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Butch Decatoria Jul 2018
A Noun: The oblong: a thing:

The name of that lounge : a place

By the face of the strange shaped lake...

Dinosaur Egg / oval / green grapes.

An Adj.: Oblong Longboard

That’s such the coolest name

A person: Not a thing

oval shaped .

Mr. Ellipsis made no complaints

About tiny alien ant farms

“From Outer Space!”

The natives made to *****.

Oblong grew his beard out

After the sideburns days

Mr. Ellipsis far far away


Fires of the Sun

Will not discern—when

The Light returns

The wyrm will burn .

In oblong throes of defeat.

At peace : A Verb.
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
Never found you in the daybreak
As it splintered, separating sparks
I stayed, waving at the end
With nothing to give but
The cold Winter heart.

For all the days I lived with you
In our house under tiled roof
And leaded light windows
Making oblong shapes move
I so very much loved you.

Mary xxxx
L B May 2017
“...Your words were found and I ate them.
They became a joy to my heart. In my mouth—
a sweet delight, but in my belly—bitter...”
                                                ­ --Jeremiah


...But that night
by dim background of next-room light
I could not see your face
just feel your hush of shadow words
on spine of shudders

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!

...And I was sure?
that it was right?
because...because....!
Their eyes were slanted!
So they could not see—
the “Good Guys”
VANISH—
WIDE-EYED—!
in its TOO-MUCH-LIGHT

Still your voice insists
in pause and fissioned hiss
that I MUST KNOW
in tender half-life
TRUTH
too pure
too deadly white

I swallow lethal glowing dose
HOW CAN YOU SPEAK
SUCH WORDS SO CLOSE!

EXPOSED!

“...in mouth sweet—in belly bitter…”

Stories? and the Grandma Song
rendered tender—lull of voice
Soul’s cabinet cleared of venial sin
Last of all—the tucking in.....

They say you first get sick....*

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
And I am invisibly ill—with truth
approaching critical mass

Will angry rads incise their ways?
Will leaden swords of angels drive them back?

In this night—
my bedtime stories fainted at your
whispers...whispers...WHISPERS—

fusing an oblong fear
that I MUST NOT DROP!
but I cannot hold!

Fetal-folded
frail and freezing
under covers— just barely peeking

“Jesus hanging on the cross…Tell me-- was it I?”
Jesus hanging in the cross
TELL ME! IT’S NOT TRUE!

"Tell me, mother
Were you God talking?

I could not see your face
by the next room’s light..."
My mother told me some bad **** sometimes just before bedtime, and I never forgot it.
Written 1995
Bison May 2016
My eyes swim oblong in my fishbowl head
Unbreathing but ***** still hangs in the air
Sorry I am for the first time I danced til the floor was dead
But I won't apologize for the broken chandelier

You dared me to live free
You said I was chicken but I told you I'm all beef, Babe
And it was pork in the blender blade
I dared you to stop me

And the whiskey fumes delight upon my nostrils
But my mind dreads your ununderstanding gaze
And I won't miss the old "Cost" shrill
Speech you seem to rehash verbate

You dared me to live free
'Cause we both know you're as ****** as I
And what I break you know I'll buy
I dared you to stop me

We're so torn up
It's Love Love Love until it's not
Restricted free verse nonsense.
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
The broken biscuits lay in a tin
An ordinary oblong tin
With turquoise pattern
And pink embossed flowers
Gold edged to finish the job.

How many times I visited
That tin on the middle shelf
In the top half of a cupboard,
Sawn door, to allow for fridge,
And quietly took out the tin.

Broken biscuits were my delight
All shapes and sizes tasty bites
Wafers,  bourbon, custard creams
Rich tea, digestive all suited me
Sometimes fig sandwich, pleased.

Love Mary
Thank you Mum and dad .Love your daughter .
ryn Sep 2014
Doom train hurtling along
Through the fog in my mind
Towing freight, rectangular and oblong
Dim headlights, you're travelling blind

Five carriages long, excluding engine and caboose
Metal against metal, spitting sparks on steel
Undetermined path, rails will choose
Chugging along on dirt covered wheels

In the cabin, I see the light
Emanating from your furnace
Swallowing up coals in your gaping bite
Tongues of flames licking the surface

Fire breathing, spewing thick black smoke
Almost unseen, against the dark of night
A long plumy arm as if extending to choke
And plug the remaining sources of light

Meandering precariously on tracks that weave
Over uncharted, unfathomable terrain
Your store, so reliably you heave
Worming your way through my brain

What's in that cargo of yours?
What lies within those boxcars?
What drives you to diligently run your course?
What fuels you to travel near and far?

Loads of self pity, self loathing and self reproach
Snaking your way to an unknown destination
Screeching brakes as if a stop you approach
Herald the train of dubious intentions

Light is upon you, dark will dissipate
Your plumes starting to lessen from your stack
The dawn breaking horizon you didn't anticipate
To see another charging towards you on this very same track...
See "Light Train"
See "Collision Course"
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
Take me to the Rookery with its many paths
A tea house selling refreshments in pretty glass
Three striped lollies covered in chocolate beads
Biscuits and sandwich are all that we need.

The garden was set out, in brick oblong beds
Raised from the ground and divided by hedge
Many bush roses, of the older kind, smelling of
Cold cream and sweet camomile.

There was a terrace with steps leading down
To a sunken garden where the roses reclined
Hanging over arbours, pink , white and cream
And other perennials added to the scene.

This place a haven at the top of Streatham hill
Does anybody know it, it might be there still?
My daddy took me often on a Sunday afternoon
To ramble in the sunshine, and play at my will.


Love Mary x
Caro Aug 2018
Curiousity killed the cat,
What of it?
I am not a cat and neither am I curious,
I think.

I want to know and see, but few things hold my interest.

Lately I crave being craved,
Lately I hate that I love the concave of my stomach when fasting for a smaller waist to contemplate in my mirror before going to work,
Lately I’m waking up moody,
Lately I’m grateful.
Lately I need more sleep,
Lately I’m not quite in the place I used to be,
Lately I think I must be growing or changing because this new sense of knowing is gnawing so softly on my skin it feels like luxury.

I think I must be on the edge of an expansive biosphere of me, complete and untouched, because the vision of her is fading as my ten little prints and their oblong archless counterparts bring me closer to the edge.

Staring boldly, daring no one proving nothing peering down into my canyons.

Just on the edge of this cliff, feeling my wind my edges my rivers holding me up,
And up,
And up,
And down so far below.
Though it’s not down that I will go.
It it through.

And richly on the other side I will emerge.
But for now that is not my concern.

Standing on the edge, arms spread wide, I’m alive.

Quite Grand Indeed.
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
Flap, flap two black wings staggered
On two yellow clawed feet after stormy
Weather and the tufts of cats fur left
Like a white collar on emerald green.

Inside the cardboard box with soft lining
And scraps of bread, cheese and water
On a little polythene transparent oblong
There was chirping to be heard from within.

On varnish floor he skids and skates about
Putting newspaper down his legs got strong
After a few days of feeding he began to fly
Just a little spinning around the front room.

Bright eyed with yellow beak eating worms
He was nearly ready to be allowed outside
To find his strength and freedom with others
Tearily he was carried to park and released.

A few days later , looking in our garden tree
We saw him sitting on a leafy branch chirping
And singing a thank you song of gratitude for
A life he may never have lived without our help.

Love Mary ***
We called him Tweetie and he answered to that name .
He came back to visit once or twice to say goodbye .
#48
I hate love lives
But I don't hate life
I just don't think I could get it right in 8 lives
Each one with 8 wives
That's 64 beautiful women
Thoroughly explored I couldn't find love in em

I relish in hate right...
But I don't hate life
I just can't help but see the stigma that you're stained by
Slithering worthless serpents working circles and sinning
I heard their hymns and verse but couldn't find love in em

I play to their hate right..
But they don't hate life
They're just vulnerable to the flames Nihilists lay by
Sleeping soundly certain that there was no divine venom
Pious verses were immersive yet rehearsed I couldn't find love in em.

It's subjective what's right
But I don't hate life
I just can't shape my morals and at the same time,
Sit in oblong boxes and keep my thoughts within em
I read your laws, codes, and odes but couldn't find love in em
The bungalow stood empty after he died
Garden shoes hugged the porch step
The glass panelled front door showing
Pale translucent echoes of familiarity
Through its six oblong windows.

I was never allowed to visit
After the day of the funeral
Never able to bounce on the
Cream candlewick double bed
Which had been home.

Or to collect cuttings from the
Dilapidated garden, just a rose
Or two would do to recall a day
Of Summer and deckchairs
Tea and cakes eaten with care.

I was never allowed to embrace
Years of happy holidays shared
Breath in the beauty of memory
Deep down where flowers grow
Never allowed another Spring.

Love Mary xxxxx
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
The day bites in through my window
A brightness of sunshine reflects
Crossed lines on my wall, oblong
Birds sing no songs these days
Waiting for Van Gogh’s Starry Sky
And the faith of a good man.

Love Mary ***
Third Eye Candy Sep 2018
your high tide silhouette
wreathed in oblong stars, grinding-
an ethereal horizon
churning specks of Everything
in a rotating portrait
of a center of
Gravity.

where Love is the rest of it.
Bryce Nov 2018
The coca-cola breath!
Flashing lights, tweetie birds, the rough narcotic stench

The sky is devoid, it is scared of the streets etched in starlight, everything shining-- tangerine and Coit and ohhhh boy
don't'cha know what you're in for?

Twilight and she is a figment on my mind
the bark of cigar is fiery opal on my slender frame
I can hear something along the lanes of love
Echoing behind me, the rising sun

Funny dudes in new suits, pressed, steamed, machine-rolled
pills in the pockets
shipped locomotive
Every etching has its china
every etching is porcelain skin
The fog is a silken balloon, unconcerned, wayward
The men longingly abide in its cool, the breath of an over-excited lover, singing in the showerhead an embarrassing microphone
over the west coast

It's all over! it's the end
the roads are devoid of the things that called you
They are a clarion horn on the Claremont, facades etched with windowpanes
here the americans eat tofu and pretend it's bacon

I am in the rapidly rotating spoke, enjoying the taste of woodchuck, upchucking my guts every Sunday, white knuckle-- praying to god
release
release

what a steal that's a fantastic car for the price!
it is only 10 years of payment
only 10!
House worth 40, kids worth 60, medicinal payments
corn flakes
Fortified iron gates and god says,
naw let them all out until they drown,
I'll never flood the earth but I'll make it puddles
and if they want they can lay face down

I am eating Korean stew and wondering what will happen
when unification builds a railroad from Moscow to Busan
I will travel it and write a novel or two
it will be
"On the Railroad"
and start in San Francisco or a little while outside
on an October evening with not a fog in the sky
Just sky, blue, blue sky
A child on the hillside
blowing bubbles in the apartment complex or the gravel mound
next to new homes, now cookiebread gingerbed frames
Doing tricks on BMX bikes, getting our elbows smashed, a designated paramedic
It's all built up now, concrete streets and lonely streetcorner lamps saying
Hey we're gonna light up this little space
Hope you don't mind
Please don't play too loud

And given that these spheroids are monumentally moving
hurling like a pitched water glass
everything staying put under the motion of it
Such a lovely rooting of mass

I will call alongside it, crawling towards answers etching on murals and on the stamping of curbs
E-5 West main
4451 Lowell Street
554 Happy Valley Road
It's all the fun little tributaries of surface waters
heading with precognition towards seas
roped into it by specific gravity

On the phone i spoke to Mr. Victorious
I asked him about his particular drone
down south there in the more direct limelight of the night
he told me about his uncle, in prose
of course
we just hung our heads over the speakerphone
Not sleeping the way we should
shouldering burdens as ***** in deserted zones
laughing and preaching to cottonfields

Then there was the girl
the one we forgot, truth be told
The one unrequited impetus for all art, all physicality and feeling
loved by god in the corporeal
She is the saffron reed in my eye, the one i forgot to preach Victory to
She that one oblong pebble, rolled by the stream
passing our campgrounds and continuing her journey to sands
small little microscopic tetrahedral perfection
I could get stuck in between my teeth
or perhaps left on the sweat of the skin
the lost moments of beachside living, love for the expansiveness, left in the diner seat of the car, gotta keep moving
Carrying her away and if not careful,
nestling her back atop the summits from whence she came.

it is a cola in the glass on the shores of the bay,
it is a divine moment of contact in the oceans
two sailors acknowledging their vessels
with light shows and the play of eye
off the horizon, a green light o' sprite.
Suzy Berlinsky Dec 2018
Around the roughened slides & glides of shadowy slopes is air that deters a bested tetanus. A heart thumps bravely, a dog humps bravely, camels **** in darkling, Olga steals from Tatiana, Maria borrows from Anastasia as all Earth's failures are canceled. Men remain ignoramuses, styles adapt, hair seeds in scalps. Plots are cowardly things. Dying in the dirt like a dead-dirt animal does not complicate the fact: males who have *** with males are homosexual males.

— The End —