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Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,

Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.

In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta

Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,

Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,

Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!

There is nothing between us.
Madisen Kuhn Mar 2021
come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same
Lux
Those who were marginalized by the braids and serpentine lights, devotions were made in San Juan allowing electromagnetic discharges from the imperceptible space-time of Vernarth's parapsychological quantum; alluding to clarities that achieved everything by having Patmia in the material and incorporeal from the start of the stained glass windows and archetypes by Transfer Quantum that burned the chins of hominids who believed to be immortal as if they were looking in this position for the direction between the eyebrows and the chin , for the Euclidean incidence crossing all the pools that are between quantum means of transfer of ions and cations. The oscillations of the sparkling field of consciousness of the containers were of ethical variables that became perpendicular to the space of draft or levitation of the designations that originated with accelerated electric charges on Patmos, developing albiceleste skylights over the harmonic equations as they elongated in proportions of quanta that They argued greater than those that circulated elliptically from Grikos to Skalá, and then to Profitis with assiduous progenitors of long-wave quanta. The magnificence of the halo became rectilinear up to the high altar that was atomized from the unskillful penumbra to reabsorb the inclinations of physical life in the Macedonians and the Achaemenides when they were trapped by the loss on the propagation of the Lux, which was imposed in hemicycles where they were they reclined to relax in the lux of rest of the path of the reasoning that made pederasty in the links with the minuscule obtuse lights, reeling from the clothing and its finite speed of what measures the ability to be undetermined in the margins of error of the antagonists when originating flow rates, greater in his dermis to regenerate towards any other that could be clothing of greater speed.

Thus was the scenario of dimensional magnitude between the powers that did not have contact, but their dimensionless energies on a surface that reached absorbent to the one that rectifies the concretive of the error that partially abused them. Their legacies would pass to a supplementary electromagnetic plane, separating their masses and retaking orientation from where they returned, where if the ideal of the final rational was refracted where everything would be vivid darkness. The obstacles classified them in the closure of the average height and the average surface, to then redirect to the maximum height and maximum surface propagating in irregularities of the Ego "Believing that they were never overcome in the diffuse perception of the metal mirror." The incident rays of the Lux would go to meet the multi-incident plane of the Mashiach, the wave angles were refracted throughout the sinuous law as radiosity passed over the greater mass that was normalized from the tangent that was projected 180 meters above the eyebrow. and Vernarth's chin, along with the recharged electromagnetic strengths of Alexander the Great's reactivation bezels, which at times seemed to levitate over the Lux's high frequencies and vary independently with its crowded functionalities, among scattered restraints that it presented to both weightless behind. from the decayed marble sawdust, separating from its phosphorescence that bounced between the rigging of solid surfaces and semi-solid ones, when realizing that the sea and the silica were confessed to the Pronoia of Delphi. Inducing Vernarth for the first time into a Pronoia versology on the Athena of Delphi, prompting them to separate from the world and it's holistic to divide into three portions of the dissociation of consciousness from the end of the Lux of Parapsychology, which had hosted them for centuries and centuries. . The Pronoia conspiracy systematized the reaction that would reunite them after this oracular parapsychology, making the adversaries believe that they were discrepancies of clinical parapsychology, equating warlike causes in the containment of Delphic neuroscience. From this quantification, the predominance of Vernarth's Lux de Pronoia was announced, linking peculiar segmentation of submit logical historicity in this work as a starting thesis, which speculates the same for those who have to make an analysis of historical dogmatic imperialism as a justification for mythological normality. The Lux thesis aimed to show that the dimensions of the mythology and the submitology, when exposed in physical quanta, made a tendency of irresolution in the abode of spiritual Tractatus reasoning and not in the instinctual one, which watches over recitals where history and its collective memory indicate outbursts of moderation. The role of the submithology  is to pretend that this normality is made close to the instruction after yours temporary for causes of your deep patrimonial, that makes them captives from the social complexity, with the disambiguation of certain criteria by maximizing the hidden truth of the ascending opposition forces that they have generated great conflagrations, intuition being the unreflective pseudo-reality with historical formalities that stumble into the terrified directionality of the myth that was to be reality. The tiny spaces of the verve left by the silent mechanics of the Persians became defensive when they saw their emissaries incoherently in the verticality of Allah when they saw that the confusing world with anxiety exaggerated predictions and failures invulnerability of a lineage that always had. been condemned to the desert.

Everything conspired with a Pronoia of siege, before the exegesis that sought purification and that was how they headed and misdirected their mistakes in the active train of the recess of their abstracted retreat, in a universe that also abandoned them after the subsequent train of Aurion waking them in their illusions with swords, and stealthy spears in dreams that specified safe rest. The ferocities of the proto-souls of assault carried away the translucent bodies of the Persians, and the Hellenes in acts of honor made such congenital paths of the understandable vocabulary that he did not speak. The prism was located in the cautious measure of its contractile dispersion with white separations of mantles, earth, and water scalded by dynamics that formed colorful activations with their withdrawal phenomena in the immaculate albino Lux that dissolved all of the facet optics that it made. Lux's great brain in the instant that the Thuellai airs transfigured the nuances of the Atros monastery, with objects that refused to be absorbed by the black hue, generating mechanical waves of equivalence in their identical interference that caused two opposing forces to distill the coherent differential that had to be overexposed in the category of historical Submitology. The two inverted waves separated, the Hellenes moaned and hiccupped for having to become identical when separating from their immaterial bodies, doing wonders that would house additional souls that would complement a transitory becoming towards the garden of the angels that provided them with identical beams of light, interfering in what animated the lights of pageantry, with the antithesis of interference where they resided in constancy knowing that they felt possessed of benefits of the eternal length of existence, but with pressures of mutable in some involuntary constancy and amplitude of having parallel directions with Saint John the Apostle and the Siblis. The phenomenon of polarization of both empires was denatured in a transverse way in all the electric fields after this feat, inciting unique fields of the pure and selective ascending ecosystem, which generated polaroid substances at the angle of ninety degrees above the browbones and chin of Vernarth, to approach the Pronoia of concatenation with Alexander the Great refracting unscathed hyper-vital and transcendent faces of infinity. Like any other phenomenon, the Lux crossed both bodies like two Xiphos swords that processed the electromagnetic valve, by iridium that converted with all the coarse Lux that crossed the succumbed immateriality and stopped the shaft and the nail that hang in the typology of electromagnetic radiation from the Hellenic world between them, making an ominous redemptive fire that was regimented to leave them both in the middle of a farm where there were farmyard animals, stockpiled pastures and a house that absorbed them as parents who would love them as beings of Lux. Thus, this primary parapsychological quantum network penetrated the level of the archangels that made them be together in planes of manumission, and that does not admit bi-quantum personality or bi-parapsychology that can cancel out the portent of the helmets and the lineage that does not dazzle if they are not made of iron.

The life of the other world began to be encompassed in all the Subtraigus beings that would correspond to the astral plane that was confirmed after the Kalidona Romantics deduced the Unicorn Uilef or Uilef Monókeros after Pronoia. Kalidona being an uninhabited island and the Uilef sleeps in between copulating with Spinalonga and Kolokythas along with other smaller islets, plus two hundred that will make up six islands of the twenty-six tetragram of Alef. Here Drestnia went with her consort of Etréstles from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi to find fateful encounters of Pantheism based on the majestic copulation of beauty, among twenty-six numbers that prevailed in virtuosos who took refuge in Kalydon or Kalidona, preparing for their rampage with grafted grotesque derived bodies of the Falangist Hellenes who were arranged of their musculature, so that they directed the finesse of the civility of Hesiod, Terpando, Archiloco, Baquílides, tragic like Etréstles, Aeschylus Sophocles, Euripides and comedian like Aristophanes.
Lux
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
Have you ever been so infatuated with someone that you thought you’d die? My memories are fresh - and embarrassing - there’s no sense of time’s distortion.

I was twelve and we were living in Shenzhen, China.
When my heart went off like a grenade for this fourteen year old boy.
I was so beguiled that I started writing poetry - always a bad sign.

I was exposed - turned inside out by it;
like my guts were hung out for birds to peck.
I writhed in that particular, lonely agony.

All I ever had to offer him was my helplessness.
He didn’t take advantage - I think I scared him.
I wonder what memories he took from me?
BLT word of the day challenge: Embarrass : "experiencing a state of self-conscious distress."
j f Nov 2013
I went to find your place in the woods today
but as I rounded the bench near the
fray of trees I couldn’t find the fallen log
where we sat for so long that i became the cold lichen too,
colored like an overexposed photo
pale and unmoving, drawn to and
at the mercy of the elements. I  was overexposed as well,
not just because i chose to wear only a sweater in the
waning days of autumn but
because I drew out these spider silk memories for you
to see, me, as only my sheets and bathroom floor see.  

Part of me expected to find you among the trees,
looking for a new mossy place to
watch the walkers and the swans from,
thinking as you smoke away thoughts of
a current past given up fast to the ether.
before the sun sets, you’ll be with those memories,
lost to the ever presence of an unrelenting time.
I suppose the cold will keep you inside for a while
until the womb of your flat can keep you no longer,
and drives you out, back into your space in nature.
and when you find it,
you’ll see your fallen perch has finally hit the ground.

I found my own perch, looking for yours
and watched the smallest of birds hop
between the edges where the water meets the damp land and
I suppose one day you’ll again sit among the faded leaves
watching as your smoke, breath and body heat make
fleeting picture clouds for you to read.

so I rest here with a sachet of tobacco, some rolling papers and
tumbling thoughts to ease the strain.
and while i sit supposing, you suffer in barbarous silence.
But the one thing I’ve learned from being force fed
everyone else''s woes and crumbling glories:
its hard to sew a wound
under seven layers of skin.
kierra Jul 2017
I am raw, plucked
bare and overexposed;
ashamed of my emotions and
too vulnerable, too fragile
I am not threatened but I do not
feel safe, I ache to hide but where can
I hide from my own mind? I need
time to decay my histrionics and my
need for affection so that it never
resurfaces again, so that I never
resurface again -- I am drowned in
something benign but chaotic, replicating
it's mutation endlessly, perpetually, until
I cannot breathe because I am overexposed --
bare and
plucked raw.
written during a panic attack
Barton D Smock Jun 2013
a child
unassembled
and loved
by two
     strange
women-

a man breastfeeding in private-

this love
only a mother
could face-

overexposed photos
of a healthy
family-

a gathering
of bird watching
great
uncles-

     great
blind
aunts / with empty
pill
syndrome-

a prayer basket in the lap of a boy
sitting on a swing
during
a downpour-

     a disabled brother
and his three
rubber
nails
Andrew May 2012
Combusting into green flames
The photographs bleed black smiles.

Fumes inhaled. Stinging the eyes.
A twisted mass of flesh lay on the ground.

Breaking the dark for a moment.
Their hearts slowly shimmer out.

Looking at their faces
It seems they lied.

Crumbling into mere soot
They stare at me no more.
Jen Dec 2018
For a short time,
Supernova outshines galaxies;
It explodes and
Imprints images
Across Andromeda's face,
Overexposed across its gaze,
Blinds & Spills in all directions,
Up & Up. Down & Down. Around & Around.

I’d drag these regrets to the far-off reaches,
Just to be left speechless,
As we watch it outshine the Sun,
I would.

I forgive you, and myself too.
It was supernova, not meant to live
Long.

Forgiveness
Is like a Nebula’s Kiss,
It gives birth to new life
And leaves the past behind.

A star dies in supernova flame,
And the view from here is spectacular,
Don't miss it.
This poem is a reflection on past relationships with friends and lovers that did not last and the importance of forgiveness and moving on with your life after "the blast" of the supernova, as a relationship dies.  We must remember, that although some stars die, others are meant to be reborn in  Nebula.
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2023
keep the photographs
the city is overexposed again

take more walks in the nearby woods
the world we knew as children

watch out for frogs and detonators
mind the wires

new aerial boundaries at dawn
no one steps inside by choice

adapt to the proper order
and no sleeping under tables

the reflection tower is a good place to start
tourist trap, a certain approximate

bring the thing under the couch
in case of an unexpected visitor

more nightmares cut out of the newspaper
what is an Astra 600?

three different hat sizes
Hannie says yes to ménage à trois

the joy in discovery
the joy in forgetting

like God without a compass
not a lot, just forever
The Oversteegen sisters and friend Hannie Schaft worked to sabotage the **** military presence in the Netherlands. They used dynamite to disable bridges and railroad tracks. Additionally, they aided Jewish children by smuggling them out of the country or helping them escape concentration camps.

The Oversteegens and Schaft also lured German soldiers to the woods under the pretense of a romantic overture and then killed them. Freddie would approach the soldiers in taverns and bars and ask them to "go for a stroll" in the forest.
Allen Smuckler Feb 2011
Osprey flood-pathed junctures
in the
middle
of Paradise.
Overexposed and diluted
by the
sounds
of the missing heartbeat
and the
loneliness
of the beakless egret
we all feel.

The expression of
the sunlit
reflective pool,
for the
paradise
we know and sense
and understand.
Not quite at the
end of
earth,
but almost.

