"odorless" poems
I. the smell of sad
odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink
don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face
there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all
this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present***
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Their utopia is ignorant bliss
Emotionless society,
emotionless existence
the'll be no need, or wanting variety
Ticking down time, till our slow demise
Give us a dose of reality
with a dose of nonsense
spiraling out into insanity
An odorless place of nothingness
Apathy is so extremely easy
Beauty surrounding everything filthy
Perfection is just an opinion
Contradiction or nonfiction
Fictional characters with friction addiction
Pain's constant. constant constriction
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
life-style sharpies are good
to go. looks pretty thick to
me.
comes in black and
cloud
they will draw for you
in exchange of eyes
consume me!,
they reek an
odorless nostril
invisible and
trustworthy
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole god **** sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.
“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.
White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
The trip complete there’s nothing left
Save for the souvineirs.
It was a blast, a welcome rest
I’ll think of it for years.
But here I am at LAX
No dream, no cardigan.
I’ll have to wait a hundred years
Just to lift off again.
Don’t get me wrong the airport’s nice,
The smell is odorless?
The chairs, the chairs, Oh god, the chairs:
The source of my unrest.
I’ll sit and sit and try and sleep
but always: no avail.
The strangers stare, don’t offer help
They watch me as I flail.
The pillow doesn’t offer rest
The armrest pokes me, merciless
My mind white-hot and furious
Just calm down.
Relax your self.
It will all be over soon.
LAYOVER
Denied: my only boon.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
Their utopia is ignorant bliss
Emotionless society,
emotionless existence
the'll be no need, or wanting variety
Ticking down time, till our slow demise
Give us a dose of reality
with a dose of nonsense
spiraling out into insanity
An odorless place of nothingness
Apathy is so extremely easy
Beauty surrounding everything filthy
Perfection is just an opinion
Contradiction or nonfiction
Fictional characters with friction addiction
Pain's constant. constant constriction
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
I think that I might've been wrong this whole time
and that all my life's been an endless road of false imagery
about myself and the ones surrounding me.
Everyone's sayin' these days:
"just do your thing!"
"be more egotistic!"
"risk it!"
"live a little!"
"give less ***** about what others think!"
"you're on your own!"
"don't get involved in other's lives, as they don't get involved in yours"
and I seem more and more confused,
not getting any of the words they're sayin';
feeling silly all of a sudden...
like I imagine some people in those pictures
or videos where they put a black box over someone's eyes.
I feel like I've been livin' as a small,
odorless flower in a big garden,
all a long waiting for the right gardener
to thin out the seedlings around me and now
I've ended up alone in the most beautiful vase,
in the house of the most gifted perfume creator,
that normally feels every bird ****
but now feels nothing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zGRQsYZE7U
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
empty kisses
and pointless hugs
had been the symbol
of a dead love
his lips had been
the gun;
his words
were the bullets
it all made sense now
i had been enticed by
his sweet kisses
just like carbon monoxide
sweet but yet odorless.
deadly.
he filled my lungs
with hope,
longing
and belonging
i had been poisoned by deceit.
jealousy.
denial.
lies.
every kiss
was meaningful
as he loved me
except he had a gun
behind his back
everytime he touched me
it was like an ignited flame
except he had
a gasoline tank hidden in the woods
finally it had been his time
to do what he does best,
**** my loving heart.
(b.d.s.)
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
odorless bathing salts
undissolved
in calm
water
with ashy skin
two cheeks
filled
with silver milk
swollen
with odorless
feeble
attempts
to at least
be
forgettable
nausea ,
counting
the beads on a chain
attached to a rubber plug
wearing concrete shoes
face-down
in placid
murk
Passes the Time,
even at a fraction of the speed limit
ulcerous enamel
leeching rust
into a pointless bog
of manganese
and zinc
candle
burning
bees wax
on the
sink
where
she left her
brush
she left hair
instructions
on how to recover
from losing your
head
a box
of wooden matches
can't seem to
get on
with a crumpled ***
of spent tissue...
a waste basket
that needs therapy
with yellow lungs,
eating a can
of pork & beans
thinking wrinkled hands
are like
house cats
lounging
over the lip
of a submarine
with clawed feet
brass proud
clashing
with empty
beers cans on the floor
sleeping off
the misadventures
of a reckless
binge.
my wallet
splayed prone, under
a slow leak.
admiring the linoleum
seen
better days
in a magazine
a
picture
of a well appointed
villa
it was furnished
with opulent
symbols
they were
empty
on page twelve.
i thought
they
had
a
point
.
i knew
i would cancel
my subscription
even if it
thrilled
me.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Let’s face it: we’re not all George Clooney.
Most of us need a little help scoring with chicks.
Our dicks—the archetypal genital signal—
Are hidden from sight, &
****** wagging
Will get you arrested.
Perhaps, pheromones may be the answer.
Dr. Winifred Cutler’s Bio:
(As read by Don Pardo, postmortem).
“Biologist and behavioral endocrinologist Dr. Winifred Cutler was the first to establish the presence of human pheromones in 1986 when her team removed sweat from human underarms and found that only the odorless materials that contained pheromones remained.”
Blessed are the
Underarm Sweat Removers,
A Labor cohort
Soon to be SEIU smorganized . . .
Organized, smorganized. | Karen Koedding, Productivity ...
https://www.linkedin.com/.../organized-smorganized-karen-koe...LinkedIn Organized, smorganized. Jan 7, 2015. 209Views; 11Likes; 3Comments. Share on LinkedIn; Share on Facebook; Share on Google Plus; Share on Twitter.
Ka-Ching.
Ka-Ching.
And Andy Stern’s suggestion,
Probably the best for anyone
Searching for a new mate, or
Wanting to move up,
Move up to a new relationship plateau,
Move up to a higher class of ******
Open your nostrils.
Take a deep breath.
Bio continues:
“Dr. Winifred Cutler
Founded the Athena Institute in 1986,
Selected that name
Signifying the mission;
Helping women increase
Wisdom and skill,
Relative to
Their Bodies,
Their Health,
Their Wellbeing.”
Why not a Nobel for Dr. Cutler?
Testimony follows:
“Pheromones magnify my mojo.
I wear the love potion that makes
The most gorgeous gal in the bar--
That kind of gorgeous gal,
Usually out of my league—
Makes her look my way.
Welcome, my fingers
Touch her siren shoulder.
She turns,
‘What do you want?’ she asks coyly.
‘Um, want to dance?’ I manage.
She grins, looks me
Up and down—
Mostly down—
And says, “Not really.”
The verdict?
Apparently, the scent of pheromones is
Still overpowered by nerves.
Let’s face it:
Women can smell fear.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
The flower is
Wrinkled,
Somewhat bleeding,
Odorless,
Bowed stem crippled,
Arthritic,
Greeting me a
Tremulous
"Good evening."
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;
I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course
....yet I can't let go.
You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.
And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.
The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.
And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;
It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...
I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******
will bring you back to life.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
Daylight in the castle,
there is the king and the queen.
She is of Europe, floats like a bee
upon clouds, these saltwater beacons
drenching for her hair to dampen black.
And he thinks she seems angelic,
each morning, opening umbrella limbs
stars & stripes he gave her last night.
Shine and prim kiss-kneads,
nobody can tell that he loves me.
The pond across the way, I drown
in the flesh-earth, memory of our space
just ruffles swaddling where he tastes.
I am his handmaid as I am queen,
when light surfaces on my snowbank
ever ghosting the skin of knobby-knees.
Daylight in the castle,
beams for more than just a queen –
clumsy, odorless of the love she’s seen.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
What substance was it?
The culmination of diamond-like shards
crushed and, then, melted into a precarious liquid
a liquid that follows the sway of a glass sphere attached to a glass stem
the end of which is rested between my lips
the length of the stem, itself, is clutched and rested between my index finger and my thumb
large clouds of odorless smoke besets the circumference of my bust as I exhale
immediate!
This substance will soon serenade the totality of my biology’s neurology.
Break that pipe now!
Simple glass that can be stepped on
crushed beneath feet!
What substance was that?
A human is free now
emancipated
the new substance of their affection is sobriety!
Author’s note: please, abate or diminish your substance abuse, if you have one. And, despite what I have alluded to within this poem, “sobriety” is never easily obtained, yet, it is very much worth the effort to obtain it.
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 12:24 AM UTC
You
Brought me
In blood and tears
You yourself but a child-
Into this world.
From a distance
You watched
As I grew.
First a whelp,
Now a wolf.
You
**** yourself
With every inhale
Of that odorless
Drug
And here I am
Helpless
Watching you die....
Just as
You watched me grow
Not long ago....
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
It's late autumn but the colors
simply aren't there for me. Leaves, trees,
the sky, my face, my hair, my mood,
everything has become pall and gray.
Everywhere that color should abound
there is only lack of color. This canvas
remains indifferent to me - staring
blankly at me. My brushes sit unused
and rotting in solvent, the colors grimy
and dry on my palette, a spider has pulled
its hairy carcass through black oil and
then white and died gray upon the
edge of my painting table - its web strung
at the bottom of my easel. I feel no more,
paint no more, sell no more, I'm used up.
"Colorless, odorless" reads this can of
brush solvent - it's what I've become!
I have become nothing, even without odor.
I'm completely gray, insensitive, consumed.
Looking into the broken studio mirror,
I confront the artist I used to be. My image
grows diffuse, without form, then dissipates.
--
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
Silent carriage with no sounds,
Is it real?
I can see it, touch it, but still can't hear.
An empty voice directs my journey and affirms my belief,
no soul,
no thoughts,
it isn't real.
No shoes on the sleeping man,
with strangely odorless feet.
Nobody smells here, it's disturbing.
Bright, buzzing, neon-fluorescent lights of gold or yellow.
Burning my eyes.
Now i am blind.
This senseless, lifeless bubble is my ticket home.
$6.20 should get you more of an experience.
Not long now and my vision will return.
Hearing and smell too..
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Breathless little pod, enclose me with your
Wooden floors. Let the rain outside play as
Pianoforte as it can. Enough
Thought to sink a ship and all I can say
Is “The horses. Oh my God, the horses.”
What about the horses? In a tasteless,
Odorless, frictionless universe sleeps
The hammer of the clouds who eats our hours
And flips to more interesting channels.
Take a minute for yourself, this is just
An experiment, and run up those stairs.
Be sure to stop when you hear the lightning
Then nip back down like thunder so you can
Tell me the result. Breathe in, count to ten.
Breathe out, breathe in and try to remember
The middle of “Rondo Alla Turca.”
Take your time, it won’t be nice outside for
A while. Enjoy the breathless little room.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 9:33 AM UTC
The central location, the angel of natural oils
such as black and silver. Oh, well with China,
this is your sister, a message Angel Heaven Asia
belly coated bar is not growing, it is known in
the market to begin to feel the atmosphere brother
and Russia starting strippers bad, odorless plastic
file templates losses in the garden in Einstein's city,
the police said, these smoking firebrands for the
information, it can not be seen, which is the other
half was in bed, and the angel of the you Metallica
of the Orcs of the darkness of his brother in the
thousands [of for the] in a few days, most of the
former with a black brother's infertility haste, indeed,
you led to a string of women with child of the
Underminds of the 500? Yu's brother, afterwards,
in ***** and with good reason able to use a bow,
Mark says, that durst presume their arms are getting
ready for a war, interrupted, for the birth of Rhee's
injury to be inflicted on a child to speak the Gospel
of the yellow Earth of the flock, for Karachi with the
cold and the darkness into the heart of our God, and
in the custom in public out of her ***** it lies, and
in the gate of the court, a man: Something went wrong.
Express light; Harvard He added. Finally, he asserts.
How to share a bottle of wine, as well as in the love
of God, and what will you do? and You can choose
from black Africa into something that cannot be white.
What does this mean for 13 hours in Europe? This
product has an unemployment? My Africa. conditions?
Armenia, with the wisdom of a question between some
of these fears or another. Vitamins are present, and
John Charles is not exclusive. However, the vitamins?
Vitamins and Therapy; News. "(1) What do you
remember about it? The father has changed. And to offer
a woman's life. And the city. Therefore less. "1: 1 enemy.
However, they are waiting for what they want.
And peace from God. The hood is constructed. Cravings
and juice. \ 1 = []? And the same thing? Marcus sees the
anti-social Harvard (10) ... Color is a wonderful love of
intermediate Gap Socks. Africa loves you For the physician.
Rome It can be placed in Europe; As the weekend's
northwest result. And now. The use of vitamin Karalini
These program. vitamins? Vitamin 1: 1: 1 hours.
For there is one of them, it doesn't get worse. 1 but
cannot remember - that is, He is a father. The woman
said: This double grab runs deep in this world. "1: 1,
and I do not think so, But the initiative. Where \ 1 = 1 (|);
Marcus | But smoking is not of the same ...
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
The diagnosis said
mad
and the tombstone
said that too.
Carbon monoxide is
colorless
odorless
and tasteless.
It goes completely
unnoticed
until it's too late.
"She was so pretty"
they said.
"We all loved her.
What was her name again?"
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
While searching for Sougandhikam,
Four viruses barred Bheema’s way
He got flustered, unable to chase them
Using his mace and strong muscles
Sougandhikam was mis-spelt many times
Eyes got tired visiting all sites about flowers galore
Mukkutti.com, bougainvillea.com,
Orchid, leuca indica,
The thottavadi.com which shrank on contact with the mouse
Journey without fear of thorns
Flowers bloomed in the water springs of the rock-hard body
Muttered “flower”, “flower” frequently
Dot coms where fleshy blooms flourish
Time and again, forgot the wife who was insulted?
While sitting in amazement in front of a site about wrestlers,
A message
Subject hint about Sougandhikam
In the inbox, ‘black moon’ with the sings(symptoms) of Sougandhikam
He liked the fragrance-less flower from Latin America
Not a step more in this jungle,
He decided in his mind
And downloaded black moon
Morphed it, made slight changes
Then a color print
Panchali, who was bored stiff though she was the wife of five, jumped in glee
Took four Photostat copies of Sougandhikam and went to apply for a doctorate
An odorless lie bloomed in history.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
What happened to those luscious locks?
I don't even know where to begin
Your teeth are decaying from your mouth
Your cheeks are sinking in
Your once smooth skin's now dry and itchy
Lumps and bumps everywhere
Paranoid and hallucinating
Brittle and wispy hair
Why do you do this to yourself?
You're just a snort, a ***** an inhale away
This bitter and odorless powder can take you off this earth today
Was taking it that one time at the party worth all this hell?
Did putting that ice up your nose suit you well?
Can you even remember who I am?
Why are you always trying to fight?
Shhh, calm down.
Everything's alright
You're delusional and moody
But I still love you so
No matter how much you isolate
I'll never let you go
I'll be here when you're loosing weight
And when your behavior seems schizophrenic
I'll be here when your kidneys fail
I'll be here to call the medic
I'll hold your hand through the depression
I'll stay by your side throughout the stroke
I'll be here to watch as you put yourself in the ground
And on my tears I'll choke
And when you have those cravings
For the powder you hold so dear
When you're restless and confused, darling
I'll be here.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
For the Moon
..and the night sky was bright without a sharp glare...
The 5 pointed stars were uncountable-
Glowing, beaming,
The Moon's radiance touched your heart-
Effulgent, calming, unspeckled,
Mesmerizing like none other,
Allowing your soul-
to remember its source.
You could gaze upon the sky and
have all your questions answered,
You become brave,
willing for the next phase-
Knowing that Mā would always be your guiding light.
Her water alone sustains you
And sprouts green tulasi to energize you
She keeps you grounded
Yet lets you soar without any wings
Use your imagination-
For She always believes
in your word Of Pure Intentions and
Lets you exercise control of your own
Wishing that all her offspring awaken
Waiting For them to stop dreaming-
...They had sunken-
Deeper and deeper in the illusion
Enticed by temporary pleasures;
-Of the eye that seeks to admire it all,
Forgetting to watch their step upcoming
-Of the tongue that wishes to taste it all,
Forgetting the one taste above them all
-Of the skin that wishes to feel it all,
Forgetting the hands meant for nurturing
-Of the ear that wishes to hear rhythm , Forgetting to listen
To the sounds of existence
-Of the lips that wish to express emotion
Forgetting to speak
With only tender affection
-Of the nostrils that wish to enjoy fumes
Forgetting the air, like water
must be odorless and tasteless,
without colour.
The offsprings,
Are Buried by the pleasures-
Yet like all our mothers-
Mā patiently awaits
The day we call for her,
Mā? Māma Māā
Her children cry
And Mā comes by our side,
Telling us,
Everything will be alright.
You were just experiencing
Your self-created nightmares,
Now wipe your tears and
Let me show me,
What plane you really exist on.
There, there my child,
ALL will be well-
The Clear Waters are flowing forever,
The Square Blue sky remains permanent,
The Green valleys are stretched endlessly,
Many are still unseen,
Your souls are infinitely bound to me,
Your Mā is Divine , Eternal and Free
You are borne from Her
therefore, so are thee.
Air, Water, Earth- are Infinite.
But Every fire does out,
Every flame burns and destroys-
The Red is fierce and blinding.
The white is calm and Luminating.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
War is the King of All,
as Heraclitus puts it.
No Life without Strife!
What wondrous distress!
This eternal suffering,
This eternal bliss
I am the ground
I am the ground from which
hatred and love emerge
neck and neck
symbiosis
I am abstracted from these
and yet intertwined, consistent
and unyielding in my birth and rebirth
I am the perennial,
the detritivore
The soil,
the mycelium,
the forest,
the fire
born from a single point,
growing and consuming
that which is colder than I —
until all fuel is exhausted
until I am exhausted
I am the Ugly Lie, the Corrupt
I am the Beautiful Truth, the Just
I am the Bad, the Good
I am the Formless
The Form
colorless, odorless, tasteless
unreachable, untouchable
receive me and
I am no longer myself
a distraction from the truth
I am entertainment
Will you entertain me?
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC