"necro" poems - Hello Poetry

apathy, is me with you, i am the oceans,the rivers&lakes,the mountains&valleys,the atmosphere the Earth,Jupiter,Venus,so on, i am the Milky Way,Andromeda,all other galaxies known&unknown,all the stars&constellations,the asteroids, alien planets&blackholes all curled up in the fabric of the Universe but nothing specific mind you my dear ...with you Love is philosophy safe in its reach apathy is me, with you strung-out on the antidote with you, the sickness issa comforting creature; the aquamarine-moon cradles madness like a fetal daydream —with you love is scientific, boring in its dissection love is petty in its honesty apathy,is me. with you,i am un being un dulating b/t there & there nowhere near here; apathy, is m e and y o u inna vacuum i am? with you—cut me T(in)WO; apathy,is me, with me and you, i am body inna fever & (my) voice dis embodied inna tomb; send your fever meat thru a tube kiss&kiss my blistered bliss we’re necro philiacs apathy, is me with you

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Jun 21, 2017

Jun 21, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC

Sid_Lollan

apathy, is me

apathy, is me with you, i am the oceans,the rivers&lakes,the mountains&valleys,the atmosphere the Earth,Jupiter,Venus,so on, i am the Milky Way,Andromeda,all other galaxies known&unknown,all the stars&constellations,the asteroids, alien planets&blackholes all curled up in the fabric of the Universe but nothing specific mind you my dear ...with you Love is philosophy safe in its reach apathy is me, with you strung-out on the antidote with you, the sickness issa comforting creature; the aquamarine-moon cradles madness like a fetal daydream —with you love is scientific, boring in its dissection love is petty in its honesty apathy,is me. with you,i am un being un dulating b/t there & there nowhere near here; apathy, is m e and y o u inna vacuum i am? with you—cut me T(in)WO; apathy,is me, with me and you, i am body inna fever & (my) voice dis embodied inna tomb; send your fever meat thru a tube kiss&kiss my blistered bliss we’re necro philiacs apathy, is me with you

51

would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :) Matthew Conrad 5 minutes ago i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo. p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.

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Feb 7, 2016

Feb 7, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

face to face (internet transparency)

would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :) Matthew Conrad 5 minutes ago i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo. p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.

4

Hello again- Cover my bones with your cardigan how long have you been a necro baby? Cause' I've been dead since 2010. Am I still cold? when you wrap that woolen yellow round my back Is my body old? as you stroke blackberry lips with the breath that I lack. Do you like the way my eyes - still alive - never shut? Someone can finally stand to look on you, man of sin, skin, bore; a mutt. Can you feel the dryness beneath my throat? Watch the insects flee my face and see the rot of teeth in the midst of groan. Hello again. Bramble crowned amongst worst of men. How long have you been a necro, honey? Cause' I'm dead as poet's pen.

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Jun 28, 2021

Jun 28, 2021 at 11:17 PM UTC

shewritesalone

Necrophilies are in Love with Me

Hello again- Cover my bones with your cardigan how long have you been a necro baby? Cause' I've been dead since 2010. Am I still cold? when you wrap that woolen yellow round my back Is my body old? as you stroke blackberry lips with the breath that I lack. Do you like the way my eyes - still alive - never shut? Someone can finally stand to look on you, man of sin, skin, bore; a mutt. Can you feel the dryness beneath my throat? Watch the insects flee my face and see the rot of teeth in the midst of groan. Hello again. Bramble crowned amongst worst of men. How long have you been a necro, honey? Cause' I'm dead as poet's pen.

21

Aeipathy consumes me in a state of reverie tender is your flesh, preserved and cold pining for me to partake in my needs. finding pleasure in what's left of you your spirit groans my name even in death thy shall be whole again. after, while you're in pieces soon you will be one with me reside inside my body not one bit gone to waste embrace my favorite parts by giving you a taste. who am i not to indulge? in such a wonderous thing necro-cannibalism with my love the most endearing sin i need.

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Dec 11, 2024

Dec 11, 2024 at 3:04 PM UTC

hematolagnia

Love After Life

Aeipathy consumes me in a state of reverie tender is your flesh, preserved and cold pining for me to partake in my needs. finding pleasure in what's left of you your spirit groans my name even in death thy shall be whole again. after, while you're in pieces soon you will be one with me reside inside my body not one bit gone to waste embrace my favorite parts by giving you a taste. who am i not to indulge? in such a wonderous thing necro-cannibalism with my love the most endearing sin i need.

17

Empty Inward Outside the inside takes the over the top Keep up the up work Out the kinks Livin' the dream above ground More abover than above Supra-above Über-above Hyper-everoverabove Concrete creeks with side-winder dreams Above cracks to keep the windows' hollows Not open. Never open. Above open ‖Again‖ Lysergic acid rhythms Circadia, Dustin (where is that? Here. what time is it? Now.) I emptied this and that and found the Atlantic ******* Ocean But only the ephemeral waves Upon waves of æther ---necro-above--- Ecstasy of the senses Only after all The nothingness opens like a wrapper From whence it came (What is the "us"?) Can the we join the us and still get along with them. Where does the Earth and the water come from And why does it sojourn here?

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Oct 24, 2012

Oct 24, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC

dustin-holbrook

The Feeling Aggregate

Empty Inward Outside the inside takes the over the top Keep up the up work Out the kinks Livin' the dream above ground More abover than above Supra-above Über-above Hyper-everoverabove Concrete creeks with side-winder dreams Above cracks to keep the windows' hollows Not open. Never open. Above open ‖Again‖ Lysergic acid rhythms Circadia, Dustin (where is that? Here. what time is it? Now.) I emptied this and that and found the Atlantic ******* Ocean But only the ephemeral waves Upon waves of æther ---necro-above--- Ecstasy of the senses Only after all The nothingness opens like a wrapper From whence it came (What is the "us"?) Can the we join the us and still get along with them. Where does the Earth and the water come from And why does it sojourn here?

30

At once, coffee and tea, next second, scans. Sweet, to hints of saccharine. Burned bread is one thing to dunk-- but diagrams? Tunnel to the light, here is the night. All fall prey to life. Tunnel to the light, here falls the night. All fall prey. Now, you hasten. I am still slow. What will I do, though, when you go? Let's find out.

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May 23, 2019

May 23, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC

Simillacrum

Necro Haste

At once, coffee and tea, next second, scans. Sweet, to hints of saccharine. Burned bread is one thing to dunk-- but diagrams? Tunnel to the light, here is the night. All fall prey to life. Tunnel to the light, here falls the night. All fall prey. Now, you hasten. I am still slow. What will I do, though, when you go? Let's find out.

16

If one is one And two is four Do daylight flies Eat the dusk pies? Share their lore Just for some fun? What could a story be If language was a buzz Like this tongue we speak A kiss from lip to cheek A tale of what once was The love of he and she Romance veiling boredom Happy lives in smiles missed They passed by slowly With necro-eyes wide and owly Getting high on to-do-lists Pretty people say hey and um Then death makes it's round He melts our heads together Into a lasting human regret Haunts where lovers met Leaving nothing but rainy weather In hellish ends and heaven frowns

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Mar 6, 2014

Mar 6, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC

EgoFeeder

Take A Look At What We Are

If one is one And two is four Do daylight flies Eat the dusk pies? Share their lore Just for some fun? What could a story be If language was a buzz Like this tongue we speak A kiss from lip to cheek A tale of what once was The love of he and she Romance veiling boredom Happy lives in smiles missed They passed by slowly With necro-eyes wide and owly Getting high on to-do-lists Pretty people say hey and um Then death makes it's round He melts our heads together Into a lasting human regret Haunts where lovers met Leaving nothing but rainy weather In hellish ends and heaven frowns

24

Necro night, obsessive polish... smooth as a piano's torso. A man profanes the vested interests of his body with starry eyeshot. Stuffing the pig of non being with a star's nonlinear light. The rapid fire vexations of a king invade him, unspecified bidding must be carried out. He sees the world scurry, sevitude's hand and foot--the glutted pig of his non being belches tremulously. The horror of full emptiness drives him from star to star, his subjects multiply to appease the royal malcontent. He tears into curses cast at God, the king blacks out. The night sits encased in a man's room, ants of darkness crawl on him...he lets out a sigh...then begs sleep.

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Oct 17, 2016

Oct 17, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC

Onoma

Pig of Non Being

Necro night, obsessive polish... smooth as a piano's torso. A man profanes the vested interests of his body with starry eyeshot. Stuffing the pig of non being with a star's nonlinear light. The rapid fire vexations of a king invade him, unspecified bidding must be carried out. He sees the world scurry, sevitude's hand and foot--the glutted pig of his non being belches tremulously. The horror of full emptiness drives him from star to star, his subjects multiply to appease the royal malcontent. He tears into curses cast at God, the king blacks out. The night sits encased in a man's room, ants of darkness crawl on him...he lets out a sigh...then begs sleep.

24

I feel your fingertips run over my back skin inlaid with gold and rivulet rubies i am afraid of my mortal body growing into the coffin it was meant to be but you dig into the pale canvas skin anyway tattoo the words you love to say sink nails into fragile flesh (who will remember this ink from six feet under) shovel the ashes into my collapsed torso chest cavity fertile enough for grave hairs to grow your letters and sighs rot in swirling stains down these dying earthly drains

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Mar 25, 2016

Mar 25, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC

testor

necro

I feel your fingertips run over my back skin inlaid with gold and rivulet rubies i am afraid of my mortal body growing into the coffin it was meant to be but you dig into the pale canvas skin anyway tattoo the words you love to say sink nails into fragile flesh (who will remember this ink from six feet under) shovel the ashes into my collapsed torso chest cavity fertile enough for grave hairs to grow your letters and sighs rot in swirling stains down these dying earthly drains

12

she walks in rain clouds she walks in rain clouds on bright crisp winter days the night and it’s terrors still haunting the infantwomanchild innocence a foreign term ravaged by. that which cannot be. u . t. t. e. r. e. d. __________________________________ held captive in the horrors of darkness that plague her despite the rays that warm her face her hands are icicles protruding from appendages blue and veiny nearly necro in both body and soul as neither dawn nor day hold solace their strength sapped by the all too real battering of the loathsome black hours that trap them __________________________________ consumed in the hangover of fear and remembrance she looses her way on a path she has trodden many many times but never left a crumb trail ____________________________________ solitude frightens her as does silence the demons that lie in wait there terrify her to her core she restlessly seeks out companionship busies herself with distractions futile attempts to vanquish the memories that plague the stillness ___________________________________ she walks in rain clouds on bright crisp winter days tenaciously holding on to her umbrella

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Feb 16, 2019

Feb 16, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC

rochellefoles

she walks in rain clouds

she walks in rain clouds she walks in rain clouds on bright crisp winter days the night and it’s terrors still haunting the infantwomanchild innocence a foreign term ravaged by. that which cannot be. u . t. t. e. r. e. d. __________________________________ held captive in the horrors of darkness that plague her despite the rays that warm her face her hands are icicles protruding from appendages blue and veiny nearly necro in both body and soul as neither dawn nor day hold solace their strength sapped by the all too real battering of the loathsome black hours that trap them __________________________________ consumed in the hangover of fear and remembrance she looses her way on a path she has trodden many many times but never left a crumb trail ____________________________________ solitude frightens her as does silence the demons that lie in wait there terrify her to her core she restlessly seeks out companionship busies herself with distractions futile attempts to vanquish the memories that plague the stillness ___________________________________ she walks in rain clouds on bright crisp winter days tenaciously holding on to her umbrella

38

urge urge to slit to destroy to **** all these empty voids i need to fill missing these emotions i used to feel weird sensation in the dead cells necro nero a fallen god of death fall from grace tear down your face smear it all over the place i bathe in it your blood be mine it's your time to shine, baby

0

Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC

persimmon

Untitled

urge urge to slit to destroy to **** all these empty voids i need to fill missing these emotions i used to feel weird sensation in the dead cells necro nero a fallen god of death fall from grace tear down your face smear it all over the place i bathe in it your blood be mine it's your time to shine, baby

15

Feet (Pisces) and death (Pluto) remain central to in born necro romantic impulses at the point of birth for certain souls. Pisces rules the feet and it is classically speaking placed in the 12th house of loss isolation, slavery and spirit. prepare for death arms wide like a big hug bend down low a spreading wide ritual of slow submission to better beg with kisses grotesque as her jaw juts upwards glassy eyed pupils posses me i kiss the curving bottoms of her tender feet and lovely beaten skin wrapped in cotton gauze to sop the blood shed like rip tides puncturing just to watch the trembling scream my love like charred dolls in ribbon red molasses how tender and desperate as hemic tears fall like prayers down pink tremulous arches i break you my darling gashed pierced and scummed with a vice of knives and strangling wire till you give way marrow and brick my brave girl in swaddled jack knife stockings sacrificed to the shapless groves in a garland of lust insane for the destination of glistening cocked Pharos her lust a moon struck gush in a wind of spinning fog and blood

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Nov 5, 2019

Nov 5, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC

zebrablack

Ritual: Venus conjunct Pluto in Pisces

Feet (Pisces) and death (Pluto) remain central to in born necro romantic impulses at the point of birth for certain souls. Pisces rules the feet and it is classically speaking placed in the 12th house of loss isolation, slavery and spirit. prepare for death arms wide like a big hug bend down low a spreading wide ritual of slow submission to better beg with kisses grotesque as her jaw juts upwards glassy eyed pupils posses me i kiss the curving bottoms of her tender feet and lovely beaten skin wrapped in cotton gauze to sop the blood shed like rip tides puncturing just to watch the trembling scream my love like charred dolls in ribbon red molasses how tender and desperate as hemic tears fall like prayers down pink tremulous arches i break you my darling gashed pierced and scummed with a vice of knives and strangling wire till you give way marrow and brick my brave girl in swaddled jack knife stockings sacrificed to the shapless groves in a garland of lust insane for the destination of glistening cocked Pharos her lust a moon struck gush in a wind of spinning fog and blood

40

to unfold an umbrella in a room, while it rains the gallons of chopin trickling tickles in piano form, and a monsoon of the decade's worth of memoriam to postscript. hide it between hiding an unfolding umbrella in solid space - call it what you want, in americanist perfectionism, and call it a "freedom of speech": "free": as long as i say it! glossing over iran, i'll only double stab at the effort... can't bother-fuck to call it red or call it pink... i'll just call it anyways.... imagine if a bull sought pink... i'm sure you'd see as much charge.... of a quaker in beetroot skin-boots... beef-shits of hope-long-lost-gone.... apparently the dead have a speaker... and a ******* fest... and it sounds like a hannibal lecter's quest of thirst via an oyster feast... next i'll start imagining donkey kong jerking off a pdf. file worth of information... take a razor, and call it simples - while calling the slit point of the interaction: amounted to verse, & a courtney love shoelace; ******* laughing now, aren't we? your beloved lucifer, just did the icarus knosedive. still, imagine the english feeling, or sitting on a windowsill, with an open umbrella - counting raindrops via the sheet... imagine rolling a cigarette... huddling under the necro mushroom... imagine unfolding this raindrop mushroom, in the interiors... find yourself under an umbrella, under a roof... you'd be the luckiest man alive, looking for mushrooms, even the dodgy ones, the one off offers - even the kurt cobains... oddly enough, unfolding umbrellas under roofs, made all the necessary sense, since it became congested in translating english: into english (of americanism).

0

Sep 27, 2017

Sep 27, 2017 at 8:36 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the stereotypical english eccentricity

to unfold an umbrella in a room, while it rains the gallons of chopin trickling tickles in piano form, and a monsoon of the decade's worth of memoriam to postscript. hide it between hiding an unfolding umbrella in solid space - call it what you want, in americanist perfectionism, and call it a "freedom of speech": "free": as long as i say it! glossing over iran, i'll only double stab at the effort... can't bother-fuck to call it red or call it pink... i'll just call it anyways.... imagine if a bull sought pink... i'm sure you'd see as much charge.... of a quaker in beetroot skin-boots... beef-shits of hope-long-lost-gone.... apparently the dead have a speaker... and a ******* fest... and it sounds like a hannibal lecter's quest of thirst via an oyster feast... next i'll start imagining donkey kong jerking off a pdf. file worth of information... take a razor, and call it simples - while calling the slit point of the interaction: amounted to verse, & a courtney love shoelace; ******* laughing now, aren't we? your beloved lucifer, just did the icarus knosedive. still, imagine the english feeling, or sitting on a windowsill, with an open umbrella - counting raindrops via the sheet... imagine rolling a cigarette... huddling under the necro mushroom... imagine unfolding this raindrop mushroom, in the interiors... find yourself under an umbrella, under a roof... you'd be the luckiest man alive, looking for mushrooms, even the dodgy ones, the one off offers - even the kurt cobains... oddly enough, unfolding umbrellas under roofs, made all the necessary sense, since it became congested in translating english: into english (of americanism).

57