"overheated" poems
Can you feel it
Shh, allow the galaxy to pamper your body, blanket the essence of your mind, bit-by-bit
Travel on a higher awareness to understand the galaxy’s gentle gift
Close your eyes and allow your mind to softly drift
Soft Moonlight Dust
Illuminating the night skies, given warmth of its inner trust
Centered in the sky, a star abates for its enlighten ******
Kindred minds to enrapture, as souls physically adjust
So gentle, as a touch to the skin
An inner space to conquer, there an exploring craving begins
Awareness of self stirring into the constellation
Bodies attuned beyond the stretch of imagination
Savoring on the flavor of the alignment sweeten taste
Desires igniting an inferno, the heat of its flames refusing to wait
Overheated friction surrendering without debates
Runaway yearning weakening in the presence of fate
The ecstasy of the moonlight’s dust felt, abiding to the crack of dawn
Emotions of the elixir slowly withdrawn
A Cheshire moonrise
Always a sacred communion given in surprise
Masked feelings hidden behind the stars in our eyes
Sprinkles of pixie dust as the moon becomes full
Paired upon, as lace meets wool
Interwoven and tenderly spun on a galactic spool
Stars In Exile
Twinkling for eyes to glimpse beyond the earth’s smile
Canopus to Antares, oh how you make me shine
Closing my eyes, coveting your point as I’m making you mine
Settled and glittering as small diamonds binding in the sky
A wondrous elopement to experience in the blink of an eye
Soft whispers to the ones that shoot right before they fall
Such a beautiful and breathlessly cadence to wish under them all
The Gift Of The Sun’s Stroke
Umm, shooting stars kept me awoke
Relentless bodies bathing under the moon
Caresses, touches, entwined souls echoing the note of its weakening tunes
Sweeter and sweeter, deeper and deeper
Bodies fueled, hot as a heater, bodies climbing steeper and steeper
Heat consumes the interior of the temple
Sweat of life, as movements come together and then disassemble
Elated, sedated, dipping in a cool blue lagoon
Kisses under the sun on a beautiful afternoon
Temperatures rising not a moment too soon
June slamming into summer’s heat
A merriment of a sun stroke basking in the glorious feast
The galaxy and its spicy passion
A gift to the world to enjoy in any unbridled fashion
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
As we kiss,
Our hips like waves of flesh crash together.
Into one another they collide like two craters pulled in by gravity.
Our bodies connect like two streets at an intersection,
Lines "X" and "Y".
Your body as if a black hole ***** me in.
I ****** moving deeper with every movement.
You moan,
Such an ear tingling sound.
It slips through clenched teeth, only after climbing up your throat.
A song like no other,
Made only when your body is pushed to its point of bliss.
As we kiss,
Your heart races as if running for Olympic gold.
Your mind becomes clouded by a satisfying fog.
The sensitivity of our bodies skyrocket.
Our body's are overheated by our sensual passion.
Our hands intertwining fully making us one entity.
As we kiss,
Ecstasy in it's most unsullied state is reached.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”
a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being
a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers
imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels
part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on
demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death
in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth
look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,
I do not know
*how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,*
the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
the bus poets
we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!
once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases
we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!
no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw
books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers
if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you
tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
Looking back, memories distort.
Replace damaged nodes with something similar
Perhaps reconstructed
From previous set-up before
X and Y parameters Report
Step One:
Check patient notes to self
Re-calculate from de-constructed
Inject imagination
Respect self-defence mechanism
or immediate virus node termination
(a response attack organism)
Re-calibrate instruments awareness
Strip upgrade
Love version 4.1
Reboot only in emergency
Refer to install options
Error:
Temporal Lobe Anomaly
Virus detected
Internal nodes infected
Import Rejection version 3.2
and couple with
Lets Be Friends upgrade 1
(Advanced program)
Monitor assimilation
Danger!
Overheated components -
Re-inject Memory Node
Objective Hindsight applet.
Refer to Step One
It is now safe to shut down
Should you wish to.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
Astonished at the plethora of cars outside my casket, I try to get up. But, I'm held down by chains. It's so bright through the little cracks in The casket that I have to squint my eyes.
The sunRays ask me, "are you ready for this ride?"
I'm pinned down, hell bound. All these gifts decorated around me and on top of me signify that I'm decaying.
I am the epitome of the hearts grief. Since day one I was infected by your leave. Theres a honk, then A crash. Caused by the distraction of me being buried. Theres a hole in the window, theres a girl in the seat and there's a screech.
"Wait for me girl!" I scream. I scramble to get free. Get me out of here. Where's the rescue for her soul? The wreckage burdens me. As people flea my scene, I see backs turn from me.
Just a bit overheated, i awake from this peculiar dream. Also me in the parking lot, with the key, foot on brake, rumbled and shakes to start for a drive.
It then dawns on me; I'm going to my own funeral.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
Every night the underprivileged will be lifted up by the privileged.
Every night the rich will have everything right to eat, but the poor.
Every night the homeless will have nowhere left to sleep, but our old carpeted floor.
Every night scicle cell anemia will have everywhere right to be contained,
including your city heart snooker.
Every night peace will have everywhere to be passive,
including your japanese zen gardens,
Everyone will be right to make peace with us,
but our unkempt sons.
Every night the proletariat will sleep ignoring the foremen descending their picket fences,
Every serious thief will be rejected as a nightmare-
For they are owed nothing, and must reject everything more
than The Othello denial an ounce of starved soul.
They will lament, as we cool our overheated hearts,
on the pristine grounds of our single rooms.
And they will lament, as we lounge on the branches of our stoic oaks,
decomposing birthday songs for the Bad young nights of the wicked little girls…
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Women are like cars.
You've got new models, classics, clunkers, and the rare ones.
Some won't get you anywhere, some will crash and burn, and some will take you for the ride of your life.
Some have nice headlights and others have junk in the trunk. It's not just the body that counts, you've got to look what's under the hood too. That's the real power of her.
When you find the right one for you, you have to put work into things for them to run smoothly.
You have to try to fix things when they go wrong, you can't ignore it or she'll break down on you. That means regular maintenance and taking care of her. She can sometimes get overheated, you just have to patiently wait for her to cool down.
You have to turn her on and warm her up to get her going. ;)
And if you're really good to her, she'll always take you down the road you want to be.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
You have no right to say you're better than the rest
Pretending that underneath your shirt there's an S on your chest
As if I need a superhero to come save me
And believe me, I know where this is going
I've seen the Ice Man
He used to send chills down my spine
Until he froze my heart and smashed it with his bare hands
Leaving me to pick up this rigid pieces
And glue them back together
The cold still covers me on nights that are sleepless
I've seen the LavaMan
He warmed my cold, rigid soul
But one day he overheated
And left a giant steaming hole
That I can show you to this day
I'm still trying to hide it in every way
I've met IronMan
He wrapped me in precious metals to cover my bruises
When screws came undone
He made up excuses
As if his excuses could excuse my falling apart
Money can't heal a broken heart
I've felt SpiderMan
He enveloped me in his endless webs
I ended up getting lost
In the tangles of his bed
He left a mark of the smallest size
But the poison from his bite came as a surprise
I've heard the InvisibleMan
But I only felt him when he held my hand
I only knew him when I felt his touch
He didn't need me at all
Didn't even want me that much
Ive seen, heard, felt it all
So before you go on and on
About how hard I'll fall
You should know
**I don't need a ******* Hero**
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
No *** for awhile.
Not really looking right now,
Give me your number.
Waterfall Rainbow:
We embraced on an outcrop,
Under a fine mist.
Her head on my chest;
She smiled, then falls fast asleep,
I fall asleep, too.
“What” I asked, “again?”
*** three times in one hot night—
I wanted to sleep.
Do not get too close—
I have had my fill of love,
Now you have been warned.
Nothing left to say,
This will be my last Haiku,
Still thinking of you.
Black Widow in bed
Waiting for the right lover
To ****** and eat.
I fell in love once,
The sweet taste lingered for awhile
Then turned quite bitter.
Love is a question;
No one has all the answers
We can only guess.
The first time we met—
My body overheated,
It hasn’t cooled yet.
My Chevy’s backseat:
Many memories linger
All of them are good.
Tina Turner said:
“What’s love got to do with it?”
I say, “Everything!”
My fidelity,
Along with my love, is all
I have to offer.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC
Like salt from a shaker,
she flowed into the room.
Sprinkling just a bit too much of herself.
Ruining the assumption of true flavor.
My taste for the bland is non existent
However; I need the seasoning to be just right
to taste such a delicate dish.
Nothing too over the top, but just right.
Lying on the surface, ready, waiting to be devoured.
Her mood changed when she saw that I had dropped the napkin,
Saw that I bent the fork,
dumping it next to the ice and wine.
And the waiter; that tight nosed ******
Shrugged and harrumphed his way to the kitchen,
Saying there would be no desert. No tasting this night.
She thought she had seasoned me well, and left me to bake in the chandeliers and crystal goblets of this place.
Alas, she fell short of the recipe,
Foreplay burned in an overheated oven.
Burnt to a crisp in her little black number,
and over salted in the assumption of her come hither look,
and my desire or the lack thereof.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:27 AM UTC
Mother Nature has a way of helping all of her beautiful creatures
She offers chamomile for when your mind is keeping you from sleeping
Passion flower for your constant worries and woes
Coffee to keep your eyes open
Ginko biloba for when you fail to remember
St John’s Wort for the melancholy that you can’t shake
Lavender for your head’s physical pains
Ginger for those cramps that seem paralyzing
Feverfew to relieve you when you’re overheated
Cannabis to escape all that troubles you
Mint for your when your stomach upsets you
Mother Nature’s healing powers should never be overlooked
She will tend to your wounds
Internal or external
Because Mother Nature cares for you
And you should care for her too
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
Two people lurk in everyone
the star and the scar
born from building high citadels of power
and cascading into smithereens
when the switch is tripped.
Maybe the voltage ran low
or the circuit breaker was poorly constructed?
I dont know.
I operate on a three phase armour
of emotional stabilisers
that spark and twitch when overheated
with too much energy. But I return
with black faced integrity
collars up and smoking
to fight on another electrifying moment.
'Thats life' I hear
the rollercoaster ride
built into the system
going around in circles
always facing the sunrise
and sunset. We scream and tumble
into the guts of the incline
the switch and roll of events
swerving around corners
holding on tight white knuckled
until it finishes its rumble
and we walk out wobbly and vomity
until the better side takes over.
The darker side recedes
into an unknown pocket.
Author Notes
Thanks to Cinderley13 who wrote about Catfish and Lydia and Lyda and made me wonder what the hell was being alluded to? It now makes a bit more sense.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
one halcyon summer, when
we strung ourselves out on fat couches, wilting
like thirsty, overheated forsythia, one
hundred or more crimson carcases found themselves
turned upside down on my floor. ladybugs discarded
from the designs of nature. i swept them under the bed.
i promise, when you die, i will not flick you out of sight
with a careless index finger (there will be sorrow, outrage, and flowers
picked clean of aphids).
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
Paratroopers free fall,
'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl
reaching down perplexed ****** frames.
Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day.
A right brained boy with a head full of clout
miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north
to the south.
Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences
through blown speakers and an overheated circuit -
Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless
without a reason there isn't a purpose.
Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time
overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes
Open those whale blubber caked eyes
to the other side.
It's not what this has done to you
but what this has done to us.
The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus.
Never was he lost, but given more than one chance.
He, no, she, no we
were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack.
Will we cross this road again?
And pick up from where we began?
Or never turn back?
Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance
But was it worth it?
Upholding the "right and proper" stance?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
Late nights spent in the depths of the Gita,
Self realization nipping at my boot heals.
Reading the lines of a gone, but not forgotten,
Gay poet, shedding a tear to his epitaph.
Death always sinks its teeth in deep,
Deep into the bowels of the subconscious,
Twisting and writhing through long
Dead emotions, finally expiring its final breath
Through the sinus cavity and out the eyes.
Breakfast is no longer held in the morning,
But far beyond dawn’s reach in the late afternoon,
Much needed sleep is pushed off until
The last minute.
God bless procrastination.
God bless my body, soul, consciousness,
And mind.
God bless those ravaged by war and hate.
Trailing after sunset for that one great fix,
No escape for the ones within its grasp.
Naked we lay in bed,
Until the noon sun kisses our cheeks.
Naked we lay in our hearts, bodies,
Souls, and spirits.
Naked is the man who looks himself in the mirror,
Only to find a corpse in the hollowed eyes that
Sleep deprivation has left him.
Overheated and lost in ill-repaired pipes
At midnight,
Loneliness creeps in like a spy to my senses.
The great manifesto has seeped its way into my brain
And retired in the retinas of self-loathing.
Unforgiving poisons course through the veins.
Strobe lights dim the senses,
People in slow movements of black and white.
Paying our debt,
Debt that is owed to our maker
From the dawn of time to the ravaged streets
Of a morally degraded and ignorant,
Politically correct World.
Dance with me tonight.
Dance in the streets with joy and madness.
Dance with tumorous disease.
Dance with the leper's cry.
Dance with the sodomite’s urge.
Dance with the looming shadows.
Dance with the bigots and the profiteers.
Dance with me, because we are free.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
i was in a terrible accident
one of those classic floor waxing accidents
scarred my face
FOR LIFE
i cant fill out my mustache anymore
my right side
near the corner of my mouth
BARREN
then there was that other one
terrible accident
folding clothes this time
SCARRED FOR LIFE
standing over a table
repetitive motions
each and every arch absent
DEFLATED
oh god remember that one
scarred for life
accident etched in
ORGANIZING RECORDS
the shelf collapsed
the knick knacks from the top shelf
cracked Funkadelic
NO MORE FUNK
and while i lament
****** stache
flat feet
broken record
real things happen
like that zit between my eyes
overgrown shrubs
1080p overheated
i mean things REAL people care about
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
The smell of tires and overheated air hits us like confetti pieces as if we've just won the Superbowl.
This is how I choose to remember you.
This was the beginning to our "adventures", hours lost aimlessly wandering down aisles. The list mom wrote, neatly tucked away in the bottom of one of our pockets, whoever she deemed more responsible that day.
Our bellied laughs would bellow clear over the bird feeders, past the flannel lined jeans, and beyond the orange slice candies.
We taught ourselves a new language. One when spoken, always accompanied with a flimsy tongue. One when spoken to anyone but you was just babble.
In this place, we found life without a limit. One where dancing among the Harley Davison vests was acceptable. One where testing the army surplus metal helmets only seemed logical.
We found a place where you didn't have to grow up, time stopped.
For us, we found a place that created equals of us.
These memories, like words stored in dictionaries, are stored in the pages of my mind. On lonely days I visit them, flipping pages, finding your voice, your smile and your silly dance. They echo off the walls of my memories.
and when I open my mouth to echo back it sounds like this :
Fli
Flove
Flou
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
My heart is cold. It had been previously overheated, by emotions that my mind took in like sweet ecstasy only to spit these emotions out like sour milk. My body learned to stare at the milk carton, and no longer have the urge to drink the liquid that is perfectly fine. Expiration date: five weeks from now. But no, ever since I drank that sour glass, I can’t be emotional anymore. I want to sympathize and empathize, but only with you. Because here, empathy could be easy and sympathy would be natural. But, all I want to feel is you. I want to feel the shape of your thoughts. I want to be constricted to you and only you. You’re the only milk I’ll ever drink. You’re today, tomorrow, and yesterday. You’ve told me that your father is an alcoholic. He would get drunk off wine, and you called him a ***** You always stare into my eyes before we conform to each other’s bodies and say “Why are you always so sad”. My response is never fulfilling, and I’m sure you want to know about me, but I’m not ready to tell me story, so tell me yours. Your father is an addict. He had a difficult childhood and grew up to be a man, both hated and praised. Your mother had breast cancer and back surgery, but why? Maybe I don’t even need to know about your parents, what about you? You stare into my pupils and question my ever-present sorrow, so, may I question yours? Why do you shut off your emotions, the same way I do. Why do you remain unaffected by the pain of others? I have tasted the sour milk on my tongue, and I vow to never taste it again. But, when our lips touch, I taste honey and I smell lilac, and I feel home. So tell me, what your story is, please… We feed off each other’s agony and cry in our beds at night, we meet up at midnight so that we don’t feel alone, we rest in the pain that makes us bitter and unkind. I need to know your story, because although I have seen bits and pieces of an overcomplicated puzzle, I need to see the whole picture, and you need to see mine. Please, you’re all I have. Let me taste honey and smell lilac and feel at home, because with you, my heart is warm,
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Took the bus home.
Paid my $2.50,
no special discount.
Spent my day selling my wares,
But did not sell enough to
Pay the daily rent,
Hell, to even pay for lunch.
Gave up my seat for sweet,
Baby-child laughed at my
Gallantry, I think,
For his exclamations were
Of the shrieking pleasurable variety.
Saw Macbeth last night,
In the end, he dies,
Same as when I saw it
Last year.
Le plus ca change
The Frenchies say,
Wonder if they still wear berets
And say "Le Weekend?"
In the winter,
The buses are overheated,
So winter coats become furnaces.
I am rendered,
Ash and smoke.
Nothing new there too.
Missed my stop
Writing this,
Happened before,
Hope it happens again.
Came home to the customary
What's new,
So I said
Not too much
But,
Somebody decided that ole
Poem I wrote two years on,
Should be the
Poem of the Day.
That's sweet, my love ,
You surely will be
Insufferably happy and
Impossible to live with
for at least the next
five minutes.
So take the trash out,
Before we leave,
Then pick a place to dine,
For not a thing in the fridge to eat.
So to the compactor,
I strode, thinking Shakespeare
Didn't have to do this, I'll bet,
But started smiling,
Ear to ear,
A ***** eating
Big ole
Grinning,
Nonetheless!
Thinking,
The question is,
How does it feel,
This poem of the day
Accolade,
The answer,
of course!
It feels, like,
I am,
I am just like {you, man}
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
There's something so
delicious
about getting caught
in a summer storm,
the chilled water droplets
penetrating the outer layers
of clothing,
soaking the overheated body
with unexpected
refreshment.
I heard all the squeals
and screams,
cries toward the sky
to close its open mouth,
to stop spitting down
on them
as they ran,
ducking cars,
looking for a rooftop
makeshift
umbrella.
I chortled
not so discreetly,
extending my arms
side to side
to catch the droplets
on my bare skin.
The rain felt so ****
as it slid down
my forehead,
slipping
slowly
across my lips,
sneaking down below,
into the crew cut
of my shirt.
Two blocks away from home,
most of the runners had run by,
the rest huddling below
the entrance to various shops
and bars,
I walked by, paying the stares no mind,
sporting a purported
half-crazed look,
while I truly exuded
exuberance,
ebullience,
liveliness.
The pouring
turned to
pittering, pattering,
gentle kisses from the
beads,
letting up just as I
approached my door,
like the universe knew,
and it let me
dance home
in the rain
before the sky shut its
wide-toothed grin,
and the storm was gone.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
August was a turtleneck that didn't fit.
Arrested at the crown of the head,
overheated gasp.
Don't you think- she thought,
I see the irony in everything I do?
Pressing ruthlessly against the yield of flesh,
probing against the pale underbelly, measuring
the distance between skin and bone.
is it better now? Is it better?
Imperceptible white ribbons at
the curve of the thigh, a bow tie atop
the gift of a new healthy body
swollen against the wrap.
I hate... I hate myself. Feels all wrong-
She eats her dinner and
the food digests in her brain.
Healthy, now? Is this-
Healing?
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC