"pneumatic" poems
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
7.2k
Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.
You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Uncluttered.
Uncrowded.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity
Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.
We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
Rain.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
Clickety clack clickety clack,
Suitcase wheels over the cracks,
Business men and business ladies,
Men and women some with babies,
The noise they make with heavy pacing,
Sends my heart heavily racing,
Pneumatic tyres would be better,
I'll need to send the makers a letter,
Small cases with high pitch sound,
Ladies with fast walking grace,
Heavy gait of business men,
Large cases with a steady bass,
Trip trap across the road,
Off the pavement to the gutter,
Checking left and right for traffic,
Straight across without a stutter,
Clickety clickety clickety clack,
Two abreast and walking past,
Clickety clickety clickety clack,
Like a train approaching fast.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
For her day at the beach
She chose big time
Fun in the sun
And wore dental floss
Not real safe for the top heavy
Too strong a frolic
And she might well crash
Upon the shore like a tsunami
But that was the least
Of her problems this day
For when she bent over
You could see all the way
Down to Florida
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
When CNN monotony breaks my heart,
children wail for candy at cash registers,
and traffic buzz replaces birdsong,
I flee to my garden to water and ****
Sanctuary explodes in miniature chorales
soprano buds breaking through cellulose cradles
last waters from a thousand wilting blossoms
sing tenor at their organic wake above the loam
and endless pneumatic streams drip from leaf tips
as they always have and will.
A googolplex of minute carbon dramas occurs
melodious ballads echo relentlessly
like Buddha’s kalapas of soil and light
as pistil and stamen call the fat brown bees.
Equally marvelous are my hands'
deft fingers fueled by arterial rivers
lymph and blood on capillaric freeways
with off-ramps for neighborhoods of dividing cells
built into my DNA,
this machine of loving grace.
Even the leather of my gloves
once lived thick on a bull eating grass
that waved on a prairie where the soil
let the sun in
drank the rain
and that meticulous ensemble
plays still for the wolf and the eagle.
With the last seed sewn
I sit transfixed by the garden gate
knowing every blossom in every random patch
will arise and pass away like the pointless TV news
and I hear the machinery of this impermanence
crackling like spring frost
when sprouts push through
and Gaia’s eternal trumpets ring.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
Piacular restitution suffering joyously
The fallen order of Lilith;
Sunsets secrets scribed defying
Laws pneumatic
A shamanistic seance peacefully
Rousing the foundation of our belief,
Dawns dreaming the fantasy of a seer-
Palpitating asystolic within my chest
The severed hand of God; twilights truth
A stone tablet descrying
My impetuous insubordination
Breathing light upon a black lily
My souls flayed flesh tear stained white
Descending into Hades
Unfathomable regions of despair
As I watch them kneel beside my bed
As if I am prey for those who pray for me
Walking through Persephones garden.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
I ponder of something great on a sonderous level can a man a sentient being ever exist like an omnipotent being
am I just a subsidized being is the vanity of a self-absorbed world
the pneumatic indifferent fascist question my legitimacy so I question the society of a world more cold and more active than an incestuous birdy and the bee
They question an artesian hand slightly smaller than the average man yet the
significance of the difference in that artesian is not the manic who refused me
embarrassed me
rumored me
****** me to a dark inexsistant inbetween
the coldness of a lover never to be
because she is in league but out of reach
like a lion her simple minded pedagogy has left her to everything and everyone
as she is not mine and I am not hers just the birdy and the defective bee
a farce love story the ending of a never beginning trip why o so dramatic
because I just can’t help falling in love with one
a selfish self absorbed vanity in a repugnant world disgustingly this pedagogy stays to me like glue on this dying bee
this is true of our starcrossed unrequited drug induced comatose that put me into this ponderous level
the inevitability of what truly will never be yet for some reason these
sounderously significantly radical thought I ponder just like a pneumatic bot
have you ever felt this lost
this cold dark nonexistent in-between
a limbless sentient rushed in the ever invoking might of hysteric emotion
I ponder this cold and warming toiling notion
The one like a lion can you and will you requite and love me
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Your travel has given me freedom.
But what is freedom when
you possess a soul divided?
What is the chronic sea without
its unfathomable dominions?
My soul is thirsty for you.
My cold and naked ankles mope
around your desolated castle;
Jinn, dust, and piercing silence is all that echoes
in this darkened dungeon that I have succumbed to.
And then there is me.
A heavy-laden wasted artist with
Spiny paintbrushes and faded color.
I refuse to leave the spaces that you read and play.
I refuse to exhale the memories of your sky painted blue irises.
My skin hungers for your delicate surface.
My teeth long to bite into your fleshy thighs.
In the hour of the noontide I feel you most
For our souls sahasrara blooms colorfully in the hour
Of the sun-the ancient mother of our roots weaves
Love with all of loves children and meets us with pneumatic cosmic kisses.
This is when I feel closest to you.
Without you, the world is just as it seems;
the sun burned into cinders,
Leaving the crops belonging to the sacred
soils of my flesh to prune and wither .
Ay! the droughts that you spread with your distance.
These are the days of my reaping
These are the days of my sulking.
The gardens are now closed and the
black raven cries out to a mournful mothers son.
Your scent died along with the laughter of the flowers
And the butterflies wont even flutter
Without your lovely eyelash kisses.
To live another day without the energy
Your presence fills my heart with,
Is to live an eternity hugging
Your coffin with sobbing rage;
fain would I take deaths hand.
The suffering of your glorious dawn
Wedded the universe deep beneath my skin.
You are the light,
And the absence of your holiness
leaves me opaque and hollow.
In my solitude I have watched the hours burn
And in each hour your fragrant sighs
escape with the dust motes
Surrounding the beaming light that
breaks through the cracks of the curtains.
I sit in the depth of myself
And listen for the echoes of your sounds.
A mother am I and a pitiful one too.
Like the rawboned mother with sunken eyes
carrying a baby in the womb, draining all of
the nutrition her body has to offer,
Your distance maps a massacred trail
Of my health and happiness.
You are the mother of patience
And the descendent of beauty and love.
You are the tsunami, and the still waters.
You are the uprising cub leading and mending.
You are the sap that feeds the giving tree of life.
You are the prince of wisdom.
You are
My flesh
In purest form.
- Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
As I walk through the city, surrounded by concrete, inhaling polluted air
I hear pneumatic drills and sirens, they are violence to the ear
I see people full of stress, scurrying rat-like along dirt-stained paths
I smell fast food and decay, my senses dulled by this toxic smog
The chaos suffocates, oppresses and burdens my breath
I think this is it.
This is us.
This is what we are.
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 5:56 AM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.
A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.
Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.
“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.
“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.
We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”
To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.
With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.
She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.
“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.
No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.
Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.
Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.
Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.
Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.
To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.
A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.
Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Pneumatic bliss,
dissolution on a solenoid whim,
electrified soul as the tape ejects.
© H V Swan
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Verbose as the Sky,
Heavy handed I,
Released to the thoughts of the seen.
Pneumatic in-tension,
A flexible mention.
Meaningless,
Emphatic, and
Green.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
Fugit Fumus dived into a basket
of oysters just to make the ***
the underbelly of transformation
bodes unwise for this colloquial soul
Cloistered Lisa lost her circumspection
when she settled for dystopic Dan
from such a wretched family
with pneumatic drills
they'd rather shutter than amend
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
Writing,
Drawing and painting.
Woodworking,
Welding and making.
Circuitry,
Electronics and more.
Pneumatic, mechanic, IC chips galore.
***** in the veins,
skewed and torn.
Hangovers battled, and seemingly won...
...as the body grows numb...
...limbs waking in hazy hum.
Roll another,
Tobacco makes its mark—
Lungs defiled,
Body failing,
Cherries burn brightest in the dark.
Lets call some lucky,
That they knew from the start,
Yet I continued hoping,
He would come back and restart.
The years draw on,
The day the pickup drove away,
I screamed for him,
Did he hear? check the review mirror and then accelerate?
Children of my own, a wife, and a home.
5150,
It's waiting....
It's ready, patiently prone.
Context needed,
Needed for concepts to churn
Listen closely.
A decibel past a whisper —
A Truth heard from the urn.
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Stretched skin
stuck through with
hollow, hypoallergenic needles.
Pneumatic ink guns have plunged
****** between my veins,
I'll never be the same
modified and adapted
some find it attractive
others find it pointless,
foul, and disgraceful
but I'll keep on changing
my flesh because it reminds me
of life, you can't get out
unaltered and it's
painful
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.
millennial, generation y, huh?!
also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
hangover...
and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
everntually language is just that:
magnifique sounds, mein herr,
be that a cello i hear?
nada... mindlessly i too
feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
trza błagać... błagać!
o śmierć... beg for death...
but hetman cossak said smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
a household argument,
after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
karaoke is standard...
this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan? jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
jah jah *** buck...
rasta root mon, rasta root.
battered and bruised...
someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
of giving the circumstance:
i can't remember being of any age, particular.
the quicker argument would coincide with:
give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
or more like a leech,
and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
tea...
liquid werther's original.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
I am single - again
And a girl who has needs
So boys I beg you
To follow my lead
I have a mouth
That likes to be kissed
Softy and gently
It's not to be missed
Don't stick your tongue in
Like a pneumatic drill
Or **** on my face
Like a puppy on pills
My lips have nerves
That give me pleasure & pain
They like to be savoured
Not tugged on in vain
And my ******* ... Please don't pummel
It doesn't do much
They react much better
To a sweeter touch
Nor do my *******
Respond to twisting
I am not a radio
This will not make me sing!
A gentle squeeze
Or a kiss or a tickle
Will get you much further
I'm not being fickle
And boys.... I beg you
Now this is the worst ....
My ****** won't bite you
(Forgive my outburst!)
You might like to touch it
Caress it or play
I'm happy to guide you
If you lose your way
It's not just a place
For your **** to settle
Treat it with love and
You'll open my petal
Now, I'm not hard to please
But it's time this was said
And these aren't just my needs
To keep me in bed
For us single lasses
Who you want to impress
We don't care about income
Or the way that you dress
We want some attention
That shows that you care
There is no manual
Of this I'm aware
We're each of us different
But we'll tell you just ask
We'll show you the way
And keep you on task
It's about mutual pleasure
Believe me it works
And if you follow this guide
There'll be more perks
So boys please remember
If you promise me bliss
Be strong - be gentle
And start with a kiss!
(C) Pixievic 2016
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
Man needs to reconsider his place in the universe. Upon my morning awakening, while enjoying a cup of coffee(another one of man's creations although albeit simply refined and utilized by us), I closed my eyes and heard not the sounds of nature, as one might assume would be the ideal, but the sound of a pneumatic air-pressure nailgun stapling shingles on a roof. Then, in sequence following that in a crescendo of sound I heard the distant lawnmower native to this local urban habitat, feeding on grasses. This was only soon to be followed by the wind-like sound of nearby automobiles slowly passing by. All of this muffling the sounds of the morning flyers (winged creatures of an inferior design unknown to us) presenting their songs, but falling on deaf ears . That's when I realized we are a product and slave of our own creations, when we should be a slave (or close sibling rather) to creations unbeknownst to us.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
In the alleyway of sorcerers
and tricksters
One step back, ten deepward
away, away, from sun and lime,
forms, thickened smoke, gone
all the familiar, but fear
an industrial hammer
beating to a pneumatic heart
pulverized, powdered glass
Now lining the string to my kite
soaring, one among the shapes
dotting the kaleidoscope
Retreat!, I can cut.
bangles, once they were
I gave you
Hooded, darkened, enveloped
in hushed hymns and
chimed mutterances
come hands held out of cloaks
that I accept for friendship
cold, as the heartless should be
erased, gone among
the shadows, lost a young soul
tottering at the edge of a cliff
tremor that ripped the heartland
blocks of stone, elevated
icons of hope and love
lining the pathway here
disfigured so beyond repair
even moonlight cannot restore
once a thinker, a poet, a scholar
where peddle the whispered
offerings of an underworld
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Symmetry deficits call for chiaroscuro.
Highlight the summits,
and diffuse shadows at the vertex
of cheekbone and mandible.
Colour the apples, rubescent as newborn flesh,
and soften edges for a gentle definition.
If you paint claret from bow to corner
it can create something fuller; induce desire-
Valencia can bleach the blemishes.
Liquid or matte lies in pesky furrows
and rots like carrion in warm weather:
remember to blot excess sebum prior.
Are you pneumatic? Applications can support you-
with enough you can acquire
something ample for a decade.
Look to the lens. It winks;
raise brow in a clean cut, diagonal
from nostril edge: the playful frame apertures admire.
Flash.
Share with friends:
refresh/close/open,
and sigh at affirmations.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
he brought me out to the
woodshed
gently opens the back door
but it slams behind us, pneumatic
cylinder busted so it catches my heels
and i slide off the last step
into the gravel and his steel-toes--
he silently brushes through the
prairie drop seed and mexican
feathergrass, nothing but an oil
stained back lumbering amidst the switch
eventide shivelight striking through
the creases in his ears
full of his old tools, horses,
hidden shelves--
and i've gone cold since
we left the house, a
**** frost set out
on my limbs 'cause
i know i done wrong
all the blessed evidence
up and down and that's
before he starts to turn--
ungive.
ungive.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC