"ness" poems
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
585.7k
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
carpe diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood
a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping its
superficial refection
the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of ever being containable
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust
Jesse Stillwater
01 June 2018
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Honesty the lost art/
Honesty is rare
it should cost a lot/
It would be sublime if
We could find it/
Honestly, honesty is the best policy/
We should treasure the
thought cherished engulfed/
combined with
Loyalty
till death do us part/
I yurn
The lies tiring
like ones sleepy
lay down Suffocating to a corpse/
Thought is boss
employ by it
We're all guilty I guess/
Liar liar in court
A sentient being-ness/
Troth be told
I can't believe in this/
Question,
Am I the only one seeing this?/
Or only me blind and ain't Seeing ****
I try and **** it out
its epidemic, Chronic/
The remedy Poetry Hop
Visual Sonnets/
**** naked in
My correspondence/
Articulating articles
Waiting for responses/
Is it a defense mechanism
Of the conscious/
Honesty? Honestly/
Seems like everyone's
Not doing it so its gotta BE/
Non honesty
The ever lasting Prophecy/
And were full filling it
The good succumbs
To the villainous/
My willingness/
To compromise my will
I guess/
You could interpret as weak/
Most realize
the Inside scoop
Yet everyone tells lies
non interested in truth/
Me, a victim and a suspect
An on going cycle yet/
I ask what's next/
as if I didn't know
Where the L lies underlying Facts can't grow/
HonestLy, we all lose an L to Honesty!
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
To my socks,
We play footsie every day,
I can't go anywhere without you.
To my socks,
You are like a ******
when my feet are without you,
They are susceptible to great danger.
With you,
Less so.
When in shoes,
Without you, is like a sweaty, fiery hell,
No relief.
With you,
Soft, comfy, footy majestic ness.
Walking on cold floors,
You are still there for me.
Even for that poor boy Richard, he uses socks now and then,
For his silly foot,
Poor boy.
I admire you dear socks,
They're is nothing else I would rather have on my feet.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.
Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.
America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
i am naked
and been exposed
i deserve it
i suppose
pretending
at mending
a broken-ness
and making
such a mess
of things
among an audience
never once
thinking
of the pain
i'd be bringing
of a secret
i behold
i regret
i never told
the tears
i cry
i, now
disguise
failing
to realize
my character
being
compromised
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 7:30 AM UTC
in making Marjorie god hurried
a boy’s body on unsuspicious
legs of girl. his left hand quarried
the quartzlike face. his right slapped
the amusing big vital vicious
vegetable of her mouth.
Upon the whole he suddenly clapped
a tiny sunset of vermouth
-colour. Hair. he put between
her lips a moist mistake, whose fragrance hurls
me into tears,as the dusty new-
ness of her obsolete gaze begins to. lean….
a little against me, hen for two
dollars i fill her hips with boys and girls.
10.5k
inthe,exquisite;
morning sure lyHer eye s exactly sit,ata little roundtable
among otherlittle roundtables Her,eyes count slow(ly
obstre poroustimidi ties surElyfl)oat iNg,the
ofpieces ofof sunligh tof fa l l in gof throughof treesOf.
(Fields Elysian
The like,a)slEEping neck a breathing a ,lies
(slo wlythe wom an pa)ris her
flesh:wakes
in little streets
while exactlygir lisHlegs;play;ing;nake;D
and
chairs wait under the trees
Fields slowly Elysian in
a firmcool-Ness taxis,s.QuirM
and, b etw ee nch air st ott er s thesillyold
WomanSellingBalloonS
In theex qui site
morning,
her sureLyeye s sit-ex actly her sitsat a surely!little,
roundtable amongother;littleexacty round. tables,
Her
.eyes
8.7k
Babylon slim
-ness of
evenslicing
eyes are chisels
scarlet Goes
with her
whitehot
face,gashed
by hair’s blue cold
jolts of
lovecrazed abrupt
flesh split “Pretty
Baby”
to
numb rhythm before christ
7.3k
Todd Totally Toad
Finger Smell McGee
E-I-E-I **** You
Captain Sally Potato
Blackhole Sound *****
The Glass Candy Imagination Man
Dew Snot
One-Eyed Duce Leg of the Cement Dimension
The Guy Who Makes Sailors, Pirates and Fisherprice men shake their Buoy.
The Saccharine Snake of Compatibility
Yeti Jenny ******
Johnny Loch Ness **** Deck.
Chicken ***** McGillicutty
Blanket Face
Rev. 3D Trigonometry
The Little Pistachio ****
The Killer Doll That Only Exists in My Alternate Universe's Self's Imagination.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Habits
Gluttony
Greed
Bribery
Lustfulness
Passed down
Generation
After generation
After generation
After generation
Okay, I get it, it get it
You get it, you get it.
Let's get personal
Born set up for failure
My statistics not looking bright
First baby born of color born into
A family of strictly whites
Grandmother beat my mother
When she discovered
The life forming inside of her
Was half black -
Don't cry mother, or I'll whither
Inside of you.
I grew and grew
Taught lies upon lies
About myself
The other half of me.
The only love I knew was of my mother.
There was no other -
Until she started to take it out on me
Habits
Passed
From generation upon generation.
She was sick and tired of being
Sick and tired
Stomped to the ground due to her
Kindness
Abused emotionally due to her
Selfless-ness
Mistreated physically due to her
Weakness
She took it out on me.
Cornered me to a wall
Choked me up
Laughing - she couldn't get enough
Of the amusement of my pain
All done in vain
Because she couldn't stop the strain
Put on her brain.
Scarring my face
Pulling my hair
Public places
Not a care -
Kicking
Scratching
Pulling
Biting
The agony
The hate
The battle wounds
The hurt
The scars -
On my heart.
Habits
Passed from generation
To generation
To generation
I was sick on the inside
My heart - suffering -
never ending bleeding
My brain
Psychologically ill
Flashbacks
I locked myself up in my room
Head in pillow
Screaming louder than your annoying baby sister who throws her unnecessary temper tantrums
In the middle of the night.
I tied myself up mentally
Stuck
Self-hate
Self-abuse
Self-hurt
In the sixth grade I to myself -
I wanted going to ****
And my victim was myself.
Filled with the poison - I was ill
Injected with self-hate
Hated my family
Hated all my traits
Hated all forms of humanity.
Habits
Passed
From generation to generation
To generation.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance.
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique.
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion.
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression.
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms.
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all.
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural.
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate.
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success.
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race.
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’.
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for.
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism.
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism.
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights.
This is mandate.
The republic for which we stand.
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
*
*In the terrain of a barren forest
In the forlorn of a lost ship
In the godforsaken-ness of fate
In the inhospitality of people
Either sides of the dunes
There walks Majnun, in rugged clothes
There sings Meera, in wedded bliss
Both - immersed in the dreams of LOVEz
Both delicate, both innocent
Both pure, both true
Both fresh - like budding blooms
Both living in harmony with Nature
Waiting for Krishna's and Layla's arrival
Knowing their BELOVEDz will come
Both - still intoxicated in LOVE
Half closed, drowsy eyes,
Blurred vision, drunkard steps
They walk, dance, sing and fall
Awaiting their LOVERz call
Don't show complete callousness
Do not wake these LOVERz at all
From their disconsolate state of being
Let a dust-storm or lash of rain
Shake their heart and being
As if Krishna and Layla
Have shaken their soul awake
Startled at the LOVER'z touch
Meera and Majnun look around,
Astonished & glancing everywhere
Searching to find their LOVERz
"Where is Krishna? Where is Layla?"
They run wild - deliriously mad
Until they find a mirage & a silhouette
In the blank space of air around them
There they rest - sit and talk
They laugh and chat in LOVE
Only we realize and know that
There is no one around them
Yet only they can see their LOVERz
Only they can feel their BELOVEDz
To play a colorful game of LOVE
Let Krishna give Meera a kiss
Let Meera twirl one more round
Let Layla peck Majnun cheeks
Let Majnun sing one more new ballad
Thus till date they are remembered
As tragedy folk-lore's LOVE
Our tragic LOVERz-BELOVEDz
Our Meera-Majnun
All these happens on
Either sides of the dunes*
*
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
Leaves wilted
Roots dry
Hidden in the unlit
corner of the room
You miss the brightness
of the morning sun
Put there
to pretty up this
bare space
Unaware
that you need more
than admiring looks
and shards
of fading light
to survive
Where did your green-ness go?
Once glorious
now brown tinged
and limp
Walking past you
I can't help
but look away
I know
I should do
Something
About you
A leaf falls
Feelings of thirst and
Engulfing darkness
Take their toll
Soon
There will be
Nothing left
But a shriveled up stem
And you'll be tossed outside
Discarded
With the rest of them
Really, I'm a terrible gardener.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
Tomorrow is my beloved Swedish Kent's birthday - a day he completely rejects. I do not, writing this birthday poem which I will present to him in spite of all protestations. I'll bet he loves it!
An Icke* Birthday
“I have no birthday” you insist.
Bemused, a bit confused
Reflecting, un-rejecting, I conclude,
“Good for you!
You never need add numbers to
Your written age.
You’ll grow more sage
Without a wrinkle.
Passing years will never sink you,
You who have no birthday,
Never born,
Never gone.”
At any rate,
I celebrate
This date
And will continue every eight,
For February is your birthday.
Enjoy the numberless-ness in your way.
So if I may,
I’d like to take you out to lunch
To munch on something to your taste.
Why waste an eight?
Why wait?
We’ll go to lunch sometime this week,
Take
our big car somewhere
To crunch on something nice to eat.
Peaceful, sweet,
We’ll have a great
non-birthday dear!
Your icke- birthday’s growing near.
An Icke- Birthday 2.8.2020 Birthday Book; Arlene Nover Book
*icke; Swedish for non-
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 6:26 AM UTC
*I was a dog, I was a plane, and then I became insane,
I blew my top, a volcano as a prop, and found out
There awaits a train. It took me places far and wide,
It showed me mountains, what's inside, It gave me
A place to go each year, and it left me Mad ness
Mayhem, and fear. I'll never outgrow my random poem,
Bit by tidbit you should be careful, I'll warn you of this
Only once, you shouldn't EVER read it all alone!
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Busy people…
Oh so busy people….
You step real hard when you walk real fast
With your busy scowls on your busy faces
Making busy wrinkles in your busy forehead
From thinking all those
Wondrous… and
Special…
Busy thoughts…
**** sho too busy to
Make small talk… or
Ask about… or
Even be pleasant to
Us regular people…
Oh so busy…
Would make an old man wait for 6 hours
For the answer to a 5 minute question…
Cuz you busy…
Too busy to even answer the phone
Especially… If you know who’s callin’…
Sho too busy…Way too busy…
To answer
For the likes of me… or even him… cuz
That’s not what you busy people do…
We should all
Just be happy
To have your
Wondrous… and
Special… and
Busy self
To be
Ignored by
But Oh Mr. Busy…
One day…
Mayhap…
You will look up from your busy-ness… and
Find that there are
No more some bodies
To step past real hard… or
To dismiss… as unimportant
With your busy scowl and busy wrinkled forehead
No more callers
To ignore… or un-pleasantries to share
Cuz you, yourself, have gotten
Unpleasantly old
And every body else
Is just too busy…
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
It was a dark stormy night on a rock and I was as cool as a fox in socks on block were there was a wood cutter eating a log in lego land of the box in the loch ness ****
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Piggies dancing, floating along narrow passages towards what they hope is their ends. Their means have been stolen and packaged and sold by big suited, corporate, handy-handy machines. They eat piggies every day and love it, love it, love it down their gullet.
They are not worth a mention yet they get it, they want nothing but your attention, they don’t need it yet they get it. Their appetites are insatiable and contagious, they use it against us by showing us how we are nothing but what they are and we are fools enough to take it as Truth.
Shame.
We have shame because they debase us and hence debase themselves.
We have shame because we see their debasement and yet powerlessness is in our bones.
We have shame because all we want is not all we get and nowhere near all we deserve,
-it measures much lower.
It is irrelevant, it is biased, it is useless, IT is un-real-(UnRealistic, UnRelated, UnTrue)
Lie.
If my breath stinks or my hair is greasy or my cloths ***** my teeth yellowed, my feet smelly, my nails long, my social life quiet and solicitous- will you discern a negativity in my human-ness? We are no villains. We hate only those who would have us believe that we must hate ourselves and each other. They are no beasts like us. The animal within, encased by a carapace of Humanity glued and mortared by self-centered ideologies gets too thick and you must break it by looking at yourself. ******** and ******* and spitting and grunting and moaning in ecstasy and pain.
Repeat after me and say it loud with beastly yell “ I am a ********* beautiful Animal!”
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Surround me now, LOVE, like linkage
From beauty to the belly-button of the beast.
Umbelli me here my dear, let me feast
My eyes on your whole from the inside out.
Your flesh and bone, tan-toned complexion
Is ******* with my pheromones.
I crave your privacy; forbidden zones
Between ticklish toes and feather pillows
We'll mingle moments and non-moments of
Equal weightless ness.
A shared glass of milkwith your lips lingering
A lazy-fond sofa-based simmering.
A clinging a crumpling of breath accidental
Harmony undressed by a simple - YES
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
I'm sorry to all the people I hurt while I was hurting
I'm sorry for last minute cancelled plans
And ghosting your text messages
You've done nothing wrong I just can't get myself together enough to answer you right now.
I'm sorry for all of my triggers.
And that sometimes my triggers, triggered you too.
I know I have a lot of them, I know it is frustrating
Believe it or not I've actually come a long way with them though...
I'm sorry for the days i was too irritable and short with you
I understand it wasnt fair.
I'm sorry that the things that upset me, most of the time wouldn't upset other people.
I'm a very emotional person, this is a blessing sometimes but also a curse.
I'm sorry I see things black or white.
I've been hurt so many times, I've built a wall for people in the grey areas.
You're either all the way in, or out of my life completely.
I'm sorry this comes off as dramatic, and unrealistic.
But if you know me well enough, you'd understand why I see it this way.
Regardless of all of this, I'm sorry that I pushed you away because of it.
Because of my, me-ness.
So far away.
When really I needed you right here.
But this is what I do when I'm hurting.
I hurt you because I'm hurting.
None of that is fair.
I'm sorry if you were one of those people.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC