brows furrowed in visible
Pain, Time
Becomes a different
Breed of beast;
Time is salt, bitter, hard,
Crystalline, sharp-edged,
Not a poultice, nor a
Salve, but fresh seawater
Reigning down upon the
Open wounds of our broken,
Shattered hearts.
Each intake of breath
Like glass poking
Our insides, each
Exhalation
Yet another reminder
That time spent away
From love isn’t
Time at all.
Time is what someone
Had to call something
As yet so infinitely
Indefinable, yet-
Define things, categorize things,
We Humans do, because of
Our strange natures compel us.
Time is absolute, and
Absolutely nothing,
And absolutely
EVERYTHING.
And, to the still-beating heart
That can bear not one more
Oxygenated globule of red
Red blood, time
Becomes the clock which
Could not bear to fully
Show its face to us
Whilst we lived, and,
Upon the dying of our bodies,
The drum in our chest
Beating its beat no longer,
The twin-air-sacs
Now vacuumed:
Time announces itself as only
Becoming real when we
Aren’t.
Time is better defined
Irony.
The most genuinely
Phony collection of
Individual and barely-connected
Symbiotic symbols
Ever conceived by a
Single collective mind.
It’s all we have
And then all we don’t.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
I remember the night I graduated from Olympus Mons Military Academy.
I remember what my father told me,
the "one hundred percent true story of the creation of mankind."
There was a being who lived on Venus, all alone he lived, so alone he wasn't even sure he was living. This being had no name, but they had a heart that beat and a mind that thought.
He lived on a Venus that this universe has never seen, nor will ever see. Space and time are fabrics, but even the finest of linens have space, impossibly small amounts of space and within them universes. This being lived on a Venus woven into the fabric of time itself.
This being prepared a torch,
fueled by matter the likes of which humanity knew, but has forgotten and will never remember.
He lit this torch and carried it through the fabric of time.
He spoke to beings there about time and he did not like what they thought of time and so he took the torch elsewhere, abandoning the others in a perfect nothingness.
He took his torch to Mercury and asked the beings there what they thought of space.
He did not like what they had to say about space and so he left them in their chaotic abundance of space.
Dissatisfied, he traveled to the furthest edge of the universe and looked Beyond. He asked the beings there what they thought of space and time.
They did not answer.
He asked them what they thought of existence and they told him to stop speaking.
They asked him what fueled his torch and he refused the answer.
They grew angry and decided to try and strike a bargain.
They told him they'd reveal their thoughts on time and space if he reveals what burns his torch.
They told him time is only within his mind and that space is a projection thereof.
He fled.
He fled to earth and dropped his torch there, and it burned to the center of the planet.
He returned to the fabric of Venus and thought for an impossible amount of time and willed time and space to cease and yet he could not.
After, he willed himself to cease existing and he did.
His torch stopped burning with him and humankind was born from the ashes, they crawled from the center of Earth and wept for their creator.
I asked my father what this meant and he told me to stop speaking, and asked me what fuels my torch. Once I answer that, I will understand.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
In the
begin
ing I’ve
been
telling you that I am
not playing games any
more. I am older and wi
ser because I have my ex
perience to boast, my vita
brevis to flaunt. But like all
things, change happened as
I succumbed to your own con
ditions. I have been a mons
ter because of love. Someth
ing that I was not and never
thought I will be. But here I
am. I really am thinking no
w how to resolve this iss
ue. Just promise me that
you will do everything to
change. That will suffice.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
immensely immersed in
pensive verses
that don't make sense.
pencil thin & shrinking.
thinking about the end
before the **** begins
is just...
ignorant.
hi.
I'm comin to
all yall still alive
from down in the
diamond mines &
I'm having a helluvatime
winding around the spine
& biting through the wires.
I am not of your kind.
I am gypsy science.
I am high minded & iron sided
& I like fire & liars
& violence & thieves
I find them quite inticing
since there was no one to supervise or guide me but thats fine with me
but it is tiring spiraling between
subterranean lows
& olympian peaks.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
Desynchronized glances,
evaporate
into long, ravenous gazes.
Each of us is a mirrored pool,
a reflecting pond,
that the other could swan-dive, into,
facefirst, and drown in.
We drip hotly
and melt, for each other,
like simmering rivers
of molten candle wax.
I twist around you
like a curl, of oiled hemp.
Your fingers tense, grip,
and peel back the skin, of
cotton thigh highs
as your face elongates,
and your mouth, moves...
languorous tongue,
trailblazing downwards
from the mons veneris,
to worship, devoutly,
at my sacred shrine, below.
The slippery wetness,
of exposed thigh
slicks, and grazes,
your stubbled cheeks
tenderly perfuming
the tensed column,
of your working throat,
with my feminine scent.
We interlock, tongue and groove.
Your tongue tip flicks the nub,
back and forth,
like an ignition switch,
as the engine hums, to life.
You stoke my fires,
with every lingual stroke.
You blow my torch,
into a fervid flame
that spreads heat throughout
the inner chamber,
and you warm your face
in its baking, radiant glow.
I bite down, delirious with ecstasy,
into the skin, of my own tensing arms;
wrists bound, in python restraints, overhead:
resisting the force, of the virulent scream
forcibly spreading, throughout pink lungs.
Yes...oh, God, yes.
I churn, from the hips, down
raining, into your expectant face,
mouth pealed, helplessly, for the scream...
and the sunlight breaks overhead
as I smile brightly, and collapse, around you.
...Oh...puddin'...have mercy, on me.
Now...
we separate,
and interchange places, smoothly.
Your hands, dig, into the voluminous depths
of loosely bound, twin comet tails.
You wrap their trailing, cherry cola ends,
around tight, clenched knuckle fists,
as my lips, purr, against ever-expanding skin.
Don't you dare...let go,
of these handlebars, baby,
as I rev up, hard,
hit a wet patch, and SLIDE.
....Hold on tight, to me, and RIDE.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
She is
The size of a flower petal
Attracts me
As if she is the size of Jupiter
Pulling me straight to her core
Crushing my being
She smiles
Whilst playing with her hair
Blinds me
As if she is Betelgeuse
But still my eyes glued on her
Destroying my retinas
She touches
My heart with her little fingers
Pulverises me
As if I was squashed by Olympus Mons
Yet I still reach out to her
Completely wrecked
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
how many have met you
with their lips
or fingertips
or their pumping blood ***** attached to their hips
how many have seen your redness
how many have felt the blood you bestow
each month
it trickles
like water down cave side walls
my cave
how many have seen you
and not wanted to touch
why do they always want to touch
I curl inside my cunte
on days when my heart stops beating
anvils on my eyelids
keeping everything out of sight
so i don't look
i touch
I feel
the words
the whispers
upon my skin
the hair of my mons crawling like Medusa's crown
snakes, serpents
slithering
around
whatever is put inside
I will ****
if anyone touches me
again
I have to protect
myself
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC
wake up
look outside
the sun has risen and so have you
your mind has wandered
and returned to where you let it lie
but it can return to that world
where boundaries were undefined
and you struggled to touch sides
for there were none, neither allegiances
just a vast empty world of promise
where a cheshire cat plays with string hanging off olympus mons
and you play twister in nebulae with the gods
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
Martian Gothic
It was a unique environment.
They were unique people in a unique place.
A mountain fifteen thousand metres high with a vertical south face.
Two pretty Goth girls stood on the edge.
One footstep forward and it was a huge fall to the Martian plateau.
Three hundred metres in front of the girls was a fine layer of Cirrus cloud,
thirty metres thick.
The Terraforming had worked brilliantly providing a heavy Earth like atmosphere on Mars.
Olympus Mons was a great holiday destination for young East European adventurers like Hanneke and Silge.
Hanneke had waist length black hair and Silge shoulder length red hair with lip piercings.
Both were equally beautiful as the magnificent landscape straight out of a sci-fi film.
They were taking time out of their Earth based Martian Geology course after a short field trip.
A quick hike was a chance to chill out and take in the stunning views.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
They say time heals everything. I guess that applies to anything.
but since love is just not anything, I struggle with these thoughts. I don't know where to begin. It's like this game of life, so we all start all in. Mostly in for our-self, life by our-self with no one else around you. Mind of matter, let me remind you. That love is a pain, gifted to all of us. Unfortunate for some, life's not fair to all of us. All created equal, and by mistake, nurtured by hate, left on our own to find love. And while we wait, we learn to hate - that which is not us. Even though, no such thing is such. It pains my heart, bothers me so much. So all of this hate, overpopulating love. If had one wish, it wouldn't be enough. But all my fate, in the God above; I wouldn't blame him, for blaming us. People killing people, in lands created for us. The commandments, broken if commanded, then judged by You-Mons - aliens looking down on us, like we are monstrous. Unidentified flying objects, staying away from us. They way we label each other is so unrighteous. Somehow our own poison is too good for us. If any of this makes any sense, then they then pay attention. to all of those around you, or then your just a king- dumb.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC