"pastes" poems
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles
Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions
A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks
Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow
Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade
Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
You got a body like fire
When you're close i feel your heat
You know how to keep man running
Like runners in a track meet
I ll call you my daredevil
Cause when you in control you do different tricks
She works her mouth like a disease
When she goes downlow it drives me sick
Now im no weather man but rainy weather is what i predict
When im inside i feel a storm
I can make your body roar
Imma stretch your body out
Since thats the type of *** you adore
I'll work my tounge like a magnet
Its attracted to your body
And addicted to its taste
Your middle is like the glue and my mouth is the paper it pastes
What more can i say
Your middle is like a water gun
And i love to see it spray
No i dont need to be taught
But how can i stop all these naughty thoughts
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
She stood tall,
Slender,
Flamboyant as she swirls,
Encapsulating dreams while dancing,
In a come-die ballet, from times evaporation,
Playing hysterics in magical fire dance of ritual celebrations,
Playing games of passion creations,
Such beauty in an aura of pleasure and pain,
In rigaudon she pastes her grace,
For she is not a dancer,
For she is my quill,
The dancing pen removes my ills.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
Because beauty lies in minerals and chalk,
and outlandish tinctures remedy physical faults
with pastes and goo,
the daily ritual of painting flesh,
disguising ourselves from a social stigma,
compels and consumes us
Obsession over minute details,
driven by the incessant narcissism
of a portentous society,
coerces us into proclivity,
so that each day we worship a virtual image,
mere reflected light
Because of all the reticulated bones and fat and blood,
sustaining life-functions and supporting the capability intelligence
which we rarely take steps to refine,
and of the independent, incognizant cells,
working ensemble circuitously,
the web which imprisons it all is most beautiful.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter.
Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions.
Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
we eat acid &
strawberries &
butter in the cemetery, &
feed foxes lizards face first.
the candy-colored smoke don’t smoke;
sunstruck lomograph light.
her rollerskates are last to come off;
i go south on her body.
as bottlerockets,
we muse on stars & dark.
fire we carry.
go west young man: sell microwaves.
sell particles, pastes, & patina of ameri-cult & ooze.
seek effervescence.
want nothing but to get back to her poetry;
her warmth;
yet never do.
or do.
by manifest destiny: gold bricks & beer.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
if i drowned myself
somebody would ****** their hand into my bowl of fruit loops and pull my face up
if i jumped off a building
somebody would put pillows on the carpet to soften the fall
if i put a (glue)gun to my temple
somebody would snap a picture with the caption "idiot pastes her hand to her forehead"
if i ate poison
somebody would rush to my side and ban me from eating fast food ever again
if i committed a fashion faux pas
my best friend would tell me to change my outfit
but if i pulled a trigger on an entire country
the world would go silent
just to watch
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
She loves to spend her time
Far off from the light
Where she can clearly see
To pick stars from the sky
Puts them in her basket
Where she takes them home
Pastes them on her ceiling
Making constellations of her own
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
His topper reflected prisms,
And hair burned under his moon glance,
How ephemeral was midnight,
Darkness dressing my hair in stars,
His smile the light spill from a broken moon,
A claret glass bursting with blood skies,
His plumage exodus stealth netherworld ,
Trithing shards in flamed heat,
Black salt pastes orinein wounds,
Kirk yard elementals despoil spirits of all hell,
Strix cackle, taunt on nightly transvections,
A viridescent sadness wakes alone.
Saudade no seasons doth befall,
Trapped in concupiscence darkest tale void of intemperance
── Clad in loves spectural crown
Arnay Rumens © 12/ 2014
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
I can see the mask that you wear
The demon that you hide behind
As it chases you loiter it's shadow
I'll sooth you in the dark alleyways
Directly call the shamanic exorciser
to starlight your pebbled and icy path
I can see the mask that you wear
It laughs and mimic's as you **** it
Carrying a collection of your innocence
the disclosures of the haunted past
I'll reconcile amicably with the villain
sign the treaty permanently on your behalf
I can see your charming face behind that mask
That beautiful facade of yours my dear one
the vision in your eyes written on your iris
the ink that pastes a blank page of my desires
Our seal that wraps the crawls in the cold night
My divine one, let's fly afloat in the attic of our dreams
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
Whose words these are I think I know.
He's on another website, though;
He will not see me shopping here
To snitch his words for me to show.
My readership must think it queer;
I post ten thousand poems a year.
Between the copies, pastes and likes
I've barely time to chug a beer.
They give their addled heads a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
The others call me out, a creep.
Who cares? They're just a bunch of flakes.
Their poems are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have villanelles to sneak,
And lines to own before I sleep,
And lines to own before I sleep.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
She draws the stars
Late into the night
Standing in an open field
Soaking in their light
The beauty that they cast
Helps her pen to glide
When she's finished drawing
Is when she takes to flight
She draws the stars
Colors them by numbers
Throws away all diagrams
Prefers the use of different colors
Gives them all the oddest names
One after another
The furthest ones away
Names them after her ex-lovers
She draws the stars
Then gives her drawings away
To those she meets on the street
She feels needs a brighter day
She gives away the ones she loves
The rest she likes to save
Pastes them on her walls
In the galaxy she's made
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.
Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-
little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.
Let me know your name
You can taste my skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.
Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
Her makeup is splattered on her face
Too much of it
Almost clown-like
And sloppy
She's insecure
Probably reeling from heartbreak
Her hair is pulled back
She hasn't been taking care of it lately
Lots of split ends
We all know
How girls like her
Despise anything but perfect hair
Her mind is scattered
She's drinking coffee
When she lifts it to her lips
Her hands shake a bit
It's probably not her first cup
Yep
She's going through something
When I approach
She looks down
And then pastes a horrific
Facade of a peeled back grin
Another addition to an already
Fizzled out display
I contemplate "hello"
But her body language speaks volumes
And tells me that whatever I say
Won't mean anything
Her minds not there
It's miles in the distance
Not even glancing back
So I walk, slowly
Away
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Light emanating from distant ***** of burning gas are intimidated from the children’s vision by the unruly, central licks fluffing about their little fire.
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The wind, streaming in from the warm side of the nearby ocean, picks up waves of genuine laughter and stunning, off-key voices.
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A bloodline of salt water curls the group into a circular haven where there is no need for corners to shadow defensive secrets.
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This is a time of absolute purity as the children’s minds drift to Never-never land and their hearts float within the red wine spilling into their mouths.
===============================================================
They are all the happiest that they have ever been - on the seams of their spines, dallying until the currents will overtake them someday to bury their bodies at the bottom of the sea.
===============================================================
Darkness thickly pastes the surrounding beach, longing for the fleecy little fire to cease its bravado so that the children can fall deeply into sleep.
===============================================================
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
At the third world's first sun,
the Anasazi climbed
through a narrow Sipapu
and pressed footprints in the dust
of a new unspoiled universe.
In secluded canyon hollows
watered by softly chanting springs,
they piled rocks upon stones
shaping vast adobe cities
mortared with pastes of moistened clay.
At Mesa Verde - Chaco - de Chelly
fields of maize sway,
brushed by the canyon winds
while Pueblos danced in the plazas below
to the throbbing beats
of skin-stretched hollow log drums.
Today their children’s children
circle fire pits in sacred Kivas
raising chants and prayers
to their hallowed ancestors.
Wearied by famine and conquest,
Pueblo eyes scan the heavens
searching for a new Sipapu
to lead them to a better world still.
September 11, 2006
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC
"But why ask questions
without definite answers?"
Philosophy is a vortex of the unknown;
of confusion that hazes every screen
as the night returns to dawn
--only there is no clear transition
and the night becomes the morn.
But
it changes every decision;
your perception of life through those
tinted, often cracked sunglasses
and pastes a smile on your face;
This is power
of the unknown.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
Ridding our teeth of last nights, now rotting food.
Ingesting toxic pastes to put on a facade of pearly whites.
Pretending not to judge myself too harshly for the haggis I still taste
always stuck between #4 and #3
I forgot.
Momentarily.
How.
To brush my teeth.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Zips up her sheepskin attire
pastes on her smile
cuts her latest desire
with a look that beguiles
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
My son, you may find me at the edge of reason.
As I prepare to jump, leap, look, walk off and careen
into the depth,
the dark
of shadowy eyes.
Those shadows indeed in my eyes relay vision.
And I can almost see beneath, to the bone and the haunt it pastes on its readers.
The skull in full strong decorum.
A shook spear once held something like it. Perhaps the poetry flows
and wanders where it goes. A sorrow ****** from serene non-life.
All I care is to note
that I have privilege of viewing close my stark intentions.
For that is what the skull shows,
in its lidless bower:
the heated soul of my evil.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC
Look at the moon, she said.
Look at the moon, look at the moon.
The way it pastes itself onto that blanket of black
And stares with the whites of its eyes.
One big eye, bulging above,
Scrutinizing our species,
Asking me questions about Love
And other things I claim to understand.
Leave me alone, won't you?
Oh big, bulging moon of persistent
gazing insolence.
Does it speak?
Does it say: Look at the human,
Look at the tiny, tiny human.
Why does it stare at me
with those speculating specks of eyes?
I am dust, you are dust.
We are all dust, floating together.
Look at the moon or look at the human,
It is all the same.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
The sun has escaped from skies above
afloat in the knotted clouded waves
The fire glows the amber summer flows
sticks blaze in beaded mazes
as the flowers pots remain emitted and rearranged
My soul and body is bathed inside the glassware
the visible tattoos on the mesh of transparency
As the residues settle on the heats and beats of the base
torn apart and bricked on concrete grounds
the pavement of yesterday sketched inside cobblestones
Take all these books with printed rhythmic vegan lyrics
the fleets and flutters on the wandering beaches and shores
Blossoms of twigs and darkened patterned wings
all sunk in a plastic paper bag and crowned with outbursts
lost in a dream, that cream that pastes the narrowing masks
Float high above as the sun warms inside the boiling soup,
as the clocks ticks and the birds whistles of a wayward destiny
Caving inside the aisles of the never ending lengths and depth
where reality itself serves as a mirror of fortified intentions
a crucification and maturation of destitution in demise
To lose, my use and reuse the attention of the days gone by
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
did i write of them yesterday,
boxes, things are different today.
these are the old ones, shabby,
kept
a while for usefulness, now used
for slight installation, an ongoing
gift.
one holds a book of time, one has
many things, you know, the cotton,
and the string.
it is a gift.
tissue paper crumples, bone
pastes this life together, a
gift.
sbm.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
A series of flashing lights simulate a reality that no longer extends farther than the boundary of your back door.
You sit complacently in your living room while the world outside your window turns to ash and the re-constituted chemical pastes you eat as food slowly transform your body from flesh to a synthetic meat by-product.
I am more preservative than man
Your perpetuated existence is a lie. Maybe once the plugs pulled those incessantly firing neurons will catch up to what's already done and stop. You've been decomposing for years but haven't lived enough to ******* notice.
That's it folks,
the show's over.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Mencius, what is that they're doing?
Zhǐ! Another immortal walked from the sea;
Leaf & cordage finely chopped,
Throughly masticated & combined,
Left to the air to then reside
And collected after dried.
How most strange & curious!
You say the nobility call this parchment,
But for humor as irony
And because of the sound made
During the process of hammering,
The craftsmen call it paper?
And, like with tattoos,
They use pastes & fluids like dyes & resins
To stain drawings, shapes, and characters?
The lesser the weight of tablets,
Well-traveled with, easily read & clearly,
Markable with ease; readily inviting change
After change, reflecting our fragileness & resilience, offering record of our thoughts & accomplishments, a chance for the more prolific scribe and the library diverser & denser?
How wonderous a creation,
How gifted the craftsmen,
How genius the inventors.
Wow. That was so long ago
Before I was born.
But then compared to much else,
This fledgling has yet to have flown
From the small enclaves it nests as home.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC