"orgastic" poems
Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.
Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.
The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?
A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,
a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.
Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover
and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.
15.5.2015
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
pasty white ghosts haunt
the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa
whispering wisps of smoke
shimmering shadows of the past
setting the pace for the rat race
that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election
senators billionaires doctors
frauds liars fools
campaigning for selection in an
archaic and outdated
form of governance
witness the spectacle
the orgastic worship
of solipsistic oligarchs
bloated by their own
sycophantic rhetoric
it's just another form
of all-American
entertainment
each orator's charismatic adage
froths forth from a
throat like a grave
pragmatism throttles hope
as we stoke the fires of
self-indulgence and neglect
the fact that we acquiesced
as another deceiver stole votes
we're choking on placebo pills
every ballot cast is another act of apathy
escapism pleading vainly for a
savior to rescue our sick society but
these hands didn't evolve so we could
collect a representative to lead us
blindly into one fiasco after another
these fingers penned
humanity's symphonies and
these calloused palms have
toiled for years under an apathetic sun
we learned to make love
using our fingertips and
with these fists
we could chart a new path
but only if we raise them in
defiance
our only chance is leaderless resistance
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
pearls of sweat swell on bodies golden
at the dancing heart of pagan Rome;
orgastic stares and touches molten
light the synesthesia pleasuredome.
the gods eat diamonds from the grapevine
while virgins undress their silken shame;
red-faces boast as blood turns to wine:
tonight roam ***** tongues without name.
nymphs hold cornucopia spirits high;
they all hover inches from the ground,
spraying the mob to dew ev'ry eye;
endless voices converge to one sound.
ambrosia, the food of the divine,
is nothing but mortal invention:
to think of pleasure is to make it mine,
all of us in bubbled imagination.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
To Speak of the Future....
Conor Blatchford:
The future isn't clear,
Don't assume failure is near
For the future is uncertain
So to speak, an Iron Curtain
Hidden agenda:
The question was 'To be or not to be?'
Even Shakespeare had a glimpse of doubt ,
For when he wrote a word of sea,
He always found a way to swim out.
So me calling myself a failure is a premonition,
On a future event so far in the distance,
That if I did succeed it would be a mere addition.
To lose is to win in such a cruel existence.
Example if your claiming victory,
Should you achieve it , you may bask in glory.
Yet if you don't achieve it, you have failed.
Then that would have been ship set sailed.
Conor Blatchford:
Ship set sailed it may be,
But failure remains unclear to see
No matter how hard ones tries,
Future sight-seeing is usually lies
Usually
Hidden agenda:
The green light is dimming and the orgastic future is gone,
Yet I still stretch my arms and carry on.
Simple as is , I know a failure to be made,
But I'm still working in hopes of getting paid.
Conor Blatchford:
Failure is always destined to be,
Yet mostly
Impossible to see
You wish to be paid from your mistake?
The only thing failure can rake
Is misery; emotion's most deadly snake
A snake with fangs
That does bite
Whence you give in
To this devilish sprite
You will lose
All you had
And never gain
What you desire so bad
If failure is certain,
Then so to is victory
Yet both continually
Elude me
This is the future
That I think I see
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
Gatsby's green light was orgastic, unreachable,
distant.
Mine is a little dot on my chat screen,
also green;
your being in some corner of reality
that, perhaps, is also
looking for stories,
looking for me.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
but the only one you wanted to see was her
“Can’t repeat the past? Why...of course you can!”
and so you did.
or at least attempted too.
but it didn’t work for you
now did it,
old sport?
because the harder you tried to
keep up this game
the more they rewrote the rules
“they’re a rotten crowd” I shouted across the lawn. “you’re worth the whole **** bunch put together!”
you fell in love with the girl
whose voice was full of money
in the valley of ashes.
looked at her the way every young girl wants to be looked at
a beautiful little fool, she was
perfect for you
afternoon tea
silk shirts stained by her tears
your resurrection
was born.
or so you thought.
you were endlessly
attempting to recreate
a sequel to that summer night in 1945
the kiss
the sky
that night.
your death was almost heroic
only you and I know
you were doomed from the start
“gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...and one fine morning- so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
I am within
and with doubt
Corners merely cornered
Meters running out
Here, at last a moment,
a moment's last-
ing (re)doubt
Hinted on skin,
Winter wind,
Chills beget our watching
Of the time we passed through
Not assuming, simply tasting
The salty savory tense that was,
and felt,
and left for now
Where we dreamed the stuff of man
Kindly holding us in time's embrace
Though behind as we bear on,
An orgastic collision, a circumstance,
It is so undeniable and warm,
The time we passed through
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
i think of you late at night,
in between grasps and gasps
of thighs that are beneath me
and they held me tight, secure
until the still of your reflections
are blurred by the orgastic current
and i sat still as a stone,
unturned
to the revelries of you
to a memory bygone
and i close my eyes
to a tomorrow where you don’t belong
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 5:03 AM UTC
A puff of curiosity withdraws
Bewilderment out of my lung.
Though, quick to become my amusement,
I’m lead into an orgastic pleasure.
A dose of you completely fills the void
Within the brachial branches of my lung.
The naivety within me pleasantly
Accepts the corruption that you pose.
A dose of you is now my daily diet
That fuels every precipice of the
Body to its functioning capability.
Minutes without - not tolerated
By the deepest yearning for
A puff of obsession to you.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
illusion festers at the
altar of apathy we
sacrifice our intellect
for luxury items
woe-filled slaves chained
to hypocrisy
if this is what grows in the
absence of thought—weeds
spread out to choke all semblance
of hope—sew my eyelids to my scalp
i'll sleep no more no nightmare
is more terrible than this
reality we must endure
stretched out across this wasteland
we built temples to worship
finance bathed in our own arrogance
we fancied ourselves gods through
deicide and accepted the
inheritance that gave us such a throne
measure out the violence in Biblical
proportions spread like fire
to every corner of the globe
cover the map in a sea of
ash and smoke white phosphorous
raining from the sky like manna
on all the forgotten children
anguishing in third-world exile
we are the arbiters of our own demise
drunken bloated ignorant harbingers
reviled for our revelry of orgastic negativity
plunging the Earth into the sixth
extinction that surely spells
the end of our finite kind
some sentient race may yet witness
our only home caught in the
death-grip of its sole intellectual organism
as life ebbs from her lonely pale blue eyes
winking in and out of existence
from hundreds of lightyears far far away
no telling whether such a recollection
viewed through the chasm of space-time
might offer a mirror to some species
possessed of less self-destructive
tendencies devoid of suicidal mentalities
a warning sign to all the legions spread
across the galaxy:
do not follow in our footsteps
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC