"neoprene" poems - Hello Poetry

And so as a man, a job, a cactus wearing a business suit sharing relations with the hydrant down the street. A ***** strapped to a baby carriage with plastic baggie cellphones yelling "run away now" to the grass at his feet. A man devoid of water, rather. These are the times A well, emptied. Rather death find waves of spilled milk and all the fat people, skinny. A dry mouth desert, kneeling In either breath of a living feeling or the one that talks of so much for only the wealth of his screaming. Some tiny furniture talked all night about running through wheat, ebbing and flowing against the end tables, then falling short as crumbling tree leaves. An ottoman as recycle bin holding stem from stem of watermelon children and vine-ripened acetaminophen. Some odd truth told the blowing wind that God does cartwheels with Lucifer at random. It then billowed out about his ***** underwear and holy fodder for memorandum. I would say a man, a vision, A little girl using a GPS to calculate the distance from the rest her teething. Instead, she found a funny barbeque ***** playing hog-tied pharmaceutical reps into neoprene mud-flapping pigeons. I would say the sinking plastic six-pack islands revealing trash limbs, sunken, honest, grim. Life, itself, must move in tandem to only fleeting geese. Though in plan, the artisan-picking fruit of word must be depicted. Live in sin and ignorance much like the breaking news walking on broken record. And so as a man; a fear. He looked down, staring at no one with bare feet and shaken, coconut flavored palm trees.

0

Jan 28, 2013

Jan 28, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC

will-j

A man is as often does.

And so as a man, a job, a cactus wearing a business suit sharing relations with the hydrant down the street. A ***** strapped to a baby carriage with plastic baggie cellphones yelling "run away now" to the grass at his feet. A man devoid of water, rather. These are the times A well, emptied. Rather death find waves of spilled milk and all the fat people, skinny. A dry mouth desert, kneeling In either breath of a living feeling or the one that talks of so much for only the wealth of his screaming. Some tiny furniture talked all night about running through wheat, ebbing and flowing against the end tables, then falling short as crumbling tree leaves. An ottoman as recycle bin holding stem from stem of watermelon children and vine-ripened acetaminophen. Some odd truth told the blowing wind that God does cartwheels with Lucifer at random. It then billowed out about his ***** underwear and holy fodder for memorandum. I would say a man, a vision, A little girl using a GPS to calculate the distance from the rest her teething. Instead, she found a funny barbeque ***** playing hog-tied pharmaceutical reps into neoprene mud-flapping pigeons. I would say the sinking plastic six-pack islands revealing trash limbs, sunken, honest, grim. Life, itself, must move in tandem to only fleeting geese. Though in plan, the artisan-picking fruit of word must be depicted. Live in sin and ignorance much like the breaking news walking on broken record. And so as a man; a fear. He looked down, staring at no one with bare feet and shaken, coconut flavored palm trees.

40

In the city of hustle and horn, they gather under. They are the students and the teachers, the movers and the moved. They are the mothers, the marrow of this reef concrete. They sustain. On track, on train, kneel before their black-clad unseen brilliance, cloistered in this tedium, zipped and snapped up in fleece-lined neoprene like it’s the end. They alone can stretch and see how it almost always is. Only those with breath pressed up to the raucous edge can see the darkness depart for sunrise.

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Feb 11, 2015

Feb 11, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC

s-fletcher

I did not write this poem: Penn Station

In the city of hustle and horn, they gather under. They are the students and the teachers, the movers and the moved. They are the mothers, the marrow of this reef concrete. They sustain. On track, on train, kneel before their black-clad unseen brilliance, cloistered in this tedium, zipped and snapped up in fleece-lined neoprene like it’s the end. They alone can stretch and see how it almost always is. Only those with breath pressed up to the raucous edge can see the darkness depart for sunrise.

9

THIS is where Thoreau sat after he awoke from a night of dreaming, His smart phone screaming in his ear- WAKE UP! WAKE UP! He sat right here after putting on his neoprene boots, Poring his hot cup of coffee and allowing the dog to do its duty. He sat right here after listening to the news, gathering bits of worry and panic- Thank God he didn't like to work Or he might be late in traffic. He sat right here reading on his half charged nook hoping that the batteries didn't run out before he had a chance to get to the good part, Realizing the irony of electronic books is that even they, Are putting you on a time limit. This very spot is where he stood, Wearing his tee shirt with a large moustache printed across the front, Replaying songs from his iPOD "Call me maybe..." I'm sure the beauty of Walden captured him, so in effort to share he'd snap pictures for Instagram and hope that enough people "liked" it to send his photo viral, like the howl of the midnight owl who hangs out in his yard. This is where he sat after taking his ****** and securing his door from his neighbor This is where he sat when he returned home from a job he didn't even want This is where he sat soaking up the heat flashes and solar flares Watching comets pass by like a common sight I'm sure that this, Is where he'd sit- And this, Would be his reason to go to the woods.

0

Feb 16, 2013

Feb 16, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC

kara-lynn-bird

The other side of Thoreaus Walden.

THIS is where Thoreau sat after he awoke from a night of dreaming, His smart phone screaming in his ear- WAKE UP! WAKE UP! He sat right here after putting on his neoprene boots, Poring his hot cup of coffee and allowing the dog to do its duty. He sat right here after listening to the news, gathering bits of worry and panic- Thank God he didn't like to work Or he might be late in traffic. He sat right here reading on his half charged nook hoping that the batteries didn't run out before he had a chance to get to the good part, Realizing the irony of electronic books is that even they, Are putting you on a time limit. This very spot is where he stood, Wearing his tee shirt with a large moustache printed across the front, Replaying songs from his iPOD "Call me maybe..." I'm sure the beauty of Walden captured him, so in effort to share he'd snap pictures for Instagram and hope that enough people "liked" it to send his photo viral, like the howl of the midnight owl who hangs out in his yard. This is where he sat after taking his ****** and securing his door from his neighbor This is where he sat when he returned home from a job he didn't even want This is where he sat soaking up the heat flashes and solar flares Watching comets pass by like a common sight I'm sure that this, Is where he'd sit- And this, Would be his reason to go to the woods.

34

The line of freedom was drawn, fortunate passports found amongst the rubble of Ground Zero. The future was not a boot, more, groping hands through intimate pockets and blue light that decimates the privacy of dreams. No concentration camps, Bernays fuelled the fire in a wolf's disguise until the crowd would herd itself. No Aryan prophecy- hatred more efficient when its hands are untied. Small disparities linger the stem of deception: the bottom-feeders are sterilised, benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed as ******* palms gather the loot they lifted through the ceiling. Sensory comfort provides the leisure of a clouded mind, a blood sugar spike, the Soma of our time. Under halogen lights they make love in the high-rise then labour in sleep for what love cannot afford. Continents divide. Africa: the cold shoulder. Asia: the factory line. Oceans swell in neoprene heat as sling-shots are drawn beneath a dying star. Old skull of Palestine, cross-hairs on the White House and a contusion in Pakistan. Doors of perception only open to addiction. Separate from G-d , draw more blood from the ground like a smoker in the inexhaustible process of quitting. A belief in infinity that will last until the world's end. The line of freedom was drawn. Everyone believed that they were on the right side.

0

Aug 31, 2016

Aug 31, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

Line of Freedom

The line of freedom was drawn, fortunate passports found amongst the rubble of Ground Zero. The future was not a boot, more, groping hands through intimate pockets and blue light that decimates the privacy of dreams. No concentration camps, Bernays fuelled the fire in a wolf's disguise until the crowd would herd itself. No Aryan prophecy- hatred more efficient when its hands are untied. Small disparities linger the stem of deception: the bottom-feeders are sterilised, benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed as ******* palms gather the loot they lifted through the ceiling. Sensory comfort provides the leisure of a clouded mind, a blood sugar spike, the Soma of our time. Under halogen lights they make love in the high-rise then labour in sleep for what love cannot afford. Continents divide. Africa: the cold shoulder. Asia: the factory line. Oceans swell in neoprene heat as sling-shots are drawn beneath a dying star. Old skull of Palestine, cross-hairs on the White House and a contusion in Pakistan. Doors of perception only open to addiction. Separate from G-d , draw more blood from the ground like a smoker in the inexhaustible process of quitting. A belief in infinity that will last until the world's end. The line of freedom was drawn. Everyone believed that they were on the right side.

47

Plastic, plastic covers my natural voice. I am neoprene, with gasoline undertones. So peel the layers, find my truth. You never were one to find beauty in modern art, Acrylic man.

0

Jan 29, 2014

Jan 29, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC

BruisedOrange

Abstract art, what are you?

Plastic, plastic covers my natural voice. I am neoprene, with gasoline undertones. So peel the layers, find my truth. You never were one to find beauty in modern art, Acrylic man.

7

Robert Breen The body moves as if Jell-O in our hands. Intense heat makes it so small. What was once hair shrivels tight to the skull. The char falls, exposes steamed white flesh and bone. The sweet pungent odor stings the nostrils. You learn fast to mouth-breathe. We place the fetal corpse inside the red neoprene bag. We tighten and buckle the leather straps. The coroner places the body on the gurney. The chaplain makes a sign And what about the match? The one who sets a fire. Is commonly called the match. At the station, I hose down the inside of the red burse. And watch the spirit of a mother’s child, Hold tight to the bars of the floor.

0

Sep 28, 2016

Sep 28, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC

robert-paul-breen

THE EIGHTH CIRCLE

Robert Breen The body moves as if Jell-O in our hands. Intense heat makes it so small. What was once hair shrivels tight to the skull. The char falls, exposes steamed white flesh and bone. The sweet pungent odor stings the nostrils. You learn fast to mouth-breathe. We place the fetal corpse inside the red neoprene bag. We tighten and buckle the leather straps. The coroner places the body on the gurney. The chaplain makes a sign And what about the match? The one who sets a fire. Is commonly called the match. At the station, I hose down the inside of the red burse. And watch the spirit of a mother’s child, Hold tight to the bars of the floor.

22

*there is a place in fetish land where breathing idols live below the belt their busy mouths unveiled soiled shimmering lips yielding warm spit thick and wet the crimson flood is the flood of love Dark Hazel plays legs spread like a baby in a bathtub wiggling her toes and circulating flesh in vaporous waters with scarlet rings through her nose and smarmy Gods command neoprene priestesses ***** with a switch blade and an ***** to die for color me on my knees grateful **** lovin derrière kisser reading comics from the book of ***** while she queen's glare through ***** party masks jitterbug arcane rituals glitter hellions in love you can smell the volcanoes malleable baby dolls with tiger skin bindings evoke eager spires through tribal unga bunga shimmy **** and *** drenched in yearning night fires and sacrificial rants vulva's like fat plums weeping pink milk mouthed terrorized ******* drooling tarnished yoga's of dancing feet scorched inferno's of pleasure vanquishing the temples of normalcy the sky is red with rituals souls set free in a **** for all like a cluster of stars spooling a galaxy*

0

Jul 25, 2017

Jul 25, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC

zebrablack

FETISH LAND

*there is a place in fetish land where breathing idols live below the belt their busy mouths unveiled soiled shimmering lips yielding warm spit thick and wet the crimson flood is the flood of love Dark Hazel plays legs spread like a baby in a bathtub wiggling her toes and circulating flesh in vaporous waters with scarlet rings through her nose and smarmy Gods command neoprene priestesses ***** with a switch blade and an ***** to die for color me on my knees grateful **** lovin derrière kisser reading comics from the book of ***** while she queen's glare through ***** party masks jitterbug arcane rituals glitter hellions in love you can smell the volcanoes malleable baby dolls with tiger skin bindings evoke eager spires through tribal unga bunga shimmy **** and *** drenched in yearning night fires and sacrificial rants vulva's like fat plums weeping pink milk mouthed terrorized ******* drooling tarnished yoga's of dancing feet scorched inferno's of pleasure vanquishing the temples of normalcy the sky is red with rituals souls set free in a **** for all like a cluster of stars spooling a galaxy*

50

I met a girl in a neoprene sweater She told me her favorite word was "never" So I told her my favorite letter It's "u" Because it always has a beautiful view

0

Sep 21, 2015

Sep 21, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC

max-alvarez

Merry-Go-Round

I met a girl in a neoprene sweater She told me her favorite word was "never" So I told her my favorite letter It's "u" Because it always has a beautiful view

5

sand falling through tightly laced corset can only know neoprene kisses purple from asphyxiation my kefir spurts sour oats to the dry wind never finding spreaded parchment smiling never inking sailor's story come homely

0

Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC

jojo-nguyen

new spooning with our old language

sand falling through tightly laced corset can only know neoprene kisses purple from asphyxiation my kefir spurts sour oats to the dry wind never finding spreaded parchment smiling never inking sailor's story come homely

15

My parents used to fish On Castle Creek With canvas vests and wicker creels. They always caught their limit. And we had fresh trout for breakfast. Last year I drove my father Up Castle Creek, Alone and with knees too old For clambering on wet rocks. We stopped and talked To a fisherman With nylon gear and neoprene boots. My father told him where the fish were. Then I drove him home, Down castle creek, For the last time.

0

Aug 22, 2022

Aug 22, 2022 at 10:33 PM UTC

david-hill

On Castle Creek

My parents used to fish On Castle Creek With canvas vests and wicker creels. They always caught their limit. And we had fresh trout for breakfast. Last year I drove my father Up Castle Creek, Alone and with knees too old For clambering on wet rocks. We stopped and talked To a fisherman With nylon gear and neoprene boots. My father told him where the fish were. Then I drove him home, Down castle creek, For the last time.

17

Hesperian Period(Hesperia Planum): Where tidal palms carried the sky Rocks churned dust with anticipation Of ******* sing Halleluyah Amber rivers, a tome of time and grace The soft intent of neoprene limbs Stepping in and out of gait Raindrops sing al-be-do Criss-cross-ing chords of rage, ‘ate’ Simple cells rotting into culpable hoes Sorting star dust from anno dominae

0

Dec 16, 2016

Dec 16, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC

robert-c-ellis

Star Sailors

Hesperian Period(Hesperia Planum): Where tidal palms carried the sky Rocks churned dust with anticipation Of ******* sing Halleluyah Amber rivers, a tome of time and grace The soft intent of neoprene limbs Stepping in and out of gait Raindrops sing al-be-do Criss-cross-ing chords of rage, ‘ate’ Simple cells rotting into culpable hoes Sorting star dust from anno dominae

12

the peach-grey behind the clouds. those opalescent seconds don't you remember that day when we held hands and it felt okay and I cried because it stormed and Neoprene vastness of vision. I watched you sleep and you didn't feel human I'm not free this evenin g and I'm sorry Those hours in the morning where early birds speak and tell me go to sleep Hands hot and bristling And forced to - 'and she painted throughout her life-' And we have to talk? Because I feel like I've lied but when you're not here I feel Cold. The Cold that spreads and burns and tell me h- "I don’t see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived." She sat across from me, on the other side of the room A gentle flood of blood that felt to me like drowning and agreed that I'd reached Inner Peace. on the way home it stormed, and I cried.

0

Dec 11, 2018

Dec 11, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC

Rosel

flux (october-november)

the peach-grey behind the clouds. those opalescent seconds don't you remember that day when we held hands and it felt okay and I cried because it stormed and Neoprene vastness of vision. I watched you sleep and you didn't feel human I'm not free this evenin g and I'm sorry Those hours in the morning where early birds speak and tell me go to sleep Hands hot and bristling And forced to - 'and she painted throughout her life-' And we have to talk? Because I feel like I've lied but when you're not here I feel Cold. The Cold that spreads and burns and tell me h- "I don’t see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived." She sat across from me, on the other side of the room A gentle flood of blood that felt to me like drowning and agreed that I'd reached Inner Peace. on the way home it stormed, and I cried.

23

Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning. Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies. Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar. Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven. He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera. Distantly ships put into several bays. Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men. Who had invented dance now demanded war. What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied. Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide. No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die. Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds. Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape. Look up beaten, complaining, supreme. Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish. Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men. Hegel whispers I never did believe. Attar extend gender-inflected zero. In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours. Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo. Wheat field marries into lion’s eye. Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind. White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem. Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise. Let him palmer drink iris dry. Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.

0

Jan 21, 2018

Jan 21, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC

alaric-7

Night casts her spears.

Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning. Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies. Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar. Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven. He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera. Distantly ships put into several bays. Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men. Who had invented dance now demanded war. What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied. Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide. No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die. Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds. Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape. Look up beaten, complaining, supreme. Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish. Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men. Hegel whispers I never did believe. Attar extend gender-inflected zero. In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours. Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo. Wheat field marries into lion’s eye. Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind. White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem. Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise. Let him palmer drink iris dry. Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.

2