"precipice" poems
Dripping with wetness
Tongue licking your wet lips
Drips dripping as his mouth slips
Your back curves as her waist dips
Sliding inside your precipice,
warm licks melt her core
his length stretch her sore
Soothing strong loathing
Between your legs; imploding
Fingers explore
tendons screaming
lions yearning for more
folds of flesh mesh
tongue swirling
in juices fresh
Fingers twirling
insides tense
destination distinguished
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown
Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
Tiptoeing
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms
Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
I wished for you
excessively.
greedily.
immeasurably.
I craved you for days on end
and finally,
finally.
I got to see the way
your lips form around the precipice
of my name;
I felt your hand on my waist
as your touch provokes every minute nerve
in my body;
I drowned myself in the
depth of your eyes
that glisten with wonder as you
decipher
the spell you've cast upon me
and how it speaks volumes of every
fairytale ever made;
and I have had a taste of all of this
I've had you
right within my breadth,
just until the warmth
of the rising sun
kissed my eyelids awake,
like the tender whisper of the
cosmos
or the discordant bellowing
of the void
as it reminds me:
You are unattainable.
Right then again I was able to
comprehend
that you will remain an illusion to me
until our paths cross once more
and in that moment,
nothing will be capable of surpassing
the bewitchment
the resplendence
the luminance
of the mere reality that is you
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
"The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
Always tortuous."
"When he looked the cave in the eye,
Hercules
Had a moment of doubt."
Leaning out over
The dreadful precipice,
One contemptuous tree."
8.5k
_To Polina, my anchor, through all my lives_
Between dawn and dusk
on the precipice
in shades of scarlet
stood a magnificent house
Strangers and I were enthralled
by the neon red foyer where
Francesca and Paolo welcomed us
to the house of a thousand doors
Each door an invitation
to delicious desire
each room a seduction
of perilous passion
One door opened —
three bare women holograms
drank from a small lake and
brandished wicked, feline smiles
At my feet a church of cardinals
glowing with tears, heat and sweat
whimpered in their prayers
but the pope watched from afar.
He speaks—
the mouth at once is an eye, an abyss
and a hurricane from Pandora's box
Then I am I no more — a cardinal in crimson —
but no shame or guilt guides me
when blood-red lips land on mine
"Do you not see
there is equal courage
equal purity
in giving
into
temptation—
the kind
that appals the devil
to revel
in the hurt, the open wounds,
and the agony
to dive deep—
into the depths
and say all the yeses
to embrace the darkest demons
of your soul?
Enter—
and you shall find
hell or heaven within yourself."
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 1:37 AM UTC
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .
A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will **** and eat.
8k
Today came without it's promise
Left me teetering this precipice.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.
Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.
So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals.
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void
And consuming fire of electric chaos.
In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children
is God.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
As a college freshman
I find myself time traveling.
I close my eyes and
I appear
in the classroom where a group
of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good
students stood on the precipice
between leaving and staying
regretting and dreaming.
Leaving would give us freedom
Leaving would fill the creases of
our palms with sweat
We kept our palms outstretched and empty
not daring to grasp anymore of home
because the weight would only
anchor us to the vines
we spent 13 years unraveling from
our ankles.
Maybe we should not have been
so eager to leave, maybe this is a mistake.
The girl with the mermaid hair
The boy with books stacked in
a corner of his desk
They both, we all, sat dreaming
about the same thing while
Ophelia drowned herself in the river
Shores of the ocean and city skylines
Classrooms that did not feel like cages
and eyes that did not reflect a memory
every time you glanced into them
In a high school English class,
a group of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good students,
stood terrified and mystified
stood united in there persistence to become
something more than test scores and
the ability to memorize facts.
Fact:
Some mornings I walk to class
and I can feel the girl with the mermaid hair in Los Angeles
walking beside me and when I sit down
I can see books stacked on a corner of a desk somewhere in Berkeley.
I wonder if they wake in their bed and hear airplane engines roaring
somewhere above a valley.
The engines roar with warning.
sometimes it sounds like hope.
Baby, something is coming, we promise
We all began at the start,
dreaming as one and fearing as one
Today, she is five spaces forward
He is ten spaces forward
The others are halfway down the **** board
and I find myself back at the start
every few weeks.
Four spaces forward then three spaces back--
I don't know where I am going.
But I know where I have been.
I open my eyes.
A college freshman.
I hear the engines roar above me.
Something is coming.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
The tightrope expires
And the skyscraper hollows out.
This hate is vicious and repeated,
Repeated; repeated on the news reel,
And in a Hollywood romance.
We’re skipping generations
Through faded vinyl sound
Of dust mite and crack;
I’m folding digits over chords,
Extinguishing lovers
By turning them to songs.
Oh, reality convenes, convenes
On the mind, and on the consciousness
Of fact. Don’t steal my job,
Don’t **** my land,
And never fall asleep
Under the sun.
There is poetry to mathematics,
Scaling the harmonics of the sound,
Some universal language;
Some bottled message to our brothers
Who are looking back at us
From the distance of the stars.
And, terror is called from every side,
Until we’re terrified to eat or breathe,
In the tremor of a terror
That can never come to be.
The tightrope fell down with the buildings,
But its idea, it still lives on.
We could be on the precipice of better times,
Or under the shadow of a nuclear bomb.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
I am with you
here in this place
scanning with cool
and radiant eyes
Causing silver haired women
to pantomime
The Thing Thats Wrong With Us:
their heads shake
and their thumbs waggle in the air
like worms.
Our thumbs irk them,
patience wearing
thin as their lips.
They are so sad for us,
for our murderous stupidity.
They know
what is wrong:
because our empty carcasses
litter their living rooms
the busses they ride
the classes they teach
slumped
in the seats where we left them.
Heidegger said
that attention creates access to the world,
And we've crept away to the edge
dangling our attentions over the inviting precipice
like the sorcerer's apprentice
unsure
of how it all takes place
but certain
of it’s awesome power.
The well overflows
and we are swept away
as the women look on
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
I dismantle you little by little,
pick you apart piece by piece
as I edge you ever closer to the precipice.
Your curiosity is titillated
by the tantalizing nothings
I whisper to draw you near,
promises I never intend to keep.
I tease as we creep, and you have no clue
as to the depths of my nefarious intent
until the moment I lay my hands
on your chest
and push.
Your hands catch, grasp tightly.
So I lean forward and gift you
with one last kiss
before I stare into your eyes
as I peel them from the surface.
Laughter pours forth
as I witness your fall
from high above.
I turn and walk away,
my deceit complete.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
Black candles burn, and the wick of life slowly reduces her beautiful self to certain uncertainty.
I don’t know about you, but I have been bewitched by the seductions of Eve.
Why?
Because she is spellbindingly irresistible in her raunchy nakedness. Babylon may reign in the guise of liberty – but how blissful truly is ignorance?
Geological mockery echoes her ****** laughter in the canyons of inevitability, whilst we stand on the precipice of conception.
So, my seasoned companion of confusion, let us rest in ontological comfort as the universe unrolls the carpet of kaleidoscopic dreams. Everything is fine.
Honestly!
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
The purest sense of understanding that allows two hearts to move beyond the borders of the conscious, thinking mind.
Without the thoughts that twist the words, that distort perception; what is conveyed, is... is... unconditional acceptance and love. In this simple concept we find solace, we find connection, we reach the precipice of and stare in awe at the beauty of the humane soul. Everything seems perfect.
By this perfection, given face value, we draw the ever permanent distinction between what what is black and what is white; what is wrong and what is right; what is virtue and what is moral travesty. For inherent to humanity is the eagerness, bias and extremity with which we represent the good and evil of this world. For who would believe that the "caretaker", wrought of good intentions, could be soiled in his actions?
The caretaker that empathizes with the troubled or broken soul is a testament to the honesty of a human heart; but he who enables others with his empathy becomes not the caretaker, but the "jailer". Through his conviction to ALWAYS be there, to sooth the hurts, to understand the pains and to maintain control... by those actions, he belittles them. The relief of empathy is only temporary. Empathy does not enact change, it is mere salve and bandage, it quells the aches for but a moment. And when they return, in their woes, the service of the empathizer becomes requirement.
For though empathy may be needed, with the power to forge a bond of deep understanding, its indiscriminate use only stunts. Personal growth, it is found by many paths in this world. We must grow and mature; let others do the same. Life is a journey with many opportunities but also many hardships, we are defined by these. If we are stunted by the empathy of others, in their quest to protect us, we will never grow, never achieve that which is greater, and never leave our "prison".
Virtue or vice... once again in the hands of the beholder.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 2:04 PM UTC
1545
The Bible is an antique Volume—
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy Spectres—
Subjects—Bethlehem—
Eden—the ancient Homestead—
Satan—the Brigadier—
Judas—the Great Defaulter—
David—the Troubador—
Sin—a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist—
Boys that “believe” are very lonesome—
Other Boys are “lost”—
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller—
All the Boys would come—
Orpheus’ Sermon captivated—
It did not condemn—
5k
Terrifying,
And standing upon the precipice.
Young hopefuls,
Staring into the faces of—
The things that boomed long ago.
The gunshots ring,
Like a terrifying drum beat.
Boom.
Life passes in flashes,
Yesterday long gone.
And tomorrow-
Already has its mind made up.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:36 PM UTC
The cusp of the moment
Felt like a precipice;
Like pressure rising before
That first flash of lightning
That bleeds into the next.
The air was charged
Before those words were said;
The crackle as tangible as static
Raising hairs along my arms.
They felt like hands
Spreading across the furled wing-bones of
My shoulders
It was that gasp before the shove,
The realization dawning,
The knowledge of the fissure below
Where the sun found no purchase.
The words left her lips
And I fell
Unhindered to a place
Where you're not breathing.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Fervour tapered lingering
On that ******* precipice
Of alleged possibility
Devoured by the jaws of silence
The soul no longer raged
A nothingness that knew no words
Agony’s cold grip
Winter in December
I knew not what to with these hands
Their weightlessness
Weeping willows drowned out sound
Perfected in my dead
Loosening the grapple on the promise
Of a hazy tomorrow.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
Poor poor toothbrush
Precariously perched upon the porcelain precipice
Each night I push your plastic pricklies into my plentiful plaque
Only to reduce you to your perch
To ponder your pitiful plight
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Standing on the Precipice of Time....
Watching the birds fall from the sky...
Life is getting lifeless... listless, unruly
And who or what is killing the bees?
Flowers that have lost their fragrance...
Words that have double meanings -
Life is filled with uncertainty - surely.
I observe the mountains as they melt
Into the ****** sea
Fish are floating - not swimming
Animals disappearing while lifeless, lonely trees
Seem to glare at the sun
Begging for air - no oxygen to spare
What has happened to this paradise of ours?
Did we fall asleep and slumber too much
While wasting the hours?
Did we think it would last forever
While we tended it not...
Consuming, consuming - eating & drinking
Leaving it all in a pile to rot
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
The rain resembles the pitter-patter of your words.
Each droplet— a syllable.
The chill— your breath.
I trace the streams of water
trickling down the windowpane
the same way I yearn
to run my fingers
down your skin.
I breathe in the scent wafting off the soil
and my insides warm.
The grey skies are calming,
yet electric,
as your gaze.
The drumming on the rooftop
whispers me to sleep,
gently,
as I allow my mouth to form around
the precipice of your name.
I can almost taste you.
I'm flooded with my longing to bury myself in you.
*Drown me in your storm.
Drench me with your words*.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 4:30 AM UTC
Mayon Volcano of our Nation's Pride
Sleek be your Shape on our Motherland's Back
Surrounding Spices, your Flaming Rage hide
Which Form to take our Economy lack
So you decide to Chill; And leave a Bruise
That from Bathala's Favour reaped your Skin
And Kiss the Nimbus pour her Tears a-new
Whose Lost Love's Folly besought from Within
Then why Cagsawa, her Arm does extend
Ringing her Bell despite the Missing Pall
Meant her Heart Forever; Love without End
Her Chorus buried as if there at all.
She bids her Wave, as Albayenos notice
That Spark from your Mouth; Kindle her Precipice.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
I have it in spades
But it comes in waves,
In the climb, I know I'm worth it,
On the precipice, it feels so clear,
In the curl, I'm tested,
It's in the break that I get lost,
And just as it pulls me in,
I ride upon the backs of the strong women who surround me,
Holding me accountable,
Exposing the humanity that grounds me,
Resolve is a funny thing,
I have it in spades,
But it comes in waves.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC