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Poetoftheway Aug 2018
how do you know when (a human is too broken?)


human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed

so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
Danny Z Sep 2018
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Najwa Kareem Dec 2018
On an island with so much untouched nature outside, why are the prices of things so expensive inside

Is it really necessary to charge a customer for oatmeal cookies four times the price they should be

Does it really take stealing from people and worrying people to sustain a country; to fuel an economy

Molded apples and molded oranges not having sold quick enough being removed from the shelves in a store

Things are so complicated, I say to a cashier at the register about life as it is now

She shakes her head yes and says, I often ask myself where am I?

written on 12/19/18
L Sep 2018
Maybe we're a flavor that not most can stomache.
Ive always loved oatmeal raisin.
Even though i have no particular love for raisins generally.
JaxSpade Mar 2
I dwell under the veil of soliloquy
Univalent I am
meiosis me
I am a chromosomal
Disorder is what the world sees
They calculate my autosomes
And take a look at my five acrocentric chromosome pairs
13, 14, 15, 21& 22
In this Robertson translocation
I swim in to the heterozygous
And phenotypically inherit
The characteristics of a trisomy
I scratch my urticaria religiously
Like I drank some urushiol
Under a lacquer tree
But I see a sun•dog on The horizon
Praising the sundrops blooming synthetic philosophy
It was a syntony of syzygy
I fell into a magnetostriction deformation
Of magnetoelecricity
And as I stare at the labors of my lumbricalis
My palms and soles attempt instauration
And grasp at the horn of plenty
Lord allow me the galactagogue of money
Inject me with a domperidone
Douse me in dom perignon
Or Metoclopramide
I'm prolactin choice

I love the herbals
Torbangun & fennel
Milk thistle chasteberry
Goats rue
They also help sedate the infant on the ******
The flow of milk to the babes lips of silk
Alfalfa, anise
Oatmeal, vervain
And yes marshmallow
Known as the Althea root
To be technical
I'm just saying Lord

I need a breast
  I can **** more
Maggie Jun 21
Practice getting hurt
Fall in love with someone you cannot have
Committ to that and break your own heart

Practice getting hurt
Ride a bike with no sight
Fall and break your arms
Both of them at once

Practice getting hurt
Spice your oatmeal with cyanide
Drink your coffee with ipecac

Practice getting hurt
Practice all you want
But nothing will prepare you for the time you realize
Your father doesn't care whether you live or die
And he has no love for you at all
Christy Lei Oct 2018
the bus
was flooded
with sunshine,
crushed tomatoes
smoked salmon red.
fears siz-zled like raw meat,
brains splat-tered, oatmeal
steel-cut bitter,
berry jam
scarlet scars, crimson
crimes, carmine
car crash,
Poetoftheway Apr 6
extending thought and delving into intent
(where the poems come from)*

when I was younger, say five years ago,
the summer poems breezed by ripe for plucking,
airborne from the compost fat of
sun, water and soiled nature and its intersecting creatures

then winter poet soldiered on, past the easy season,
seeing rhymes-in-city-fireplaces snap cracking pops,
the wet dog smell of humans in overheated buses,
the seasonal wet sock torture that debated suicide alternately

and the early afternoon dark that closed doors,
a jailing of the populace; when by the glow of reruns,
we perform surgery upon ourselves and poems entitled
all sad words begin with a D get composed

now they don’t come that way

now, wait for you to ***** my eyes into seeing
what it’s that ails us all, what repeatedly fails us all,
and what makes living more than just mere presentable,
oh! your scrappy hints, chocolate covered mints and
oatmeal raisin clues

read now a word that exact interrupts


and its timed arrival perfect, making my point too well,
the poems come from you and we transmigrate into a duo,
you are equally responsible for the fat places

in the messages and texts, in the storied themes
underlying all your writings, saying, see man, what the babies
can’t say outright or keep in the studio crevices artfully partially hidden,
the list so credibly lengthy, god sent B12 shots
of extra strong caffe inspiration

that’s why you co create the paintings we paint,
I, paint, you, hang them in the place where they can’t be missed,
in the exact spot when you walk in the door, or overhead,
in bed-overhead ceiling,
cursing that prayerful ******* you let slip

making you mark, verified your, Hancock signatory
in the lower corner

so many pins becoming dagger stories,
change is gonna come, and in every letter is the risk,
that what will be brought, what needing saying,
the penultimate penury,
when you can’t pay the bills with monthly unsocial  insecurity

for what is for the best, or worse, reliving the worst twice more,
it cannot be helped in prevented, only reverted,
what you tell me is the what, of the wherefore
and where the poems come from

so you force me to live in every season,
“breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,
and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”
(Henry David Thoreau, Walden)

and its inhabitants that inhabit my every seeing,
which is why I am, is
where you are...

1:33 pm April 6, 2019
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
We are afraid of gluten, nuts, fat, carbs, sugar, shellfish, meat, fish and dairy.

We are afraid that the internet will crash and we will have to spend more than 20 seconds a day in our own heads, and not in the ****** stream of consciousness of society which is social media.

We are afraid of others knowing just how stupid we are, that one day they'll realise we've been hiding behind trivia since we discovered QI and TED talks.

We are afraid that someone will correct that Friends quote we use almost daily, and by doing so render our existence meaningless.

We are afraid of being angry or sad, or so happy that we might offend those who aren't, and therefore adopt a bland honeyless oatmeal flavoured apathy instead.

We are afraid of mistakes.

We are afraid of mistaking gender, sexuality and race, should we say he, she, them, they, Mr, Miss, Mrs, Mx we're not as sure as we once were.

We are afraid of being at the age where we can no longer blame our laziness on youthfulness or adolescent carelessness but instead realise that if we don't start soon...

We are afraid that we have made a wrong turn but have travelled too far to go back.

We are afraid that we have made all the right turns, but life is just **** anyway.

We are afraid.
A creative response to a class in my MA. Consciously imposing my own petty fears on society as a whole, because it's easier that way and it's fun.
"*** burn! *** burn!" She moaned. "If it burns that bad stick it out the window!" The helpful driver commanded, ordered & otherwise instructed. He hadn't obstructed the justice of slaughter in peninsular Vietnam in 1965. He was good, good for nothing &  great for nobody, as he excelled at nodding off above oatmeal and  below the leaking tanks that mimic plastic containers air-tight & large brassieres that contain much and offer no ***-sucker sustenance.
Anne Dec 2018
Frozen feet,
Hot oatmeal,
White noise,
Blurry letters.

Days melt into each other,
The passage of time now a soupy broth of numbness.
It’s not enough.

Dried up watercolours call my name,
Where’d you go?
I’m sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.
I’ve been carving faces into walls.
I’ve been eating my nails just to feel something.
No taste yet, but I’ll keep you updated.
good ol depression strikes again huh?
It was the coldest winter of the 1990's and Angela Bowie was flying to Heathrow to deliver oatmeal for starving addicts when engines 2 & 4 blew up. There was smoke everywhere and panic was sure to ensue. Angie, in her familiar take-charge mode, grabbed the nearest air-***** {stewardess}. Their impromptu concert saved the passengers from mayhem. I'll always be thankful that Angie was
there: beautiful, & cool as a witch's *** in an iron bra.
   It wasn't long after Angela's divorce from David Bowie that
he returned: beaten, emaciated, covered in pox. Angie said no,
this time she couldn't put her *** in the Bowie sling. She'd
been through a trial by fire & for the first time in years no
*** from Brixton was going to raid her gravy train.
   One night Angela Bowie came upon me with a knife, it
was a Manson clan exclusive. I reached for my glock.
She went down as would a wet sack of ready-mix. Of
course all's forgotten & we're the best of friends now.
   After I repelled Angela Bowie's attack I breathed
a sigh of relief. I collected my wits and called Diva,
or David, Bowie. “Angie,” I said, “she nearly killed me!”
David was beside himself with fear. Could he be next?
   I'll never forget Angela Bowie's violent tirades. She
kicked my dog because he wouldn't cough up the coke.
   Angela Bowline, or Bowie, sent me flowers on my birth-
day that were dead and laced with rat poison. She offered to
fry a couple of eggs but I was scared they would **** me.
   Her hands were enormous...Angie Bowie's hands were
strong & pliant. Her feet were widely splayed like a goat
or camel. She seldom ate without a loaded gun tucked
within her King Kong bra. She sickened me.
Napolis Sep 2018
This morning

while trembling,


your note

you left

on our


in my


the sun

fell unexpectedly

full somersaults

from the sky.

a fiery


of downward


a molten


of gigantic


crashing all

around me,

as I sat

at my

morning table

eating my

Monday ritual

of oatmeal

and buttered

wheat bread


abiding to

doctors orders

like a old dog

trying to

be taught

new tricks.

now uncertain

of what

is to


of me

without us.

I know only

one thing

for sure.

I would of

loved you

one more


if you


of let


— The End —