While the ball
of fire
exposed and
diminished,
flourishes to the
very end., and
awakens on the beaches
of Casey Key,
toward the dusk of
the beautiful day
in paradise…
I smile
February 23, 2011
Jeannette Chin Jul 2011
Gauge Symmetry


It was an eminent arrival: to awake in a definite
location in time and space, involving the single
***** with more zeal than the rest. But where
am I really? Staring at these thorny lines engraved
in my palm during an hour I should be asleep.
I can’t help but think that the love of a life
should have spared me.

A caption below the photograph in the times reads
It’s an illustration of a tactic employed by Hezbollah
and Hamas to use their own civilians as human shields.
And somewhere else laying on rubble, once road, a blood
smeared newspaper ruffles in the breeze, then violently
unfolds from a burst of wind, never to be read, a stray dog
licking a wound pauses and perks it’s ear.

Earlier, in the library I walked the spiral staircase
and traced my fingers down a dusty spine:
“How
we
became
Post-Human”.

It must have been an artificial insemination.

My skull throbs from an inoperable legion
of fractal thoughts which I developed upon listening
to the sounding tremble in Pathetique, too immature
to know the power of what it heard like that time
I foolishly laid my eyes on a carnivorous
tulip, it spat me out alive.

Moon is no comfort, only an aperture. The day
is overexposed and my eyelids clasp
down like a shutter, I try to fall asleep
to remember where I really am and where
I've always been.
Searching Aug 2010
While passing quiet morning moments,
A breakfast feels abandoned on the bed,
And bright window light illuminates drafts,
Like dreams strewn 'cross a darkroom, and shadows
Of negatives, overexposed in cold tones,
Fluttering like flashes of thought  in my head.
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated
By a life lead in dread of realizing potential
Like a great actor afflicted by stage fright,
If the proud eagle were afraid to take flight,
And though power comes with such telling insight,
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated,
Sighing in  surrender, paralyzed by my Light.
Copyright © 2010 Searching. All Rights Reserved.
Moe Dec 2021
i think i know
that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind
like a vivid rainbow across your face
light transmissions offering up your words
your image is on repeat
and our sentiments are all quite something else
always on hindsight
on turmoil
easily not speaking
confused about what we want
overexposed to death
we each smell detached
the way we sound in the distance
often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness
Ana Kruscic Nov 2012
I have been shaped, some bruised and molded statue of clay.
To obey and proceed with attentive caution, wary: "Do not stray!";
Have a walk to clear your thoughts through the Rose gardens.
Some purpose: to love, to nurture, to care.
Alas! I have not been adequately made aware,
That my mind's Ghost gives no steps to share.

A bee for a flower and even fish for the sea,
But how to compare with a human like me?
Let my gills breathe in the stream's current--
And let me pollinate the wicked flower.
For I also must learn the ways,
Of today's quick and increasing dismays.

They say, "You must live, so long as you are alive"
"Do not ever yourself of intense feelings deprive!"
But who knows what's better and right,
And whether we were all born Good and White.
Sentiments overexposed and worn-out for some,
For them become quite weary and numb.

A glimmer of hope through a cloud of fear,
Perchance to say, "Ok, I'll give them my ear"
But the frost built up and fresh wood decays,
The mist has grown dark with a deadly-ash haze.
The suns warmth that to my bones brings strength
Leaves me, in Winter alone almost at arms-length.

Sing, and rebel. WE must drink and remind ourselves-
As one task goes by, another awaits.

Time no longer dances around an infants thumb,
Rather whips and rides the very Sun.

The heart bends, salvation is within!
Where is He so that I may not sin?

But have a walk to clear your thoughts through the Rose gardens.
Because nature's beauty does not take off without warning.
Bags packed and set aside through an evening sleep--
Words of a prophet: "As you sow, so shall you reap"
The long and heavy pendulum of those sighs spent,
Cuts deep into the flesh; a spirit to torment.
Suzanne S Mar 2018
My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a  pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.
Marge Redelicia Oct 2013
Screaming
In bright lights, bold colors
Driving by billboards,
TV, magazines The
Lies
For young children to see
That distorts the meaning of value and beauty
That it’s all about
The wheel at your hands
The house at your feet
Your
Skin
White as bones, overexposed
Whose name is wrapping your
Stick, sick
Flesh

It’s all about
Me
In this consumerism


To believe these deceptions
Is to
Deny and shun
What He has said,
What He has done
And to accept these distortions
Is to
Push Glory’s embrace and
Spit at Beauty’s face
For the way of the world
Is a blind subversion
Against The
Holy
Holy
Holy God

‘Cause He said
He bought you with a price
His beloved Son, Jesus Christ
No need to chase this and that
Turn back
He has been chasing after you
That is fact
Are you lost?
Are you broken?
Well in Him you are loved
Not just accepted,
Chosen
He is Father.
And from enemy you became
His son, His daughter
Can the world just please know that
They are
Children, royal heirs
Not tools
Not meat
Not slaves
To tree fibers flattened together
To the ogling eyes of men
Just as ***** and blind as theirs

It’s an honor that this
We Christians know
In the world we are tasked
The Truth we must show
So do not conform
To these unattainable norms
Take heart
Set yourself apart
For tomorrow is the due
The Lord will do amazing things among you

Remember:
One coin is one vote
For the kind of world we want to see
For the kind of world we want to be
Ponder
That those trash are only made and sold
Because people lust over those worldly strongholds
So, make certain
That the things that you buy
That the votes that you cast are for
Modesty, security, purity,
God’s name, God’s glory.
The icons, the trends we
Have been following,
It’s time to start leading

Do not falter
This generation we can alter
No need to be economists, politicians, or preachers
Just as Christian consumers
We have the power
Those are not mere dull coins or crumpled bills in your hands
You know what it is?
**That is the future
This is a spoken word poem that we had to do for an English project.
there is a long pink road

lime trees walk its path in judgement

twists of dazzling colors

zigzag through

unclaimed silences

coaxing a belief in magic

dismantling and reassembling minds

i remove one eyelid then the other

there is an immediate

diaphanous color of red

a flimsy dimness

that shows an escape route out of time

displaying the fragmented mosaic

of my disordered mind

scarlet watches me

searching my face

trying to seek out

a geography yet to be discovered

i feel an overexposed rhythm

of alpha spirals

they collide with the colors

among the lime trees

a coca-cola bottle

smashes somewhere

I hear the secret song

played in the time of the assassins
Akemi Mar 2013
Wicked gaze draws the life
To blossom bright through too wide eyes
Overexposed, like blowing bulbs
They crackle and crack
Leaking dead hope
1:57am, January 19th 2013

Sometimes you fall in love with someone,
who will do not good to you.
Who casts their eyes through you,
uses you,
and others,
breaking your heart,
and hopes.
Joshua Phelps Sep 2023
Almost a year later,
I still wish I
hadn't lost my focus.

I let the
Lens focus
on the wrong things,

In the wrong places,
And it’s all just a
mess.

An accidental shutter,
Now the picture's
faded, and

It's hard for me to
discover what life’s
meant to be

When it’s just me

Out in this vast,
dark world,
feeling lonely.

Burning out,
Just like a dying star,

Feeling temporary,
I'm barely
holding on.

Just being alive
doesn’t feel alright.

Feeling out of place
and overexposed,

Just like the
Polaroid on my chest.

Looking at the smiles,
A bittersweet moment,

A moment in which
I hope I don’t regress.

I know it’s hard to progress,

And I know I just need
to convince myself and
trust the process.

I know this won’t
last forever.

Photos capture
moments,
And I must remember

This isn't the end
of my chapter.

The world moves forward,
and moments last forever,
and hurt is only temporary.
rained-on parade Mar 2018
I.
You walk through these streets
like you think you know what you want.
But tell me honestly,
inside the pockets of your coat
your fingers never uncross,
do they?

II.
I drown you in photographic film
and sometimes I wonder how time
stands still in a painting.
In the middle of the bazaar, you stood
like a painting
while people moved around you
like an overexposed reel of film
and time still stands still to this day

III.
You're coughing it all out; winter
on your lips and spring in your lungs.
Drink me.
I am a tincture of a daydream.
The sun is always brighter, my dear.

IV.
Our hands interlace in the darkness
and melt away with the consequences of time.
You are a bottle of something precious.
Put me to sleep, sing
me to sleep.

V.
Undo the buttons of your dress
and wear away with the night.
Shed this old layer of skin
and something about rebirth
we can tell beautiful lies
but how long before the bread soaks up the milk
and the blood on the carpet
seeps into
the wood.

VI.
The ice on the lake
can't hold up this dream anymore.
You're a hallucination
and all I needed.
I don't know if I'll ever finish this.
Em Glass Aug 2016
the daughter of Apollo
whistles back at birds
reminding them to stay close,
she knows that Icarus
was a dense
bloke so it goes, they circle
in the overexposed
sky and come back just
shy of the shine, and the cicadas
always know when it's time.
then she says, "come along,"
and they all know to go,
following the whistle
of the daughter of Apollo.
conducts the song of the universe
b e mccomb Aug 2016
if you went back in time
and found my eighth grade self

you would find long sleeves
pulled way down her arms
and you might notice
she was hiding something
that she got awfully tired of hiding
and tired of stares when she wasn't

i'll give you a hint
my ninth grade self
had bright red scars
seared into her shoulders

my tenth grade self
was still finding leftover
pink horizon lines from
safety razors on her thighs

my eleventh grade self
found all her skin remarkably
pale but her coping
mechanisms still unhealthy

and my twelfth-grade self
she was the weakest one of all
just had the strongest
jaw to hide behind
and enough self-confidence to
stretch thin across her neuroses

but if you could go back
and find my eighth-grade self

please tell her
something for me
she won't believe it
but i just have to tell her

that in four years she will buy
the most beautiful sleeveless
white dress with navy lace
and she will wear it with
sneakers and bruises on her knees
a smile the overexposed
color of her insecurity

and nobody
will say a
**** thing
about her scars
bleached into
a memory.
Copyright 6/13/16 by B. E. McComb
Patrick Conroy Mar 2013
Good Morning America
Act Now!
For today the price is right.
Our American idols have been conveniently portioned and pre-packaged for your enjoyment.
The wheels of fortune have turned in our favor,
laying us down in our warm beds of satisfaction.
Dreaming of the X-factor that will give us our
fifteen minutes

A girl,
no more than sixteen
and pregnant
strives to be a top model.
Overexposed and underdeveloped
barely able to read or write,
she is paraded in front of a camera and lights.
And the studio exec will keep cuttin' those paychecks
as long as you keep tuning in for another
fifteen minutes

The education can wait until the spotlight fades
who needs class mates when you got fans,
as long as those lights keep flashing on your fame, you got another
fifteen minutes
Collette Abatta Feb 2012
A sloppy connection made through dry sockets
Man-child trembles at his capabilities
Poor thing, my charge
A fifth of *** and a bit of battery acid
So true
A false wall that keeps the roaches in
Volunteer for a bit of community service
I serve, teach, and protect (frail ego systems)
I serve it up spiced and garnished
Cut up neatly with uniform premeditated precision
Little bite-sized baby food morsels for his mouth
So easy to chew
So true
So easy to swallow

The boy, lewd rude lust thrusting
(Drag in his line, correct its arc, and begin again, slower now)
Poor thing
The spotlight making his naked man-machine
Glow surreal satellite white, overexposed;
Pour viscous shadows into every exquisite crevice
In repose, underexposed
He begins to decipher my light projection
I put it to my lips…
My motive *****

Poor thing, always at a lack
Pretty vacant boy bomb
(Sigh…just lie still life)
Just one of the boys
Just one of the luscious little wind-up toys
Just another pound pounding of flesh
(Fact: humans are mostly dark meat)
He passes out before I can do any real damage

Superimposed, film the oily residue cell by cell
It is my body, oh yes
My doppelgänger dictates the disease
(White sound waves will wash my body
Clean to a distant, lonely shore)
Dip me in saliva
I come up gilded, salt streaks straps stinging
So true
I am sick of the flaming hoop trick
I am sick of his radiant Vegas platform
(Sick of trying tying a knot in this cherry stem)
Ambivalence a smeared lipstick stain from yesterday
My thoughts are exactly 21.5 miles away
Just once
I want something pure
Circa 1998
Justin S Wampler May 2015
and the things I've forgotten
will line the seams of my mind,
and every last nail driven
into the coffin of my memory
will echo in my ears
just like they always have

so I'll quietly stare at these
photographs of tomorrow night,
when everything is alright,
and I'll just keep trying
to remember that they are
underdeveloped and overexposed
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
tired of my drooping Hanes,
my slept-in choice for greeting
a new morning tad overexposed,
my weekend breakfast table
body's accoutrement,
"coverup" she deemed accurately
as in-suffice,
my nighttime slept-in choice for
welcoming the new morning
as a single continuum,
exposing my true colors,
thus declaring biblically,
"Let there be night, let there be day,"
in a manner of speak

she-woman wryly declares
over her slim sizing
yogurt Greek and half of a laugh
of a banana downsized,

"You need some loungewear"

pondering this ponderosa-sized ponderosity,
grasping its monstrosity insulting me,
coffee pouring, Eye, a
first responder
contemplate irresponsibly,
thinking to reply with bravado,
that on said day,
when Eye accrete
such a class of clothing
so nomenclatured as
"loungewear"
upon my person,
or in my ward-so-unrobed found,
unasked for,
Eye will require transgendering

but my tongue bites me,
so instead
draw down on my John Donne,
on the subject of
food, good taste
and being unclothed,
and instead
He-poet
bequeath the she-woman
this riposte...

"Full nakedness!
All joys are due to thee;
as souls unbodied,
bodies unclothed must be
to taste whole joys.


wisely retreating than be
defeating,
not wanting
a world war conflicting,
with coffee mugged, Eye return/hide,
under the bed's blanketing comforter,
thinking of the taste of whole joys
of her body unclothed,
when later, she creeps in next to me,
to practice the serious art of
*lounging...
Putting the Vin in Vignette
That Girl Dec 2014
This morning, it rains
immitating last night's emotional forcast

    how pathetic

This morning, the ground is wet
yet I can't shake this dry feeling I woke up to

isn't rain supposed to nourish life?

This morning my breakfast is a sugary Kelloggs cereal
but my mouth still tastes bitter from yesterday's words

This morning, I watch children's cartoons instead of the news
Because I'm done with grown ups, with their tragedy and bad weather

Reality destroys the good in the good morning show

This morning, I don't want to go out
Despite that, I sit on this almost empty bus that brings me out into the world

This morning, I wish that my umbrella sheilded me from the negative thoughts that rain down on my head,

and soak my scalp

I don't like isolation but I can't risk exposure
because when the photo is overexposed,
you lose the darkness as well as the photograph.
Which I don't think is a very fair trade...

But this morning, I come to realize peace in the rain,
a cleansing, calm, new beginning
I learn to listen to the pitter patter, which echos my heart beat
And though nothing feels fair, and I feel like I'm drowning
I know the rain will never consume me
So I'll dance in the showers,
and when the waters flood up all around me I will swim
  like I'm back in my favourite version of summer

Rain, rain, don't go away
*somebody needed you
A while ago
a little all over the place
I like rain
You glare into the lens with smoldering eyes
Your ghost
A fiery whisp of your soul
Hungry and straining to yank itself out from under your clenched jaw
Bite down hard
Watch the blood spill from your stone tongue
Into my plastic solo cup
Your tooth floats to the top
Quickly swarmed by genial bubbles
Mocking our leaden embrace
Pop pop pop
We fall to the floor
Breaking our bones in a fit of giggles
Happy New Year
It is the weakness of the flesh,
the sweetness of the sweat
on your skin
what will be the end of me.
.
Because no matter how strong
I am,
you make a quitter of me,
I quit my values and my mind.
.
And it is all worth it, for you,
for the taste of your body, of
your skin,
for the slickness of your lips.
.
Its the sensuality of your eyes
that ignites me entirely from
the inside,
its even hotter than lava.
.
You set my hands on fire
and I can't wait to see the red hot
scorch marks
that I will leave all over your body.
.
It's your tongue making its way
from my lips, to my shoulders and
to my ear,
that makes me fall on my knees.
.
And it is with your every breath
that my entire world goes away,
its shattered,
the pieces lie under your fingernails.
.
I'm left overexposed and alone
lying in bed naked dressed only
with regret,
because of this I have to remain silent.
.
You are fire and I am gunpowder,
you make me explode every time
you touch me,
and I know this is all wrong.
.
You will take me everywhere
from pleasure to agony,
from glory to ruin,
but I know we will meet again.
Keith W Fletcher Jan 2016
Empower me
With the keen edge
Of cathartic sagacity
And I will dance
In exalted  tribute
To daybreaks invincibility
Double time
While quoting  rhyme
To the downbeat slash
Of the scarecrows scepter
While compatable
Emulation
Exposed to rarefied
Imagination
As the keep of the keys
Pounds out
The scathing expose
That dredges up
Those
Benumbed and bewildered
Riders
Who have been
Constantly
Overexposed to the negatives
Developed
In those darkrooms
WHERE
Expedited promises
Secretly enacted
Enabling
Blankcheck *******
Of any and all
Faithful believers
Of our beloved Carrousel
That we have
Always  insisted
Is the keepsake
Bequeathed
To all the concerned
Caretakers--once empowered
With the keen edge
Of cathartic sagacity
Now just
Trying to keep dancing
To the fading  calliope music
As too many
Once - synchronised
Elements
Of our revolving
Carrousel  
Are going wrong
Breaking down
William Marr Feb 2021
From every angle
I tried to capture your bright smiles
for a colorful dream

Overexposed
the images overlapped
and I had a sweet dark sleep
till dawn
After breathing gives
To the pressure of his hips,
My perception shifts at
The firmness of his kiss,
Tingling thighs as he slides
Inside, fire and electric tingle
Overexposed all senses feel.
As he climbs inside my
Mind bouncing around,
Pushing out every thought,
Until there’s nothing, but
the soft glow of his skin.
I feel like if I press hard
Enough against his porcelain
Chest,
I could fall into him.
Skin, on skin.
Tear drops falling into ocean.
Stars burn behind his eyes,
They hide while he’s exploding.
Silence,
“love” I whisper,
“how are you feeling?”
I find his silence irritating.
“ are you seriously already sleeping?”
“ no…..
sorry babe my ears are ringing.”
And my laughter shakes the bed,
The greatest of our passion
Residing in his heart, my head…
Its an intricate balance,
Lust and love,
Talk and silence.
Together, divided.
There’s no love like mine is,
So aware so blinded.
I wouldn’t trade a second of watching him sleep,
Or give away a second with him beneath the sheets
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
strict obligations to mind technique -
a range of techniques to identify
a paced scribble done haphazardly
for the effect of unquestionable timing
as time itself question, settled
for lazy afternoons and volumes upon
volumes - well, the bore of schoolchildren
being taught the standard of communication
as grammar in all its guises and adding to
this the identifiers of poetics, shackle
them in metaphor conscious expression
and they'll excessively rhyme -
e.g. yeah mm, yeah, birches of the brood,
mm, yeah, wave to the navigator
and limousine driver, mm, yeah,
mm, yeah, ******* in the alley, poetry
the ultimate straitjacket of language
use, so many constraints, mm, yeah,
******* of rodeo doing disco with a hand
spare waiting for prompt of the **** salute -
mm, yeah, pottery and poetry are moulded
although pottery with the hands as one,
poetry by exchanging patterns of a tennis
statistics of serve depending on what's
more accessible via the index through to the thumb;
mm, yeah, birches in the hoodlum choir -
knuckle dusters and nail clippings among
broken skulls - already the constraints of grammar
we all yawned at, then came poetics
and the second tsunami of disgruntling -
father grammar, son poetry, the holy ghost
a multiplier of yawns among gradations from
a* through to f - like a musical scale -
now i realise i joined the abhorrent crowd of
artistic expression, i never knew could be so
**** unauthentic, maybe the missing orchestration,
the prophetic voice in the wilderness -
the lack of materialistic concern for bees' wax
to accumulate for envious purposes -
a hole with chlorine-cleansing chemicals
that's neither salt or sweet water and no wish -
a massive bathtub and a different form of ******* -
i know teaching grammar is like teaching poetry,
too many rules, too many rubrics, lists and lists
of things happening but not actually happening -
the faking of poetry on account of identifiers
as marked accessibility and respectability -
but never the essential coarse experience -
so some forgive the excruciating test of grammar -
they say 'if comprehensive therefore satiated' -
but then the anti-poetry with an army of instruments
uses only rhyme to akin itself as to why
B. Dylan's lyrics were debated in poetic circles -
i really did choose the wrong art -
or perhaps i'm only saying that because i can
create quarters for four agile limbs to comprehend -
let's say one celebrity had photo-sensitive
epilepsy - the stability of scarce lightning
against the lunar and solar cycles - but then
overexposed to a syringe of phosphorescent luminary
injections of insomnia -
the modern ailment summarised by insomnia
in all the totals asserted - the fear of death
entombed, now the fear of not ably falling asleep
or the fear of not sleeping at all;
indeed a heresy some might say -
but in Dante's theology i find purgatory as
a courtroom - the judgement necessarily passed -
depending on what duality you are a disciple of(: / i.e.)
hell (your own company)
                                             x
                                               heaven (the company of others)
or
    hell (the company of others)
                                                      x
 ­                                                        heaven
                                                          ­  (your own company);
indeed no chiral assertions,
                since both add up to a pitch-perfect coordinate
                with parallelism's coordination of (+,+);
                 neither subtracts the other's accumulation,
                perhaps in the interchange
                (+, x), (-, +), (-, x), (+, ÷) -
                after all there can be worded expressions
                of utilising pure mathematical
                symbols to understand political
                dynamism -
e.g. (by adding you multiply the chance)
        (by taking away you add to an understanding)
        (by taking away you multiply the chances
         of non-recurrence or recurrence)
         (by adding you end up dividing
          the chances of expressing the Σ);
all in all, a chaotic foundation approves to architectural
order tumbling down into prone attempts for
new truths stabilised by vogue of the times
and later dismembered and disavowed from practice
and admiration.

— The End —